Summary: Clark Kent is late for a date once again because he's saving the world, and you end up getting hurt while waiting for him.
Warnings: Reader is seriously injured, reader has dark thoughts, blood, anguish, English is not my first language, Clark is not a bad boyfriend, just a little absent.
Okay, now imagine you have a date with Clark Kent. The plan was for him to pick you up so you could go to the movies together, but something came up and you both decided he’d just meet you there. It’s no surprise that Clark is, once again, late. You hug yourself tightly to shield from a sudden cold breeze and check your phone for the fifth time to see if he’s read your messages.
Part of you is frustrated and upset about him leaving you waiting, but that part is immediately drowned out by another that whispers he’s probably saving someone’s life, or thousands of lives, at this very moment. It was common to feel a certain guilt for wishing your boyfriend was with you instead of saving the world. You used to bury that rotten, jealous side of yourself so deep inside your own mind that sometimes even you couldn’t reach it, because there was a cold, paralyzing fear that your boyfriend might somehow know about that dark part of you and realize how selfish you truly were.
So you took a deep breath, like all the other times, and held on to the image of how he would smile shyly and cover you with kisses to apologize for being late, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose in a silly way. With your eyes closed, indulging in the memory of your boyfriend inside your head, you didn’t notice the man who appeared in the shadowy alley nearby. You also didn’t notice the insane, fixated look in his eyes as he approached, or the malicious smile when he realized you were practically alone on that almost deserted street.
Later, you would realize it would have been better to cancel the date and stay home, or simply wait inside the building. But there, lying on the ground with a pool of warm blood spreading around you while a theater employee called for emergency services, you wondered if you’d ever again see your boyfriend’s beautiful smile or get the chance to fix those weird glasses that were always slipping down his nose. Maybe he would arrive in time to save you, the same way he saved so many others. Maybe then he’d spend more time with you, maybe then he’d feel guilty for not being there—that little shadowy part of you thought.
You felt the ghost of a smile forming, but the laugh was cut short by a gurgling cough of your own blood. It was funny that not even for a moment did you wonder why that man had stabbed you; you were just a pathetic, miserable little thing wondering if your boyfriend might finally have more time for you now.
When the blood loss was too much, you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. In your dreams, you were watching that damned movie with your perfectly ordinary boyfriend, your head resting on his strong shoulder. In your dreams, your boyfriend didn’t have to choose between you and the world. In that moment, you allowed yourself to be selfish and imagine what it would be like if Clark Kent belonged only to you.
A few minutes later, Clark Kent was running down that same street, his glasses sliding down his nose and his clothes disheveled. He didn’t notice the small, nervous crowd gathered in front of the theater, talking frantically. He looked once more at his phone, at the message that read “I’m waiting for you, love.” That’s why he didn’t see the pool of blood until he got close enough to smell the iron.
With his heart pounding, he looked around, searching for you. He even ran inside the building to see if you were there. The blood in his veins rushed so fast he could barely hear the voices around him. He had to focus and take a few deep breaths before he could finally make them out. Then he heard something that made his whole body freeze and his stomach twist: “Poor thing… she was waiting for her boyfriend who was late. It’s such a tragedy, something like this happening to someone so young…”
Sorry for disappearing after that. I was kinda wandering through the valley of the shadow of death, stuck between a today that wouldn’t end and a tomorrow that refused to arrive, while the devil himself was chasing me around butt naked. But things are better now, and I’m trying to write a continuation for this.
Summary: Clark Kent is late for a date once again because he's saving the world, and you end up getting hurt while waiting for him.
Warnings: Reader is seriously injured, reader has dark thoughts, blood, anguish, English is not my first language, Clark is not a bad boyfriend, just a little absent.
Okay, now imagine you have a date with Clark Kent. The plan was for him to pick you up so you could go to the movies together, but something came up and you both decided he’d just meet you there. It’s no surprise that Clark is, once again, late. You hug yourself tightly to shield from a sudden cold breeze and check your phone for the fifth time to see if he’s read your messages.
Part of you is frustrated and upset about him leaving you waiting, but that part is immediately drowned out by another that whispers he’s probably saving someone’s life, or thousands of lives, at this very moment. It was common to feel a certain guilt for wishing your boyfriend was with you instead of saving the world. You used to bury that rotten, jealous side of yourself so deep inside your own mind that sometimes even you couldn’t reach it, because there was a cold, paralyzing fear that your boyfriend might somehow know about that dark part of you and realize how selfish you truly were.
So you took a deep breath, like all the other times, and held on to the image of how he would smile shyly and cover you with kisses to apologize for being late, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose in a silly way. With your eyes closed, indulging in the memory of your boyfriend inside your head, you didn’t notice the man who appeared in the shadowy alley nearby. You also didn’t notice the insane, fixated look in his eyes as he approached, or the malicious smile when he realized you were practically alone on that almost deserted street.
Later, you would realize it would have been better to cancel the date and stay home, or simply wait inside the building. But there, lying on the ground with a pool of warm blood spreading around you while a theater employee called for emergency services, you wondered if you’d ever again see your boyfriend’s beautiful smile or get the chance to fix those weird glasses that were always slipping down his nose. Maybe he would arrive in time to save you, the same way he saved so many others. Maybe then he’d spend more time with you, maybe then he’d feel guilty for not being there—that little shadowy part of you thought.
You felt the ghost of a smile forming, but the laugh was cut short by a gurgling cough of your own blood. It was funny that not even for a moment did you wonder why that man had stabbed you; you were just a pathetic, miserable little thing wondering if your boyfriend might finally have more time for you now.
When the blood loss was too much, you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. In your dreams, you were watching that damned movie with your perfectly ordinary boyfriend, your head resting on his strong shoulder. In your dreams, your boyfriend didn’t have to choose between you and the world. In that moment, you allowed yourself to be selfish and imagine what it would be like if Clark Kent belonged only to you.
A few minutes later, Clark Kent was running down that same street, his glasses sliding down his nose and his clothes disheveled. He didn’t notice the small, nervous crowd gathered in front of the theater, talking frantically. He looked once more at his phone, at the message that read “I’m waiting for you, love.” That’s why he didn’t see the pool of blood until he got close enough to smell the iron.
