cock is truly a beautiful thing. the scent, the taste. I love cock. cock is god’s gift to man. there is never a day that passes where I do not salivate at the mere mention of his cock, tasting it, licking it, sucking it. I want cock everything.
like a puppy boy! (yan! sub bottom! clark kent x domtop! gn! reader)
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
— masterlist ! ; related post !
a/n: short post to kickstart pride month hehe. more to come soon. just need to spread the pathetic clark kent agenda. like i said, i accidentally wrote this instead of sleeping.
*gulps* imagining an extremely flushed and overly warm clark being fingered by a smaller top reader, hands tied behind him with a fragile ribbon. the bet was set: if he doesn't move his ass to grind against the rhythm of your strokes and break the lace while you're fingers deep in him then he gets to cum, but if he dares to so much as rip the little ribbons holding him down then you get to edge him for the rest of the night— his high denied until you're satisfied enough with your punishment.
clark, as superman, prides himself in his ability to hold his strength back. but right now, golly, your fingers expertly rubbing in and out of the spongy walls of his ass has his veins bulge out of his quivering arms and buckets of sweat dribble out of his incredibly heated body. his eyes are all rolled to the back of his skull the same way his head's leaning against the bed's headboard, the poor piece of wood chipped and cracked from the way he's been repeatedly banging against it. sweat rolls like waves down his exposed adam's apple, littered with bleeding loves bites; just how he likes it.
just exactly how he begged for it.
and just right when your middle and ring finger curls up to rub that oh-so deliciously pleasurable spot inside of him, his swollen lips unleash a cacophony of gorgeous moans and breathy whines, it's like all restraints snap, the same way his wrists twists from behind him and— oh!
you removed your fingers out of him faster before he could truly reach the peak of his pleasure.
he releases a sharp cry, biting his lips when you slap his throbbing cock, where only pathetic spurts of pre-cum leaks out of his reddened tip. guilty tears water his eyes, but his shaking fingers already daintily pawing at your wrists is enough proof of his blunders.
and mistakes should always follow with correction.
"p- please..." he begs, eyes glazed with shame, humping against your clothed crotch.
yet you only glare at the discarded piece of ribbon from behind clark, then back at him, before ultimately running your thumb across his adam's apple, piercing it just a little harder when you feel him gulp.
his eyes remain fixated on your reactions, memorizing every flick of your brow, every frustrated tuts, even the way your skin grazes against his. and burns every feature and sensation of yours into his memories.
this was better than just watching you from afar before, touching himself while sniffing through your stolen blazers.
too preoccupied with his straying thoughts, he didn't notice just how hard his own hands have been clinging to your wrists.
"baby, hands off." he yelps, letting go of your wrist, arms now obediently limp at his sides. your fingers then run all the way down to his swollen nipple, twisting it, smirking widely when clark, in return, shuts his teary eyes and releases a shaky exhale. his cock only throbs even more. right, every part of him had always been sensitive.
for a man who claimed to be made of steel, he sure feels more like the fragile ribbons once tied against his wrists. and yet it's your fault for turning your past colleague this way. his inexperience is cute, but molding him to your whim is better.
maybe it's his karma for all the times you caught him staring too hard from a distance.
"you know the deal. bad boys deserve to be punished. and you proved you haven't been good to me at all— am i right?"
"y— yes."
"i can't hear you." now your fingers have found their way to toy with his faulty tip, still dribbling with pre-ejaculate, red and angry. he gasps, fists clenching the bedsheet, you hear the fabric nearly rip.
"— yes! yes, yes, yes! i- i understand" clark squeaks out a thoughtless reply, breaths coming out hasty. for a moment, it felt like the slightest bit of contact alone could make him cum.
you laugh, his face only becomes warmer.
"good," you lean in closer to him, fingers still on his tip, feeling the way his cock pulses with every slight graze. when your foreheads touch, the way perspire exudes out of his blazing skin makes, his even warmer breaths, his eyes glued to your lips— even his heartbeats thumping out of his chest makes you feel like falling in love all over again. you kiss him, eyes closed, he leans forward but is stopped by your other palm against his hairy chest.
it was a sloppy kiss, teeth clashed against teeth, drool lolls out of wet lips. for a moment, all that echoed inside your room was the sound of smacking and clark's barely concealed whimpers.
it wasn't long before you let go, though, ignoring how clark's head nearly followed you forward. like a dejected puppy, he whines.
then, like a switch, your lips touch clark's red ears, kissing it faintly. he couldn't see, but he could make out the workings of a sinister smile shaping your face. a whisper, all dark and domineering, had every vein in his body pulse like electricity had struck him.
"we're not done yet, baby. remember?"
his cock throbs when you lick the outer shell of his ears.
that's right...
the deal.
you're going to draw out as many denied orgasms as you want. you're going to drain every bit of cum out of him after. then you're going to use his body for your own pleasure, and he'll be nothing but your cute little toy by the end of the night... just exactly what he wished for.
clark is in for a long night.
goodness, he might have to call in sick for work tomorrow.
mmh thinking loads about clark and his grown-out hair…don't mind me….
tags: implied smut, fluff, domestic bliss, gratuitous mention of his curls (700+ wc)
—
i'd imagine that fhe first time you noticed would've been when you're just in bed with him, lounging after a hearty home-cooked dinner. he's laying on his belly beside you, with an arm tucked under his pillow. he gets like that when he eats too much, usually burning the lethargy off with a nap. quietly, you'd watch the sturdy, broad lines of his back rise and fall, in utter bliss.
"mm. can feel you staring at me. i think." after a long while of you squinting, he'd call you out on it, voice a sleepy, pillow-muffled drawl.
you'd clamber over his stupidly slender waist, combing your fingers through his thick, slightly coarse locks. "your hairs gotten seriously long."
clark remains a drifting cloud beneath you. the only evidence of his presence being the low, content grumbles he makes at the gentle pressure of your nails against his scalp. he lifts his head a fraction. "…has it?"
"mhm." you hum, non-committal. slumping your whole weight into the wide expanse of his broad back. scents of cedar & peppermint coating your senses. your knuckles come to push the curled out edges by the nape of his neck. it springs back up under your nudge. "i've never seen it stick out like this."
you stroke through his curls a little rougher, eliciting a full-bodied shudder from your sleepy boyfriend, "i see. i've had my hands a little full lately." a soft, deep sigh leaves him, and you feel his calloused hands blindly feel for your ankles, snug by his waist. he thumbs at the muscle there, sliding up your calf.
"should i get it cut?" he offers, cheeks pressed against his pillow.
your ministrations stills, "hmm. dunno." you answer honestly, pulling at the curled edges to make them stick out more. "it's sort of…hot. gives you a dishevelled…rugged look." you lower yourself, resting your cheeks onto his traps.
"…"
his arm wraps around your lower back. and with a swift movement, you feel your vision tilt as he plops you beneath him. "ack!" you gasp, steadying a palm by his thick bicep, which he flexes, for your enjoyment.
clark shuffles to cage you in his arms, favouring his weight with his left forearm. one side of his head is visibly styled out in a messy swoop from where you were combing through. though a shorter, unruly strand curls past his forehead.
"i'm not sure if it's good for the hero image. to look unkempt," he ponders seriously, palms pressed against his cheeks as he lays on his side.
you blink up at him. still thrown by the sudden adjustment."…i'm just saying." your knuckles graze past the stray lock, melting into him, with a thigh draped along his ribs. "i like you like this. softer. just f'me." your words trail into murmurs, but he catches them anyway.
the dimples, deep in his cheeks makes themselves known first, and he lets out a huff, sizing you with a dopey smile. "that so?" clark leans on, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ears. the first peck tickles you, with his messy hair brushing past your ears. "hahah. hey! that tickles." you groan, catching a brief glimpse of his blurred, dark locks," geez…like some…wild beast."
"hmm. make up your mind," he rumbles, trailing teasing kisses past your collarbone, to your sternum. clark lifts his head up, eyes glinting in wanton adoration for you. "am i a beast, or some cool…hip dude?"
you stare at him, in mild disgust. "cool hip dude? nevermind. you can never be rugged."
he nips at your wrist when it comes to rest at the back of his head. "ow!" you yelp, shooting him a displeased look. clark just laughs, replacing the sting with a chaste peck. he guides your hand to the back of his head, as though encouraging you to keep it there.
