↳︎ ( ⛈️ ) storm. 20 something (v much of age), multifandom writer ( mainly anime ). just a black woman writing literature about fake men on occasion. she/her. nanami worshipper.
↳︎ ( ⚡️ ) @/apollostears is my old blog. 18+ MDNI !!
no requests. asks is open for ideas, shitposts, thirsts, and rambles. no homophobic, racist, sexist, offensive, religious, political, or trauma dumping comments please! <3
this blog is not spoiler-free. will contain sfw & nsfw posts, engage responsibly.
tags: #storms.bottlemessages for asks, shitposts, thirsts, etc. | #storms.treasures for fics, hcs, etc. | #stormy.nights for nsfw content | #shipwrecks for fic recs
header/banner/dividers/mdni/cw designs by @cafekitsune / @mykento <3333
The thought of being Carlisle’s human mate and keep finding huge bills in his pockets when washing clothes and he’s always like “you can just keep it. What’s mine is yours and it’s not a big deal”
ddejavvu's dilf night
--
he thinks it's so cute that you wash his clothes in the first place. he's been around for so long that he's used three different eras of washing machine designs. he's got it down to a science. he's a grown man, he can do his own laundry but one day he comes home to you measuring out laundry detergent and fabric softener and folding his shirts and he doesn't want to offend you by stopping you so he just sits there and watches. sometimes he can haul you up onto the washing machine and get away with folding the clothes himself if he placates you with several kisses while he stands between your legs but most of the time you make him sit and watch while you take care of his laundry.
so yeah, he starts slipping fun little things in there for you to find. it's mostly money, and you're so shy about taking it that you put it in a jar on the counter so that you can get away with not keeping it. he gets around this by writing your name on the jar. it's your jar now. it's your money now. now you know to just pocket it.
one time he leaves a condom in his pants pocket just to see how you react. your face goes all hot and you stuff it into his palm and he has to kiss your burning cheeks while you attempt to squirm out of his hold to run away. he says you're going to need to get over yourself because you'll be seeing it again tonight and he can't have you run off like that all the time.
sometimes he leaves sweet little notes in there but not often because one time you missed it and it got ink and shredded paper all over his clothes. you felt horrible but he led you away from the mess of the washing machine with a hand on your back and kissed you until you forgot about it. now you're extra vigilant in checking his pockets but he doesn't want you to freak out so he doesn't often put notes in there, he'll leave them on the washing machine instead :'))
pairing: john price x gn!reader
synopsis: you're the 141's new administrative assistant. you end up falling for captain john price too fast and too hard, only to realise you're wasting your time and energy on someone who won't reciprocate. the kicker? he only started to realise his feelings for you when you moved on. [wc: 2.2k]
note: this post by @hahaifolded had me in a chokehold and i couldn't resist creating an entirely new blog just so i can post my word vomit about it. halfway through writing i noticed i got too self-indulgent by how my insecurities bled into this fic (oops sorry). i wrote this with poc!reader in mind, but it's so subtle that i just kept the tags ambiguous. part 2 with price's pov will follow but i'm such a slow writer lol.
tags: angst; hurt/no comfort; people-pleaser!reader; one-sided pining
masterlist | next part
the past few months made it clear that 141's operations became increasingly dangerous and wrapped in more red tape than ever. at one point, captain john price found a literal tower of backlogged paperwork sat on his desk, waiting to be processed after another gruelling mission.
paperwork—such a menial yet tedious task, he thought.
in attempt to ease the burden off his shoulders, laswell assigned you as the task force's designated administrative assistant.
it was nerve-racking at first. though you had a couple years of military administration experience under your belt, being part of a special operations force was new territory. the first few days consisted mostly of polite and frankly awkward exchanges between you and the team (*cough* ghost), but the ice eventually melted.
it started off small: greetings with warm smiles, professional conversations shifting to casual topics, as well as playful jokes. the 141 were an interesting bunch—it wasn't too difficult to grow a connection with them after a couple of weeks.
before you realised it, you found yourself thinking about a certain captain more times in a day than you thought about what to eat for dinner. you noticed the way he looked out for his boys with genuine care, the way he easily commanded an entire room with his sexy deep voice, how he remained level-headed even in the most stressful situations.
not to mention how respectful and friendly he was with you, and how he made you feel like you were part of the team.
there was just something about the way he carried himself that made you want to drop everything to please him. call it a desperate thirst for validation and acceptance, but you'd go above and beyond for the man.
you couldn't help it. sometimes you were just loyal to a fault without realising it.
while your main responsibility was to handle paperwork, you went out of your way to do some additional tasks that weren't necessarily written in your contract.
"morning, captain," you greeted him one day as you entered his office with a large paper cup in one hand and a manila folder in the other. "i thought you'd appreciate a fresh brew."
on your way to work, you had stopped by your local coffee shop to pick up some drinks for the boys. you recalled their preferred orders from past conversations and neatly wrote down their names on each respective cup before handing them out at base. the other three had already received their drinks (and thanked you), which only left the captain's.
you set down his cup on the desk in front of him, a cute little heart drawn next to his name. price looked up from his screen and gave you a smile, the one that slightly squished his cheeks and showed his crow's feet. "cheers, love."
that small gesture was enough to make your pulse quicken. you couldn't remember when his simple gratitude suddenly meant the world to you. with a friendly expression on your face, you presented the folder containing some documents. "and here is the report you asked for yesterday."
you didn't tell him you worked overtime to finish it.
"ah, efficient as always," price noted with a nod of approval. "you can just put it over there. thanks again."
your infatuated mind was so caught up in his praise that you missed the way he immediately turned back to his laptop without much interest as you set the folder down on the desk.
still, you were quite cheerful that day, and coffee shop errands became a regular occurrence afterwards.
of course, in order not to make your crush on price too obvious, you would sometimes get the other boys their caffeinated drinks as well.
the clacking rhythm of the keyboard filled your office space as you diligently worked. your fingers danced nimbly over the plastic keys as strings of words formed on the screen in front of you.
it was the sound of your name laced in a familiar scottish brogue that pulled you out of your focus.
there soap stood in your open doorway, one hand on his hip while the other held the doorframe. "sorry, you got a minute? i need your help with something," he said.
"of course," you nodded in reply and gestured for him to take a seat. "what's wrong?"
soap's lips curled into a sheepish smile as he dropped into the chair across from your desk. "i know this is becoming a bit of a habit, but i've been a wee behind on my paperwork again and i'm also drowning in requisition forms..."
you held back an amused grin at his words, eyeing him knowingly as he continued, "...so i was wondering if you could help—"
a knock was heard, interrupting soap's request. your gaze shifted towards the doorway once more, but this time you were met with the sight of price, stood there with his knuckles still poised against the open door.
"captain," you greeted him, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt. "what can i do for you?"
soap didn't miss the way your face lit up at the sight of price, and how you unintentionally ignored the scot halfway through his request.
price stepped inside, his presence immediately commanding the small office space. "is this a bad time?" he asked, glancing at the sergeant who turned his head around to look at the captain too. "soap, are you asking them to do clean up after you again? they've already got enough on their plate."
"aye, but i was hoping they wouldn't mind me squeezing in this one favour..."
"and i don't, i promise," you assured them both, shaking your head. hearing price acknowledge your workload sent warmth spreading through your chest. he noticed. he actually noticed.
you stood up and walked around your desk to take a few steps towards him to take the attention off poor soap. "how can i help you, sir?"
"need you to look over these deployment schedules," price revealed as he turned his gaze back to you. god, those gorgeous blue eyes. then you noticed the dark circles that shadowed them, evidence of another sleepless night spent planning operations.
your pulse quickened; he trusted you with these things. not to mention how the chance to be helpful to price and stay in his good graces made your stomach flutter. "of course, captain. right away."
you reached for the manila folder that he handed over, your fingers brushing momentarily. the brief contact sent electricity up your arm, though you didn't notice that price seemed entirely unaffected.
soap's eyebrows shot up as he watched the exchange. this, and your immediate abandonment of his paperwork crisis. putting two and two together, soap got out of his seat and backed away with exaggerated surrender.
"well then," he chuckled. "i should probably get back to work myself."
you gave him an apologetic look, but he merely sent you a silent, teasing wink in return before he left the room. he knew about your little secret.
some more weeks passed. after a mission brief, the team was all gathered in the break room. you were passing by with another stack of mission reports in your hands, your fingers tracing the familiar scrawls of price's annotations on yellow post-it notes. you'd memorised every loop and dot by now, and how his signature grew messier after long work days.
without realising it, you had halted by the doorway to watch the boys. soap noticed your presence and warmly invited you to join him and ghost, who were standing near the table while price and gaz made tea by the kitchen counter.
"hard at work, i see," soap remarked with his usual playful grin. you glanced down at the papers in your hands.
"i guess so," you replied with a smile. earlier that day, you had organised price's files by priority, restocked his cigar humidor, and ensured his favourite tea was available in the break room. your small gestures went unnoticed, dissolved into the routine chaos of military life.
as if on queue, you spotted price taking the box of said teabags from the cupboard, unaware that you were the one who put it there. his sleeves were rolled up, revealing hairy forearms marked with old scars and newer bruises. those strong, muscular arms... you couldn't help but let your mind wander a little.
when price laughed at something gaz said, the sound carried to the other side of the room where you stood, making your heart stutter a little.
"you know," ghost gravelly voice made you jump, "staring won't make him notice faster."
warmth flooded your face. "i wasn't—"
"'course not," he deadpanned, masked face tilted slightly. "just saying, you sure put in a lot of effort for someone who doesn't really see you."
the lieutenant's words struck you like a physical blow. each millisecond that passed carving deeper into wounds you had been ignoring. your grip around the papers tightened, knuckles whitening as reality smacked you across the face. you didn't register the way soap nudged ghost in warning.
you had been running yourself ragged, staying late to help with price's backlog of work, memorising his food and drink preferences, ensuring his paperwork was pristine before it reached his desk, tidying up after him before clocking out that day. all those small acts of devotion with the hope to catch his attention.
yet nothing had changed. price wasn't any more pleasant to you than he was with the boys. your little gestures, at least the ones he noticed, received gratitude... but they were never reciprocated. it felt even more embarrassing when you realised that he didn't owe you any more than that.
only then did it dawn upon you that while you had looked at price with heart-eyes this entire time, he never really spared you a second glance.
even ghost knows... how pathetic am i? you thought to yourself, the notion twisting like a knife. then you shot soap a glare in silent accusation. he must've told ghost about your crush on price—how else would he have known of the things you did for the captain? unless you were just that obvious...