With his heart pounding, he looked around, searching for you. He even ran inside the building to see if you were there. The blood in his veins rushed so fast he could barely hear the voices around him. He had to focus and take a few deep breaths before he could finally make them out. Then he heard something that made his whole body freeze and his stomach twist: “Poor thing… she was waiting for her boyfriend who was late. It’s such a tragedy, something like this happening to someone so young…”
i really had no idea that "im waiting for you" would get this big. I didn't even plan on a part two, but you guys loved it so much and are even asking for more ❤️ Im so incredibly grateful for all the support. Unfortunately, Im studying for my college exams this week and cant really be active here for more than five minutes without a new task popping up and stopping me from giving you the proper attention to write or interact. But I promise that as soon as Im not drowning in all my obligations, I'll write a part two. Love you guys ❤️
Summary: Clark Kent is late for a date once again because he's saving the world, and you end up getting hurt while waiting for him.
Warnings: Reader is seriously injured, reader has dark thoughts, blood, anguish, English is not my first language, Clark is not a bad boyfriend, just a little absent.
Okay, now imagine you have a date with Clark Kent. The plan was for him to pick you up so you could go to the movies together, but something came up and you both decided he’d just meet you there. It’s no surprise that Clark is, once again, late. You hug yourself tightly to shield from a sudden cold breeze and check your phone for the fifth time to see if he’s read your messages.
Part of you is frustrated and upset about him leaving you waiting, but that part is immediately drowned out by another that whispers he’s probably saving someone’s life, or thousands of lives, at this very moment. It was common to feel a certain guilt for wishing your boyfriend was with you instead of saving the world. You used to bury that rotten, jealous side of yourself so deep inside your own mind that sometimes even you couldn’t reach it, because there was a cold, paralyzing fear that your boyfriend might somehow know about that dark part of you and realize how selfish you truly were.
So you took a deep breath, like all the other times, and held on to the image of how he would smile shyly and cover you with kisses to apologize for being late, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose in a silly way. With your eyes closed, indulging in the memory of your boyfriend inside your head, you didn’t notice the man who appeared in the shadowy alley nearby. You also didn’t notice the insane, fixated look in his eyes as he approached, or the malicious smile when he realized you were practically alone on that almost deserted street.
Later, you would realize it would have been better to cancel the date and stay home, or simply wait inside the building. But there, lying on the ground with a pool of warm blood spreading around you while a theater employee called for emergency services, you wondered if you’d ever again see your boyfriend’s beautiful smile or get the chance to fix those weird glasses that were always slipping down his nose. Maybe he would arrive in time to save you, the same way he saved so many others. Maybe then he’d spend more time with you, maybe then he’d feel guilty for not being there—that little shadowy part of you thought.
You felt the ghost of a smile forming, but the laugh was cut short by a gurgling cough of your own blood. It was funny that not even for a moment did you wonder why that man had stabbed you; you were just a pathetic, miserable little thing wondering if your boyfriend might finally have more time for you now.
When the blood loss was too much, you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. In your dreams, you were watching that damned movie with your perfectly ordinary boyfriend, your head resting on his strong shoulder. In your dreams, your boyfriend didn’t have to choose between you and the world. In that moment, you allowed yourself to be selfish and imagine what it would be like if Clark Kent belonged only to you.
A few minutes later, Clark Kent was running down that same street, his glasses sliding down his nose and his clothes disheveled. He didn’t notice the small, nervous crowd gathered in front of the theater, talking frantically. He looked once more at his phone, at the message that read “I’m waiting for you, love.” That’s why he didn’t see the pool of blood until he got close enough to smell the iron.
With his heart pounding, he looked around, searching for you. He even ran inside the building to see if you were there. The blood in his veins rushed so fast he could barely hear the voices around him. He had to focus and take a few deep breaths before he could finally make them out. Then he heard something that made his whole body freeze and his stomach twist: “Poor thing… she was waiting for her boyfriend who was late. It’s such a tragedy, something like this happening to someone so young…”
I can’t stand people sexualizing Clark Kent anymore, he’s so sweet and gentle and they only know how to sexualize him like that’s the only thing that exists about him 🥺 I want to hide his dick and tits in my mouth so no one talks about them anymore 🥺
I desperately need help from the Clark Kent/David Corenswet girls. A few weeks ago I read a fanfic where the reader has Superman’s baby, and ever since the birth they can’t have sex because every time the reader’s heart speeds up, the baby gets upset and starts crying. I just can’t remember the name of this fic 😭 does anyone know it?
In Brazil, during Carnival, there’s a pretty good chance that if you lock eyes with someone, they’ll try to kiss you. Sometimes, if there’s chemistry, people end up “dating” for the whole week—going to street parties together, spending every day side by side, just enjoying it all to the fullest. It’s what people here call a “Carnival romance.” Then, when the party ends, it’s over, and everyone goes back to their own lives and cities.
Honestly, it feels like the kind of place where Soap would be in his natural element. Imagine him running into you on the street and it just happens—the two of you diving into the wildness of Carnival, partying and hooking up like there’s no tomorrow. Until his break ends and he has to go back to the Task Force… but he just can’t shake those days with you, running free through the streets.
Okay, I need all the Price girls to back me up on this one. I read a fic once where the reader and Price are on a mission and have to pretend they’re hooking up because the building is getting raided—PLEASE I NEED THIS TO BREATHE AGAIN.
A continuation to 🎁 Day 1 – All I want for Christmas (is you), which means it’s set in the same universe!
Synopsis: Happily married for several months now, you and John spend your first Christmas as newlyweds in Glasgow with his family.
Pairing: John Soap MacTavish x fem!Reader
Warnings/Info: NSFW, 18+ | military!Reader; domesticity; married life/established relationship; humour; fluff; cussing; male masturbation; oral sex; hurt/comfort; angst with a happy ending (Yay!)
Word count: 3.6k
↳ back to 🎅🏼 Masterlist ☃️
You shiver despite your warm layers of clothing and stifle another yawn as you wait for the front door to the MacTavish's home to open. The large house is adorned with bright lights and decorations, even in the front yard, and a traditional Christmas wreath has been hung up at the old, heavy door.
The noise inside is muffled, but you can already hear the music, chatter and overall chaos.
Next to you, your husband glances over, a crease of concern between his dark brows as soon as he notices the dark circles under your eyes and the way your shoulders slouch with fatigue.