"got your verdict yet?" the shift in the playfulness is subtle as he makes his way down your midsection. pressing another breathy kiss beneath your breasts to your navel. your eyes don't leave him, and neither does your idle palm, half-vanished in his curls.
before you can think to answer, clark lifts your hips up for a second to slide your sleep shorts down. keeping his gaze locked on yours as he presses his lips to your inner thighs.
you swallow the shudder that threatened to give away your building arousal, hands imperceptibly tightening where it was once lax.
looking at the photo leaks of david corenswet in his suit for the new man of tomorrow movie and oh my god he's way bigger, the emblem on his chest is also bigger, he looks so buffed up compared to the first movie that i might just be imagining passionately licking the sweat off of superman's oiled up pecs, tongue lapping up the moist in his chest hair like morning dew, right after he rests from another day of protecting metropolis... like i don't need to cook no dinner when the entire meal's laid out in front of me behind that deliciously beautiful suit of his...
clark "that was a big one, huh? didn't that feel good?" kent that talks filth in your ear while he's playing with your cunt; two middle fingers hooked inside, heel of his palm pressed over your clit. he toys with it, with you — teasing both your mind and pussy as he controls the way in which you feel.
it's not just about your cunt, with him. it's about your mind too. he'd argue that it needs more stimulating than anything else. so when he's playing with your pussy, working you up more and more, he's lips are against the shell of your ear whispering uncharacteristic obscenities like a guide.
he talks to you in such a dulcet tone, words of praise and admiration making you feel the most idolised and most adored. he tells you how good you sound and how pretty you look, speaking it to you like it rolls off his tongue.
and every time that he makes you cum, he's talking you through it, encouraging the rippling feeling within your body with little, "that's it, there we go,"s
when you finally come down from each and every high, he's telling you how good you did and how well you responded to him. only it's followed with a soft question, an ask about your climax and if you, "want another one?" querying whether you have it in you for just one more.
fic authors self rec ! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to five other writers <3
hehehehe. thannk u dulche <3 this wasn't a hard draw tbh, these fics play such BIG role in my style as a writer, and honestly tell you everything you need to know about me as a person akfjbaev
1 // Killing Eve
SUMMARY: Clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.
2 // Love, Temptation
SUMMARY: The first time Superman meets a telepath and nearly gets his secret revealed.
3 // Killshot
SUMMARY: Clark Kent scores an interview with Bruce Wayne's infamous sister — you. Except you don't make it easy for him.
4 // Everybody Here Wants You
SUMMARY: Clark and you share a room at a motel for the night.
5 // Burning Blue
SUMMARY: Superman attends a gala where he's being honoured and steals some time from a very hard-to-get Congresswoman — you.
clark getting jealous because you’re fawning over one of your celebrity crushes, huffing and puffing when you try to comfort him, kissing him softly and rubbing his biceps as a form of apology.
he’d already forgiven you way before you apologised, but he likes the attention.
my boyfriend getting jealous cause i posted a pic of david corenswet im sorry little baby
scott miller who lets you lay your head in his lap and suck on his cock while he goes through storm images and data. he's all but ignoring you, eyes glued to the oil slick colors of the doppler radar while you give kitten licks to his slit and try to get his attention by bobbing your head as deep as you can at your awkward sideways angle. still he doesn't glance down, clicking through endless spreadsheets with numbers coded under columns you can't read even under better circumstances, and you're starting to think you're doing something wrong until you lift your head to press all the way down and he takes an almost punishing grip on your hair, holding you still while you whine and gag. when you tap his hip, he lets you drag back to breathe. a line of spit connects your lips to his thick, ruddy tip, and finally he casts those steel blue eyes down to you with a look of disdain and maybe, if you try hard to imagine it, something softer.
"don't distract me," he says. "you're the one who wanted to do this."
ch.7 pt 2: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)
directory: read under the end for an author's note.
tw: heavy depictions of self harm, suicide, and depression.
now playing: hate yourself by tv girl.
when alfred had finally arrived back at the batcave with a full tray of hot teas and coffees in one hand, as promised, the atmosphere was almost exactly as he predicted.
tense.
heavy.
but alarmingly quiet at the same time.
like a single drop of a pin would be enough to shatter the glass-like silence blanketing the entire cave.
no one had said a word when the ding of the elevator had sounded, but the eyes all pointed at him were enough to tell a story. like they'd all been awaiting his arrival, a hungry pack of wolves desperate and in need of answers from the only man with answers to their questions about you.
just who you are. where you are. and why — despite never truly knowing you — do you matter so much to them?
answers enough to satiate that clawing grip of insanity, guilt, and collective desire to impulsively take you back from where you're hiding and find the answers through you instead.
alfred doesn't feel a sliver of goosebumps from the heavy stare of dick near the panel of computers, wrecked with swarming emotions, he tears his attention off the heavy clacking of barbara's keyboard searching for any clues about your whereabouts, he strides, slow, steady, and calm, towards tim who had been scrolling through his phone in a shared effort to stalk through your information, with duke watching over his screen from behind. he sighs when he finds stephanie, accompanied by cassandra patting her back and whispering assurances, leaning her body against a crate of artillery to find balance after another wave of nausea had overtaken her.
the butler walks forward, closer and closer to the section of computer screens, and he places the tray down with no haste. barbara pauses, hesitates — likely riddled with doubts if she even deserves to be given a chance to unwind when time was ticking in search of you — but still, she wheels herself closer, taking a cup of coffee for herself, thanking alfred with a hesitant quirk of her lips, then returns back to her place.
typing once more. quicker, like the guilt had settled into her thoughts right after.
beside him was bruce, who maintained his neutral, frowning expression. for a moment, memories of your own expressions emerged into his mind. of the day he first saw you, stone faced and neutral like your father. unresponsive, silent, and dangerously close to disappearing into the shadows, if not for your labored breathing; just like your father.
you two were always the like the sides of a coin.
he turns to see the culprit's eyes glued to the screen filled with tabs of barbara's online searches, unblinking, as if the goal of finding you would solve anything other than the questions about your location—
as if stalking you would be enough to compensate for the years he wasted turning his back on you, never knowing a single thing about who you are as a person. what your goals were. your aspirations. everything.
deep down, alfred knew how bruce had been the most troubled. had been riddled the most with guilt and regret. he knew bruce would stop at nothing until he'd done enough to earn an ounce of your forgiveness. he'd move the world, fight wars he knew would be impossible to win, twist every fabric of reality if he could, to undo the years of aching silence he'd unknowingly forced upon your life and be the father he was meant to be for you.
he knew, but doesn't speak up, only closing his wrinkled eyes and shaking his head after staring up at the man, your father's, face: glowering, solid, and lit up by the reflection of the screen. most likely thinking of all the ways to make it up to you, apologize, before he could even see you in person.
he was not surprised by anyone.
alfred doesn't even flinch from when behind him, damian's sword cluttered to the floor, its sharp clang! echoing across the room like church bells singing its last song.
the bats above have flapped their wings in sudden, waking alarm. the same way the pages of your heaviest, most tattered sketchbook flattered across the cave's floor, revealing, to the eyes of many who can see the papers closest to them—
photographs, diagrams, illustrations, layouts, even notes about their vigilante identity.
displayed to them like artworks you'd find in museums. intricate pieces of evidences, headlines, even fucking graphs that gathered data comparing the frequency and correlation of their public sightings and presence along the manor. drawings of their hero costumes, old and new, from when dick was a young robin, to even the updated suits right after tim took charge of the mantle.
dick, who had been silent throughout the ordeal after jason had ended the call, was too shaky and afraid of what knowledge the entries hold. yet he had gathered all the willpower and courage to grasp the collection of paper that had landed right near his foot. his fingers rub along the frayed edges, but even with its age can he read the blurred ink lines running meticulously across the pages.
(yet his panicked eyes also run over the splotches of dried blood carelessly painting the papers. it wasn't just a tiny amount too. it was everywhere. like paint thrown across a canvas, it's smeared over some texts, blotched the sides and the bottom and— why was there blood? why was there so much? whose blood was it? the questions flood endlessly in his brain, and he's afraid even the answers would devastate him to the point of no return if he ever discovered it was yours.)
despite his disbelief, he skims over some paragraphs, takes in every bitter word, every spiteful phrase that had filled every blood-stained page.
the first thought that came to dick's mind was... well, it was impressive. any child of bruce, adopted or not, was destined for great things. yet even outside of bruce, dick knew his baby bird was always capable. but he never knew the extent of how great those things were.
it was another failure on his part.
it was another failure as your eldest brother.
he never really knew you, had only seen a part of you in his memories, but never the true you—
before he even discovered countless of your sketchbooks, journals, even the medals alfred had forgotten to store away, all hidden within your room; to dick, you were just the kid with shining, bright eyes in the face of your mother's tragedies. hopeful, naive, one of the youths dick had promised to protect as long as he lived. but he never had put an effort to know about your hobbies, your interests, your goals or your true thoughts.
not until now...
where even then he's hesitant to know, in fear that your hope for him had rotten and all that remained was rightful hatred.
so much so that when he flipped the paper to its back, his worst nightmares had begun to fester into reality.
he feels as if his heart had begun traversing its way up his throat, ceased, and then refused to move.
