I write from time to time. I need feedback on my writing, please. I’m into Star Wars, anything Disney, Marvel, DC, Sherlock, Doctor Who, a lot of anime I can’t list (bc the list grows every day). I write weird AUs that haunt me at night or when avoiding my problems. I’m 20 y/o and tired of dealing with crap
Summary: You recieve an unexpected text during your shift in the pitt that leads to a downward spiral, worrying everyone the next day when you go for a ride. Alone.
Pairing: Rabbot x Reader, Established Rabbot
WC: 3k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Suicidal Ideations, riding motorcycle without helmet, panic attacks, past parental abuse, past neglect, hurt w/ comfort, eventual relationship, fluff, angst, emotional, Trinity and Dennis are worried, Robby and Jack try to help
authors note: not proofread, please forgive my errors i'm dyslexic. this a continuation of my pervious post and also my first time posting my work! I will be making a part 2 later but lmk what you think and all notes are welcome! enjoy! (also lmk if i missed any tags pls)
It's two hours before my shift ends when I get the text. My phone had been exploding with calls from unknown numbers since 10:27 A.M that morning but none of them left a voice mail. I hadn't had the time to call them back either with different cases rushing in and out of the ED. Robby offered to let me take a moment so I could call back but a small pit that had reopened in my chest begged me to keep working. I needed to keep going because I didn't want to face whatever was waiting for me on the other line. When things slowed in the evening before the night shift began to show asides from Dr. Jack Abbot, Dana urged me to take a moment to myself.
"Kid, you haven't stopped since you got here this morning," She exclaims as she leans towards me across the counter. "Take ten minutes, get your self some coffee and something to eat." She insisted, almost begging. I try to ignore her as I stare up at the board, searching for a patient or two that will take up the last hours of my shift.
"She's right." Jack adds on as he stands beside me. "Robby told me you've been in and out of that trauma rooms all day." He states. I glance at him for a moment and then to Dana only to find Robby watching from the other side of the hub. The three stare at me expectantly. I drop my shoulders and set the pad down on the counter.
"Fine, I'll be outside if you need me." I mutter as I walk towards the ambulance bay. I hear Dana whisper something to Jack about not letting me take any one else for the rest of the night. I ignore them as the door to the bay slide closed behind me and the roar of the ED dies down. I sit against the concrete wall behind where my motorcycle sits beside Robby's and fish my phone out to look at the number of calls I missed. I stare at the numbers for a few seconds, hovering over one as a text message comes through.
Thomas (Brother): Dad has died, please call at your earliest convenience.
The small pit twists into a swirling mass, drawing the air from my lungs and all energy I had left in. I feel my hands begin to tremor as I open his message and tap the call button. I haven't spoken to my brother in almost ten years, as soon as I left for college, I cut contact. The line rings three times before he answers.
"You called." He states, his tone is full of surprise. I take a deep breath and lean forward with my elbows on my knees.
"What happened?" I ask, I hear a few people talking in the background as the wail of an ambulance echos through the city.
"Heart attack and then a pulmonary embolism, we've been trying to reach you all day." He says with little grief. We all shared similar thought about our father but I was the only one to actually leave. Thomas must have stayed with him.
"I've been at work, I'm still at work," I pause to look around and find the bay still empty thankfully. "When did this happen?" I ask. I hear him say something to someone else before he answers me.
"Early this morning, What do you do for work?" He questions, No one knows I'm a doctor, I never told them what I was going to school for.
"I work in a hospital, will you give me more information when you all have a plan?" I ask, I hope they will but I also dread the idea of going to see them. I don't want to go back even if the worst of them is dead.
"We will, I'll text you the details." He says, "You really work in a hospital?"He doubts, they always did. I hum in response as too many emotions boil over. "Well, I hope it was worth it." The line goes dead after his last sentence. I let my phone fall into my lap as I try to calm my breathing. Fear overwhelms me as I rock back and worth on the concrete slab. This has to be a nightmare, something I can wake up from and it will all go away. I startle when a hand comes to rest on my shoulder. I look up and feel myself panting as I meet Dennis's eyes. I shrug his hand off and look back at the ground as I try to focus on him and the things around me.
"Are you okay?" He asks gently as he sits next to me. "Dana sent me out to check on you, it's been about 20 minutes since you came out here." He rambles, I press the heels of my palms into my eyes to stop the stinging of fresh tears as I jump to my feet.
"I'm fine." I say, I look around him trying to avoid his stare as he stands back up. "I need to get back in there." I run a hand over the back of my head and squeeze my neck, trying to soothe any piece of the fear I have away.
"You look like shit." Dennis announces, I finally meet his eyes and see the worry flooding out of him. "Was there a bad case or difficult patient? I can let Dana know and have her move you to another one." He pleads. I shake my head no and look towards the incoming ambulance.
"No, I'm fine, you've got an trauma coming in." I hurriedly say as I pat all my pockets, reassuring myself that I have everything I need to head inside. "I'm going back in." I mumble as I rush back into the ED. Robby passes me on my way in and I feel his stare follow me towards the hub. I keep my eyes forward and rush towards the break room. Dana was right about one thing, I need food if I'm going to make it through the end of this shift. I rifle through my lunch bag in the fridge and quickly open up a protein bar I had stashed in the pocket. I eat in silence and stare at a single spot on the tile, it's been a long day and hopefully if anyone were to see me, they would come to the same conclusion. I hear my name being called from somewhere in the department and it snaps me out of the trance I was in. i shove the rest of the bar into my mouth and leave the break room as fast as I can.
I spend the rest of my shift in a blur of avoidance. Any case I can join, I take up a spot next to the leading doctor. I take anything that can get my mind away from what happened outside. The florescent of the ED begin to wear on me in the last thirty minutes as the stinging in my eyes returns and the immense anxiety presses in again.
"You okay?" I jump as Robby leans into my vision, he stares over his glasses. His gaze darts down to my shaky hands. I fold them in my lap and look back to my screen.
"I'm good, just a long shift." I state, I feel like an echo of my self as I lie to his face. His eye brow furrows as he looks down at me again. I swear he can see through me in that moment but if he does, he says nothing.
"You sure?" He questions gently. I look back up at him and sigh with a nod.
"I'm fine, Robby." I insist. He nods and drums on the counter with his fingers before walking away to bother anyone else. I glance around the ED and briefly catch him talking with Dana and lightly gesturing to me, along with Dennis standing beside Jack a few feet away from them. I look away and stare into the white screen of a patients chart that's suddenly lost to me.
"How's it going, Tex?" Trinity asks as she rolls over to me on a stool. I rub my eyes and look at the keyboard.
"Just ready to leave, Trin." I mumble, she lightly shoves my shoulder. I look up at her and watch as she slowly spins on the stool.
"You seem to be the talk of the town in the ED tonight." She jokes, I glance around again and find everyone I saw earlier quickly dispersing as Trinity catches them. "Any particular reason?" She prods. I shake my head no and stare at the computer screen again.
"Nope." I pop the p as I type out the old man from south 15's chart. "If I find out why, you'll be the first person I tell." I add. She gives me an odd look.
"You alright?" She asks, I scoff and ignore her question all together. She rolls away with a snide comment about my attitude and a promise to cheer me up later.
The time comes finally, Robby has released us for the night and I can get out. I rush to my locker and shove everything I brought to the shift in my back pack and hurry out with a small goodbye to Trinity, Mel, and Samira in our locker room. I catch Dennis watching me again as I speed through the ED towards the ambulance bay. Dana calls out to me as I walk past the hub, I give her a small smile and a wave as I cross the threshold of freedom. I tighten the straps on my bag and straddle my bike. I set my phone on the magnetic phone holder and start to connect my airpods. I fumble with the case and a chill runs down my spine as I feel eyes watching me again. I look up in a desperate search to find them. I come face to face with Robby again. He stands at the head of my bike with my front tire between his legs.
"Where's your helmet?" He asks, he holds his backpack over one shoulder and on hand is shoved in his jacket pocket. I look at his bike and find him also helmet-less.
"I could ask you the same thing." I state. I gesture to his bike and he stares up at the peeling ceiling of the bay. "I was in a rush this morning and forgot it." I add. He shakes his head but moves away from my tire.
"Seriously." I look over and sigh as Jack looks between the both of us with his arms folded over his chest. I lean forward and press my forehead to the cold metal of the gas tank in an attempt to calm the panic rising in me. "I knew he rode with out a helmet and I really hoped you wouldn't follow in his stupidity." He adds as he takes step closer to my bike.
"Like I told him, I was rushed this morning and I forgot it on my porch." I tell him. He glares at me but drops the subject only to bring up a more sensitive one.
"Your day go okay? You've been a little distant today." He observes. I shake my head lightly and huff out a laugh.
"It's been a long fucking day." I exclaim, "I just want to go home, I'm fine." I insist. I fidget with my airpod case as I talk. I see him glance towards Robby as he steps closer.
"You sure?" He asks lightly, "A few people have noticed that you've been off today, Whitaker mentioned that you may have had a panic attack a few hours ago?" He explains. I sit back and stare at my reflection in my phone screen.
"We're just worried about you, kid, you've been acting strange and I don't think I saw you eat today." Robby adds. I scoff and shake my head again as I press my palms into my eyes.
"Did it effect any of my work today?" I question as I look over at Robby. He glances between Jack and I for a moment, as if he's fishing for the words to say.
"No." He says. I look away from him and place my foot on the kick start.
"Then you have nothing to worry about." I tell them both as I kick my bike to life and quickly place my earbuds in my ears to ignore whatever else they have to say. I peel out of the ambulance bay and speed towards my apartment. A few texts come through from varying people, all of them wanting to know I'm okay. I collapse on to my couch when I get home and scroll through the messages. Samira wants to grab coffee, Dennis and Trinity offer a movie night tonight to get me out of the house, Jack asks about lunch with him and Robby the next day, Mel offers to come over and just rot on the couch for a while. I send them each a short message that I'm okay but not feeling good and I want to enjoy my day off alone. Some respond, some don't. Dennis and Trinity respond that if I won't come to them, they will come to me. Jack follows up with a short rescheduling message. I stare at the group chat between Robby, Jack, and I for a while. I want to invite Robby over just to have him near but I don't want to have to explain why. He'll want an explanation. He will want to fix it, Jack will too. They can't fix this.
I don't remember falling asleep but I'm jolted awake but a wave of cold sweat and fear. I launch myself off the couch and scramble to my feet as I look around my living room for any kind of threat. The apartment is flooded with darkness as the sun hasn't even thought of rising. I dig around on the couch and find my phone tucked under one of the throw pillows that stayed on the couch. I see a few more texts from Robby and Jack asking for any kind of check in and Trinity asking where I live. I ignore them all and trudge to my bedroom to try and fall back asleep.
Memories run on repeat in my head for the remainder of the night. Fight's I got into with my parents, times my brothers left me behind just because they could, my father screaming at me on nights when it was just him and I in the house. So many flood back, memories of bruises and the space they took up under my clothes, the deep ache of broken ribs from being kicked by and animal or a person, the throb of a concussion. It all comes back in waves until the early sunlight cuts through my curtains. They aren't exactly nightmares but they feel like it when I roll out of bed and stare at my phone screen.
I need to clear my head. I can't sit here and let it all come back without trying to get rid of it. I need to go somewhere before even more fear settles in my chest. I hurry to change into jeans and a simple shirt as I gather up my backpack and keys to head out the door. I tug on my leather jacket as I speed walk out of my building and towards my bike. It's early enough that no one is out and my phone hasn't started receiving texts from friends waking up and wanting to see me yet. I start my bike and start heading out fo the city. I need to get away from it all.
The ride is around two and a half hours, and thankfully the thoughts and memories from the night before have quieted since I started the ride. I slow down as I start to see Raystown lake rising in the distance. I've been out here before with a few friends to go swimming but I haven't come back. I ride through the twisting roads trying to find a secluded spot to just sit. I eventually find a small cut out on the road and a short trail that leads to an old look out sight that's long forgotten. It's quiet and makes me feel small in a way I haven't felt before. All the trees rising up around me and the lake below the steep cliff. It feels nice.
I'm pulled away from the view when my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the number of texts coming in from Trinity and Dennis.
Trin: Where are you? We're at your apartment and you're not here.
Denny: Are you okay?
Trin: please tell me you just went to get breakfast.
Denny; Did you at least take a helmet?
I sigh and look out at the lake again as I move to sit on the edge of the old brick barrier. I swing my feet as I think of what to say to my friends. I don't want to burden them with all of my family issues and the anxiety that consumes me at the mere thought of calling my brother again. I can't do that to them when they already deal with so much at the ED.
Me: I'm fine, I just went for a ride.
Denny: did you take a helmet?
Trin: Where are you?
Me: I'm okay, I'm outside of Pittsburgh
Trin: share your location.
I hold my phone a little tighter as she asks for my location. Dennis keeps asking if I took a helmet and if I'm really okay. I don't send her my location and I stop responding to Dennis. I need quiet for a little while longer as I dangle my feet over the edge.
i don’t got a single problem with provocative; see the bodies, how they burn, it’s just the way it is.
pairing: boyd fowler x f!reader
warnings: unspecified age gap, cheating, insinuations at sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship, jordan chase (i know, i’m sorry), kidnapping, murder, boyd’s mustache, smut - bondage, oral (m & f!receiving), fingering, squirting, spanking, gun sucking, mentions of blood, one slap i think, some biting, breath play, hair pulling, mentions of unprotected sex & cockwarming, dom!boyd.
summary: you start an affair with your husband’s friend.
w/c: 7.7k approx.
a/n: Well… I tried to get around the original modus operandi of these guys as much as I could, but it was a liiittle bit challenging. So at the very least, I tried to ignore it, meaning there are no mentions of any of the original crimes they committed on the show. Boyd isn’t a rapist in this, but they are all murderers. Having said that, I think it’s really mostly up to your imagination. Also, I listened to ballad songs while I was writing this, and evidently, I can't write a character that’s not soft for his girl..So, there you go. I hope there are some freaks like me who will enjoy Boyd!
You considered yourself a hopeful person, a woman that believed in manifestation, karma, ‘whatever’s meant for you will find you’ and all that shit. You cruised through life as a survivalist, a mesopredator with opportunistic tendencies, someone who was willing to do anything to survive the wilderness of the world and win the long-lasting competition, while relying on let’s see what happens philosophy.
So, when the opportunity to marry Jordan arose, of course you took it, as it was never about love or devotion to either of you. For Jordan, it was always about keeping up appearances, and for you, it was about A) money; but especially about B) hoping that something good would come out of it, something that would get you further in life – another opportunity. It just never occurred to you that the opportunity would be of romantic matter.
Hate couldn’t quite cut the way you felt about all of them, and that included Jordan. Dan was the sleazeball of the group, they all were, but he held the scepter for sure. Cole had hated you since the moment Jordan introduced you, and you assumed it was because he was one of those guys who believed that their super-tight boyband was the planet Earth, and you were an asteroid responsible for its destruction. You quite liked Alex – not because he was better than Jordan or Dan, but because he wasn’t an active participant of that circle. He was a bit cynical, had a hard time keeping it together, so he was always sweating his ass off in a cheap suit elsewhere.
Obviously, they all wanted a piece of you – except maybe for Cole, but the rest of them looked at you like you were prey. Jordan didn’t mind at all, because he was too ignorant to even notice anything. He had decided a long time ago that you were only pretty enough to occasionally hang on his arm at his events, but you could never replace Emily. Thank fucking God for that.
But then there was Boyd. For a long time, you thought that you hated him too… well, you probably had, but you realized soon that he was the only one who wasn’t making your skin crawl when he called you sweetie or honey as he asked you to bring him some water. You realized that you were pretty quick to fulfill his wishes and too slow when others asked for something.
Boyd observed you. When you caught him staring, he never looked away like Dan. The only thing Dan cared about was your ass, removing his eyes from you as soon as you turned around, but Boyd waited until you locked eyes with him and then slowly and appreciatively dragged them over your figure, squinting when he reached your eyes again as if it would give him an X-ray vision that would allow him to see more of you. Every time you entered the room, he seemed to stop caring about whatever Jordan was saying and focused solely on you, making goosebumps erupt all over your body.
Boyd did make your skin crawl after all, but you loved that feeling when it was caused by him, despite how uncomfortable it was. Jordan was never capable of stirring such emotions in you, but that was okay, he wasn’t obligated to do so.
Jordan also wasn’t the one to notice that you started to dress down whenever the guys were around, that you started to wear a more expensive perfume, that you did whatever you could to get into Boyd’s proximity. Boyd noticed, and that was everything you wanted – at the time, at least.
How did you know he had noticed? He started to mirror your actions – wearing clean clothes, switching his uniform for button-ups unless he arrived straight from his shift, he added belts to his outfits and started wearing cologne. He would also always subtly touch the back of your knee – the softest brush of his fingertips against your skin when he was sat down and you’d just served him with a cup of coffee.
You saw an opportunity.
Boyd had a habit of never locking his car, so one day, when they wrapped up their get-together, you had been already waiting in the passenger seat of his ugly, yellow pick-up truck.
He literally stopped in his tracks when he noticed you through the windshield as he walked to his car, fidgeting with his car keys. He glanced over his shoulder, checking whether some of his buddies were around.
“What are you doing?” he asked, when he got behind the steering wheel.
“I need to pick some flowers for the house. Thought you could give me a ride.” You smiled.
He sniffed, his mustache twitching as he pressed his lips into a tight line, wheels turning in his head.
“Jordan know about that?”
You frowned. “He’s my husband, not my dad.”
Boyd laughed at you, his neck finally twisting to look at you with raised eyebrows as if to say seriously? “Isn’t he your sugar daddy?”
“Still. I make my own decisions. So, will you take me? Please?”
And Boyd just couldn’t resist you – sitting in his car like that, wearing a short skirt and a tight baby tee combined with that puppy look of yours. He couldn’t resist the way you said please to him; he simply wasn’t that strong, and he couldn’t pass on the opportunity to be alone with you. So, he started the car and drove you.
He wondered if Jordan would kill him for thinking about you like this. He didn’t think so. Jordan didn’t like to get his hands too dirty, that was mostly Boyd’s job. He’d lost count of how many people he had disposed of, but there was a time he thought he would eventually be disposing of you, too; that you’d become just another lock of hair in his binder.
He was glad it hadn’t come to that yet. But once it did, what would he do? Could he maybe be the one to prevent it from happening? Boyd bit his cheek, glancing at Jordan’s CD in the cup holders before he parked the car. Thinking.
“Why aren’t you wearing any underwear?”
Your breath hitched, hands hovering over your seatbelt you’d just unbuckled. How did he…?
“What?” you laughed. “I am wearing underwear,” you said defensively. But why? You weren’t wearing any. And Boyd was the reason. Why would you suddenly lie?
“I clean up dead animals. My nose is basically trained to pick up all sorts of smells,” he said, brows quirking as his lips formed a proud smirk.
“Shouldn’t it be desensitized, actually?”
His expression stayed the same, knowing. “Answer the question.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
For fuck’s sake, you wanted to smash your head against the concrete. You felt like you weren’t in control of your own words. What was happening to you? Were you suddenly scared of what he might do? Were you shy? You needed to get it together. You were supposed to be happy he called you out on it.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“No. I think you’re too in your head.”
“Too in my head? Should I check myself then?”
“You want to harass me? I’ll tell Jordan.”
“Like hell you will,” he chortled. “You’ve been bent on slutting yourself out for me the past couple of weeks.”
“Thinking a little too high of yourself, aren’t we? What if it was for Dan?”
Boyd burst out laughing. “Right.”
“Or Cole.”
“You hate Cole. You hate that he’s always taking up your precious space. I can see it in your eyes every time he enters the room.”
“Alex, then.”
He tilted his head at you, the corner of his mouth lifting up. “Alex is never around, for a change.”
Admittedly, you got wetter with each truthful argument he presented, and you were out of excuses. You were finally getting what you wanted. Stars were aligning. And you couldn’t think of doing anything better than reaching for Boyd’s hand and bringing it to your bare thigh, his fingers automatically spread out to cover as much of your skin as possible.
He seemed hesitant at first, eyes fixed on his unmoving hand and throat bobbing with a hard swallow. He remained still until you coaxed his hand up a little and his fingertips slipped underneath the hem of your skirt. Then, as if you flipped a switch, his fingers squeezed, creating soft dents in your skin.
You let your hand travel upward, gently skimming over his strong forearm, feeling all the different muscles that flexed with his movements as his whole hand disappeared under your skirt, his pinky finger bumping lightly against your bare center. He let out a shuddering breath at the feeling of your sticky juices coating his fingertip, then his face hardened into focus again, lips pursed as his eyes flicked to yours.
“Is this all for me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get this wet every time I was around?”
“And every time I thought of you.” You shifted, trying to get him to touch you more.
“Do you get this wet for Jordan, too?”
You shook your head. “I don’t think I ever got this wet for anyone.”
You probably shouldn’t feed his ego like that, but the smirk Boyd gave you pushed the thought away.
“And what do you want me to do about it?” he asked, subtly moving his finger over your clit.
Your chin jutted towards the CD. “You listen to his crap, right?” This was the first and only time you’d ever say this. “Do what Jordan says.” Take it.
“He’s my friend, you know. I might as well drive back to the house and tell him what a whore his wife is.” Boyd emphasized the crude word by flicking his wrist and slipping his middle finger between your wet folds.
You leaned deeper into his space which caused your thighs to squeeze his hand tighter, essentially trapping it between your legs.
“Go ahead. Your word against mine. But a little warning? None of you are his friends. I guarantee you that as soon as the shit hits the fan, he’s only willing to save himself.”
To Boyd, that was old news; he wasn’t that naïve. Ever since Jordan became successful, he wasn’t afraid to use his narcissism and entitlement against others, and lately, Boyd’s patience had started running thin with him. Maybe jealousy had something to do with that. Not of his fame and wealth, no, but he was jealous that Jordan had a woman at home that he didn’t deserve in any universe.
Boyd withdrew his hand, nails lightly scraping against your skin in the process, and you thought for a moment that he’d throw you out of the car. Instead, the same hand made its way to your neck, squeezing just above your pulse points and keeping your face close.
If you had any patience left in you, you’d enjoy the way his pupils dilated and his hot breath bounced off your lips, but you didn’t. So you closed the gap and connected your lips with a little too much force that cause the glasses on his nose to shift. His hand around your neck relaxed for just a millisecond before squeezing again as he reciprocated the kiss.
During the kiss, you tried to climb over the console and into his lap a few times, but every time, he tightened his hold on your throat and held you down. Eventually, you whimpered out of sheer frustration and broke the kiss, pouting at him. Boyd fixed his glasses as he gave you an entitled smile, brushing his thumb over you lower lip.
“Are you gonna fuck him tonight?”
What kind of question was that? You couldn’t even remember the last time you had sex with Jordan.
“Maybe. Since you don’t seem interested.”
“Oh, I wanna fuck you,” he rebutted while his hand that had yet to touch you landed on his crotch to adjust himself as if to prove his point. Your eyes followed the motion. “Not in a filthy dead animal pick-up truck, though. You deserve better.”
The butterflies inside your stomach flapped their wings, and you felt your face soften. You wouldn’t peg Boyd for a gentleman.
“So you’ll take me to your place, then?” you leaned in again, eyes flicking to his lips as you bit yours, eager to kiss him again, but the reply he gave you wiped that smile off your face.
“No. I don’t think you’re ready for that.”
…What’s that supposed to mean?
He didn’t explain, just told you to stop pouting which only made you pout more.
What he meant was that you weren’t ready for the collection of toys he possessed, all the cuffs and ropes, nipple clamps, vibrators… You were beyond shocked when you saw all the tools, but more importantly, you became jealous and felt fucking stupid. How could you have been so naïve and thought that he wasn’t sexually active?
“Is that why you came onto me? You felt sorry for me?” His voice wasn’t hurt. Far from it. He was fucking ecstatic to unintentionally play you like that and get such a reaction out of you.
“I didn’t feel sorry for you,” you were quick to correct him. You wouldn’t fuck anybody who you felt sorry for.
“But you thought I wasn’t having sex, correct?”
Your silence was enough of an answer for him.
Boyd was and wasn’t gentle the first time he fucked you. His priority was to learn what made you tick, what your body liked and what your brain liked, what made you uncomfortable and what drove you absolutely crazy and desperate for him. He needed to improvise a bit, because you wouldn’t let him use the toys on you. You told him that that was just gross.
Restraints, you were okay with, but he was still careful to treat you almost like glass. You were young, and Boyd had known Jordan long enough to know that he wasn’t exactly confident when it came to sex. It’s not like you were a virgin, but Boyd could imagine just how far your experience went. So, he dipped a toe in first instead of plunging right in, choosing to tie your hands with his old tie instead of the ropes that were always ready at his bed, coiled around the wooden bedposts.
You were responsive, which made it a hell of a lot easier for him, too. Besides from that, it also made his cock throb – every little whimper, every twitch of your abdomen, every attempt of your thighs to close and shield your pussy from him. Fuck, he loved everything, and he loved when he got to hold you down with his bare hands. He loved building you up to your orgasm only to tear it away, repeating this over and over until you were crying and shivering, and he was out of breath and sweaty.
He did a number on you the first time, but it was nothing compared to the things he planned for you in the future. And he could see it in your eyes, too; that you wanted more, that you would let him do more. You were so fucked out of your mind that day, your pussy was so sore that he was afraid to touch it, and despite that, you clung to his body afterwards, desperate to preserve the feel of his body against yours.
Boyd wasn’t used to that. He had craved it, of course he had. But every woman he had ever got into his bed up and left right after the act. Not that he wanted them to stay, that option had never even crossed his mind; until you. He supposed it was a good thing, but there was a downside to it – he hated that at the end of the day, just a couple of hours after he’d ruin you, you were going to share a bed with Jordan.
Fucking fraud; he always just fucking blabbed and blabbed but never took his own advice.
He tried not to dwell on it too much while he drew circles into the skin of your shoulder, otherwise he was afraid he’d dig his fingernails just a little too deep.
Given Jordan’s disinterest in you, it was pretty easy to sneak around. You and Boyd had a lot of sex. You made him throw out all the toys, and using Jordan’s money, you helped him build a new collection, meant only for you. The toys helped you recognize Boyd’s mood – whenever he was in a good mood, he’d use them on you. If he was pissed, he’d use anything else but the toys, and that was when he was at his most dangerous.
But then the investigation started, Dan had been murdered, and Cole had disappeared. After that, Jordan limited his contact with Boyd and Alex, they didn’t meet at the house anymore, relocating to a place unknown to you. Jordan also had to cancel all his events, which made him snappier than usual and for the first time, because he missed his audience, he started controlling your life instead – deciding when and where you were allowed to leave the house, and if you did, you were always to be accompanied by one of his bodyguards. Don’t be fooled – it wasn’t for your safety; it was for his. He needed someone to keep an eye on you in case you decided to open your mouth and tattle away.
