18+

Sage || He/Him Male Reader Blog Multi-Fandom

[fungifaggot]

𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦.

I am happy that you’re here

About me: Call me Sage / Male / Bisexual / Switch / 21yo

No requests puh-leaseeee. My writing/reposts are completely self indulgent.

MASTERLIST

Tag guide :

#🌠 (Viktor related reblogs because hes special to me xx)

#🌟 (Every other reblog)

#💌 (Me yapping and shit posting)

[bstwstr]

sue me

pairing: jason todd x male reader summary: you try to make jason jealous but you mess up, big time. tags: angst, comfort, fluff(?), reader is kinda stupid wordcount: 1.8k

the bar is loud in the way gotham always is on a friday night, buzzing in rainbow neon, too many people pretending everything is fine, and music that’s a little too loud and proud of itself. you’re pressed against the counter, drink in hand, watching the room pulse around you. jason is on the other side of the crowd, sitting with his back to the wall, that permanent scowl carved across his face like it was born there. he doesn’t feel like he belongs in places like this, but he came because you asked. and, maybe, because he likes keeping an eye on you. you liked that. maybe a little too much.

you sip your drink, glance back at him, catch his eyes for half a heartbeat. he doesn’t smile. just lifts his chin, a silent question. ‘you good?’ you nod back. you’re good, bored, but good. and that’s how it starts, this stupid little spark that makes you want to see how far you can push him. you don’t mean it to be cruel. you just want him to look at you like he used to. like you’re the only one in the room worth his attention. so when the bartender, a tall guy with a crooked grin, leans in to say something, you let yourself laugh. loud enough that jason can hear, probably. you tilt your head, drag the edge of your glass against your lip. the bartender’s name was miles or mark or something that started with an m, you didn’t really care. he was harmless. you weren’t even flirting, not really. but when you look back over your shoulder, jason’s seat was empty and your stomach dips.

you find him outside fifteen minutes later, sitting on the curb with his helmet between his knees. the streetlight turns his eyes into something duller than usual, red rimmed and tired. “jay,” you say, the nickname half a plea, half a sigh. he doesn’t look at you. just exhales, slow. “you have fun in there?” the way he says it is quiet, which is somehow worse than if he yelled. you drop down beside him, the pavement still warm from the day. “i was just talking.” he laughs once, no humor in it. “yeah. looked like more than talking.”, you nudge his shoulder “come on. don’t tell me you’re jealous.”, “i’m not.” he says it too quickly. his jaw tightens, eyes fixed on the helmet in his hands. “you do what you want. you don’t owe me anything.” it hit you harder than you ever expected. “jason—” he stand abruptly, runs a hand through his hair. “ i get it, alright? i’m not…i’m not easy. i don’t talk much, i disappear for days, i’ve got more baggage than a damn airport. you don’t have to make me feel like i’m not enough on top of it.”

you hadn’t meant for it to go that far, really. but his words land heavy, you open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. he finally looks at you, and there’s no anger there, just something raw and small. “was that what you wanted? to see if i’d crack? ‘cause congrats. you got what you wanted.” you could feel your chest tightening, as if your heart was getting crushed by a vise. the playful heat that started this became sour now. “i didn’t mean—”, “yeah, you did.” his voice breaks halfway through. he wipes a hand over his face like he’s trying to get rid of something that’s not really there. “you wanted me to react. just didn’t think it’d look like this, huh?” you step closer before he can turn away again. the city hums around you, traffic, sirens, and the laughter from the bar, but none of it matters.

“jay, look at me.” he hesitates. when his eyes meet yours again, they’re wet around the edges. jason todd, the man who’s fought his way out of every hell imaginable, looks like he’s trying his best not to break in front of you. “i screwed up,” you let out a deep breath before continuing. “i wanted your attention, that’s all. you’ve been so far away lately, mentally, i mean…and i didn’t know how else to pull you back. it was stupid. i’m sorry.” he exhales, shaky, like he’s been holding that breath all night. “you think that’s how you get to me? by making me feel like i’m not wanted?”, you look at jason, really look at him and he looks beautiful under the streetlight lamp, beautiful than ever, so beautiful it hurts. “no. i know it’s not. i just—” you drag a hand through your hair, searching for words that don’t make you sound as pathetic as you feel. “you scare the hell out of me sometimes, jason. you go quiet, and i don’t know if you’re shutting me out or if you’re lost somewhere i can’t follow. so i try to get a reaction, any reaction. i just wanted to see that you still care.”

he stares at you for a long moment. then, softer. “you don’t need to test me to know that.” the air between you thickens. you’re close enough to feel his breath, to see the faint tremor in his hands. “i know,” you whisper. “and i’m sorry.” jason’s shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him. for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. then he steps closer until his chest brushes yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. his voice is rough, muffled against your neck. “don’t do that again,” he says. “don’t make me feel like i’m just another guy you can play with.” you wrap your arms around him, holding him tight with a vise-like grip. “you’re not. you’re the only one that matters.” he breathes in, long and shaky. when he pulls back, there’s still a faint shimmer in his eyes, but the edge of anger is gone. just exhaustion, relief, something that feels almost like peace.

“god, you’re such an idiot,” he murmurs. “yeah.” you manage a small smile. “your idiot, though.” it earns you the ghost of a smirk. the city noise fades, replaced by the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. jason’s hand comes up, thumb tracing your jaw in a gesture so gentle it almost breaks you. he studies your face like he’s memorizing it, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he blinks. “you don’t get it,” he says quietly. “you’re the only thing that makes this place feel real sometimes.” your heart kicks against your ribs. you lean in, close enough that the space between you is barely a breath. “then let me prove it.” he swallows, eyes flicking from your mouth back up. “you trying to make it up to me?”, “yeah,” you murmur. “if you let me.” for a moment, neither of you moves. then he exhales, a low sound that trembles on its way out. his hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling in your hair, and he kisses you.

it’s not soft. it’s not gentle. it’s the kind of kiss that hurts a little, too much teeth, too much desperation. like he’s been holding it in for months. you taste smoke, rain, and everything that’s ever been unsaid between you. when you break apart, both of you are breathing hard. jason presses his forehead against yours. “you don’t know what you do to me.” you laugh quietly, breathless. “guess i do now.” he shakes his head, but he’s smiling, small and uneven. “next time you want my attention, just ask. don’t make me watch you laugh at someone else’s jokes.” you take a breath, “deal,”

his thumb drags along your bottom lip, slow. the air between you hums again, charged and hot. you could stay like this forever, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, close enough to forget that the world outside is ugly, loud, and cruel. jason looks at you like he’s searching for permission, for something real to hold onto. you nod once. he kisses you again, slower this time. the kind of kiss that feels like an answer. when he pulls back, you catch his hand before he can move away. “let’s go home,” you say softly. jason’s breath catches. then he nods. “yeah, okay.”

he takes you to his bike, handing you your helmet. you watch as he mounts the motorcycle as if it was just second nature to him, ingrained in his muscles. you make your way towards the back of the vehicle but jason stops you. his hand grips tight against your wrist. he shifts his weight and scoots backward on the seat, leaving a narrow space between his arms and the handlebars. you blink. “uh, what’re you doing?” he taps the front of the bike. “you wanted my attention. you’ve got it. get up here.” your breath catches a little. “you’re kidding.” jason’s tone doesn’t waver. “do i look like i’m kidding?” you stare at him, then at the tiny space in front of him, then back again. “you’re insane.” he shrugs “so are you. come on.”

the engine growls to life, vibrating through both of you. you feel every movement he makes, the shift of his legs, the slow twist of his wrist on the throttle. your hands find the only place they can go, resting on his thighs, fingers curling against the worn fabric of his jeans. the world blurs again as you pull out into the street. the air whips around you, cold and sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of jason behind you. his heartbeat against your back, steady and sure. he drives slower this time, careful, almost protective. the city lights slide over you both, flashes of yellow, red, and blue, until everything feels distant, like you’ve slipped out of gotham for a moment.

halfway on the road home, he leans close enough that his mouth is beside your ear, his voice just audible over the engine. “don’t ever pull that again,” he pauses. you could sense his body tightening, “not like that.” you nod, guilt threading through the adrenaline. “i won’t.” jason hums in acknowledgment. “good.” but he doesn’t pull away. his arm shifts, looping around your waist, holding you there as he drives. you let yourself relax into him, the fight from earlier dissolving into the hum of the road and the rhythm of his breathing. for a few miles, that’s all there is, the bike beneath you, the city around you, and jason’s hand steady against your stomach.

when you finally stop outside your place, the engine dies to a low click, and the silence feels strange after so much noise. jason’s still close, still holding you. “guess you got what you wanted,” he murmurs. you turn your head slightly. “yeah?” he nods, eyes catching yours through the visor. “my attention.” you huff a quiet laugh. “wasn’t worth making you upset.” jason tilts his head, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. “maybe not. but… i get it.” you turn fully to face him, the space between you shrinking again. the streetlight catches on his hair, on the curve of his jaw, and for the first time all night, he looks calm. “thanks for not walking away,” you say. he studies you for a moment longer, then says softly, “couldn’t, even if i tried.”

[tomoinue]

" bathroom bitch "

jason toddxm!reader

✮ 996 words ✮ warnings: violent sex, breathplay, petplay, semi-public sex, cnc (?) note from the author: this is my first ever fic, so please give any feedback if you have any!

✮inspired by ‘bathroom bitch’ by HOLYCHILD

"ugh! are you almost done in there?" A stranger yells from the outside of the bathroom. Jason's large hand covers your mouth agressively. He places the other on your stomach, holding you against him, his cock all the way inside you. "mphf" you moan into his hand, causing him to hold your face harder. You start to loose the ability to breathe. As your shaky hands reach up and begin to claw his grip off of you, he begins pistoning himself in and out of you again. You dig your nails into his hand, causing him to begin to bleed. Your eyes begin to roll back into your head from lack of air consumption, but it all feels to good. The way he fits inside you is so perfect, he hits all of the right spots. Jason slips his hand to the side, getting his muscular forearm under you, lifting you up effortlessly as his thick cock is still inside you. He walks slowly to the sink counter, his cock moving in and out of you as he walks. Your brain is so air deprived and pleasure struck, you can barely form a thought. The only thing to pour out of your mouth is whimpering moans and drool. He slams you down onto the sink, pushing your head back into the mirror. He moves in close until your foreheads are touching. He stares into your eyes with his blue eyes bore into yours.

"Make a single sound and I knock you out. Understand, dog?" He threatens, putting more strength behind his hand when he says 'dog'. You nod your head, fear and lust behind your eyes. He lets go of your mouth, finally allowing you to breathe. The bathrooms in Wayne manor are soundproof, only letting sound in slightly from the outside. You don't know that though, and Jason is well aware of that. You can hear the gala Bruce is hosting from the inside of the bathroom, and a man waiting impatiently outside of the bathroom. Jason can see you getting anxiety, not liking the idea of having sex in public spaces. He leans in close, whispering in your ear.

"You hear that? So many people on the other side of this door. What would Bruce think about your progress when you're getting debauched at his gala?" Jason smiles coldly, still inside you. You whine, covering your mouth. He knows that you hate having sex in public, but he likes seeing you all scared. He likes knocking you off the pedestal you're usually standing on. So indifferent, so perfect. He likes seeing you so pathetic, it suits you to be writhing beneath him. He backs up, taking a good look at you. Your cock is twitching, still partially errect, your own cum coats your thighs and stomach. He smirks down at you wiping up some of your cum on his fingers, ripping your hands from your mouth and shoving his um coated fingers in your mouth. Your eyes widen as you try to spit it out, but he grips your neck. "Go onn~ Lap it up, puppy" He says condesendingly. Tears well up in your eyes as you cough, trying to push his hands away. He looks down at you, reeling in your undoing. His condesention is cut short by another bang on the door. "COME ON!! What takes so long in the bathroom?" Jason sneers at the door, looking back to you. He looks down menacingly.

"You're the only one of us to cum, dog. Now be a good boy, and help me out." Still inside of you, he pulls himself out slowly. Inch by agonizing inch. You begin to feel empty inside, as if your body started to get used to him being inside you. Just as you begin to that feeling, he slams himself forward sheathing himself fully inside you. You dig your nails into the granite counter, eyes widened. He groans, smiling as he's now balls deep inside you. I moan and whine, not being able to form a sentence. "Awee~ The doggy's trying to speak. How cute.." He continues ramming himself into you, as you try to push him off. Your punches too his chest are far too weak. To him, you look like a dog, pawing at him. He grabs your wrists with one of his hands, holding them above your head. "Take it like a good boy." The sound of skin slapping and squelching fill the bathroom, as you moan and cry out, hitting your head on the mirror. "Comeee on~ Do something sexy. Or else we'll be in here for a while. I've got stamina to burn" He says cockily, ramming into you carelessly. The feeling of his cock going in and out of you is mind numbing. You're barely able to think, let alone come up with an idea. Tears well up in your eyes, making you look more debautched than you just were. You open your mouth to speak.

"W-...woof~..ngh" Is all you're able to muster through the whines and moans. He looks down at you, his eyes widening slightly. He rams into you again, this time hitting that sweet spot. Your body twitches as you try to wriggle free from his grasp, but you end up just cumming all over yourself again. Jason, on the other hand, is still ramming into you. Until he does one more solid thrust into you. Your spent body begins to fill with the warm feeling of cum inside. Your brain still spent, can't even fathom a thought or reaction. Jason doesn't pull out though, he keeps you plugged up for a moment. He let's go of your wrists, watching them fall to the granite countertop, grabbing your face. He smiles before encapturing your mouth in a searing kiss. He doesn't pull away until it looks like you're almost out of oxygen.

"Such a good dog you are. We'll have to play again like this soon, huh?"

[fungifaggot]

nutting

[tocka-irbis]

Darling love, I would love to bring in enemies to enemies with benefits with Jason Todd or Dick Grayson.

Just imagine having his chest to the grimey alley wall, his ass sticking out is such a perfect way. Glares and curse words spitting out those perfect lips as you press your chest against his back. You whisper how slutty he looks like this. But thats not the main focus for now. Instead, its your hand jerking him off so slowly, your glove scratches the sensitive skin so perfectly. Collecting the pre leaking from the tip with your thumb to add to the glide...

Yeah that's just a thought <3

Oh what a wonderful thought. You should write more about this if you want! I'd totally read it.

Both Jason and Dick could maneuver themselves out of the situation but they don't. They don't want to or can't focus enough. How can he when you tighten your fist around him and pump him at such a tortuous pace? Thumbing the tip, maybe even pressing down on it to keep him on the edge. His hands scrabbling at the bricks or gripping your forearm for anything to hold onto.

He'd look so pretty when he starts to get desperate. Hips bucking into your palm, stifling whines and moans when you loosen your grip so that he hardly gets what he wants. No, no, he'll stop writhing just keep touching him. Make him paint the wall while your at it and lick your glove clean when it's all over.

[loversmantra]

rotten.

synopsis. happy wife, happy life.

content. gojo satoru x male!reader. smut. minors do not interact. bottom satoru + top reader. established relationship. fingering. sex with prep. unprotected sex. anal. swearing. clan leader!reader. very lovey-dovey. demanding princess satoru and his boyfie who can't say no to him. spitting in his mouth. light choking. satoru's absolutely unhinged pov. oh and breaking the bed. that too.

wc. 8.1k

message from noe. chose promise, chose due, even if it's months later... @burgojo this one is for you!!!

You don’t consider yourself a weak man.

No one does, actually. You have your reputation among jujutsu society, and it isn’t that of a weak man, not by a longshot. You’re a clan leader, a warrior. Weakness isn’t part of your identity. Vulnerability? Sure, when the time is right. Weakness? Never.

That’s what you tell yourself. You keep your pride close to your chest, lest he snatches it right from your hands.

No, generally speaking, you aren’t weak at all, but—

“Oh my God, yours looks so good, gimme.”

Satoru has a way of bringing it out of you.

“Back off.” You try to keep your voice firm, but it’s already a struggle. “It’s mine. You’ve had yours already.”

You’re trying hard not to look at him. You know if you do, you’ll cave immediately.

Satoru isn’t one to give up so easily, though. And he isn’t one to play fair, either.

“C’mon,” he whines, resting his chin on your shoulder, “just a bite, I promise. I just wanna have a taste!”

“Fine. You know what? Fine.” You cut off a tiny piece of fondant with your spoon and push it in his general direction. “Here.”

Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him.

Slowly, Satoru pulls away. You feel his stare in the side of your head. Don’t look at him.

“Wow. So you just don’t love me anymore, huh? Wow. I came out here to spend some time with my beloved even though I’m exhausted, and you’re making me drink, and I don’t even like alcohol, and now you won’t even share your dessert with me, the love of your life—”

As he whines, his grip on your bicep tightens. This, more than his yapping, is what’s most effective to sway you, and he is well aware of it. He talks your ear off to create some white noise, but the real focus is there.

“—anyway, I think I deserve it, don’t you?”

You tell yourself it’s because this really isn’t his scene. Satoru only ever goes out with his coworkers to spend time with them, not because he enjoys drinking or even because he likes going out. It’s fine if you indulge him. It’s fine if you let him steal your entire chocolate fondant right from your plate, without even trying to protest.

He came to dinner for you, so it’s fine to indulge him. That’s all it is.

“Fine,” you huff. “You can have it, baby.” He lets out a cheer of victory and digs in immediately.

It totally isn’t because of the little rosy tint on his cheeks. Or his big, bright, shimmering eyes, that catch the light just right. Or even the slightest little pout he was sending your way to make you cave. You’re not weak to him. You gave him your fondant because you wanted to.

That’s what you tell yourself. But both he and you know the truth.

And honestly, it isn’t your fault! He’s just… he’s…

Yeah, no. You have no excuse.

In your defense, you have a long history of indulging him, one that started on your very first meeting.

He was just six years old, and you were barely nine. Sitting beside his lord father with his hands folded elegantly in his lap, face completely blank in a cold, haughty mask. A meeting between clans, not your first, but definitely his.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. He looked like a doll, that was your first thought back then. Soft-looking hair. Big, shimmering blue eyes. Chubby, rosy cheeks. Dewy soft skin.

Lifeless.

You couldn’t bear to see a kid so pretty look so sad. So when he slipped away with a yawn, you asked to be dismissed, and went after him. You’d hidden chocolate bars in your yukata sleeves for later. You’d planned on enjoying them back at your clan’s estate, but sharing couldn’t hurt, could it?

He didn’t react, when you sat near him on the engawa, in a small patch of delightfully warm sunlight. Silently, you handed him the chocolate bar. He took it without even looking at you. Took his time savoring it, his cheeks flushed in delight.

Then, when he was finished, he held out his hand expectantly. Tilted his head to look up at you, and you were hit with the full force of that bright, piercing gaze.

Big blue eyes shimmering under the sunlight. Lips set in an adorable pout.

“I know you have more,” he said. “Gimme.”

How exactly were you supposed to say no?

You didn’t say no. You gave him every single one you had. And he graciously accepted to share the last one with you.

That was your first meeting. You were doomed from the start.

You’d thought that weakness would disappear as you grew older together. Surely, he wouldn’t be cute as a man the way he was as a boy. You’d learn to hold your ground.

Your heart had other plans.

You fell for him, hard. And to make matters worse? He felt the same.

You should’ve known things would only go downhill from there.

He knows all about the soft spot you have for him, and he takes advantage of it at every turn. Like right now. Shamelessly stealing your dessert after he all but inhaled his own, all because he’s craving more sugar and he knows you’d never say no.

You really need to learn how to say no.

Satoru makes quick work of your fondant, licking the spoon and his lips to make sure not a single crumb remains. He’d lick the plate if you weren’t there to scold him for it.

“Yeah, that was nice,” he says with a sigh, slumping back in his chair. “Good choice, sweets.”

You want to cuss him out. “Yeah? I bet it was great.” Your voice is oh so bitter. “Would’ve loved to have a taste, baby. You know, since it was my dessert.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, wrapping his arms around your bicep again, chin once more resting on your shoulder.

“It was the least you could do, honestly,” he retorts, huffing. “We could be home right now, having amazing sex—”

“Keep your voice down—”

“—but instead, you dragged me here to watch Nanami and Shoko get wasted.” Another huff. “Besides, if you really wanted to eat that, you should’ve just said no. You should grow a backbone, babe.”

It hurts because it’s true. You still want to cuss him out. In fact, you’re turning your head, opening your mouth to do so, but Satoru moves swiftly. He pushes himself closer, lips close to your ear.

“But if you want a taste that bad, I can give you one.”

You turn to face him. His face is the picture of innocence, eyes twinkling, brows slightly raised, lips pushed into that annoying pout. But you’re not fooled. There’s hunger in his gaze, too. Like you’re the next dessert he wants to devour. You don’t hate the idea.

You’re not a weak man by any means, but Satoru knows how to bring it out of you.

“You’re the worst, you know that?” you pant against his lips, squeezing his waist roughly.

He tastes sweet. The fondant you almost had is right there, on his tongue, and you think there’s no better way to get that taste.

His hand squeezes your shoulder, and in response you push against him harder, effectively trapping him against the concrete wall shielding you from the street. His arms tighten around your neck, lips moving against yours fervently.

“Liar,” he retorts, just as breathless. “You love me. You love me and you’d do anything for me.”

It hurts because it’s true, and you push your tongue in his mouth to shut him up. He lets out a small, startled sound, and it only serves to fuel you.

Greedily, Satoru wraps a leg around your thigh, trying to get leverage to roll his hips into yours. At that rate, you might genuinely fuck him right there in this dirty alleyway.

The friction is delicious against your bulge, and you can’t help but match his rhythm, grinding against him like a horny teenager. He bites your lip and you tug his hair in retaliation, a groan spilling from his throat.

This is bad. Bad, bad, bad. Not exactly the most dignified way to have sex.

You grip his hips and still his movements, earning a whine of frustration.

“No, come on, it was just getting interesting, you jerk—”

“How about we go home, huh? So I can enjoy you properly.”

Now that catches his attention.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, let’s do that.”

Needless to say, he gets what he wants from you. He was right. You need to grow a backbone.

.

It’s rare to see your beloved look so peaceful.

The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. It’s pleasantly warm under the bedsheets. By all accounts, this morning is nothing less than beautiful.

It’s all made better by the sight of Satoru, sleeping serenely beside you.

Skin glowing under the gentle sun. Soft breaths hitting your cheek. It’s the first time in weeks that he gets to sleep in, and you’re overjoyed that you get to be there.

You’ve been admiring him for, what, maybe half an hour? Maybe more? You’re not sure. You’re not sure you care.

Eventually, a restlessness settles in your bones. You should get up. Get started on breakfast. Maybe even bring it to him in bed, he’d love that. Do his laundry so he gets to rest some more. That’s a good plan.

With your mind made up, you shift to get out of bed. The cool air hits your leg, and you almost abort the mission. Satoru’s right there, and he’s warm.

No. Nope. Come on. Breakfast.

Your leg peeks from under the blanket again. You push up to your elbow, grab the covers to throw them off your body—

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze. You’d hoped you wouldn’t wake him, you were being careful, moving slowly and gently. Now he’s up, and judging by his scrunched-up face, he is not happy.

He looks adorable like this. Frowning, eyes still heavy with sleep. You coo at him, brushing your knuckles against his cheek. “Breakfast, baby. I’ll bring it to you here, okay?”

Once again, you move to leave the bed. You don’t even get to straighten up. Satoru crawls on top of you, pinning you down with his weight. His arms snake around your waist. His lips tickle your neck.

He doesn’t even dignify you with a response, as if it’s a given that you’ll simply surrender to his will. You can’t even find it in yourself to blame him: you’ve never, ever done anything to make him believe otherwise.

But you’re strong. You have a plan, and you intend to stick to it. He’ll thank you later.

So, as gently as you can, you roll to the side, deposit him on the bed, and snatch his arms from around your waist to free yourself.

Your feet are so close to the floor — almost there. You move to leave a tender kiss on his forehead.

And you make the same mistake you always make. You glance at his face.

His features are twisted into an absolutely outraged pout, like you’ve just insulted him in the absolute worse way you could ever have. Like you’ve just told him he was nothing more than a warm body, a hole to fuck. You suppose that’s exactly how he’s taking this. His brows are furrowed over his slightly widened eyes, an almost wounded look in the baby blues.

And your shaky resolve crumbles entirely.

You feel cruel. You feel like the world’s cruelest man, and you must be, abandoning your beloved like that. Like he’s a dirty sock so old you can’t get rid of the stench, so you decide to throw it away.

Quick. Fix it.

“I’m gonna make breakfast, baby,” you coo, stroking his hair. “Yeah? We can have breakfast in bed.”

He simply stares, his face falling. Unimpressed, or maybe he’s just half-asleep still?

Until he speaks. His face changes again, a brow raised, mouth curled in an almost disgusted manner. “Uh, no?”

Like he can’t believe you’d do him the insult of suggesting such a thing. Because, of course, breakfast in bed includes making breakfast, and making breakfast includes you leaving him.

You sigh, closing your eyes, and he seizes the opportunity. He grabs you by the back of the neck and pulls you down again.

“Satoru, stop—”

“Nuh-uh.”

“—baby, please, I have stuff to do—”

“I don’t think so.”

He wraps his limbs around you like a particularly vicious octopus. His face is buried in your neck again. A part of you is almost offended by how confident he is that you’ll just give in.

The other part of you? It gives in.

You run your hands up and down his back, caressing softly and earning a hum of delight. In return, Satoru’s hand pats your chest. You feel his body relax on top of yours, his breath slow and soften. His eyes close once more. There’s a small smile on his lips.

Your heart leaps.

Breakfast can wait. You’ve already achieved your goal anyways.

.

You don’t spend a lot of time at Jujutsu Tech. Usually, it’s less than an hour, once a week. To drop off your recent mission reports, get some new assignments, fresh report sheets, and then back to work.

You rarely get to play the loving partner part with Satoru. Usually, when you’re there, he’s out on a mission, or teaching, or avoiding his responsibilities and buying an obscene amount of sweets and pastries.

Today, though, you walk into the office you two share, returning from admin with your new assignments for the week, and he’s there. Sitting on your desk, with his jacket draped over the back of your chair and your jacket on his shoulders. The sight is so endearing you fear you might melt into a puddle.

You almost do, but a sharp instinct snaps you out of it. This is Satoru. With his Six Eyes and his frankly excellent perception of cursed energy, there’s no way he didn’t see you coming.

This is a set-up. He wants something from you.

So when he saunters up to you, slipping his arms through the sleeves of your jacket and around your shoulders, you don’t pull away from his affection, but you don’t return it either.

“Hi, baby,” he all but purrs, kissing and nuzzling your cheek affectionately.

“Hi, Satoru,” you respond soberly. You won’t fall for his tricks. Not this time. You’re strong.

He keeps up with the affection for another moment, but quickly he realizes you’re not reciprocating and pushes himself away. With his hands curled around your shoulders, he frowns, eyebrows visibly furrowing under the blindfold.

“What, no kiss? No sweetie, no honey, no angel? Do you just hate me?”

You won’t bother with pretending you’ve been fooled. You won’t fall for his tricks. “What do you need, Satoru?”

He gasps. Puts a hand on his chest in indignation. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting I only came to see you for my own benefit?”

You cock a brow. “…Yes.”

He has nothing to say to that. He just stares, mouth pressed into a thin line. He’s been found out, and quickly too.

But he’s nothing if not determined.

“What I need is some loving from my baby, but I guess that’s just too much to ask for.”

He steps back, turns away the slightest bit—

Your arms wrap around his waist and you pull him back against your chest, kissing his nape. You’re weak.

He smiles, snuggling into your hold.

“See, that’s more like it.”

You pinch his side. “Watch your tone, will you?” Not even a hint of bite in your voice.

His hand cradles your jaw, and his lips find yours. This time, you reciprocate, the kiss lazy, languid. You feel so much better now that your arms aren’t empty.

He pulls away, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “Missed ya.”

“You saw me this morning.”

“I’m expressing my undying love, jeez—"

You kiss him again, just to shut him up. It works. For a moment.

For a minute, he simply enjoys your embrace. Quiet in a way he only ever gets when it’s just the two of you. Basking in your warmth, the strength of your arms around him. Then, he speaks.

“Alright, let’s go home!”

Already he’s moving, your arm hugged to his chest as he tries to tug you out of the office. And again your instincts flare. He’s been suspicious. There’s something in that office that he doesn’t want you to see.

Naturally, you first think he damaged something, so you plant your feet to the ground and resist his strength, eyes raking over your desk.

“Baby, what are you doing,” he whines. “Let’s go already.”

Don’t fold. Don’t fold. This is a trap.

It wouldn’t be the first time he breaks something in the office and flees the crime scene. There’s a sizable dent on the side of your desk to attest to that. So what is it? What did he do this time?

He tugs on your arm harder. “Y/N, come on, move!”

You can’t find actual damage near your space, so you turn to his—

He moves in front of you, hiding his desk from your eyes. Ah. His blindfold is pushed up into his hair, leaving his lethal eyes uncovered. A cheap, dirty trick, almost guaranteed to make you cave. His eyes shimmering, his rosy, slightly swollen lips pushed into a pout.

You’re close to folding, but in his eagerness to get his way, he’s also revealed the source of his need for his early escape.

“What’s the hold-up, huh?” He huffs, brows furrowing slightly, his expression now impatient and needy. Jerk. You’ll kiss him.

“Satoru.”

Your low tone makes him perk up. He knows he’s been found out, so now he’s gonna pull all the stops to get out of this situation.

Brace yourself. Don’t fold.

He pushes himself against you, wrapping his arms around your neck again. Chest to chest, lips so close to yours you can feel his breath. You try hard not to look at them, but his eyes are a problem, too. Too wide. Too blue.

He hums, still maintaining the pretense of innocence.

“Satoru,” you say again. “What’s on your desk?”

He shrugs a shoulder, as if he’s completely clueless and has no idea what you’re talking about.

“Satoru.” You’re trying to sound stern. Trying. This isn’t working. You have absolutely no hold on him.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, baby. Can we go home now?” He pushes his hips against yours teasingly. Brushes the tip of his nose against yours again— fucker. He knows you’re weak for that. “We have so much better things to do, don’t ya think? Hm?”

Don’t fold. Don’t fold. Do not fold.

Gently, you grab his waist and step around him, despite his best efforts to stop you.

And it’s right there, on his desk: a high stack of papers, no doubt waiting to be completed by your partner. And judging by the sheer size, it’s been waiting a while.

You turn to him, eyes burning. “When was the last time you did your paperwork, exactly?”

He smiles. Shrugs and pokes his tongue out. “No clue.”

“Satoru—”

“Ugh, spare me, will you?” He steps away and rolls his eyes, waving a careless hand. Like you’re in the wrong here, somehow. “Why would I do that when there’s Ijichi to take care of it?”

That poor guy is gonna have an aneurysm.

“Satoru. You are not dumping all that on Ijichi.”

Satoru, the poster child of bratty behavior, has the audacity to cross his arms and sigh. “So what, you want me to do it?”

“It’s your paperwork, Satoru! Yes, you’re gonna do it.”

He turns his head away with a huff. “Nah. No way. Why would I do that? It’s boring, and tedious, and I might get a headache.”

“Enough.” You make your way to his desk and grab the stack of papers. Wow, it’s a lot. “I’m bringing that home and you’ll do it tonight.”

And he has the gall to gasp, shaken to the core. Like you’ve done something truly heinous. “What?!”

You let out a sharp sigh. It’s like getting a toddler to eat their veggies.

You turn, determined to hold your ground. Really, you’ve been over this more than once with him. You’ve had to help him catch up with his mission reports often enough.

Your eyes land on his face. Rookie.

His face is downturned. Arms crossed, eyes slightly averted. And, oh, have his lips always looked so pink?

And he drops the bomb.

“Sorry for wanting to spend time with you instead of doing some stupid paperwork, I guess.”

No. No, this is a ploy, a ruse, a maneuver to get you to do his bidding.

And, like a fool, you’re falling for it. You can’t even bring yourself to be angry. Something visceral snarls in your chest, at the sight of his face. It looks horribly wrong, fix it, fix it, fix it.

You give up. You’ll be the fool if that’s what he wants.

“Baby,” you murmur and set the papers aside, wrapping your arms around his waist. He settles in your embrace, hands braced on your chest, face buried in your neck. You feel the curve of his smile against your skin. Smug bastard. He’s not even trying to hide it.

He’s so pleased with himself, it’s like the satisfaction is radiating from him. You look down to what you can see of his face.

His eyes are squeezed shut, pushed into half moons by his rosy cheeks with how wide he’s grinning. So serene, so childishly happy that his scheme was successful. How could you ever be angry with him? You never stood a chance.

You kiss his cheek, and he hums, delighted that’s he’s won. “Alright,” you coo. “Let’s go home.”

You swear there’s a spring to his step, when you both make your way to the car. The paperwork sits untouched and abandoned on his desk.

.

Satoru thinks he might lose his mind.

Patience has never been his strongest suit, and you are well-aware of it. You know him like the back of your hand. You know that he likes his eggs poached more than sunny side up; that he always needs at least thirty minutes of lounging in bed before starting his day; that he handles heat badly and prefers lighter clothing, even when it gets colder.

You know that he hates waiting.

And, yeah, maybe it is rich coming from him, CEO of being late. He’s usually alright with it when people make him wait, even if he’ll complain about it to their face, for the simple pleasure of annoying them.

But you? You should know better.

He checks his phone again. The time switches from 18:29 to 18:30 right before his eyes. You said 18:00 sharp, emphasis on the sharp. He’s officially been waiting for thirty minutes, and that is just unacceptable.

This is such a nice day, too. Warm, with a cool breeze keeping the temperature at a reasonable level. Birds chirping, clouds gently drifting by, all that good stuff that you love. You should be here, with him. Ideally, buried inside him to the hilt, but he’d settle for a cute, wholesome date, too.

He’s enjoying neither, because you’re not here, and yeah, he’s definitely losing it.

He checks his phone. It’s probably been another twenty minutes, at least!

18:31.

Ugh, come on!

It’s been days since you last saw each other. Days! He feels unhinged, unraveled. His jaw aches in the evening, because he spends his days gritting his teeth. Any longer without you and he’ll start bouncing off the walls, clawing at the floorboards like a dog.

Any longer and he’ll start begging for your presence.

Honestly, it’s like you don’t even look at him lately. All you do is work. And because he is who he is, all he does is work, too. It’s a miracle if he gets to spend a couple of hours in the same room as you. He barely has time to think of you.

He misses you. Misses you like a limb.

He’s so exhausted that he misses you even when you’re right in front of him. He isn’t even allowed to enjoy the moments he gets with his beloved, too worried by how fast time flies. And before he can catch his breath, the moment is over. Nothing could ever make him wish he were anyone else— nothing but this. This horrible, mind-numbing lack of time.

And now you have the audacity to let your clan elders gnaw on that precious time. Time that he took in his already packed schedule to spend with you, time that was meant to be spent together.

Unbelievable. Oh, he will not let you hear the end of this.

He’s ready to give up and call you, but a splash of energy catches his attention from the corner of his Six Eyes. Getting closer, fast.

He can’t help but grin. Finally, finally.

He waits until you’re just behind the shoji door. With an overly exasperated groan, Satoru flops down onto his back, feet swinging off the engawa.

“What a jerk,” he mutters angrily, toying with the bandages covering his eyes. “I don’t deserve this. Asshole. Jerkface.”