"journal entry #15: dick grayson and nightwing." it starts, followed with printed pictures of him swinging around the city, captured by cameras on standby. colored illustrations of his suits had a timeline plastered to its bottom, ranging from him as robin, to his transitions as nightwing.
you long knew about his identity of nightwing; your entries dated from nearly six years ago, when you were about to hit your thirteenth birthday mark—
then he vaguely recalls back-reading through one of your messages, and remembers your invitation to have him come to your small celebration.
"my bday's coming soon!" his phone screen had never looked so blurry until the time he'd scroll through the far dates of your texts, noticing how by every new message, your enthusiasm slowly dwindled. yet your first ones were once so full of life — and he realized he should've never dismissed your message as just some trick towards him; maybe then things would've been different. maybe you would be here, with him, laughing and painting the manor with your shining presence — he never realized you'd even went through great effort to ask for his number through alfred.
"you don't have to buy me a gift or anything, your presence is enough of one already!" you invited him alone. it should've done a great deal of pride to him, and yet all he ever did was make mistake after mistake, restricting your phone number to limit the spam.
you also said you planned cupcakes instead of a cake, said it was too much for you to finish. it was unusual at first— but then, sitting in your creaking room with the humid air of your tiny room clogging his brain, it took a little thinking to realize you'd been celebrating all your birthdays alone.
when your mother had died, when jason had already been dead, everyone, even alfred, was too wrapped up mourning and grieving. dick had spiraled enough with every argument towards bruce, then tim came into the fray— without your mother, it had just been you and alfred. you were never close to tim.
you've been reaching milestones alone.
another failure as your older brother.
he wants to vomit, crumple on the floor and dry heave— he wants to die thinking some more.
you were so desperate to even have one guest to your birthday party. was it even a party in the first place?
you were so fucking desperate you'd even told dick you'll do whatever flavor of frosting he'd prefer. you never thought of yourself at that moment, you only thought about dick coming to your celebration, of anyone coming.
then all of a sudden, dick realized that during the date of your birthday, he had actually been in the manor.
and worse? he'd spent it with alfred by his side the entire time.
he spent your birthday with alfred.
fuck...!
he could've spent it with you!
it was only after the late hours of the night did the butler dismiss himself with a worried furrow of his brows, seeming more insistent in leaving early rather than staying with the athlete. dick before didn't understand why for the first time in a while, alfred had other matters to attend to when tim was at a sleepover and bruce was in the middle of press conference. dinner would come later that night, dick was about to ask alfred why if he hadn't left his side already.
at that, he shrugged his shoulders, returning to his room, opting to sleep the night instead and waking up at midnight where he'd follow up with bruce over patrols, see if they could talk things out.
he should've known.
alfred's hasty footsteps echoing across the hallways should've been a sign of suspicion, but dick had been far too consumed with other worries. about his team, about his argument with bruce, about bludhaven and everything else weighing his mind.
worries that he shouldn't have to prioritize when he'd done nothing that day except converse with alfred, ranting to the manor's butler about mundane things to distract himself with that clawing feeling that something felt wrong amidst the silence—
because then he wouldn't have to imagine his baby bird, standing there all alone in the kitchen, ingredients at stand by, looking around to find every hallway, with no one coming to their little celebration.
how many times has that happened?
how many times have you been left to your own device, hopelessly waiting for a miracle?
how many birthdays of yours had he rejected without knowing, in favor of prioritizing something else, someone else?
how many birthdays, milestones, celebrations did you have while the entire family spent nights separate from each other— or spending with each other, whilst without you, instead?
dick completely understands if you've fucking despised every bit of him after always ditching your invitations—
because now, you've written your personal notes about him beside all the drawings. even a single skim of the paragraphs of text was enough for dick to know this was written not out of awe. the more he reads under his breath, the faster the pace in his heavy heart quickens.
"dick is- is nightwing." he stutters, ignoring the squeak of barbara's wheelchair nearing him, too engrossed to even notice her grabbing some of the pages from his hands.
he continues to read, as if under an unwilling trance, mind fogged with every word that shifts into vivid imaginations of your self writing these entries in your too-small bedroom.
"it's- it's obvious from the way they share the same acrobatic moves that... that he does in secret in rooms where he thinks i'm not looking.
his eyes flip to another carelessly erased line, making out every letter through blurry eyes — a reflection to what you truly think, but still ashamed to admit — lips quivering as he whispers, "he- he does it in front of everyone but, but me. like he's ashamed of even acting like himself, like i'm undeserving of even seeing a part of him natural to others—
"no, little bird. you were never..." he disrupts through his narration, tries not to tear the paper out, which kept revealing every bit of resentment you felt for the athlete from the start. he could feel every venomous word injecting into his veins, he couldn't do anything to stop reading at the same time.
dick wanted to know every emotion you felt, and yet, biting his lips—
"it's me who doesn't deserve you. you shouldn't... shouldn't talk about yourself like this. nobody deserves you..."
it was all he could comment. he wish you could hear these sentiments in person, he wishes you were here just so he could disprove every line, every insult you'd written off as cruel jokes meant to hurt yourself.
cruel jokes that always came with dripping ichor.
no matter how aged and dry the blood may be, he couldn't wash away the scent of it clinging on shriveled paper; another wave of guilt clings to his heavy heart.
yet the truth continues.
"he does these— these flips i see him perform on TV as nightwing, and i remember all the times he'd mindlessly do handstands or jump from the second floor to the next, smiling to anyone who'd see. they don't know how lucky they are, dick was never this way to me...sometimes he'd also do it when i'd sneak into the cave and find him talking with the others...
"every time he does, he's got the same..." charming, was what was supposed to be written next, but you've scribbled over the word, violently, as dick's trembling fingers runs over the back of the paper, feeling the torn page, the heavy handed words engraved in every line; imagining just how much animosity had filled your entire being to the point you'd replace charming with—
"he's got the same... dishonest— the same disgustingly huge smile he always gave me whenever he made excuses that he's busy, that he's got work, hero work — he never says, i pretend to never suspect — to do.
"i- i understand that," he stutters, biting his lips at the sarcasm which bleeds into every word. "you can't stop someone like dick. when he's got his mind set on a goal, not even bruce or damian can talk him out of it. in that order of things, my opinion would never matter, hah. i just was never considered into a goal. so i understand. it's not like i can be mad for any longer when he still smiles at me while making all these excuses and- and sometimes even promises of next time's. at least he doesn't see me as a villain, he doesn't mistreat me or anything. so i can't blame him, he's... still nice.
"but then again, it's also so obvious, of course, that the only difference between me and the people he saves on TV is... is that the smile he shows them... is genuine.
"and the one he shows me is still just the product of an afterthought—"
dick couldn't finish reading the entire entry before slamming the papers down on the panels beside him, quivering hands wracking across his hair and slamming into his face.
his eyes, they fill with salty water faster than he could swallow down the heavy lump residing in his throat.
for a moment, the manor's air stills once more.
his thoughts betray him and fill him with pictures of your younger self, your scarred fingers writing alone in your room— the blood dripping down and on to the paper from the deep cuts etched into your skin, from your swollen fingertips sore from all the words you've etched with faded ballpens. how, despite the pain wracking throughout your very body, you'd continue to write down the feelings too heavy to express, once hopeful eyes slowly dimming until it bursts to flames.
until all you felt was resentment dick deserved to feel from you.
the more he imagines your own pen stabbing every word into paper, the more it starts to feel like every word was a thousand knives stabbing into his very skin. if not for the panels keeping his stability, leaning to his side, he'd collapse.