"fuck," you whispered, the curse slipping out before you could stop it. ghost's observation had ripped away the comfortable delusion you made yourself believe.
"ghost didnae mean it like that," soap tried to soften the blow. but it was too late.
you shook your head, forcing a smile on your face. it looked more strained than anything. "no, he has a point, i... must've looked really stupid, huh?"
"don't say that... you could always try talking to him," the scot offered as he gave you a firm, sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
"yeah, maybe."
you didn't get much work done that day, which was unusual since you were always on top of your game. price did not seem to notice that either.
perhaps you were just overthinking things. maybe you needed to change strategies and be more direct. be resilient and never give up halfway, right?
despite ghost's wake-up call, you felt a stubborn ember of hope flicker within you.
or maybe you were doing too much after all—it wouldn't be the first time. growing up, you've realised that sometimes you were loyal to a fault with no regard for your own well-being and individuality.
someone badmouthed your best friend? you were ready to defend them to hell and back, even if it ruined your own reputation. your crush had an issue with a particular someone? that person instantly became your enemy without question, even if it meant burning bridges with those around you.
that behaviour had toned down quite considerably over time, but sometimes you still felt like that kid in middle school who just wanted to be seen and heard.
hell, that used to be the only way you were seen and heard, even if it was just for brief moments.
so you decided to confront price and get it over with. you had rehearsed your confession in your mind a hundred times over by the time that you were making your way towards price's office.
when you arrived, you noticed that the door was ajar. stepping closer, you heard soap's voice from the other side. that was when you realised they were talking about you.
"they're really somethin', that one," the scot sang your praises, perhaps trying to make it up to you after the break room incident. "always on top of things, keeps us all in line. the team's better with them around."
a small smile crept onto your face, finding solace in the fact that your friend genuinely seemed to appreciate your presence in the team.
but price's reply completely shattered your soul.
"they're just admin, mactavish," his gruff voice reached your ears, "good at their job, sure. but let's not get carried away."
the words hit you harder than you thought. just admin. that was all you were to him. the ember of hope died, leaving only bitter ash.
you silently backed away as your eyes began to sting. your chest felt hollow and your limbs heavy. all those late nights at the office, all those gestures, all that effort. they meant nothing to him.
fuck this, you thought. you wanted to laugh, or cry, you didn't know.
it always ended like this; no matter how much devotion you showed, they would never do the same for you. not once were you anyone's first choice. you were convenient and useful until you were no longer needed.
you had stupidly been content playing the devoted shadow, hoping your silent service would somehow translate into something more.
but it was time to stop. no more pining for a man who saw you as nothing more than a glorified secretary.
without a sound, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving behind the shattered remnants of your infatuation with price.
t.w.: Dark-ish fic, Smut, P in V, Oral f receiving, Sex pollen Dub-con/Non-con, Voyeurism, Cucking, Breeding kink (forced pregnancy), Lactation kink (brief), LuthorCorp Secretary!Reader, Mentions of Ultraman x Reader (one-sided), Lex Luthor x Superman (also one-sided and psychotic), Cum play/eating, Reader has glasses, slight spoilers, fuck or die!, angst
a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ only!
Summary: Ultraman wasn’t as successful as he expected. Lex Luthor is hoping to breed something new to defeat his nemesis, no matter how long the process may take.
Cloning didn’t work. Ultraman was stupid. Incompetent. A failure.
But he liked you. Lex Luthor would watch as he leaned closer to you. It made you uncomfortable, clear by the way you shifted on your feet and avoided his pointed gaze.
Lex trusted you in maintaining him. You’d lead him, after hours, to his room, to the shower, to eat. You were his caretaker in a way. Reluctantly so.
The clone’s base instincts clearly indicated attraction judging by the hard ons he would openly display as he bathed with you standing by the door to ensure he wouldn’t make a mess.
It gave Luthor an idea, an idea that would ensure the next Superman “clone” would be as perfect as possible.
Luthor would pay you handsomely for the trouble. You who kept most of his secrets, you who he sends enough flowers to fill up your apartment, you who he has special meetings with while his girlfriend was off on a shopping spree.
He almost feels tenderly towards you. You were a perfect candidate.
…
You bounce on his lap, sinking onto his prick as he leaned back on his office chair. Peering at you as if you were on your knees and praying to him.
You grunt quietly, he watches as you get yourself off, as he does nothing to help.
Your fingers glide diligently over your cunt, the squelching sounds making you whimper as your clit throbs between your fingers.
He’s not good at sex, he likes having it, likes getting himself off. But he is not inept at pleasuring others.
You’re fine with it. No one has ever made you finish anyway. You only needed his dick. Like a dildo.
You grind your hips against his pelvis, his cock pushes in deep as you pulse around him, your head falling forward to rest against his shoulder in a stifled final moan.
He grips your hips as he pulses inside of you, you groan at the action. He always pulls out. You give him a look as you stand, he pulls your panties up against your cunt and pats your ass.
“Keep it in.”
You snort, he raises a brow, wondering where the joke was in his tone. Thank goodness for birth control. You’d rather die than have his demonic children. Even more spoiled brats and the world's riches would be divided within the Luthor family entirely.
“Remember what the goal is today…” he says as he points a teasing finger at you.
You nod as you straighten your pencil skirt and button up your shirt. Your hands drag against the wood of his desk to swipe your glasses teasingly.
“I’m ready.”
…
Being jostled around the air was irritating to say the least. The clone repeatedly evaded Superman’s moves, causing you to be caught midair several times. One second Ultraman, the other Superman.
It was like tug of war, except instead of rope, your body was being pulled every which way.
Another frightening possibility you didn’t think of before was that hands slip, butterfingers, people fumble.
Superman drops you. You imagine Lex having a laugh.
Superman apologizes as he recatches you, hands tight on your waist as he turns swiftly to take a hit to his back. You could see the way he grits his teeth and shut his eyes from the pain, the way his hands tightened over your body as he cocooned you.
You get it, you realize. Despite the obvious threats around him, his focus was on protecting you, the civilian. It made your chest warm. You almost coo from how selfless he was.
He flees from Ultraman, disguised as a villain of the week, in an attempt to put you down in a safe location.
“You ok?”
You grip onto his shoulders fearfully, feeling the taught muscle underneath. You get those who swoon. He was even bigger in person.
You nod slowly, eyes wide, a hand pressing your glasses to your face to keep them from flying off.
“Yea-“
It was like a train had hit him, the impact of the clone ramming into his side so strong it caused him to lose his grip on you. Again.
Jealousy you briefly wonder, you’re sure Lex didn’t tell him to do that. You’ve never seen that move before.
You each go in opposite directions. You could hear Superman scream out a sharp no as you’re free falling in the air.
The genuine concern won him points by you again.
You think about Lex. About the way he practically begged you to accept the role as victim for his latest scheme.
You’d slap him the next time you see him.
Your attempts to scream are tampered by the rush of air, you couldn’t breathe in or out, the rush of adrenaline making it hard to focus on the action as you see the pavement inch closer.
And suddenly you’re in someone’s arms again, held tightly against their chest. You take a harsh breath in, the rush of oxygen making your lungs burn.
Your eyes stayed unfocused from your lack of lenses. You look behind you to find metal armor facing right back at you. You sigh.
You’re shaking as you’re deposited to the floor of the lab, located near a small town west of the city of Metropolis.
Ultraman dropped you unceremoniously, making your knees buckle and causing you to fall.
You glare up at him, narrowing your eyes as he refuses to look your way. Unlike him. He was most definitely jealous.
Several lab techs surround you and Ultraman briefly to assess damages. They find none, they leave quickly, leaving you to reorient yourself in your lonesome.
You stand, wiping your hands down your skirt as you grumble about the lack of adequate patient care they offered you.
You try the door closest to you, it was locked. For a moment you stare at it dumbfoundedly. This was supposed to be where Luthor was entrapping Superman. There was a bed in the middle of the room, a toilet to the side. This was a prison.
Surely someone was coming to get you, or one of the doors will lock once Superman arrives.
You try the other door, locked. You knock. Your polite knock turns into a slam of your palm. You shout that you couldn’t get out. That you needed to get out. That you were starting to freak out.
You could hear metal bend. Superman was here. You shook the door knob desperately.
“Lex!”
The pounding was getting louder, you could hear his grunts as he attempted to make his way to you. To “save” you.
What would he do once he found out you planned to imprison him for testing, then undoubtedly kill him afterwards.
The sound of the panels behind you, curling in his hands like cardboard, made you think he wouldn’t be too happy.
You turn your back against the door, chest rising and falling with each breath as he breaks himself into his own doom. He takes a breath of relief at finding you unharmed. His eyes scan over your form as he jogs forward, hand gently holding your glasses out to you.
You take them shakily, placing them on to see his soft smile clearly. He puts his hand on your shoulder, your expression terrified.
“You’re going to be ok.”
Alarm bells ring, the room turns red and walls appear, layers and layers of metal sliding atop each other, just to stall him for the next part.
You swallow thickly and shake your head in denial. There must have been a mistake, you weren’t supposed to be in here, no one other than him was. You were fucked. You step away from him, he looks around the room in confusion.
The size of the room is cut in half by the strongest metal Luthor could find. Superman could easily punch his way out, but the amount of punches would be too much for him to get out in time.
A greenish fog fills up the room. He reacts quickly, tugging you from the wall and covering his mouth with his hand, as if urging you to copy the action.
“Hold your breath, I’ll get us out of here.”
You stare at his back, hands at your sides, as he turns to pull his hand back and hit the wall. What a beautiful idiot.
He didn’t realize that with each layer he destroyed more and more gas was being pumped into the room. It made you feel lightheaded.
You stay put in the middle of the room, legs turning weak and arms barely holding you up against the bed. Superman calls for you to follow him, almost desperately as he feels himself weakening.
He holds his breath, he could hold it for several minutes. But he was barely leaving a dent now.
“Don’t breathe it in!” he shouts. It didn’t matter. The smog could be absorbed through the skin anyway.