"Ye alright, luv? Ye're no’ gettin' sick on me, eh?" He reaches over to rub your back over your thick winter coat, trying to shield you from the freezing gusts of snow-speckled wind.
"Nah, 'm fine," you reply, yawning this time and smacking your lips before smiling over at him, "Just tired again."
John nods, curling his muscular arm around your waist to pull you closer into his side, leaning in to kiss your temple – and discreetly check if you might have a fever as his lips linger.
"Aye, hen, t’was a long drive here." He remarks, muttering against your skin before pulling back with an exasperated sigh as he lifts his fist to knock once more.
It’s your first Christmas as a married couple and while the both of you intitially wanted to spend it alone together, his family kept nagging and begging him to come back to Glasgow to celebrate the holidays properly with the whole MacTavish clan, like in the old days. Cue your own family giving you hell for choosing your husband’s side of the family over them.
Needless to say, the past couple of weeks have been rather stressful, with your responsibilities serving in the military and being part of the 141 breathing down your neck, too, along with John’s own reintroduction into his military service, which caused you two to have less time for each other than you both expected.
“I’ll give ye a massage later,” John says, his voice dropping to a promising murmur, “How does that sound?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, making you huff a laugh as you lean in to hug him back and rest your cheek against his chest, limbs feeling heavy already.
“Doesn’t sound too bad.” You glance up at him, admiring his handsome face with a soft smile, and your heart gives a sudden flutter like it did when you first started fooling around in secret, back when you first joined the task force after him.
The door cracks open eventually, and a wave of warmth embraces you immediately, making you shudder as you cling to John. His mother pokes her head out and her bright blue eyes immediately light up.
“Well, if it isn’t my handsome son and his bonnie bride.” She smiles warmly, eyes crinkling in the corners as she pulls her only son into a hug, “We’ve been wonderin’ where ye are!”
“Hello, ma.” John mutters while his mother, always the overly affectionate one, cuddles him tightly and ruffles his short dark hair; the hair he’s been growing out and grooming differently since getting rid of his Mohawk and trying to hide the gnarly scar on the side of his head.
Then, you’re attacked next, but as you go in to reciprocate her welcoming hug, she keeps you at arm's length instead, her hands planted on your shoulders as she looks at you, eyes narrowing slightly.
Meanwhile, your gaze flickers in confusion between John’s and hers while she keeps scrutinizing you, grasping your chin and tilting your face as she hums to herself.
“Uhm, Rosemary... Good–Good to see you again,” you try tentatively, offering an awkward smile as your arms drop and hang loosely at your sides.
John takes your hand, chuckling nervously, “Ma, dinnae be weird now.”
“Och, dinnae be silly, John! Let yer mum check on her bonnie daughter-in-law.” Rosemary pulls back, her blue eyes sparkling strangely as she flashes a beaming smile before waving her son off dismissively and stepping to the side to usher you both inside.
When John picks up your luggage again, he doesn’t let go of your hand.
The atmosphere inside the big, old house is welcoming and warm, loud and chaotic, as usual. All of John’s four sisters are present with their partners and children, and even some uncles and aunts have been invited with their spouses.
At some point after the sumptuous dinner, when wine, scotch and eggnog flow steadily, and the language barrier between you and your in-law family becomes more apparent again once they all keep slipping into Gaelic, you swiftly find a corner in the living room where you’re able to take a much-needed breather while John is busy entertaining his young nieces and nephews.
Taking a few slow and deep breaths, you try to get rid of the queasy feeling in your stomach that caught you off guard since sitting down at the long dinner table earlier.
Perhaps you are overworked and definitely overwhelmed, unable to relax and unwind after the past couple of months of round-the-clock action; whether it was helping John with his ongoing rehabilitation, the wedding, the following honeymoon, or the countless deployments and field trainings, all while trying to adjust to married life.
You’re happier than you’ve ever been in your life, there is no doubt about that, but it’s been... tough. Even you must admit that to yourself; you’re exhausted.
As you glance down into your half-empty wine glass, you swivel the ruby liquid inside a bit while you feel your mouth suddenly fill with saliva at the lingering sour taste on your tongue. It’s an odd reaction and you swallow thickly, wrinkling your nose before setting the glass on the small side table next to the armchair you’re lounging in.
Suddenly, John appears from the crowd, crouching down in front of the armchair. His stubbly cheeks flushed a pinkish hue from the alcohol, his cerulean eyes gleaming with love as he gazes up at you like a devoted puppy yearning for some praise, “Everythin’ alright, my love?”
You cup his jaw and caress your thumb over the apple of his cheek, giving a curt nod, a small smile playing on your lips as you meet his gaze with half-lidded eyes.
“Just tired, baby.” You repeat the words for the umpteenth time in the past few days it feels.
“Mhm,” John rests his cheek on your knee as you rake your manicured fingers through his short hair and his eyelids flutter briefly as he sighs deeply, “Aye, could take a nap, too.”
John leads you to one of the guest bedrooms upstairs where he’d previously carried the luggage. However, as he switches the light on, you’re met with a peculiar sight.
“Seriously?” You snort, peeking up at John with a raised eyebrow while he rubs the back of his neck, smirking sheepishly and giving a shrug.
“First come, first serve, I guess,” he chuckles, “At least we don’t gotta share our bathroom with anyone.”
You hum, pursing your lips as you nod, “Don’t have to share a bed, either.” You quip, making a vague gesture at the two single beds with Christmas themed bed sheets, separated by a wide bedside table.
“Och, we’ll make do,” John snickers, pulling you into his side and grabbing a handful of your left ass cheek over the wool dress you’re wearing before leaning down to bury his nose in your neck, “Jus’ like the good ol’ days back at the barracks, baby.”
He nips at your neck, making you giggle as you tilt your head and lift your shoulder, trying to shield yourself from his playful ministrations.
“You mean the days when you’d begged me to let you into my bed?”
John lets out a mock scoff, straightening up and rolling his broad shoulders after letting go of your ass cheek with one last squeeze, “I never had to beg ye.”
The both of you know that it's a blatant lie.
He clears his throat, “Wanna bet it’s gonna be ye who asks ta move the beds together? Whining for cuddles an’ kisses from yer man like a wee lassie?”
