˖ ࣪⭑ getting amorously caught up in a moment with steve harrington ˖ ࣪⭑
one moment it's june and everything's exactly how it should be, he's your closest friend and you can't imagine anything ever changing and then the next he's standing in your doorway at the end of the night, the back of your neck is warm, his cheeks are slightly sunburnt, and you've suddenly noticed how his hair has grown longer since winter break and his eyes have got greener without you knowing (or maybe you just got so used to the colour you stopped looking and forgot), his neck's turning red as he looks at you, the kind of red only brought out by blood rushing to the surface, and something about the summer heat it just making everything feel so heightened and you can't help but imagine him placing phantom kisses along your collar bone and drawing all the curtains closed
he's holding your gaze like he knows what you're thinking, causing harmless decay as he reaches his hand out to brush the back of his fingers against your own, you've been saying goodbye for a beat too long and for the first time in a long time you've let yourself imagine what it would be like to reach up and kiss him right now, you're almost silently begging for the moment that he looks away just so you can remind yourself that 'friends' can't stay the night and trace lines down each others sides for hours but he doesn't look away, he won't, so you're just left standing there drowning in the scent of his cologne unsure if you want to lock the door or pull him inside
neither of you need to get caught up in a summer fling right now and neither of you want to ruin your friendship but neither of you want to move either, and it's suddenly so quiet in hawkins that all you can hear his uneven breathing, the soft humming of the street lights, and your own voice, muttering his name like it means anything, like saying 'steve' is enough to convey that you want him to kiss you, in fact you're sure if he doesn't you might just die right there, before july even starts, but steve harrington knows you, he can't read your mind but he can see your eyes flickering to his lips and then back to his and he knows exactly what to do, he has to kiss you, he has to take the chance and wreck everything and he knows and at the very least, he'll have fun doing it
Note: Has anyone seen The Office? Well, this fanfic is inspired by the scene where Pam’s mom visits her at work and asks, “Which one’s Jim?” It’s so magical it makes you want to kick your feet in the air, hahaha, so I just thought, “Why not?” And if you’ve never seen it, then read this fanfic and experience the magic.
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: When your mother visits the Daily Planet for the first time, she only has one question: Which one is Clark? Unfortunately for you, Clark Kent hears the question.
Warnings: Fluff, Romantic Comedy, Workplace Romance, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers Vibes, Slice of Life
WC: 3,000 words approx.
Your hands flew across the keyboard without stopping, that familiar click click click sound that you didn’t even notice anymore because it had become so ingrained in your mind it was like breathing. Every now and then, you clicked your mouse once, then again, then again, as if that would somehow make the words come faster. But it didn’t. You were still stuck on the same sentence you’d been wrestling with for the last fifteen minutes.
You stretched your neck from side to side, feeling it crack slightly, and the small relief was enough to keep you going. You shifted in your chair because you could no longer feel your butt; honestly, you’d lost all sensation after sitting there for so many hours in a chair that was clearly begging to be replaced.
You adjusted the glasses you only wore for computer work. They were uncomfortable, always slipping down your nose or pressing painfully behind your ears, but without them the screen blurred and you’d end up with a headache.
You let out a deep sigh and looked over your monitor, directing your gaze toward the office elevator.
No one important.
Just familiar faces. Coworkers carrying coffee cups or folders.
But not the person you’d been waiting for since yesterday.
Since this morning.
Since the moment you arrived.
“Waiting for someone special?” Lois asked, watching you glance toward the elevator for what had to be the tenth time.
One eyebrow was raised, and she wore the mischievous smile you knew all too well.
You looked at her and shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm slightly.
“No... well... no,” you said shyly, smiling as you lowered your gaze to your keyboard as though the letters had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.
You didn’t type a single word.
You simply stared while your fingers remained frozen above the keys.
“No?” Lois leaned toward you like a curious puppy. “Is someone coming to pick you up? A guy, maybe?” she asked, her voice quiet but excited, as though she already knew the answer and simply wanted to hear you say it.
You laughed.
A nervous laugh.
The kind that slipped out when someone caught you doing something you hoped they wouldn’t notice.
Eventually, Lois gave up and returned to her article, though that little smile remained firmly planted on her face.
The smile that clearly said, I know something you’re not telling me.
“A guy?”
Jimmy’s voice sounded directly behind Clark, causing the poor man to nearly drop his coffee.
It was strange because, well, Clark could normally sense anything approaching him from yards away. Hear footsteps. Feel vibrations. All those things that came with his abilities.
But something about being Clark Kent seemed to interfere with those hidden Kryptonian instincts.
When he was in the office, he wasn’t the man with the cape.
He wasn’t Superman.
He was just Clark.
And somehow that made things weird.
One moment he could hear a sigh from across the city.
The next, he failed to notice his best friend standing directly behind him.
He jumped, nearly spilling his coffee, surprising even himself with how startled he’d become.
You and Lois looked over briefly before returning to your work, as though Jimmy sneaking up on Clark had become a perfectly normal part of office life.
Of course, Jimmy didn’t know.
No one did.
Jimmy was interested in Clark, but not in the way Clark was interested in you.
Jimmy simply enjoyed teasing his friend.
It was entertaining watching Clark turn red whenever someone mentioned you.
Clark glanced in your direction while you continued typing, and the moment Lois whispered something to you, his attention abandoned his article entirely.
If anyone were being honest, Clark could probably be called nosy.
Or perhaps, to him, invading someone’s privacy wasn’t really a crime if the intentions were good.
And you were the girl he liked.
The girl who stole his attention every chance she got.
The girl who made him forget how to breathe whenever you smiled.
Listening a little wasn’t so terrible, right?
Right?
Clark looked at Jimmy, blushing.
How had his powerless friend gathered all that information so easily?
It seemed Jimmy possessed the superpower of overhearing other people’s conversations.
Or maybe Jimmy had only pretended to use Lois’s printer so he could come directly to Clark and extract information.
Jimmy leaned against Clark’s desk expectantly.
“I don’t know,” Clark said casually, though his voice came out tighter than usual.
“They’re stealing your girl, buddy,” Jimmy said, shaking his head as though he’d already accepted his friend’s inevitable suffering.
“She’s not... Jimmy, she’s not my girl,” Clark replied, raising a finger like a teacher delivering an important lesson. “She’s not an object that belongs to someone.”
Then he glanced at you.
Just for a second.
Long enough to see you laughing at something Lois had said.
“Besides...” he added quietly, “she’s allowed to date other people.”
His voice softened as though hope itself were slipping away.
As though the words weighed heavily on his tongue.
“Sure. Because you never actually ask her out,” Jimmy said, shaking his head.
There was equal parts affection and frustration in his expression, as though he’d already had this conversation a thousand times in his head.
“You heard Lois say she liked Andrew. Steve’s coworker,” Clark said, directing his gaze toward the man standing a few desks away.
Andrew.
The guy currently showing off his gym routine with his hands on his hips and his chin raised as though he owned the world.
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Jimmy said with a shrug. “But I heard it. Sorry. Couldn’t keep it in.”
Then he looked toward Andrew.
“But come on. The guy is basically ‘Look at my biceps’ or ‘Yesterday I worked out for three hours’ or ‘I drink disgusting spinach smoothies every morning.’”
Jimmy imitated him in a ridiculous voice while flexing his skinny arms.
Clark couldn’t help smiling.
The day continued that way.
People coming and going.
Lois disappearing to discuss an important article with Cat.
Jimmy working through his fourth cup of coffee while flirting with the woman from the Culture section—the one who always wore enormous earrings and laughed loudly.
Clark looked at you.
Then at Andrew.
Andrew picked up a folder and smiled at you.
You smiled back while continuing to type, nodding as he walked away at an annoyingly leisurely pace.
Clark lowered his eyes to his keyboard.
A heaviness settled in his chest.
Maybe it simply wasn’t his time.
Maybe he was destined to be the supporting character.
The one who never got the girl.
The one who stood by and watched the person he loved fall for someone else.
Maybe under different circumstances.
Maybe in another life.
Things would be different.
“You’re here!”
You jumped up from your chair so quickly that you nearly sent it crashing backward.
Clark’s head snapped up immediately, his spine straightening without him realizing it.
You hurried toward the elevator, excitement radiating from every step.
For one terrifying second, Clark thought you were already spoken for.
That the guy you’d been talking about had finally arrived to take you away.
Then he looked closer.
The person stepping out of the elevator was a woman.
Shorter than you, but undeniably similar.
The same smile.
The same eyes.
The same lightness in her walk.
Clark tilted his head, confused.
Then he smiled.
Your mother.
There was no doubt.
Not after the way you hugged her.
Not after she lovingly brushed your hair back.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I couldn’t find the right floor. I got off on the fifth floor, and they told me you didn’t exist. I said, ‘What do you mean my daughter doesn’t exist?’ Then they finally realized who I was talking about,” your mother said as she walked beside you toward your desk, looking around with fascination as though the office were a museum filled with treasures.