You fall to your knees. He stops and rushes to you. He could see that he wasn’t as close to breaking out as he liked.
He could only think of one thing. Kryptonite. It was making him feel almost anemic. He starts to shake. But he didn’t feel any pain. He felt a strange rush go through his body.
“Don’t-“ you wheeze out as he kneels over you, hand coming up to touch your shoulder.
The more you inhale the more you feel the effects of the gas. Your stomach clenches, your clothes feel suffocating, your skin sensitive.
Lex said it was going to debilitate him. Make him bend to his knees and writhe.
He grips your bicep, to stabilize you.
Your sharp moan made the hero freeze. It was sensual, pornographic. Not of pain or agony. His breath stutters at the sound, he feels himself start to sweat, his face heating up impossibly in embarrassment and something else.
What the hell did Lex put in this damn cell?
Your stomach cramps. You could hear the room speaker turn on with a sharp crack. Superman stands, looking around the room, attempting to find it.
“Hello, Superman.”
“Luthor,” he says as a response, sounding tired, almost bored of the other man’s voice already.
“Why don’t you or your people ever show themselves?” he asks after a moment, looking up towards the corner, knowing that a camera was pointed right at him.
“I’m closer than you think.”
Superman’s brows furrow. He turns to you and shrugs his shoulders with an incredulous look, obviously mocking Luthor’s ominous tone and words. You look away in shame, his face falls as you cower away from him.
“Oh! I didn’t introduce you to my secretary. Say hi to my secretary. Isn’t she cute? Great actor too.”
Superman’s eyes connect with yours and you pant as you drag yourself to the far wall. His eyes sharpen and his brows furrow, so deep creases formed in his perfect friendly face. The hint of a smile, gone. He was clearly upset by the setup.
“What did you do?” he asked, voice raised. He stares directly at you, eyes roaming over your body.
You’re not sure who he speaks to. Lex or you. By Lex’s snort, he assumes it was to him.
“Do you feel it?” Lex’s voice reverberated around the small enclosure, you bite your lip to hold in a whimper.
Your breath comes out in short pants. You feel your thighs slicken, each shift highlighting the fact that there was now a building dampness underneath you.
“It’ll take a while to set in for you.”
You rock your hips, Superman watches you curiously. You fight the urge to press your hand between your legs. You turn in your embarrassment, your nipples were so hard they stung and pointed out against the fabric of your shirt.
You press your face against the cool wall, it gives you brief relief. Another cramp in your lower belly hits you, you shake and groan.
“It’s already set in for her. You’ll see soon enough.”
He could smell your arousal, he exhaled shakily as he felt a warmth travel through his spine at your twitches and small noises. His eyes start to roam over your body, the way your back arches lightly, your ass curving out against the fabric of your skirt, now showing a growing spot of wetness.
He licks his lips before refocusing.
“What did you do?” he shouts with force.
“Don’t worry, it’s harmless.”
Superman looks at you, your back to him, he steps forward before stopping. His stomach tightens, his mouth salivates, and he feels his briefs tighten against his growing heavy bulge.
His eyes were intense, pupils fighting between expanding and constricting. He holds a hand up, as if to calm you, maybe even calm himself.
“You’ll be fine-“ he attempts shakily. His knees wobble.
“Oh. She will die,” Lex’s voice cuts sharply, humorously.
You moan out into the air, your skin prickles and itches. You refuse to look away from the corner, you didn’t want to give Lex the satisfaction of your tears, your panic.
“You require the dosage of an elephant. I had to make sure it worked.”
Your lower stomach tightens so much the rest of your body locks into place. You feel a rush like no other and yelp as the feeling makes your cunt’s walls constrict around nothing. Your body trembles in sweet erotic pulses, you pant openly as the rush fades into a low simmer.
Did you just have a mini orgasm?
“She needs an antidote, luckily for you Superman, you have plenty of it.”
The comm clicks as it turns off. You groan as you flop against the metal floor, facing the ceiling, body spread out like a starfish. You could feel his heated gaze, he looked furious, huffing out like a bull ready to charge.
Lex had been testing weird shit on the clone. He’d figured this chemical out a couple of months ago. It affected hormones, made the body crave another.
It wasn’t as bad as this. It wasn’t as intense.
Sure, Ultraman had humped your leg when you were trimming his hair but you’re sure he never felt as if he were dying.
Then again, Kryptonians, clone or not, wouldn’t be affected as fast as humans. You had a feeling this time would be different, you could see Superman pace back and forth, running a shaky hand through his locks almost pulling on it as his chest stutters with each gulp of air.
“Bodily fluids,” you gasp.
A kiss made it better, Lex made you kiss the clone, on the cheek, to test it out. Lex had a boner as he watched the interaction. The freak.
He kissed the clone himself afterwards, right on the lips, to see which method worked best, according to him. Tongue on tongue worked the best for pacifying the chemical.
You were used to seeing Superman’s face. You just weren’t used to him being able to speak back to you. He turns sharply towards you, he growls.
“Don’t test me.”
You roll your eyes, your body was shaking, your heart beating so fast you were starting to feel lightheaded. He could see your heart, so fast he fears you’re going to pass out at any moment now.
Worse, you might get into cardiac arrest. He sighs in frustration.
He kneels beside you, sitting you up against the wall roughly, pressing your shoulders into the metal despite your discomfort.
The touch makes you shiver, you hold back a moan. He cages you in with his arms, hands planted on either side of you.
“What can we do?”
You lick your lips, and he follows your tongue with his eyes. His stomach flexes and he grunts.
“It helps, saliva, sweat” you swallow thickly. He was so warm, your lips part lightly. You’ve never wanted anyone inside of you so badly before.
Your hands weakly lift to grip his bicep, big bulging biceps that were so hard as you squeezed. You bite your lip and suppress a giddy giggle, your hand roaming over his chest.
He shakes you from your daze. You drop your hand to the floor and swallow thickly. Focus. You take a moment, body flushing even further from humiliation.
“Ejaculate, arousal fluid, I promise,” you stutter, you adjust your glasses.
He narrows his eyes, you gush at his stare, a fresh wave of arousal almost squirting out of your cunt at his proximity.
He closes his eyes tightly, his arms flex as he resists the urge to manhandle you. He didn’t know if it was from anger or something else. Maybe it was the half-lidded gaze you gave him, eyes wandering all over his body and lingering on his very prominent bulge.
“So… what do I need to do?”
You shrug. It was obvious. Your eyes blank as you lean back against the wall.
“Just let me die, dude,” you mumble. He scoffs. Your head rolls to the side and your neck is exposed. He zeros in on the soft skin of your throat, his jaw tightens as he’s hit with your scent of fresh arousal. The musk was enveloping him, his hand cups your face.
He kisses you, face scrunched as if he hated the idea of being near you. You gasp, his tongue swipes through the roof of your mouth before swirling over yours.
You moan, fighting to keep your hands on the floor, curled into tight fists as he pulls your head closer.
“You smell good,” he mumbles offhandedly, voice low and tense, as if he could be doing anything other than this. His actions said otherwise, his tongue splays over your skin, lips pecking down your jaw. His hand grips your hips and pulls you forward.
“Thanks,” you groan out.
His head pulled away from you, his pupils were dilated. He was breathing heavier. His body twitches, neck straining. He was starting to feel the effects intensify.
“You feel better?” he asks softly, eyes roaming over your face, stalling over your lips.
In fact, you were starting to feel worse. You nod, despite the way your face twisted in pain, the cramps intensity almost debilitating.
“Liar.”
He kisses you again, the make out evolving as he pulls you to his lap. He guides your hands to touch him, sliding your fingers up his chest, over his neck. He guides your fingers to the buttons of his suit, right at the nape of his neck.
Your skirt rides up and he starts to unbutton your blouse. His mind started to cloud, almost as if he didn’t realize that you were being watched, as if you weren’t both trapped.
Lex sits in the surveillance room alone, having dismissed everyone else once the gas had been pumped into the cage.
He has cameras for every angle of the cell, he zooms in between your bodies.
He unbuttons his trousers, palming himself as he focuses in on your ruined panties grinding against the pronounced outline of Superman’s cock and balls.
Superman presses you against his chest, you tug your arms out of your dress shirt, hands going to his face as your tongue caresses his, wanting to be impossibly closer.
Luthor chortles as he hears your underwear rip, flinging to the other side of the room. Your bare cunt was spread open by thick digits. His fingers press into you, making your head fall back in delight.
Superman’s thumb rolls over your clit, you gush around him, so sensitive that a mere touch makes you fall off the edge of pleasure.
Lex jerks his cock in his hand, thumb running over the head as he spreads his spewing pre over his shaft. His cum was inside of you, Superman was playing with his cum already in your cunt.
What a sight.
…
You pant out heavily, he licks up your juices from his fingers and watches as your heart slows, only to start up again. His hand roams all over your body, pressing into your soft skin, groaning as you ground down on him.
“I’m sorry I have to…” he trails off. Eyes connecting to your breasts. He rips your bra quickly, hands coming up to squeeze the soft mounds.
His mouth hangs open, he feels himself drool at the sight of your bare body. He was delirious.
“I have to save you,” he mumbles, as if he were drunk.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, pulling you closer, his nose trailing down the middle of chest, nuzzling softly between your breasts as he breathes in deeply.
“Jes- jeez-“ he stutters. His tongue flicks out to taste your sweat, your breasts smelled like heaven, a certain musk that guided him to suck the soft flesh in his mouth.
His nose sinks into the softness, as his lips suck around your nipple. The other hand cups your breast and squeezes, his fingers holding your nipple in place as he presses the surrounding area. Almost as if urging something to drip out.
And something does. It must be an adverse effect of the gas, you see pearls of white dribble from the nipple he grasps in hand.
You instinctively attempt to push him away, but he holds you in place.
You flush in embarrassment as he groans, sucking harder, having just tasted what you’ve seen. He holds the small of your back against him, pressing you closer, his face smothered in your breasts.
You cup his head, mouth wide open as you moan out into the air freely.
You grind against his lap, tugging at his briefs. Your weak pawings towards his cock made him ache further. He stands, your limp body pliant in his hold as he makes his way to the bed in the middle of the room.