“I know you’re not talking about me.”

Your voice sends shivers down his spine. That irritated edge he can hear? Music to his ears. He covers up the smirk that was blooming behind an exaggerated pout.

“Wow,” he drawls. “Finally remembered you’re not single, did you? Had fun at your little meeting?”

He knows you didn’t. The whole point of those meetings is to slowly suck your soul out through your nostrils. That’s why all the elders are dry and lifeless. Duh. The question is rhetorical, just the beginning of your punishment.

He hears the dull sound of fabric hitting the ground. You probably dropped your haori. Not enough clothes on the floor, but it’s a start.

“You know I didn’t.” And there’s your reply. Yeah, yeah, he knows, he’s been to enough of those meetings to know. “You’ve been to enough of those meetings to know.” You can be so predictable sometimes.

“Maybe if you hadn’t ditched me to go to the meeting, you would’ve had a better time.” He can hear the childish petulance in his own voice. Can’t be bothered to tame it, to try and hide it even the slightest bit. You deserve all that you’re getting. “I mean, I’m just saying. Maybe an afternoon with your boyfriend would’ve been more fun, but hey, who knows? Definitely not you.”

You stay quiet for a second. Two. Three. “Satoru, if you’re only here to make me feel bad, we can cut the evening short right now. I have a rematch in half an hour anyways.”

Now that is unacceptable. Actually, it’s beyond unacceptable, practically a criminal offense. “Are you joking?” He hisses, pushing himself up. “So what, I should just fuck off and die?”

You seem pissed. And tired. Maybe he should cool it. Just a bit.

“You think I want to spend my already limited free time with them, instead of you?” You retort. Your back is to him. Starving him of the sight of your face. Why?

Look at me, he wants to scream. Don’t deny me, don’t push me away.

“I’d love nothing more than to stay here and snuggle,” you continue. This time you just sound sad. He feels a pinch in his chest. You don’t finish the thought. You don’t have to. He knows exactly what you want to say.

Duties that you can’t escape. Either of you.

“Ditch them,” he demands. Fuck ‘em. With an annoyed huff, he stands from the floor and moves to drop on the bed gracelessly. “C’mon, babe, you’re really gonna spend the night with them when I’m right here?”

Finally, you turn to look at him. He takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs fill with air properly for the first time since you last saw each other. Yes, yes, exactly. That’s all he wants, all he needs, just keep looking at him like that.

Your eyes travel from his face, down the length of his body, down his slender, model legs and back up. The mood shift in you is so obvious to him, who’s gobbling up even the tiniest details that you offer him.

You’re opening up. You’re letting him in.

Yes, yes, yes. Come on.

“’S been so long since you’ve fucked me,” he drawls. “At this rate, I might forget what you feel like.”

Your eye twitches, but you’re not a man of ego. No, if he wants you to give in, he needs to bait. Then, you can punish him for all the bratty little comments.

“We barely see each other lately. You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

Hook.

He sees your face soften. You shift to face him. “I know, baby, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

Ooh, look at you, offering the line yourself. “Yeah?” He masks the glee in his voice, replacing it with a pathetic longing that he knows you’re weak for. His hand tugs at the bandage covering his eyes, unwinding it and dropping it to the floor near the bed. A cheap, dirty trick, but he really wants to get his way. Your gaze meets his, and he knows he’s got you. “When are you ever gonna do that?”

“Soon,” you reply with a squeeze of his calf. Gentle. Affectionate. Tender. You are just the perfect man.

“How about right now?” With a light tug to your obi belt, your yukata falls open.

And sinker.

You rise from the floor to crawl on the bed. His heart thumps painfully against his ribs. Yeah, yeah, let’s go, come on. He backs away, perfectly playing his role of the fleeing prey, until his head hits the headboard, and you seize your chance to get on top of him, hands firmly planted on either side of his head.

You tilt your head, studying him. He can see his own reflection in your dark, dark eyes, and wow, it’s no wonder you want to fuck him into next week so bad. He’d want to fuck himself too.

“Yeah. You know what?” You purr, leaning closer. “I think I will. Fuck ‘em.”

He grins. “That’s the sp—”

Your mouth is on his before he can finish the sentence, a rough kiss that he barely expects. He wraps an arm around your neck, the other around your shoulders, trying to tug you down, but you refuse him. He whines into the kiss, digging his fingers into your flesh. Hard, rough, pure muscle, god, just take me!

You pull away to kiss the corner of his lips, his cheek, the soft underside of his jaw, down to his throat, your favorite spot. Already he feels lightheaded, heart pumping ruthlessly, he’s so easy, too easy.

“I want you so bad,” you rasp against his throat, and woah, okay, starting off real strong there.

His heart throbs. His dick, too.

“Nhh, what are you waiting for, then?”

He nuzzles against your temple, hooking a leg around yours to grind roughly against you. You’re hard as a rock under your yukata.

He can’t hold back a chuckle. “Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just—” He yelps when you bite, straight into the tender flesh of his throat. “Ow, was that really necessary?”

You lower yourself against him, finally, jeez, and claim his mouth again.

“You talk too much,” you pant against his lips.

“’Cause you’re not even doing anything,” Satoru retorts without missing a beat. “Gotta fill the awkward silence somehow.”

You punish him with another bite, on his jaw this time. Softer, like one was your limit. His obi comes undone with an expert tug of your hand, and you caress his navel with your fingertips. Starving him, still.

Impatient, he grabs your wrist and pushes your hand flat against his stomach, pulling closer with his leg, his hand tugging your yukata down your back. You pinch him in retaliation, and he flinches violently.

“Mean.” He never misses an opportunity to whine and pout. “Weren’t you supposed to make it up to me?”

You huff out a chuckle. “What, you waited for days, but five more minutes is a death sentence to you?”

“Exactly!” He slaps your shoulder and slides his hand down your chest to grasp your shaft. The hiss you let out is beyond satisfying. You’re not riled up enough, he needs you feral like a dog, he needs to be bent over and— “You made me wait days, so get to it. Never heard of ‘happy wife, happy life’?”

You roll your eyes, but you reach out to open the nightstand drawer all the same. Your hand comes back with a bottle of lube.

Oh, now we’re talking.

You sit back on your haunches to open the lube, and Satoru has to make an actual, conscious effort to keep from drooling. He swears his thighs are trembling. How is he meant to be calm when you’re right there, sitting between his legs, looking like you want to eat him alive?

He could die.

With a groan, he lies back, stroking his cock teasingly. He barely gets two pumps in before you smack his wrist with your free hand. He lets go, with a loud, frustrated whine.

“Not getting any younger here,” he complains. “Could’ve gotten myself off three times with how inefficient you are.”

You plop yourself down beside him, leaning on your elbow. “Soggy, pathetic little orgasms they would’ve been, darling.”

Satoru can’t help the outraged gasp he lets out. “Excuse me, I— angh…” Your hand’s slipped between his thighs, your middle finger circling his rim. “Let me finish my sentences, asshole.”

“Like I said,” you tease, slicking up his puffy hole, “you talk too much. Can you blame me for doing what I can to stop you?”

“Uh, yes?”

You laugh at that. God, you are so hot when you laugh, it’s unfair.

He rises on his elbows and ghosts his lips over yours, baiting you once more. You bite easily, light little pecks that make his heart flutter. Sneakily, he wiggles his hips, trying to get your finger in him.

“You’re not slick, you know,” you murmur, keeping your fingers frustratingly out.

“And whose fault is that?” Satoru retorts, head falling back with a moan as your finger pushes inside just barely, only to pull out immediately. His stomach tenses, he clamps his thighs over your wrist to keep you trapped. “Fucker.”

He’s getting sick of the phantom touch, and quickly. Alright then. You asked for it.

“Baby,” he breathes, looking up at you with pleading baby blues. “C’mon, I just wanna feel you…”

You inhale sharply, oh, this is too easy, and push your finger in. Slowly, gently, because you don’t feel like tearing his asshole apart. You’re just nice like that. Satoru rewards you with an open mouth kiss, letting you slip your tongue in his mouth, while his hips grind against your hand.

For a moment, a blissful moment, all he hears is the sound of your lips smacking together, your panting intertwining with his moans of pleasure, the slick sound of your finger lubing his hole up. Warmth blooms in his stomach, in his chest— more, more, he needs more, now.

“Give me your cock,” he pants, “come on, I’m ready, don’t make me wait.”

You don’t listen to him. Instead, you slide in another finger, and he clenches his jaw, brows knitting. Denying him— you’re so good at that. His head falls back as he pants, hips rocking in time with your thrusting, and you bend down to lick and tease at the sensitive skin of his throat.

Satoru’s losing it, though, and quickly. Your fingers are too big, too thick, too precise in their movements for him to resist. Heat coils in his stomach, his body tightens further with every stroke, he’s getting close, too close—

“Y/N, wait,” he whines, voice high and almost squeaky. You slow immediately, face leaving the crook of his neck. “Hold on, I…”

“You don’t wanna come?” You purr. Your movements haven’t stopped completely, and Satoru can’t keep in his high, breathy moans. “I just wanna make you feel good, baby. Don’t you want that?”

“Fuck you,” he hisses. He reaches up, tangles his hand in your hair, tugs hard.

You pull your fingers out of him entirely, and he groans in frustration at the emptiness, the cold. He digs his nails into your skin, and if you weren’t too far from him he’d bite.

“No need to throw a tantrum, sweets.”

“You know what I want,” Satoru whines, “come on, pretty please?”

You lean down and press your lips to his. A placating kiss, meant to stall. You let him nip and bite, let him ravage your mouth and distantly, he feels your hand brush against his inner thigh. Then, you maneuver yourself between his legs again, bending them at the knee to bracket your hips. Your cock rests against heavy against him, throbbing, leaking pre all over the place like it can tell it’s about to be inside him. You need him just as bad, so stop stalling, stop denying him—

“Deep breath for me?” You say against his lips.

He obeys. Takes a deeeep inhale, and—

You push inside him in one smooth motion, and he swallows back an obscene moan, just for the pleasure of hearing the borderline pornographic sound you let out in his ear.

“Fuck,” you pant. The satisfaction that fills him feels almost as good as your cock. C’mon, go wild. “Fuck, Satoru. Good? You feeling good?”

He would answer, he would, but he just feels so full, it’s like you’ve ripped his voice from him.

“Uh-huh.” He nods, head tilted back, mouth wide open, eyes scrunched close—

You pull out almost completely and push back in, smooth and soft and gentle. “You look so fucking good right now, baby,” you pant, settling into the rhythm.

“Yeah, I b-bet I do,” he says right back.

You lean down to push closer to him, your thrusting switching to a lazy grind into him. He turns his head, looking for your lips, and you kiss him eagerly, tongue stroking his like your shaft is massaging his insides. And it feels good, so good, so fucking good he can feel his brain melt into goo and leak out through his ears, but still he needs more. Harder. Meaner.

And you know that. This is just the warm-up.

You’re still taking your sweet fucking time though, stroking against his walls, listening to each of his moans greedily. He wants to curse you out, almost does, but he’s beyond helpless when you’re inside him like this. All he can do is moan, soft and high, lips parted like he wants you in there, too.

That gives you an idea. You lean up on one hand, the other gripping his thigh, never once breaking your thrusting.

“Show me your tongue,” your order.

And he obeys, because what else is he supposed to do? He pushes his mouth wide, pink tongue lolling out.

He sees you gather spit, and his hole flutters around you, betraying his excitement. You let the spit fall past your lips and onto his tongue, but just as he’s about to swallow, you grasp his jaw tight, stilling him.

He whines in frustration, kicking his leg petulantly, but you deny him still.

“Stay right there,” you murmur, and lean down to lick at his tongue. It turns into a harsh kiss, biting at each other’s lips with wet groans filling up the room.

You lean back and pull his leg up, onto your shoulder, and he knows he’s about to get what he needs.

“Baby,” he whines, just for the sake of it. His hips twitch, and you allow it, until he’s practically fucking himself on you, back curved gracefully, throat exposed with his heartbeat fluttering under the soft skin.

It isn’t long until you take the lead again. You grasp his wrist and yank his arm from under him, and he lets out a dramatic yelp as he falls flat on his back.

“I’ve got you,” you purr. “I’ve got you, my Satoru.”

His cock jumps. Easy bitch that he is.

You kiss his palm, tender and sweet. Then, you guide it up to the headboard.

“Hold on.”

He clutches the wood, thighs quivering. “You gonna fuck me now?” He can’t help but taunt, biting his smiling lips. “Or do I have to wait another two years?”

You don’t dignify him with a verbal response— instead you clutch his thighs, pull out fully and slam back into him. The pace you set is deep, harsh, each hit ripping a moan from him almost against his will. The entire fucking bed rocks with your movements.

And Satoru takes it, all that you’re offering, pleasure building in stomach with every slap of your hips against his ass. Fuck, he’s gonna be so sore tomorrow.

“You sound so sweet, baby,” you purr, caressing the soft skin of his thigh. “Is it— hah, is it everything you wanted?”

Blindly, he reaches up with one hand, the other clutching the headboard so tightly he almost hears the wood groaning. You grab his wrist and pin it near his head, bending over him and folding him in half like origami, his knee to his chest and fuck—

“Unh, Y/N, fuck!”

“What, am I not doing it right?" You quip. Satoru glances up, and the borderline ravenous look on your face makes his insides twist, his hole clench around you. You hiss, lips twisting into a snarl, and your hand leaves his wrist and wraps around his throat. Satoru lets out a strangled, high-pitched whimper as you squeeze his windpipe. “Yeah,” you say through a laugh, “thought so. You feeling good, sweetheart? I bet you fucking do, yeah, when was the last time you were so loud? Come on, baby, take it, have your fill.”

Nothing coherent leaves his mouth after that, nothing except your name and moans that only keep getting louder and louder, each snap of your hips scrambling his brain further. Your pre mixed with the lube sticks to his inner thighs, your hips, your balls, slick sounds replacing the slap of your skin against his.

You’re giving so much, so quickly, after days of withdrawal it feels like he’s drowning in the pleasure, drowning in the scent of your sweat and your moans and the way you say his name so sweetly still, even when you’re fucking him like you’re actually trying to break something— it’s so much, it’s too much, too fast, it’s exactly what he needed.

You’ve given up on talking him through it, as always when you’re getting close. Your thrusting is growing more frantic, falling out of rhythm, and before he knows it he comes hard, back arching off the bed like a pornstar.

“Ah— baby, fuck!”

His come splashes on his stomach, his hips, mixing with your pre and almost frothing with the friction. The groan you let out as he tightens is sinful, god he needs to hear more of those, he needs—

He hears two loud snaps in quick succession and suddenly you gasp, covering his body as the bed literally falls apart underneath you.

And for a hot second, Satoru is stunned, panting, and horribly confused. The mind-blowing orgasm doesn’t help him gather his wits, and for a moment he wonders if he even heard correctly. Maybe he’s hallucinating? Like, you were fucking hard, but not that hard, were you?

Oh shit, maybe you were.

You’re panting harshly above him, face and neck and chest all deliciously red, the veins in your neck bulging with effort. You lean up, eyes raking over him.

“You okay? Baby, you okay?”

You sound so worried, it’s honestly sweet. But all Satoru can think about is that you fucked him so hard you broke the bed.

He laughs. High and loud and bordering on full blown cackling. He can’t lie, that’s impressive. His leg falls off your shoulder, limp and heavy.

“You broke the bed—” he lets out through wheezing, “holy shit babe, you actually broke the bed!”

You roll your eyes, pushing your hair out of your face. “Was that a lifelong dream of yours or something? It can’t be that funny.”

Oh, but it is. It really is that funny. It takes a second, but Satoru calms down, while you’re looking around helplessly like the furniture can still be saved somehow. Like you’re still looking for the culprit.

All while still inside him, hard and throbbing. And no cum of yours filling him up.

He leans up on his elbows. “Wait, Y/N, you didn’t come?”

“We really have a bigger problem right now—”

“The only big problem is your cock right now, babe,” Satoru cuts in cheekily, sitting up on your lap. He swipes two fingers in his come and smears it on your balls, fondling them while he’s at it. You hiss.

“Satoru…”

“No, really, why are those still full, huh?”

You grab his wrist to still him. “Satoru, the bed—”

“—is fucked anyway,” he finishes for you. “C’mon,” he pleads. “Who cares about that? You have more important things to focus on right now. Come in me.”

To really drive the point home, he leans in to kiss at your neck, under your jaw, and wriggles his hips teasingly.

“Come on,” he pushes. “Baby, come on, I want it so bad…”

You push to lay him down, and his heart kickstarts again. You’re so easy, too easy. He loves you, loves you, loves you.

You press your lips to his and push into him with slow thrusts, keeping the pace mild but deep. Sweat drips down your jaw to your neck and Satoru leans up to lick at it, moaning in your ear.

“So good,” he whimpers, hole wet with your pre, squelching obscenely. You grip his thighs tight, rocking your hips into him.

Overstimulation sneaks up on him with each brush of your mushroom tip on his prostate, pushing his moans into throaty, high sounds. It’s quieter, this time, less frantic, yet somehow no less animal. Not with your lips stretched into a snarl as you bite at his neck, his shoulder.

He comes before you, again, his dick spurting to the best of its ability, his come almost see-through. His entire body tightens around you and his cry of your name pushes you over the edge and finally, fuck, finally warmth floods his insides as you spill in him, pushing your hips against his like you get any deeper than you already are.

He doesn’t move; neither do you. For a few seconds, you both simply lay there, panting as you come down, skin glistening with sweat and come. You catch his lips in a slow, unhurried kiss, claiming his mouth the way you know he loves.

It takes a while before you get yourself up and moving again, and in Satoru’s eyes it’s still unacceptable. Leaving him in this emotionally vulnerable time? You’re the absolute worst.

When you dare to pull out of him, your come dripping out of his abused hole, he growls in frustration.

“Come back,” he demands.

You pat his thigh affectionately. “In a second, darling.”

“No, now.”

He kicks his leg petulantly, but you don’t relent. You move away, and Satoru groans, hiding his eyes with his arm. “Asshole,” he mutters.

You return in under a minute, but even that was too long for him. He needs to be in your arms now, immediately. He needs your warmth.

Gentle hands lift his leg onto your shoulders. You swipe a wet cloth over his skin, both cleaning and soothing him. A sigh of contentment escapes him, against his will.

When he uncovers his eyes, the smile you’re giving is so gentle, so loving that his heart squeezes.

“Happy?” you ask, fingers running up and down his leg.

Satoru nods, delightfully exhausted. “I love you,” he blurts out.

You kiss his ankle. “I love you.”

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand, stealing your attention from him.

“Fuck,” you breathe when you peek at the notifications. “The elders are harassing me.”

Right. Your rematch.

Satoru chuckles. “Ditch them,” he demands. “Stay with me.”

You stay silent for a second.

“You know what?” You say after what feels like forever. “Yeah. I will.”

A satisfied smile stretches Satoru’s lips.

You need to grow a backbone.

LOVERSMANTRA © 2025. do not translate, crosspost, or copy. steal my work and i'll steal your kneecaps. bitch.

[fungifaggot]

[sitonmyfacesslut-deactivated202]

grahhhhhbbs i need a fanfic of the reader railing jason todd dumb🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Honestly me too fr.

Soufflé

Pairing : Jason Todd, m!reader

Warning : PWP, Dumbification, rough sex, breeding kink , degradation kink, overstimulation. Top male reader, Bottom Jason Todd.

Notes : this was written in my native language first then I had to translate it all to English for some reason lol, also I'm sleep deprived so this might have mistakes, all feedback welcomed, enjoy.

For all his grit and bite, Jason Todd was more soufflé than steel.

Puffed up and crisp until you bit down, and then he’d melt into something you could swallow whole.

He had a smart remark ready on his tongue right up until your hips snapped forward hard enough to punch the air out of his lungs. What left his mouth instead was a broken, breathy sound. You grinned, all giddy watching his hands curl helplessly into the white sheets.

“Yeah? That all it takes to shut you up?” you pressed, pace unrelenting. His eyes fluttered, his mouth falling open on a gasp, brain already lagging, the only thought left behind those eyes a frantic chant of fuckfuckfuck.

“Nothing smart to say now, huh?” you drawled, dragging your cock out slow before slamming back in. His back bowed, throat working like he wanted to argue, but what spilled out was nothing more than a string of whimpers, his mushy brain not functioning properly in the meaning time.

You slid your hands beneath his thighs, hoisting them easily over your shoulders. The new angle had you lining up perfectly with his hole before you bottomed out again. Jason’s cry cracked sharp in the room. Half scream, half moan.

Jason writhed under you, clawing at the sheets hard enough to tear them if he wanted. His chest heaved, skin slicked with sweat, breath jagged and uneven. His eyes rolled back even as his jaw clenched like he could still fight it. Stubborn bastard.

Fine. You’d just fuck the defiance out of him then.

His fists were now white-knuckled, chest rising and falling. His body arched to meet you despite himself. The tough act clung to his jaw, but the rest of him had already yielded, trembling, pliant, dripping.

Your gaze flicked down, and you barked a laugh. Pathetic. His cock flushed red and angry, leaking all over his stomach, twitching with every thrust of your hips. He hadn’t even been touched, and still he looked seconds from cummin' all over himself.

“Look at you,” you growled, snapping your hips harder, grinding deep until he sobbed wrecked and teary eyed. “Hard as fuck, not even putting it to use. Just lying there, drooling for me like a little whore.”

Jason shuddered, tossing his head against the pillow, teeth sunk into his lower lip to muffle the noise. You fucked him through it anyway, merciless, skin slapping loud enough to drown his muffled broken little moans.

His cock twitched again, leaking over and over across his stomach, but he was too far gone to notice too cock-drunk to care. His hands scrambled uselessly against your shoulders now, not to push you away but to hold on.

“That’s it,” you coaxed, your voice low and rough in his ear. “Let it go. Let me fuck the brains right out of that thick skull of yours.”

And judging by the way his eyes rolled back, jaw slack and his sweet mouth babbling oh yes- fuckmefuckme's, cock jerking untouched against his abs, you already had.

Jason seized beneath you, spilling across his chest with a broken cry. You didn’t let up. If anything, the sight of him unraveling only drove you deeper, chasing your own release through the tight spasms of his tightening walls around your shaft.

He whimpered, trying to twist away, nerves already fried. “W-wait, too much-”

“Too much?” you echoed with a sharp grin, pinning his hips while you drove through his spent body. “You can take it. Gotham’s big bad boy. Don't bail out on me now baby.”

Jason’s head lolled back, lips shaping half-syllables, voice breaking into weaker sobs. His cock twitched uselessly, still hard, still leaking, even after he’d already spilled.

You finally groaned and emptied inside him, grinding deep before stilling. For a moment, the room was only of his ragged breathing, his body trembling and sweat-slick beneath you. He looked dazed, fucked-out, too far gone to bother and pretend.

You gently brushed damp hair from his forehead, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you murmured, sweet and all-sugary:

“How much time d’you think you need before you can go again?”

The way Jason shook beneath you, trembling and wrecked, was all the answer you needed.

Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed reading it as I enjoyed writing it '-'

Have a great day :)

[fungifaggot]

yum

[349kj]

— ✧ thinking about kryptonian!reader and dick grayson...

dick's sprawled out on your bedsheets, a long leg hooked over your shoulder, body bent in half in a manner only possible for dick grayson, while you pound into him from above. you’re only using a fraction of your power, but for him, it feels like you're pulverizing and then sewing his insides back together at the same time.

every time you harshly thrust into dick’s wet hole, he lets out an embarrassing half moan, half wheeze, but it doesn’t seem to deter you, keeping up your steady strokes. 

“fuck,” dick cries out, when a particularly hard thrust makes your cock hit his prostate directly. he moves one of his hands braced up against the headboard down to a sensitive, stiff nipple. he twists and tugs at it hard enough to make his mouth drop open in pleasure and moan out loudly again. dick’s hole is messy and puffy and frothily white from your past three or four (and fuck, he’s so gone he can’t even remember how many times you came in him) loads. 

you pant heavily above him, and the look on your face is worth the nasty bruises he’ll probably have on his hips where you’re gripping them tightly (you’re lucky he loves you because that is going to make patrolling tonight such a bitch).

the wet plap! of your thighs and his ass colliding is downright fucking obscene, and holy shit, that’s probably one of the hottest things he’s ever heard. 

dick clenches down on your cock, making you groan. you remove one of your hands from his hips to cup his cheek, leaning down to sloppily kiss his open mouth. it’s more of a wet, messy gliding of lips than it is a kiss, but it’s hot as fuck and dick’s going to come soon so he doesn’t care. 

one of your hands moves from his hip to smack his ass. dick’s eyes roll up into the back of head, and he gasps in surprise. 

“you like that, baby?” you pant. 

“fuck yeah, i love it,” dick groans back. 

he cries out when you do it again, this time with your other hand. “mm, I love this pretty hole,” you groan, “it’s all mine, right? my hole to do whatever I want with.” 

“s… shit, yeah, s’all fucking yours, baby... oh, god, fuck me…”

“yeah? you want me to fuck you? fuck you so hard that you forget your own damn name?” your pounding speeds up, and your strokes grow shorter. dick automatically grinds down onto you to meet your thrusts. you reach down between your sweat slick bodies and tug at dick’s throbbing cock. dick’s abdomen tenses up, and he can feel his orgasm approaching.

he nods dumbly, now unable to make any sounds other than moaning and whimpering. you withdraw the other hand on his hip to grasp the headboard roughly, allowing yourself more leverage to fuck dick harder–something that didn’t even seem possible at this point. 

“f–fuck, i love you so much, dick,” you moan out uncharacteristically loud, and dick fucking loses it. 

he comes with a shout, back arching up and painting long stripes of thick, white cum across both of your stomachs. “love you…” he murmurs over and over as he rides out his orgasm on your cock.

your mouth drops open in pleasure as you continue to thrust sloppily into dick, hand above him on the headboard squeezing down harder. the burn of overstimulation is painful yet at the same time feels so good, but dick doesn’t have the energy to let out anything except for satisfied sighs and low gasps. 

he feels your hips stuttering to a stop, pressing into him as close as you could. hot, thick liquid floods inside of dick, and he gasps, tears pricking at his eyes. you keep thrusting in and out of dick, slower now, riding out the rest of your orgasm. distantly, dick hears the sound of wood splintering and cracking above him. 

with furrowed brows and a dazed expression, dick looks up and holy shit. 

you broke his headboard. 

wood sticks up and out underneath your hand, and dick, momentarily forgetting your invulnerable skin, winces at the thought of never ending splinters. you wouldn’t have even noticed in your fucked out and hazy mind, but dick suddenly going quiet makes your brows furrow in confusion and you look up as well. 

you gape and snatch your hand away from dicks headboard, looking down at dick with a pout and a guilty expression.

“shit, baby i’m sor–” dick cuts you off, a hand rising to snake around your neck and pull you down into a proper kiss. it’s slow and gentle now that the heat of the moment is gone, your lips moving with dicks automatically, as if you had done this a thousand times before–because you had.

you break away slightly, enough to murmur against his lips, “i’m sorry, i’ll buy you a new one.”

dick smiles and shakes his head. “it’s ok, you don’t have to,” he whispers back.

you sigh and pull completely away from dick, slowly sliding out of him with a wet pop. dick winces at the uncomfortable feeling in his ass as you flop down on your stomach beside him. 

you both lie in silence for a moment before you sigh and get up, heading towards the bathroom. dick absentmindedly appreciates the view of your ass as you walk away. 

you come back a little bit later with a wet washcloth and you begin cleaning dick and yourself up. once you’re done, you toss the washcloth in the general direction of the dirty laundry hamper (you miss by the way, which dick slightly cringes at). 

laying down on the bed again, this time on your back. you turn toward dick and he knows what you're about to say before you even open your mouth. dick sits up and leans over you, pressing his lips against yours again in a sweet kiss. he draws back and grins lazily at you. 

“it’s ok,” he says again. “don’t worry about it.” 

you frown but keep quiet. dick notices your eyes starting to flutter shut. 

“tired?” he asks.

you nod and hum, eyes finally shutting.

dick lays back down next to you on his side, hooking a leg over your waist and resting his head on your shoulder. he sighs heavily as he adds buy new headboard to his mental to-do list.

— ✧ first time writing smut guys kinda scared 🙈

[fungifaggot]

Give me 5 minutes and a rubber glove.

[invincibledc]

✎ ⋆｡ 𐙚 ˚𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗼𝗹𝗳!𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗲!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝘅 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘆𝘀𝗼𝗻

A/n: my first little smut writing, hopefully this is good cause I got into a freaky mood to do this (please dear god struck me down.)

warning: breeding kink | and idk about the rest, but I just had a feeling to write this.

〉with the bed creaking, mark ignored how his boyfriend’s sharp nails were clawing at his back. All he could only focus on was the man’s howling and moaning. Soft whimpers as he slammed his cock against the male’s prostate, he felt like he was in heaven. The way his boyfriend clenched onto his cock, the way he wish to give his boyfriend the pups he deserves. It’s been the nth round yet, cum sloshing in the werewolf’s stomach as he whines louder.

Mark pounding shook the bed harder as sweat pooled against his forhead, even the air smelled like sex and musk. Mark looked down to see a bulge in the werewolf’s stomach. Mark’s eyes dilate, eyes blown wide as he pressed his hand over his boyfriend’s pudge. The big man whines louder, clenching mark more as mark couldn’t help but grunt.

“That’s it.. milk me baby.. I’ll give you all the pups you want..” he says lowly, smiling with a dark grin as the werewolf nods, already in subspace as he can’t even talk much other than stare with those cute glossy eyes and shaking mouth.

Mark leaned down, kissing the lips of his beloved boyfriend who melted into the kiss. Lips mangled, mark grips his boyfriend’s hips, piston his hips as he nailed in deep. Leading to the buff and beefy man to yelp. His eyes widen as he came onto his stomach and Mark’s. Feeling mark fill him up for another time.

Mark smiled despite half looking ready to pass out, they’ve been doing this since afternoon to night. His boyfriend looked also ready to pass out as his arms fall limp from Mark’s back.

Mark fell onto the man’s big chest, cupping them as he gave it a kiss.

“Want another round?”

“Mark!”

[privitivium]

hey 🌹 SUBTOP AKI HCS WITH HOUSEHUSBAND READE-💥

aki hayakawa, househusband reader

mmm aki hayakawa mmmm🌹

both amab, subtop aki hayakawa, dombot reader. NSFW ;; nipple play, ,,, praise, ,, binding. yeah.

ㅡaki would be such an amazing husband bro. a real lover... maybe. a little closed up, opening after plenty years, having a private wedding - nothing extravagant. you're someone who treats him gently, yet teasing him when the time is right. you're just ,,, what he needs. someone who takes the stress off his back, making his load lighter, literally?

ㅡhousehusband you who greets him sweetly, immediately taking his coat and pecking him hello, good evening... offering him a hot meal that you've coicidentally just finished - you liked finding different things to make. spending your days cleaning, decorating, baking - searching recipes... mmh. Hell yeah... making it easier for the main breadwinner of the household. imagine your surprise when he tells you the news that you're gonna be taking in some kid... grimly...

ㅡthe thought of actually being parents always warmed your heart... and when he took denji in, you immediately took him under your wing. he was so rowdy, boisterous, so funny. how he clashes with aki's personality... so adorable,,,

ㅡ"oh... your husband?" denji looks at you funny, a little weirded out by you being so nice to him off the bat. you - you're this guys' lover? wedding band on your finger, glinting in the light. oh yeah... "really? aki no nuts ?!" surprised that you weren't just roommates... yeah, forgetting that dudes can date dudes too...

ㅡhousehusband you... most accommodating to the most weirdest situations... a pink haired horned girl with the cutest cat ever and a blond boisterous boy with bad hygiene that you're slowly guiding him to fix...

ㅡ"i'm sorry... i know it might get a little crowded. makima isn't listening to me..." he murmurs, lips pressed to the nape of your neck, nuzzling his face against the side of yours. "she probably said you were the best fit, huh? she sees the best in you, as do i... i don't mind - we can make this work... don't stress too much." turning around, grabbing his hands in yours and peppering him in kisses. you know how his job is... very demanding...

ㅡ"my darling aki hayakawa... don't look so sour, have some more..." treating him so sweetly,,, never fails to make him all giddy inside when you offer more of your frozen treat you made with his favorite ingredient. that's exactly what he needs... his husband to coddle him in the comfort and privacy of their bedroom! no distractions, no boisterous devils bothering them - just him and his lover...

ㅡ"you shouldn't be so lenient with him," aki tells you, eyebrows furrowed. denji knew he could get anything he want from you - being treated like some kid. like your kid... that brat, really? but fuck, if you weren't the best devil tamer in the entirety of japan. "you know he kicked me in the balls, right?" he stares hard at you, at your smiling, flowery expression. hmph...

ㅡnsfw;;

ㅡstealing a kiss whenever you get the chance. when he looks particularly pensive, deep in thought - you peck his lips, gazing at him fondly and loving while finding his hand... squeezing his, quietly telling him that you love him. initiating something deeper... "oh... really?" he mused, glancing over at you from the satin red ropes of fabric on the bed. "i just wanted to try something different..." you grin, bashfully.

ㅡarms tied behind his back, riding him. teasingly slow... you just like dragging it out, seeing the plenty pretty expressions he makes when he's agonized in such a manner. aki bucks upwards,, mewling out so pitifully; a siren. you sink down, pupils dilated at the sight of your husband's lips parted in a silent moan. aki is so pretty ...

ㅡi imagine him as a crier... soft,,, holding him in your arms whike you fuck yourself on his thick, curved cock, legs wrapped around his waist, guiding him in when he pulls back. a nice rhythm you've got going... worshipping him, praising him for the way he makes you feel. "you feel so good, aki..." you mumble, hands roaming his broad shoulders, squeezing the fleshy muscle. looking at him with such love and affection, glossy with your own emotions...

ㅡswallowing the bile in his throat. burying his face in the crook of your neck, feeling the heat behind his eyes swell - aki loosely wraps his arms over your neck, inhaling your comforting scent.

ㅡimmediately threading your fingers through his raven colored hair... "beautiful man... my beautiful, amazing husband... i love you so- so much..." arching against him, fixing your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles, and he falls against you. body laid on top of yours, limp, trembling. sniffling and hiding himself in the hollow of your shoulder. "my pretty man..." mumbling repeated praise, head falling back - petting hair. cockwarming... hell yeah...

ㅡyou taking immesne joy in messing with his nipples. theyre just so fascinating ... perky, a dull pink... poking and prodding, pulling and sucking as you grind yourself on him,,, "so cute..." aki having to wear bandaids over his nipples because even the slightest brush agaisnt his shirt makes them ache? ouuuh the painnn...

ㅡsitting on your knees, pillow supporting you, buried inbetween his thighs. staring up at him, hooded gaze. starry eyed at his flushed face, hidden with his hair... holding his prick by the base, ever so gently guiding your tongue along a particularly prominent vein. pre pearling... guiding him into your mouth, sucking the round tip, tonguing his frenulum before taking the entirety of his cockhead in your mouth, careful. eyes rolled back, inhaling the musk of his genitals - paired with the feeling of him on your tongue. his body heat skyrocketing... jeez...!

ㅡshoutout to cockworship. also kissing in the shower, bathing each other, noses bumping against each other as you aim to kiss and snickering softly. ouuh soft ... fluffy.. hell yeah...

