Imagine ringed seal!reader being a recent rescue from a boating strike, placed in leopard seal!ghost's pool, right?
Because you're the only two seals in the sanctuary, and ghost has been struggling without a pod, stuck away from his own while he's in recovery.
When you first meet ghost, all you can think is that he's scary. Huge, bigger than any seal you've met and so so dangerous! He could tear you to pieces if he wanted! You expect him to do just that when the mer circles you, chuffing and churring, the tip of his tail grazing along your own curiously.
He opens his mouth, sharp teeth on display and coming right for youâ
...nothing. no...no pain, no bite into flesh. Just...soft pressure?
You peek an eye open to find the strang scary seal gently gnawing on your fin, exploring it with his mouth. Only then do you see his heavily scarred hands. It must be difficult using those.
So you lie still and let him chew on you...just a bit. It is scary, but when you bark at him he instantly backs off so...not that scary.
From then on you and ghost are inseparable.
...which becomes an issue when ghost fully recovers and is set to return to his pod in the wild, revolting when he realizes you aren't coming with him.
You had been a brat all day. You couldn't help yourself, really. Zayne was always so composed and you wanted nothing more than to see him snap. You'd started off small, just a couple pictures of your naked body that "accidentally" got sent to him. He'd left you on read. Next was a voice note, detailing just how bad you needed him.
Again, left on read.
By lunch, you were getting frustrated. Surely it couldn't be that hard to make him snap. Even a single, tiny crack would be better than nothing. You'd picked up your phone one last time, typing a filthy paragraph about how you wanted him so deep in your throat that you couldn't talk properly for days after.
He'd sent you a thumbs up.
By the time he was home, you hadn't given up. You'd watched him go right into his office without so much as a glance in your direction, so of course, you'd followed a minute later.
As you walk in, he's sat behind his mahogany desk, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, seemingly absorbed in a surgical report. You, however, are absorbed in him. Dressed in nothing but his crisp, white button-down shirt, you stop right in front of his desk. The fabric was far too big for you, the hem easily hitting your mid-thigh. You'd rolled the sleeves up to your elbows, but that didn't stop the fabric from falling off your shoulder slightly.
"Those files are boring." You whine as you lean across his desk, purposely invading his personal space as your fingers slowly undo the top three buttons of the shirt. You feel pretty damn smug with yourself, assuming Zayne would drop everything just to see you naked before him.
"They are necessary." He replies, not even bothering to look up from his reports, though he can see you. He can see how badly you're trying to get his attention, but he's not in a playing mood today. Your texts had only made it worse.
"Your shirt is unbuttoned. Fix it and go find a book. I'm busy."
You let out a sharp gasp then, mildly irritated that he'd dismissed you so easily. Mildly turned on at his composure. You don't leave. You step right around his desk until you stand right next to him, leaning down to press light, open-mouthed kisses just under his jaw. You're determined to shatter that calm, cool persona of his.
"You're no fun. All work and no play makes Doctor Zayne a very dull man, indeed."
You barely have time to get the words out.
Zayne's hand shoots up, his fingers firm as they grip your chin, tilting your head so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. You try to muffle the small, excited whimper that leaves you, but Zayne catches it. He always does.
"I told you to behave." He warns, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to remind you of the strength he could easily use on you.
"Make me."
The shift is instantaneous. You hear the screech of the chair against the floor as he shifts, and before you can blink, your world is tilting. He pulls you across his lap, one hand tangled in your hair while the other hikes the hem of his shirt higher up your body to fully expose your ass to him.
The first strike is heavy, a solid crack that echoes against the quiet of the office. You gasp, your hands grasping onto the fabric of his trousers. Instantly, your skin stings, heat blooming across your ass. But you like it. You like knowing you've pushed him to this point.
"That is for the photo you sent during my morning consultations." He says, his voice low. "I had a patient's chart in one hand and your indiscretion in the other."
Crack.
"Two. For the voice note. I don't recall giving you permission to speak to me that way while I'm at the hospital."
Crack.
The third one is firmer than the last two, making you cry out. You try and squirm to get away, to beg for his forgiveness and his touch all in the same breath. His hand simply tightens in your hair, a silent warning. You're so wet it hurts. If you could just get his hand between your thighs...
"Three. For that obscene paragraph at lunch. A thumbs up was all you deserved for such a blatant attempt to disrupt my focus."
He pauses then, and for a second, you think it might be over, but his hand doesn't move away. Instead, he rubs at the angry pink skin of your ass, his touch deceptively soft all while you twitch underneath his hand. Every slap has only turned you on further, and you almost can't help yourself as you try and arch into his hand.
Zayne raises an eyebrow as he watches you, noting the way you tremble across his lap. Slowly, his fingers dip between your legs, a quick, amused huff leaving him as he finds your dripping pussy. He should have known.
"This wet over a punishment? You really are a brat." He mocks softly, his long fingers finding your aching clit with a surgical precision. He circles once, twice, just enough to make you whimper and rock back against his hand, before he's pulling away again, leaving you cold and wanting.
âCrack.
"Four is for not listening when I told you to go find a book."
Crack.
"Five is because we both know you're going to act out again tomorrow just to see if I'll put you back over my knee."
âYou're shaking now, a few stray tears slipping out and trailing down your cheeks. Your ass is a vibrant, angry red, and the heat radiating from you is intense. You want more. You need more. If all you'll get tonight is a firm punishment, then you'll eagerly accept it.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
"That voice note is still ringing in my ears and I'm still quite irritated by it." He says, though you can feel the way his body is saying otherwise. As your stomach presses against his thighs, you can feel how hard he is just against your side. You shudder against him, a pathetic little moan of pure want leaving your lips.
His hand kneads the supple flesh of your ass, massaging the sting deeper into your skin until all you can focus on is how badly you need his fingers on your clit again. The hand in your hair slowly lets you go, moving to cup your cheek as he wipes your tears.
You think it's over.
Crack.
This last blow is far lighter than the ones before, almost a warning slap. A reminder of how easily he'd flung you over his knee. You need him so badly it hurts.
"What was that for?" You whimper as you tilt your head to lean further into his hand. Your breathing is shaky and ragged, your breath hitching quietly each time he brushes his fingers against the angry, burning skin of your ass.
"I felt like it. Now stand up."
You instantly move to do as he says, shifting off his lap to stand just beside him. You watch as his hands move to his belt, the metal clinking together for a moment before he's undoing his trousers, shoving the fabric down to free his cock. You want nothing more than to drop to your knees, crawl under his desk, and keep him in your mouth until his reports are done.
Instead, he gestures for you to sit on his lap. Your breath hitches. A reward so soon after your punishment? You could cry.
You're quick to climb right into his lap, your arms draped across his shoulders as you hover just over the tip of his cock. His hand sneaks between the both of you, fingers wrapping around himself as he slides the tip right through your slick folds. You clench around nothing, so close and yet so far away, but you don't rush it.
You let him grind up into you, a quiet whimper leaving you every time he rubs against your clit. The anticipation is killing you, but you force yourself to stay still even as you tremble on top of him. Then he slides home. A shattered moan falls from your lips, your hips instinctively rocking into him. He's so deep, you swear you feel him in your belly.
But he doesn't continue. He doesn't fuck you like the world's ending. He doesn't even offer you his thumb against your clit. Instead, he clamps his hands on your hips, waiting until you look up at him with your needy little whine. The corners of his mouth twitch, smug and deeply entertained by your eagerness.
"You sit there, and you feel every inch of me, but you do not move. If I feel you so much as shift to try and get more comfortable, I'll put you back on my knee for another ten. Am I clear?" He commands. You want to argue, to test if he's serious, but the cold edge of his tone has you agreeing.
"Crystal clear."
"Be a good girl and let me finish this page." He says, giving your hips one last squeeze before his attention is back on his reports, his pen scratching at the paper every so often as he leaves small notes for himself to read later. You let out a soft sigh as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.
You feel so full, so deliciously stretched, but it's not enough.
"You're so mean." You whine, hands tilting to find his hair. You don't pull, you simply twirl the strands around your fingers, trying to focus on anything other than how good his cock feels when it's buried deep in your cunt.
Zayne hums in acknowledgment, back to ignoring you.
This treatment feels like it goes on for hours, but in reality, it's nothing more than a few minutes. Finally, he's pushing his papers aside, the clatter of his pen against the wood instantly drawing your attention. You tilt your head to look up at him, a silent question in your gaze.
He answers by finding your hips with his hands, standing up, and pressing your back against the wood of his desk. Your legs instantly wrap around his waist, keeping him deep inside you as you look up at him. He moves to take his glasses off, setting them aside near the edge of the mahogany, before both palms are pressed against the wood on either side of your head.
"You've had a lot to say today. Now that you have my undivided attention, why don't you be very specific?" His hazel eyes drift down to your lips, jaw clenching as he rocks into you, slow and steady. Your nails find his shoulders as you arch up into him, the friction earning a quiet moan from you.
"Tell me exactly how you want it."
You swallow hard, your breath coming in shallow hitches. The sting on your ass is still humming, reigniting every time Zayne pushes deeper into you. For a moment, you can't think of how you want him to fuck you. All you know is that you want him. You need him.
"I want to feel... I want to feel how much I irritated you today." You manage to stutter out.
A smirk finally does appear on his lips and in that moment, you know you're going to be sore for days.
"Understood."
He doesn't give you a second to rethink your answer before he's moving. His cock slams deep into you, so deep you can feel it knock against your cervix, the dull ache mixing with the pleasure of his relentless pace. You cry out, your back arching off his desk as you claw at his shoulders, your thighs clamping around his waist.
His hips snap into yours, his balls slapping against your ass, the loud sound of skin on skin mirroring your punishment. The desk rattles underneath you, his abandoned pen rolling around before finally tumbling onto the ground. Zayne doesn't even blink. He simply brings his hand up to your shirt, easily undoing the buttons one by one until it falls open.
Bare underneath. You really had been waiting for him to fuck you.
He groans at the sight, long fingers instantly squeezing your breast while his head dips towards the other one. His teeth grazes your nipple before he draws you into his mouth, nipping and sucking at that hardened peak. You tremble underneath him, your moans tipping into loud sobs of pleasure as your hands finally find his hair.
You tug on the dark strands, a sharp cry echoing in his office as his fingers pinch at your other nipple, rolling it between his long fingers until you're squirming underneath him. He doesn't relent, just shifts his focus as his mouth moves to the swell of your breast, sucking a deep, dark bruise right into your skin.
His hand trails up your body again, long fingers wrapping around your throat and squeezing with just enough pressure to make your head swim. His other hand finds your hip, thumb digging a bruise into your skin as he pulls you onto his cock in time with his thrusts.
You clench around him, a shattered, broken moan leaving your lips as you fall apart around him. Your hips jerk against him as you writhe on top of his desk, but Zayne doesn't let up. He pins you down, his thrusts getting faster, harder, the snap of his hips against you making your ass sting all over again.
His breath hitches, his jaw clenched so hard he feels his teeth grind together as his movements falter. His thrusts grow sloppy, frantic, desperate to reach his own release. He's so close, so agonizingly close, and the moment your cunt clenches around him, he spills in you with a guttural groan.
His forehead presses against your shoulder, hand releasing your throat to cradle your cheek as his eyes squeeze shut. His entire body shudders, his breathing ragged and ruined. You let out a quiet whine before tilting your head into his hand, your own body sore and spent as you cling to him.
You're both quiet for a moment, too focused on breathing, too focused on the way his hips roll into yours like he's trying to force his cum deeper.
"Are you going to behave tomorrow?" He finally asks, his voice a broken rasp against your skin.
"No." You breathe in response.
He lets out an amused huff.
"Right. Then I suspect you are going to be extremely sore tomorrow."
i keep thinking about secretly obsessed friend of a friend simon, who you're convinced thinks you're fucking annoying.
after all, he keeps staring at you with his arms crossed over his chest, not reacting to anything you say or do with anything other than a dead-eyed stare. he's never said or done anything particularly cruel or anything, so you just resign yourself to giving him a wide berth and leaving him well enough alone when you all get together for group outings. goodness knows that kyle is good enough company that you can easily forget about the giant dude with a chip on his shoulder glaring your direction.
one night on the way home from the pub, simon appears seemingly out of nowhere, taking you by the arm and telling you that he's walking you home. it's not a request, and it isn't said like it's a favor, but you're too startled by him actually talking to you to really put up any fuss. he doesn't say anything else until he herds you through your flat's door, sliding the backpack you hadn't noticed him wearing onto the floor as he orders you to drink a glass of water.
"thanks for, uh, looking out for me." you tell him after gulping down the last of your water, setting your cup on the counter before rejoining him in the living room, careful to give him his space. "not gonna lie, i'm kind of surprised you walked me home. i, uh, i definitely thought you didn't like me."
"what." it's less a question and more a flat statement of surprise.
"i mean, you just, uh. glare at me. all the time. and you don't talk to me. so." embarrassment swells up suddenly like a sneaker wave, flooding your face with heat. shit, fuck, you're talking too much again. fucking vodka crans. simon crosses his arms over his chest and stares at you over his mask, and you can't help but point at him.
"see! yeah, just like that! all the time!" you exclaim, and it's sort of satisfying to see normally stoic simon's eyebrows rocket upwards in obvious confusion.
"s'just my face, love. that's just what i look like."
"yeah, well, your resting face still says 'you're annoying, go away'." you point out, and you watch simon's face do something too complicated for your vodka-addled mind to fully comprehend.
"you've been givin' me a wide berth because you think i find you annoyin'." he says slowly, trying to piece together what you're saying.