You fall harshly against the mattress. Your attempts at unbuttoning your skirt left you feeling winded and weak. You close your eyes and your breath gets caught in the back of your throat. Desperate for him.
He rips your very expensive and very vintage pencil skirt as if it were wrapping paper. In a blink his suit was gathered on the floor in a heap.
His chest rises and falls with each breath. The cool air gave him a bout of clarity.
He was still so upset. He stares down at you, almost in a scowl. He jerks himself, he can’t believe the amount of pre-cum that was coming out of him, almost like a fountain. He pulls your legs, making your back slide towards the edge of the bed.
His eyes soften as you writhe against the sheets. He palms your breasts and squeezes, he swallows thickly at the milky pearls that bead out. He tests the pliancy of your body. He could break you if he’s not careful enough. His stomach tenses and his heart quickens, almost making him keel over.
“We dont have to do this- we can-”
He stares at your cunt as you spread your legs. He swallows thickly. He feels himself fight the urge to sink into you. But his mothers words dig into the back of his skull. Do not get a girl pregnant before marrying her. He stalls.
He could put his mouth on you for hours, he’s sure he genuinely could do it for hours. He’d love to even.
But sperm was proven to be the most effective antidote. Who knows what Lex had to figure that out. You glance at his dick, so hard it looked almost painful. He was about to speak again but you cut him off quickly.
“I’m on the pill,” you whimper.
He’s on you quickly, knees digging into the soft mattress as his mouth leads a path up your body to your lips. He thrusts into you. You squeal, a mix of pain and intense pleasure.
“Holy- goodness-“ he groans, mouth wide open as his hips flex into you. Your pussy was so wet, and so tight as if it wanted to milk him for each drop.
Lex didn’t have anything to hold onto. Superman's hair was out of its usual gelled back style, pieces of his hair tickling against your skin as he places his forehead against yours.
Your fingers curl into his locks so tightly you fear if he wasn’t nearly invincible, you’d rip them from their roots.
He groans, eyelids heavy as he gazes down at you. You were such a mess, your eyes were wet, body covered in sweat, a pool of your juices staining half of the mattress. With each of his orgasms, he could feel your body calm further, as if his seed were a salve.
His arms were underneath you, lifting you lightly for more leverage. The squelch of his cock, pumping into you as he held your body below him possessively was so arousing to you.
You’ve never had an experience like this, someone so attentive and desperate for your body. Although in the back of your mind you knew that he wasn’t exactly desperate for you. You were both so unbearably horny, chemically enhanced hormonal shifts.
His mouth sucks at your nipple, he groans as you wrap your legs around his waist, your hand reaching to pull his ass onto you.
His weight was pushing you down as he changed position, pulling your legs up in the air and pressing his chest to the back of your thighs. It was obscene, his spunk spews from your pussy, your lower half seemingly covered in the milky white.
Lex Luthor watches the whole thing, it lasts hours. He’s almost impressed. It infuriates him.
Superman did everything in his power to get the chemicals out of your system, through sweat, tears, your cum. And he did everything to feel normal again, to stop craving the feel of your plump heated flesh, the tightness of your cunt, the softness of your lips.
You were pretty for a LuthorCorp goon. Especially with your glasses all slanted as he pounds you into the mattress.
By the end of the day Superman was spent, your heart has finally calmed. The last spurts of his cum pump into you weakly. He falls on his side, facing you.
You both catch your breath, staring into each other's eyes, shifting closer until his arm wraps around you to pull you to his chest.
His fingers press against the curve of your cheekbone as you lay on your side. He takes your lenses off gently, placing them on the pillow beside your head.
You stare at him, finger pressing against his chin, his lips, his brow.
“You’re so different,” you mutter. His eyes look over your features, not hiding his confusion. He imagines you mean different from Lex Luthor. You meant a lot of people. His clone was fucked up, cute, but the bridge of his nose and chin were slightly different.
“Why do you work for him?”
You shrug. Lex Luthor was a good boss. At least before today.
You had great health care, optometrist, dermatologist, endocrinologist and many more ists included. Pay was great, company products were free. Lex would get you flowers, he’d listen to your opinions, he’d take you to expensive dinners.
But it was never intimate, not like the way Superman was pressed against you now. He hums, his hand traces over every mark he left on your body.
Your expression was grim.
“You should find another job.”
You shrug again. He rolls his eyes, disappointed by your nonchalant response. He points between you both.
“This is pretty messed up.”
You nod.
“I know.”
He stands, you stare at the ceiling. He gives you one last look as he changes. He feels better, stronger now. He looks down on you. He looks at the length of his cape. He could wrap you in it, fly to his apartment or Kansas. He’d make sure you were safe.
“You should come with me…”
You shake your head, turning on your side. Back turned away from him. He could sense the sadness, the betrayal. He’s sure you’ll leave LuthorCorp on your own. He’d find you. To find out more about what happened, to maybe even take you out for coffee.
He’s hoping you would confide in Clark Kent.
You hear him tear through the metal. You cocoon yourself into a ball and finally succumb to your fatigue.
…
You wake up in a hospital bed, the heart monitor beeping loudly beside your ear, making your head thrum with a headache.
Lex was sitting next to your bed, analyzing your face as you scowled at him. He remains neutral. Your hand whips out faster than even you expected, his head whips to the side as your palm lands on his cheek.
He rubs his jaw, amusement in his eyes. He takes your hand.
“How do you feel?”
You scoff, pulling your hand away from him.
“I’m done.”
He snorts, he gives you a look, as if you were stupid. Class Lex. He always makes you feel so small. So useless sometimes.
“You’re not done,” he says, shaking his head as if he were speaking to a toddler who didn’t want to eat their vegetables.
You sit up furiously. “I am done!”
He doesn’t react to your tone. His eyes look over your body as he speaks.
“You signed the contract. You work for me for another year.”
You fume. Your hands ball into fists. He passes you your glasses but you slap the offer away.
“Unless you want to void the contract. That’ll cost you 50,000, darling.”
Tears well in your eyes. You couldn’t afford to void the contract, or the NDA. Or pay for legal fees if you want to get a lawyer. You stare up at the ceiling, the pillow is soft.
He holds your hand once again, this time tighter than before, not allowing you to pull away. He pulls in close next to you, he grips your chin to make you look up at him.
“I own you.”
He kisses your lips lightly, you face twitches in irritation.
“You did good. We got what we needed.”
His lips skim over the marks left by Superman, kissing the bruises and darkened spots so delicately it sent shivers down your spine. Your body soften against the mattress, giving in.
Your hands were planted against the cushion of the medical bed as he lowered down between your legs, pulling your hospital gown up to expose your pussy.
He groans at the sight. You let out a shaky breath and spread your legs. Your mound was swollen and as he spread your folds he could see streaky white slick drip out.
He asked them not to clean you there as medical staff crowded over you after Superman had left. They understood. It would make for a viable pregnancy if the sperm were to last longer inside of you.
He licks you, sucks your cunt, slurping Superman’s cum from your gaping hole. There was so much of it.
Your hands grip the medical bed, his head underneath your soft gown and shifting as he mouths at you.
He’s never touched you like this, fucked you like this.
He almost couldn’t believe it worked. Almost. Your pills were switched out months ago, there was no protection and judging by testing done on his clone. Superman’s sperm was potent. Statistically, way more potent than his own.
He sucks your clit, you muffle a moan with the back of your hand. He stuffs the seed back into you, you succumb to a back arching climax.
He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and walks out of the room.
…
You sit up in Lex’s bed. It’s been a month.
He’d become more caring, in his own strange little ways. He broke up with his girlfriend, he asked you out on a date.
He apologized.
You think something was wrong with you. You stayed. You’d rather reap the benefits of a rich boyfriend than deal with the legalities of quitting your job.
He touches you as if you were a delicate thing. Precious. You moved into his penthouse. You had access to most if not all of his belongings.
It was fishy. You’ve asked him about why he did what he did. He said it was to collect more DNA, which was left all over the mattress.
He wanted to create a better clone of Superman.
You swipe through your phone, ignoring emails of this so-called Clark Kent from the Daily Planet who wants to discuss your kidnapping the month before.
He’s been trying for weeks now.
You trudge through the bedroom door to see Lex in the kitchen. You sniff and your stomach twists. You get closer and you have to stop.
Bile collects in your mouth, and you rush to the bathroom. He calls out for you in concern, rushing towards you as you keel over the toilet bowl.
“What were you making that smelled so disgusting?” you groan. His cooking skills were mediocre at best. You weren’t surprised by the horrible smell.
“Eggs.”
He could see the wheels turning in your head. You missed your period, but you’ve always had irregular months.
Your ears ring, you want to puke but not from the smell of breakfast.
Now that you thought about it. Your boobs were sore, you brushed it off as a long-term side effect of the chemicals. You were spotting for a few days. You felt off.
You slam the door on Lex’s face and scour through the drawers underneath the sink. A fresh box of pregnancy tests was almost gleaming at you.
You curse Lex. The bastard planned this.
You sit on the toilet for more than two minutes. Your legs shake, your hands smooth over your thighs anxiously.
You’re pretty sure it was Superman’s. You hoped it was just to spite Lex.
You shake your head and put your head in your hands. You hope it wasn’t anybody’s!
You pick up the test and close your eyes tightly. You open them and your heart drops. Your body goes cold.
Lex gleams with joy as you scream in a mix of frustration and pent-up anxiety. You open the door and shove the test to his chest.
He watches you pack your belongings.
It was positive.
——————————
Baby daddy needs to lock in… Lex Luthor is so freaky I fear he would make a scheme to carry the child himself if he biologically could. Anyways, I don’t feel great about this one. Idk. Let me know if y'all want more of this reader.
thinking about how sam would absolutely love picking you up and setting you on top of the table/countertop/desk at any chance he gets. the way he'd step between your parted thighs just to feel you wrap your legs around his waist while he pulls you into the most breathtaking kisses. not to mention your reaction – it's so obvious that you love being manhandled and he's more than happy to give you what you want. hell, it makes him feel sexy that he can pick you up like that and that you'll eat it up every time.
it kind of becomes a ritual for y'all – any time he finds you near any flat surface he could conceivably lift you on top of, he'll do it. he finds you in the kitchen getting water? up you go. you come into his office to check on him? say hello to the desk while you're at it! sam just loves standing between your knees and kissing the sense out of you. loves the way your limbs envelope him and your fists twist into the back of his shirt.