"no..."
god no.
have you always thought of him this way? was he always like this to you?
he didn't mean to treat you like you were nothing.
he didn't mean for you to portray his tired smiles and his dismissive hands as a sign of disinterest, of falsified emotions, of dick acting like you never mattered when he was just— he was just so oversaturated with the guilt of jason's death, his fights with bruce, his teammates, the teen titans, the loss, the grief. he didn't mean anything—
but that wasn't a fucking excuse.
not when he'd left you waiting for thirteen years, not when he'd treat you like a second option, waved you, told you, "not today!" with a smile betraying his every intention.
he'd never given you a chance, that was an undeniable fact. even when you were always home, even when he found the time to be home for all the others.
he doesn't understand himself, he wanted to so badly—
call you, his baby bird.
he wants to fix things, correct his mistakes, even if it were too late, even if the image of him, once bright and shining, was now tarnished into a stranger you'd despise. dick just wanted to — no matter how much he rubs his eyes with his arms to rid the spilling tears, bites his lips, crumples the fragile paper with shivering fingers to numb his emotions down before the guilt devours him whole — he wants to apologize a thousand times. he wants to take back every wrong action of his and consume you in all his emotions, the good, the bad, the ugly— just so your opinion of him would change.
just so you wouldn't see him as the brother who was never there.
who was always running off to bludhaven to avoid you.
dick wanted to grovel, he wanted to crumple into a ball and remove the aching lump that had resided in his throat ever since he found your room. the tears he thought would never fall from his eyes were already bursting before he could even cease it. and ashamed as he may be from being seen in all his rawest form by the others; the pain, the guilt, the memory of your wide-eyed smile, the sensation of your tiny fingers holding tight against his palm overpowers any embarrassment he thought he'd felt.
god, he misses you.
he wants to see you — the paper has long since been shriveled by his powerful grip, his head buried in his arms, all the tears he'd been holding back came rushing out of him 'til it turned to dry heaves, and alfred's gloved palms patting his back doesn't compensate for anything other than unneeded sympathy. the silence that the others had allotted for your grieving older brother wouldn't change the fact that you're still the missing piece inside the manor. and for the first time in a while, he felt the same shadow that had cloaked his entire being from the moment he'd found out jason died after he'd returned from that space mission, that he was too late to even save the boy; too late to save you from yourself — dick had never despised himself as much as he did now.
he knew he could never be forgiven, he knew that for as long as he lived, he would never live up to the image of him you once held in high regard anymore.
yet as he laments all the moment he could've been your older brother, could've been your family, your hero— he still pictures the quirk in your tired steps, the way your eyes lightened, the way your wide smile revealed your chipped teeth from the very moment he first left you at your room; and it only makes the tears run down faster.
he imagines that little child all alone in the kitchen on the day of their birthday, blowing on the little candle of their cupcake in the dark of the night, making a wish for a better one next year.
have you even received a gift from any of them before?
— god, his eyes clamp down harder, drowning the world in all the darkness — a sight you've probably been accustomed to living here, dick hates thinking about it — he doesn't even want to imagine anymore, biting down at his tense arms, trying to stifle his sobs.
yet no matter how much he tries, he couldn't get rid of the hole that had ripped right into his chest, the ache thumps louder in his heart every time your little smiling face appears in all his thoughts, it was a pain that clawed into emptiness, settled deeply in every scar wracking across his body.
a reminder that even with all his sacrifices, all the battles he fought— he still couldn't save you.
he still couldn't save his baby bird.
if you had wished for a new family in that lonely birthday of yours, he understands you.
if you had wished for one you can actually call your own, for a father who was never absent, for a family who never turned their backs on you, for an older brother to never once break any empty promises; he truly understands.
because dick could be the leader, the dependable older brother, the hope of bludhaven. he could spend his entire life saving others. he can grow, fix his relationship with bruce, with jason, raise damian, become the idol everyone knew and loved and never once doubted.
he can be the change his city needs to be a better place—
but no matter what, at the end of the day—
he'll always hate himself.
the voices within the cave remained silent.
at the same time, no words were needed to be said.
it was difficult to ignore dick's weeping all throughout, his lonesome bawling was the only sound that filled the empty space. the only sound that penetrated the suffocation everyone but alfred felt.
even the bats had stopped their panicked wings from flapping due to the earlier commotion. the stalagmites that once dribbled water had deafened into nothingness. if it was because everyone had succumbed to their own thoughts, or if it was because it seemed the manor had stilled the noise for you— nobody knew the answers.
there was truly nothing filling the air except for dick, and even then his sobs were stifled by his arms.
the clawing silence remained, the volume of dick's sobs had grown softer. he had been mumbling "sorry's" and incoherent apologies all throughout. sometimes there were promises, other times he'd choke on his own tears and beat at his chest, begging for something they couldn't hear.
nobody could easily approach him, let alone ask if he was alright.
the answers were already obvious.
alfred had ceased from any physical comfort he'd offer to the shivering hero, withdrawing his palms and returning to bruce's side. bruce, whose face, once neutral, now softened when he shared a glance with the butler.
like him, he knew his words wouldn't do any help. it might even make things worse—
it might make dick storm off the manor and find you alone.
as much as they felt pity, both alfred and bruce knew dick was too far gone to be even offered anything to make him feel better. any affirmations, small or big, words or not, couldn't soothe the all consuming guilt he'd felt.
all they could do was leave him to his own bubble, ignore the guilt eating at their conscience too. not even a remark was heard from a wide-eyed damian, who had watched his eldest brother the entire time, who felt like part of this was his fault too.
and yet he didn't mean to drop your sketchbook for the entire family to see.
he didn't mean to be a part of the spiral of events leading to dick's breakdown.
it was his sworn duty, an unspoken promise, to keep things of yours all for himself. the entirety of his early training inside the batcave was just a distraction for him to extricate any thoughts he had of you. he'd hidden your sketchbooks in corners of the cave, in cabinets where he's guaranteed nobody, not even tim, would open, let alone access.
then he tried to train with his sword as intended while waiting for the rest to arrive at bruce's announcement.
yet even if his slashes against the training dummies were harsher, even if he had to remind himself that you shouldn't be infecting his thoughts as much as you did for others— like dick, he couldn't erase any memories he had of you. he couldn't erase the gruesome illustrations you drew, your aggressive reaction from the last time you've talked to him, even that one memory you had together that had been pestering him long before you even left the manor...
in the end, he found himself in the middle of the open space, fingers running across the spine of your thickest sketchbook; one figured he hadn't opened before. with papers stuck in between pages, and pages ready to fall off if he even dared open the book.
the one he held was different from the others. it had no front cover title like it typically does. not even a name etched on any side. your other sketchbooks always had old and peeling stickers embedded into its covers. some were nonsensical, others were what he speculated to be your favorite characters from shows he also watched — he never realized just how similar you two were. if it were him in the past, he'd reject the notion, spit on the shoes of anyone who'd dare point it out — you'd use a white acrylic markers on some textured pages, draw stars, zigzags, swirls; anything that gave it personality.
anything that screams the fact it's yours.
but this one was fancier, a more expensive sketchbook. left blank and barren, like you didn't want any trace of it linked back to you.
everything about it was bizarre.
damian knew that although your voice was the one everyone heard the least, the things you owed had marks, titles, names that were unique only to you.
if anyone else had taken your possessions, even if you were a stranger to most, they'd know it'd be yours.
damian knew how desperate you were to be known.
to be seen.
that's why everything of yours had to be yours. it needed to have pieces of you stuck on every corner, it needed to scream you.
the fact that he knew all this, the fact that he knew information, unknown to others, about you at all, despite his inherent refusal to acknowledge your existence within the manor—
he wouldn't explain.
but he knew either way, and that was all that needed to be said.
... hence why it was strange how this sketchbook of yours has no identity traced back to you.
but to damian, it also meant something special. something sacred if you were keen in hiding something. damian believed it's special if only he had the access to whatever knowledge you'd hidden in your sketchbooks—
except when he'd open through the middle pages, he was greeted not by the more intimate journal entries you typically opt to write in blank pages, not by the graphic drawings he'd expected to see— but by an array of faded blueprints of the cave he stands in now, sketchbook spreads of their costumes: front, middle, and back; all drawn so accurately, it sends shivers across damian's spines to imagine just how intimately close you were to the suits to even know the patterns up close.
even speculations about the items they carry inside their utility belts, backed by newspaper clippings that show candid photographs of the vigilantes takings candies, ropes, and of the like out of their belts.
you weren't hiding something from them.
if you did, you'd have taken this sketchbook to your grave, you wouldn't have left it alongside your other belongings, things you thought would carry dust, be discarded by alfred. but you've known more about them far longer than they did you, you've compiled entries about what you've learned, little notes; passive aggressive remarks. you knew about their hero identities—
damian wasn't horrified about you knowing about them, even if your compiled proofs were shoved right in his face, even if he felt the hairs on his body prick up— he'd drawn a sword right to your neck at the first meeting; you were bound to be curious either way. about your half-brother. about the life he had prior to gotham. alfred had given you a quick rundown about the young boy before you'd greet him by the door.
the sweat running down his forehead, his legs feeling like jelly, his pupils dilating wasn't attributed to your discovery of their secret identities.
damian wasn't that afraid of that fact, even if there was a lingering ounce of astonishment.
no.
he was shaken by the thought that you knew so early.
that you were aware of the different life they led outside of yours. that you were almost purposely kept out of the picture and that you knew—
you knew so well that your largest sketchbook yet, and it was by far one of the oldest too, spanning from inexperienced sketches of batman's costume from the very start, to the whiter, more untouched pages by the very back.