That meant that you didn’t get to see Boyd. On a few occasions, he was bold enough to come by the house, pissing Jordan off, naturally. But he needed to make sure you were okay.
He even managed to steal you away one day, for long enough time to explain to you that even though Jordan had selfish reasons to do all of this, you benefited from it too.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” you asked angrily.
“Well, someone killed Dan. Someone probably killed Cole. You could be next.”
“Or you.”
His reply was a scoff, making your eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh? That sounded pretty confident.” You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you kill them?”
“Excuse me?”
“I wouldn’t be mad if you had.” You shrugged and it just made him roll his eyes.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t. Just…” He took a deep breath, taking a step forward and lifting his hands before he remembered where he was and dropped them back to his sides. “Just fucking hang on. I’ll figure something out. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I won’t.”
Well…
It got a little out of hand and one night, you and Jordan got into an argument, because you had managed to sneak out of the house. You only went for a walk, nothing else, but he lost it. And you lost it.
You were dumb enough to tell him you had been cheating on him, in the hopes he would throw you out. That he wouldn’t care. You fucking hoped he’d never let you back into that Goddamn house. As you tried to leave on your own, he caught up to you and used his strength to stop you. It didn’t click for you at first what he was doing, but once you realized that he was trying to pacify you, you fought back – kicking, scratching, elbowing him – but then there was a wet rug to your nose and mouth, and you fell into a deep sleep.
When Boyd got the call, he knew something was off. He fucking knew. Jordan had this drop in his voice, the tone of a strategist in what Boyd knew was a completely spontaneous situation. Boyd considered the option that he was just being paranoid, but he wasn’t going to rely on hope, and his karmic debt was a little bit too high. Jesus, he needed to stop listening to your bullshit. He grabbed his gun before he left the house and made his way to the abandoned camp.
Every time you let Boyd tie you up, you looked so fucking ethereal. He could never take his eyes off you when you were in his bedroom, offering yourself to him, free for him to use however he wanted. Just the thought of it made him hard, and oftentimes, when he was patrolling the neighborhood, he had to park the car in a secluded nook so he could jerk himself off to the mental image of your naked body sprawled on his bed.
This time? No dead animal had ever made him want to throw up so bad like the sight of you tied to a chair. He was expecting this though, wasn’t he? So, he needed to focus. He wasn’t even sure what had gone down between you and Jordan. You must have pissed him off, that’s for sure, but he didn’t know whether Jordan had a reason to be pissed at Boyd too. He needed to be careful.
“Jordan,” Boyd greeted, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose before his eyes found yours, trying to assess if you were hurt at all. “What happened?” The question was directed at Jordan, but in reality, he wanted nothing more than to hear it from you. You seemed calm, all things considered, Jordan didn’t even have to gag you. Always such a good girl.
“See this pretty mouth on her?” Your husband gripped your chin, mockingly jerking your jaw like you were a puppet. “Apparently, she’s been using it to suck another man’s cock.”
Boyd’s eyes bored into yours and you gave him a subtle shake of your head. He doesn’t know it’s you.
“So, I thought, since she likes to be shared – right, honey? – That I’d give you guys a few rounds with her. Well, I mean… you and Alex. But Alex is too much of a pussy right now, and he skipped town. So, congratulations. She’s all yours.”
“…You want me to fuck your wife?”
Jordan scoffed. “My wife. A disrespectful bitch is what she is.” He tapped the back of his hand against your cheek. It was far from painful, but it still made you wince. “Come on, Boyd. I know all of you guys have wished for a piece of ass like that. I’m making it pretty easy for you, so take it. We’ll take care of her later.”
And there it was. Boyd knew this moment would come, but ever since you two started having an affair, it had just slipped his mind how dangerous Jordan truly was. Now he regretted that he didn’t get you out of the house before he let this happen.
Boyd nodded slowly before walking towards you. Jordan took a few steps back and prepared himself for the show. Fucking freak. You looked up at Boyd, with those big eyes that still somehow managed to sparkle, no matter the circumstances. He tried not to get too lost in them, because otherwise you’d both be fucked.
“I want her blindfolded.”
Jordan chuckled. “You sure you don’t want to see the tears?” he asked in a tantalizing voice as he took off his tie and threw it to Boyd who could only offer a small, strained laugh. But then he looked at you again and his nose flared, and his jaw clenched and you knew he was holding back.
Once he blindfolded you, as much as you tried to hide it, your breath became heavier and your nails dug into your palms. You didn’t want Jordan to know that you were scared – of him, of whatever might happen to you, of anything… You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. You flinched when you felt a hand caress the crown of your head, Jordan’s laughter bursting your ear drums despite how far he was. It was still coming from behind you, meaning Boyd was the one touching you. Good, that was good.
Another confirmation was when a set of lips pressed against yours, and your brain quickly registered the familiar sensation of his facial hair against the soft skin of your cupid bow. It made you relax a bit, but you didn’t kiss him back, as difficult as it was. God knows what Jordan would do if he found out that all this time, it was his friend who had been fucking his wife.
“Wow. Got no fight left in you, huh, honey?” Jordan taunted, before hissing, “I hope I finally fucking broke you.”
He wasn’t left wondering for too long, because Boyd reached into the waistband of his pants, swiftly pulling out his handgun and aiming at Jordan. He fired three quick shots, every single one of them startling you.
Everything was rushed after that. Boyd freed you and got you the hell out of there, never letting you even glimpse at the lifeless body.
That’s how you ended up here, tied up again, only this time, it had been done with gentleness and a sense of professionalism. You were high on your knees, your arms extended above your head and secured to the upper rails of his antique canopy bed with a rope that was also keeping your wrists together. He had the length of the rope precisely measured according to your height so that you were basically hanging from the ceiling, your body forced into a delicious stretch and prevented from lowering your ass to your heels.
Boyd figured that one out after the one time where you couldn’t handle the swats to your ass anymore and had the audacity to hide yourself from him. He thought that if you hadn’t been tied to the bed, he would have had to chase you around the house.
It was his favorite way to spank you, because this position gave him access to every inch of your body – to touch it, to admire it, to ruin it.
Smack.
Your body arched as pain surged through your body.
“How many was that?” Boyd’s breath tickled your ear before his lips softly touched the skin of your shoulder, a complete contrast to his rough hands.
Honestly, you had no idea. You’d lost count after 18, simply because you got tired of keeping up with the count and he hadn’t asked you in a while, so you just stopped. He’d been playing with you for too long.
You answered anyway, as confidently as you could. Nobody was stopping you from taking a guess. “Thirty-two.”
You heard a huffing laugh, your eyes squeezing shut at the sound as you braced yourself for impact.
Smack.
Fuck.
The rope around your wrists frayed your skin as your torso swung around, and you feared that you’d see blood trickling down your arms soon.
“Where did you learn how to count? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one here.” Boyd lashed your sore skin again, accompanied by a triumphant: “Twenty-five!”
The weight of his knuckles against your butt felt too heavy, even though it was just a brush, mindlessly traveling to your hips and back. He kissed along the column of your neck again. “I wanted to leave it at that, but evidently, you think you deserve more. So I’ll give you thirty-two.”
He gave you five successive slaps, the thirtieth hit making your ass burn so much that you thought you would stop feeling that part of your body altogether soon. You didn’t let the sensitivity keep you from pressing yourself back against the rough material of his cargo shorts, the zipper irritating your bruised skin even more. Your neck also gave up on the support of your head, and you let it fall against his shoulder while his hands resumed their exploration.
They roamed over your sides, felt over your ribs until they finally settled on your breasts. Boyd pinched your nipples between his index and middle finger, rolling the pebbled peaks and giving them occasional tugs. You arched into him and closed your eyes, letting a happy sigh escape your parted lips.
His breath tickled your cheek as he spoke. “Remind my why we’re here.”
When you didn’t reply, too tired to think of the correct answer, you received another slap, only this time to your tit. It made your head snap upright as you gasped in shock.
“I almost got myself killed.”
“How?”
“I told Jordan the truth.”
“Yeah, and how did that work out for you?”
You shrugged, but it only reminded you of the ache in your shoulders. “Pretty well, actually. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”
He smacked your other breast, eliciting a sound between a gasp and a laugh.
“You think this is funny? You made me shoot my best friend.”
You snorted, right before his hand collided with your ass again.
You waited for the pain to subside before you unclenched your jaw and spoke. “I didn’t make you do anything. I was tied up, remember?”
“If you hadn’t decided to be a loudmouth, I wouldn’t have had to kill him.”
“You wanted to kill him– Can we not do this? We’re together, right? That’s all that matters.”
It was easy for you to say. You were just trying to manipulate him into fucking you already. That was all that was on your mind in that moment.
But really, instead of not taking the situation seriously, you should be thanking him, because he was the reason that you didn’t have to worry about anything other than him stuffing you with his cock. You knew he was carrying most of the weight of the situation, but that was on him. You told him you’d help him with the body, but he didn’t want to hear it.
And the fact that Boyd wasn’t in a rush even though Jordan was still rotting at the camp was turning you on.
“It’s not. You need to accept the consequences of your actions and apologize.”
A scowl appeared on your face. Apologize? For what? For speeding up the process?
“Did you listen to his stupid CD’s again?” You rolled your eyes at the possibility. “I thought I threw them all out. Or are you just pretending you don’t have a brain?”
Your body jolted with another slap. Thirty-two. Fucking finally.
“Apologize.”
“No!” you exclaimed incredulously. That’s when you heard the clanking of his belt. You shifted on your knees, hoping – fucking hoping – he wasn’t going to touch you with it. But you already knew you were dead wrong, and soon, as he wrapped your hair around his hand and yanked on it, he was whipping your ass and thighs with the leather until he saw bloody marks forming on the skin and your face was soaked with tears and snot.
“Are you sorry yet?”
You nearly sobbed. “Yes.”
“Well, let me hear it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“I’m sorry for almost getting myself killed. I’m sorry for making you kill your friend. I’m sorry for being stupid when you told me not to.”
You recoiled when he brought his palm to the tender skin to rub gentle circles there. “Good girl,” he said, giving you a kiss under your ear.
Boyd untied your wrists then and made you crawl to the foot of the bed on all fours while he stood in front of you. He cupped your chin, slipping his thumb into your mouth, and letting you twirl your tongue around it for a moment before hooking the finger behind your lower teeth and pulling you upwards until your face was level with his. You kissed him then, fingers curling around his neck as he shrugged his flannel off.
You enjoyed the taste of him, the way his soft tongue danced across yours. When your lips disconnected, he pushed you back down, positioning your arms to hang over the wooden footboard, the carved ridges digging into your armpits. He removed his shorts and boxers too, but not before taking ahold of his gun. His throbbing cock sprung free, bumping against his stomach as he grabbed a handful of your hair and guided your mouth forward.
You didn’t even wait for his command. Opening your mouth for him and swallowing him down was like second nature to you.
But he stopped you before you could do any of that and instead brought the gun to your mouth. Your blinked up at him.
He nodded, lips curling inwards, creating a tight line as if to tell you that you understood correctly. “Suck on the gun.”
“What?”
“Suck on the gun that killed your husband.”
Those words were the pushing force that convinced you to hesitantly wrap your lips around the barrel of the gun, a taste of metal and gun powder absorbing into your tastebuds as your tongue slid against the underside of the weapon.
“Thaat’s it, you fucking slut. You like that, huh?”
You made a sound of agreement, before you moved your head back and forth as if it were his cock that was currently in his hand as he tugged on it.
You frowned, focused on being mindful of your teeth, and you sure as fuck hoped he was being consciously careful too, because you didn’t want them to get knocked out. The metallic taste became more and more prominent with each slide of your soft tongue against the hard barrel, mixing with your saliva that made the gun shimmer under the bedroom lights.
Your focus was disrupted by the clicking sound as he took the safety off, and you couldn’t do anything but glare at him.
“You better hope my finger doesn’t slip. Don’t wanna be scraping your brains off the ground like roadkill. Are you scared?”
Your response was sliding the gun deeper into your mouth while maintaining eye contact with him, and you could see the flicker of pride in his eyes.
“God. Which fucking loony bin spat you out, hm? You’re so fucking sick.”
He clicked the safety back on before pulling the gun out of your mouth and throwing it into the heap of clothes, and then finally, he allowed you to taste his cock, stuffing your mouth full of it.
Once you relaxed your throat, Boyd rocked forward, pulling a gagging sound from you before the fist in your hair pulled you off him until only his tip was resting against your tongue. Your mouth stretched to accommodate more of him, letting him fill your throat until your nose was squished against his stomach.
Your nails scraped against the wood as you coughed around him, bubbles of spit making their way out through the corners of your mouth, your eyes fluttering closed as they stung with budding tears.
When he pulled out, you spurted out the spit that had collected on your tongue and ended up on your chin.
He set a pace then, rapidly snapping his hips against your face and fucking your mouth until you were gurgling around him and moans of pleasure fell from his mouth. Then he stilled his hips again, the head of his cock nestled deep against you vocal cords as he tilted your head a little.
“Look at me,” he ordered, but your gag reflex and eyelids teamed up against you. “Come on, babygirl,” Boyd cooed condescendingly when he saw you struggle, removing the hair that was sticking to your face. “Try to give it your best. Come on.”
You breathed in through your nose and stared up at him, your eyes brimming with tears that made your vision blurry. You could still tell that he was beautiful, though.
“Such a gorgeous, gorgeous girl. It would be a cryin’ shame if I had to dump you in a swamp.”
Boyd pinched your nose, restricting your intake of oxygen and your eyes fluttered shut once again when your brain started to slowly shut off. Your head span faster and faster with each passing second, your back twitching as if you were doing a cat-cow pose, but before you were completely gone, he released you and pulled his cock out of your mouth, your scalp stinging from his grip on your hair. You dry-heaved, trying to come to your senses from all the torture to your body.
The floor under you was wet – with tears, his precum, but mostly, it was the drool produced by your mouth. Strings of saliva hung from your lips until Boyd wiped them with his palm before squishing your cheeks together as he leaned down to kiss your shiny lips, cleaning his own precum away from your tongue.
“You can just say you couldn’t bear to lose me,” you rasped out once he finished licking into your mouth. You didn’t expect him to suddenly go all sweet on you, you knew what would follow. And as soon as you stopped talking, his wet palm collided with your cheek.
“Don’t get cocky now.”
You just grinned, because you had every reason to be cocky. Your boyfriend killed your husband for you, his childhood friend. Without hesitation. And if that isn’t a declaration of love, you don’t know what is.
You shuffled a little closer, and at the expense of your armpits, you started laying small kisses all around his cock – his thighs, along his happy trail, licking at his v-line, and eventually taking his balls into your mouth and suckling on them until he whimpered above you. You took the opportunity of free will and licked a fat stripe up the underside of his cock, following the thick vein all the way to the tip where you twirled your tongue in circles. Boyd grunted and tugged on your hair then, with a force that got you sitting high on your knees again, your hands instinctively shooting up to the one in your hair to get rid of the source of the pain.
His eyes glimmered as they danced across your face – your pretty lips, your pretty nose, those eyes that literally made him commit murder. Fuck, he was down bad, and if he hadn’t had a motivation to keep himself out of prison before, he definitely had it now. He couldn’t let anybody else fuck that face, and certainly not your pussy. If that ever happened, he swore he’d break out just to kill the asshole who touched you. You were his. End of story.
“It was pretty stupid of you, too, to shoot him like that,” you said, bringing him back to present.
He quirked an eyebrow at you. “It was necessary. Telling him that you were cheating on him was stupid. I think we established that.”
You shrugged, giving him a lopsided grin. “What can I say? Love makes you do stupid things.”
He didn’t full-on smile, but it was the wrinkles around his eyes, peeking from underneath his frames that gave him away. Before you could tease him about it, he shoved you and your back bounced against the mattress. You were reminded of the fire your ass was on. Boyd was quick and good at predicting, catching your hand that was already en route to your behind to sooth the pain, but he pinned it down next to your head, your other hand joining too as he hovered over you, glasses gone and revealing the rest of the freckles that decorated his face.
You lifted your hips with the intent of rubbing your pussy against his cock, but he jerked away, tightening his hold on your wrists. “Brat.”
“What? It’s not my fault I’ve been wet since you pulled the trigger.”
“You really get off on me killing someone?”
This time you lifted your head, your noses nearly brushing. “I get off on you killing Jordan.”
He scoffed. “As I said. Sick.”
You giggled and let your head sink back into the pillow. Boyd decided to tease you then, peppering kisses all over your body. You felt the brush of his lips against your biceps, the crook of your elbow, your chafed wrists and your palms. He took his time kissing over your torso, your chest, your stomach that was especially sensitive to the bristles above his lips. He dipped his tongue into your belly button before licking a stripe up to your breast and sinking his teeth into the underside of your mound.
You played with his hair, auburn curls sticking out between your knuckles as you gently ran your fingers through them. God, but all this hair-pulling was always better when his head was framed by your thighs, and his tongue was lapping at your pussy.
“Boyd,” you whimpered as he kissed along your hips and to the crease between your leg and stomach.
“What do you want?”
“Eat my pussy.”
He gave a kiss to the top of your thigh before he spread your legs and kneeled between them. “You want me to eat your pussy?” he asked, leaning down and bringing his face closer to your center.
“That’s what I said.”
“Yeah?” his hot breath hit your folds, his lips were parted, eyes bored into yours, and he seemed like he was ready to dive in. When he was just a whisker away from kissing your cunt, he turned his head and sank his teeth into your thigh. You cried out, and after he let go of your skin, Boyd crawled up your body, folding you in half as your legs hooked around his arms, his cock brushing against your cunt.
“Say it again.”
“I want you to eat my pussy.”
“Again.”
He made you repeat it five times, until your cheeks were flushed and the confidence in your voice faded. Boyd knelt between your knees again, sitting down on his heels before he lifted your legs and pressed them together. He told you to keep your feet up, so he could kiss along your thighs, facial hair scratching against the patches of abrased skin and sending stinging sparks of pleasure through your body and into your clit. You loved every bit of it. He took his time, switching from one leg to another, but he wasn’t even trying to tease you this time. Your legs were his weakness, and he wanted to worship them.
You didn’t know how much time had passed before he finally spread your legs and threw your legs over his shoulders as he dipped his tongue into your glistening slit. Your eyes rolled back as soon as he reached your engorged clit, a sigh of relief escaping your mouth. It was absolutely electric, the way he flicked his tongue over your bud before taking it into his mouth and sucking, moving his head from side to side before he released you with a pop.
When he moved lower and stuck his tongue into your hole, his mustache created friction on your clit that made your pussy flutter, and your fingers curl into his hair, nearly pulling them out of their roots. He groaned against you, moving his tongue in and out of your weepy hole in a quick pace, fucking your cunt with the wet muscle and setting your stomach up for fireworks.
You whined above him, arching your back and making yourself look absolutely beautiful. He licked a broad stripe up to your clit again, shaking his head from side to side and making a noisy mess of your pussy before tugging the hood of your clit back to hit every single nerve ending as he rolled his tongue over it.
It made your whole body convulse, your knuckles threatening to tear through your skin as you gripped the sheets underneath you, the gasps getting caught in your throat. When he closed his lips around the exposed nub and suckled, you were done for. Your stomach exploded, and you were cumming right into his mouth, covering his chin, his lips and his facial hair in your juices.
He didn’t ease up, and this time you brought your hands to his head to push him away, but he wouldn’t budge. You moaned out his name, begged him to stop, pushed on his forehead, clawed at his scalp and even tried to twist away, but he was too strong, too persistent. Eventually, he pulled away before you could cum again.
He let you think for exactly four seconds that he’d leave your overstimulated pussy alone, and then he was flipping you over and sliding his thigh under your stomach, propping up your ass on his leg as he inserted his thumb into you and quickly pulled another orgasm out of you by driving his thumb into you and rubbing your clit with the rest of his fingers.
His free hand was squeezing the flesh at your hip, his forearm against your back to hold your squirming body down. Your arms flailed around, trying to reach behind you and pry his fingers away from your waist, but that was futile, so you just held onto him, as he worked you through it, fluids spurting out of you like a fountain, wetting his hand and watch as well as the sheets, soaking everything through. Your screams, muffled by the mattress, didn’t stop until Boyd removed his hand.
You sere slumped over him, completely pliant as your chest heaved and stomach still twitched from the consuming orgasm. Fuck. You should have brought a towel. Boyd withdrew his thigh from underneath your body, and you extended your legs, laying yourself flat down on your stomach. He traced lines onto your back, letting you catch a breath.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled and turned your head to face him. “Just need a minute.”
Boyd brought his hand to your legs then, massaging them while avoiding touching the bruised skin. Half of his face was wet, mustache soaked, and his hair was a mess. You let your eyelids fall in appreciation of his digits working the knots out of your calves. He couldn’t resit though, bringing his finger to your quivering pussy and with the lightest touch swiping over the length of your puffy folds. You twitched away, of course, whimpering. He removed his finger but kept his eyes on your cunt.
“You know,” you murmured. “Jordan didn’t have a will. We’re sort of rich, now.”
He snorted. “That’s what you’re fuckin’ thinkin’ about right now?”
When he decided you got enough rest, he rolled you over onto your back and fucked you messily to sleep, pulling out just to lay you on your side and situating himself behind you before pushing his cock back inside you, using you to warm himself. You fell asleep like that, filled to the brim, cum leaking out of you the whole night.
You slept for about twelve hours, and when you woke up, you had a hard time getting up, barely walked, barely talked. Literally everything was sore. You couldn’t sit comfortably for days, and Boyd couldn’t take his eyes off your bare ass whenever you lied next to him, admiring his artwork with heaping pride. He hoped that some of it would scar so he could have a reminder of that day forever.
The first time you cockwarm Jack, it's born out of a desperate, amorous, lovey-dovey need rather than trying to humiliate him by making his overstimulated, milked cock rest in the warm cocktail of your tight wet hole and the aftermath of stuffing you with his loads of hot cum. Pun intended.
Well. His overly milked cock rests in the warmth of your pussy, and the creampie he gives you either way...
It's just that the very first time the veiny, thick thing does, you don't want to make him struggle and burn in a fit of post-orgasm playfulness.
...You just wanted to be close to your old man of a doctor. That's it, and when he's twitching inside you, pushing out his ropes of semen, that's where you're the closest to him.
Never let me go, Jack.
It's when Jack's taking ten seconds to hold you with an aching grip after he's finished inside your squishy cunt, you still in the mating press position.
"When did you get this bruise?"
"...M'dunno."
It's Jack's favorite to have you in, if you're not including any position that has your fat ass jiggling and slapping into his balls that are usually still glistening from when you try to guzzle them down, globs of bubbling spit on the fat of him.
He still thinks about when you asked him if you're squishy on the inside. You're perfect. And also, yeah. The guy just didn't think to ever call what waits for his cock past your too-pretty, too-inviting hole "squishy." Kiddo's adorable like that. She's stupid like that.
He manages to place a sweaty kiss on the back of your thigh before he tries to slip out of you, a heavy sigh at his lips.
"Jack--"
And he stills in the hold you're making on his biceps, palms not even making up a quarter of the space on the veined flesh, freckled muscle.
He can't call both the grip you have on him and the tone with which you call out his name playful or teasing.
The first is tight, squeezing the way your needy cunty does. The second...it's not you sounding coy or flirty.
It's kiddo fragile.
Jack swallows, throat burning already.
You watch his head tilt forward, his short curls damp.
"Stay."
You don't mean to make your voice small and bare in the whisper, as it shakes in similiar fashion to the way your legs do when Jack's pounding you to the hilt during the mating press.
He frowns slightly. Do you mean don't get up yet?
He lowers himself, pressing his mouth to your cheek.
“Not going anywhere.”
You shake your head faintly.
“No…I mean—” Your voice falters. You swallow. “Just stay inside me. Like this. Don’t—don’t move yet.”
You squeeze his bicep, eyes fluttering fast, like you could possibly know what that does to him.
“Please.”
Jack stares. Jack blinks.
His pulse spikes through the fucking roof.
...There's not an ounce of that whore-bound lust in your voice, the type that he degrades you to the point of making your little squirting over.
It's just need. You trusting, what he'd call you intimate under him.
So fucking desperate.
Jack swallows.
Desperate little girl. My desperate little nurse. It'd be you to make your slutty, needy pleas something that could make his heart fall apart.
The question he asks comes off as the start to filthy-talk, the beginning of that just-mentioned degradation, but he just wants to know.
"Sleepy, why do you want me to keep myself inside you?"
And what the fuck did you do to be deserving of her wanting you this badly? Nothing.
"You feel...safe."
...Absolutely fucking nothing.
God. Fucking god. Why are you doing this to him?
It's that word that cracks his chest open. Safe. The dangerous things inside of him swell at its use, and he might just swell inside of you again. Your fault. All the perfect whore's fault.
Safety is the only thing he's fixated on giving you. That and his cock. Mouth. Cunt. In between your tits.
I don't believe in God, Kiddo, so let me build a cathedral in your name, and the practice of my filthy religion will be fucking you until tomorrow, keeping you up on the mantle, and never letting you go. Over my dead fucking body.
It's gonna come to that, but that's the least Daddy can do if you're wanting him like this.
"I'm here."
Jack relaxes his hunch from the mating press, lowering to the point he's resting on your chest, and he kisses your jaw and temple as his cock settles in the full, clenching warmth of the cunt he'll need forever.
"Gotta keep her happy, right?"
He puts a finger on your still-swollen clit, just so you know who he's referring to. Well, he's referring to both of you. Kiddo and Kiddo's pussy. It seems like his acceptance has made you both content.
Shouldn't be so easy to keep you happy, shouldn't be so easy to fuse himself to you and erase the air between you. To turn your vulnerability into fuel for his fixations and burning arousal.
But Kiddo's so, so fucking easy. Almost as easy as it is to ruin myself over her.
Jack watches you shut your eyes, a smile coming along your lips dopily.
There's that smile. That's what he's here for. That's what he needs.
"Thank you, Daddy."
Jack coughs, and he can't help that his reply is so goddamned hoarse.
Ohhh, nothing, just thinking about being cream-pied by Hyperspermia!Robby. Hyperspermia!Robby, who has you bent over a gurney, your legs spread apart wide, with your scrubs bundled up at your ankles. Either of his large, sanitizer-scented hands cupping your ass cheeks as he drills into your tight but willing pussy mercilessly. Strained moans and muffled whimpers emit from you as your legs begin to tremble, the feeling of Robby’s thick and veiny cock stuffing you full with every single thrust. Robby begins to cum with no warning, his thick white sperm shooting into you in thick spurts. Robby stills as his orgasm seizes through him, a low guttural moan escaping his lips. “You don’t have to take it all,” he’ll tell you softly, but you simply shake your head, arching your back deeper before pushing your ass up against him further, attempting to take him deeper than you already are. And when he finally finishes filling your tight cunt up with his seed, he’ll carefully slip out of you, watching as a few globs of his cum slide out of you. Bringing his index and middle finger up to his lips, he sucked them briefly before scooping up the cum and fingering it back into you. “Can’t waste any of it, baby,” he’ll coo before bending over, pulling your scrubs back up over your legs and butt. And with a smack of your ass, he slips back to the ED as if nothing had happened.
