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hello friends ! i made this so i can find and recommend my fav fics easier than by trying to remember them all :-) i’ll be tagging all content with the characters and ships and all nsfw/18+ content will be tagged appropriately. minors please do not interact with 18+ content. my main is @murdockdefensesquad if you wanna hang out there ! xx

[sc3ptre]

Lessons on sex

Pairing: Scott Miller x Storm Par partner!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!

Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.

Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.

Word count: 9,2k

There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...

Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours. 

Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.

Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer. 

Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.

Then there was getting fucked…

There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. 

If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately. 

If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count. 

If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either. 

Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.

Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.

For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down. 

Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.

Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.

Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.

You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…

Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.

You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.

Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them. 

People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.

The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.

You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.

“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.

You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.

You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.

“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”

He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.

You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”

Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”

You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.

“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.

“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.

Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.

“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.

He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.

“You seem awfully confident about that.”

“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”

Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.

“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”

“Need five minutes,” he muttered.

You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”

The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.

Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.

The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.

“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”

“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.

He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.

“Come open my door.”

“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.

“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”

Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.

You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.

Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people. 

Brutally honest people usually were.

At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.

HR would’ve had a heart attack.

That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.

The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.

Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.

“What’s wrong with Scott?”

You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.

Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.

Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.

You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”

Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”

“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”

“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”

You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”

Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”

Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”

“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”

You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”

Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately. 

The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.

“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.

Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.

The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.

Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.

By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.

You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.

“What’s your current issue?” you asked.

“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.

You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”

You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”

Scott snorted.

“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”

“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”

“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”

“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.

Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.

“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”

You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.

“Can we leave now?” you asked.

Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.

“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.

Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…

Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.

“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”

Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”

You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”

“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”

“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”

“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”

You barked out another incredulous laugh. 

“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”

“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”

“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”

The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.

His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.

You drove home in complete silence.

No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.

This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment. 

For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.

By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.

Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.

The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.

Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.

Scott followed behind you quietly.

You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.

The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.

Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.

The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.

Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.

The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him. 

Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.

Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.

At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.

“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.

“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.

You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.

Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.

You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.

At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.

Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.

You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.

You stared at each other for a second too long.

You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.

One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.

You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.

You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.

You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.

"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.

"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness. 

Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.

He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.

The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.

"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.

He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.

He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.

He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.

“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.

As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.

He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.

From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.

Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.

He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.

Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.

His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.

Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.

You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.

You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.

Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.

You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.

The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.

For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.

Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.

Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.

“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”

“You’re right.”

You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees. 

“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.

“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”

Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”

Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”

You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”

His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”

Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”

“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”

“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.

“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”

Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.

The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.

“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.

NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.

It just wasn’t the truth.

You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically. 

Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.

The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.

At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.

You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.

One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.

You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.

The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.

If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.

You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.

Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.

The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.

"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.

Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.

The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.

He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.

You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.

Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.

"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.

He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.

"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.

He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.

As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.

"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."

The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.

Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.

"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.

He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.

Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.

Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.

The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.

You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.

"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.

There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.

Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.

What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.

You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.

The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.

You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.

Off-season made it worse.

Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.

Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.

So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.

It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.

He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.

There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.

Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.

He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute. 

The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.

He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.

"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.

It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.

Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.

"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.

You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.

The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.

As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.

In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.

"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.

The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.

He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.

A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.

Good sex stopped mattering. 

Great sex became expected.

Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.

But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.

So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.

You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)

[fishsficrecs]

#needthat

[notmeolive]

⋆｡ ˚ mouth like that ²⁰

lowdown ☆ you come home with someone else’s blood on you, and everyone tries to help in the only ways they know how. ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f ) miles ☆ 2863 ride style ☆ angst/comfort danger on the trail ☆ blood aftermath, shock, first kill trauma, showering off blood, emotional distress, soldier boy being quietly soft in the most emotionally constipated way possible

𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist

the safehouse does not know what to do with you when you get back.

that is the first thing you notice. not the lights. not the old smell of coffee and gun oil and whatever awful food hughie forgot on the counter before you left. not even the blood gone stiff in your trousers, pulling cold against your skin every time you move.

it’s the silence.

the way everyone keeps shifting around you like you are something set down wrong in the middle of the room. something breakable. something dangerous. something nobody wants to touch unless they know exactly where the sharp parts are.

you stand just inside the door after the van empties, one hand hanging at your side, fingers still half-curled around a knife that is no longer there. frenchie has it. you remember that in pieces. cloth around the blade. his hands gentle for once. his eyes not meeting yours.

the room moves.

mm drops the bag of manuals onto the table. frenchie sets his equipment down too carefully. kimiko locks the door behind everyone, then checks the window, then the hallway, because motion is better than standing still. annie stays beside you, not holding you, but close enough that if your knees decide to quit their job, she’ll know before the floor does.

hughie hovers by the couch with bloodless lips and shaking hands. “i’m sorry,” he says again, voice small enough to make your stomach twist. “i’m so sorry, i—”

“hughie,” annie says. not unkind. not angry. just stop. he does. his mouth shuts, but his face keeps saying it.

you cannot look at him for long. he is alive. that should help. but it doesn’t. not in any way you understand yet. it only makes the feeling sharper. one alive because one is dead. one breathing because one stopped. easy. simple. brutal enough to make your chest feel hollow.

butcher steps in front of you.

that surprises you. not because he has been absent, exactly. butcher is never absent. he has been in the room the whole time, carrying the stolen manuals like they weigh less than what happened, jaw tight, eyes too sharp, cigarette at the ready between his fingers. 

but now he is in front of you, close enough that annie shifts slightly, ready to interfere if he says the wrong thing.

he looks at you with an expression you almost don’t recognize on him. not pity. not softness. butcher doesn’t really do softness unless it’s been dragged out of him with pliers. but there is something steady there. something firm enough to lean on without asking permission.

“look at me,” he says.

you do.

his eyes don’t move to your trousers. don’t move to your hands. he keeps them on your face. “you did good.”

your stomach turns. “jesus christ.”

“no,” he says, and there’s no cruelty in it. no bite. just command. “you listen to me now.”

your mouth closes.

he nods once, like that’s better. like you are still on mission and he is giving you the next instruction. maybe that is the only way he knows how to be kind without choking on it.

“you were focused. you were ready. hughie’s alive because you moved when you had to.” his voice lowers, rough around the edges. “that’s a bitch of a thing. i know it is. i’m not dressin’ it up pretty for you. but it was good.”

good. the word doesn’t fit. it scrapes against what you remember: the blade going in, the guard’s body jerking, the sound he made against your shoulder. not loud. barely even human by the time your brain let you hear it. good is too clean for that.

“i killed him,” you say.

“yeah,” butcher answers. no flinch. no denial. “and hughie’s standin’ over there because of it.” butcher glances briefly toward him, then back to you. “you think i’m gonna tell you it doesn’t matter? i’m not. it matters. it’ll matter tomorrow, and the day after, and whenever your head decides to be a real bastard about it. but tonight, you’re alive. he’s alive. we’re all alive because you didn’t freeze.”

you don’t understand it. not fully. your body is too cold, your hands too wrong, your brain still kneeling on concrete beside a dead man even as you're staring at him. but you understand the warmth under his words, even if the words themselves are hard and ugly. you understand that butcher is not looking at you like a weapon. not right now. he is looking at you like someone he brought home.

that makes your eyes sting so suddenly you almost hate him for it. butcher sees that too. his jaw works once, like he has realized he has accidentally stepped into concerned father territory and would rather walk directly into traffic than remain there.

“right,” he says, voice roughening back toward familiar ground. he looks past you. “annie.”

“yeah,” annie says immediately.

“get her cleaned up. fresh clothes. whatever else.”

you blink, a little slow. “i can shower by myself.”

butcher looks back at you, sarcasm dragged along the way. “didn’t say she was gettin’ in there with you, did i?”

annie’s mouth tightens, but not with humor. “come on.”

you let her guide you down the hall. not because you need help walking. you don’t. mostly. your legs still work. everything still works. a body should not work this well after doing something it can’t take back.

annie brings you to the bathroom and leaves clean clothes on the sink. soft sweatpants. one of your old shirts. underwear folded neatly under both. she does not crowd you. does not stand in the doorway with her arms crossed. does not watch you like you are about to vanish down the drain.

she just touches your wrist once before leaving. “i’ll be right outside the hall if you need anything.” 

you nod. the door closes. the bathroom becomes too quiet.

for a while, you just stand there with your back to the door, listening to the pipes, the old fan ticking overhead, the muffled movement of people outside trying to pretend they are not worried. then you look down.

the blood is darker now. almost brown in places. stiff in the fabric at your knees and thigh, cracked where your legs bent in the van. it takes you too long to make yourself touch the waistband. longer still to peel the trousers down your legs.

they make a wet, awful sound where the fabric sticks.

you stop breathing for a second. then you throw them into the corner like they burned you.

the shower turns on with a shriek of old pipes. the water comes out cold first, shocking over your fingers when you reach in. you wait for it to warm. then hotter. then too hot. you step under anyway.

blood runs pink at your feet. you watch it spiral toward the drain and your mind does something strange with the sight—turns it unreal, turns it into a thing happening to someone else in a bathroom that is not yours. 

you scrub your arms first. your neck. your face. your knees. the place where the blood soaked through. you scrub until your skin burns and the water runs clear.

then you wash your hands. once. twice. again. 

the soap smells sharp and cheap. it gathers white between your fingers, under your nails, around the tiny splits in your knuckles. you dig your thumb beneath each nail until it hurts.

clear water. still, you see it. you wash again.

your breathing goes wrong somewhere around the fifth time. not crying, not properly. just your chest catching, throat closing, the hot water running over your bowed head while you hold your hands under the stream and wait for them to feel like yours.

eventually, the water starts to cool.

you turn it off.

the bathroom mirror is fogged over, which is a mercy. you dry yourself with slow, mechanical movements and pull on the clean clothes annie left. the sweatpants are soft. it feels obscene to wear something comfortable after cold concrete and blood. your hair drips down the back of your shirt. you wipe the mirror with one hand and regret it immediately when your face appears.

you look tired. not broken. not changed in a dramatic way anyone could point at. just tired. 

that feels unfair too.

when you open the bathroom door, soldier boy is there. you stop so suddenly your damp hair slips over your shoulder.

he is leaning against the opposite wall in the hallway, still in the loose shirt and stupid shorts he must have changed into after the mission. not drinking. not pretending he accidentally passed by. he’s just standing there, hair mussed like he dragged a hand through it too many times and got annoyed when that didn’t fix whatever was happening inside his head.

his eyes move over you once. not like before. not the slow drag meant to provoke. this is quieter. checking, maybe. cataloguing. the clean clothes. wet hair. raw hands. trembling mouth you immediately try to control.

“what are you doing?” you ask. your voice comes out husky, too close to breaking.

his jaw tightens. “walking.”

you stare at him. “in the hallway?”

“looks like it.”

you almost snap at him. you want to. it would be easier. familiar. instead, your lips tremble. just once. barely. but he sees it. something crosses his face so fast you might have missed it if you hadn’t learned to look for damage in the smallest places. annoyance, maybe. but not at you. not really. more like his whole body is offended by the fact that you are standing there clean and shaking and trying not to cry, and there is nothing in him built neatly enough to handle it.

he huffs. rough. irritated. his eyes cut away for half a second, like looking at you directly is causing him physical inconvenience. “come on.”

“what?”

he turns toward your room. “you deaf now?”

“i’m not—”

“move.”

you follow because arguing requires a version of yourself you left somewhere on a warehouse floor.

your room is dim when he pushes the door open. annie must have turned off the overhead light earlier, leaving only the lamp near your bed on low, gold around the edges. your gear is still on the chair. your vest folded badly. the deep poster still hidden under the magazines. normal things. stupid things.

soldier boy walks in and takes your bed.

sits first, then shifts back against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly. he looks absurd there. too big for the mattress, too broad for the room, too alive and warm and present in a place where everything feels hollowed out.

you stand near the door. “absolutely not.”

he looks at you. “shut up.”

“that’s my bed.”

“so?”

“get off.”

“no.”

“soldier boy—”

his eyes sharpen. “ben.”

the name lands between you. not soft. not sweet. a correction. a reminder. a demand. your throat closes around whatever you meant to say next.

he holds your gaze for a beat, then lifts one arm. not tenderly. he just opens it, elbow bent, hand loose, like the whole thing irritates him and he intends to blame you for it later. “get in.”

you stare at the space against his side. “are you insane?”

“probably.”

“i’m not sleeping on you.”

“didn’t say sleep.”

“then what?”

“lie down.”

your eyes sting hard enough that you have to blink. “why?”

his mouth tightens. for one second, you think he’ll make it crude. he could. he has a thousand ugly lines stored somewhere behind his teeth, all of them easier than this. something about women needing to be held together. something about you looking like hell. something about finally getting you in bed and having the worst timing of his life.

he doesn’t. “because you’re standing there like you’re gonna fall over.”

your face twists before you can stop it. the tears don’t fall yet, but they fill your eyes. hot. humiliating. your voice comes out smaller than you want. “i don’t want to think.”

he huffs again, but this time the sound is almost painful. his chest lifts with a breath he doesn’t use properly. “then don’t.”

“that’s not how it works.”

“tonight it is.”

“you can’t just order my brain around.”

“watch me.”

a wet, broken almost-laugh catches in your throat and dies there. your lips tremble again. you press them together, but it’s useless now. he’s seen too much.

his expression does something strange. hardens and cracks at the same time. “stop playing rough,” he says, voice lower. “just get in.”

that does it. not because it’s pretty. not because it fixes anything. because it’s him, and it’s awful, and it’s the closest thing to please he can drag out without bleeding from the mouth.

you cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed first, careful not to touch him. ridiculous, considering his arm is still open and waiting. he watches you with growing impatience, then finally hooks a hand around your upper arm and pulls.

you fold against him with a breath that nearly breaks apart on the way out. your cheek lands against his chest, over the loose cotton of his shirt. not the glowing place exactly but close enough that your body remembers the heat of it. one of your hands braces awkwardly against his stomach before you curl it into a fist and tuck it between you instead.

he is warm. solid. your body hates how badly it needs that. “this is stupid,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

“you’re in my bed.”

“yup.”

“wearing shorts.”

“you want me to take ’em off?”

you let out a small, strangled noise that is almost a laugh and almost a sob. “don’t ruin this.”

he goes quiet. his arm settles around your back. heavy. steady. not stroking, no. not petting. not making a production out of tenderness neither of you would survive. his palm rests between your shoulder blades, broad and warm, pressing just enough to hold you there when your breathing starts to shake.

he doesn’t say it’s okay. he doesn’t say you did what you had to. he doesn’t say he’s killed more men than he can count, doesn’t turn your first blood into one of his war stories, doesn’t offer you the cheap comfort of comparison. he just stays under you, breathing slow enough that your body can steal the rhythm if it wants.

for a while, you fight it. you lie stiff against him, eyes open in the low light, staring at the fold of his shirt near your fist. your hands still feel raw. your skin still feels too clean and not clean enough. every time you close your eyes, there is concrete. blood. hughie’s white face. the small sound the guard made when the knife went in.

your breath catches. soldier boy’s hand presses a little firmer against your back. just there.

“i can still feel it,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

he doesn’t ask what. he knows. his jaw moves above you. you can feel it more than see it. “yeah.”

one word. no comfort in it. somehow, comfort anyway.

your eyes burn again. this time, tears slip out, quiet and hot, soaking into the front of his shirt before you can hide them. your whole body tenses in immediate shame.

“don’t,” his hand stays steady. “not like that.”

your voice is almost gone. “like what?”

“like you’re gonna apologize for it.”

you close your eyes and the tears keep coming, silent now. not enough to make you sob. just enough to make your face wet against him, enough that he definitely knows. enough that he could say something awful and ruin it.

he doesn’t. he looks toward the door instead, jaw tight, eyes hard in the dim room like he’s daring the whole world to come in and make noise. no one does.

down the hall, the safehouse moves in soft pieces. a cabinet opens. someone speaks low. pipes knock once in the wall. life continuing with infuriating nerve.

soldier boy stays.

after a while, your breathing evens out. not sleep. not even close. but less jagged. your hand unclenches against his shirt, fingers relaxing one at a time without permission.

his palm remains at your back. steady. all night, as it turns out.

you drift, wake, drift again. every time your body jerks with some half-formed memory, he is still there. same stupid shorts. same loose shirt. same heavy warmth beneath your cheek. he does not move you off him. does not make a joke when your hair dries messy against his chest. does not complain when your hand ends up gripping the fabric near his ribs.

once, very late, you think he might be asleep. then you hear him breathe in, slow and controlled, and realize he has been awake the whole time, listening to you. watching the door. counting your breaths. never telling you it was okay. never leaving you alone with it either.

you don’t sleep. not really. but you stop shaking before morning.

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[fishsficrecs]

this whole series is SO FUCKING GOOD. the slow burn is delicious, everything feels so real and tangible and raw i literally cannot get enough

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Hand in unloveable hand

(Soldier Boy x supe!reader)

SUMMARY Soldier Boy and you are America's most famous couple - little does the public know that it's all an act. However, when your pretend lover embarrasses you on live TV, you make sure you make him pay... and get yours in the process. CWs Smut. Hate sex (rough sex, a little bit of anal fingering, non-negotiated choking, electrostimulation). Super powered sex (super strength, electrokinsesis). Period/SB-typical homophobia & misogyny. Just all around not a healthy relatioship. 1960's (roughly). Lots of mentions of Rock Hudson (rip, king). Mixed POV. 5.8k words AN Title is from the Mountain Goats' "No children".

The Boys masterlist

“And it was so good to see you step in during those riots last week,” the interviewer says, hair immacutely parted, nodding along as the studio crowd claps approvingly. Soldier Boy raises his hand, so humble. 

“Mikey, I’ve said it before,” he says, “protecting the American public isn’t just my job, it’s… it’s what I live for.” More applause. “Against domestic threats and more… foreign ones.” More applause, a whistle. Yeah!, someone calls.

“And we are all so grateful,” the interviewer says, looks at his note cards, not because he needs to but because this is how he moves on to the next topic. When he raises his head again, there’s a coquette little smile on his lips.

“Speaking of domestic,” he continues, throwing a look at the camera that tells the audience they’re in for a fun time. “How are things at home?” Murmuring from the crowd - they’re held on the precipice, eating it up. Yes, this they want to know. Yes, this they want to see. 

Soldier Boy chuckles, perfectly charming. Turns his body a little more toward the camera. Broad shoulders. Thick hair, but not too thick. Handsome face. Probably a big dick. 

“Oh, whatever could you be talking about?” he asks with a little wag of his chin, and that gives the audience leave, they chuckle, slap their knees, oh, get a load of this guy!, lapping it up, their tongues hanging out their mouths.

“Why, America’s sweetheart, of course,” the interviewer answers, shoots a look at the audience, right? That’s what we want to know!, and they nod, slap their knees some more. “The Vixen.”

Oh’s and Ah’s from them now. Yes, the Vixen. They’re all imagining her. Women want to be her, men want to fuck her. Marilyn Who? one headline read. Blasphemous, but they’re licking their fingers.

“Oh, my girl?” Soldier Boy asks, but he’s joking along with the audience, teasing them, stringing them along. Has them curling their toes like they’re getting it real good. “Oh, my girl’s doing just fine.” The interviewer laughs.

“Gave you a patriotic welcome home, did she?” he asks, and the crowd loses it, yes, yes, did she? Did she!? 

And Soldier Boy leans back, relaxed, grinning. They can practically see her there, kneeling between his legs. Good, patriotic gal. A real keeper.

“Pal,” he says, “I had her singing the national anthem.”

Laughter from the crowd.

“You goddamn motherfucker!”

The glass explodes where it hits the wall just left of and above Ben’s head. He barely reacts, feels some of the shards rain down on his shoulder, but then just raises his own glass, scotch, takes a sip. Sucks on his teeth when he lowers it again.

“You done?” he asks, watching you pace up and down on the other side of the room. You’re clearly not, and he knows that - in fact, you’re only just revving up. He looks at your legs, visible, not visible, visible, under the long silk robe you’re wearing, the fabric fluttering with every step, and if you weren’t being such a humongous bitch right now he’d sure find some appreciation for them.

Actually, scratch that. They’re nice sticks. Even with the bitchiness.

“One thing I fucking asked for,” you say, and he grimaces at the shrillness of your voice. He rolls his shoulders, takes another sip. “One thing, and that was to make me not look like a fucking sex object in front of those people.”

You turn for another round, naked toes sinking into the orange rug that you personally selected for the apartment. Ben hates it. In fact, he says he hates all the colors of your apartment. Hates the music you listen to, because this guy is still caught in the fucking 30’s, hasn’t realized that a few decades have passed. Old dirty man with an old dirty mind.

“And you do this, this… bullshit!” you yell, now reaching for the newspaper lying on the low glass table, the one that puts your embarrassment on paper. The one that shows a grinning Soldier Boy, and the least subtle article on two super heroes fucking that you have ever had the displeasure of reading.

You drop it again, reach for the pack of cigarettes lying next to the ashtray. It’s filled to the brim, because you’ve been goddamn chain smoking since last night, when the interview aired. Sat here, Martini in your hand, joint rolled and ready, watching your super star boyfriend give his first interview since the two of you have made your relationship public. Some fucking relationship it is. 

You sat there, legs crossed, buzzing and excited, horned the fuck up because America’s biggest talk show was going to cover you - your existence, your life. And what the fuck came out of it? Another couple million men thinking about you only in the context of shoving their dick inside one of your holes.

You wish you had another glass to throw.

Ben isn’t as worried. He doesn’t like repeating himself, but he does it for your sake, because maybe you can learn a lesson from him.

“They all wanna fuck you anyway,” he says, voice booming but not threatening, because he’s not quite there yet. “That’s how they remember you. But now, you’re on the front page, and yesterday you weren’t. So rein it the fuck in.”

You drop your lighter on the table with a loud clatter, take a sharp drag, blow out the smoke. Point the cigarette at him, perfectly manicured fingers shaking.

“Is that why you’re so famous?” you say, your voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “Cause they all wanna stick it in your ass?”

And this is the first time he bothers to make a point today. Lowers his chin. Glares at you.

“Careful,” he says.

It’s a tone that usually gets a room of influential men to shut the fuck up and do whatever he wants. The thought that he could take their heads and make them pop like a melon dropped from a second floor window has something to do with that. But he likes to think it’s because they respect him too. If any of them want to fuck him, that’s none of his business, and they better not fucking let him know cause it won’t be melons being dropped from the second floor then.

He leans forward with a sigh appropriate for someone his age. Puts the glass down, reaches for the joint you never touched, cause you needed something stronger to calm you down yesterday evening. Kept calling his agent, called Vought, called them all, over and over, screamed at assistants to fucking get this limp dick motherfucker on the phone! He lights the joint, flame close to his face for a moment. He could probably use you to light it - you’re steaming enough.

“I don’t know why the fuck you keep insisting on embarassing me,” you hiss, take another drag, some of the ash of the cigarette dropping down on the carpet below. You don’t even look at it. Six months ago you were giving handjobs to help with the rent and sharing a one bedroom apartment with three other girls. Now, you’re the second most famous supe in the country. Sure got to your head quickly, Ben thinks. He tosses the lighter back onto the table. Clattering, again.

“You’re doing a fine job at that yourself,” he replies, leans back, gets comfortable, sinks deeper into the cushions, legs spread, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Everyone wanted to meet you at the afterparty. Hudson asked about you. Had to tell him you were at home with the monthlies.” He takes another drag, looks up at you through the smoke.

You’ve stopped moving and shouting, so there’s that. But something about the way you’re standing, cigarette burning down between your fingers, face slack, the only movement the rising and falling of your chest - well, something about it is like the calm before the storm.

“You told Rock fucking Hudson,” you say, voice eerily calm, “that I was on the fucking rag?”

You lean forward, and, naively, Ben thinks for a second it’s to put out the cigarette. What happens instead is that you grab the ashtray and fling it at him too.

You miss, and that’s probably a good thing, because if you didn’t, he might have ripped your head off. As it stands, it scatters to the ground, ash going everywhere, staining the carpet even more, just another bill to send to Vought to pay for you.

It’s enough to catapult Ben off the sofa though. He drags the joint from between his lips.

“Calm the fuck down!” he bellows but you just throw up your hands, turn, walk a few steps from him, then put your head in one hand, groan.

“What am I doing?” you mutter to yourself. “What the fuck am I doing? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Soldier Boy drops his head back, sighs. He rounds the table, walks over to you.

“Come on,” he says, joint between his fingers. “Take a hit, calm down.” Your shoulders are rising and falling, and he sure as shit hopes you’re not crying. He doesn’t do well with crying women. Pisses him off. He stops just behind you.

“Hey!” he says, cause you better fucking look at him when he’s talking to you. He’s got about two minutes of patience left in him. He only came over here cause the Legend told him he better get his ass in gear, set this right. He had a sweet little piece of ass lined up too, and now here he is, with you in fucking hysterics. He was hoping to at least get a blowjob out of this - if you ask him, you should be nothing but grateful. Sure, his rating has skyrocketed even more since the two of you have gone public - something about a single man at his age makes people uncomfortable. But still. You shouldn’t forget who you owe this new lifestyle to.

You turn around, arms crossed in front of your chest, the robe moved to the side a little, revealing the top of your breasts. Ben rests his eyes there before dragging them away, up to your face. Streaks of mascara on your cheeks from your tears. He’s not fooled though. He knows enough about this business not to trust them. He holds the joint out to you, like a goddamn peace pipe. Maybe he can still turn this around. It would make the Legend and the Vought board happy, plus, who knows - maybe he can still get it wet after all. He wouldn’t mind.

“You’re making this into a bigger thing than it is,” he says, lowering his head a little in a way that usually gets everyone to forgive him. That or the threat of violence. Both work. “You think you can be America’s sweetheart and not have everyone wanna bend you over? Not how it works, doll. Take the win. Don’t get tied up in your big feelings about it.”

And he thinks he sees it, reasonability on your face, and could it be? Could he have actually managed to calm you down? He extends the joint again to seal the deal.

The slap isn’t painful, but it is surprising. It hurts your hand more than it does his cheek, probably, and who knows, maybe your hand will actually fall off because you just struck God.

His head doesn’t snap to the side, but he does blink, a surprised expression on his face, sending a nasty, electric thrill through you. He’s looking past you, then his eyes wander to your face. You raise your chin, lips trembling, but he doesn’t miss the little twitch at the corners of your mouth.

“Fuck you,” you say, but you’re not doing a good job now at seeming actually pissed. You know it, know the way you’re clenching your cunt isn’t from anger. Or not just from anger. 

“You’re into this,” Soldier Boy says, eyes narrowing. “You like being pissed off. Gets you all drippy, doesn’t it?” Your chest rises and falls and when his gaze drops there, he can see your hardened nipples through the silk fabric of your robe. 

“Fuck you,” you repeat through clenched teeth, not giving him an inch, but that’s alright. 

He’s about to give you ten.

He reaches his free hand out, but you slap it away. Not that you actually could, but he lets you. He puts the joint between his lips, reaches out with that hand instead and you slap it away too, take a step back. You look up at him through your lashes, something animalistic yet calculated in your gaze. You take another step back, and this time he follows, feels himself growing hard in the tight confines of his suit. He’s wearing it cause you’ve complimented him on it, said you liked the way he looks in it. Well, you’re gonna get it now. He’ll fuck you in that suit, and you will enjoy it.

He sees you’re going to bolt a second before you do, and while his every honed instinct tells him to reach out, grab you, make sure you can’t move away from him, he suppresses it. Because he knows exactly what you need.

You start running, naked feet on carpet, robe flying, and he gives you a headstart the length of the blink of an eye. Then he’s after you.

The joint drops onto the carpet where he stood just a second ago. It singes the orange, then burns out.

You make it to the other side of the living room, close to the open kitchen you never use - said cooking is for housewives and poor people, and you’re neither now. You’re rounding the couch - some designer thing you yapped on about, while he barely listened - that faces the fireplace when he reaches you, shoves you so you need to get your hands out, catch yourself on the back of it. He’s crowding against you a second later.

His hands shoot to his waist, one press of his fingers and his belt drops to the floor, unzips his pants in record time. Practice, and you’re just pushing yourself up to stand, so the moment he’s done he pushes you down again with his left hand, fingers splayed, his other hand grabbing his dick and stroking it.

“I know what you need, sweetheart,” he grunts as he feels you struggle against his hold, whole body tensing. “You need some dick for that frustration, don’t you? All pent up, huh?”

He pivots his hips forward, fucks into his fist. Times each word with a thrust.

“Just a – nice – thorough – dicki—”

“Jesus!” you interrupt him, turn your head. He can only see the side of your face, but your lids are low, lips parted. “Stop talking and put it in already.”

Ben snarls, moves his hand to drag away the thin robe. It reveals your peach of an ass, no underwear so he knows this is what you were secretly hoping for all along, and he grabs your hip, pulls you back. Presses the head of his dick against your pussy hole - which is warm and needy, pulsing wet. Doesn’t push in, just rubs along you. He can feel you twitch.

“I decide when you get fucked,” he says, breath coming faster, and he sees you close your eyes, eyebrows pulling together. You push your ass back, trying to find him, his head grazing your entrance and slipping in about half an inch before he pulls back and you whine. “Shh, shh. You need it bad, don’t you?”

He hasn’t gotten you to say it yet. Hasn’t gotten you to say you want him, or need him. He likes hearing it, and he’s hoping he’ll crack you yet - your stubbornness has got him wondering why he ever agreed to this goddamn charade. He knows there’s something here that works. He just can’t figure out what.

He drives the thought away by sliding his dick into you. Slow, torturously slow, but he sees your hand fist the fabric of the couch where you’re holding on to it, sees the arch of your back. Vought’s to thank for that, the thick meat that can keep going and going, though he’d never admit it. He feels the tight, wanting squeeze of you, and suddenly he doesn’t give a shit.

You make a cracked little sound and before he’s fully seated in you, he rams that last inch home. You moan and he grabs the robe, collects the fabric in his fist, pulling tight, keeping you in place. Then he pulls back before thrusting back into you.

“This got you all wound up?” he asks, pulling out and setting a deep, punchy rhythm. It makes you drop your head forward, arch your back further so the impact sends little ripples of flesh through the meat of your ass cheeks. He grins at that. “Did you sit here yesterday, hoping to get yourself off to watching me on TV? Didn’t do the trick, did it?”

You make a general pleasurable sound, but don’t answer him, and that is threatening to really get a rise out of him. He knows you’re liking this, knows you enjoy it, but he can’t quite get the upper hand. Or hasn’t yet.

The reason is he talks too much. He could fuck like a god if he bothered to, but nothing pulls you back from the edge of a mind-breaking orgasm like that self-important drivel. Chasing you for those few steps got your heart pumping, not because of the distance but because you know he could rip you apart if he wanted, and Vought would pay for the dry cleaning with a smile and a thank you. But you’ve yet to actually see any of that danger he likes to pretend he carries.

Maybe today you’ll finally tickle it out of him.

Because he’s right. You did sit in front of that TV yesterday, pleasantly buzzed, ready to rub yourself raw. Ended up only screaming yourself raw, and not for any of the good reasons. Now he’s here, and you have made one decision: if you’re gonna play America’s number one sex kitten, then you’re at least gonna get something out of it. And if money, fame and a good dicking down is what that something is, you’re okay with that.

He keeps thrusting into you, but there’s little poetry to it. That’s okay though. You have a few tricks up your own sleeve.

One of your hands wander off the back of the couch to between your legs. Gently runs over your front and stomach, fingertips teasing yourself, and when you get to your pussy, you give your clit a little zap.

“Woah!” he says, another half thrust before he stills.

“Don’t fucking stop now, you imbecile,” you pant. “Keep going!”

He doesn’t for a second. He knows your powers - conducting electricity, as well as creating it to a certain voltage. Not a glamorous power by any means, and it’s become secondary to your celebrity persona. The Vixen - even Soldier Boy can’t resist-or her! was all that gave any hint as to your powers for your first photoshoot with your new lover. Him smirking down at you while you looked at the camera, arm wrapped around his, one eyebrow raised, a knowing grin and a short skirt. No one ever asked about it. That’s okay. It’ll have its moment to shine today.

Soldier Boy moves, just a little, careful, and it would be laughable if it wasn’t so annoying. You push back against him, making him sink deeper into you again, and then he finally grabs your hips, starts fucking you again, gingerly, until–

“Do it again,” he grunts. “That tickled my balls.”

Even though your back is turned to him, you bite down on your lower lip to hide your grin. Twinkle your fingers an inch or so over your clit, and just as you feel him confidently pick up his pace again, you zap yourself - and him - again in the process.

One of his hands shoots to your shoulder immediately, fingers pressing into your skin.

“Oh, fuck!” he grunts, pushes you hard against him with an obscene slap and the moan that escapes you is genuine and real. “Fucking hell, where’ve you been hiding this?” 

Instead of answering, you do it again. A high moan cracks from your throat - the way it travels through your nerves all over your body, into the meat of your thighs, up to your ass, the slight fizzle of it that dances around your nipples. Soldier Boy panting behind you. But it’s you that’s surprised when one of his hands comes down on your ass with a slap.

“Fucker,” you press out, and he squeezes the cheek in response. You feel his hand inching inside. Another zap, and he grunts loudly, that nice deep voice that you loved listening to on the radio. You know what he sees, know what he’s thinking, and not just from his thumb suddenly pressing against the tight muscle of your asshole.

“Ever gotten fucked here, doll?” he asks. “Cause it’s fluttering something fierce.”

You have. That one time you were really short on rent, and your landlord offered you a deal. You thought of Rock Hudson the entire time. 

Funny how life sometimes comes full circle.

You look over your shoulder, barely able to look Soldier Boy in the eyes. Bite your lip again and let it slip out between your teeth slowly.

“No,” you breathe, in that voice you use for whenever you talk to an interviewer or want to get out of a speeding ticket. “Don’t put it in there, please, it’s too big.”

And it’s so fucking over the top, and it’s so fake, and he could fall for it, just like all the others have. Instead he grins, snorts, then slaps your ass again, before pressing his thumb against you harder. You moan loudly as he sinks in, your ass cheek now fully within his grasp.

“You’re funny,” he says. “Never fucked someone who’s funny.”

And fuck you he does.

He goes harder now, but it’s not just that. It’s like he means it. You’re not connecting as people or falling in love or any of that bullshit, but it feels a little bit more like you’re on the same team.

You zap him again, your fingers now actually touching your clit, rubbing it quickly, and maybe it’s his finger serving as an earthwire, but he groans loudly, movement stuttering for a moment. Another zap, and it pushes you over the edge.

You come, entire body tensed, teeth pressed together. Not caring about pretty or sweet or feminine for once, but just about the fireworks going off behind your eyelids and between your legs. You know it sets off a low sizzle all over your body, and Soldier Boy must feel it, because he keeps fucking you, faster, ass cheek squeezed to the point of pain, and then suddenly he gets loud, really loud, as his thrusts become shallow.

“Fucking little–” he starts, but doesn’t finish what he’s saying - too busy pulling out, stroking himself as he sucks in air through his teeth and finishes on your ass. You’d laugh at that if weren’t shivering at it.

He pulls his finger from you, using the hand to steady himself on your hip instead. Pants, probably fucking basking over you, his dick resting heavy between your ass cheeks.

“You better not have come on my fucking robe,” you mutter. He groans.

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” he presses out, and there it is. That flame you thought he’d maybe fuck out of you. But it’s rekindling in your stomach. 

You reach your hand back, since you can’t turn with him still over you. Press your palm flat against his stomach and then you gather everything you can come up with for one single surge and send it into him.

He does something like a yelp, twitches back. It creates enough room for you to turn around, face him. You can feel a devilish grin spread on your face as his come drips down your ass and onto the carpet.

“Done already, soldier?” you ask, voice . He’s already bobbing into hardness again and you can’t help but lick your lips at that.

“Doll,” he says, raising his chin. “Somebody oughta fuck that sass out of you.” You bare your teeth.

“Try me, motherfucker,” you snarl.

He grabs for you, or you grab for him - you’re not totally sure.

All you know is that he drags you down, and you go tumbling with him. You manage to roll on top of him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He could probably drag you under him and fuck you dead without even breaking a sweat, but he lets you sit there on top of him. You press your hands against his chestplate, your robe having fallen open, his eyes on your tits.

You push up on your knees, reach between you two. Ben watches you, a hunger in his chest he usually knows to be satisfied by enough drink or pussy or a really bloody fight. But right then, right now, he’s starving. Insatiable. He’s not the type for introspection, and he sure as shit isn’t about to start when he watches himself disappear inside you again.

“Did Rock Hudson really ask about me?” you say, looking down at him. Soldier Boy grabs for your ass, presses you down against him, pussy swallowing up the rest of his pulsing dick and you hiss while grinding down at the same time.

“He did,” he replies, unable to hide the grin on his face. “Pretty sure he got a stiffy at the thought of me coming back here and dipping my dick in that red.” 

You drop your head back, moan, and then finally begin rolling your hips, riding him. He’s fully hard again, balls plump and full and he breathes through his nose at the scorching heat between your legs, the incomparable vibrations of the electricity running through your skin that he can feel all the way into his skull, like biting down on a broken tooth, but the tooth is in his dick, and there’s something pleasurable about it. 

You ride him fast and hard, like he’s a price race horse. He reaches his hands up, finds your tits, squeezes, fondles in a way that does nothing for you but everything for him. You grind on him in a way that has him stuttering a curse. He must be hitting you at the right angle, because he can see your eyelids flutter, unfettered noises leaving you.

“Yeah,” he pants, “fucking come on it.”

When you do, you arch your back again, sounds filling out the room, face a mask of pleasure and pain, but it’s the way your clenching on his dick is paired with the tremors of electric shocks you send out of you and into him that are what get him squeezing your tits harder, huffing like a drowning man through gritted teeth. He’s never felt anything like it.

“Keep going,” he presses out. “Keep fucking going with that little cu–”

Your hand finds his face, fingers briefly disoriented and searching until they press down on his mouth.

“Shut up,” you half moan, half chant. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Fucking bitch, Soldier Boy thinks. Fucking ungrateful little bitch. 

His hands go up without him even meaning to, find your throat. One hand snakes over the back, one over the front and then he’s squeezing. He knows how to apply pressure, how to kill someone and how to make someone just think they’re being killed. But he’s never been a man for finesse. He’s always been a wrecking ball.

You feel the pressure, and you know this could go horribly wrong. Know that the strongest man on earth is pressing down on your windpipe. You’ve wondered before if he has to actively stop himself from constantly breaking things, destroying everything and everyone. 

With the way your brain is quickly fogging up at the lack of oxygen, you don’t care though. Neither does Ben. Killing you wouldn’t be great publicity, but Vought would find a way to sweep it under the rug. Not that he wants that. Not that the way you’re squeezing around his dick, heavy waves of electricity tickling him everywhere isn’t the best fucking time he’s had in a long while. He thrusts up, hard, and he feels you twitch.

He keeps thrusting, his own teeth gritted. He knows he has to be careful or he’ll be fucking a corpse in a second, but he’s about to nut again and he knows this is gonna be a big one, so he’s not gonna stop now.

Your body convulses. Death throes, they call it. He squeezes harder, and now you’re twitching and he keeps fucking up into your sopping wet cunt. If he wasn’t going cross-eyed in that very second, he’d see a vein pulsing on your forehead. He’d hear you wheeze. He’d see your eyes roll up til there’s only white. When he feels his balls pull up where he’s squeezed into you, he lets go of your throat.

You can’t cry out, but you make some indescribable sound as you come too, and it’s the ceiling lamp that explodes first. It goes low, then bright, then bursts, just as Soldier Boy blows inside of you, and there’s a floor lamp nearby that follows immediately after. The TV at the other end of the room turns on, and so does the radio, both screeching like they’re coming too.

And Soldier Boy can feel it. Shit, he feels like he can see it. The electricity rolls out of you, into him. He doesn’t hurt a lot, barely ever. Can’t remember the last time, but the way you shoot into his every cell has him busting so hard he can feel his ears pop. It keeps going, his hips still pumping, spurting, and he nearly screams. 

He’s never felt like this, and he’s just about done it all. 

It seems to last forever, and yet it’s over within seconds. You’re still rolling your hips, milk him for everything he’s got but then you collapse forward, against his chest. You don’t need to be held or some shit like that, but, Christ on a cracker, if you aren’t happy he’s there will all that brawn to make it feel like the fall back to earth isn’t quite as far. 

The room is quiet, now, only filled with the panting of both of you. You don’t know it yet, but there is an outline now beneath you of your two bodies where you singed the carpet. It’s fine. Vought will pay for it.

You finally press yourself up, more drop than climb off him, legs shaky. You let Soldier Boy drop out of you, and a lot of him comes with it, runs down your thighs and down into the carpet too. Your ass meets the ground and you reach your hand out, low table nearby, pack of Luckys there and a fat, golden lighter. You take one out of the pack, eyes still mostly closed, hands shaking, and stick it between your lips. You roll your head before lighting it.

“Now that,” you say, voice rough and cracked, and the makeup department will have to work overtime to cover the bruises that will soon bloom on your throat, you just know it, will be dabbing at it with concealer and concerned eyes, but no one will say shit. Meanwhile Soldier Boy can’t help but feel a little proud at that, that he’s fucked that sassy, nagging voice right out of you. “That’s how I would fuck Rock Hudons if I ever got the chance.” 

Soldier Boy scoffs, then holds his hand out for the cigarette. You pass it to him and he sits up, scoots back against the couch. Takes a long drag. 

Both of you are quiet. He passes the cigarette back to you, and you move how you’re sitting, wince at your sore cunt.