"yeah, i mean. you wouldn't be the first person to think so." the words slide out before you can even process them, and it's like a verbal punch to your own gut. how humiliating.
"no."
you blink and furrow your brows.
"no?"
"no." he says simply, taking slow strides as he closes the gap between you. "never found you annoyin'. i was mostly just pissed you kept avoidin' me."
"pissed?" you ask, voice smaller as he steps right into your space, backing you up against the wall.
"mhm. 'til now i thought you were either uptight or a bloody tease, waggin' that big fat arse at me but never lettin' me near. s'pose we were both readin' each other wrong, eh? turns out you're just a good girl, aren't you? tryin' t'be sweet and givin' me some space- but i never wanted space from you, sweet'eart. not ever." slowly, he pulls his mask off, tips of his ears bending as the loops catch before he throws it to the ground. his broken, scarred nosed bumps against yours as he stares deep into your eyes.
"looks like we've both been real bloody stupid, eh? circlin' around each other when we could've been 'avin' fun this whole time." he breathes against your lips before going in for a kiss, big hands clamped onto your arms as if he's afraid you'll run away.
something lights up in your brain, an alarm, some sort of warning system going off- but through the haze of liquor and a big, broad shouldered man pinning you to the wall with a kiss, it's drowned out enitrely, alert entirely unheeded.
it's not the best kiss you've ever had, but it's certainly the most passionate. seems he's letting out months and months of pent-up frustration and want, judging by the way he's all over you, leaving you breathless as he sucks and nips at your lips, licking into your mouth like he's trying to find a way to devour you from the inside out.
it feels the same when he finally steers you towards bed, stripping you down and laying you out, muttering things you don't understand, like how you're too good for your own good, how close he was to doin' somethin' about it, how he's got plans for you, nice ones, sweet things for the best girl.
his mouth and hands are everywhere, making your head feel far more swimmy than any liquor ever could. when he eats you out he's like a man starved, groaning directly into your cunt as he sloppily makes out with it. he's not satisfied until you cum on his tongue twice, and wastes no time pressing a wet, messy kiss to your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself on his lips.
"t'think, we've been dancin' 'round each other this whole bloody time, when you could've been right 'ere, right where you belong." he practically growls in your ear as he notches his cock into your cunt. he groans on the entire slow slide in, sighing almost wistfully when he bottoms out.
"like 'ow easy you are f'me, pet. thought you were gonna make it so much 'arder- not that i'm complainin', mind. got a lot of lost time t'make up for, yeah?" he kisses your neck, sucking at the skin. "no more leavin' the room when i walk in. no more sittin' farthest away when we oll go out. from now on, it's me by your side. olways."
he spends the entire rest of the night wringing orgasm after orgasm out of you, refusing to call it quits until you threaten to pass out on him. when he's finally done, leaving you sweaty and exhausted in your bed, he'll take a minute to hide his backpack so you don't find it before he leaves. it would be such a shame if you were to ruin everything by getting curious and looking inside.
after all, there's only so many ways to interpret the presence of duct tape, a bottle of lube, a few condoms, and a chef's knife wrapped in a kitchen towel.
You rap at his door at you push it open. The man shifts his stance in reflex, hand flying to his side where a longsword might sit. When he realizes it's just you, he relaxes. Training has been drilling into his core.
"Wife." He steps forward, then back, dipping into a half bow. "I did not expect you this hour."
The house cloak you have cuts the cool air of the stone walls, but your cheeks are cold. He has a fire going, so you skirt the room towards it.
"I wanted to seek your permission," you ask, quietly. He nods sternly but does not deny your request outright. Your husband has not proven himself an unreasonable man, but you have only met him twice. His real personality could be waiting to strike. "May my father visit? I miss him dearly. And my friends, from back home. They write to me and... I fear I grow lonely."
His brows knit. Your friend's husbands can be cruel, quick to temper, and neither are in the crown's army. Neither fight.
But your husband just shakes his head.
"Anything you desire, my lamb," he says. "Make this place your home. You never require my permissions."
This time when he steps forward, he is firm in his decision. He meets you in front of the fire, his silvered scars taut and reflective in the glow.
"I am sorry. For the loneliness." He is handsome, you decide. Even with the wounds. It is not the handsome you would have ever chased, but it's there, underneath. "I did not consider."
And his eyes are warm. They are the color of toiled soil and deep woods, bark that has grown for eons and will continue to grow long after you are gone.
"Will you be home more?" you ask, unsure the answer you desire.
"A fortnight, then a trip to the coast." His eyes flicker across your face, from eyes to lips. "I will return as fast as my duty allows. One moon, if that."
He smells of a man. Not in the way of sweat and stink, but something you cannot describe, something rich and wantful.
"Have you truly never seen a stay?"
"I have not."
You let your housecloak fall. Under, you have on your stay and chemise, not gown to conceal them. Neither are beautiful, but his mouth falls open at the sight.
"It ties here. I pull it tight until I look suitable." You flatten the strings down your front with your palm. He reaches for your hip, where the skin bulges out from the pressure of the boning.
"It must hurt." The touch is incredibly soft. "To dig into your skin so harshly..."
His finger traces the line down, then freezes when he realizes it's become too close to to your stomach.
"It pinches," you admit. The crackle of the fire is drowned out by the pounding in your ears. He is your husband-- his touch shouldn't feel so scandalous.
"Take it off then."
His words hit him a moment too late. Suddenly, he withdraws. "I did not mean--- Solely for your comfort--"
"If you want it off of my body," you say, slowly. "You are welcome to take it off."
Month seven and your husband arrives without warning. His letters had ceased for a short while and the loneliness of it all almost made you miss them. His writing had improved greatly in the short time, but his spelling is still shamefully horrendous. Or, as he wrote once, whoreandous. You do not appreciate that he knows how to spell whore and not his own name.
Men. All the same.
You meet him at the door, house cloak pulled over your shoulders. The best part of his absence is how you get to relax. Your gown is baggy and wrinkled, your hair is undone: you have no one to impress.
Until, of course, your husband and another man arrive.
"I was not aware of your return," you explain, nearly panicked as you wrap your cloak tighter. Your husband does not acknowledge your shame.
"This is my second," he says curtly. The man beside him is obviously highborn, handsome in the ways girls often whisper about. He bends at the waist in the proper manner, holding a palm out in your direction.
"My lady."
You grant him your hand and the second presses his lips to your knuckles.
"You flatter me," you say. "I am simply a merchant's daughter."
"Modesty. Your family name is well known in The Golden City and the Black Coast. The tales of your beauty were not exaggerated."
Your husband frowns, but that doesnt ruin your joy.
"Are you both staying the evening?"
"A fortnight, if the lady permits," the second says. Your husband looks at him, brow knitted with confusion, but he repeats.
"If you permit."
"I will have them prepare a hearty dinner," you say. "I apologize for my appearance. Allow me to get dressed."
"Are you not already dressed?"
The second laughs too hardily at your husband's question.
By the time the food is prepared, you have dressed yourself in your finest. Jewelry and gems, rich purple cloth your father had saved especially for you, hair twisted into a beautiful updo-
"What happened?" Your husband rises from his seat the moment you enter the hall, nearly knocking over his chair. Both he and his compatriot are freshly bathed, clothing clean and nicely pressed. You take a step back, unsure whether to brace yourself against the hulking form or not, but he does not reach to strike. Instead, your husband's hands find the space above your hips. "Have they not been feeding you? Has the crown not been sending gold?"
"My lord, I don't know what you mean." This is the first time he's ever touched you. His hands are calloused and catch the fibers on your gown. "If anything I have been fed too well, I'm afraid."
"Your waist!" He squeezes his hands towards each other as if to prove a point. "It's half the size!"
Both times he has come home have been by surprise; you hadn't been in a real gown for either.
"I-" you shift uncomfortably. "Forgive me, I... The maid helped properly..."
His second has a fox-like smile as he downs his ale.
"Have you been refusing to eat?"
"No, it's the fashion..."
"The fashion is to waste?"
"Have you never seen a lady undressed?" you ask, suddenly furious.
Your husband goes red.
Not out of anger, but out of a painful embarrassment. His back goes straight and his eyes go wide.
"I--" he stammers.
Luckily, his second puts him out of his misery. "Friend, she has a corset on. Have you never noticed how all highborn ladies are shaped so erotically?"
Your husband's head snaps towards him.
"Clearly you need to spend more time undressing your wife and less time--"
"You will not say such things in front of my poor lamb."
I saw a TikTok of a girl thrifting soldier's portraits/flags with 'oh my little soldier boy' playing in the background. That she felt bad because his family donated him (accident or otherwise) and if she hadnt bought him then his memorial would have eventually been dumped.
Anyway, imagine Simon Riley is legally dead. Donated & trashed his civilian life when he locked in the Ghost persona.
but one of his early military pictures found it's way to some bird's mantle like she's his widow.
OH bc someone told him about it, an acquaintance of an acquaintance, guy who knows a guy. he went to the shop because he needs to see it with his own eyes, to confirm it's real, but instead there's just a rectangle of cleaner dust (a ghost of a ghost) where it used to be, between a chipped mug and a stack of old vinyls.
the clerk's chatty, too chatty, but he lets him talk. says that he sold the picture last week. some sweet girl bought it. said she didn't want the poor soldier ending up in the bin or a landfill. said he had kind eyes.
Ghost doesn't remember having kind anything.
but someone looked at that face, the version of himself he barely remembers, and felt something enough to keep him.
someone's gone and given a dead man a place in her home, and he intends to return the favor.
you swiftly roll over him when he least expects it â when his guard is completely down from his first orgasm. it's a welcome switch in your positions, your weight settles atop him and clark's appreciatively rubbing at your hips.
the bed frame whines at the shift, the man beneath you, looks at you in pure and utter reverence. he watches in awe, in the manner your canines catch at your bottom lip, sizing him with a hungry look.
âŠwhoa..
clark clearly hasn't expected your sudden burst of energy, especially when you'd just been whining about his size moments prior. a lop-sided grin stretches across his face, hand settled by the softness of your thighs.
your nails drag down his bare chest, skimming past his sensitive nipples. clark protests with a low grunt, catching your wrists, and forcing them to flatten against his sternum.
c'mon. quit playing..
his complaint rumbles low in his chest, and it only encourages you to want to tease him more, with a subtle nudge, the stretch around your pussy further reminding you of where you both remain connected.
don't tell me you're tired?
you tuck your ankles comfortably beneath your thighs as you properly straddle his hips. not without a wince when his flushed, thick head probes deeper into you. clark lays back all relaxed, his body still hot to touch, not yet cooled from your earlier combined orgasm.
an airy, breathy laugh leaves him, hands having slowly slid up your thighs, to your hips.
tired. me?
clark deliberately rolls his hips then. a motion that presses his cock deeper into you. a sharp gasp leaves you, fisting against his chest. he's enjoying the view of you selfishly, having you so bravely trying to ride him, with little rolls of your hips. the gentle pulse of your cunt along his length is notably appreciated â low, steady grunts rewarding you at every grind. his hands tighten at the fat of your hips, thumbs circling your hips as he savoury the feel of your eager cunt.
mm. not a chance.
you've slowly gotten used to the sheer stretch of his cock, every dull thrust driving deep into you in an agonisingly persistent manner. clark's jaw is clenched tight, eyes darkened with a lust haze. a renewed confidence fills you in way he's looking at you.
yeah?
your words come out breathy, the softness of your duvet creating a soft friction by your knees as you settle to a rhythm. clark's palms wander upward, to your ribs, rubbing you up and down slowly, mirroring your teasing yeah, with a strained, gravelly one.
y-yeah. for you. i could go â âŠhahhâŠf'rever.
his thumbs wander to the underside of your breasts. deep, blue eyes in awe of you. in the manner your hair's stuck to your cheeks, the way your lips have parted with shallow, hasty pants with every roll of your hips.
he'd never admit it, in fear that he might scare you away, but it was moments exactly like this that he'd misuse his super-hearing, using every shy moan you let escape echo in his mind like a siren.
a shadow slowly caresses him as you move, he's transfixed at the sight, of your stretch, to rest your arms above his head. continuing the lazy roll of your hips despite the ache in your thighs.
clark's left to look up in a daze, looking past the gently sway of your breasts as you're arched comfortably above him.
goshâŠy're so fuckin' beautiful.
you gasp softly when his mouth drags along the curve of your breast. lips warm as they close around one of your nipples. his heavy palm cases the expanse of it, flicking his tongue past the sensitive nubs in teasing little flicks.
the sensation is instant. electric â sent straight to your core that makes your hips stutter in its' motion. his mouth, so fucking hot, and wet, greedily laps around your mounds. forcing your back to arch even more. clark's free palm drags down to your hips, encouraging you to move after having stopped. they squeeze by the globes of your ass, giving you more momentum to lift your thighs for him.
he hears it in your whines that you were getting tired, and the slump of your torso against him, further flaunting your tits in his eyeline.
greedy thing. getting tired on me?
you don't offer anything more than a groan of protest. focusing on the stretch of him.
he laughs softly, meeting you halfway to rock his hips upward. every tired, downward motion â the slump of your pelvis is met with his assured, sturdy snap. steadily, his thick cock begins to fuck into you. the feeling is too much, and somehow, not enough. he knows what you want, and it started with making sure he's angled just. it takes him a few thrusts until your body decidedly goes taut. nodding quickly when his tip is directly hitting your g-spot.
h-hnn..ahhâŠright there. there! clark â wanna c'm..plâease.
he lifts his head, suckling at your tit with a little more pressure this time. panting hard into your chest.
mâhm. i know baby. m'close too.
you let out a choked gasp when his canines graze your sensitive, hardened nubs. the initial pace of slow, lazy grinds turning more frenzied after having found the right angle. the nip at your nipples â were setting your nerves on fire. and clark notices the visceral, pulsing reaction it came with beneath.
shit, you're â
his words turn to a growl, desperate to feel those deep pulses you'd reward him with. he sucks your tits messier, uncaring of his teeth grazing you. shockwaves of that, paired with his thick cock relentlessly suctioning your cunt, pulls incoherent whines from you.
sudden flutters of your cunt taking his entire length without warning. clark's mouth works you, without faltering. your hands slides down where you were both connected, frantically rubbing at your clit to give you the final push you needed to finally come undone on his cock.
you feel clark's hips buck beneath you as you finally come.
shit. shit. g-g'na come in you, okay? hm?
he continues driving deep into those velvety, tight hot walls of yours, breath stuttering in the wake of his release, his own thighs quivering uncontrollably beneath you. waves after waves of cum fill you deep until it bubbles out from exertion. you slump into him, panting heavily as you lick his tongue. he grumbles low into your mouth, messily kissing you in the aftermath.
claaarkâŠ
he lifts his head, half-lidded, feeling a significant lift of the weight on his body. they search for you clumsily, the figure now balled between his thighs.
yeah, baby.
clark winces when you pick his half-hard cock up, rubbing your cheeks against his sensitive length with a fucked-out look on your features.
can i suck 'im?
his cock twitches. hard. a completely biological reaction that fully hasn't been coordinated with his mind â instigated at the sight of his unfairly insatiable girl. he slumps back, proper exhausted.