You smiled.
That big smile that only ever appeared around her.
“I told you I could come get you, Mom,” you whispered, kissing her cheek.
Meanwhile, Clark kept his eyes glued to his computer screen while paying absolute attention to every word.
Every laugh.
Every touch of your mother’s arm.
“This is my desk,” you said, sitting down and gesturing toward the chair beside you so she could see where you worked. “I’m writing an article.”
You pointed toward the screen filled with words you’d written and deleted a hundred times.
Your mother nodded seriously.
“Mhm.”
She looked around.
Then leaned closer.
Without taking her eyes off the office.
“Which one is Clark?” she whispered, scanning the room like a spy in a movie.
You blushed instantly.
Heat rushed up your neck and into your ears.
“Mom,” you whispered, practically sinking beneath your desk.
Even though she’d spoken quietly.
Even though it was barely audible.
“What?” your mother replied with a knowing smile, leaning closer. “You spend hours talking about him on the phone. I deserve to meet the man my daughter is in love with.”
Those words echoed through your mind like they’d been shouted through a megaphone.
Across the room, Clark felt his heart somersault.
“It’s him,” you whispered, barely moving your head toward Clark.
Just a tiny gesture.
Your mother followed your gaze.
Clark wasn’t sure whether it was your heart beating that loudly or his own.
He could hear two racing heartbeats.
One closer than the other.
And he couldn’t tell which belonged to whom.
He licked his lips, trying to suppress the enormous smile threatening to spread across his face.
He lowered his gaze to the keyboard.
Tilted his head.
Tried to hide it.
Oh, sure.
This was definitely one of the advantages of super hearing.
Listening to the entire city wasn’t always enjoyable.
But moments like this?
Hearing your voice whisper that you were in love with him?
That made every second worthwhile.
“So you’re the beautiful mother of my best friend.”
Lois interrupted with her brightest reporter smile.
She approached with her hand extended and a sparkle in her eyes.
You stood so quickly you nearly knocked into your chair.
“Lois Lane, right? Of course. Black hair. Eyes capable of making any man fall in love. Gorgeous. That’s you,” your mother said, shaking her hand firmly while looking her up and down as though she’d just met a celebrity.
You laughed and shook your head.
Embarrassed.
Happy.
Both at once.
Lois looked at you with curiosity, one eyebrow raised.
You shrugged with a mischievous smile.
“She’s the one who gives me all the advice I give you.”
Lois laughed loudly before pulling your mother into a hug as though they’d known each other for years.
From his desk, Clark stared at his keyboard with an idiotic smile he couldn’t erase, listening to the laughter of the three of you blend into the sounds of the office.
Then Clark stood up.
Not gracefully.
Not remotely.
It was the kind of standing up that happened when someone’s legs suddenly forgot how to function.
His hands trembled around a sheet of paper.
His eyes shifted from you.
To the floor.
Back to you.
As though he couldn’t decide where it was safest to look.
Thankfully, Perry had asked Clark to print an article and deliver it to you so it could be passed along to the editors, just like always.
A real reason to approach you.
A legitimate excuse.
Not one he’d invented.
Yet even with that perfectly reasonable excuse, Clark felt as though his knees might give out at any moment.
He walked toward you in short steps, clutching the paper against his chest like a shield.
With every step, his heart climbed higher into his throat.
You looked up as he approached.
Your heart stopped.
Or maybe it stopped twice.
Or maybe it stopped altogether.
Your mother glanced at you from the corner of her eye, wearing that familiar smile.
You looked at her.
Or maybe you swallowed.
You honestly couldn’t remember which came first.
You only knew that the office suddenly felt warmer.
And your palms had started sweating for absolutely no reason.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Clark said quietly.
So quietly it sounded as though he were asking permission to exist within your space.
He smiled at you.
A trembling smile.
The kind that escaped before he could stop it.
His fingers continued squeezing the paper as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“No, no,” you replied immediately.
Far too quickly.
Then you looked at your mother with eyes that clearly pleaded, Please don’t say anything weird.
“I... this is my mother, Clark... no... what’s wrong?” you said, realizing halfway through the sentence that none of those words made sense.
You sounded as though you were apologizing.
Or answering a question he’d never asked.
He only wanted to hand you a paper.
Not meet your mother.
At least, that’s what you assumed.
But your mouth had sprinted ahead of your brain.
And it was far too late to catch up.
Clark smiled anyway, despite not fully understanding what you’d just said.
He extended a hand toward your mother.
Then immediately pulled it back.
Wiped it on his jacket.
Then offered it again more carefully.
As though presenting something fragile.
“Clark Kent, ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
His voice came out slightly higher than usual.
The unmistakable sound of someone who was desperately nervous.
You smiled at your mother.
The kind of smile that hurt because of how hard you were forcing yourself to appear calm.
“Clark Kent,” your mother repeated, savoring the name like candy. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
She dropped the words casually.
Like someone tossing a grenade and waiting to see the explosion.
“About everyone,” you corrected quickly.
Far too quickly.
Far too obviously.
Your voice sounded rushed.
Artificial.
You fooled absolutely no one.
It was as obvious as the sky being blue.
As obvious as coffee being hot.
Your mother gave you a look that clearly said, Oh, my sweet foolish daughter.
Clark turned as red as a tomato.
“Yes, well, I hope my daughter does a good job and is a good coworker to everyone,” your mother said, releasing Clark’s hand after holding it a second longer than necessary.
Then she turned toward Lois as though she hadn’t just left her daughter internally screaming.
“She is. She’s the best.”
Clark’s words came out instantly.
Purely.
Directly from his heart before his brain had a chance to intervene.
Even he looked surprised.
You stared at him.
Speechless.
Your mother stared at him.
One eyebrow raised.
A huge smile spreading across her face.
Lois stared at him too.
Barely managing not to laugh.
Her expression practically screamed, These two are hopeless.
You smiled without entirely understanding why.
Then looked at your mother with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness you couldn’t conceal.
“I’m glad to hear that. I won’t take up any more of your time. Your work is important,” your mother said, waving a hand as though dismissing an entire army. “I’ll wait for my daughter downstairs.”
She paused for a moment.
Thinking.
“I’ll look for a restaurant while I wait. I hear Metropolis has excellent restaurants.”
She looked around as though expecting someone to hand her a map.
“The Italian restaurant next to the park is amazing,” Clark recommended.
The moment he finished speaking, he blushed so intensely it looked like he’d suddenly developed a fever.
He adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger.
A habit he always had when he was nervous.
Though he had no idea he did it.
“I think,” he added quietly, suddenly uncertain of his own recommendation.
You smiled.
One of those smiles that appeared without permission.
The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried.
“Of course. When we went there with Jimmy,” you said, remembering.
Clark nodded, relieved that someone had confirmed he hadn’t imagined the place.
You turned to your mother, your eyes shining.
“It really is good.”
Your voice carried far more conviction than one would expect from a conversation about food.
“Oh, then you should come with us, Clark. You seem to know the city well,” your mother said casually, as though inviting an old family friend to dinner.
You shook your head so quickly your neck nearly hurt.
“He’s lived here exactly as long as I have,” you tried to point out, as though that were a perfectly reasonable argument against him joining.
Your mother didn’t even look at you.
Her eyes remained fixed on Clark with the determination only mothers possessed when arranging something their children never requested.
“It would be my pleasure to join you. I... yes... Perry said...” Clark began.
Then immediately tangled himself in his own words.
He pointed at the paper still clutched in his hands as though he’d only just remembered it existed.
“This is for you,” he said finally, extending it toward you with the care of someone presenting an important trophy.
His fingers brushed yours.
Just for a second.
Both of you pulled away at exactly the same time.
As though the contact had shocked you.
“I... I’ll leave on time so I can take you both,” Clark said.
Then he retreated so quickly it looked like he was escaping a fire.
He nearly tripped over a chair.
Caught himself at the last second.
Then walked straight into a doorway that had been there forever.
And kept going.
His cheeks were so red they looked like two apples hanging from either side of his face.
You looked at your mother with wide eyes, having absolutely no idea what expression you were supposed to make. Whether you should be offended, laugh, or simply crawl under your desk and never come out again.
Lois smiled at your mother, shaking her head from side to side with the expression of someone who had seen this story before and already knew how it ended.
“See, ma’am?” Lois teased, crossing her arms and leaning against the desk as though she were watching her favorite television show. “Those two are complete lovebirds. It’s only a matter of time before they end up together.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the silly smile that slipped onto your lips.
Your mother simply nodded.
Serious.
Thoughtful.
As though she were mentally documenting every single thing she had witnessed.
Saving every detail for later.
For one of those phone calls when the two of you were alone.