“For what it’s worth,” Soldier Boy finally says, and you look at him with dead eyes. “Pretty sure Rock Hudson is a fucking fairy. So you’re not exactly missing out.” He takes the cigarette back, wishes it was something stronger. When he notices you’re looking at him, he turns his head. 

You’re frowning. He opens his mouth, is going to tell you that he’s pretty sure the guy tried to come on to him, suck his dick or something, but then he sees the tears glistening in your eyes. He sighs. He really thought he’d fucked them out of you.

“You really hate me, don’t you?” you ask, sniffle. He holds his breath for a second, then shakes his head.

“I don’t,” he says. “I just kinda don’t give a shit about you.” You turn your head away, nod slowly.

“Okay,” you say. 

It’s not how you imagined it. You thought on the other end of it would be happiness, love. You thought that dumb, deep feeling inside of you would go away if only everyone just loved you.

“Then why do you treat me like that?” you ask, but the fight has left your voice. Ben sniffs. He oughta slap you green and blue for how you keep talking back at him, but he just sighs. Flicks some ash onto the carpet.

“None of us get what we deserve,” he says.

Aaw, goes the audience. We really thought they’d make it. We thought love was on the other end of this.

You look at the camera, shake your head.

“Not love,” you say, and then a cheeky little smile forms on your lips. “But something way, way better.”

He takes your hand as the two of you step onto the red carpet. The bulbs blind you, and you throw yourself against his chest, smile brightly, throw one arm up, so excited to be here. He wraps his arm around you, smiles, isn’t she such a catch? 

You’re wearing a silver dress, the decollete shaped in the form of a lightning bolt. No one will get why, or ask what it means. Instead they’ll ask you what Soldier Boy is like in private. They’ll ask you what drink you serve him when he gets home. They’ll ask him if he’s planning on popping the question. They’ll ask you if you’ve thought of baby names already. They ask things, and ask, and ask, and you answer and wink and smile and giggle, and he answers and chuckles and winks and pats your side like you’re both in on the joke. 

Among the photographers and interviewers there’s fans, actual fans. One girl faints when she sees him. Another girl jumps up and down when she sees you, tears streaming down her face. She goes home to a basement apartment and a violent husband. But she thinks maybe one day she can be like you.

He takes your hand. They cheer, they clap, they scream. They love you. 

Isn’t that all you ever wanted?

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

[fishsficrecs]

WHEW i need a cold shower

[godmadeaterribleerror]

don't fall

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: dean is strictly off limits, for so, so many reasons. It's a shame neither of you seem to care.✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), dbf!Dean, angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, feral smut (blowjobs, teasing, dean's dirty talk, brat taming, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, face-fucking, Dean being a panty thief, finger sucking, jerking off, pussy slapping, lap sex, edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 12.3k✦

✦author's note: request from @circletreeme ! dean dbf for the girlies <3✦

Neither of you lasted as long as you should have.  

It was something that never should’ve happened at all. He should know better, and you shouldn’t have pushed to see if he did. But Dean told you it was never going to happen, and then ten minutes later had you pinned against the wall with his knee pushed between your legs.

“Dirty girl.” He mutters in your ear, littering kisses up and down your throat. “Gonna cum on my thigh, aren’t you. That fuckin’ easy?”

You whimper, and pull at his hair. There’s a pressure, building in your lower stomach and demanding and impossible to ignore. Your eyes flutter, and you press your cheek in the side of Dean’s head. His beard is tickling and scraping over sensitive skin, his lips hot and wet. You’re barely  more than a puddle in his arms.

“Deeean-“ You whine out, and he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight.

“That’s right, baby. Call my name, tell the whole house who’s got you in their lap-“

A door slams downstairs, and you shove Dean away just as fast as he rips himself back.

You’re both panting and flushed. You can see his arousal through his jeans, and your fingers are shaking too much to get a proper grip on your unbuttoned blouse.

Your father calls your name, the stairs creaking, and you shove Dean again.

He gives you an incredulous look, mouthing what are you doing?

Closet. You mouth back, pushing him again. The man is built like a fucking tree, it’s like trying to move boulder underwater. Get- “Get in the fucking closet-“

He moves, right before the door opens.

Your father smiles at you, glancing around the room. “You doin’ alright, kiddo?”

“Yep. How was work?” You bounce on your toes, shooting tiny looks to the closet.

He has no reason to check anything. It all looks perfectly innocent. There’s no clothing scattered across the floor or stench of sex in the air. Dean hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and the sweater that he’d ripped from your body is allowed to be on the bed, because it’s your room.

And it’s not like you’ve been known to do this kind of thing.

Sleep with older men.

Sleep with anyone.

You’re pretty sure if your father had to gamble on it, he’d put down money that you were going to die alone. Which isn’t entirely unfair. You speak to men like they’re dogs—because they are—and the last time someone asked you on a date, you spent the whole time staring them with an unimpressed expression and your arms over your chest.

It’s not that you’re rude. You just refuse to lower yourself just to please someone who can’t even do their laundry without Mommy’s help. And most college boys don’t even know their food groups. There’s protein, and green stuff, and candy. That’s it. It makes you want to bash your head into a wall.

But that’s how Dean got you.

Stupid, handsome Dean and his big hands and don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of it. Dean and the way he picked you up like you weighed ten pounds not to show of how much he can bench, but because you’d been standing in his way teasing him, and he’d needed to move you.

He’d placed you onto the counter of the kitchen with such care, and a stern, amused look. You’d gaped at him, heat flooding your cheek and all the blood in your body confused about if it should be curling in your fists and swinging, or pooling between your legs to help you hump him like an animal in heat.

“Not so mouthy now, are you.” Dean had drawled, and that’s when you’d known.

You were a goner. He had you in the palm of his calloused hands.

It worked, because you had him wrapped around your finger.

But neither of you were supposed to be close enough to even touch.

Dean’s your father’s best friend. They met in some old man club for people who like saws and drills or whatever. Maybe it was just a workshop. Or he fixed your dad’s car, and the dumbass fell just in love with him as you were.

Dean’s great. Dean and I got coffee. Dean showed me this new Thunderbird, think I’m gonna buy it. You can drive it, when you get home, maybe we’ll put the deed in your name. I’ll ask Dean if he thinks that’s a good idea. Dean thinks it’s a great idea.

Most of your Senior year had been spent getting calls and texts from your dad about how perfect and amazing Dean was. If he knew that the man was in your closet fighting a boner right now, he might end up more jealous than angry.

It still doesn’t feel like an experiment you want the results of. Some things are better left to the imagination.

“Work was good.” Your father shrugs. “You eaten dinner?”

“Um- No.” You need to stop looking at the closet. It’s suspicious. “I was actually going to go out, and- Eat there.”

“Do that tomorrow.” He waves a hand. “Dean’s coming over tonight, we’re gonna fire up my new grill, see how she cooks.”

“I know, I just- I wanted like Chinese or something.”

“Then get Chinese and eat with us-“ Your father pauses, and you swallow. “How’d you know Dean was comin’ over?”

Shit. You can almost feel him glaring at you through the closet. You’re supposed to be the smart one, sweetheart.

It’s his fault. You can still feel where he’d been teasing your sides, and it’s making your brain all stupid and fuzzy.

You know because Dean showed up early and cornered you in the living room. Because you’d done the stupid dance where you both pretend you’re not going to cave. You’d asked why he was here. He said he didn’t need a reason. You said he did, it wasn’t his house. He’d teased that he was always welcome. You’d rolled your eyes, and asked if he was sure about that. He’d leaned over you and murmured that you sure as shit seemed happy to see him. You’d just glared, because if you spoke you would’ve started to drool. He’d muttered that, for the record, he’d been invited for the drill. But that he was really here because he needed to see you.

Then he’d shoved his hand under your shirt and kissed you stupid.

You can’t tell your dad that part.

“You told me.” You say lamely.

You can almost hear Dean’s groan.

“Oh. Huh.” Your dad shrugs it off. Why wouldn’t he. “Alright. You gonna stay?”

It’s a horrible idea. If you stay, you’re going to spend the whole time grumpy because you’d been so close, and now Dean was feet away and unable to touch you.

“Sure.”

Fuck.

Your dad takes the victory. In his eyes, you’re sure he thinks it’s a miracle that his daughter wants to hang out with him and his friends instead of going out and doing young people things. You think he forgets, sometimes, that you’ve never been all that good at young people things.

And you’re certainly not going to burst his bubble by reminding him of that. Or the fact that of course you want to hang out with his friend. Sex on Legs Winchester. Even if you didn’t have something halfway started with him, you’d stick around just to ogle the eye candy.

“Am I just a sack of meat to you, princess?” Dean mutters when you tell him as much.

You bite back your smile, and shrug. “Maybe. You gonna do something about it?”

He fixes you with an almost awestruck stare, before chuckling and shaking his head.

“You’re trying to get me killed.”

“No, I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. I pop a boner now, your old man is gonna rip my head off.”

“So don’t pop a boner, dumbass-“

Your words fall off in a tiny squeak, as Dean grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a deep, long kiss.

It’s far from the first time you kissed. That had been a night only a week after you’d moved back home—a long, torturous week of staring at massive biceps and imagine them wrapped around your neck, or beating yourself up in the sheets as you got off to the idea of Dean and his stupid, cocky smirk—when he’d been staying over so his house could get gassed for bugs or something. You’d smiled at him too sweetly. All his touches had lingered too long. You’d gone downstairs to get some water, and ended up on top of him on the couch.

You still haven’t slept together. Every time you get close, fucking something has to happen, and you stop.

But you’ve kissed so much you think your lips are molded to shape his.

You immediately turn to slack putty, in Dean’s arms. Kissing him back with frantic passion, leaning over his chest and moaning openly into his mouth. Your fingers find their way to his belt, then lower. Dean tips your head back further to deepen this kiss, and you paw at his bugle with a tiny whimper.

He hums, squeezing the back of your neck. “Behave.”

“Don’t want to.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.

“I know.” Dean pulls back, kissing one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You need some motivation, baby?”

You nod, fixing him with your best, doe-eyed stare. It’s the one that always makes him cave, even when he says he knows he shouldn’t.

But you both know you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be doing any of this. There’s a long list of reason that starts with your father’s best friend and ends with massive age gap that could be followed to prevent all of this. But you both seem to get a little blind, when you look at each other. Suddenly you can’t read and Dean—a man who’s all self-control and smooth, cool collection—stumbles over his feet like a highschooler.

He says that’s how he knew this was worth it. That you do things to him that no one else ever has. You blush and giggle and press your face into the crook of his neck, and for a little while you both forget the whole world. Sometimes you whisper that he does things to you as well. You’ve never wanted to wrap around someone like this and never let go.

And that overrides all logic and reason. It doesn’t matter what kind of rules there are. You want to break all of them, just to be closer to him for a few moments longer.

“You play nice tonight.” Dean whispers in your ear, tracing lazily up and down your spine. “Then I’ll help you sneak out. Back to my place.”

“Your place?” You sound a lot more pathetic than you want to be. You really don’t know how to help it.

“Mhm. And you know what’s at my place that ain’t here?”

You shake your head, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. It scrunches up, and his eyes shine with adoration. You’re never going to get sick of him looking at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Peace and quiet.” He mutters. “Just you, me, and nothing else.”

Your eyes widen, as you realize what he means. “Oh- Okay.”

“Okay?”

There’s a hint of worry in his voice. Like he needs to be sure you really mean it, even when you’re slack and folded into his arms, digging your nails into his biceps like you’re trying to leave a mark.

You nod frantically, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay.” He mutters, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You smile at him, and his throat bobs. “Behave.”

“I always behave.” You tease, and Dean snorts.

“Yeah. Alright.”

“I do. I’m very well trained.”

He chuckles, kissing you light and soft. You push up on your toes, trying to chase a little more, and Dean lets you. He always lets you.

“Don’t think you’re the one on the leash, sweetheart.” He mutters against your lips, and you giggle.

“Dogs train their owners sometimes. With feeding habits and walk schedules.”

“Hm.” He leans back, a smile twitching on his lips. “Is this feedin’, or walkin’?”

 And this is your favorite expression on his handsome face. The one where you can tell that he’s really trying to be annoyed with you, but can’t stop himself from enjoying your company. From looking at you like he wants to just lock the door and pin you to the bed until you’re giggling and beaming all the time. You’d be all for that plan, if your father wasn’t probably waiting downstairs, wondering why Dean’s running late-

Shit. Right. Your father.

“Actually.” You kiss over his beard, curling your fingers in the collar of his shirt. “I think it’s fetch.”

Dean snorts, and ducks down to kiss you again. You push him lightly back, and he stumbles like he’s been shot.

“Out the window.” You say sternly, pointing at the roof.

Dean groans, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, one more-“

“No.”

“But-“

“Behave.” You mock, and he scowls.

“Son of a bitch.” He grumbles under his breath. He’s making a face like a toddler who just got his favorite toy truck confiscated for bad behavior. It’s rather adorable. “Gonna be the death of me, woman. Can’t believe I’m so in love with a fuckin’ brat.”

“Aw, you love me?”

You say it like it doesn’t still make your heart skip to hear it. Dean sighs like he let slip some grand secret, instead of something that he’s told you countless times in dark corners and in booths of bars.

He looks at the window. He’s back to pouting again.

“It’s gonna hurt my knees.” He whines, and you laugh, closing the space between you once more.

“Tough shit, Winchester. Should’ve tried to keep it in your pants.”

“But you make it so hard-“

“I know.”

That earns you a glare, and you giggle again.

You’re both so very bad at this. Dean should already be downstairs. You shouldn’t be goading him into saying longer, but you can’t help it at all. This is your favorite kind of teasing. The one where you end up folded under him with his pretty lips wrapped around your nipples and thick fingers stuffing up your pussy and toying with your clit until you’re whining his name.

Dean’s looking at you like that’s exactly what he wants to do with you. You’re smiling at him like you’re begging for it, and neither of you ever back down from the challenge.

Then your father calls your name from downstairs. And it’s like a bucket of ice water is poured over both your heads.

“Dean’s runnin’ late!” He shouts. “You should go get your Chinese now!”

You sigh, and Dean grimaces. The urgency doesn’t stop him from grabbing your face between his hands, and kissing you one last time.

“Tonight.” He mumbles like an oath. “Just you and me.”

You hum. “Only if I behave, right?”

“Sure. Only if you behave.”

And he says it like that because you both know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter how you behave. You could sit on his lap or rub your foot on his crotch under the table, and he’s still going to open the door when you sneak over. If anything, the question is just how big a price do you want to pay tonight. How far are you willing to push him, how greatly do you want him to snap once you’re alone.

You think you want him to lose it. He’s always extra pretty when he looks like he’s about to cry from frustration, and he’s never hotter than when there’s that dangerous gleam in his eyes that reminds you he could toss you around like a sack of potatoes.

God, it sounds nice though. Being Dean’s sack of potatoes.

He sneaks out the window, and flips you off after you laugh at him for groaning the whole time. He has to sneak down the block to get his car, and you won’t be here when he arrives. You have to go get your Chinese.

But after that, all bets are off.

Dean is worse at this than you are. The sneaking around.

You get stupid and nervous when your dad is around and Dean is hiding. You told me wasn’t your best moment, but it also wasn’t that far from your worst. And you know your dad. You know that he’s not really going to question most things he tells you, because even your more obvious excuses aren’t that suspicious.

But Dean’s a fucking dumbass.

He’s your dumbass. Your old, grumpy idiot who’s some kind of genius with a wrench and a circuit board and an engine, but who stares at the crossword puzzles you do and mutters that all those letters look fake. He could find his way home if you dropped him in the middle of the woods—you call him your pigeon, and he doesn’t think that’s half as funny as you do—but he also thinks that Michaelangelo is the Ninja Turtle and needs your help writing emails. One time you asked him when he’d last gone to the doctor, and he said some time in ’07. You’d smacked him upside the head and dragged him by the nape of his neck.

Later that week, he’d been grumbling to your dad about how the doc was making him cut back on steak. His cholesterol had been through the roof. He’d protested and bitched, but you’d grabbed his jaw and snapped that if he died, you were going to leave him.

So now he’s down to only two burgers a week, and you’re very proud of him.

Which is what he’d told your dad.

Not the you part—he wasn’t that stupid—but the doctor part. And how he’d been bargained down to two burgers in exchange for other things.

Blowjobs. You might not have fucked yet, but you’d done most everything else, and you’d talked him down from a three burger a week deal with the promise of blowjobs.

Which he’d told your dad.

Because he’s an idiot.

“You’re datin’ someone?” Your dad had said in surprise, and Dean had frozen.

On the couch, you’d rolled your eyes. God, he was so lucky you loved him to death.

“I- I- Uh-“

“Why didn’t you tell me? You coulda brought her over, I wanna meet the lady who finally got you to settle.” Your dad had snorted, his voice dropping so that you probably weren’t supposed to hear it. “Hell, if she gives good enough head for you to drop burgers, I gotta meet her.”

You’d felt sick. When you’d glanced over your shoulder, Dean had looked sick.

His eyes had flitted to yours in panic. You’d given him a tight, prompting look, and his throat had bobbed.

“She, uh- She’s real busy-“

“I got time.”

“Right. Good.” Dean had looked trapped. This was the only time you saw him really stumble over his words. When it came to you.

It would be sweet, if he wasn’t a few wrong words from getting shot in the head.

“She, uh- She’s just- You know- Women-“

“Where’s she work.” Your dad had asked casually.

Dean had gone pallid. “The… Place.”

“Place?”

“Bookshop.”

“Oh.” Your father had called your name, and Dean had looked seconds from passing out. “You know any ladies at the bookshop Dean’s age?”

You’d hummed, pretending to examine your nails. “Um… Maybe Matilda.”

Matilda is the lovely old woman who you share all your shifts with. She has five cats, two grandchildren she loves more than her dolt of a son, and knows that you and Dean are dating because she caught you making out in the nonfiction section a month ago.

Dean had glared at you, and you’d just smiled back. The fuck was I supposed to say? You’d tell him later. There’s only four of us, and two are high schoolers.

He’d gotten out of the bookshop jam by saying that she worked at a different place. Your father had bought the lie, but never dropped it. He never drops any of Dean’s slip ups.

Because every time you’ve almost been caught, it’s been Dean’s fault. There was the time your bra got found in the Impala, and when Dean’s brother knew about you before you were formally introduced, and when you’d been on a date and your dad had walked into the bar. You’d shoved Dean under the table, and the fucking dumbass had decided to kiss your thighs the whole time he was down there. You’d kill him if you didn’t love him. But you also think he’d kill himself if he ever really pissed you off.

But now your dad thinks Dean’s sneaking around with some lady from out of town, and you go to bars by yourself when you said you were going out with friends. And he’s a nice, nosy man, so he hasn’t let go of either fact at all.

“How’s your girl, Winchester?” He asks Dean over dinner, and Dean grunts.

“Good. Pissin’ me off, but good.”

You stick your tongue out at him behind your dad’s back. He’s just grumpy about the couch thing.

Your dad had gone to check on the grill, and you’d put your feet in Dean’s lap. He’d grabbed your ankles and hissed for you to behave. You’d smiled at him and moved them, before immediately crawling over him. You’d had a hand resting right against his crotch, and another grabbing at his chest. You’d kissed his cheeks and neck while he just grabbed your waist for balance.

“’M so wet, De.” You’d whispered, sucking a kiss right under his jaw. “Need you so bad.”

He’d made a strangled, almost pained sound. His cock had twitched under your hand, and you’d pressed down harder.

Dean’s fingers had flexed on your waist. You’d dropped your weight onto his thigh, grinding down and moaning against his skin.

You think, if your dad hadn’t come back the next second, he would’ve flipped you over and ripped off your skirt. But you’d heard the door open, and pulled easily away. Dean hadn’t been able to stand up for five minutes. You’d giggled and run your fingers through this hair, before following your dad out on to the porch.

So he’s a little mad at you.

You hope he stays mad at you. He always kisses you like an animal, when he’s a little pissed. Then he presses your face between your breasts and mumbles about how it’s not fair that he can’t stay mad at you, and it’s a better feeling than any high in the world.

Your goal for the night might be driving him so up the wall that when he finally fucks you, he rearranges your guts in his name.

It’s not going to be that difficult to do.

“What’d she do to piss you off?” Your dad asks, and Dean makes a face.

“Nothin’. Just- She gets mouthy.” He’s still glaring at you. You pretend not to see it. “And she likes to push my fuckin’ buttons.”

“You’re fun to rile up, buddy.” Your dad shrugs, totally oblivious to you and Dean eye fucking across the room. “Just take a deep breath and tell her she’s making you mad.”

Dean snorts. “Trust me. I think she knows.”

You beam at him and flutter your lashes. His eyes narrow, his grip on the counter going white knuckled.

He is fun to rile up. You hope he never works on that.

“You know who I saw at the store today?” You dad asks you, and you hum, poking at your chow mein.

“Who?”

“Gordon.”

“Oh, shit.” You look up. “How’s he doing?”

“Alright. Think he’s livin’ at home too. Surprised you didn’t know.”

“Well, we don’t talk that much anymore-“

“He asked about you.” Your dad shrugs casually. Too casually.

You know where this is going.

“Gave me his new number, to pass onto you. Said he missed you, all four years-“

“Dad.” You sigh, giving him a flat look.

He raises his hands. “I’m not sayin’ anything-“

“Yes, you are.”

“Well- Nothin’ that we gotta read into, but you two were always so close-“

“Dad-“

“Who the fuck is Gordon.” Dean grunts, and you flush.

He looks pissed. And not you just flashed him and he’s got a boner at the table pissed.

Really pissed. Like he wants to bite someone’s head off, but hasn’t figured out who yet.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“He’s- He’s just my childhood friend-“

“Childhood best friend.” Your dad corrects, and you’re going to fucking kill him and then yourself. “They were little bandits together, we all thought they’d end up datin’, but I guess they both got sidetracked.”

“We didn’t get sidetracked.” You mutter, staring at your plate.

You can feel Dean’s gaze burning into you. It’s almost impossible to look him in the eyes.

“We just- It was never like that-“

“Didn’t he take you to prom?”

“As friends-“

“You didn’t come home ‘till the morning-“

Something cracks, and you and your dad both fall silent.

Dean’s broken his mug. With his hands. One hand.

Oh, God.

You’re worried that if you stand up, there’s going to be a slick stain on your chair.

“You alright, buddy?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” Dean stares at you, nostrils flaring. “You gonna call the boy?”

Boy. Not man, boy. And he says it so mockingly, it makes you feel buzzy and faint.

“No.” You try to sound normal, but you’re sure it comes out pathetic and dazed. “I- Um- We never-“ You glance nervously at your dad, and clear your throat. “Gordon actually ditched me for Anna, on prom night. That was- It was why we stopped talking.”

“Oh.” Your dad makes a sour face. “Well, I always knew he was gonna be bad news eventually. You deserve better, kiddo, and if I see him again I’ll give him a piece of my mind- I’m sure Dean will too.”

And you have to agree with that.

Dean looks like he’s about to go and smash Gordon’s head against the curb. Your dad keeps rambling about Gordon and kids not knowing what they want and how both he and Dean will make sure you never settle for less than you deserve. Dean keeps staring at you, and you’re sure that part is true as well.

Dean’s not going to let you settle for anything less than what you deserve at all. If he can help it, he’s never going to allow you to settle, period.

You really hope he knows, that it’s him and nothing else. Never anything else. Whatever confusing feelings you had eventually developed for Gordon had vanished when you were a teenager. You’d barely had a college boyfriend—more like a few loose options you’d kicked to the curb once you decided they’d lead to pallid and sickly futures—and no one in your life has ever made you care about a relationship the way Dean does.

And you really worry sometimes, that he doesn’t understand that. You try to remind him, but the age gap hangs over your heads like a sword of Damocles. He’s said before that there has to be better boys for you. Boys your age.

You don’t want a boy your age. You want a man.

You want Dean.

And from the look of him, you’re not sure he’d be able to stomach you with anyone else.

“I’m not going to call Gordon.”

Dean looks up from the sink. You’d followed him into the bathroom while your dad cleaned the grill, desperate to make sure he understood. You like him a little grumpy and mocking. It makes everything in your chest feel wrong, when he really seems upset.

“Alright.” Is all he mutters, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.

“Dean-“

“What?”

He gives you a challenging look. You swallow, and lean back against the door.

“I love you.”

The first time you’d said it had been all romantic and dumb in the rain. It had fumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he’d kissed you until your legs gave out. Even now, months later, it has the safe effect. Dean’s shoulders slump, and his eyes soften. Everything in him softens. Just for you.

“I love you too, princess-“

“No.” You whisper, pressing your lips in a tight line. “I really love you.”

Dean frowns. “Yeah, I know-“

“Dean.” You push off the door, your eyes locked onto his. “I love you.”

No one else, is what you tell him with your eyes. Just you. Always just you.

Dean blinks, his gaze raking over your body, then darting to the door. He rasps your name, because he knows you too well. He knows that glint in your eyes, he knows the sweet smile playing on your lips. He tells you all the time, that it almost gives him a heart attack. You close the distance in small, cautious steps. Dean clears his throat, looking almost desperate for you to take mercy.

You won’t. You need him to understand.

“Sweetheart, you can’t-“

“Yes I can.” You sink to your knees, and Dean grabs a fistful of your hair.

Your drag your hands over his thighs, and his swallows hard, a vein in his brow ticking as he tries to keep still.

“Come on.” He rasps. “This ain’t behaving.”

You shrug, slowly undoing his belt buckle. “Oops.”

Dean’s chest heaves, and a small groan rumbles in his chest as you kiss his crotch. You watch him under hooded lashes, pulling down his pants and taking his underwear with them.

He’s already hard. Thick in your hand and weeping from his slit, the angry red of his cock demanding your attention, even as he tries to talk you out of it.

“Baby, you- You don’t gotta-“

“But I want to.” You murmur, slowly pumping his cock with a light grip.

Dean grunts, bucking into your hand. His head is tossed back, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming out in pants. You stop stroking him, and he immediately looks back down.

“What’re you-“

“Can I?” You press your cheek into his thigh, letting your warm breath fan over his balls. “Please?”

You pout, just to be sure he knows. Dean never likes making you do this. He always whines on and on about how it should be about you, not him. He says he gets off just fine tasting you and making you cum on his fingers. You’re still trying to make him understand that just the thought of him fucking your face like a toy ruins your underwear.

You’ll be sure to show him after.

Dean stares down at you, gripping the bathroom sink and petting the top of your head. He lets out a ragged breath, closes his eyes, then drags them back open. You think he might be checking that you’re still there.

You’re about to suck his soul out of his cock. He’s not going to get rid of you that easy.

“You sure?” He mutters, and you nod eagerly.

“Please.”

A feral sound rumbles from his throat. His dick twitches, and he gives the tiniest nod. 

“Is that-“

“Go for it.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Show me what you’ve got, baby.”

You give him a flat look. He knows damn well, what you’ve got. And you can see him smirking, opening his mouth to say something cocky and smug about you biting off more than you can chew.

You don’t give him the chance, before you’re wrapping your mouth around his head and swirling your tongue.

Dean groans, his blunt nails scraping against your head as his whole body tenses. You hum around him and repeat the motion, again, and then one more time for good measure.

“Jesus-“ He chokes out your name. “Warn a guy- I- Wasn’t fuckin’ ready-“

You smile, pushing further down. You suck lightly, taking his base into your hand and pumping it in time with your mouth. Dean makes a sinful, deep noise that comes straight from your dreams. He croaks out your name, bowing his head and tugging on your hair as his cock pulses in your mouth.

“Baby- Fuck-“

You take your free hand and grab his balls, slowly massaging them as your mouth picks up the pace. Dean’s looking down at you like you fell from Heaven, right onto your knees for him, and him alone.

“You’re a fuckin’ brat, you know that? Just- Lookin’ at me and- Shiiit-“

He’s losing composer. It’s what you live for. The way his eyes roll back and he starts to shallowly thrust between your lips, letting drool slip down your chin and pre-cum leak over your tongue.

“Mouth was made for me.” He grits out, his teeth bared and voice tight. “Pretty little slut, know you love this shit. You’re wet, aren’t you. Drippin’ all over the floor for me.”

You moan in agreement, and Dean slams his hips forward. His cock bruises the back of your throat and you have to relax your jaw to stop yourself from gagging. Dean tenses, his voice raw and strained.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

You’re not having any of that.

Dean cuts himself off with another guttural sound as you push yourself forward. Your nose brushes his abdomen, your jaw unhinged to take all of him, and it’s still not enough. You stick out your tongue, flicking the underside of his cock as you squeeze his balls.

“Son of a bitch- You-“

You suck, letting your throat squeeze around the head of him. He makes another, feral sound, and tugs at your hair.

“Baby, shit- You’re so fuckin’ warm, and- You gotta get off or-“

He almost whimpers as you pull back, sliding off his cock with a pop and stroking it as you leave an open-mouth kiss on the swollen head. Dean’s fingers flex, and you know he wants to shove you back down.

You give him a soft smile, kissing down his shaft, then over his balls. You suck there for a second, still jerking his cock in your free hand, and he finally snaps. Pulling you back by your hair and giving you a wrecked, hopeless look. He’s trying to use his listen to me voice, but he seems to know it’s a lost cause. You’ve got him exactly where you want him.

He says your name like a prayer, and you open your mouth. Stick out you tongue, fixing him with a challenging glare.

Dean swallows. “You sure- Fuck-“

You flick your tongue over his head, squeezing the base of his dick tight.

Dean shakes his head, looking up like he’s praying.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters, and you know you’ve won.

You keen as Dean’s grip on your hair tightens. He shoves you right down his cock, pushing against the back of your throat before yanking you back. You moan around him, your eyes watering from the overwhelming taste and force. You’re barely more than a cocksleeve for his pleasure, and that’s exactly what you wanted.

Dean barely able to think outside of where he’s fucking your mouth, making broken and worshipful sounds, calling your name with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby- Takin’ it so good, love you like this, choking on my cock. Look so pretty for me, wish I could take a picture- Fuuuckkkk-“

He tosses his head back, still watching his cock pump between your lips. He gets transfixed and babbles, coming apart above you as you just keep smiling and taking it.

“Pretty girl,” he grits out. “My pretty fuckin’ slut, sucking dick like a damn vacuum- Crying for me, baby girl, you need this cock that bad-“

You mewl in agreement, dizzy from the praise. You do need his cock that bad. If the thoughts weren’t being fucked from your head, you whimper that no one fucks your mouth like he does. No one makes you feel so holy and used all at the same time. You’re so wet you feel it every time you shift, so wet you’re worried he’s going to be able to smell it. But you love this. The taste and weight of him, and how no one gets it but you.

It’s almost pornographic, the way he’s taking your mouth. Your lips shine with spit and pre-cum, tears pour down your cheeks as his thrusts become jagged sharp, and sweat shines on Dean’s thighs as you keep working his balls. They’re getting tight and heavy in your hands. He’s about to loose it.

“Baby-“ He taps your cheek, words pushed out between moans. “Baby, I- I’m gonna-“

You sink your nails into his thigh. You’ve never failed to swallow before, and you’re not starting now.

Dean hisses out your name, but doesn’t stop. You moan around him, sucking as hard as you can to shove him over the edge.

He cums hard, shooting thick ropes of release down your throat. You unhinge your jaw, and manage to get most of it. But he always lets out so much, and a fair amount ends up smeared with your tears and dripping down his legs.

You pull slowly back, and start to lick up what you weren’t able to get on your first try. Dean hisses, sensitive from the orgasm, and strokes his hand through your hair. His gaze is fixed on where some had dripped down to your tits. You have a feeling that if you were really, truly in private, he’d shove his face into your chest and clean you up himself.

“You are-“ He lets out a broken laugh, as you smile up at him. “Something else.”

“You’ve told me.” You tease, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Too proud of it.” He grumbles. “Like you want to be over my knee later.”

You shrug, eyes sparkling. Dean’s jaw ticks.

His thumb swipes over your cheek, where a little bit of the cum is still stained.

“Open.” He mutters, and you obey.

He presses his thumb between your swollen lips, and you take it with a happy hum. Dean groans, watching you suckle his release of his finger. You flutter your lashes at him. He pulls out, smearing spit over your cheek.

“I’m goin’ in an hour.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it. It sends an excited, electric thrill between your legs. “You better follow, or I’m comin’ here and fucking you in your daddy’s house.”

You nod like a bobblehead, unable to even find the words. Dean laughs and pulls you to your feet, kissing you harshly. It’s messy and open, possessive in a way you’d never found hot before you had him.

Other boys being possessive had seemed like they thought of you as a nice little toy they threw a tantrum over having to share. With anyone, even your friends.

Dean being possessive makes you feel priceless. Treasured. He’s yours, and he doesn’t want you to forget it. You can do whatever the hell you want, just so long as you remember that he’s yours.

Your dad is calling for you again. Dean slips out of the bathroom first—he doesn’t have cum and drool to clean off his face—but not before kissing your cheek and slapping your ass.

He says you’re going to be the death of him, but he’s bouncing around like he’s ten years younger. You’re the one who needs to clutch the railing as she walks downstairs. He didn’t even fuck you and it’s hard to walk from the throb between your legs.

You’d been right. You’d completely destroyed your underwear, turning it to just a soaked scrap of lace.

And Dean might have you begging at his feet, but you don’t roll over that easy. You pulled off your panties before you left the bathroom. You keep them bundled in your fist while Dean talks to your dad for the last hour, sitting on the counter with your legs crossed. When it’s time for him to go, he wanders over to give a perfectly innocent goodnight.

His eyes are gleaming, as he drawls see you around, kid.

Kid.

He knows you hate it when he calls you kid. And suddenly, you don’t feel bad anymore.

“Night, grandpa.” You say lightly, and Dean laughs, but it’s rougher than before. You can see it in his eyes, the way he’s planning out every single way he’s going to make you pay for that.

Then you stick out your hand, and he blinks. There’s a confused, cautious shadow over his face as he takes your hand and shakes it. You cover it with your fist, and slip your panties into his grip.

Dean pulls back with a frown, looks down, and coughs so loud he staggers. You bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Your father looks up from the sink with a worried face.

“You alright, Dean?”

“Yeah, uh- Yeah.” He stares at you, working his jaw. His words are pushed through his teeth, and you can see his cock, already straining through his jeans again.

His closes his fist around your panties, and shoves them into his pockets. Your dad asks him something else, but you don’t hear it. You’re fully fixed on Dean. On the dangerous promise in his eyes.  

You’re in trouble.

Good.

Dean lives more than twenty minutes away, but you make the drive in fifteen.

You’re desperate, and past denying it. You’ve got the hottest man alive waiting for you and finally about to fuck you, anyone else would be breaking traffic laws as well.

It wasn’t hard to sneak past your father, especially because you failed to sneak past him. You got downstairs and found him watching TV. You’d thought he was in bed, and the blood had drained from your face.

“Dad, uh- You’re-“

“Just watchin’ Jeopardy.” He’d said, not looking away from the screen. “You going to Dean’s?”

You’d tripped over nothing, and choked on the air.

“I- I don’t- I’m not- What-“

“Don’t insult me, kiddo.” He twists, giving you a flat look. “I ain’t blind and stupid. He had a hard on the whole night.”

“Um-“ You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you should run or just drop dead. “That’s- Maybe he was texting his girlfriend-“

“He never texts his girlfriend. He just texts you.”

You open your mouth, then close it. You’re dead. Dean’s dead. Your dad is going to kill him and you’re never even going to get to have sex, and that’s such a huge bummer because you’re just going to sit at his grave forever, and turn into a tree like some old myth, and then your dad is going have no one to talk to sports about. Everyone is losing in this scenario. It’s awful.

“Was it his fault?” You say, because it’s all you can think of. “That you realized?”

Your dad snorts. “Oh, yeah. I had suspensions-“

“Suspicions-“

“I caught you on a date.” He says your name dryly. “You said you were there alone, but his car was in the lot. He said he was datin’ a girl who worked in a bookshop. You’d been wearing his shirt to bed.”

Your mouth falls open, your cheeks burning.

“Oops.”

“Yeah. Oops.” Your dad sighs, turning back to the TV. “Realized when he let me call you on his phone. Dumbass opened the message thread for me and everything.”

Oh. Oh no.

Again, there wasn’t much outside of sex that you and Dean hadn’t done. Which, tragically, included sexting.

A lot of sexting.

Photos of you in lingerie and dick pics and voice memos and a lot of videos, and you’re going to throw up-

“You- You didn’t-“

“Saw more of Dean than I ever wanted to.” Your dad mutters, making a face like he’s also going to be sick. “Was about to punch him for sending that shit to you, but there was a voice memo with it. Listened for about ten seconds, almost got sick, realized it was at least mutual.”

You cringe. You remember that voice memo and photo, just as well as you remember your dad calling you on Dean’s phone because his was dead. You’d thought he sounded weird. You wished you hadn’t been so right.

“I’m so sorry-“

“He treat you well?”

You blink. You almost don’t understand the question.

“Of- Of course he does.”

“Hm.” Your dad frowns at the TV. “He gonna marry you?”

“Dad-“

“I’m just sayin’.” He shrugs. “If he’s puttin’ us all through this, he better hope he doesn’t break your heart. You know I was in the military.”

You almost laugh. “He was in the military-“

“I was ranked higher.”

“Dean was a marine-“

“You think I couldn’t kick his ass?”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you don’t have to, because he won’t break my heart.”

For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your father huffs, and slumps back into the couch.

“Good.” He waves a hand. “Have fun.”

You nod, then go still.

Have fun.

That’s… Approval.

Your dad knows about you and Dean, and he—begrudgingly, but that’s the best you can hope for—approves.

So that should be the first thing you tell Dean when you get through the door. That you don’t have to keep hiding. You’re rehearsing breaking the news your whole drive over, mumbling the speech under your breath when you knock on the door.

But then Dean opens it, and suddenly there’s only one important thing in the world.

Greetings are forgotten, as Dean wraps an arm around your waist and drags you into his chest. You whimper as his mouth slams over yours, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him further down.

“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since I left.” Dean groans, pulling your jacket off with scrambling hands. “Got in the car and wanted to turn around, sneak back through the window like a fuckin’ teenager- Jesus, you don’t know what you do to me-“

You surge up on your toes, throwing your arms around his shoulder and kissing him until you’re breathless and swaying.

“I- I know.” You whisper. “God, Dean, I know-“

He makes one of those deep, hungry, rumbling sounds, spinning you both around so he can kick the door close. You stumble closer, pressing him back against the wall as your pull his upper lip between your kiss. Dean grunts and crashed forward, grabbing your face between his hands and pressing back.

“Needy.” He mutters between open mouth kisses. “Needy fuckin’ girl, can’t even let me take a breath, can you?”

You tip you head back, your words breathy and high as Dean starts to kiss over your neck.

“You- You kissed me first.”

Dean hums, nipping at your throat. He’s dragging his hands down your sides, slipping one under your shirt to caress your spine while the other gropes at your ass.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Mhm.” You mumble, lost in the heat of his mouth. He’s sucking on a sensitive pulse point, letting his tongue flick over the skin, and he knows what that does to you. “De- Dean-“

“Guess I’m the one who couldn’t wait.” He says, but it’s mostly to himself. “Been dreamin’ of this for so long, sweetheart. You here.” He kisses further down, pulling down your shirt to get access to the top of your chest. “’Bout to be in my bed.” He bunches up the fabric of your shirt, and only his arm around you is keeping you upright. “’Bout to be on my cock.”

He hisses the last words before rushing back up into a starved, sloppy kiss. He rips off your shirt in the same second, before smoothly unclipping your bra. You gasp as the cold air hits your nipples, nails scratching at Dean’s neck.

“Shit- Dean-“

“I’ve got you.” He scoops you into his arms, kissing your cheek.

“Do you-“ You swallow at his flat, amused look. “Sorry.”

His lips twitch, and he doesn’t break your gaze as he walks down the hall. “You know, you always get mouthy when you’re horny.”

You scowl. “I do not-“

“You do-“

“No, I-“

Dean cranes his neck, capturing your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. You respond in a second with a light tug of his hair, eliciting another pleased, low rumble from his chest.

He pulls back, and you chase him. Getting one more, quicker kiss that he melts into within a second.

“You do.” He rasps, nipping at your nose. “You turn into a real brat.”

You glare, ready to snap something that would only prove his point. But Dean grins, and suddenly you’re being dumped down onto his bed. You yelp at the sudden movement, wiggling and holding him tight enough to strange. Dean grunts, falling forward and barely managing to brace himself over you as you both crash down to the mattress.

“Jesus-“ He mutters your name, and you shove his shoulders.

“You surprised me-“

“You almost killed me-“

“Oh, you’re fine-“

“I’m old, that coulda broken my knees-“

“Shut up.”

You grab his face, pressing up for another stumbling, frantic series of kisses. You’ve kissed Dean pretty much everywhere—on his body and geographically—but this is always your favorite place. On his pretty mouth, under him in his bed. There’s nothing around you that isn’t Dean, and it’s intoxicating. The pine and spice scent of him, the heat of his body, the fact that he just lay here by himself sometimes. Thinking of you, the same way you think of him.

Dean wraps his arms around you, pulling you up off the mattress. You hook your leg over his waist, flipping you both over so you’re straddling his lap and kissing him everywhere you can reach. You grind down onto his sweats, and he moans shamelessly, his fingers digging into your hips.

“You- You’re not wearing your fucking panties-“

“I gave them to you.” You mumble, pressing your ass down against his thickness. The fabric scrapes against your bare pussy, offering perfect friction, and you start to hump him like you’re in heat.

 Dean drags his hand up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up his chest. He lets you keep working yourself down on his bulge for a few seconds longer, moaning into your mouth as you tease him.