âŠClark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main MasterlistâŠ
âŠsummary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.âŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of readerâŠ
âŠwc: 10.5kâŠ
âŠauthor's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with itâŠ
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didnât question it. He runs everywhere. Itâs a little ridiculous he doesnât have a red face more.
âWant some water?â Youâd tapped on his desk, and heâd let out a sharp breath.
âYeah.â His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. âWater- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadnât looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didnât do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when youâd walked past.
Youâd gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didnât reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and youâd just gotten used to it. Maybe youâd stepped in dog poop on the train and no oneâs told you.
âDo I smell bad?â Youâd asked Jimmy, and heâd looked at you like your were crazy.
âI donât know? I donât go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-â
âIâm not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.â Youâd hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. âIâm asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-â
âThen go ask Lois!â
âLois is in Gotham, I canât ask Lois-â
âThen ask Clark, heâll be happy to smell me-â
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. âIf this is some weird mating dance, Iâm not interested-â
âItâs not a mating dance!â
âIt seems like a mating dance-â
âItâs not-â Youâd shaken your head. âJust stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!â
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmyâs eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and youâd known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever heâs close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
âHi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-â
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
Heâs a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and thereâs a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and heâs shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. Heâs pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. Heâs breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clarkâs brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesnât know what to do either. Youâve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
âHey, buddy.â Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like heâs speaking to a feral animal. âYou feeling alright?â
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like heâd almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesnât mean to. Itâs Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giantâs body.
But like this, Clark doesnât look like a man. He looks like something thatâs crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesnât respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If heâs been corrupted by somethingâin this world, you canât rule anything outâand he attacks, youâre not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clarkâs huge, heâd crush Jimmy with one fist and youâd be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whateverâs going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
âIâm fine.â He rasps, staring at Jimmy. âJust- Didnât sleep well. You know.â
Jimmy blinks. âNo, uh- I donât-â
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
âYou smell good.â He mutters.
He turns like somethingâs dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutesâin total baffled silenceâbefore Jimmyâs mouth falls open.
âWhat the fuck is up with him?â
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while heâs editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and heâs a good reporter but not the best writer.
âYou canât use that word here.â You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
âThere are no other words I could use, though-â
âCorrupt?â
âBut- Oh.â He sighs, hitting backspace. âSee? Thatâs why youâre the expert.â
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
âHowâs your piece coming?â He asks kindlyâalways kindlyâand you groan.
âDogshit.â
âIâm sure itâs not that bad-â
âMy main source backed out.â You grumble. âLike a little baby bitch. I canât make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, itâs asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-â
âBut you won the last one.â Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
âYeah. Because I had a source.â
âAh. Right.â He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. Itâs a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
âWhat if I said I have a source for you?â He asks softly, and you perk up.
âReally?â
âYeah, really.â He grins. âYou know, Iâd think youâd have faith in me, I wouldnât lie about that-â
âShut up, Iâm excited-â
âI can tell.â He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when youâre excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
Itâs Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask whatâs wrong, but he shakes his head like heâs already denying you an answer.
âItâs- Uh- Superman.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âSuperman can be your source.â He grunts, shifting in his chair. âI can ask him to. For you.â
âI- You donât have to.â
âI want to.â
âI can find someone else-â
âNo, I- Iâve got it.â
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
Youâre used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. Thereâs no amount of love youâd risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. âThank you.â
He nodsâtight and jerkedâstares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
âI have to go to the bathroom!â He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesnât come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
Heâs back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick youâre worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is Whatâs up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if youâve got any idea whatâs Clarkâs been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him teaâa thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he hasâand Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Careâyouâve given up on trying to get him to the ERâClark grunts a sound like no and wonât hear another word.
Youâre getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clarkâs always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and itâs somehow not effecting his work performance.
âClark.â You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. âYou need to go to a doctor.â
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like heâs in prayer.
âClark-â
âPlease.â He says, so quiet you almost miss it. âBack up.â
You blink. âBack up?â
He nods, and thereâs a sting in your heart.
He hasnât asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesnât relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still wonât fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
âClark.â Youâve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. âThe doctor-â
âI donât need a doctor.â He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
âYouâre sick-â
âNo. Iâm not.â
âDude, I- I can feel your fever from here.â The heat, rolling off his body like heâs an active star. âAt least just go so they can say youâre not sick.â
He doesnât answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesnât want you too close.
âPlease?â You say. âIt would make all of us feel better.â
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like thereâs something toxic coming off of you that heâs trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
Itâs never fun, for the man youâve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like youâre proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But thatâs not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
âClark- Please-â
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
âOh- Okay. Sorry.â
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You canât help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesnât come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but wonât report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
âIs he-â
âHeâs not sick.â Jimmy stares at you like youâre a ghost. âHeâs- Um- We should- Give him space.â
You frown. âBut-â
âLots of space.â Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. âAnd maybe me some bleach. Freakinâ- Gross-â
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. Youâre wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
âDonât go visit him.â
You shoot her a glare. âI wasnât going to-â
âYes, you were.â She raises her brows. âDonât.â
âBut-â
âDonât.â
âWhat if he needs something-â
âI texted his cousin. She knows what to do.â
âToâŠâ You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Loisâ grip. âYou know whatâs going on with him, donât you.â
Lois shrugs. âYeah. Maybe.â
âLois-â
âHeâs going to be fine.â She says, giving you a firm look. âDonât check on him.â
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clarkâs apartment.
You donât go inside. Loisâ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while youâre more than willing to disobey her, itâs the way sheâd said it.
Donât.
His door is right there.
Loisâ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldnât listen.
Donât.
You made him soup, because youâre pathetic. Heâd left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and youâd brought it home to clean up before returning it. Youâd had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where youâd give Clark his jacket, heâd swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. Itâs too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You donât remember walking inside the building.
Donât.
But you want to.
Donât.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if heâs been waiting for you to check on him-
Donât.
Loisâ voice isnât louder than your heartbeat. But itâs level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clarkâs face. Keep thinking of how heâd been stiffer than concrete, until youâd moved away.
He wouldnât want to see you right now. Heâd made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
Itâs a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he canât stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know whatâs going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what youâre trying not to think about.
Itâs hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CCâd.
Heâs everywhere. You canât stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says heâs basically out of commission. Canât really do anything right now, heâd grumbled, making a sour face. Too⊠Sick.
Heâd said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually youâd talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, youâre very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, donât think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that youâve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but youâd kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows youâre thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousinâs number, so you can ask her if heâs okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Loisâ voice in your head, and go visit him.
Youâre about to go with that last option, when thereâs a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. Itâs hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way youâve never seen on TV. Maybe heâs just more casual, when heâs doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, itâs just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
âHello?â
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesnât look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And itâs not just the ragged appearance. Itâs something deeper. Itâs the way heâs staring at you like heâs worried youâre going to attack him. Like heâs restraining himself from moving, like youâre a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, thereâs something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe itâs just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. Thereâs an openness on his face that wasnât there before. And heâs not looking at you like heâs afraid or skittish.
Heâs looking at you like heâs a predator. Like youâre prey.
âClark?â
âIâm here for your interview-â
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. SupermanâClark? âpushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like heâs been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
âClark- Wait-â
Supermanâs body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put ClarkâSuperman? âin your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
Heâs burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. Youâre not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. Itâs hard not to reach out to him, but you donât feel like you should. He hadnât wanted you near him, and youâve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You canât rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whateverâs tormenting him isnât enough to wake him up, but itâs enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And heâs loud. Youâre lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or youâd get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, heâs somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. Heâs got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. Thereâs a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
Thatâs⊠Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. Youâre thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clarkâs bulge. Supermanâs bulge.
You still havenât really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. Youâre sure. Youâve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How youâve never seen him get drunk. The fact that heâs built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm. Â
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sureâyou have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusationsâyou cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clarkâs ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing heâd been using for cover.
You donât let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You wonât violate him like that. Youâre here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clarkâs brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You donât mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. Heâs Superman. Youâve watchedâalbeit from afarâhim pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if youâre glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, thatâs the least important thing thatâs happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
âClark?â You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like heâs in pain. Your touch helped, and heâd liked it, and-
No. You canât. You wonât. Youâre stronger than that, and heâs not in his right mind. Whateverâs effecting himâwhateverâs strong enough to effect Supermanâcanât be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because heâd moved your hand there. He probably doesnât even know itâs you.
But heâd been calling your name. Heâs calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you werenât such a masochist, youâd put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And youâre not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You havenât even managed to close your eyes.
Youâre so dazed from the everything that you donât hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clarkâs standing in the door of the living room.
Heâs naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, youâre too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
Heâs glorious. Itâs not just the muscle and size of him, itâs all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when youâre sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But itâs also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight youâre worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldnât complain.
And his cock.Â
You donât know how he manages to walk around with that thing. Itâs bigger than the toys youâve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
âClark, I- Iâm so sorry-â
âDonât.â He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like heâs actively stopping them from moving. âIâm the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldnât have come here.â
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. Heâd been humping the sheets all night. Youâd heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
âI broke your bed.â He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. âIâll fix it when- This passes.â
âClark-â
âStop saying it like that.â
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You canât tell if itâs with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
âPlease donât say my name. Like that, or- At all.â His throat bobs. âIt makes everything very hard.â
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
âYeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.â
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he wonât stop staring at you,.
âDonât laugh either.â
âI- Iâm sorry-â
âAnd donât apologize, or- Or look at me-â
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
âCla-â You cut yourself off. âShould I call you Superman?â
âNo- That- Thatâs weird-â
âKal-El?â
âWorse.â He grunts, and you sigh.
âI need to be able to call you something.â
âIt would be better if you didnât talk, actually.â
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
âNo, not- Not like that-â
âNot like what-â
âItâs just, when you talk-â
âItâs hard?â You snap, and you donât know why youâre so mad all of a sudden. Maybe itâs how you havenât slept in almost two days.
Itâs probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, youâre going to kill him.
âPlease donât sat that word.â Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
âNo. Iâm going to talk, and youâre going to listen and give me answers.â
âI- I donât think thatâs a good idea-â
âYou donât get to decide whatâs a good idea right now, boner-boy.â
He wrinkles his nose. âThat⊠Doesnât seem fair.â
âMaybe, but you know whatâs also not fair?â You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. âIgnoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!â
âI didnât tell you to shut up-â
âYou said I shouldnât talk.â
âI said it would be better if you didnât talk.â He mumbles, staring at the floor. âThatâs not the same-â
âShut up.â
âSorry.â
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
âYou better fix the wall, Kent.â
âI will. âM sorry-â
âStop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me whatâs wrong!â
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesnât move away.
âYouâre not allowed to- To be mad.â He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. âBe more mad.â
 Thatâs not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he canât bear to see your reaction. Â
âYou know kryptonite?â
You blink. âOf course I know kryptonite, I donât live under a rock.â
âRight. Well,â he coughs. âThereâs, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does⊠Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think youâd like her-â
âClark.â
âSorry- Sorry.â He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
âRed kryptonite?â You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
âI got exposed to some.â He mumbles. âLast weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually itâs something like⊠Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-â
âIt what-â
âI got better.â He says quickly. âBut itâs usually immediate. This wasnât. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasnât going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, andâŠâ
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
Thereâs a very reasonable guess to what itâs doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
âWhat happened when you saw me?â You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. Heâs going to need talking into this.
âClark.â You say gently, and he groans.
âPlease donât make me say it.â
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. Itâs almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
âItâs very⊠Demanding.â He mumbles. âAbout certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I canât ask that of you-â
âCanât you?â
Your question is quiet. You know heâll hear you.
And Clarkâs head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
âYou- You canât mean that-â
âWhy not?â
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
âIâd like to.â You murmur. He grunts.