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ He can't fuck you like I can ❞

Jason Todd x vigilante!ftm!reader | porn with plot, minor angst, hints of fluff | sub. bttm. reader (AFAB) | wc: 3.9K

warnings: most likely inaccurate gun anatomy and care, dysfunctional relationship, dub. consent, gunplay, dacryphilia, possessive fucking, mentions of abandonment issues, slight degradation, creampies, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as dick/cock. terms like cunt/boycunt, pussy/boypussy, hole, sex are used)

summary: Jason and you had broken up. He didn’t think you meant it. Not until you mention a one-night stand. He’s determined to remind you that no one else could ever have you like that.  Listening to ▸Teeth (interlude) by XXXTENTACION / The Worst by Jhené Aiko Patreon | Discord

It’s raining in Gotham City. It’s an unrelenting force, a sheet of water thundering against window panes and cars mercilessly. Yet, the citizens of Gotham City go about their nights as usual. A little rain didn’t scare them. There were more terrifying figures in the dark to fear, but there were others in the dark, too. People who would protect them. 

Whether it's Batman or the other vigilantes, despite their personal opinions on your methods, they never complained when you saved them. 

The cops, however, had their own thoughts about you. Your methods were much more brutal than they’d like; you were a harder pill to swallow compared to the Bat and his proteges of brightly coloured circus monkeys. Like you gave a shit. 

You strained your eyes to listen to the garbled chatter in your ears. Rainy, stormy nights were the perfect setting for criminals to do as they did. Lower visibility, coupled with the muffling the rain provided, gave them more cover. That, and some cops found gravity weighing down on them when it came to patrolling their routes when it rained. 

Those lazy bastards. 

Still, the police scanner crackled to life. If only you could make out what they were saying, but alas, the rain was being more of a pain in the ass than usual. You let out an annoyed sigh, half-tempted to chuck the in-ear communicator onto the ground and go back to the usual routine of chasing police lights. But before you could make up your mind, your ears picked up on a pair of footsteps that you’d memorised. 

Heavy steel-toed combat boots. Light despite it — their owner being a man who’d trained to keep his steps cat-like from years of living in Gotham, then being trained under the Batman, and finally being trained under assassins. The man, the myth, the thorn in your side and pain in your ass;

Jason Todd. 

You cursed, rolling your eyes as you face him. He stalks forward. The dingy yellow light of the rooftop you were on barely highlighted the red hues of his helmet. You scoff as he stays silent, still making his way towards you in a casual cadence that annoys you so much that you walk towards the ledge. 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he gruffs out. You wished you couldn’t hear him. You wished his voice would be crackling and as indiscernible as the police scanner chatter. “Don’t be such a drama queen, will ya’?”

“Hell do you want, Red?” You spun on your heel, but don’t budge from the edge because if you did, he’d get into his head about how obedient you are or some bullshit like that. It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him — the crux of your break-up had been his silent expectations of you in the relationship. Something he didn’t communicate to you, which left him unhappy, and you bitter. 

It wasn’t your fault; Jason couldn’t open his mouth to speak about these things. Therefore, it wasn’t your responsibility to cater to his needy insecurities if he never said anything in the first place. That’s what you’d told your civilian friends anyway, and they fully agreed because they were your friends. Even if they were your own echo chamber, you still knew a part of your argument stayed true. 

If Jason couldn’t communicate, then why would he be shocked that you’d be clueless about his personal feelings? 

“What? I can’t have a chummy talk with you?” he jerks his head at you, his gloved hands crossing his broad chest as you hear him scoff. 

Your brow twitches, and you swear you feel a vein pop out on your temple. 

“Chummy talk? Now, you can talk to me?”

“Oh fuck, here you fuckin’ go again —”

You raise your hands, shaking your head. Your bangs sway along with you, rivulets of water making their way down your nose and face as you jump down from the ledge and stomp towards your gear. 

“You want to have talks? Like, therapy sessions, yeah? That’s what you want?” His jabbering causes irritation to spread through you. The feeling of rain making your hair wet, and the annoying noise in your ear of garbled speeches, is already fraying your senses as is. Jason’s obtuseness wasn’t helping lift your mood in the slightest. You hoped the criminals tonight would put up a good fight, because you desperately needed something to punch. 

“We’re vigilantes. We’re not a normal couple,” Jason said. His helmet was warping his voice slightly. 

“We’re not a couple, Red,” you remind him. He tilts his head, laughing. 

“Something funny?” You ask in a flat tone. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of your annoyance. 

“What? You being serious?” 

“Fuck’s sake, Jason. I haven’t been to your place in weeks, haven’t even returned your calls, much less your messages. Are you that dense?”

“Over a dumb argument?”

“An argument you started!” You yelled, not being able to stop yourself, as you laughed in disbelief. The dark clouds above you rumbled, and the rain lightened up slightly. But Gotham’s weather was as finicky as Jason’s mood at times, so you didn’t find it at all reassuring. 

“You were the one who started talking about how I’m not good enough for you! That I shouldn’t be doing missions because clearly,” you stressed the last word with as much disdain as you could. “I’m too stupid to know how criminal enterprises work, despite my extensive multi-year career.”

“Okay, I know I shouldn’t have said some of the things I said.”

“Most of the things, Jason.”

You can’t see it, but you know he’s rolling his eyes, and the thought of that pisses you off enough to turn your back to him. 

“Can you stop walking away? I was just worried about you, alright! I could’ve worded it better, I digress. I was just angry because you were being reckless.” 

“You gave me a test, a mission, like I’m your sidekick instead of your boyfriend. Do you know how humiliating it is? Then! You graded me and gave me constructive criticism!”

Jason didn’t understand why you found that so offensive. That’s how he’d been trained all his life, and it made him stronger. His reflexes, his quickhandedness in combat, and his quick wits had been earned through grit and tests. He didn’t think you’d be so reckless, and in the heat of the moment, his words came out much harsher than he had intended. 

“I’m a grown-ass man, Jason. I don’t need to be tested by my boyfriend of all people!”

“Oh, so we’re boyfriends again?” Jason follows you as you leap to a different rooftop. If Gotham citizens could hear you both now, they’d be sitting on their fire escapes with a popcorn bucket in hand. 

“No!” You yell, just as thunder rumbles again and the rain pours down harder. 

“Move on already, Jason! God knows I have!”

His head snaps upwards as he watches your figure shrink the further away you stomp, but then he doubles his speed and grasps at your shoulder. You nearly spin from the force of his grip, but you remain steady on your feet as you level your glare at him. 

“Fuck does that mean? You seeing someone?” You hate that your cock twitches at the rough tone he takes. But you push through that mindless lust, shoving him back as you continue your journey to get away from him. 

“I fucked someone! Best night of my fucking life!” 

Jason stood there, stunned. The rain continued to pour, and the sight of your leaping figure got smaller and smaller as the minutes ticked by. Jason felt like the earth beneath him had opened up and swallowed him in those minutes. His heart started to pick up its speed again, and he tugged his helmet off when he felt the air beginning to get thinner and thinner. He hated this. This all-consumming feeling of dread swallowed him whole and turned his limbs as heavy as lead. 

Why did you have this much power over him? No, why had he given you this much power?

He thought he’d learned his lesson a lifetime ago. But here he was again, left in the dark and cold as his mind raced with a million possibilities. He loves you, did you not see that? Were you too angry to see it, or had you truly just given up on him? You promised him once upon a time that you would never do that. 

But Bruce had made the same promise before, then broke it and replaced him. Jason’s head pulsed, and he grit his teeth as he tried to ground himself back to earth. That stupid fucking therapy method again, something about focusing his senses, or was it meditation, fuck! He couldn’t think.

Were you leaving him? 

Did you hate him?

Were you wishing you’d never even met him?

It’s nearly morning when you stumble home. Knuckles satisfyingly bruised and back aching; you craved a warm shower, then your comfortable bed to end this shitty night. 

Your plans would need to be put on pause when you entered your home and immediately picked up on his presence. You hung your head, tiredly swinging your legs over your window ledge and placing your elbows on your knees as you frustratingly ran your fingers through your hair. The puddle of water dripping onto the floor from your drenched frame was the least of your concerns as you glared at Jason from between your fingers. 

He was leaning against your kitchen counter, his hood still on his face as he held his gun in his hands. He had disassembled it, and pieces of it lay on your counter, twinkling at you as though greeting you. 

“Get out of my house, psycho.” 

Jason’s cheek twitches, but he continues to wipe his gun down, pretending he hadn’t heard you at all. 

“You remember how much you slobbered on my Glock?”

You freeze as you register what he’d just so casually asked you. So he takes this chance to continue. 

“Because I do. You were begging for me to shove it in your mouth, sucking it like it was my dick.” He places his rag — it was yours, he’d gone and used your shit because he knew you used the same supplies as him, because he was a good boyfriend, and he made sure you used the best of the best like he did — down on your counter, then he fixes the barrel and recoil spring back. When he lines up the slide and racks his gun, the loud click that it makes sends shivers down your spine. 

“I fucked you so hard that night, you walked funny. You said that was the best night of your life.”

“Jason.”

“Stoker’s a funny family name,” Jason tips his head down, and your fingers curl into fists as you both glare at the other. “No relation to the author, though, shame. Would’ve been cooler if he was.”

“You found out who I fucked?” 

“Wasn’t hard. I know which bar you like to go to, asked around. Told Debby we were going through a rough patch, she said she didn’t like Arthur that much anyway. Fucker doesn’t subscribe to the idea of tipping apparently.”

You cautiously approach him, uncaring of the water you drag in as the ambience of the still-harsh rain muffles the silence between you. Jason keeps you in his sights. He knows you’re gearing to lunge at him, not because he’s a threat. No, Jason wasn’t a scumbag who’d hurt his boyfriend. He wasn’t that kind of piece of shit — he’d much rather die than become one. 

You just want to intimidate him. Chase him out of your home. Out of your life. 

Jason rolls his shoulder and lazily inspects his now-clean gun. Aiming it at your wooden floors. As you draw closer, your eyes take in the organised mess he’d set up. Then, the bloody rag.

“You pistol-whipped him?” Jason turns his head to look at you.

“You’d rather I shoot him?”

You hate how heated he got you. How easily he stokes anger and lust inside of you, how much your heart squeezes when you see those sea-green eyes stare into you. They’re always desperate, not vulnerable, but desperate. Like he wanted you to see him, but he couldn’t find it in himself to show it. So you made it a point to unravel parts of him — made sure he knew you’d always be someone that stayed, someone that wouldn’t leave him because he was broken. 

But fuck, he made you so pissed sometimes. 

“Take off your helmet, Jason.”

He perks up at the tone you take. Not snarky, not clipped. There was an air of resignation in there, but your frown remained on your face, so he remained cautious. He places his helmet on the counter, and you take Jason Todd in.

There he was. His inky black hair stuck to his forehead, streaks of white accompanying it. He had strong brow bones, shadows often enveloping his eyes, if it weren’t for how bright they were. Then, his tall nose bridge that’d been reset so many times, you were surprised it still stayed as pretty as it was. His m-shaped cupid's bow, the scar that ran down his lip and the scar on his cheek; a gnarly J carved so deep it never went away. 

He couldn’t meet your eyes. So you call out for him again. 

There’s that desperation. 

“He was a pussy,” he said flatly. “Why in the fuck would you sleep with him?”

You pull off your domino mask, rubbing at the makeup around your eyes. It smudged messily, sticking to your gloved hands, but you couldn’t give a damn. You were exhausted, and Jason’s whining wasn’t helping. Even if he pulled at your heartstrings, your body was far too tired. 

“Jason,” you sigh out. 

“You think he could’ve fucked you like I could?” He waved his unloaded gun around, a loose grin on his handsome face as he turned his body to face you. Still leaned against your counter, still entirely too casual. 

“You think anyone could satisfy your fucked up fantasies like I could?”

You rub at the back of your neck, giving him a half-hearted glare as you remember what he was referencing. He’d been cleaning his gun, and you watched on lazily. It was the way he did it so efficiently. His pretty hands are taking it apart, then wiping it clean. The way he cleaned the barrel, thrusting the brush in then out once. Then again, unsatisfied with the cleanliness.

You’d been horny. Blurting out how it looked so sensual — he apparently cleaned your gun sexily. He thought you were joking, but you continued. Saying the gun was almost like a cock. 

You ended up kneeling between his legs that night, his gun in your mouth and his fingers in your hair as you teased him. 

He was right. Not everyone would be cool with even the idea of bringing a gun into the bedroom. Certainly not Arthur Stoker. You doubted even the other vigilantes you knew would be open to it — they’d call you insane, or kinky if they were being nice, but they’d most definitely judge you. 

Jason approaches you, and you tip your head to look at him. He places the barrel under your jaw, dragging it down to your chin, then tapping it there. 

“It’s clean,” he mutters dryly. You fight the urge to scoff. 

You were so tired.  But a good fucking never hurt. Or even if it did, it’d be a good kind of hurt. 

Jason sucked in a breath when you pressed your kiss to it. Your smudged makeup and painted lashes made your eyes seem brighter than it was, even under your shitty kitchen lights.

You slip your tongue to the sides, tracing the slide and groaning softly when you open your mouth and let him admire the sight of his gun on your tongue. Jason grabs the back of your head and smashes your lips together. You react like a live wire, wrapping your arms around him, and he wastes no time in carrying you to your bedroom. 

Jason is impatient. You don’t blame him. You’re sure he intends to erase any traces of Arthur from you — he grips you like that’s the case. His eyes were heavy, possessiveness rolling off of him in waves. 

He looked so handsome.

You couldn’t help but kiss him again, and again. He grunted, bringing you on top of him and resting you on his lap as you grinded on him. He reeked of the rain, smog, and gunpowder. But underneath that, there’s his signature cologne. Bergamot and rich vanilla, burning so deliciously together. Then, as you ran your lips down his neck, you grinned at the scent of the body wash you’d gotten him. 

If your clothes didn’t have Kevlar woven through their threads, you were sure Jason would’ve ripped them to shreds. Still, the speed at which he gets you naked could have been record-breaking. You reach for his belt, but he pins you down to the bed instead.

He presses the gun to your cunt and feels a giddy laugh escaping him when your pupils blow out. 

“You’re a piece of work, baby.”

You shudder as he rubs it against your dick. The smoothness of it causes a small moan to escape you, and he grunts. “You’re getting your cunt juices all over it. You’re fucking filthy, you know that?”

“You love it though, right?” You stretch your arms above your head, and your back thanks you for it. Then you slowly melt against your bedding, looking up at him with nothing but complete trust in your eyes.

“You love me, right?”

Jason’s expression softens. He nods, helping you as he moves his weapon in tandem with the lazy rolls of your hips.  

“Yeah,” he admits raspily. “Yeah, I love you.”

You reach for his face, palm covering that scar, and he leans down to kiss you. 

Jason presses the barrel to your cunt, and you widen your legs. He watches your face as he pushes it in, his thumb over the pulse on your neck, so he can feel how you react. You face him, smudging your pillows with your dark makeup, and whisper his name. The more he pushes, the faster your pulse gets. 

When it’s inside of you, you’re panting. If you were in pain, you didn’t show it. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he whispers to you. Sweeping your hair back and kissing your lips chastely. 

“Taking it in so good. Such a good slut for me. You’re never gonna leave me, right?” You flutter your eyes open, nodding as you trail your hand over the curve of his ear. 

“Say it.”

“Jason — ah!”

He’s halfway there, and you’re clenching down on it. His lips purse as you struggle to answer. 

“Say it,” he says with a sharper tone. His finger dips to the trigger, and you shiver as you hear him applying more pressure. Although you knew his gun was unloaded, the fact that he was so desperate to hear you say you needed him,  he put his hands on the trigger made your heart race. 

“Please.”

“I’m never going to leave you, Jason,” you assure him in a steady tone. You gulp down a moan, stroking over his cheek as you smile at him. 

“No one else loves me like you do, Jay.”

Jason kisses you again, this time slower, with more heat. When he cries, you try your best not to get wetter, but it's hard when he starts thrusting his gun in and out of you. You mewl, voice pitched as he begins to get rougher. His arms flexed, the veins on the back of his hands and up his arms getting pronounced as he fucks you through your first orgasm. 

“Say it again, baby. Say you need me.”

Jason’s tears were welling in his eyes, and when he blinked, they finally slipped down his chiselled face. You moan out his name sweetly, watching how shimmery his seagreen eyes got the more emotional he was.

“Jay — Jason, baby.”

He makes a noise, soft and inquiring. You kiss his tears, savouring it on your tongue as you squeeze his biceps.

“Please, fuck me already.”

Jason pulls his gun out, and you shudder at the gape it leaves. He places your thighs over his hips, and you’re barely given a moment to think when he presses his head into you. Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream escaping you as he relentlessly presses on. Impatient, possessive, emotional. You smile dopily as you bite down on your stained pillows. 

“Fuck, your boycunt feels so good, baby.”

You groan in agreement, Jason’s jaw goes loose as he slips his eyes shut. He squeezes at your hips, his grip bruising as he tries to get you to take him to his hilt. But he’s so thick, and you’re so tight. You whimper out that there’s lube, so he stretches over you to grab it because he doesn’t want to slip out. 

Jason gives a generous pour, messily swiping his hands up and down your cunt. Giving your twitching dick a rub that makes you squirm. 

He slides back, leaving only his tip inside of you, then pours more. It helps you immensely. You hear him toss the bottle of lube next to his gun. You chew your bottom lip in anticipation. 

Jason’s first thrusts are slow, but deep. Grinding into you, rubbing at your swollen cock as he watches your face. He’s gentlemanly like that. Making sure you feel pleasure first, obsessed with the feeling of your cunt wrapped around him. 

Then, once he feels you tighten up and he sees the telltale signs of your orgasm, he stops. You whine and whimper, but he simply shushes you. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll make you feel good, baby. I promise, I promise.”

He snaps his hips into you. The sound of skin smacking skin echoes through your apartment. You gasp, digging your nails into his back as he folds you in half. He uses gravity to fuck into you, moaning into your ear as he braces one hand on your headboard. The springs in your mattress squeak in alarm, and you’re sure your neighbours were going to fucking despise you with how hard your bed was thudding against the wall.

Your moans weren’t helping either. 

But fuck your neighbours. If they were getting fucked this good, they’d be loud too. Jason sobs suddenly, and you press wet kisses to his cheek, shushing him when he goes back to that slow grind. 

He always gets overwhelmed when it feels good. Something he’d tried desperately to fix until he met you. You reassured him with your fucked out voice that he was good, that you felt good too. He clung to your words like they were gospel. 

“Are you close?” he asks you, his voice raspy. 

“Yeah, but…but I wanna cum with you. Please.”

Jason actually blushes. He wipes away a few stray tears, then focuses on that pace that made you dig your nails into him. You yelp, mouth hanging open as he continues his relentless thrusts. He can feel you clench down, so he reaches to jerk you off. 

Your thighs tremble, ankles locking behind him, and his eyes flutter closed as he feels you milk his cock desperately. His hips stutter, his groans turning harsh as he gives a few sloppy thrusts until he finally cums inside of you. You shudder at the feeling of him filling you up, legs falling onto the bed as you try to catch your breath. 

Shit. 

You were never going to be able to break up with Jason Todd, huh?

[fungifaggot]

Im kicking my feet- this is so good

[dreamersworldduh]

YEARS LATER

• CLARK KENT x MALE READER

SUMMARY — You and Clark’s secret is nearly exposed by your boyfriend. You have no choice but to leave him and your entanglement behind for as long as you could but naturally your sisters weren’t going to let that happen. Before you know it, you’re reunited with Clark but hoping to keep guardrails this time around.

WARNING! 18+MDNI. Sexual Themes. Suggestive Language.

WORDS! 26.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! 26k! 26k—this might be the longest fic I wrote so far. It’s been a journey to get it done with school and all but here it is. A fic of forbidden love is always the most time fun to write. Anyway, enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS — HOURS & HOURS

NOAH STOOD half in, half out of the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other clutching a roll of spare programs he'd clearly come to drop. His expression moved in a visible sequence—puzzlement at the closed door, then recognition, then a clean, white shock that drained the color from his face. Anger arrived last, not volcanic but focused: the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders squared as if bracing for weather.

No one spoke for a beat too long. The parlor clock ticked once. Behind Noah, the coordinator's voice floated down the hall—"Groomsmen, two minutes to places"—bright, oblivious.

"Noah," you said, your voice coming out thin and wrong.

He blinked, as if making sure the scene didn't rearrange itself when he looked again. "I was... bringing these," he said finally, and lifted the programs a fraction, as if proof of an errand could reset the room. His gaze slid between you and Clark, taking in the distance you hadn't had time to manufacture: your rumpled lapel, the crushed edge of a white petal at Clark's jacket, the heat still painting both your mouths. He swallowed. "What is this?"

Clark stepped forward before you could dig for an answer, hands open, empty. "My fault," he said, low and even, the tone he used when taking responsibility in print. "I—"

Noah's eyes cut to him, sharp. "Don't do that. Don't make it tidy for me."

You felt something crumble at the base of your sternum. "Noah," you tried again, softer. "I'm—"

"—sorry?" he supplied, and the word wasn't cruel so much as exhausted. His gaze came back to you and stayed, and in it you saw the whole of your morning reflected: steam curling in a hotel bathroom, cedar on your skin, a lie that had sounded laminate even to your own ears. "How long?"

"Not like this," you said, uselessly. "Today isn't—this isn't—"

"Today is your sister's wedding," he said, and his voice steadied on the fact. "And you're in a room with her fiancé." The last word landed like a drop of ink in water, blooming dark.

Clark's jaw worked once. "You don't deserve to find out like this," he said, and the truth of it flickered and hurt.

From the hall: "Final call—let's go, gentlemen!"

The timing was obscene. You flinched. Noah noticed; of course he did. He inhaled, slow, like a man making a choice in real time.

"This conversation isn't over," he said, and set the programs on the console with a precision that made your throat close. He stepped back into the corridor, giving you space that felt like punishment and mercy in the same breath. At the threshold he paused. "Do your job," he added—to you, not unkindly. Then to Clark, without looking at him: "Do the right thing."

He left the door open when he went. The bustle of the wedding rushed back in—shoe leather on marble, the faint tuning of strings, Jimmy's laugh ricocheting off a wall. You stood in the current of it, breathing like you'd run, Clark three feet away and farther than he'd ever been.

You reached up and straightened his boutonnière because your hands needed a harmless task, because you didn't know what else to do. His eyes were wrecked and steady both.

"I'm sorry," he said, and it landed differently than when you'd thought the word yourself—he meant it like a vow, not a solvent.

You nodded once, because you couldn't manage language, and stepped sideways into the hallway's flow. You caught up to Noah, grabbing his sleeve before he could disappear into the current of tuxedos and flowers and steered him down a side corridor—past a stack of folded chairs, through a service door that exhaled cold air, and out onto the river terrace. The morning had sharpened; the wind off the water smelled like metal and rain. Inside, the quartet ran a last phrase; out here, the city's noise took over—buses sighing, a gull complaining, the distant thud of a runner's shoes on the promenade.

"No," he said, yanking his arm free but not walking away. "Right here. Say whatever you think you're going to say right here."

You opened your mouth. He beat you to it.

"I walked in with programs," he said, voice low and shaking. "And I saw you with my own eyes—hands on each other, lips, her fiancé." He laughed once, humorless. "Do you hear how insane that sentence is? On Lois's wedding day?"

"I know," you said, uselessly. "I know."

"How long?" His eyebrows lifted, the question a blade. "And don't give me a calendar. Give me truth."

You swallowed. "It... started months ago. Not this—" You gestured back toward the building like you could point at a specific sin. "Feelings. Confusion. We kept... stepping over lines."

"Stepping," Noah repeated, a bitter taste on the word. The wind lifted his hair off his forehead; he didn't smooth it down. "Are you in love with him?"

Silence widened between you until the river could fit inside it. "I don't know what to call it," you said, because that was the only piece that felt honest. "I know it's wrong. I know I should have shut it down sooner."

He stared at you like he was trying to line your face up with the version of you he trusted. "And last night?" he asked softly, and that softness scared you more than the anger. "You weren't in your bed."

You had rehearsed the lie, and it still tasted like foil. "I fell asleep in Clark's room after we finished groomsmen stuff," you said. "It was late. There was planning. We were exhausted and—"

"—and you kissed him this morning," he said over you, the softness gone. "In a room with white flowers and a clock you were ignoring. You can't 'exhausted' your way out of that."

You rubbed your hand over your face hard enough to sting. "I'm not trying to crawl out of it," you said. "I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry. I'm—" You stopped before the word turned into something you used like a rag and not a promise. "I hurt you. I broke our line. I'm not going to stand here and make it sound smaller."

He blew out a breath that smoked in the cool air. His next question came quiet and precise: "Did you sleep with him?"

Everything in you wanted to either confess until there was nothing left or run until you couldn't hear the music. You did neither. You clung to the one choice that felt like it wouldn't set the whole day on fire.

"No," you said, and kept your eyes on his, because looking away would tell on you. "We kissed. And I should never have let it get that far."

He closed his eyes briefly, the relief that flickered there so quick it hurt, followed by suspicion, then something that looked a lot like grief. "Okay," he said, and it sounded like a compromise he didn't believe in yet. "Okay."

He paced two steps toward the railing and back, hands on his hips, head tipping up like he was asking the gray sky for a ruling. "Do you plan on telling Lois?" he asked finally.

"Yes," you said. "But not today. I won't wreck her wedding. After—when there's room to do it right." Your throat went tight around the next promise. "And I'm done. With this. With—him. I told him so before you walked in."

Noah's jaw worked; you watched him file that away, skeptical but listening. "Here are my terms," he said after a beat, the lawyer in him returning to the room. "We get through today without a scene. You don't get caught alone with him again. You don't choose to be alone with him again. And after the reception, you and I sit down somewhere without strings and you tell me everything I ask, without spin."

You nodded, the relief and the shame landing in the same place. "Okay."

"And if I find out you lied to me again," he added, not cruel, just factual, "we're done. Not 'let's take a beat.' Done."

You swallowed. "Okay," you said again, because there wasn't anything else to say that mattered.

For a long moment the two of you just stood there, the river pushing past, the music inside beginning to knit itself into order. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at you like you were a complicated case he might still take.

"I love you," he said, and the way he said it—steel-lined, not performative—made your eyes burn. "That's why I'm not blowing the doors off this place. But don't ask me to pretend I'm not furious."

"I won't," you said. "You're allowed to be mad. You're allowed to walk away later."

He nodded once, decisive. Then he stepped in, straightened your lapel with a quick, impersonal tug, and reached behind your neck to fix the line of your collar—the kind of ordinary care that hurt more than shouting. "There," he said. "You look like a man who can get through an hour without setting a match to his life."

"Thank you," you managed.

He turned toward the door, paused with his hand on the handle. "One more thing," he said without looking back. "If you don't tell her, I will. Not today. But I won't be your accomplice."

"I understand," you said, and meant it.

Inside, the coordinator's headset voice rose to a bright command: "Places, please!" The quartet answered with the first true notes of the processional. You and Noah slipped back through the service door into warm light and the smell of peonies. He peeled off toward Lucy and the bustle of bridesmaids. You headed for the groomsmen, every step a reminder of the line you'd failed and the one you meant to keep now, even if it cost you.

The day kept moving. You set your shoulders, inhaled roses and responsibility, and got everyone where they needed to be.

The ballroom settled into a hush that felt like velvet. Chairs aligned in perfect rows, white petals scattered down the aisle like a trail of small moons, candles held their breath in glass cylinders. The quartet slid from tuning into melody, and the air shifted—expectant, ceremonial. You took your place with the other groomsmen, shoulders squared, fingers worrying the seam of your glove until you made them stop.

Across the room, Clark found you. It was nothing—half a second, a reflex—but his eyes caught yours like a hook. Blue, steady, knowing. Heat pricked your collar. You snapped your gaze away so fast you almost felt it physically, fastening your attention to the double doors at the back of the hall as though you could weld yourself to the moment and nothing else.

The doors opened.

Your father stepped out first, his arm offered with that old-school dignity he reserves for occasions that matter. Lois took it, and the room pulled in a collective breath. The dress you'd only half seen on a hanger resolved into a living thing: silk crepe skimming and then pooling, a square neckline framing the fine architecture of her collarbones, a spine of covered buttons marching into a soft, cathedral train. The veil was water and light. In her hands, white garden roses and ranunculus gathered like a small, private storm. But it was her face that undid you—lit from within, smile caught somewhere between bravado and tears, eyes locked on a future only she could see. Your father's jaw was tight the way it gets when the world is too big for words. He didn't look at the crowd, only forward, as if delivering something precious.

The aisle felt longer watching them walk it. The quartet's strings braided around the shuffle of fabric and the tap of your father's shoes. An aunt sniffled unapologetically. Someone's cufflink pinged softly against a chair. You tried to memorize everything—how the flowers leaned toward the light, how the late morning sun found the brass in the sconces, how your sister's bouquet trembled when she laughed at something your father said without moving his mouth. You kept your face neutral and your hands still. You did not look for Clark again. You didn't need to; you could feel the exact spot in the room where he stood, the way a compass feels north.

The ceremony began and your mind buckled under its own static. Words rose and fell—scripture, a line of poetry Lois had chosen, laughter when the pastor mispronounced the florist's name, the low, dangerous thud of your own heartbeat in your ears. You drifted. You saw Noah two rows back on the aisle, profile carved in concentration, jaw set. You thought about Polaroids in your inside pocket, about a terrace and cold air, about promises you owed and promises you meant to keep. The world narrowed to sensation: the weight of your boutonnière, the itch of a starched collar, the warm tide of peony and jasmine from the arch.

"...rings," the pastor said somewhere far away, and the room came in and out of focus—Jimmy producing the bands like a conjurer, your father's hand briefly covering his mouth as if steadying himself, Lois's fingers trembling just enough that Clark covered them with both of his. You blinked, and the next minutes slid by like frames in a projector: vows spoken cleanly, voices catching in the right places, a ripple of laughter when Lucy sniffled too loudly and then doubled down.

"And now," the pastor said, his voice landing with the gentle finality of a gavel, "by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife."

Reality snapped sharp as glass. Applause burst like a sudden summer rain. Clark bent to Lois, and the kiss—simple, sure, their foreheads touching after—tied the room into one warm knot. You clapped until your palms stung. You kept your eyes on your sister's smile, on your father's shoulders dropping with relief, on Lucy's triumphant grin through tears. The quartet swelled into recessional, the doors opened to light, and you exhaled a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, anchoring yourself to the one truth that mattered in that moment: your sister had just gotten everything she came here for.

THE RECEPTION moved like a film on fast-forward—sharp flashes of light and sound with whole minutes missing between them.

You remember the doors opening to a swell of applause, Lois and Clark framed in confetti and café lights. You remember the ballroom turned inside out: tables dressed in white linen and mercury glass, a champagne tower glinting like a small city, place cards marching in tidy rows. A small chalkboard at the bar announced the signature drinks—The Byline (rye, orange peel, bitters) and Lane's Lemon (vodka, lemon, elderflower)—and you made the mistake of pointing at the first before your jacket even found the back of your chair.

The first Byline burned in a way that felt righteous. The second softened the edges of the room. By the third you'd stopped tasting citrus and started chasing quiet.

You kept moving because stillness was a trap. You checked on the band's set list. You adjusted a listing centerpiece. You helped your father pin his boutonnière back into place after a hug dislodged it. You steered an aunt to her seat with the diplomacy of a UN envoy. All of it with a glass in your hand, condensation slick against your fingers, the weight familiar and busy.

When Lois and Clark did their first dance—her hand at his shoulder, his palm at the small of her back, that private smile between them that made the room feel like a witness—you applauded on cue and drained the rest of your glass. Noah stood two tables over, tie immaculate, laughing at something Lucy said, and when he glanced your way, you gave him a nod that meant schedule's tight and please don't look too closely. The nod he returned meant I see you and we're not done.

Speeches blurred. Your father surprised everyone by being brief and tender; Lucy made the room cry and then saved it with a punchline. When it was your turn you stayed safely at the surface—Lois teaching you to be brave, Clark loving her in a way the whole city could see. The words sounded like they belonged to a better version of you. The applause after felt like rain on glass.

Between courses you found the bar again. The bartender learned your shorthand and stopped asking questions. Rye slid into rye, and somewhere in there a cousin convinced you a shot of something clear would "reset the palate." It didn't. It just turned the volume down on your thoughts: Clark's hand finding Lois's waist as if it had always known the way; Noah's jaw set in that careful, controlled way that meant he was angrier than he let on; the Polaroids heavy as guilt in your inside pocket. The lies you'd told and the ones you'd bitten back. The ache of wanting and the weight of choosing. You tried to drown one with the other.

It didn't work. It never does. The room just got blurrier.

You danced because the band was too good not to—the old hits and the Motown deep cuts that make even the stubborn sway. You let Lucy spin you like you were kids. You let your father show you a two-step that shouldn't have survived the 80s. You avoided the spot on the floor where Lois and Clark were a halo of joy and heat. You ducked the camera every time the photographer swung near, suddenly allergic to evidence.

At one point you were in the bathroom, palms braced against cool marble, the peppermint sting of hotel water on your face. Your tie was crooked; your eyes were brighter than they should've been. In the mirror you looked like a man who'd been running in place. A groomsman came in and clapped you on the back—"hell of a party, coach"—and you laughed like you meant it.

Later, you stood alone on the terrace for a minute that could've been ten. The river moved like a dark muscle; the city hummed its indifferent lullaby. You thought about leaving—calling a car, letting the night swallow you, rewriting yourself as someone who never made the complicated choice. But you didn't. Running has a short half-life; it's just hiding stretched to fit a day.

Inside, dessert arrived—lemon chiffon in perfect squares that tasted like last night's laughter. Lois fed Clark a bite and he made a face like it was the first cake he'd ever eaten. The room cheered. You held your fork like a prop and kept your eyes on your plate.

When the last song wound down and the lights lifted to a gentler brightness, you watched as the married couple made their getaway look like a movie—Lois in a white wrap and sneakers, Clark in his suit jacket with the tie tugged loose, a "JUST MARRIED" sign bouncing on twine at the back of the car. Someone handed out sparklers; someone else passed little vials of bubbles. The driveway glowed with café lights strung from tree to tree, and for a few bright minutes everybody became a chorus of cheers and camera flashes.

You took your place along the path, sparkler hissing in your hand, smile set the way you'd practiced. Lois hugged her bouquet to her chest and kissed your cheek on the run. "I love you," she said, eyes bright and endless. "Text me when you're home." You nodded and said you would, because some promises are simple.

Clark rounded the trunk to the driver's side and, for one suspended second, paused. He found you across the shiver of light and noise like a compass finding north. The crowd blurred. The bubbles and sparks and shout-laughs faded to a soft rush in your ears. He lifted his hand in a small wave that didn't look like much to anyone else. You raised yours back, palm open, and the tiny movement felt like a conversation. His mouth tipped—gratitude, apology, something you didn't dare name—then he dropped his gaze to the pavement like a man remembering where he belonged.

Lois slid into the passenger seat with a happy squeal. Clark got behind the wheel. The car idled, exhaust curling white in the cool night, tin cans clacking a thin percussion against the asphalt. He looked up once more—quick, private, enough—and you looked away first, because you had to.

The engine revved. The crowd whooped. The car rolled forward through the tunnel of light and congratulations, sparklers sketching bright arcs in the dark. You waved with everyone else until the taillights stitched red down the drive and turned the corner, shrinking to nothing.