When she could finally interrogate you properly and you would end up confessing everything you felt for Clark Kent.
men who try to shame women for liking calming games like animal crossing or minecraft or whatever are so pitiful. like maybe if u planted some virtual flowers to some calming music for a few hours u wouldnt be such a lil bitch
thinking about dean winchester teaching you to play pool….
you’ve stopped in some run down highway diner with peeling paint, stained tables and eye-rolling waitresses, and sam begins to explain the current case. he starts, “so get this…” but dean’s eyes have suddenly caught a different focus.
the green of the pool table is worn, more like a grey, the cues are few, and the holder has no chalk left, but dean’s already looking at it like it’s god’s gift to earth.
without another second wasted, his hand wraps around yours, and he’s headfirst towards the pool table like his life’s true mission.
he’s grabbed two cues already before you can finally mention that you don’t know how to play, and before you muster a protest, he’s guiding your hips to the table, placing the cue in your hands and leaning your body forward.
you can feel every inch of his body pressed against yours as he gently manoeuvres your arms into the correct position, the hard planes of his chest pressed directly against the curve of your back. losing the bravado, he murmurs quiet instructions into your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin and making goosebumps rise across your body.
his hands wrap around yours as he shows you the proper positioning, fingers practically intertwined with your own. he guides your hand to hit the balls, and murmurs encouraging praises after every shot.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ♱ soldier boy likes you loud and fucked stupid. mdni, 18+
soldier boy who likes having a hand around your neck while you fuck so he can notice when your pulse quickens. he never holds back however, cock buried deep in your cunt while his thick fingers wrap around your neck even tighter. he just smirks—that shit eating grin of his, all self-assurance and quiet arrogance—and when your pulse eventually spikes under him, that’s just a sign for him to go faster, deeper into your needy hole. his hands are quick to lift your legs off the counter on onto his shoulders, cock still buried inside of you, making the angle get better with each thrust, “like that pretty girl? like being fucked stupid like this?”
“fuckkingg hell, what a sight” he grumbled as his cock nudged that sweet spot deep inside of you, pace never wavering, enjoying your frantic gasps as you choked for air. “like when i choke you like this huh? fucking filthy”
soldier boy who, when you’re close to passing out, air barely entering your lungs anymore, he brings a hand to your cheek—not caressing nor gently, and definitely not in a comforting manner. he taps it twice, forcing you to turn to look at him. “a-ah, don’t even think about passing out on me doll”, he hums mockingly against your ear, voice deep and rough like gravel, “i’ll have you choking on something else after this”
soldier boy who pushes you against the wall when you’re being loud. he bathes in that shit—likes you loud and needy, whimpering about how it’s too much, drooling on his fingers as he takes you from behind. it’s no surprise honestly, he just loves when he can hear how good he makes you feel, and he sure as hell enjoys knowing that the entire vought building knows the same.
“you wanna be fucking loud huh? want everyone to know how much of a mess you are taking this cock?” he grunts, lips curled into a smirk as he comes closer, “it’s no use to act so shy now, let them hear how good i make this pussy feel”
soldier boy who doesn’t give two shits about fucking in a public display. he’ll dismiss it gruffly, tone suddenly a pitch lower than usual “you think i care about an audience?” with his hand loosely travelling down your thigh, playing with the hem of that skimpy skirt you were wearing that made him wanna grab you and take you right then and there. a dark chuckle slips past him as his other hand traces the curve of your jawline. “if i wanna fuck my girl? I'll do it right fucking here.”
soldier boy who loves it when you start whining, asking him to slow down, whimpering and begging him to stop—cause he gets too rough sometimes. when he does eventually slow down and lean closer to you, your body relaxes instantly, and you´re dumb enough to think that he actually heard you. but the moment your lips part to speak up, he immediately speeds up, smile so smug and proud of himself when he sees your teary eyes widen. yeah he’s a menace like that.
soldier boy who believes that using a condom is a waste of plastic. why use it when he can feel your overstimulated walls spasm around his length, making you feel every inch? it’s not like he didn´t look forward to having any children either, so why not better than to breed you instead? watch thick ropes of cum leave your insides, it’s just a sight that undoes him completely.
cybella’s thoughts⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡ lawd save me. i’m back and as needy as ever. i haven´t even finished s5, yikes.
𝓭𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 doesn’t like to talk during sex. it makes him feel awkward. he’s all grunts and moans as he likes to put all his focus in touching you. in feeling your skin beneath his hands. the way you’re so soft compared to his calloused and worn palms. the way you curve and arch against him as he envelopes you in his arms. he buries his head in the crook of your neck and breathes in your scent. he loves being close with you. loves finally having someone he can be close with. and he’s wrecked the second he presses inside you. his breaths shaky and low, growing deeper and deeper as he too gets deeper and deeper.
I have so many thoughts about ex-boyfriend!Daryl that it's not funny. Especially S1 Daryl. Like he's such a douchebag, but he cares so much. Enjoy!
Pairing: Ex-boyfirend!Daryl Dixon x Reader
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who immediately thinks of you when the world goes to shit. He knows there's no way to get to you, and even if there was, you probably wouldn't go with him, so he never tries.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels a crushing sense of guilt for that.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who finds himself wondering if you survived. Wondering if he should be out looking for you.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who freezes up when Rick comes back to camp with you walking cautiously behind him.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who dumps his crossbow on the ground and starts striding up to you like the fucking terminator, before he can even really figure out how he feels, making everyone nervous.
Ex-boyfirend!Daryl who doesn't give a fuck that he's your ex because you're alive. Tired, scared, and a little worse for wear, but alive.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who takes your face in his hands and just looks at you. Doesn't kiss you because he doesn't think he deserves to, but looks at you like he used to. Like you're the lady of the lake. Like you hung the goddamn moon.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels like he can take a breath for the first time since he realized he had to leave you behind.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who takes a shaking breath and tries to say something to you, maybe an apology, maybe something else, but can't do it. The words just stick in his throat.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who damn near takes Rick's hand off when he tries to pull you away, thinking Daryl might hurt you.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels such a sense of relief when you lean into him and tell him you missed him.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who's shoving down tears by sheer force of will while you say the difficult things for him. You wondered every day if he was alive. Wondered if you should look for him. That you still love him.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who can't believe he's been handed a second chance with you in this new, fucked up version of the world.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who doesn't know how to apologize for what happened before, and instead tries to atone by making sure you always eat before he does, sleep in the safest place, and never get so far away from him that he couldn't protect you.
Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who's suddenly not your ex-boyfriend anymore.
You'll just have to taste me when he's kissin' you
Ben could spot an unsatisfied woman a mile away
Nina's Remarks : Mind you I used to be a diehard Homelander stan. [4.2k]
tw : homelander, language, pr relationship, mentioned lactation, cheating, smut written by a virgin + first time writing smut (MDNI), fingering, PinV
Life was all about appearances. Or at least it was for you. The most famous woman in America. You hadn't gotten your spot because you were particularly interesting or some kind of one-in-a-million genius, you were where you were because you fit a list of criteria.
You were between the ages of 20 and 25, you were not a previously known supe, you had no criminal record, you were healthy and you were fertile. Homelander had chosen you out of the hundreds if not thousands of headshots he examined for days.
The day you signed your name on that marriage license, you made your choice. Be the trophy wife of the most dangerous man in the nation, in exchange of fame and luxuries you never could've dreamed of before.
Your life seemed picturesque, a page taken straight out of a magazine. Maybe it was that way, just not for you. You were on Vogue, you were invited everywhere, people would kill simply to get an interview with you.
All that, because of a rock on your finger. A symbol of the man responsible of you. Homelander, or John as he insisted you called him.
When you first met him, it was obvious to you that John was not like other men, not only on account of his powers. He was possessive, treating you like a very well-behaved pet rather than an actual person. But it seemed you had it better than most when it came to him. Along with Sister Sage, you were the only person he was somehow at ease with, happy even.
You made sure to always keep him pleased, you'd seen the way he'd rip people in half with his bare hands or burn their skulls with his lasers. You learned to control your heart rate around him, to make sure he never doubted your loyalties.
With no warning from John, he announced a new person would be joining your dysfunctional family unit, so two would become three. Or at least that's what John wanted and he rarely didn't get his way.
You were sitting at your seat in the Seven's conference room on the left of Homelander's at the head of the oddly-shaped table. Your legs were crossed and you were leaning your head on your knuckles as you scrolled through your social media, looking at what people were saying about you today. It had become a daily ritual of yours.
It was mostly positive, except for the occasional 'she's reinforcing traditional gender roles !' here and the 'why is a woman taking so much space at Vought ?' there. The idea of society unanimously agreeing on anything at all was impossible.
You looked up as you heard two sets of footsteps approaching you. One you recognized all too well and one was foreign to your ear. You looked up and saw John, as expected, and... Soldier Boy ?