— 🩰 fem!reader. standing missionary. pronebone. sideways. lotus position. bridal-style ( plink attached—be aware ! ). rough sex. multiple sex positions. deep penetration. size kink. cervix contact. messy unprotected sex ( p in v ). creampies. overstimulation. multiple orgasms. body worship. desperation. ( wc : 1.8k ) p1. here
standing missionary . back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist
remmick's got you hoisted like you weigh nothing, hands locked under your thighs, your back slammed flat to the wall while your legs cinch tight around his waist. every thrust rocks your whole body, makes the plaster shudder behind you, his hips snapping forward like he’s trying to fuck you through it.
his shirt’s half off, sleeves bunched at his elbows, chest slick with sweat and heaving with every breath. curls plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched so hard it trembles, lips parted and shaking as he pants through his teeth.
your arms are looped tight around his neck, nails digging in while you moan straight into his ear, breath hot and messy.
he’s got you split open, cock stuffed to the hilt, fat and thick and dragging through your cunt like it owns the place. the head keeps smushing against your cervix every time he rolls his hips forward, making your body jolt and your pussy gush around him.
every time you clench, your cunt fluttering tight around him, he lets out this pathetic little whine, like the sound is ripped straight out of his chest. his cock twitches hard inside you, pulsing like it’s begging to blow.
“you feel—you feel too damn good,” he stammers, breath hitching, forehead knocking against yours. his whole body’s shaking now.
you lock your legs tighter around him and he shudders hard, cockhead slamming even deeper into your guts, a strained, broken gasp tearing out of him as his voice pitches high and desperate.
“ohh—lord—don’t—don’t squeeze me like that—”
but he doesn’t stop. he keeps fucking you harder, faster, hips smacking into yours, sweat dripping down both of you, thighs trembling from the effort of holding you up while he fucks you.
you drag your mouth along his jaw, whisper his name all sweet and ruined, and that does him in.
he moans straight into your neck, loud and breathy and gone, cock throbbing inside you while your whole body clenches around him like you’re trying to milk him dry.
pronebone. face in the sheets, ass arched
you’re face‑down in his bed, cheek mashed into the pillow, spit soaking the fabric while your whole body goes slack under him.
the only thing moving is your ass—jerking forward over and over from how deep he’s fucking you.
your thighs are pressed together, cunt drooling slick, back bowed just enough for him to stay buried at that brutal angle that knocks the breath straight out of your lungs every time he slams home.
he’s over you, hands locked on your hips, thumbs digging into your lower back like he’s anchoring you in place. his cock is drilling into your soaked, swollen pussy, slow and heavy, grinding in deep enough that you can feel the length of him dragging along that spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes.
“m’gonna lose it,” he pants, voice wrecked, breath shaking.
his chest is heaving above you, pecs bouncing hard with every thrust, sweat dripping off him and onto your back.
your cunt is a mess. cum from earlier keeps leaking out around the base of his cock and he just fucks it back in, grinding harder like he’s trying to get deeper.
“you hear that?” he gasps, hips snapping harder now. “hear how wet you got me, sugar?”
you can barely answer—just a choked whimper into the pillow—and he groans like it hits him right in the gut.
his cock twitches violently inside you, thrusts turning sloppy. one hand leaves your hip and grabs a fistful of your ass, spreading you open wide so he can see it—see your cunt stretch and swallow his cock.
“look at this,” he pants, eyes blown wide. “god—i’m soaked.”
and he is. balls sticky and slapping your ass, cock dripping, thighs smeared with slick. the whole room reeks of sex and sweat and your body’s twitching underneath him, shaking so hard you don’t know if you’re about to come again or black out.
laying sideways. your back to his chest, his hand between your legs
you’re tangled together on your sides, sheets damp and wrinkled beneath you, your back pressed flush to remmick’s chest while his cock sits buried inside you. one of your legs is hooked over his thick thigh, keeping you open, keeping him deep, and every slow roll of his hips makes your cunt squelch around him.
his arm is heavy around your waist, pulling you back into him, and his other hand stays between your legs—fingers already slick, dragging slow, messy circles over your clit like he knows exactly how long he can keep you right on the edge.
you whine—can’t help it—body going soft and pliant while he pants into your neck, mouth open against your skin as he moans every time you twitch around him.
“so wet f’me,” he whispers, voice shaking, wrecked.
his cock feels huge like this—thick and dragging, stretching you slow with every inch as he pulls back just enough to slide forward again.
you feel every ridge, every vein, the way his length pulses when you squeeze. and when you do—when your cunt clenches tight around him—he lets out a broken moan. face buried in your hair as his cock twitches hard inside you.
he starts moving faster then, still deep, still slow enough to feel it, but with more need.
his hand never leaves your clit. fingers keep working you until your hips start jerking back into him, until you’re crying into the sheets and your cunt starts spasming around his cock.
remmick moans when he feels it.
“that’s it,” he gasps. “there you go… milk it outta me, baby…”
and then he’s gone.
after, his mouth brushes your shoulder, breath warm and spent, voice rough but sweet as he whispers,
“gimme a minute… then i’ll give you another.”
lotus position. legs wrapped around his waist as he sits
you’re straddled in his lap, knees bent, ankles locked tight at his lower back, chest pressed flush to his. your arms are loosely looped around his neck, holding him there as he rocks his hips up into you.
your bodies sticking together, skin slick with sweat and sex.
his arms are locked tight around your waist, fingers digging in firmly. his face is buried in your neck, as he lets out these ragged, breathy moans every time your pussy clenches around him. and it does—over and over—fluttering tight around his cock like it knows exactly how close he is.
you feel him throb there—feel how hard he’s fighting it, how badly he wants to spill.
“you’re squeezin’ me, sweetheart,” he pants, voice barely holding together. “gonna make me finish too soon—i swear—”
you grind down harder, rolling your hips so he sinks even deeper. your arms tug him closer, mouth brushing his temple, your breath hot in his ear—and a moan tears out of him as his hips jerk up into you harder.
your clit drags against the coarse hair at the base of him with every grind, and the sensation makes you shake—makes you cry out right into his ear.
his body jolts beneath you, cock twitching violently inside your cunt as he fucks up into you like he’s chasing the edge and falling over it at the same time. his grip tightens, thighs shaking, mouth open against your neck as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
bridal-style lay. your back against his chest, while he lifts you
you’re laying on your side across remmick’s chest like a warm, panting gift—head tipped back on his shoulder, legs draped over his thick arm as he holds you up, lets your ass hover just above his hips. one of his hands is hooked beneath your thigh, the other gripping your ass to keep you open.
it’s a lazy kind of rhythm. he rocks up into you from below with slow, thick thrusts that make your whole body jolt, hips lifting off the bed just to meet the drag of his cock.
he moans against your temple, breath shaky and hot, sweat dripping from his hairline down onto your shoulder as he murmurs something unintelligible.
you try to say something back, but all that comes out is a moan when he tilts his hips and drives up harder.
“that’s it,” he pants, thrusting up slow, then fast, then slow again, deep like he’s trying to ruin the shape of you from the inside. “grip me like that—yeah, jus’ like that, i can feel it—”
he shifts his grip, one hand sliding lower under your ass to lift you higher, and you cry out when the angle changes and he slams up so much deeper.
you’re drooling, shaking, slick dripping off both of you and down his balls. he’s losing it, chest heaving, hips pistoning up like he’s possessed, chasing your orgasm and his at the same time.
and when your body clamps down and you come around him, he follows with a cry, burying his cock to the hilt and spilling everything into you in hot, thick waves. your body jerks with each pulse, filled to the brim, held wide and open and still in his arms.
he keeps fucking into you—pushing it deeper, like he can’t stand the thought of pulling out just yet.
“gonna keep you right here, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough, lips pressed behind your ear. “jus’ like this. plugged up and full ‘til you feel me all night…”
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.
Synopsis: Clark brings home some alien tech from the Watchtower to test. You use it to handcuff him to the couch—and spend the next hour using his cock like a toy. But you push him too far. When the cuffs snap and the god in your bed breaks free, he decides it’s time to remind you exactly who’s in control.
cw: Explicit sexual content. Bondage/restraints (Kryptonian power-dampening cuffs). Power imbalance (Reader starts in control, then is overpowered). Dom/sub dynamics (dom!Clark, sub!Reader). Rough sex/punishment sex. Degradation & dirty talk. Overstimulation & edging. Spanking, hair pulling, manhandling. Furniture damage (because, y’know… Superman).
“I’m just saying,” Clark mutters as he sets the silver cuffs on the table, “they’re designed to suppress Kryptonian strength. Bruce wanted me to test them. For science.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Science, huh?”
He shrugs, broad chest stretching beneath the Henley you bought him—charcoal gray, worn thin. You saunter over slowly, hips swaying, voice dipped in honeyed sin. “So they work even on you?”
He nods, a little unsure now, sensing the shift in your tone. “Yeah. Temporarily. Once they click, they neutralize—”
Click.
“Oh,” you grin, settling yourself onto his lap as he stares in wide-eyed disbelief, wrists cuffed behind him, arms pinned awkwardly against the couch cushions. “You were saying?”
“Wait—” he starts, but you’re already grinding down, your cunt bare, wet, warm, leaving a slick mess on the outline of his thick cock straining against his sweatpants.
“Oh, baby,” you purr, biting your lip. “You’re so fucked.” You straddle his lap, the weight of you pressing into his thighs, your palms pressed to his bare chest. His breath stutters when you roll your hips, slowly grinding over the hard length tenting beneath his briefs.
“Baby,” he breathes, voice wrecked already, tugging at the restraints. They don’t budge. Not an inch. “You don’t know what those are—”
“Oh, I definitely do.” You smirk, dragging your nails down his pecs. “Kryptonian power-dampening cuffs. Bruce was very chatty the last time I asked.”
Clark jerks again, involuntarily. “You asked Batman about bondage equipment? How’d you even—”
“Asked? No, baby,” you coo. “I negotiated. Said I wanted to experiment with... control.” You roll your hips hard against his lap, grinding your dripping cunt down on the thick ridge of his cock. The wet sound it makes is obscene, and the way he shudders beneath you is even better. “Bruce was more than happy to contribute to the cause. For science.”
Clark groans, head tipping back against the cushions, his breath stuttering. The cuffs clink behind him as he flexes again—pure muscle under soft skin, restrained and raging beneath you.
“You don’t know what you’re playing with,” he warns, voice hoarse, already straining to keep it together. “Those things—fuck—if I can’t move, I can’t stop—”
“Exactly.” You drag your wet folds along his length again, this time slow, taunting. “That’s the whole point you purr, shifting back just enough to pull his cock free. It slaps against his stomach—hard, flushed, leaking already. His thighs twitch beneath you.
Then you sink down, slow and steady, inch by thick, throbbing inch, until your pussy's stuffed full and tight around him. His head falls back, “F-fuck—”
You start to ride him, rougher, wet, obscene sounds fill the room. His cuffs rattle against the frame, arms flexing, knuckles white. You bounce harder, dragging your nails down his abs, feeling every helpless twitch of his hips beneath you.
He bucks—tries to—only for the cuffs to jolt him still. His jaw clenches, muscles twitching. His cock throbs inside you, helpless to the rhythm you set.
“Please,” he pants, voice cracking. “Please—fuck, just—”
“What, baby?” you mock sweetly, clenching tight. “You want to cum?”
He nods desperately. Eyes glassy. Cock pulsing.
You stop. Just sit there. Letting his cock twitch inside your soaked cunt while you drag your nails down his chest, leaving little angry red lines. “You don’t cum until I say. Understand?”
He groans loud, full-body shudder rocking through him. His thighs shake beneath you. Sweat beads on his temple, muscles straining uselessly as you ride him harder—grinding down, taking every inch, fucking yourself stupid on his cock.
“I’m gonna—baby, please, I’m gonna come—”
His biceps flex behind him, bulging against the cuffs as he tries so fucking hard to obey. His cock is rock hard and soaked, buried to the hilt in your dripping cunt, twitching with every pulse of his heart. You clench again—tight, possessive—and ride him harder, fucking down so your ass smacks loud against his thighs, so every bounce makes him strain and jerk like he’s fighting for air.
“I—I can’t—” he gasps, the words raw, wrecked. “You’re gonna make me—fuck—I can’t hold it—”
You roll your hips in tight little circles, grinding down hard against the base of his cock while your pussy pulses around him, “Please,” he begs again, the word cracked and high, more needy than you’ve ever heard from him. “Let me come—please, I’ll do anything—”
And then—you stop. Just. Stop. Sitting there on his cock, warm and tight, full and unmoving. His whole body jolts like he’s been electrocuted, a ragged fuck bursting from his chest as he writhes beneath you. The cuffs clink and rattle, but they don’t give. His eyes fly open, wild and ruined and utterly desperate.
“Unlock them.”
You blink.
“…what?”
His eyes open, slow and seething, pupils blown wide with something unholy. Sweat drips down his temple. His chest is heaving, his cock throbbing inside your dripping cunt—“I said,” he growls, quiet and murderous, “take. the cuffs. off.”
You clench involuntarily. Fuck.
"Clark—"
His head tilts, slow, predatory. “You really thought you could edge me, ride me like a toy, tell me when I’m allowed to come—” he laughs once, sharp and cruel, “—and get away with it?”
You swallow hard. Your cunt clenches around him again, and he feels it. His lip curls, his cock twitching inside you, “Baby…” you whisper, suddenly breathless, suddenly very aware of the power shift. “It was just—it was supposed to be fun—”
“Oh, it will be.” His smile is fucking feral. “For me.”
A crack shudders through the air—metal groaning, splintering. You glance back. The cuffs. They’re breaking. “Kryptonian-grade,” he grits out, “not Superman-proof.”
With one final flex, the restraints snap—metal shattering, arms flying free—and you don’t even get a second to react before you’re flipped, slammed back into the couch cushions, legs wrenched wide open as he growls into your neck.
“Oh fuck—” you gasp, eyes wide, breath punched out of your lungs.
He grabs your hips and slams into you, burying himself balls-deep in one brutal stroke. Your scream echoes off the walls. “You edge me again, you use me like that again—” he growls into your ear, voice molten with wrath and lust, “—you won’t walk for a fucking week.”
“Please,” you cry, nails dragging down his back. “I’ll be good—promise—I’ll be so good for you, Clark—”
Your legs are shaking, pinned high against his chest now, pushed back so deep you can feel him everywhere. You’re a wet, moaning mess beneath him, tears pricking your eyes as you try to hold on.
“That’s it,” he pants, voice wrecked now, slamming into you deep. “Take it. Take my cock. Take what you fucking started.”
“Y-Yes, baby, yes, please—”
“You gonna cum without permission now?” he hisses against your cheek.
“N-No—no, I’ll wait, I’ll be good—fuck, I’ll be so good, just please—”
No rhythm—just raw, brutal need, cock pistoning into your soaked, stretched cunt like he’s trying to break you open. The couch bangs against the wall. Your back arches off the cushions. You scream again, high and choked, nails clawing his shoulders as pleasure courses through every nerve ending in your body. Clark growls something filthy, thrusts twice more, and buries himself deep—cock twitching, cum flooding your cunt in hot, thick pulses.
By the time you both collapse, shaking and soaked, Clark pulls you against his chest, panting hard. “You ever cuff me again,” he murmurs against your temple, voice hoarse and dark, “you better be ready to pay for it.” His cock twitches inside you.“…Round two,” he mutters. “Get on your knees.”
a/n: trying to distract myself from having more anxietyyyy life is hills and valleys and everything happens for a reason, life is so magical and I swear I’m not having a psychotic break. post grad life is so vacation and existential dread at the same time! anyways love u hoes
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesn’t start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.
He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
You’ve been friends ever since.
It’s not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”
He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.
Why, one night, it all… shifts.
.
You’re soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.
Not because you’re weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And he’s looking back.
Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.
Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.
Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”
Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” he says, without hesitation.
You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”
Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”
You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”
“Nope.”
“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”
He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.
You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it means it’s real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”
But you are. Because he is.
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.
You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.
“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. “Okay.”
Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”
You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”
“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.
You're just trying to get clean.
Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”
Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”
“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.
Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didn’t ask you to stay.
You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.
Making pancakes.
“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
“Also, we need to talk.”
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”
He looks amused. “Only eight?”
“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”
Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”
You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”
You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”
“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”
He raises his brows. “Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”
Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”
“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”
“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”
“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”
“Exactly. Wait—"
He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”
“You’re really against foot rubs?”
“I just think they set a tone.”
Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”
You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
“Noted.”
You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”
He looks up.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.
“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”
Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”
“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”
“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”
Clark leans forward slightly.
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”
And that—
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, stop.”
He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”
Which is—god, so not fair.
Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.
And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”
“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”
“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”
“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”
“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.
This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.
He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.
Still, he doesn’t move.
And that’s what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”
“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”
You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”
“Watch me.”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.
“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”
You blink. “And how is that?”
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.
“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”
“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”
You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—
He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.
He smiles.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”
He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”
There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”
.
By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
That’s all.
But still, there’s this night.
You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesn’t show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
You’ve done it to people before.
You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.
You’re just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.
“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. “Felt like it.”
There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.
He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just… stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“We need to talk,” he says.
You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.
“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And that—that is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”
His face twists. “What?”
“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”
Clark tries again. “I’m not—”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”
“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”
You stare at him, lips parted.
He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”
You freeze.
Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”
“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.
“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.
But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.
“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”
You don’t look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”
“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You don’t call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”
You blink. “Sorry, what?”
“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”
You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You don’t answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”
“I—”
“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”
He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.
He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”
“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you took that as a challenge?”
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”
“That’s not what I want.”
You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And then—
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.
“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”
“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”
“SUPERMAN?!”
“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.
“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”
Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.
“I know!”
“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”
“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”
“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.
“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.
“I did!”
“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”
“I showed up at your apartment!”
“With a cape, Kent?!”
“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”
“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”
“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”
“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Like, capital-R Real.”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”
And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.
“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”
His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.
“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”
He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”
You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”
He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.
The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
The banana bread.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.
“You do?”
You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”
And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.
.
You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.
You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”
“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”
He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.
"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.
You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.
“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”
“Stop—”
“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.
You’re about halfway to Smallville.
“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."
You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”
“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”
You snort. “That’s very comforting.”
He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”
You blink at him.
“…The guest room?”
A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”
You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”
“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”
“We are dating.”
“I know.”
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”
You turn.
He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.
“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
“Me too, Michigan.”
His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”
“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”
Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”
“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."
Synopsis: You found Remmick hiding in a trash bin—hiding away from the sun. He had lingered a bit too long and the sun had taken him by surprise. After feeding him and making sure he was okay, you offered him to stay in your home. And now…you got a vampire boyfriend. But really? The word ‘boyfriend’ could also be replaced by ‘pet’. Because you realized that sometimes, your boyfriend acts more like an animal than a human being. NO EXPLICIT SMUT. Just vaguely suggestive. But a lot of chaos and Remmick acts like a pet. Enjoy.
You didn’t notice it at first—Remmick’s discomfort.
He was still his usual self: sharp-eyed, sarcastic, a little too mouthy for his own good. But lately, there was something else under it. A low whine here and there. A twitch of his upper lip. And the way he kept mouthing at your skin—not biting, not teasing, just gently pressing his lips and teeth to your shoulder, your wrist, your thigh. Not enough to break skin.
Just…gumming you like some sad old man.
“Are you okay?” you finally asked, halfway through a movie, when he had your hand in his mouth like a chew toy.
He blinked, teeth still resting against your knuckles.
“M’ fine,” he mumbled. “Just—me fangs’re itchin’. Hurts a lil’. Not like a kill me kinda hurt. Just like I wanna…chew through a fence post or somethin’.”
You stared at him. Then at his mouth. Then back at him.
And that was when you made a decision.
The next day, Remmick walked into the bedroom after an errand to find the bed covered in toys. Not sexy ones. Not even remotely romantic ones.
Chew toys. Literal dog toys.
Rubber bones. Freezeable rings. Even one that squeaked when you bit it.
“What the—what the hell is all this?” He asked as he picked up one.
You grinned proudly, holding up a red dental rope tug toy. “It’s for your teeth, genius. Dogs chew stuff to keep theirs healthy—so maybe this’ll help you too.”
He just stared at you. You weren’t sure if he was horrified or touched. Probably both.
“Are ye serious right now?”
“Dead serious.”
“You got me a treat ball.”
You picked up the toy in question, which did in fact have tiny slots for filling with snacks. “I can fill it with frozen blood cubes if you want?”
He stared at you for a long moment. Then—very slowly—he picked up one of the rubber bones, rolled it in his hand…and bit into it.
It squeaked.
You froze.
He bit it again. Squeak.
He gave a soft, pleased little grunt. “…A’right. This ain’t half bad.”
Later…
You came back from your shower to find him lying on the bed, shirtless, chewing away at the red rope like a content golden retriever. One of the freeze rings was in his lap, and another toy was tucked under his arm.
“Feeling better?” you asked.
He gave you a lazy thumbs up, cheeks full like a squirrel.
“Y’know,” he mouthed around the rope, “I thought this’d be humiliating. But this the best me teeth’ve felt in centuries.”
You leaned down, kissed his cheek, and whispered—
“Good boy.”
He stopped chewing. Slowly removed the toy from his mouth to stare at you.
“Say that again.”
You smirked. He growled.
“No, really. Say it again and I swear, sweetheart, I’ll crawl over there and make it very hard for ye to walk tomorrow.”
You may or may not have said it again…but you INDEED had trouble walking the next day.
A week later
You didn’t think you’d ever end up here: standing in the pet aisle of a rural general store at 7 p.m. on a Thursday night with your vampire boyfriend in tow…trying to pick chew toys.
Again.
Remmick had been unusually fussy the past few days—grumbling under his breath, jaw tight, his fangs aching with some kind of ancient, nocturnal tension. So, naturally, you’d offered another round of dog toy therapy since his last ones hadn’t last all that long.
“Pick one,” you told him, nudging him towards the aisle. “Anything you want. Go wild.”
He squinted at the racks of colorful bones, balls, and tug ropes with the uncertainty of a man who just wandered into a boutique and didn’t know what bras were.
“Too many options,” he muttered. “Why the hell are there fifty kinds of bones? That one’s shaped like a…corn cob. That one glows in the dark. That one vibrates?? Why would a chew toy vibrate—”
You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Focus, Remmick.”
He humphed. “They all got different textures. Different squeaks. Different bounce ratios. What if I pick the wrong one?”
You sighed and rolled your eyes—but your heart melted a little. Your tough, bloodthirsty, terrifying boyfriend really wanted to get this right. “Okay. What? You wanna try ‘em then?”
He glanced around warily. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You mean, like…test ‘em out?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Like a bite test. Just…don’t let anyone see you.”
He hummed and looked at you with pleading eyes. “Ye gonna keep watch?”
You chuckled and rolled your eyes. “Sure. Whatever. Just be quick.”
And so, Operation Vampire Squeak Patrol began.
You stood firmly at the edge of the aisle, arms crossed, scanning for witnesses. Anyone turned the corner with a cart and a confused expression, and you gave them the politest “don’t” smile you could muster.
Behind you, soft little sqk sqk sqk noises began. Then the shuffle of rubber. A contemplative grunt. Then—
SQUEEEAK.
You turned around, ready to hiss at him to be quieter.
And froze.
There he was. Crouched down on one knee in front of the lowest shelf, a bright red rubber bone between his teeth. He chewed slowly, brows lifted, and then—
A big, satisfied grin.
“I like this one.”
You couldn’t help it. Your whole chest swelled with fondness. He looked like some overgrown bloodthirsty Labrador. His eyes twinkled. His curls were a mess. He had drool at the corner of his mouth. You shook your head.
“You look…so dumb right now.” You muttered, walking over.
“What? I’m bein’ responsible.” Chomp.
“You’re chewing toys in public—”
“Testin’ em,” he corrected proudly.
You plucked the toy from his mouth with two fingers and kissed his cheek with a smile. “Fine. C’mon, you menace. I’ll get you the squeaky bone.”
“Better get me two,” he advised, nudging you as you walked to the register. “Or I’ll be poutin’ all night. Might even gnaw on your thigh instead.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You do that anyway.”
He giggled like the absolute menace he is. “Exactly. But this time it’ll be vindictive.”
You rolled your eyes—but still let him pick a second one.
Later that night…
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering blue hue of the TV. You’d picked something stupid and lighthearted—a movie neither of you had to pay much attention to. But Remmick?
Remmick wasn’t watching.
No.
He was curled up on the couch, head in your lap, one leg thrown lazily over the cushions, and the red rubber bone toy firmly clenched between his teeth.
It let out a soft squeak every few seconds as he idly chewed.
You ran your fingers through his messy curls, glancing down at him between sips of your drink. “You know, that’s supposed to be for stress relief.”
He gave you a slow look, eyes half-lidded, and squeaked the toy again.
“Exactly,” he agreed, still chewing. “Feelin’ relaxed as hell right ‘bout now.”
You reached for it—just to test. Maybe it would help you with your own stress?
However, he growled. “That’s mine.”
You blinked. “Remmick, I bought it.”
“And I claimed it.” He chomped down—loudly. SQUEAK. “By tooth and drool. Sacred vampire law.”
You bit back a laugh. “Sacred vampire law sounds fake.”
“Sounds enforceable by bite marks,” he warned with a lazy grin, adjusting to get even more comfortable on your thighs.
You stared at him. “You’re seriously not going to let me even see it?”
He held it closer to his chest like a toddler with a beloved plushie. “You got two options, sweetheart. Either get yer own, or challenge me to a tug-of-war. And I bite. Hard.”
You sighed, utterly defeated. Then, you leaned down and kissed his temple. “You’re lucky I love you, you greedy little bat.”
He grinned around the toy and squeaked again—content, smug, utterly relaxed in your arms.
“Yeah, yeah. Love ye too, mo ghrá,” he mumbled, mouth full. “Now hush. Me chew bone and I are watchin’ Shrek 2.”
You rolled your eyes again—but your hand was still stroking his hair.
…
You were already half in bed, fluffing pillows and trying to coax Remmick in with the promise of warm sheets, soft blankets, and actual physical affection. But no. He was having none of it. He was standing stubbornly in the doorway, shirtless, the damn chew toy in his mouth. He bit down on the red rubber bone with purpose. It gave a muffled but obnoxiously cheerful SQUEAK.