âYou donât have to pity me-â
âItâs not pity.â
He chuckles dryly. âFeels like it. I know you donât- Thatâs not how you feel-â
âWho says itâs not how I feel?â
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
âUhh⊠Steve?â
You scoff. âSteveâs been trying to ask me out for three years, of course heâd tell you that.â
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
Youâve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
âI- I could hurt you.â He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. âI like being hurt a little.â
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and youâre a little worried heâs going to break your whole apartment if he doesnât move soon.
âClark.â You whisper, taking a small step forward. âI trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.â
âNo, you-â
âDonât tell me what I feel.â
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
âWill it hurt you?â You ask. âIf you ignore it?â
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
âThen use me.â You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. âPlease.â
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clarkâs fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like youâre made of feathers, and thereâs something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, youâd think something about free fall and having no worry if thereâs nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But youâre not in your right mind. Because Clark isnât kissing you like a kiss.
Heâs inhaling you, and itâs already lighting you on fire.
Thereâs a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. Itâs the most beautiful sound youâve ever heard.
Clarkâs back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, thereâs no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
âClark-â
âSo- Sorry-â He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. âYouâre just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-â
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
âSmell so good.â He almost whines. âSo good.â
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. Youâre the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but heâs also a man whoâs in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. Heâs almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he canât even help himself. You donât think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This wouldâve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
âItâs okay.â You coo, kissing the side of his head. âYou can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-â
âYou- You canât-â
âDonât tell me what I get to want-â
âNo, you canât.â He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You donât mind at all.
âIâll hurt you.â He mutters, and you sigh.
âWe talked about this-â
âIâll hurt you.â He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he canât physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. Youâd think was a stick if you didnât know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
âI need to get you ready.â
You swallow. âI- Iâm pretty-â You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and thereâs the familiar tingling ache thatâs always a good sign. âI feel pretty ready-â
Clark grunts. âNot ready enough.â
âHow do you know-â
âNose.â
âNose- Oh.â You flush. He can smell your arousal. âBut thatâs a good thing, right-â
âNot enough.â
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. Youâre not faring much better, but thereâs also a massive man below you that canât stop sucking around your tits.
âCan you⊠Always smell me?â You manage to ask, and he hums.
Thatâs his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
âAre you serious-â
âI canât help it.â
âYou- You could wear nose plugs-â
âNo. Like it too much.â
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
âYou- Canât move-â
âYou should move-â
âWonât hurt you.â He grunts, like heâs making a vow. âJust- Need a second.â
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but youâre desperate.
âYou were better when you woke up.â You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. âLucid.â
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
âYou came in bed last night.â
He stiffens slightly. âWet dream.â
âAbout who?â
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. âYouâre very⊠Mouthy. Like this.â
And youâve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says itâlike something heâs measuring, a note heâs jotting down for a pieceâmakes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
âWow. Mouthy.â You tease. âNot very polite, Clark.â
âThere are other words I couldâve used for it.â He mumbles, and you giggle.
âYeah? Like what?â
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
âA brat.â
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like youâre something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than youâve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
âI should jerk you off.â You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
âYou- You canât just say that-â
âBut it will help.â You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. âYouâll feel better enough to- To get me ready.â You try to keep your voice level, as if youâre not thrilled just to say the words. âAnd then⊠More.â
Clark doesnât answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didnât hear.
âCan you please look at me-â
âNo.â He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
âClark-â
âDonât ask me to move.â His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
âClark.â You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. âItâs okay.â
âI- I need to get you-â
âIâm going to touch you, okay?â
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
âSorry-â
âItâs okay.â You say quickly, smiling slightly. âGood preview.â
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like heâs going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and donât give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
Heâs throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
âBe- Be careful.â
You pause. âDoes it not feel-â
âFeels good.â He grunts. âToo good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-â
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way heâs moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once heâs back in controlâonce this massive dildo of a dick is inside youâyouâre not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
âLike- Like that- Shit.â He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. âYeah, baby, oh- Right there-â
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legsâkeeping your hands workingâClark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
âWhat- What are you-â
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound youâve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. Youâre in no danger of pain.
Thereâs something thrilling about how heâs gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
âSorry- Fucking Christ-â
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesnât take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
âAre you-â
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like itâs a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
âLook- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-â
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
âYouâre so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-â Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. âYour mouth is so warm, and- And soft-â
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
Heâs cumming.
And heâs not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, thereâs not a place it hasnât hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
âIf you-â
âDo that inside me.â
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
âI- I mean- Clark-â
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
âI heard you.â He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. âPretty well, actually.â
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
âDonât- Donât tease-â
âTrust me.â He mutters darkly. âI wonât.â
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
âOh- Oh god-â
âIf I had time.â Clark murmurs, almost to himself. âIâd keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,â his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. âLet you make a mess in my lap. Wait âtill youâre begging for it, then touch you,â one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. âNice and slow, until you feel what Iâm dealinâ with right now.â
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when heâs horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
âOh, you like that.â He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. âYeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.â
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. Thereâs a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
âClaaaark.â You moan, squeezing tight around him.
Youâre rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
âThatâs it.â He mutters. âJust seeing what you need, itâs alright. Shit,â he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. âYouâre so wet. I- I gotta-â
You hear it start to possess him, and you canât be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. Heâs strong, but youâre horny, and thatâs sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like heâs having a fine meal.
You canât look away from it. Itâs the hottest, most lewd thing youâve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like heâs milking you for more.
Youâre a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
Thereâs nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. Youâre a smeared, wrecked mess that canât stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
Itâs predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
âWanted to do that for so long.â He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. âYouâd come into the office and start gettinâ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought Iâd lose my mind, every single day.â
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
âThere she is.â He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until youâre drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But youâve also never been put over Clarkâs lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push upâhe needs attentionâbut Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
âNeed to be inside you.â He grunts. âNeed you ready.â
Well. If he needs it.
Itâs easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesnât take long for you to feel like youâre close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
âClark- Clark-â You donât have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. âI- Iâm gonna-â
âI know.â He mutters, and fuck, you donât doubt him. âWhenever youâre ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.â
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
Youâre dazed from the orgasm. Itâs the strongest youâve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clarkâs fingers pull away.
âYouâre ready.â He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything thereâs no friction. The tension in Clark tells you heâs close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
âJust- Stay like that, beautiful.â He kisses the side of your head. âAnd if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. Iâll stop.â
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know heâs Clark. And there isnât a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
âCan you- Can you please say youâll tell me-â
âIâll tell you.â Itâs barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
âGood. Good girl.â He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. âLet me- Canât do it here. Not right.â
Youâre not sure what heâs talking about until youâre airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
Thatâs a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldnât be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
âKeeping her ready.â He rumbles, and you hum. Youâre certainly not complaining.
Youâre already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clarkâs hands. He mightâve already ruined you forever.
âDonât do that.â
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
Heâs back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
âI touch you.â He grunts, and you canât argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like itâs gotten harder. You swallow. Itâs very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, youâre going to try.
Heâs been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but heâs not making any attempt to move on you. Heâs just⊠Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god youâd like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. Itâs right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
âDidnât mean to do that.â He rasps, and your lips twitch.
âI liked it.â
He chuckles, shaking his head. âOf course you did.â
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. Thereâs almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
âGoinâ slow.â He mumbles. âWhile I can.â
You nod. Itâs all you can manage.
He feels just as bigâif not biggerâthan he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and youâd be worried you couldnât take it if your pussy wasnât greedily swallowing him whole.
âThatâs it.â Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. âThereâs you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-â
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. Itâs good, unbelievably good, and your body doesnât know what to do with it.
âTight.â Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
âBig.â
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
ââm serious.â He says, low and rough. Like a secret. âWhen I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-â
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You canât stop your smile.
âI know.â You breathe, and he nods.
âLove you.â He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. âSo much.â
You blink, and his eyes widen.
âThatâs- Um- I donât think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-â
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man thatâs somehow, all yours.
âMy brain is soupy too.â You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
âVery soupy. But,â You beam. âI love you too. And Iâm very serious.â
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. Youâd like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
âMake me dumb.â You breathe, and Clarkâs shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. Itâs a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
Heâs fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. Thereâs no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesnât let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
Youâve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clarkâs barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
Itâs too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is yourâusualâmax, and thatâs usually with time between. But Clark isnât letting up. And youâre getting close again.
âCla- Clark-â You whine out, and he fucking growls. âClark, Iâm gonna-â
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than youâd thought. At first itâs nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then itâs more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then itâs too much. Youâre not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, itâs everything. Youâre full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you donât think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because heâs still fully hard inside of you. And with how heâs staring at you, you donât think thereâs a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
Thereâs a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. Itâs the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You donât know how thereâs still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly youâre being flipped over, and Clarkâs impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
Itâs a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, youâre ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isnât a spot in the apartment that doesnât feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, youâd find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When youâd looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like youâd molded him to only fit in you.
Itâs an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clarkâs waiting for you in the living room. Heâs been trying to clean, but you donât think thereâs a point.
âI told you Iâm going to have to move,â you joke, and he sighs.
âWell, I- I really tried, but-â He wrinkles his nose. âI think it got in things. When I- Yeah.â He groans. âI can see it.â
âSee it-â
âX-ray vision.â
âOh.â That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. Itâs going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
âSorry I didnât tell you,â he mutters.
You shake your head. âIt fine-â
âI wanted to-â
âClark.â You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. âItâs okay. Really.â
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
âReally?â He asks anyway, and you nod.
âReally.â You nod to the floor. âI can even start apartment hunting right now.â
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
Itâs the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, itâs still just Clark. And youâre more lucky to have that, than anything else.
âYou could move in with me.â He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
âI-â
âIf itâs too fast, you donât have to, I- Geez, I havenât even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-â
âClark.â You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. âI was thinking the same thing earlier.â
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. âYou were?â
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
âItâs not- Maybe too fast-â
âMaybe.â You shrug. âBut I- Iâve loved you for years.â You look down to your fingers. âAnd we kind of lived together before. For work. And youâre my friend, first, so if you think itâs fine-â
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and itâs barely been a day, but itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âIâm gonna do it right, though.â Clark says against your lips. âTake you out. Woo you.â
You laugh. âBring it on.â
âŠEnd note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary highâŠ
âŠIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŠ
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CW: angst, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, references to suicide, injured Simon, eventual smut, military inaccuracies
wc: 7.1k
Masterlist đŠ
When Soap gave you Simonâs address, you thought youâd end up in some dodgy building with flickering lights and the pungent smell of piss.Â
You expected sleazy neighbours, creaky old doors, and grime-crusted flooring: he is a clean man, sureâpathologically so, youâd like to add, since his barracks back at HQ look like an ORâbut he absolutely adores his privacy. You wouldnât put it past him to move somewhere other people would never go for their safety, even if it meant tiptoeing around pools of unidentified fluids and used condoms.
Instead, as your GPS pings your arrival, you find yourself in front of the loveliest house youâve ever seen.
Uneven bricks, ochre and grey, cloaked by a pitched roof and tiles laced with moss and ashen lichen. A chimney peeks from the top left, darkened right around the top. Thereâs a stone path leading from the gravel where you parked your car to the front doorâsturdy hardwood thing, painted a deep dark chocolate with bronze trims all around. Wooden fixtures for the windows, worked and etched in that way that makes them look old, but they clearly arenât. Thick glass, maybe to isolate soundsâas if itâs needed.
This house is as pretty as it is lonely. Lost in the middle of nowhere.
At least you were right about one thing. Not even God would go this far to look after His disciples.
Out of four hours, you spent half driving through unpaved roads, with your car jumping over fat roots and potholes. Got lost once. Almost ended up in a ditch twice.
However, the landscape they led to is gorgeous as few. Worth the money that youâll surely have to splurge on new shock suspenders.
Itâs autumn, so thereâs the occasional tree popping golden amongst an emerald ocean extending behind the cottage, farther than the eye can see. In front of the house, thereâs a small grove. It rustles with the wind, coos with birds and owls, runs with squirrels and wildlife clawing up the trees. Evergreen bushes with the occasional pop of colour, whether red or pale orange, lean against the trunks. The sun is setting behind it, painting the landscape with the shadows of the fronds and a soft golden glow.
It's quiet, in that way only nature can be.
If you hadnât been worried down to the bone marrow, youâd have lit a cigarette and smoked it with your ass on the trunk of your car while basking in the last shafts of sunlight of the day.
Alas, youâre not here for sightseeing.
You turn off your car and jump out of the seat. Gently, you stretch your arms; your shoulders pop, your back cracks like a fucking glowstick. Your knees arenât faring better, clicking when you stand up fully.
With a withering sigh, you walk to the back of the car and open the bonnet.Â
There are groceries for a lifetime stacked in there. Four bags from Tesco, two smaller ones from the chemistâs. Pain killers, vitamins, paracetamol, supplements, benzodiazepines, citalopram, escitalopram, and all the fucking prams the pharmacy had to offer. The list was long; you eyed Johnny worriedly when he gave it to you, but knew better than to ask.
Youâre tired. Tired beyond measure. You went to work at the crack of dawn and then jumped in the car when you couldnât take it anymore. Dropped everything, apologised to Kyle for leaving him to fend for himself with the diplomatic envoy, and when Price scrunched his nose disappointedly, you apologised to him as well and promised to do double the job once you were sure he was alright.
Because you hadnât heard from him in days.
Not a phone call, not a text, not a sign that he was using his phone at all. Not a sign that he was alright, that he was still grumbling about the growing prices of groceries, that he was still nursing a nightcap in the eveningsâthat he was alive.
He used to tell you.