"Father, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Victory." Homelander said gesturing towards you. You almost cringed at the sound of your supe name, but you managed to hide it.
You immediately stood up and extended your hand for Soldier Boy to take. "Please, call me Y/N." You said with a warm smile.
"Alright, you can call me Ben." He said with a smirk. He shook your hand at a slow pace and held it for a second too long, which Homelander obviously noticed.
You pulled your hand away. "It's an honour to meet a true patriot like yourself, sir. Especially John's father."
"John's father." He repeated and looked back at his son. He'd just learned Homelander's legal name. "How'd you manage to land this one ?"
John mumbled something about that not being relevant. You wondered, if asked again, should you give your relationship's PR story or the truth to your father-in-law ?
There was a short moment of silence. Ben made no effort to hide the way he was staring at you. It wasn't entirely his fault, seeing as your costume's primary objective was to have as many eyes on you at all times by showcasing as much skin as possible.
You just kept a welcoming smile on your face. Unlike your teammates on the Seven, or any supes for that matter, the act never ended for you. Most supes have two personalities, the one for when the cameras were rolling and the one for when they weren't. But for you, the cameras never turned off. Your whole life since you met John had been a big performance to ensure you would live to see the next day.
Homelander never wanted to see you angry or unhappy, you needed to be there for him with an almost cheerleader-like attitude constantly. You needed to stand at his side in front of the public, never disagreeing with him, no matter what unhinged thing he said. You needed to be there when he needed to release his frustrations, ready for fucking and taking it like a champ with an Oscar worthy performance every time.
"Soldier Boy will be on the Seven starting today." John said as he sat down on his chair. "As my right hand."
For the duration of the meeting, Soldier Boy sat in front of you, sneaking glances whenever he thought you wouldn't notice. But you did notice, you were trained to. But under watchful eyes, you made sure your attention was only ever focused on one man, your husband.
Today was a media day, interviews, photoshoots and announcements. It started with Soldier Boy being given a medal by the vice-president, ex-Vought CEO, Ashley Barrett. The cameras flashed without stop as you stood behind the two, Homelander by your side, as always.
After Ashley's speech came to an end, the most important part of any political ceremony began, pictures. It started with Ashley shaking Soldier Boy's hand, then Homelander and Soldier Boy standing next to each other. "Y/N." John called your name as he gestured for you to come over, you didn't waste a second before joining the duo.
You stood beside your husband, but before any shutters could click, one of the photographers spoke out. "Victory, move to the middle !"
You complied, not thinking much of it. John moved over to give you some space. He stood tall, as always, his hands placed behind his back. You smiled for the cameras, your usual media trained-smile. The one that had become like a second resting face to you.
You felt a hand creep up on the small of your back. It should've been the most ordinary thing, only this hand wasn't wearing a glove, or at least not one covering the fingertips like you were used to.
You glanced to your left quickly. Ben.
He kept his gaze aimed at the people in front of him, not acknowledging his own action. The random grabbing was only the start of it.
Later on during the day you were booked with Homelander and Soldier Boy for an issue of a Vought-controlled magazine to really sell the image of this great American dynasty that you now were.
John was sitting down on a chair, Ben stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder as if he were a proud father, and you were on the ground, your head leaned on John's leg.
You stayed still for as long as they asked, not moving by an inch. Every bend in your body, every part of you being shown and every angle had been carefully arranged by a choreographer. No mistakes allowed.
Although you couldn't turn around to confirm it, you felt the weight of Soldier Boy's gaze on you whenever the camera was off.
"Okay, let's move on to the next one !" The photography director yelled, but before anyone on set could move from their positions, John stopped them.
"Hold it. Let me see and I'll decide when we're done."
The crew all looked at each other, fear starting to settle in their hearts. Unsurprisingly, they all complied, too afraid to stand up to your husband.
You lifted your head from John's lap to allow him to get up. Before going to see the photos, he softly placed a hand on the top of your head and said, "You're doing good."
You heard a low chuckle behind you. "What are you, his fuckin' dog ?" You finally allowed yourself to look at him. He looked down at you, considering you were still on your knees. "Don't worry, I'm the last person to kink shame."
"I'm not a dog, John's just letting me know he... appreciates the way I'm acting." Your own logic was starting to confuse you.
"That's okay sweetheart, I think that just makes me like you more." He whispered as Homelander came back.
You took a few more pictures in this setting and then came the duo pictures. When you were finally paired with Soldier Boy, you wondered why John was even allowing this.
Ben stood straight, his back facing the camera, and you were leaning your elbow on his shoulder. Halfway through, the director announced he wanted to try something different, something bold, or at least for you.
They placed a stool in front of you. As you were being given instructions, you began climbing. Instinctively, you used Soldier Boy's shoulder to help lift yourself up. It was difficult to do so in your heels, and once you almost reached the top, you missed the last step, causing you to fall back.
A quick whimper escaped you, but before you could even start falling, a hand had placed itself on your hip, steadying you. "Careful doll, I ain't always here to catch you."
"I don't need you catching me all the time." You awkwardly laughed, trying to brush off the interaction. You both got in position as the director instructed, Ben still looking away from the camera and you looking down at the top of his head from your stool.
The set went silent, the only noise filling the room being the camera clicking. Suddenly, you heard the sound of fabric stretching, you knew exactly what that was. It was low, low enough that anyone without powers wouldn't have known. Your gaze shifted to meet his eyes. A huge smirk painted his face as he looked down then towards you.
You prayed silently that John was too distracted in that moment to notice what had transpired. To say this was the strangest interaction you'd had with Soldier Boy was an understatement, worse was yet to come.
Interviewers then came to get material for their articles. Ben was obviously the one with no PR training in the group as when asked about you he said you were a 'real class act, if she wasn't married I'd've snatched her for myself. Not that that's ever stopped me before.'
The odd interactions between you two just started from there on out. Any time a picture was being taken, Ben was always next to you. When talking about Homelander, the only thing he would praise his son about was his choice of wife. And of course, many, many stares.
After another draining day, you were sitting on the white marble floor of your shower, holding your knees close to your chest and letting the burning hot water fall on your skin without a care in the world. Moments like these were one of the rare times you were truly by yourself. Homelander thankfully didn't care to be present for your bi-weekly everything shower.
You'd actually finished your routine ten minutes prior, the smell of your sugary vanilla products still lingering in the air. The sound of the water hitting the tiles created this calming atmosphere, silencing all your worries and problems.
Unbeknownst to you, Soldier Boy had just let himself into yours and Homelander's apartment. Call it father's intuition or just being a creep, even he wasn't sure what he was looking for. He quickly took in the Americana themed living room, which he thought was the tackiest thing he'd seen in a long time, before making a beeline straight to the bedroom.
He looked at the images that adorned the walls around him, dozens of Vought-approved photoshoots of yourself and your husband in all sorts of settings to make it seem like your relationship was healthy and normal. There wasn't a single frame where you weren't smiling, but Ben knew it was disingenuous. You could fool everyone but not him, no one could fool him when it came to women.
He noticed a fresh pile of clothes neatly folded on the red, white and blue duvet. At the top of it was a little pair of pink underwear. Ben looked to his left, then his right, as if to check if anyone was looking at him, and shoved the fabric in his pocket.
He moved towards the first of two nightstands on either sides of the bed. He opened it to find a pile of magazines, mostly of Homelander and a few of you.
At the bottom of the drawer was a magazine with the words 'Cancelled project' stamped in red ink over the cover. Ben decided to have a peek inside, and boy was he glad he did. You, the girl he'd been eyeing for a little over two weeks, with close to nothing on in poses that would make a pornstar blush.
Soldier Boy chuckled as he quickly turned the pages but his amusement ended once he noticed that some of them were wrinkly and stuck together. He instinctively let go of the magazine, letting it fall to the floor, a disgusted look on his face clear as day.
He moved on to the second nightstand. This one was more typical, a bottle of pills, a pair of glasses and various skincare products. It wasn't hard to deduct whose nightstand was whose. He lifted the small orange bottle to read what was written on its label, 'Lactoxene - Gillman, Y/N'.
At that moment, you walked out of the adjacent bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around your wet body. The second your eyes landed on the man, you froze and gripped the fabric shielding you from him tighter. Your usual smile appeared back on your face almost automatically. "Soldier Boy ! What are you doing here ?" Although you tried to hide it, the surprise in your voice was impossible to mask.
"What's Lactoxene ?" He said with a smirk as he showed you what was in his hand.
For once in your life, you couldn't think of an immediate response. Your eyes went wide, what were you supposed to say to that ? "It's Vought prototype medication." You answered, staying vague enough, or so you thought.
"Depraved little bastard. What kind of fucking sicko is into that ?" Soldier Boy huffed, almost holding back a laugh. "So you're... Right now ?" You didn't even have to answer, he already knew by your avoidant demeanour. "Well he definitely didn't get that from me."