— his fingers had not shaken just carrying the sheer, behemoth-like weight of the book, but the weight of your knowledge, the regret that had suddenly invaded all his thoughts; it had him slip both his book and his sword right out of his hold like butter, just right before he could remember to tighten his grip.
the crash was deafening like the wringing in his ears. he'd stick to his spot for a second, frozen in place whilst the others had begun to notice the contents of the paper.
then the rest became a blur to damian, the young boy looking down at his hands, his scarred fingers, his calloused palms. he's sworn to use them for good as robin, as a protector of this city alongside batman.
it wasn't easy.
the change was not sudden for damian. you can't just undo the years of battle and gruesome training he'd went into being an assassin. but there was still an undeniable change. becoming robin by force, being treated like an outsider at first, dealing with judgemental stares, working with his father's disappointment, meeting steph and finally being treated like a kid by her, getting closer to dick— having to prove his way into being a worthy holder of the mantle he had now.
damian asks himself:
was he worthy of redemption after all these years? was he worthy of atonement for all the blood he shed? when even in the path to proving himself— he'd never been good to you?
would forgiveness come naturally after he'd told you you were better off gone in the first place?
he'd taken a step back, sensations unwelcome but not unknown had invaded his every being: the warmth he felt when he first saw you, followed by the burning rage, the unworthiness, the envy.
your once unafraid eyes staring right at him, your welcoming nature, holding that damned tray of sweets staring back at him in mockery, all the traits he saw in himself in you if he wasn't raised to be like who he was—
you knew about their nightly endeavors, you knew of how often you've been left behind and excluded from everything, and yet you remained kind.
kind, but also afraid to take another step in his direction.
you've learned to shake under his gaze, learned to turn the opposite way when you've crossed paths, not only in the manor but in school, in public where anyone could see that these two half-siblings never acted like they were.
you changed your seating arrangement so you'd sit off at the far corner of the already long and winding dining table; only for the distance between you and your family to turn wider; eating with utensils barely clanking the ceramics, turning away from everybody, excusing yourself too early.
sometimes, you wouldn't even come down at all.
you shrink in your position every time he'd enter the library, leave without a word, watch him and dick become closer brothers than you ever had the chance of even spending a second with the eldest.
you both were the outsiders, and yet only one remained the victor.
you'd done everything to avoid more pain into your already miserable life. you'd done nothing wrong and damian had purposely inflicted more and more until your cup of patience was drained and you'd almost exploded at him. if he wanted to prove himself to be the rightful vigilante of the city, then why'd he act like villain to you...?
what was it about you that had him feeling so deliberately jealous?
... before his questions could be answered, he had already been counted into the family.
they were kinder to him now, less cautious—
he'd learn to speak less formally, gained friends at school, joined a football team, earned crushes, got teased; he had been counted in invitations before it was even considered.
he learned that it was alright to not act older than his age. he'd been treated like the boy he is, a young child still cluelessly navigating a world full of mysteries.
life was faring well, as well as it could get in gotham, and yet...
he was constantly reminded of how you were the only one in the family who was the first to treat him with compassion.
you were the one who'd open the door on him first before everybody else, despite alfred's cautious warnings, despite knowing the boy younger than you would be acknowledged far easier than you who had lived in the manor for the entirety of your life.
you were everything damian was not. you were everything damian wished to be.
he'd read your entries, learned about your bitterness, and you never took it out on him despite all your venomous words cutting through paper. you held yourself back from lashing out. you never reciprocated the same damning words he'd spew right at you. never fought back except for the very end; where you'd learn to avoid him if it meant a day of peace.
when he'd learn to miss you after.
where shortly after, the manor had become quieter.
he looks at his palms again.
these were meant to protect, meant to shield his older sibling from harm, to serve common people like you who had no power against the crimes of this city. you were the only non-vigilante in the family, the only person vulnerable enough to walk on the city's streets with the risk of danger with every footstep, and he was your baby brother— but he should've been far beyond that.
he should've been your protector too.
... and yet all these hands had ever done for him was hurt you.
no one else was there to protect you from his harm.
damian doesn't understand why. he remains lost in thought, lost for words.
lost in the regrets that'd pile up in his chest until all he could feel was the same sting, like an open wound poured with alcohol, when you'd glare back at him after another round of verbal assault, when you'd run away from the boy, when he stalked you all the way to your room and found you piercing through fragile, already scarred skin with yet another razor— that he swore he'd thrown out before, that meant you'd went and bought another, unable to live a day without constant physical torment—
your head was tilted down, eyes drawn wide open, blankly gazing at the crimson droplets beading and dripping from your thighs. this had turned into a habit. just another coping mechanism.
this became routine.
numbing down every bitter emotion beating out of your chest by hurting yourself with something worse.
and damian could only watch you fall deeper into a hole he helped dig.
what kind of hero was he if he couldn't even save his older sibling?
he recalls you, peeking through your doors, how you hit back loud sobs, head buried on your quivering, bleeding thighs, still afraid of being heard, blood seeping out of lips from all the times your teeth would pierce through wounds meant to heal, your nail beds had been bitten raw, fingertips stained with red, too, as you run your hands, ripping, tearing at matted hair; even if you were located in the far, abandoned corners of the manor, you'd learn to regulate your sobs in fear of it echoing through the halls.
to him, you were like a wounded animal, a terrified dog who'd learn that noise meant another inflicted bruise, another horrific slash across your body. being heard never meant being seen, being judged for acting the way you do. you'd shrink in the far corners, until you could be mistaken for a faint silhouette, and it was far better than knowing you were only acknowledged, but you were never offered a helping hand.
whilst damian had all the help he could get into becoming better, you'd disappear into the sidelines, only to become worse.
even if damian himself had tried every means of delaying your hurt without you ever knowing, you'd always find another way. you'd always be one step ahead of him, and you'd be back to picking scabs, back to scratching your neck, biting your knuckles, running off to find alfred, to every corner of the room only to find nothing—
because the butler had been busier in the batcave, day by day, caring for damian, losing his attention to you as a consequence.
back then, he found that a bragging right. another reason to shove in your face, another 'why' on why he's better than you. why your presence is a stain against the growing family. because the butler you love, who you thought would always be by your side had began catering and offering his own familial love towards the youngest— the youngest who'd done everything to remind you you were nothing and nobody.
he thought, at the sight of you falling on your knees after hours of searching for alfred through winding hallways, empty rooms, dizzying stairways until you'd land inside the library, begging, whispering under your breath, to any god, to any deity willing to hear you, while tears had begun cascading down your swollen eyes and hollow cheeks— he thought he'd laugh, thought he'd feel relief, like a heavy weight would be lifted from his chest just being witness to you falling into despair at the lack of alfred's presence.
he thought the pathetic sight would only make the pride heighten in his heart.
instead, all that came to him was his limp arms laying still on his sides, not a sound unable to escape his tightening throat. wide, terrified eyes had settled on your heaving body.
crumpling down on the carpeted floors, you were unable to breathe.
unable to release anymore of your pathetic sobs, you'd resort to clawing on furniture, the sharp edges of the coffee table violently hit your sides, you wince, you release a sharp cry, but still, you continue stumbling far deeper into the nook of the library, afraid of being heard.
the sight before him was a wretched show.
'but i've seen people suffer far worse.' his thoughts try to convince him, but his fingers tightly clenching the hems of his shirt tells another story.
'i've beheaded assassins before, i've seen guts mangling out of hanging bodies, stacks of corpses piled on top of another. the stench of rotten decay is as familiar as the polluted air in gotham—'
... and yet you crumbling into a ball in the corner dealt a far worse nausea residing in his thoughts, a lump forming on his chest the same way it always does when he notices another round of makeshift gauzes had been carelessly slapped on your heavily clothed body.
damian was terrified at the way you carelessly threw yourself into more danger.
damian was terrified of what your carelessness might entail.