NOTES: this is definitely going to be a multi part work :) I hope everyone enjoys!! happy Father’s Day to my favorite dilf. The idea behind this was for Vought to try and leash/placate/occupy Soldier Boy while simultaneously rehabilitating his image for their own gain. How do you do that? With a hot wife and kids, of course! Welcome family man soldier boy <3
TW: no smut (yet), stunt marriage but Ben is in it to win it, discussions of having a child (per contract stipulations), reader who is clearly out of her depth, sweet moments with Ben, Vought being Vought
The thick, leather-bound folder sat in front of you on the polished glass table like it weighed a hundred pounds. Gold trim along the spine. Vought branding etched into the leather. At the top of the first page — not in legal typeface but embossed like a wedding invitation — were the words: Public Placement Agreement
You blinked. Smiled like you understood.
You didn’t.
“Well?” said the woman to your right, the one with the pearl cufflinks and the chemically perfected teeth. “This is the big moment.”
You nodded, fingers twitching nervously against the hem of your skirt. You had worn pale blue because they said it photographed well. Soft. Feminine. Approachable.
They’d been saying that word a lot lately.
Another executive spoke up, some silver-haired man in a navy suit you’d only met twice before. “You’ll get final say over styling, of course. We want you to feel like yourself. That’s very important to us—this is a partnership.”
Partnership.
Like you’d both come to the table with equal leverage.
You swallowed. “And… just to make sure I’m understanding correctly—this is fake?”
The room paused.
The woman with the pearl cufflinks laughed. Just once. Sharp and smooth.
“Well,” she said, flipping a page for you. “The marriage is real. Legally. But the nature of the relationship? That’s entirely up to you.”
A pause.
You stared down at the line that said:
Parties entering this agreement acknowledge a public-facing union with Mr. Benjamin Hargrove, otherwise known as Soldier Boy, as of the effective date and commit to full availability for associated media, domestic, and narrative development obligations.
“…Domestic?” you repeated.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Pearl Cufflinks. “You’ll have a team managing your wardrobe, your schedule, your comms. You’ll even have a personal assistant to help with the, um—transition.”
You wanted to ask transition into what?
Instead, you nodded again. You were good at nodding. It was what had gotten you this far. Obedient. Polished. Background actress pretty.
They said he had preferences. Said he liked women who smiled with their teeth. Liked a little curve to the hips. Liked when they had to look up at him. And a whole laundry list of other things that you apparently ticked the boxes for.
You hadn’t known any of that when you sent in your headshots. You hadn’t even known what the role was. Just that it was high-profile, long-term, and required “mature discretion.”
Now there was a ring box beside the contract.
“Soldier Boy is very excited to meet you,” said one of the men.
You flinched slightly. You hadn’t realized he wasn’t already here.
And then—
You felt it. A shift in the air. The subtle crackle of attention. Your eyes lifted toward the doorway. There he was, strutting into the room without a single care in the world. Plopping down in the seat on the other side of the table. And now—
Across from you sat your future.
Soldier Boy in the flesh — sprawled in his chair like he owned the whole damn building. Trademarked uniform and all. He was bigger in person. Broader. Louder, even when he wasn’t speaking.
But he was speaking now.
To you.
“I asked ‘em for a blonde at first,” he said, tipping his chair back. “But they said you had better… chemistry scores.”
You blinked. “Chemistry?”
He grinned. “Fertility panel. Real strong numbers, sweetheart. Real breeder stats.”
The pen in your hand slipped slightly. No one at the table flinched.
“I—excuse me?” you asked, heart thudding.
Pearl Cufflinks—your supposed liaison—cleared her throat like this was completely normal. “Clause 12(b),” she said smoothly, flipping the contract binder toward you. “The child provision.”
Your eyes locked on the text:
In accordance with Image Rehabilitation Strategy Phase III, the couple will agree to attempt conception within the first fifteen months of legal union, with successful pregnancy preferred by Q4 of Year One
Ben gave a low whistle. “That’s corporate for I’m knockin’ you up, doll.”
You stared.
One of the men—some VP of Partnerships or something that sounded equally as made up—leaned forward. “This is a long-term narrative. America loves a family arc. Soldier Boy comes home. Soldier Boy finds love. Soldier Boy becomes a father.”
“Soldier Boy fills you full’a patriotic cum,” Ben added, unbothered. “Put that on a Hallmark card.”
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“Of course,” Pearl continued, “we do understand that fertility journeys can be unpredictable. So in the event natural methods prove unsuccessful, Vought reserves the right to discuss alternatives: IVF, IUI, surrogacy, donor sequencing—”
Ben made a noise — sharp, low, amused. Then he stood.
“Yeah. No,” he said flatly. “We’re not doin’ any of that shit.”
“Soldier Boy,” one of the lawyers began cautiously, “these are standard fallback clauses—”
“I don’t care if it’s fuckin’ scripture,” Ben muttered, already moving around the table. “It’s. Not. Happening.”
He stopped behind you, broad hands resting on the back of your chair.
“You think I’m gonna let some stranger shove a needle into my wife? Pump her full of hormones? Knock her up with a fuckin’ turkey baster?” He laughed, dry. “C’mon now.”
His voice dropped.
“I don’t share. I don’t outsource. And I sure as hell don’t let someone else handle what’s mine.”
He leaned down, eyes locked on the page in front of you.
“No IVF. No clinics. No surrogate. No test tubes. If we’re makin’ a baby, we’re doin’ it the natural way, like God intended. In my bed, on her back”
You swallowed hard.
Pearl tried to keep control. “The clause is conditional, Soldier Boy. Simply there for liability protection.”
Ben grabbed the pen. “Great. Then we won’t need it.”
He dragged a thick, black line straight through the entire paragraph. Then he turned the page.
“While we’re at it…”
He started crossing things out.
“This one? Separate quarters. Like hell. She’s my wife, not a fuckin’ tenant.”
Scratch.
“Privacy provision? Nah. You want alone time, sweetheart?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, eyes sharp. “You can have it when I’m dead.”
Scratch.
“Media stipulation: ‘maintain independent identity as a solo public figure’…” He scoffed. “She’s not a fuckin’ talk show host. She’s Mrs. Soldier Boy. That’s the brand.”
Scratch.
He flipped one more page. Slowed.
“This one says if I get ‘indefinitely incapacitated,’ you’re allowed to request a contract reassignment.” He raised an eyebrow. “That means if I die, they’ll let you remarry to some other asshole.”
He didn’t even bother with the pen. He ripped the page out.
You jumped slightly.
Ben handed you the pen, calm as anything. “There. Much better.”
Pearl blinked. “Soldier Boy—”
He didn’t even look at her. “I’m not negotiating how to be a husband.”
Then, quieter — for you:
“You marry me, you take my name, you have my kid. That’s the job. And I’m not lettin’ some boardroom water it down.”
You stared at the torn page. The dark slashes. The heat of his hand still on your chair.
He looked down at the contract again. His thumb dragged lightly across your upper arm.
“This part’s not for Vought,” he said. “It’s for me.”
Then, softer — but no less final:
“I want the real thing. The wife, the rugrats, the marriage. No labs. No third parties. No chemicals. Just you. Me. The good old-fashioned way.”
The room was holding its breath.
You stared at the signature line. And then—because you didn’t know what else to do, because no one was stopping him, because some twisted part of you wanted to—you signed your name.
Ben let out a low whistle, pleased beyond words. “Damn, sweetheart. I gotta admit, that was sexy as hell.”
The ink on the page was still drying when you looked up and asked, soft but clear:
“So… is that it?”
Pearl Cufflinks glanced up, caught mid-note. “Pardon?”
You gestured vaguely to the table. To the ring box. The silence. “I mean… there’s no ceremony or anything?”
That earned a pause. A little shuffle of papers. A couple of glances.
One of the men — the one with the overly whitened smile and the Vought lapel pin — cleared his throat.
“There’s a civil judge we work with,” he said smoothly. “He’s discreet. He’ll sign off retroactively—just a formality. And next week, we’ve got a full shoot scheduled: custom gown, natural lighting, branded media rollout—”
Ben snorted.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t quiet. It cracked across the table like a gunshot.
He hadn’t said a word since you’d signed. Just stood with his arms folded, watching the suits talk about your future like it was a marketing pitch.
Now he straightened up.
“You’re tellin’ me,” he said, voice flat, “you walked this girl in here, made her sign her life and body away to you jackles, and didn’t even plan a fuckin’ ceremony?”
Pearl gave a stiff smile. “It’s all been arranged, of course—”
“No,” he cut in. “It hasn’t.”
He walked toward the table, slow and purposeful. “A photoshoot ain’t a wedding. A judge who’s never met her doesn’t mean shit. This—” He gestured to the folder. “—this is a contract. That’s not the same thing.”
Then he looked at her. “Can I have a minute with my wife?”
Pearl blinked. “We’d be happy to schedule a short—”
“That means get out.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It landed like a slammed door.
There was a beat—that quiet, tense little moment Vought people always had when dealing with unstable assets—and then they were moving. Scrambling politely. Gathering files and devices. Disappearing without another word.
The room emptied. The door clicked shut.
And just like that, the whole temperature changed. Ben exhaled, rubbed a hand over his jaw. Then he turned to the ring box.
He picked it up like it mattered. Opened it slow.
You watched as he reached for your hand.
“I picked this myself. Took me two hours to get one of those Vought weasels to bring out something that didn’t look like a damn geology project.”
You didn’t speak. But Ben didn’t need you to.
“My ma wore somethin’ like this,” he said, not looking at your face. Just your hand in his. “She wore it ‘til the day she died. Didn’t matter if they fought. Didn’t matter what she gave up. That ring never came off.”
Your chest tightened a little.
He lifted his eyes and met yours. “I figured if I was gonna do this, I’d might as well do it right.”
His palm was warm, steady. Then, with surprising care, he slipped the ring onto your finger.
Not performative. Not rough.
Just final.
“There,” he murmured. “Now it counts.”
You stared at the ring, at the way his thumb brushed the base of your finger like he was sealing it in.
He didn’t let go.
“You scared?” he asked.
You nodded. Just barely.
He nodded too. “Good,” he said. “Means you have a brain.”