“Dirty, dirty girl.” He scolds, the mocking tone in his voice just spurring you on.

He knows you love it. That’s why he likes it.

“Walkin’ around in just a skirt.” He dips a hand under your skirt, palming at your bare ass cheeks. “Should’ve folded you over the couch to see it. Pretty fuckin’ pussy, bet it’s already nice and wet for me.”’e

He reaches further down, and you gasp as his fingers brush your cunt. He’s right. Of course he is. Dean might know your body better than you do.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Shhh.” He splits two fingers, rubbing them over the outer lips of your pussy before pinching them together.

You whine, trying to hump up into his hand, but he splays his palm on your lower back and presses you back down.

“Behave.” He grunts. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to fuck you how I want?”

He squeezes harder, his thumb grazing over your clit. Your whole body tremors, and you press your face into the crook of Dean’s neck.

“Ye- Yes.” You pant. “But- You’re not fucking me- You’re just- Oooh-“

He flicks his thumb this time, and it’s like a tiny electric shock. You don’t know how he always does this. It doesn’t matter if he’s got his hand between your legs or your pussy right on his face, he plays it like an instrument. It would make you scream if it didn’t feel so good.

“Well,” Dean muses, dragging his thumb in slow torturous circles as he starts to rub your pussy again. “I told you to behave earlier. And did you?”e

You shake your head, almost so overwhelmed from the attention on your core that you forget how to speak. “N- No.”

“That’s right. So I’m gonna fuck you,” he pulls his hand away for a second, landing a sharp slap on your ass before pushing it  back. “When you remember how to be a good girl.”

You whimper, but don’t argue. This is what you’d asked for, with all the teasing.

You’d just thought he’d give it to you rough. That’s what behave usually meant. An invitation for you to test the line, if you wanted him to pin your on his mouth and make you cum under you were begging him to stop. Once it meant lying over his lap while he fingered and spanked you, and you’d cum so hard you saw stars.

But that’s not what this is.

You’re melted over Dean’s chest, and he’s being lazy and mean. He keeps playing with your pussy like it’s a cute little toy. Just brushing it and rubbing your clit with barely any pressure.

“Mo- More.” You plead. “I need more-“

You almost sob, as he pushes one finger just into your entrance before taking it away. You hug him so tight you think it must hurt, but he doesn’t even grunt.

“Look at that.” He coos in your ear, smearing a little bit of your arousal on your thigh. “You’re making a mess on me, baby. Just from a little bit of touchin’.”

“Was- Was not a little bit-“

“Wasn’t much.” Dean muses, landing a sharp slap on your swollen pussy. “But it never takes much to get my girl wet, does it.”

You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes again. You’d beg if you had the words, but right now you’re just trying to hold on.

“Everything makes you so horny.” Dean drawls, going back to rubbing his big, warm hand over your pussy. “Remember when we got ice cream? Had to fuck you in my car, ‘cause you couldn’t even wait to get to the damn house.”

“You- You were- You were wearing a really nice shirt-“

“Sure, princess. It was the shirt.”

“It was-“

Dean slaps your pussy again, and your words fall into a whine.

“You ashamed of the truth, princess?” He teases, right in your ear. “How you really wanted me to stuff you up, fuck you and fill you like the cumslut that you are?”

You keen, and you can’t stop yourself from humping his hand again. This time, Dean lets you. He knows you need it.

“That’s right, baby girl. I know you like that.” He bites your ear, and you wiggle your ass right onto his fingers, trying to force one or two inside you. “I remember how I came on your thighs. You almost got me to put it in that day. One more of those pretty pleases and I woulda caved.”

“De- Deeaan-“

“Kept those panties too. I got a whole drawer for them, just for when I miss you.” He kisses the side of your head. “And I always fuckin’ miss you.”

The tears start to flow, half from the debaucherous sweetness of Dean’s words, and half from desperation. If you don’t cum right now, you’re going to explode.

And you’re close. You’re so close. Your pussy is clenching around nothing, but you’ve gotten the tips of Dean’s fingers to press onto your clit, and the sensitive little button is going to be enough to get you over the edge. He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls it up, forcing you to meet his eyes as you work down onto his fingers. You sob in desperation, lips quivering and tits bouncing. Dean groans, pushing up to kiss you as hard as he can. And you’re so close.

Then the asshole stops.

He pulls his hand away, slaps your pussy, and stops.

You make a strangled, broken sound of defeat, and Dean just chuckles. He makes you both sit up, massaging your ass and kissing away your tears.

“Nice try.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “You think you earned bein’ able to cum?”

“Ye- Yes.” You pout hopefully, and Dean chuckles.

“Aw, sweetheart. You ain’t even mouthy anymore.”  

You swallow. “I- I can be-“

“Jesus.” Dean laughs, and that pools right in you tummy, the embarrassment stoking an already raging fire. 

Dean’s rubbing your sides, kissing all over your shoulders as breasts as you just try to breathe. You earned this. You really did. But god, it’s a perfect torture. He’s just kissing and touching you, in a way that would almost be innocent if you weren’t soaked wearing just a skirt and leaving a stain on his jeans. 

“’M sorry.” You breathe out, wrapping your arms around Dean’s head.

He hums, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes flutter, and it’s hard to stay focused. He’s so warm, his tongue dragging in little circles. You swallow, your voice getting higher as he starts to suck.

“I- I’m sorry I teased you, De- I- Pleaseeee-“

Dean moves away, grabbing your jaw and holding it back for him to inspect. You give him your best, pleading expression and pray it breaks him.

He taps your lips with his thumb. “Open.”

You obey in a second, and Dean’s lips twitch. He leans down, and spits right into your open mouth.

He’s done this before. It practically makes you gush every time. And it doesn’t help that he’s wrapped all around you, watching you with such teasing affection as you take it so easily. You swallow, and blink up at him with a fucked out, dazed expression.

“Good girl.” He mutters, and you beam up at him. “Yeah, I know. You like bein’ a good girl.”

God, you do. And from Dean’s lips, the words feel like a rush of adrenaline.

“But you’re not gonna learn, are you?” He drawls. “Gonna keep me on my toes, running around trying to find places to fuck you that won’t get us arrested.”

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you like me like that.”

That makes him laugh again, before he pulls you into a shockingly sweet, slow kiss.

“Damn right I do,” he mutters, before pulling back way. “Alright. Up.”

You blink at him. “Huh.”

“Stand up.” He nods to the foot of the bed. “Take off your skirt, ‘n come back.”

“But- You’re- You’re still-“

“Trust me, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the tip of your nose. “If I keep these pants on longer, Little Dean is gonna suffocate. I’ll take care of it.”

You giggle softly, and obey the command. The air feels cold, without Dean there folded over you. It’s just further motivation for you to push down your skirt and wait for his next request.

And you’ve been naked in front of Dean before. Many times, to varying degrees. But you’ve never done it like this.

Just… Bare. Wearing nothing and standing for him to see so clearly, as he pulls off his jeans and shirt then settles at the headboard. He’s taken his cock in his hand, and started to stroke it slowly. Looking you up and down with a lazy grin. Your skin prickles with anticipation, and with anyone else you’d try to wrap your arms around your stomach or shrink back and hide. And the first time you tried that, he’d pinned your hands over your head and fingered you until you squirted.

So maybe you should try it.

“Don’t even think about it.” He growls, when you move. “Wanna see you, baby.”

You swallow, shifting on your feet. “You can see me.”

“Hell yeah, I can.”

Dean’s gaze is burning into you. And it’s the most impossibly sensual thing you’ve ever see, Dean’s massive cock in his hand. The way it twitches and jumps as he touches it, as he watches you. He grunts, his hand staring to beat harder, and you press your thighs tight together.

It’s just you, that’s making him all flushed and hard. You almost start to drool again, thinking about crawling down the mattress and taking him back in your mouth. How he’d probably let you, with how he’s got lidded eyes and making low, rough grunts.

It’s a powerful, beautiful feeling.

But unfortunately, not enough to stop you from scrambling forward the moment he stretches out a hand.

Dean laughs, spinning you around so your back is tucked into his chest. His hand that hand been on his cock hitches up your leg, and the other wraps around your stomach, his fingers grazing under your breast. You tip your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and getting lost in the feeling. Dean, wrapped so fully and completely around you, keeping you nice and warm in his massive arms.

“Look at you.” He kisses along your jaw, fingers dragging over your sensitive inner thigh. “Nice and stupid for me already. Ready to be a pretty doll and take this cock.”

“Need it.” You breathe out, grabbing his forearm. “Pleeease, Dean, I’ve been waiting so long-“

You moan as he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, letting his cock slip and rub between your folds.

“I know you have.” He mutters. “Been waitin’ longer. Almost lost my mind, knowin’ how tight and warm you were but not being able to fuck you. Fuck you right, fuck you properly, fuck you ‘till you ain’t ever gonna remember another mans name.”

“Just you.” You manage to whine out, pushing your hips up to get a little more friction. “Always just you, Dean, don’t want anyone else, never wanted anyone else- Fuuuck-“

He pushes inside. It’s slow and careful, deft fingers rubbing your clit to help you relax. It’s not like much help is needed, though. He’s so big you can’t close your fingers around him, but he slips into your cunt like a glove.

“Shit-“ Dean groans in your ear, lips hot and wet on your skin. “Greedy pussy swallowing me up, baby, knew you’d take me so good, take me perfect-“

He bottoms out, pressing against a gooey spot deep inside you body. Nobody’s ever really hit it before, let along split you open so well it gets a consistent, throbbing pressure. His tip kisses your cervix, his breathing ragged in your ear, and you both need a few seconds to adjust.

You turn your head, trying to chase his mouth, and find Dean already there. He kisses you slowly, open mouthed with his tongue mapping every inch of your mouth. His arms are fully wrapped around your stomach, and you cling to them like a seatbelt. You’re lightheaded in the best possible way. Dean hums against your lips, and the sound vibrates inside of you.

You mewl, tossing your head back and clenching down. Dean hisses, and pulls you further back into his chest.

“Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“

“Sorry.” You whine out, turning your face to hide in his neck. “Just- ‘S big, Dean. So big.”

Dean chuckles. It doesn’t help.

“Big, huh?”

“Don’t milk it.” You grumble, and he laughs fully.

“I don’t think I’m the one that’s gonna be doin’ the milking, princess.”

He thrusts up, and you whimper.

“Dean-“

“That’s right.” He repeats the shallow thrust, and your moan gets loud. “Sing for me, baby, show ‘em who owns this pussy.”

“Y- You.” You stutter out. Your head is empty. You don’t think you can fit Dean’s cock and thinking at the same time. “Dean- Deeean-“

He attaches his lips to your neck again, sucking and kissing as he pushes you further down on his cock.

But he stops thrusting. He just has you… sit there.

On him. So full you can barely breathe, every nerve in your body stimulated but being offered no relief.

“What- What’re you-“

“Wanna keep you’re here for a while.” He murmurs, his kisses slowing. Becoming lazy and over attentive again, without giving you what you really need. “Just like this. My perfect fuckin’ girl, look at you.”

He taps your clit, and you try to arch up into the touch, but his hold is too strong.

“Fuck- Dean-“

“Just a little bit, baby.” He coos, rubbing your clit with the very tip of his fingers. “Just hold it for me.”

And God, you try. You sit on Dean and let him tease and touch you however he wants. He drags circles around your clit until you’re panting and whining, then moves his attention back up to your nipples. Tweaking and rolling them between his fingers, kissing over your neck and shoulders as his cock twitches inside of you with every lewd moans of his name.

“You like that?” He murmurs, and you nod.

Then he stops it, kissing the sob out of your mouth and moving onto something else.

He’s done this to you before. Had you in his arms and teased you until you couldn’t take it, then let you cum. But he’s never done it while sheathed inside of you. It heightens everything, making it impossible to think outside of his hands and lips and cock. His thick cock, not pressing against your ass, but buried in your cunt and still hitting all those sensitive places.

You’re on fire, and Dean’s just letting you build and build and build up to an explosive pressure. There are spots dancing behind your eyes, when he starts rubbing your clit in fast, brutal circles, then stops just before you can fall over the edge. You claw at his arms, wrecked beyond words, sobbing and trying to get away and get him closer.

For a second, you make the mistake of bowing your head. Your eyes flutter open, and you get a full view of Dean’s cock settled inside you. His balls pressed right against your ass, the way he almost fit everything in, but there’s still a bit of his base that didn’t make it. It’s slick with your arousal, dripping right out of your pussy as you whimper.

“De- Deaaan-“ It’s all you’ve been moaning, for who knows how long.

You’re so overstimulated, time is starting to blur. Maybe it’s been an hour, maybe only five minutes. It feels like you’ve been here forever.

“Please- Please-“ You blubber, leaning back to look at him under tear-stained lashes, the words falling from swollen lips. “I- I’ll do anything, oooooh- Fuck-“

Dean gives a shallow thrust, and your whole body spasms. He’s watching under hooded, lust blown eyes. And if the starved, animalistic look in his eyes is any clue, if he doesn’t cave for your sake, he’s going to cave for his.

“You gonna be good for me?” He rasps, and you nod frantically.

“So good- Please-“

Dean kisses you again, but this time he shifts you in his arms. His arm wraps around your neck, pinning you fully to his chest in a headlock. Your eyes roll back, a dazed smile covering your face.

His movements are relaxed and controlled, but you can see the feral glint his eyes.

You won.

“Perfect fuckin’ pussy, making a mess all over this cock.” He grunts out, bending his knees so you’re fully folded into his lap. “Could die here, baby- Fuucckkk-“

He seems to lose his own voice, the second he starts thrusting up into you. A beautiful moan rumbles in your ears, and Dean presses his nose tight against the side of your head. You whimper, holding onto him tight, mostly to try and keep grounded.

Dean’s fucking into you at a rough, snapping pace, and this is what you’d expected, but it’s better than you could’ve dream. The feeling of every vein and inch of him being pushed though your cunt. The obscene sounds of his cock slamming into you cunt, his arm around you forcing your head back onto his shoulder, giving you a full glimpse of Dean as your pussy strangles and squeezes him.

He looks destroyed, panting broken praise in your ear as his lips droop and his mouth hangs open.

You push up a little, managing to get his attention with a whimper. He gives you a curious look, then understands in a second. His lips mold over yours, and you babble some cockdrunk nonsense against his mouth. You’re fully crying again, so lost in the pleasure that you can’t even find the shame to care. Dean’s drilling up, pushing every thought in your head away into a pleasurable haze.

He pulls your knees up higher, letting him hit even deeper than before. Each stoke is deep and rough, and you’d been worked up so well that your pussy is just weeping and taking him like you’re a fuckdoll. You feel like one, in the best possible way. Stuffed up and pounded with abandon, slicking Dean’s cock so that it drives right back into your like a toy.

You moan, letting your eyes close and drowning in the impossibly good feeling. You can’t believe you waited this long. If Dean fucks like this, you might never get off his cock again.

“That’s it,” he squeezes your breast before moving those sinful fingers back down to play with your clit. “Takin’ me so perfect, baby girl, just gotta cum for me- Cum all over my dick, show me how much you love it- Come on-“

That’s really all it takes. Dean’s everywhere around you, his cock bullying into that gooey spot, and your orgasms hits you so hard you think you black out. The heat that had pooled in your stomach explodes and floods all your senses, pouring out of your pussy as your hips buck and you squirm in his grip.

Dean groans your name, and his thrusts get tighter. Faster and more brutal as he chases his own release. It prolongs your own orgasm, forcing it to drag out as you vision dances with spots.

Dean slams home, turning your head to find another, bruising kiss, and now you might be ascending. He’s cumming deep, deep into your pussy, and the sounds get better as he fucks it back into you. Everything in you is so full, you think you might be about to burst with light.

You get a soft kiss on your brow, as his grip loosens around your neck. When he finally settles and tries to pull away, you fumble to grab his wrist, fixing him with a pleading stare. You don’t ever want to be empty again.

“Gotta take care of you, baby.” Dean mutters, kissing the back of your hand. “We can do more later. When you’re talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, booping your nose. You wrinkle it, and he kisses the angry pout off your lips.

“Silly girl.” He murmurs, and just like that you’re melting again. “Like I could live with myself if I didn’t fuck you again.”

You flush, and roll over to hide it in the sheets. Dean laughs, kissing the base of your spine and slapping your ass before fully standing up.

And you learn another difference between boys and men. All the douchebags you’ve slept with before rolled off of you and started smoking or talking about something unimportant.

Dean gets you water, and coaxes it down your throat. He draws a bath and carries you into it, but not before making sure you pee. He changes the sheets and gets you clean clothing and brings you a snack, smiling at you and kissing the top of your head every single time.

“You’re like a maid.” You mumble once you’re back in bed, curled into his chest.

He laughs, grinning down at you. “Only for my favorite girl.”

“I’m your favorite?”

“Don’t be a brat.” He gives you an amused look. “Don’t think you’d be able to handle another round, honey.”

You sigh dramatically, flopping fully onto his chest. You prop your chin up, watching him watch you. There’s that quiet, unending adoration again. You wish you could see it every second of every day, instead of sneaking out and-

Oh.

“Shit.” You sit up, and Dean grunts, grabbing your waist to keep you steady.

“What, what’s wrong-“

“I- Um- You can’t get mad.”

Dean says your name in a low warning, and you swallow.

“My- My dad- He, um-“

“Sweetheart-“

“He knows!” You blurt. “He’s known for a while, actually, and it’s- It’s actually your fault, you showed him that dick pic and voice memo you sent me-“

“I what-“

“You did it by accident! But you still did it, and-“

“Which one did he hear?” Dean demands, and you cringe.

“The one about- About tying me up.”

Dean goes pale. He groans, tipping his head back and grabbing onto you like he thinks someone’s going to rip you away.

“God fuckin’- I’m dead-“

“No!” You grab his face with a smile. “You’re not! He’s fine with it!”

Dean blinks. “He is?”

You nod. “He- Well, he wants to know when you’re going to marry me, but- Um-“ You laugh nervously. Dean’s older. You just had sex for the first time. He probably doesn’t want to think about that yet. “You know. He’s chill.”

“He’s chill.” Dean echoes.

“Mhm. Except for- The marriage thing.”

Dean hums. He’s relaxed again, dragging his palms in slow circles over your ass. His lips pull into that lazy, satisfied smirk. You flush just from the sight of it.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” He squeezes your waist. “Just tell him to give it a few months.”

“A- Give what-“

Dean raises his brows. Your mouth falls open.

“A few months-“

“I know what I want.” Dean shrugs. And you can see it. Him watching you so, so carefully.

And you smile.

Because you do to.

“Yeah?” You whisper, leaning down to hover your lips over his.

“Yeah.” He mutters. “That alright with you?”

You answer with a kiss, and Dean grunts, immediately rolling you over. And this sweet, slow moment feels like it’s going to last forever.

You hope—you pray—that it does.

✦End note: honestly this might be one of my favorite i hope you enjoyed it.✦

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[fishsficrecs]

incredibly, marvelously, inconceivably, show stoppingly, unbelievably, jaw droppingly FANTABULOUS. this is everything anyone could want in a DBF!AU and more. love love LOVE

[godmadeaterribleerror]

look out for me

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Soldier Boy Masterlist✦

✦summary: after being woken up, soldier boy found a woman, promised he'd never leave her, then did. two years later, he's back and looking for one thing only. you.✦

✦warnings/tags: Soldier Boy x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (he's a hundred, it's to be expected), angst, softer!ben, canon divergance, pining, some plot to get to the smut (posessiveness, some spanking, dirty talk, teasing, praise and degredation kink, dom!Ben, fingering, begging, manhandling, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, oral f!reciving, edging, creampie, big dick ben, overstimulation, body worship, rough sex, just complete debauchery, dumbification, dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 11.1k✦

✦author's note: made myself start drooling with this one. enjoy!✦

You had a secret. And you kept it buried in the deepest, most sacred corner of your heart. Not out of shame.

Out of survival.

It’s best to keep your head down, in a world like this one. Supes patrol the streets, and people who are a  little too loud and unhappy get sent to their death. Vought says it’s just to be corrected, but you know. Everyone knows.

They’ve just all learned how to whisper about it.

And you’re braver than you wanted to be. You do more than you should be doing, when the most anyone should be worrying about is waking up in their bed the next morning. But there’s the teenage girl who lives down the hall from you, who got loud about hating Homelander in school, and almost got taken because of it. You helped her get out, and lied to the face of the people who showed up to find her.

You lied with a smile, too. 

He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.

And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.

You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.

“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”

You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”

“No, because I’m not a-“

“Fucking pussy.”

You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.

“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.

“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.

“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”

“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.

Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”

“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“

Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.

He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.

But he’s not.

“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”

You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.

He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.

“You have.” You’d breathed.

And you’d really believed it.

But then he’d just… Left.

You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.

There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.

But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.

You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.

“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.

He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.

“You talking to me?”

“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”

The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.

“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”

“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“

“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“

“You said that already.”

You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”

His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.

Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.

In the store, you’d hadn’t  been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.

He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.

And he’d laughed.

That night, he’d just laughed.

“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”

“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”

The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.

He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.

“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.

He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.

“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.

He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“

“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”

“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”

You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.

“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I.”

“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“

“And why should I trust that?”

He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.

“I swear I won’t.”

“Promises mean nothing.”

“My promises mean something-“

“Not to me, they don’t.”

He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.

The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.

He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.

“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”

And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.

“What the fuck-“

“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”

“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“

“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“

“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“

“I am not going to shoot you-“

“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“

“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.

And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.

But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.

Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.

“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.

Ben had followed.

And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.

Then it had been gone.

Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.

So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.

It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.

And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.

Now, you’re careful.

After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.

Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.

No one could know who you are. What you were to him.

Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.

Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.

Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.

But still.

You’d hoped he would.

“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.

And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.

“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.

“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.

“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“

“You liked Paddington 2-“

“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”

You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.

“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”

And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.

“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.

Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.

“You got no idea.”

And you wish you had.

You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.

If you had, he might still be next to you today.

You broke a cup.   

The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.

Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.

I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.

That he had been everything.

You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.

And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.

Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.

It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.

There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.

This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.

No.

This is new.

Which means Ben- He’s alive.

He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.

He left you.

It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.

He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.

You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.

He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.

Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.

And then he left.

Just left.

Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.

But not back with you.

Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.

He didn’t come back.

Ben couldn’t fucking find you.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.

Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here. 

But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.

He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.

Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.  

It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.

Although he had always listened.

But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.

Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.

He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.

And then you’d smiled at him.

He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.

There were things to be angry about now, though.

You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.

Hollow.

Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.

Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.

If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.

And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.

He just had to find you first.

Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.

All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.

The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.

“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“

“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.

“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“

He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“

“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”

“Yes. Yes- Sir-“

“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.

He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.

“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”

Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.

“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”

Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”

“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.

Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.

You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.

And Ben had known. 

“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.

That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.

Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.

You still worked there. You weren’t gone.

Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.

“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”

Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.

He had to go find you.

You get home, and you feel like nothing.

It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.

You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.

Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.

You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.

You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.

You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.

This is just always going to hurt.

“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”

You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.

Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.

“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”

You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.

Or you’d just pass right through thin air.

And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.

You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.

Then he left.

And you’re not anyone’s anymore.

Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.

“Ben?” You whisper.

A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.

“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”

He takes a step forward.

You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.

Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.

You shrink away.

“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.

“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“

He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.

You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.

“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.

He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.

Ben sees you. You can see him.

And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…

“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”

Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.

“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”

“You left.”

And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.

“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”

Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.

“I saw you on TV.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“

“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”

The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.

“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“

“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“

“You left.” 

“No, I didn’t-“

“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.

It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.

“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“

Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.

Weak.

“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”

Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.

But Ben doesn’t leave.

He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.

His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.

Still calls it yours.

“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”

You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.

“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”

Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.

Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.

“Why should I believe you?”

Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.

Just focused.

“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“

“Swear it?”

Ben nods, and you tilt your head.

“You swore you’d come back.”

“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”

You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.

“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”

Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.

“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

“Prove that you are.”

A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.

You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.

“Be- Ben-“

He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.

“Ben-“

“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”

God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.

Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.

He doesn’t even come up for air.

“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“

He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest. 

“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.

“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”

“I- Ooooh-“

You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.

“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”

“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“

“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”

You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“

“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”

Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.

“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“

“You- Benjamin-“

“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”

The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.

“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”

“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.

Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.

“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”

“Ben-“

“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”

Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.

“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”

“Mmmh.”

“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.

“Ben-“

“Say it.”

“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“

Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.

It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.

“How- How big is your dick?”

He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.

“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”

You pout slightly. “I am being good.”

Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.

“Ben-“

“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“

“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“

You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

Then you realize.

Shit.

“Ben, I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.

“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“

Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.

“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“

He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.

Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.

“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”

His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.

“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”

You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.

“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“

“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”

“Oh- Okay.”

You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.

“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.

You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“

You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.

“Good girl.”

The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.

He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.

Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.

“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”

Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”

And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.

You still might cry.

Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway. 

“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“

“I love you.”

You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.

Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.

You both will.

“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“

You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.

Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.

Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.

“Say it again.” He mutters.

“I love you.”

You offer it easily. It’s his to have.

And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.

It means he’s on a fucking mission.

“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”

You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.

“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”

“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.

It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.

“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”

You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.

“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.

Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.

“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”

“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.

His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.

“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“

He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.

“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.

He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.

Another warning.

“That’s- Fuck-“

He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.

“More, Ben, more-“

A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.

He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.

Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.

You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.

And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.

Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.

Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.

Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.

Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.

“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.

“Be- Ben-“

“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”

Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.

Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.

And again, Ben stops.

You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.

“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“

He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.

“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“

Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.

But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.

Take it. He’d said.

You don’t think you have a choice.

“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.

The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.

“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”

You glare at him, and he just grins.

“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”

He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.

“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”

Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.

And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.

“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”

You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.

“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”

You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.

Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.

But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.

“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”

He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.

Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.

“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”

You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”

“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.

“Ben- Oooooh-“

He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.

“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“

You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”

You had a smart, sharp retort.

It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.

Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.

“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.

“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”

You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.

Ben laughs, prowling up over you.

“You’re fucking drooling.”

“You’re pretty.”

“I am not fucking pretty.”

“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”

He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”

“You are a show pony.”

That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.

“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“

You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.

That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.

You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.

Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”

You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”

A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.

“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”

His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.

“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”

Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.

“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”

You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.

“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”

He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.

“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“

He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.

“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“

Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.

It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.

“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“

You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.

Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.

“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”

You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.

After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.

Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.

You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.

You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.

He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.

“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.

No pants. Unhelpful.

“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”

“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”

“I am not slobbering-“

“Yeah, you fucking are.”

You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.

“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not my boss-“

“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”

You blink at him.

And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.

“You love me?” You whisper.

He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.

“Of course I do-“

“Say it.”

He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“

“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.

This time, it’s going to work.

“Please?” You add.

Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.

You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.

“I love you.” He grunts.

You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.

Meant to remind you that you have time.

“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.

“You’re real lucky-“

“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.

He always lets you. Because he loves you.

“I am.”

✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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[fishsficrecs]

#needthat

for real this is crazy i need a fucking cigarette

[sp-oops]

Triptych - Part 1/3

Author: sp-oops Rating: M Word Count: 9.5K Pairing: Dean x Cas x Female Reader Notes: Part Two is here. Part Three is here. Inspiration for this plotline comes directly from thesixtysevenimpala. Thank you. <3  Warnings: Canon-typical violence and description of injury and blood. Destiel. Slowish burn. Low-level voyeurism kink. Summary: Takes place after 8x17. Waking up in chains is bad. Cas beside you, spelled into gracelessness, that’s bad. Knowing that, in whatever small way, it was your fault—that’s worse. You were so distracted watching Dean and Cas, trying like hell to stop freakin’ pining for them, that you didn’t even notice the trip wire. Trip sigil. Whatever. Now Naomi’s questioning you and Cas bloody about the angel tablet, and it’ll be a miracle of either of you get out of this alive. And without Cas learning the reason you got them into this mess in the first place.

.

.

.

This is how everything goes to shit: Dean touches Cas’ back.

Nah, okay, if you’re honest, it probably started the night before. When Sam gave you the Puppy Eyes of Apology as his scissors beat your paper, and you ended up in the room adjacent to the two lovairs. Who hadn’t seen each other in weeks. Who were full of just as much fear and determination as you and Sam. Who liked to take it out on each other.

Loudly.

Keep reading

[fishsficrecs]

one of my favorite fics of all time i have been going back to this for YEARS spoops i love you and i hope you are doing well

[godmadeaterribleerror]

green light

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 11k✦

✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦

You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.

You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.

Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.

You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end. 

Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.

The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.

They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.

When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.

“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”

Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”

“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”

Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.

He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.

You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.

I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-

Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-

You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.

If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?

I am not circling you like a shark-

Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.

You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.

That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.

You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.

But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.

Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish. 

Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.

You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.

It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.

The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.

“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”

Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“

“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“

The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.

She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.

You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.

It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother.  Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.

You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.

Which is why you don’t know what to do now.

Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.

Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.

The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘

He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-

“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”

You frown, and Dean pauses.

“In a good way.”

“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”

“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“

He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.

But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.

“Me neither.”

“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”

“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.

“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”

And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.

He doesn’t really remember.  

“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”

Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”

You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.

Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.

You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.

Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.

Not you.

You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.

The asshole doesn’t make it easy.

He makes it impossible.

“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.

His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.

“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.

“Okay.”

“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”

 “I’ll come get them later.”

Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.

“I got ice cream.” He mutters, gaze locked onto yours. “’S gonna melt.”

“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”

“I’m going to distract you from work-“

“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.

“Dean-“

“C’mon.” He moves you in front of  him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”

You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.

There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.

You need to get away from him.

You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.

Which leaves one solution.

Avoid Dean.

Avoid him like he’s the plague.

You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.

If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.

But it’s not working.

You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.

It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.

Not dying.

You’re not strong enough to kill it.

This is the feeling of love being tortured.

Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.

You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.

Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.

There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.

That’s part of the problem.

None of them are Dean Winchester.

But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-

“Where the hell are you going?”

You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”

“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”

“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.

He doesn’t look amused.

You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.

He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.   

“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.

“Maybe.”

“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”

His brow furrows. “Napped.”

“For how long.”

“Long enough.”

“That’s not an answer-“

“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.

“Out.”

“Out where.”

You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”

Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.

He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.

But you don’t think he will.

Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.

“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.

“N- No.”

“We got drinks here-“

“I know.”

He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”

“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.

But Dean doesn’t leave.

He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m goin’ with you.”

Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“

“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”

A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“

“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”

Oh.

He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.

Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.

So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.

“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”

You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.

You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.

Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.

And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.

You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.

“Dean, where are we-“

“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”

You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“

“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”

“It’s-“

“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”

There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“

“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“

“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“

“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”

“Dean-“

“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”

You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“

“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“

“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.

But he does.

Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.

You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.

Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.

You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.

He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.

For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.

“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”

You nod—you didn’t blame him  in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.

“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.

“What?”

“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”

“I- I can stay?”

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.

“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“

“I was going to the bar.”

“Without telling anyone?”

“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“

“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.

“You kissed me.”

You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.

He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.

“No, I- I’d remember that-“

“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”

Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.

“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.

If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.

Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.

It’s guilt.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”

“Dean-“

“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“

“Dean-“

“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“

“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.

You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.

“Stop grinding your teeth.”

Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.

“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.

“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“

“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.

He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.

“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”

Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“

“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”

“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“

“I kissed you back.”

“Did you mean it?”

His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“

“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”

“The internet?”

“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.

“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“

“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“

“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“

“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“

“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”

Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.

“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”

“And- And the love-“

“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“

“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“

Dean moves before you can think.

One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next  his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.

You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.

It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.

He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.

Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.

“Careful.” 

You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.

“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.

There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.

He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.

You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.

Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.

“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable-“

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”

There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.

He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.

“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”

“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.

“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“

He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.

“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“

“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“

“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“

 A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.

“De- Dean-“

“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”

Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”

“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.

Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”

You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.

“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”

Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“

“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”

“You- You never-“

“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.

You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.

“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”

Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.

You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.

Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.

You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.

He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.

Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.

“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.

You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.

“I- I’ve been patient-“

 “Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”

Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.

You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.

“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“

You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.

“Please, please, please-”

“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”

“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.

“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”

You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.

The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.

Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.

“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”

You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.

Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.

Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.

Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.

You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.

“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.

You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.

For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.

Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.

He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.

A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.

You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.

“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“

Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.

“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“

His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.

Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.

You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.

Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.

“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”

You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.

Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.

“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”

You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.

“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.

He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”

“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”

“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”

You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.

“What the fuck-“

“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”

You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“

“No, you don’t.”

“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“

“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”

“List works for Sammy.”

“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“

“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”

You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.

His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.

“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.

Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”

You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give  me twenty dollars.”

“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.

That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.

Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.

Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.

You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.

But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.

“No.” He chastises, and you pout.

“I wanna put you in my mouth.”

“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“

“Why not-“

“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”

You frown. “I know that.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.

You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.

“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”

Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”

“I am my age-“

“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.

“A sexy way?”

“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“

Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.

Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.

“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“

He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.

“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”

You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”

He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”

“Do you want the real answer to that?”

“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.

A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.

“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”

The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.

Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.

“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“

He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.

You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.

“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.

You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.

Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“

“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“

You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.

You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.

“I’m gonna move, alright?”

You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.

“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”

You nod, and his lips twitch.

“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”

Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.

“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”

“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“

“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”

“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.

“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“

“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“

He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-

“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“

You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.

You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.

And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.

Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.

He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.

He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks. 

 It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.

Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.

“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”

You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.

He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.

When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.

First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.

Dean. You need to be near Dean.

He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.

“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”

You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”

“And I woulda earned that.”

“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”

Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.

“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”

You like it.

You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.  

✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦

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[goat-limbs]

Touched

contents (nsfw): Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader, teasing, yearning, impropriety, era-appropriate age gap (between 7 and 10 years—Reader is in her early 20s, Benedict is 30), masturbation, voyeurism, gentle fem-dom, power play, dirty talk.

synopsis: As Eloise's friend you've found yourself a distraction and an outlet in writing letters for lovers who want to impress each other. Benedict catches you mid-writing one and commissions you.

word count: 5,3K

a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @pixopix!

There is little to be had in a world that cherishes propriety, and brands anything that sets the blood running as improper. Simple things, such as racing along the lane; plunging into water on a whim; screaming at the top of the lungs; skimming stones across the surface just to see what startles. Smoking and bitter ale are for men, confirmed spinsters, and tavern-crawlers—never for someone who means to be thought respectable—not to mention the other pursuits you are convinced, in your heart of hearts, humanity was made for.

Still, you have your small mercies. In place of selfish freedoms that would sully your family’s name and see you packed off to some dreary convent, you have found a kindred spirit. A confidant. Someone who dodges the unattractive prospect of shrinking to fit the title of wife by disappearing into books, trading jests which, spoken aloud, would be called cruel, and sharing cakes dusted with so much sugar your lips stick when you press them together.

Eloise.

She has the same kind of contained anger you do: held in behind the ribs, kept in check by manners that demand smiling compliance. When you are together, it stops circling and becomes a thing with purpose. You read to each other when nobody is watching; you try out speeches you will never be invited to deliver; you write pages meant for one pair of eyes and no other. A small club, and one women are not allowed. And secrets, precisely, are what can be had there. You are certain Eloise keeps hers. By the sheer act of never pressing, she makes room for you to keep yours.

As with anything that feels faintly revolutionary, your own secret is born in the places where people are permitted to be human. It happens because your lady’s maid has a simple yearning of the heart towards another, and no safe way to speak it. She has the feeling, and the fear, and a hand that will not steady enough to set it down. You see an opening where she sees a wall. You write the letter on her behalf, fold it, seal it, and slip it under the bedchamber door. After that, the requests begin to come—never plainly, always in small signals: a ribbon tied a particular way, a scrap of paper left where only you will find it, a glance held half a second too long. You discover, quietly, what power the pen has when the heart dictates and the mind merely makes it neat.

It is only fitting that your thirtieth letter should be written in the Bridgertons’ drawing room. Eloise is reading Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, neatly wrapped in an inconspicuous—and entirely out-of-character—copy of James Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women, when Lady Bridgerton calls for her.

“It seems I must abandon the Sermons in order to pick lace,” she says, putting an extra measure of loathing on lace.

You smile. “Choose one that tears easily.”

Eloise nods, conspiratorial. “Do not go anywhere. I shall be back.”

The door opens and does not close. You sit with your back to it, and it would be difficult to tell who has entered intending to take Eloise’s place, were it not for the stench.

“I can smell all of last night’s endeavours on you, Benedict,” you mutter, nose still to the parchment. “You reek.”

Ah. A significant downside of spending your time at the Bridgertons’ establishment is Benedict.

Not because you have any real disdain for him—on the contrary. He has been lodged at the edge of your thoughts, in that periphery where notions are allowed to wander into forbidden country, ever since such thoughts first began to sprout in you. A fool with unrealistic dreams in the eyes of his mother, a buffoon to some, he somehow manages to make up for promiscuity and a contentious pursuit of all things hedonistic with something disarmingly plain: kindness.

He does not boast. He keeps most of his escapades confined to rumours he never troubles to exaggerate. He keeps his lovers’ names anonymous, as though their privacy is part of the pleasure, and not an inconvenience. There is an honesty in it that you cannot help but admire.

And admiration is a dangerous thing, when it turns its face towards wanting. Because what Benedict has, you want, too—the ease, the appetite, the liberty. With him, preferably.

Mind slipping into places you would rather it did not, you fail to notice that he does not dignify your remark with any answering sally. Benedict simply threads his way across the room and leans over your shoulder.

“That is quite a language you are using here,” he says, his mouth near enough to your ear that the words feel breathed rather than spoken.

Your head snaps to the side. “Oh, dear Lord,” you manage, the protest landing into Benedict’s cheek. “This is not—”

“Who is it for?” he asks, sliding the paper from beneath your fingers and beginning, quite shamelessly, to read. “I was certain that, much like Eloise, you were beyond earthly delights.”

You turn in the chair, swinging one arm over its back as though it might serve for a barricade. “If you mean slobbering, drunken men at balls as the full array of earthly delights I am permitted to choose from, then you are perfectly right,” you say, keeping your voice flat even as you reach for the page. “I am beyond them. Hand over the letter.”

Benedict does not look at you. There is a pause in which you could swear the tips of his ears go pink. “And yet you are writing quite… graphic filth,” he says at last. “About a man, I presume.”

“It is not about anyone I know,” you say, and at that you earn his glance. Heat crawls up your throat. “Oh—Lord help me. I, um—” You hide your face in your hands and speak through the spread of your fingers. “I may have found… a certain joy in setting down what others cannot say to their lovers.”

Your hands return to your lap. Your head dips; eyes fix themselves on the floor in hopes to find some mercy within it. “So I do it for them,” you add. “For a small price.”

Benedict mutters your name, his expression binding impishness and boyish bewilderment in unholy matrimony.

You stand abruptly, still reaching for the parchment, but Benedict simply lifts it higher—just beyond your grasp. “Please do not tell Eloise. Or anyone… for that matter.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” he says, and his smile shows that crooked canine you have, regrettably, thought about in scenarios that have nothing to do with food. “For a small price.”

“Extortion?” you huff. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Not extortion. I am no brute,” Benedict replies. “A favour.” A pause, intentful enough to be annoying. “Write one for me.”

You eye him, then fold your arms across your chest. Your foot nudges at nothing on the tiles, a small, useless rebellion, and then—against your better judgement—you relent. “Which of the ladies is so fortunate as to have you commissioning a letter for her?”

Benedict keeps smiling. Testing. “Not a lady,” he says. “A man.”

You bark a laugh, sharp and entirely unladylike. “A rather versatile rake, are you not?”

“You wound me.” His hand goes to his chest in something that aims for tragedy and lands, at best, in theatre. You roll your eyes. “Your judgement is inequitable. The only difference between you and me is that I perform the actions you only write of. The thoughts, however—” He steps closer. Offers the letter back, and when you reach for it, he keeps hold of it for one heartbeat longer, leaning in so his mouth finds your ear. “—we seem to share.”

Then he releases the paper.

“What would you like me to write?” you ask, quieter than you mean to, your face still near his.

“Do it as you would,” Benedict says, easy. “I shall tell you if I like it.”

The nerve of him pricks you, quick and clean. Anger, full stop. “I fear corrections are not included in my services,” you spit.

“I think a smart provider would reconsider, if the price is suitable,” he murmurs into your ear. It is not a threat. It is a challenge. “Like the silence of someone with many contacts.”

“Brute,” you say, because it is the only dignified response to being cornered by charm. “Fine. So be it. I shall remember this, Benedict.”

“I would hope so.” He looks pleased with himself, which only worsens the urge to bite. “I think it is the first time you and I are entangled in a scheme.”

“I have a feeling there will come a time when you will require my silence,” you say. “I hope you know it changes the way I shall provide it, and if—”

Something flickers across his face: interest, admiration, a quick, juvenile flash of joy at being met where he stands rather than indulged. “I like this,” he says, head tipping to the side. “Menacing agrees with you.”

“You are entirely insufferable.”

“You have three days,” Benedict tells you. He looks at you one last time before retreating towards the door and carries that image out with himself, alongside the words that he still cannot believe left your pen.

Excerpts, like: If you ever touched my mouth with your thumb, I think I would swallow it like communion. Nobody is as hungry as I am for you, compel Benedict to wish his memory were better than his imagination. A few lines on the page are enough to send his mind straight towards the images: open mouths with thumbs in them, then other parts of him.

Normally, he would stop himself, because normally, you are his sister’s friend. Today he is wrung out and defenceless. More and more moments happen when Benedict’s weak memory renders him forgetful even of that simple fact—when he stops seeing a girl and begins to see a woman, and not just any woman. Someone whose eyes reflect his own insatiability and lust for life. A kindred spirit, only far more miserable, because she is trapped in a body even more constricted than his own.