“Remmick,” you called him slowly—as if talking to a child and not a damn grown ass vampire, “put the toy down.”
“No.” The word came out through clenched teeth. Another squeak followed for emphasis.
You frowned. “You are not bringing that thing into bed.”
He huffed. “He’s got a name.”
You blinked. “No. No no. We are not naming the dog toy.”
He proceeded to royally ignore you.
“His name is Squeaks. He told me himself.” Remmick grinned, like he was a genius or something for having conversations with his goddamn chew toy.
You stared at him. “You can have it back at breakfast tomorrow. But in bed? Absolutely not.”
He pulled the toy out of his mouth with a dramatic sigh and turned his back on you. “You’ve wounded me.”
“Remmick—”
“Wounded.” He whined and humphed and stomped his foot—clearly upset.
“Come along, Squeaks,” he mumbled, cuddling it to his chest. “Apparently we’re too immature to sleep in the grown-up bed. We’ll go sleep in the couch. For WE are clearly unwanted here.”
You frowned and climbed out of bed—opening your arms wide. “Hey, Remmy. Come on, baby. Am tired. Come cuddle. Come cuddle your attention-deprived human.”
You could see in the slight eye glance he gave you that he was seconds away from giving up, but he finally humphed and refused to turn around. “No. No cuddles for ye.”
You blinked. “Wait, what?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and opened the door of the bedroom. “You made yer choice. Now go cuddle yer cold sheets, traitor.”
You scowled, arms crossed too now. “I didn’t ban cuddling. I banned squeaky cuddling.”
LOUD SQUEAK OF INDIGNATION
“REM–”
He humphed. “You said it again. You wounded me again.”
You were close from being upset yourself. You bought the damn thing. And now it’s stealing your cuddle buddy away? Absolutely not. “So you’re really not going to cuddle me tonight?”
He turned his head dramatically, the rubber toy stuffed into the crook of his neck. “Talk to me when you’re ready to apologize to Squeaks.”
And with that…he left.
You slumped back in bed…Did he just—?!
You groaned and buried your face in your pillow.
Should have never bought that damn thing.
Actually? Scratch that. Should have never fallen in love with a vampire. Period.
The next day.
You returned with a compromise. A plush bone. No squeak.
Remmick narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “I’ll allow it. But only ‘cause he’s Squeaks’ cousin. Squishums.”
You tossed the toy onto the bed. “Right. Fine. Whatever, Remmick. Squishy, Squishums, Squishdumb. Don’t care. Now get your dramatic ass in here and give me my goddamn cuddles. Can’t believe you left me all alone in there all night. Like…who do you think you are?! Seriously?! I feed you. I clean you. I buy you toys and stuff and everything you want. And that’s the thanks I get? Truly. Your cuddles better be prime quality, baby. Because you’re cute—but not THAT cute for me to slave myself trying to please your ungrateful ass.”
He pounced immediately—pressing up against you with a smug grin and a happy hum as he pulled you close, burying his face in your neck. “Fine…If it’s prime quality ye want, I’ll give ye deluxe cuddle package, premium tier. But only if ye say sorry to Squeaks.”
You glared down at him, deadpan. “I’m not apologizing to a rubber dog toy.”
He gave an offended gasp. “Sir Squeaksalot the Third actually. And he’s very sensitive. You really bruised his ego.”
You groaned and shoved at his face—not hard, just enough to squish his cheeks together. “You are the worst.”
“Nuh-uh. I’m the best. Y’said so when I had ye cryin’ into the headboard last week.” He corrected you with a smug smile.
You flushed immediately and smacked him with a pillow.
He cackled. After a few moments, he went quiet though. His fingers found your side beneath the blankets, rubbing slow circles, and when he spoke again, it was softer.
“…Missed ye last night.”
Your heart twitched. You turned your head slightly. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me, traitor.”
He nuzzled in closer, plush bone tucked behind his head like a second pillow, his curls tickling your jaw. “Couldn’t sleep. Sofa’s too cold. And Squeaks…well, he’s a good listener, but he’s not warm like ye.”
You melted, even as you tried to stay indignant. “Yeah?”
“Mmm…’m still mad though,” he mumbled and bit back a smirk. “You still owe me and Squeaks an apology.”
You huffed and pressed him closer to you.“You’re holding Squishums.”
“He’s a silent protest.” He mumbled while smiling and snuggling up to you. He nuzzled your neck and cheek and pressed gentle smooches to them—a silent apology of his own. You tried to be strong and stay mad. But that goddamn vampire was making it real hard for you. Like…you knew he was FAR from innocent. But come on? Gentle smooches? You wanted to melt into his arms…Not fair.
You grumbled and buried your face in his curls. “This is emotional warfare.”
“Mmhmm.” His voice was a low rumble against your collarbone, mouth brushing your skin between every word. “And I’m winnin’.”
Another kiss. And another. Then a slow, deliberate nuzzle that made your stomach flutter. You resisted. For like…three seconds. IT COUNTS, OKAY?!
“…Fine,” you whispered through clenched teeth, “maybe I’m sorry.”
He paused. Pulled back just enough to raise a smug brow at you. “Maybe? That don’t sound sincere, mo chuisle. C’mon. Ye gotta mean it.”
You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “Okay! Okay, Remmick. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I disrespected Sir Squeaksalot the Third, First of His Name, Keeper of the Couch. May his rubber be ever chewed.”
His grin widened until it practically split his face. “There she is.”
“And I’m sorry I denied him and you access to the sacred realm of the bed,” you continued for good measure.
He clutched you and giggled. “Apology accepted.”
“And I’m sorry,” you finished, poking his chest, “that I ever thought I had control in this relationship when clearly you and your chew toys are running the whole damn operation.”
Remmick gave a smug little shrug, cuddling back in with a pleased sigh. “~Love makes fools of us all.”
You sighed. “You’re not even a little sorry, are you?”
He smiled. “Mmm…no. But Squishums is real proud of ye.”
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t stop running your fingers through his hair. “You’re lucky you’re so cute.”
He pressed another soft kiss to your collarbone. “I know.”
You let out a reluctant laugh, exasperated and in love, and pulled him tighter. Squeaks might’ve won this round. But you were definitely hiding him tomorrow.
A few days later
You blinked. Then blinked again.
Because—there it was.
Sitting in your hands like it belonged there: a very real, very well-made, very black leather dog collar. Silver buckles, gleaming tag, thick and sturdy. You tilted the tag just a little to read the engraving.
Property of Y/N.
You looked up slowly.
What in the actual heck—?
Remmick was standing in front of you, hands behind his back, his expression uncharacteristically…bashful.
“Thought t’was only fair,” he told you with a light shrug. “Since you’ve been takin’ such good care of me lately. Even when I, uh…” he shifted his weight. “I might’ve acted like a bit of a brat.”
You stared.
He coughed. “M’kay. Big bit of a brat.”
Your lips twitched but you restrained a smile. “…You think?”
His eyes flicked up to yours, defiant but flustered. “Still. You were patient with me. Even with the squeakin’. Even when I refused cuddles. Even when I forced ye to apologise.”
Your fingers brushed the tag again. It was cute. Weird. But cute.
“So, I thought…” he finally pulled his hands out from behind his back—palms up, offering his throat like a wolf showing belly, “…if I’m yer mutt, might as well dress the part.”
You bit back a smile. “Is that what you are now? My mutt?”
“Yeah, I’m yer mutt.” He grinned. “C’mon, put it on me.”
He sounded excited. You shook your head. Freak. But you still hesitated.
He wiggled his brows. “Please, me love? Sun o’ me life? Mo chuisle? Me one and only?”
That did it.
You nearly choked on a laugh, smacking his shoulder lightly as he leaned into you, teeth flashing in a big happy grin. But still—when he knelt at your feet, waiting, throat exposed—you couldn’t help but feel the weight of it. This wasn’t just a joke. This was Remmick, in his own weird, wild way, saying thank you and I’m yours.
So you clipped it gently around his neck.
He looked up at you with a warmth that was almost shy. “Fits, don’t it?”
“Perfectly,” you murmured. “My good boy.”
His eyes went dark. “Say that again.”
“Nope.” You stepped back.
“Say it again, I dare ye—”
He tackled you onto the couch.
SQUEAK!
You both froze.
He slowly reached under your thigh. Pulled out his red chew toy. But this time, he only humphed and threw it over his shoulder. “…Right. Ignore that.”
You dissolved into laughter and he proceeded to kiss your lips over and over. He loved the sound of your laughter.
…
Remmick wearing the collar under his clothes all week was not something you expected to affect you the way it did. It started subtle—barely visible beneath the collar of his shirt. Just a peek of leather if he leaned too far forward, or when he rolled up his sleeves and stretched, revealing that silver glint at his throat. But you knew it was there. And worse, he knew you knew. That smug little shit would catch you looking and give you a wink, a flash of fang, and a whispered,
“Still on. Ye wanna check?”
By the fourth day, it was like a game between the two of you—one that ended most nights with him in your lap or under you, flushed and panting.
But Saturday? Saturday went feral.
You’d been out shopping, minding your own business, when you passed a pet aisle. Remmick followed your gaze. Narrowed his eyes.
Then pointed. “Ball. Now.”
You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
He humphed. “Ye heard me. Ball me, woman.”
He didn’t even wait. You barely had time to buy a stupid bright-orange rubber fetch ball before he grabbed it from your hand and bolted towards the open field behind your building. “Ye comin’ or what?!”
So here you were now. Standing there. Ball in hand. Staring at your vampire boyfriend, bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking like he might explode with excitement.
“…Fine.” You sighed in defeat. “But if anyone sees—”
“THROW IT.”
You threw. And Remmick flew.
He literally launched himself after that ball like a goddamn missile—arms wide, legs tucked, coat flapping behind him like a cape. He caught it with his teeth, landed in a graceful crouch, and turned back to you, tail-wagging in spirit.
“AGAIN!”
You were dying and shook your head in disbelief. “You’re out of your mind! What if someone sees?!”
“Ye made me this way!” he shouted, ball clenched between his teeth. “Now take responsibility! Don’t care if anyone sees.”
You threw it again. And again. He bounded back and dropped the slobbery toy at your feet with a proud grin.
“Good throw,” he panted. “Ten outta ten. Would chase again.”
You shook your head, hands on your knees, wheezing from laughter. “You’re crazy. I’m crazy.”
“Aye,” he confirmed, curling his fingers under your chin, voice dropping into something low and molten. “Why dye think I love ye so much? Ye match me, mo chuisle.”
He then pounced again, tackling you into the grass and peppering your face with kisses—sloppy, silly, loud ones. You giggled and begged him to stop, but Remmick didn’t. He kept kissing you breathless because he knew he had found his perfect human.
After that, it was a quiet, cool night in the park. The stars glittered overhead, and the streetlights buzzed gently as you and Remmick strolled hand-in-hand beneath the trees.
That peace didn’t last.
A golden retriever came bounding out from behind a bush, tail wagging like a metronome set to “excited idiot,” tongue lolling out of its mouth.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, instantly crouching. “Who’s this sweet baby?”
The dog barked once, joyfully, and practically tackled you with affection. You laughed as you petted its ears, scratched under its chin, and cooed sweet nonsense to it like you’d just met your long-lost soulmate.
Remmick froze.
His eye twitched. His hand clenched.
And then—he growled.
A real growl. Deep, territorial, throat-rumbling. Not playful.
The dog froze too, ears flattening slightly.
You looked up, wide-eyed. “Remmick?!”
He didn’t say anything. Just stomped over, scooped you up in one fluid motion, and glued himself to you like an overgrown barnacle. “Mine.”
“Remmick,” you wheezed, squished against his chest. “I was petting a dog.”
“Didn’t like how it was lookin’ at ya,” he grumbled, nose buried in your neck. “Too forward. Disrespectful. Tail wagged too hard.”
“It’s a retriever!”
“So am I. For your love.”
You burst out laughing, arms looping around him as he crushed you to his chest, glaring murderously at the now-confused retriever, who trotted away to find his owner.
Still holding you, Remmick mumbled against your neck: “Don’t need no mutt sniffin’ at me treasure. I already marked ye. You smell like me.”
You frowned. “Marked me? When?”
He pulled back just enough to wink at you, then licked a stripe up your jaw and bit down gently—not hard enough to break skin, just enough to make you yelp. “Just now.”
He grinned, sharp and smug, and you realized with a groan that he was dead serious.
“…You’re the most jealous dog, Remmick.”
“Damn right I am. Now c’mere and scratch ME behind the ears.”
You huffed and pressed your face against his neck. Your mutt could be a real pain in the ass sometimes…
A month later
You had barely walked through the door when he stiffened. Remmick, curled sideways on the couch in one of his ridiculous positions—long legs thrown over the armrest, remote loosely gripped in one hand—froze.
His head slowly turned towards you.
Sniff. Sniff.
His eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that?”
You blinked. “What?”
He sat up slowly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “That smell. Ye smell like…bloody flowers.”
You looked down at yourself, confused. “It’s a new perfume. Why?”
He stood. All five-feet-something of vampire annoyance uncoiling to full height. “You’re covered in it.”
You grinned and huffed, “What? You don’t like lavender?”
Remmick didn’t smile back. Instead, he stalked forward with the kind of deliberate slowness that sent a thrill up your spine, grabbed you by the waist before you could take a step back and sniffed again.
“Rem,” you warned—but your voice was already breathless.
He leaned in, nose brushing your neck, lips grazing the spot just below your ear. “You think I’m gonna let some bottled-up petal shit tell the world what ye smell like? You think I’m gonna let anyone think you’re single enough to smell like some field of daisies?”
You swallowed. Hard. Before you could answer, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you towards the bedroom.
“Wait—! Remmick!”
He didn’t say a word until the door slammed shut behind you, until he had you pinned against it, breathing hard, nose brushing your collarbone again.
“You smell like a stranger,” he murmured, frustrated. “I’m gonna fix that.”
And he did. Slowly. Thoroughly. Worshipfully.
He took his time, nosing at your neck, pressing kisses to your chest, mouth trailing every inch of you—claiming every part the perfume had touched.
You never even made it to the bed.
At some point, you felt him bite—not to feed, but just to mark, just enough pressure to leave something behind. And afterwards, breathless and aching, you heard him whisper against your skin: “There. Now ye smell like home.”
You never wore that perfume again…
…
One evening, the question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. Really dumb question but… “You don’t really think I would wear perfume to attract anyone else, do you?”
Remmick stiffened like a string’s been pulled too tight. His eyes flickered up—slow and sharp—and then he turned his head to look at you properly. Like you just told him you’re running off with a priest.
His brows knit together, just slightly. “What? No. ’Course not.”
You barely got a breath in before his hands were on either side of your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, fingers curling behind your ears. “I just hate smellin’ anything on ye that ain’t me or ye. See…I got used to yer smell. And when ye smell different? T’confuses me. ‘Cause…if ye change smells then I won’t be able to find ye again. What if ye get lost? What if someone takes ye away? What if I can’t find ye anymore ‘cause am not sure what scent m’lookin’ for anymore?”
He pressed his forehead to yours, shutting his eyes like it physically hurt to say it out loud.
“Ain’t about jealousy, darlin’. It’s instinct. If ye were a vampire, you’d understand.”
You blinked slowly. His fingers tightened just a little as you whispered with a smile. “Smelling me calms you down?”
He nodded. “Makes me feel like I’m home. Makes me know that I’d find ye even when you’re far away from me.”
Your lips twitched, just barely, and you murmured. “And the flowers wouldn’t lead you to me?”
He pulled back half an inch—just enough to give you the most offended expression. “They’re liars. One moment I think I found ye and the next I find meself in a field o’ flowers instead of at home.”
You laughed, startled. “…What?”
He mumbled unhappily. “They lie to me nose. Can’t have that.”
He leaned back in, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “Wanna know I can trace me way back to ye. Always.”
You swallowed thickly and held back tears. That idiot…You were sure he was using his words to make you fall more in love with him. Him and his damn Irish vampire magic. You chuckled and whispered next: “…What about my shampoo?”
He didn’t blink. “I’ve already started usin’ it. Smells like ye.”
You deadpanned. “…You—what?”
He smiled mischievously and kissed your jaw. “Yeah. Thought it’d help me sleep better. I dream better when I smell like ye.”
Your knees went a little soft, and he grinned like he knew it. Damn Irish vampire magic…no other explanation.
“Still mad at me for sniffin’ ye every morning?” He asked knowingly.
You tried. You tried to stay annoyed—but it was hard when he was kissing the corner of your mouth with that lazy, stupid adorable smile.
“Whatever…” you grumbled.
He nuzzled your neck—knowing he got away with it. “Yay.”
…Damn you, Irish vampire magic.
The next day
Remmick had just stepped out of the shower, his curls damp and dripping slightly, darkened to nearly black as they clung to his forehead. A towel hung low on his hips, and he was muttering something under his breath—
You didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
You just crossed the room, calm as anything, narrowed your eyes, and leaned in.
Sniff.
He froze.
You got closer, right up to his collarbone, and sniffed again—loudly.
“…Darlin’.” His voice dipped, warning. “What are ye—”
Sniff.
“Ah-ha!” You pointed at him triumphantly, your grin wicked. “I knew it. That is my shampoo! You ARE using it!”
Remmick reeled back like you’d slapped him. “I never said I wasn’t usin’ it!” He clutched the towel for it not to fall. “I confessed! Yesterday!”
You circled him like a suspicious bloodhound, still sniffing. “This is the lavender-vanilla one. The fancy bottle.”
He crossed his arms—still damp, still dripping all over the floor—scowling like a wet cat. “And? It smells like ye. I like it. Makes me feel calm. Like you’re…in me bones or somethin’.”
You paused. A breath hitched in your throat at how serious his tone had gotten in a blink. He looked at you then. Hair curling at his cheeks, drops rolling down the hollow of his throat. Bare, damp, and unashamed.
He smirked and walked closer. “Darlin’, I’d wear yer perfume, yer clothes, yer fuckin’ skin if I could. I’m a vampire. I got zero shame about livin’ in yer scent. Ye think I bathe for me?”
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks betrayed you with heat.
He leaned in. “C’mere. Smell me again. Properly this time.”
You started to protest—but his arms were already around your waist, towel and all, tugging you against his bare chest.
And yeah…you did.
You breathed him in.
Your shampoo. His skin. The cool faint trace of mint from your conditioner. A little like you. A little like him.
You smirked. “Fine. You can use it. But if you finish it, you replace the bottle.”
He chuckled. “A’right, mo ghrá. I promise. Now…unless ye want me to stay naked—which I wouldn’t mind—ye better step back and let me get some clothes on.”
He expected you to obey. But instead, you surprised him by hooking a finger around his dog collar and tugging. He hissed and was about to ask what you were doing until he saw that you were leading him towards the bedroom.
…Yeah. That towel dropped to the floor real fast.
He didn’t want to go.
That much was obvious. Even if he pretended to be casual about it, tossing a half-packed duffel onto the floor and muttering, “Just a few days, darlin’. Nothin’ dramatic,” he lingered by the door like he was waiting for a reason not to leave.
You gave him one anyway.
A kiss. A soft goodbye. A promise you’d be fine.
You lied a little.
Because the second the door shut behind him, the silence felt wrong. The apartment lost its rhythm—too quiet, too still, too lacking in the chaos of your vampire pacing the kitchen barefoot at 2am…
So you wandered. Picked up a book. Put it down.
And then you saw it.
His shirt.
Thrown over the back of the couch. White. Soft. Worn a little at the elbows. It smelled like him—clean and wild and cold, the way a forest might smell in a dream. A hint of mint. Faint trace of you, too.
You pulled it on without thinking.
It fit perfectly.
And you nearly cried.
Because suddenly, he was everywhere—wrapped around you, lingering at your neck, warm even though he was never really warm, present. Like he’d left a piece of himself behind on purpose.
You wore it all day. Fell asleep in it.
What you didn’t know? Remmick knew.
The moment he stepped back through the front door three days later—curls messy, boots muddy from travel and his clothes covered with blood—he stopped cold in the entryway.
You were asleep on the couch.
In his shirt.
Curled up like a cat in a den, breathing steady.
He stared for a long time. Quiet.
And then? He smiled. That small, soft, barely-there smile that only came out when he was overwhelmed by the size of his own love for you.
He stepped closer. Breathed you in.
And whispered—so quietly, not wanting to wake you—
“Thief. Stole from me, didn’t ye?”
You stirred, bleary-eyed, murmuring something about being cold. But he just bent down, brushing a kiss to your forehead, arms curling around you as he murmured, “It’s alright, darlin’. Ye can steal anythin’ from me. S’all yers.”
He buried his face into your shoulder and whispered: “I missed ye more’n I know how to say.”
And he didn’t let go for a long time.
…
You noticed his nails one lazy afternoon.
Remmick was sprawled on the couch again—classic—and had one arm slung behind his head, the other lazily dangling off the cushions. That’s when you saw them.
Long. Unkempt. Sharp like tiny daggers at the ends of elegant, bone-pale fingers.
You narrowed your eyes. “…When was the last time you trimmed your nails?”
He didn’t even open his eyes. “Dunno. Last century—maybe. Why?”
You stood, arms crossed. “Because you look like a haunted Victorian aunt with a murder hobby.”
One eye cracked open. He stared at you. “That’s offensive. Am sure she was a great woman.”
You slapped his foot. “Sit up. We’re fixing this.”
Remmick grumbled the whole time as you pulled him to the table and retrieved a nail kit, lotion, file, cuticle oil—the works.
“I’ve murdered people for less humiliation,” he informed you, trying to slink out of the chair. You shoved him back down.
“Yeah? Well you’ll be murdered by me if I catch you scratching me in your sleep again with those talons, Dracula.”
“Not Dracula,” he muttered sulkily. “He was Hungarian. I’m Irish.”
You huffed. “You’re a dirty little goblin. That’s what you are. And we’re gonna make your hands pretty.”
He blinked and smirked. “…Ye think m’hands are pretty?”
You didn’t look up, too focused on trimming his nails. “Of course. Long fingers, good knuckles, kinda veiny. You should be modeling rings or holding wine glasses dramatically for a living.”
There was a pause. Then a quiet, cocky murmur: “Veiny, huh?”
You threw a file at him.
Missed.
He looked very pleased anyway. He kept wiggling his fingers like he didn’t trust the process.
“Stop moving or I’ll paint them bright pink.” You threatened him.
He smirked. “Ye wouldn’t dare.”
You chuckled and shook your head. “Oh, try me, vampire boy. You’ll be glistening in glitter by sundown.”
Eventually, he started enjoying it.
Too much, maybe.
Especially when you started rubbing lotion into his hands, massaging his fingers, using little circular motions on the pads of his palms.
He went quiet.
Stared at you.
Eyes dark, voice low.
“…Do it again.”
Your hands stilled.
“…Which part?”
“Whatever black magic that was.”
You grinned, smug. “That’s called self-care, Remmick. You’re welcome.”
You kissed his fingers when you were done. He blinked. Stared at them like they weren’t attached to him. “…They look nice.”
You kissed his palm this time. “They look loved.”
He sat back in the chair and wiggled his fingers again. “…Can we do this again sometime?”
You paused. “…You want another manicure?”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes. Especially the self-care part. I liked that.”
You smiled.
But yeah.
You’d do it again.
And the next morning? He was suspiciously careful about how he used his hands. No scratching. No breaking things. No chipping those nails…not even to feed.
A few weeks later
Remmick showed off his nails to the pack he had NEVER told you about with a wide, proud grin after they’d fed and settled around the campfire. His claws were neatly filed, the sharp edges softened just enough, painted in a subtle dark shade with tiny silver stars you had carefully drawn on. “She did me nails. Neat, right?”
Bert jumped off the crate he had been perched on for an hour and inspected them. “Oooh. Yeah. Real neat. Ya think she could do the same for me? I gotta be honest with ya, s’been a struggle goin’ to the bathroom and shit.”
Remmick shrugged. “Dunno. I’ll have to ask her…”
“Ya got a girl?” Bo asked from where he leaned against the wagon, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Shit. Am surprised anyone would actually spend time with ya—willingly.”
Remmick flipped him off. “Where’s ya wife? Right. She dead.”
Bo growled at him. “Whatya say, asshole?”
They were about to fight when Mary appeared.
“Shut up y’all. A girl did yar nails?” Mary added, eyes narrowing like she was investigating a crime scene.
Cornbread, who was still licking the last bit of blood from his fingers nearby, looked up slowly. “…She do toenails too?”
Remmick tucked his hands back into his coat but didn’t hide the grin spreading across his face. “She’s not just a girl. She’s me girl.”
“Ooooh,” Stack cooed, flopping down onto a pile of blankets nearby. “That explains it. He’s smitten. Look at ‘im! Glowin’ heart-shaped eyes and shit.”
“Shut up,” Remmick grumbled, but he didn’t stop smiling. “She’s got this way of—of touchin’ me hands, real careful, like they’re worth somethin’. Never rushes it. Even talks to me while she’s doing it. Got me relaxin’ so much I damn near fell asleep in her lap last time.”
Mary’s sharp grin softened. “You let her touch your hands?”
He nodded.
“That’s…big, sugar. Congrats. She must really be somethin’.”
Remmick just shrugged like it was nothing, but even Stack could see the truth of it: Remmick didn’t let anyone near his claws. And now here he was, showing them off like a kid with his first tattoo.
“Yeah, well…” he muttered. “She treats me gentle—real nice. She even helped with me teeth problems.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Bert asked, totally serious, “Wait. She do ya damn teeth too?!”
Stack cackled and shook his head. “Yeah. We definitely wanna meet her now.”
Bo snorted. “You’re tellin’ me there’s a woman out there who voluntarily trims your claws, talks you down from your bitey moods, and deals with your dental hygiene? Is she blind?”
“Or real patient,” Mary muttered, still watching Remmick like he’d just grown a halo. “And probably built like a saint.”
Remmick puffed out his chest a bit. He didn’t say anything right away—just stared into the fire with that lazy, smug little smirk of his that only came out when he was thinking about you. Or freshly fed. Or both.
“…She file between your fangs or just polish ‘em?” Cornbread asked after a moment.
Bert raised a hand. “No no, I’m serious, is that a service? I chipped one o’ mine on a rib bone last week and it’s been buzzin’ in m’gums.”
“She’s not a dentist,” Remmick muttered. “But she got soft hands. Good with pain. Doesn’t flinch when I’m in a mood. Doesn’t treat me like a monster.”
Mary gave him a look. “But you are a monster, Remmick. We all are.”
He met her eyes. “Yeah. But she still kisses me.”
Everyone went quiet for a second.
Stack broke it first, flinging an arm over his face dramatically. “Aw, shit. There he goes again. He’s in love.”