They donât get itâJohnny, Kyle, Price. They donât know about the texts, the calls, the photos, the messages sent in the middle of the night, the ones left just shy of dawn, just to wish each other a good day.
Your little secret, that. Your little something soft, developed in the ruthlessness of your job. Something amicable and familiar stuck in between the horrors of cold-blooded murder, of dead bodies scattered in your lives, and endless stacks of paperwork.Â
Youâd send him pictures of your pale teaâtoo much milk, if you asked him. Of your pies baked during downtime, of the Christmas decorations youâd hang on the ceiling. Heâd send you those of birds landing on the hood of his car, cats heâd find along his walk that would nuzzle his calf.
SR: Donât know why.
LT: they think youâre snow white
LT: because youâre pale and you have the sweetest big brown eyes
SR: Wouldnât say sweet.
LT: in fact i said sweetest :)
SR: Flattery wonât work on your lieutenant.
LT: ha! but im a lieutenant too. you canât pull rank on me
SR: Iâm your L.T.Â
SR: Youâre my second lieutenant. Under my command.
LT: technicalities
SR: Youâre L.T. too
SR: L.Too
SR: L2
L2: oi
SR: Haha
L2: rude
SR: Alright, L2.
They donât get it.
SR: Sleeping?
L2: are you keeping tabs on me?
SR: Youâd be surprised.
L2: wonât ask
SR: Shouldnât.
L2: Fancy a chat?
And your phone would ring.
âL2,â heâd greet.
âNot funny anymore.â But it was.
âReckon itâs bloody hilarious.â
âBeen too long. Itâs losing its charm.â
âCharm?â Heâd breathe a laugh. Almost. âRight, thenâEl.â
Midnight, midday, seven AM, four AM, six PM. On and off the job. Christmases and birthdays and Easters and early Sundays and late-night Mondaysâ
His touch, secretive and fleeting. Warm hands on the hollow of your spine as he walks by, fingers tightening the straps of your vest, adjusting the holsters on your thighs. Watchful eyes chasing your shadow in the crowd, following your fingers as they deftly work through cables and buttons. Burning holes on the back of your hands as you aptly defuse an IED. His huff of relief, his palm warm on your shoulders. A pat, a caress.
âGood job, L2.â
âFuck off with that,â youâd laugh. âSpooky fucker.â
âThatâs my El.â
They donât get it.
Or maybe they do.Â
Price wrinkled his nose, but didnât stop you. Kyle took over your shift. Johnny gave you the means to reach him.
Maybe they saw itâyour eyes softening whenever he walked into a room, his shoulders unravelling whenever your voice crackled over comms. Two peas in a pod, birds of a feather. The moon and the fucking sun. Lieutenant Riley and his 2nd lieutenant.Â
LT and L2. Ghost and El.
On the seventh day of no contact, you couldnât take it anymore. You raided Tesco, you begged Johnny to give you his address (and thankfully, he was just as worried as you wereâyouâd have hated pulling rank on him), and he secretly passed you Simonâs medical file so you could pop by the chemist too.
Now, you find yourself properly hauling your own weight in groceries along the stone path leading to his cottage. You drop them with a grunt in front of his door.Â
On your side, his car is parked. Second-hand. Onyx black. Bird shit on the roof, windows grainy with soil and opaqued with rain tracks.Â
Unused for a while. Normal, in a way. Itâs not like he can drive in that state. For any amenities, a nurse would come by, provided by the SAS. Sometimes heâd open and be cordial enough. Sometimes he would just tell them to leave groceries and whatnot at the door.
The nurse told Price it had been days since Simon even answered his phone calls, never mind open the door. Price told the team, but not you. Kyle passed you the intel with the same secrecy as a mole working for the enemy.
Gooseflesh crawls up your spine as you look at the weathered bronze of the doorknob. Thereâs no doorbell that you can see.
You knock.
âLieutenant.â
Nothing.
The wind grazes your ears, ruffles the fronds as it intersects with the leaves. You dry the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand, and knock again.
âL.T.,â you say, trying to sound chirpy. âSpecial delivery!â
Silence.
You lean to the side and try to peek through an overgrown bush into one of the windows, but the curtains are drawn shut. You bring your thumb to your lips and nibble at a cuticle.
Knock.
âLieutenant!â Again. Worry seeps through the cracks. âItâs me! Itâs lieutenantââ
You chew on your name. It dies on your tongue.
âItâs L2!â You yell instead. âItâs El!â
Blood beads on your thumbnail, bitten short.Â
Knock knock.
âPlease open the door?â You venture. Your heart pounds in your ears. âIâm so fuckingâso fucking tired and worried.â
Knock knock knock.
âWhere the fuck do you live anyway, uh?â You sniffle. Your nose stings. âWas right, wasnât I? You are fucking Snow White.â
Nothing.
Loudest silence youâve ever heard.
You hate it. You want to fill it with more knocks, with more yells, with the sound of his footsteps, with the gravel of his voice, the crackle through comms, the clicking of his ankle when he rests his weight on it for too long, the burn of his cigarette in the coldest nights, the breath of a laugh he wants to swallow but doesnât manage.
âLieuââ You gulp. âSimon? Please.â
On the far right, thereâs a bench whose greyish paint is chipping away. Old wood rots in the centre because of rain and constant humidity. Even though you sat in that godforsaken car for the past four hours and some, you feel your knees buckling the more you keep standing.Â
So, you carry yourself over there. Drop down. The bench creaks. As predicted, itâs wet and it seeps through your jeans. You sigh.
âI brought you food!â You go on, âAnd if you donât open the door Iâm gonna eat it. Everything. Even your stupid chocolate biscuitsâIâm gonna gobble them up in one sitting.â
The milk will go bad if you donât put it in a fridge. The ice cream will melt.Â
âThe bourbon too,â you yell. âGonna drink it all. Gonna get comatose on your stupid bench in thisâin this fucking fairy grove you live in.â
The fruit will start softening. The meat will start rotting and smelling. And flies will run to it, conquer it, eat it raw, and lay their eggs inside. Their buzz will drive you insane, and youâll lose your mind on this bench, in the middle of nowhere.
âAnd Iâm gonna sleep here until you open that fucking door, you hear me?â Your voice cracks. âAnd Iâm gonna get sick andâand itâll be your fault, because you didnât open the bloody door.â
You wonder whether youâd smell the same thing if you broke it down. If the buzz would be heavier, more persistent. If it would be something else driving you insane.
The image flashes bright and real. Smells like you have it within reach, before you, hanging from a chandelier, drowning in a crimson bathtub, or melting on the bed, stomach filled with pills and nothing else.
Your heart plummets at your feet. You feel claustrophobic, boxed in a square of cement that pushes in your shoulders and compresses your chest.
âSimon!â You yell, voice cracking. Droplets stain your jeans. Itâs not raining. âYou fucking cunt open the fucking door!â
Elbows on your knees, you drop your head in your hands. Youâre so tired. You donât even know if you can drive back home, especially now that the sun is setting. Youâd gladly sleep in your carâfuck, youâd sleep on this bench if it meant finding him at the door the next morning, looking all cranky and grumbling about the mess you made.
All you can do is plead quietly, a breathy prayer you hope he can hear, even if only whispered.
âPlease open the fucking door, please open the fucking doorâ"
Are you strong enough to break it down? Youâre special forces, but youâre not a battering ram. You donât have the tools that would helpâyou didnât think you were gonna need them.Â
Stupid.
Are you brave enough to open the door? To find whatâs inside? Should you call the police? An ambulance?
The thought makes you retch. You cover your mouth and bite on your palm.
âThis fucking idiotââ You whisper. Swallow thick. Your throat stings as bile rises. âI swear to God you selfish bastard, you better not. You better fucking not, Simon, I willââ
âWhich bourbon?â
Your head snaps.
His shoulders, wide and hunched, fill the doorway, open enough for you to see him entirely. A grey shirt hangs loose around his torso. Heâs got his hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers, but thereâs a strain in his arms. Corded and rigid, tied in a way that shows in his neck, too.
A scar runs thick down the side of his head, starting from the centre of his forehead and tipping at the shell of his ear, following a curved line clearly left by a surgeon. Bulbous near his temple, where the flesh was too soft and took longer to heal.Â
Darkness blossoms under his eyes, swollen and sunken at the same time; puffy with sleep, hollow with tiredness. Heâs paler than usual, his cheeks are gaunt, and heâs so much fucking thinner.
But heâs alive.
His chest rises. His blood runs.
You blink.
A tear threatens to stream down your cheek, but you anticipate it, drying its path with the back of your hand. Your bones soften, muscles unclenched. Clumsily, you take a trembling breath, and it feels like itâs the first time youâve ever done it.
âI-I donât know,â you stutter. âDonât drink the stuff. Asked the clerk for his favourite and he justâjust tossed it in there.â
âMh.â
His eyes look for the bottle amongst the mountain of food and drinks stuffed in the bags.Â
âYou better like it.â You sniffle and nod at the bags. âFifty-five quid just for that thing.â
He snorts. Sighs. âGood enough then.â
You exchange looks.
Then, he nods his head inside.
âHelp me out?â He drawls.
Dizzy, you nod. Your legs tingle as if theyâve just been awakened, your stomach rumbles like you havenât eaten in days. The world turns upside downârelief so visceral and thick you feel like itâs drowning you.
You stumble to the doorway. Your guts squeeze and thrash. You might throw up, but you donât, swallowing the tightening feeling clawing up your throat.
You stuff the smaller pharmacy bags inside the Tesco ones.
Simon leans in too, taking his hands out of his pockets.
You hadnât seen the aftermath yet.
Heâs missing the last two fingers on his left hand. Surgery scars run along the back of both, slicing the tattoo on his forearm in a cobweb of thick, ruddy lines. That is, where the flesh isnât rubbery and burnt, convoluted as if yearning to weld itself back together in the aftermath of being torn apart.Â
They shakeâfiercely, like heâs experiencing an earthquake inside his body; unfolding before your eyes, shattering his bones.
You look at them. Transfixed. At the mangled flesh sewn back together, at the tremble that runs through his veins and tips at his nails. The strain of his muscles clawing up his arms, taut to the point of painâlike heâs putting all his effort to keep them still, to exert control over them.
Control he lost.
When you lift your eyes again, you meet his face.
Stone cold. Dreadfully frigid.
âThe bags are heavy,â you croak.
âCarried worse,â he replies flatly, and his hands curl around the handles of two.
His fingers tighten, knuckles painted white. Nails bite his palms, but he perseveres. Swallows a groan of pain that rumbles in his throat and lifts the groceries off the floor.Â
The plastic bags crackle like a gale is blowing furiously through them. The glass of the bottles clinks. You see, as he walks inside, the tension in his gait: forcing his legs to cooperate, to work by themselves, as he focuses exclusively on the stability of his hands.
Without looking back, he leaves the door open for you to follow.
You stand frozen stock still, arms down your sides, and eyes brimming with guilt.
Carried worse, he said.
Carried you, months ago, when the bomb went off.
Six Months Earlier
Intelâs rarely faulty when the source is the police themselves.
Granted, even in these cases, one should always take statistics into consideration: a mole, a diversion, the original source. However, things sometimes are so obvious that statistics fall flat.
Because in front of you, right now, thereâs a big, fat bomb. No doubt about it.
A squared box, half as tall as you. Itâs raggedly painted black, as if someone decided to spray the colour on the metal slabs at the last minute. Rust gathers at each corner, likely due to the humidity building up in this underground tunnel, which is also chipping away at the paint and leaving ruddy streaks scattered down the sides.
Itâs not much different from the ones youâve dispensed of already, at least at first sight. Thereâs no timer, not a visible one at least. Though from the looks of it, you donât think this one is timed at all. If youâre fortunate, it needs to be manually detonated on site. Worst-case scenario, it can be set off remotely.
Thank fuck youâre wearing sturdy PPE, then.
With a huff, you flop on your knees before it. Thereâs a soft puff as the pressure pushes air out of your suitâa big, cumbersome thing that safely cradles you from head to toe.Â
âCaptain,â you call through comms. âYou sure itâs off, yeah?â
The static preceding his voice buzzes softly through your ear, before Johnâs usual rasp fills the helmet shielding your head.
âLocal bomb squadâs had a look already,â he says. âSaid itâs old.â
Though the bomb in front of you looks untouched by the deft hands of a demolition specialist. You wonder how they concluded that the device is too old to be active, since there doesnât seem to be a sign that it has been studied at all.
âDoesnât look like they did anything, though,â you offer.
John grunts. âDonât shoot the messenger.â
âRight.â
His voice rumbles even through the distortion of the radio. âJust passing it on, L2. They want us to check it before they move it.â
You roll your eyes at the nickname. You knew it would stickâSimonâs convincing like thatâthough it is the first time John actually uses it.
You let it slide.
âAnd whyâs that?â
âSigned by Konni.â
You tilt your head and easily spot the mark of Konni group sprayed on one side, dried red paint drawing a path downwards from where it dripped.
âAlways nice to see an old friend, isnât it?â
âKeep us updated, yeah?â
âOn it.â
You squeeze your eyes through the visor of your helmet, focusing on possible entry points. Each breath you take is measured and quiet as you clear your mind to steady yourself.
âAlrighâ?â
Though considering the questioning drawl coming from beside you, youâd wager the suit is amplifying not only your voice, but also the heaviness of your panting.Â
Itâs fucking hot in this thing.