One line stays with him when he stumbles into bed with your face behind his eyelids: If there is a God for the wild parts of a person, He keeps no parlours. He lives in the hedge and the ditch and the mouth of the wood, where things do not apologise for wanting. Benedict thinks himself converted to do the bidding of that God. He falls asleep wondering whether that God grants people who want the same thing a bond that can outlast them.

As promised, three days later, an envelope arrives at his bachelor lodging. It bears a sigil of orchid pressed into white wax. Hands traitors, he takes it shakily from the valet and closes the door of his bedchambers. Impatient to see if indeed, you’ve written it as you would, if you were allowed to be yourself.

Lover of Mine,

There is a tendon at your neck that tightens when you swallow, when you laugh, when you lie. I think of it at the most improper hours. I think of my tongue laid there, greedy and patient, learning the pulse of you the way a creature learns a trail.

I think of your mouth, too; how easily it can be made to open, how it would look with my fingers at the corners, widening you as though I mean to see the whole of you at once. I would take the brine I draw from you and use it like holy water, as though it might keep me from sinning further, when it would only teach me the shape of my next offence.

Where your heart beats, I want my nails to leave their blunt testament, so that, later, when you dress and step back into the world, it knows you have been touched by something that lives on desiring you. I want you marked, not for shame, but for recognition. Between your legs lies the root I want to taste and take; I want to learn it until my mouth aches with it, until you have no choice but for your lungs to remember me. Let me cling to you like damp to stone, long after you have tried to be good.

Yours, to the last drop of my blood.

There’s a space underneath for him to sign. It looks particularly offensive without your name bled into parchment. You’ve written it oblique enough for any man to fit, and what Benedict should feel is that it is thoughtful and clever of you. What his hunger supplies is entirely different: he can insert himself into every paragraph and picture your fingers and tongue doing what your pen promises.

An ornate box with a trap that mauls prying limbs opens for him. The surface of its maw holds the pain of shouldn’t Benedict struggles to conquer his entire life. Once he trespasses deep enough, it dissolves into pleasure of pressure, familiar and new, where he tries his best to make himself believe his hands are not calloused from brushes, and are actually yours.

When he meets you again he’s weighted down by guilt of what he’s done with your image in his head and awful feeling of hollowed bones. Another rich family’s ball that cannot compete entertainment-wise to anything Benedict can have at Granville’s salon, yet he chooses this. To seek you out. To ask for more.

He finds you flanked by Eloise, seeping brandy and tucking your dance card into your cleavage having scouted a suitor approaching you.

“My favourite brother, in his least favourite place,” Eloise announces as Benedict comes up behind you, bright enough to earn a glance or two from nearby clusters.

He takes your hand anyway, because etiquette is a shield he knows how to wear. When his lips brush your knuckles, you murmur, low and sweet, “Violet’s tendrils reach even the fiercest fighters, I see.”

Benedict arranges his most innocent face. “Here I was, prepared to rescue you from that snotty gentleman who has had his eyes on you for the better part of an hour, and I find you far more interested in crushing me with my sister.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” you say, and when he starts to retreat you catch his sleeve, quick and sure. “Now you are my favourite brother as well.”

“That is what I thought.” He turns to Eloise. “Eloise, you are next on my list of damsels.”

Eloise gives him a look of someone who’s long accepted their fate. “I am quite alright.” She reaches for the drinks table, already moving away. “I shall drown the sorrow of this double betrayal in another glass and go and find Pen.”

Benedict offers you his hand again. You take it, and he leads you to the floor before your suitor can collect himself.

His palm settles at your back. Fingers find the line where cloth gives way, bare skin just above the seam, and the contact draws a traitorous breath from between your lips that Benedict both hears and feels. He is not proud of how quickly his own lungs answer. The music begins; the room loosens around the rhythm.

“I sense a secret intention beneath this act of chivalry,” you say, voice pitched for him alone. “Was the letter not to your lover’s liking?”

“Oh, it was to his liking,” Benedict says. On the next turn he brings his mouth near your ear, close enough that the heat of him lands there and holds. “So much so that I find myself in need of another.”

“Benedict,” you warn.

“I will pay you, if that is what you require,” he answers, unbothered. “With money. Or with a favour.”

“Interesting.” Your eyes narrow. You take a deeper breath, and it presses you a fraction closer in the hold. Benedict’s gaze strays once, then he drags it back to your face like a man correcting himself. “I shall ponder the favour I will require of you,” you say. A beat. Then, a shy, soft sweetness. “Have you read it?”

He nods, slow. Releases you for the turn and catches you again, your back briefly to his chest, his hand heavy on your waist. “Who did you write it for?”

“For your lover,” you say.

Another turn brings you face to face again, close enough that he can see the discomfort gathering before it shows. “And who did you think of?” he asks.

“What is this to you?” you return, honestly bewildered.

“I am curious,” Benedict says, and the steps pull you in again so he can put the words at your temple, private. “How a lady who keeps appearances so well writes about learning pulses and tasting roots.”

The distance returns with the next figure, and he meets your look full on. “I meant no offence,” he says, quieter. “It was magnificent. Inspiring.”

“What did it inspire?” you ask.

Benedict’s mouth curves, the same insolent little tilt he uses when he thinks he has the upper hand. “What is this to you?”

“Inspiration for further work,” you say, mid-turn. “Ouroboros of filth.”

“I will tell you,” he says, and when the pattern brings you back together your chests meet with the smallest, indecent jolt, “if you write me another.”

“That’s settled, then,” you answer, and the calm of it hits him harder than any raised voice.

The dance ends with both of you bowing. He steals one more glance at the place your features betray a fluster, and cherishes it. It helps him survive the evening. It helps him keep his forearms relaxed when other women touch them, and his smile steady when they offer their bland jokes.

He receives the next letter as before—days later, with the same wax and the same stamp. It speaks of bathing in waters that have nothing to do with rivers, lakes, or seas. Of the tempest that plagues people who cannot crawl inside their beloveds and live there. This time, your hand has got ahead of you: it is signed with a crooked B you have managed to conjure from the first letter of your name. Just as before, it is witty and melancholic in a way that leaves his loins aflame and his lungs feeling shallow.

To keep his part of the agreement, he uses an afternoon tea at Anthony’s, where the men are preoccupied with politics and the women entirely engrossed in children. He gives you a prolonged glance, then retreats to the library—unnoticed, and as clever as ever in the art of social disappearance.

Your excuse from the table earns you absent-minded nods and smiles, the sort granted to anyone who looks like they are doing something sensible. The library is a wild guess. Where else does one go, if one intends to speak of literature with any seriousness?

When you reach it, the door is ajar. Benedict is inside with his back to it, fingers skimming the spines as if he is searching for a particular title and cannot quite decide what it ought to be.

“You wanted to see me?” you ask, palms entwined behind your back.

“I dislike having debts,” he says, without turning. “And I believe I owe you a story.”

“And is it a story fit for an afternoon tea with approximately ten children running about the house?”

“Most of them are toddlers. I do not know much about children, but I do know toddlers do not run very fast.” He turns then, and props himself against the shelves with an ease that feels practiced. “It is also safest in the lion’s maw.”

“I think it an unfortunate figure of speech.”

“Always so clever.” His mouth twitches. “Come.”

He beckons you closer with two fingers, casual. The thrill hits you in a way you resent. Daylight. A respectable house. People within shouting distance. This is the sort of small trespass you are meant to outgrow, and yet it feels like learning. Acquiring, in bright hours, knowledge you suspect would still be denied you even if you did the proper thing and capitulated to a husband.

So you go. Benedict’s finger points closer still. You walk until you are beside him, nose near enough to the books that you can smell old paper and leather. Then he slides behind you. One hand comes up to the shelf beside your head, palm flat to the wood, boxing you in without touching.

“We should be quiet in the library,” he explains, voice lowered.

“A noble motive,” you murmur. “How clever of you.”

“What would you like to know?” he asks, and his breath stirs the hair arranged at your temple. “Keep looking at the books.”

“Everything,” you say. “Everything that sprouted from what I wrote in your name.”

He hums, as if considering where to begin, and then gives you a name as though it has always existed. “Call him Thomas,” Benedict says. “Thomas has a way of listening that makes a man forget himself. He read your letter and did not laugh once. He did not mock it, either. He took it seriously. He wrote back. He said he had never been spoken to with such… hunger. He said he could feel it on his skin.”

Benedict’s voice stays even as he lays it out, placing details like pieces on a board. A room, a door, a hand at a throat. A kiss stolen in a corridor. He speaks of a meeting that required caution, of risk, of wanting to be marked and kept. He makes it sound plausible enough to pass at a distance.

Up close, it gives him away.

He is too smooth. Too quick. The story moves as if he has already decided what each part should do, and now it is only a matter of saying it aloud. He does not stumble. He does not swallow. His breathing does not change. Nothing in him catches, as if focus were overriding the passion. If this were true, if these moments belonged to him, he ought to have some tell. A hitch, a heat, a crack in the polish.

The story of Thomas does not stir anything in you. Something else works though. What you feel with your whole being is his hand, a hairsbreadth from yours when you shift your fingers on a spine. His chest suspended at your back, not touching, and still crowding your breath. The warmth of him, the smell of him—spirits and soap, something stale that suggests too little sleep. The fact of his mouth near your neck, and the ease with which he could choose to use it. The fact of his palms, and where they could settle if he so wished. How simple it would be, in the space between one careful step and the next, to turn this from talk into something else entirely, to grabbing your waist, hoisting your skirts, to—

His voice carries on behind you, steady, persuasive in the way a man persuades himself.

You turn your head only a fraction, enough to let your words reach him without being heard by anyone else. “You lie to me,” you say. “Was your lover not satisfied?”

Now—the hitch in his breath arrives. He folds it into a scoff, then an incredulous little laugh, the kind meant to put you back in place by making you smaller. You turn in the tight space, face stern. Benedict sees the hurt in your eyes and still clings to hope.

“Which part of what I have told you sounded untrue?” he asks.

“Everything,” you tell him. “I am beginning to think either your lover was left entirely unimpressed, or that such a person as Thomas does not exist. Which is it?” Your chin lifts, defiant. “Am I bland, or is it simply impossible to entertain spectres?”

“You are not bland,” Benedict says under his breath. “But if I tell you the whole truth, you will hate me.”

You blink. Then smile, and your quiet laugh is your turn to test him. “Have you made someone miserable? Made a fool of me? Betrayed me?” you ask. “If not, I cannot hate you.”

He closes in. His jaw rasps against your cheek as he speaks, too close for sense. “I have been… touched… by your words, and by—” A swallow; you feel the motion like an echo in your own throat. “By myself. Wishing for you.”

You stay very still, nails biting into the wood behind you. “So there was no recipient,” you murmur.

“I was him. I am him.” His mouth finds your ear and sets the words into it. Warm lips, wet, licked over again and again. “Are you disgusted?”

You take a second, properly. Not disgusted. Never that. Not by Benedict, not by sincerity offered this plainly. The feeling is hotter, sharper, and it makes you careful. “If I said I was,” you mutter, low and wolfish, “would my silence be considered a favour?”

“Willful creature,” Benedict rasps, pushing his nose into the line of your hair. “What is it in that head of yours that you want?”

“The arrangement has changed.” You put your hand to his chest and shove, palm flat, feeling the quick flutter of his heart answer the beat in your wrist. “Show me,” you say, and by some miracle, your voice remains even, “how touched you were.”

“And if I say no?”

You pause. It would be unbecoming. And besides, it would be a blow aimed at yourself. Worse, it would betray the freedom you have been trying to reach.

“Then we will speak of this no more,” you tell him, solemn. “This is not the way I wish to be cruel.”

Benedict holds your eyes. “Do you wish to be cruel?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “But sweetly. Desirably.”

His hands find you like you’ve pictured it countless times. Your waist, fingers digging into meat, back pushed into wood. “Be cruel to me,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”

Your palms rest on his forearms. All willpower gets sent there, so they won’t tremble. Breath saws through your nose when you speak. “Touch yourself.”

Benedict’s eyes go deliciously wide. His fingers twitch where they hold you, then, by some mercy of the God of wild parts of a person, they drift to his shirt. He drags it free, untucks it, and palms himself through his slacks as if waiting to be told what to do next. Even now, impertinence clings to him.

“Properly,” you chide. “As you did during your reading sessions.”

“I need your wicked tongue for that,” he says, and works at the fastening.

You nearly miss it, too busy staring at the swell between his legs, at the dark scatter of hair at his navel, the straining root, when—your eyes meet briefly, and you keep your gaze there. Below his lashes where he’s under your spell and begging. “Talk to me,” Benedict says.

Your hands slip from his arms. One goes to his cheek, tender. “Do you seek praise?”

He nods, mouth agape.

“That is… oddly endearing.” A real, girlish laugh escapes you. “I thought of you too. Of your mouth. This mouth—” Your thumb swipes his lips, slips inside, and tests its weight on his tongue. “On different parts of me. Here—” Your other hand gestures to your neck, then lower, between your breasts. “And here.”

A sound leaves him. Breathy and wonderful, and yours, entirely. He draws himself out, bare in his hand, and his strokes are strained, fist unforgivingly tense. The head of him is darkened, weeping at the tip, teasing your own tongue to slip out and your knees to buck. “Is that how you did it?” you ask.

“Yes,” he breathes. His words keep trying to run ahead of him. “With your mouth in my head.” Firm hand clasps your shoulder, drawing you in until his forehead’s flat meets yours, breath all over your face. “On me. With your knees scruffed, ah—”

“I would,” you tell him. Hold him by the neck and keep the tension in his tendons until when you get to write about it. “I’d kneel for you. Learn you. Your shape inside me, when you’re rigid and after,” you say. “When you soften… and leak from me.”

“How are you real?” Benedict says, his mouth flattened against yours. His fist bumps your hip when it moves. Looking down, you see his slacks fallen to his knees and you take in every small gesture that brings him close: the thumb pressing the head, gathering the slick; the way he pulls himself away from his stomach; the twist of his wrist when it comes up, then the sharp descent that nearly has him punching his own abdomen. “Kiss me,” you feel him say into your lips.

“No,” you pout. “I need my mouth free, don’t I?”

“Beautifully cruel,” he says, shakes his head. “What else would you do? Where would you want me?”

“I want,” you bite your lip, “the shape of this tooth—” Your thumb hooks on his crooked canine and presses until his head cocks back a notch. “On my inner thigh. Only for me to see. Bruise me,” you say, spurring him on. “Take me. Show me what it’s like to be unafraid.”

Your calves burn from keeping you both upright. Between your legs there is a violent tug that spreads to your belly and pulses, wet and salacious, and it makes you say too much. “When you come back smelling of gin and bodies it makes my gut twist.”

“You say I reek,” Benedict mumbles, lost now, in the little space under your ear.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you tangled with others when I am here, painfully untouched,” you tell him. You catch his cheeks and rub your face on his. “I want you to reek of me. I want to reek of you.”

“By God, darling,” he groans, “I am—” It breaks into a choked gasp. “Where do you want me?”

“Here.” You lift your skirt and guide him to the naked sliver of skin in the crease of your thigh, where you mean to keep him. Your other hand finds his mouth, too bold for his own good, and holds. Your fingers muzzle him, and you smile, wicked. “And quiet.”

The tip grazes where you want it. His breath comes in short, tormented bursts over your palm, like he is blowing up a broken balloon. He presses himself fully and thrusts against you, close to where you dream of having him, and then warmth floods, stains the material of your undergarments and sticks to skin, wanted, cherished, won. His whole body tenses, holds that precipice for stretched out seconds, and then everything goes at once. His jaw under your touch relaxes. His shoulders slacken, the entirety of him becoming smaller. Fit to hold. To cradle.

A man who softens immediately becomes your favourite kind.

“How beautiful you are now,” you say, astonished—the last words you manage before Benedict’s lips find yours in an off-centre, hound-like kiss. Grateful and generous and wanting all the same. He holds your face firmly, stretches the skin of your cheeks, and tilts you so his tongue can find the deepest parts of your mouth.

“You are—” he mutters. “A miracle from the God who lives in hedges.”

Your laugh is relieved. Satiated, for now. “Are you converted?”

“He can have me if I can have you,” Benedict says.

He can have you, you decide.

When everything hushes down, when he tucks himself back into his clothing and makes himself look as though you have indeed been merely browsing books, you feel something you thought impossible: deeper breathing, a focus unlike anything you ever mustered over piano or embroidery. An opened door, and on the other side a landscape howling, dangerous, endlessly exciting.

You’ve touched freedom. And it tastes of Benedict.

[fishsficrecs]

my jaw is on the floor

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

You Wouldn't Want It

(if you knew what it was)

Pairing: Father Jud Duplenticy x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+Only

Notes: ...Yeah we all knew I’d wind up here. Welcome to the lastest two-parter. Set after the events of Wake Up, Dead Man. Be careful down there, there’s a loooooot of ex-Catholic trauma.

Title from the Florence + the Machine song Moderation.

Next part will have explicit sexual content.

Length: 3.7K

Warnings: Reader is an ex-Catholic; yearning; angst; slow burn; mom guilting; Catholic trauma; discussions of death; discussions of faith

Summary: A month. You can survive a month. You’ll teach children’s liturgy and CCD, keep your head on straight—and you will not, under any circumstances, think about that priest’s neck tattoo. 

What kind of priest has a fucking neck tattoo? 

It's your second thought upon shaking the hand of Reverend Jud Duplenticy. Your first thought is that he has kind eyes. He takes your hand in both of his, tells you that he's glad to make your acquaintance. 

"I understand I'll be seeing a lot more of you." 

And it's a fair statement for him to make, but your mind is wending to the way his hands are closed around yours. 

They feel strong, warm and firm, and his head is turning to look at your mother as she agrees, as she tells him that you'll be taking over her position as the leader of the children's liturgy, and teaching CCD classes in her absence while she's recovering from her upcoming hip replacement. 

“She may even stay for Christmas for once,” Your mom needles, and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes.

"Well," Reverend Duplenticy lets go of your hand, and clasps his together, "I'm looking forward to it." 

And that makes one of you.

-- 

Your childhood bedroom has remained untouched entirely: same posters on the wall, same canopy bed, same dent where you’d once thrown and smashed a snow globe out of frustration. The walls are still sky blue, though some of the corners are marred by dust and cobwebs, and the floor still creaks loudly in two places: by the closet, and just under the window. 

So much of it is unchanged—but you aren’t. You’ve grown in your time away from home. You’ve hardly come back since you left Chimney Rock, but in the handful of times you have, you’ve always fallen into old habits. 

Chimney Rock hadn’t been good for you before, and you know that you can’t let yourself fall into the mood that always took you over when you were there. 

You lower yourself onto the mattress, eyeing your suitcase where it sits in the corner of your room. Still packed, too. You could just pick it up, get in the car, hire a home health aid, and…And then you hear the whistle of the kettle downstairs, your mom hollering for the dog to get off of the couch. And you let yourself flop fully back onto the bed, drawing in a long, deep breath. 

A month. You can survive a month. You’ll teach children’s liturgy and CCD, keep your head on straight—and you will not, under any circumstances, think about that priest’s neck tattoo. 

-- 

You watch the kids chase one another around the church grounds as their parents chat, bundled against the cold in the wake of mass. You know that a few of the kids in children’s liturgy are also going to be in your CCD classes twice a week for the next few weeks, so you’re trying your best to match the names and faces that you’ve only loosely begun to associate with the gaggle of them. 

You sense someone coming up beside you, eye the triangular spread of his shadow before you feel the brush of his chasuble against your arm. 

“First children’s liturgy,” He speaks up before you can, “How’d it go?” 

“You’re being polite.” 

“Whaddayou mean?” 

You cast the reverend a sidelong glance, and he puffs out a soft laugh, letting his gaze drop to the ground before flitting back to yours. 

“It really wasn’t that bad,” He insists—but you know that he’s trying to soften the blow. 

The way the kids had acted in tracked for the way your mother always had been with them when you yourself was a child: an absolute doormat with everyone else, but a pillar of fire where you were concerned. And children's liturgy had started alright, but you’d quickly lost control of the class that took place in the small room off of the vestibule. What took the cake had been the group of them scream-singing Frozen lyrics at the tops of their lungs. 

You’d been hopeful that no one in the church had heard much of it, but the knowing smiles and stifled laughter that had rippled through the congregants as you led the kids back inside told you everything that you needed to know. You’d spent the rest of mass sitting on a bench in the garden, reveling in the warmth of the November sun and contemplating your entire life. 

“You could’ve come back in, rejoined the service," He adds. 

“Hm? Oh, no. No,” You chuckle softly, shaking your head, “Not really my, uh. Not really my thing.” 

“Mass isn’t your thing? Should I be worried that you’re teaching CCD?”

You look up, prepared to insist that there’s no need for him to be worried—but he’s smiling at you. You think there’s a hint of a tease there, too, but you resolve yourself not to read into it, looking toward the children again. 

“Don’t worry, father. I’ll keep ‘em on the straight and narrow.” 

-- 

You’re covering two CCD classes: the second grade, and the fifth grade. You review the materials while sitting in a cafe between remote meetings for work, opening the powerpoint that your mom has been using. What have you got for the second graders this week…

God is Angry

“Same,” You mutter, clicking through it. Genesis 3—the fall…Now the serpent was more crafty than any other beast of the field that the Lord God had made. 

God is angry. Your brow furrows, and you lean back in your seat, toying with the handle on your coffee cup. God is angry. 

“Reviewing for this week’s class?”

“Jesus!” You startle slightly at the sound of his voice, and Jud holds his hands up in apology as you press your palm over your pounding heart.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“No, no. It’s okay,” You reassure him, “And yeah. Just refamiliarizing myself.” 

“Is everything alright? You seem unsettled, if you don’t mind my saying so.” 

“You mean besides the light heart attack you just gave me?”

His lips twist with a guilty smile. “You seemed unsettled before that.”

“I’m just…” You turn back to the screen, nodding toward it. “How this is phrased. It doesn’t sit well with me.” 

“May I?” He nods to the chair opposite you. 

“Oh—” No, say no. Whatever he thinks he should do or wants to do, whatever he’s offering, you don’t need the help. You don’t need to bed in this community any more than you already have. “Sure.” 

You expect him to sit across from you, but he’s taking hold of the chair and sliding it around to sit beside you. Oh—kay. 

“What gives you pause in teaching the lesson as it is?” He asks, leaning against the table beside you. “What about the phrasing doesn’t sit well?” 

“God is angry. God was angered, sure, but this makes it sound like He’s perpetually angry. I mean don’t get me wrong, He was kind of a dick in the Old Testament—sorry,” You wince, but he simply chuckles. 

“No, it’s alright. My mentor, Bishop Langstrom, used to say that in the Old Testament, the Lord was like a temperamental bachelor, but in the New Testament, becoming a father really changed Him.”

You huff a laugh. “That’s good.” You click through a couple of slides, take in the bullet points, pictures of an evil snake. “It’s just…” You sigh. “God used to scare the crap out of me when I was a kid. And I know that’s kind of the point sometimes, but hammering home these ideas of banishment, of sin. When you’re that small, it can freeze you into inaction...I don’t think children should be afraid of God if you’re trying to teach them to put their faith in Him.” 

“Is that fear why you stopped going to church?”

You tip your head a touch, casting a sidelong glance in his direction as you try to weigh how truthful you should be. You don’t want to insult him—not when he's made it his life.

“It’s not why. Didn’t help, but it’s not why.” You turn back to the slides. “I think this version of the lesson could work for the fifth graders, but for the little ones…There’s just gotta be a better way to teach this.” 

“Well,” Jud shifts in the seat beside you, “This is your lesson. You can teach it any way you see fit.” 

“My mom would hate that.” 

“Will your mom be in the room?” 

Not physically, but the specter of her disappointment willl be. “I guess not.”

“How would you have wanted it taught to you when you were a kid?” 

“I don’t know. Frame it a little more softly, I guess. That there are consequences for disobeying rules, you know, like getting your allowance held back for a week because you didn’t finish your chores—not that I’m saying being banished from the Garden of Eden is equal to getting your allowance taken away—” You hurry to cover, but he shakes his head. 

“It’s alright, I know what you mean. The older kids have more of a sense of the world, of consequences, but the little kids, they may not understand. And you’re right: they shouldn’t fear God.” 

You glance toward him again, finding a contemplative pout on his lips. When he meets your eye again, you allow yourself to hold his gaze. You smile a little bit as he does. 

“Rewrite it,” He urges, patting your shoulder. “You know what they need to hear.” 

“Thanks, father.” 

“Sure.” He stands, setting the chair back on the other side of the table. And you should let it go there, but—

“Hey, uh,” You shift in your seat. “Would it be okay if I sent the updated lesson over to you, just…Make sure I’m hitting all of the points? I’d show it to my mom, but she’d call me a blaspheming little heretic again and insist on continuing to teach when she’s supposed to be resting.” 

“‘Again’, how many times has she called you a blaspheming little heretic?” He chuckles, though his smile droops when you don’t tease in return. “Of course you—Yes, I’d be happy look over the slides when you’re done.” 

“Thanks. I’ll email ‘em to you?” 

“That works.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Have a good day.” 

“Yeah, you, too.” You give him a small smile as he leaves, and force yourself not to look after him, instead opening a new powerpoint presentation. You’ve got twenty minutes until you have to log on to your next meeting—that’s enough time to get a start on this. 

-- 

Just a lesson, that’s all it is. That’s all it should be. But emailing that powerpoint turns into a weekly meeting at the rectory to discuss the slides for CCD. You figure that he’s just being kind the first time, but the more time you spend with him, the more warmed you are by him. 

Holding his gaze is like basking in the warmest sun in winter, a solace in your otherwise chilly existence in Chimney Rock. Your lessons get better. You manage to get children’s liturgy under control. And—

“I understand you’ll be assisting with the Christmas concert for the children’s choir?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling as you watch him shuffle through a few things on the desk in the rectory’s office. 

“One of the parents asked if I can lend a hand,” You shrug. “And how’d you hear about that, exactly?” 

“Honestly?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Came up when I came by to take your mother’s confession. Not during the confession!” He points at you, a smile creeping onto his lips as you bite back a laugh. “I’m not breaking congregant-pastor confidentiality.” 

“Didn’t think you would, padre.” 

Jud’s smile widens, his head ducking, and you have to shake your head to clear the fluttering feeling welling in your belly. 

“Thanks again for coming to the house to take her confession,” You add. “She really appreciated it.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind. I know her hip’s been bothering her, the cold can make joints more stiff.”

“Uh-huh…Are you okay over there?” You ask, watching him shuffle through a few more papers, a precious wrinkle forming between his brows. 

“Uh…Yeah, it’s just, um…It’s in here somewhere. This all used to be very well-organized, but the system’s kinda shot. Louise comes in on like a weekly basis—lovely woman, volunteers, but she can’t keep it all straight and things have been busier with the holiday coming up, so. I can’t always keep up with all of this—Ah! Ha!” He unearths a bland folder and flips it open. “Here we go. Forms to offer a mass. Knew they were down there somewhere.” 

“Awesome,” You take it from him, eyeing the sections to be filled out. “I’ll get this to my mom.” 

“Great. And yeah, you can just return it whenever.” 

“Thanks.” You cast your eyes toward the sprawling mess on the desk. “Do you need help with, uh…” You wave toward it. 

“Huh? Oh, no,” He scrubs his hand across the back of his neck. “Just need to take, like, an afternoon and actually work through it.” 

“Okay.” 

“Thanks, though.” 

“I wasn’t offering,” You tease. Jud’s smile widens, and you have to fight the urge to shake your head again. You can’t clear the feeling out that way, not when he's watching you. 

“Hey, can I ask,” He rounds the desk, leaning back against it. “Why don’t you sit through mass?” 

Your brows pop up in surprise. 

“Oh. Uh,” You scramble for an answer. “I just stay back to clean up after children’s liturgy. Once the biblically-themed coloring pages and word searches come out and the crayons start flying, I mean, oof. It’s a war zone in there.” 

“Uh-huh. So what’s the real reason?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head. “I’m not gonna knock it to you, but religion’s just. It’s not my thing.” 

“Have you tried lately? When’s the last time you spoke to Him?” 

“The big JC? I dunno. It’s been a minute.” 

“Have you considered giving it a try?” 

“There something you know that I don’t? Are we back to toeing the line of congregant-pastor confidentiality?” 

Jud shakes his head. “I just mean that with your mom’s surgery coming up—it’s a difficult time. It can help to have somewhere to turn.” 

“Honestly father, I’m a real ER catholic. Only time I’m praying is if something goes really, seriously wrong.” 

“Well,” He plants his hands on the desk, and it takes everything in you not to look at them. “I will pray that you won’t need to.”  

“Appreciate you taking one for the team.” 

And his smile stays in place, but something in Jud’s eyes dims. It’s like a little kick in the teeth. You fidget with the form in your hands, eyes nervously sweeping the fields.

“I know I can come off as flippant, but I, um. I never mean anything that I say about this stuff maliciously.” 

“I’ve never felt that you did.” 

“Good. Okay,” You nod, taking a couple of steps back. “This is all getting a little too sincere for me, so I’m just,” You jerk your thumb over your shoulder. “I’m gonna go.”

“Sure—Hey, I know surgeries can be stressful, even when they’re routine, so if you need someone to talk to—not to pray, necessarily,” He hurries to clarify, and you nod. 

“I know what you mean. Thanks.” 

“Anytime.” 

And from most other people, you’d think that was a passing offer. 

But with Jud, you have little doubt that the man would ignore anyone’s call, even at the most inconvenient of times.

-- 

You know that she’s going to be fine. 

You told yourself that the week before, the day before, the night before—even when she insists on sitting you down and telling you where all of the important papers are: the will, financial documents, her funeral arrangements. 

"I filled this out for you, just in case," She slides the form to offer mass across the table toward you, and you blanch to see her name filled in. “It's the sort of thing you'd forget, but it's very important to me. And I want the catering for the gathering afterwards to be from Bernardi’s—”

“Catering? Mom, I’m not gonna need to know this stuff for tomorrow,” You argue. She props her hand up on her good hip, stares you straight in the eye, and insists: 

“Well you’re gonna regret saying that when I flatline on that table.” 

Wonder of wonders, she isn’t been able to comprehend why that upset you. 

You know she’s going to be fine. You’ve been saying that to yourself since you got up that morning; as the two of you orbited one another in stony, awkward silence; as you silently partook in the mandatory fasting she was required to do ahead of being anesthetized. 

You pack a few things for the hospital: a couple of books, your laptop, your headphones to tune everything else out until you get the text that she's in the recovery room—because that is the only text you’ll be getting. 

But when you open your bag to pull out your laptop, you hear the rustle of the beads, and you go still. You hesitantly let the laptop go and take them up instead, drawing out the old rosary beads that have a permanent home in your backpack, purse—whatever it is that you’re carrying on a given day. 

You eye the emerald-hued shine of them, draw your fingers over their coolness as your eyes drift to the silver, Christless cross, the arms of the remaining piece bent and disfigured. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been looking at them when you hear: “How’s it going?” 

You look up to see Jud standing there, a smile on his lips—though it seems to waver as he takes your manner in. 

“Is your mom alright?” He adds. 

“Yeah, fine. They took her back, like, ten minutes ago, I think. I doubt she’s even under yet. Just waiting.” You shift in your seat, fingers closing around the beads in almost an embarrassed fist. “What are you doing here?” 

“I had to attend to an elderly parishioner. Last rites.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” 

“S’alright,” He offers a sympathetic smile. “It’s all part of the tapestry.” 

You nod, gut twisting as you lower your gaze back to your hands. It’s only a few seconds before Jud is sitting in the vacant seat beside you, another moment before his fingers hesitantly reach out, brushing across the few rosary beads poking out from your grasp. It’s like being caught with your hand in the Lord’s cookie jar. 

You unfurl your fingers, revealing the full length of the rosary, and Jud looses a quiet hum. 

“They’re beautiful. May I?” 

You nod again, and Jud lifts them carefully. Your gaze follows them, takes in the tender way his fingertips smooth over the rosary as yours had, then still as he reaches the cross. 

“Are they your mother’s?” 

“...They’re mine.” 

You see Jud’s head turn toward you in your periphery, but he doesn’t say anything for a moment. Maybe he’s trying to find a way to broach the conversation without scaring you off. 

“What happened here?” He finally asks, and you eye the bent crucifix where it’s pillowed in his broad palm. 

“I don’t know.” Then, tipping your head a touch, “I was told something, but I don’t know if it’s true.” When Jud makes no answer, you glance toward him to find him simply waiting. You sigh through your nose. 

“When I was…God, what, eleven? Twelve? I was at a CCD retreat for Confirmation. Day-long, nothing crazy. But at the end of the day, the woman running the retreat pulled me aside. Took my hand, put the beads in them, and said, ‘I think you’re going to need these.’” 

“What did you think that meant?” 

“Honestly? That the bridge we were gonna have to go over on the way home was gonna collapse—I’m serious!” You can’t help but smile as Jud tries and fails to stifle a laugh. “I was a kid, all of that stuff was still glorious and mystical to me. I thought she knew something I didn’t. I clutched those things in my hands all the way home. But nothing happened.” You shake your head. “I don’t know, maybe she saw that I wasn’t in with the other kids. Maybe it’s something she did in every retreat for someone.” 

“And the cross?” 

“She said she was hit by a bus.” The reminder makes you shift uncomfortably in your seat, a shiver rippling down your spine. “That everything else was ruined, but that the cross had survived.” You shake your head, tipping it back against the wall. “I don’t…I don’t remember her face. Couldn’t tell you about her hair, her skin, her smile, but I remember the pain in her eyes. And I couldn’t understand…Why she was giving them to me.” 

“Maybe for moments like this.”

“Maybe. Kinda feels wrong to still have them,” You admit. “They should’ve gone to someone with faith.”

“There is no hard-and-fast rule on what faith is, you know, it varies from person-to-person. Not going to mass doesn’t mean you’re faithless.” 

“Not believing in God is kind of a qualifier, though, isn’t it?” 

“Do you not?” 

You turn a wary eye toward Jud, expecting disappointment—but there’s nothing but his usual warmth and curiosity. 

And chalk it up to the nerves, the panic that had risen in you when your mom had forced you to sit through that conversation last night, the growing and inappropriate interest that you’ve felt toward him for these last couple of weeks. But your truth spills out. 

“You make me want to.” 

You force your focus back to the beads, unwilling to witness what saying that may bring to his surface. Neither of you speak or move for a few moments. Jud holds the beads back out, and you take them. And then he lays his palm out on the armrest between you. 

“…This isn’t gonna get liturgical, is it?” You ask dryly. 

“Only if you want it to.” 

“I’d really rather it didn’t.”

“Okay.” 

A pause, an inviting little wiggle of his fingers that makes you laugh in spite of yourself, and then your hand rests atop his. His fingers close around yours as they had the first time you met, just as warm and sure. 

“I’ll wait with you.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“I’m going to.” 

Your free hand smooths over the ridges of the beads, absently counting their number without allowing yourself to conjure up your well-remembered prayers. 

“Okay.”

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ;

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ;

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ;

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ;

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989 ; @grxceordxr ; @nominalnebula

[fishsficrecs]

this may or may not be the ex-catholic in me but this felt so. raw and so real and SO relatable (the struggling with faith/parental relationship eek) and wow i need to go lay down because this feels so.

[vigilantekisser]

apple lotion

pairing: college!matt murdock x f!reader

18+ cw: unprotected [irresponsible] sex. just the tip (until it isn’t). mutual loss of virginity - slight bleeding. thighfucking. pussyjob. slippery slope. creampie. mutual pining. idiots in love. religious references/guilt. banter as foreplay lol

summary: your friend’s reputation of being good in bed is common knowledge to the entire living-and-breathing student population of columbia. confusion arises when he tells you he’s actually a virgin. (wc: 11k - i know 😔)

a/n: hello. :) this is PURELY self-indulgent wish fulfillment, initially written for the touch prompts “foreheads pressed against each other” + “two fingers against a pulse point,” then i swiftly lost control after the first 2k words. I LOVE LOVE LOVE MATT MURDOCK JUST THE TIP FICS, i love their authors, and so here is my contribution!!! addtl warnings: lots of talk about religion, purity culture talk, matt’s guilt (featuring my favorite: intrusive thoughts of bible verses during sex). matt & reader lose their virginity to each other. that’s it… enjoy my filth…

“No fucking way.” 

It’s ridiculous: Matt’s desk isn’t made for two. Not even close. It’s for this reason that you’ve ended up almost on top of him, trying to act like your thigh isn’t pressed to his. 

And if your excuse for all this was that you were trying to get any real learning in, you’d be a liar, and a bad one at that. 

Because despite your valiant efforts at fighting the stubborn spine of your copy of The Phenomenon of Man flat, and despite Matt’s visibly pained attempts to not cringe so openly at the sound of its pages being manhandled, absolutely no studying has occurred. 

The conversation has veered off course. Reliably, you’ve spiraled it toward the hot topic of hookups. It’s an area in which Matt seems to be constantly embroiled, as far as corridor gossip—and Foggy’s colorful commentary—is concerned. It’s also an area that feels masochistic to keep asking about, yet you do again and again with your needling and poking and prodding, for no other reason than to wind up that sick thrill of jealousy in your chest.

Of course, all of it is inconsequential to Matt. He never seems to take offense. He plays along with impeccable composure, which all the more confirms that your chances of getting with him live somewhere in the zip code of Fuck All and Nowhere. It’s your conviction he’s on a much different playing field than you—his revolving door of ruthless future litigators/intense poets/vowelless heiresses. All undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, much so that you weren’t even sure at first who you were jealous of, them or him. 

Besides, it’s not that you like to wallow. You’d like to believe you’re fairly attractive yourself, thank you very much—but there’s much ease in giving in to joyless comparison when, like right now, Matt’s face is lit golden from the afternoon sun and he’s so beautiful, the shapes and lines of him so harmonious it’s only natural he’d be surrounded by people just like him. 

Not like you.

So, rash girl that you are,  you lash out the only way you can. Sarcasm, disbelief.

“You’re telling me,” you say slowly, jabbing your highlighter into the air, “that you, Matthew Murdock, are a virgin. You. You?”

His lips twitch at the corners, amused. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“What the fuck were they doing in and out of your room then? And I quote–‘he was really good’? You giving them confession or something?”

Matt feigns innocence, presses a hand to his chest. With an air of clipped smugness, “Who knows, maybe they were talking about Foggy.” 

Your silence must clue him to the fact that you’re gaping. 

“What? Girls love him!” he says, grinning wide. You can’t argue with that, at least, that much is true. “Besides, it’s a question of semantics. For one, what the word ‘virgin’ even entails when—”

“Just strangle me if you’re going to quote Wittgenstein again, Murdock. You’re a virgin or you’re not.”

Newly emboldened, Matt holds out a thumb to press it against your arm, pushing you playfully. 

“Well, then, enlighten me.”

Enlighten me.

You’re being confronted at your own game and clearly, your prodding can’t hold its own water—embarrassment flooding you instantly at discussing something this bold with someone you’re wildly, secretly in love with. Matt seems to pick up on this, granting you a little reprieve. His mouth quirks, “Alright, I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if you agree.”

You have to hope you’re doing a good job of pretending his suddenly stern, even tone doesn’t send your blood pressure skyrocketing.

Calm as ever, he continues, “One would define a virgin as someone who’s never had sexual intercourse.”

One would also define your face as going nuclear, hotter and hotter with each second he discusses this so breezily. Just another day of laying out the facts, like he’s in a debate.

“Yeah,” you manage.

“Sexual intercourse, to mean sexual contact with penetration. Yes?”

“Oh, stop it, Matt,” you groan, hands fidgeting with the page.

“Well—yes?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“Okay.” He leans back, casual, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “If penetration has to be the only metric—then yes, I’m a virgin. Again, if it has to be.”

As if that made any sense, you nod at him, blinking. “Yeah, yeah.” Another blink, upon finally coming to your senses. “Has to be? The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he repeats airily, biting down a smile. Oh no, he’s enjoying this—“do you think sex is just penetration?”

It takes you a second.

To be more precise, it takes you three seconds. Your confused gaze flicks from his shielded eyes to his mouth, to the tip of his tongue, that which has darted out to wet his pink, pink lips… 

Oh.

“Oh my God,” you utter. Cheeks aflame, you bury your face in your hands instantly, eager to escape his puppylike yips of laughter at your mortification. “Oh my God.”

Jesus. Of course he’d eat pussy like a champ.

“What? What?” His voice has gone high and incredulous.

“Shut up! This paints you more like an asshole in my book, actually.”

He’s grinning wide. “Because?” 

“Because!” Dropping your hands, you stab a finger at him. “I’m pointing at you very disapprovingly, by the way. It’s one thing to brag about being good at sex, y’know, the–uh–uh…p..” 

Just say the word, goddammit! You’re giving yourself away!

“C’mon,” he teases lowly, that delicious rasp in his voice. “You can do it. P-p-p–”

“Penetration,” you spit. “Ugh, Matt!” 

You smack his chest and, scandalously pleased with himself, unbidden laughter escapes him. You have half a mind to simply leave the room; perhaps by doing so, you’ll be spared the punishment of suffering that immaculately handsome smile. Instead, you do nothing but groan. 

“You are such an asshole. Anyway—being good at that is one thing, but you’re saying all that praise was for oral? That’s even worse.”

“Worse? How is that worse?”

“You can’t really coast on– on mutual friction with that. You gotta… um… actually be good at it.” 

Immediate regret bubbles up as soon as the words leave your mouth. Because consequently you’re now picturing Matt’s face between an array of legs, all immaculately smooth, un-stubbly legs, shapely deerlike legs that aren’t yours.