Then the sound poured back in—the last fizz of sparklers, the slap of hands, Lucy demanding everybody line up for one more chaotic photo. You set the spent wire in a sand bucket and stepped backward out of the circle, your throat tight in a way no drink could soften. The night air hit your face cool and honest. You blinked hard once, then again, and felt a tear break and trace a clean line along your cheek.

The feelings were real. That was the problem, not the solution. You folded them up anyway—neat, mean, necessary—and pushed them down where they couldn't run your feet for you. Hands in your pockets, you turned from the laughter and the lingering flash of cameras, walked past the last puddle of light at the edge of the driveway, and kept going until the noise thinned to nothing but your own breath.

THE RIDE BACK to the hotel was mercifully quiet. The driver's radio hummed low, some soft jazz station fuzzing in and out, and Noah sat beside you with his arms folded, his profile carved tight against the blur of city lights. You didn't try to fill the silence—didn't dare. By the time the shuttle pulled under the portico and the doorman swung open the glass door, it felt like you'd carried the weight of two different weddings in your chest.

Upstairs, your keycard buzzed green before Noah's. You stepped into the room first, the faint smell of cedar soap and pressed linen waiting. The suit bag you'd hung earlier was still by the closet; the bedspread was undisturbed, its corners sharp as if the day hadn't happened. You went straight to your suitcase. The zipper rasped open loud in the stillness, and you began folding clothes with mechanical care—shirts into squares, trousers into long neat lines. If everything was ready to go in the morning, you told yourself, there'd be no reason for conversation then.

But Noah came in behind you, later by a few minutes, his pace heavy but measured. He dropped his garment bag onto the second chair, shrugged out of his jacket, and let it rest across the back without smoothing it down. His silence was its own verdict.

"Packing early?" he asked, voice low, not sharp.

"So it's easier tomorrow," you said, keeping your eyes on the shirt you were folding.

The quiet stretched until it became something unbearable. Then Noah's voice came again, soft but exacting. "When did this start?"

Your hands froze. The shirt hung loose between your fingers.

He waited.

You set the fabric into the suitcase and pressed it flat with your palm. "The first time I met him properly," you said, your throat thick. "At the restaurant. Lois wanted me at dinner. I was late. Dad was annoyed. And then Clark was there—shaking my hand, looking at me like..." You trailed off, shook your head. "Like he already knew me."

Noah stood still by the desk, his reflection doubled in the black of the window. "And after that?"

You inhaled slowly. "Sunday dinner at Dad's. Lois, Lucy, Clark—everyone was there. Clark and I were sent downstairs to the bar for a bottle." You forced the words out evenly. "We kissed. Just a kiss. We knew it was wrong. We stopped. Then we started again. We couldn't seem to help it."

Noah's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.

You kept going, because stopping now felt crueler. "Another time, it happened in my room. Another, in the kitchen while everyone else was upstairs. Small moments that got bigger every time. We told ourselves it wouldn't happen again, and then it did." You swallowed hard, leaving a canyon between the truth you'd spoken and the truth you refused to. Not the rest. Not the way he bent you over the counter, not the way you let him inside you. That would break everything beyond repair.

"I tried to put distance between us after that," you continued, your voice smaller now. "When I went back to school, I barely came home. I didn't answer calls. I thought if I stayed away, it would die off. And for months, it worked. Until Lois called me about the wedding and Clark asked me to stand with him as a groomsman."

Noah turned finally, leaning against the desk, his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between exhaustion and steel. "And you said yes."

"I said yes," you admitted, staring down at your half-packed suitcase. "And that's when the distance collapsed. The feelings didn't vanish. The chemistry didn't vanish. And I didn't stop it."

The zipper trembled in your hand. You shut the case halfway, as if closing the words inside might keep them from spreading further. "That's the truth," you finished, your voice quieter. "Not all of it. But enough."

The silence that followed was thick with all the things you hadn't said—and all the things he still wanted to ask.

Noah stood there, arms crossed against his chest, the soft lamplight carving his features into hard planes. He had listened to every word you'd said without interrupting, but now the silence broke, and his voice was sharper than it had been all night—measured, but edged like glass.

"What was the point?" he asked, each word slow and heavy. "What was the point of asking me to come along if you knew you were just going to run right back into him?"

The question landed like a blow, because it wasn't loud, it wasn't cruel—it was honest. His eyes were on you, searching, cutting past every neat explanation you'd given and aiming straight at the wound.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. Your hands lingered on the half-zipped suitcase, knuckles white against the handle. Finally, you forced yourself to turn and face him. "I brought you because..." Your voice faltered, then steadied. "Because I wanted you there. I wanted my family to meet you, Noah. I wanted them to see you. I wanted Clark to see you."

His laugh was short and bitter. "So I was a prop? A shield?"

"No," you said quickly, stepping toward him, but he didn't move. "Not a prop. You're not a placeholder. You're you. I wanted you there because you matter to me. Because I thought if I had you beside me, it would drown out everything else."

Noah shook his head, running a hand down his face as though trying to wipe away the weight of the evening. "But it didn't. Did it? You still kissed him. You still—" He cut himself off, pacing a step away, his voice thick with restraint. "Do you realize how humiliating it is? To walk in and find you like that? On the same weekend you asked me to stand next to you in front of your family?"

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "I didn't bring you here to humiliate you. I swear to God, that wasn't it." You pushed the suitcase closed and let it drop onto the stand, as if freeing your hands might help you find the words. "I thought bringing you would keep me grounded. That it would stop whatever... whatever this is with him. But I was wrong. And you have every right to be furious."

His gaze snapped back to yours, a storm of anger and pain. "Then tell me—what does it say about us, about me, if I wasn't enough to keep you from him?"

The question gutted you. You reached for him, but he didn't let you close the distance. "Noah, it's not about being enough. You are. You always have been. This thing with Clark—" You exhaled, breaking eye contact for the first time. "It's not rational. It's not fair. It's a pull I don't even understand, and I hate myself for not shutting it down sooner."

Noah's voice cracked just slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. "Then why should I stay, if you can't promise me you'll stop running into him—even when I'm standing right there?"

The room went still, the weight of his words hanging between you like judgment. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, and you realized the truth: there was no easy answer, no excuse that could erase what he'd seen. Only a choice—his, yours, both of yours—about whether this was where it ended, or if there was still something left worth fighting for.

TWO YEARS slid by in a rhythm made of excuses.

At first you measured them in semesters—syllabi, midterms, finals—then in workloads and deadlines that stacked like bricks until they felt like a wall between you and your family. When anyone asked why you weren't home, the script came easy: lab meets late / my editor moved up my due date / I picked up an extra shift / I'm on a grant / we're short-staffed. You said it so often it stopped sounding like a lie and started sounding like a job title.

You didn't see your family in all that time—especially not Lois and Clark. Messages took the place of presence. You sent polite, well-timed texts that said proud of you, break a leg, tell Dad happy birthday, and dodged FaceTimes with a little "sorry, in class!" banner you kept on speed-send. The family group chat became something you read on mute, thumb hovering over the "❤️" reaction button before dropping a safe thumbs-up instead. Photos came through—Lucy under café lights with a new haircut, your father grinning next to a plate of ribs, Lois beaming in a newsroom snapshot, Clark at her shoulder—and you learned how to scroll past their faces without letting your chest cave in.

You lied when you promised you'd tell her.

You tried to make good on it once, right after they came back from the honeymoon. You remember standing outside their apartment with a small envelope in your pocket—a gift card to the old bookstore Lois loved and a note you'd drafted and redrafted until the paper went soft at the folds. You knocked. She opened. Sunburned shoulders, jet-lagged eyes, happy in a way that made the hallway feel too bright. She pulled you into a hug that smelled like coconut and salt and the shampoo you both stole from your father's house when you were kids.

"Tell me everything," she said, and poured tea, and showed you photos—dizzy-blue water, a little square table with two cappuccinos, Clark smiling at her like there was no point in looking anywhere else. Your mouth went desert-dry. You cleared your throat and reached for the envelope.

That was when she said, without a trace of performance, "I keep thinking: how lucky am I?"

You folded the envelope back into your pocket so fast the corner bit your palm. You taught yourself to say the safe thing. "You are," you managed. "You both are." You left fifteen minutes later with the card still in your coat and a rehearsed We'll do a proper dinner soon you never scheduled.

After that, the telling got harder. You drafted emails and parked them in your drafts like small, coiled animals. You opened your notes app and poured out whole confessions in the white glare of midnight, only to wake up and delete them with the kind of surgical speed that felt like survival. You even dialed once—watched the dots pulse on calling... until voicemail picked up and Lois's voice did the thing it does, turning your name into home. You hung up before the beep.

Life kept moving without your permission. You graduated and moved apartments; you learned the names of two baristas who knew your order; you bought a better mattress because your back told you to. There were a couple of almost-relationships and one date that felt promising until the check arrived and the waiter asked, "Are you Clark Kent's brother-in-law? My mom loves his column," and you smiled and said something practiced while the heat crawled up your neck and the promise drained out of the evening.

Every so often, Metropolis reminded you of the other orbit. You'd pass a newsstand and see a byline you didn't read anymore. You'd catch Lois on a panel in a lobby TV and mute it, watching her hands talk for her while your own fisted in your pockets. Holidays were the worst. You told yourself it was better not to come than to show up and make a mess of your face in the driveway. You sent gifts by courier and called your father early, when he was puttering and no one else was awake to patch you into the group call.

You worked. You ran along the river until your lungs burned enough to quiet you. You learned which trains were emptiest at which hours, which bar stools let you be alone in public. You got very good at being busy, at arranging your days so tightly there was no room for the kind of thought that cracked you open.

On the worst nights—thin ones, when the city felt like a stranger—you let yourself replay the kitchen light, the sound of a timer, a hotel room that smelled like cedar and citrus, and you told yourself it was a story you'd outgrow, like a book you loved at nineteen and winced at ten years later. On better nights you believed it.

What you didn't do was tell her. You started to after the honeymoon. You stopped. And every day after made it easier to say tomorrow and harder to mean it.

THE RIVER path was all pale gold and cool breath, the kind of morning that makes the city feel half-finished. You'd gone out shirtless, earbuds jammed in, sweat already slicking your shoulders, the bass line stitching your stride into something automatic—inhale two, exhale two, feet drumming the asphalt. A gull heckled the water. Somewhere behind you a cyclist rang a bell. You were losing yourself in the steady, thoughtless burn when—

"BOO."

You flinched hard enough to skid, windmilling an arm to keep from eating pavement. One earbud popped free. You spun, heart kicking your ribs.

Lois and Lucy stood grinning like criminals who'd just pulled off a heist, coffee cups in hand, oversized sunglasses not hiding the satisfaction at nearly ending your cardio career. Lucy was in leggings and a cropped hoodie, hair up, looking far too pleased with herself. Lois wore a loose, soft dress the color of a robin's egg, one hand resting on the unmistakable curve of her belly.

"Jesus," you panted, yanking the other earbud out. "You two trying to collect life insurance?"

Lucy sipped her coffee primly. "Consider it the ghost fee. Since you've been haunting us instead of visiting."

Lois's smile was gentler but aimed just as true. "We were starting to think you'd moved to a witness protection program." She tipped her chin toward your chest, then your face. "You look good. And hard to catch."

You took them in properly then, your gaze snagging on the swell under Lois's palm. Six months—maybe seven? The dress hung beautifully, but there was no hiding how the fabric curved, no missing the way she stood now, hips set in that protective way. Something in your stomach pitched.

"How—" Your voice cracked and you cleared it. "How far along?"

"Twenty-seven weeks on Tuesday," Lois said, unspooling the number like a ribbon. Pride softened the edges of her eyes. "We were going to tell you... well, months ago. But you've been busy." The last words weren't an accusation so much as a gently folded fact.

Guilt hit you like an undertow. You dragged a forearm across your forehead, catching sweat, and tried for a smile that didn't wobble. "You look... radiant. Really. I'm—" You started to say sorry and swallowed it, because sorry used up air and didn't change clocks. "I'm happy for you."

The wind off the river lifted the hem of Lois's dress. She laid both palms over the bump as if smoothing the fabric would soothe the baby underneath. "We need to catch up," she said simply. "No schedule excuses, no 'deadline moved up.' Come to dinner. Our place. This week. I will accept exactly one answer."

Lucy leaned in with the kind of grin that always got you grounded when you were kids. "We even made it idiot-proof: tomorrow night. I've already blocked your calendar with Dad, who, by the way, says he refuses to FaceTime his own son from three miles away."

You huffed a laugh despite the knot in your chest. "You hacked my calendar?"

"I socially engineered it," Lucy corrected, smug. "Like a woman of culture."

Lois squeezed your forearm. "Please come. Clark's on grill duty if the weather holds, and even if it doesn't he's convinced he can do magic with a cast-iron pan. We'll eat, and you can feel a foot take out your ribs from the inside if you're lucky.

At Clark's name, something in you tightened, then loosened in the same breath when the baby shifted under Lois's hands. The shape of the life she was carrying filled the space between your fears and what you owed.

You nodded, the motion small at first and then firmer. "Okay. Tomorrow."

Lucy raised her coffee in a toast. "Look at that. Growth."

Lois's relief was almost visible. "Text me if you want anything specific. Otherwise I'm making the potatoes you like because the baby has my carb agenda."

"Must be genetic," you said, and the old ease passed between you for a flicker.

A jogger in neon threaded around your small triangle of reunion; the river kept moving. Lois checked her watch. "We've got a doctor's appointment in twenty. Will you walk us to the corner or are you mid–runner's high?"

You fell into step without answering, matching their slower pace, the morning suddenly louder—geese complaining on the water, a bus kneeling at the stop, the soft squeak of Lois's flats. Lucy told a story about a barista who spelled her name "Loosey" and claimed it was a vibe; Lois rolled her eyes and then stopped mid-sentence, pressing your hand to her belly. A soft thump kissed your palm from the inside.

"Hey there," you whispered, the word catching unexpectedly. Lois watched your face, something warm and satisfied settling in her features, as if letting you feel the proof might anchor you to the present.

At the corner, they peeled off—Lucy with a two-finger salute, Lois with a hug that smelled like clean cotton and lemon hand cream. "Tomorrow," she said against your shoulder. "No disappearing act."

"Tomorrow," you promised, and this time it felt like more than a word you offered to buy yourself time.

You stood there a moment longer after they crossed, earbuds hanging loose, lungs working, the river path stretching out like a decision. The bass line in your pocket kept thumping politely. You tucked one earbud back in, not to drown anything out, but to set a pace. Then you turned back the way you'd come, running not from, but toward—dinner, the door you should've walked through two years ago, and whatever came after.

CLARK HIT the back porch with the last of the sunset on his shoulders, the sky along the river still pinking at the edges like a cooling burn. He came in the way he always did after a long day—keys in the lock, grocery tote on his wrist, the faint scent of ozone and rain clinging to his shirt no matter how carefully he'd flown. His body carried two kinds of fatigue: the newsroom's hunched hours and the city's heavier asks. He set both down with the bag on the kitchen counter.

"Clark?" Lois called from the living room.

"Yeah," he answered, loosening his tie. "Brought citrus and those tiny cucumbers you pretend aren't a personality."

Lucy snorted. "He sees you."

He rounded the doorway and stopped, smiling before he knew he was. Lois and Lucy had colonized the couch like queens of the small realm, feet tucked under throw blankets, a half-finished bowl of popcorn between them. Lois wore a soft blue dress and the glow that had nothing to do with lamps; one hand rested on the broad curve of her belly, now impossible to pretend was anything but what it was. Lucy had her hair up and her phone down, which meant she'd decided the real entertainment was in the room.

He kissed Lois first, a press to her temple that made the baby shift under his palm. "Hey, you," he murmured to both of them. "How'd the appointment go?"

"Textbook," Lois said, and her smile slipped into that private softness that undid him. "And we ran into a ghost on the river path."

Lucy wagged her brows. "A very shirtless, very startled ghost."

Clark blinked, heartbeat changing its metronome. "You saw—?"

"Your brother-in-law," Lois said gently, not making him say the name. "We invited him to dinner tomorrow. No excuses, no calendar tricks. He said yes."

The room stayed exactly the same; his insides didn't. He kept his smile where it belonged—steady, warm, no tells—and nodded. "Good." He meant it and it still tugged. "That's... good."

He carried the tote back to the kitchen like a man doing normal things on a normal Thursday—limes into a bowl, cucumbers into the crisper, the grill tongs set out because he'd promised the baby he'd learn to make potatoes exactly the way Lois liked them. The house hummed its small domestic noises—dishwasher sighing, neighbor's radio two houses over, Lucy rustling the popcorn for the salty bits at the bottom. Underneath it, the city's long chord threaded through the walls. He could hear all of it if he let himself, and he'd learned not to—not the way that took and kept.

It would be a lie to pretend he hadn't seen you in two years. As Clark, he hadn't. As Superman, the city offered him a thousand ways to fail at pretending: a laugh rising from a coffee line on 8th; the staccato of your footfalls along the river before sunrise; your voice dropping to that low, careful register you used with your father when he wouldn't admit he was tired. Sounds travel differently to him; some arrive uninvited. He learned to turn away faster. He didn't always make it in time. None of it counted. None of it was enough.

You had fallen out of his daily life like a star dropping below a horizon. It was supposed to make everything simpler—clean lines, clean choices, no corners. He built a life around that simplicity: columns filed on time; stories that put corrupt men on the back foot; grocery lists that remembered Lois's cravings before she asked; a crib assembled with an instruction manual he read twice anyway. Husband. Friend. Hope with sleeves rolled. The work made sense. The city asked. He answered.

And still, sometimes, the absence howled.

"Don't burn the marinade," Lois called, amusement curling the words.

Clark looked down. He'd grated half a lemon into the mixing bowl and forgotten to stop. "On it," he said, and put his hands to a useful task: garlic, oil, that little punch of coriander Lois liked but wouldn't admit to. Lucy wandered in and stole a cucumber slice; he swatted her hand with a dish towel and she yelped like he'd wounded her pride.

"So." Lucy leaned on the counter, eyes bright. "You okay about dinner?"

"I'm okay," he said, truth adjacent. "It'll be good."

Lois slid in beside her sister, hip to hip, and set her hand over his forearm. "We miss him," she said simply. "And you... you get faraway sometimes when his name comes up."

He could have lied to either of them, but not both, not standing in their kitchen with lemon on his fingers and a baby rolling under his wife's palm. "I get faraway about a lot of things," he said, and let the softness in. "But I'm glad he's coming."

Lois searched his face the way she read copy—fast and deep. Whatever she found, she filed without marking it up. She kissed his cheek, under his eye where the last of the day liked to linger, and wandered back to the couch, humming a song he couldn't place. Lucy pilfered one more cucumber and followed.

Clark finished the marinade and covered the bowl, wiped the counter until the lemon oil flashed clean, and set tomorrow in motion with small, decent tasks: charcoal in a tidy stack on the back porch; the good plates pulled from the high cabinet; a bottle of something crisp set on its side in the fridge. Through the kitchen window the yard leaned into evening—laundry line still, sky deepening, the maple throwing shadows like long fingers.

He leaned on the sink and let himself think your name once, quiet as a prayer, then put it away the way he'd taught himself to: not denied, just carefully stored. Tomorrow he would be what he owed—host, friend, husband—without slipping. He would listen to your ordinary answers and give you his and keep the distance both of you had learned the hard way. He would mean it.

Out in the living room, Lois laughed at something silly on Lucy's phone, and the sound lit the house from the inside. Clark turned off the kitchen light, washed the lemon from his hands, and crossed back to them, the small weight in his chest shifting into something he knew how to carry. Hope, at home, is often no more than this: a plan for dinner, a promise kept, a door opened tomorrow without letting the past blow it off its hinges.

YOU HIT the front steps at 6:59 with a bakery box tucked under your arm, the cardboard still cool from the shop and perfumed with lemon and sugar. The house looked like a postcard in early evening—brick warmed to honey by the sinking sun, a maple throwing lacework shadows across the walk, wind chimes making a small, considerate sound above the porch. Through the front windows you could see lamplight and the easy, domestic flicker of a TV on mute.

You smoothed your shirt out of pure nerves—clean white tee under a soft, slate cardigan, dark jeans, the good sneakers you reserve for being presentable without trying—and pressed the bell.

The lock turned. The door swung open on Clark.

He wasn't in a suit tonight. A heather-gray henley hugged his shoulders, sleeves shoved to his forearms; dark jeans sat easy on his hips; there was a smudge of charcoal at the edge of his wrist like he'd just stepped in from the grill. His hair was a little damp, pushed back by fingers that had clearly been busy. He smelled like cedar soap and lemon marinade with a thread of fresh air, as if he always carried a porch around with him.

For half a beat neither of you spoke. You took each other in like you were both trying to catch up to the last two years in a glance: the way he'd filled out a touch broader, the laugh lines that had deepened at the corners of his eyes; the way you'd cut your hair shorter, the steadier set of your shoulders, the newer watch at your wrist. His gaze flicked—shoes to face and back again—lingering a fraction too long at your throat where the cardigan parted. Yours snagged on small, impossible details: the pale glint of his wedding band, a faint nick along his knuckle, the slope of his collarbone under soft cotton.

"Hey," he said finally, and the word came out warm, like it had been waiting all afternoon to be used on you. "You made it."

"I brought a lemon cake," you managed, lifting the box like proof of good intentions. "Figured I'd bribe my way in."

The corner of his mouth tipped. "You never needed a bribe." He reached for the box, careful, and his fingers slid under yours for a second longer than the handoff required. Heat shot up your arm, ridiculous and immediate. All the carefully packed-away feelings you'd spent two years filing under old business jolted awake like they'd just been napping.

Before you could decide what to do with your hands, he made the decision for you. Clark set the cake safely on the little entry table, then closed the space between you and folded you into a hug.

It wasn't the quick, clap-on-the-back kind people trade in doorways. It was full—arms around your shoulders, his chest solid and warm, his breath ruffling your hair as he exhaled. You felt the slow thud of his heartbeat where your cheek brushed his sternum; he smelled like the kitchen and the evening and the particular clean that was just him. Your own arms came up almost on instinct, palms flattening between his shoulder blades. The hug lasted one heartbeat past polite, then two, and when he eased back his hands stayed on your upper arms as if making sure you were actually there.

"Hi," he said again, softer this time, like the word meant something different at this range.

"Hi," you echoed, equally useless and equally true.

From deeper in the house came the bright clatter of dishes and Lois's voice calling, "Is that my lemon cake carrier? Get it in here before I eat the box." The spell loosened. Clark's hands fell away, though his smile didn't.

"Come on," he said, scooping up the cake with one hand and gesturing you inside with the other. The entry gave way to a hallway hung with photos—Lois laughing mid-sentence; the two of them under a paper banner at a baby shower; a blurry shot of feet in the surf. The house smelled like roast chicken, rosemary, and something buttery on the stove. Somewhere, a timer ticked down.

You toed off your shoes, lined them neatly by the bench, and followed him toward the light, the warmth of the hug still pressed into your skin like a remembered sun.

The clatter of serving spoons, the soft hush of a baby monitor on the counter that Lois swore she didn't need yet but liked as "practice." The kitchen table had graduated from weeknight duty to company-ready: a linen runner down the center, a glass bowl of peonies Lois claimed were "last-minute," and mismatched plates that made Lucy declare the whole thing "charm-forward."

Your father rose the second you stepped in, his chair legs scraping back with emphasis. He gave you a once-over that started at your shoes and ended at your hair, the famous paternal inventory you hadn't had to pass in a while.

"So," he said, hands on hips, "the prodigal manages an appearance. What is it—two years? Eleven months? Thirty-seven excuses?" The words were stern; the relief in his eyes wasn't.

You smiled, sheepish, leaning into the kiss he planted on your temple. "A robust portfolio of excuses," you conceded. "Thin on merit."

"Mhmm." He squeezed the back of your neck once—affection disguised as correction—then steered you toward a chair. "Sit before the food gets cold. You can be chastised on a full stomach."

Lois appeared with a platter like a magician with the final reveal. "We have roast chicken with lemon and rosemary, potatoes that our resident grill master swears are 'scientifically crisp,' and a salad Lucy insisted needed three cheeses."

"It did," Lucy said, spearing a cube and popping it into her mouth. She tugged you into a hug that smelled like her perfume and the kitchen. "Hi, stranger. We're pretending not to be mad at you until after dessert."

"Appreciated," you said, entirely too grateful for the terms.

Clark followed with a pan still snapping faintly, the sleeves of his henley pushed to his forearms, the charcoal smudge gone now. He slid the potatoes onto the platter and set the skillet aside. His smile when he met your eyes was steady, friendly, careful. "You made good time," he said. "Cake already secured?"

"Safe and accounted for," you said, glancing toward the box near the coffee maker. "Guarded by your terrifying dogless security system."

He grinned. "Motion-sensing lemon lust."

Once everyone was seated—Lois with one palm resting absently on the easy swell of her belly, Lucy opposite her with a napkin already spattered like a Jackson Pollock, your father at the head as if it had never been otherwise—the room settled into a rhythm you recognized with a jolt of relief. Clark carved; Lois poured; your father told you to take more salad; Lucy stole a potato off your plate with the reflexes of a cat burglar.

"So," Lois said, once the first round of plates had quieted the room. "Catch us up on you. And don't say 'work is busy' like it's a personality."

You laughed, set your fork down, and gave them the thing you should've given them years ago: the simple shape of your days. "I took the position at the Center for Justice Reform at Metropolis U," you began. "Research and field work—mostly recidivism risk and diversion programs. I get to teach a section on behavioral analysis for the grad students, which makes me feel ancient in the best way. And I consult two days a week with the juvenile court—risk assessments, victimology, that kind of thing. It's messy sometimes, but it... lines up with what I studied. It feels useful."

Your father's chin tipped in a rare, sober approval. "Work worth doing," he said.

"It is," Lois echoed, eyes bright. "We brag about you to people who don't deserve the story."

Lucy pointed her fork like a baton. "And his name is on an article in the M.U. Law Review," she added. "He will not tell you that, but I read it and wrote 'icon' in the margins like a teenage fan."

You tried to wave it off; your ears warmed anyway. "Co-authored," you said. "Mostly footnotes and headaches."

"You always were weirdly good at footnotes," Clark said, amusement tucked into the edge of the compliment.

Conversation braided itself around food. Your father wanted to know if you still ran the river path ("Gulls don't respect schedules," you said). Lois demanded you feel the baby kick again ("He does cardio just to spite me"). Lucy launched into a rant about an art director who believed in fonts "with emotional arcs." Clark asked gentle, reporterly questions that made you feel seen without being cornered.

Somewhere between seconds on salad and Clark's proud unveiling of the "scientifically crisp" potatoes, his tone shifted just a hair. "And Noah?" he asked, quiet enough that it didn't knock the table off balance, but direct enough that it didn't pretend.

You took a sip of water you didn't really need, then set the glass down. "There's no me and Noah," you said, meeting Lois's eyes first, then Clark's, then your father's. "Hasn't been for quite a while."

Lois's hand found yours on the table, squeezing once. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it without making it a centerpiece. "He seemed kind."

"He is," you said. "It just... wasn't right. Not to string it out. For either of us." You left the rest unsaid, because tonight was for bridges, not autopsies.

Your father harrumphed in his way that contained both sympathy and advice. "Some things have seasons," he said. "Doesn't make the harvest a failure."

Lucy, mercifully, changed the angle. "Okay but also: are you dating? Do I need to set you up with a ceramicist named Xan who wears overalls and makes bowls that change lives?"

"Please don't," you said, laughing, the knot in your chest loosening. "I'm... fine. Work and sleep and eating real vegetables."

"Speaking of," Clark cut in, sliding you another spoonful of the evil-good potatoes. "Scientific evidence suggests these count as a vegetable."

"Barely," Lois said, popping one and failing to hide her delight.

Dinner fell back into its small, forgiving music—stories, seconds, the scrape of cutlery, Clark's hand ghosting to Lois's shoulder when she winced and then laughed, "Just a kick, don't call anyone." You let them soak you in the way families do after a long absence: too many questions, too many jokes, too many offers to send you home with leftovers. You let your father's mild chastising land and soften; you let Lucy's razzing untie the last knots. You ate until you were full, talked until your voice lost its edge, and, when the plates were cleared and the lemon cake unboxed, you let yourself believe that this was a door you were allowed to walk back through—carefully, honestly, one dinner at a time.

THE BACKYARD had settled into that soft, late-evening hush that makes every small sound feel intimate. The grill on the patio clicked as it cooled; a citronella candle shouldered out the last of the mosquitoes with a thin, lemony smoke. Beyond the fence, Metropolis murmured—distant siren, a commuter train whispering over the viaduct, a neighbor's TV leaking a laugh track into the dark. String lights stitched a warm halo over the lawn, and the maple leaves traded secrets in a faint breeze.

Clark nudged the screen door open with his shoulder and came out carrying two glasses of iced tea beaded with condensation. He wore that gray henley from earlier, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a faint clean scent of soap and charcoal still clinging to him. He passed you a glass, then dropped into the Adirondack chair beside yours, knees pointed toward you like he didn't know how to sit any other way than fully present.

"Start over," he said, easy. "The Gotham thing. You were saying?"

You took a swallow—cold, sweet, unhelpful—and traced a fingertip through the ring it left on the armrest. "There's an opening at the Gotham Center for Juvenile Justice. Half research, half in-court assessments. It's... bigger, messier. The work overlaps with what I'm doing at the Met U center, just with more direct diversion programs. I'd still teach—one seminar, maybe—and partner with their public defender's office."

Clark tipped his head. "That sounds like you. Hard problems, real leverage."

"It terrifies me," you admitted, and then shrugged. "Which probably means I should do it."

He smiled at that, a quiet curve that said I know you. The silence that followed was gentle, the kind that invites you to keep talking. You could have. You didn't. He glanced toward the kitchen—Lois and Lucy's voices a soft clatter inside—then back at you. The steadiness in his eyes shifted a notch.

"I'm glad you're here," he said. "I'm glad you told us about Gotham. But there's one thing I keep circling, and if I don't ask it will just... keep circling."

You knew before he said it.

"What happened with Noah after the wedding?" His voice stayed low, the words careful. "After he saw us. And why the two years of... not just distance. Disappearance."

You set your glass down. The condensation ring looked like a small eclipse. "He pulled me outside," you said. "By the river, behind the venue. He was furious—he had every right to be. He asked how long, what it was, whether I loved you." You exhaled through your nose, heat biting behind your eyes at the memory. "I told him we'd kissed. I didn't... I couldn't go past that. Not that day. He laid down terms to get through the ceremony without blowing it up. After, he wanted the whole truth. We tried to have that conversation. We tried to keep dating, to see if anger could cool into something livable."

"And?" Clark asked, though you could hear he already knew the shape of and.

"And it couldn't," you said. "He deserved someone who wasn't building scaffolding around a feeling for somebody else—somebody off-limits. We ended it. Cleanly, as clean as you can end something after that."

You rubbed your palms on your jeans, the cotton gone cool in the night air. "As for the disappearing... some of it was cowardice. I told myself it was protecting Lois, protecting you, protecting me. But mostly? I didn't trust myself not to keep... slipping. I'd rather everyone think I was busy than risk being in a room and wrecking it again." You stared at the fence slats until your vision doubled them. "I was going to tell Lois. I even wrote it down. I stood in your hallway with the note in my pocket and watched her show me honeymoon pictures and talk about how lucky she felt. I folded the paper back up. I chose the wrong thing because it was easier in the moment."

Clark sat with that. He didn't fill the space with absolutions. The string lights hummed. Somewhere inside, a cabinet door clicked shut; the baby monitor on the counter purred softly.

"I'm sorry," he said finally—not performative; simple. "For my part in all of it. I keep trying to decide if sorry is supposed to be a promise or a bandage, and I think it has to be both." He scrubbed a thumb along the sweating side of his glass. "Noah didn't deserve the morning he got. Lois didn't deserve to have to live anywhere near this. You didn't deserve to carry it alone for two years." He swallowed, a small, visible effort. "I missed you. I told myself missing you was the price of being decent. Most days that was true. Some days it was also... just missing you."

You looked at him then. The lights threw small, warm constellations across his cheekbones. He didn't look away.

"I kept tabs on you," he admitted, barely above a whisper, a confession shared with the night. "Not the way I shouldn't—that stopped. But in the ordinary ways. Asking your dad if you were sleeping. Reading when your name showed up in a symposium program. Hoping you were... okay. It didn't feel like enough. It felt like the only thing that was fair."

You let that settle, a stone finally reaching the bottom of a deep pool. "I'm okay," you said. "Better now that I stopped pretending avoidance is virtue. Gotham's as much about the work as it is about making a new pattern that isn't just 'don't show up.'"

He nodded once, something like relief easing his shoulders. "If you go," he said, "I'll be proud of you from here. If you stay, I'll be proud of you from here. Either way—" He caught himself, chose his next words with care. "Either way, I want to be your family in ways that don't pull us back into the worst versions of us."

You huffed a small laugh. "Guardrails."

"Guardrails," he agreed. "Group settings. No doors that click shut. If either of us feels the floor tilt, say so out loud and step back. I won't... listen for you. Not in the ways that steal from anyone." He lifted his glass, not quite a toast. "Lois first."

"Always," you said, surprised at how steady it felt on your tongue. "And me doing the grown-up thing I should've done two years ago: tell her the truth. Not tonight. But soon. With care."

Something like gratitude crossed his face—complicated, bright. "If you want me there, I will be," he said. "If you don't, I'll be down the hall, keeping dinner warm."

You smiled, small, honest. "Down the hall sounds right."

The screen door creaked; Lois's silhouette filled the frame, one hand on the jamb, the other curved under her belly. "You two going to flirt with the fence all night or come inside for cake?"

"Coming," Clark called, the word soft with affection. He stood and offered you a hand without thinking; you took it, and he used it only to lever you up, nothing more. The touch lasted exactly as long as it needed to. No longer.

On your way in, he paused and tilted his head toward the kitchen. "We're good?" he asked—not asking for absolution; asking for alignment.

"We're trying," you said. "That's better than disappearing."

He held the door for you, and the warm square of kitchen light swallowed the backyard. Inside, the house smelled like lemon and sugar. Your father was already angling for the corner piece; Lucy was threatening to put the baby's name to a vote; Lois had two forks and a look that said family meeting adjourned. You took your seat, the night air still on your skin, and let the small clatter of dessert do what it could: sweeten what had been hard, and make room for what had to come next.

THE SHIFT didn't happen with a speech; it happened with Saturdays.

Once the air was cleared and the worst of the guilt finally had somewhere to live besides your ribs, you started showing up again—on purpose. Coffee with your dad on Sundays after his walk. Midweek texts in the family chat that weren't just emoji reactions. A standing invite to drop by Lois and Clark's "anytime after 5, bring an appetite." The house began to recognize your knock.

Lois weaponized your return immediately. "If you're going to loiter," she said, brandishing a paint fan deck like a general with a battle map, "you're going to have opinions." That's how you and Clark ended up in the future nursery on a breezy afternoon, barefoot on a drop cloth, rolling a soft sage green over spackle-sanded walls while Motown crackled from a little speaker in the window. The room smelled like clean plaster and lemon cleaner and the faintest whisper of baby lotion from a basket someone had gifted too early.