You looked up at him. “Are you?”
Something in his face shifted — not a smile, not exactly. But there was something there. Something real.
“This feels like the first good decision I’ve made in fifty fuckin’ years.” He squeezed your hand, not hard. “So don’t make me regret it.”
It didn’t feel like a vow.
It felt like a warning. And a promise.
And, somehow, that was the closest thing to love you’d heard all day.
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
No hallway. No lobby. Just the soft hush of clean floors and city lights and the kind of silence that felt like it had been waiting for you.
Ben stepped in first, tossing his jacket somewhere over the arm of a wide leather chair without a second glance. “Go on,” he said, looking back at you. “You can come in. Place don’t bite.”
You crossed the threshold slowly.
The space wasn’t what you expected. Warm. Lived-in. Expensive, yeah—but not staged. There were boots by the door, a half-unpacked duffel near the couch. A record player in the corner, the needle resting mid-album.
It didn’t feel like a PR setup.
It felt like someone’s home.
“You live here?” you asked, voice catching just a little.
Ben gave a low hum, heading toward the kitchen. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, pulling open the fridge. “We do.”
That hit low in your stomach.
You didn’t even notice him pour the drinks until he was walking back with two glasses in one hand — whiskey, no ice.
He handed you one. “To the blushin’ bride,” he drawled, clinking his glass against yours. “Lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream in that little blue dress. Bet half the legal team couldn’t stop starin’.”
You took a sip to hide your nerves.
He watched you over the rim of his glass. “You bring anything lacey? Or did the Vought PR fairies forget to prep you for the wedding night?”
Your cheeks burned. “I didn’t know this was the wedding night.”
Ben grinned. “Sweetheart, you signed the paper. You got the ring. You walked into my home. If it ain’t tonight, it’s soon.”
You said nothing, sucking in a deep breath as your eyes took in the room.
He stepped closer, eyes on you — not pushy, but there.
“Still nervous?”
You nodded. Just barely.
His voice dropped lower. “Good.”
You looked up, startled.
“Means it’s real,” he said. “Y’always feel the nerves before things that matter.”
Then, after a beat — “C’mon.”
You followed him down the hallway, passing soft lighting, shelves of records, walls that felt quiet. Like they held things no one else got to see.
He stopped at a door, pushed it open.
“This is yours,” he said. “If you want it to be.”
The room was clean, simple. Comfortable. Neutral tones. A bed made up with fresh sheets. A lamp turned on low. A robe hanging on a hook. Pajamas folded at the foot of the bed — white and crisp.
You looked at him. “You set this up?”
He crossed his arms with a huffed laugh. “I didn’t pick the fuckin’ duvet or anything. Got someone to make it decent. Didn’t seem right, throwing you into my bed like a stray dog without giving you a choice.”
Your throat went tight at the idea of him thinking about his. Planning it, to some degree.
“I figured you might wanna take a breath,” he added. “Or sleep with the door locked. For a while.”
You glanced back at the bed. “And if I don’t?”
He smiled. “You don’t ever have to sleep in your own room if you don’t want to.”
Your heart jumped. “But if I do?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I won’t cry about it.” Then he paused. Let the quiet stretch. “But I won’t exactly be thrilled either.”
You met his eyes — green, steady, utterly without apology.
Then, softer, just for you: “I want you close. That’s not a secret.”
He nodded toward the door behind him. “But you can take your time. I’ll be in the other room. Shirt off. Lookin’ devastating.”
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.
————-
it’s honestly not even your fault.
you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.
simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.
needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.
he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.
“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”
the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.
“tha right?”
“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”
simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.
maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.
hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.
“you’re drunk,” he breathes.
you grin. “so’re you.”
“not even half as much as you.”
you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.
“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”
it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.
“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”
and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.
“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”
he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.
“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”
he exhales. slow. almost a growl.
“jesus. stop talkin’.”
“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”
his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.
“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”
he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.
and you?
you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.
“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“
he doesn’t let you finish that thought.
“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”
“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“
his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.
“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”
that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.
“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”
he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”
by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.
and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.
your thighs tense. he notices.
“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”
he pauses. boot in hand.
“…what?”
he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.
your lashes flutter.
“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”
he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.
your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”
he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.
“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.
“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“
“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.
the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.
not fully, but enough.
you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”
he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—
“only when i breathe.”
your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”
he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.
he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”
the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.
“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“
before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.
“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”
you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.
“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”
his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.
your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”
his eyes snap shut.
“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”
even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.
“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“
his palm tightens over your lips again.
“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”
then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.
“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”
“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”
pairing: robert reynolds x reader
cw: smut, bob has sensory issues, afab reader, faint talks and mentions of mental health, very faint non-con aspects, oral (female receiving) vaginal fingering, nipple play, humping, dry humping.
after consuming the serum, bob became extremely hypersensitive and aware of things—so much so that even the faintest kind of touch could send his whole nervous system reeling.
he didn’t snap, didn’t yell, didn’t push you away in frustration. never. he would just murmur softly—almost apologetically—that he “couldn’t be touched right now.”
there was always a pause before he said it. like he was trying not to disappoint you. like he was ashamed of the way his body betrayed him.
the sensitivity extended to the mundane—fabric on his skin, loud ambient noises, even too many lights in a room. sometimes, in the tower, he’d forgo wearing a shirt entirely, just letting his skin breathe. his golden skin, speckled with sweat and goosebumps, would gleam under the artificial lights, flushed in pinks and reds where the air felt too cold. more often than not, he’d pace barefoot in nothing but drawstring pants, arms crossed over his chest like a barrier, avoiding eye contact with anyone who passed by in the halls. it earned him glances. side comments.
especially from walker, who never quite understood that bob’s vulnerability wasn’t weakness—it was survival.
you caught one of those glares once—when you’d been walking down the hallway beside bob, your hand ghosting near the small of his back but not quite touching him. john’s voice, muttered low, just enough to catch your ear:
“isn’t he a little delicate for a guy who can tear satellites out the sky?”
which, naturally, meant john wanted you to use his tower card for a little shopping spree. you told yourself it was reparations. he slept like a boulder, so slipping the card from his wallet was easy enough, and by the end of the afternoon, you were $1,500 deep in a blur of textures and fabrics, cotton shirts so soft they felt like clouds under your fingertips, corduroy pants that didn’t snag against his skin, jeans carefully vetted so they didn’t “feel weird,” sweatshirts knit from the kind of threads that wouldn’t spark his nerves alight.
you didn’t tell bob how much you spent. not for lack of him trying. he always asked to see the receipt—voice so careful, so earnestly sweet, like he was hoping it didn’t trouble you too much. but you just kissed his forehead and told him to focus on how good it all felt.
clothing was easy. sex was harder.
because bob was always easy to overstimulate. that part wasn’t the serum. that part was just… bob.
now, sometimes—when his body couldn’t regulate anything, when his chest felt like it was cracking open from the inside out—you could barely blow air across the flushed head of his cock before he was gasping, crying out, arching up into the empty space like the very air was too much. milky-white cum painting his abs, tears streaking down his cheeks as he gasped—“holy—fuck!—shit,” or “please—’m sorry i am—i’m so sorry—!”
and god help him, the one time you’d tried to sink down onto him during one of those episodes, he’d cum in you twice before you’d even managed to bottom out. his face had crumpled, eyes screwed shut, bottom lip bitten raw as he choked out little whimpers. you’d barely been able to move without hurting him, the hypersensitivity turning pleasure into something agonizing.
and when you finally slid off of what little you’d taken, it was messy—cum leaking out of you, dripping down his shaft, and pooling hot between your thighs. his body trembled under yours, head thrown back against the pillow, adam’s apple bobbing with every sharp swallow. he whimpered, voice wrecked, saying he wanted you to keep it inside—like it meant something. like it mattered. he’d made this broken little sound, throat bobbing as he begged you to leave it in, trembling hands trying to push it back inside you with his fingers.
“i need it—i… jus’ wanna keep it there, please—”
you’d figured out workarounds since then. bob was desperate to give you pleasure, to feel useful in that way, to prove to himself he wasn’t a burden. his fingers would tremble as he pushed them inside you, skin prickling with sparks like every nerve ending had a live wire attached. his tongue — too hot, too greedy — left him shaking after, the taste of you almost too much, something primal unspooling inside him until his hands clenched the sheets like he was drowning.
just like now.
he was between your thighs, eyes glassy, lips slick and flushed, the muscles in his jaw tight as his tongue worked in slow, heavy drags. every time he swallowed, you could feel it — the tremor that ran through his body, like the flavor of you was too much, like it short-circuited the careful defenses his body tried to maintain. he was too vocal. he always was. little choked-off whimpers and desperate sounds spilling out between licks.
you’d warned him earlier—told him he didn’t have to. but he wanted to. he always wanted to.
eventually, you had to take him by the roots of his brunette hair and pull him back, gently. not because it hurt—but because it was too much. for him.
he didn’t even gasp for air. didn’t complain. just blinked up at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes looked almost black in the low light, tongue peeking out to taste your arousal off his lips.
“was i… not good?” he asked, voice soft, cracked, like it physically hurt to even suggest he might not have pleased you.
you sighed, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “it’s too much for you. i can’t tell if you’re okay when you look like you’re about to pass out.”
his brows pulled together, lips twitching like he wanted to argue, to tell you it didn’t matter, that he wanted this — needed it. “i wanna make you feel good. it’s fine, i swear—”
he reached for you, to part your thighs again, and you tugged his hair a little harder in warning. he froze.
“lay down, bob. let’s sleep.”