Bo rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything this time.
Cornbread, still contemplative, finally nodded. “Bet she feeds ya too.”
“She does,” Remmick muttered, voice soft. “But I still gotta come back to ye guys every once in a while. To feed and make sure y’all are doin’ okay.”
There was a pause. Then the entire pack groaned.
“OH MY GOD,” Bo shouted. “You’re domesticated!”
Remmick flipped him off again, but it was weaker this time—half-hearted, dazed in thought.
Stack wheezed. “Bro’s sittin’ around a campfire with painted claws talkin’ about a girl who feeds him and gives him a bed to sleep in. Next thing we know, you’ll be wearing a dog collar I swear...”
He didn’t answer. Everyone looked at him simultaneously.
“…Ya gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me?! Really, man?! A dog collar?!” Stack asked—flabbergasted.
“I do have a collar,” Remmick admitted reluctantly. “But I wanted it. She mine. And I’m hers. And s’all that matters.”
Mary stood suddenly. “Nope. I can’t take it. I gotta meet her. We gotta meet her. I need to see the woman who de-fanged our cryptid Irish gremlin.”
Bert nodded. “I agree. You bragged too hard, Rem-Rem. We gotta meet her.”
Bo grumbled, but even he looked curious now. “Yeah. Let’s see what kinda saint can handle your sorry ass.”
Remmick rolled his eyes—but the smile he wore was soft and unshakable. “…She’d like y’all. Am sure of it. She’s a bit bossy at times, but I love her. She makes me happy.”
Stack muttered, “Knew it. She’s the fuckin’ top in whatever fucked up relationship they got goin’ on.”
Mary smirked. “Smart girl.”
And for the rest of the night, Remmick sat with his hands in his lap, fingers carefully splayed to keep from smudging the silver stars you'd drawn. He didn’t say it aloud, but the look in his glowing eyes said it clear:
He couldn’t wait to show you off.
…
There was a knock at your door.
You wiped your hands on a dish towel, raising a brow as you padded over and opened it—
Only to stop dead in your tracks.
“…What in the—?”
Remmick stood there grinning wide, his sharp teeth flashing under the porch light. But it wasn’t just Remmick. Behind him stood five or six other vampires. All of them varying degrees of intimidating and eccentric, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder on your front steps like a lost theater troupe with blood on their boots.
He gestured at them proudly with both hands. “Me love. Hive. Hive. Me love.”
“Hi!” one of them chirped—wide smile, and waving a hand excitedly. “I’m Bert. Heard ya do nails?”
You blinked. “Wait. Remmick, you have a hive? You never said you had a hive!”
“I have a lotta things, mo ghrá,” he said nonchalantly, stepping past you casually and motioning for the rest to follow. “But they saw me claws last week and got all jealous. Figured, hell, we oughta make a night of it.”
One of them stared at your fairy lights like they might attack him. The round one in the overalls wandered into your kitchen, sniffed a scented candle, and sneezed so hard he knocked it over.
Remmick turned back to you, arms wide. “…Surprise?”
You just stood there. Then sighed—exasperated. “Remmick.”
He looked at you with the biggest grin ever. “Yes, me love?”
You rolled up your sleeves. “…They better be well-behaved or I am making garlic bread tonight and shoving it down your throat.”
Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.
Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.
Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼
archive / masterlist
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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.
A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.
“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.
He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.
Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.
“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”
He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.
“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.
“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”
He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.
“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.
He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.
God, if only you knew.
“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.
“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“
He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.
“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”
Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.
“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“
“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.
You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.
But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.
“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.
He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.
“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.
You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.
Because of you.
You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.
You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.
“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”
He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.
“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”
You want him. God you always want him.
The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.
“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”
It’s over.
The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.
His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.
His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.
“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”
He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.
“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”
He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.
Right now he is just muscle in front of you.
His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.
You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.
“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”
He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.
You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.
He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”
He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.
One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.
You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.
Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.
“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”
His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.
And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.
“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”
You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.
He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.
Still fucking you.
Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.
So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.
And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.
“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“
“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”
Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.
He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.
“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“
“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.
He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.
He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.
Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.
“…Are you okay?”
You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.
But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.
You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.
Still needing you.
“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”
“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.
But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?
He melts.
You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.
He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.
He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.
“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”
You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.
None of you cares.
“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”
He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.
You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.
You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.
It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.
Your head starts spinning.
“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”
His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.
You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.
“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.
His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.
“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”
His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.
He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.
And you like it, god you love it.
“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”
“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.
He picks up the pace.
“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“
“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”
You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.
And he does.
He fucks you like you’re his last breath.
Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.
You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.
All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”
Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.
Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…
You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.
“Fuck me harder.”
You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.
And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”
You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.
You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.
By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.
Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.
You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.
You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.
Worth it.
Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.
Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.
“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.
“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”
You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.
“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”
“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”
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Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Avengers!Fem!Reader
Summary: You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Minor Spoilers for Thunderbolts! Fluff, Mentions of low self-esteem/ self-deprecation, Smut
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (Y’all…You know the drill…Protect yourselves lol), Some hair pulling (very light hair pulling), Reader is being a little bit dominant (if you squint), Bob is being a softie (and it’s hot as shit), Fingering, Squirting, Teasing, Biting, and Some marks are left.
Author's Note: Had this boy lined up and really wanted to post it. Loved the little hint that Bob was not liking the blonde that Sentry had lol so this is definitely something that would probably have happened if he didn’t return back to normal in the movie 😅Also, y’all are awesome and I appreciate you guys for enjoying my little blurbs!❤️ Thank you.
Word Count: 14,094
You were buried under layers of sweat and crumpled tissues when the knock came against your bedroom door.
Three soft taps.
So quiet, they could’ve been the compound settling. It was hesitant–polite almost. It was the kind of knock someone does when they’re not sure if they’re allowed to be asking for anything at all.
You barely stirred in your bed. The flu had you pinned to the mattress like a paper doll, aching and clammy and convinced the walls were breathing in sync with you. Hallucinations had become your new roommates–so when you heard the knock, you assumed it was just one of them, wandering through your mind again.
But then came a fourth tap. Just one. Sharp enough to make your headache throb like it was answering.
”Y/N…It’s Bob…Can I come in?” You winced at the sound of his voice, even though it was always super gentle and timid.
Bob.
Of course it was Bob.
You’d almost forgotten in the haze of your sickness that you were technically on Bob duty. Because apparently being half-dead with the flu made you the least threatening option to keep an eye on the world’s most powerful man while the rest of the team went on recon. Bucky had said it so casually, like the fate of the planet couldn’t possibly unravel while you were tucked under three blankets with a thermometer hanging out of your mouth.
“All you gotta do is check in on him every hour or so,” He’d told you. “Make sure he eats. Make sure he’s not spiraling, and doing something to keep himself occupied. Y’know. Normal people stuff.”
It had been simple, at first. When the worst symptoms you were experiencing was a runny nose and a dull headache, you’d shuffle past Bob every so often with a thumbs up and a mumbled “You good?” While he nodded earnestly over his book, asking you the same thing back.
But once you started coughing so hard you felt like your ribs were breaking, and the chills that you were experiencing gave way to night sweats and dry heaving, keeping tabs on Bob Reynolds fell hard to the bottom of your to-do list–somewhere below “don’t die” and “get a new tissue”.
“…It’s open,” You rasped, your voice raw and thin from all the coughing you had been doing.
The doorknob turned slowly, like he was still asking permission even after you gave it. Then Bob stepped inside with that careful kind of energy that people only reserved for hospital rooms or museums–like one wrong step might unplug or break something important.
He hovered in between the doorway, not coming too close–being mindful that you had told him a few times to keep his distance because you didn’t want him getting sick, even though it was nearly impossible for him to catch anything. His baggy navy sweater hung off him like a weighted blanket, and the sleeves were stretched over his knuckles, worn from the way he would always pick at the fabric. He looked small in it–even though he was quiet muscular underneath all the layers. His posture was slouched, and his shoulders were drawn up like he was nervous about something. On top of all that though, he was wearing his new wardrobe staple–a dark brown beanie that he shoved his bleach-blonde hair under, he never came out of his room without it.
You stared at his figure through half-lidded eyes, watching as he avoided looking directly at you.
”You okay?” You croaked, reaching up to your face to rub the sleep off your face, attempting to sit up to get a better look at him. He glanced over at you, nodding quickly.
”Yeah. Of course…I mean…I’m good, I just…” He trailed off, the sentence losing momentum halfway through as his gaze drifted around the room.
He wasn’t just avoiding your eyes anymore, it was like his attention had been dragged elsewhere–behind you, beside you, and all around you. His brows twitched slightly as he took in your space for the first time, and slowly you connected the dots that Bob had never actually been inside your room before– the first time was always an experience for people who didn’t know you were a secret collector of everything.
His eyes swept over the cluttered desk in the corner that sported wires, pliers, circuit boards and half built gadgets, before going to the large overstuffed bookshelf beside it, which was packed tight with thrifted novels and comic books that were still in their original plastic sleeves. There was a milk crate of vinyls on the floor near your speaker, with the old record player you insisted on fixing instead of replacing, even though you would complain every few days about it.
There was a flicker in his expression–surprise, maybe. Or something quieter, like he’d just stumbled into a part of you that he didn’t expect to find. You saw it in the way his jaw went still and the way his shoulders shifted slightly, like he was dying to ask you questions about everything you had, but he was holding himself back.
”…Bob,” You said hoarsely, trying to draw his attention back to you. He didn’t blink, his eyes were fixated on something in the far corner where your posters were. You reached your hand up over your head, waving slightly, and snapping your fingers, “Earth to Bob. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He shook himself out of his trance, and glanced over at you.
”Sorry…Sorry,” He said quickly, his voice a little higher than usual, as he cleared his throat, “Didn’t mean to, uh…Y’know, snoop or anything. I’ve just never seen your room before, you’ve got a lot of cool stuff.” You raised your eyebrows at him with a small smile on your face.
”You’re lucky I feel like death. Otherwise I’d be giving you the grand tour right now…I also include a quiz at the end.” Bob let out a nervous laugh and looked down, picking at the loose thread on his sleeve.
“I’d definitely fail…So I’m kind of glad…Well I’m not glad you’re sick, I’m just glad I don’t have to do a quiz.” Your lips twitched, amused despite the ache that was still clawing at your skull.
”Very smooth recovery Bob, very smooth.” Bob made a quiet noise–somewhere between a breathy laugh and a groan–keeping his eyes pinned to the floor as his cheeks turned a soft pink. You pushed yourself up a little more than before, elbows trembling from the effort of holding yourself up.
”So…What’s going on? Why’d you knock on my door at…” You paused, glancing over at your alarm clock, “Seven fifty three in the morning?” Bob sighed.
”Well…I need to go to the drug store,” He admitted, his voice sheepish, “And I know Bucky’s not really a fan of me going out alone so…Thought I’d ask my babysitter.” You squinted at him through your blurred vision, feeling the room tilt slightly, as you brought your hand up to your face, pressing gently at your temples.
”Are you getting sick or something?” He immediately shook his head.
”No, no it’s nothing like that. I haven’t really gotten sick since I took the Sentry serum…” You quirked your brow at him.
”So…What’s the reason for the drug store trip then?” Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor creaking under him loudly as he did so.
“I um…I need to buy something. For myself.” He responded, dancing around the truth. You stared at him.
”Is it serious?”
”No,” He said quickly, “It’s not like…Health-serious or anything, I’m fine physically, I just…” He paused, clamming up again, not knowing how to explain himself. You narrowed your eyes at him, coughing into your arm, clutching your ribs when a dull ache pulsed through the area.
”You do realize I’m gonna find out anyway if I go with you , right?” Bob sighed and dragged his hand down the side of his face, like he was physically wiping the resistance off of himself, letting his hand drop down to the hem of his sweater.
”Fine…Fine…I need to buy…Hair dye.” He mumbled under his breath. You tilted your head slightly, blinking through the fevered haze that clouded your vision.
”Hair dye?” Bob winced at the way the words left your mouth, even though you didn’t mean for it to sound like you were judging him.
”Mhm…” You stared at him for a second longer than he could handle, as his eyes began to wander again, his hands wringing the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling it.
“You woke me up at seven-fifty-three in the morning…For hair dye?” You asked again, trying to confirm what you were hearing once more, hoping that you weren’t experiencing an odd version of delirium at this point.
”It’s not just–“ He started, then shut his mouth again, biting the inside of his cheek, shaking his head, “I mean…It is…But I just…” The sentence fell apart in his throat, as his cheeks began to heat up. He looked genuinely embarrassed, and you could see himself curling even more into his sweater, “I just don’t like what it looks like anymore.” There was something raw about the way he said it, and you couldn’t help but feel empathy for him, your heart clenching at the way his words cracked in the air.
“The bleach… The whole look,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor, “It was for him. For the Sentry. That’s what they said, anyway– they said that it would help. That it would make people see someone new. Something brighter…Like it would somehow separate us…But I still have to live in this body when he’s not around.” Bob continued, his throat swelling with a lump, “I still have to see myself…And the longer I look like him, the harder it is to remember who I am when I’m just…Bob.” You didn’t say anything at first–not because you didn’t want to, but because there was something about the way he was talking about himself that made your chest cave in a little. The words hung in the air like mist, as he bowed his head even lower, keeping his eyes on the floor, not daring to look at you or anything else in the room.
“It’s not stupid.” You could see his hands stop moving at your words, watching his eyes glance up at you hesitantly. You gave him a tired but sincere look, hoping that it was enough for him to understand that what you were saying was coming from a place of care, “Wanting to see yourself again isn’t stupid Bob…It’s just you trying to cling to the one thing you have control of…I get it.” His mouth parted, like he was going to thank you, but no sound came out. He was relieved that someone was finally understanding what he meant, it was like he had been running around talking to walls when he would speak about how he was feeling, but with you in this moment…It was like he felt seen.
”So I’ll help…But I need to see what we’re working with first.” You added, motioning to his head. Bob looked like a deer in the headlights when you said it, caught off guard by your suggestion, but also scared to even follow through with it.
”W-What?” You sighed.
”That hat Bob…Just take it off…I haven’t seen your hair since we moved you in here and you’ve been hiding it like it’s some sort of radioactive test subject.” He felt his heart gallop in his chest a little bit, as the nerves began to build up in him.
”I-I really don’t think that’s necessary,” He stammered, already figuring out a way to retreat out of the conversation, eyeing the hallway that was in the far corner of his vision.
”Bob, you dragged me out of a flu coma to ask me for help…So let me help you…Let me see it.” The gentleness in your voice was always something that got to him. Even on your toughest days you would use that tone with him, and for some reason it was the only thing that truly had him melting like putty in your hands.
You could see the conflict playing out within him, like he was weighing out the risks, until a look of resolve appeared on his face, a small sigh escaping his lips as he gave in to your request.
Bob’s fingers trembled as he slipped them beneath the edge of his beanie, hesitating for a second before slowly tugging it off his head. The static cling made the knit fabric resist him just a little, like even the hat itself didn’t want to let go of the safety it provided him.
The moment it came off, a curtain of hair fell across his face. You blinked through your fevered haze, eyes widening slightly–not in shock, but in recognition. His hair was longer than you remembered–shaggy, uneven, the ends fried from months of bleach. The top was still harshly pale, the yellow-white of it stark under the low morning light, but underneath, near the roots, his real hair was coming back in–soft, and light brown, just like you recalled from the brief glimpses you got of him before it all got changed. But the line where bleach met natural color was harsh and jarring, cutting across his scalp like a bad decision frozen in time.
He looked like someone in between versions of himself, not quite Bob, not quite Sentry–just…Stuck. You studied him for a moment, your body heavy with exhaustion but your chest buzzing with quiet sympathy. There was something so tender about the way he stood there, hair falling into his eyes, his beanie clutched in his hands like a comfort object. He looked younger somehow. Not in age, but in vulnerability–like this was the version of himself that never got the chance to just be soft and carefree.
“It’s not that bad,” You started, the rasp still thick in your throat, “Really. It just needs some love, patience…Maybe a deep condition…And the right shade of brown.” Bob’s head immediately shot up to look at you, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying.
”S-So you’re actually going to help? Y-You didn’t just try to trick me into showing you my hair right?” You shifted yourself down to the edge of your mattress, groaning at the way your bones protested and pulsed with each movement.
”No I didn’t try to trick you… I’m going to help, but first, I’m gonna need you to come here and make sure I don’t fall, because I think my legs are going to wiggle like they’re made of jelly.” For a split second Bob wasn’t sure if you were serious or not about needing actual help, but he moved anyway, shuffling towards you with his socked feet sliding across the floor. He opened his arms hesitantly, elbows bending like he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go, offering himself up into your space.
”Alright…Whenever you’re ready I g-guess.” He said softly, his voice cracking a bit on the ‘guess’ like he was more nervous about touching or dropping you than you were about falling on your own.
Your hands found his forearms instantly, fingers curling into the soft, worn cotton of his sleeves, watching him brace himself. He looped one arm under yours, while steadying the other against your back as you pushed off the mattress, feeling your knees buckling beneath you like a baby deer on ice.
“Woah–woah, okay.” Bob muttered quickly, tightening his arms around you without a second thought. He adjusted himself accordingly, trying his best to be gentle while still being secure enough to hold you upright. You ended up closer than either of you really expected, with his chest pressed against yours, and your cheek inches away from his shoulder.
Despite everything—the fever baking your skin, the chills clinging to your limbs, and the flu that had knocked you down hard enough to rattle the walls—you still smelled…Good.
Bob noticed it the moment you got within his arms reach.
It wasn’t some kind of artificial, pampered scent. It wasn’t perfume or lotion or anything curated. No, it was just you–fresh soap, soft worn cotton, and that barely-there trace of eucalyptus from the body wash and shampoo combo you swore by. He heard you muttering something about it being the only thing strong enough to trick your sinuses into opening, and Bob had thought it was actually going to work because the sniff you gave him from the bottle made him have a sneezing fit, but he heard your frustrated grunt in the shower when it had not been the case.
”You alright Bob?” You asked, feeling the tension in his body against yours. He let out a short breath, which fanned across the crown of your head. He didn’t say anything right away, he just gave you a quick nod.
”Yeah, yeah I’m okay.” You could feel how careful he was being, feeling his arms flexing around you, not too tight, and not too loose. He was warm, and steady, while trying so hard not to be in the way, even though you requested his help. You couldn’t help but think about how strangely nice it was to be close to him, despite the situation.
You stood like that for another moment longer, your body leaning against his, the rhythm of your fevered breathing matching the rise and fall of his chest. Even through the blocked sinuses you had you could smell his laundry detergent on his sweater–fresh from the dryer, another thing you seemed to like about the moment.
Though you snapped yourself out of your self-induced daze once the floor felt less like a rocking ship beneath your feet. You pulled back just enough to glance up at him.
”You can let go now,” You whispered, startling Bob with the cue. Quickly he stepped back, like he just realized he was touching a hot stove or something, trying not to seem like he had been enjoying the odd moment of closeness. Despite the warmth of his body leaving yours, his hands still hovered around you just in case.
”I’m good,” You reassured, wobbling slightly but managing to keep yourself upright, “Just give me a few minutes to brush my teeth and get my bearings so I don’t scare the public by looking like a corpse.” Bob nodded immediately.
”Yeah, of course, I’ll just…I’ll wait in the hallway. There’s no rush or anything, uh…Just take your time. Seriously, I mean it.” He said, backing away while he clutched his beanie in his hand, “Just call me if you need anything.” He added, slipping out of your room and pulling the door shut behind him.
The moment he was gone, you sat back down on the edge of the bed with a slow, rattling breath. God. Your whole body felt like it had been microwaved–sweaty, sore, and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes for a second, trying to reboot your nervous system. Not just from the fever, but from how close Bob had been. How soft he’d been. How good it had felt to be held with such warmth and gentleness even if it was for a fleeting moment.
You let out a sigh, before getting up again, dragging yourself into the ensuite bathroom you shared with Yelena, flicking on the bright fluorescent light. You let out a hiss, catching your reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, the damage was minimal, sure your hair was an absolute mess from spending the night tossing and turning, but you looked half-awake at least.
Quickly, you got yourself ready, brushing your teeth, splashing some water on your face, fixing up your hair, and changing into a fresh set of clothes. By the time you were done, only fifteen minutes had passed–your new personal best. You cracked the door to your bedroom open, finding Bob sitting on the floor waiting with his back against the wall and knees drawn up. He looked up quickly when he heard the creak, and gave you a soft smile.
“Let’s get outta here.”
——————
Twenty minutes later, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder in front of the painfully fluorescent wall of boxed hair dye in your local CVS.
It was still early, so thankfully not a lot of people were in the store. You actually thought that it was just you and Bob who were customers and the rest of the people there were employees and managers. On the overhead speakers there was a faint crackle of old 2000s music groaning throughout the store. The air smelled like plastic and dryer sheets, which was an odd mix for a drugstore of all places.
Bob stood stiffly beside you, his hands jammed into the front pocket of his jacket, eyes wide as he took in the absurd variety of brands and colours in front of him. His mouth was parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide on what panic stricken sentence he was going to go with. So you spoke first.
“Well…We know what row we need to look at.” You said, motioning toward the more natural leaning colours–rows of caramel, ash, chestnut, and espresso–pushing the cart gently in that direction as Bob trailed behind you like a nervous shadow. Your eyes scanned over the various boxes and brands, trying to find ones that would do minimum damage to his hair while actually doing the job.
“I didn’t think it was going to be so complicated…” He murmured from behind you, “I just thought there would be straight forward choices…” You looked up from the boxes, seeing the way his jaw was clenched.
”It’s just overwhelming because all the companies who make this stuff create different versions of the same thing. See…” You pointed at one box “This one is ammonia free, and is semi-permanent,” Then pointed to the other one right beside it,”While this one is permanent and has argan oil infused in it so it doesn’t do a lot of damage, but they’re the same colour.” Bob squinted at the wall of labels, then back to the boxes you had motioned to, visibly confused, shaking his head.
“Alright…But what if I just want…Normal dye?” You looked up at him, one brow arching in mild amusement.
”Bob…This is normal dye.” He turned a sharp shade of red, as the heat rose to his cheeks, taking over the paleness.
“W-Well yeah but–but you know what I mean don’t you? It doesn’t have to be so complicated, just have one of every colour.” You let out a small laugh.
”Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism, Bob. You want brown? Well, first you gotta pick from thirty-seven kinds of brown. Do you want cocoa chestnut or honey almond toast? Because those are apparently different.” Bob took his hand out of his pocket, rubbing the back of his neck.
”Okay…I guess you’re right.” He replied nervously.
”We’ll find your colour, I promise.” You said calmly, continuing to look over the boxes in front of you.
“Should I, uh…Take my hat off? Would that help?” You tilted your head at him, and nodded.
”It would definitely make this a much quicker process…But if it really bothers you, I’m pretty sure I could go off of memory.” Bob shrugged a little, his eyes flicking around the store for a moment.
”I don’t mind, it’s basically just us in here anyway.” You nodded, watching him remove the beanie again, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He tried to not make a big deal out of it, but you could tell he felt exposed, so you were going to attempt to make things quick.
”Alright,” You said, stepping a little closer to him, grabbing a few boxes from the shelf, “Bend down a bit, I need to get a good look at the roots so I can compare.” He obeyed, ducking his head so you could see the top of his hair properly. In doing so, he stepped closer than you expected—closer than he expected, probably. Your foreheads were nearly aligned, noses maybe a breath apart. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to get the right angle, and Bob found himself frozen there, inches from you, not sure where to look. So, he looked at you.
You smelled like cherry cough drops–sickly sweet and medicinal—and it hit him instantly, like a quiet little exhale in the space between you. He remembered the moment you popped one into your mouth earlier, halfway to CVS, saying it was the only thing keeping your throat from giving out. And now the scent lingered on your breath, mingling with the warmth of your skin and the faint trace of eucalyptus from before. Bob swore his brain short-circuited for a second.
You were focused, eyes narrowing slightly, as you held one box up beside his roots, then another. Your fingers brushed through the longer strands near his crown, gently separating pieces to get a clearer view of where the bleach ended and his real colour began. You were so precise about it, so tender, and Bob didn’t know where to put his hands or how to keep breathing without accidentally inhaling you.
Then you paused, lips turning up as you caught the way his chest rose a little faster, how his fingers curled and uncurled in his sleeves
A soft rattling sound reached your ears then–the kind of nervous, involuntary vibration that sometimes came from him when he was overwhelmed. You smirked slightly, brushing your thumb against his temple on purpose as you pushed a few more strands aside.
“Is the Sentry getting a bit flustered?” You teased, your voice still raspy from the flu but still playful. “Or is that just you rattling like a soda can?”
Bob made a noise–half sigh, half laugh–ducking his head a little more like it would hide the warmth that continued to spread over his skin, all the way down his neck. “It’s definitely just me. He’s, uh…He’s fine.”
“Good,” You hummed, still close, eyes flicking between the swatch and his roots. “Because I don’t think he’d let me manhandle his hair like this.”
“You’re not…Manhandling anything,” He mumbled, trying to cover up the wavering tone. “Feels…Kinda nice, actually.” You paused at that comment, your eyes glancing down to his, seeing little glints of sparkling orange through the sea blue that his irises normally sported. For a second, neither of you said anything. The store had faded by that point and all that was left was the faint scent of cherry and the feel of your fingers still resting lightly in his hair.
“…This is your shade,” You said finally, voice soft, motioning to the box in your hand. He didn’t move at first, it was as if his brain hadn’t caught up to the moment yet, or his ears were ringing so much he didn’t hear what you had said. Then you shifted your weight, easing back slightly, giving him some space as you cleared your throat, dropping the box into the cart with a clunk. He quickly slipped the beanie back on, shoving his hair up into it, sealing away the moment beneath it.
“Now we need to get you one of those conditioning treatments, and after that I’m grabbing some snacks, cause I’m getting hungry.” He looked away from you, nodding.
”Yeah, okay…Conditioner and snack. Got it.” You glanced up at him, seeing the way he was avoiding you eyes again, before turning back to the cart, pushing it down the aisle with him following close behind. You turned into the next section without fanfare–the shampoo and conditioner area–and skimmed over a wide array of labels until your eyes landed on the exact jar you were looking for: the rich brown packaging, the heavy text that scrawled out all the promises of repairing and restoring.
“This one,” You muttered, reaching up for it and dropping it into the cart with a soft thunk, “Will do miracles for the damage, you’re gonna love it, smells like sweet coconuts.” Bob glanced at the package.
”Does it…Sting?” Your eyebrows drew together.
”Bob…It's conditioner, not acid.” He bit his inner lip.
”No, I-I know, I’m just asking cause when they bleached my hair it really really burned…Then my head was super sensitive for like a whole week after, j-just don’t want to go through that again.” You could hear the way his voice tapered off, like he didn’t really want to talk about it, but he just wanted to let you know.