Guardrails were there, intentionally invisible and absolutely real: door open, playlist loud enough to drown out silence, Lois floating in and out with snacks and commentary ("Tighter W's on your roller strokes, Michelangelo"), Lucy arriving in the last hour to hang framed prints and roast you for being "too symmetrical." You and Clark worked in companionable rhythm—he cut in along the ceiling with the steadiness of a surgeon; you rolled broad lanes below, trading the tray and the roller without brushing fingers because that was one of the quiet rules you'd both chosen.

The errands became their own ritual. A hardware-store run for anchors and a stud finder turned into a lesson in the arcana of wall types: lath and plaster versus drywall, Clark patiently tapping and listening and then handing you the drill with an exaggerated flourish. "Your turn, Professor." A trip to the reuse center produced a weathered bookshelf you sanded together on the back porch, careful with the edges so tiny hands wouldn't find splinters. Lucy painted the back panel a riotous pattern of tiny stars; your father dropped off a clamp light "because your sister will read until dawn if you let her."

As the weeks slid forward, the room began to collect small, ordinary magic: a mobile of paper cranes you strung on fishing line and Clark balanced by eye until they turned with the slightest breath; a rocking chair you assembled with only three wrong bolts and one triumphant "aha"; a basket of board books Lois swore were "nonnegotiable canon"—Corduroy, The Snowy Day, a chewed-up copy of Goodnight Moon your father claimed was yours. You installed the baby monitor while Clark read the manual out loud in a faux-broadcaster baritone; Lois filmed it, cackling, and sent the video to Lucy with the caption: two geniuses, one camera.

Conversations stayed in the bright places and the true ones. You talked Gotham—interviews, the kind of cases you'd see, where you might live if you went. Clark asked questions like a reporter and a friend: not to trap you, but to help you hear yourself. Sometimes he told you about a column that refused to land; sometimes he told you about a fire he'd pulled three people from without ever saying how he'd gotten there so fast. Lois would appear in the doorway and slide into the talk as if she'd been there the whole time, one hand absently smoothing the small planet of her belly while she argued for blackout curtains and against anything "with faces that stare at you in the dark."

There were near-misses, the kind of tiny tilts that used to turn into slides. A laugh that lingered a hair too long; a pause when you both reached for the same screw; a silence that could have opened into something else if you'd let it. You didn't. One of you would step back, or Lois would call from the kitchen, or Lucy would crash through the door with bubble wrap and chaos. You learned to notice the angle and right it without drama. It started to feel like a skill rather than a battle.

On the night the crib went up, the four of you stood back and admired the straightness of the rails as if you'd raised a barn. Lois pressed your hand to her belly and the baby thumped—a solid little hello. Your father, who had come by "just to drop off a level," found himself measuring the rug instead, and stayed long enough to declare the room "fit for a human."

When you left that night, the nursery smelled faintly of wood glue and lavender. The string lights Clark had rigged under the bookshelf threw a soft, golden wash across the room. You paused in the doorway and looked at what you had all built together: something sturdy, soft-edged, ready. Clark came to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. "Looks good," he said, and the words meant the room and the work and the way you were learning to be in the same frame without falling out of it.

"Yeah," you said. "It does."

You turned off the light and pulled the door softly to, leaving it an inch ajar—another guardrail, another promise kept.

The evening had unfolded with a deceptive slowness, stretching far beyond what you'd anticipated when you first arrived at Lois and Clark's house. The dinner had been a warm, chaotic affair—platters of herb-crusted roasted chicken, creamy mashed potatoes flecked with black pepper, and tender green beans glistening with butter passed around the table amid bursts of laughter and playful arguments over who got the last dinner roll.

The clink of wine glasses and the hum of overlapping voices filled the dining room, the air rich with the savory aroma of the meal and the faint sweetness of a candle burning on the sideboard. After dessert—homemade lemon bars dusted with powdered sugar that melted on your tongue—the group drifted to the living room, trading plates for steaming mugs of coffee. The conversation lingered, weaving through old family stories, teasing jabs, and quiet moments of shared history.

Lucy suggested a movie to cap the night. The television flickered on, casting a soft blue glow across the room as a low-key drama began to play, its dialogue barely audible over the rustle of blankets and the occasional chuckle. Lois had nestled into the couch, her head resting on Clark's lap, her dark hair spilling across his thigh. A knitted throw blanket draped over her, rising gently with the curve of her pregnant belly. Her breathing deepened as sleep took her, her face softened in the dim light, lips slightly parted.

Lucy was the first to leave, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Lois's forehead, her voice light but warm as she tossed you a "don't be a stranger" before slipping out the front door. Her boots crunched on the gravel driveway, the sound fading into the crisp autumn night. Your father followed soon after, still muttering about the city's erratic traffic patterns as Clark walked him out, their voices a low murmur under the starlit sky.

By the time Clark returned, the house had settled into a hushed calm. The movie's credits rolled silently, the room bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp. You were sprawled on the couch, your body heavy with the weight of the long day, your eyelids drooping as sleep tugged at the edges of your consciousness. You stood, stretching your stiff shoulders, and reached for your jacket slung over the armrest, the leather cool against your fingers. The rustle of fabric stirred Lois, who blinked awake, her voice thick with sleep as she propped herself up on one elbow, her hand instinctively smoothing the swell of her belly.

"Don't even think about it," she mumbled, her tone firm despite the grogginess. "You're not driving across the city this late. Guest room's clean. Sheets are fresh. Stay."

Clark stepped back into the room just then, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, slightly awkward way that always seemed to betray a quiet thoughtfulness. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a sliver of collarbone, and his dark hair was slightly mussed, curling at the ends from the long evening.

"She's right," he said, his voice low and steady, carrying that calm certainty that made arguing with him feel pointless. "Roads'll be empty, sure, but tired driving's still bad driving. Just crash here."

You opened your mouth to protest, a reflex born of stubborn pride and a need to maintain boundaries. But the truth was undeniable: your limbs felt like lead, your eyes gritty from hours of conversation and laughter, and the thought of navigating the city's labyrinthine streets at this hour was exhausting.

"Alright," you conceded, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you met Lois's triumphant gaze. "But only because you've got me cornered with those damn lemon bars and your relentless hospitality."

Lois smirked, satisfied, and pushed herself up from the couch, her movements slow and deliberate, the weight of her pregnancy evident in the careful way she moved.

"Guest room's at the end of the hall," she said, her slippers scuffing softly against the polished hardwood floor as she shuffled toward their bedroom. "Towels are in the linen closet if you need 'em. Goodnight."

Clark lingered for a moment, his eyes meeting yours in a quiet, fleeting exchange that carried the weight of years—shared history, unspoken moments, and lines carefully drawn. He offered a small, almost shy smile before following Lois down the hall, his footsteps steady and unhurried.

You made your way to the guest room, your overnight bag slung over your shoulder, the straps digging slightly into your skin. The room was simple but inviting: a queen-sized bed with crisp white sheets that smelled faintly of lavender detergent, a sturdy wooden chair in the corner, and a small window letting in slivers of moonlight that danced across the hardwood floor. You dropped your bag on the chair, kicked off your shoes, and collapsed onto the bed without bothering to change out of your jeans and sweater.

Sleep came swiftly, pulling you under like a tide.

Sometime after 2 a.m., you woke with a start, your body jolted awake by an urgent, twisting pressure in your lower abdomen—the kind that demanded immediate attention. The house was cloaked in a heavy stillness, the silence alive with small, subtle sounds: the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the faint creak of century-old floorboards as you shifted your weight, the distant tick of a clock somewhere down the hall.

Barefoot, your toes cold against the hardwood, you padded out of the guest room, rubbing sleep from your eyes. The hallway was dimly lit by a plug-in nightlight, its warm glow casting soft shadows as you navigated by memory toward the bathroom.

The bathroom door was closed but not latched, a thin sliver of pale light spilling from the gap beneath. Half-asleep, your mind fogged with exhaustion, you pushed the door open without a second thought.

And then you froze, your breath catching in your throat.

Inside, Clark stood at the toilet, his broad frame bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight pouring through the frosted window above the sink. He wore a fitted white T-shirt that hugged the planes of his shoulders and chest, the fabric stretched taut across his back, hinting at the strength beneath. His plaid pajama pants hung low on his hips, the elastic waistband sagging just enough to reveal the smooth dip of his lower back and the faint shadow of muscle beneath his skin. One hand was braced against the tiled wall, fingers splayed wide, anchoring him as his body leaned slightly forward. The other hand was wrapped around his erect cock, thick and flushed, moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Each motion was measured, controlled, his fingers sliding from base to tip with a rhythm that spoke of both urgency and restraint. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat—a muffled groan, raw and private, barely audible but heavy with need. His head was tipped forward, dark hair falling messily over his forehead, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His shoulders rose and fell with each uneven breath, the muscles in his arm flexing with every stroke.

The air in the room was warm, thick, charged with the scent of him—clean soap from an earlier shower, the faint salt of sweat, and a deeper, muskier note that hit you like a physical force, making your chest tighten and your pulse spike. The moonlight carved out every detail of his body: the taut curve of his biceps, the ripple of his forearm, the subtle shift of his hips as he rocked slightly into his hand. His lips parted, and though the words were too soft to catch, he was murmuring something to himself, the sound intimate, almost reverent, like a prayer meant for no one else. His thumb brushed over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he let out another low sound, his head tilting back slightly, eyes half-closed in concentration.

You stood rooted in the doorway, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Heat flooded your body, a visceral rush that pooled low in your belly, dragging up memories you'd fought to keep buried—nights years ago, stolen moments in dark corners, the press of his hands, the weight of his body, the way his breath had felt against your skin. But this was different. This was the line you'd sworn never to cross again, no matter how much your body burned with the memory of him, no matter how the sight of him now—vulnerable, exposed, lost in his own pleasure—threatened to unravel every promise you'd made to yourself.

You knew you should move—step back, pull the door shut, erase the image before it etched itself into your mind forever. But for one dangerous, fleeting moment, your body betrayed you, rooted to the spot, caught between the pull of desire and the sharp, searing knowledge of what crossing that threshold would mean.

You spun on your heel, your bare feet slapping too loudly against the cool, polished hardwood of the hallway, the sound jarring in the silent house. Your lips moved, muttering half-formed apologies to no one—maybe to yourself, maybe to the air—as you hurried back toward the guest room, desperate to bury the image of Clark, the raw sound of his pleasure, deep in the vault where you'd locked away every other near-slip, every dangerous moment that had ever passed between you.

You were halfway down the hall, the guest room door in sight, when the faint creak of hinges stopped you cold. The bathroom door had opened behind you, the sliver of moonlight widening as it spilled into the hallway.

"Wait," Clark's voice called, low and measured, not sharp or commanding but steady enough to halt your retreat. It wasn't a plea, but it carried a weight that pinned your feet to the floor.

You froze, your body half-turned, your gaze fixed on the long shadow his frame cast across the hardwood, stretching toward you in the pale, silvery light. Your breath caught, shallow and uneven, as you fought the urge to keep moving, to flee back to the safety of the guest room. Slowly, reluctantly, you pivoted, your eyes tracing the floorboards—worn and smooth underfoot—before daring to lift them to meet his. Clark stood in the bathroom doorway, one hand gripping the frame, his knuckles pale against the dark wood. His pajama pants still hung low on his hips, the waistband sagging to reveal the faint line of his hipbone, a detail that felt dangerously intimate in the quiet of the night. His face was a complicated mosaic—half-caught, half-resigned, with no trace of the embarrassment you'd expected. Instead, his eyes were steady, searching yours with a quiet intensity that made your stomach twist.

"Come in," he said softly, his voice almost a request, threaded with a hesitation that suggested he wasn't entirely sure he should be making it.

Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse, to turn and walk away, to let the guest room door and a locked handle erase this moment. But your legs betrayed you, hesitating, rooted to the spot as if caught in some invisible pull. The air felt thick, charged with the weight of what had just happened, what was still happening. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, and took a tentative step toward the bathroom, your bare feet silent now, deliberate. Clark didn't move closer, didn't reach for you, just held the doorframe like it was an anchor keeping him from crossing a line he wasn't sure he could uncross.

"I know what you saw," he said, his voice rough, not from shame but from the raw edge of disuse, like he hadn't spoken in hours. "And I'm not proud of it." He paused, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. "But I need you to understand something." His eyes flicked downward briefly, a fleeting glance at the floor before they steadied on yours again, unwavering.

"Lois... she's been incredible. Strong. Brave. Carrying this baby, dealing with everything that comes with it—morning sickness, exhaustion, moods that swing so fast it's like whiplash. None of it's her fault, and I'd never blame her for it. But in that department..." His voice dropped, softer now, almost confessional. "It's been months. Longer than I thought I could handle. She's needed space, and I've given it. She needs comfort, not pressure, and I've tried to be what she needs. But that doesn't erase what I feel when I'm alone, when the house is quiet, and it's just me and... this."

The honesty landed like a stone in your chest, heavy and unyielding. It wasn't an excuse; it was a confession, raw and unguarded, and that made it so much worse. The words peeled back layers you'd both spent years building, exposing the fragile, dangerous truth beneath. The air between you felt electric, thick with the scent of him—clean soap, the faint salt of sweat, and that deeper, muskier note that still lingered from what you'd walked in on. It clung to the back of your throat, making it hard to breathe.

"I wasn't... I wasn't going to say anything," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper, catching on the edges of the thick night air. "I was walking away."

Your hands fidgeted at your sides, fingers twisting together as you fought to keep your composure, to keep the memories at bay—the kitchen counter years ago, the hotel room, the weight of his hands on your skin, the way his breath had hitched when you'd whispered his name.

"I know," Clark said, softer now, his voice like a low tide pulling back. "You were going to bury it, just like you've buried everything else between us." He let out a slow, heavy breath, his chest rising under the thin cotton of his shirt, the fabric shifting slightly over the curve of his chest. "But I can't keep pretending I don't think about you. Especially not when you're right here, in my house, sleeping down the hall."

The words hit like a physical blow, sharp and precise, ripping open the careful stitches you'd sewn over the past. You could still feel the cool edge of the counter against your thighs, the way his fingers had curled into your hips, the low growl in his throat when he'd pressed himself closer. It was all there, alive and pulsing in the space between you.

Clark leaned against the doorframe, his body still, deliberate, not crossing the invisible line that separated you. His eyes, though, held no such restraint—they traced your face, lingering on your lips for a fraction too long before meeting your gaze again.

"I shouldn't have asked you to come in," he said, his voice quieter now, laced with a regret that felt more like longing than remorse. "But I needed you to hear it from me. Not as some dirty secret, not as something to shove away. Just... the truth."

The night held its breath, the air thick with heat and restraint, the hum of the house a faint backdrop to the tension coiling between you. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was a living thing, thick and pulsing, until a small, disbelieving laugh slipped past your lips—half nervous, half a desperate attempt to break the tension that threatened to consume you.

Your hand flew to your mouth, fingers trembling slightly as you tried to stifle the sound, your shoulders shaking with a single, involuntary shudder before you regained control. The laugh felt like a fragile shield, a way to keep the moment from swallowing you whole.

Clark tilted his head, his brows knitting together in a faint frown, a crease forming between them that only deepened the intensity of his gaze. "What?" he asked, his voice low, rough, laced with a curiosity that carried an undercurrent of something darker, something that made your skin prickle.

You dropped your hand, a wry smile tugging at your lips, though your heart was still racing, your body acutely aware of the scant distance between you.

"I just..." You shook your head, the smile faltering as the absurdity of the situation collided with the raw heat simmering in the air. "I can't believe I walked in on Clark Kent—sweet, buttoned-up, choir-boy Clark Kent—jerking off in the middle of the night."

The words came out shaky, edged with a nervous humor that felt like a lifeline, but the image of him—his hand wrapped around his thick, flushed cock, stroking with deliberate, restrained need—flashed vivid and unbidden in your mind, sending a fresh wave of heat curling through you.

"If people only knew..." you added, your voice softer, almost a whisper, as another quiet laugh escaped, though it did nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.

For the first time, a flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips, the corners twitching upward, but his eyes remained dark, molten, locked on yours with an intensity that made the air feel thinner. He pushed off the doorframe, his movements slow, deliberate, and folded his arms across his chest, the motion pulling his T-shirt tighter, accentuating the hard curve of his biceps, the broad expanse of his chest. His gaze didn't waver, and the spark in his eyes wasn't playful—it was raw, unguarded, a challenge that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You of all people," he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word a slow burn, "should know I'm not as innocent as they think."

The words struck like a match in a room soaked with gasoline, igniting a fire that roared through your veins. Your breath hitched, the heat in your stomach twisting tighter, spreading lower, a pulsing ache that rooted you to the spot. The memories came unbidden, vivid and relentless.

Clark didn't look away, didn't retreat into the safety of shyness or excuses. His eyes held yours, dark and piercing, a silent dare to deny what he'd said, to pretend you didn't feel the same pull, to act as if the memory of him—buried deep inside you, his breath hot against your neck, his hands bruising your thighs—wasn't as vivid for you as it was for him. His chest rose and fell, shifting with each breath, and you couldn't help but notice the faint outline of his still-hard cock against the fabric of his pajama pants, a reminder of what you'd interrupted, what he hadn't finished. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively, your body betraying the restraint you were trying so hard to hold onto.

"I don't usually..." he started, his voice low, even, almost clinical, as if he were trying to strip the moment of its heat with raw, unadorned honesty. He paused, exhaling sharply through his nose, the sound heavy in the quiet hallway, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

"When it gets to be too much, I'll use the living room. Everyone's asleep, lights down low, the couch is... private enough." His eyes flicked to yours, steady and unflinching, a dark intensity in them that made your stomach twist. "But with you here tonight—"

His voice caught, just for a moment, before he pressed on, his gaze holding yours like a tether. "With you under the same roof, I couldn't. It didn't feel right. So I came in here. Shut the door. Less chance of you ever knowing."

The words landed like a stone in your chest, heavy and unyielding, each syllable threaded with a weight that was both confession and restraint. He wasn't embarrassed—not in the way most men would've been, their faces flushed with shame at being caught. Instead, there was a quiet dignity in his admission, a respect woven into the raw honesty, as if he were trying to honor you even in the midst of something so messy, so human.

You blinked, trying to ground yourself, and let out a dry, shaky laugh, shaking your head as you raked a hand through your hair, your fingers catching in the strands.

"Clark..." you started, your voice softer than you meant it to be, "this is your house. Your rules. You don't need to explain yourself to me."

The words were deliberate, a careful attempt to rebuild the boundaries you'd both spent years reinforcing, to keep the moment from spiraling into something neither of you could take back.

You took a step back, your bare feet silent against the cool hardwood, the tension in your body loosening slightly as you found a safer line to stand on.

"I was only up because I needed the bathroom," you said, your tone light, almost teasing, though your heart was still pounding, your skin still tingling with the memory of what you'd seen.

"I'll head back to bed. You—" You gestured vaguely toward the half-open bathroom door, toward the quiet admission still hanging in the air, your hand trembling slightly as you tried to keep your voice steady. "You can... continue with whatever plan you had."

The words were deliberate, a reminder to both of you that you weren't here to judge, to police, or to blur the lines you'd both fought so hard to redraw. But even as you spoke, your eyes betrayed you, lingering for a fraction too long on the broad line of his shoulders, the way the hallway light caught the faint halo of his dark hair, curling messily at the nape of his neck.

The heat in your chest hadn't faded, and the memory of him—his hand wrapped around himself, stroking with deliberate need, his low groan echoing in the small space—flashed unbidden in your mind, sending a fresh wave of warmth through you.

For a moment, Clark just studied you, his arms still folded across his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing subtly as he held himself in check. His jaw was tight, a flicker of something unnameable—regret, longing, restraint—passing across his face. His eyes, dark and searching, traced yours, as if looking for something you weren't ready to give voice to. Then, slowly, he gave a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment of the space you'd offered, the respect you'd returned to him. It was a gesture that felt like both a thank you and a surrender, a recognition of the fragile boundary you were both trying to maintain.

"Goodnight," you said, softer now, your voice barely above a whisper as you forced your eyes away from him, away from the way the light carved out the angles of his face, the faint flush across his cheekbones, the tension in his body that mirrored your own.

You turned, your bare feet padding silently against the hardwood as you made your way back toward the guest room.

YOU HAD barely eased the guest room door shut behind you, the soft click of the latch echoing faintly in the stillness, when the tension that had coiled tight in the hallway began to loosen, if only slightly. The room was cool, the air carrying the subtle soothing scent of lavender as you slid beneath them.

The cotton was crisp against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat still simmering in your chest, and you pressed your face into the pillow, exhaling deeply, willing your body to release the weight of the moment—the awkwardness of stumbling into Clark's private act, the heavy press of old history that tightened like a band around your ribs.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push it all down, to let the quiet of the guest room and the steady rhythm of your breathing erase the charge still humming through you.

Just as your pulse began to slow, your breaths evening out into something resembling calm, a soft knock broke the silence—two gentle taps against the wooden door, not urgent, not loud, but hesitant, as if the person on the other side wasn't entirely sure they should be there.

Your heart lurched, a fresh wave of adrenaline spiking through you, because you knew, without a doubt, who it was. You pushed yourself upright, the sheets sliding down to pool at your waist, your bare legs prickling in the cool air as you blinked into the dimness of the room. The only light came from the faint sliver of moonlight seeping through the window and the soft glow of the hallway nightlight creeping under the door, casting long, gentle shadows across the hardwood floor.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet brushing the smooth, cool wood as you stood, your loose sweater shifting against your skin, the hem grazing your thighs. You crossed the room in a few quiet steps, your hand pausing on the doorknob, the metal cool under your palm as you steadied yourself.

When you opened the door, Clark stood there, half-shadowed by the weak, amber glow of the hallway light. His expression wasn't guilty, not exactly—it was searching, careful, his blue eyes catching the light as they met yours, holding a question he hadn't yet voiced. It was the look of someone who had turned this moment over in his mind a hundred times in the span of minutes, weighing every word, every consequence.

"Sorry," he said immediately, his voice hushed, barely above a whisper, careful not to carry down the hallway where Lois slept. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just... I needed to ask something."

You leaned against the doorframe, your shoulder brushing the smooth wood, your arms crossing loosely over your chest as you waited, your pulse drumming steady and high, a rhythm that echoed in your ears.

Your bare feet shifted slightly on the hardwood, the coolness grounding you as you met his gaze, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your body betrayed you with the slight flush creeping up your neck.

Clark's throat worked, the muscles in his neck flexing as he swallowed, his jaw tightening briefly before he spoke again.

"Would it be wrong," he asked, his voice low, deliberate, each word measured as if he were stepping carefully across a minefield, "if I asked you to join me in the living room?"

He didn't look away, didn't soften the question with a smile or a deflection. His tone carried the weight of restraint, of someone standing at the edge of a line he knew was dangerous to cross, his eyes searching yours for an answer he wasn't sure he wanted to hear. The question hung between you, raw and unadorned, but beneath it was another, unspoken one, pulsing in the silence: Do you want this too? Do we dare?

The space between you seemed to shrink, the hallway light casting a soft halo around his silhouette, highlighting the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach out.

The quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic tick of the baby monitor were the only other sounds in the house, a faint backdrop to the weight of the moment, as if the entire space was holding its breath, waiting to see what you would do. Your heart pounded, your skin prickling with the awareness of how close he stood, how easy it would be to close the distance, to let the pull of memory and desire unravel the careful boundaries you'd both spent years building.

"Clark..." you started, your voice hushed to match his, barely above a whisper, careful not to carry down the hall where Lois slept. You tried to keep it steady, to anchor yourself in logic, but a faint hesitation crept into the end of your words, betraying the part of you that wasn't entirely convinced by your own refusal. "That might not be such a good idea."

He gave a small nod, his lips pressing into a thin line, as if he'd anticipated your resistance but wasn't ready to let it end there. Instead of retreating, he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, the motion slow and deliberate, his body tilting just enough to close a fraction of the distance between you.

"I know how it sounds," he said quietly, his voice low and measured, each word chosen with care, addressing the unspoken implication that his invitation could be mistaken for something more—a request for intimacy, for the kind of connection that had once burned between you. "But I'm not asking for... that." His tone softened, deliberate in every syllable, as if he were laying out a promise he intended to keep. "I'll behave. I promise."

Your brow furrowed, a mix of skepticism and curiosity, but before you could respond, he pressed on, his voice dipping even lower, a rough edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.

"I just..." He glanced down the hall toward the living room, his eyes lingering on the shadowed doorway for a moment before returning to you, steady and unyielding. "I don't want to sit out there by myself tonight. I'd rather have your company, if you're not too tired. We don't even have to talk if you don't want to. We can just... sit. Watch whatever's on—some late-night rerun, static, doesn't matter. Play cards. Anything."

He gave the faintest shrug, his broad shoulders lifting slightly, the motion meant to seem casual but unable to hide the weight behind it—the quiet plea woven into his words. "I'll take whatever you're comfortable giving."

The words hung in the quiet, raw and sincere, stripped of any pretense. They were a naked request for companionship, for a closeness that didn't demand bodies colliding but sought something simpler, more human—a way to quiet the noise in his head, to share the weight of the night with someone who understood him in ways others didn't. The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, the way he'd laid himself bare, not hiding the vulnerability of needing you there, even if just to sit in silence.

YOU TOOK Clark at his word—company, nothing more—and the two of you drifted toward the living room, moving with the cautious, silent steps of conspirators. Your bare feet whispered against the cool hardwood, the faint creak of the floorboards barely audible in the stillness of the house. The living room was cloaked in near-darkness, illuminated only by the soft, golden pool of light spilling from a small table lamp in the corner, its warm glow catching the edges of the furniture—the worn leather armrests of the sofa, the smooth grain of the coffee table. The blue wink of the baby monitor's light pulsed faintly on the kitchen counter, a quiet reminder of Lois sleeping down the hall, her presence a tether grounding the moment. Clark moved with purpose, retrieving two ceramic mugs from the kitchen, their handles chipped from years of use, and set them on coasters with a faint clink. The chamomile tea steamed gently, its floral scent mingling with the lingering warmth of the house, a subtle counterpoint to the tension still humming in your chest.

You claimed one end of the plush, navy-blue sofa, tucking your legs beneath you, the soft fabric of your loose sweater brushing against your thighs as you adjusted. The remote was cool in your hand, its buttons worn smooth from use, and you gripped it like a lifeline, grounding yourself in the familiar ritual of choosing a movie.

"Ground rules," you said, your voice firm but edged with a playful lilt, a deliberate attempt to keep the moment light. "Door stays open, volume low, and you're not allowed to make fun of my comfort movies." You arched a brow, meeting his gaze, daring him to challenge you.

Clark stood at the opposite end of the sofa, his broad frame silhouetted against the lamplight. He lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes—dark and steady—held a weight that made your pulse quicken.

"Scout's honor," he said, his voice low, warm, with just a hint of amusement. "What are we watching?"

You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you scrolled through the streaming menu, the blue light of the television flickering across your face.

"The Twilight saga," you declared with dangerous solemnity, your finger hovering over the play button. "All of it."

He blinked, his brows lifting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "All... five?"

"And the extended baseball scene," you added, your voice deadpan, though the corners of your mouth twitched with suppressed laughter.

Clark let out a quiet laugh, the sound low and rich, catching himself mid-breath as he nodded, his expression settling into one of mock-serious resolve, like a man accepting a daunting but sacred mission.

He lowered himself onto the opposite end of the sofa, careful to leave a deliberate expanse of space between you—a neutral territory marked by a throw pillow with a faded geometric pattern and a neatly folded wool blanket draped over the backrest. The distance felt like a silent agreement, a boundary both of you were determined to respect, though the air still thrummed with an unspoken awareness.

The opening credits of Twilight washed the room in a moody Pacific Northwest blue, the haunting notes of the soundtrack curling through the air, all misty forests and melancholic piano. You relaxed almost instantly, the tension that had knotted your shoulders all evening dissolving under the familiar rhythm of the film.

This was muscle memory for you: the cadence of the scenes, the way the muted greens and grays of the color grading soothed your pulse, the quiet ache of a story that insisted love could be messy, inconvenient, and still fiercely true. You sank deeper into the sofa, your legs tucked under you, your fingers brushing the soft edge of the throw pillow as you let the movie pull you under.

Clark watched the screen, but his gaze kept drifting to you, subtle and unguarded, as if he couldn't help it. He didn't mean to stare; it was just that you were there, alive in a way the flickering images on the TV could never be. He noticed the way you mouthed certain lines without realizing, your lips moving silently to Bella's awkward dialogue, as if the words were etched into you.

He caught the quick, conspiratorial glance you shot him before the cafeteria scene, your eyes glinting with a playful spark, like you were sharing a private joke with a thousand fictional teenagers. He saw how your expression softened, your eyes brightening when Bella and Edward's first look sparked across the screen, a moment of quiet longing that seemed to resonate deep in your chest. And when the camera lingered too long on a fragile, vulnerable moment, he noticed your hand drift to the edge of the blanket, fingers curling into the wool as if anchoring yourself against the ache of it.

"You've seen these a few times," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, careful not to break the spell of the movie or the fragile balance between you.

"Dozens," you admitted, your tone light but honest, your eyes still fixed on the screen. "They remind me to believe in love despite... everything."

The words slipped out before you could catch them, raw and unguarded, and you felt a flush creep up your neck, though you didn't look at him.

Clark was quiet for a moment, parsing your words, his fingers wrapped loosely around his mug, the chamomile tea long since gone cold. Onscreen, the tension between Bella and Edward hummed, all stolen glances and unspoken promises. You leaned forward, your voice losing its self-consciousness as you launched into an explanation of the coven politics, your hands sketching invisible constellations in the air—fingers tracing arcs as you described the Volturi's power plays, the dynamics of loyalty and betrayal.

You had opinions about the soundtrack too, your voice growing animated as you explained how a certain guitar line, wistful and layered, made a scene feel like rain on bare skin, like the ache of wanting something you couldn't quite name. Clark listened, his questions coming at just the right moments—reporter-curious, thoughtful, never puncturing the spell you were weaving.

"Why that choice?" he'd ask, or "What makes this work for you?" His tone wasn't probing the movies; it was probing you, learning the contours of your thoughts, the way you saw the world through this flawed, glittering story.

By the time the vampire baseball scene roared onto the screen, all thunder and kinetic energy, you were fully alive, sitting up cross-legged, your elbow propped on the throw pillow between you, your eyes lit with unrestrained enthusiasm.

"Okay, this is camp and also peak cinema," you whispered, your voice hushed but brimming with excitement, as if you were sharing a secret. "Watch the way they move to the thunder. And the code under it—family, rules, restraint."

You gestured toward the screen, your fingers brushing the air, your body leaning slightly closer to the neutral space between you, the pillow a flimsy barrier.

Clark watched, his eyes flicking between the screen—the lightning, the crack of bat to ball, the supernatural grace of the Cullens—and your reflection in the glass of the TV: your face open, shining, unguarded, alight with a passion that made something in his chest tug hard.

Restraint had been his native language for years, a discipline carved into his bones, but hope—hope was his other language, the one that whispered of possibilities he'd sworn he wouldn't chase. Tonight, sitting here with you, both felt like talismans he clutched tightly, warding off the pull of something he couldn't name but could feel in every glance, every shared breath.

As New Moon bled into Eclipse, you declared yourself firmly Team "healthy boundaries," your voice half-laughing but earnest, though you confessed in a quieter moment that you still melted at the idea of two people choosing each other again and again, even when it hurt. You talked about Bella's stubbornness, how it read to you not as recklessness but as an argument that love could be a discipline, not just a flood—a choice to hold fast against the chaos.

Clark sipped his cooling tea, the mug cradled in his hands, and let your words settle over him, your faith in a flawed story sharpening his own into focus. Devotion, danger, self-control, vows—these were not theoretical to him. They were the tectonic plates of his life, shifting beneath the surface, and hearing you speak of them with such unguarded conviction made his own feel closer, more tangible.

Between films, he rose quietly, his movements careful not to disturb the moment, and refilled a glass pitcher with water, the faint clink of ice against glass breaking the silence. He returned with a small bowl of green grapes, their skins taut and glistening, and the last two lemon bars, their powdered sugar dusting catching the lamplight. He set them on the coffee table, within reach but not closer than the neutral pillow, a deliberate choice to maintain the fragile boundary between you.

When he noticed your bare feet curling against the cool air, he draped the wool blanket over them, the gesture so subtle you barely registered it, though the warmth of the fabric sent a quiet shiver through you. When you caught him looking—his eyes lingering on the curve of your smile, the way your hands moved when you talked—he deflected with a quick joke about the world's sparkliest vampires, his voice light but his gaze still warm.

You launched into a mock-lecture on authorial intent, your tone teasing but passionate, and he accepted it with a hand over his heart, his lips twitching into a smile that felt like a shared secret in the quiet, lamplit room.

THE HOUSE had softened into a hush by the time you queued up Breaking Dawn: Part 1, its edges blurred by the late hour, the world beyond the living room fading into a quiet cocoon. The screen flickered to life, the opening credits washing the room in a blinding white light and grays that seemed to pull the tension from your shoulders.

Your body responded to the film as it always did, a ritual so familiar it felt like slipping into well-worn clothes. Your shoulders unhitched, your breath evened out, and a quiet, stubborn hope you could never quite extinguish rose to the surface, warming your chest. You sank deeper into the sofa, your legs tucked beneath you, the soft fabric of your loose sweater brushing against your thighs, the hem swaying slightly as you adjusted.

Clark started out watching the screen, his eyes tracking the montage of wedding preparations—an invitation flying out of Jacob's hand, the delicate script curling in the light. By the time the camera found the forest chapel—a corridor of towering trees, their branches heavy with moss, white chairs flanked by lush ferns, a ribbon of soft white petals stitched down the aisle like a promise—his gaze had shifted.

You didn't notice at first, too caught up in the scene, leaning forward with your elbows propped on your knees, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as you told him about the production design you loved: how the chapel's natural frame made the world narrow to two people, even with a crowd of witnesses.

Clark humored you with a soft smile, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to crinkle the skin around his eyes, and asked a question or two—reporter-curious, his tone warm and attentive, genuinely listening as you described the way the ferns seemed to lean in, the way the light filtered through the trees like a vow of its own.

Then the first piano notes of "Turning Page" threaded through the room—bare, measured, a melody that felt like it arrived from a memory rather than the speakers—and your throat caught, a familiar ache blooming in your chest.

You'd watched this scene more times than you could count, its pacing embedded under your skin like a heartbeat: the glimpse of Bella's delicate white shoes peeking from beneath her gown, the tilt of Edward's chin as he waited at the altar, the long, deliberate hold on the aisle as if the film itself were teaching patience, reverence.

Your eyes softened, your lips parting slightly as the music gathered strings beneath the piano, adding depth, like an extra breath drawn in a quiet moment. You murmured something about how the sequence believed in vows without mocking them, your voice low and earnest, and then you let yourself fall silent, as you always did here, letting the moment carry you.

Across the cushion-length divide, Clark set his mug down on the coffee table with a faint clink, the movement so careful it was as if he feared even the ceramic might disrupt the fragile spell of the room. He didn't lean toward the TV; he leaned—fractionally, unconsciously—toward you, his body shifting just enough to tilt the air between you.