"You shouldn't be here." You simply stated.
"Why not ?"
Your gaze kept shifting between Soldier Boy and the bedroom door, scared someone would walk in. "John could come back at any moment."
"Ah, scared your husband's gonna catch you with his daddy ?" Soldier Boy slowly walked towards you. "Trust me sugar, he ain't gonna find out."
For every step forward he took, you took a step back, until you reached the bedroom wall. "'Ts really a shame a pretty thing like you is stuck with a pussy like him. What you need, is a real man."
"John is a real man." You said, not hesitating to come to your husband's defence, but was it out of love or habit ?
Ben finally reached you, he placed his arms on the wall, blocking you in front of him. You could've pushed him, you were a supe after all, but you didn't, you let him stay.
"Really ? How often does he get you to finish ?"
Your eyes widen at his question. As much as you wanted to prove him wrong, you couldn't. He examined your face closely as he waited for his answer. He could almost see the cogs turning in your head.
"... He never has."
"Well, that tells me everything I need to know." He brushed away some hair that was in front of your face. "Let me give you what you need." He said in the gentlest tone you'd ever heard from him. And with that simple phrase, something in you changed.
You looked at the wedding band you'd taken off for your shower that was sitting on your nightstand. The diamond on it could probably rival a small city's GDP. The sun clashed with it and made it sparkle in all the right ways. But that wasn't important, not now.
Before Ben could make the first move, you grabbed the sides of his face roughly and crashed your lips on his. Even he was taken aback by your initiative, but he sure wasn't complaining.
Years of repressed sexual dissatisfaction all coming out onto one man. One man you shouldn't be with.
His hands moved away from the wall and instead placed themselves around your back, bringing you closer to him. Your noses hit each other due to the sheer intensity of the act.
He lifted you up from the floor and threw you on the bed. You whined almost instinctively due to the sudden loss of contact. "Take it off, let me see what I'm workin' with." He instructed as he began removing his own armour.
You tugged at the tucked-in pieces of the towel that were keeping it in place, and once his uniform's chest plate hit the ground, so did the fabric separating you from his gaze.
He let out a small whistle. "Honey, with a body like that it's mind-blowing that Homelander ain't pouncing on you every chance he gets. What a waste."
You were sitting on your knees as you watched Ben undress. You caught yourself comparing him to John. You knew Vought padded his Homelander suit, but you remember the first time you saw what was underneath and you couldn't believe how truly scrawny he really was.
In comparison, Soldier Boy was pure muscle. Even without the V1 he would've been stronger than most. And he was big where it mattered, much bigger than his successor. In that moment it felt like the roles were reversed, now you were the one ogling him with no shame.
Once he was finally done, he quickly approached you, and out of instinct you leaned forward, as if it would bring him to you faster.
"Eager aren't we ?" He said as he grabbed your chin with his index and thumb, moving it along your cheek slightly.
"Can you really blame me ?" You opened your mouth and took his finger in. What were you doing ? You had never done anything like this before. It was like you'd been replaced by a wild animal in heat.
Ben began pushing you into lying down, following along with you. It wasn't long until your mouths were connected again. He began tracing his fingers on your skin, progressively bringing them lower and lower until they reached their wanted destination.
He started rubbing slow circles on your clit and you let out a sigh you didn't even know you had in you. Considering his slow pace, you began bucking your hips in hopes of creating more friction. You felt two of his fingers carefully entering you. "Oh !" You said as you slightly pulled away from his mouth.
"What ?" He simply answered as he began increasing the speed of his touching and moving his digits in and out of you.
"Joh... Homelander's never..." Your speech was hindered by all your laboured breathing due to the new sensation. "... Done this to me... Before."
"What does he do to you ?" Ben began slowing down.
"I-it never lasts long... Usually missionary... He sucks on m-my tits. He makes... He makes me s-suck him off under his d-desk sometimes... And that's it.."
"And he's never made you come. That's pathetic. Truly." He said as he removed his fingers from you, leaving you on edge. "Good thing I'm here. What you need..."
He sat himself up and moved away from you, towards the top of the comically-large bed leaving you alone at the end of it. "...Is a real fuck." He leaned his back on the headboard as he extended out his arms. "C'mere."
You got on all fours and crawled towards him, making it a painfully agonizing display for you and him, pushing back the time of your release. Once you reached him you stalled, unsure what to do next. You lowered your head towards his manhood, as you assumed it was your turn to give back. But before you could get far, he brought you back up.
"This ain't about me." You looked at him almost in amazement. John had never cared about anything other than his own dick. But now, it was all for you. Out of everyone you knew, you were quite surprised at how caring Ben actually was.
He brought you closer to him and began leaving kisses all over your skin. On your neck, your chest, your arms. In between ministrations, he began talking. "Look at you, poor girl. Never satisfied and stuck with an ungrateful man. But you don't need to worry anymore, 'cause Ben's gonna take care of you."
You felt him lifting you up by your hips delicately and placing you where he wanted. He lined you up and let you take the lead, a first for you. You slowly sunk down on him. It stung, as if it were your first time.
It took you a moment to really settle, but once he was all in, you felt full. Your breathing became heavy as you slowly started to move up, then down. You began gaining speed in your movement, and the more you did, the more you realized there was a whole world you were missing out on because of John.
Ben laughed loudly as he caressed your breast. "Goddamn this might just be one of the best I've had."
The room was filled with the sound of moans, grunts and skin slapping, without a care in the world for who could potentially find you both in this compromising position.
You wrapped your arms around his neck to stabilize your body and you wondered how you were still standing. Ben thrusted his hips beneath you to really accentuate his own pleasure. You pushed yourself harder on him, you were sure if you had the ability to bruise, you'd be all blue by now.
The level of ecstasy you were feeling was unmatched to anything you'd ever lived before. There were tears in the corners of your eyes, threatening to fall from the sheer bliss of it all.
You could feel the crashing wave of satisfaction slowly creeping in. You leaned your head in the crook of his neck and he whispered, "You're takin' all of me so well. You're so greedy after bein' deprived from this for so long, ain't you ?"
"Mm-hm." Was all you could mutter back in response.
You were both close, you could sense it. So he kept talking. "Next time you're with him, next time he fucks you, all you'll be able to think about is my cock."
Your moans got higher and louder as you felt your orgasm fall upon you. You almost went limp in his arms, but he kept pushing, chasing his own high. You felt his release in you, the come even leaking out of you. He then fell back in exhaustion.
You might've been super-abided, but you both needed a minute to rest from all that. You laid down on his chest as you felt him wrap his arms around you.
"For a first time on top, I'd say you did pretty well." He said.
"I don't know how I can ever go back to just John after this." You chuckled.
You pulled yourself off his body and sat down next to him, feeling quite empty. You could feel the slow trickling of bodily fluids down your thighs. It was never like this with Homelander. Never.
Your bodies almost shimmered from the sweat you'd worked up. You looked around at the mess your usually tidy bedroom had become. You noticed the clothes Soldier Boy had left on the floor, more particularly a pocket in his pants, which a light pink fabric was protruding from.
"Are those my panties ? You're such a weirdo." You joked.
"Hey, you're drugging yourself so your man child of a husband can sucks milk from your tits because he didn't have a mama growing up."
"Touché. But you should be grateful, those pills made my girls grow three cups."
"Oh I'm grateful." He nodded in agreement. "Can you imagine if he walked in right now ? Seein' his sexy wife, full of come, in his own bed with his dad. And the press around it ? 'Homelander's wife stolen by father, Soldier Boy'."
"Woah, slow down, cowboy. Let's at least do this a few more times before we get there."
"'Right, wanna get started on round two then ?"
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Thinking of Dunk who loves seeing you in your lose, bright colored gowns. You look so gorgeous, all the floral colors reminding him of flowers, sunshine, and how badly he wants to fuck you.
It’s not everyday you wear such a pretty dress, him working his ass off as a knight so you can get the best things.
And he loves the way the wind blows against the fabric, just enough for him to see the sight of your legs or your hair moving to see your breast.
He’s a knight, he will always be a gentleman. But when you’re both alone, all he wants is to rip the shit out of the fabric and fuck you so silly.
So he does, bringing you up against a tree in the forest as he tries to take it off. One swipe of his big hand and the fabric is ripped in two and fallen into the mud.
Turning you over, using his muscly thigh to bring your legs apart. Two fingers on your clit, small circles that have you dizzy in seconds.
Bringing his beefy fingers inside you and you’re breathless, tears pouring down the edge of your eyelids. One thrust of his fingers and you’re crying out, begging him to just fuck you already.
Your wish is his command, untangling the rope against his waist as he brings his trousers down. His cock springs out, his tip vibrating and oozing with precum.
You feel it against your ass, him smacking his cock against the skin of your ass to tease you. He aligns himself by your entrance as you whine out, again asking if you really want this.