“I promise this will be way less abrasive.” You said, with a small smile tugging at your lips, nudging the cart forward again, “Now let’s get to that snack aisle before my stomach eats itself.” Bob chuckled softly at your words, following you again as you turned into the next section, noticing the sharp fluorescent lights had dimmed just slightly. The sterile smell of the store had completely faded by that point, being replaced with sweet confectionery items; gummy snacks, granola bars, marshmallows, anything you could think of really. You stopped your cart, feeling Bob’s chest bump into your back, as your eyes began to skim over the shelves, squinting at the shimmering bags, the look of contemplation drawing up into your eyebrows.
“So…What’re you craving?” He asked softly, watching your eyes dart around the wide variety, “Sweet? Salty?” You hummed.
”Might buy the whole aisle to be honest…” He laughed under his breath, the sound quieter than the store’s staticky music, but warmer than anything you’d heard in days.
”Seems like your appetite has come back.” You turned to look at him, letting your body sway slightly toward the cart to brace yourself.
”Yeah, I think the fresh air has put me on the road to recovery…Just don’t touch my lower back…It’s a little sweaty.” There was a beat of silence, before you continued “My stomach might also be trying to fool me into a false sense of security and I’ll end up throwing it all up after I eat it.”
“Well that took a turn…” You shrugged, plucking a bag of sweet chili chips, throwing it mindlessly into the cart.
”I like to keep you on your toes Bob.” You replied with a smirk.
—————-
Back at the compound, you retreated into your room to change, making quick work even though you were feeling a faint headache coming back, but it was more manageable than your prior ones.
You swapped out your clothes for a pair of beat-up black compression shorts and an old t-shirt from your days at training camp–frayed at the collar and speckled with faded bleach stains from when you touched up Yelena’s hair. The crooked letters on the shirt were faded but you could make out the words “I SURVIVED CAMP HAMMOND” on the front of it, a great memory of how long it’s been since you were actually training.
You grabbed your dye bowl and one of the brushes from under your bathroom sink, tucking them against you as you headed down the hall. Your bare feet padded softly against the cool flooring of the compound, reaching the bathroom that Bob shared with Bucky, seeing the door was already cracked open. You gave it a slow push with your knuckles, poking your head in.
Bob stood in the middle of the tiled space like he wasn’t sure where he was going to sit, clutching the CVS bag with both hands, wringing it in his grip, the sound crinkling plastic echoing off the walls. He already had taken off the beanie, fully prepared for what was coming.
“Alright,” You announced as you stepped inside, “Your hair hero has arrived.” Bob looked over at you quickly, his shoulders dropping slightly when he laid eyes on you and your outfit. The tension in him bleeding out of him in small waves.
”You brought your own bowl?” He asked, trying to cover up the fact he was staring at your bare legs for longer than he intended.
“Of course I brought my own bowl,” You replied, holding it up slightly before setting it down on the porcelain counter, “What kind of amateur do you think I am?” You asked jokingly, earning a small smile from Bob, motioning for him to hand you the bag.
You unpacked the contents onto the sinks edge–the dye, the conditioner, the gloves, and a couple of CVS coupons that the cashier had stapled to the receipt.
“Okay,” You said, flipping the box of dye around to double-check the instructions even though you were seasoned enough to know what you were doing without them, “Let’s get you situated hm?” Bob hovered behind you awkwardly, watching your hands move with precise, and practiced ease. You pointed at the closed toilet lid.
”Go sit on the makeshift barber chair, hope you like stiff seats.” You joked, watching him go over to where you pointed, sitting down without protest, seeing the way his long frame compressed itself into the small space. He looked over at you with a soft smile, his hands clasping together, as you slid on a pair of gloves.
“Uh…Just wanted to say thank you for doing this, especially with being sick and everything…I didn’t mean to be a bother.” You cracked open the box of dye, flipping the flaps back and pulling out the developer bottle and aluminum tube of colour, the gloves squeaking slightly as you did so. You opened the cap with a satisfying pop and reached for the dye bowl beside you.
”You’re not a bother Bob.,” You said, glancing over at him as you squeezed the thick brown sludge into the bowl, “I don’t mind.” He blushed a bit at the softness in your voice, letting out a sheepish laugh, nodding before taking his eyes off you, his fingers finding the hem of his sweater.
You turned and flipped the small ceiling fan on, letting it whirl to life with a soft click and hum, it was your little attempt to keep the room from smelling like a chemical spill before you started stirring in the developer with the dye.
It was quiet for a moment–peaceful almost. Just the faint humming of the fan and the soft scrape of the plastic bristles rubbing against the inside of the bowl. Bob’s eyes drifted down toward your shirt absentmindedly, reading the faded words that were scrawled over the fabric that was clinging to your frame.
”What’s…Camp Hammond?” He asked quietly, with genuine curiosity in his voice, as he looked down to his hands. You didn’t look over at him immediately–still focused on making sure the mixture reached that perfect pudding-like texture–but your mouth twitched slightly.
”Did you think I was born with the skills of a mercenary?” You asked, glancing over at him with a teasing glint in your eye, “Hate to burst your bubble, but I wasn’t that cool.” Bob felt his cheeks heat up as it spread to his ears and down his neck.
”So what is it? Like…A boot camp or something?” You shrugged, looking down at the bowl again.
”Kind of. It was a training facility for recruits who showed promise in their assigned roles. I was a teenager when I got scouted, actually. They stuck us in bunk beds and we ran drills at five in the morning. Sometimes we were able to go home to see our families but I spent about three years there just learning the ropes and honing my skills.” He leaned forward a bit.
”Was it…Bad?” You paused the stirring for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek when you heard the way he asked.
”No. Not always. It was intense, but not all of it was horrible. I met my first team there actually, so that should tell you something about the experience.” At the mention of your first team, the conversation had faded, because true to Bob’s nature he was observant enough to catch on that you weren’t going to answer any questions about them. He just nodded, and sat still, with worry tucked beneath his lashes. You cleared your throat, breaking the silence.
”Before I forget–you should probably take that sweater off. This stuff is probably going to stain it and there’s a really low chance you’re going to be able to get it out.” You said, motioning with the brush, “Unless you actually want brown splatters all over it.” You added, seeing him look down at himself.
“Oh…Uh…” He said, curling his fingers into the hem of it, hesitating, “I’m not…Wearing anything under it.” You paused.
”You could go find something you don’t mind ruining, I can wait.” Bob shook his head, not looking at you, avoiding your eyes.
”I don’t really have anything…I wear pretty much all of my clothes, and donate the ones I don’t.” You put your hands on your hips, biting the inner side of your cheek.
”Guess we have a dilemma then.” You said jokingly, looking around the bathroom for a towel–a solution of sorts.
”I mean…I could take it off, I just…Just promise me you won’t laugh.” You stopped your movements immediately, looking back at him, raising your eyebrows.
”Okay. I won’t laugh.” You said, feeling your chest tighten. Bob nodded once, his fingers finally tugging up the hem of the sweater. It caught slightly on the undersides of his arms—he had to peel it upward with a bit of a twist—and then suddenly, it was gone, crumpled in his hands and resting in his lap.
You froze.
The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught somewhere in your throat, stalling completely as you took him in.
The heat that burned inside your body hit you like a second fever.
He was…Lean. But solid. Not showy or overly built, but undeniably strong. His chest and shoulders were broad in a way that looked natural. There were fine lines of definition that carved down his sternum and stomach, soft traces of light and shadow where his muscles rested. His skin was fair, with scattered freckles that dotted across his collarbones and shoulders like sunspots. A small scar cut just under his left rib–thin and silvery and healed long ago–and there was a faint stretch of color along his ribs, a faded birthmark maybe, or it was the aftermath from the serum he was given. Tying it all together though were the very very small stretch marks that were scattered around the expanse of skin, which made your brows raise a bit in admiration…
And his arms–Jesus Christ, his arms–were gently corded with strength, biceps not flexed but still clearly shaped beneath smooth skin, dusted with barely-there hair in the hollows of his elbows. The veins on his forearms sat just under the surface, pale blue and almost glowing under the harsh light of the bathroom.
He wasn’t perfect. But you didn’t want perfect. This–this was so much better.
The heat rushed up your neck and onto your cheeks so fast it was like your body had short-circuited, and you were suddenly very aware that your own shirt was threadbare and clinging to your frame. You tried to clear your throat quietly, to ground yourself, but the sound came out shakier than you liked. Bob caught it immediately, and his cheeks went a dark hue of pink. Now you were able to see the pale skin of his chest matching the same colour.
You felt nauseous looking at him, but for all the right reasons. How the hell were you supposed to get close to this man now without passing out? And how the hell was he able to hide this so well from you– Or anybody else for that matter?
“Wow…” Was all you could say, and you didn’t even mean for it to come out of your mouth. Bob’s head tilted up at you, noticing the way your eyes were glued to him like he was some sort of museum exhibit. He clutched the sweater in his lap a little tighter, curling in on himself a bit as if he was trying to hide, looking down at himself.
”Yeah I know…” He muttered, tone awkward and clipped, like he was attempting to defuse the silence before it got worse, “I know it’s bad…The serum kinda…I don’t know made me grow a little too quickly, and-.” You raised your hand to stop him.
”Woah woah…Don’t even go there Bob. I wasn’t saying wow in a bad way.” He looked up at you instantly, his eyes glistening in the lighting, the soft blue still shimmering with those little flecks of orange.
”…You weren’t?” He questioned, his lips parting a bit.
”Bob…You’re built like a fucking house.” You said bluntly, the edge in your voice softening from the next wave of nausea that sloshed in your stomach. Bob made a noise like he was suppressing a laugh, his throat closed a bit.
”That’s…A very generous interpretation, but you don’t have to lie to me…” Your expression twisted slightly, not in offense, but in something rawer than that. It was as if his words scratched at a place in you that was already tender.
”Bob, I’ve never lied to you…And I’m certainly not starting now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered like he was processing your words, like no one had ever said something so plainly true to him in a long time. You could see the way he swallowed hard, almost like he was choking back his words, “You look amazing, and I mean it.” That was when you heard it again–the faint rattling sound, you assumed he was shaking something in one of the cabinets, it didn’t really matter at this point though. He drew in a shaky breath to quiet it, his fingers tightening around the bunched-up sweater.
Then you stepped towards him, taking up the space between his knees. You were close enough to feel the warmth coming off his bare chest, to see the smallest cluster of freckles that laid just beneath his collarbone, and to feel his breath against you. Bob tilted his head up, slow and steady, his eyes finding yours immediately, seeing more orange taking over his irises.
“…You’re really not going to laugh at me?” He asked, almost like he truly couldn’t believe it. You sighed, tucking a piece of bleached hair behind his ear.
”Bob, the only thing I’m going to be doing right now is wondering how I’m supposed to function with you sitting in front of me like this…Does that make you feel any better?” Bob let out a soft, startled breath–almost like a laugh or like he didn’t know what to do with the surge of warmth that spread through his chest.
His hands, still knotted around the sweater in his lap, flexed–then unclenched. The tension there began to melt, bit by bit.
“I…” He started, then stopped. His voice caught, his tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was trying to steady himself. His eyes searching your face, shining under the light “I think that makes it so much worse, actually.”
“Worse?” Bob nodded faintly.
“Yeah…Because now I’m trying really hard not to kiss you...” His voice was barely above a whisper when he said it, and all consideration for the flu you had been battling was thrown to the curb.
The rattling came back. Louder this time. Almost a tremor that ran through his chest–not violent, not dangerous, but charged. Like there was a wire humming under his skin that was just barely holding.
And still, somehow, he smiled.
The kind of smile that only showed up when he was trying to hide how badly he wanted something.
You swallowed. Your hand was still in his hair, fingers brushing at the soft edge of his temple. You could feel his warmth, his nerves, the small, careful gravity that existed between his body and yours. You let your gaze drop to his mouth, just for a second, and then back to his eyes.
“Well,” You said, keeping your voice low and playful, in an attempt to mask your heart beating out of your chest “You’re gonna have to wait until after your hair’s done. I’m not making out with someone mid-dye job–this stuff stains.” You added innocently, a smirk drawing up on your lips. You could hear Bob’s breath catching in his throat at the sheer mention of making out.
”Right, right, of course.” He said, trying to cover up the excitement that bloomed in him.
”Now, be a give boy and stay still, so I can work my magic.” You whispered tilting his chin up even more with your gloved hand.
”Y-Yes, ma’am.” He responded breathlessly, without even thinking–so soft, and so automatic that it made your pulse spike. You cleared your throat a bit before dipping the brush into the bowl, letting the creamy dye coat the bristles, then gently you began to cover the stark blonde lengths of his hair in the dark brown colouring. The scent of it—chemical but faintly sweet—mingled with the warm air drifting down from the little ceiling fan, and you tried to keep your breathing steady as you worked. Bob’s hair was softer than you expected, silken even after all the damage. And the way he tilted his head just slightly to give you better access made your chest ache.
He closed his eyes at the first touch, his jaw going slack as you parted the strands with careful fingers, keeping your brush strokes slow and methodical. You could see his throat move as he swallowed, the faintest tremble still present in his frame–but now it was quiet, more soothed than shaken.
You worked in silence for a little while. It wasn’t awkward—just thick with the kind of tension that lingers when two people are trying not to break a moment that’s humming with too much energy. You kept your movements fluid, coating each section with care, your free hand occasionally grazing the side of his neck or the curve of his temple to steady him.
Bob let out a slow, shaky breath.
“…Can I touch you?”
The question barely made it past his lips. His eyes were still shut, but his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t sure if he should open them yet. You paused, brush hovering midair.
“Touch me?” You asked, like you were confirming what he just said. He nodded, just once.
“Not in a weird way I just–I need to…To do something with my hands.”Your lips parted, the heat returning in full force, knowing that he was probably making an excuse to put his hands on you, to feel you, to take you in, but deep down inside, you didn’t mind one bit.
“Yeah,” You said quietly. “You can touch me.”
The second you said it, you felt his hands move. Slow, careful. The sweater slipped from his lap and landed with a soft thump on the tile floor. Then his palms came to rest on the sides of your thighs, just above the hem of your compression shorts.
They were warm. Gentle. And a bit shaky.
Bob exhaled like the contact untied something in him, his fingers curling lightly around your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold you like that. His thumbs swept slow arcs along the fabric, and then you saw it–his bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes still closed like he was savoring every inch of sensation, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his palms.
You could barely focus on the hair in front of you. Your hands just kept moving, but your entire body was tuned to him–how he sighed when your knee brushed his, how he flexed his hands slightly when your knuckles grazed his cheek. How he chased what little touch he was getting from you.
“You okay down there?” You asked, voice low, and tinged with amusement. His eyes finally opened–heavy-lidded, and flushed with emotion, as his fingers stayed firm on your legs.
“Yeah,” He breathed. “Just…I think this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks.” You couldn’t help but smile at the softness of his voice.
“Well, I’m glad I could contribute to that…Even though now you’re going to have to wait thirty minutes for this to set in.” He wet his bottom lip with his tongue, nibbling on the inside of it, as you placed the empty bowl and stained brush onto the counter, taking off your gloves and letting them drop in the garbage all while staying in the space between his knees. You set a timer for yourself on the speaker radio that was near the conditioner.
“…What could we possibly do to make the time go by faster?” He asked shyly, almost like he already knew the answer, but he just wanted you to initiate it, because he was too nervous to do it himself.
You weren’t going to give in that easily though.
“Oh I’m sure we could think of something.” Allowing your voice to be a bit more breathier than before. He blinked up at you, hopeful and unsure all at once, but he still didn’t say anything, he Just kept holding you like he was afraid that any sudden shift he did would scare you off.
You didn’t move much at first–just enough to lean a fraction closer. Just enough to let your shirt brush his bare chest as you planted your palms on the edge of the shelf behind him, caging him in without pressure, while also being mindful of his dye coated hair. Bob inhaled, and you felt the tremble of it, the way his breath shuddered as your faces moved closer.
You dipped in–slow, and teasing–until your lips were just above his. A hair’s breadth away from connecting.
But then you stopped.
Bob was dazed. His lips parted, breath warm in anticipation, waiting for you to do it…But you just stayed there, close enough for him to swallow the air you breathed out into him, and to smell the faint hint of cherry that was still clinging to your lips from the cough drop.
“…Y/N.” He whispered, his voice almost breaking off into a whimper. You tilted your head with a knowing smirk.
“What?” You asked quietly.
“Y-You know what…You’re driving me crazy…” He tried to lean up but you moved back just enough for him to lose the air you were giving him.
“That’s the point.” You replied, brushing the tip of his nose with yours. His fingers tightened a little on your thighs, but he didn’t move you closer, even though he could’ve. He stayed obedient. Soft. The way he was in his everyday life and you smiled down at him, leaning in again to brush your lips across his bottom one, feeling him shiver against you.
Bob let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering half-shut from the close proximity of your mouth. His palms on your thighs shifted upward, sliding under your baggy top so they could rest against the waistband of your compression shorts, his fingers brushing the skin of your hips.
“…You don’t know what you’re doing to me…God…You have no idea.” He said, his voice aching and on the verge of spilling over into begging.
”I think I have a pretty good idea,” You murmured back, trailing your lips across his again, feeling the wetness of his saliva this time before going to the shell of his ear “You’re the one shaking, Bob.” You whispered, your breath hitting against his skin.
”I’m t-trying my best to be good for you…But you’re making this so hard.” The heat between you curled together, tightening in your belly. You drew back just enough so you could look him in the eyes again. “…You can do whatever you want to me…” He whispered, “Just please…Please don’t stop touching me.” Your breath caught at his word, not just because of the desperation that laced them, but because of the truth that hung below them.
It was the kind of truth people usually only say in the dark, or when they were half-asleep or drunk, but Bob was fully sober, wide-eyed, and trembling beneath your hands as if he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. It was like you were pulling a loose thread from a shirt and it was completely unraveling the whole thing. You stared at him for a long moment.
”…The timer is going to go off in about twenty minutes,” You said softly, “And I think we’re both a little overheated, aren’t we?” Bob’s eyebrows knitted together, almost like he was preparing himself for you to stop this from going any further.
”W–What do you–“
”I think we should take a shower together when the timer goes off,” You interrupted, tilting your head to the side, “That okay with you?” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then a choked little nod, as Bob’s fingers gently pressed into your hips on reflex.
“I’ll rinse out your hair, get the dye out…Then maybe–“ Your voice dropped into a whisper, “–I’ll let you kiss me…Think you can manage to wait?” Bob let out a small broken sound–between a laugh and a groan.
”I-I can try,” He whispered, not even sounding convinced by his own voice.
The next fifteen minutes passed in a kind of suspended quiet. You didn’t step away from him entirely–just retreated enough to clean the brush, rinse out the bowl, organize the conditioner and the towel you’d need for later. But the whole time you felt his eyes on you. And every time you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eye, he was still perched on the makeshift barber chair, elbows on his knees, trying not to look like he was counting the seconds.
With five minutes left on the clock, you went over to the shower and reached in, twisting the handle on the built-in panel. The pipes groaned quietly as the water surged out, spraying onto the shower floor. Within seconds steam was curling out from behind the frosted glass enclosure. The room warmed fast, the mirror fogging slightly at the edges, the air heavy with moisture and the faint scent of developer and dye.
The heat from the shower stuck to your skin as you turned your head back to look at him–still seated, trying to play it cool like he wasn’t about to explode from the anticipation. Bob leaned back against the tank, making room for you without hesitation, his knees parting instinctively like muscle memory, like his body already knew what was coming. You crossed the tiled floor with quiet, deliberate steps, the steam from the shower weaving between you both, making the bathroom feel smaller, more intimate–like the air itself was folding in to watch.
You stepped between his knees again, standing tall in front of him, the light of the ceiling fan casting a warm haze on your skin.
Your hands found his shoulders again, fingertips skating lightly along the curve of them.
“Want to undress me?” You asked, your voice like a secret you were offering just to him. No teasing this time–just heat, thick and warm and sweet in your chest. He exhaled like you punched the breath out of him.
”Y-Yeah, o-of course I do.” He said, barely above a whisper. You took his wrists into your hands, and guided him to the hem of your shirt, giving him the signal to do it.
He took his time with it–not from hesitation but from wanting to tease you back just a little. His knuckles brushed against your stomach as he gathered the worn fabric up, pausing briefly just beneath your ribs, looking up at you just to make sure you were still okay with this. You gave him a nod.
He peeled it up off you, slow and careful, taking in the way the shirt slowly revealed everything he wanted to see in short increments. Your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts, your collarbones, your shoulders, all the way up until he was able to take the shirt off entirely. He let it drop to the floor behind you.
Bob’s gaze dropped before he could stop it, letting his eyes roam over you like he was witnessing something holy–like he wouldn’t blink in case you suddenly vanished. His mouth parted for a moment as he audibly gulped. He was silent, his expression flickering between awe and hunger, tangling up in the open and stunned way he drank you in.
He was memorizing every inch of your skin. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft curves and defined edges. Every freckle, birthmark, scar, or stretch of the skin, it was all there in his head, committed like it was a sacred text. You were completely unhidden, and you trustingly offered yourself to him with nothing but openness, and it was breathtaking to him.
“Jesus…” He said quietly, like your body was rewriting something inside him. He reached up and touched the soft skin of your stomach, the tips of his fingers tracing along your navel, before his eyes met yours again, revealing the beautiful haze of blue blurring together with the specks of orange that lived there. You brought your hand up to his face, caressing his cheek carefully, running your thumb just below his eye.
“You’re so beautiful…” You whispered, feeling Bob’s fingers curling beneath the waistband of your shorts.
“And you’re immaculate…” He responded, slowly tugging your shorts down, his eyes never leaving yours as he did it. He just wanted to look at you, to take you in, to hold you close until you didn’t want to be held by him anymore. He wanted you so bad he felt like he was going to explode, and the heat in the washroom wasn’t helping him control that. The shorts dropped around your ankles with a soft flutter, and you stepped out of them slowly, brushing your hand down to his jaw.
“I’ll meet you in the shower,” Your voice was low and soft like a promise. Then you turned, and walked behind the frosted glass, sliding the door shut in one swift movement. Steam swirled around you like a second skin as you stepped fully beneath the stream of water. It hit your scalp first, then your shoulders, pouring down your body in comforting waves. The warmth soaked into your tense muscles and melted along your spine, rinsing away the leftover ache of your fever and the lingering hum of restraint you’d been nursing for the last hour.
From beyond the frosted glass, you saw movement. Bob had gotten up and walked over to the alarm, clicking it off with a single beep–because what was a minute going to do for him. Then you heard the shuffle of bare feet on tile, followed by the soft rustling of clothes dropping. You could see his shadow moving, leaning down then straightening up again, seeing him step out of his sweatpants and his underwear before reaching for the handle.
He slid the door open and stepped into the steam. You could see him squinting at the change in scenery, until his eyes caught yours. Under the dimmed lighting that the shower had you looked ethereal, like a siren calling to him to come closer. You tilted your head at him.
”Remember, we gotta wash your hair out first.” Bob nodded silently, too stunned to speak or protest, and stepped closer to you until he was right against you, letting the water cascade down his body. You reached up without hesitation, brushing your fingers along the slope of his neck as you cupped his jaw gently, feeling the very faint stubble against your fingertips.
”Close your eyes,” You murmured, and he obeyed immediately, trusting you with all of him. You reached for the bottle of shampoo, flipping the cap open with a soft click. The scent was clean, crisp–something like cedar and citrus–and you poured a generous amount into your palm before lathering it between your fingers. He hunched forward slightly to help you because of the height difference, the muscles in his back bunching as he bent, his hands braced loosely on his thighs.
Your fingers found his scalp and began to move, slow and deliberate, massaging through the dye-stiffened strands with practiced ease. His breath hitched at the first touch–soft and barely audible over the rush of water–but he relaxed into you, the tension easing from his shoulders as you worked through his hair, your nails dragging along his scalp gently, sending shivers down his spine despite the warmth of the shower that was smothering him.
He tried to peek down at you through his lashes, but flinched the moment some suds landed on his brow. You caught the twitch of frustration in his mouth and grinned faintly to yourself.
”No peeking,” You teased, your voice low and sultry, “You’ll get soap in your eyes, and that’ll just prolong the process.” You added, with a smirk.
”I-I’m not peeking,” He muttered back, clearly lying.
But while he couldn’t see you, you saw everything.
Your eyes dropped as your fingers moved through his hair, and your gaze caught on the rest of him–completely, gloriously bare under the water’s fall. And it hit you like a weight to the chest.
He was hard. Completely, achingly hard.
It curved upward from between his thighs, thick and flushed and dripping from the spray. Your breath caught in your throat involuntarily. He was…Big. The kind of big that made your pulse thrum deep in your core, the kind that made something flutter behind your ribcage. The kind of big that made you a bit nervous. His thighs were braced, strong and trembling slightly as the water poured down over both of you, and yet he stayed still–eyes closed, waiting, unaware of just how deeply you were watching him.
You swallowed, trying not to stare too long–but your fingers slowed in his hair for just a beat before you lathered more shampoo and brought it back to the roots, working it all through. You focused on your task, rinsing gently, letting the water carry away the suds and the last traces of harsh dye. As the dark rivulets streamed down and swirled at your feet, the natural color beneath began to reveal itself.
The soft brown, the colour that belonged to him, and only him. Not the Sentry.
You smoothed your hands through the damp strands with a smile on your face, and you could feel him relax further at the calmness of your touch.
”There you are,” You whispered, more to yourself than to him, “Back to you…” You could see his brows lift slightly at your words, still not opening his eyes.
”…W-What does it look like?” He asked softly.
”Like it’s all you…It’s perfect Bob…” You responded, seeing his eyes slowly flutter open, the soft blue still burning with those beautiful flecks of orange from the Sentry. When they locked on yours, something in him snapped completely, and he blinked a few times, steadying himself against you.
”…Can I kiss you now?” He whispered, breath catching in his throat.
You nodded.
And the second you did, he surged forward, his hands finding your face like he’d been aching to hold you there for days. His palms were warm and a little shaky, fingers threading gently into the damp strands of your hair as he tilted your head just right. He kissed you like it was the only thing that would quiet the trembling in his chest–deep, and full of the kind of hunger that had nowhere else to go.
His lips parted against yours with a soft sigh, molding to your mouth like he already knew every shape of it. You responded in kind, letting your hands press flat to his chest before sliding up, feeling the slick heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms. One hand drifted upward to cradle the back of his neck, the other anchoring at his side.
Bob shifted, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping gently as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore–only quiet desperation, the need to be close, the need to feel you pressed against every inch of him. His thumbs rubbed slow, anchoring circles against your ribs as he kissed you over and over, his breath catching between each one like he couldn’t quite get enough.