You felt it before you saw it, a prickle along your arms like the shift in weather before a storm breaks. The corner of your vision caught details that didn't belong to the movie: the small flex of a muscle at his jaw, the way it tightened and released; the glint of the lamplight catching the edge of his wedding band as his right thumb worried the pad of his left hand, a nervous habit that betrayed the calm he wore; the steady rise and fall of his chest, shirt shifting with each breath, hinting at the strength beneath. When the camera cut to Bella at the end of the aisle, the melody swelling with a cascade of strings, you felt his stare like a physical touch, a warm weight settling on your shoulder.

You tore your gaze from the screen, your breath catching as you found him watching you. Not greedy, not hungry, but utterly, devastatingly present, his blue eyes soft and unyielding, holding yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart stutter.

"What?" you breathed, a half-laugh slipping out, a flimsy shield against the ridiculousness of the moment, against the rules you'd both set, the open door, the vows you both carried. The score swelled, all piano and strings, a melody that could make you believe in anything.

He didn't answer, his silence louder than words, as if the truth was too heavy to speak in this house, with Lois sleeping down the hall. Onscreen, Edward was mesmerized at the sight of Bella coming down the aisle, the white fabric of dress look like a sigh, soft and deliberate. The strings joined the piano, a gentle brush of sound that felt like it was stitching the moment together.

In the small, suspended space between those notes and the swelling crescendo that always followed, Clark moved, crossing the neutral divide in a single, fluid motion so careful it felt like a prayer. The throw pillow shifted slightly, the blanket rustling as he closed the distance.

His hand found your jaw—not your mouth, not your neck, but the delicate curve of your jaw, his fingers warm and steady, as if asking a question his words couldn't form. His touch was light, reverent, the calluses on his fingertips brushing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath hitch.

For a heartbeat, you didn't move, your body caught in the space between instinct and choice. Then your chin tipped—permission or gravity, you'd argue with yourself later—and his mouth found yours at the exact moment Edward's found Bella's onscreen, the timing so precise it felt scripted, fated.

The kiss wasn't built to steal breath; it gave you yours back, a gentle press of lips that felt like remembering every version of you he'd ever known. His mouth was warm, soft, tasting faintly of chamomile and the sharp tang of citrus from the lemon bars, a combination that grounded the moment in something achingly real.

The TV's cool flicker painted the backs of your eyelids silver, the piano notes of "Turning Page" keeping time with the small, stuttering gasps of your lungs. Somewhere in the fog of it, you had the surreal sensation of white petals falling—onscreen, yes, drifting through branches and catching in Bella's hair, but also in your chest, a soft, soundless cascade, the kind of inner weather that comes when you tell yourself a truth and stop fighting it.

Your hand moved of its own accord, finding the front of his T-shirt, the cotton warm and smooth, softened by countless washings, the faint nap catching under your fingertips. Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric, as if it had always belonged there, anchoring you to him. He didn't deepen the kiss, didn't press for more; he held it exactly where it was, a fragile line he refused to cross, his lips moving with a care that spoke of restraint, of knowing how easily this could unravel.

His thumb stroked once along your cheekbone, a slow, deliberate brush that sent a shiver through you, and for that long, suspended moment, the world contracted: no hallway, no house, no years of choices or vows; just the taste of him, the quiet weight of his palm, the melody stitching the room to itself.

The song moved through its middle, the strings swelling then pulling back, as if even the arrangement understood the need for restraint.

Clark breathed against your mouth—a small, involuntary sound, half-groan, half-sigh—and your body answered it, a low ache blooming deep in your core, a pull that had little to do with the past and everything to do with being seen, chosen, in this single, impossible minute.

Onscreen, the minister's voice murmured words you both knew by heart, vows about forever and fidelity, words that carried weight because you understood their cost, their promise.

You parted first—or maybe he did—a fraction of an inch at a time, the way you separate two pieces of glass that have fused too closely, afraid they might shatter if moved too quickly. His hand lingered on your cheek until the last possible second, then dropped to the cushion between you, resting there like a promise laid down gently rather than snatched back.

You both turned to the TV in the same breath, as if the moment had been choreographed, directed by some unseen hand that knew how to keep you on the right side of the line.

Applause blossomed from the speakers—onscreen guests cheering in the forest, petals tossed into the air, catching the light. In the living room, there was no sound but the faint hum of the baby monitor and the high, slightly embarrassed thump of your hearts finding their rhythm again.

You swallowed, the taste of lemon and chamomile lingering on your lips, mingled with something that felt like relief and terror intertwined, a fragile alchemy of truth and restraint.

Clark didn't say "I'm sorry." He didn't say "I shouldn't have." He stayed very still, his eyes fixed on the screen he hadn't watched, the forest chapel fading into the reception scene. The final piano figures of "Turning Page" descended, soft and measured, like careful steps back to solid ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was a thread pulled through a needle's eye, precise and quiet.

"That... wasn't fair," he said, as much to himself as to you. "And it was also true. Both things."

You stared at your hands, folded in your lap, steady despite the tremor you felt beneath your skin. You surprised yourself with the calm in your voice, no bravado, just honesty.

"I know." Your mouth quirked, not quite a smile, a flicker of acknowledgment. "The movie brings out the worst kind of faith in me."

"The best kind," he countered, almost reflexively, his voice soft but certain. Then he cleared his throat, like a man waking from a dream, and without looking away from the screen, he reached for the throw pillow, setting it back between you—not as a wall, but as a boundary you both could honor, a tangible reminder of the line you'd just brushed against.

Onscreen, the camera pulled back, swallowing the couple into the forest, light filtering through the trees in impossible, golden shafts. In the living room, the lamplight pooled as it had before, unremarkable and kind, casting soft shadows across the coffee table, the empty mugs, the bowl of grapes still untouched.

You shifted your feet under the blanket, the wool warm against your skin as the room's chill settled in. Clark leaned back into his corner of the sofa, his fingers wrapping loosely around his mug, though the tea had long gone cold. The house exhaled, the faint creak of floorboards settling, the baby monitor's light blinking steadily in the distance.

The film kept moving, carrying Bella and Edward into their next chapter through scenes you'd memorized over countless viewings, their dialogue a soft hum in the background, but your mind was anchored elsewhere—trapped in the echo of "Turning Page," the piano notes still resonating in your chest, synced to the moment Clark's lips had pressed against yours as Bella and Edward sealed their vows onscreen. The memory of that kiss lingered like a live wire, sparking and humming, impossible to ignore.

You shifted beneath the blanket, its weight warm but not enough to settle the restless energy coursing through you. Your focus was fractured, your pulse hammering with the weight of what had just happened. The forbidden edge of it burned like static in your veins, a low, electric hum that refused to fade. You could still feel the ghost of Clark's lips on yours, soft and deliberate, the memory of his hand cradling your jaw—warm, steady, calluses brushing your skin—lingered like a brand, searing itself into your senses.

Finally, you exhaled, a shaky breath that broke the silence, the words spilling out before you could swallow them back.

"We can't just... pretend that didn't happen," you murmured, your voice low, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile quiet of the house, might wake Lois.

"Clark, that kiss—it's not just a slip. It's everything I've tried to bury coming back. I have feelings for you. I never stopped."

You turned to him, your eyes locking onto his, even though a part of you wanted to look anywhere else—out the window at the dark, starless night. But his gaze held you, and the admission felt like tearing open a wound, raw and aching.

"And if we let ourselves keep doing this, it's just the same cycle starting all over again. The same danger, the same guilt, the same—"

Clark had been watching you the entire time, his profile sharp against the TV's pale light, the glow catching the tense line of his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows. When you said "feelings," something flickered across his face—a layered, fleeting expression, relief and longing tangled with a quiet sorrow, like light refracting through glass. He didn't flinch, didn't try to deflect or excuse it away, just held your gaze with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

"You think this is just a cycle," he said, his voice quiet but steady, each word measured, as if he were laying them down like stones to build something solid. "But I don't see it that way."

Before you could argue, he moved, his motion fluid and deliberate, the throw pillow with its faded geometric pattern nudged aside as if it were no more substantial than air. His hand found yours, warm and grounding, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, his thumb brushing the pulse point where your heart betrayed you, beating too fast. The touch pulled your focus from the spiral of guilt tightening in your chest, anchoring you to the moment, to him.

He leaned in, close enough that you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle tremor of restraint running through him, the way his dark hair curled messily at the nape of his neck. The scent of him—clean soap, the faint salt of sweat, and that deeper, muskier note from earlier—filled the small space between you, stirring a heat low in your belly that you were desperate to ignore.

"I kissed you," he said, the words a confession, not an apology, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of truth. "Because it's real. Because I can't keep pretending it's not. I don't care if it's wrong, or complicated, or forbidden. It's ours. And I..."

His voice cracked, just a hairline fracture, before he steadied it, his eyes never leaving yours. "I want it."

And then he closed the space again, his lips finding yours with a purpose that stole the air from your lungs. This time, it wasn't the careful, testing kiss of the wedding scene, soft and reverent like a question. This was deeper, heavier, a surge of years of silence and buried want bleeding through in one unguarded motion. His free hand slid up, fingers brushing your cheek, then curling around the back of your neck, his touch firm but tender, anchoring you to him as if he were afraid you might slip away.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that felt like it had been held back for too long, molding to yours with a warmth and sincerity that made your chest ache. The movie played on, forgotten, the score swelling with strings and piano, as if it had been written for this moment, for the way his breath mingled with yours, for the way his fingers tightened slightly at the nape of your neck, grounding you in the reality of him.

You should've pulled back. You knew that, the knowledge sharp and insistent at the edges of your mind, whispering of Lois, of vows, of the open door down the hall. But the moment Clark's lips pressed to yours again, every carefully constructed wall you'd built over the last two years shattered like fragile glass under the unrelenting strike of a hammer, the cracks spiderwebbing out in an instant, irreparable and complete. The initial contact was a spark that ignited everything you'd suppressed—the warmth of his mouth, soft yet insistent, molding against yours with a familiarity that made your breath hitch. You accepted him without a second's hesitation, your lips parting instinctively, inviting him deeper, letting yourself ravish the taste you'd fought so hard to erase from your memory. There it was, Clark—warm and intoxicating, his breath was hot against your tongue, a rush of air that carried the subtle salt of his skin, and beneath it all, that familiar, impossible sweetness, a unique essence that was purely him, something you'd hated to admit you'd missed more than you'd ever missed anyone, a craving that had haunted your quieter moments like a ghost.

Your hands moved on their own, fisting into the soft, worn fabric of his shirt, the cotton warm from his body heat, the faint nap of the material catching under your fingernails as you tugged him closer. The pull was urgent, needy, a demand for more contact, more proof that this was real—that he was here, solid and present, choosing you in this stolen, dangerous moment despite everything. The shirt stretched taut across his chest, the seams straining slightly under your grip, and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms, echoing your own racing pulse.

Clark responded without a word, his body mirroring your urgency; one large hand braced at the small of your back, his fingers splaying wide across the curve of your spine, pressing through the thin fabric of your loose sweater, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin like sunlight. His other hand slid up, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of your jaw before cradling it fully, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, as if he were committing every angle, every contour of you to memory, his touch both tender and possessive.

In one fluid, effortless motion, he guided you across the sofa, the cushions dipping under your combined weight, the faint rustle of the wool blanket shifting beneath you. You moved with him, your body following his lead until you were straddling him, your knees braced on either side of his strong thighs, the pajama pants soft against your bare skin where your sweater rode up.

His body was solid beneath you, unyielding yet welcoming—the hard planes of his chest pressing against yours, his hips shifting slightly to accommodate you, the faint outline of his arousal evident even through the layers of fabric, a reminder of the vulnerability you'd walked in on earlier.

His chest rose and fell in rhythm with yours, each breath a shared exchange, as if the act of kissing you both stole and restored his air in the same instant. He pulled you in tighter, his arms circling your waist with a hunger he'd long restrained, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he held you close, his grip firm but not bruising, as though letting go was an unthinkable betrayal.

The kiss grew hotter, messier, evolving from that initial confession into something raw and unrestrained—your teeth grazing his lower lip, a gentle nip that drew a low, involuntary sound from his throat, a rumble that vibrated against your mouth and sent your pulse thundering in your ears. His tongue slid against yours, warm and exploratory, tasting you with a deliberate slowness that built the heat between you, each stroke sending sparks cascading down your spine. You clung to him, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck, dragging through the messy curls of his dark hair, the strands soft and slightly damp from the night's earlier tension, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made him shudder faintly beneath you.

Desperation fueled every movement, a need to close the last slivers of space between you, to erase the years of denial and distance with the press of bodies and breaths.

The forgotten movie flickered on in the background, its pale blue glow casting shifting shadows across the living room—the only world you could feel was the one you and Clark were tangled in, two people pressed together like the universe itself had been holding this moment back for far too long, denying you both until the pressure became unbearable.

Each kiss was a confession, a vow, a surrender—his lips capturing yours again and again, soft then firm, exploring the curve of your upper lip, the seam where your mouths met, the way your breaths mingled in hot, ragged exchanges.

You moaned his name, "Clark," the sound spilling from your lips, low and breathless, a plea and a surrender as his kisses burned a trail across your skin. His lips had moved from your mouth to your neck, then lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive hollow of your collarbone, each one a deliberate act of worship that sent shivers cascading down your spine.

The faint rasp of his stubble grazed your skin, a delicious friction that heightened every sensation, and his breath was warm, humid, layered with the deeper, musky warmth of his skin. The pressure of his kisses was unrelenting, each one lingering longer than the last, his tongue flicking out to taste the pulse point at the base of your throat, drawing a soft gasp from you that echoed in the quiet room.

Your body surrendered to his touch, every nerve alight, your muscles softening as you leaned into him, letting him guide you deeper into the moment.

His hands roamed with purpose, sliding from the small of your back to your ass, his fingers splaying wide as he squeezed, the pressure firm and possessive, sending a jolt of heat through you. The thin fabric of your jeans did little to dull the sensation of his hands, callused from years of quiet strength, gripping you with a hunger that felt like it had been held back for far too long.

He guided you closer, pulling your hips forward in a slow, deliberate motion, your body shifting in his lap until your hard dick pressed against the taut plane of his stomach, the friction sending a sharp, electric pulse through you. The contact was maddening, the heat of him seeping through the layers of fabric—your jeans, his T-shirt—his muscles tensing beneath you as he felt you against him, a low, rumbling sound escaping his throat, vibrating against your skin where his lips still lingered.

Your fingers curled tighter, pulling at the material, and you arched into him, your chest pressed flush against his, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin cotton, grounding you even as it set your nerves ablaze. Your hips shifted again, instinctively, the hard length of you rubbing against his stomach, the pressure drawing another soft moan from your lips, the sound swallowed by the quiet intensity of the room.

Clark's hands tightened on your ass, his fingers digging into the denim, guiding your movements with a subtle but undeniable control, each squeeze sending a fresh wave of heat curling through you. His lips moved back up your neck, slow and deliberate, kissing along the curve of your jaw before finding your mouth again, the kiss deeper now, hungrier, his tongue sliding against yours with a warmth and urgency that made your head spin.

His breath hitched, a low, involuntary groan rumbling in his chest as you pressed yourself closer, the friction of your arousal against his stomach sparking a shared heat that felt like it could consume you both. His hand at your neck slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently to tilt your head, giving him better access to deepen the kiss, his lips molding to yours with a need that felt like a confession of all the nights he'd spent wanting this, wanting you.

The kisses slowed, a momentary pause in the fevered rhythm as your hands, driven by an unspoken need, slipped beneath the hem of Clark's shirt. The fabric was soft and warm, worn smooth by countless washings, and it clung to the hard planes of his chest, catching slightly as your fingers brushed against his skin.

The heat of him radiated through the cotton, a quiet promise of the strength beneath, and your palms flattened against his abdomen, feeling the taut muscle there, the faint ridges of his abs contracting under your touch. His breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound that vibrated against your lips, and his kisses faltered for a moment, his mouth hovering just above yours, warm and unsteady, as he surrendered to the sensation of your hands exploring him.

You slid your hands higher, tracing the contours of his body—the smooth dip of his lower ribs, the broad expanse of his chest, the subtle flex of his pectorals as he shifted beneath you. The shirt bunched under your wrists, the fabric stretching as you pushed it upward, your fingers grazing the faint line of hair trailing down from his navel, a detail that sent a fresh wave of heat curling through you.

Clark lifted his arms, a silent agreement, and you guided the shirt over his head, the motion fluid but deliberate, the cotton catching briefly on his shoulders before you tugged it free. It fell to the side, pooling on the sofa beside the tangled wool blanket, its faded geometric pattern barely visible in the dim glow of the table lamp.

His body was revealed in the soft, golden light of the living room, the cool blue flicker of the forgotten movie casting shifting shadows across his skin. Clark's torso was a study in quiet strength—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, muscles defined but not ostentatious, the kind of power that came from years of restraint rather than show. The lamplight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, highlighting the smooth curve of his pectorals, the subtle rise and fall of his chest with each uneven breath.

His skin was warm, a faint flush spreading across his chest, and you could see the steady pulse at the base of his throat, a rhythm that echoed the frantic beat of your own heart. The faint scattering of dark hair across his chest trailed downward, disappearing beneath the sagging waistband of his plaid pajama pants, which hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp, tantalizing curve of his hipbones.

Your hands lingered on his bare skin, fingers tracing the lines of his shoulders, the warmth of him grounding you even as it set your nerves ablaze. His eyes, dark and molten, held yours, a quiet intensity in them that made your breath catch, and his lips—still slightly parted, still glistening from the kisses—curved into a faint, almost shy smile, as if he were both vulnerable and certain in this moment.

Clark's hands roamed with purpose—one splayed at the small of your back, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your loose sweater to brush the bare skin there, the touch electric; the other sliding down to your hips, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans.

His touch was deliberate but impatient, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of your jeans, the denim pulling taut as he worked to undo it. He tugged gently at first, then with more urgency, his lips found yours, his breath hitching as he murmured your name against your mouth, the sound raw and desperate.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your lips tingling, your chest heaving as you met his gaze. His eyes were dark, molten, filled with a need that mirrored your own, but the reality of the moment crashed in, sharp and insistent.

"Clark," you whispered, your voice low and unsteady, barely audible over the faint hum of the TV, "we're in the living room."

Your words were a half-hearted protest, a nod to the open door down the hall, the baby monitor's blinking light, the sleeping house that could wake at any moment. Your hands rested on his bare shoulders, fingers digging slightly into the warm muscle, grounding yourself against the pull of him.

Clark's hands stilled on your hips, his fingers still hooked in the waistband of your jeans, but his expression didn't waver. His jaw tightened, a muscle flexing briefly, and his eyes held yours with an intensity that made your pulse thunder in your ears.

"I don't care," he said, his voice low, rough, a confession that carried no shame, only truth. "I want you. Right here. Right now."

The words were a vow, unapologetic and raw, and the way he said them—his voice steady despite the tremor of restraint running through him—sent a shiver down your spine.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin as he murmured, "I'm prepared to fuck you right in the middle of this living room."

The bluntness of his words hit like a spark, igniting the heat already coiled tight in your core. His hands moved again, more confident now, tugging at the zipper of your jeans, the metal teeth parting with a soft rasp that echoed in the quiet room.

His fingers brushed the bare skin of your hips as he pushed the denim down, the fabric catching briefly on your thighs before you shifted to help him, your movements instinctive, driven by the same hunger that burned in his eyes.

Your hard arousal was evident, straining against the confines of your underwear, and as the jeans slid lower, Clark's hand grazed you there, a deliberate, fleeting touch that drew a low groan from your throat, the sound swallowed by the press of his lips against your neck.

The emotions crashed over you both—longing sharpened by absence, regret twisted with relief, a fierce, unspoken love that had never truly faded, now exploding in touches and gasps that left no room for pretense.

Your hands, trembling slightly with the weight of the moment, snuck downward, fingers brushing the sagging waistband of his pajama pants, the elastic soft and worn under your touch. The fabric was warm from his body, and as your palm slid beneath it, grazing the coarse trail of hair leading lower, you felt the heat of him, the hardness waiting.

Clark's breath hitched sharply, a low groan rumbling in his throat as your fingers wrapped around his dick—thick, hot, and pulsing in your grasp, the velvety skin smooth over the rigid length, a bead of precum already slicking the tip.

He shifted beneath you, his thighs tensing under your knees, and with a hurried, urgent motion, he lowered his pajama pants just enough to allow full access, pushing the plaid fabric down to mid-thigh. The pants bunched there, exposing him completely—the flushed shaft curving slightly upward, veins prominent along its length, the head glistening in the dim lamplight, his balls heavy and drawn tight beneath.

The sight of him, vulnerable and aroused, sent a fresh wave of heat curling through you, your own arousal straining against the remnants of your jeans, the friction maddening as you ground subtly against his thigh.

Clark's eyes locked on yours, dark and hooded, filled with that same intense emotion—a mix of desperation and devotion that made your chest ache. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the denim, guiding you closer as if he couldn't bear even an inch of space.

Your lips found his again, crashing together in a kiss that was all fire and surrender, your mouth opening to him immediately, tongues tangling in a wet. The kiss was messy, urgent, your teeth grazing his lower lip as you poured everything into it—the missed years, the unspoken aches, the forbidden truth now laid bare.

Your hand worked on his dick in rhythm with the kiss, fingers wrapping firmly around the thick girth, stroking from base to tip with a slow, deliberate twist at the head, spreading the slick precum down the shaft to ease the glide.

Clark groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, his hips bucking faintly upward into your grip, seeking more friction, more pressure. Your thumb circled the sensitive ridge beneath the head, teasing the slit where another bead of precum welled up, and he shuddered beneath you, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, holding you to the kiss as if afraid you'd vanish.

The sofa creaked with each subtle movement, the cushions dipping under your knees as you straddled him, your sweater riding higher, exposing more skin to the cool air and his wandering touches.

His dick throbbed in your hand, hot and heavy, the veins pulsing under your fingers as you pumped him faster, matching the escalating rhythm of your kisses—deep, devouring, lips swollen and breaths ragged. The emotions surged between you, intense and overwhelming: the joy of reconnection, the pain of what you'd lost, the reckless abandon of finally giving in.

Clark's tongue delved deeper, exploring your mouth with a possessiveness that made your core clench, his groans growing louder, muffled against your lips, as your hand twisted and stroked, milking him with a skill born of memory and renewed desire.

Though halfway through the rhythmic stroking of Clark's dick—he broke the kiss with a sharp, ragged inhale. His lips, swollen and glistening from the fervent exchange, pulled away from yours, leaving a cool void where the warmth of his mouth had been. His eyes locked onto yours for a fleeting second, a storm of emotions swirling there—hunger, longing, a flicker of the guilt you both ignored in this moment.

With a gentle but insistent push, Clark guided you back against the sofa, his large hands—warm and callused—pressing against your shoulders, easing you down until your back met the soft, slightly rumpled cushions. He hovered over you for a moment, his plaid pajama pants still bunched low on his thighs, his hard dick jutting free, flushed and slick from your earlier attentions, bobbing slightly with his movements.

He leaned down, capturing your lips again in a brief, searing kiss—soft at first, his tongue flicking out to trace your lower lip before he pulled away. His mouth trailed lower, hot and deliberate, brushing the salty skin of your jaw, then settling on your neck. He sucked gently at the sensitive curve there, his stubble rasping roughly against your flesh like fine-grain sandpaper, the wet heat of his lips and the faint metallic tang of his breath sending sparks skittering down your spine.

The love bites came next—small, insistent nips followed by the warm suction of his mouth, marking you with faint red blooms that throbbed warmly under his attention, each one a claim accompanied by the soft, wet sounds of his kisses and your quickening breaths, a reminder of the dormant fire now raging.

His breath was hot and uneven against your throat, carrying the subtle, musky scent of his arousal, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he worked, the vibration humming through your skin like a bass note in the quiet room.

He moved lower, his hands pushing up the hem of your loose sweater, the fabric whispering against your torso as it bunched under your arms, exposing your chest to the cool draft of the room and the warmth of his gaze.

The air felt crisp against your heated skin, raising, and Clark's lips found your nipples—first one, then the other—his tongue circling the sensitive peak with slow, deliberate swirls, the wet, velvety texture of it dragging over the hardened bud, tasting faintly of your skin's saltiness.

He sucked gently, the pull creating a delicious ache that shot straight to your core, teeth grazing the peak with a light scrape that sent electric tingles radiating outward, the sensation blending pleasure and a hint of pain.

You moaned out his name—"Clark"—the sound low and broken, spilling from your lips unbidden, echoing faintly in the quiet room amid the faint, wet smacks of his mouth and the distant murmur of the TV. Your fingers threaded into his dark, messy curls, tugging lightly to anchor yourself, feeling the soft, slightly damp strands slip through your grasp as you arched into him, the sofa cushions yielding softly beneath your back.

His lips trailed down your stomach, hot kisses pressed against the taut, sensitive skin, his stubble scraping lightly like a teasing rasp, leaving faint red trails that tingled in the cool air. His breath fanned warm and humid over your navel, carrying the scent of chamomile and his own arousal, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating from his throat as he nuzzled lower.

He paused at the waistband of your briefs, his fingers hooking into the elastic with a deliberate tug, the fabric snapping softly against your skin as he pulled them free, the cool rush of air hitting your exposed arousal like a shock. The briefs slid down your hips, catching briefly on your thighs before he tossed them aside with a faint rustle to join the discarded Clark's shirt on the floor, the hardwood cool beneath where they landed.

Your hard dick sprang free, flushed and aching, the sensitive skin prickling in the room's draft, a bead of precum glistening at the tip and catching the lamplight.

Clark's eyes met yours for a moment—dark, intent, filled with that same intense emotion—before he lowered his head, settling between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders nudging them wider, the sofa creaking under the shift.

His breath ghosted hot and teasing over your length first, a warm exhale that made you twitch in anticipation, the musky scent of your arousal filling the air between you. Then his mouth enveloped your dick in one smooth, enveloping motion, the wet heat of it overwhelming—like velvet wrapped in fire—his lips sealing around the shaft with a soft, suctioning pressure that drew a sharp gasp from your throat.

The taste of you seemed to spur him on; his tongue swirled over the sensitive head, lapping at the salty precum with broad, flat strokes, the slick texture rough and smooth in turns, exploring the ridge beneath with a flick that sent jolts of pleasure shooting up your spine.

The sensation was electric, a wet, slurping heat that built with every bob of his head, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and balls, adding a rough, prickling contrast to the silky slide of his mouth. He hummed around you, the vibration a deep, rumbling buzz that resonated through your core, making your hips buck upward instinctively into the tight, warm cavern of his mouth, the faint taste of salt and skin on his tongue as he took you deeper.

His hand wrapped around the base, fingers warm and firm, stroking in tandem with his sucks—slow pulls that created a delicious friction, the wet sounds of his efforts filling the room, mingling with your ragged moans and the distant swell of the movie's score.

You had no idea Clark possessed this skill, no clue he was that good at it—the revelation hit you like a wave crashing over your senses, leaving you reeling in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. As his mouth worked on you, the wet heat enveloping your dick in a rhythm that was both precise and instinctive, your mind fractured between the physical ecstasy and the swirling questions bubbling up unbidden.

His tongue swirled with expert finesse, tracing the sensitive ridge beneath the head with a flat, broad stroke that sent electric tingles radiating outward, the slick texture rough and silky in turns, tasting the salty bead of precum that welled up anew with each teasing flick.

The suction was perfect—not too tight, but firm enough to create a delicious pull that made your hips buck involuntarily, the soft, slurping sounds of his efforts filling the dim living room, mingling with your ragged moans.

His stubble rasped against the tender skin of your inner thighs, a prickling contrast that heightened every sensation, the faint scrape like fine sandpaper against your heated flesh, while his breath fanned hot and humid over your length, carrying the subtle, musky scent of arousal that blended with the room's lingering notes of chamomile from the cold tea on the coffee table.

Clark hummed around you, the deep vibration rumbling through your shaft like a bass note thrumming in your core, resonating in your balls and making your toes curl against the tangled wool blanket bunched at the sofa's edge.

His free hand cupped your balls gently, fingers warm and callused, rolling them with a tender pressure that bordered on teasing, the skin there tightening under his touch, slick with a faint sheen of sweat that made his palm glide smoothly.

Where the hell did he learn this? The thought flashed through your mind, sharp and insistent amid the haze of pleasure, your body arching off the couch cushions as he took you deeper, the back of his throat relaxing to accommodate your length, the tight, wet heat contracting around you in a way that drew a guttural groan from your lips.

Was it something he'd picked up in those quiet years apart, in stolen moments you didn't want to imagine? Or was it instinct, honed by the same quiet intensity he brought to everything—his reporting, his restraint, his hidden depths?

You almost had to ask, the words forming on your tongue even as another swirl of his tongue—wet and insistent, lapping at the underside with a flick that made stars burst behind your eyelids—stole your breath and silenced the question.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours then, a flicker of knowing amusement in them as if he sensed your wonder, his cheeks hollowing with another deep suck that pulled at your very core, the salty taste of you on his lips, the vibration of his own muffled hum sending fresh waves of ecstasy crashing through you.

The golden pool of the table lamp highlighting the sheen of saliva glistening on his lips as he pulled back briefly for air, the faint, wet pop echoing softly before he dove down again.

MEANWHILE, Lois Lane-Kent stirred in the king-sized bed, the crisp white sheets tangled around her legs like a half-hearted embrace. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft red 3:17 a.m., its numbers casting a faint crimson hue across the pregnancy pillow propped against her side. Her bladder pressed insistently, a common midnight intruder in her sixth month, but that wasn't what woke her fully.

It was the emptiness beside her—the cool dip in the mattress where Clark should have been, his body heat a familiar anchor on nights when the baby kicked restlessly or her mind wandered to deadlines and dangers. She reached out instinctively, her hand, her palm sliding over the smooth cotton sheet, finding only lingering warmth, as if he'd slipped away minutes ago.

"Clark?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep, sitting up slowly and rubbing the swell of her belly, the baby shifting in response like a quiet echo.

The room was dim, moonlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains, painting silver stripes across the hardwood floor and the scattered clothes from earlier—her maternity nightgown draped over the chair, Clark's flannel shirt folded neatly on the dresser.

No answer came, just the faint hum of the house: the refrigerator's low drone from the kitchen, the occasional creak of old wood settling.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floorboards, a slight wince at the chill that sent a shiver up her spine. Pregnant and restless, she figured he'd gone for water or to check the baby monitor—ever the protector, even in the small hours.

Padding down the hallway on silent feet, her hand trailing the wall for balance, Lois rubbed her eyes, the faint scent of lavender detergent from the guest room sheets lingering in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of lemon bars from dinner.

The house felt oddly alive, a subtle vibration she couldn't place, like a distant murmur or the low hum of the TV left on. She approached the living room archway, the open door spilling a mix of golden lamplight and the cool blue flicker of the television screen, the volume muted but the soundtrack's strings faintly audible, swelling dramatically.

She froze in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat like a sharp intake of icy air.

There, on the navy-blue sofa—the one they'd picked out together for family movie nights—was Clark, her husband, the father of her unborn child, positioned between the legs of... you. Her little brother. The one who'd stayed for dinner and crashed in the guest room. The sight hit her like a punch to the gut, a visceral twist that made her hand fly to her mouth, stifling a gasp that tasted of bile and betrayal.

Clark's broad, bare back was to her, muscles flexing under the lamplight's glow, his dark hair tousled and catching the TV's blue hue. He was shirtless, pajama pants pushed low, his head buried between your thighs, moving with a rhythmic intimacy that left no room for misinterpretation.

The wet, slurping sounds—soft but unmistakable in the quiet room—cut through the air, mingling with the faint hum of the movie and the distant pulse of the baby monitor on the kitchen counter. Your body was arched on the cushions, sweater rucked up, briefs discarded in a heap on the floor beside the tangled wool blanket, your hard dick disappearing into Clark's mouth with each bob of his head.

Your hands—God, your hands—were threaded through his hair, fingers curling into the messy curls, tugging gently as you guided him, your moans spilling out low and broken:

"Clark... oh, God, Clark..."

The name—her husband's name—echoed in her ears like a dagger, raw and pleading, laced with pleasure that twisted Lois's stomach into knots. She could see the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your chest heaved under the bunched sweater, your thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders. The air carried the heavy, musky scent of arousal, salt and sex overpowering the faint chamomile from the mugs on the coffee table, the untouched grapes glistening innocently nearby.

Lois's heart pounded, a roaring in her ears that drowned out the TV's dialogue, her hand pressing harder against her mouth to stifle the sob rising in her throat.

The baby kicked sharply, as if sensing her turmoil, a painful reminder of the life they'd built—the vows, the family, the trust now shattered on the living room floor.

Clark's hands gripped your hips, steadying you, his own arousal evident in the strain of his pants, and the sight burned into her mind: the man she'd married, the hero the world adored, lost in this forbidden act.

Tears blurred her vision, hot and stinging, her free hand clutching her belly as she backed away silently, the floorboards creaking faintly under her weight.

The hallway swallowed her retreat, the living room's glow fading behind her, but the image—the sounds, the betrayal—etched itself into her soul, a wound that would bleed long into the dawn.

[fungifaggot]

i’m so in love with this series

[hurlingdown]

                          TRICK? OR DICK⁠? ⁠

synopsis. when choso dresses up as little red riding hood for a halloween party, what he doesn’t expect is his campus crush, you, to show up as the big bad wolf. “so, which one is it, little red? trick? or dick?” wc. 3.1k

tags. top! reader, bottom! choso. reader has a cock. little red riding hood!choso, big bad wolf!reader. roleplay sex, anal sex, predator/prey dynamics, pet names (mr wolf, little red, pup), crossdressing, exhibitionism, belly bulge, rimming, slut-shaming, dry humping, creampie, male squirting. sex, tension and fluff at a 50/40/10 ratio

a/n. had sooo much fun writing this. happy late halloween & enjoy <3

Choso hadn’t even considered the possibility of you attending the same Halloween party. That meant that him dressing up as Little Red Riding Hood—and you showing up as the Big Bad Wolf—was pure coincidence. 

Or fate, as Yuki had phrased, wearing an annoying smirk. 

He hadn’t wanted to dress up, much less go to a party. Staying at home, curled up on the couch with salted popcorn and a marathon of slasher films, sounded infinitely more appearling. But according to the forces of the universe, being a college student meant that socializing was inevitable. Before he could protest, he’d been shoved into a room with a short red dress, thigh-highs, and a handful of accessories, then manhandled into the back of a car. 

And now here he was—dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. 

Or rather, an alternate version of the tale where she had gotten lost on the way to her grandmother’s house and joined an emo rock band instead. The fit was complete with a basket of candy he held in one arm, watching as the love of his life paraded his Big Bad Wolf costume across the room. Okay. Maybe that wasn’t part of the story. 

He sighed defeatedly, leaning back against the wall. 

You were enjoying yourself, of course. That charming wolfish grin, paired with twin sharp canines flashing whenever you laughed a little too hard. Choso wondered if they were prosthetics or if they were always that sharp. He wondered what it felt like to have them sink into his shoulder. Would you bite him gently? Or tear him apart, like the wolf in the original tale? 

“Hey.” 

Choso blinked. 

And promptly started sputtering. “What,” he managed, brilliantly. “Hello?” 

You chuckled at his flustered state. His big, tired eyes—outlined with pretty purple—stared up at you like he couldn’t believe you were talking to him. 

“Hello,” you greeted him back, sweetly. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s just that I couldn’t help but notice… we kind of match?” 