You respond without a second thought, practically on your knees for him to fuck you.
His cock thrusts in you with such force, your hands grabbing on to the bark of the tree with intensity.
The heat of the summer air was overbearing, sweat dripping down your body. Dunk takes a second to adjust, his breaths fanning down your body as you shiver.
You felt him bring himself out, a slight whimper at the emptiness of your cunt.
But he thrusts back in, a bolt of electricity running down your body. Your legs felt loose like jelly, tensing against his thrusts.
You felt his cock press against your sweet spot, your stomach doing flips. Hearing him groan your name, strong hands against your sides as he holds you up right.
The heat was too much, trying not to imagine someone walking in on the two of you. But the feeling of him inside you was so overwhelming, the sudden thought flying away from your mind.
You felt his abdomen against your ass, skin to skin filling the forest as his thrusts grew more powerful and faster.
Your whole body felt as if it was in front of the sun, tension growing from your toes as sweat dripped down tour body.
Your legs started to tremble, your hands growing sore from how hard you were holding onto the tree. Your abdomen was tensing, each hit from his thrust making your pussy tighten against him.
Dunk groaned out, a deep growl that reached the birds on the top of the trees. He was desperate, his cheeks growing red as his chest pressed against your back.
He was close, and so were you. Whiteness expanded over your vision, feeling your whole body start to tighten. Your hands grabbed onto his arms, feeling his muscles tense as your nails digged into the skin.
He didn’t even cry out in pain, too much in bliss at the feeling of your pussy tightening against his cock.
His grip on your hips was strong, almost bringing you up in the air. One thrust, then two, then another and he’s cumming loads inside you.
You followed right after, almost losing your balance if he wasn’t holding on to your body.
Few more breaths and you two were set back in reality, frowning at the sight of your pretty dress now in pieces.
“I’ll buy you a new one.” He blushes at his words, though holding you close in effort to protect your naked body.
You couldn’t help but smile at his words, though you wonder how you’ll manage through the Summer woods naked and still horny as ever.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking for me, but how about a soldier boy x reader, can be set in season 3 or 5 where he wakes up, meets a supe!reader and is like lovesick or basically head over heels when meeting her. Tries to show off and get her to be with him, reader likes seeing him that way and just teases along….i dark too much caffeine
LOVE IS EMBARRASSING
soldier boy x supe!reader cw old-fashioned views, nsfw mentions, sb is a softie behind all the macho stuff notes thank u anon!! based on the scene with hughie in 3x6! definitely thinking of writing more for sb and supe reader
ben wasn’t expecting to feel like this, especially not after everything with crimson countess. hell, he wasn’t even sure he’d felt this with her. he likes his women older, so this is completely new territory for him. if anyone asked him, he’d deny, deny, deny, but he’s pretty sure he blacked out while meeting you. all he remembers is seeing your face, then butcher laughing at him for his “fuckin’ puppy-dog eyes.” he can’t even remember what he said to you.
his immediate response to… whatever he feels, is confusion. he’s been shown enough tv to know that women nowadays wouldn’t react well to pickup lines he’d have used back in the fifties and sixties, maybe even the eighties, and he can't just ask to fuck you - it's not that kind of feeling. he’s not a pussy, though. he’s not about to tell you about his feelings. instead, he tries showing you how much of a man he is. puffs his chest out, brags, gives you his best blue steel, picks fights.
nothing.
in fact, he’s going in the wrong direction. you’ve both lost count of the amount of times you’ve told him to fuck off, or shut the fuck up (another thing that sends blood straight to his dick - you’re feisty, not afraid of him. he unexpectedly loves it). regardless of how much he’s enjoying the back and forth between you, he can tell he isn’t getting anywhere.
at least, not until you’re put on babysitting duty, and he spouts some emotional, pussy bullshit that somehow makes the annoyance in your eyes soften.
“i didn’t mean to kill those people.” it’s a soft murmur - he hadn’t even meant to say it out loud. he looks up after it slips out. he lifts his head to regain his manliness, but pauses when he sees how your head has tilted slightly, how your eyes have softened.
you encourage him with a small hum. "hm?"
he sighs. this is the closest he's gotten to anything with you in weeks. he can't back off now, even if he's sacrificing his masculinity.
"those people in the street... i didn't mean to kill them. i didn't blow anything up on purpose," he mutters.
"i guessed that. and you didn't really fight in world war 2, did you? or all those other wars they said you were in?" you ask. well, not really. there's a knowing look on your face that he's seen before. he sighs and glares, and you smirk.
holy shit. his heart stops.
he bites back a comment about how you should smile more. if normal women in this day and age don't like it, he can only imagine you having a visceral reaction... and probably hating him forever.
"so... big man soldier boy was just a vought prop?" you tease.
"don't start, doll," he mutters. if you were an animal, your hackles would be standing up.
your face changes and your voice is suddenly sharp. "don't call me doll."
right. princess, doll, sweetheart were off-limits to practical strangers nowadays. "got it."
there's silence for a long moment, but it's not uncomfortable, and you don't have a constant look of annoyance on your face anymore. he's getting somewhere.
you get up eventually, heading to another room. before you leave, you turn around with a small smile.
"y'know, you're not as bad as they say, soldier boy," you tease lightly. god, he loves the look of that smile on your face.
"ben," he says. he has no idea what possesses him to say it.
you nod, the smile getting softer. "ben. you're kind of alright, ben."
(the way that I had started writing this even before I received that ask)
summary: it tends to all come crashing down once the tide washes off.
tags: post intercourse, nothing explicit mentioned, fluff, mandatory slight angst, healthy crying, shoutout to bob's big blue gentle eyes and soft curls, intimacy, hurt/comfort, healthy relationship, this man needs to be held and I volunteer as tribute
word count: 0.9k
masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates
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Bob’s forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body going limp over yours; its warmth seeps into you seemingly even more intensely than it did before, and you can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as it’s tightly pressed against your own when you both silently fall into that comfortable matched rhythm.
You feel hazy, fingers mindlessly curling around the hair at the back of his neck when he nuzzles the juncture between your shoulder and neck, warm breath fanning over your cooling skin, soft curls tickling it.
You stay like this for a little while, light and comfortably quiet – you wouldn’t ever want to move in moments like this, would let him cling to you like a second skin forever if you could, if your body didn’t eventually have to remind you it has needs outside of him. You know that if you don't get up, the idea of having to do it is only going to get worse.
Your hand slides down against his back, mouth gently pressing against his cheek as a preemptive apology before you have to break it to him; “C’mon, ‘gotta use the bathroom” you mutter softly, to which he responds with a soft, tired noise before he reluctantly slides himself off of you in order to let you go from the cage of his own limbs.
He flops back onto the mattress with a sigh, one arm lazily flung over his eyes while you quickly shift to grab a tshirt and an underwear to wear before you head towards the bathroom linked to his room.
When you come back, you find Bob sitting at the edge of his side of the bed, still shirtless, turned away from you, shoulder sagging. You crawl back over the bed and settle behind him, fingers running along his bicep, tracing lines down his arm as you press soft kisses against his bare shoulder. “You okay?” you murmur, nuzzling into his hair.
You feel him nod, but it is small, barely convincing, so you’re quick to sense something is wrong. Your intuition is easily confirmed when you push the hair covering the side of his face to take a look at him. “Bob–”
“I’m sorry,” he quietly breathes out when he looks at you, soft eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t even know,” his head shakes, and he turns away from you as he tries to hold it back, to not have you see him like this.
“Hey,” you softly call. Your hand comes to cup the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair. “That’s okay”
He nods like he’s trying to convince himself of it, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. “It’s not you. It’s not anything you did,” he hurries to explain, voice hoarse. “It’s just– I don’t know,” he shrugs, finally turning back to look at you. “A release of tension I think. But it’s so much, and so fast, and I don’t know what to do with it” he chuckles, the ghost of a smile appearing over his face for a second before he brushes it off by rubbing a hand over his face.
You don’t say anything, just watch as he tries to steady himself. You try to make it easier for him, more comfortable, your thumb soothingly running back and forth at the nape of his neck. It’s quiet for a while – you let him cry, let it soak, because you know it’s the good kind of cry, the kind that will make him feel lighter afterwards, the kind that he needs to move forward. You hold him like you know how much it costs him to feel this much, this intensely.
Bob eventually turns to look at you after a while, deep blue eyes gentle, breath trembling as it leaves him. “It just– It feels a lot. How you make me feel safe. Loved.”
Your heart leaps inside your chest, stomach fluttering in a way you can’t explain, blooming with an overwhelming warmth at his words. You could almost cry too; the deepness, the softness in his glassy eyes, the sincerity and the vulnerability of it all as he looks at you.