You felt your knees wobble when he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, and he steadied you instantly, one hand sliding down to the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg to lift so he could hold you open against him.
You gasped softly into his mouth when he did it–because now you could feel all of him. His length, hot and heavy, brushing between your thighs. But he didn’t push it. He just held you there, breathing hard through his nose as his mouth broke from yours for a second, bumping his forehead with yours.
”I-I have to touch you…Can I p-please touch you?” His words vibrated against your chest, shaky from the kiss he had just pulled away from. Immediately you nodded, drunk off of the way he held you, the way he kissed you so desperately. You were his, and you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.
He dropped his hand from your thigh, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he guided you back, each step careful, like he was afraid to rush a single second of this. The warm tile met your spine gently, as the steam curled around your shoulders–like it was dying to be part of the moment too. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the anticipation tugging at you like a puppet.
Bob’s hand, still curled gently around your hip, gave it one reassuring squeeze before sliding away. The loss of his hand made you let out a desperate sigh, wanting to feel him again. He looked down at you as he brought his fingers up to his lips, his tongue darting out of his mouth to coat the tips of them slowly, not for show, but for purpose. For you. His gaze never dropped from yours as he did it, and when his hand fell again between the both of you, he didn’t hesitate.
His knee eased your thighs apart gently, and then his fingers found your clit. The first contact made your knees buckle slightly, and he caught it, pressing in with his knee to steady you, his free hand braced against the wall beside your head. His touch was gentle at first–soft circles, slow and attentive. You gasped, head tipping back, exposing your throat without thinking.
That was all the invitation Bob needed.
He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the base of your neck, just where your collarbone met your shoulder. The kiss was wet and open-mouthed, like he needed to taste you and the saltiness of your skin. He breathed in like he could anchor himself in your scent. Another kiss, and another, working up the side of your neck as his fingers circled your clit with more confidence now, slick from the water and his spit, moving with practiced pressure.
”So…So soft,” He whispered into your skin, voice shaking, “So goddamn soft…” Your breath caught as his pace shifted. You could feel your body responding–arching into him, a wet heat building between your legs. You whimpered, and that sound nearly undid him. His teeth grazed your neck but didn’t bite, his lips returning to kiss it better as if he could soothe the tremble in your body.
Then his fingers dipped lower, and he felt it immediately.
You were soaked–slick, warm, and pulsing beneath his touch. His breath hitched at the sensation, at the way your body welcomed him without hesitation. And when he eased two fingers inside of you ever so slowly you gasped, arching into his hand like your body had been waiting for that very moment.
“F-fuck,” You breathed, the word slipping out as your nails found purchase in his shoulders. You clawed at him instinctively, dragging across the muscle there, needing something to anchor you while he pushed them in deeper. He didn’t flinch at the scratch–he moaned. A soft, broken sound that came from the back of his throat like he liked the way it felt, like it made him feel wanted in the most primal sense.
His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his mouth kissing along your collarbone with a tenderness that contrasted the stretch of his fingers inside you. He mouthed at the skin there–kissed it, licked it, sucked until it was sensitive and bruised. He pulled back looking at the little love bites, each one tinged with hunger. Bob wasn’t the possessive type but there was this ache in his chest to mark you as his, and even if the water washed it away, he wanted to be sure he left something on your skin.
“Y-You feel so warm…” He said, his voice fraying at the edges. His fingers curled gently inside you, causing your knees to buckle again. Your body shuddered as the pads of his fingers dragged against that spot inside of you that made your entire frame light up. Bob’s hand moved to your hip, keeping you steady as his other hand worked in smooth, slow thrusts, each one more confident than the last. He found a rhythm, watching you, studying every moan and gasp like it was gospel.
And when you whimpered his name, when your body clenched around him so tight he had to grit his teeth, he gave a quiet, shaky laugh–utterly wrecked by how responsive you were.
“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” he asked, lips brushing your ear, breath heavy and hot. “I can feel it…God, I can feel you squeezing me…”
You nodded, unable to form a word, your nails biting into his shoulders again as your hips rocked against his hand.
Bob adjusted his angle, changing the pressure, and that’s when you saw stars.
Your head dropped forward, forehead against his collarbone, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of him—clean, masculine, tinged with desperation. His fingers moved faster, wetter, the slick sounds between your legs obscene and perfect, echoing between the tiles. He was muttering praise now—soft, reverent things that fell from his lips like prayers.
“Just like that, baby—so good for me… You’re doing so good—feels like heaven—fuck, I want to see you fall apart…”
You felt it hit like a wave rolling up your spine.
A tight, burning coil of pleasure twisted inside you and then snapped. You gasped—loud, broken, as the climax ripped through you. You trembled, back arching hard into him as your thighs clenched and a rush of wetness gushed out around his fingers.
Bob stilled for a second in awe.
“…Oh my God,” He breathed, stunned, his eyes wide as he held you through it. You collapsed into him, breath heaving, skin flushed and shining under the steam. He kept his fingers buried inside you, not moving, just holding you close, letting you ride it out as you trembled against his chest.
He looked down between you both, seeing the slick mess on his hand, the way your body had responded so violently to him–and his mouth dropped open slightly. Not because of shock, but because of wonder and awe.
”You…You did so good.” He praised, his voice barely holding together under the weight of what he just experienced with you. His lips brushed your temple first, then your cheek, before finally reaching your mouth.
The kiss wasn’t hungry nor urgent, it was adoration in its purest form. His lips moved like they were tasting something he’d only ever imagined–careful and soft, like he was trying not to overwhelm you. He trembled against you, being crushed from everything unspoken between you. His hand was still between your thighs, cradling you like something precious, and you could feel how hard he was, pressed just barely against you, restrained only by the shivering line of self-control that hadn’t yet broken.
When he finally, carefully, slipped his fingers out of you, you let out the tiniest gasp from the absence–but before he could fully draw away, you grabbed his wrist.
He was still in his movements.
Your eyes met his, holding steady as you lifted his hand–and then you took his soaked fingers into your mouth.
Bob made a sound that almost didn’t make it out of him–a soft, wrecked sigh that died at the back of his throat. His lips parted slightly, eyes darkening as he watched you suck him clean, your mouth warm and wet, tongue dragging along the pads of his fingers slowly, like you were claiming every last drop of yourself from his skin.
He could barely breathe.
You kept eye contact the whole time. It wasn’t a power play–it was intimacy. Connection. And it unraveled him.
Once you were done, you let his fingers slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and he dragged them–slow and reverent–down your chin. Then your throat. The hollow of your chest. His fingertips were wet with saliva, and he trailed it down like he was painting you–smearing it across your sternum, over your ribs, and finally down to your hips.
“Y/N…You’re so…So perfect,” He whispered, in disbelief, shaking his head as his hands ran down your waist, going straight to your thighs, before lifting you effortlessly. You let out a soft breath as your legs bracketed around his hips instinctively, your arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance.
He pressed a gentle kiss to the middle of your chest, and his voice came out barely above the noise of the shower
”Do you want to…Still have sex with me?” You looked down at him, caressing the side of his neck.
”Of course I do,” You responded instantly.
Your lips found his right after–soft and sure. You kissed him with everything you had, as if answering his question with your entire body. His breath caught, his hands clutching at your thighs with a startled need, grounding himself in the reality that you weren’t going to vanish, that you really did want this–want him.
As the kiss deepened, you felt one of his hands slowly slide down your thigh, tickling the skin, but this time there was a purpose in his touch. He shifted beneath you slightly, and then you felt it–the soft brush of his tip against you. Hot. Heavy. And trembling in his grasp.
You broke the kiss for just a breath, resting your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering shut as he lined himself up. His hand shook slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Like he was terrified of getting it wrong. But he didn’t rush. And neither did you.
“I want you,” You said, your breath warm against his mouth. “All of you.” Bob let out a wrecked whimper from his mouth, before kissing you once more.
Then slowly he began to push in, moving his hips gently.
Your mouth parted in a silent gasp, your eyes flying open as your body stretched to take him. It was so much–thick and deep and slow. He paused when he was just a couple inches in, his forehead still pressed to yours, panting.
“Is that okay?” He asked, voice cracking. “I—I can stop if it’s too much…”
You shook your head immediately, curling your fingers into his shoulders, drawing him closer.
“No. Please don’t stop.”
Bob exhaled a breath that shook all the way down to his spine, then kissed you again–slow, sweet–before sinking deeper inside.
You both moaned at the same time, and your tongues met in between the space your mouths made.
It was like he was imprinting himself into every inch of you. His hands gripped your hips with the kind of gentleness that made your chest ache, guiding your body until he was fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush against yours.
“Oh…God.” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, trembling as he held still. “You’re so…So perfect… I can’t–God–”
You kissed his jaw, whispering against the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. “You’re okay, Bob. You’re doing so good…”
He began to move–shallow at first, rocking his hips into you in slow, reverent strokes. Each one pulled a quiet gasp from your lips. The water cascaded around you both, steam curling at your shoulders as you clung to him, your body humming in time with his.
He found a slow and steady rhythm, thrusting as deep as possible with each movement of his hips.
He kissed you everywhere he could reach–your cheek, your mouth, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder and his praise was neverending. Whispered fragments between kisses and gasps.
“You’re so beautiful…”
“You feel so good around me…”
“I want to make you feel everything…”
Your hands were tangled in his hair, your body arching to meet every thrust, until your forehead was pressed to his again and your breaths mingled in the tight space between you. Each slow movement of his hips sent sparks crawling up your spine and you rocked against him, chasing every moment, trying to keep it from ending too soon.
Bob looked completely undone in front of you though. His mouth open, cheeks flushed, hands gripping your waist like you were his lifeline.
Then his thrusts started to falter.
You felt it in the way he gasped–sharp and helpless–the way his hold on you tightened and his voice pitched higher.
“I—Y/N, I—oh God, I’m—”
You kissed him, hard, your voice hot against his mouth. “It’s okay. Let go. I’ve got you.”
He came with a broken gasp.
The lights flickered.
Just once–flicker, flicker, black–and then back on again. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, a hum that matched the pulse of his release as his hips jerked forward, holding deep inside you while his whole body tensed. You could feel the warmth filling you in thick ropes, his body instinctively pushing up into you as if he was trying to keep it from spilling out.
And then he went still.
Completely, and utterly still.
He stayed buried in you, face tucked into the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged as the water pounded softly over your bodies. You felt the way he trembled, felt the heat of his skin and the wild thud of his heart against yours.
He didn’t move for a long time, he just stayed there, clutching you like you were the one thing that was bringing him down slowly.
And then you felt it–the slow exhale against your neck, the soft tremor that followed. His voice came out low, cracked with embarrassment.
“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, still breathless. “That was so fast. I didn’t mean to-God, I just couldn’t hold it…”
You pulled back, just enough to see his face, his brows drawn together with worry, his mouth still parted from the weight of what just passed between you. And yet, even flushed and wrecked, he looked beautiful. Lit up from the inside out, like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.
You shook your head gently and brought your hand up to brush a damp lock of hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear with the same tenderness he gave you. “You didn’t finish too fast, Bob.”
He blinked, lips parting like he didn’t believe you.
You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispered against his skin, “You were perfect. I loved every second of it…Because it was with you.” His features softened at your word, that shy smile blooming across his lips, one you felt in your ribs. You saw the glow of it before you felt his body move. He kissed you again, this time gentler, slower–like he wanted to say thank you with his whole mouth.
Then, carefully, he pulled out of you. You both shivered a bit at the sensitivity, and you caught the way his brows knit together, like he didn’t want to stop touching you. But your body welcomed the shift, and your legs dropped from his hips as the moment passed, leaving behind only warmth and steam.
He reached for you instinctively, his hands skimming your waist like he was still trying to keep you close, like he couldn’t quite accept that you were separate again. You smiled at him, brushing your fingers along his jaw, watching the way he leaned into the contact, like it was his oxygen.
”You really like touching me, huh?” You teased lightly, watching his cheeks turn a deeper red, the corners of his mouth curling up shyly.
”…Yeah…I really do.” He admitted. You let out a soft laugh, then looked toward the water still streaming from the showerhead behind him.
“As much as I’d love to stay in here and get all wrinkly,” You said, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek, “If we don’t rinse off soon, the compound’s water bill is gonna bankrupt Valentina.” Bob let out a breathy laugh, head dropping against your shoulder for a second.
“I guess you’re right, but once we get cleaned up…I want to just lay on the couch with you and hold you for a little while…If that’s okay?” You nodded.
”Of course it’s okay.” You replied, guiding him under the steady stream of water. You each took turns, helping the other wash up. He was gentle when he touched your body as if you hadn’t just taken him completely inside you minutes ago, and he ran his hands over the marks he had made on you, smiling proudly at his work. You matched his care, running soapy fingers down his spine, over his shoulders, through the strands of his newly darkened hair, rinsing the last of the evidence down the drain.
And when the water finally cooled, you stepped out first, digging around the towel closet for a spare. Bob followed right after, grabbing the one that he usually used, with steam rolling off his shoulders, making the air thick and warm as he wrapped the towel around his waist, pausing by the foggy mirror, wiping it off with his hand.
You watched from the side, pulling your towel around you gently, as he lifted his gaze slowly–like he wasn’t sure what would be staring back at him. When he caught his own reflection, something shifted in his expression.
A smile. One of relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.
You stepped behind him, and gently kissed his shoulder, looking at the small little scratch marks you had left on him.
He turned toward you slightly, reached out, and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your lips–barely more than a breath, but brimming with emotion.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
You smiled into him, nose brushing his. “Don’t thank me yet,” You whispered. “I hope you don’t get the flu from all of this.”
He laughed, his eyes shining as he bumped his forehead against yours.
“If I do,” He said, “It’ll be worth every damn minute.”
To the Sons of Anarchy, you're just Happy's neighbor that doesn't care for drama or the fact that they wear kuttes. But in actuality, you've dealt and probably have done far worse, and it isn't until you're kidnapped that they find out your secret.
Author's Note: Long time no see, huh? Does this mean I'm back? Hell no. This has been sitting in my drafts since mid-2023 and thought it was time to go out.
For never having seen more than a few episodes, I love these SOA boys. I'm not super familiar with the lingo or clubhouse etiquette, so this is gonna take place away from that particular setting. Trigger warning for graphic violence and attempted sexual assault (it doesn't get far). Reader is gonna be a little… off the rails. Blame all the dark romance I've been reading lmao.
Before moving into your new home, you knew it was going to be a fixer upper. Fortunately for you, you loved working with your hands, and after having been banished to Charming in hopes of calming your inner demons, you were going to have a lot of time to do just that. But the joke was on your family because there was no calming your demons. People just needed to learn to not piss you the fuck off.
When you get to the house, however, you see that a majority of the work has already been done for you. The only thing left for you to do is paint the walls, rearrange furniture, and unbox your belongings. The electricity and water are already turned on, and wifi has been installed with your password on a sticky note.
The master bedroom is huge and you love it, but you don't have nearly enough belongings to fill it. Your queen-sized bed looks tiny and you immediately want something bigger. So heading back outside to your vehicle, you grab your bag that has your laptop inside and head back in. Setting up at your kitchen island, you search for a place that will deliver any type of food and beverage. You find a pizzeria just on the outskirts of town that will deliver to Charming, so you place a quick order. It's a forty minute wait period, so to pass the time you start looking up bedroom ideas.
You run across a California king bed, but none really catch your eye. What does catch your eye, however, are the DIY beds that touch from one side of the wall to the other. You take your laptop back to your bedroom so see if it's do-able, and come to the conclusion that it is. You'll have to add some floating shelves since you won't be able to have bedside tables, but that's perfectly fine with you. You then take the time to get down the measurements of your room because you still have to situate your dresser and mount your TV to the wall, and you need to make sure everything will fit.
Eventually your food gets there and, sitting at the kitchen island, you dig in. You slowly eat and drink your fill, and then place any leftovers in the already cool refrigerator.
Needing some bathroom necessities and sheets for your current bed, you unload your vehicle. You place each box in their respective rooms, but leave them mostly boxed up. And not wanting to get any TV's mounted or bed fully put together since you still have to paint the walls, you remain on your laptop to pass the time and send messages to your family to let them know you're okay.
It takes you a couple of weeks to build your bed frame, get in your special ordered mattress, and paint the walls to your liking. You do most of your building in the driveway, so you've become accustomed to the people living on your street, waving at them as they pass or call out a greeting. But there's one individual everyone seems to steer clear of or avoid eye contact with, and that's your next door neighbor who rides a motorcycle and proudly wears a Sons of Anarchy kutte.
You had first seen the intimidating, bald man when he showed up a couple days after you moved in. You'd looked up when you heard the rumblings of engines and watched two motorcycles pull into the driveway next door. You paused hammering for a moment, nodded at the two men who took a moment to stare back, and then went back to work.
Over the next few days, men came and went from next door. And each time, they were intrigued watching you work. But eventually your bed frame was finished and you had to situate it in your bedroom. Maneuvering the mattress was no easy feat, but you were not about to ask for help, and it didn't take you long to finally finish furnishing your home to your liking.
As busy as you've been, you haven't really had the time to eat a home cooked meal. So after everything, you took a trip to the grocery store and bought hundreds of dollars of food and drink to stock your kitchen with.
The air is finally cool and crisp, so all the windows to your home are wide open. You'd been feeling a little restless, so you opted to cook a meal that would keep you busy. Enchiladas, rice, and beans is one of your favorite meals, so after making sure you have everything, you put a pot of beans to cook. They have to cook for a few hours, so while that's going on you get online to check in with your family.
When the beans are done, you get started on browning hamburger meat. Setting a majority of the meat aside, you use only a bit for the enchilada sauce. You pour in water, flour, spices, and some canned chili until it's to your liking, and then heat up some corn tortillas before you start rolling the enchiladas. After they're in a pan that holds far too many for only you, you pour the enchilada sauce on top before shredding some cheese atop of it. Once that's in the oven, you get started on a pan of rice.
It's when the rice is boiling that your doorbell rings. A little tired and more than a little hungry, you grab up your beer after turning off the rice, and take a swig of it on your way to the door. Since the door is wide open, you can easily see who's standing just on the other side of the screen door. It's one of the Sons, one of the only two with brown skin that you've seen so far. But this isn't the intimidating bald one, this is the one with a shaved mohawk down the center of his head and a killer smile.
You arch an eyebrow at him as he tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and you take another swig of beer as you lean against the door jamb. "Yes?"
The corner of his eyes crinkle as his smile widens. "Hi. Uh, me and my boys are chilling next door and we couldn't help but smell whatever it is you're eating. You mind sharing the name of the place where you picked up your food from so we can go get some too? Smells really good."
Your lips twitch. "Who said I picked anything up?"
"You cooking?" His eyes widen. "Bullshit."
You huff a laugh and nod. "YN."
"Juice."
"Mhmm." You push the door open just enough so you can lean out and peer next door, catching sight of two men sitting sideways on the seats of their bike. "Just you three?"
"Yeah."
You hum again and then back into your home as the screen door shuts quietly. "I've been watching you guys come and go, nodding cordially when our gazes clash," you say. "If you're willing to leave your shoes by the front door, you're more than welcome to pull up a seat at the table."
"Forreal?"
"Sure." You shrug. "I never learned how to cook for one, so I might have made an entire tray of enchiladas that will most likely go to waste if someone else doesn't eat them."
"Oh hell yeah." Juice turns, cupping his hands around his mouth as he says, "Yo! Free meal! Get over here!"
You watch as one man eagerly gets off his bike, whooping in delight of free food. The other, the one you believe actually lives next door, casually gets up at a leisurely pace. You push open the screen door as they're stomping up your porch steps, and Juice introduces you to Tig and Happy. You do your best not to smile because Happy does not look quite so happy, but he grunts a greeting when you tell them your name.
As Juice steps into your home, he's quick to kick off his shoes and tell his boys to do the same. They do and then you lead the way to the kitchen, pointing at your table. "Siéntate."
"Ohhh. A Spanish lady," Tig muses as Juice translates for him to sit down as you instructed. When you glance at him, his wild-crazed gaze makes you snort. "I like 'em a little spicy."
"And I like 'em less talkative." Happy and Juice both snort, and Tig beams at your sassy retort. "Beer or soda?"
Tig and Happy take beers, and Juice takes a soda. You serve them each their own plate of three enchiladas, a scoop of rice, and a scoop of beans. You serve yourself last with a glass of water, and finally take a seat to dig into all your hard work.
"Goddamn," Tig grumbles after his first bite of everything. "This is some Mexican restaurant level shit here."
You grin as you eat at your own pace, feeling content at watching three grown men finding your cooking delicious.
"So what's your story?" Juice asks. "In all the times I've come around, it's just you here."
"That's because it is just me here."
"Why Charming?"
You take a moment to swallow your food, washing it all down with a sip of water as you lean back in your chair. Then glancing between each man and the patches on their kuttes, you ask, "Do you want the real story or the story I'm feeding anyone who asks in polite small talk when they see a new face in the store?"
All three men slow their eating, their gazes sliding up to you in surprise.
"What's the story you tellin' the locals?" Tig asks.
Placing a hand over your heart and changing your voice so you sound like a southern belle, you say, "Just that I just left a very nasty relationship and my family thought I deserved a fresh start away from the man who dared lift a fist in my direction."
Tig snorts. "And the real story?"
You chuckle as your voice goes back to normal. "My family thought I needed to calm my inner demons, so they banished me to Charming. Joke's on them, I've made peace with my demons. It's not my fault people keep pissing me off."
Tig and Juice laugh as Happy smirks at you.
"What'd you do to earn banishment?" Juice wonders.
You shrug. "I wasn't joking about the nasty relationship. I just leave out the small detail that once I was out of the hospital, I went crawling back to my dickhead of an ex-fiancé and plotted my revenge."
"Crazy and you can cook. Marry me," Tig says.
You shake your head at him, eating a bit more before finishing the story. "I was raised to take no shit from anyone. So after he put me in the hospital, I made him believe all was well. Then one night, when he least suspected it, I slipped him a little something so he was conscious, but paralyzed, and set fire to his house."
The three men freeze, but you continue eating as if it was no big deal.
"Did you- did you kill him?" Juice warily asks.
"Unfortunately, no." You pout and then laugh at their awed expressions. "He had nosy neighbors so they were able to get the firetrucks there as soon as they smelled smoke. But when my family found out, they said I was sloppy, so I got shipped out here."
"Yoo.. what the fuck?" A moment of quiet ensues and then Juice is laughing. "That has to be the craziest shit I've heard in a while."
"I highly doubt that." Your gaze drops to the patch on his kutte. "I'm sure you've heard, seen, or taken part of some pretty crazy shit." When you meet his gaze again, you smirk. "Am I wrong?"
Juice grins and then looks at Happy. "Your neighbor is cool as shit. I'm kind of jealous." The air of amusement lingers as everyone continues to eat. "So what do you do for work?"
"I do some IT stuff for my family." You shrug. "I can work from anywhere, so I guess I'll still be doing that. What about you boys? What do you do other than ride?"
"We work at Teller Automotive," Tig says. "Only car garage in town."
"Really? Do you guys have any openings this week? I need my oil changed."
"Sure. We'll leave a number before we leave."
The rest of dinner is spent with the men telling you what there is to do in Charming and asking how long you plan on staying. You're not really sure, but if you end up liking Charming then you have no issues setting down roots. And then when dinner is done and you've seemed to exhaust all the small talk topics, you plate up the leftovers and send the men on their way.
Over the next couple of weeks, you befriend your neighbor. You take your vehicle into Teller Automotive and Happy takes it upon himself to take care of it for you. Tig and Juice had kept you company, and introduced you to a few of their other brothers when they took interest in their new friend. You were invited to one of their parties and, after some pressuring, you went. Nothing shocked you, not even a few members of the club getting head in plain sight, but Happy apparently shocked everyone else by gluing himself to your side. According to the club President, Happy was normally found in the ring outside or fucking his way through croweaters, but that night he made sure that no one bothered you.
Then more often than not, Happy reaped the benefits of your cooking and appeared for dinner before taking leftovers home for lunch.
In such a short period of time, you grow accustomed to the stern biker's company.
One morning, you're startled awake by the doorbell ringing and a fist pounding on the door. You sit up and scoot out of bed, hurrying towards your front door in a groggy, yet panicked state. But before you pull the door open, you peer out one of the thin windows on one side of your door. It takes a moment for you to realize it's Happy and that the sky behind him is still dark.
Unlocking the door, you pull it open. "What the fuck, Hap? What's going on?"
With a duffel bag hanging off his shoulder, Happy looks you up and down. "You always answer the door like this or am I just special?"
You freeze and then glance down, rolling your eyes when you remember you went to sleep in a gray wife beater, that makes it very obvious you're not wearing a bra, and a pair of hipster underwear. "Neither. You're lucky."
"Sure." You narrow your eyes at him and he smirks. "I forgot the bills were due and everything got shut off. Can I crash here until I get it sorted?"
Without missing a beat, you say, "Yeah," and step back from the door, opening it wider. "Shoes off. You know where the bathroom is and I'm pretty sure you can find the guest bedroom." You yawn and lock the door behind your friend. "What time is it?"
"Little after five."
"Happy," you whine. "S'too fuckin' early. M'going back to bed." As you pad back to your room, you don't hear any footsteps behind you. "Stop staring at my ass!"
"Can't help it. Might start dropping by early now."
"Do it and die, Lowman." Stopping and turning, you point an accusatory finger at him. "Do not come in between me and my bed. I will murder you."
His lips twitch. "Worth it."
. .
. .
It takes less than a week for Happy to get his power and water turned back on, and then he's back at his house. Though there are times when he shows up for dinner, dropping off on your couch when he's too tired to walk back home. Normally you would mind, but Happy knew how to clean up after himself, so you didn't mind that it seemed he was practically half moved in.
One night, you get a call from your brother that they need you to come in and work on cracking the passwords on a few laptops they'd gotten their hands on. You agreed, but first you needed to arrange someone to look after your house.
The next afternoon, you show up to Teller Automotive. You find Happy on a smoke break and ask him for a favor. When you ask him if he can keep an eye on your house for two days, he seems surprised, even more so when you give him a copy of your house key. You tell him he can crash there and eat whatever food you have so long as he doesn't trash the place. He readily agrees.
And when you return two days later, you realize you should have specified that he could crash in the guest bedroom. Finding a nearly naked Happy in your bed isn't half bad, nor is the firmness of his ass when you smack a hand down on it to wake him up.
Immediately he jerks awake, twisting his body as he sits up, and pointing a gun right at your face. You laugh and lick the tip of the barrel while wiggling your eyebrows at him. "Wakey, wakey."
"You're a fuckin' pyscho," he grumbles, lowering his gun.