A grotesque fantasy; it may be the worst thing you’ve ever done to yourself.

Matt raises his hands in mock surrender. “They said it, not me. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure. Right.” Eyes returning to the textbook, you grumble low and bitter words you yourself can’t even make form of. Jealous, though you’d sooner bite your tongue in half than admit aloud that you are.  In front of you, the chapter title reads The Season of Life—and Christ take yours now, you’re praying. Matt’s lucky enough he can’t see the withering look you’re leveling at him, but never one to pass up the opportunity to be petty, you utter, “That’s all fiction anyway.”

His head tilts fractionally. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s all fiction.”

“Being good at oral is fiction?”

“Yes.” 

“As in, not real?”

“Yes.” 

Where you’re going with this, you don’t know either. Your brain and your mouth are no longer on speaking terms.

There’s a pause before he speaks again, his voice amused but careful. 

“So in the entire span of human existence—through all of time—you’re telling me not one person has been good at going down on a woman? Not a singular one?”

“Yes!” You throw your hands up, giggling. All rational thought has hurled itself out the window, given way to stubborn absurdity. “Because I’m horrible. And egocentric, and I have to see to believe. Or—feel, sorry. So as far as I’m concerned, no, it has not existed.”

A barrage of your thoughts fill the silence that comes after. What are you even saying? What are you trying to insinuate? Are you coming onto him? Why can’t you just control the goddamn words coming out of your mouth?!

“That’s a terrible worldview,” Matt says at last.

“You’re welcome to leave,” you utter, plenty aware that this is his dorm room.

“Mm. Fiction,” he drawls, mouthing the word again like he’s testing wine. You dare to glance up at him and immediately know you’ve made a mistake: he’s got that smug thing going, head cocked and looking too entertained for his own good.

“I don’t know,” he muses, “it seemed pretty real to me. And to the very respectable women you’re currently calling liars.”

You roll your eyes hard enough you’re sure you can see your brain.

“No, I’m serious. Not only is that dismissive of their agency–”

“Oh God.”

“–but you’re also insinuating I was– What? Pity-praised?” Matt leans forward just slightly, that damned tongue darting out again to lick his smirking lips. “You think it was pity praise for the blind guy?”

“What?! No! I think–” You reel back, flailing, face hotter than it’s ever been in recorded history and you tug away from him as if that’ll help. “Matt, fuck you for real.”

Matt’s grinning so hard now, showing teeth and you can’t bear to face him so you rub your cheeks with your palms again.

“Christ. Okay fine, I walked right into that one.”

“Yeah, you did,” Matt repeats your words, mouthing fiction, shaking his head. “I hope that’s not from experience.” He pauses, tipping his head, a funny expression crossing his face. “Is it?”

Fuck me, you think, panic blooming white-hot, Fuck me, literally, preferably now–

“I- I– Well.” You swallow, finally slamming your textbook shut.

So as not to give anything away to his freakishly good perception, your next words are as matter-of-fact and carefully enunciated as you can manage: 

“Who I put between my legs is none of your business, Murdock.”

Matt raises his brows, frowning and nodding as if to say, ah, alright then, if you say so. Sinking back in his seat, he lets out a sigh so dramatic, you’d roll your eyes again if your entire bloodstream weren’t currently on fire.

“Duly noted,” he says coolly. “And who I put between mine is fair game. Good to know.”

You blink. Fuck.

He’s right. You’re unsure what the etiquette here ought to be. What is it one does when your stupid-smart, obscenely hot crush hits you with an uno reverse that’s technically correct? And now you have to face the fact that you’re the asshole for slut-shaming him when really you’re just… 

A little bit, catastrophically, stupidly jealous…?

“I– um– shit…” you answer brilliantly. “Um… Shit… Okay-you’reright-I’msorry.”

But Matt doesn’t have an answer to give you, no quip to shoot back. He dips his head low, and his shoulders start shaking incessantly. You can’t see much of his face like this—only his mouth twitching in a tight line.

He’s… crying. 

That made him cry?

No way. You’ve never seen him cry before. 

No, no. He’s wheezing. 

From laughter.

“Ha!” he says, eyes bright behind his glasses as a full-bodied laugh finally breaks free from him, smug and delighted. “Got you!”

“Oh fuck OFF, Matt!” you snap, the heat clawing its way down your neck. “I thought you were crying! That’s not–!”

“You walked into that one again.”

“That’s not funny!”

.

Ever the asshole, Matt does find it pretty funny, though. 

Your outrage, your flushed face, the ridiculousness of it all at your expense. And if he weren’t currently fighting for his goddamn life, he’d have the presence of mind to really savor it. Teasing is what the two of you do, an unconsciously learned dance. Yet for Matt, evidently, this back-and-forth holds more weight for him, it being what he can do to deflect from that… what even is it? 

That bite in your voice, every time the topic turns to that.

Disdain, maybe. Disgust. Pity, if he’s being generous.

An indulgent part of him wants to believe it’s jealousy.

But why would it be? You’ve never given him any sign, done anything to be an indication that you’d think of him as anything more than a friend. He knows you: smart, uncompromisingly honest. 

The kind of person who’d never waste time on someone who can’t keep his dick in his pants. 

Which is clearly how you see him.

So that edge, those jabs and barbs and the snide twist with which you said really good… For lack of a better expression, he’s not blind to the fact that you’re disgusted at how careless he must seem. At the thought of him being cheap, shallow, shameless, all of it. Your image of him must be comical, he’s certain: throwing himself in half-clothed thrill, a meaningless chase of affirmation—since anything deeper would be too much. 

Matt likes being your Friend. Loves it, if he’s honest. Which is why he lets you believe what you believe, and he does what he always does: grins, gets on your nerves, then backs off. Just like he’s supposed to. 

Still, it’s not so easy, especially not like this. It’s not so easy now when he’s in sensory hell, and he can smell your apple-scented lotion and the ghost of sunscreen warm on the backs of your knees from walking across campus in the sun. He must catalogue it all: your clean sweat, blooming its sweet human humidity in the bend of your elbows; your anklet clinking and betraying your every restless shift; your rapid heartbeat he can’t even begin to dissect. 

He can smell all of it, hear it, feel it, and God help him—just from this stupid conversation, he’s already hard. 

Be self-controlled and sober-minded, for the sake of your prayers.

Matt exhales, long-suffering, trying to summon some humor for a shield.

“Fine,” he says at last, aiming for flippant and failing spectacularly. “I plead guilty. The rumors are true.”

Your dry snort hits him square, and he can practically feel the eye-roll radiating from you. Still, he goes on, fully aware of what he’s risking. Sentimentality scares you away, he knows this. “The nuns at the orphanage, they’d say it was something special. To share with someone within the sacrament of marriage.” Matt says it grandly, the theatricality making you snort again. Then a little pointedly, because he can sense your mouth already poised for a quip, “I’m not exactly waiting for my wedding night. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

The little hitch in your breath betrays you before you can speak. 

“It’s just…” voice dropping, shoulders curling slightly, Matt doesn’t even know why he feels the need to explain this to you. A bid for understanding, maybe, though he knows that’s too much to hope for. “I haven’t found it in myself to go all the way yet, what with the”—he waves a hand vaguely, words quieting down into a mumble—“the words… in my head, and all.”

“What?” Your brow furrows. “What words?”

He shrugs, lips quirking into a cornered smile. “Nothing.”

“What?!” Before you can even finish talking you’re laughing, grabbing at his wrists in mock outrage. It makes him inhale sharply, your two fingers grazing the tender skin there, and he thanks God you don’t have his senses or you’d know how embarrassingly fast his pulse had leapt beneath your touch. 

“What words, Matt? Do you hear the Holy Spirit or something? Is that a thing?”

He huffs. “I think it’s called a conscience, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. 

For a second—just a second—your heartbeat skips after he says it. Usually, for anyone else, it’d be that tell he knew by heart: Gotcha. Granted, it’s a useful gift, one that’s gotten him into more agreeable doors and down more girls’ jeans that he’d expect. Only it’s not like that with you. He’s long learned that you’re anything but usual to him, the opposite of an open book.

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

Just as he’d expected, it’s annoyance. Not interest.

Matt glances away, smile wavering. “Ah. Sorry.”

But like it’s nothing you’re already chuckling and saying, more quietly, “All that repression, Matt. M’starting to believe your rumors now.”

Tilting his head back again, he nods to himself. There’s not much to say anymore, the two of you falling into a sort of ambivalent silence as you bury yourself back into the study material as if it’s suddenly become fascinating. But for him, it’s less studying the text and more studying you, picking up your heartbeat that seems to be beating quicker and quicker in… Anticipation?

Erratic, like a caught moth, like you’ve found something to say that’s titillating, or inappropriate. 

He could do you one better. He could do inappropriate. He could ruin your friendship right now.

No, no. He has to bite his tongue, chastising himself. Bad Matt. Friendship. Don’t.

Still, your pulse keeps climbing faster and faster.

“Okay,” you finally eke out, mouselike. “My turn.”

Matt tilts his head.

“I’m a virgin too.”

Oh?

That’s not what he expected, and he’s not entirely sure how to react, brows lifting slightly. Keeping his expression careful, one hand rises to rub between his eyes the way he does only when he’s attempting to buy himself time.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with your admission. It’s not a big deal; it shouldn’t even be one at all. Only, it’s sparked something in him that feels too much like relief. Yet it’s for this reason Matt had shut it down the second it reared its head. He knows himself well enough. If he lets that door open, lets himself want anything from that admission, that greedy part of him will enter and everything else he’s spent so long trying to hold back will come barreling with it. 

He can’t afford that. So he shoves it down, hard.

“Okay,” Matt says gently. “That makes two of us then.”

You groan and collapse so far back into your chair it creaks in protest under you. 

“Ugh. Actually, I’m like half a virgin too or something. Aren’t you gonna be a little weird about it? I was so weird about yours, I feel horrible.”

“No, not at all. I’m deeply moved by your honesty, actually.”

“Dick.”

He smiles.

You sigh, scratching at your temple. “I know there’s more leniency when it comes to girls, and I kind of hate that that’s a thing. Like, I don’t give a crap about it, which is why I do? Does that make sense?”

Matt nods solemnly, though the smile’s still tugging at his mouth. “No flaws in logic there.”

You swat at him again, but it’s lighthearted and your hand finds his arm and stays there, fingers drumming absently at the fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s not even about the sex,” you continue. “A lot of stuff makes me feel like it’s a lot more important than it actually is—”

“Hey.” He cuts you off, soft and steady, “You don’t have to justify yourself, you know. Not to me. I get it.”

You nod, shoulders relaxing. You’d gotten completely unaware of how worked up you were getting, the heat starting to pool again in your face.

“Thanks. Sorry.” You pause for a bit, thinking. “I’d just… I’d like it to be with someone I like. Doesn’t even have to be someone I love– I think I’d actually prefer that, just so it isn’t that big a deal. Just… not some random asshole.”

Right.

Matt has to chew the inside of his cheek until he starts to taste blood.

He could be that asshole. He really could. He could make this easy, make it soft, careful, good for you. For both of you.

“Mm,” he says, noncommittal. “Yeah, I know.”

“Just do it once—then it’s over.”

“Then it’s over,” he agrees helpfully. 

“Stop repeating my sentences!” You laugh and slap his chest again, and by that touch he’s a little breathless. He exhales, tongue running along the back of his teeth. There goes the apple-scented waft from your skin again, mingling with the sun-warmed salt.

“Right,” Matt says promptly, forcing himself to lean back. He places his earbuds back in—a futile effort, he’s unable to hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears—and swipes back at his notes with the pad of his finger to seek where he left off.

The issue, of course, is that he’s hard. 

Hard and sweating and stuck. 

If God were any bit the merciful being He claimed to be, Foggy would walk in right now. He’d take any easy excuse to stop and force him out of his predicament. But Matt knows he won’t. He knows it’s just you and him, and nothing but his own will could stop him now. 

Set a guard, o Lord, over my mouth. Keep watch over the door of my lips.

You’re murmuring to yourself over the book again, lips shaping out words he can’t hear because all his focus has narrowed down to the sound of your heartbeat. Then you’re leaning closer, pointing something out, and the hem of your top’s brushing his arm. You don’t realize how much he’s shifted, so when you turn to finally look at him, your breath’s fanning his cheek and he stills. You stop laughing, then you laugh again at the sight of his jaw tightening like he’s bracing for impact.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He forces a tired smile, an expression soothed to something carefully neutral. “Just trying to focus.”

“Oh, sorry.” You duck your head, meek, guilty. Suddenly abundantly aware of the weight in the air, you say, “I can move–”

“No, no.” Matt’s hand finds your waist with unerring accuracy, fingertips skimming your side in a featherlight touch. “Stay. I like it when you’re close.”

Something in your chest flutters, and Matt’s more than a little pleased at the shift in your pulse, the way his words had landed and rippled through you.

Christ, Matt. This how you do it?

He’s so close now he can hear every heavy thump of your heartbeat, and he’s listening hard, desperate in his search for anything to prove it’s more than biology, more than proximity, more than his wishful thinking. 

But he can’t take it anymore. He can’t care anymore.

His thumb strokes your side.

“Alright,” Matt whispers, breath escaping ragged, “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”

You nod before your brain can even catch up.

“…Okay.”

For an agonizing second, neither of you moves. Then he tilts his head, closing the distance slowly—almost painfully so, like he’s giving you every last chance to pull away. Your heart’s ricocheting so hard he can hear the shape of it.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss when it comes is soft. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. You make a sound—a little hum, surprised at yourself—and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it. He’s clued in infinitely to the goings-on in your body, the stutter in your breath, the way your hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his chest, fingers splayed over the steady hammer of his heart.

There’s the faint tang of your lip balm on his tongue when it dares to flicker against you, coaxing your mouth open. Strawberry, kiwi—no matter, he hungers to swipe all of it off you with his own lips. His tongue slides against yours and Christ, he can’t help the soft noise that rumbles in his own throat. When Matt pulls back it’s only enough to breathe, noses bumping, but before you can think any better of it—before you can even think about what you’ve ruined, what you’ve just begun—you’re already leaning back in for more, and he catches your bottom lip between his teeth in a fleeting, tender bite before kissing you again, harder this time and less careful. 

Your fingers clutch at the fabric over his chest like you need something to anchor you. And just as you’re shifting closer and closer, the kiss much deeper, the chair under you creaks ominously and then—

It jerks, slipping sideways.

You yelp and flail gracelessly, but Matt’s faster by years, catching you before the fall can register. His arms wrap around your back, a firm hand finding your thigh to steady you as you land hard against his chest, your body flushed against his. You burst out laughing, breathless and embarrassed.

“I got you,” he murmurs, voice roughening at the edges. His black glasses have slid slightly crooked in the commotion, making him look just a little disheveled. His smirk is nothing short of devilish now that you’re straddling his lap fully, thighs bracketing his own with snug pressure. 

It’s then that you both feel it: the heat and the hardness of him beneath you. Even through the barrier of clothing it’s impossible to ignore; by instinct, your body shifts to feed its own want, the hot ridge of his cock grinding against your center through your own clothes.

“Should we…” you start, unsure what it is you’re even asking.

“Yeah,” Matt says shakily, “Bed. Before you fall again and actually get hurt.”

You nod and start to move off him awkwardly, but he catches you again—arms looping around you without effort—and then he’s standing, lifting you against him like it’s nothing. By reflex, your thighs wrap around his strong waist, arms snaking around his neck as he carries you across the room. There’s a second you consider offering directions, murmur clumsy instruction, but Matt moves with complete certainty—exactly where to place you, exactly how to touch you. The surety makes your stomach knot with something sharp and bitter: experience, you think, even as you tell yourself not to—don’t ruin this, don’t rob yourself of how good it feels just to be wanted by him. Fighting against impulse, you swallow it down and let yourself surrender to the moment. 

Matt deposits you gently onto the bed: a twin-sized mess of rumpled sheets and textbooks shoved aside. Coming up to between your legs, when he kisses you this time it’s worlds away from the one before—it’s deeper, hungrier, tongue slick and mouths sliding together in a mess of panting breath and soft noises, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt.

“Can I—?” he asks between kisses, and you nod, already tugging it up. The dark shirt comes off easily, pulled one-handed over the back of his neck. Like an errant magpie, your gaze is caught momentarily by the silver glint of his cross necklace catching the light, just before your eyes slide down his broad chest, lean and defined, the clean cut of his abs tapering down with a trail of dark hair arrowing below. 

Jesus. 

But you don’t get to ogle him as long as you’d like—it’s your turn then, his hands at your sides, slipping beneath your shirt. Matt’s an impatient man and sure enough, sooner than soon your band shirt comes off, tossed somewhere over the bedframe.

“Goodbye, Nick Cave,” you murmur solemnly.

Matt huffs a laugh, and his lips scorch your newly-bare shoulder, then your collarbone, trailing heat as his hands roam—sliding over your soft stomach, then up to cup your breasts gingerly through your bra, thumbs brushing the edges of the material. You’re tugging at each other again, kissing between whimpers, your fingers fumbling at the button of your shorts, and Matt’s hand covering yours to help. 

Cursing under your breath, you kick the shorts off with a frustrated huff, left in your underwear now, damp and clinging. Unfairly so, Matt’s still wearing those goddamn grey sweatpants that make everything impossible to ignore. You can see everything. You can feel everything. Still above you, now between your legs he ruts forward without meaning to, and his cock grinds against your soaked, clothed core through the layers of cotton and elastic. Like the rhizomatic nature of your conversations with him, natural and free-flowing, the both of you move in unconscious rhythm now, tuned in completely to the feeling of his thick ridge dragging across your core.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your mouth.

“For what?” you ask, breathless, trying not to fall apart too quickly.

He hesitates. “I just… didn’t know if you wanted to keep going.”

“Are you kidding?” you whisper. “I was about to ask you that.”

A giggle breaks out from both of you, soft and nervous, mouths brushing, and he kisses you again, desperate. “This feels good,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah.” His fingers slide behind your back, fumbling at your bra clasp. You arch slightly, trying to help, but he curses softly. “Fuck—sorry—can’t—”

“Let me,” you say, laughing again, sitting up just enough to undo it yourself. His ears are flushed now, the tips red with embarrassment, and he opens his mouth to apologize again but your kiss finds him instead, as you reach for his hand and guide it to your chest.

Matt groans into your mouth when you place his palm over your exposed breasts, and he wastes no time, pawing at you greedily, kneading and squeezing like he’s starved for it. Fingers finding your furled nipples, pinching lightly, you shudder under him, clutching his wrist. Summer be damned, the velvet feel of his skin on your skin makes your head swim, and you can’t steal enough of his warmth to be sated. 

His kisses then trail lower, down your neck now, down your sternum, each breath ghosting sultry heat across your skin, and then he’s at your navel, tongue flicking briefly at the dip there. But just as he ghosts lower, nose nudging at the waistband of your panties, you jerk. Acrid panic comes up your throat; before you can think you’re already tugging him up by his hair and the back of his neck, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Wait. Wait—”

He stills instantly, blinking up at you unseeing. His hair is mussed, lips wet, mouth open like he’d been caught mid-word. “…What?”

“I don’t—” The words knot in your mortified throat, and you can’t find the nerve to look at him directly. “Um—I just—”

It’s a burn not solely from want but from the shadow of uncertainty: the thought of him down there, to see you with such closeness, tasting you, and what if you’re disappointing, what if you’re not worth it, if every rumor you’ve pretended not to care about has been true after all and you’re nothing compared to them—

“What’s this, then?” His voice is low, teasing, sufficient enough to puncture your own spiral. Chuckling softly, he asks, “Gonna keep pretending it’s fiction?”

You flush so hard it makes your ears ring. “Shut up. Next time, okay?”

His brow quirks. “‘Next time,’” he echoes, savoring the phrase on his tongue like it’s proof you’ll never get away from him now. 

“Ugh, Matt—just come here—” Flushing hot and annoyed, you yank him up by the collar, mouth crashing against his before he can say another word, swallowing his grin into your kiss. Slick and consuming, it feels euphoric to slot your own mouth against his like this—lying down, full-body, you could kiss him for hours, your recent indiscretion forgotten—and you’re melting beneath him, your hips grinding up against his, your hands pulling at his pants.

Picking up on your insistence, Matt pulls back, breath ragged, and peels off his sweatpants. They catch at one ankle as you help him tug them off, hands brushing his calves. What’s left then is the stretched fabric of tight black boxer briefs, the full outline of his cock thick and unmistakable, a dark patch of damp where precome’s already leaked through.

You reach for the waistband, teasing it down with one finger. “This okay?”

His voice is strained. Nearly breaking. “Yeah. Please.”

Pulling the briefs down, you have to take a second as his cock springs free, flushed and leaking while it curves toward his stomach, the base nestled in a thatch of dark hair. You swallow hard, because he’s beautiful, Christ, he’s so hard, and he’s already twitching. 

You shimmy your hips forward to be closer to him, legs parting, and he groans loudly the second your plush thighs close around his cock. Beginning to rut forward, he grinds against you slowly, dragging the thick length along your clothed slit, again and again, the damp cotton thankfully doing little to dull the obscene friction. The pressure of each hardened pass catches your clit just slightly makes you gasp, makes you rut back up against him. You can feel the heat bleeding off him, your cunt pulsing with how close he is, how much you need more.

It’s everything and nothing and still not enough. Then, as if to notice this, Matt’s hand drifts down, thumb brushing the waistband of your panties.

“These…” he murmurs lowly, fingertips tracing the edge of your panties with the kind of searing touch that makes your lungs forget their rhythm, “describe them to me.”

For a beat you’re not even sure you heard him right. “What?” you manage, though it’s hardly more than a whisper.

That damned smirk of him has made a reappearance, lips glossy from your kisses. The mockery in his tone is pure provocation, prodding at you endlessly, testing your limits. “Tell me what they look like.”

At his demand, the rush of blood behind your ears is instantaneous. You’re not sure whether it’s that or simply the love-addled lens you’re viewing him through, but a ridiculous little giggle betrays you, shy and uncontainable, as though your body is already conspiring with him. And so despite your attempts to suppress, you relent because he’s waiting, and frankly, because his devilish smile has unmoored you completely. 

“They’re… white,” you begin, voice faltering as though you’re confessing something forbidden, “cotton. Lace at the sides.”

And because this is Matt, you can’t seem to stop, seizing his hand and tugging it down until his broad palm rests against the soft material, your pulse jumping beneath prickling skin.

Matt tilts his head as if he can see every detail anyway. Savoring the description, tasting it out as his smile curves wickedly. “Mm. Fancy?”

“Not really.”

“They expensive?” 

“What? Jesus. No, you perv.”

“Good.” His tone’s dropped lower, thicker with play; its cadence is so warm it flushes heat straight between your thighs, beneath his palm most especially. And as if that singular word has become verdict— his purposeful fingers hook into the waistband sharply. 

RRRIP—!

Your thighs jerk, eyes flying wide as the cotton gives under his decisive grip. Matt tears the panties apart at the seam as though they’re paper, unable to find patience to stop himself from wrenching the ruined fabric aside until you’re bared to him completely. It takes you a second to catch your breath, but you finally break into incredulous laughter, shock and arousal having knotted together in your chest so tight it feels like a stone in your sternum. 

“Couldn’t wait,” Matt pants, “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“No, I’m not.” His grin widens, flashing wolfish teeth. “Not even a little.”

“You’re gonna have to pay for that, Murdock.”

His laugh tumbles directly into your mouth as he kisses you again to shut you up, hot and reckless, and then drags lower once more— “This is okay, right? You’re okay with this?”

“Yeah. God, yes. Oh—” Yet despite thinking you’ve already tamped it down, the reality is that the two of you are now completely bared to each other; hence the voice of reason from inside your head still emerges, causing you to swallow hard. “Wait, Matt. Are we gonna— I mean, is this—?”

Christ, you don’t even need to finish. He knows what you’re asking, he can tell. And the fact of the matter is, it’s not simply the nature of his suggestibility. Matt’s will is strong, mostly unshakable. The only counterpoint is that it’s you. You’re the one offering, wanting, needing. He’s the one with the conscience clawing at him and telling him to stop. 

But how the fuck can he stop, when you’re whimpering under him, begging for him so openly?

The thought of whether this is the line he’ll cross, it hammers in his chest and remains. Matt can’t bring himself to say it out loud, can’t let the words be real, because despite all his guilt, all his restraint, he wants it too much. He wants to do it right this time. He wants it with you.

He should stop.

“C’mon,” you whisper, bold and desperate in equal measure. “As long as it doesn’t go in, it’s okay. Right? For you?”

Matt’s breath shudders out of him, chest pressing hard against yours. His lips part on a half-formed prayer you don’t understand, and then he’s nodding, rendered helpless by the way you’ve said it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, breaking. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Wetting his lips, he pulls back and he pushes your pillowy thighs together slowly, and slides his cock between them, the swollen head dragging slickly between your bare folds, through your wetness. Slow at first, drawing each movement out until he feels like he’s about to die from lack of it. Every pass coats him more, precum mixing with your arousal, smearing the softness of your thighs as his cock glides in tight, controlled thrusts. 

You’re wet. So wet he can hear it. The sounds filling the room are lewd and rhythmic, your thighs slick, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate.

And Matt’s losing it.

He’s not even inside you and already he feels like he’s going to break.

His hands tighten on your hips, heavy enough to remind you he’s holding back by the skin of his teeth. With each pass of his shaft it’s cushioned indulgently by the soft flesh of your thighs, dragging along your folds, hot and wet and thick, the ridge of the swollen head bumping against your clit with every motion and sending zings of pleasure shooting up your spine until you’re breathless, gasping, toes curling.

You don’t realize you’re whining loudly until he leans over you, breathing hard onto your cheek, his chest heaving. Mouth brushing your ear, he mutters, “Mine.”

His claim on you makes your whole body arch, makes your cunt clench down uselessly on nothing, aching.

And it’s true. You’re his, no question now about it. All of it is proof enough: the wetness slicking your inner thighs, your bare pussy glistening and desperate and utterly bare beneath him. 

You roll your hips up instinctively, desperate to catch more of him, to press harder against the hot, swollen weight grinding between your thighs, chasing the flash of electricity when the crown of his cock skims your clit. But his grip only tightens, fingers biting bruises into your waist, holding you down like he knows better than to let you move, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to sanity.

It feels like sin. This little game the two of you are playing at, it feels better than it has any right to, filthy and exquisite in equal measure. Each rut of his cock through the slick vise of your thighs drags the swollen tip across your folds, every pass smearing you wetter, every sound between you growing louder, lewder. The air is thick with it, every breath you take steeped in sex. It feels so fucking good—all of it, all of it—all building towards something, something you realize to be this conclusion: it’s not nearly enough. 

“I want more,” you gasp, the words tumbling out unbidden as your eyes flick helplessly downward, caught on the sight of his cock sliding in and out of the tight press of your thighs. The swollen head keeps vanishing and reappearing, glazed with you, every filthy pass making you shiver harder, “Want you.”

“I know,” Matt exhales, and the sound is ragged, breaking in his throat. He presses his forehead against yours, his feverish skin scorching yours completely. “Me too. But we can’t.”

As if a spoiled child, you whine, “Why not?” high and frustrated as you rock your hips against him anyway, greedy, begging with your body even as he keeps you pinned.

Without needing to speak aloud, the answer to your question comes to him with absolute certainty. A hoarse rasp of conscience: Because I’m an asshole.

“Please,” you whimper, every instinct in your body screaming for more. His hands only tighten to keep you down, yet it finds no success in having you stop; it only makes your need bloom sharper, makes your pleas spill faster. “Please, it won’t change anything. We’re still friends, right? Right?”

And then, just for an instant, just enough to catch at your entrance, the head of his cock slips and pushes blunt and hot and shocking against the swollen threshold of your body.

The air is torn from both of you in the same instant, gasps ripping through the thick silence.

The shock of it intoxicates you, blinds you—just that sliver of him breaching you, and you’re undone.

Beside your head, his arm strains to brace his weight, with biceps taut and straining, veins standing out as though his whole body is about to snap. The silver cross around his neck swings free, dangling above your face, catching the faint light with every tremor. 

Matt doesn’t move, shouldn’t, but his cock throbs where it presses into you, every instinct commanding him to push deeper, to sink, to lose himself. To give you what you’re pleading for.

“Fuck—m’sorry,” he grits, wrenching back, pulling himself back out. He’s shaking, chest heaving, the words tumbling from him wild and frantic. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—You’re just so wet, fuck, I’m sorry—”

And if your hand causes you to sin…

“It’s o-okay—” You’re trembling, nails biting into the meat of his bicep. Your body is buzzing, still lit by the electric shock of him almost inside, and what terrifies you most is the clarity flooding you. 

Singular and decisive: you can’t stop now.

“Matt,” you whisper, sordid with want, “what if—what if you put it in, just a little. A little, please. It’s not enough. It won’t even count.”

You sound like you’re begging for your life. Reduced to nothing but a bitch in heat.

Matt’s hand slides up to your jaw, thumb dragging across your cheek in a trembling, sultry caress, and his head dips, unsteady laughter rasping out of him, “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you plead, “S’long as… s’long as it’s not fully in, it doesn’t count, right?”

“Fuck—” Matt exhales hard, head hanging as if the weight of it will break him. His throat works as he swallows, trying to claw the words out of his conscience. 

He needs to stop. He knows he needs to stop.

Do not let my heart incline to any evil, to busy myself with wicked deeds.

But how can he refuse you?

“Fuck. Okay. Are you sure?”

You nod, frantic. For Matt, whose senses are paradoxically both focused entirely on you and tuned out by the intense arousal in his head, this simple gesture is insufficient. He shakes his head. “I need you to tell me you’re sure.” His lips brush over yours as he breathes it, a coded message of him desperately begging you to say stop, to absolve him, control him from his own sin.

You do no such thing. 

“Fuck, I’m sure,” your eyes are wet, and you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you alive. “I need you, Matt.”

Need you, Matt.

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck. Okay. Just the tip, okay?”

You nod quickly, almost giddy with relief. 

God can forgive him if it’s just the tip. It doesn’t even count. He’ll be forgiven. 

No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. He will not let you be tempted beyond your ability…

Having made his decision, Matt bites down on a groan, then kisses you so hard it steals the breath from your lungs once more. You have the sense his mouth is fierce and desperate to seemingly smother the truth of what he’s about to do. And, ever obliging, his hand reaches down, fumbling between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance.

Then he’s pushing forward.

Just the tip—barely inside, barely breaching. Enough to tear the air from your lungs, enough to lock every muscle in your body.

“Mmff—” the sound wrenches from him, low and ragged, almost a growl as your heat swallows the thick crown of him. His head drops, sweaty hair brushing your face. “Fuck—that’s tight. You okay?”

You nod quickly, clinging to his arm, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you feel him stretching you out.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, fighting for your voice not to tremble, “it just… hurts. A little.”

Hurts.

Stop now, Matt. Stop it. Stop it.

If he’s looking for a sign, this is it. He’s hurting you. Right? He should stop. Pull out. Apologize. Pretend this never—

But your body won’t allow him to believe it. Not with the way you’re squirming under him with need. Still, he must keep to his word—just the tip. So he doesn’t move, though his cock throbs thick inside you, just the swollen crown wedged in that slick tight heat that’s clenching and fluttering so helplessly around him.

The moment he’s lodged fully inside your entrance, you instantly wish you hadn’t begged for it. The taste of it is too good, too much, and now that you’ve had it, there’s no way this could ever be enough. You want more. You want all of him.

As if hearing your own thoughts, Matt grunts low in his chest, the sound guttural. He grits his teeth, refusing: he knows better than this.

Instead, one hand braces you at the waist, keeping you still, the other fisting the rest of his exposed length. His hand slides up and down his shaft in a desperate grip, every stroke smeared with the arousal you’re drooling down his cock, wetting him to the base. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. No condom, no plan, no fucking clue how to stop. All he’d need to do was push forward, slide the rest of his cock in and bury himself to the hilt. And as if to compound his own struggle you’re writhing, too, trying to roll your hips the tiniest bit, trying to fuck yourself on him, his grip on your waist being the only thing stopping you.

“Unfair,” you whined, trying to defy the iron clamp of his hand.

“What’s unfair?” 

Jesus. He’s so hoarse he can’t even recognize his own voice.

“You get to—” your chest heaves, words tripping over the wreck of your own pathetic desperation, “—get to jerk yourself off while I—while I can’t even—” Another sharp whimper breaks you off, and for a second Matt thinks you’re going to start completely sobbing right then, with your cunt clenching down helplessly on the head of his cock buried inside you. “I can’t even take it all.”

Christ. 

Matt swallows.

This girl is gonna be the death of me.

“S’not—” he tries, but the word shreds out of his throat like gravel, sweat dripping down his temple. His fist works himself tighter, faster, the slide of it wet and obscene from the mess you’re making all over him. You’re so fucking slick; all of it his, yours, both of you, smeared together down his cock and onto his knuckles. 

“No, no– see–” As if to abate the mounting tension his fingers find your clit, rubbing in frantic little circles with your own wetness. The effect is instant: your back arching, cunt clamping down on his cockhead.

“See?” he rasps, eyes wild. “See? You can feel good too, sweetheart. Just like this.”

Thumb working circles onto your clit, you squirm helplessly under him, sobbing into his mouth when he kisses you again. Every squeeze of your pussy around him frees another curse from his lips, another jerk of his hips forward without his permission, the thick crown driving a fraction deeper before he can stop himself.

“Fuck—” his forehead drops to yours, trembling with effort, “fuck, sweetheart, I can’t—”

The moment his fingers drag again over your clit, you buck deeper onto his cock with a sob.

“I’m not gonna move,” he pants, nipping at your lip to keep himself tethered, “I’m not gonna—fuck—” 

But even as he says it, his hips are already rocking, shallow thrusts plunging his cock just barely in and out of your pussy, every ridge of him catching on the trembling mouth of you. Just the tip, he tells himself. Just the tip. Over and over like a prayer.

The truth is, Matt doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. A live wire embodied, he’s guided by instinct and need alone, no practiced rhythm, no skill, just messy, urgent biology taking the reins. Having given way to baser impulses, his body moves the way it wants to, chasing what feels good, listening to every slick sound, every clench of your cunt, every gasp from your pretty mouth.

“Shit—sorry—sorry—” he grunts, rocking forward again, every shallow thrust ratcheting up the tension inside him like he’s being wound too tight, like he’d snap if he stopped.

“Matt—” you beg, arching up to claw at his arm. “More. Please. More.”

“I can’t,” he says hoarsely, but he doesn’t stop either, still working the tip of his cock into you with ragged little thrusts. “I shouldn’t.”

But your body’s melting open beneath him already, milking him just from that shallow stretch. Just the tip, just the tip, he repeats to himself, but every second inside you only makes him wonder how much better it would feel if he gave you all of it.

He shouldn’t, but Christ, it’s you.

You. Always you. Not just his friend, not just the girl he teases and studies with, but the one his hands ache to memorize, the one whose heartbeat he knows better than his own.

“Fuck—” the curse shudders out of him, his breath stinging your face, “You’re—Christ, you’re so good to me, my girl—” 

Sweat’s beginning to sting his unseeing eyes now as he focuses on the way your pussy squeezes around him. But each time he pulls out, his hips push back in deeper—just a fraction, just a millimeter more. It’s not conscious, not yet, but his cock’s greedy, his body aching for more, and he lets it happen again. And again. And again.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you hard, biting your lip, licking the sweat from your collarbone as his hips twitch, plunging deeper. Bit by bit. Inch by inch. Until he’s slipping past the point of no return, your walls stretching to take him, your moans soft and broken in his ear.

You gasp when the thick crest of his cock pierces deeper than ever.

“It’s alright,” Matt rasps, between his sultry claims of my girl into your neck. “It’s just a bit, just a little, it’s okay, right? S’okay? Sorry, sorry, shit—”

Make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue.

And then suddenly, inevitably, he’s in all the way.

Bottomed out, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed flush to yours. His cock seated deep inside your body, throbbing, pulsing, sheathed fully in your wet heat to the very base. He can’t breathe, can’t think, and the only thing tethering him to the moment is the frantic hammer of your pulse and the tight, fluttering clutch of your pussy strangling his cock like you were made to fit him.

Knowledge with self-control… self-control with steadfastness… steadfastness with godliness…

Fuck off, he thinks viciously, growling it in his head to drown the endless refrain of scripture that batters at him even as he trembled above you. He’s not praying anymore—he’s fighting to silence the voice that tells him this is wrong, that this is sin, when all he wants is to make you feel good. 

“Matt,” you whimper, soft and urgent. “Move. Please.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, exhales raggedly against your jaw, and then—hesitantly, testing—he slides his cock out.

It’s too slow. Painfully so. Your swollen folds cling to him desperately, like your pussy is trying to suck him back in, each inch dragging fire across his length until he nearly loses his mind. Your cunt stretches, weeps around him, and when he pushes forward again, even slower, the shaft sinks back inside with obscene resistance, the slick sound of your bodies meeting loud in the overheated room.

“Fuck, so tight,” he gasps, forehead dropping to yours.

He pulls out again. Slides back in again. Every retreat slick, every push met with a bearing down so tight he chokes on his own breath.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

Your thighs tremble against his hips, your back arching, your mouth falling open as you watch him—watch the way his cock disappears inside you, coated thick in your wetness, then reappears glistening, only to sink back inside to the hilt. A ring of wet white clings to the base of his shaft, spreading with every stroke, proof of how thoroughly he’s splitting you open.

“Oh my God,” you whimper, voice thin, eyes glued to the sight. “Matt.”

As if through otherworldly understanding, he says your name back to you, siphoning heat into your mouth—and almost without meaning to, his pace picks up. The slow grind of his hips becomes sharper, his thrusts longer, the rhythm picking up with every drag of your pussy milking him tighter. He pulls back halfway and drives forward again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet slap of your bodies, the squelch of your slick around him—nearly unspools him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, brow furrowed, eyes shut tight, as if concentration alone can keep him from losing himself entirely. “You’re so—so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, helpless against the pace as he pumps into you now, faster, deeper, your cries tumbling into the room in a shameless chorus. And still you can’t stop watching his cock slide in and out of your pussy, faster and faster, his stomach clenching, his silver cross swinging tauntingly above you.

One moment he’s easing in, trying to keep that tight rhythm steady, whispering prayers and half-formed apologies against your mouth, and the next he’s simply gone, for lack of a better word. Crossing the threshold of his own control, he’s resorted to straight up fucking you, hips hammering into you, cock pistoning in and out like something feral’s taken hold of him. He’s sloppy, untrained, rutting wildly, but again, biology doesn’t need finesse, and when someone’s fucking you like this—driving into you hard, desperate, needy—the result is still more than enough to make you arch and moan and claw at his back like you’ll die if he stops.

“Fuck—fuck—” Matt pants, forehead slick and pressed against yours, his voice dissolving into hoarse groans each time his fat cock slams all the way in. He’s greedy with it, chasing his own high with reckless abandon. Ever errant, his mouth searches blindly for balmy skin—your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—pressing wet, scorching kisses between bitten gasps. He tastes sunscreen and sweat, your salt and his and that damned apple-scented lotion, the tang so sweet it makes him dizzy, and when your anklet clinks in counterpoint to his every thrust, the tinkling chime fills his ears like music, like a hymn that drives him to thrust harder.

The bedframe protests, the cramped mattress squeaking beneath the combined weight of his body pressing yours down into it. There’s no space left between you at all; he’s smothering you in heat, his musk, his ragged breath against your lips, and you’re drowning in it, in him. His cane clatters to the floor when his thrusts jostle it loose from the headboard, forgotten completely, as though he’s swearing off every marker of restraint with every thrust.

“Matt,” you breathe, and then again, louder, chanting it helplessly, “Matt, Matt, Matt…” with the same fervent rhythm he’d once used to pray the rosary, your cries his new litany.

He can’t get enough. Your cunt is so wet, so tight, clenching around him like it was made to keep him, and he can’t stop laughing breathlessly into your face, disbelieving, “So fucking tight—Christ, you’re so tight—” before his hand’s sliding down again to abuse your swollen clit, your shared wetness slicking his touch until your body jolts violently against him.

Knowing you so well, that’s all it takes—your whole body seizes, your mouth falling open on a silent cry as your orgasm rips through you like a snapped cable. Your vision goes white and you writhe beneath him, clutching and pawing at his back, shaking so hard your knees knock into his hips.

By reflex, Matt buries his face against your neck, his body surging with yours as your cunt spasms around him, soaking him even more. He knows he should pull out. He knows. But the way your pussy’s gripping him, sucking him back in, the soaked evidence of your orgasm leaking down his cock, the way you’re still trembling and panting his name like it’s salvation—

He can’t.

He’s not thinking anymore. Just fucking.

And the bed’s tiny, barely big enough for both of you, and there’s nowhere to go but into each other, sweat dripping off his forehead onto your own, your skin hot and shiny under his, your nails dragging down his spine, and he’s laughing now—breathless, manic—between thrusts.

…That each one must know to control his own body in holiness and honor… 

It should shame him, too. Matt catches it: the slight copper tang of blood lacing the air, the sting of your body stretched too suddenly—but instead it makes him shake, makes him rut harder, makes his cock twitch greedily inside you. Some dark part of him finds the trace of blood endlessly alluring, proof that you’ve ruined each other for anyone else. He doesn’t stop to think, finding himself unable to.

…not in the passion of lust.

Was he this much of a fucking freak, that verses floated up unbidden even while his cock was bullying your cervix, stretching you indecently deep?

He’ll be forgiven. He’ll be forgiven.

As long as he doesn’t come inside you. 

That’s the line. That’s the last shred of self-control he has left, and he clings to it while his hips rut and slam with abandon, while your body milks him so good he’s dazed with it.