... your little brother imagines your dangling body suspended in the air, neck embraced by a rope. and nobody would've known you were gone, nobody would've been there by the time the last exhale has escaped your purplish lips.
you'd be dead, and you'd be mourned for far too late.
and suddenly his vision spins, a wave of bile clung stubbornly up his throat.
damian doesn't want to imagine anymore, then he feels a draw, a magnetic pull, like he'd want to come out of his hiding spot, reveal himself to you— not to insult you, shame you for being weak. but your younger brother watching you hide behind bookshelves, gazing blankly, paired with the horrifying imagery of your deceased body—
one he couldn't just erase from his thoughts...
he doesn't like admitting it: but all he wanted to do was to comfort you the same way alfred had always stuck by his side, the same way stephanie had brought him to that bounce house and treated him like a young boy— damian wanted to, he needed to sit by your side. he doesn't want to see you cower in fear anymore, for your pupils to shrink, for your first instinct to turn the other way and away from him.
all he wanted was to lean his head against your shoulders, pretend like he had never once drawn a sword on you, like he had never committed any of his past mistakes— all he wanted to be your younger brother.
maybe it was a way to comfort himself too.
maybe he just doesn't want to be ridden with nightmares of your limp, decaying body for every second he'd shut his eyes.
but he wasn't brave enough, not yet. he regrets not being enough. he regrets simply resorting to watching you over in the shadows instead. watching you curl over, nails blunt from being bitten raw digging deep in your knees. he watches you try your best to steady your lungs, to contain the nasty bile tethering over the edge of your lips. the longer you sat there, accompanied only by the dust motes floating under the dim, warm lights in the library, the more the shame, the regret, the undulating hatred in himself curled bigger and bigger until it became mocking voices, violent imagery of what could, what would happen to you if he doesn't come save you right now.
... yet despite it all, he never once came out of the obscurity of the shadows. he never had with you. he never did until it was too late.
he remained stationary, engulfed in nothing but guilty conscience.
and really, it was ironic: two siblings suspended in the dark night, and yet only one had truly seen the light.
and damian notices, he always notices, no matter how much he pretends to never care,
that the longer you cried all by yourself...
the more it seemed to never end.
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
PLEASE READ: oh my god, i poured all my heart and soul into this, cried a bit bec i was afraid of losing progress again, and then cheered some more when i finished. so i'm begging for comments, interactions, any of ur fave lines please. there's a lot of parallels between dick and the mc. and then between damian and mc too. and u guys don't know it, but your comments and submissions were so much help in making me finish this early 😭🙏 also, thank u guys for ur patience! i appreciate all the kind comments, all the encouraging words in my inbox. honestly, i never expected a&a to be as much of a passion project as it is now. it used to be an outlet for my emotions, and it still is, but i never realized how many people actually loved the reader as much as much. that's it, love y'all !!!
don't forget to leave comments under this post ! i appreciate rereading through ppls inputs and it means a lot to me <3 (also makes me upload more frequently)
a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fucked…
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.
If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count.
If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either.
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them.
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.
You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”
Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
“You seem awfully confident about that.”
“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”
“Need five minutes,” he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”
“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
“Come open my door.”
“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR would’ve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s wrong with Scott?”
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”
Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”
“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”
“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”
You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”
“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”
You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
“What’s your current issue?” you asked.
“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”
Scott snorted.
“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”
“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”
“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”
“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
“Can we leave now?” you asked.
Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”
Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”
“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”
“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”
“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”
You barked out another incredulous laugh.
“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”
“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”
“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.
Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.
“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.
“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”
“You’re right.”
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.
“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.
“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”
Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”
You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”
“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”
“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.
“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.
It just wasn’t the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.
You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.
You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)
sukuna's voice echoes through the chamber, and his concubines freeze. they look at each other in confusion, then at you—kneeling beside his throne as always.
"my lord?" one brave woman ventures. "have we displeased you?"
"you bore me." his four eyes don't leave you as he speaks. "i have no use for any of you anymore. get out of my sight."
the women flee, and suddenly you're alone with the king of curses. he reaches down with one massive hand, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.
"do you know why i sent them away, angel?"
you shake your head, heart pounding.
"because you're the only woman’s hair i can bear to have laying on my sheets; the incense of my chambers only smell right when mixed with your essence, you've ruined me for anyone else."
you guess you've always known you were his favourite, the silk beneath you is the finest in the realm—crimson and gold, woven by hands that will never touch such luxury themselves. incense burns in ornate braziers. pillows embroidered with thread-of-gold, lacquered boxes holding treasures from across the land.
"sukuna—"
"silence." but his tone is almost gentle. "i'm going to worship you now. going to show you what it means to be chosen by a god."
he strips you slowly, reverently, each piece of clothing removed with care. when you're naked in his lap, he just looks at you for a long moment.
"beautiful," he murmurs as his hands roam your body—one pair cupping your breasts, another gripping your hips "such delicate beauty. such fragile mortality. tell me, angel, do you understand the honor bestowed upon you? you are not merely favored—you are singular. absolute. the only vessel worthy of my attentions... you are only mine now, angel."
he lifts you easily, positioning you over his girth. you're already wet from his attention, but the stretch as he lowers you onto him makes you gasp.
"take it, angel. take all of me—let your king worship you as you deserve," he guides you down slowly, letting you adjust to his size. "no other shall know my touch. no other shall warm my bed. you have become my sole indulgence, and I intend to savor you thoroughly."
when he's fully seated inside you, he holds you still, just savoring the connection. then he starts moving you, using his strength to lift and lower you on his cock while his other hands play with your body.
the pleasure builds quickly with so many hands on you, so much stimulation. his cock fills you completely, hitting deep with every thrust.
"come for your king, angel. show me your devotion."
you shatter around him, and sukuna follows immediately, filling you with his release as he holds you close with all four arms.
"such eagerness." his fingers circle your clit with maddening precision. "does it arouse you, angel? knowing that a being of my power, my terrible magnificence, has chosen you above all others? that I have forsaken an entire harem for the privilege of your body?"
“y-yes..” you breathe out
"you shall never leave these chambers," he finally says, voice returning to that careful eloquence. "i shall keep you here, in silk and luxury, and i shall worship you as the divine creature you are. my singular obsession. my perfect, precious angel."
as he lays you back against the pillows, beginning his attentions anew, you realize that you have no desire to refuse.
They act so innocent in public and around work, always so respectful and kind. Nobody would ever suspect them of being closeted freaks, but they're absolutely nasty behind closed doors. Especially towards you.
I just know deep in my heart that Clark Kent has a high libido, and I know Lois Lane absolutely matches his freak. He spent up to a month looking for ways to soundproof their apartment.
Yeah, he soundproofed their apartment. It's that bad.
They're both switches.
Lois leans toward dominance. Mhm. That's right. I'm not afraid to say it. Her ass definitely pegs Clark.
Clark doesn't care. He's the definition of a partner who gives instead of takes. He focuses more on making sure his partner feels good than on whether he dominates or submits. Either way, you're not going to walk after a night with him.
As for Reader, you mostly lean toward submissive, but every once in a while won't mind dominating. It depends.
I'm a firm believer that Lois consumes fanfiction. Whether she writes, reads, or does both. (Probably both) Look at her and tell me she wouldn't read Superbat fanfiction and relay all of it back to Clark. That's right. You can't. They definitely experiment a lot in the bedroom: scenarios, toys, positions, all for the sake of research.
Clark definitely uses his super hearing to listen to you masturbate.
There, I said it.
He feels so guilty about it, too. It's just that you sound so pretty, and he already listens in on you to make sure you're safe. How could you expect him to stop? Half the time you're either moaning his or Lois's name, so really, would you even mind?
Often, Lois jerks him off while he listens to you. She forces him to narrate what you're doing because she loves listening to him whimper about all the ways you're moaning their names while pleasuring yourself.
Imagine one night, Lois gets you to open up to her about your kinks and experiences. The whole time you're talking, she's just imagining all the ways she's gonna ruin you. Her panties are soaked through by the time she gets home to Clark, and he's more than eager to get on his knees and clean up her mess while she tells him alllll about your little conversation with her.
Lois totally snatches a pair of your panties. Used. Clark scolds her about it, but later when she's pressing the fabric to his face while she rides him, he certainly does not mind.
ft. platonic soft! yandere batfam! x gn! neglected reader
✮ MAIN MASTERLIST ✮
— AUTHOR'S NOTE / FIRST MASTERLIST !
- this is the second part of the masterlist compiling the new url's post 2026. same lowercase writing. same trigger warnings apply. same inconsistent schedule too. don't like, don't read. i don't accept constructive criticism and destructive criticism purely off of the fact that my series is written for fun. i don't mind asks for updates, or any asks at all. but don't be rude. we're all here for fun.