“Maybe that’s why your body lets go” you nod, grinning softly as you reach to take his hand in yours. “It just has to get used to it.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like half a laugh, half a sigh. “I guess that makes it sounds a little less pathetic”
You smile, leaning forward to press a kiss just beneath his ear. “It’s not pathetic,” you say. “It's honest and a little sweet, if you ask me” you smile, reaching to wipe away the remaining trails of tears over his cheeks.
He chuckles and sniffles quietly, head leaning to settle at your shoulder, hand letting your fingers intertwine, tightening around yours, gently squeezing in silent affection. He sighs softly when the hand that is not holding his buries into his dark locks, and again, you remain like this for a while, dwelling in that floating atmosphere, time stilling while it all quiets down, while you hold him until his breath gets even again.
“So I'm gonna have to make you get used to it, huh?”
You feel him smile against the fabric of your shirt. “Guess so,” he grins as he looks up at you, a glint of playfulness shining inside his eyes beyond the sheen of remaining tears.
Everything in that gaze alone makes you want to try your hardest.
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any and every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated and helps more than you think!!
how would ben feel about spitting? like i think there's something really gross and possessive about it that he would prob love. but i think he would also love the idea that he's fucked you up so bad that you don't see it any different to a kiss? will fully tell you to 'say ah' in public and spit in your mouth. and like everyone is HORRIFIED and you don't understand why
Honestly was bored in the first half of this ask but holy shit did it take a turn. Ben... training you to see spitting as the same thing as a kiss... yes please. This is actually genius the idea of him telling you to open up in public is fucking foul and I am so here for it.
Thinking about Ben saying 'say ah' in that deep ass voice of his is also doing things to me. He'd grip your jaw with his thumb and forefinger, the rest draping down to rest on your throat. You'd open for him immediately, obviously, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. You're absolutely enamored, but to everyone else who can see you they think something absolutely foul is going on, and honestly they'd be right. The only thing they'd be wrong about is that you don't like it; you love that shit. The look of pride in his eyes after you take him makes you willing to do anything just so he looks at you in that same way again. You always hold your tongue out for an extra second so he can admire how he looks on you, before closing your mouth and fucking savoring the flavor and feeling before proudly swallowing it and showing Ben the proof. 'Daddy's girl, huh?' he says, treating you to that low drawl of his while he praises you. You nod, still feeling a little dazed from the way he yanked you out of the real world and into the space where all you have to do is listen and he treats you to the opportunity to feel small.
ser duncan the tall x female!reader, +18 (mdni), male!masturbation, yearning (so, so much yearning), slight pervert!dunk, a bit of obsessed!dunk, dunk is so in love!!
divider credits @strangergraphics
a/n: haven't wrote in so long but i hope i did dunk justice!! happy reading!! english is not my first language so i apologize for any mistakes!
dunk who cannot help but be aroused whenever you are of service to him.
it’s becoming a problem, and alarmingly fast.
he was ashamed down to his bones by the way his body reacted every time you offered him your kindness.
usually, when other people showed him benevolence, he felt warm and grateful, as anyone else would, he reckons.
but with you it’s different.
the blood in his veins sings an ardent tune, bringing a flush to the tips of his ears and the thick column of his neck—feverish and hot, the rough-spun clothes suddenly uncomfortable on his skin.
and the worst of it all? his blood has a mind of its own, going south between his legs so fast it leaves him dizzy and breathless, nostrils flaring, akin to a bull being taunted with flashes of crimson. if the gods would’ve given him a smaller cock, the issue would’ve been easier to solve, to keep at bay.
but their blessing seems more like a curse now when dunk has to excuse himself every time you mend his clothes, cook him and egg a hearty meal, or wash his clothes by the stream for him. his cock grows hard and thick, the print of it obvious through his breeches, tenting them obscenely, his large palms pressing onto his lap in an attempt to conceal it, to shield his shameful desire from view.
dunk can barely manage not to tumble to the ground from how fast he shoots up from his seat, mumbling excuses, his voice rough and gruff—nothing like the soft, gentle tone he usually uses with you—barely making it through the trees, ignoring the confused shouts from you and egg.
dunk’s back scrapes against the trunk of a tree as he is finally out of sight and earshot, strong legs feeling weaker than ever as he slides down, large palms still concealing his dishonor.
because that’s what this is. that’s what this feels like.
dishonor.
dishonor to you, the companion who has been nothing but kind, nothing but patient, and so, so beautiful—
the thought makes dunk moan. just remembering how radiant you are is enough to turn his thoughts to mush, scrambling them around until all he can think about is you.
he’s sure no one could ever compare to you, for you are akin to a dream made flesh, so soft and warm it makes all the knightly teachings from ser arlan turn asunder, leaving behind just the ache in his chest and the tightness in his loins.
he does not dare move his palms for relief yet, even though his cock throbs and leaks against the rough material of his breeches, staining it with his shame, with his guilt. for he should not think of a woman in this way, not one who has been nothing but precious to him.
but, gods, you are just too sweet—so sweet that not even honey could taste as saccharine as you—every gesture and every look of yours burning him from the inside, making the hunger in his chest claw to be let out.
taste.
his cock gives a pathetic twitch as the word flits through his mind, his head tipping back against the trunk. images of how you would taste, of how he could taste you burn behind his eyelids so fast he swears he is close to tipping towards the afterlife.
dunk remembers vividly how, a few days ago, he had you on his tongue, if only for a few moments—just a brush of it against your skin—but it was enough for the need for more to sprout, growing more ardent day by day.
he had always been a messy eater, the habit having given him earfuls from ser arlan and scowls from egg, but you didn’t mind, giving him a patient smile or a lilting giggle and pointing out the greasy mess on his lips in hushed tones.
except this time, you moved.
dunk wasn’t aware of the closed proximity yet, too busy digging into his hearty stew to see how one of your hands lifted towards his face, sleeve pushed down enough to clasp under your fingers.
“you ought to be more careful, ser,” you chided, albeit gently, as your sleeve wiped at the corner of his mouth, where broth was glistening as it trailed down to his chin and jaw.
the spoon between his fingers clattered back into the bowl as he froze, as still as marble, azure eyes wide as saucers, breath stalled in his broad chest.
you were cleaning him. you, dirtying your soft, modest dress for him as you brushed away the remnants of his sloppy eating with slow swipes to his mouth. so careful with him, as if he were but a babe who needed coddling.
by the mother, you were a vision of loveliness up close. he wished he could’ve focused on your pretty face or pursued plush lips, but your bosom was level to his face as you leaned to follow the trail of liquid down his jaw and neck, dabbing at it with the sleeve of your dress, and he was just a man.
a dumb man. a dishonorable man. a lecher of a man now, as he dared to let his gaze dip to your breasts, the flesh looking too soft and plush against the cloth of your dress. it was not a debauched sight by any means, for gods forbid he ever thought of you as anything but the very picture of saintly beauty.
the sight left him with a hunger that no stew could ever stave, tongue sticking out to lick at his lips unconsciously, but instead catching the tips of your fingers as you were brushing crumbs from his cupid’s bow.
that’s when he tasted your skin for the first time; the memory is replaying in his mind on a loop now, as if the flavor still resides on his taste buds.
even now, alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees way taller than him, he swears the memory haunts him so that he feels as if he were still there now. instead of backed up against a trunk, his hands pressed against the tent in his pants.
dunk is breathing hard, lungfuls of air that do nothing to stave the burning in his veins, the throbbing in his pants, or the ache in his chest.
it would be so easy to take his hard cock in hand and bring himself to climax as he thought of you.
but he cannot dirty you with his debauchery, even in thought.
countless of times he had found himself away from camp, away from you, hard and wanting, fingers itching to grip himself and rub as hard and fast as he could, just to get rid of his shame once and for all.
and each time, the remnants of his honor stopped him.
as they try to do now, but it is all in vain.
dunk’s thick fingers fumble with the ties of his breeches as he impatiently tugs them down, revealing his cock to the crisp air, hissing at the sensation. the flush on his neck blooms in haphazard splotches all the way down his chest as he looks down at himself, at the way the length bobs against the rough material of his tunic, smearing precum against the material.
gods, it’s so much, pearling obscenely at the tip of his cock and trailing down the thick shaft, all the way down to his heavy balls, which are already drawn tight.
he should not. he really, really shouldn’t.
shouldn’t wrap his hand around his cock and squeeze at the base, tugging upwards slowly towards the head, making more precum leak out, trickling down his knuckles now, lewd and dirty.
yet it feels so good—the sensation brings him so much relief he feels like the mother herself had blessed him with such solace.
his cock gives another twitch at the thought.
the mother.
dunk often thought you embodied her and had put you so high up on his pedestal that you resembled a saintly woman, so gentle and caring and good that it made him want to sink to his knees in front of you, kiss your feet, and pray for your favor like a worshiper.
just as he would for the mother herself.
gods, how depraved can he be, to think of such things and feel his cock harden and ooze around his fist as he tugs and tugs, squeezing at the hot, slick flesh with more fervor now. the sounds of his wanton act are sloppy and loud, muffled only by the swaying of the trees around him.