âYou shouldnât be here.â You give him a sidelong glance. Heâs not wearing an EOD, only his usual uniform with an added clunky helmet, a bulletproof vest, and his stupid skull mask. âEspecially not naked like that.â
âNaked, uh?â He snorts. âBetter get a good look, then.â
You bite down a smile and return your eyes to your job. âCaptain, the lieutenant is padding around in his birthday suit.â
Priceâs voice crackles through the comms in your ear. By his tone, you can practically see the tight set of his jaw and the roll of his eyes.
âGhost, either wear the EOD or leave the premises, for fuckâs sake. Donât fancy scraping you off the walls.â
Simon gently kicks the side of your boot. âRat.â
You turn your head around just enough to stick out your tongue at him.
âI asked the second lieutenant a question anâ she ainât answered yet,â he drawls with his usual dispassionate tone. âPermission to kick her off the team?â
âYou wonât hear a single fuckinâ word she says if youâre ground meat, Simon,â Priceâs voice rasps. âWear the bloody PPE and then weâll talk.â
Static replaces Johnâs orders as communication cuts off on his part.
Only then does Simon pitch in.
âI asked you a question.â
You sigh, but itâs neither weary nor exasperated.Â
âYeah, Iâm alright,â you huff, already tinkering with your toolbox. âWhy arenât you wearing the gear?â
âIâm in good hands.â
âThanks, Iâm immensely flattered,â you quip. âPlease go wear it now.â
âThought it was too old to still be active.â
You donât have time to roll your eyes, because as soon as he mutters his thoughts, you notice a familiar indented square in one of the panels. A carefully hidden entry point that, once popped open, will show you the intricacies inside the device. Itâs like spotting an oasis in the desert.
You reach for a flat tip in your toolbox at your knees. Carefully, you wedge it in the embrasure.
It only takes a few tries, and it unhinges seamlessly. Metal clinks as you gently place the lid on the ground.
Thereâs no need for you to look his wayâhis presence is like a heavy blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A shadow sewn to your own.Â
âI wonât support your suicidal tendencies, so please, for the love of Christ, listen to the engineerââ you point at yourself with the screwdriver, ââand go wear the bloody bomb suit.â
Simon stays silent for a handful of seconds, only filled with the tinkering of metal of your tools.
âWorried âbout me, are ya?â
You huff. No use pretending, when he can see right through you. âPlenty.â
âGood heart.â
âChop chop, Riley.â
âAye aye, El.â
With a gentle squeeze of your shoulder, Simon turns on his heel. His footsteps become distant until the soft thud finally vanishes behind the creaky door that first led you down here, slamming shut behind you.
You donât turn around, too focused on studying the wires wrapped around each other in the panel you just opened. Thereâs an entire bundle crossing the opening diagonally and so shrouding most of the circuit board in the back. Theyâre held together by a couple of cable ties that look awfully cheap, like the rest of the device.
âWeird,â you mumble to yourself.
âWhat is?â John pitches in.
You flinch, not expecting an answer to your musings.
âUhm, uhââ You shake your head to recollect yourself. âThe bombâit looks quite cheap. Not their usual MO.â
John hums. âCould be one of Konniâs earliest works. Disposal said itâs old, innit?â
âYeah,â you huff. âI donât trust a single word those fuckers said.â
âRight,â he grunts, though you recognise that hint of agreement in it. âDo what you can with it. Keep me updated.â
âRoger that, captain.â
Back on track. First thing to do is get rid of those ties to isolate the cables.Â
You work quietly for a while, removing your gloves to minimise errors while doing such minute movements. The flush cutters are sturdy but the blades are small, and the thickness of the cable ties is stupidly non-existent. You want to avoid cutting things you shouldnât.
However, you canât quite ease the knot of doubt forming in your guts.
This device has literally nothing preventing you from disposing of it. Everything is poorly put together. The control centre was placed under a thin slab of metal, which you simply popped off using the flat tip of a screwdriver. There are corner store-level cable ties keeping together a bundle of wires. Each cable isnât isolated, but either overlaps with others or knots on itself.
This is amateurish.
And you know, with utmost certainty, that Konni isnât. The same Konni group that blew up an entire airport wouldnât DIY a bomb and spray paint their signature on a slab of metal like a mere local gang of criminals.
Unlessâ
âEl? You with us?â
Simonâs voice snaps you out of it. He sounds muffled and echoey, as if heâs speaking from behind a glass. You recognise that distortion: he put on the bomb suit.
Relief floods through you.
You shake your head to clear your mind. Sweat collects on your forehead. You feel each drop brewing on your skin, only to then slowly make its way to your brow, then your eye.
Your fingers close around the cutters, and the first tie snaps off.
Then, you squeeze your eyes to get rid of the burn.
âYeah,â you huff. âThey should invent more comfortable suits for us in demo. Itâs fucking sweltering in here.â
Priceâs voice crackles once more. âWeâll hire a fashion designer.â
Simon snorts.
âLook at you, captain,â you croon. âProviding jobs for the youth.â
Youâre sure heâs rolling his eyes. âDo yours or youâll lose it.â
But you know itâs an empty threat. Jokes tossed around to defuse the tension as you defuse your bomb. High stress situations require ways to destress in order to keep your mind clear and at ease, even as your life is on the line.
âAye aye.â
And from then on, silence lingers, only interrupted by Simon shifting his weight on his feet behind you. The crinkle of the suit folding as he moves, the tap of his fingers against the pack he must be holding in his hands. Thereâs the occasional clink of metal when you drop a tool in its box, or the snap of plastic as yet another tie comes off.Â
And finally, you manage to isolate the cables from one another. Carefully you pinch one between two fingers and shift it to the side, only so you can have a broader vision of the circuit board in the back.
Itâs entirely dead. Singed in places, the lights are off, no sounds fill your ears unless it's the ones youâve already recognised as familiar. The blasting cap has an old serial number on it, different from the most recent ones you came across. The base was once attached to a couple of red cables that have been cut from their root.
You exhale, emptying your lungs in a single, long breath.
âItâs dead.â
John huffs through comms. âThank Christ, eh. Sending Garrick over. ETA 20.â
But you stay put, staring holes through the jungle of wires that intersect and crisscross like vines in front of you, draped on the circuit board.
Simon shifts from behind you and comes to crouch by your side. The same puff of air exhales from his suit. You turn your head to look at him, though with the helmet itâs hard to have a good view of his face.
Heâs taken off the skull mask to favour the protective gear placed around his head. His eyes arenât poised on the bomb, though; theyâre on your face. He must pick up on something there that doesnât reassure him, because he knows you better than he should.
âHang on, Price,â he rumbles.
You stall for a moment.
Itâs only a hunch that spurs you to negate certainty. Youâre special forces, an engineerâsixth sense isnât enough to support evidence.
But Simon believes in it. He trusts that tiny spark he sees in your eye, the tautness of your fingers as they curl into fists atop your knees. You hear him sniff, shift on his knees to get closer.Â
âEl?â He whispers, perhaps not wanting the radio to pick up on it.
Your stomach lurches.
âI meanââ You gesture vaguely at the device. âIt looks dead. The circuit board is gone, and the wires have been cut from the detonator. Some of this shit could be older than meâ"
John cuts through your conversation. He sounds irritated, and in turn, it irritates you, too.Â
âGet to the point.â
You stare at the dead circuit board. The main piece of this puzzle. It doesnât take an engineer like you to recognise that itâs long gone, but in a very peculiar way that you donât know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic, it looks too long gone.
You smack your lips. âSomethingâs wrong. It feelsââ
âDonât care how it feels, lieutenant. Is it dead or not?âÂ
âListen, John, Iâm not here to fucking playâ"
âNeed to have another look at it, boss,â Simon cuts in. âGive us a minute, will ya?âÂ
âRoger.â
You sigh. You wish you could scratch your forehead. Your scalp stings as sweat collects on it. Each tiny, uncomfortable thing happening to you is amplified, including the knot in your guts.Â
âI hate him with passion each time he acts likeââ
âHe can still hear ya.â
âGood.â
If John can actually still hear you, he doesnât voice it. Thankfully, you think, because if he pitches in again with some more of his caustic sarcasm, you might just say things before your mind can properly filter them.
You take a couple of seconds to recollect your thoughts, guiding your eyes to study the device. Itâs composed of rusted metal plates welded together and protecting the bomb inside. Youâd need a plasma cutter to breach the plate, but the heat could set the thing off if itâs live. In fact, there are no entry points aside from a small, squared panel that youâve opened with unexpected ease.Â
Considering how the rest of the thing is protected, however, it feels out of place. Conveniently put there for you to declare that the device is gone, when it actually isnât.Â
A hunch isnât enough to negate evidence, that is true, but itâs there, and you wonât allow it to gnaw at your guts.
Easy is never the right answer, not with Makarov.
âPass me the snake cam.â
You hold your hand out to Simon, palm up, without sparing him a glance.Â
Your ears pick up on sounds even if youâre entirely wrapped in protective gear, even if your heart pounds madly up your throat. A zipper being opened, a cable as it unfolds. His hands are warm when they place the cold wire in your palm, steady when they close your fingers around it.
âGet it in,â he says. âIâll hook it up.â
In the corner of your eye, pale hands reach inside the pack at his knees to pull out a pad. It blinks to life as he taps his fingers on it.
Gently, you insert the tip of the snake cam into the opened panel, carefully steering the camera underneath the knotted bundle of cables and behind the seemingly dead circuit board.Â
âGot anything?â You ask Simon.
âToo dark.â
âTurn on the flash.â
The pace of your heart matches the rapid tap of fingertips running across the pad. In a blink, a soft glow fills the darkness behind the board.Â
Simon hums.
âGot something.â
You inhale sharply. Your eyes flicker around, sifting through your thoughts as if you can see them, rushing unrestrained with endless possibilities. You squeeze them shut, clearing out the sting of sweat as it builds up on your brow and fogs up your sight.
âFuck. Letâs switch.â
Simon shifts until heâs kneeling behind you. The rustle of his suit precedes his arms as they come around your head, carefully taking the cable from your fingers.Â
âGot it.â
Ever so slowly, you remove your hands, shuffling on your knees and ducking your head to leave the shelter of his body. With no minimal effort, considering the weight of your blast suit, you manage to stumble to where he once sat, grabbing the pad he left lying on the ground.
As he said, thereâs something. The flash clearly highlights a darkened silhouette, bulky and squared, but the quality of the camera doesnât allow you to make out much more of it.
Only one thing stands out.
A light.
âJesus fucking Christ.â
âThought so,â he spits. âFucking Makarov.â
You donât have time to curse him as well, though you quietly share the sentiment.
âJohn.â
Like lightning, his voice crackles in your ear. âSend over.â
âWe got something.â
âDetails.â
âIn a sec. Stay on.â
You look at Simon. Heâs perfectly still, not a tremble in his fingers, exactly as youâd expected. Heâd make an incredible demo specialist, though you know heâs an even better sniper.
âGentle, Simon,â you murmur. âNeed you to go south.â
He follows your orders, sliding the cable down inside the box.
âGentle,â you repeat. âSlower.â
And without a single word, he heeds you. Trusts you. Lets the camera cover each corner, bit by bit, moving his muscles imperceptibly as he snakes the camera through the jungle of wires.
Now closer to the device, you can better make out its details on the screen. Itâs not old nor rusted, not singed nor dead. It sits attached to one side of the box, each cable perfectly isolated and running on sinuous curves around the circuit board. One that blinks red, then green, then red againâbeating like a heart, shifting its colours inside the darkness.Â
Stacks of white rubber are slathered around it, bulky and thick. You curse under your breath.
âC4.â
Simon clicks his tongue. âChrist.â
âJohn, tell the local authorities to clear out the area now,â you order steadily. âAdd that theyâre a bunch of lazy cunts, too.â
âWill do.â Then, quietly, âgood work, lieutenant. Stay safe, both of you.â
âRoger.â
The static on the radio goes dead. Thereâs only your heart pounding in your ears, falling in rhythm with the switch of colours on the screen.
Red, green. Red, green.
Simonâs voice reaches out to you. âSee a blasting cap?âÂ
âYeah.â You tongue your cheek. âSouth. Then move to the right.â
He follows suit, once again trusting you entirely. As the camera moves, you try to take stock of each tiny detail you can make out. The quality is poor, but youâre starting to have a general idea of what youâre working with. The serial number stamped on the blasting cap matches those of more recent detonators, causing the theory of the local bomb squad to completely crumble.
Red, green. Red, green.Â
While you canât make out the logo on the circuit board, you recognize the finish immediately: factory-made, not cobbled together in some basement workshop. New. Polished clean. A pale square chip mounted against the green lacquer of the board.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
You blink.Â
âStop.â
Simon falls still.
Red, green. Red, red, green.
There. Blinking in the shadows, off to the side.
âRight. Go to the right. Quick.â
Simon doesnât put up a fight, though you can see the uncomfortable shift of his knees. Imperceptible and yet conveying the same nervousness festering in your eyes as they fly across the screen. He is quick with his hands to find the source of the light.
It ticks, ticks, ticks.
âShitâSimon, drop it!â
And if the clock is right, it will tick only for two minutes more.
âDrop that shit and run!â
Simon bolts on his feet, awfully quick considering the bomb suit clinging to him. You hadnât accounted for that. Fuck, you hadnât accounted for any of this.
You told him to wear it. You put that extra weight on him. He wouldâve been out of the place and far away enough to be safe if you hadnât insisted, if youâd let the overwhelmingly stupid trust he had in you to win, for once.
âFuckââ You drop the pad and stand up. Your knees buckle under the cumbersome weight of your suit and the sudden dread gripping your stomach.