But he wasn’t supposed to go this far, so what’s a little farther? 

He doesn’t believe in halfway sins. If he’s going to hell, then he’ll make it worth everything.

“I’ll pull out,” Matt rasps, his voice half-promise, half-prayer. “I’ll pull out, I swear—just a little longer, just—fuck—”

But “a little longer” turns into a little too long. His rhythm breaks down into sloppy, desperate pounding, each slam of his cock inside you wetter, louder, deeper than the last, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His cross necklace clinks wildly above your breasts, slick against your skin where his chest presses you down. His mouth drags open over your lips, teeth nipping, tongue sloppily seeking to catch yours, and when you kiss him back he groans like he’s being possessed, his entire body jolting with the force of his thrusts, helpless as he says again without thinking, “Mine.”

And finally, in acquiescence, you whisper back, “Yours,” clamping down so tight, twitching and moaning under the maddened stroke of his thumb over your overstimulated clit, and he can’t take it, can’t fight it anymore. The thought of pulling out vanishes as though it never existed.

“Oh fuck—fuck—” he chokes, hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he can go and his cock pulses violently, spilling hot, thick spurts of his seed into your cunt.

It gushes out of him, painting your walls with ropes of it, mixing with your creamy slick as he groans loud and shameless into your open mouth, kissing you through the ruin. His body wracks with it, every muscle seizing, every thrust reduced to helpless little jerks determined to push his spend as deep inside you as he can.

And all you can do is take it—take every spurt, every twitch, your body clenching and milking him desperately as though it refuses to let him go, your name and his name blurring together into moans and gasps until there’s nothing left but the sound of your hearts, hammering in tandem, and the wet, lewd squelch of his cock still seated in your dripping, stuffed cunt.

Matt gasps against your throat, body twitching with aftershocks as his cum leaks out around his cock and down the curve of your ass. You whimper at the warm, slippery sensation, still pulsing around him, still clinging, your cunt reluctant to let him go.

Afterwards, there’s nothing but silence.

Neither of you has any mind to move. His cock is still lodged deep inside you, twitching weakly with every tremor that runs through him. You’re trembling together, not from cold or the heat but from everything, from the enormity of what you’ve just done and the enormity of how right it still feels despite that.

Finally, Matt groans in defeat and rolls his weight just enough to keep from crushing you. It’s not far, though. Not far enough to leave, which relieves you immensely. 

His arm slides beneath your back, gathering you against him like he has no intention of ever letting you go, anchoring you to him, anchoring himself to you. Your legs slip apart at the shift and a tiny whimper of protest spills from your throat, but his grip only tightens, grounding you as if to say, don’t drift away from me.

The sheets are damp beneath your back, your thighs tacky where sweat has sealed you together. Matt’s hand spreads broad at your ribs, thumb stroking lazy arcs into your slick skin. His other arm stays firm beneath you to lock your bodies together, his cross cool and sticky where it’s fallen between you.

“…Jesus Christ,” you finally whisper, the words barely more than breath.

“Yeah.”

Your lips are still swollen from his mouth. “That was intense.”

The pause that follows is thin and fragile as an oyster windowpane. He has no desire to break it at all, but he has to for your sake, and you’re aware of the conscious effort he makes to soften his voice, stripped raw: “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You turn your head toward him, brows faintly knitting, heart twisting. This must be it, he’s going to tell you he wishes it hadn’t happened. “...I was about to ask you.”

Oblivious as you usually might be, you know you’re feeling each other out, testing the waters. 

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he answers finally, then, so quiet in comparison, he continues, “but you’re not… freaking out?”

“No,” you murmur. Your throat tightens as you add, almost shyly, “I liked it.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Matt huffs affectionately against your hair, and tilts to nudge his nose against your temple, pressing dazed little kisses along your cheek, your face, your jaw. Tension having snapped, the silence fractures into soft, exhausted laughter—half relief, half disbelief. And for a long moment you’re content to drown in it, until Matt shifts, arm bracing to push himself up, muscles trembling. 

Your hands clutch at him before he can slip free. “Don’t.”

“I should—I should get you cleaned up.”

“Later,” you insist, pulling him down again, hooking your leg over his to keep him trapped. Your voice is small but iron-willed. “Let me have this, Matt.”

There’s no fight in him, not when you ask like that. He finds it to be what’s ubiquitous across it all: the inability to deny you what you want, no matter what. And so he collapses back into you obligingly, burying his face in your neck. 

A small giggle slips out of you. He lifts his head, curious. “What?”

“I think my brain’s finally coming back online,” you say, stretching enough to wince at the soreness between your thighs.

“Aw, tragic,” Matt drones, “You were so agreeable when it was melted.”

You smack his arm weakly. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to the back of it, and keeps it there against his mouth.

“We should probably get back to studying.”

“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who said you were behind.”

“You’re the one who made me more behind!”

His laugh is a vibrating buzz against your collarbone, tickling you as he nuzzles in closer. “Five more minutes, then.”

You hum, pliant, with no snide retort to shoot back.

For once, you don’t care. For once, you're not afraid of what comes after.

The clatter of dice hits the table, and someone curses irately at rolling another nat one. The campaign pauses just long enough for Marci to look up from the character sheet she’s been only half-invested in, propping her chin in her hand, still a little incredulous that she let Foggy drag her out to D&D instead of spending the afternoon at his place. But he’d been mysteriously insistent on it, and now, watching Foggy grin like a man sitting on a royal flush, it dawns on her what he’d had planned all along.

“They better not hook up,” she mutters idly. 

“You might as well just pay up now,” Foggy says without missing a beat, sliding his root beer aside to make room for his pile of winnings. He doesn’t even look at her, oozing smug satisfaction. “I told you it was gonna be today. No way it was gonna take another month.”

Marci glares at him. “How the hell do you even know?”

“I’ve been watching those two make goo-goo eyes since freshman year. It was only a matter of time,” Foggy says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, she was wearing the apple lotion today. That stuff drives Matt crazy. He’s toast.”

There’s a beat of silence around the table before Marci groans, digging into her purse reluctantly.

“You guys are so weird. And disgusting.”

“Yes we are,” Foggy agrees cheerfully, plucking the bill from her hand. He tucks it neatly into his wallet and tips his dice bag toward her in mock toast. “To young love, and finally getting its head out of its ass.”

[fishsficrecs]

hello?? hello 911 i need an ambulance i’ve fainted

[geminiwritten]

just one ; clark kent

fandom: superman 2025 (dc)

pairing: clark x reader

summary: you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie

notes: a little late to the party, but have a clark kent fic! sorry this is late (and i've been m.i.a.) i've been busy watching the film eight times, crying about the film, and having an existential crisis about the fact that i'll never love another man the way i love david corenswet... but anyway! i struggled a little with this, hence it taking so long, so i'm sorry if it sucks? but regardless, i always love to hear what y'all think, so please let me know!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, it has some corny moments, some jealousy, brief mention of a dating app, lots of tension, very minor miscommunication, clark jokes about eating kryptonite, jimmy is a well-meaning meddler, italics, clark says 'gosh' a lot, and SMUT (making out, f oral receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty-ish talk, also it's a few thousand words of smut oops) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21621

- Clark - 

“It’s kind of pathetic if you think about it,” Jimmy says. 

Lois rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Jimmy.” 

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, gesturing toward Clark with his coffee mug. “Just look at him. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for someone to throw the ball.” 

Lois tries not to laugh, but a soft snort slips out before she can hide it behind a sip of coffee. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Cat says, perching on the edge of Jimmy’s desk. “Being in love with your best friend is so… early-two-thousands romcom coded.” 

Lois swivels in her chair to give Cat an incredulous look. “What does that even mean?” 

“It means Clark is a nerd who’s hopelessly in love with a girl way out of his league, and it’s adorable in a tragic, pathetic kind of way,” Jimmy says. 

“Jimmy!” Cat smacks his arm. “Stop calling Clark pathetic.” 

“I’m not calling him pathetic,” Jimmy insists, still grinning. “The pining is pathetic. There’s a difference.” 

“You’re still being a jerk,” Lois mutters into her coffee. 

Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years. 

It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you. 

The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too. 

It’s always you. 

“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s. 

Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?” 

Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second. 

“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.” 

“Front page?” Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Already? Wow. I’m impressed.” 

You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts. 

Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly. 

But why? 

The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited? 

Do you... like him? 

Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes. 

Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices. 

“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.” 

Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.” 

You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud. 

He wishes he wasn’t. 

He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is. 

If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said— 

I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out? 

Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing. 

And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building. 

He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely. 

He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day. 

And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that. 

He can’t risk losing you. 

So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night. 

“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see. 

It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff. 

“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?” 

You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.” 

Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.” 

“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.” 

Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping. 

“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?” 

Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.” 

“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—” 

“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.” 

Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him. 

You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind. 

He raises a brow. “What?” 

“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?” 

His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.” 

“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters. 

You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?” 

Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.” 

“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?” 

Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.” 

“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?” 

The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control. 

God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom. 

“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.” 

Your brows shoot up. “Better things?” 

“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight. 

“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…” 

Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance. 

“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.” 

Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass. 

“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?” 

Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win. 

“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly. 

“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—” 

“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?" 

Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking. 

Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—” 

“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.” 

Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise. 

Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving. 

The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least. 

By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap. 

Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee. 

He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect. 

He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?” 

“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room. 

The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.” 

Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants. 

Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps. 

“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur. 

Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing. 

The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous. 

Then, of course— 

“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe. 

“I was just trying to—” you start.  

“She was just—” Clark says at the same time. 

And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists. 

You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy? 

The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild. 

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.” 

Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk. 

For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right. 

Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf. 

“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you. 

You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.” 

“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.” 

You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.” 

A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.” 

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain. 

There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm. 

Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him. 

Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped. 

You blink. “Gone?” 

“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.” 

“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends. 

And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance. 

By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that. 

He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete. 

The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered. 

It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you. 

He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it. 

Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him. 

But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him. 

And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one. 

“Uh, Clark?” Lois asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?” 

Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.” 

Lois smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.” 

Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory. 

“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lois says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.” 

Lois is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see. 

“You should just ask her out,” Lois adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.” 

Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her. 

Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost. 

“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.” 

You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower. 

“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair. 

Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with. 

“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy. 

Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—” 

“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.” 

Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast. 

“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.” 

He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece. 

But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special. 

Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom. 

Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up. 

He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become. 

Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom. 

Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist. 

And today is the longest Thursday ever. 

- You - 

It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk. 

He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it. 

“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.” 

You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are. 

Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again. 

“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—” 

“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.” 

Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?” 

Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?” 

“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.” 

Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat. 

“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.” 

Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.” 

“I know you’re delusional.” 

“Why are you so stubborn?” 

“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.” 

Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?” 

You nod. “He knows.” 

“How do you know he knows?” 

Well, that’s… complicated. 

You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom. 

“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.” 

Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.” 

You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs. 

So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget. 

Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when— 

“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says. 

Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is. 

You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work. 

“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep. 

Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything. 

“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair. 

Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out. 

Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you. 

“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter. 

He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints. 

“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?” 

You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.” 

“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?” 

You shrug. “Apparently something came up.” 

Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?” 

You give him a flat look. “Funny.” 

His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—” 

“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you. 

Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?” 

“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.” 

You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge. 

“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma. 

You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.” 

“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.” 

Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?” 

“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel. 

“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.” 

“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.” 

Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you. 

There’s a beat of silence. 

Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug. 

You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?” 

“You counted?” Lois asks. 

Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?” 

Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire. 

“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.” 

“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?” 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.” 

You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.” 

“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.” 

“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.” 

“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms. 

There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then— 

Clark coughs. Once. Loudly. 

You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile. 

“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?” 

Clark chokes. Your heart stops. 

He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips. 

Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.” 

“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—” 

Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.” 

Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint. 

And across from you, Clark is coughing harder. 

“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?” 

He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.” 

“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.” 

God. If only he knew. 

“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?” 

Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?” 

Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?” 

He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk. 

Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline. 

With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth. 

When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?” 

His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.” 

Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous. 

You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.” 

“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it. 

Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee. 

By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest. 

“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk. 

You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.” 

“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.” 

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue. 

“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.” 

Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head. 

“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?” 

Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.” 

“Great. Thanks.” 

You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark. 

You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper. 

You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it— 

“It’s chronological.” 

You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle. 

“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”  

Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.” 

“You didn’t knock.” 

“I figured you’d hear me.” 

“Well, I didn’t.” 

He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—” 

“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says. 

Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?” 

He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.” 

“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?” 

Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird. 

“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?” 

Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that. 

You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.” 

Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.” 

“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?” 

You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle. 

Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?” 

You give him a flat look. “Don’t.” 

He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?” 

“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.” 

He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?” 

You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin. 

And, well, it could—technically. 

“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.” 

You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments. 

“What about the back breaking?” he asks. 

You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere. 

That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function. 

“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees. 

Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach. 

“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.” 

He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?” 

“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?” 

Clark frowns. “Right.” 

“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.” 

He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.” 

“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.” 

He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.” 

“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages. 

Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze. 

You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. 

And then— 

“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.” 

You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—” 

“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room. 

You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities. 

You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.” 

He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle. 

Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.” 

“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf. 

Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.” 

“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.” 

Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door. 

You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?” 

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?” 

“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.” 

You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being. 

He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks. 

“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.” 

You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?” 

“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.” 

He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.” 

“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.” 

“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.” 

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.” 

And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you. 

You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack. 

You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore. 

Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you. 

But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted. 

And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close. 

You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill. 

You cannot keep doing this. Not like this. 

Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend. 

- 

You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could. 

Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed. 

It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything. 

It’s perfect. 

Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend. 

“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately. 

“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.” 

It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything. 

“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair. 

You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?” 

“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.” 

Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live. 

Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical. 

Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?” 

“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.” 

He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?” 

“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile. 

He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends. 

Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board. 

“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly. 

You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.” 

“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.” 

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand. 

“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.” 

You frown. “An event?” 

“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!” 

Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—” 

He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.” 

“Well—I mean, yes, but—” 

“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!” 

You scowl. “Jimmy—” 

“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?” 

You stare at him, mouth dry. 

“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.” 

You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.” 

“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?” 

“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.” 

You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.” 

Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder. 

“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.” 

You give him a look. “Jimmy—” 

“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.” 

“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles. 

You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.” 

He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.” 

You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode. 

He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship. 

Right? 

It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark. 

You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch. 

A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming. 

God. You are so monumentally screwed. 

As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you. 

Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements. 

By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause. 

You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes. 

It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty. 

Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen. 

But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain. 

“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual. 

They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever. 

After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door. 

You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark: 

Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late. 

Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen: 

BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis 

Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come. 

You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke. 

Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry. 

What if this is the one time things go wrong? 

What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up? 

What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel? 

Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door. 

You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it. 

Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more. 

You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic. 

You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up. 

“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. 

“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.” 

You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life. 

“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.” 

You frown. “Like... a truth serum?” 

“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?” 

The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery. 

“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.” 

The camera pans out slightly. 

“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—” 

The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera. 

“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.” 

There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio. 

“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.” 

You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you. 

You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats. 

“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench. 

With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before. 

You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe. 

You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone. 

You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.  

You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.  

“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”  

“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.  

You freeze.  

He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”  

You blink. “What? But you told me to—”  

“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”  

“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”  

He nods—then immediately shakes his head. 

“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter. 

“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”  

Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”  

“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”  

“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”  

He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”  

Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”  

He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”  

“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”  

You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice. 

When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. 

“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”  

He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”  

“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest. 

Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing. 

“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.” 

You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.” 

He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.” 

Your heart stutters. “What?” 

He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.” 

You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?” 

He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not. 

Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.” 

Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters. 

You blink. “What?” 

But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.” 

And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit. 

As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling. 

Just one. 

Just... one? 

What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil? 

You groan and drop your forehead to the counter. 

No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous. 

It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it. 

Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it. 

He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark. 

And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything. 

You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him. 

Okay. You need to stop freaking out. 

You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system. 

And if you can’t do that? 

Then you need to distract him until it wears off. 

By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head. 

It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself. 

But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache. 

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?” 

“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow. 

You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV. 

“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?” 

Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide. 

But not tonight. 

“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.” 

You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?” 

“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.” 

You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.” 

“Do you know what triggered it?” 

“The microwave,” he mutters. 

Your brows rise. “The microwave?” 

“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.” 

You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.” 

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.” 

Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.” 

“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.” 

“Oh my God.” 

“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.” 

You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago? 

“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “A little.” 

“Good. Next question, then.” 

He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.” 

You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.” 

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out. 

You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when— 

“You,” he says, voice strained. 

You blink. “What?” 

“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.” 

Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing. 

He thinks about you. A lot. 

What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it? 

“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.” 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“Just—change the subject. Anything else.” 

You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue. 

“Are you a virgin?” 

Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?” 

“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—” 

“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.” 

You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now. 

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.” 

“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.” 

You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm. 

Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?” 

“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.” 

He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.” 

You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore. 

Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can. 

No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?” 

The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver. 

“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. 

Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer. 

“What about you?” he asks. 

Your breath catches. “Me?” 

He nods. 

“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—” 

“Is it Jimmy?” 

Your eyes go wide. “What?” 

“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight. 

You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up. 

“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—” 

“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.” 

Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t. 

“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?” 

He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—” 

You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.” 

“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it. 

Your cheeks burn. “How often?” 

“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.” 

You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?” 

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.” 

“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.” 

He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do. 

“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?” 

“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls. 

You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating. 

“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?” 

He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again. 

You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?” 

His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand. 

“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.” 

He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration. 

“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.” 

You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going. 

“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.” 

He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes. 

“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.” 

You blink at him. “You really don’t?” 

He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.” 

That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world. 

“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.” 

His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot. 

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.” 

“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked. 

You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.” 

You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it. 

You freeze. 

“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.” 

You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard. 

Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears. 

Your breath catches. His does too. 

You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you. 

“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.” 

For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear. 

And then— 

He grins. 

Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you. 

This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything. 

It steals the breath from your lungs. 

You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent. 

“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. 

But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap. 

And then he kisses you. 

It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you. 

You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel. 

His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer. 

“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.” 

You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him. 

He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp. 

He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.” 

He stills beneath you, swallowing hard. 

Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.” 

His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again. 

“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—” 

You do—grinding down, slow and precise. 

He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.” 

You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?” 

“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—” 

You press your hips down again. 

“Please,” he whispers. 

“Tell me.” 

He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.” 

You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence. 

Clark Kent just said a bad word. 

Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips. 

“Did you just say… fuck?” 

His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again. 

“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.” 

You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?” 

His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.” 

You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark. 

And you love him for it. 

You want him for it. 

You need him. 

“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.” 

His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips. 

“You sure?” 

You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all. 

You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!” 

He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.” 

His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.” 

Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.” 

“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?” 

You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.” 

He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.” 

“You’re the worst.” 

“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.” 

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs. 

Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then— 

“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie. 

He blinks. “Blue.” 

“First thing you ever noticed about me?” 

“Your laugh.” 

“What’s your biggest fantasy?” 

He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?” 

You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?” 

He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.” 

“Say something filthy.” 

He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.” 

You blink, stunned—and a little breathless. 

He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin. 

You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” 

His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious. 

“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.” 

The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there. 

Because he does. He always has. 

Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need. 

He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time. 

When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you. 

“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.” 

You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone. 

“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips. 

God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you. 

“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore. 

He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—” 

You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest. 

“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.” 

You shudder, eyes fluttering closed. 

“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.” 

You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin. 

One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher. 

You can barely breathe. 

When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed. 

“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. 

You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.” 

And then he lowers his mouth to you. 

You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. 

Holy shit. 

Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking. 

He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread. 

And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it. 

“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer. 

His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing. 

And then he starts to really eat. 

There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark. 

You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way. 

You startle. “Did you—?” 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it. 

Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs. 

Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder. 

And then he gives you more. 

One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets. 

“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.” 

You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second. 

“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—” 

He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make. 

You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—” 

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.” 

And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do. 

You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth. 

“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together. 

He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely. 

“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—” 

Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved. 

You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head. 

“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.” 

His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic. 

“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.” 

His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp. 

“Oh my God.” 

He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence. 

“You—you okay?” 

“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.” 

He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours. 

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless. 

“You’re massive.” 

His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.” 

“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.” 

“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.” 

You blink. “Gosh?” 

He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—” 

“Say it dirtier, Clark.” 

“What?” 

You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.” 

He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.” 

Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.” 

“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered. 

“Say something else,” you breathe. 

He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.” 

And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.” 

“I—I can stop—” 

“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.” 

He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.” 

And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock. 

You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—” 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.” 

He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.” 

“Too late.” 

You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything. 

He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—” 

You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear. 

His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.” 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in. 

Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills. 

Buried to the hilt. Inside you. 

Clark Kent, inside you. 

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move. 

And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying. 

Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch. 

“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.” 

Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall. 

“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.” 

His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned. 

You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.” 

His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest. 

“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.” 

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?” 

You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.” 

And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps. 

He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more. 

You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead. 

And he’s so fucking pretty. 

That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you. 

He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful. 

But you don’t want careful. 

“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart. 

Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough. 

You lean up, mouth brushing his ear. 

“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.” 

That’s all it takes. 

He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer. 

“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.” 

His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real. 

And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go. 

He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins. 

His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle. 

And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.” 

He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate. 

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.” 

You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—” 

“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” 

And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back. 

“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.” 

“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.” 

He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you. 

And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing. 

You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it. 

But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress. 

“Clark—” 

His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling. 

He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out. 

“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you. 

The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself. 

And he’s watching all of it. 

“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.” 

Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you. 

You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling. 

His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard. 

You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen. 

His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you. 

A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it. 

He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you. 

And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless. 

Then finally, he stills. 

You don’t know how long the silence lasts. 

Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way. 

Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks. 

Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?” 

You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.” 

That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.” 

You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.” 

He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern. 

“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. 

You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly. 

After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.” 

You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again. 

“You’d say them anyway?” you tease. 

He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.” 

You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?” 

A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.” 

You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.” 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying. 

He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.” 

You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?” 

“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.” 

You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst. 

And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?” 

He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.” 

- 

You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you. 

By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt. 

You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms. 

On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too. 

So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office. 

“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut. 

There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten. 

You glance up at him. “How will they know?” 

His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.” 

You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.” 

“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.” 

His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already. 

Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you. 

Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first. 

You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin. 

“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.” 

You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.” 

Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.” 

Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance. 

“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.” 

“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.” 

You frown. “What does that even mean?” 

You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline. 

“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat. 

He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt. 

“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?” 

You slap a hand over your neck. “No.” 

Clark chokes on nothing. 

“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look. 

“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.” 

Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.” 

Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?” 

“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage. 

Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high. 

“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks. 

“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.” 

Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?” 

“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—” 

“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.” 

Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around. 

You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops beside right your desk, and leans in. 

You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead. 

It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are. 

Until— 

“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts. 

Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen. 

“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!” 

“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.” 

“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is. 

Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face. 

You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride. 

“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.” 

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.” 

“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.” 

You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.” 

“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly. 

“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.” 

You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.” 

He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.” 

“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.” 

You groan again. “You’re the worst.” 

“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.” 

You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate. 

His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.” 

You blink. 

“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.” 

Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow. 

“Thanks, Jimmy.” 

He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.” 

You snort. “I think he’ll survive.” 

“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.” 

You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest. 

Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you. 

And smiles. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[fishsficrecs]

this is EVERYTHING to me. idiots-to-lovers is my all time favorite trope. he thinks she likes jimmy because her heart speeds up around him because she KNOWS she’s gonna hear lip from him after clark turns around LMFAO i can’t. lord i need a cold shower

[blank-potato]

Fallen Angel

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader

Summary:

“I want your answer now. What do you want?” You hesitate. The thoughts roll like thunder in your head, flashes of everything you lost, everything you buried just to survive. The rage. The grief. Your father. The emptiness where your wings used to be. You look at him, his handsome, unreadable face. Cold, brilliant, terrifying. Is this what making a deal with the devil feels like? “I want to fly again,” you breathe out, almost like you can't believe you're saying it out loud. Or You're a metahuman who had your wings taken from you. After years of not having them, Lex gives you an opportunity. A chance to fly again. You just have to do what he says.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (female and male receiving), bondage, remote control vibrator, power dynamic, degradation kink, reader has rough upbringing and daddy issues, toxic relationship, manipulation station, chronic pain, angst

WC: 5.0k

A/N: This request was sooo good, link to it here. I hope I delivered on it, hope you enjoy!

***

Galas were a torrid affair. Nothing of note ever happens, and Lex is half-listening, half-scheming, always calculating his next move, but business is business, and he has to show face, shake hands, and smile through the boredom.

But then there’s you.

Lex noticed you immediately, the way you carried yourself was distinct. Like you were used to being lighter than air, now cruelly bound to the ground.

You’re a server, flitting about the room gracefully, almost invisible… but not to him.

He was curious.

When you make your way to him with a tray full of champagne flutes and a practised smile, he barely glances up, another face in the blur of glittering nothing. But something in his gaze sharpens the moment you turn to leave.

You're about to disappear back into the crowd when he stills you with one word.

“Stay.”

Just that. Like he’s used to getting exactly what he wants.

You slow to a stop and turn back to him. Most people barely noticed your existence, only giving you a polite smile or a glance that slid right past you like you weren’t really there. But in the rare instance when someone does, it's never like this. Normally, it’s some rich guy, too old to be even looking in your direction, suddenly flirting with you, or a guest yelling at you for things beyond your control, like the wine being too warm or the air too cold.

You recall a man blaming you for his wife leaving the event early, saying your 'attitude' must’ve ruined her night, as if your tray and silence had anything to do with her misery.

He smiles at you, but you can tell it’s more calculating than anything else. When a person’s genuinely smiling, their eyes soften, their eyebrows crease, their face lights up even for the smallest of smiles, but there was none of that with Lex. His eyes were inspecting you, sweeping over you as if scanning for weaknesses.

“Lex Luthor.”

“I know, sir,” you say quickly, as if you didn’t want to talk for too long.

The sharpness in your voice, barely masked by politeness, makes Lex pause, curious now. What has made you so apprehensive within two seconds of meeting him?

“Do you have a name?” he says teasingly.

And you reply with lightning quickness, “Only when I’m off the clock.”

His smirk flickers, intrigued by your answer. Not quite dismissive. Not quite impressed. Curious.

All you could wonder, meanwhile, was why a man like Lex Luthor would take the time to speak to you, a server at a gala filled with billionaires, politicians, and power players.

“When do you get off?”

You cut him off sharply, “Listen, sir, I appreciate that you’re trying to be charming, but I’m not interested in anything… extra.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m sorry, sir, I really have to go,” you say with a fake smile, slipping away as quickly as you appeared.

But Lex would see you again, even if you tried to disappear into the shadows. Because when it came to you, he didn’t do “no.”

***

You had no idea what you were doing here.

One moment you were heading to work, same route, same pace, and the next, a sleek black car intercepted you at the curb. No explanation, no questions asked. Just a door that opened, and a voice that said, “Get in.”

Completely convinced you've been kidnapped and about to meet your maker, you were surprised to find yourself at LexCorp.

When you stumble into his office, breathless and entirely too tired for this bullshit. Lex turns slowly in his chair, composed as ever, a file in one hand.

His eyes flick briefly to the paper. Then, without hesitation, he reads aloud your full government name. Every syllable. Middle name included. Birthdate. Known aliases. Former addresses.

“What the fuck?” you blurt, instinctively taking a step back.

You blink, mind racing, but of course. Of course, he'd be able to get his hands on information like that.

He doesn’t stop there.

“Raised in the Narrows in Gotham,” he continues, eyes flicking back to the file like he’s reading off a grocery list. “Rough neighbourhood. Father in prison. Mother deceased by age eight—auto accident, though some reports suggest otherwise.”

Your stomach tightens.

“Only child. High school education. GPA above average, despite working two jobs. Had plans to go to college—community first, then maybe GCU. Never made it past orientation, had to stay home to take care of dear old Dad.”

Safe to say you weren't expecting to have your past thrown back in your face on a Monday morning. Your hands clench into fists, but he just keeps going.

“Bouncing from one dead-end job to another, slipping into the underbelly of Gotham, working like a dog to get by… until you got a job at a private catering company, serving at high-end charity events and political fundraisers.”

“Pays the bills,” you interrupt with a tight smile, though your jaw’s clenched a little too hard.

He looks you over, seemingly like he’s examining. “And you’re a… metahuman.”

He says it without inflexion, but it lands like a slap.  Lex rounds the desk until he’s standing directly in front of you.

You try to look away, anywhere else, but he follows your gaze like a predator, step for step, unblinking. It's like you were caught in a Lex Luthor bubble.

“It’s funny,” he says, voice low. “You hide like someone ashamed of what you are. But I’ve read your file. You’re not ashamed. You’re just waiting. Waiting to see who’s going to try and use you first.”

He leans in, just slightly.

“Well. Consider this me… going first.”

This guy was crazy.

“Used? Mr. Luthor—”

“Lex,” he corrects smoothly, without missing a beat.

You clear your throat, still unnerved by how close he is, the heat of his presence, the calculation in his eyes. “Lex… I’m not interested in whatever you have to offer. So I’ll have to politely decline.”

You take a step back, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder, muscles tight, breath shallow. You turn toward the door, determined to leave this tower of glass and ego behind.

When his voice cuts through the air like a blade, “Even if I can give you your wings back?”

You stop cold. Heart in your throat. Time folding in on itself.

Slowly, you turn your head, eyes narrowing. “What did you just say?” You hate how small your voice sounds, how pathetic, like you were a dog now begging for scraps.

Lex doesn’t smile. Not this time.

“I know what you were. What you could do. Before the incident, before your father took matters into his own hands.”

The mention of your father makes you tense up instantly, shoulders stiff, breath caught in your throat like glass. You don’t reply, but Lex sees it. Feels it.

He steps closer again, slower this time, but with that same suffocating precision. Like he knows exactly how to take the air out of a room without raising his voice.

The tension hangs heavy, and then he twists the knife.

“How much did he sell them for? Your wings, your bone marrow, your blood—how much was your gift worth to him?”

You drop your gaze, jaw clenched. “Don’t…”

He doesn’t listen. Lex never listens, not when he’s this close to a reaction.

He reaches out and gently tips your chin up with two fingers. His touch is soft, unnervingly so. Hands that hadn’t worked a day in their lives, but still knew exactly how to touch a wound without ever needing to press.

“Don’t look away,” he murmurs. “That shame you carry? It’s not yours. It’s his.”

Your throat tightens, a flicker of heat stinging the backs of your eyes, but you hold it down. You always hold it down.

“You don't know me.”

“I think you’ll find I know you very well,” he says, voice smooth like glass before fire, before leaning in, his breath brushing your ear. Your name leaves his lips softly, almost melodic. It shouldn’t sound like that, not from someone as cold and calculated as him. But somehow it does. Intimate but oh-so dangerous.

He leans back enough for you to learn how to breathe again.

“I don’t make hollow offers. If you walk out that door, you’ll stay broken. But if you stay…”

He tilts his head, voice lowering.

“You fly again.”

You don’t move. You can’t move.

Then, like he knows the exact cracks beneath your skin, he goes deeper.

“Aren’t you tired of it?”

His voice coils around you like smoke.

“Tired of being underestimated, talked down to at every job you’ve had, stepped on by people who couldn’t hold a candle to what you were born to be?”

You swallow hard.

Lex knows exactly where to press. 

“Tell me I'm wrong.”

He knows he has you now.

“Can I think about it?” you ask, your voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

“No.”

Lex’s answer is immediate, cutting through hesitation like a blade.

“I want your answer now. What do you want?”

You hesitate.

The thoughts roll like thunder in your head, flashes of everything you lost, everything you buried just to survive. The rage. The grief. Your father. The emptiness where your wings used to be.

You look at him, his handsome, unreadable face. Cold, brilliant, terrifying.

Is this what making a deal with the devil feels like?

“I want to fly again,” you breathe out, almost like you can't believe you're saying it out loud.

“I thought so.”

***

The first day had been a blur. Paperwork, silence, and cold stares from lab techs who had run every test imaginable. Blood. Neural scans. They treated you like a specimen, not a person. No one spoke unless necessary. No one met your eyes.

Now, the lab was empty.

Just you and Lex.

Alone.

In the private sublevel facility, he had designed specifically for this experiment. For you.

To say you were nervous was an understatement.

You stood under the too-bright fluorescents, surrounded by monitors and surgical glass, the hum of high-voltage equipment vibrating faintly in your bones. 

Lex stood beside the terminal, sleeves rolled up. Always in control. Always five moves ahead. He looked at you like a scientist might look at a weapon, one that hadn’t gone off yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of the examination table, back exposed under the harsh white light. You feel the cool air skim across your skin, and you shiver as it brushes over the old wounds.

“It’s still sensitive,” you explain, sending your eyes on you.

Lex stands behind you, silent, clinical. His gaze falls on the two jagged scars running like broken lightning down your shoulder blades where your wings once were. Faded now, but not forgotten. Nothing about them ever would be.

He reaches out without warning and presses his fingers against the edge of the left scar, hard.

You flinch, teeth clenching as pain flares white-hot beneath the surface.

He doesn’t react. Instead, he presses harder.

Your hand twitches to pull away, but his other hand is already there, clasping your upper arm in a firm grip.

You’re not going anywhere. He made sure of that.

“It hurts,” he says, flatly. Not a question. Not even pity. Just a confirmation.

“Clearly,” you mutter, biting back the hiss of pain clawing its way up your spine.

He doesn’t ease off.

Instead, he leans in, digging in with his fingers again, pressing along the nerves and scar tissue like he's searching for a button he already knows how to push.

“Hey! Careful!” you snap, twisting slightly, but he doesn't stop, just keeps going. His touch is cold and detached, like you’re nothing more than a subject under a microscope.

The dull ache turns sharp, and you grit your teeth, jaw clenched. The chronic pain was something you’d learned to live with. You didn’t need him and his rich little fingers exacerbating the problem just to satisfy his curiosity.

You shrug him off with more force this time, and finally, he lets go.

“Interesting,” Lex murmurs, stepping back.

Your eyes narrow. “Why did you do that?”

He meets your gaze, calm as ever. “I wanted to see how much you could take.”

You blink, stunned by the bluntness, and maybe more by the fact that… it doesn’t surprise you.

“Well, you can’t just go around prodding at me like I’m some science experiment,” you snap, heat rising in your cheeks. “I’m not one of your machines.”

He steps closer, unbothered. “ You are one of my science experiments. I can do whatever I please. I hold your wings in my hands, don’t forget that.”

Your breath catches. Not from fear, but from how easily those words send a chill down your spine. You want to fight him on it. You want to scream. But deep down, you know he’s not entirely wrong.

After you're done with all your initial tests, you’re ready to head home, Lex following behind you. The elevator ride up is silent, except for the low hum of the mechanics and the weight of everything unsaid between you.

Then, just as the numbers tick toward the top floor, Lex speaks.

“I’ll need to keep you somewhere I can keep an eye on you,” he says, not looking at you. “That little apartment in downtown Metropolis won’t do.”

You turn your head, brows lifting. “What?”

He reaches into his coat pocket, produces a sleek black keycard, and hands it to you like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t a shackle wrapped in silk.

“You’re giving me an apartment?”

“It’s this,” he says coolly, “or the lab.”

“You’re moving me,” you say quietly, “like I’m property.”

He finally looks at you, his expression unreadable. “No,” he says. “I’m protecting my investment.”

He steps forward, the air between you charged. “There’s a difference.”

***

To Lex, you were simple. A system. A machine with familiar wiring—just the right amount of push and pull, and you'd be eating out of his hand. At least, that's what he believed.

He knew if he was too kind, your defence systems would spike, the walls would go up. But if he struck a balance, just enough disdain to keep you chasing approval, just enough interest to make you stay, then bit by bit, you’d fold. Your unresolved need for structure, the need to be told what to do, not to mention the raging Daddy issues you so clearly had. He’d have to tap into that some more.

To be that saving grace, the only constant in your life, the control only he could offer you. When the time came, you'd be more loyal than anyone else. He knew that. He'd shaped it that way.

He’d moved you into an apartment not far from his own. It was fancier than anything you'd ever lived in before. But no matter how soft the lighting or how expensive the furniture, you couldn't ignore the truth. The reinforced locks, the subtle surveillance, the silence that followed you room to room… It was a gilded cage. Prettier than the lab, yes. But still a cage.

Work at the lab, however, was going surprisingly well. They’d made real progress on the project and, though you’d never admit it out loud, on you. Lex was breaking down your walls without you even fully realising it.

The way he’d remember your favourite tea, how he always made sure your cupboards were always full with all your favourite snacks, how he gave you space when you were tense and pushed only when he knew you’d give in.

Now, you’re getting blood drawn, routine, invasive, humiliating, and you’re glaring at him from the exam chair, your jaw tight, shoulders hunched, as you’re being poked with a needle. Your words are laced with those snippy little comments you know annoyed him just enough. It’s the usual back-and-forth until he says something that actually catches you off guard.

“You’re lucky you’re beautiful,” he mutters, a crooked, dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You freeze, mid-eye roll.

Was that… a compliment?

Your eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

He doesn't repeat it. He doesn’t have to.

***

A week later, you’re spending the night in the lab for observation after some new tests have been done. No windows. No clocks. Just sterile white light, quiet hums of machinery, and the ache blooming in your back like fire stitched beneath the skin.

The pain comes in waves, deep and pulsing.  You grit your teeth, refusing to let it show too much. But he sees it anyway.

Lex sits across the room, pretending to be absorbed in data streaming across a screen, but you can feel his eyes on you. Watching like there’s nothing more interesting in the world. Like, your pain is art.

It looks good on you. The tears spill freely from your red, stinging eyes, broken pleas to no one, and anyone, slipping past your lips like they might save you.

Lex watches you from the other end of the lab, unmoved. You’re shivering, curled in on yourself on the examination table, your skin slick with sweat, your body twitching violently as if every nerve was on fire.

“It hurts, Lex,” you sob, voice cracking as the pain lances down your spine again.

He walks toward you slowly, methodically, like someone admiring a new car.

You reach for him, desperate, needing something, but he bats your hand away with a lazy flick and a quiet, condescending tsk.

“Please, Lex,” you whisper, hardly able to breathe, “please—make it stop…”

He tilts his head, watching your form writhe.

“It has to hurt,” he says simply, almost gently. “If it didn’t, you wouldn’t be changing.”

You whine, garbled words spilling out faster than your brain can form them. You can’t even tell if you’re making sense anymore.

“Need… distraction…,” you breathe, voice thin and desperate.

A pained groan escapes you as your back arches off the table again, every nerve lit up like static beneath your skin.

“Please, Lex… I’m begging you.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just steps closer, silent as ever. You can barely focus through the haze of pain, but you feel him nearer.

Then, unexpectedly, his hand reaches out. His fingers brush across your forehead. The sensation makes your entire body tense before melting into the contact.

You lean into it, chasing the comfort.

It felt good. Almost too good.

“Lex,” you moan sadly. 

There's a flicker of a smirk on his face; it’s the most alive you've seen him all night. Not because he cares, but because he's enjoying this.

“You like that?”

You nod quickly as if scared he'd pull away. When he gives you a pat on your head, the moan that tears through you is almost inhuman. 

You needed him bad. The relief only he can give you.

“You like how I touch you.”

“You have no idea how much.”

As if taking pity on you, he leans down and kisses you, his right hand taking both your wrists and pinning them above you.

You’d had your fair share of kisses, but you know that you had never been kissed like that. 

You buck your hips up, and he takes immediate notice. “I’ve barely touched you, and you’re so needy.”

He lets go of your wrists, his hands running down your body until his fingers start rubbing against your panties.

“Soaked, already?”

He pushes them aside enough for him to trace your wet folds. You don't think you've ever been so wet.

He circles your entrance with his fingers, but does not give you what you wanted.

You buck your hips trying to get him deeper inside of you. You don't even recall him warning, his voice was muffled as all hell right about now.

Suddenly, he roughly grabs you by the face, pulling you right out of that haze, his blue eyes staring you down.

“I said, don't be greedy.”

The way he demands it of you and his tone of voice make your stomach do backflips. You know you're in trouble, but you can't help the arousal that shoots through you.

“I'm…I'm sorry.”

“For that, you don't get my fingers.”

“But—” you complain, already feeling the pain starting to come back, but he cuts you off with a look.

He steps back and nods to the space in front of him. “Get on your knees.”

You clamber off the examination table and find your place at his feet; you didn't want to piss him off more than you already have. 

He unzips his trousers and slaps his cock on your face repeatedly.

“Want to make it up to me, hm? Want to apologise for being greedy?”

“Yes,” you whisper, lips tugging into a soft pout as you look up at him, eyes wide and earnest.

He chuckles lowly, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Then be good for me.”

He guides the head of his cock to your lips and pushes in. You take him as far as you can until you eventually gag. Lex doesn't give you the choice to pull back, instead keeping you right there, his hands firmly planted on your head. 

Your eyes water, but you can't tell if it's because you can't breathe or because it feels so good. His fingers in your hair, guiding you back to his cock, relishing every moment.

“Looks like we’ve found something you’re good at,” he teases, as he thrusts into your mouth. Never in a million years would you have guessed that you’d end up sucking Lex Luthor off in a lab he built for you, but you weren’t mad. 

“Drooling like a fucking dog,” he sneers as he watches spit falling from your lips and landing between your breasts. His comments only make your core ache that much more. You shouldn’t like this, shouldn’t need this… but you do. 

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to recalibrate, but he doesn’t like that one bit. 

“Eyes open, don’t be stupid,” he chastises.