“don’t do this… please,” he whispered, voice breaking in the middle like a little boy told he couldn’t have something shiny in the store window.
you didn’t have to say another word. he sighed, defeated, crawling up the bed, big body moving slow like every muscle ached. you pulled back the comforter and let him slip beneath it, sheets freshly washed, and you could feel his eyes boring into your back like a heat lamp as you turned off the lamp. you knew he was pouting. you could practically hear it in the tight huff of his breath, in the way he curled up closer behind you but didn’t touch.
this could wait until morning.
except it didn’t.
four hours later, sleep a heavy fog in your skull, you felt a hand shaking you. gentle. careful. but persistent. you cracked an eye open to see bob’s face in the moonlight, curls mussed, pupils still wide and dark as he bit his lip.
you shifted, instantly aware of the slick between your thighs, panties pushed halfway down, skin damp and sticky like you’d been worked over while you slept. bob’s fingers glistened faintly in the low light.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered, voice so low it barely stirred the air. “i… i knew you still needed me. you’re wet, look—”
“bob,” you groaned, hand dragging down your face. “it’s too much for you to even finger me, baby. i can take care of myself.”
he made a choked sound, eyes glossy. “i don’t want you to.” it was a whine, petulant and achingly sincere, like the idea of you touching yourself was betrayal.
he moved, laying back flat, curls spilling over the pillow, pink lips slick, and you couldn’t tell if it was from your slick or his own spit. he patted his thighs, coaxing.
you sighed, sliding over to straddle him, body curling down against his chest. it wasn’t new. bob liked the weight of you. said it grounded him. you kicked your panties the rest of the way off as his arms wound around your waist, holding you tight.
it stayed like that a while. long enough you thought he might fall asleep. until his hand ghosted down, fingers dipping to your cunt, finding you still wet, the contact making you jolt.
he looked up at you like he was working out a math problem, then without a word, tugged his own shirt up, exposing the pale pink of his nipples, flushed and damp with sweat. you swallowed, arousal stirring.
he was beautiful like this—golden even in the moonlight, carved like myth, the kind of man gods were modeled after. you told him that once, and he’d given you that shy smile he always did—boyish, bashful, like it embarrassed him to be seen.
and then, all at once, his hands found your hips—gripping them with a strength you forgot he had. big palms wrapping around your flesh, fingers splaying across the softness of your sides like he was trying to memorize the shape of you by feel alone. he lifted you with barely any effort, drawing you up his body until your clit nestled into the firm dip between his abs. a sudden swell of heat flushed through your core as your skin met the slick warmth of his stomach—his skin clammy, trembling, and sticky with a sheen of sweat that caught the light from the half-open window.
the contact made you gasp.
it wasn’t just friction. it was everything.
that perfect, ridged line between his abdominal muscles pressed hot and smooth right where you needed it, and your cunt responded instinctively—throbbing, aching, wetness renewing in a slow, sticky seep that soaked between your folds and onto the tight muscle of his stomach.
bob’s breath hitched beneath you. you felt it.
his whole body went tense again—legs rigid beneath the sheet, shoulders straining against the pillows—but he didn’t stop you. if anything, his grip on your hips tightened, almost needy, thumbs stroking up and down like he was soothing himself even as he guided you forward.
“jus’ want you to feel good,” he whispered again, voice half-gone, eyes wide and blue and wet beneath the mess of dark curls.
you rocked your hips gently—just once, just to test how much he could take—and his head thumped back to the pillow like gravity had stolen his spine.
his breath broke out in a ragged whimper.
that little movement had smeared your slick along the soft trail of hair beneath his navel, and the effect it had on him was immediate—his cock twitched where it lay heavy in his boxers, untouched and already leaking from the tip, precum surely pooling messily against the fabric.
“you’re—fuck,” bob stammered, brows scrunching like the world was ending. “you’re dripping on me.”
he said it like he couldn’t believe it. like the heat of your cunt against his stomach was some kind of religious punishment.
you rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging your clit along the taut groove of muscle running diagonally across his belly. the sensation sent a low, needy ache spiraling down your spine, and bob felt it—he gasped, one hand flying to grip the pillow beside his head while the other stayed anchored to your waist, grounding himself with the warmth of your skin.
“i can’t—i can’t even move or i’ll—” his voice cracked with shame and lust all tangled up in the same breath. “but you can… you can keep going. want you to. need you to.”
“just like this?” you asked softly, dragging yourself over him again—longer this time, letting your clit grind into the top of his abs with a rhythm that was more deliberate, more dangerous.
bob nodded frantically, curls bouncing against the pillow. his lips parted but no real words came out—just these sounds, these desperate little ahh—hhuh noises, like his whole body was unraveling under you.
his thighs twitched. his hands flexed.
you looked down and saw the trail of slick glistening across his stomach—shining in the moonlight like something holy. it smeared across the center of his chest now too, where you’d balanced your hands earlier. his whole body looked like it had been marked by you. like you’d been anointed onto him.
“you’re doing so good,” you whispered, and bob’s breath stuttered out of his lungs like it shattered something in him. “so good for me, baby…”
“don’t stop—don’t stop, please—i can take it,” he said, but it was a lie. a beautiful, reckless lie. his voice cracked on every syllable. his abs trembled beneath your cunt, muscles seizing and jerking in overstimulated flinches with every grind of your hips.
and still, he held you there. still, he kept pulling you forward with the tips of his fingers, even as tears started to well in the corners of his eyes again.
you leaned down—kissed the corner of his mouth, then the flushed apple of his cheek—and his head turned instinctively to follow you, mouth brushing against your jaw with a needy little sound. his cock lay untouched between you, neglected and twitching
the more you moved, the wetter everything became—your arousal slicking his stomach, pooling along the contours of his abs, hot and glistening in the moonlight. his skin beneath you grew slippery, sticky with your need, and every tiny roll of your hips only made it worse—only made it better. every pass of your clit over that shallow dip in his midsection sent jolts ricocheting up your spine, and the more friction you fed yourself, the more you lost the ability to form full thoughts. you could feel it building fast—too fast. not from penetration, not from anything more than pressure and heat and the sound of him.
and bob—god, bob—he was trembling now. the muscles of his arms, his thighs, even his neck—everything was twitching, caught in a crosswire of overstimulation and restraint. he couldn’t even hide it. broken, messy whines kept slipping from his mouth, each one spilling out in the same staggered rhythm as your hips. he was trying so hard to stay still beneath you, to let you ride it out the way your body so clearly needed, but it was killing him.
then there was his cock—helplessly twitching, swollen and soaked. so much precum had spilled out of him, it’d long since leaked through the thin white cotton. you didn’t even have to touch it—you could see the blushing pink of his tip pressing against the wet fabric, throbbing.
“‘m—cumming,” you managed to gasp out—voice cracking, more of a sob than a warning. you were shaking, bracing one hand against his chest, and immediately bob’s hands flew to your hips, grabbing on tight.
he didn’t ease you through it—he pushed. rocked you harder, faster, more desperate than he had any right to be. like it was his orgasm you were having. like he could feel it inside his own body. bob’s hands fly back to your waist like instinct. like his body was made to respond to yours. his fingers press deep into your flesh as he starts rocking you—violently, desperately—dragging your soaked cunt forward and back across the slick plane of his stomach, chasing your orgasm like it’s his own. like if he works hard enough, fast enough, good enough, he can feel it through you. with you.
“come on,” he begged under his breath, head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. “come on—please—wanna feel it—give it to me—”
his voice broke on the last syllable.
and through the heat and the overwhelming wave crashing through you, you reached down—your fingers shaking—and dragged them through the mess coating his abs. your slick clung to the ridges of his muscles, warm and thick and yours, and you brought it straight up to his chest.
he didn’t even flinch.
you thumbed the arousal over one nipple, then the other, and bob jerked beneath you—hips spasming, mouth falling open in a wet, stuttering moan. his hands tightened at your waist like he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you closer or throw you off—but he didn’t do either. he just endured it. just let himself fall apart under you.
the sounds he made—god. soft, desperate whimpers spilling over into tears, gasping little hitching breaths every time your fingers circled one pink, flushed bud, your wetness smearing across his chest like it belonged there.
“does that feel good?” you whispered, barely able to speak as your own orgasm ran hot through your bloodstream. your body pulsed over him, your thighs trembling, your clit pressed so tightly to his skin you were practically convulsing. “you like it when i rub it into you, baby?”
he nodded, head lolling against the pillow as his breath stuttered out of him. “fuck, yes—yes—i love it, please don’t stop,” he moaned, eyes fluttering open just to find your face. he was glassy-eyed, like he’d cry if you even breathed the wrong way.
your fingers pinched one of his nipples, just lightly, and his entire body shook.
the mess between you was obscene now—your slick streaking across his abs, his chest, the faint trail of his cum still leaking through the fabric of his boxers and sticking to your thighs. you could feel it—hot and slick—when you rolled your hips forward just a little more, just enough to grind back down against that perfect dip in his body that made you twitch.
“feels like i’m gonna—gonna—” he gasped out, voice strangled, hips bucking uselessly beneath you. he was rutting against nothing, no friction, no stimulation to his cock at all except the wet cling of his ruined underwear and your body grinding above him. he looked frantic. like his brain was short-circuiting just from watching you unravel.
you leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your noses touching. your breath mingled. you could smell yourself on him, taste it in the air, and that only made your stomach clench tighter.
“you wanna cum too?” you asked, low and coaxing, the softest ache curling around your voice.
“i—i c-can’t—” he stammered, his voice breaking so completely you felt it vibrate against your lips. “didn’t even touch me—didn’t touch—and i’m—”
you felt it then—the sudden twitch of his thighs beneath you, the way his body jerked. he came. without ever being touched. just from the scent of you, the warmth of you, the taste still lingering on his lips and your slick soaking into his skin.
the sound he made was unlike anything you’d ever heard—half-sob, half-praise, trembling with so much feeling it made your chest hurt.
you rocked against him once more, gently, as he spilled himself into his underwear, the front of the fabric darkening even more, clinging lewdly to the outline of his cock. your cunt was still throbbing, still pulsing against his belly, but now you felt that soft little aftershock ripple up your spine. it made your fingers tremble where they still rested on his chest, your hand smearing another stripe of wetness over his nipple. he twitched again. whimpered again.
your orgasm crashes over you so hard it nearly knocks the wind from your lungs. you grind harder—shaking, crying out—as your clit pulses against his stomach. you feel your own slick gush again, dripping down over his abs, down his sides, pooling beneath you. and still—still—he’s dragging you through it, milking every second of your orgasm like it’s a shared act of devotion. like it hurts him not to give you more.
you collapse forward, arms trembling as you brace yourself against his chest, mouth falling open, forehead brushing against the hollow of his throat. he’s so warm. and he smells like salt and sweat and the faintest trace of his body wash—the kind you bought for him, the one that doesn’t make his skin itch.
bob’s heart is pounding beneath your cheek. you can feel it slamming into your ear like it’s trying to escape his chest. his breathing is short and erratic, the skin of his abs flexing under your hips with every aftershock he suffers just from the stimulation of you—not even being touched.
his arms fold around you, trembling but firm. protective. possessive.
you shift just slightly, and your slickened pussy brushes the very top of his briefs where his cock is still twitching visibly beneath the soaked fabric.
bob lets out a sound—half moan, half sob. “i’m gonna—fuck, i think i—please don’t move—!” his voice ringing from overstimulaton.
you freeze immediately.
you pressed a soft kiss to his nipple, an breathlessly giggle out a faint apology.