You pout at him, brows setting in a feigned frown as you sidestep him with your arms crossed over your chest petulantly, “You’re on, MacTavish,” you huff, “–and you’re so gonna lose this bet.”
“Winner gets a nice treat, aye?” He suggests with a boyish grin, following you into the bedroom.
After unpacking together and settling in, John leaves you to have one more drink with his father downstairs while the rest of his family is either leaving and bidding their goodbyes or retreating to the other guest bedrooms.
And while you can barely keep your eyes open as you change into your pyjamas, brush your teeth and go through your nightly routine in the adjacent bathroom, you feel simultaneously too exhausted and unable to find sleep as you finally lay in your assigned single bed.
This restlessness feels strange, and you must actively keep yourself from tossing and turning on the mattress as you lay in the darkness alone. You even go through the various sleeping techniques which you’ve learned on duty, the ones that have helped you catch some shuteye on missions in the past, though to no avail.
Your eyes are burning behind your eyelids whenever you shut them, and your mind can’t seem to quiet. You’re terribly aware of your heartbeat, the soreness of your limbs and the queasiness in your gut, and in this moment, you can’t help but yearn for your husband’s presence; for him to slip under the covers behind you and his large, strong hands to roam and touch your body in a way that distracts you from this discomfort you find yourself in.
Time passes, and while you’re still unable to fall asleep, you’ve manage to turn your mind off by focusing on the various sounds in the house; deep voices engaged in conversation downstairs, the flushing of toilets, the dull footsteps of someone walking up or down the stairs–
You’re lying on your side, facing the wall, the pillow hugged to your chest with your head flat on the mattress, and your eyes shut as you’re simply dozing, when the door to the bedroom creaks open and John staggers inside clumsily.
There’s a pause before the door clicks and locks again, and you know he’s checking if you’re asleep, so you play along and stay still. You expect him to fold, to come crawling into your bed and lose the bet, and the thought of him desperately pawing at your flimsy pyjamas to get to your goodies, makes your lower tummy flutter with excitement and anticipation.
So, you listen as he disappears into the bathroom, how the toilet flushes after he takes a comically long piss, the running of the faucet when he washes his hands and brushes his teeth, all while your heart keeps thudding against your ribcage while you suppress a wicked grin.
When John emerges from the bathroom, he smacks his hand against the light switch, unnecessarily forceful like he always does, and–
Your eyes blink open, eyebrows furrowing, when he walks past your bed to slip into his with a low grunt. The single mattress creaks under his weight, the covers rustle as gets comfortable, sniffling and smacking his lips like a dog getting ready for the best sleep in his life.
And just when you want to turn around to make your wakefulness known, your breath stutters in your chest as you hear him spitting – presumably into his palm.
You don’t know how long you’ve been holding your breath for, frozen in place as you listen to the slick sound of his hand stroking his cock, but it’s been long enough to have your own body react to it as your thighs squeeze together discreetly, wetness spreading between your folds as you try to get friction on your pulsating clit while your heart feels heavy in your chest.
Suddenly, you’re going through a myriad of emotions and it’s something you haven’t experienced before. You feel aroused, excited, betrayed, sad, angry, frustrated, disappointed – and it’s all too much when the sound of John’s husky groan and shallow breaths reach your ears.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me – John.” You mutter, saying his name louder as you perk up in your bed, glancing over your shoulder at him in the darkness and barely able to make out his silhouette.
“Are you seriously jerking off right now?”
John sputters, his movements stilling before he has the audacity to bark out a laugh, “Ah, I didnae ken ye’re awake.” His Scottish brogue is more apparent now, his deep voice a little breathless.
“Yeah, well... I am!” You hiss, sitting up fully and leaning against the headboard of your bed, blood boiling and heating up your cheeks with agitation and before you know it, your eyes start stinging and welling up with fat tears while your bottom lip wobbles.
“Woah, wait–” He chuckles, though more in confusing than disbelief as he tries to interpret your reaction, “Are ye... mad at me for havin’ a lil’ wank?” His thick brows draw together as he listens intently, his cock still throbbing in his fist.
You sniffle, shoulders trembling with restraint as you wipe furiously at your eyes and cheeks, though the first tears have already slipped and stained your sleepshirt. It’s so out of character for you. Normally, you would simply tease him for this. Hell, you have a great sex life together; have rubbed one out next to him just to rile him up in the past. This should be nothing to you, but for no other apparent reason than a matter of principle, it is, and you can’t stop your mouth from blurting out more words.
“Y’know, it’s just funny to me that–that you actually seem to be enjoying this bet and ugh separation between–between us,” you babble, ignoring logic in favour of the cocktail of raging emotions wreaking havoc inside you.
“What? No! Baby, please, I–” John stammers, becoming more confused and overwhelmed with each hiccup and sob coming from your bed from the other side of the room, “Ye’re the love of my life, please–” He tucks his still semi-hard cock back into his boxer briefs before scrambling on his mattress to turn on the lamp on the bedside table.
When the bedroom is illuminated by the lamp’s warm light, John immediately sobers up as he assesses the strange situation, and his stomach drops as he spots you curled up on the single bed, hugging your knees and muffling your sobs. He can’t count on one hand the times he’s seen you cry, so this is more than alerting.
“Ach, fuck this bloody bet.” John huffs and in an instant, he’s up on his feet and nearly flinging himself onto your bed; strong arms cooping you up in an embrace as he shifts you around until he’s sitting with his back against the headboard, cradling your shivering form against his chest.
“Steamin’ Jesus, ye’re really scarin’ me right now,” he mutters against the crown of your head, nuzzling your hair as he rocks you gently, “Can ye tell me what’s goin’ on, hm? Please?”
“Fuck, I–I don’t know,” you wail and whine into his bare chest, coarse dark hair scratching against your face as you try to burrow deeper into his embrace, all while his bulky arms tighten around you like steel rods, “I just... I need you.”
And then, when you shift and climb into his lap to hump and grind your clothed pussy against his upper thigh, John gets really confused.
He blinks dumbly, “So... ye’re not mad at me? Ye’re jus’... horny?” His cock twitches in his briefs when you bite your puffy bottom lip and choke back a keening moan.
“Shut up,” you whinge, hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders as he surveys your odd behavior with a mixture of amusement and concern, once he’s sure you’re not sick or hurt.