You apologise around his cock a garbled “I’m sorry,” vibrating against him. No matter how much you want to squeeze your eyes shut, you keep them on him.

“That’s my girl.”

He finishes on your face, coating your face in his cum, some of it dripping down your chin. He exhales hard, chest rising and falling as he looks down at you. 

“And to think I was going to eat you out.”

***

Since that day, you found yourself desperate for Lex's attention. The pain had subsided but the hunger for him remained.

Weeks into the program, your world had mostly shrunk to two places: the lab and the apartment Lex got you.

It was modern. Cold. Sleek. Everything in it whispered his money, his control. But you were too tired to fight it anymore. Between the tests, the treatments, and the aching weight of your half-healed wings, you barely had the energy to think beyond each day.

Lex would drop by sometimes, never announcing. Sometimes with files, sometimes with expensive food you hadn’t asked for, and once, absurdly, with a new blanket because he'd noticed you shivered in the mornings. Sometimes he’d just stop by to fuck you senseless and leave without a proper conversation. 

And still, your chest fluttered every time the elevator chimed and you heard the door unlock.

You felt happy when you saw him. When he'd brush past you with a touch just a little too intentional, sometimes gifting you a kiss that felt like a reward, sometimes just a glance that left you hanging on every word.

He couldn’t deny it; he loved it too. Loved that you needed him so much. That your world tilted slightly whenever he entered a room. That if he left tomorrow, you’d crumble.

He wanted to be the centre of your gravity. The only reason you smiled. The only one who could pull you apart and put you back together again, if he felt like it.

Though he could be cruel. More times than you could count, he’d left you tied to your bed, vibrator on high while he was at meetings all morning. 

“Lex, please. Can't take this for long,” you whined when he first turned it on. Leaving it on the highest setting like an asshole. 

“Don't be dramatic. I'll be back for lunch.”

He’d watch you squirm and cum for him over and over again via the cameras he had set up. Throughout the morning, he’d work with the settings, leaving it on high and leaving you overstimulated or leaving it just high enough to feel good but not enough to make you finish.

He steps into your apartment, irritation clear in the tightness of his jaw. He was already thinking it was a mistake, this whole separate-living-arrangement nonsense. Mild inconveniences were not something Lex Luthor tolerated well. The elevator was too slow. The hallway too long. He might just have to move you into his place instead. Problem solved.

But then he sees you.

You’re perched on the edge of the windowsill, sunlight warming your skin and your mood, already a bit better now that your wings are finally growing in. Sure, they were still awkward and twitchy, more feathers than flight, but they were yours.

You turn to him with a smile. “Lex, I didn’t know you’d be dropping by today.”

He doesn’t return it, but his gaze lingers. “How’s my favourite freak doing?”

You roll your eyes, but the barb glances off this time. “I’m fine. My wings have just been… sensitive lately.”

“Painful?”

“No,” you say, fluttering one experimentally behind you. “Just sensitive.”

Without hesitation, he reaches out and touches your wings, making you let out a squeak.

“Don’t…” you start, trying to sound firm before letting out an embarrassing moan as he continues to run his fingers along the fluffy tufts of your wings that are growing back.

You let out another involuntary gasp, clutching at the front of his shirt without thinking. If you let go, you’re not sure you’d stay upright.

“Better than chronic pain, right?”

***

You found yourself sprawled out on your bed, legs twitching as Lex eats you out. It’s never been clearer to you, he was born to be a munch. 

He was relentless, lapping up your slick folds like a man starved as you scream so hard, your voice is hoarse. He had been going at it for ages, you were always so tightly wound when you had to wait for him, and only Lex’s tongue could help you unwind. 

You’re getting close, you know it, he knows it, so of course he pulls away before you can cum. You know better than to complain; the last thing you wanted was for him to hogtie you and shove a vibrator inside of you for hours on end. You have learned from your past mistakes.

Plus, you were getting something just as good, his cock. 

“This pretty cunt belongs to me, doesn't it?

He says, rubbing your clit as he watches his dick disappear inside of you.

“Yes,” you gasp, voice catching as he fills you completely. “Yes…”

He starts fucking you, each touch and kiss filled with raw emotion.

“Anything you want,” you cry out, as you dig your fingers into his back, “I’m yours.”

“I know,” he… wrapping his hand around your throat to hold you there.

“No one could take care of you like this.”

“No one,” you reply, tears pricking at your eyes as you feel him bury himself inside of you deeper. You believed it, because for so long, you’d been left out in the cold. No safety net, no one to reach for. You’d learned to survive with your back against the wall and no one but yourself to count on.

But now… you had Lex.

Even if his version of love came with rules, you’d take it. Because being wanted, even imperfectly, felt better than being alone.

Letting go of your throat, he pulls you into his lap, holding you close, his cock still hilted inside of you. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, your thoughts hazy, you think he might have broken you. Lex was the only thing that mattered to you right now. Him and what he needs.

You fall apart in his arms, crying out for more each time he thrusts up into you.

“No one can have you like this except me. Understand?”

You nod, still caught up in the pleasure to speak. Dissatisfied with your silence, he tugs your head back by your hair in a painful grip.

“Lex—!”

 “Words. I want to hear you say it.”

“No one can. Only you.”

Happy with your response, he puts your hands on your hips, helping guide you as he uses you like a fleshlight; his little toy.  He wanted you to cum on his cock, that was what your orgasms were for after all, to make him feel good. 

“Fuck, fuck…fuck!” you cry out, your fingers digging into his back again, definitely leaving marks. 

“That’s it, show me who you belong to,” Lex says, his hands rising from your hips to massage your wings.

 “Ah! Wait, that’s too—” you scream, practically vibrating in his lap. It’s like you’re floating. He’d made you feel like you could fly again.

It’s no surprise when you finish for him, screaming, “Lex!” so loud that you wouldn’t be surprised if people outside heard. 

He keeps fucking you as the aftershocks of your orgasm massage his cock. The overstimulation is insane, especially since he continues to touch your wings just to see you whimper his name and cry.

You look at him with teary eyes, and he gently cups your face, tilting it so you meet his gaze.

“You’ve never looked so beautiful,” Lex coos, “Like an angel.”

His eyes look over your marked skin, the way you looked so pathetic, fragile, pitiful, even. 

Lex would keep you like this forever if he could. 

“Thank you.”

It was clear that even when you get your wings back, there was no flying away from Lex Luthor.

Main Masterlist

[fishsficrecs]

holy. fuck. i need a cold shower and a fucking cigarette.

[rosesaints]

touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

[fishsficrecs]

sick to my stomach. he’s so in love with her from the moment she opened her mouth i’m sick sick sick

[rosesaints]

everyone adores you (at least i do)

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x barista!reader summary: you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet. it’s not glamorous. it smells like burnt espresso and the customers are kind of shitty and most of your day is spent judging people’s caffeine orders like some kind of underpaid oracle. enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows. says “golly” unironically. blushes if you so much as look at him too long. you make it your personal mission to see how many times you can get him to blush. you were just trying to make rent. now you might be in love. unfortunate. (written in honor of me getting back to the barista game) listen to the playlist here! word count: 10.2k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, light dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, soft dom!clark, nipple play, size kink (this 6'4 man had me FOLDING during the movie i stg), unprotected sex, creampie, clark being absolutely whipped, yearning, tooth-rotting fluff, praise kink, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), he talks you through it, clark being a d1 yapper, reader being a yapologist

It starts with a spill.

Which—of course it does. It’s not dramatic. Not really the kind of spill that gets you a lawsuit or hazard pay. It’s just enough of one to be inconvenient. A dribble of some lukewarm latte that one of your coworkers left behind (Probably Ricky, that fucking asshole) down the side of your wrist that makes your already-caffeine-slicked skin feel somehow both sticky and itchy. 

The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because (a) the napkin holder is jammed and (b) your manager still hasn’t fixed the bar towels situation, even though you’ve asked twice. Politely.

(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)

It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window. 

The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover. 

And then there’s him.

Clark Kent.

You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence  than all of these other assholes  kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.

He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.

And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.

Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need. 

But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.

“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.

“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”

That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”

And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.

“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates. “Yes?”

“You sound unsure.”

“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”

“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”

Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”

You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.

He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.

“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”

He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.

“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”

“Of course she did.”

You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.

(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)

“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”

You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos. 

The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama. 

The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.

“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”

Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.

“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”

There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.

You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”

He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”

“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”

There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.

But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.

Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”

And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.

Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag: 

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! 

And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.

.

When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.

You actually like that a lot about it.

The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.

The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal. 

The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.

You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity. 

You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again. 

Not yet.

Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.

“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”

You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.

The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.

You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.

You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."

But.

You're the opener tomorrow.

And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.

So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?

Your gaze snags on a familiar name.

It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.

The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.

No one would have to know.

You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.

You glance around. No one’s watching you.

The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.

You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor. 

Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.

Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.

.

The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.

You’re not watching the door.

You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries. 

Which is honestly more likely.

You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.

“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”

You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.

Clark stares back.

And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”

You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.

“Ohio,” you say, slowly, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”

He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”

“Clark.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.”

You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”

“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”

You don’t answer. You just pour.

You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.

You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.

Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all  soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.

“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”

You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"

Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”

You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.

“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.

And pauses.

And blinks.

And then blinks again.

“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.

It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.

You fight down a grin. Hard.

“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.

He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”

He takes another sip, slower this time, like he wants to understand it.

He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”

You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side?”

Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”

“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”

He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”

“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”

Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.

“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”

He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”

“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”

Clark looks up, startled.

You don’t look away.

Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”

Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.

Success. He does blush all the way down.

“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”

“Anytime.”

You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.

You are noticing. You always have.

He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”

You blink. “For who?”

“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”

It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.

“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”

You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”

He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”

You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.

The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”

His grin could power the city.

“Deal.”

When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:

Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—

"Dude, you need to get back to work or something." "Shut up."

.

A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.

They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.

They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser. 

You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”

Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.

.

Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.

Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.

And then the bell over the door rings.

You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.

Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.

Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.

He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano. 

One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.

And then Clark... doesn’t leave.

No, he glances over his shoulder.

At you.

And then—God help you—he comes over.

You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.

“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.

You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”

He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”

“You mean sitting down like a human person?”

“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”

You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”

Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.

“Can I sit?” he asks.

And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.

“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.

He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”

“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”

“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”

You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”

He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”

“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”

He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”

There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.

“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”

“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”

“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”

“That’s my love language.”

He laughs. “Good to know.”

You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”

His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.

“Actually, yes.”

You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”

“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”

“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”

He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.

“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”

“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”

You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”

He shrugs. “I peaked early.”

A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.

You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.

Clark has arms.

Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—

Anyway.

You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.

It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.

“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.

“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. 

He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”

Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”

You look at him. Really look.

Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.

And you can’t help it.

You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.

Clark stills immediately.

“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”

“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.

His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.

Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.

And he lets you.

He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.

His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.

You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.

And then you see it.

Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.

He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.

You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.

He still doesn’t move.

You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”

Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”

You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”

His ears go scarlet.

“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”

You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.

“That’s the idea.”

Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.

And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.

His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s endearing.

It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.

You don’t. Not yet.

But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.

The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.

.

It’s just a date.

Just. A date.

With Clark Kent.

But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.

You glance at the time.

Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.

But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.

You dive.

CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure. CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird. CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.

You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.

YOU: yeah, still good YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever

Immediately regret it.

Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.

But then—

CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.

You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.

YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃 CLARK K.: See you soon!

You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.

.

When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.

And then you open the door.

And there he is.

Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.

It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.

He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.

And he’s a little out of breath.

Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.

And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.

He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.

“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”

You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.

“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.

You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.

Definitely.

He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.

And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.

.

Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.

You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”

“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”

You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”

“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”

You snort. “It kind of is.”

Clark chokes on his water.

And then—it starts.

The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.

Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.

“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”

“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”

Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”

“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”

He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”

“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.

He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.

“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”

Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."

You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.

“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”

“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”

You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”

He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”

You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.

Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.

He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.

Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.

He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.

“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”

Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”

You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”

“I bribe them with muffins.”

You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.

Clark doesn’t catch the signal.

He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.

“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”

You blink. That’s it?

“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.

Nothing.

You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”

Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.

“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”

“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”

“Tea?”

You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”

“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.

“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.

You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”

“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”

He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”

“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”

Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.

“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.

You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”

He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”

“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”

He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”

It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”

He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”

You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”

But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.

You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.

The kettle whistles. You make the tea.

By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.

Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.

You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.

Okay. Now or never.

“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”

Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re very obvious.”

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.

“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”

“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You don’t speak.

And then—then—finally, he moves.

It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.

“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.

Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.

It doesn’t.

It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.

He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.

And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.

But not now.

Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.

Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away. 

If anything, he leans in more.

And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice. 

Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.

You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”

His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.

“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”

Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.

You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”

He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop, reverent, and he murmurs, “Oh.”

“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.

“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.

And then it’s your turn.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.

“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.

You nod. “Please.”

He undoes the buttons one by one. Slowly. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.

All of him.

And goddamn.

You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.

Because this man is ripped. 

Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”

Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”

You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”

You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.

He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm, slow and deliberate.

“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”

“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."

You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

Then his mouth finds your neck.

It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in, slow and deliberate, and groans.

“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.

You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”

“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”

He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.

“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”

He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”

“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”

He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”

You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.

You like him. You like him too damn much.

He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

But then he stills.

“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”

He trails off. His ears are pink.

You blink. “You don’t—?”

He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”

You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”

His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”

“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."

Clark goes quiet.

Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—

"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."

You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.

"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."

Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."

"Yes ma'am."

The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.

Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"

You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."

He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.

You just need this man in you now. 

And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.

"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern. 

He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"

"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."

And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."

Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.

Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.

When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"

Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.

He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.

"You like that?"

"God, yes. Clark—"

You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.

It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.

Holy shit.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”

You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”

His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”

“I thought you’d be gentle.”

He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”

You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”

“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”

The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.

Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys. 

His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.

Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"

"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."

It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts slowly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—

"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"

You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes. 

He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.

Holy shit.

The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.

And then for the crescendo—

"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."

.

It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”

You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.

But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.

His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.

“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”

You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.

And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.

You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”

His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”

You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”

Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.

And it’s almost too much. 

The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too. 

But you let it stay. Let him stay.

You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”

Clark, already half off the  bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”

You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”

And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it  If he stays.

(He will.)

[fishsficrecs]

holy actual heck.

[kryptoclark]

no strings attached... unless?

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?

wc: 11.4k (i'm just as shocked as you)

genre/tags: fluff/minor angst (miscommunication trope tbh)/smut (TWO smut scenes woohoo!), best friends to lovers, protected sex (condom/bc), p in v sex, oral (fem & male receiving), size kink (clark has a huge dick, but y’all know that 😝), slight praise kink

"just one night," you had said. "no strings. no feelings." you liar.

you were the one who proposed it – all cool and casual, as if it wouldn't ruin you. and now? you can't even get through a bowl of cereal without thinking about the way clark kent sounded when he moaned your name.

it's been a week. one whole week since he wrecked you and then kissed your forehead like it was nothing.

(it was something. it was everything and you hate him for it.)

because now? you know no one else will ever come close.

you scroll through tinder like a bitter old woman; this guy's too short. that one uses the wrong "your." one says their most irrational fear is "women." (kill me.)

all the while, a tiny voice in your brain that you wish would just shut up whispers: clark would never.

and thanks to that voice, you end up mentally replaying that night for the thousandth time – back when it all started. back when it was just popcorn, a movie and a stupid, stupid idea.

– thursday, 9:42 P.M.

it had started the way movies nights at your apartment always did: clark stretched out on one end of your couch, his arm over the back of it, a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and you on the other end, your socked foot tucked under his thigh, claiming the space like it was normal (which it was). you're halfway through some cheesy drama neither of you were really watching, spending most of the time catching up on life other than the daily planet.

you lean over, tossing your half eaten dragon roll from the takeout sushi platter onto the coffee table, before returning back to slumping against the couch, eyes scrutinizing the t.v.

then came that scene – hot and heavy kitchen counter action, complete with frantic kissing and someone getting hoisted onto the marble and you can tell it's a scene the actors had to practice at least three times by how seamless and graceful it seems.

you scoff, reaching for popcorn from the bowl between the two of you. "god, i miss that."

clark glances over at you, a brow quirking upward. "being thrown onto a kitchen counter?"

you popped a kernel into your mouth. "being kissed like that. hell, being touched like that. my last date ended with a side hug and apple cash request for half the appetizer."

clark winces, face visually contorting. "ouch."

you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back against the couch. "i'm in a dry spell so bad, it's actually concerning."

clark laughs. your transparence was something he had to get used to at first but over time, he realized that's just how you were. unfiltered. bold. honest in a way most people weren't. it didn't scare him. if anything, it made talking to you easy.

he nudges your leg. "join the club. last girl i dated told me i was 'too polite to be hot.' whatever that means."

your brows furrow, internally scolding the woman for ever saying a thing. "it means she had no taste, clark. trust me, you're hot and polite. some of us are into that, y'know."

clark flushes a little at that, lowering his head to conceal his shy smile but you see it anyway.

maybe that's why you said the thing. because of his dumb, stupid, clark smile.

you reach for another handful of popcorn, keeping your eyes fixed on the movie screen even though you've completely lost the plot. you may be blunt at the best of times, but even you have a little shame, so you cover it up well. "you know," you begin, tone softening considerably enough for clark to look over at you again, "we could fix that."

clark tilts his head, confused. "fix what?"

"the dry spell." you glance at him now, meeting his eyes. "you and me. just one night. a mutual exchange."

his mouth parts, just slightly, and then it opens and closes like a blubbering fish. you can practically see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw flexes before he clears his throat. "are you serious?"

you shrug like it's no big deal, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage. "sure. we're both adults. good friends. we trust each other. and we're both painfully single. why not?"

he says nothing for a moment. you can see him doing that thing that he always does: thinking it through, being careful, considering every angle, every potential consequence.

your nails dig into the rough fabric of your couch, dwelling on the proposition you just made. with every second that passes, regret sinks heavy in your stomach.

you open your mouth, ready to backpedal and make a joke of it. you'll laugh it off, blame the movie or your hellish dating era–

clark cuts you off before you get the chance, his voice low. firm. certain.

"okay."

your breath catches, brows lifting slightly.

his eyes are on you now, his expression steady, unreadable but darkened in a way that makes your skin prickles and goosebumps rise on your arms. "if you're sure," he adds, softer this time. "i'm in."

you blink. "yeah?"

he nods. "yeah. just two pals keening for mutual relief." despite the joke in his words, he delivers it a little more seriously.

you nod along. "exactly. just sex. no strings. no feelings. we're still friends after this."

"right," he agrees sharply, adjusting the black frames on his nose. there's something different in his expression now, something unreadable. it's times like these when you wish you could read his mind. you share a planet with a superalien and yet, there's no accessible device you can use to know exactly what clark kent is thinking. pity.

"okay," he says again, resting his palms against his thighs. one of his thighs presses to yours. did he scoot over? "so, when do we start?"

your eyes flutter, startled at the sudden shift.

"um... now?"

and then he looks at you, really looks at you in a way that sucks the breath from your lungs, his gaze drags across your face like he's memorizing every detail he's never let himself linger on too long.

a beat passes.

"now works," he murmurs, nodding to himself and you're unsure if you're seeing things but you think you catch his adam's apple bob in this throat.

he turns to face you and there's another moment of silence between you, darting eyes looking into each other's with neither of you sure how to make the first mood. the tense air falters slightly when you both laugh, visibly shaking as if trying to fray the nerves you feel.

"you're allowed to kiss me, clark." you crack a smile, further easing the tension and giving him the go-ahead.

clark nods, reaching his arm up. his hand comes up gently, fingers brushing along your jaw, like he's hesitant in case you pull away. but you don't. you can't. you're frozen in place, heart pounding in your ears as clark kent, your best friend, your coworker and lunch break buddy, closes the distance and kisses you.

it starts slow and you shouldn't be surprised.

he's soft, tentative, like he's testing the waters, but the second your lips part and your hands slides up the back of his neck, feeling the curls at the nape of his neck, it's like a dam breaks.

the kiss soon turns hungry, almost desperate in a way that makes you feel dizzy.

he groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your chest when you gently tug at his hair, pulling him closer to you. his hands find your hips and he grips them tightly as he sits beside you.

your free hand trails down to tug at his shirt. he's quick to lift it off, breaking the kiss for a mere second, tossing the fabric somewhere behind the sofa.

you don't remember how you ended up in his lap, only that you're straddling him now, grinding down over the thickening length pressed against his jeans.

your hands aren't shy in the way they glide across the newly discovered fair skin of his torso. he's on the fairer side but you can imagine the farmer's tan he'd probably sport had he stayed home and not moved to metropolis.

you knew clark was a big guy. everyone did. he's a tower of a man, standing over you at six-foot four-inches, yet with the most gentlest of demeanors.

there's nothing gentle about clark's body though. you have half the mind to ask him when he finds time to go to the gym consistently but the other voice in your head tells you it'd ruin the moment.

clark's hands travel everywhere, too: up your thighs, your waist, your back. he touches you like he's been waiting for this. starving for this.

he hides pent up energy a lot better than i do, you think to yourself.

your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh between them and he exhales sharply, like you've knocked the wind out of him.

"bedroom?" he pants against your mouth when you release his lip.

you nod breathlessly. "please."

he stands with you still clinging to him, lifting you like it's nothing (seriously, what can this man bench?), and in a matter of seconds, you're in your room.

it's not the first time he's been in your room. it's not even the tenth. he's helped you assemble ikea furniture in here. he's helped you hang picture frames and fix a broken drawer. he's sat on your bed, fully clothed, eating pad thai while you struggled to find what to wear for a particular date.

but this...

this is different.

this time you're underneath him, flat on your back, watching as he looks at you like he's never really seen you before. granted, he hasn't. not like this.

his hands smooth under your shirt, eyes trained on the faded material. you're about to ask what he's staring at when he murmurs softly, "this is mine."

you glance down, eyeing the oversized fabric plastered with the logo of an indie band you know nothing about. a distant memory flashes in your eyes. "y'gave it me after that big storm," you remind him, your tone matches his. "never asked for it back."

"so you decided to steal it?" he asks, eyes flitting up to yours, a hint of amused challenge in his eyes.

"more like long-term borrowing," you correct him firmly. "i was going to return it eventually," you add.

"eventually," he echoes, like he doesn't believe you for a second.

his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, brushing along the bare skin of your navel. it sends a shiver across your body, not only by his touch alone, but how he looks at you.

you swallow. "you want it back?"

clark hums, leaning in, nose brushing against yours. "eventually," he teases.

he kisses you again.

it's slower this time, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his hands skim your sides, pushing the shirt up gradually, savoring each inch of skin he reveals. your arch to help him, letting the fabric slide up off your arms, over your head and get tossed somewhere beside your bed.

clark sits back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and the look on his face makes goosebumps raise your skin. his eyes drag down your chest, still clad in a bra.

"um, may i?" he asks, voice strained.

a smile cracks your features, warmth blooming in your chest at the his display of shyness during your moment of intimacy. you nod with a hum of approval, grateful that the bra you decided to wear today had the clasp at the front between the two cups.

clark breathes out a quiet sound of relief, like he's also grateful for the simplicity. his fingers find the clasp easily, but he doesn't rush. he hesitates for just a second, giving you one last chance to change your mind, even though your body is already arching toward him in invitation.

the clasp clicks open with a soft snap and you bra loosens against your skin.

with a bated breath, you feel clark slide the straps from your shoulders carefully, until the bra has been tossed aside to join your – his – shirt on the floor. you blink up at him as he finally takes you in fully, his breath catches.

"you're beautiful," he says simply, like it's a fact. not a line, not flattery. just the truth.

you swallow hard, unable to speak, so you reach for him instead, pulling him down into another kiss, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. this one is deeper, messier. your tongue slide together, desperate and hot enough to make your thighs press together.

clark groans into your mouth, feeling the movement of your legs, as if he knows exactly what it means. his hands slide down your sides, settling on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles, just under the waistband of your sweatshorts.

then he shifts, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, pressing slow kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. you gasp when his lips find the sensitive spot below the corner your jaw, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks softly.

"clark," you whisper, barely able to get the word out.

he lifts his head slightly, eyes searching yours. "tell me what you want," he murmurs.

you bite the inside of your lower lip, feeling the heat pool in your lower belly. "i want you to touch me. really touch me."

he lets out a breath, nodding.

clark moves lower, trailing kisses down your chest, pausing to mouth at your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch beneath him with a croon. you moan softly when his lips close over your nipple, sucking at the stiffened flesh. your eyes flutter shut as his large hand gropes the breast that's not in his mouth, before it begins to trail down.

his hand coasts down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and then he goes lower, beneath the cotton of your underwear.

your breath hitches when his fingers brush over your slit, already soaked and his breath stutters against your skin. he releases from your nipple with a soft 'pop,' eyes meeting yours.

"oh my," he groans, "you're so wet."

you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. "yeah, well... you're kind of hot."

he huffs to himself – maybe a laugh, maybe it's out of disbelief – and presses a kiss to the slope of your breast before slipping a finger between your folds, circling your clit with a precision you don't want to know from where he learned. your body jerks at the contact, a soft moan leaving your lips.

clark watches your expression closely, trying to read your pleasure.

"like this?" he asks lowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

you nod frantically, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. "mhm... just like that."

his touch grows more confident, smiling to himself as he coaxes another croon from you when he pushes the finger inside your velvet walls.

you gasp, hands moving to clutch his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut at the slow and deliberate stretch of his digit inside you.

he hums in approval at the feel, like the warmth of you is enough to drive him crazy. his thumb moved to your clit, circling in tandem with the curl of his finger, drawing sounds from your lips he's never heard before. now that he has, he doesn't think he'll ever forget them.

your hips buck up to meet his hand, your breath hitching as his finger begins to move faster and with more purpose. he carefully adds a second finger, watching your reaction closely.

"oh, clark," you pant, voice breaking.

"does it feel good?" he checks in softly, continuing to crook his fingers inside your gummy walls.

"y-yeah, real good," you nod, lashes batting.

your body burns and your pulse pounds in your ears, thighs trembling as he works you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.

"clark, i'm– oh my god–"

you're at the precipice. he can feel it, too.

"mhm, go ahead, sweetheart," he hums against your temple, his thumb circling faster over your clit.

you're unsure if it's his fingers or the pet name that triggers your orgasm but you cum with a sharp cry, legs tensing and back arching as waves of pleasure roll through your body. he doesn't pull his fingers out until you're gasping, twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.

when you finally open your eyes, you look at his expression: tender. a littler in awe.

you pull him into a kiss before you can overthink it, your lips a 'thank you' for the orgasm he gave you. one of your hands drift down and feel how hard he his through the denim of his jeans.

"your turn," you murmur against his lips.

clark shakes his head slightly, kissing your jaw. "we're not playing a board game."

you arch a brow, still catching your breath. "clark."

he grins softly. "okay, fine. 'm not going to argue with you."

you laugh breathlessly tugging at the loops of his jeans before your reach the button of them. he lets you unbutton his jeans, finding the zipper and pulling it down.

clark hisses when the zipper comes in contact with his bulge, separated by the cotton of his boxers. you glance up at him, eyes flitting to his face, just in time to see him bite down on his lower lip and knit his brows together.

you push the denim down his hips and he helps, standing off the bed momentarily to tug the rest of them down his legs and kicking them aside.

"those, too," you murmur, eyes zeroing on his boxers, more specifically the hard outline behind them.

clark exhales sharply, his cheeks tinting a faint pink as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and leans over to slide them to his legs before stepping out of them and leaving them in the pile on the floor.

your breath catches as he straightens again, fully bare now and yeah... you're in awe.

your eyes roam over him and he shifts slightly under the weight of your gaze. he's not bashful per se, but he's something close to it.

"jesus, clark," you whisper.

"what?" his ears flush a darker pink and that makes you grin because of course he's shy about it. it's so him, it almost makes your chest ache.

"you, clark," you smile, chuckling through your nose. "that," you add, nodding toward his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.

he sucks in a breath and you find his reaction dear. of course the guy with the biggest dick you've ever seen is modest about it. and of course it's clark kent of all men.

"c'mere," you beckon him over, sitting up in your bed. "wanna make you feel good."

he kneels at the edge of your bed, voice strained, raspy with want. "you don't have to," he murmurs but the twitch of his cock says otherwise.

"i want to," you answer softly, gently tugging him by the arm until he's settled against your headboard.

"sweetheart..." he trails off.

there it is again. that damn pet name.

"let me," you ask, practically beg, eyes boring into his with desperation. "please."

his lips purse as if he's holding something in and then he's nodding. "okay."

you wrap your fingers around him, heat returning to your belly when you realize your hand barely encircles his entire circumference. you stroke him once slowly, and clark's eyes flutter shut. his jaw tenses, tossing his head back against the headboard.

"god," he breathes, the sound low and guttural, like the air's been vacuumed from his lungs.

you smirk a little to yourself, tucking the moment away in your memory.

your hand moves again, slow and steady, watching his every reaction. you watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now, and the way his brows scrunch together while his lips part with a groan when you twist your wrist just the right way.

"feel good?" you ask.

clark's eyes flutter open, glassy and dark with heat. "yeah," he rasps. "feels... feels great."

you beam at his words, pride filling your chest.

you shift lower on the bed, settling between his legs and placing a hand on his thigh for support. his breath catches when he realizes where this is going and you don't give him a chance to overthink it.

you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he lets out a sound that's part groan and part whimper, hips twitching up instinctively.

he moans your name softly, pressing the back of his head harder against the headboard. part of you wishes you could take a picture.

you hum around the thick head of him as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue and easing forward until you feel the weight of him on your tongue, nearly overwhelming in girth. his hands twitch at his sides before one reluctantly moves up to your hair.

clark doesn't push. doesn't guide. he just holds, like he needs something to ground him.

you set a rhythm, bobbing your head and stroking him with one hand what you can't take. you relish in the way his moans grow louder, more broken, a sound you want etched into your mind forever.

"sweetheart," he calls, voice tense with strain. "you have to wait– i'm–"

you glance up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying to read his expression.

"you're going to make me cum," he warns, voice cracking.

why does he say that like it's such a bad thing?

you double-down, sucking harder in response, flattening your tongue along the underside of his cock again, and that's it.

clark groans, loud and low and helpless, as he comes, hips bucking once before he stills them. his hand fists your hair while the other attempts to cover his mouth as if he's afraid of waking the whole building (too late, you think).

you ease off him slowly when his thigh trembles beneath your hand, lifting your head up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.

he looks completely and utterly wrecked. his hair is mussed, his skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat. his eyes are still dazed, slowly blinking at you as he comes down from his high. he looks... so pretty.

"jesus," he pants softly. "you really didn't have to do that."

"i know," you murmur with a small smile, crawling up his body until you're in front of his face. "i wanted to."

and then he smiles at you, a dazed one that sucks the breath from your lungs that you cant help but lean in to kiss him. he reaches up to cradle your jaw, uncaring at the fact that he can taste himself on you. his other hand drifts to your waist, pulling you closer and against him.

your tongues meet each other's, gliding together in almost a lazy manner. his kiss is languid, almost reverent, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth.

you sigh into it, boneless and content as your body arches into his, bare chests pressing against each other's.

his hand drifts to your hip, toying with the hem of your shorts. "can't believe these are still on," he murmurs against your lips.

"you're the one who fingered me without taking them off first," you remind him with a chuckle.

"mm, my fault," he muses, beginning to tug down the material. you let him, allowing him to slide down your shorts until they're low enough for you to kick off and off the bed. "and these?" he asks, fingers playing with the lacy hem of your cotton panties.

you pull your head back slightly, eyes darting between his. "you want to?" you ask softly.

he swallows as he looks at your face in the dim light, just as flushed as his. "if you want," he answers, fingers still idly pinching the lacy fabric between his fingers.

you nod once with certainty. "yeah," you answer in a breath. "i do."

clark leans in to kiss you again, hands gripping your waist to flip you and ease you onto your back. he pulls away, his hands skimming your sides as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. his eyes meet yours once more, another silent check.

you lift your hips up in answer.

he slides your panties, soiled from your first orgasm, down slowly, tossing them aside into the growing pile on the floor.

you let him pull your thighs apart, exposing your core to the air and his gaze.

"you're so..." he trails off, but he doesn't finish, like the words fail him.

you look up at him, curious despite feeling so vulnerable before him. "so what?"

he smiles softly as if he's amazed. "just... beautiful."

your breath hitches at his words. it's so clark for him to say; it's so earnest and devastating at the same time, it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

he takes another glance down at your pussy before he snaps out of it, scooting away to reach for something on the floor. "i think i've got a condom in my wallet," he murmurs, a little hurried.

you choose not to dwell on wondering how often clark gets propositioned with sex to regularly carry a condom in his wallet.

it's clark after all.

any woman would be lucky to be with him.

you stop him, your voice calling out, "i've got a box somewhere in my nightstand."

the look on his face as he turns to look at you is boyishly flustered and adorable. you watch him crawl back over to you, hovering over you as he reaches in your nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil packet.

clark kneels up on the bed, leaning back against the back of his calves and carefully opens the packet. he rolls it on his hardened cock and you swear your brain circuits watching him do something so mundane and yet so intimate.

is this how you usually reacted to a date rolling on a condom?

then, he's hovering over you and his hand moves between you both, wrapping around himself and dragging the head of his cock slowly throughout your folds, gathering slick.

you whimper softly, hips twitching instinctively.

"you're sure about this?" he asks through gritted teeth, like he's not pressing his tip against your entrance, his restrain a hairline away from snapping. his glasses are already fogged and you hate to admit to yourself that it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.

"yeah," you nod, letting out a breath.

he nods back at you, maybe to himself, before pushing inside you.

you cry out softly at the invasion, the head of his cock stretching your walls as he sinks into you. your hands scramble to find something, anything, to hold on to. they end up gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his warm skin as your breath stutters.

clark is big. thick. huge as he fills you in a way that feels overwhelming yet perfect at the same time.

"'s tight," he rasps, staying still as your walls flutter around the two inches he has inside you. "'m sorry."

"don't apologize," you pant, your eyes fluttering. of course he's apologizing for being too big. "i can take it."

he groans at your words, unable to resist pushing deeper inside you, another inch entering your tight walls. "sweetheart, y'sure? i don't have to go in all the way–"

how sweet.

"please," you whine, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to you, not letting him pull out.

he grunts at your eagerness as you urge him in closer, deeper as he sinks another inch into you, the stretch burning just enough to make your toes curl.

"fuck," he breathes, like the sound is punched from his lungs. is this the first time you've ever heard him swear? you think stars form your pupils just because he sounds so pretty when he curses.

you feel so full, so deliciously and impossibly full and yet you still want more, knowing there's a little more of him to go. you babbles something along the lines of 'more' and 'please' and who is clark kent but the man who'd grant your every wish?

with one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out, cock fully seated inside you. he lets out a low groan, feeling his pelvis press against your slick fold. the breath in your throat hitches at the pressure, the fullness you feel.

for a moment, the two of you stay sill like that, bodies locked together and foreheads touching. clark removes a hand from your hips to gently brush your jaw with the pad of his thumb.

"you okay?" he murmurs, voice so soft it makes your chest ache.

you nod, nails pressing into his back, but your grip loosens slightly. "yeah," you manage to say, a little breathless. "just... give me a second."

clark kisses your cheek, then your temple. "take all the time you need."

and so you do. you catch your breath. you adjust, the dull ache between your legs slowly becoming one of pleasure. you give him a nod, tilting your hips, silently inviting him to move and he takes the cue.

he starts the thrust, slowly at first but it's deep. so deep. every movement is unhurried and almost reverent. his gaze remain on you, maintaining an intense eye contact through every thrust, his lips parted as soft groans leave his lips.

"i can feel you everywhere," you whisper, half-dazed. "you're everywhere."

his pace stutters for a beat at your words. he lifts his head to look at you, to really look at them. you think you see a flicker of something raw in his gaze but you can't be sure.

he leans down to kiss you and it's messy, deep, and needy, while his hips roll into yours with a growing urgency. his hips pick up their pace, moving harder and faster now, each thurst enough to make your vision blur with pleasure.

you clutch his back tighter as the coil in your belly gets tighter. your walls flutter wildly around him, desperate for release.

"sweetheart," clark pants, his voice ragged. "i'm so close."

you nod, voice barely a whisper, "me, too."

clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering as his body tenses. you feel him twitch inside you, his release crashing through you like a tidal wave, your own orgasm ripping through your core in response.

you cling to each other as your breathing slows, skin slick with sweat and hearts pounding in your chests. clark stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and you’re both too dazed to say anything.

then he presses a kiss to your forehead.

and that’s when you know.

you’re fucked.

totally, completely, emotionally fucked.

the next morning, you blink awake to an empty bed.

the sheets are cold and tangled where he was only hours ago. the faint scent of his cologne lingers, but the warmth is gone – vanished with him.

your hand instinctively reaches out, only to find the space beside you painfully vacant. no familiar weight. no slow morning breath against your skin.

you sit up slowly, heart hammering in your chest, eyes scanning the room. you notice the faint imprint on the mattress where he had lain, and your hands brushes over the cold sheets.

his clothes are missing too. no sign he'd ever been there.

you swallow the lump in your throat, running a hang through your messy hair and check the clock on your nightstand: 7:02 A.M.

how could he just... leave? no goodbye?

your mind races but you push down the swirl of panic, reminding yourself: no strings. no feelings.

you shake your head bitterly.

but the ache in your chest says another story.

your morning routine is quiet, your mind muddled with the memories of the night prior: the way clark's hands skimmed your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, the way his mouth moved so smoothly against yours, the way he practically engraved himself in your gummy walls.

you expected some form of conversation when you woke up that morning. then again, what would you even say? good job, clark! maybe too good of a job haha... ha.

maybe not.

but still!

a text. a note. something.

you keep glancing at your phone like it'll buzz with a text from him. but your screen stays blank. almost mockingly silent.

it was supposed to be uncomplicated. it was to just be physical. fun, even. and that's all it was – right? so why does it feel like he permanently carved himself into you and then disappeared, making you feel hollow?

you try not to spiral, really. but it's hard when your body still aches from how he held you, how he was inside you. you continue relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button.

within an hour, you arrive at the daily planet still shaken, though you pat yourself on the back for looking otherwise; your hair is neatly done, lip gloss on and blazer crisp over your shoulders. your stomach is still in knots but you're hoping the distraction of news will take your mind off it.

you half expect clark to avoid you completely, given how he left your apartment. instead, he's there, at his desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.

"morning," he greets, offering that charming grin that usually makes your chest warm. today, it makes you want to scream.

you manage a polite smile, your throat dry. "morning."

he holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "got your usual. extra shot of espresso. thought you might need it – perry's been on edge all morning."

your fingers wrap around the warm cup, but your heart twists at the casual way he says it. thought you might need it. not because of perry, but maybe because he spent the night buried inside you.

he moves on, heading over to jimmy's desk to talk about the recent superman sighting.

apparently there'd been some alien creature on the clinton bridge – some grotesque, hulking thing with four arms and acidic spit, according to eyewitnesses. superman had swooped in early enough before any casualties were made, defeating the alien. you suspect clark is the key reporter on the case, given his connection to the superhero.

still, since when did clark go to jimmy first about stories?

you stare down at the coffee in your cup as if it'd give you an answer.

the morning drones on. perry barks headlines across the office, jimmy's frantically pacing the tiled floors while chewing a pen cap and clark... clark is perfectly normal. he's chatting with interns, bouncing article ideas off perry, tossing you a smile when he passes your desk.

around noon, you're about to get up for lunch when he beats you to it, strolling over with a brown paper bag and a casual, "hey, got you that turkey pesto you like. hope that's okay."

you blink at him, startles as you crane your neck up to look at him. "oh. yeah. thanks." you glance toward the break room. "are you...?"

"nah," he cuts in, shaking his head. "swamped with edits. gonna eat while i finish the luthor piece."

and just like that, without waiting for you to respond, he's gone.

you try to not let it bother you. you try to convince yourself that this is how it was always supposed to be. always supposed to be before your big mouth ruined it.

but all you can think about is how warm he was in your bed. how soft his eyes were in the dark. how different he felt.

and how different everything is now.

what you don't see is the way clark watches you from his desk. how he catches every flicker of confusion on your face, every little sigh when you assume no one's listening.

the weekend creeps by in slow and dragged hours.

with no deadlines hanging over your head (no perry yelling in your ear about headlines), nothing to dive into, nothing to keep your brain from looping over every moment of that night – the silence is so loud.

you try to distract yourself. you do laundry, you achieve some cleaning, all while some old rom-com plays in the background – which just makes matters worse because even that couple seemed to check in on each other the morning after.

clark hadn't.

by sunday evening, you're mostly numb to it. not okay, but dulled around the edges. detached.

if clark could carry on so easily, so seamlessly (as if sleeping with your best friend was no big deal), then so could you. you'd have to.

monday rolls in with a dreary drizzle and a headache you can't shake, despite the two aspirin you'd taken already. when you step into the planet, clark is already at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard with the same focused expression he always wears.

he looks up when you enter, lifts a hand in greeting and gives one of his clark boyish smiles. "hey," he says, like nothing is different. "usual on your desk."

you blink. "thanks," you murmur.

the coffee cup is still warm when you pick it up. the lid has your name scribbled on it in his handwriting – something he does when he picks up coffee for everyone else in order to remember whose is who. your lid was always different – special – though. a smiley face is scrawled beside your name, just like always.

now, the smile seems like it's mocking you.

you shuffle into the morning meeting and take the seat farthest from him. clark barely notices. he doesn't even look at you.

at least not that you can tell.

lunchtime comes and goes. he stops by your desk with a neatly packed container of leftovers. "made extra this weekend. figured you wouldn't say no to pasta."

you look up at him, then the container in his hand. you can smell it from here. you love his cooking and you can feel your stomach rumble at the sight of it.