“wanna feel you all the time,” he mumbled, still dazed, his voice sleepier now, like he was crashing from the high. “you make me feel full. even when i’m empty.”
that made your chest squeeze. that sentence. the truth in it.
and for once, the tower was quiet.
no lights. no noise. just the faint moonlight casting long, gentle shadows against the wall. the echo of breathing that slowly began to steady. the heartbeat under your ear.
you stayed there for a long while, sticky and raw and satisfied—your bodies cooling down together, your minds settling into something quiet. bob’s fingers twitched at your back, still reflexively trying to keep you close.
richie’s got a thing for making you squirt. orgasm after orgasm, he pushes his cock into you, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about the mess you’ve made.
it’s perfect to him, the way you wet his cock, the way your eyes roll back and you tense up right before you let go for him, the way you curl up into him as you gush out around him.
it’s in his nature, you guess, to want more and more, to coast your electric body up and down and press himself flush against you until you spill out onto him, pull him tight and shake in his arms. instinctual, maybe, to crave the sweetest release, to wish for the unleashing of a fountain flowing for his hard work, his angles and pushes and sweet, sweet words.
he’s tied to your pleasure, to this facet of it, the trust and vulnerability it takes to indulge in something as messy as this; he’s tied to the filthiness of it all. so far from divine and yet right there.
every time, he takes his time, knows his end goal takes patience and pleasure, kisses against the right spot, the softness to let you experience the ebbs and flows of it until you feel the push, that pressure inside you so overwhelming you could panic, you could push him off you and stop what you know is coming. but you don’t, because he’s right there.
“i feel it.” he nods, voice earnest and soft. “i feel it. le’me have it, baby. swear i got you.”
and he does. when you let it hit you, when richie’s work comes to fruition, it’s good. the pressure splits, you squeeze around him and gush, eyes squeezing shut as you grip at his back, your other splayed over his arm. he loves you through it all, gazing upon you while he revels in what he’s done.
you’re the image of perfect curled up under him whimpering his name, shaking and shivering with the goodness of it all. wetness coats him and you, and it’s all he wants, his hand on the side of your face to caress and soothe, to keep you here with him.
and he starts again, and he’ll keep going until he’s had his fill. he can’t help it.
I'm going to *remembers suicide is often not a desire for death itself but rather an attempt to radically change one's life because the current state of being has become unbearable but the person can't think of any way to change it other than death* kill myself
↠︎ plot + warnings: hcs on college!jjk men with f!reader roommate and their many adventures with one another!
↠︎ featuring: nanami, toji, choso, gojo, and geto
↠︎ continuing my college!jjk series and we're starting with this! i love the idea of reader having her own relationship with the boys and vice versa!
➞︎ it isn't often that you guys get to go on adventures together.
➞︎ most of the time its a bunch of mini side quests with one another at different times.
➞︎ when you have afternoon classes, gojo and geto are usually finishing up their day as well.
➞︎ which turns into the three of you taking the train into tokyo, blowing gojo's money on sweets and food.
➞︎ sometimes you guys catch a car meet on the off chance y'all end up on that side of town when its happening (a/n: i hc the group to be into cars but geto, toji, and choso are the biggest gear heads)
➞︎ some days, you and nanami spend mornings together.
➞︎ mostly spent in the nooks and crannies of libraries or by the window in a bakery/cafe.
➞︎ sometimes, when you guys have book club, he'll put together a picnic for the two of you.
➞︎ there's a garden with a bunch of Japanese maple trees that the two of you found once.
➞︎ it's y'all's secret third spot. 🤫
➞︎ surprisingly, choso started tagging along with you to toji's practices/matches after a couple months of you doing it.
➞︎ while you were focused on the 'pr' side of things for the boxer, choso took on the role of sparring partner.
➞︎ so now, you had not one, but two gym bros on your hands as choso started hitting the gym srsly.
➞︎ don't worry, it's not always a fist fight with those guys.
➞︎ choso is always finding some new spot to try, mostly art or herbal shops, and toji drives while you tag along for the ride.
➞︎ meanwhile, toji's always finding some mountain to hike! gd its exhausting keeping up with him sometimes!
➞︎ but they're the only two to stick around for when you have your 'bring it on' marathon, so you endure :)
➞︎ geto is in the tattoo shop late at night some weekends and whenever you're available, you pop a squat on the comfy futon he has in his space and chill.
➞︎ he appreciates the company whenever he's working on a client after hours or working hard on designing a new piece.
➞︎ he uses you as a gauge for when he's been working too long. if you've been silent for more than an hour, he knows it's time to wrap it up.
➞︎ gojo is a slut for his monthly massages. he got you one as a birthday gift one year and y'all have been going together ever since.
➞︎ he's always the one you're trying bazaar shit with. cos why tf did he fire up the private jet just so the two of you could visit the blue lagoon.
➞︎ in ICELAND btw
➞︎ toji secretly likes to cook.
➞︎ like loves to cook actually.
➞︎ you only found out when it was just the two of you at home one weekend (nanami on a business retreat with geto, gojo visiting his family (begrudgingly he says), and choso went camping with his brother's) and toji threw down after the joint sesh y'all had.
➞︎ i mean the spread was spreadin'
➞︎ he swore you to secrecy, cooking was smth he didn't want the other's taking advantage of (he's just scared of rejection ((that wouldn't happen)) 🙄).
➞︎ one time y'all took a dessert class and learned to make matcha swiss rolls 🤤
➞︎ toji looked cute in his lil apron and hat ;)
➞︎ choso invites you to art exhibits with him and drags you along to the newest infrastructure being built in the city
➞︎ there's a local pottery/glass blowing shop in downtown Sendai, that the two of you frequent to make clay pottery.
➞︎ at some point, choso designs the most beautiful sculpture out of clay and all of you show up for he showcases it at his first art show!
➞︎ you were the sculpture
➞︎ every once in awhile you guys link up for a group activity.
➞︎ its usually toji's fights but most recently you guys went to the opera!!!
➞︎ geto somehow ended up on stage for a brief moment but that's a story for another time cause 😅
burying your face in his neck while you ride him on the couch. feeling his head turn and his lips glide a wet path over your jaw before he nips at it, breathing something about how good you’re making him feel — or maybe something with more of a teasing edge. getting tired? need me to do it for you? his hands cupping under your ass, getting a good handful before moving up to grip and guide your movements. maybe a light smack for encouragement. there you go, don’t stop now. ride that dick. you do it so well, baby. so well that i don’t think i can pull out.
18+ ( smut, p in v, raw sex, creampie, mentions of impregnation, slight breeding kink, depraved!choso, multiple orgasms (f.), pet names (baby, beautiful, sweetheart, etc.), just filthy )
"ah--! wa-slow down!" heavy breaths and loud gasps mixed in with the wet sound of choso's heavy balls smacking against your clit. "baby, baby, babyyy" a whine followed, your head dropping in between your shoulders.
choso was no better. behind you, his hands pawed at every part of your body. your ass, hips, stomach, thighs...no area went untouched. the artist had went months without you while he toured the world with his band. yes, he was grateful for the opportunity but he wasn't so sure it was worth it if he had to be without you. "s-sorry beautiful but I--fucckkk! keep squeezing me, just like that baby," his groans and moans making your eyes roll shut as your pussy fluttered around him.
the arch in your back was beginning to hurt the longer choso drilled into you from behind. your rockstar boyfriend arrived home three hours ago and wasted no time in his pursuit for you and your warmth. doggy was the most recent position you'd been in, missionary and reverse cowgirl prior to that. you were exhausted but your cunt craved the familiar feeling of your lovers cock nestled deep within you.
"i'm close baby!" a choked sob settled in your throat when choso's skilled fingers started rubbing your swollen clit. "wanna--wanna feel you nut in me" tears gathered at your water line, "please, please--! ouuuh shit!"
"yeaaaa--uhh, look at allat squirt coming from my pretty girl." choso's other hand found its way around your neck, pulling you back to him as your pussy squirted around his cock, "tell me how you feel baby. you missed me? hm? cause i've missed you."
you could barely register what he was saying to you, your body still shaking and your brain in no better state. shameless cries came from you as choso kept fucking you through your orgasm. it was too much!
a light slap and grab of your cheeks caused you to fight through your haziness and focus on the man behind you. "asked you a question sweetheart. my dick got you that fucked up?"
"yes! fuck yes!" you yelled when he pinched your clit, another orgasm rolling through you.
choso was in no better shape, his eyes crossing together the sloppier your pussy got from his ministrations. he swore this was better than any high, than any award he could ever receive. "shit makes no fucking sense," he muttered to himself as your pussy sucked him in more.
"gonna let me put a baby in you? make you come on tour with me next time," he grunted, his pace increasing as his lower stomach tightened--a sign of hie impending orgasm. "never leaving you, or this fat pussy, alone again. understand?"
the tears had fallen down your cheeks as you struggled to formulate a response. "--stand, wanna carry your babies. wan' you t' make me a mom-a mommy!" your speech slurred a bit, but choso understood every word.
letting go of your neck, choso pushed you flat into the mattress of the california king and dropped his dick into your sloppy cunt. fuck, he was so close. he opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a deep guttural groan that tapered off into a whine as his hips stuttered and his balls tightened while he dumped his load in you.
"take it, take it, fucking take it!" he chanted brainlessly, hands creating imprints into your hip bones with every squeeze as he canted his hips. choso wasn't going on tour without you again.
thoughts about satoru being a tit grabber, a hand always engulfing the fat on your chest. when you’re cuddling, he always has a hand on one–or both–tits, using them to maneuver you closer to him. at some point it becomes comforting for you as well and now, you can’t say no to him wanting to hold your tits in his hands just because while you play your sims. cause you like it too :(