John chuckles huskily, his hands trailing down to grasp your hips, “Should’a said some, hen.” He purrs as he tugs on the hem of your sleepshirt teasingly before pulling it up over your head when you lift your arms up obediently.
His pupils dilate as soon as his eyes drink in the sight of your pretty tits. When his hands trace up your stomach, he can feel your skin pebble with goosebumps, and when his thumbs trace the underside of your naked breasts, he notices your slight wince while your cute nipples stiffen instantly, making his mouth water at the sight like Pavlov’s trained mutt.
“Sensitive tonight, are we?”
You swat at his biceps meekly, letting out the most pathetic little whine that has John’s heart thudding and his cock chuff to full mast. This is so unlike you, and it makes him reel internally.
“Fuckin’ hell, ye’re killin’ me here. I need a taste of ye, love.” He mutters under his breath and leans in to kiss you deeply, all teeth and tongue, before he picks you up and manhandles you like some ragdoll until you’re lying on your back underneath him, gazing up with a desperate, pleading look in your glossy, bright doe-eyes.
You help him take off your pyjama pants next, movements sluggish as you burn up with desire and need while John nudges your legs apart before settling between your thighs, getting in position like a sniper on a mission.
John holds your upper thighs in a firm grip, keeping them spread for him as he drags his nose from your crack up your wet slit, parting your folds and inhaling the familiar scent of your arousal deeply as he goes, though it somehow seems more intoxicating as ever. And the first taste of your cunt has his mind go berserk, synapsis firing in the most primal part in his brain as he swallows hard and growls against your folds.
You clasp a hand over your mouth, muffling your whimpers, “Oh...god... Johnny.”
You taste absolutely divine and you’re practically gushing from your little hole like never before as John drapes your legs over his shoulders, spreads your velvety folds with his fingers and starts licking and suckling on your clit like a madman; completely and utterly possessed by you as he slurps and laps up your slick arousal, making sure not a drop goes to waste.
The first orgasm hits you hard and leaves your pussy convulsing almost painfully as white-hot pleasure wrecks through your flushed body; making your toes curl and your back arch off the mattress while those dull throbs of pleasure-pain have you begging for Johnny’s thick fingers to fill you up. And he eagerly complies by plunging both middle and ring finger into your dripping cunt while the feeling of his thick, golden wedding band stimulating your entrance has your eyes roll back into your skull.
Your doting husband eats you out for what feels like hours, way past the soreness of his own jaw, until you’re nothing but a limp, twitching mess on the narrow mattress, and even then, he doesn’t let up.
“Can’t stop, baby,” he grunts against your swollen clit, his voice muffled by your slick flesh as he pumps and curls his fingers inside your fluttering channel, “Ye taste too fuckin’ good.”
Clutching the steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee between your palms, you stifle another yawn as you sit at the kitchen table before you catch the significant glance John shoots in your direction, a prideful smirk tugging at his lips and his chest puffed out even more than usual as he converses with one of his brothers-in-law.
Yes, you’re tired, but at least you know why today. Smiling to yourself, you hide it by taking a sip of your coffee.
“Havin’ a good mornin’, Mrs. MacTavish?”
Your eyes flicker up when John’s mother sets a full plate of breakfast in front of you. An array of bacon and eggs, sausage, baked beans, toast and fried mushrooms – a sight that had your mouth water in the past but your nose wrinkle in the present.
“Cannae stand the smell, eh?” The older woman chuckles, patting your back affectionately, “Jus’ wait fer the morning sickness, lass.”
As you gaze up at her in confusion, you catch that same strange and gleeful twinkle from yesterday in her eyes. Your eyes narrow slightly, “I’m sorry, Rosemary, but what are you talking about? You’ve been dropping hints like that since last night.”
Rosemary clicks her tongue and raises a dark eyebrow as if surprised you haven’t caught on yet before she reaches into the pocket of her apron and then takes one of your wrists to shove something that feels like a pencil into your palm.
“I kept them around when my daughters got married,” she explains softly, though it confuses you even more until you look down at the object in your palm, “I ken this would be the biggest Christmas present for Johnny... and for all of us, too.”
Your stomach drops and your eyes widen as you stare at the pregnancy test.
im way too hyper-focused on the details to fully enjoy a monster romance. Last week, I read one that was beautifully written, with one of the 141 being a merman he was seriously sexy and hot, but while they were hooking up, I couldn’t stop wondering if he smelled like the ocean breeze and saltwater, or if he smelled more like my house when I buy fresh fish from the market.
Simon knows that as soon as he takes his first step inside, you’ll begin your own mission of attentive care, especially designed for the man exhausted from the grueling days he’s spent on deployment. First, after a bone-crushing hug and a quick kiss, you’ll pull him straight to the bathroom, where a hot bath melts away his tense, aching muscles. The soft scent of Sicilian lemon soap erases the phantom smell of gunpowder that’s lingered in his nose until now. Once he’s dry and dressed in his favorite sleepwear, he watches your back as you finish the last touches on the beef, potato, and carrot stew that makes his stomach rumble. You hand him the warm bowl, sparing him even the effort of blowing on it.
At first, this caused some resistance—after all, he didn’t want to be treated like a child. But today, thanks to your persistence, he’s finally let go of those ties that once held him back from accepting this special care when he’s too tired even to blink. The mission only ends after he’s brushed his teeth, the curtains are drawn so not a single thread of light will intrude when the next day begins, and the two of you settle into bed with a sigh of satisfaction—Simon grateful for his girl who takes such good care of him, silently promising to return the favor tomorrow, and you grateful once again that your man has come home in one piece so you can take good care of him.