âItâs timed, John!â You bellow. Your yell echoes inside the EOD helmet, ringing in your own ears. âWeâre leavingâno time to defuse it. Less than two minutes and it goes off!â
An old, singed circuit board as a decoy to mask the real bomb ticking away just beneath its surface. Only a demolition specialist like those in the UKFS wouldâve thought of venturing further inside the device.Â
Makarov knew it.Â
He knew the local authorities would have called the anti-terrorism unit as soon as they saw the Konni group mark. Makes sense that he signed the device so clearly, like a fucking amateur.
He wanted Johnâs team there.Â
He knew those bastards wouldnât be arsed to check further. Why would they take on the burden when they could leave it in the good hands of better-trained professionals.
Call the big guns and then call it a day.
âRun. Donât look back and run, both of you.â
He doesnât need to tell you twice. Youâre already panting, forcing your legs to move against the strain put onto them by the suitânot protection anymore, but a cage. Your knees donât bend as they should, your feet struggle to hold you up. The sting in your eyes, the heart in your ears.Â
Simonâs ahead of you as you trudge behind him. But heâs faster, strongerâable to carry the added kilograms of his blast suit as if itâs only a mere annoyance to him.
Though he must hear youâor rather, he must feel the lack of you by his side.Â
He halts in his steps and looks behind to find you.
âFuckâfaster, El!â
âI know!â Youâd like to yell at him to shut the fuck up, but that would be a waste of precious breath that you need to focus on using to run.
âGo!â Your voice cracks. âFucking run, Riley!â
Though heâs been standing still for so long that youâre now by his side.Â
You stagger past him, grabbing his hand to tug him with youâthough thatâs one arduous thing, rooted on the ground as he is.
âWe got one minute at mostârun ahead for fuckâs sake!â
Itâs like you can hear it, nowâeach ticking breath exhaled by the device behind you. You wonder if it had always been there, signalling his presence as you knelt next to it, but you were acting too cocky to notice it.
Your fault. Your fault. Your faultâ
Your rushing thoughts recede to a trickle the moment you feel Simonâs hand slipping away from yours. As it does, he takes your own heart with him, as you feel it skip a beat inside your chest.
The momentum of your run makes it hard to stop, and you almost stumble on your own feet as the weight of the suit drags you forward. Thankful for a wall next to your side, you slam your palm against it to avoid falling face-first into the ground.
Though when you turn, itâs your stomach that touches it.
Simonâs already pulled at the quick-release cord hanging from the front of his jacket.Â
âWhatââ
The contraption strapped around his torso unlatches from the back. While he struggles with it, heâs impressively steady as he rips at the sleeves to take it off, shimmying his shoulders out of it with easeâchest plate and all, until everything falls on the floor at his feet.
Initially, your eyes widen in shock. Then, your face morphs into a mask of unadulterated rage.Â
âAre you fucking mad?!â
But heâs taking his helmet off, too. The thud of it as it hits the ground is deafening, echoing ominously in the otherwise quiet underground tunnel youâre stuck in.
âSimon what the fuck!â
âCome âere anâ shut yer mouth.âÂ
He charges forward, running much faster as most of the extra weight that was hindering him now lies uselessly on the floor. He bends at the waist, using gravity to his advantage, and reaches towards you with his arms.
You donât have time to think as breath is knocked out of you. His arm wedges between your legs, and the world turns upside down. Darkness and grey bricks swivel and roll before your eyes as the air catches in your lungs.Â
Your stomach curves around his shoulders. He holds your leg with one arm, curled around your knee, and your opposite sleeve with his offhand.Â
He stumbles at first, trying to find his balance.
âSimonââÂ
âKeep still.â
And then, he runs.
Thereâs a rasp in his breathing that makes it sound as if his chest is being crushed. The gravel of debris crunches under his boots, stomping heavily down the tunnel. Each sound is amplified, but youâre unsure of what is real and what isnât.Â
He trembles. Groans fiercely for each step he takes, baring his teeth as if to scare an invisible monster ahead of him.
âIâm slowing you down!â You yell, hoping the chaos wonât mask your voice too much. âPut me down! IâI have the bomb suit on, Iâm going to be fine!â
Though thatâs a lie. He knows it, and you do as well. If the tunnel collapses, no miracle can bring you back.Â
But at least your head would be protected, giving you a chance. Your chest, too. Your legs. A minuscule, tiny possibility to have a minute more to breathe as you wait for Search and Rescue.
A chance he doesnât have, not with half of his suit now lying uselessly on the floor.
However, Simon doesnât answer, just runs. Runs and runs and runs, towards the exit at the end of the tunnel. Itâs close, maybe another handful of meters, and yet now it feels like an endless chasm ready to suck you in.
A black hole hidden underground.Â
You donât know how much time you have left before the bomb goes off. Your breathing picks up, hand reaching around to fist his shirt around his collar to make him please, please listen.
âPlease Simon, please!â
His eyes are fixed ahead, feet as quick as can be considering the weight heâs carryingâyours, his own, the suits. He stumbles, pace naturally slowing down due to the effort, but it doesnât deter him. Hits walls with his shoulders, slams your helmet and your boots against corners, but he never stops.
He just looks ahead, drunk on adrenaline and ignoring the unfathomable strain heâs putting on his body.
Your eyes sting with panic and tears. His face is red with exertion and lucid with sweat as it beads on his forehead. Then his run turns into a stagger, trembling legs forcing themselves ahead.
Simon bursts through the door. Your helmet knocks against it.
At the same time, the tunnelâs darkness turns blinding white.
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
In his absence, he sends gifts. They are tiny things, sweets and oiled combs and scented oils and a porcelain figure of a cat, aimless in their direction towards you. Just simple niceties he could give to any woman in the world. You imagine he sends one to the lovers he has in every city as well.
(he must have lovers, you imagine. He hasn't touched you; he must be getting his fill with women in other cities, maybe women he actually loves. these are trinkets to keep his wife amused while she wastes away.)
none of the gifts come with a note.
one day a bolt of fabric arrives, yellow and ornate. It's only a small amount, not enough to make a dress, but enough for you to unravel and admire. It's beautiful and clearly expensive, golden threads woven into flowers and vines. Your father was a silk merchant; while you never wore the silks, you can recognize their quality.
the following week, the delicious man rides up on his steeds and presents a letter. The handwriting is rough. Knights that come from the lower class do not have the schooling of highborns; as fair as you know, your husband was born a street rat and worked his way theough the ranks to glory.
-I have been told by my secund that I did not send you enuf fabric for a gown. I do not no these things.
The spelling mistakes screw a smile out of you.
"Wait a moment." You stop the boy before he can leave. "I wish to send something back."
You take your time and use your finest calligraphy, tucking your note in with a handkerchief you had spent the week on. It's fine work-- one that would please even the hardest of hearts.
-Dearest husband,
Please take this handkerchief as a sign of my thoughts.
Your patient and thoughtful wife
A second letter arrives within the week.
-are you cros with me? A scrap of fabric for a scrap of fabric?
The response is what makes you cross. The poor messenger boy has to stay the night while you percolate over a response.
-Dearest, sweetest husband,
A handkerchief is a traditional gesture of affection. I have embroidered the edges by hand, with your last name and your roses, and it smells of my perfume. It is a piece of me for you to carry. If you do not appreciate my kindness or if you think it will turn away your lovers, you may return it. I do not wish it wasted on you.
Your less than patient and less than adoring wife
The poor boy scatters off in the morning and returns a few days later.
tortured wife,
I wil cherish it. I am sory, pour lam. I wil do better.
Cw: infidelity, reader is verging on OC here, very light physical description (wears glasses, is shorter than soap)
Regency!AU where youâve just entered an arranged marriage with John MacTavish, and youâve already heard whispers from servants and nobles alike about the girls heâs entertaining on the side. You sigh, disappointed but not surprised.
Heâs never shown any interest in you. Not during your debut, not in any courting season, and certainly not now that youâre married. Quiet, studious, with no interest in socializing beyond a small circle. If anything, youâve only ever been an obstacle to himâ your desire for quiet and to study the flowers has robbed many a late night garden tryst of its privacy at social galas.
Not to mention your spectacles. Heâs never understood some menâs taste for those.
But your family was of no small renown (distantly related to the royal family, some gossiped), and his had connections overseas. The match made sense. Well, to anyone but the people who had met you both.
Heâll admit youâve piqued his curiosity when you invite him to speak with you privately. You couldnât mean to confront him regarding his dalliances, could you? Because it wouldnât do you any good. He needs some kind of stimulation in this dull, countryside manor.
You smile at the maid as she departs, having just set down the silver tea tray and chatted with you for a spell while you awaited your lord husbandâ late as usual. Heâs always found it strange how you keep such a closer rapport with servants of all people.
You stand to greet him as he enters the garden, smiling like you donât have a care in the world. Sweetly. You tuck a strand of hair back into place. That is, right before you slap him across the face. Hard.
And the poor man, heâs reelingâ feels as if the wind has been knocked out of him. Since when could you hit harder than some of his mates? That train of thought ends when you grab him by the lapels and yank him downward to eye level. The fury he sees cannot be overstated.
âYou think I care that my man-whore of a husband wants to wet his cock? I donât. But should you wish to keep your manhood, youâll do so in private,â you grit out, teeth bared at him. âIâll not be humiliated by you. Iâll not be the subject of pitying gossip. Do not provoke me. Am I clear?â
He nods hastily once he re-learns how to move his head. You let go, but not without a slight shove that he sheepishly struggles to recover from. âGood. Now leave me be.â
You proceed to arrange your skirt suitably and sit at the garden table, picking up a cup to sip from, opening a journal and perusing it as if he isnât even there.
Johnny leaves the garden quietly, retreating to your (scarcely) shared chambers to catch his breath.
And for a week or two, no words reach your ears about his liaisons. Itâs a blissful time, but your satisfaction doesnât last for long.
Because your husband has suddenly become nauseatingly affectionate. Scarcely leaving your side when he has his way, prompting you to sneak him improper kisses, holding your hand so he can kiss his way up your wrist in a most unbecoming way.
More than once, you hear of his former paramours. Humiliated, snubbed by him seemingly out of nowhere when youâd only told him not stick his hands up their skirts in plain view of others. Now he seemingly only has eyes for you, calling you bonnie and darlin and all other manner of sickening pet names. Heâs even taken to playfully plucking the spectacles from your faceâ sometimes to clean them when they fog up from a hot drink, other times to hold them behind his back for ransom while he demands a kiss in exchange for their safe return.
My god, and the vile things he whispers to you when you find yourselves alone. Begging you to let him lift your skirts, to see that cute little cunt and give it a good licking, telling you about how he stroked himself in the bath last night thinking about you, how you should join him tonightâ
Worst of all, heâs asking all manner of inane questions. Namely, which room you want to become the nursery.
thinking about sex toys in the omegaverse again...
your favorite faceless pornstar releases a line of pheromone sprays and flavored lubes and you guilty pleasure buy the whole line only to get one whiff and realize it smells exactly like the alpha that sits across from you at work...
spending the weekend in bed binge watching porn with your favorite toy between your legs, panting into the pillow you'd sprayed with pheromones, liquid sex clogging your nose with gunpowder oolong and licorice. dark and sexy and so hauntingly familiar. you don't have the brainpower to put towards thinking where you've smelled it before when you're wrapped up in this scent.
showing up to work monday morning with a orgasm hangover, feeling like you just got through a micro-heat. dropping your bag at your desk and booting up your computer to start running through updates and catching up on the emails you'd been ignoring. glancing at the clock every so often to see how late your least favorite coworker is.
you took multiple showers before coming in but you feel like the smell of that pheromone spray is still lingering on your skin. you keep sniffing your shirt, your finger tips, trying to figure out what you missed when you were cleaning up.
it keeps scratching at the back of your mind, subtly embarrassing to think that someone might ask you about the lingering stink of synthetic sex, it's weird that it doesn't have that slight chemical edge that most synthetic pheromones have.
the chair across from you scrapes its plastic wheels against the floor as your coworker sits down heavily and suddenly the subtle scent you'd been catching has increased 100 fold. enough to have you jerking your head towards the smell, breathing deeply (rudely) through your nose as he glances at you in the middle of setting his coffee down.
"What?" he asks, clearly annoyed at your staring. gunpowder oolong and licorice stuff your nose, something soft and milky coating your tongue just at the end of the scent. the part aftertaste that synthetic sprays can never quite capture.
your mouth dries.
"nothing." you hastily look back at your computer screen and hear him inhale. your eyes dart to him, his lips just barely crooking up at the corners.