"thanks, but i brought mine." you give him a pressed smile, pulling out your own container from home. it's got a sad excuse of a sandwich in there but still, you're too proud to accept his.

you see something flicker across his face, so subtle and brief you're not sure if it was ever there at all, but he recovers fast. "oh. okay. cool." clark pats your desk softly before walking away.

by wednesday, your strategy of coping has been reduced to silence and sidestepping. an absolute shutdown.

you haven't looked clark in the eye once.

not really.

you pretend he's not there, except when you have to acknowledge him. and when you do, you do it with the same kind of politeness you'd give a coworker you don't really know.

you've been packing your own lunch consistently now, every day. it's not because you're being petty, but because you can't keep accepting his gracious offers.

today, he hovers by your desk with a paper bag and a hopeful smile. "brought you that chicken teriyaki over rice you like," he says. "figured you might not have had time–"

"i packed something," you cut in, before he can finish. you plaster a polite smile on your face. "but thank you."

you don't wait for his reply, turning back to your computer and after a moment too long, he sets the bag down and walks off.

you don't touch it.

today 7:15 P.M.

and that leads you to where you are now, scrolling on tinder in hopes – desperate hopes – for something, anything to distract you from your mood.

but there's a knock at the door.

you thought, no, you hoped clark would skip movie night. you really did. after days of keeping your head down, of ducking out of rooms the moment he walked in, of dodging any and every attempt at closeness, you figured he'd get the hint.

you freeze on the couch, bowl of half-eaten cereal in your lap and an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, phone in the other hand, screen still showing off a man’s dating profile. you consider ignoring the door. you could pretend you're asleep, or not home, or–

"hey," clark calls from the other side of the door, his tone gentle. "i brought thai. they were out of the dumplings you like so i got extra spring rolls."

your stomach flips.

you set the bowl down on the coffee table, standing from your seat and slowly pad over to the door, hesitating for a moment before you open the door.

there he is.

normal as anything. stupidly handsome in a soft blue henley and worn jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze. he holds up the takeout bag with a hopeful little smile.

you can't believe it took you sleeping with him to realize just how handsome clark kent is.

"movie night," he says simply, raising the bag for emphasis.

you blink, mouth opening and then shutting.

"i'm... not really feeling up to it tonight," you say, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "sorry. kinda under the weather."

it's a decent lie. passable. you even sniff for good measure, eyes avoiding his.

clark doesn't say anything right away.

behind his glasses, his gaze dips over you, scanning the faintest tension in your shoulder, the steadiness of your pulse, the evenness of your breath, the warmth of your skin. they're all signs that your body is just fine. signs that you're lying.

he doesn't call you out on it. he just lets a slow nod carry his chin. "okay..." he murmurs quietly, frowning. he hands you the bag of takeout anyway. "you can text me if you need anything, alright?"

you nod and start the shut the door.

he turns to leave, letting the door shut behind him and you move to place the bag on the coffee table.

but then clark stops. you don't even hear his footsteps on the stairs before they pause and double back to your door. the knock is softer this time.

you open the door again, brows furrowed in confusion.

clark stands before you, his own brows knitted. "did i... do something wrong?" he asks, his voice careful.

you freeze.

"what?"

"you've been avoiding me," he reveals gently. "not just today. all week."

your mouth is dry and it takes a second for you to swallow. "i've just been busy. tired," you answer weakly.

clark exhales through his noise, eyes narrowing slightly. he doesn't buy it. you can feel him not buying it. the air between you tenses but he still doesn't push you.

you sigh and rub your hand over your forehead in attempt to buy time and think of some excuse for your detached behavior that doesn't make you seem pathetic.

"i just needed space," you say finally, eyes still averted.

clark shifts his weight. "so i did do something."

"no!" you manage, too fast. too loud. then softer, you force calm into your tone. "no. you didn't... not really."

clark waits. patient. unmoving.

the silence is long enough that your embarrassment starts to rise hot in your cheeks. you should shut the door. thank him for the food. tell him you'll see him at work tomorrow and crawl back into the shell you've spent the last week building around yourself.

but you don't.

you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, staring off to the side.

"i just thought it'd feel different," you admit, voice so quiet and just above a whisper, you're unsure if he hears it.

clark's brow creases. "different?"

"afterward," you clarify. "i thought..." you sigh. "i don't know what i thought." your words trail off and clark doesn't rush you to elaborate.

he waits.

"i guess i didn't expect you to act so normal," you finally settle on. "and then i didn't expect me to care so much that you acted so normal."

clark's eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens. "i wasn't trying to brush you off."

"you didn't," you say quickly. "that's the worst part, clark. you didn't do anything wrong. you were just... being you. sweet and thoughtful and friendly and perfect."

with a calm tone, he murmurs, "well, apparently not if you're not okay."

you finally meet his gaze, though your head remains slightly tilted downward, looking up at him through your lashes.

"i was the one who said it'd just be physical. i made a whole thing of it. i joked about it. and then i–" you catch yourself. the words tremble on your tongue, about to slip.

clark doesn't look away, his gaze settled heavily on you. "you what?"

you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat.

"i caught feelings," you admit, the confession dragging out of you like you're wincing. "i said no strings but i lied. not on purpose, but... i did."

a beat passes.

you avert your gaze, too afraid to see his expression.

here's where your mouth moves before your brain can compute, attempting to fill in the excruciating silence.

"i didn't expect to feel this way," you say, quieter now. "but i do. and i just... i don't know how to be your friend and pretend like that night didn't change anything for me. i... i'm just sorry."

clark's eyes search your face, his face unreadable for long second.

then, he finally says your name. and the way he says it is so soft, so full of emotion, it feels like a kiss. he takes a step closer to you, crossing the threshold into your apartment.

"i didn't want to leave that morning," he says suddenly, voice low. "i had to."

that makes your head shoot up. you blink, head shaking slightly. "had to?" you echo.

his eyes flicker, almost like he regrets saying it, but he nods. "there was something... urgent. i should've left a note. i thought i could just... make it up to you. you know, the coffee, lunch, the usual clark stuff."

"i didn't know how to act," he continues, his head tilting down as he looks at you. "i didn't want to assume what that night meant to you since you brought it up in the first place... hell, i even asked steve about hookup culture and what was the appropriate thing to–"

"clark." you snap your head up to meet his eyes with incredulity. "you asked steve? for dating advice?"

clark huffs, shaking his head. "no, not dating advice. hookup advice," he corrects, matter-of-fact-ly.

"oh my god," you mumble to yourself. "you asked steve, the guy who has a horrible track record when it comes to woman for advice."

"well, i couldn't ask jimmy. he'd know it was about you and then i'd never hear the end of it."

you blink, stunned, your mouth opening slightly before you let out a short, surprised laugh. "you are so bad at this."

clark shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well. sue me for trying to respect your boundaries while quietly losing my mind."

you're taken aback. "you were losing your mind?"

his hand drops, and he takes another step closer to you. "you seriously can't believe i just walked away from that night and felt nothing," he murmurs, voice quiet and earnest. "i've been thinking about you nonstop. i couldn't be around you for more than a few minutes because every time i see you i..." he trails off, gulping.

"you what?" you ask softly, your breath halting.

"every time i see you, i want to touch you," he says, voice low, almost like he's confessing a sin. "i want to pull you into the nearest room and kiss you. touch you. hold you. have you."

your breath hitches in your throat.

clark takes another step forward, so close now you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. "and it's not just physical. i think about how you laugh when you're half-asleep. how you hum when you're focused. i think about things i shouldn't know after one night."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "clark..."

"let me be clear," he says quickly. "i do feel the same. maybe – probably more."

you glance up at him, noting the sincerity in his expression, the barely restrained tension in his frame.

"i'm not going to pretend it was just sex," he says. "not when every second of it felt like something i didn't want to end. not when i still think about the way you sounded – how you looked under me."

your breath stutters, legs nearly giving out at the memory alone.

his voice dips even lower, if that's possible. "not when i've had to physically stop myself from calling you every night since, just to hear your voice while i–" he cuts himself off, swallowing the words.

your stomach drops and a familiar heat grows. "while you what?"

"i think you know."

"every night?" you ask, your voice a small murmur.

he exhales sharply, face flushing but his eyes are still as darkened as ever. "yeah."

your chest tightens at the confession. there's a beat of silence where the air between you feels heavier than ever, thick with things you never thought he'd say. never thought he felt.

"i tried to respect the line you drew," he says softly, almost apologetically. "but i crossed it the second i touched you and i haven't been able to stop wanting you since."

your heart pounds in your ears. you want to speak, say something, but your throat is dry and your mind is racing too fast to catch a single coherent thought.

so you choose to act instead.

you surge up, gripping the collar of his henley, and kiss him.

it's clumsy at first, all heat and urgency and too many feelings shoved into the kiss. his hands immediately find your waist, anchoring you as your fingers tangle in his shirt, wrinkling the blue material between your fingertips. you're already tugging at him. tugging him further into your apartment – he takes the hint and kicks the door behind him.

he groans into your mouth when your hands slide uo under his shirt, palms brushing over warm skin. his muscles twitch beneath your touch, like he's been waiting for this.

he lifts you effortlessly – god, you missed his strength – and your legs wrap around his waist like it's second nature. your back meets the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth never leaves your. it's greedy, relentless. it's like he's making up for lost time. granted, he is.

his hands roam with a desperate urgency, memorizing every curve and contour of you with free reign. the heat between you is palpable, a built up tension bursting at the seams. you cling to him, breath hitching as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping softly.

"you don't know how much i've missed this," he murmur against your skin, voice rough with need.

you shiver, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, just beneath your ear, along the line of your throat. his breath fans hot against your skin. you're practically melting into him, undone by the weight and warmth of his body.

"i thought about you every night," he confesses, his pressing forward, still hoisting you up against the wall, making your breath hitch. all the while he presses open mouthed kisses to your skin. "your laugh." kiss. "your face." kiss. "your body." kiss.

you whimper, the memory of it rushing back all at once. you feel yourself clench around nothing, the heat in your belly pooling.

the words are stuck in your throat. you're too embarrassed to admit what he already seems to know: it was supposed to be just a hookup and you thought you could keep your heart out of it. but you failed. spectacularly.

so, instead, you lean in, teeth catching his bottom lip in a kiss that's filthy. needy. his groan rumbles against your chest, hand squeezing at the flesh beneath your thighs as he carries you, sliding up to your ass.

"i need you," you whisper finally.

his eyes darken at your words. "you have me," he rasps, and then his mouth is back on yours.

he carries you with effortless strength toward the bedroom, only breaking the kiss to make sure he's not bumping into anything in your hallway. your legs still stay locked around him, arms around his shoulders, fingers still tangled in his hair like you're afraid this moment isn't real. like he actually isn't here.

when his knees hit the edge of the side of your bed, he lowers you onto the mattress with a care that contradicts the heat in his gaze.

"tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips, his forehead brushing nose, voice barely holding back restraint. "and i will."

you shake your head. "please don't."

and that's his green light.

his mouth is back on yours as his hands trail down your body. they slide along the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until they find the hem of your hoodie. you easily slip out of it as he helps pull it over your head, tossing it aside. he pulls away for a moment glancing down at the shirt your wearing.

"what?" your question cuts through the tense air.

"you look better in my shirts," he murmurs, pinching the material between his fingertips.

you smile – grin, really – finding amusement in his words. "you should give me some more then," you answer, arms hooking around his neck. he lets you pull him in, smiling against your mouth as you attempt to press another kiss.

his hands grow more eager, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.

he lets out a sigh, eyes raking over your chest with reverence and hunger all tangled together. his large hands cup you through your bralette, thumbs brushing over the lace.

you whimper beneath him, fingers tugging at his henley until he stands over you, yanks it over his head. that was hot.

you'd forgotten just how solid he was. all broad chest, sculpted arms. smooth skin over muscle. the kind of body that made you ache.

your hands glide over his chest, fingertips trailing down the dip of his sternum to the line of his abs. his muscles twitch under your touch, and then he's lowering again, mouth hot and wet against the swell of your breast as he works your bra off.

he mouths at you, tongue flicking and teeth scraping enough to make you gasp, "clark." your lashes flutter, fingers reaching to tangle in his curls. one of his hands stay at your chest while the other slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, your heat unmistakable.

he groans, like it hurts. "oh my," he breathes, pressing his forehead between the valley of your breasts for a moment, like he's taking a moment to pull himself together. but then his fingers are moving again, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear in one slow motion. he drags them down legs, eyes never leaving your center.

you're wet. he sees it. you feel it.

"sweetheart," he murmurs like a prayer.

that damn pet name.

he knows you like it, he can tell by the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. clark makes a mental note to continuing calling you it.

then he sinks to his knees on your floor between your spread legs, your calves dangling off the edge of your bed. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs brushing reverently along the inside, like he's committing this to memory.

you're also committing the sight to memory. despite the obsceneness of clark kent kneeling between your les, there's still something so pure in his face: the adoration shining in his ocean eyes behind those glasses.

he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher and higher.

you suck in a breath when his lips ghost over the skin of your inner thigh and his glasses nudge you slightly. it unintentionally reminds you that it's him, still him, still the clark who holds open doors open and rambles about his dorky interests.

except now his hands are parting your thighs further, spreading you open.

"d'you wanna take off your glasses?" you murmur softly, swallowing thick.

he's quick – almost too quick – to shake his head. "mn-hm, wanna see you clearly," he answers, not revealing the real reason. he exhales shakily, seeing you up closes and the sound alone makes your core throb.

"so, so pretty," he says, almost to himself. he drags his thumbs along your folds, gentle at first. "

you drape your arm over your eyes, too flustered to answer and he smile – you can hear it in his voice, "don't hide from me now."

before you have a chance to answer, his mouth on you.

you gasp as his tongue licks a slow, careful stripe through your slick. when you whimper, hips shifting, his hands tighten on your thighs to hold you steady.

he eats you like he's starving, like you're the only thing he's allowed himself to have after months of being denied. his tongue flicks, circles, presses just right against you and he groans every time your body jerks against his face.

"been wanting to do this," he grumbles against your clit, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. "thought about it for days."

you gasp, back arching when his tongue plunges into your center, nose rubbing between your folds.

"clark," you whine, nails digging into his scalp as you push him closer to you, keening at the sheer pleasure from his nose and tongue. you don't know how long he's pressed to you like that but you're sure it's longer than a person can be before they need air.

he finally pulls away. "dunno why i didn't last week," he huffs to himself, as if he's scolding himself, breathing a puff against your twitching core, making your walls flutter.

he dives back in. he works you open with patience and purpose, like he wants to unravel you right here, right now, just with his mouth.

and you do start to unravel, your hips rolling and thighs tensing around his shoulders, his name slipping past your lips in broken gasps. you're close.

so, so close.

he pulls back.

your protest is immediate, a whimpering sound of frustration leaving your lips, but he's already climbing up over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips and murmuring softly, "i know, sweetheart."

you eagerly reach between your bodies, palming his through his jeans. he's already hard, straining, almost painfully so, and the sound he makes is low and guttural.

"clark," you pant, squeezing him through his jeans.

"yeah," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "yeah." he repeats with a nod, reaching down to unbutton his jeans with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you hear the rasp of the zipper being pulled down and then he's fumbling to shove them down just enough to kick off. his boxers follow and you can feel the weight of him slap against your thigh.

"normally, i'd want you to cum before i get inside you," he murmurs through a breath, swallowing hard. "but i just can't wait."

"it's okay," you say quickly, looking into his eyes, heat filling your gaze.

he glances around, reaching for your nightstand drawer and you stop him, grabbing his wrist.

with furrowed brows, he turns to look at you.

"i'm on the pill." you whisper, "and i promise i'm clean."

clark's jaw ticks and then he nods, only once, before you feel the deliberate roll of his hips as he lines himself up.

"you sure?" he asks, voice rough like gravel, like he's barely holding himself back.

you roll your hips back against him, nodding with a soft croon as the head of his cock glides between your slick folds. "y-yes," you breathe out.

"i'll have to go slow because..." he starts.

"–you're huge," you answer for him, a ghost of a smile on your face.

his face flushes. "i was going to say i had little time to properly prep you but i guess that also works."

you giggle, the sound a little breathless, a little wrecked as you lay plaint beneath him as he stands before you. "i mean... both are true."

clark huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but there's a brewing darkness in his eyes. "okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "deep breath."

you inhale and then he starts to push inside. the head of him prods against your velvet walls, barely squeezing through your entrance. the stretch is instant. it's hot, thick, overwhelming, just like you remember it but it's oh, so different now without the barriers of latex between you. you feel him more than ever, the bare skin of his cock sliding and rubbing against your walls.

"f-fuck," you whisper, fingers clutching the sheets.

"i know, i know," he pants, lifting the underside of your thighs up to anchor him as he struggles not to shove himself in in one push. "god, you're–" the glasses on his nose, fog up as he pants and slowly sinks another inch into you.

"so good," you whisper, your words a little slurred as you blink ip at him.

clark's jaw is clenched, tendons straining in his neck as he watches your face with utmost focus. it's like he's mapping your pleasure in real time.

"you're doing so good, sweetheart," he croons, squeezing the fat of your thighs. "so tight, warm... christ–"

you whimper, overwhelmed by the stretch and the praise. the way he's only barely in but you already feel full.

it takes a while for him to push himself in, whispering praises and sweet words your way all the while.

then, finally, he bottoms out.

a shaky sound spills from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt, pressing against a spot inside you that has you cumming in seconds without warning.

clark feels your walls spasm around him and he groans, throwing his head back. "shit, baby," he rasps, voice trembling. (mentally, you add another tick to how many times you've made clark swear). "did you just–?"

you nod, dazed, still catching your breath, your whole body twitching from the aftershocks as he stays buried inside you. "i... i didn't mean to," you mumble, blinking up at him, lashes wet.

his smile is crooked and fond as he looks down at you, pupils blown wide. "oh, that's alright sweetheart," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "you okay?"

you hum, looping your arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. your legs wrap around his waist, making his arms move from holding your thighs up to brace beside either side of your body. "better than okay."

he grunts at your closeness, rolling his hips just a fraction. "sweetheart, you're squeezing me s'tight."

"sorry," you whimper, attempting to unclench around him. "y'can move," you add softly.

his eyes soften as he looks down at you. "you're not overstimulated?" he asks.

you must have the kindest man inside you right now.

"i need you more than that," you answer, looking into his eyes with determination.

he sucks in a breath at that, experimentally bringing his hips back slightly before pushing back in. your walls are slick with your orgasm so it becomes easier for him to slide between your walls. at your soft moan and fluttering lashes, he starts to move.

clark pulls out a few inches and thrusts back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips. you gasp, nails digging into his back and he hisses softly.

the rhythm he sets is measured and patient, but every stroke presses right against that devastating spot inside you that made you fall apart the first time. he doesn't look away from your face, like every flutter of your lashes, every gasp and tremble is something sacred.

"you feed so good, sweetheart," he mumbles, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw. "could stay here all night. buried inside you. just like this."

you shudder from beneath him, his words sending another wave of heart in your belly. "you can," you murmur.

"yeah, you'd let me?" he grunts against your neck, needing the confirmation between every slow roll of his hips. his glasses press against your cheek to the point you're worried they might snap.

"mhm, we could'a been doing this every night since last week," you whimper, squealing when he deliberately snaps his hips against yours out of rhythm.

"then, i guess i have to make up for lost time," he murmurs against your skin, picking up his pace.

you cry out, legs tightening around his waist as he begins to fuck you harder. it's still tender but it's deeper now. it's more insistent, like he's trying to imprint himself inside you (you think he already has from the week prior).

“fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, anchoring him to you. “clark—”

he groans at the sound of his name, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “say it again,” he pants. “say my name like that.”

“clark,” you whisper, and he gives a sharp thrust in return that has your back arching, the pleasure overwhelming. you whine when he pulls his torso away from you, leaving your hands to grip the sheets beside you instead.

his fingers curl under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest to angle you open for him. the new angle has him hitting that spot with merciless precision, and your moans dissolve into something breathless and high-pitched.

“look at me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that contrasts how deep he’s fucking you. “wanna see your eyes when I make you cum again.”

your eyes flutter open, teary and half-lidded, and the moment they lock with his, noticing his blue eyes blown behind his fogged-up glasses, you shatter.

your walls clench around him, your cry muffled by the way he kisses you through your orgasm. it's the kind of kiss that feels like everything. it feels like home.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips. “good girl. you’re perfect. perfect.”

your body trembles under him, but he doesn't stop. not yet. he keeps thrusting through your aftershocks, voice low and ragged. “can I cum inside, sweetheart? please... need to feel it. need to feel you.”

you nod, dazed and desperate. “please, clark. want it.”

with a strangled groan, he pushes deep one final time, hips stuttering as he spills white ropes of cum inside you. he holds you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.

you don’t say anything for a while, your limbs heavy and boneless as his weight settles over you. clark’s still inside, still pulsing faintly, and your body feels like it’s humming, buzzing with the aftershocks. he carefully pulls your legs back down from your chest, letting them dangle off the bed again.

"you okay?" he asks softly.

you nod, a dazed smile on your face as you look up at him. "yeah."

he cups your jaw, thumb caressing your flushed skin softly. "sorry if i went too hard at the end," he murmurs.

"it's okay," you quickly reassure him, turning your cheek to kiss the palm of his hand.

clark smiles at the gesture, basking in the warmth of you and being inside you. "can i stay over?" he asks, breaking the silence that falls between you.

the way your eyes narrow makes his heart stutter in his chest, second guessing everything that just happened prior. but then you speak.

"are you going to leave in the morning like i was some dirty mistress?" you ask, tone mostly teasing.

his shoulders relax and he laughs through his nose, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "sweetheart, i'm sorry," he apologizes, smiling against your skin. "i swear it was urgent. i didn't mean to do a walk-of-shame on you."

"mm, yeah okay," you hum along as if you don't believe him.

he pulls back to look down at you. "i'll spend the rest of forever apologizing to you for it," he promises.

"you better."

sure, tonight he won't tell you the real reason he left in a scramble and without a word that morning was because of the alien monster wreaking havoc on the clinton bridge that he had to deal with as his alien superhero counterpart, but until then, clark will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.

for now, he'll be right here and by your side until morning light.

ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ

[fishsficrecs]

wow wow WOW

[blank-potato]

Hell On Earth

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader

Summary:

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—” “Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly. You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.” You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words… God help you, it does something to you. Or Lex is the worst boss, he's rude, demanding, and downright evil but... you think he's kinda hot.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, humping, degradation kink, masochist!reader, drunken confession, power dynamic

WC: 4.1k

A/N: Nicholas Hoult is just too fine as Lex, I had to click-clack on my keyboard and write this.

***

Your boss might just be the death of you.

Just hearing his name gave you a headache. You even think about him when you go to sleep. Nightmares of a skyscraper-sized Lex towering over you for all your nights and days, not to mention the freaky sex dreams, but those had to be locked away somewhere dark and never spoken of.

He doesn’t tolerate anything. Not mistakes, not excuses, and definitely not tardiness.

So you rock up to work 5 minutes late and hand him his coffee, knowing this might just be your last day on earth. 

“The coffee is cold.”

Fuck me sideways.

“I don’t want your excuses,” he snaps, before you can even open your mouth. “Do you think failure is something I reward here?”

You highly doubt it. Even so, it wasn’t your fault. The line at Jitters was impossibly long since the location nearest to LexCorp was destroyed by a giant lizard man of sorts. Plus, he never even really drinks the coffee; it’s “burnt swill” and far too cheap for his liking. He only tells you to get him one to make your life that little bit harder, like a complete dick.

“Mr. Luthor—”

“You can’t even bring me a hot coffee, and on top of that, you were late. Maybe I should just fire you and replace you with someone who knows how to use a clock.”

His words are like daggers to the chest, but you’ve built up a pretty good resistance. Better to grin and bear it. This job paid quite well, considering the soul erosion, and having to deal with his temper tantrums and occasional threats of defenestration (at least it wasn’t the pocket universe prison). But it had benefits, and a good dental plan.

“I should just build an assistant.”

You hold back a sigh, Lex has told you this a million times, the same rant just repackaged in a different way.

“...one that doesn’t whine and make excuses and disappoint me.”

He looks you up and down as if assessing you. Compared to other assistants, you had lasted longer and you hadn’t even run out of his office crying… you saved that for the drive home. 

You plaster on your best fake smile, the one that says I’m dead inside, but still very employable, and offer with practised calm, “Would you like me to get you another one, Mr. Luthor?”

He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether your continued existence is worth the effort.

“…Make it extra hot,” he finally mutters, turning away.

“Well? Don’t just stand there like a malfunctioning Roomba. I need a hot cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, I know…,” you reply, voice tight.

“If it isn’t to my liking, it goes in your face.”

***

It’s a Friday night, and you weren’t able to escape Lex’s office until well past 9, finding yourself late for hanging out with your friends, again.

Now you’re at the bar, drink in hand, trying to shake off the day. You’re probably drinking a little too much.

“Slow down, tiger,” one of your friends teases as you take another big sip.

“Trust me, I need it,” you mutter, barely hiding the exhaustion in your voice.

“Why do you even work there?” your friend asks, half-laughing, half-concerned. “He sounds like an actual villain.”

“You know why. It’s good pay, there’s a ridiculous benefits package, and lots of free swag… I got an iPad last month, plus…”

“Plus?”

You hesitate, taking a sip of your drink. If you weren’t so emotionally drained and buzzed, you might have lied.

“Plus, even though Lex Luthor is the worst human I’ve ever come into contact with… he’s kinda hot.”

Your friend chokes on their drink, nearly spitting it out. “Excuse me?”

You shrug, face half-buried in your glass. “He’s evil, yes. Morally bankrupt, obviously. But have you seen his jawline? And his eyes are like…,” you toy with the straw in your drink, coyly, “So blue.”

“Seek help,” they laugh.

After too much drinking, your friends stopped you from climbing on top of the bar and loudly declaring your love for mozzarella sticks; it was obvious. You’d definitely had way too much.

“I can go all night, guys, like don’t worry about me…,” you slur, wobbling slightly as you point at no one in particular. "I can party till the sun down."

“The sun is already down and you need to rest,” your roommate muttered, helping you into a cab like they’d done one too many times before.

“So stubborn….” you pouted, slumping against the seat.

The cab takes off toward your house, the city lights blurring outside the window. Everything seems hilarious for absolutely no reason, until your phone buzzes, and the name on the screen nearly sobers you up on sight.

Lex Luthor.

“Yello?” you answer, a little too brightly, still halfway laughing.

“I need you back at the office immediately,” he says, voice sharp and without patience.

You glance at the time. Midnight. You audibly groan for at least five long seconds. “You’re joking, right…”

Silence.

“M’not going anywhere near the office tonight…” you mumble, pressing your forehead to the cool glass of the cab window.

“If you want to keep your job—”

“Oh, shut up, Lex,” you snap, startling even yourself with the boldness. “It’s midnight. I’m like drunk. I just tried to dance on a bar. I can barely spell LexCorp right now, let alone walk in a straight line. So, unless the building’s on fire or Superman himself is currently punching your face through your desk," you pause to chuckle a little at the thought, "...this is gonna have to wait until I’m sober.”

A pause.

“...You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

You let out a snort-laugh. "Kindly, fuck off."

You hang up.

The cabbie side-eyes you in the mirror. “That your boss?”

“Satan.”

You get another call, his name flashing on your screen like a curse.

“I’m giving you one more chance—” he begins, already seething in anger.

“Just because you’re all rich and like, hot and stuff, doesn’t mean you can call me at all hours…,” you slur, words tumbling out in chaos. “Do I want you to…I dunno, fuck me into next week? Perhaps. Do I think that I'd make a most wonderful cocksleeve for you, most definitely, but… You can’t call me in when I’ve already left for the day, you psycho!”

There’s a brief silence on the line. You can almost hear him recalibrating, trying to decide if you’ve finally lost your mind or just your job.

“Y’know what? Suck my dick, Lex.”

And you hang up again.

The cab is silent once more.

You lean your head back, eyes closed, a smug smile tugging at your lips. For the first time all week…you actually feel free.

***

Waking up the next day, you’re dying, head pounding like a jackhammer on concrete, mouth dry, and vision blurred. You can barely open your eyes.

You can barely remember the night before…it was a chaotic blur featuring shots, mozzarella sticks, and some questionable dancing.

Your doorbell rings. Once. Then again. Then again.

It’s way too early to be doing anything. It's one of your only days free from Lex, your sacred, holy, do-not-disturb-or-you-die day.

The bell keeps going off like someone's leaning on it.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, stumbling over a pile of laundry and empty takeout containers.

“Just a second, damn!” you shout, voice hoarse, tripping over a shoe and narrowly avoiding stubbing your toe on the doorframe.

The bell keeps ringing until you yank the door open.

“Satan!” you screech. 

Lex Luthor, in the flesh. Looking pristine. In a suit. On a Saturday.

Without hesitation, you slam the door in his face.

Nope. Absolutely not. This is one of your Lex nightmares or maybe a hangover hallucination.

The bell rings again, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You slowly open it. “M-Mr. Luthor…”

He pushes past you like he owns the place, surveying your apartment with a look of barely concealed disgust.

“How…quaint,” he mutters.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, still clutching the door like it might protect you.

“I told you I needed you back at the office. Since you decided to ignore my very generous warning, I’ve come to you,” he says, glancing at a stack of empty chip bags like they personally offended him.

You stare, still in pyjama pants and a shirt that may or may not have cheese stains on it.

“Warning?” you repeat, blinking in confusion, your brain still booting up through the hangover fog.

Lex’s face shifts into something worse than anger, an evil smirk, smug and dangerous. “You don’t remember what you said to me last night?”

“We… talked last night…?” you ask, already feeling your soul start to leave your body.

You’re screaming on the inside. No, no, no. You’re a loose cannon when drunk. Lex steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s savouring every syllable.

“Oh yes. You were quite… spirited.”

You clutch your forehead. “Don’t tell me I threatened you. Oh please, don’t fire me,” you whisper, feeling the weight of every reckless syllable from the night before crashing down like a building demolition.

You stand there, suddenly very aware of your penguin pyjama pants, dishevelled hair, and clothes from last night strewn on the floor. Why is he here? You wonder. To fire you in person? To humiliate you in your own home? To casually mention he bought your entire apartment complex and plans to bulldoze it into a LexMart?

“I’m not here to fire you,” Lex says flatly, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You let out a huge sigh of relief and, without thinking, throw your arms around him in a big hug. 

“Really? Oh, Mr. Luthor, I swear I’ll never let you down again, I—”

“Unhand me.”

You freeze, then awkwardly peel yourself off him. 

“I’m here to ruin your weekend,” he says simply, adjusting the sleeve of his very expensive suit like nothing just happened. “There’s a crisis at the lab. A very expensive one. And my top assistant, unfortunately, is you.”

You blink. “So… this is punishment?”

“Correct,” he replies. “Put on something that doesn’t feature flightless birds and be downstairs in ten.”

He turns and starts walking toward the door.

You mumble under your breath, “I hugged Satan.”

“I heard that,” he says, without turning around.

***

He definitely didn’t need you to be there.

He was fully immersed in the crisis himself, typing, calculating, and talking to himself in that way that made you question whether he needed any staff at all. Meanwhile, you sat off to the side, bleary-eyed, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, trying to make legible notes while your vision pulsed with every heartbeat.

Your hangover was still very much present, despite the painkillers you'd downed on the way there. Every flicker of the lab lights felt like a personal attack. Lex’s voice was like nails on your skull, and he was hammering away, trying to break it. 

“Keep up,” he snapped without looking at you.

You jumped slightly, pen scratching a crooked line across the page. “I am,” you mumbled, even though you’d zoned out for the last five minutes thinking about the breakfast you didn’t get to have.

He gave you a side glance. “You look like a dying Victorian orphan.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples and trying to will your brain back online.

“So you think I’m hot,” he says casually, not even bothering to look at you, just staring at a holographic schematic like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade.

“Huh? Oh—I, uh…,” you stutter, your voice cracking under the weight of your own embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking last night.”

The memories of all the unhinged shit you said came back to like a brick being lobbed at your head. It was beyond painful, you’ll never say the word “cocksleeve” again. 

He hums, completely unfazed. “Clearly.”

You sink lower into your chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“I mean… it was the tequila. Tequila makes me say things. It also makes me... emotional.”

That emotion was horniness, so it’s not a lie. Why couldn’t it be sadness? At least if you cried to him on the phone, you’d be able to see if he had a heart. 

“For future reference,” he says, still focused on his screen, “if you’re going to confess your attraction to your boss during a drunken meltdown, at least own it the next day.”

You blink at him… He wanted you to own it? You could do that.

“I mean… well, yeah, you’re hot, but you’re also my boss,” you admit, voice a little shaky.

“Confidence is rare these days,” he replies, not looking away from the screen.

You chew on your lip. “It’s hard to be confident around someone like you.”

He finally looks up, eyes sharp but amused. “Brilliant?”

“Crazy.”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head, thinking about his antics. “I mean, you threw a chair at a lead dev because they said they might not meet your impossible deadline. You also—uh—sent half of HR to Siberia for 6 months after they tried to intervene. And not to mention the obsession with Superman…”

You catch the flash of his jaw tightening. Okay, maybe that was a little too much honesty.

“I’ll shut up now,” you mutter quickly, eyes darting anywhere but his.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Go get me coffee. Obviously, that’s all you’re good for.”

The words sting, even though they shouldn't. You’ve heard worse.

***

After your drunken insults and confession, he’s been meaner, so much meaner. He went out of his way to assign you pointless tasks, fed you the wrong details for meetings just to watch you scramble and to give him an excuse to shout at you, and even had you write and make revisions to a speech he had to give, only to not use a single word of it. 

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—”

“Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly.

You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.”

You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words…

God help you, it does something to you.

You're so far gone, you don’t even know whether you want to slap him or crawl into his lap and beg for validation.

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat of his words. “And I wouldn’t have to listen to it talk back.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Also, you swear he’s stalking you. He asked you to come in over the weekend again, and when you lied and said you were out of town visiting family, he texted back your exact location. With a text saying:

Lex Luthor, Devil Incarnate 😈: Here in 30 minutes or you're fired. 9:00AM

Or the time he remotely hacked your car, on your day off again, and had it drive itself to some barren stretch of highway, and called you just to “talk without distractions.” You sat there, white-knuckled and silent, while he calmly explained a new workflow system over the phone, blasting through your car speakers, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Or when he had your favourite sandwich from our favourite sandwich place (that’s an hour away) delivered to your desk before you even realised you’d forgotten your lunch at home. You didn’t eat it, though; there was no way to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

It was emotional torture, back and forth, whiplash from cold indifference to laser-focused obsession. You never knew what version of Lex “Satan” Luthor you were walking into: the calculating genius, the passive-aggressive tyrant, or the man who sent you coffee just to make you question if it was laced with something.

The week had been brutal, and today? He was being insane, which was saying something. You were running on no sleep, your nerves fried, and it all caught up to you. You fucked up. Big time.

Missed a meeting. Sent the wrong deck. Double-booked his 3 p.m. with a LexCorp Board call and a classified tech demonstration with a Department of Defence liaison. Total scheduling collapse.

To make matters worse, Superman had apparently just finished dragging half of Metropolis out of a crumbling building, again, so Lex was on edge, seething with resentment and ego bruised beyond repair.

He kept you late. Everyone else had gone home. The halls were silent, the office dim and sterile, and you could feel the tension like static in the air.

“You’re shallow and stupid,” he snaps, glaring at you like you just insulted his favourite suit.

“...not any less than your girlfriends,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

His eyes narrow. “What was that?”

“It’s not a lie,” you say, “But I don’t get it. I mean, why them? You don’t even seem to like anything about them…”

“Sex.”

You choke on the word, air catching in your throat.

“Sex,” he repeats slowly, eyes locked on yours, “and they look good on my arm, fun to toy with in my free time, disposable when the game gets boring.”

You look down, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

“Oh.”

“Does that bother you?” he asks, voice low and probing.

You shake your head, suddenly very flustered, words caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips.

Before you can react, he’s closing the distance, walking you back until your back meets the cold edge of his desk. The chill seeps through your shirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat from his intense gaze locked onto yours.

The room feels impossibly small, despite it being as big as Lex’s ego. 

“Say what’s on your mind.”

What are you supposed to say? But that little, stubborn part of you wishes it was you, that he’d hold you, tote you around, and fuck you all the while telling you just how useless he thinks you are. What’s wrong with you? Maybe you really did need to seek help.

“I…that’s good for you and them, I guess.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes in all of your expressions, reading your mind like an open book, seeing every messy thought clearly displayed on your face.

“Remember what I said. Own it.”

You swallow hard. “But what if you throw me in a pocket universe to rot…forever?”

He shrugs, lips curling into a lazy smirk. “I might, either way.”

You take a shaky breath. “Okay, fine. I… I would like… to perhaps engage in… activities.”

Tired of your endless stammering and beating around the bush, he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him with no warning, then kisses you like he’s been holding back for far too long.

It’s sharp and commanding, no patience, like he’s proving a point. Like he’s tired of talking and you’re not getting out of this with clever quips or awkward half-confessions anymore.

Satan in a suit has it going on.

Your brain goes static. Your knees might’ve buckled if the desk behind you wasn’t there. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Is that clear enough for you?”

“Crystal.”

His fingers snake into your hair, yanking your head back, and a surprised yelp escapes your mouth.

“This is how you’ll pay me back for your terrible performance today.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

He tugs you back to him, your lips crashing together. Your breath catches, heart racing as the world narrows to just the two of you in the dimly lit office.

***

Since that day…well, you may or may not be having sex with him regularly.

Sex with your super evil boss isn’t exactly what you expected, but when it’s that good, it’s hard to stop.

And yes, may or may not be a masochist, because the way he’d pull you aside after a brutal meeting, his voice low and commanding, then take you somewhere private to fuck you senseless…it was addictive.

Sometimes, without warning, a sleek car would pull up to your place late at night, and a driver would escort you to his penthouse, where the city lights blurred into the background while he took you again, hard, fast and like he could take you apart whenever he wanted. 

Now you’re in the middle of getting railed against his desk, your body completely naked, while he still has the majority of his clothes on. This was a normal occurrence in your life now. 

Your breasts press against the cold, smooth surface as you arch back, moaning loudly. Thank goodness his office is soundproof; otherwise, the noises you’re making would surely echo down the empty halls.

Sloppy sounds of his movements fill the room, you’re so wet you’re practically melting against the desk.

“Please!” you beg. 

“I don’t care if you finish or not,” he leans in a little closer, his breath hot against your ear. “If you want to, you’ll do it when I say.”

Your arms are pinned firmly to the surface as he drives into you relentlessly. He likes seeing you so messy. It’s a raw, desperate reminder of what he’ll never be: a submissive, devoted mess that lives only to please someone else.

“I’m going to count you down, so you better not disappoint me.”

You shake your head profusely, you know if you don’t cum when he tells you, he might not let you cum at all. 

“No, no, Lex, I’m not ready…” 

“5.”

A five-count? He wanted you to fail.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve on fire as the countdown begins, each number a test of your limits.

“4…”

You bite your lip, trying to concentrate on getting there on time. 

“3…”

Your pussy flutters around him as you feel yourself starting to get close. 

“2…”

His grip tightens, and you feel his cock start to twitch inside of you. 

“1…”

He floods your needy cunt with his cum, a satisfied moan escaping his lips as you whimper and writhe, loving how completely he fills you.

There’s no tenderness or aftercare; he pulls out, letting his seed dribble out of you and onto the floor. That’s your problem now.

“Wait, but Lex, I didn’t—”

“I told you the rules. It’s not my fault you weren’t able to cum for me the way I wanted.”

“But I was… I was so close.”

The pitiful look on your face is exactly what he wants. In his mind, you only deserve to cum on his terms, not your own.

You’re wrecked beyond repair but still manage a desperate, “Please…”

He arches an eyebrow, that familiar evil smirk curling on his lips.

“If you want to cum, hump my shoe.”

You think: how much is your dignity worth? Is it worth an orgasm? He smirks again, clearly enjoying your hesitation.

Apparently, it’s not worth much, because the next thing you know, you’re on your knees, rubbing your dripping cunt against the tip of his expensive shoe, rocking your hips like a woman possessed, chasing the orgasm he refused to give you.

“Can I use my fingers?” you whine, desperate to feel something press against your G-spot again. All it would take is a few thrusts…

“No. You lost that privilege.”

You pout but keep moving and try to hold onto his leg for leverage, but he slaps them away. 

“Hands behind your back.”

Grinding your clit against his shoes as best as you can without holding on to him, you feel yourself getting closer. You’re losing your mind, and he’s... scrolling through his phone?

This arrogant little—

“Please, look at me, Lex,” you plead, voice trembling.

He keeps his eyes glued to his phone, completely ignoring you like an asshole. 

“Lex, I’m so close, look at me.”

He continues scrolling, absorbed in whatever could possibly be so interesting when you’re right here.

“I’m begging you to look at me.”

The second he finally looks down at you, your hips stutter uncontrollably, and you lose yourself in a shattering orgasm.

“Fuck—fuck, Lex…” you cry out before resting your head against his thigh. You don’t even get a moment to catch your breath before he’s ordering you around again.

“Clean up the mess on the floor, and yourself, you look…” he trails off, pulling away from you and pacing the room.

“Draft up a report. I want it done by the end of the day. And I want a coffee from Jitters. If it’s cold, I’ll throw you in a river.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

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