Simon, who has a circulation problem in his ears, needs to keep them warm by resting his head between the reader’s thighs for at least an hour a day. Simon, of course, won’t let the reader go back to this so-called doctor who prescribed the treatment, just in case they might want to ask how to help the poor man with his mysterious illness. (There is no doctor, only Johnny, curious to hear how it went and already considering claiming he suffers from the same condition.😢)
ok ok how about mute?ghost who you aren't sure if he's actually mute or if he just chooses not to say anything. you hear a different answer from everyone you ask. (18+)
ever since mexico, wouldn't say a fucking word.
nah, mate, he's been zipped shut since he enlisted.
heard it was a mad accident.
what you mean? heard him telling off privates not even a year ago!
well, since you're a certified yapper, and ghost can't (won't) tell you to shut up, you make him your living diary. whenever you see him around, you sit next to him, stop by his office, hop up onto his desk and talk to him. you tell him about your day, about the recruits that bother you the most, about the meals in the mess hall being worse on saturdays than on mondays (fuck, you'd think the weekend would put some pep in their step, no?).
but gosh, when ghost finally had you seated in his lap with your pants around one ankle, you really weren't expecting to hear him.
pussy-drunk, tongue out, hands gripping your ass as he listens to the wet smack of your thighs against his, and that's all it takes for him to let out the filthiest groan you've ever heard, enough to make you spiral, see red-hot stars, to shake and cry until you're cumming and babbling and even more incoherent.
when they talk about ghost, you still keep your mouth shut. you're still not sure if he talks, fuck if i know, is what you say.
but if you suck his cock just right, you're certain he's singing.
After all these years of being together, of marriage and sticking by each other through thick and thin. John Price tolerates you.
He’s tired. Tired of being in a relationship, of pretending that he still cares about you. At this point you’re more of a task than a person.
He provides for you because it’s a job to him, not because he loves you like he used to. You’ve become a liability, a hinderance in conversations when others bring you up. He shrugs them off with a generic answer of you’re doing fine and nothing more.
To be frank, he doesn’t know much about you anymore. In his mind he still thinks that you’re doing well, that you’re still content with this relationship. But little does he know, you’ve become the shall of who you once were.
The only difference between you and John is that you still have that flicker of hope within you. That sliver of a burning passion and you wish for John to add fuel to the fire to once again reignite what you both had.
He doesn’t.
You simply exist, nothing more. No longer his beloved birdie. You’ve become obsolete, existed longer than required.
can’t get past the predator’s whole face deal but very interested in the idea of an alien warrior that is both very impressed and very taken by the weak human girl that managed to seriously maim him. love at first drawn blood.
Benny Cross X Female Reader
part 1 is here! part 2 is here! part 3 is here! part 4 is here!
A/n: ahhh it's always so hard to write a satisfying ending. i rlly hope you enjoy it, and i want to thank everyone for reading this series!! i am officially taking Bikeriders requests, so if this story got your mind thinking about what other Benny/Vandals boys content you'd like, feel free to send it my way!
Word Count: 3683
Warnings: none for this chapter
You woke up the next morning with a split lip, a black eye, and a hangover. Before even opening your eyes, you knew you were back at Zipco’s house based on the strong Patchouli-incense-over-bourbon smell. Not on the lumpy couch though - you were in his bed. You opened one eye and instantly regretted it: the world started to spin and you barely managed to grab at the wastebasket someone had left by the bedside before you emptied your stomach. You wretched until there was nothing left to come up, just bile and bloody spit. Unwilling to test your vertigo by standing up and walking down the hall to the bathroom, you called out for Zipco in a watery-thin rasp.
“Zip?”
Silence. It seemed like the house was empty. Zipco was many things, but a quiet housemate was not among them. Wherever he went, he was slamming doors, knocking furniture, thumping on the rickety floorboards.
“Zip ain’t here.”
The voice startled you and you whipped your head around - another immediate regret, as it renewed your nausea. Benny was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette and watching you closely. He must have slept here, you realized, as you took in the wrinkled tshirt stained with your mascara and blood and his mussed hair.
“Where’s Zip?” you groaned, shutting your eyes in a vain attempt to stop the spinning.
Benny stood up and walked out of the bedroom as he called back to you. “He took Kathy home. I asked him to stay with her for the night, keep an eye on things.”
Kathy. Last night. The memory of that awful night came back to you hard and with a vengeance. You whimpered, pressing your face down on the pillow as if you could blot it out. From down the hall, you heard the sound of Benny rummaging around in the kitchen for a few moments. You willed yourself to focus on that noise and breathe deeply through your nose and out through your mouth.
You felt the mattress give under his weight as he came back and perched on the edge of the bed. “Here.” He handed you a bag of ice, coaxing you to lift your head and place the ice against your swollen lip. He brushed back strands of your hair out of your face with a tenderness you’d never seen from him before.
“Thank you,” you croaked, voice cracking. “For last night. Helping me. For everything.”
He nodded softly and offered you a cup of water. “Try to drink it,” he encouraged. You obeyed, wincing at the bad taste in your mouth and the soreness in your throat as you swallowed. The water settled in your stomach with a cooling rush, and it helped lessen your headache marginally. Benny just kept sitting there, fussing over you like a nursemaid. It was achingly touching, but surprising and strangely intimate. After a few moments, you cleared your throat and forced yourself to sit upright, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to set off the spins again. He helped you prop yourself up against the headboard, one of Zip’s pillows tucked at the small of your back.
“How’s Kathy?” Why you asked that question was anyone’s guess. You were grasping at straws, overwhelmed by Benny’s presence and his assiduous attention to you. You couldn’t care less how Kathy was doing, and you knew you were risking the moment between you two - whatever it was - by bringing her up.
Predictably, Benny’s face crumpled from concern to something harder. He held your gaze with a wary seriousness. “You really wanna know how my wife is right now?”
Wife.
You pursed your lips - bad move, you felt the split open up and fresh blood coat your tongue - and looked down at the water glass in your hand so he couldn’t see the tears in your eyes. You hadn’t known Kathy was that to him. You’d never really considered the possibility. Four years is a hell of a long time, a reprimanding voice in your head reminded you. What did you expect?
Why didn’t the guys tell you? A flash of anger at Zipco and Cal and Johnny flared in your chest. It was irrational, you knew, and a displacement of your real pain. The anger fizzled out as quickly as it had come up, leaving you alone with a sinking grief.
Benny must have noticed your reaction. “You didn’t know.” Not a question, an observation. One he must have suspected because you heard the sound of confirmation in his voice. His words didn’t sound unkind, although there was an edge of pity there that you hated. Unable to meet his eyes, you simply shook your head.
“I figured one of the guys told you.”
“Yea, I would’ve figured that too.”
You ran a finger along the lip of the water glass. Anything for a distraction. A thick silence that threatened to bloom into something permanent settled between you.
“Congrats,” you managed with a small, bitter laugh. “How long?”
Benny turned away from you, bracing his hands on his knees and looking at the wall. “Y/n, don’t do this.”