Choso’s ears burned red. “Ah. I—I noticed that, too.” If he didn’t know any better, he would think you were flirting with him. Suggesting the two of you matched, like you weren’t talking about costumes but something deeper. Bad for his heart. 

“Heard from your friends that you hate parties,” you continued with a smile, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “So I was surprised to see you here—as Little Red Riding Hood, no less.” 

Choso swallowed. You’d asked about him? Why had no one told him about this? 

“I was forced to come,” he admitted. “I wasn’t really planning on showing up. But now that I’m here, it’s not too bad.” He glanced at you shyly, and you swore you could feel your heart flutter. 

You nodded. “Wasn’t really much of a party person either, but after the first few ones, you just get used to the noise and crowd. Best part, though?” You let your gaze trail over him——the red lace corset cinched his waist perfectly, the petticoat beneath that little red dress, the skin-tight thigh highs and black heeled boots. Definitely not a biblically accurate Little Red Riding Hood. “You get to stare at a pretty guy all night.” 

Choso was certain he looked like a blushing mess by now. Were you flirting? Or was this just how you talked to everyone? It wouldn’t stray too far from his perception of you—you were objectively gorgeous, charismatic, a social butterfly. 

He found himself pouting a little at the thought. 

But then, a warm palm gently cupped the side of his face, and Choso let out a small sound of surprise as you brushed a tender thumb over his cheek. 

“Sorry,” you murmured sheepishly. “Just… wanted to let you know, in case you still didn’t get it. I wanted to come over here and talk to you the moment you got here.” 

Choso covered your clawed hand with his own, lips still pursed in that maddening pout. It drove you crazy with desire. “Just another ‘pretty guy’ you stare at during parties?” he whispered. 

“No,” you choked out. “I… I don’t know why I said it like that. Was trying to tell you that you looked pretty. I don’t really stare at people. Not unless they’re you.” 

Choso tried not to crack a smile at your flustered rambling. Somehow, it made you all the more endearing—like a wolf with the mannerisms of a puppy. 

“Not unless they’re me,” he echoed, teasing. “Mr Wolf… have you been stalking me?” 

You visibly swallowed. Mr Wolf. That was… fine. Great, even. You could handle that. 

“Not stalking,” you denied with a shaky laugh. Sure, you’d asked around about him. Tried to find out more about ‘the brooding guy with the permanent bored expression and signature purple eyeshadow’. Maybe you’d looked him up online, but everyone did that. “All I’m saying is, you’ve had my attention for a long time.” 

“Since the moment I walked into those woods?” 

For a swift second, you were taken aback. His eyes were wide. Hopeful. Like a little lamb begging to be devoured. And who were you to refuse? 

“Can you blame me?” you countered. “I was hungry, and you were the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.” 

Choso flushed. “S-sorry. You don’t have to play along—” 

“I want to,” you blurted, almost desperate. “Please.” 

“Okay,” Choso whispered. He could feel his heart running a marathon in his chest, the blood hot in his ears. It felt like delirium—like prey sprinting through the forest with a bloodthirsty wolf hot on its heels. And the worst part was, he wanted to be caught. 

“I need to know your boundaries,” you murmured. “What I can do… and what I can’t.” 

“Touch me,” Choso gasped, voice wrecked. “You can do anything—anything—as long as it feels nice.” 

You wasted no time in getting your hands on him. A knee slid between his thighs, pinning him to the wall as your hands claimed his waist. “I can do that,” you promised, grinning when he choked back a whine, struggling not to rut down against your leg. “Fuck, Little Red. You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me.” 

He looped his arms around your neck, pulling you closer with hazy eyes. “Tell me, please? I want to know.” 

Your grip tightened, thumbs digging into the softness of his hips, the swell of his thighs. “The second I saw you skipping through the woods in that little red dress of yours, I wanted to devour you. Chase you until you lost your breath, a pliant mess under me. Wanted to see what you were hiding under that skirt. 

Choso’s breath hitched—almost a whimper. “I wouldn’t let you catch me so easily, Mr Wolf.” 

“And yet here you are, in my arms,” you taunted, adjusting your leg so that it was pressed up against the hard heat of his cock. “Doesn’t look like you’re running away from me, does it?” 

A gasp of pleasure tore from him as his forehead tipped forward to rest on your shoulder. The weight of gravity was a cruel thing—every squirm for relief only resulted in him rutting harder against you instead of relieving the pressure on his crotch. 

“You tricked me,” he accused, voice trembling. “Told me you knew the way to Granny’s. Liar.” 

“Why would a wolf do favours,” you chuckled, squeezing his hips, “when he could have a feast instead, silly?” 

Choso whined, lips curving into an unhappy pout at being called silly. He wasn’t silly. You just had that effect on him, Big Bad Wolf or not. “I could bring you food,” he offered weakly, despite the hungry gaze telling him it was futile. “I could share with you some of my lunch.” He gestured to the abandoned candy basket. 

“I don’t want your lunch, Little Red.” Your teeth scraped his earlobe. “I want you. Don’t you get it?” 

Tears welled in his eyes as he shook his head, and you wanted to coo at the sight, nearly breaking character. You watched as he writhed against you, biting his lip to stifle the noises bubbling up. He was so close, and you knew it. 

“I’ll let you eat me,” Choso panted, “on one condition, Mr Wolf.” 

That intrigued you. “Name it.” 

Trembling fingers dragged you down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Make me come.” 

Your breath stuttered—but there was no time to think, only to obey. 

You took a firm grip on his hair, wrenching his head to the side to expose his neck—as though you were going to sink your teeth there, claim him as yours. Choso whimpered in surprise but bared his neck further, a silent plea of want. 

“Needy little slut,” you snarled, teeth grazing his pulse. “Rutting against me like this. Bet you’d love it if I bent you over right here—fucked you open in the dirt.” 

His climax crashed into him like a storm. He collapsed forward into your arms, a choked cry muffled into your shoulder as you held him throughout the aftershocks. You didn’t even bother to retract your knee, letting it stay pressed against his twitching, oversensitive cock, right where it belonged. 

“Choso?” you whispered. 

A whimper. 

“I can’t hear you, baby.” 

He burrowed into your chest, petulant. “‘M not repeating it.” 

“Say something else?” 

A beat. Then, muffled but unmistakable: “You’re mean.” 

Your eyes widened in panic. Was that too much? “I’m sorry, I know we didn’t—” 

“No.” He placed a gentle palm on your chest, halting your words. Right over where your beating heart was. “I meant, you’re mean, and I loved it.” 

When he looked up, his eyes were glassy, wrecked—hungry with lust. 

You hadn’t expected the intensity of it. 

“Take me upstairs,” he almost begged. “Please, please…”  

Fuck. “Alright.” 

You hauled him through the crowd, ignoring the wolf-whistles in your wake as you made your way up the stairs, barging into the first empty room with only one thing on your mind. You were going to fuck him so good he would be trembling with pleasure by the time you were done with him. 

Choso was sprawled on the bed, a panting, pliant mess as he patiently waited for you to return to him after locking the door. 

“Kiss me,” he whined once you got close enough, and he had every right to—because how dare you not kiss him? He wrapped his arms around your neck and pulled you on top of him, whining as you mouthed messily at his neck before finally crashing your lips against his—all teeth and tongue, the filthy kiss he’d been aching for all night. 

You kissed him like you were sin, and he was absolution. Like the last mercy before the devouring. 

When you pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your lips, he chased it blindly, pouting when you held him back with a gentle hand to his chest. “Turn around,” you ordered, voice rough. “Gonna eat you out.” 

There was no hesitation. Choso nodded, scrambling onto all fours with his chest pressed to the pattress, ass raised just for you. He should feel filthy, exposed, vulnerable. But strangely, he felt nothing of the sort. Only want, as you pressed even closer, your hot breath ghosting over the sensitive back of his thighs as you flipped up his skirt. 

A shiver wracked him you slowly pried his cum-stained panties to the side, baring him to the cold air. “Pretty,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his twitching hole. 

Choso whined. 

You licked a broad stripe all the way perineum to his needy hole, before lightly dipping your tongue inside, just to watch him squirm. “Stay still,” you muttered. “Are you going to be a good boy and let me play with you?” 

“Yes,” he gasped. “Please, pup. I’ll be so good for you.” 

Pup. 

He knew exactly how to drive you crazy. And he was going to use that to his every advantage, wasn’t he? 

You growled, nuzzling into his cheeks before finally burrowing your way inside, eating him out with vigour. Beneath you, he was a writhing mess, panting and whining as you devoured him from behind like a wolf digging into the tender belly of its prey. 

“Please, please, please,” he sobbed, “W-want your fingers in me, pup.” 

“Thought you were gonna be good for me, baby.” 

He nodded tearfully. “I’ve been good. Just… want you.” 

You sighed in feigned exasperation, your fingers digging into his hips as you pulled away. “Little Red wants to play?” 

“Yes,” Choso whined. “Want you to play with me so bad, Mr Wolf.” 

“You sure you can take me?” You opened up the bedside drawer, taking out a bottle of lube, before pouring a generous amount on your fingers. “Aren’t you too arrogant?” 

“I can!” he protested, pushing his ass towards you in desperation. “You can p… punish me if I can’t. I won’t mind.” 

“No,” you agreed with a chuckle. “Of course you won’t mind. A slut like you would probably enjoy it.” 

Choso’s eyes widened, but before he could say anything, deny it—you pushed a finger inside his hole, admiring the way it clenched around you needily. 

“I’m not a slut,” he whispered. 

“No?” you goaded him on, pushing another finger inside. “You think I didn’t notice, Little Red? You strutting around in the woods in this little dress of yours. You were trying to seduce me into fucking you, weren’t you?” 

He whined, shaking his head. “No,” he gasped as you curled them—barely grazing the spot that would make him see stars. “I’m n-not, would never!” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” you continued, adding a third one to the stretch once you deemed him loose enough. “You know the way to your Granny’s place perfectly. You weren’t lost. You didn’t need directions. You were just hungry for cock.” 

“Please,” Choso cried, as you pressed the pads of your fingers against his prostate, making him shudder with pleasure. “Fuck me a-already…” 

“Admit that you’re a slut,” you sneered, mean. “Admit that you walk around the woods pretending to be lost in this slutty little dress of yours, looking for wolves to fuck.” 

“Not just any wolf,” he gasped. “Only you. ‘M a slut for you.” 

You pulled out your fingers, barely giving him a second of reprieve before you unzipped your pants, lined yourself up and pushed your cock into his spasming hole—all in one smooth thrust. 

Choso sobbed with pleasure as you bottomed out, rough hands massaging the fat of his hips. You pulled out until only the tip was inside before brutally thrusting into him again, the slap of your hips against his loud, filthy and wet. 

He should’ve known that he was no match for you from the moment he caught your eye. 

How would prey like him ever escape a virile predator like you? 

“S-so good,” he choked out, whimpering as you leaned back to spit at his hole, the sticky glob intermixing with the lube, creating a messy slop inside his tummy. “‘S wet and m-messy.”

“Yeah?” you panted. Your hips felt like they were moving of their own accord—blindly thrusting into the wet, warm heat of his cavern, carving out a place for your cock, pound by pound. “That good, baby?” 

“Yeah,” he huffed out. “Wanna s-see your face, please…” 

You paused, pulling out before you flipped him over, settling between his eagerly splayed-out thighs. His dress was crumpled and racked up to his waist, his eyes glazed over with tears of pleasure. You wasted no time in pushing in again, this time paying extra attention to every detail in his expression—the scrunching up of his eyebrows as he struggled to take the stretch, the way his lips fell open in a lewd moan as you thrusted forward. 

Choso was beautiful. 

“Pretty,” he whimpered, tears spilling down his cheeks. “You’re so p-pretty.” 

You leaned down to smother his lips with yours, drinking in his noises. You couldn’t get enough of him. He was too good for you, in a way that was bad for your heart. 

“Gonna fuck you full,” you muttered breathlessly into his ear. “Fuck a knot into you, if I could.” 

“Please,” he sobbed. “Wanna feel you here, pup.” He grasped your wrist with a trembling hand before pressing your warm palm against his naked stomach. You could feel yourself moving inside him—every push and pull of heat and slop, burrowing your way into his insides. 

He shuddered and cried out as you wrapped a hand around his cock, thumbing messily at the slit. “No,” he protested, “‘m too close, no, no—” 

“Come for me,” you whispered, more of a plea than anything. “Want you to let go of yourself and come, pretty thing.” 

Choso shook his head, gasping for air. “I can’t, pup, feels w-weird—” 

“Want you to be dirty,” you growled, every pound and thrust aimed at his sweet spot as he cried and writhed in your arms. You squeezed his cock. “Make as much of a mess as you want.” 

Choso nearly jackknifed off the bed as he came with a shout—ropes of cum squirting from his cock, painting your chest and his stomach with white. 

“Fuck, baby, you squirted—” you gasped out as his hole gripped you like a vice, your orgasm hitting you like a hurricane, black spots flooding your vision as you groaned in pleasure. “Choso!” 

He whimpered as you filled his hole with cum, the sticky slop combined with the girth of your soft cock making him dizzy with fullness. He whined as you collapsed on top of him, blanketing him with warmth. 

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck. 

“Pup?” he asked sleepily. 

You blinked an eye open. “Mm? Want me to pull out?” 

Choso shook his head. “No, I just…” he trailed off, before whispering, “I want you.” 

Your heart skipped a beat. 

“Don’t think I can get it up to another round right now, baby,” you joked weakly. 

“‘M not talking about that,” he mumbled. “Want you, want all of you.” He trailed his fingers up the skin of your back, before settling into your messy hair, gently sifting through the strands. 

“Want you too,” you whispered back. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve wanted you for a long time. Want to be The Wolf to your Little Red. Or just us. Anything is okay.” 

Choso smiled at that, warmth blossoming in his chest. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Happy Halloween, pup.” 

“And you, too,” you chuckled. “Oh, and before I forget. Trick? Or dick?” 

masterlist!

[fungifaggot]

my tip is sticky

[https-tim-deactivated20260316]

hey! loved your writing ♥️♥️ may I ask for... feminization? I know it sounds a bit weird....

thank you so much, anon!! ♡ and it's not weird at all, not to me at least! i was actually hoping someone would ask for this since i'm a huge fan of this kind of stuff lol. anyways! enjoy!

tim drake x male reader

# SUMMARY: tim’s being a brat. you fuck it out of him.

⁺ MDNI

⁺ WC: 2000+

# TAGS: +18 explicit content ／ top male!reader ／ reader has a cock ／ bottom!tim ／ feminization ／degradation ／ brat!tim ／dirty talk ／cockdrunk tim (sorry not sorry) ／ words like pussy and cunt being used to describe tim's anatomy ／slight breeding kink ／ subspace, i guess ／objectifying ／ rough anal sex ／creampie ／overstimulation .ᐟ

He should’ve been limp, ruined, completely out of his mind…

But you knew Tim Drake — and you knew exactly how stubborn he could be.

Even with your cock still buried inside him, his hole red, puffy, fluttering, leaking mess from the two full loads running vulgar trails down his toned thighs, his whole body trembling from being used until his legs simply gave out — he still had the nerve, the audacity, to try and talk back.

To be a brat.

“You know…” His voice was absolutely wrecked, raspy, but somehow still sharp. His arms stayed wrapped tight around your neck, dragging you closer. “For someone who kept running his mouth about putting me in my place... You kinda suck at it.”

You blinked. Slowly. Not fully believing what just came out of that boy’s mouth.

“...What did you just say to me?”

Tim smiled, face flushed — smeared with the black mascara he used under his mask — and dried tears. Sweat clung to his skin, like a melting painting.

“You heard me just fine.”

Your hands gripped his hips tighter, feeling your control wobble inside of your being. “Oh. Oh. So that’s how you wanna play it, huh, princess?”

“Maybe...” He batted his lashes in fake innocence — an act you knew very well — but his hips pressed down, grinding against your cock as if he's daring you. And he was. “What are you gonna do about it, babe?”

You let out a low, sharp laugh, pulling out completely — hearing his broken, breathy whine at the sudden emptiness — before flipping him onto his stomach like he weighed nothing. “Oh, Tim… You have no idea what you just did.”

His arms wrapped tight around the pillows beneath him, face buried into them down to his nose, trembling with anticipation.

Oh no. You weren’t letting him hide like that after winding you up.

Your hand grabbed straight into his raven, damp hair — soft but messy from earlier — pausing only to stroke through it once before fisting a handful, yanking his face to the side. Your other hand latched back onto his waist, dragging a needy, whiny sound from his throat, positioning him in the filthiest angle possible — his back, deep arched off the bed, presenting every inch of that ruined, messy hole of his.

You didn’t wait another second — and shoved your cock right back in, pushing through the hot, wet mess of his cunt, already swollen and dripping with your cum. You sank in slow, just to make him feel every single part of you entering.

Tim gasped, loud, body jolting as you bottomed out, cock pressing so deep inside him it punched the air from his lungs. His lips twitched into a broken little smile. Still bratty. Still mouthing off. “T-That’s... All you’ve g—”

SLAP.

Your palm crashed down on one cheek, the skin blooming a bright red under your hand, heat radiating instantly. His entire body jolted, almost collapsing forward.

“F-Fuck—!”

“Oh yeah? Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?” Your hand came down again, even harder on the same spot, forcing him to arch back into it, clenching deliciously around you. “Talking back while you’re like this — dripping, begging for it.. When this stupid messy pussy’s already been fucked full twice. You’ve got some fucking nerve, princess.”

“Y-You… You hit like a— like a fuckin’ b-bitch...” he panted, breath hitching, but grinding back against you anyway, as wanting as ever.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna regret saying that.”

You pulled almost all the way out — tip barely inside — before slamming back in, deep, hard, punching the air out of him, leaving him choking on his own spit and breath. His fingers went pale from how tightly he clutched the pillows.

“H-Holy shit! W-Wait—f-fuck—”

“Nah.” Your fist yanked his hair back, forcing him to meet your eyes. “My pretty girlfriend wants attention, doesn't she? Then take it. Take everything like the spoiled, little bratty princess you are.”

Tim’s moans shot up in volume, spilling into desperate, broken sobs. Every thrust knocked what little was left of his sanity further out of him. The sound of your skin slapping against his, the wet, obscene noise of your cock destroying his sloppy entranced echoed shamelessly around his room.

His neglected cock bounced uselessly between his legs, red and leaking, untouched, dripping against sheets already ruined by his own precum.

It was hypnotic. The most perfect, filthy thing you’d ever seen.

“Look at this. Look at you. So wet. Pathetic. All that attitude, but this dumb pussy still grips me like it was made for this.”

“S-Shut up...” he whimpered.

Another sharp slap — this time on the other cheek, leaving it just as red, just as hot. Tim cried out, trembling violently.

Was it pain? Was it pleasure?

He didn't even seemed to care anymore.

“Oh, you want me to shut up?” You grabbed his hair again, dragged his head back until you could growl into his ear, voice low, cruel. “That’s real rich coming from someone who loves getting used like a fuckin’ toy. You’re my needy little cumdump, aren’t you, Timmy? That’s all you are, baby girl. Just a pretty little hole for me to ruin until you’re begging me to stop.”

“N-N—Not... I'm not...” he whimpered, voice cracking into something soft, desperate. His thighs twitched, spasming — his body betraying him as his cunt squeezed tight, fluttering, begging for more.

“Oh, aren't you?”

Your hand slid from his hair to his throat, pressing just enough to make his head spin, fingers squeezing the sides to cut off just enough air.

“N-n—no... ngh...” His voice broke, biting his lip until the taste of metal spread across his tongue.

“Then what do you call this, honey?” You slammed right into his prostate, stayed there, grinding deep, letting him feel every inch. His cry was wrecked.

You didn’t move. You waited. Waited until his trembling hand weakly started slapping against your bicep — his pathetic little signal that he needed you to move. To give him more.

“Needy, huh?” Your cock dragged almost all the way out, watching as his pussy clenched down, sucking, trying to keep you. “See that? Even this dumb little cunt knows it’s just a hole. It doesn’t wanna let me go.”

“Shut up—shut up—!”

“No, baby.” You hauled him upright against your chest, palm squeezing his throat, the other forcing his legs wider. “Not until you admit it.”

“I... I won’t...” His voice shattered — barely a whisper now.

“Oh, you will.” Your hand slid down to his neglected cock, fisting the base, jerking him, smearing the drool of precum over his length, all while slamming deep into that same spongy spot inside him. “Say it. Tell me what you are.”

“F-Fuck you—” His sob broke into a gasp — his cunt clenching so tight it made your own vision blur.

“I’m already fucking you, baby. Fucking you stupid. You’re melting for me, my pretty little girl. Just a hole to breed. Just a messy little thing to fuck until there’s nothing left of you.”

His legs buckled — his body collapsing against you, head lolling back on your shoulder, blue eyes glassy, makeup ruined, lips trembling.

You could feel it. He was right there — breaking.

“N-No—... I’m—”

“Say it, Tim.” You growled, thrusting slower, meaner, holding him still, keeping him right on the edge. “Say it, baby. C’mon.”

“F-Fuck—Shit—I... I’m just a—” His voice hitched, throat squeezing, cunt milking you desperately. “I’m just a—just a needy little hole—!”

“Louder.”

“I’M JUST A NEEDY LITTLE HOLE—!”

“That’s right.” You snarled, slamming back in, fucking him harder. “My perfect little hole. My beautiful princess. Good for nothing but for taking my cock and being treated like a girl. You fuckin’ love it, don’t you, Timmy?”

“YES—Yes—fuck—I love it—I love it so much—!” he sobbed, choking on it, babbling nonsense as his cunt spasmed, squeezing you like his body didn’t know how to let go.

You wrapped your hand around his jaw, dragging him into a messy, desperate kiss — tongues sliding, biting his lip until he whimpered. The moment you did, his cock twitched helplessly in your palm and — he came again. The third time that night. Just a few weak drops, barely anything left.

But his body didn’t care.

You let him collapse face-first into the pillows, still buried deep inside him, watching the trembles rack his body.

“I knew it.” you whispered, pressing possessive kisses to his sweaty shoulder.

Tim trembled like a leaf, face streaked with ruined mascara, lips puffy, red, so very perfect. His thighs shook, his poor, sloppy cunt twitching around your cock like it still wasn’t enough.

You throbbed inside him.

And of course — he felt it.

Over his shoulder, eyes bleary, he whispered breathlessly, “Y-You... You didn’t even fill my pussy again... like you said you would...” His hands slid to his thighs, spreading himself open for you, showing off how your cock was still buried deep, how messy, how stretched, how full he already was. “P-Please..”

God. He couldn’t barely move anymore. Couldn’t work his hips — he just laid there, open, waiting.

“Jesus, Tim,” You gasped, grabbing his hands, pinning them to his thighs. “Look at you, sweetheart...”

“H-hhn... J-Just... Fuck me.. Give i-it to me..”

So you did.

You started moving again — fast, deep, brutal — fucking him with everything you had left. The filthy, wet, obscene sounds filled the room instantly, skin slapping, your cock punching back into that sloppy, ruined hole like it belonged there.

Tim let out a noise straight from his throat — raw, desperate, something between a moan and a sob, something completely visceral. His pussy was overloaded, still dripping from everything you’d pumped into him already — and yet it still fluttered around you like it wasn’t anywhere near done.

His pretty hands — long, delicate, so perfect — trembled where you pinned them to his own thighs, holding himself wide open for you, giving you the best view imaginable.

“Oh—fuck—ohfuckohfuck—” Tim whimpered, his voice muffled by his own lips — biting them again to hold back the noise. “It’s—f-fuck—it’s too much... so full—”

“Aww, baby...” You hissed through your teeth, feeling the way his cunt spasmed tighter, trembling, clenching, like it never wanted to let you go. “My girl’s cockdrunk... how precious.”

“Nnh—uh, uh—” He shook his head, denying, crying — but his body betrayed him. His hips rocked back, desperate to meet your thrusts, chasing it like a drug. “N-Not... f-fuck...”

“Oh, darling...” Your hands cupped his ass, squeezing, fingers digging into the plush, bruised skin. You started spanking him again — soft this time — each slap making him jolt, whimper, clench. “You love this. Love having my cock splitting your pussy open like the dumb little toy you are. You love getting stuffed full of my cum like the perfect little cumdump you are, don’t you, Tim?”

“I—” His voice trembled, tiny, broken. “I—I love it... fuck... I love it so much... I wanna—wanna be f-filled with your cum...”

“Of course, you do.” Your nails dug into his hips, wishing the marks could stay there forever. “My perfect girlfriend. My baby. Just a dumb little thing that loves being stuffed full and bred, huh?”

Tim’s whole body trembled — his teeth sinking into the pillow again to stifle the filthy, wrecked sounds spilling out of him. All you could hear now were his desperate, muffled whimpers, the broken “uh-uh-uh” gasping from his lips every time you pounded back into him.

His hips were moving on their own — or trying to — tiny little circles, pathetic attempts to grind against you, to meet your thrusts, to take even more. Like his entire life depended on being filled.

“Sh-Sho—” His voice came out slurred, scrambled, his mind clearly broken. “S-Sho good...”

You pressed your chest to his back again, mouth by his ear, biting his earlobe hard, then licking over it, voice dropping into something cruel and loving at the same time. “You hear that, baby? Hear how wet you are? Hear how filthy this pretty pussy sounds when I ruin it? ” You kissed the top of his head, inhaling the smell of sweat, sex, and his expensive shampoo. “Next time, I’m making you ride me even after dumping three loads in you. Bet you won’t even be able to stay upright, princess.”

“Y-Yeah—uh—wanna— wanna make you... cum inside... again...” Tim wasn’t even coherent anymore. His words were a broken mess of nonsense between sobs and moans, completely strung out on cock and desperation.

“Fuck, Tim...” You laughed breathlessly. “How the fuck did I land a girl like you? You’re perfect. Made for me. Made to keep my cock warm.”

You felt it — the way he tightened. That signature squeeze. The way his body convulsed when he came. His whole frame curling in, pussy clamping down so tight you thought you might black out. You knew — you knew — his cock hadn’t even gotten hard again. He was cumming from nothing but getting fucked out of his mind.

“F-fuck—! I’m—I’m cumming—again—!”

“I know, baby. I can feel it.” You drove yourself into him, so deep it felt like you could split him open. One final slap to his ass, then your arms bracketed his head, caging him in. “Keep squeezing me like that, honey. Keep milking me. That’s all you’re good for. Just a tight little hole for me to dump my cum into. That’s all you are, pretty girl.”

Tim nodded frantically, whining, begging, “P-Please... please... Fill me again...”

“Look at you,” you growled. “Acting like a brat earlier — and now look where you are. Crying. Begging. Just a messy little fucktoy for me to use. My princess...”

It didn’t take long — not with how his cunt clamped down, how sweet he cried for it, how his body begged for it. Just a few more rough thrusts and you broke — shoved yourself as deep as you could possibly go, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing, spilling another load deep inside him.

Tim whimpered when he felt it. Couldn’t even scream anymore. Just this tiny, broken sound — so small, so wrecked.

His cunt was stuffed. Overflowing. Cum leaking around where your cock stretched him wide, pouring down his thighs, staining the ruined sheets beneath him.

But you didn’t pull out. Not yet. No — you laid down beside him carefully, pulled him into your chest, cock still buried inside, keeping him plugged full like you promised.

“S-So full...” he whispered, voice barely there.

You wrapped your arms around his trembling body, fingers pressing into his stomach, feeling how round, how full it was. Your lips peppered kisses into his sweaty nape, down his neck, tasting salt and sex and him.

“A-ah... I-I... W-Want...—”

“Shh...” You silenced him, brushing his hair back, tucking the strands behind his ear. “It’s okay, princess... You don’t need to do anything. Just rest, okay? I’m keeping this pretty pussy full ‘til you wake up, baby.”

Tim nodded. Slowly. Eyes fluttering closed, completely wrecked.

Completely yours.

⋆ please do not repost or translate my stuff. if you enjoyed, please reblog or leave a like ⋆ drawing by @ noodles-and-tea

[hadesrise]

## murder for you, baby !!

summary──── a justifiable serial killer on the loose, and jason finds himself being enamoured by him.

pairings──── jason todd x dbd!ghostface!male reader

warnings──── nsfw content, serial killer themes, dead dove do not eat, sexual arousal in response to violence or torture, murder, blood, deaths, gore, foul language, bottom!jason, top!reader, reader’s physique is described as tall and broad ( the slasher build ), possessiveness, choking, praise kink, blood kink, knife play ( reader carving his initials on jason ), toxic!reader ( ? ), sorta toxic relationship but also not, unprotected sex, love-making, pet names, overstimulation, dumbification, degradation if you squint, lil’ bit of manipulation, creampie, doggy style, mating press, biting, marking, oral ( r. receiving ), voice kink ( ? )

author’s note──── not me coming back with halloween themed fic after halloween days have passed lol. i’m alive, y’all !! hope you enjoy this one that took a fucking month to write 😭

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ; this post may contain disturbing contents that may not be suitable for every reader — a reader discretion is advised. MINORS DNI !!

Gotham’s been terrorized by the worst people you could ever imagine, the kind that’ll stick with you forever and take residence to your nightmares if you were unfortunate enough. Many were hurt or even murdered as a result of the villains’ terrorization, with vigilantes running through the night to capture and send them to Arkham Asylum.

With the existence of a Psychopathic Clown, his equally psychopathic girlfriend with PHD’s that’s been wasted down the line, the Mother Nature freak, the ridiculously huge man with a gas mask on, the green coloured living question mark, and many others, no one would’ve ever thought anything could get any worse.

Until some criminals’ bodies turn up across the streets in such disturbing manner that haunts the witnesses to death.

One, a criminal who murdered young and homeless boys, gutted deeply to the point of their intestines hanging out. Another, a criminal known for kidnapping and selling people’s organs, mutilated with their torso torn back to expose the organs settled inside of them. Another one, a priest-turned-criminal who’s been violating women and children, crucified naked in his own church with his eyes gouged out, a Bible verse carved in his chest; ‘And if your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away.’ Matthew 18:9; his penis cut off and body seemingly violated as well. Another more turns up, a governor-turned-criminal who’s been feeding into the rich despite their oath of generosity towards the poor, severely tortured with the skin on his back cut open, ribs severed from the spine and broken to the sides in order to create the illusion of wings, fluttering lungs pulled out from their chest cavity to resemble an eagle’s wings, with the word ‘traitor’ carved on his forehead.

The brutality and gruesome nature of the murders has set an alarming panic and fear across Gotham City that forced civilians into locking their doors at night. Criminals who were unidentified and not found by Gotham Police Department were also turning up in a form of miserable, tortured soul, along with the evidence and proofs of their crimes being carelessly laid beside their lifeless corpse.

The killer taunts those who are in charge of justice within their city each time the damned were unfortunate enough to be hunted down; pigs of failure written in the criminal’s blood right beside the drawing of a police’s logo.

However, despite how gruesome and disturbing the murders were, most people couldn’t deny that it was doing the city a favor. Justice System has failed more times than one could count to the extent of victims yearning to exact revenge themselves against their perpetrator, which causes most to react rather positively to the wrongful, unlikely hero who had seem to suddenly appear out of nowhere. The haunted finally getting the chance to slay the traumatic demons with the help of another psychopath on the loose.

Another justified monstrosity shouldn’t be the counter against one inhumane monstrosity that caused so much pain, trauma, and misery. But kindness could not vanquish one’s tainted blood. Forgiveness could not suddenly wash away the sins engraved deeply into one’s soul.

Imperfect, the victims muttered. An imperfect yet perfect way to save our burning souls wrongfully condemned by the criminals.

Red Hood has heard their murmurs.

Silent whispers of gratitude that fell on deaf ears, their previously dim soul brightening in relief and sanctuary with smiles on their faces as the Universe had finally took mercy on them and sent a Fallen Angel to slay the Demons away. He’s watched their spirit uplift, no longer chained down by the trauma and fear of the monsters that once ruined their lives, able to walk the streets carefree of tormentors. He’s watched their stiff posture visibly loosen, lively peacefulness settling itself at last within their haunted eyes. He’s watched them glow with happiness not feeling the presence of their perpetrator every couple of seconds, finally capable of living without needing to constantly look over their shoulders in paranoia and fear.

Ghostface is what the serial killer’s called, nickname born out of the mask that resembled a ghost always being left behind in crime scenes, each slightly different.

Jason has seen you. He didn’t mean to, really.

The temptation to get at least one look at you was great every-time he patrolled, wishing to just catch glimpse of an immoral hero who could make sacrifices no actual heroes could — who’s doing exactly what he wished before for Batman to do.

The Universe seems to have granted his wishes when his eyes catches the void of ghostface’s eyes, your mask tainted in splatters of blood from the dead criminal below you. Jason feels his world come to a stop as you slowly rise from crouching position and reveal your unnaturally tall height, broad shoulders visible under the black hooded leather. You hold silence and calmness despite being caught, tilting your head slightly to the side.

His heartbeat quickens yet he doesn’t feel fear. Jason idiotically steps closer as if he was in a trance, burning your existence within his eyes to engrave in his memory. Your bloody knife barely grazes his neck to stop him before using it to tilt his chin up, your figure looming and towering over him while seemingly staring into his eyes through his helmet.

A sense of peacefulness overcomes Jason being in your presence despite the absolute brutality and mercilessness that surrounded your entire being. You were deadly, silent, certainly creative with your work that it deems almost artistic, as if the criminals’ bodies were your own canvas to paint on — and Jason finds solace in you. A man he always needed, someone who’d be willing to cross the line and get rid of the actual evil for the sake of victims that’d be forever haunted if it continues to exist.

“I’ve heard things about you, Red Hood.”

Low, raspy, monotone voice speaks, sending shivers down his spine. It sounds cool and handsome regardless of the obvious use of voice changer, somehow littered with tiniest hint of flirtatiousness.

It takes him quite a while to answer, barely managing to let out a “yeah?” as he feels you drag the knife slightly closer to his pulse. His heartbeat quickens, but slows down when the cold metal was finally pulled away.

“Pleasant things,” You hummed, before your voice lowered a few octaves, “Can’t say the same about Batman.” Anger seems to seep through your tone that felt a little more than just sympathy for victims of villains Batman refused to put six feet under. Jason wondered if you’re also one of the victims his father failed.

“You… You know him that much?” Jason’s voice shakes from the nerve, your presence somehow greatly affecting him.

“I think everyone knows him enough,” You chuckled, but it sounded so empty that Jason can’t help but feel the goosebumps rise on his skin. It was quite chilling to meet someone who shows only a certain amount of emotion which could even be felt expressionless due to the monotonous pitch. The ghostface mask certainly did its job of making you seem more less human, the unmoving expression of ghost being horrified to death adding to the eeriness of your toneless mechanic voice.

Jason’s breath hitched when you took one step closer.

“But I know more about you. Your little past and the sufferings you’ve endured,” It’s spoken as if his life was one of your necessary investigation in your twisted justice. “It’s unfair, don’t you think? I would’ve gutted the Joker like a fish if it were to happen to my son.” There’s a condescending way in which you spoke, not directed at Jason but to Bruce.

“How—” Jason swallowed. “How did you—”

“I can make your dreams come true,” You interrupted him with a tempting offer, shutting him up effectively. Wide grin plastered your face despite not being seen behind your mask. “I can kill the Clown for you, Red Hood. If it means it’ll silence your troubled spirit. If it’ll bring you peace. I can hurt him on your behalf just like he deserves.”