"you using a new perfume?" your skin feels like it's burning, as you lie through your teeth.
and now that you've noticed your coworker smells like your pornstar pheromone mist you can't stop noticing.
his voice has the same timbre, the same measured way of speaking, purposeful, slightly bored. you'd fawned at every shred of dirty talk, fumbled over yourself to comply with his indecent requests ("don't touch yourself, not yet, I want to get a better look at you, spread your legs a wider, that's it, good.") and it had been exactly the same tone you'd called annoyingly bossy to your friends.
his hands are the same. the dark hair that dusts his knuckles, the outlined veins, you'd watched his fingers curl around his cock more times than you could count, pressed your own hand to your throat and pretended it was his, traced along your sex and imagined it was those same hands. the same hands that you glared at when he tapped your copy edits and told you the red marks meant take out not reword however you want.
his mouth... you try not to stare, try not to pick out the slightly chapped lines of it, try not to remember the video you'd paused and rewatched over and over, the way he'd pushed up his mask to lick his own come off his fingers, and you'd stared at his mouth in awe wishing you could get more, wishing you could catch a glimpse of his tongue to fuel your fantasies.
you hated his smile, that self serving, smarmy smile that tugged at just the corners of his crooked mouth and made you want to punch him in the face. the one he only flashed when he knew it would piss you off. the one that seemed permanently fixed to his face every time you glanced his way.
and his scent, the one you'd spent hours lost in over the weekend, the one that had made your head spin and your eyes roll. the one that you told your work-friends made your nose itch, that you blamed every sneeze on. the one that makes you sniff your shirt again when he gets up to go do whatever the fuck he does when he isn't sitting at his desk tormenting you, just to make sure the spray isn't still lingering on you.
it's so hard to tell when the whole desk seems to reek of him.
synopsis. you never thought your sweet boyfriend would have intimate piercings
cw. smut Ë piercings Ë nipple play Ë dry humping Ë not proofread
the last thing you ever expected when your boyfriend took his shirt off, were nipple piercings.
three months into dating caleb, you've come to realize that he's just so good. he helps old grannies cross the street, he teaches the neighborhood kids how to throw basketballs into hoops. he's like the cute innocent boy next door. he's just inherently good natured.
so it's to your surprise when you've been kissing him senseless for the past half hour and he takes off his shirt, for you to see two shiny barbells going through his nipples. not that there was anything wrong with it, but you never took him for the type to do things like this.
and so you sit stunned on his bed, staring intently with your jaw dropped. caleb sits in front of you, shirtless while his jeans are unbuttoned but still hang dangerously low on his hips. a goofy grin plastered on his face while he takes in your reaction.
"you. . . are- are those real?" you ask in a daze, still in shock of his appearance.
he tips his head back and laughs, "yes they're real. don'cha see them going through the skin?" he pinches his own nipple between his fingers and tugs.
you inch closer, eyes fixated on his puffy nipples and the bar that's going through them. oh they're real, alright. your eyes flick upwards to meet his gaze. "can i. . . touch?" you ask with hesitance laced in your voice. your hand moves close but doesn't touch him quite yet. you suspend it in air while you wait for confirmation or denial.
his much larger hand clasps over yours and directs it to his chest. "mhm. you can touch me aaanywhere you like. m'yours." he says in a lower tone.
something about the way he says that has heat travelling down to your core. fuck. this was so unexpected but so hot. you can't help the lust that grows the more you look at his attractive physique. . . and his nipples of course.
your hand traces the skin of his chest, idly brushing across his pecs and occasionally grazing his nipple. you can feel him take a breath in every time it does.
you lock eyes with him and hold onto his shoulders while you climb onto his lap. he looks down at you with a lovesick look and places a chaste kiss that you eagerly reciprocate. the moment you pull back, your focus is once again on his chest.
your fingers tentatively trace light circles on his nipples. feeling the softness of his skin and the hardness of the metal. youâre in a trance as you flick your fingers back and forth, watching them move.
while your fingers continue moving, you begin to place kisses all over him. a quick kiss on his lips, then his jaw. you work your way down his throat, stopping at his adamâs apple to gently suck at it. a breathless whine escapes calebâs lips at your ministration.
you carry on, kisses all the way down to his collarbones, and chest. you stop momentarily on his plush pec, opting to suck and lick to leave a mark on him.
slowly but surely, you begin to feel his bulge come to life. heâs big and hard underneath you. his hips begin to move in sync with your fingers against his nipples.
you pull back from his chest and watch the mark bloom against his skin. and then without a moments hesitation your lip latches on to one of his nipples. his hips jerk and calebâs head dives into the crook of your neck. his breathing gets heavier, puffs of heat against your skin.
you swirl your tongue against his bud while grinding your hips down onto his crotch. the two of you dry hump like animals in heat. his hands find their place on your hips, gripping at your skin to pull you closer to him. he guides your movements while pressing you further down into his crotch. you canât help but moan against his skin, vibrations coursing through your mouth to his tit.
âhaah- fuck.â he groans.
in one swift movement, he flips you over. your back is flush against his bed while he towers over you. he shoves his jeans down to his knees and begins to rut against you. you both moan in unison at feeling closer to one another without his pants in the way.
you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. his chest is flush against yours. every time he moves his hips against yours, his nipples brush against your chest. he whimpers and whines into you ears. gasping out when his orgasm finally hits him. you grind upwards to meet him there, writhing in his hold while bliss washes over you.
your breaths mingle, sounds of you catching your breath fill the room. he pulls back to give you some space, his arm reaches back to scratch the back of his neck and suddenly heâs transformed back into his cutesy self.
love arranged marriage unfortunately. the idea of being married to a knight who's not even in the city, but away on the front lines. it's a benefit for your family, so they dont even question sending you to his home to await his return...
you meet him three months into the arrangement. He arrives after the sun has already set, his features set strong in the candlelight. His body is heavy with exhaustion and tension, his eyes dull and tired.
you've grown to hate this place, this castle gifted to him for war victories. The halls are barren, the garden yet to bloom. The maids are pleasant, but they keep their distance, as if you'll strike. Maybe your husband is the kind to hit. You wouldn't know.
When he looks at you, it's only in short bursts, his eyes suddenly low. There's a long stretch of silence between you and you consider introducing yourself, but decide against it. He knows who you are.
"The maid is drawing me a bath," he says suddenly and a sick feeling pours over you. This day was always coming, but you aren't sure you're ready to lay under a stranger.
"Am I expected to join?" you ask and his nose crinkles.
"No." He steps back and away. His departure is brisk and driven. You retire for the night by yourself and awake alone. Your husband is set to leave again in a few hours; a few soldiers have already gathered in the front garden.
"Don't you wish to give your new wife a goodbye?" one asks, unaware of your open window. "One night and you've already had your fill? Or has she been filled too much?"
"I refuse to believe she is real!" says another. "What kind of woman has worn down our brute and turned him into a family man? Should we expect a gaggle of children in the upcoming year?"
Your husband growls. "You will leave the poor lamb alone. She suffers enough."
That softens you. Just a bit. You rise from you bed and go to the window, leaning out enough to catch the men's attention.
"Until next time."
He watches you, expression caught between more emotions that you can count, then turns his gaze back to his mount. The two men share a look, wide, wide grins on their faces.
Caleb stands in front of you looking all tall and handsome, but the second you raise an eyebrow and pat your lap, that cocky attitude melts away. He knows he was a brat today.
âOver my lap. Now.â
He obeys like the pathetic good boy he is, stripping completely naked before draping his big, muscular body across your thighs. His face burns with shame as he settles down, his heavy cock and balls trapped between your soft thigh and his stomach, already half-hard from the humiliation.
You run your hand over his plump, firm ass, squeezing one cheek roughly.
âLook at this fat ass⊠grown up so nice and juicy for jiejie to punish,â you coo, voice dripping with mock sweetness. âYou thought you could talk back to me earlier? Cute.â
SMACK!
Your palm comes down hard on his right cheek. The sound echoes and his ass jiggles beautifully, the flesh rippling under the impact. Caleb jolts with a choked grunt, his cock twitching against your thigh.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
You alternate between both cheeks, spanking him harder each time, watching his pale skin bloom into a pretty pink, then red. Every slap makes his plump ass bounce and shake, the sight so obscene it makes you wet.
âA-ahâ! JiejieâŠ!â he whines, voice cracking even though heâs a grown man. His neglected cock is fully hard now, leaking all over your thigh like a desperate puppy.
âAw, listen to you. Still crying for jiejie like when you were little,â you laugh softly, rubbing his burning cheeks before delivering another sharp series of spanks. âYour big dick is dripping everywhere, Caleb. Getting punished makes you this excited? What a perverted little brother.â
You spread his cheeks with one hand, exposing his tight pink hole. Caleb buries his face into the bed, ashamed but pushing his ass up slightly for you.
You tease his hole with two fingers, circling the rim slowly, pressing just the tip of one finger inside.
âMmm⊠so tight. Even after all the times jiejieâs played with you, this greedy hole still clenches like itâs scared,â you murmur, pushing a finger deeper while your other hand keeps spanking him lightly. âYou love this, donât you? Getting spanked raw and having your ass played with like a toy.â
You add a second finger, scissoring him open while he moans pathetically, hips twitching. His cock grinds helplessly against your thigh, leaving a wet mess.
âPlease⊠jiejie⊠Iâll be goodâ fuckâ!â
You curl your fingers, stroking his prostate while landing another hard spank on his jiggling ass.
âNo. Bad boys donât get to cum so easily. Youâre going to lie here and take your punishment until this ass is bright red and your hole is gaping for me. Then maybe⊠maybe jiejie will think about using your pathetic cock.â
You keep spanking him between fingering his ass, enjoying every jiggle, every whimper, and every throb of his neglected dick against your thigh.
His plump, reddened ass looks so fucking pretty like this â all marked up by his big sisterâs hand.
hey babe can I request Hotch with a reader girlfriend whoâs desperately shy? early seasons hotch please when heâs still smiley (maybe still has Jack tho), i would love to see how he treats a long term girlfriend in your eyes one who heâs just completely gone forÂ
fem, 0.9k
You should know better than to come to work without venturing up to Aaronâs private office, but youâre late coming in and thereâs a ton of stuff to do and heâs supposed to pretend that he cares when you turn in your work late. You log in and start going through things slowly. There are a few emails to respond to, some queries, a consult request Aaron himself has forwarded with a note âyour expertise is required.Â
You wiggle your mouse to wake the screen. You hadnât realised youâd gotten stuck until it was dark.Â
âHi, sweetheart,â someone murmurs, tipping your head back to kiss your cheek, âwhere have you been?âÂ
He speaks quietly, no one else can hear him, but he enthuses his tone with so much love that you canât decide between laughter or tears. You turn breathless instead, a thumb against your throat as Aaronâs loving questioning continues, âI thought we talked about this, hmm? You coming up to see me? How else am I supposed to know that youâre here?âÂ
Thereâs no Emily sitting at the desk opposite yours. No Spencer adjacent, no Derek to the right. It explains why heâs butter soft, but not his worry.Â
âI was nearly late. Iâm sorry.âÂ
He starts to kiss you gently, quietly, his lips tracking over the side of your cheek and pressing in as he goes until his nose is against your temple. âDonât be sorry, I just wanted to see you.â He holds you to him. âI missed you.â
âAre you okay?â you ask, wishing you were brave enough to tack handsome, or love on the end.Â
âWhy wouldnât I be?âÂ
âI thought maybe you were still stressed about Emily.âÂ
Aaron pulls away, giving you your first proper look at him that morning. Heâs as handsome as ever. It makes your chest spike with anxiety. You worry all the time that youâll lose him; the thought that he might realise all the things youâre missing and break things off is a constant at the back of your mind. It only ever goes quiet when heâs kissing you. âPrentiss has done well so far,â he says. âIâm not happy to have things rearranged above my head, but I have no problem with Emily. Now, how was your morning?âÂ
âIt was fine.âÂ
âI want to know. Breakfast?âÂ
âYeah, oatmeal.âÂ
He grins. âMe too.âÂ
Nobody would ever believe that this is your boyfriend when heâs commanding a room during a profile, or apprehending an UnSub with his impassive, furrowed brow. You assumed it was the honeymoon phase at first. Itâs not like his affection makes much sense, but if heâs not stressed, it just means he loves you, which is nice. You hold the back of your hand to his cheek, laughing in a shock when he turns his face and traps it between his cheek and his shoulder.Â
âNo more late mornings,â he says decisively.Â
âI wasnât technically late. I wasnât early enough to come up to see you, is all. Are you upset I didnât bring you your coffee?âÂ
âIs that what you think?â he asks, smiling as he kisses your wrist, before straightening. You let your hand fall and he catches it on the way down.Â
âI donât know. Youâre much too touchy. Iâm trying to deduce why, butâŠâÂ
âProfile me,â Aaron says. He gives your hand a squeeze. âYou know how to do it, honey. Figure out my motive from my past behaviours.âÂ
Aaronâs only ever this sweet on you when youâre in his bed. Well, âonly everâ is harsh, but heâs never not sweet on you in the afterglow. And thatâs because intimacy is a constant reminder of how close you really are to one another, why he loves you, and why you love him. So perhaps heâs being sweet on you because youâve reminded him how loved he is? But it doesnât make much sense. You forgot his coffee.
Your stomach goes warm. âOh. Oh,â you say, âI called you last night.âÂ
âYou did.âÂ
âI was tired.âÂ
âBut you were beautiful,â he says, and what does that mean? Itâs not as though he could see your face. âI canât remember the last time you were like that. Not since we were in Helena.â
You canât remember it clearly. Threads of what youâd said come back to you slowly. Love you, my sweetheart, my Aaron. Can you come over? I know itâs late, I need to see you. You were too tired to function, let alone call someone, and yet.Â
Your face is on fire.Â
âSorry I couldnât come over, honey,â he says, chucking you under the chin with a curled finger. âI wouldâve, I promise, but I had Jack until we swapped this morning.â
You go hot all over. âNo, I know. Itâs fine, I shouldnât have called youââ
âWho says you canât call me?âÂ
âNobody, but I shouldnât have.â
âYou can call me anytime you want.â He tips your chin up. âQuick, Spencerâll have finished what I asked him to do soon. Can I kiss you?âÂ
âI forgot it was your day for Jackââ
He takes your face into his hand. âDoesnât matter, honey. Kiss?âÂ
You close your eyes and lift your chin. Ever your prince, Aaron squeezes your cheek gently and leans in to kiss you, far warmer than youâre expecting, his thumb rubbing over your cheek with a reverence he couldn't fake if he wanted to.Â