“Do what?” you demanded, embarrassment staining your cheeks. Not only had he just dropped this hundred pound disappointment on you, but now he expected you not to struggle with its weight?
“Hurt yourself,” he replied sadly, turning back to you. His eyes drank you in and caused your breath to tangle in your throat. Once again, you couldn’t hold his gaze, and let your eyes drop to your hands. You knocked that one set of your knuckles were scraped and bruised, and a snippet of memory - men dragging you up a stairwell, you thrashing against them and screaming out for help - smacked you like a freight train. The sob that bubbled in your lungs refused to be stifled.
At the sound of it, Benny stiffened. “I’m sorry. I should’ve left. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I’ll go, send Zip back over.”
You looked back up at him and found you could look through him. Talking to the wall behind Benny, you felt your mouth moving as words came pouring out before you fully knew what you wanted to say. “Aight then, Benny, you best get your stuff and get out, then.”
It was the exact same line you’d said to him four years ago when he’d made you tell yourself that he was in love with someone else. Unlike then, this time your words dripped with poison.
He flinched slightly at your words, and you figured that was about as much as you could hope for. Benny Cross was many things, but he would never be the kind of guy who would collapse for a woman. Especially not one that he didn’t love.
For a heartbeat or two, he looked at you while you looked through him. It was a test. Who would break first. Both of you knew the answer. Benny was incapable of breaking. You’d been craving that from him for too long and had been disappointed too many times before to delude yourself now. Benny was going to leave, exactly like you’d told him to. He wasn’t going to argue, or apologize, or ask why you were angry, or stubbornly ignore your dismissal in an attempt to get through to you. He was going to leave because that’s what he did. Although not with Kathy, that vicious inner voice reminded you. Just you.
Right on cue, Benny broke eye contact, hesitating momentarily before standing up from the edge of the bed. Your eyes followed him as he walked over to the chair he’d been sitting in, picked up his leather jacket and threw it on over his shoulders. The icy shell around your heart threatened to thaw as the realization that this might be the last moment you ever saw him overtook you.
He moved to leave without looking back to you, although he did stop at the door.
“Why’d you come back?” he asked, his voice low and full of something approaching emotion.
“For Brucie’s funeral,” you replied robotically.
You both knew it was a lie. Benny waited, turning slightly so his body was angled towards you, but still not looking up at you.
“What do you want me to say, Benny? That I came back for you? That I stayed away for so long because of you? You already know all that shit.”
He fidgeted with his leather riding gloves methodically, tucking them into the sleeves of his jacket. You’d never known Benny to care about stuff like that. You had the fleeting thought that he was stalling against what you both sensed would be your last goodbye.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled heavily. “I’m sorry for everything.”
And with that, Benny vanished once again from your life, leaving behind that all too familiar ache like a gaping hole in your chest.
***********************
Benny was riding back to Kathy’s apartment when he realized that he didn’t want to. The last thing he wanted was to get an earful from Kathy, although he knew precisely that’s what was waiting for him. An earful for getting involved in another fight over the club, for getting involved with you, and for leaving her behind. He deserved it, but he didn’t want it.
He also didn’t want to turn around and back towards the girl he’d just left, with her face busted up and her spirit broken. All because she’d come back hoping for something from him. All she was going to get was disappointment. That’s all Benny had for anybody else. He’d disappointed Kathy by not being a good husband. He’d disappointed Johnny by not being a good Vandal, not being willing to take over the charter. And he’d disappointed y/n simply by not being good. Most of all, Benny was his own biggest disappointment. He realized, sitting on the back of his bike idling at a light that had long ago turned from red to green, that he wasn’t sure what he’d imagined for his life, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. It wasn’t watching the people around you get hurt, time and time again, all behind your own failures.
So, instead of turning left on 53rd St. to head home, Benny kept going straight on 55th until it linked up with Rte 34 in Naperville. He gassed up in Wyanet and didn’t stop until he hit the Nebraska line. Benny rode west until he got tired of staring at sunsets, and then turned north, meandering up into colder country.
Epilogue
At first, the running theory about what happened was that one of the guys from the night before had found Benny, somehow, on the way back from Zipco’s place and jumped him. Beat the shit out of him, took his bike, dumped him on the side of a road somewhere. Maybe even killed him. But, as weeks turned into months without any news and without a body, a different understanding took hold: Benny Cross had simply left.
Kathy stuck around but drifted steadily further away from the MC. She stopped showing up to Junker’s on Friday nights, stopped hanging out at the Vandals’ house parties, stopped asking Johnny if he’d heard from Benny. You saw her a few times in the years after Benny left, usually at the laundromat or the corner store, somewhere neutral. She never acknowledged you, and you figured that was probably the smart thing to do. There weren’t any words the two of you could exchange that would do anything for either of you. Better just to let sleeping dogs lie. At some point, you saw Kathy Cross for the last time, although you didn’t know it would be the last. Word reached the MC that she’d met some wealthy Cincinnati lawyer in a pop shop and had moved in with him a few weeks later, into some swanky highrise overlooking the Ohio River. You had a suspicion that Kathy’s days of logging time on the back of a bike were over.
While Kathy exited the Vandals’ scene, you found yourself quickly at the center of the club. You and Zipco decided after a few months that you made great friends, but shit roommates. You moved into your own place a few blocks down from Junker’s and opened a body shop for bikes with the money your daddy left you in the will. Your first employee was Cal, and your first customer was Johnny. From that day forward, the Vandals MC kept your business buzzing and your books balanced. You named the shop Cross Roads Bikes. Customers who didn’t know you asked why “cross roads” was two separate words; usually, you just told them that you’d been drunk when you filled out the business license application and had put a space in there by accident. Customers who knew you didn’t need to ask what happened.
In spite of that, somewhere along the way you woke up one day and realized that this was the closest you’d been to happy in a long long time, maybe ever. It struck you as strange, because since the day you’d met him, you’d only seen happiness as part of your future if Benny was in it. Yet, here you were: happy (ish) and Benny-less. Funny how the world works.
You didn’t know why Benny took off or where he’d gone, but you did know one thing: Benny broke three hearts the day he left McCook. Johnny took Benny’s absence harder than the woman who married him and the woman who loved him. Johnny changed the day Benny left. He seemed to age two days for every one that passed. His laughter dried up and his leadership got sour. Between Cal, Zipco, and a few of the other old guard, the Vandals held themselves together, but everyone could see that the winds of change were brewing, and the MC was on the edge of a permanent change. All that was left to do was to hold your breath and wait.