It was like a whisper from the devil, slithering its way into Jason’s heart and mind to possess his soul, mirroring the one which whispered on Adam and Eve’s ears.

He’s been wanting — needing — to hear those words come out of Bruce. His suffering and death seemingly being brushed off as a cruel accident shattered him more than he’d ever admit, Bruce’s unhealthy coping mechanism and morality getting in the way of showing his love for Jason that left the younger man feel lesser than he was. Bruce was a complex person that’s sometimes difficult to understand, his impressive ways to stick to his morals being exactly his character, but Jason wanted for once, to actually feel how important he was to his father.

Was that too much to ask for, or was he just unworthy of the entirety of it?

“Why would you do that for me?” Confusion and subtle suspicion filled his tone as Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out your intention despite the rush of hope that shot throughout his chest. He forced himself to feel nothing when you leaned in closer.

“Because you were wronged, of course.” You simply stated. “You are a victim. Not more, not less. You deserve a little more than just empty justice. And I’m a man who got tired of vigilantes that are afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.” Then, you tilt your head slightly to the side in a way that’s somehow alluring. “But I can also say I’m intrigued by you.”

Jason’s heartbeat quickens again when your big hand seems to wrap perfectly around his throat, fingers resting just above his pulse points. It makes such filthy thoughts flood themselves into his mind, your long and quite thick fingers falling victims to his tainted imagination, and he had to give everything in himself not to bare his throat more for you. You seem pleased of his lack of disobedience and bite, having expected him to shove your hand away or flinch back before you could touch him. You’ve seen Red Hood once and how his uncontrollable rage resulted in violence, heavy burdens and extreme trauma turning him into a ticking time bomb that could explode any minute with the wrong move. He was absolutely lethal, the bullets serving as the evidence of his wrath and resentment towards the underground scumbags. It’s amusing that you have the man of violence himself now somehow completely under your control, surprisingly quiet and shy and obedient. You wondered if this is how he was before he was ruined by the cruelty of the world.

“You want it, don’t you? For me to kill the Joker.”

Jason feels as if you know everything he wants. Is this what it feels like to be important?

It takes a little while for him to answer, but he eventually came up with a “You’ll do that?” which sounded vulnerable and weak for the first time in his second life. Your heart clenched at the doubt and seemingly child-like vulnerability in which he uttered the words, as if he was afraid to trust something after being betrayed countless of times, reminding you of the sole person you’ve even began doing all of this for. They were quite similar yet so different — your older brother and Jason.

You hadn’t meant to cross his boundaries and unknowingly step into the empty hole that made home in his heart. Unconsciously slithering in like a snake by touching the subject his heart was longing for, not realizing his childhood’s still remaining within his spirit.

All he wanted was love and to feel safe again. You didn’t know the Red Hood was so adorably pitiful. A smirk plastered your face.

“I will,” You reassured and leaned your face inches away from his, the hand on his throat lifting his helmet slightly.

Jason doesn’t retaliate, blinded by a meat of hope dangled in front of him. He doesn’t move as the lower half of his face was exposed, and you lifted your own mask the same using your other hand. Jason willingly, obediently closes his eyes before your lips attached to his — a kiss of death, tasting like blood and cruelty. Warm and soft despite your rough, cold-blooded, corrupted soul. A kiss from the devil.

When Jason opened his eyes, you had already disappeared into the darkness with blood stains on the ground you stood before, a single note left behind; Hell will reopen for the Clown.

After neatly tucking the note inside his jacket and making sure no evidence has been accidentally left on the crime scene, Red Hood smiles for the first time in a long while and reaches for the comms without a heavy heart.

“Batman, I found another body.”

Whatever happens, he’ll have no knowledge of the following misfortune that’ll befall on the Joker. It’s the righteous serial killer’s doing, after all.

What was used to be a maniacal laughter turned into screams of agony and pain. Strong stench of death and blood makes euphoria rush within your mind, the feeling of slicing through flesh with your knife bringing pleasure and ecstasy that made your pants tight. There’s a certain amount of satisfaction in the way your own actions cause serious harm and scarring to criminals who once deemed themselves powerful, being reduced into nothing but a powerless prey that could easily be gotten rid of.

You feel increasingly powerful the more you strip them of their dignity and arrogance as they shed blood on the holy ground. Your existence alone striking them with crippling fear and anxiety feeds into your ego, yet you never stray away from the sole purpose or reason for your murders — making them taste their own medicine.

From what you found on countless deep dive and research, Joker preyed on Red Hood when he was still a young child full of life and joy, having been under the name Robin at the time. Second Robin to be exact, considering he was a lot different from the first one. It actually surprisingly pained you when you’d seen how much of an adorable, dorky, nice kid he was before misfortune cut his life short. You would’ve never thought you would find a kid adorable in your entire life, the little menaces often being nothing more than a headache to be around with that caused a certain dislike to grow towards them within you, but Jason was everything a cute kid was. Just excited to be there, to be fighting alongside Batman, to be relevant.

Such a precious boy ruined for the sake of shits and giggles for the Clown. For the sake of getting under Batman’s skin. And the Bat couldn’t even make fucking amends to his flaws as a father and mentor.

Well, he didn’t need to anymore.

You’ll give Red Hood— Jason Todd —what he wants. Yearned for. Perhaps, even what the other civilians who have fallen victims to this vile criminal want. You would stop at nothing until every criminal is gurgling and choking on their own blood.

Joker’s scream shoots a jolt of electricity within your body as your knife pierce through his skinny thigh and to the ground, pinning his leg down. You had been doing an effective job of reducing the maniac into nothing but a screaming, cowering average victim by torture. Bruises, burns, gashes, and stab wounds littered his body that was done carefully enough to not be life-threatening. Fucker was laughing maniacally at first, of course. It irritated you so much that you might’ve went a little overboard.

Watching Joker heave and struggle to breathe from the pain, you tilted your head and roughly grabbed his throat. It catches him off guard and he grips your wrist, barely even having the strength to fight you off. You’re amused by the entirety of Joker’s nature, how he’s still just an average man that can easily be overpowered — nothing that makes him special enough to not be killed, becoming proof of Batman’s selfish willingness to let the victims suffer than bring them actual peace.

You’ve never uttered a word since you captured him and it unnerved Joker from the beginning, but then, words finally come out of your mouth in a form of monotonous, mechanical, emotionless, eerie voice as you lean over him; “Laugh it out, Joker. Why so serious?”

It sounded like a death sentence.

He’s right in a way, because another of your knife pierced the corner of his mouth soon as you uttered the words. Your other hand tightened on his arteries to choke him while you drag the knife to slit the side of his mouth into a grin, following the lines of his red lipstick. It was certainly not a clean cut, but an artist has their own creative ways to make their art. Tears mixed in with blood that gushes out of his face, complete horrors written across Joker’s eyes which boosts your satisfaction. You go on and do the same thing to the other side of his mouth, before finishing your art piece by carving ‘J’ on his painted cheek.

You resist the urge to moan at the sight of blood coating your fine piece, always finding it to be an amazing finishing touch.

From then on, Joker was brought to literal Hell.

Jason flinches when a playful knock sounded from his safe house’s window, cautiously approaching to see ghostface waving at him through the glass. His eyes widened and immediately opens the window to let you in, not wanting anyone to see you — your sudden appearance distracting him from the fact he’s never given anyone the location of his safe house.

He stops in track at the blood splatters across your mask, and just then had he noticed you seemed to be hiding something behind your back with one hand. It definitely strikes his curiosity, but he somehow didn’t feel like you were holding something that could harm him.

“You got something for me, ghostface?” Jason feels you grin under your mask.

“Got you a present,” Your raspy, rough voice enthusiastically quipped.

Jason’s breath hitches when you show what you were holding — the Joker’s decapitated head in a square glass container tainted by its blood. You obviously had planned to bring it barehand, but you considered the possibility of its blood dripping down on his safe house and becoming a false evidence to point him to the murder, which prompted you to put it inside the container. An unbelievably sweet gesture for a fucking psychopath like you.

Jason could feel his heart beat rapidly as he takes in the animal’s state, carved up grin and the letter J and the horrors seen in its lifeless eyes proving the absolute misery and suffering it went through before being put down. The monster was finally, finally slain and gone forever from his life. Nightmares detangles from his spirit and the past unwraps away from his soul, utter peace and relief spreading throughout his chest. Tears gathered in his eyes at the feeling of being free at last from the life long torment, breath shaking as his knees wobbled.

The child in himself, the innocent Robin that was killed unfairly, finally rests in peace.

Then he sees you, his hero, waving your seemingly new knife playfully in the air with your outfit splattered in blood without a care that you actually saved him, and Jason feels a sudden surge of arousal and will to submit. To give you everything, anything.

“Do you love it, Red Hood?”

Without answering you, Jason grabs the glass container with shaky hands and sets it aside on the counter before stepping back closer to you again, blood rushing to his veins from arousal. He removes his helmet with a thud on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, lustful and yearning emerald eyes looking up at you.

“Let me thank you, please.”

It makes you groan as your pants significantly tightens more.

You slide your knife back into the holster before cupping his beautiful face in your hands, and thank fucking Heavens there wasn’t any blood on it that would taint his face, because he’s a sight to behold. He’s truly a gem, something precious you had never seen before. “So beautiful,” You whispered, making Jason flush. “Baring yourself to me for such a simple present, doll?”

“Not a simple present,” Jason mumbled as he snuggles on the palm of your hands. “You saved me.”

You hum appreciatively, getting the itch to bare yourself to him as well. “You wanna thank me by what?”

Jason looks back at you, face flushed with a little hint of uncertainty and embarrassment, doubts. “I— uhm,” He stammers, but encouraged by your thumb’s gentle stroke on his cheek. “By… by becoming yours.”

Your cock throbs. Fuck, he’s so fucking adorable, you just wanna fuck his guts out. You’re usually tempted to gut people, not fuck their guts— which is funny to say the least— but you weren’t going to say no when the Red Hood’s so willing to offer himself up.

“You wanna take my mask off, doll?” He seems surprised by your question as if he hadn’t thought of it, making you chuckle. “If you wanna be mine, I gotta be yours too, don’t I?” It was dangerous to reveal your identity to him, but you couldn’t care less, especially when you could just fuck his brains out to shut him up. That’s the plan, first time that didn’t include butchering or cutting a body up.

Jason fucking Todd and his effects on you.

The emerald eyed male hesitantly grasped your mask when you led his hands to it, slowly lifting it over your head. He’s met with a fucking luscious feature to ever be adorned on a man and dark, lustfully murderous blood red eyes that makes a whimper slip past his lips. You merely widened your eyes at the sound he made before immediately grabbing his jaw and smashing your lips against his, swallowing Jason’s surprised gasp.

He reciprocates the insatiable hunger you displayed, tongue dancing along with yours and moaning into the kiss when your fingers lightly tugged on his hair. You pull him up in amidst of making out and squeeze his ass, encouraging him to wrap his legs around your hips. You detach your lips from his to trail kisses down his jaw and neck as you walked towards his bedroom, questionably knowing where it is, and Jason tilts his head back to give you more access with closed eyes. Letting him stimulate both of your restrained cocks by grinding down, you sat down on the bed and sucked on his throat as Jason moaned.

“Please, please…” He whimpers, uncontrollably moving his hips in a perfect rhythm yet he seemed to want something else.

You pulled away and traced his lips with your thumb, watching as he naturally took it in and sucked, giving you a desperate look. Swiftly turning off the voice changer attached to your neck in a form of choker, you chuckled when his hands fiddled with the belt on your hooded coat. “So needy, aren’t you?” Your real voice sends shivers down his spine.

An alluring, low, slightly rough pitch and somehow more emotionless than when you were using the voice changer. It makes his cock twitch and empty hole clench down on nothing, the need to be stuffed full of your cum swarming in his belly. You’re fucking bewitching, a man made up from every guy and girl’s fantasy, wet dream, and your attractiveness mirroring the Devil’s that would tempt and lure others to sin.

How the fuck were you real?

“Speak up, pretty bird.” You smirked, “What do you want?”

“Your cock,” Jason mutters, cheeks tinted in pink. “Wanna suck your cock and make you feel good.”

“Fuck…” You shifted in place, “You’ll do that f’me? Get my cock nice and wet to take you apart? To fuck your guts out?”

Jason shakily inhales and nods, climbing off your lap and kneeling on the floor. You lean back on your hands as he unstraps your belt and slide your zipper down, slightly raising your hips to help him get rid of the excess clothes. Your thick and lengthy cock smacks against your clothed stomach, making Jason’s mouth water. Thick veins throbbed on your big shaft, the tip angry and red from arousal leaking precum. It wasn’t just big, it was long, and Jason squeezes his thighs together to keep himself from just riding your cock all day.

His hand wraps around the base, starting to stroke it with a content rhythm. God, you were so fucking big. It’d definitely split him open if you shove it in so suddenly and fill him up nice. It’d make him scream his head off from the unbearable length and girth, almost too much, and Jason wants you to force him to take it. Pin him down and fuck him despite his pleas to stop.

Jason swipes his thumb over the slit, smearing precum, pumping it for a good amount before licking a stripe up the underside of your cock. You shudder, removing your gloves to slip your bare fingers through Jason’s hair, encouraging him to take you in. He obeys, relaxing his throat first before sliding your cock inside his warm mouth, and you groaned at the warmth that surrounded you. It almost didn’t fit from how big you were, but Jason braced himself and took it in further until he gagged as the tip touched the back of his throat. Wrapping his hand around your shaft that he couldn’t take in, stroking gently as if to apologize.

A moan slips past your lips when he starts bobbing his head, tongue brushing against the underside of your dick. “Fuck… Doin’ so good,” You roll your head back. “Such a pretty face to fuck, ain’t ya?”

Jason whines, tears gathered in his eyes as he sucks and fastens his rhythm. Curses, grunts leave your lips that left him feeling all hot and bothered, his other hand moving to skillfully pull his pants down and free his aching cock.

You see him touching himself and a smirk adorns your sinful face, gently scratching his scalp with your nails which earned you a whimper from him. “Go on, fuck yourself. We both know it wouldn’t fit that easily without proper prep,” Expression twisting into a cocky one, your grip on his hair tightened. “I’ll do as I please with your mouth until you’re done.”

Without waiting for his approval, you roughly shoved your cock deep down his throat and moaned loudly, throwing your head back. Jason gagged with a loud whimper as his eyes rolled back into his skull and cum shot out from his throbbing cock, hips jutting forward and twitching due to the sudden orgasm. You chuckle lowly, amusement and lust glinting in your bright red eyes, before you pull back and ram on his throat again.

Jason’s cries and moans were muffled as you ruthlessly use his throat to gain pleasure. His mind has already turned into mush from your assaults, white cum and precum staining the floor yet he doesn’t put up a fight. Taking it all like the good, obedient boy that he is. He’s reached behind him to insert two fingers in his awaiting hole, walls clamping down on the digits from the arousal of his throat being utterly wrecked.

Yesyesyes, please. He chanted in his mind. Use me, mark me, cum in my throat, make me yours.

The moment you fulfilled your promise and delivered him the head of his enemy, he was already yours. It’s all he ever wanted. Unquenchable thirst that always gnawed on his throat and hunger that left his stomach restless, his soul practically teared in half from being battered and beaten. He matters now — mattered enough to you, that you went ahead and killed the source of his misery. The love exploding in his chest was almost unbearable; he was already high on cloud nine from the moment he’s seen you present the head so cheerfully.

You see how he looks up at you, emerald eyes almost displaying hearts with how much he was melting. He’s taken your murderous act as an affection, and you couldn’t be more happy, because it’s what you intended.

“Shit, baby… Gonna cum soon,” You panted, thrusting vigorously. Jason hums and flexes his throat to provide you more pleasure, making you tighten the grip on his hair. “You want me to cum down your throat?”

You earned a desperate whine from him, closing his eyes to prove he was waiting for it. His fingers kept their own assault on his prostate, scissoring and stretching the squishy walls, muffled moans escaping him.

God, he looked so fucking gorgeous. He’d look even more gorgeous with your dick ramming inside him.

Jason feels your big cock throb in his mouth and his fingers move more aggressively to pleasure himself, wanting to reach his high at the same time as you. Stimulating your tip with the back of his throat a few times, you moaned loudly with a curse when Jason slightly flicks his tongue over your sensitive underside, forcing an orgasm out of your body. White, thick, warm seeds spurt out from your slit to his awaiting throat as Jason whimpered in delight and shot another layer of cum on the wet stained floor, hips thrusting in the air.

He greedily swallows every drop that spilled down his mouth despite the euphoria making him feel dizzy as his body slightly trembles.

You chuckled, breathing heavily, pleased expression spread across your face. “Good boy. That was such a good throat-fuck.”

The raspy, sultry tone of your voice makes electricity and chills run through Jason’s spine as his walls clench down on his fingers, yearning to be filled. Jason certainly doesn’t have a womb — it’s anatomically impossible — yet he couldn’t help but feel like it’s there, waiting and aching to be fucked and bred. He needs your cum to be pushed so far inside him. Need to be marked entirely as yours inside and out. Need you to rearrange his guts, fuck his brains out, breed him full, then fuck your cum further back into him.

Jason pulled his fingers out, whimpering at the loss of contact, before looking back up at you with begging eyes. “Can you-?” His voice cracks as he swallows, “Take me apart, please. Make me yours, fuck, I wanna be yours.”

You noticed tears gathering in his eyes, as if being rejected of his want to be your possession would be an ultimate heartbreak in his life; a life-threatening, gnawing thorn in his heart that’ll tear him apart piece by piece and shredding his soul. Jason thinks he can’t live without becoming yours, his savior’s. He can’t live without the source of his safety, the man that fulfilled his silly little dream and sacrificed his own sanity for it.

It absolutely amuses you that he’s become so attached just because you’ve driven him away from harm’s way. A little dumb, but he was your little dumb doll.

You gently caress his face and Jason leans into your touch, making your lips curl upwards into a smile. “Of course, doll.”

It leads to Jason being pressed face first on the mattress as you rail him from behind, sinful and alluring noises leaving his lips stained in drool. Your name escapes him like a chanted prayer, hands gripping the sheets, electricity sparking within his mind that left him dumb and unable to think coherently.

“Fuh-fuck! mgh, ah- yes, oh my god—!” He cries out when you pulled almost entirely back and rammed your cock roughly into him, almost seeing stars in his vision.

The roughness in which you handled him, the perfect angle of your hips allowing you to force pleasure out of his body every-time you thrust, the way you push his back down on the mattress to make him arch more into your merciless tactic, leaves Jason absolutely delirious. You didn’t just fuck him good; you fucked him with absolute vigor and violence, occasionally biting strongly on his shoulder to draw blood, showcasing your natural instincts as a serial killer. He feels your big fucking dick throb and gets impossibly bigger inside him each time his blood seeps out the broken skin, and Jason’s head spins at how much it drove arousal in his core.

“Good fuckin’ sex toy,” You grunted, roughly slamming your hips against his and causing a sharp moan to erupt from Jason.

“B-big—! s’too big- fuck!” Jason whines, tears spilling endlessly down his cheeks.

You smirk as you feel your ego skyrocket at being able to reduce a rather muscular man into nothing but a whining, blabbering bitch. “Yeah? I do split you open, don’t I? But you love it since you’re such a fuckin’ slut.”

“oh- aghn! y-yours— hnngh! Your s-slut! No one else’s-!” He chokes out, desperately reaching for you behind him.

“So fuckin’ adorable,” You chuckled and grabbed his hand, pinning it back to the mattress as you hover over him. You seem to fit against each other perfectly well, your large and tall body able to encage him that left Jason’s stomach fluttering. He’s taken a lot liking of the fact you’re bigger than him, considering he’s never been the smaller one when he was with others. It gives him a sense of shelter.

“p-please— pleaseplease- oh! cum— fuck… cum in me again!” Jason blabbered.

You can’t help but comply to his request, fastening your pace and drilling more into him. Incoherent sentences spill from his drooling mouth when he feels your cock pulse within his walls that signified your soon release. There’s a purpose in which you thrust your hips now — more sharp and angled yet a little sloppy, aimed to brush against his prostate and make him feel utterly good.

“Shit… Cummin’, doll.” You grunted right in his ear before shoving him on the mattress by the back of his nape and slamming all the way down on his already gaping hole.

Jason nearly screams, voice cracking, as his orgasm hits like a strong tide of wave at the same time you spilled thick layer of white semen into his fucked out guts. You ride out your orgasm by thrusting slowly a few times as Jason’s body violently shakes from the aftershock. He subconsciously whines in annoyance when some of your previous cum seems to overflow and replaced by your recent one, bucking his hips as if to use your big cock as a plug to keep them all in. His belly felt full from how much you’ve been filling him with your seed yet it still didn’t feel enough. Jason wanted more; he knew you weren’t going full on him yet.

You swiftly turned him around on his back without pulling out and kissed him roughly. Jason mewls into the kiss when the position makes you push more deeper into him, his hands immediately clasping at the back of his thick thighs to pull them up and make it easier for you to fuck.

“My cute little thing,” You murmured against his lips and bit the skin to draw blood, Jason’s hole squeezing down on you from both the pain and pet name. He greedily whimpers your name, holding onto you for life and yearning for more of you despite already receiving what he wants.

It was so fucking adorable and arousing to see him desperate for not just you, but your entire being as well, willing to welcome such darkness with open arms and tearful smile. You weren’t really a desirable person; so many people have thrown themselves at you for your conventionally attractive features and masculine body type that swoons hundreds yet cower away in fear and speak of you in disgrace when shown the demons living inside of you. No one could seem to look past your murderous, cold-blooded psychopathy — some have attempted to, which only resulted in your darkness growing bigger when they break their own promises. You weren’t meant to be loved. Your destiny was written in the stars and the Gods have cursed you with eternity of living in loneliness and madness without cure. You were meant to be feared, a lonely and violent soul that couldn’t be tamed, your sole purpose of existence being a destroyer; nothing more or less.

Jason, however, seems indifferent to your fate.

Instead of running away in disgust and fear at your acts of violence around the city, he was seeking for you. He’s seen what you’ve done, what you could do without feeling remorse, what monsters lie beneath your existence — and still, he graciously opens his heart (and legs) for you. There’s love and desire within his eyes where distaste should be, touch so soft and warm it baptizes your tainted skin. You’re soaked in blood yet Jason takes his time with you to clean them up. Born with thorns yet he willingly prickles his fingers on them.

You’re a danger everywhere you go, but to him, you were home.

It makes your heart clench; he’s broken the Gods curse and it costs him his freedom, because now he’s caught up in your webs. You wouldn’t let him go, like a snake that’s wrapped itself around its prey in a death grip.

Jason wanted to be yours. What better ways to fulfill his wish if not possessing his body, soul, and spirit?

“Sweet dumb thing,” You purred, hips thrusting slow and sensual, unable to forgive parts of his walls that weren’t touched by your cum. “Mine to fuck, ruin, or make love to. That’s right, yeah?”

Jason nods, moaning softly. Your hands now replaced where his were on the back of his thighs, bending him almost in half as you roll your hips to gently brush against every weak spot he has. The sudden shift in rhythm and atmosphere confuses Jason for a bit, his fogged mind unable to comprehend the situation at hand, but the intimacy strikes a further pleasure that was nearly mind-breaking. He’s been reduced to a moaning mess, blood, sweat, tears and cum coating his body.

“p-please,” Jason keened, like it felt agonizing to be loved ever so gently. “I— ah… I want- I want you,” He stuttered out between moans.

“You’re having me, aren’t you?” Replying, you nipped on his neck and sucked, leaving behind a purple bruise.

He nearly cries, shaking his head. A waterfall of tears streamed down his face, and you find yourself captivated by them. It was almost ethereal despite being one of human’s responses to most things imaginable; your victims always shed one or two accompanied by begs of mercy, but all you’ve ever thought of them was amusing. It’s been used as an escaping tactic from you before, which was never successful due to your lack of morality and sympathy towards your target. They were pathetic, but Jason was divine. Tears suited him— not tears of fear, but tears of pleasure and utopia.

Your focus snaps back on reality when Jason suddenly pulled you down by the nape and bit down hard on your shoulder. A pleasured groan leaves your lips at the pain, hips bucking, making him whimper.

“Jason—”

“Please,” He cuts you off and finally murmurs; “Wanna f-feel how… mhm-! how you actually love…”

It strikes something in your core. Despite your perfect skills of hiding your true nature and never being caught, Jason saw it right through you, how you were holding yourself back for his sake. Quite ironic to witness a cold-blooded killer care for someone enough to go soft, even though it looked like you were going rough on him, and it warmed Jason’s heart. But he was a greedy, fucked up human being who wanted all of you. It wouldn’t be enough until he knows he’s taken you fully.

An amused laughter erupts from your chest. Eyes darkening in lust, Jason feels one of your hands wrap around his throat warningly as the other pushed his torso flat down on the mattress. “You… You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, Todd.”

You pull all the way back before ramming in, making Jason let out a loud, choked up moan as his eyes rolled back into his head. Your thrusts relentless and powerful, slamming against Jason’s body with an intensity that made his head spin, your hand holding his throat as a leverage. Your name spills from his lips like a prayer, something that seems to ignite a possessive feeling within you. Jason can’t help but mewl when your grip tightened on his arteries, throwing his head back to let you gain fully control.

The way he’s so obedient and putty in your hands despite knowing you can kill him if you truly meant to makes you love him even more, fucking him and taking away his ability to breathe wasn’t enough. Greediness turning overboard with the darkness and psychopathy that lies within your existence; you almost wanted to cut him open and crawl inside his guts so you could truly claim Jason, inside and out. You wanted to be more closer to him, see how far you can go without Jason pushing you away or getting disturbed.

Jason’s eyes widened when a cold metallic silver touched his cheek, seeing you holding your signature knife through blurred vision from his tears. However, he doesn’t flinch away like you expected him to, instead his walls squeezes down on your cock and his own twitched against his stomach. The unexpected reaction pulls a loud groan out of you, your hips bucking.

“Shit, Jay… You lettin’ me kill you or somethin’? Good fucking cunt just tightened on me,” You rasped, thrusting your cock against his prostate.

Jason gasps, his hands grabbing the mattress and holding it in a tight grip. It’s so shameful how turned on he was at the danger that lurked around you, his usually sharp instincts relinquished to be replaced by naiveté and stupidity for love. He must’ve gone insane; getting killed was one of his triggers because of his past yet his soul yielded nothing in retaliation to the possibility of your blade slicing through him. All of him seems to have come to love and trust you too much just because you’ve decapitated the beast his entire existence feared, which a part of him found utterly ridiculous and idiotic, but not enough to stop.

He wouldn’t stop himself from loving you — not when you’ve given him the love he always yearned for.

You lean in and ghost your lips over his as you dragged the knife on his torso, lightly scraping him. Jason’s breath quickens, his pupils blown wide in lust and need, anticipation seemingly running through his body as his moans turned into desperate whines.

“p-please…!” He chokes out a whisper, rolling his head to the side and whimpering when you snapped your hips warningly on his. “feels— fuck! feels g-good—! c-carve me… hngh! carve me u-up-! shit… make me fuckin’ bleed…! please,” Jason nearly cries for you.

Groaning out a curse, you reflexively bite down hard on the crook of his neck and push more of your cock inside him, causing a loud keen to erupt from Jason as he squirms and cums on his own stomach at the addictive sense of pleasure and pain shooting through his body.

You licked the blood that seeped out from his skin, satisfied at the clear bite mark you’ve left visible before sensually grinding your hips. Jason whimpered quietly, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“That’s it, doll. Let go, feel good. m’not gonna hurt ya, sweetheart. It’ll all feel good,” Whispering sweet words, you slowly press the tip of the knife just above the v line of his hip and drag it down. Jason hissed at the prickle of pain and tensed up, but the pleasure of your cock stimulating his sensitive walls was too great that forced him to relax. “It’s alright, doll. Jus’ carving you up with my name, so you’ll be mine forever. Isn’t that what you want? Be fuckin’ mine?”

Jason moaned softly, nodding his head. Series of pleasepleaseplease blabber out of him accompanied by heavenly noises he’s been making since you started taking him apart, his brain too fucked out that forcibly twisted pain into pleasure as all he could think about was becoming yours. You, his savior, his God, claiming him by marking him up with your name. Jason feels like he could fucking squirt from just that thought alone.

His blood seeping out from the letters of your name arouses you to no end, your cock throbbing inside him while you continue to move, the darkness within you being thoroughly fed of its bloodthirsty hunger. This is the first time it doesn’t gnaw at your skin to drive your knife deeper, pull the guts out, and splatter redness everywhere; instead, it wanted to be gentle, as if Jason was a significant existence too precious to hurt even for the Devil. A proof that Jason was always meant to be yours, the only one who the monster inside you would rather love than kill.

Carving the last letter, you laughed breathlessly in satisfaction and stabbed the knife on the headboard before slamming your lips against his, devouring his pleasurable noises. Jason whines, arms wrapping around your neck to pull you impossibly closer, arching his back when you switched into a much faster and rougher pace.

“Cummin’, fuck!” You grunted, to which Jason wrapped his legs around your hips to make sure it stays in.

“I-in— in me… fuck- oh my god— please… please, cum in me. Make me full again, p-please…” He begs, clenching his walls around you to push you over the edge, his own orgasm nearing.

Seeing him covered in his own tears, sweat, blood and drool fills you with nothing but pure ecstasy knowing it’s all because of you. The most appealing, ravishing man being a slutty mess right beneath you, begging to be bred and full of your cum, does feed too much into your ego. No one can do anything to take you away from him now, because you’re wrapped around his fingers as much as he is around yours.

“Anythin’ for ya, doll.” You chuckled, thrusting a couple more times before shoving your twitching cock deep into his guts with a moan and releasing your load. Jason mewls, his hole throbbing and squeezing down on you as he throws his head back, tainting his abdomen once more.

Riding out both of your highs, you let out a raspy groan and kissed his lips again, Jason weakly reciprocating due to the overstimulation. His body trembled hard, mind almost shutting down from the exhaustion and too much euphoria. “So good, doll. Took me like a good fuckin’ boy. Fuckin’ amazing.” You praised.

Jason could still see darkness in your eyes, the murderous devil, but there’s a hint of happiness he didn’t recognize before. Love and adoration filled your expression despite the violence engraved in your soul, and Jason finds himself smiling against your lips lightheadedly.

He whispers your name like a forbidden secret, then a curse that completely binds you to him; “I love you.”

You could get used to this, you suppose. There’s nothing more poetic than violence meeting love — two opposites can’t coexist with each other, but perhaps it’ll be forced to. After all, the Devil in you decided he was an untouchable divinity no one shall ever harm, not even yourself, despite its never-ending monstrosity towards humanity.

“I love you too, my Jason.”

When Joker’s decapitated head on a makeshift spear turned up that night, stacked upright in front of Arkham Asylum with blood splattered across the ground in words ‘True Justice for the Tortured Souls’ and a bloody ghostface mask laid aside for everyone else to see, Jason knew he was now in safe hands.

People say, never make a deal with the devil.

They never said he couldn’t love one, did they?

© all rights reserved to hadesrise ──── stealing, plagiarizing, or using my works for monetary gain is strictly prohibited. ask permission before reposting or translating.

[fungifaggot]

im salivating

[sentinl]

TIGHT SPACES

JASON TODD 'RED HOOD' X MALE READER

𓂃 0.3k words | top.dom! + bot.sub!reader

gags , gunplay , quiet sex

Jason should not have let you come with him. It was supposed to be an in and out— get in, take out the target, and get out. In hindsight, he probably should have planned better. Fitting two fully grown men into a tiny ventilation shaft has not been his best idea. But here you are, stuffed into a very small vent, bodies pressed tight against each other. 

Clearly, the both of you haven’t gotten any in far too long. Maybe it’s the way you both get hard in less than 5 minutes of being against each other. Or, maybe it’s how he doesn’t even notice when he starts to grind against you, and you against him.

“Jason. Is that your gun?”

“...No.”

But, he does pull out his gun. Maybe because he doesn’t want it to go off on you, or maybe because he wants you to think it will. You get your answer when he presses the barrel of it against your abdomen, and a gentle shush meets your ears. You can hear shuffling and clinking of Jason’s belt from under you, and then nothing. And then footsteps from outside of the vent, and quick voices. Once they receded, did your belt begin to clink, and then a gloved hand slips under the fabric of your pants. 

“Fuck, fuck— Jason, slow– holy shit. Jay, slow down— please-!” Jason’s hands are occupied, holding the gun and fisting your cock as you strain your ears for footsteps. When you start to moan, Jason shoots you a pointed look. Even with his mask on, you can tell his expression. You take a handful of your shirt, stuffing it into your mouth as he starts to grind into you. 

Your head goes slack against the wall of the vent, making a soft clunk against the thin metal. Jason glares at you again, but his head, too, falls back against the metal as he lets out a quiet groan. 

“Red Hood? Shepard? Are you two okay?” In your and Jason’s ears, the comms crackle to life and Nightwing’s voice barely makes it through. Outside, you hear someone mutter, “did you hear that?”

Fucking hell.

© | all works are property of 「 SMOKYCITADEL 」 𝄃 𝄂 𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄂𝄂 𝄃  2025 𓂃 written by vio : do not steal, translate, repost, or plagiarize my work on any platform. all works belong to me

[rodolfoparras]

Feeling sick to my stomach want to fuck a man while his ex gf watches and have him tell her how much he loves my cock

[rodolfoparras]

What about after they had a little argument and he calls you to come over?

“You love this, don’t you?” you say through gritted teeth puncturing every word with a harsh thrust of your hips. He frantically nods like you’d dare stop if he said otherwise. He’s down on all fours, nose buried in sheets that still linger of her perfume, teeth sunk into the pillow next to him as if trying to suppress the groans and whines from escaping his lips, drools and gags on the thing til it’s all soaked with his spit and tears.

He’s sure the neighbors can hear the slapping of his skin the obscene moans escaping his lips, you grunting and groaning above him, anyone would immediately know it’s not his sweet girlfriend having him unravel like this. But he’s too blissed out to care, eyes screwed shut, slowly losing his grip on the pillow as sounds freely escaping his mouth

You don’t slow down once instead you fuck him harder faster as if trying to cork him onto your cock, his breath hitches with each thrust, cock slapping against the wet of his stomach“No point in going back to her now can’t even go without my cock look at you fucking yourself on it”

And he’s sobbing because it’s fucking true, knows she could never stretch him out til he feels like he’s being split in half, fill him up to the brim like this til he can taste your cock at back of his throat, can feel himself frantically thrusting himself back onto you as these thoughts continue to run through his mind, back arching as he tries to push you deeper harder, rocks the bed with each thrust , catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, sees a man he doesn’t recognize: mouth agape, lips puffy red, drool dribbling down his chin fat tears running down his cheeks . God what would she think if she saw him like this? fucked on their shared bed? Clenching around another man’s cock? Having him fuck himself back onto it? “Bet she’s never seen you like this, should I send her a pic? “ you say free hand grasping his hair and cranking his head back til he’s facing your phone lens, he doesn’t know if you’re actually recordingor taking a pic just knows he’s about to lose his grip on reality “please god please” he cries out like he’s repenting his sins, please forgive me for loving this so much, please forgive me when she’s waiting for me to call, toes curling eyes screwing shut before he’s cumming so fucking hard thick hot white spurts spilling across their shared sheets before slumping right onto the mess

[fungifaggot]

im bricked