— SYNOPSIS !
independence doesn't entirely mean freedom.
after you've survived an ambush from behind the alleyways of your local bar, you realize that you're not as happy as you thought you were by separating yourself from your family; the aftermath of your fight with jason proves there's never a space in gotham where you could be yourself without the reminders of your past traumas.
now back in your apartment, you're forced to navigate not just the harrowing dread of college assignments, rental payments, utility bills, and what food to bring to your table— but the mysteries of what your mother's past entails for the future.
multiple sets of eyes have begun to settle upon you with interest; others with more atrocious intentions.
and when your family's sudden and concerning obsession comes into play and have started to infect your life in more ways than directly—
even you yourself are not sure if the possibility of escaping to another city is plausible anymore.
— CHAPTERS ! ; 3.4k+ words
07 : 01. — home sweet home / an internal reflection.
07 : 02. — hate yourself / how long will it take?
— DRABBLES ! ; #series: again &. again
blind to the love which gently grazed you (bruce wayne)
for the better, for the worse (damian wayne)
blogger concept
feeling safer towards pre-death jason
bruce sneak peak (spoiler)
jason todd's reaction to the fatson plushie
joker plushie...?
all for your sake. pt. 1 (single parent reader concept)
bio child and reader switch-up
you and hallucination jason ft. alfred being a witness
superboy prime as a love interest (au)
the curse of borrowing clothes and the perfect hostage
insecure, kidnapped reader with an inferiority complex
— ASKS ! ; #series: again &. again
how long has kon been obsessed with you?
will you find out about alfred's orchestrations?
the girls ft. duke's future characterization
dick crashing out
forced cuddling with dick
spoilers for next chapter parts
does a major character die?
— INCORRECT QUOTES ! ; #a&a: incorrect quotes
life outside vs inside the manor
cuddling with fatson todd
— FANART ! ; #a&a: fanart
ash's old comic ft. young reader angst by @ghostdoodlen
peak reader interpretation fanart by @buffonyabsolute
ch.7 pt 1: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)
directory: read under the end for an author's note.
"hi big bro—"
unsent.
"hi dick!!! i just got your number from alfie :DD he said it might be easier for me to contact you through your phone since it's not often that you're here in gotham :( which sucks but i understand! at least i've got something else to talk to you with!"
"so that brings me to my plans!!!—
"but first, do you have the time to hang out, please! it's my treat! :))) it can be in a restaurant or just here, over at home. together!!! i rmr you promised me the manor tour, i really really hope you didn't forget it!"
"also, my bday's coming soon! you don't have to buy me a gift or anything, your presence is enough of one already! i'm planning on cupcakes since a cake is too much for me. so if you're free around the afternoon next month, you can choose whatever flavor of frosting you want! alfie's helping me bake it, and i really hope you can come to my celebration!"
"but anyways, i'll be waiting for your reply, dick! if you can't hang out within this week then... oh well! i'm not available next week since classes start, but i hope it's this week since i really really miss you, hahaha :)))"
"p.s., don't forget about my birthday!"
...
"hey dick! any updates so far??? :(( my bday's just passed, but it's alright! i wasn't expecting too much from you since i know you've got responsibilities and such hehe."
"... so you might be busy—"
"but i understand!!! :)) just text me once you're online and if you read this! you don't have to accept my invites, i just gotta know so i wouldn't waste any reservations. so please, please, please answer me!"
"... please."
...
"dick!!! i heard it's your birthday through alfred! so happy birthday, dick! may many blessings come your way because you're the bestest ever! i've got a gift all wrapped up for you, though i know you're in bludhaven right now, alfred helped me arrange it to be delivered to you soon! just text me when you want me to send it over. love you!!!"
...
"am i blocked? :( sorry to assume, but i think my messages aren't coming through your phone. oh, and i still have your gift, by the way! even though it's been a few weeks, there's nothing wrong with a belated happy birthday gift, right?!"
...
"hello???"
...
"i miss you."
...
"please just answer me for once..."
...
"... i'm starting to think you hate me, dick."
unsent.
...
"alfred told me about what happened. i didn't know you had a fight with bruce back when it was your birthday. i'm sorry that happened, dick."
...
"hey... if you need anyone to talk to, you do know i'm here, right? you don't have to run off to another city at all and ignore everybody in the house when things get bad. we could talk it out, spend some time together, talk nasty things about bruce behind his back, do anything, just anything. it doesn't even have to be dinner dates— we're siblings, you told me we are."
unsent.
...
"... we're still siblings, aren't we? do you consider me as your sibling, dick?"
unsent.
...
"i miss you. even if it's been quite some time — some years — since we even had an actual conversation. you're still an older brother to me. i hope you know that. even if you and tim and all the others act like i'm not here. i still love you all. it hurts to admit it, but i do."
unsent.
...
"is it because i'm not one of you guys? is that why everyone pretends i don't exist? because i'm not some hero like you? or is it a secret third thing? do i even exist in your minds? just tell me—"
"please just fucking tell me. so i stop hoping for something, dick."
unsent.
...
"that was insensitive of me, i'm sorry, dick."
"i wish you could just reply to me. just once."
"... i'll see you after a few months again, i guess."
...
"i saw how you were with tim and damian and the others."
"i saw you all at the theatre, with them. with your friends, the titans, and all your siblings. even bruce had the gall, he found the fucking time to visit you guys over there."
"wow, just wow."
"i saw the posts, the selfies, everything. you were having so much fun weren't you? i wish that was me. i wish i had that kind of bond. i wish i was part of something. i wish i could afford to take my friends to the theatre, have some fun, take great selfies, laugh and pretend like nothing in the world bothers us. but they've been taken away from me, they all started to avoid me because they saw the way you and the others ignore me too in public. they think there's something wrong with me because of the way you treat me out in public— they think that if they copied your actions, it'd be enough to warrant your attention in public too."
"haha. that hurts a lot, being ignored by even the people you call your friends. can't you see just how much you're also indirectly hurting me?"
"i wish you had the decency to at least invite me. you could've just placed me on the sidelines, i could stay quiet if you wanted me to. i don't mind being the fucking wallflower."
"because at least that meant i was invited—"
"because at least that meant you thought of me for even one fucking second. that i mattered more than just your flimsy promises of "next time.""
"it would've stung less if you had just confronted me and told me you and all the others never cared all along."
"i mean it's obvious you never did. i just wish you said it to my face. i just wish you'd come to my room for once and tell me i never mattered. but even that's too much of a favor, huh? i'm just so irrelevant to you. i should've known how it'd all turn out for us— and yet..."
"i didn't know you were capable of giving so much love."
"i didn't know that the dick grayson i knew in my eyes, who used to be my light before, who used to give me so much hope right after mom left the world; who also ignored me, who always turned the other way around or shooed me off when i asked for his time— i didn't know he could smile so much with other people around him. i never knew there was that side of you that could make everybody feel better, safe, loved."
"whenever i think of you, i think of your stupid back and your wandering eyes. that's all i ever see: you turning away from me like the sight of me repulses you."
"at this point, that just makes me the problem, huh?"
"bruce acts that way too. between me and tim. you two welcomed him easier than you did me. i should've known from the start that i didn't even matter at all. i should've known that a child like me before wasn't pitiful enough to be even noticed. i don't even know why i expect so much when it comes to me. i shouldn't even act so entitled when i don't even exist in this hellhole."
"... i hate you dick, i hate you so much."
unsent.
...
"i wish you knew how much i fucking hate you. but you don't even read my messages."
unsent.
...
"it's always the same with you people. i don't even know why i even try in the first place."
unsent.
...
"i'm sick of pretending like i'm happy every time i greet you here and in person. you make me sick."
"but if i saw you that way, then you probably see me as something worse then. i'm a disgusting, selfish, attention-seeking leech to you, aren't i?"
"that's probably why you could never look me straight in the eyes."
"you hate me more than i claim to hate you."
unsent.
...
"i hope you remember how you were supposed to take me out for dinner. i hope you remember how you promised to take me around the manor. i hope you remember how much i think of you and the others everyday whilst i couldn't even be a passing glance to any one of you. i hope you remember at least even a semblance of me before i leave for college."
"but you won't."
"i know you won't. even if i paraded all over the halls of this stupid house and announced i'd be killing myself, none of you wouldn't even bat an eye."
"if you couldn't even fulfill a promise you made to me years ago, a promise you made to me months ago— then you sure as hell wouldn't care if i left this place. there's nothing worth staying here for anymore."
unsent.
...
"it's just so unfair, dick."
"everyone here is so unfair."
"what did i even do to deserve this?"
"did i do something wrong? did i say something wrong? did i hurt anybody? did i kill anybody? what did i do to make you ignore me so suddenly before?"
"i want to know the answer so bad, but it's too quiet when you're all not around for the night."
"it's just too quiet."
"like i'm not even deserving enough to be considered noise around you."
unsent.
...
"sorry for being too much."
"i didn't realize how annoying i sounded in every message of mine."