“m’lady, m’lady, —”
the words tumble from his mouth unbidden, wrapped around a pitiful whine, his mind too fuzzy with thoughts of you to be able to say anything else but this, not even daring to say your name in fear of dirtying it with his sins.
dunk’s face is flushed, sweat beading at his temple and trailing down his flushed cheeks, the pleasure melting him against the tree trunk, except his strong hips—which hump into the grip of his hand in earnest, snapping forward as if burying himself into a cunt and not his own fist.
fuck, but he wishes it was a cunt. your cunt.
wrapped around his cock, squeezing him for what he’s worth, sucking him inside your pussy like you never want him to pull out.
he imagines it’s warm and soft and so very pretty, just like you.
what he wouldn’t give to have you on his cock, watching as your folds part to let him in, so big and thick compared to you.
dunk closes his eyes just as he feels the ache in his loins spark, tingling down his spine and pooling low in his gut, so close to reaching his climax and yet so far away from what he truly wants.
you. all he has wanted for the past moons has been you.
he used to want your eyes on him, your lips curling into smiles because of him, and your soft giggles ringing through camp at his jokes or even your reprimanding tone when he was too big of an oaf to act right.
so when had his thoughts turned so depraved? when had his eyes strayed from your eyes to your lips, from the curve of your shoulders to the one of your breasts, from the arch of your spine to the slope of your rear?
when had his hands itched to grab at the fat of your hips instead of the delicate pads of your fingers? when had he dreamed of keeping his tongue pressed inside of your pussy instead of behind his teeth?
you’ve ensnared him so completely, bringing forth his ruin, making him nothing but a depraved man meant to take his pleasure alone, fucking into his fist with abandon. teeth snagging at his lips to stifle the pathetic whimpers and groans rumbling from his chest as his length throbbed insistently.
and may the gods damn him all the way to hell; he would trade all his honor just for a taste of you, just for the feel of your cunt, just for the sound of your moans as he makes you feel so, so good around his cock, rutting into you again and again and—
and he’s coming. thick ropes of cum painting his knuckles and tunic, his back bowing against the tree trunk, mouth falling open in a long, drawn-out groan. dunk swears he died, went to heaven, and now he’s back in his body, shaking and twitching as he continues to fist his cock, desperate for the pleasure not to end. for the images of you in all the lewd ways he always refuses to allow himself to dream of, never to cease.
there are tears in the corner of his eyes, the pleasure so good he feels like sobbing. the sheer relief of finally getting to cum after moons of pent-up frustration over you—over your gentle nature and caring gestures and, gods, your tits—it unravels him completely.
slowly, his hand slows, his cock softening. the mess left behind makes shame bubble into his chest, almost choking him as he tries to catch his breath.
what would you think of him if you saw him this way? spent and lecherous and so, so in love with you.
even now, even like this, even this sinful, the love he has for you is the sole denominator of his actions.
because dunk loves you. loves you so much that he cannot bear to let his wanton feelings corrupt you, too, no matter how much he wishes he could.
summary: spencer almost storms into your interrogation with the unsub because he doesn’t like the comments being made towards you
The observation room always felt colder than the rest of the BAU.
Maybe it was the one-way glass or it could have been the way tension was building in layers; quiet, suffocating, ready to snap.
On the other side, you sat across from the unsub, hands folded neatly on the table, posture straight, expression composed in a way that had taken years to perfect.
Spencer stood just behind Morgan, his eyes locked on you like if he looked away for even a second, something would go wrong.
“You’re doing great,” JJ had murmured softly, arms crossed.
Spencer didn’t respond because the unsub had just smiled. A slow, mocking smile.
“Well,” he leaned back in his chair, dragging his gaze over you in a way that made Spencer’s jaw tighten, “they send a pretty thing like you in here, and I’m supposed to be intimidated?”
Your expression didn’t change. “Intimidation isn’t necessary,” you said calmly. “I just want to understand why you did it.”
Spencer exhaled sharply through his nose. “She’s redirecting,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “She’s not engaging with the provocation.”
“She’s handling him,” Morgan said, though his tone had shifted, more watchful now.
Inside the room, the unsub chuckled, “Oh, come on. You really expect me to believe you’re the one calling the shots? You don’t look like you could handle something this… messy.”
You tilted your head slightly, like you were studying him.
“I don’t have to ‘handle’ it,” you replied evenly. “You’ve already done the work for me.”
Spencer’s hands clenched at his sides. The unsub leaned forward again, elbows on the table, voice dropping.
“Bet they told you to come in here and play nice. Smile a little. Bat your eyes. See if I’ll confess.”
Silence followed after. You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink more than necessary.
And that somehow made it worse for Spencer. He could see the shift in your shoulders. The microscopic tension. The way you were holding yourself just a little tighter.
He knew you. He knew what it cost you to stay that calm.
“Oh, I get it now,” the unsub continued, grin widening. “You’re the ‘good cop,’ huh? Pretty little distraction while the real agents do the thinking.”
Spencer moved. It was subtle at first, a step forward, but it was enough.
Morgan’s arm shot out immediately, blocking him, “Easy.”
Spencer didn’t even look at him. “He’s undermining her authority as a tactic to destabilize the interrogation dynamic.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said calmly, “and she knows that.”
“He’s escalating,” Spencer pressed, voice tight. “Sexist degradation is often used to provoke an emotional response. If she reacts—”
“But she’s not reacting,” Morgan cut in.
Spencer finally looked at him, frustration flashing in his eyes, “Not outwardly.”
Back in the room, the unsub laughed under his breath.
“You even know what you’re doing in here?” he asked. “Or are you just following orders like a good girl?”
That was it. Spencer surged forward and Morgan caught him, gripping his arm firmly. “Reid.”
“He doesn’t get to talk to her like that,” Spencer snapped, voice low but sharp enough to cut glass.
Across the room, Emily glanced over, brows lifting slightly, but she didn’t intervene. Not yet.
Morgan stepped in front of Spencer now, forcing him to stop. “Listen to me,” he said, quieter but firm. “You go in there right now, you blow the whole thing.”
Spencer shook his head, trying to look past him, back at you, “He’s disrespecting her. He’s trying to reduce her to—”
“I know what he’s doing,” Morgan said. “And so does she.”
Spencer’s jaw clenched again.
Inside the interrogation room, you leaned forward just slightly, resting your forearms on the table. Your voice stayed soft, measured.
“You’re right,” you said.
Spencer froze. Morgan’s grip loosened just a fraction.
The unsub blinked, thrown off, “What?”
“You’re right,” you repeated. “They did send me in here.”
A pause.
His smirk returned. “Yeah? Thought so.”
You nodded once, “Because you’d respond to me.”
That made him hesitate, just for a quick second.
Spencer’s breathing slowed, just a little.
You had him. “You don’t see me as a threat,” you continued. “You think I’m easier to talk to. Easier to manipulate.”
The unsub’s smile flickered.
“You want control,” you said, eyes steady on his. “That’s why you chose your victims. That’s why you’re talking to me like this now.”
Silence filled the room. The observation went still. Spencer didn’t try to move anymore.
“You need to feel like you’re the one in charge,” you added quietly. “Even here. Even now.”
The unsub leaned back again, but it wasn’t as confident this time. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough,” you said. “I know you’re not as in control as you think you are.”
Spencer exhaled slowly.
Morgan gave him a look—told you.
Inside, the unsub’s expression hardened.
But he didn’t make another comment about you. Not one. Because now you weren’t just someone he could belittle. You were someone who saw him.
And that? That was far more dangerous.
———
The door to the interrogation room opened twenty minutes later.
You stepped out, file in hand, composure still intact, but the second the door shut behind you, your shoulders dropped just slightly.
Spencer noticed immediately. Of course he did.
He was in front of you before you could even fully look up, “Are you okay?”
His voice was softer now. Careful. Concerned in a way he didn’t even try to hide.
“I’m fine,” you said, offering a small smile. “We got what we needed.”
“You shouldn’t have had to—”
“I can handle it,” you interrupted gently.
“I know you can,” he said quickly. “That’s not what I—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to organize the thousand thoughts in his head.
“He was using targeted verbal degradation to provoke a reaction,” Spencer said, quieter now. “It’s… statistically effective against—”
“Reid,” you said softly.
He stopped and looked at you.
“I know what he was doing,” you said. “And I didn’t let it work.”
A pause, then more quietly. “But thank you.”
Spencer’s expression shifted. Just slightly. Something softer. Warmer. Still protective, but now mixed with something else. Something he couldn’t quite put into words.
Morgan clapped a hand on Spencer’s shoulder as he walked past, smirking, “Next time, pretty boy, trust her a little sooner.”
Spencer didn’t take his eyes off you. “Working on it,” he murmured.