You were with Johnny Davis the day he died. You remembered the way that young kid had shot him, point blank, in some old abandoned parking lot on the western edge of town. All the light was gone from Johnny’s eyes by the time you reached him. The Vandals you knew died with him in that weedy parking lot that night.
Zipco left about a month later for Texas. He sent you a few postcards, called you a couple times. After a while, there wasn’t anything left to say. You never stopped sending him his favorite bottle of bourbon at Christmas. Every once in a while, a customer would come in from out of town and tell you that your shop was personally recommended to them by a drunk, grouchy old Latvian who worked on a shrimping boat outside of Corpus Christi.
One by one, the new Vandals stopped coming into your shop for their repairs and tune-ups. That was fine with you. You didn’t recognize any of the newcomers, and you doubted they recognized you, apart from vague memories of seeing you drinking and laughing in Junker’s next to the guys that they considered to be the past. Cross Roads Bikes was about four years old at that point, and you’d built enough of a non-MC customer base to survive the turnover. The day Cal came in and told you he’d turned in his patch and was planning to head back out to California, you knew that your last tie with the club had been cut. In some ways, it was relieving, in other ways, terrifying. You and Cal got shitfaced together that night and told old war stories about all the guys you’d known and lost. You cried like a baby when, two weeks later, you were standing on the sidewalk, watching Cal’s taillight fade into the Illinois dark as he headed out to the West Coast for the next chapter of his life.
Much to your surprise, it was Sheila and Becky, Johnny’s widow, who became your new club. They took to bringing you sandwiches at the shop and sitting on the counter with you for lunch breaks, telling the did you hear? kind of stories that bond people with a loose circle of mutual acquaintances together. It was easy and fun and all three of you seemed to know that this was it. If you all let yourselves drift away, who was going to tell stories about the guys you’d all known? About the Vandals’ early days, the glory days? You three were all that was left. Ironic, you thought. A men’s club, survived by three women.
Your life fell into a pattern. Productive, purposeful, content with little stains of sadness at the edges. But mostly, a good life. You were happy, and getting used to it every day. At some point, your life became predictable.
That’s why, one crisp fall morning as you stumbled out of bed at 6:00am to the waiting pot of Zipco-strong coffee and the stack of yesterday’s mail on the counter, the last thing you were expecting to see was the outline of a man sitting on your front porch steps. The black leather jacket with an original Vandals patch on the back, the Harley parked across the street, the tousled blonde hair. It was a ghost of a memory.
You opened the front door a crack and looked down on the profile of Benny Cross. He was looking up at the neon Cross Roads Bike sign that Johnny and the rest of the club had gifted to you for your one-year anniversary at the shop. When he looked up at you with those same old blue eyes, it was like stepping into a dream.
“Hey.”
You closed the door behind you, offering him your mug of coffee as you wrapped your robe around you against the chill. “Hey.”
He scooched over to make room for you to join him. You did, tucking your knees up against your chest for warmth. The cold concrete of your porch steps bit into your backside.
“Looks good,” Benny commented softly, gesturing up at the Cross Roads sign. The text was superimposed over an image of a motorcycle - an all-black 1965 Harley Electra-Glide, to be exact. The same bike that happened to be sitting across the street from you, where Benny had parked it.
“Yea, yea,” you agreed gently, looking up at the sign with a sad smile. “Hope you don’t mind, I stole your bike. And your name.”
When you looked back at Benny, a half-smirk was spreading across his face. He looked the same, although you could see that the road had been riding him just as much as the other way around. You knew that life.
The two of you sat in silence for a while, sharing the same cup of coffee and a cigarette, letting the sun rise above the rooftops across the street. It was a comfortable, companionable quiet. It was the first time since you’d met Benny that you didn’t have the burning desire to try and put your feelings into words. After almost ten years of your heart orbiting his, you realized in the cold November morning that you had finally learned how to let him go. It was a bittersweet feeling, and you knew you’d never be able to put it into words, even if you tried. So the two of you were quiet together.
When the city began to wake up around you and the demands of another day couldn’t be ignored any longer, you rose from your seat - cursing the way the cold made your hips stiff - and offered him a hand to help him up. He took it, thick calluses on his palm from years of riding. He stood up, still tall enough to tower over you, his jacket thick with the smell of the road - leather, diesel fuel, sweat, and cigarettes.
“How long you in town for?” you asked as you held the door open for him behind you. He followed you in, kicking off his dirty boots at the door.
“Not sure,” he replied with a note of nervousness. “Depends on how long you’ll let me stay.”
You smiled to yourself, your back turned to him as you refilled your coffee mug and poured a fresh one for him.
“I got plenty of room, and plenty of work for ya, Benny. Long as you promise that you won’t leave without sayin’ goodbye this time.” He accepted the coffee in your outstretched hand with a heartbreakers’ smile.
“Funny you mention it. I hadn’t planned on leavin’ this time.” He looked at you with a question in his eyes. You weren’t entirely sure what the question was. Do you forgive me? Is this ok? Are you alright? Did you miss me?
Whatever he was asking, your answer was yes. A very simple word, and easily one you could have said. But, just like moments before, you found that words just wouldn’t suffice, even such a simple one.
So you crossed the kitchen, dropping your coffee mug and letting it splinter into pieces on the tile floor, splashing hot coffee on your ankles, and wrapped your arms around him. Benny’s mouth tasted exactly how you remembered, and when he folded his arms around you, you swore your feet no longer touched the ground. He was warm and strong against you, and for every question he pressed through that kiss into your lips, you answered with an enthusiastic yes.
As you floated away into the sky towards what you’d heard others call “cloud nine” from your kitchen, the rest of the words of that old poem came drifting back to you:
Of all the things that can create, love is the one I most appreciate.
One thing I’ve come to know, nothing kills you slower than letting someone go.
But I will also tell you this, coming back to life can happen in the space of a single kiss.
we all know quiet benny, a man of few words… he is an absolute yapper in the bedroom 😌 straight filth leaving his mouth, talks you through it up until he cums inside you then back to broody silence
life is not a strawberry @meninecanela - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