"i won't be long in this manor anyways... so for all it's worth—"
"i won't bother you anymore."
...
home sweet home.
a resounding click! echoed throughout your apartment as you kick your door closed. you brace yourself for the pain subsiding in your sides, kneeling down — and keeping your crutches as support for your weight — to place the cardboard box you held to your right, it was a flimsy thing punched with holes to allow air to enter and right atop of it was a container of your favorite meal jason had insisted you keep.
afterwards, you pulled yourself up as slowly as you could, wincing and taking in deep breaths in the middle of standing up.
finally, safe and sound.
a relieved sigh escaped your parched throat. leaning back, your eyes had shut closed, embracing the wriggling darkness. there, you remain standing, brain detangling every thought and notion you'd forcefully put aside to stay sane throughout your entire hours long journey to at least reach the safety of your apartment.
a moment. you just needed a moment to take it all in.
the air was crisp, a cold and unforgivable reminder that winter had started to take a toll on the temperature.
yet it wasn't enough to cool your torrid thoughts.
yesterday, or two days ago- you couldn't fathom the time you were spent drunk: the flirting, the buzzing noise, your lightheaded words, your night ending in near death. when you were unconscious from the bloodied hits of that awful, pungent man and his lackeys. jason, his worries, your confessions, your life.
you need to recall everything. you need time to think—
alone.
it was hypocritical of you to desire seclusion — when you had spent your entire life mourning for another human presence beside you — but you needed to be alone right now, no matter how suffocating and prickly the silence of your apartment was; something bigger was swallowing you whole.
you opted to have mary leave you be after a long day despite her insistence to at least accompany you all the way to your apartment, or just stay with you for the night up until morning where she'll get her roommate to pick her up by car. but you really couldn't handle the offer, even if tempting, since you couldn't deal with another human presence right in your space or else you'll break.
as much as she felt like a guiding light directing you away from the darkness that was jason's suffocating obsession to keep you safe — like you suddenly mattered in his life, like he didn't spew all that bullshit about being your older brother when he never acted that way with you before — you just couldn't afford hearing out her valid defenses, wanting to drown more in your emotions more than pretend like you're stronger than you are.
it didn't take much to convince her to go her way.
your sad, pleading eyes begging her for an ounce of space, to give you time to rest was enough to have her frown. despite her valid defenses about safety in the night, your mind was set on being left alone.
and she did after some back and forth, leaving the lobby with a grim sigh, calling her roommate to come pick her up. after you had watched her back slowly fade into the distance, you went your merry way up the elevators, down the winding halls, ignoring the aching in your sides, the sour mildew clinging in the air, the almost alive, pulsing and breathing of the walls; up until you reach the very room you stand in now— trying your best not to be reminded of the ghostly silence that had always followed you.
so now, it was only you, yourself, and a mass of anxiety and paranoia that had started to dig its way into your heart and had sat beside you in all your isolation.
you wanted nothing more than to rid these new sensations: the unbidden comfort you felt when you finally felt jason's embrace, the smoke and ash still clinging in the fabrics of your jacket bringing you nostalgia to when you first met him under the moonlit night in that kitchen, the gratitude you disallowed yourself to feel when jason had remembered your favorite dish and went as far as buy it for you, all warm and toasty on the bedside cabinet from when you woke up—
you wanted nothing more than to sit in the middle of your room and stare into nothingness, spend hours passing time if it meant leaving your thoughts and worries buried deep somewhere before it could ultimately devour you whole again.
you don't want to want anymore.
you need to make yourself not need anymore.
because if you fall into that madness named desire, you're afraid you'll only end up unfulfilled and alone once more.
"ngh!" it didn't take long before your crutches slipped away from your sore shoulders, legs sliding against the floor. when your bottom hit the ground, the striking pain of the collision crashed like violent waves in a storm, rolling all the way to the wounds on your hips, and—
"shit! fucking hell, it hurts." you cry out curses, the tears you try to desperately contain had started to roll down your sunken cheeks. your throat, parched and devoid of hydration, sounded like the young kid who'd cried out to the sight of their deceased mother.
stupid, stupid, just stupid.
your entire life is just one cruel, endless joke.
right beside you, your crutches thud against the hard floors, metal beating down like strikes of thunder. you wince at the volume, eyes shutting once more. and just like thunder, your bitten lips couldn't clamp down faster than the racing shrieks aching to be released.
"just...! when will everything just end?" your question hangs in the air as your head lulls against the hard doors, palms clenched around your waist to satiate the violent throbbing. you knew nobody would answer you, you knew that the alfred you'd always imagine comforting you couldn't always give you answers — because he's just a figment of your imagination, because he's who you always run to when the questions become too heavy and convoluted, when the silence was too loud and nagging — you knew that, even if you'd beg to the gods you cursed, even if you'd unblock dick and told him to give you answers, abided in your friends, found counseling—
you knew that there is no end to this curse you call life.
you knew that running away from problems meant you'd tire sooner, that it'll begin to catch up to you and lock you up once more.
you hated being alone, you wished you had someone to lie to you and tell you it'll all be better in the end; you wished your mom was right beside you like she was in the damned dream, you wish to still remember the sensation of her gentle fingers running across your matted hair, hear her voice consoling you until your tears had ceased to roll down your cheeks
like a child dreamed of reliving their happiest birthday everyday, you wish she was alive still.
you wish your life had ceased at five years old. you wish you'd lay right beside her decaying corpse instead of laying on the floor of your dingy apartment; alone, and barely alive, but never living the life you dreamed of living from when you were that stupidly naive child.
but you're here, an unwilling victim to your misfortune, and you have no choice but to live through it all. killing yourself is a choice you never wanted to touch upon, a choice you never wish to entertain anymore.
if you did, what would your mother think of you in the afterlife?
if you did, what measures would someone like jason make just to bring you back alive?
shaking your head, a chuckle, sardonic and bitter and loud, cuts you off from your tears, remembering how nobody but alfred even knew you'd left the fucking manor. nobody but him checked up on you, nobody acknowledged you from when you were there, so what of it when you're not?
only your small circle of friends threw you a small welcome party to a new life, spoiled you to the pleasures of alcohol and sleazy bars. they'd announce a toast to independence, to freedom, to a life away from them.
but were you truly away if they were never that close to begin with?
if jason hadn't been coincidentally in the same area as you from behind that bar, then would you still be alive to tell the story? would you just be another news article buried under the countless masses of headlines?
no, you're good as dead. no world-altering event, no pit, no magician could save your soul from being shattered and ripped from within your body.
would they even care? would your so-called family even mourn someone they never truly knew?
"no, god, as if they cared about me at all."
as excruciating as it is to admit, the thought made your wobbling lips quirk upwards, head bury deep within your palms. then, your fingers trace across lingering scars and lumps across your scalp, a reminder of all the times you'd pick at skin until it bled.
it's absurd to think about the answers to the questions you'll never escape from. but the answers were as clear as the day you were born with no father by your mother's side:
you don't matter in their world:
you wish they didn't matter to yours too, but you've been too attached to the concept of someone else caring about you for even the slightest. feelings like those are hard to detach from, especially if the love you yearned for was a love once reciprocated by your mother—
but whatever, life and time, trials and tribulations, they never cease for just a single person.
no matter how pathetic and miserable you were, you had to keep going on. if not for your mother, then out of spite from jason's insistence that you couldn't survive alone when it had always been the opposite— when you've pretty much lived your life without his company anyways.
you're fine without him, without them.
no, no.
you're not fine. there was no world where you've been fine for more than a second, but you've been better off without them at the same time. that's what makes a difference, you convince yourself.
at least here, in your sullen, little apartment, there was nobody else allowed to consume your space and your thoughts.
at least here, the only danger you have against yourself is you.
and yet, the silence only grows bigger and hungrier.
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
PLEASE READ: 3.4K+ words. special post, it's supposed to be longer. but you know what happened? my phone restarted, i opened my notes app and huzzah! the first part i was editing got half of it deleted! the other parts are safe except for this one. this was supposed to be four scenes in total, amounting to 7k+ or more. i didn't even get a single grasp on its final word count. it fucking sucks, i despise the world for doing this to me. but as promised, here's the chapter, no matter how short it is. i apologize if it's not on par to your expectations, honestly, it gets better in the (supposed) second half of this part. but again, life happens. things happen no matter how much it sucks. i'll be rewriting the second half of this tomorrow and hopefully i can post it by the next night. if there are any delays, please spare me, i'm trying my best to not cry over my stuff getting deleted.
stormborns
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snowghoul
theartofmadeline
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andulkaphoto
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areudirty