"Yeah, well duh. You should have had that figured out a long time ago." He rolls his eyes before turning to drop down face first back into your pillow, shoving his gun back under it. You grin. "Was there something wrong with the guest room you've been using?"
"No. I just didn't know how fuckin' massive your bed was. It looked lonely without a body in it."
"Mhmm. I'm sure." He grunts and you chuckle as you crawl out of the bed. "I'm gonna go pick up some breakfast from the diner. Want anything?"
"Anything and everything."
"Gotcha. I'll text you when I'm on my way back."
. .
. .
The dynamic between you and Happy ended up changing after that fateful morning. When he slept over, it was in your bed. You hadn't crossed the line past lingering touches or innuendos, but it was a given that he was the only person allowed in your bed. You didn't care for the croweaters at the parties his club put on every Friday night, but the two of you made a statement when he rolled up one night with you seated behind him.
The Sons nearly gaped as Happy amped up his protectiveness, pulling you between his parted thighs as he took a seat on a stool at the bar. Tig and Juice had walked over, and Happy perched you on his knee as you joked with his brothers. The croweaters didn't bother to hide their glares or sneers, but you merely smirked at their cattiness and took to scratching the back of Happy's head with your nails when you'd draped your arm around his shoulders.
"So, is this a thing?" Jax, the club president, had asked.
You shrugged and grinned. "We're friends."
"Friends don't stake claims."
"We're possessive friends."
Happy had snorted but didn't correct you.
From there on out, it was known that you were Happy's.
The Sons are relaxing at the clubhouse after a long day's work when blacked out Escalades and BMW's pull up. The atmosphere immediately goes from relaxed to tense, and the Sons flank their President when he walks out to the lot to see what the deal is.
Thug after thug exit the vehicles before opening the doors on two Escalades, ushering out four well-dressed men. None of them look like they'd be a person to fuck with, so Jax is extremely curious as to what the fuck is going on.
"Can I help you?" He asks, eyebrow arches as tattooed thugs flank the apparent important men.
"I hope you can." The one in charge reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a picture. "What do you know about this woman?"
When Jax is shown a picture, he mentally curses. It's Happy's neighbor and a friend to many Sons. He keeps his expression neutral, before shrugging. "Nothing. Should I?"
"She's my baby sister."
"Oh hell…"
"YN never misses check-in and she's missed two," the man explains. "It's come to my attention that she's made some connections to Happy Lowman, Juan Ortiz, and Tig Trager- all Sons of Anarchy. Do you understand why I'm here now?"
"Fuck, man, we didn't know. What can we do?"
"You can start by questioning your men to see if they'd heard from her."
At that, Tig steps forward. "I haven't seen or spoken with YN in a little over a week."
"What about Juan or Happy?"
Jax looks at his gathered men, frowning. "Where are Juice and Happy?" No one says anything, looking as confused as their President when they don't see their familiar faces. Then raising his voice, he asks, "Has anyone heard from Happy or Juice today?" Nothing. No one utters a peep. "What about yesterday?"
"Jax." Opie has his phone to ear, shaking his head. "Both are going to voicemail."
"Shit." Then turning around to face the slowly darkening expressions of YN's apparent brothers, Jax asks, "How can we help?"
. .
. .
When your eyes flutter open, every inch of your body is in pain.
"How the fuck does my hair hurt?" You groan. You try to sit up, but realize you're on your side, on dirt and hay, with your hands tied behind your back. "What the actual fuck?" Clearing your vision, you see that you're not alone. Happy and Juice are with you, but they're in chairs with their hands tied behind their backs and looking a little beat up.
"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," Juice tiredly muses.
"What happened?" Maneuvering around some, you manage to sit up.
"Kidnapped," Happy says. "They injected us with some shit, but they gave you too much."
You grimace as you roll your neck. "Dicks." It's dim in the empty barn you're being kept in, but you can see sunlight through the cracks of the walls. There are stalls for animals on either side of you, all empty, and a table filled with various blades and weapons not too far away. Your aching arms are your main priority though, so you move into a crouch and wiggle your tied wrists under your butt. With a grunt, you fall backward and maneuver your hands until they're situated in front of you. "Ah. That's better."
"Get up and grab a blade so we can get the fuck outta here," Happy urges.
You do as you're told, mentally scoffing at the thought that these morons didn't think to bind your ankles. Unfortunately, you're not so lucky as someone had been watching from the shadows. So just as you're reaching for a blade, that someone jumps out at you and roughly pins you against the table.
Bent over with your arms above your head and someone pressed up right against you, you immediately start thrashing and cussing out whoever it is. Happy and Juice shout, and start wriggling in their own seats when a hand then pins you to the table by the back of your neck.
"So close, princesa." A man tuts and you jerk in his hold, but still he persists. Laughter causes you to look up, watching as another two men step out from behind Happy and Juice. "Is that anyway to talk to your host?"
"Fuck. Off."
"Oh, I will." Just then, a hand grips your waist and squeezes, and you freeze. "Just not yet. I have some questions for you."
"Don't you fucking touch her."
When you glance up at Happy, there's a look on his face that you've never seen before. You know what he does for the Sons, but you'd never seen that particular dark look or glint in his eyes, and for a moment it steals your breath away. Then you remember that look isn't meant for you, and you squirm a little as the man behind you laughingly presses his pelvis into your ass. "Or what?"
Juice answers, "Or we'll fucking kill you."
That causes all three men to laugh some more.
"Doubtful. But thanks for the laugh." Then the man behind you focuses on you once again. "Besides, my business isn't with you, but with the princesa de la mafia."
You tense. "I don't know anything."
"Aw. Of course, you don't," the man coos. "I would hope that your brothers are smart enough to never let a woman in on their secrets. But then again, you are the baby sister of one of the most dangerous mafias in the United States. I'm pretty sure you know something that I can use to hurt those brothers of yours."
You manage to angle your head just enough so you can make eye contact with Happy. He meets your stare, and you see it subtly soften, but then he's glaring at the man holding you once more. "I won't sell out my brothers."
"No?" The man releases your neck, only to trail his fingers down from your ribs to hips. "I don't want to mess up such a pretty face, but you do know there are other ways to break you and get you to talk, right?"
And then before you can answer, he's grabbing the back hem of your shirt and ripping it down the middle.
You yelp just as Happy shouts, "You motherfucker!", and squirm to get away. Across from you, Happy and Juice are pummeled a few times until they stop trying to break the chairs they're bound to.
The man rubs a hand up and down your back, fiddling with your bra strap, but never unsnapping it. You feel gross, but it's only when the guy reaches around to fiddle with the button on your jeans does red cloud your vision.
"Hey, Hap?" You manage to meet Happy's livid gaze. "Remember when I spoke about my demons?"
"Yeah."
"They desperately wanna come out to play."
"Shut the fuck up, you whore!" The man slaps you across the back of your head and you grit your teeth, biding your time.
Happy slowly smirks. "Then let them out to play, baby."
The moment the button on your jeans is opened, you scream at a pitch that startles every man in the room. Then pushing up as much as you can, you headbutt the man behind you. As he swears, you reach for the first handle you see and are pleasantly surprised to find a small machete. Then without even thinking, you whirl around and swing the blade, catching your would-be abuser in the neck with the blade.
Blood sprays as you immediately tug the blade free, leaving the man to try and cover his wound as he splutters on his own life force. From the corner of your eye, you see someone running at you, but another swing of the machete finds a home in the second man's face.
As the man falls back with a scream unlike anything you've ever heard, he takes the machete with him. Happy and Juice shout at you, and it's then you remember the third. He's running at you, a small blade in hand, and you reach for the nearest weapon. It's a metal bat and just as you rear back to swing, he swings first. The blade makes contact with your bicep, slicing it open, but you only feel the sting of it after you swing.
The bat clips the man in the jaw, stunning him. As he stumbles back, you advance. He sloppily swipes at you again, but you dodge it. The second hit with the bat hits true, catching him in the temple.
The man falls and you're quick to stand over him, bringing the bat down a third time.
The bat connecting for a fourth time makes Juice cringe, but Happy proudly watches on.
Thwack.
Thwack. A scream.
Crack!
"Shit. I think that was his skull," Juice mutters.
YN screams as she continues to wail on the man with her bat, caving his skull further and further in, to the point there's now a puddle of blood beneath his head and splattering with every pull back.
The barn doors open, and Happy and Juice tense when armed men start to file in, but they exhale with relief when they see Jax, Tig, Chibs, and Opie in the mix. All the unfamiliar men take in the scene with an air of indifference, but it's the expressions of the Sons that almost make Happy laugh out loud. They'd only known YN to laugh, feed them, or threaten the croweaters with violence. None of them, with the exception of himself, Juice, and Tig, knew the violence she was capable of.
"Uh, a little help?" Juice calls out. "My arms are killing me over here."
Tig rushes over, pulling out a blade to cut his brothers free. "What the fuck happened?"
"One of them threatened to rape her and she just lost her shit."
Juice is cut free first, and he immediately stands, rubbing his raw wrists. As Jax checks in with him, Happy is cut free.
"Boss, should we stop this?" Someone asks.
Happy looks over in time to see a guy in a suit grimace when blood is flung onto his pristine boots. "Do you want to get in the middle of that? You know how YN is. Let's just let her run out of steam."
As the guy steps back in line with a nod of agreement, Happy huffs and stands. He stalks over to YN until he's behind her. Then when she raises the bat high above her head, Happy lunges. He manages to grip the bat where it isn't slick and pulls it from YN's grasp.
Still very much livid, especially now that your weapon's been ripped from you, you whirl around to start screaming expletives and pummel whoever it is with your bound fists. Instead, arms are wrapped around you, keeping your arms stuck between your chest and another, and there's a gruff voice in your ear saying, "It's over. It's over, baby. The cavalry's here. You can stop now."
It takes a long minute for the voice to infiltrate the fog of rage, and then a moment to realize who's speaking.
When your struggles cease, Happy leans back a little to look down at you, but with his arms still wrapped around you. "You back?"
"Y-Yeah. M'sorry."
Happy grunts and leans his face closer to yours, and for a moment you think he's about to kiss you. Instead, he presses his forehead against yours as his eyes close, and he exhales with relief. "Don't be. That was hot as fuck."
You huff a quiet laugh as a bout of silence ensues, but then one of your brothers decides to ruin it.
"Hey, Lowman, we'll give you a million dollars if you give her your last name and take her off our hands."
You jerk in Happy's hold, turning to glare at all your smirking brothers. "Fuck off!" Laughter ensues at your disgruntled expression before Juice fills them in on what happened, and then Happy is tugging on your bound wrists so you look back at him before finally cutting you free. "Thank you."
One hand grasps the hair at the back of your head, gripping a little tight as he holds you in place so he can press a kiss to your forehead. "Let's get you home. You're covered in blood, and I need to take a look at your arm."
Glancing at your arm, you shrug. It stings, yeah, but it doesn't seem deep enough. And then just as you go to take a step, Happy swoops you up into a bridal carry.
It's then you notice that you, Happy, and Juice are all barefoot, and it's Juice who answers your unasked question. "You sleep like the dead, girl. Happy and I heard them enter the house, but they still managed to get the drop on us."
"I'm getting you a goddamn dog," Happy grumbles in response.
"Only if you clean up after it." He grunts and you grin. If he wanted a guard dog for you, then he was cleaning up any messes.
Outside the barn, suggestions are made about where to go now. Jax suggests the clubhouse, but at the wrinkling of your nose, Happy says you'll be going home. Your brothers mention not everyone can go because that many vehicles will draw attention, so Jax suggests sending your brothers' men back to the club with Opie and Chibs. They agree, and then you're loaded up into an Escalade with your brothers and Happy.
When you get to your house, Tig mentions that they had cleaned up and straightened your furniture after they figured out what had happened. You thank him and let Happy carry you to your bathroom while Juice takes the guest bathroom.
As Happy sets you on the counter, you watch as he gets the first aid kit from beneath your sinks. "They're gonna talk."
"Let them. The club already thinks we're fuckin'."
You snort. "Please. They should know by now that I'd never settle for a relationship where the guy gets to fuck around when he's on the road." Happy freezes with the antiseptic spray bottle in his hand before shaking himself free of thought and spritzing your arm where you were cut.
"Is that why you haven't given me the go-ahead to slip between your thighs?"
You smile at his blunt question and then wince when he wipes your arm clean. "Pretty much. I'm not a fan of my partner sticking his dick or tongue in some rando pussy, then coming home and doing the same to me." Happy grunts and you arch an eyebrow at him. "Would you be okay with me visiting my brothers and sucking someone's dick before coming home to you?"
"Fuck no."
"Exactly." You grin triumphantly. "So, unless you plan to stop dicking down croweaters or sweetbutts, the most you'll get out of me is some cuddling."
Stepping back, Happy tosses the used gauze pads into the trashcan and then reaches into your shower stall to turn on the water. Then looking at you, he demands, "Strip."
"If I fully strip, there's no going back. You're mine and mine alone." You hop off the counter, slipping off your ruined shirt without batting an eye. "I was calm and collected at your parties before because we're friends, but that all changes after this. I won't take it easy on any woman touching what's mine."
Happy smirks as he eyes you in your bra and jeans, and then strips off his shirt. "Good."
You've seen the man shirtless only a handful of times, but seeing his ink never fails to give you pause. You reach out for the first time, tracing the snake tattoo that takes up a majority of his chest and upper abdomen, before you trace the various happy faces on the side of his waist. You feel his abdominal muscles twitch and then between one heartbeat and the next, Happy's crowding you against the sink counter and angling your head up.
His kiss is as aggressive as you figured it'd be, his tongue sliding against yours and teeth digging into your bottom lip. You give as good as you get, nails digging into either side of Happy's waist as you kiss him. Then when the need for air arises, you pull back and try to catch your breath. "Well okay then."
Moving out from Happy's reach, you strip, uncaring of your nudity and then step into the steaming shower. Happy isn't too far behind you, but you're not too interested in seeing him fully naked as you are cleansing a stranger's blood from your body. Standing under the waterfall, you watch as the shower floor turns red. Happy presses in close behind you so he's under the water as well, and you straighten up before leaning your head back onto his shoulder, smiling softly at his hardness that presses against your ass.
"No funny business, Lowman. At least not until we've eaten a fuck ton and slept for a day or two."
He grunts. "Agreed."
You immediately start washing your hair, and you're surprised when Happy takes it upon himself to lather up some soap on your bath pouf to wash your body. For the most part he behaves himself, but when his thumb oh so casually brushes over your nipples, you slap his thigh and pay him back when it's your turn to wash him. He grunts when you take his dick in hand and thrusts into your soapy palm, but you quickly release him to finish washing his body.
"Fuckin' tease."
"You started it."
You get out of the shower first, smirking as Happy tells you he'll be out in a moment. You know exactly what that moment's going to entail since his hand is already stroking his cock before you can even find a towel.
"You gonna want something to eat?"
"Send Tig to get burgers and fries."
"Alright."
Back in your room, you can hear a muttered conversation from somewhere in your house. Clutching the towel around your body, you stick your head out your door. "Tig!"
"What?"
"Happy said to go get us some burgers, fries, and Cokes!"
"Do I look like a fuckin' maid?!" Tig appears in the hall, hands on his hips.
You grin at him. "No, but I do have a maid's costume. Wanna try it on?" Tig gapes and you laugh at his expression. "Come on, Tig. Please? You can grab some cash from the junk drawer."
"Fine. But only because I know Hap will murder me if I don't, not because I'm picturing you in a teeny tiny maid's outfit."
"Sure, buddy. Thank you!"
Tig grumbles as he turns to march out of your house and then you worry about getting dressed. You dress in nothing but a sports bra and boy short underwear, and then with a reluctant sigh you head to the front. Everyone's in your kitchen, sitting around your table, and your brothers groan when they see how little you're wearing.
"Oh, shut up. You've seen me in clothes like this before."
"In tights, not underwear," one brother grumbles.
"Just be glad they're boy shorts and not a g-string."
All your brothers groan yet again whereas the Sons find the interaction amusing. You take a seat at the table, grimacing a little and touching at your raw wrists.
"Let me get that for you," Juice says. He leaves to, no doubt, grab the first aid kit from the bathroom. Then taking a seat next to you, he asks, "Did Hap disinfect your arm?"
"Yeah. Just spritz it again and wrap it. It'll be fine."
As soon as Juice gets to work, Happy enters the kitchen in nothing but a pair of jeans hanging off his hips.
"Jesus," one of your brother's mumbles. "Are people suddenly allergic to clothes around here?"
You grin as Jax arches an eyebrow at his friend. "You have clothes here?" Happy nods and sits, and you quickly introduce him to your brothers while Jax looks at Juice to say, "You seem to know your way around this place too."
"It's because they practically live here when they're not at the clubhouse," you say. "Hap's moved his shit in my room, and Tig and Juice have slowly taken over my guest room." Then glancing at your brothers as if you didn't just drop somewhat of a bombshell on Jax, you ask, "So what the hell happened?"
Juice taps above one of your raw wrists and you situate them so he can disinfect them.
Your eldest brother meets your gaze. "There's a new family in town- Jimenez. They're trying to make a name for themselves and thought they could intimidate us." You scoff as your other brother's chuckle. "When they didn't get the reaction they were looking for, they came up with the bright idea to target the weak link. They thought they had the perfect candidate when they found out we had a baby sister."
"Joke's on them, you're fuckin' psycho," another brother muses.
"I'm not-"
"We literally walked in on you bashing a guy's head in."
"And let's not forget the whole reason you're in Charming is because you tried to burn down your ex's house while he was still inside."
"Or that one time you wrecked your car into that other girl's car all because she broke your friend's heart."
"That cunt cheated on him. She deserved every bit of karma I dished out."
Jax snorts, shaking his head. "Christ. You and Hap are gonna be a pain in my ass."
"You know it."
Tig shows up just after Juice is finished with your wrists. Juice then dishes out the food to you, Happy, and himself, and you get up to grab drinks from the fridge. As you settle back down, Jax and your brothers watch in surprise at how the three of you go to town on your provided meals.
"So, what exactly does one do as a mafia princess?" Jax wonders.
Chewing the food in your mouth, you only answer him after taking a drink of your soda. "I'm the family hacker. If they need a computer hacked into to gather information or scrub information, I get called in."
"So, in other words, you're female Juice," Tig says.
You laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I am." Juice grins and you reach over to fist bump him.
You continue eating as Jax speaks with your brothers, listening as this small portion of the Sons of Anarchy are filled in about what business your family gets up to. When you're finished eating, you stand and start gathering up the trash to toss. While you're up, you grab yourself a glass of water and some Ibuprofen. Then after downing four pills, you head back to reclaim your seat at the table, only for Happy to gently grab you by the arm and tug you down onto his thigh.
Your brothers don't care about your new chair, but Jax, Juice, and Tig can't help but raise an eyebrow.
"So, is this a thing?" Jax wonders, gesturing between you and Happy.
As you drape an arm behind Happy's shoulders to settle more against him, you smirk. "What's the matter, Teller? Scared?"
He huffs and then stares at Happy, but the man beneath you merely says, "Gonna start drawing up a crow. Does that answer your question?"
The kitchen goes eerily quiet and then…
"Holy shit. Hap's actually gonna take a woman," Juice says in awe.
"This is a momentous occasion. We gotta throw a rager." The glint in Tig's eyes has you narrowing your own eyes at him.
"You just wanna see a girl fight. Don't you?"
"Hap's been possessive of you since you first showed up to the clubhouse, but now that you're staking a claim, the thought might have crossed my mind."
"Are you sure you wanna see that?" One of your brother muses. "YN might traumatize a few poor souls."
Tig smiles. "I look forward to it."
You roll your eyes at Tig's excitement about possibly seeing you fight and your brothers chuckle. The Sons really had no idea what they were in for when someone tested your patience.
Standing, you keep a hand on Happy's shoulder as you say, "Well as much as I love, like, and appreciate all of you, you need to go. I'm exhausted and I still need to sleep off whatever I was drugged with."
Jax grins. "Is that code for us to get the hell out so you can bang Happy's brains out?"
Snorting, you shake your head as your brothers all grimace. "No. I'm seriously exhausted. The fucking will come later after we're well rested. I have a feeling I'm gonna need loads of energy for Hap."
Your brothers all make noises of disgust as they stand, and you take a moment to hug and kiss each of their cheeks on their way out. You promise to call when you're feeling better and then you're ushering the Sons out as well.
Locking up after everyone has left, you head to your room where you find Happy stripping off his jeans. He's in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs as he pulls your blanket back before sliding under and you pad over to do the same. You meet him in the middle, laying on your side as you drape one arm over his abdomen. With your head on his arm, you snuggle closer and Happy reaches for your leg to have it draped over his thigh so you're as close as can be without actually laying on top of him.
"Were you serious? About the crow?" You ask right before you drift off.
"Does that freak you out?"
"Not really. But if I get your mark, you're getting mine."
Happy huffs. "And just what is your mark?"
"My lips and name." You run your hand across his abdomen before walking your fingers down to one of the few empty patches of skin, below his belly button and right beneath where the snake's tail curls. "Right here."
"Above my dick, you mean?"
"Mhmm."
Happy grunts and then squeezes you a little tighter to him. "We'll see, princess. Now get some sleep."
it was hot. way too hot that your decorated rooms aroma was filled only with the smell of you and clarks sweaty skin sticking to each other, mixed with the breath hitching pants that came out of the two of you. your pleasure was only heightened with the feeling of him on top of you, weighing and pressing you down, making you feel so..caged in. he was unconsciously forcing you to really feel just how deep he was inside of you, thrusting into your soaked walls with his girthy dick and muscular arms. “haah baby, can feel you squeezing me so tight..” you were but it was only because of how pressured you were feeling, having to look straight into clarks eyes as he plows into you with his intoxicated gaze. he makes your head so blurry with the way he uses his dick and doesn’t even know it, “ mm s’good, feel you filling me.. so deep!” you whine out with your hands resting on top of his neck, hips senselessly flowing along with his as they move back and forth on the bed. “mm wait, t-too deep s’gonna reach-“ you sob, it’s like you could feel his dick messing up your insides, overstimulating but all the more satisfying.
you push at his abdomen with weak arms and squeezed shut eyes, getting cut off with a moan being pulled from your throat as clark brings you back with a hand on your jaw. “reach where hm? gonna reach your tummy? huh gonna-gonna let me give you a baby?” he was basically blabbering at this point, too pussydrunk to think rationally. and you mindlessly nodded your head along with your boyfriend. “yes please clark! gonna make you a daddy!” the sound of you and clarks skin bouncing off each other was disgusting, the slapping of his balls against your ass and the creaks of the bed under you.
clarks pace gets faster as he keeps thrusting into you, cock almost kissing your cervix while you hear a flow of pleads from above you. “you’ll let me cum inside right? promise it will feel so good angel-you have to let me fill you u-up..” and he just sounds so cute when he begs like that, of course he can, anything he wants. “yesyes please! wanna feel it so bad daddy..” that nickname only flustering him more and making your boyfriend bottom out in your pussy, forehead pressing against yours, “fuckfuck-“ seeing his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth in a frown. dick sloppily thrusting into you when you feel ropes of cum shoot into you, warm and in an abundance, you scratch at his back and squeeze your thighs around clarks waist.
“mph makin me feel so’good clark!” you say bucking your hips into him, making you feel his length so much deeper in your cunt and only making clarks whimpers louder as he finishes cumming inside. “too much-“ he winced, unconsciously still thrusting into you slowly while you rub your sensitive bud, cumming all over his dick with a cry as he holds your back. clark lifts you slightly until your sat on his lap, his face in the warm crook of your neck breathing heavily. you were sure your insides were a mess, filled to the brim of clark and you just finished too. your boyfriend looks up at you with his doe eyes and his slight smile, “what?” you giggle to him and he kisses the skin of your chest. “thank you sweetheart.” laughing even more when you realize he’s thanking you for letting him cum inside.
Scientists launched reptiles into the nursery to assess the reaction of the kids. The result killed: the crumbs perceived the reptiles as toys, and some tried to eat them
I find this interesting, it really counters the unfounded but popular notion that fear of certain animals is evolutionary and intrinsic within our DNA.
I want an AU where Jor-El survived with Clark and they both crash on earth together.
The image of Pa Kent worrying this smoking hot extraterrestrial DILF is gonna steal his wife is so funny to me. His baby IS adorable, thought, so he can stay.
Jor-El is actually courting BOTH him and Martha.
Is this an elaborate scheme so I can get Bruce being cornered by a big ass Kryptonian father who’s adamant he completes their courting rituals?
Perhaps.
Jor-El is tall like a mountain and calm like a river, pinning Bruce down with a hard stare as he explains the process in their own language. Which Bruce WILL study and learn if he wants a shot.
Clark sighs, “He says the suitor can pick any activity they please as long as the rules are fair. If they fail to win, the parent can,— dad, I’m not translating that.”
He doesn’t need to. Bruce learned Kryptonian since the first day they met. Jor-El’s torture methods are definetly creative. “Hn.”
He knows what he has to do.
—
“…Did you just win Clark in a game of poker?”
Bruce shrugs, hoarding the winning tokens while Jor-El rages. “I also won an apple pie.”
I am fiending for something mouth watering, torturing, jaw dropping smutty fun with our boy from Assault on Arkham. Female reader please. Maybe she's a nurse working a shift at Arkham or a therapist or care tech? I'm just seeing total domination, daddydom/zaddy type vibes. But feel free to do whatever you feel.
Thank you for your time and consideration!!
Tata~!
Corrupting the young with your uncivil tongue
Summary: While on shift at Arkham Asylum, what should be a routine check on an injured inmate turns into something a whole lot more.
Warnings: 18+ smut, fem reader (no use of y/n), Assault on Arkham!Eddie, dom/sub dynamics, praise and degradation, choking, rough sex, fingering, face fucking
Words: 4.4k
Notes: Thank you so much sweetheart, you're too kind! This gave me an excuse to rewatch his scenes on yt (mgg really is one of the perfect voice actors for him, even with his sometimes dodgy vocal deliveries)
Being a nurse meant seeing the truly ugly side of Arkham Asylum; the dangerous patients always being one movement away from lashing out at times. You didn't mind your job, in fact it was rather rewarding at times to help those you could, being able to feel as if you were making a difference in this cesspool of a city.
But many of the inmates you knew you couldn't trust, dangerous criminal masterminds who were constantly using Gotham City as a battleground for their many wars with the batman. And you knew deep down that The Riddler was one of those men. But still, he'd been nothing but...kind.
Well, maybe kind is a little bit too strong of a word. But he'd always been one of your better patients, never giving you too much trouble. And you couldn't deny the tiny part of you that lit up when you saw his name on your rota, no matter how much you pushed the feeling down in the crevices of your mind. His snarky smile would always be waiting for you when you administered the pills that he most likely just hid under his tongue, or to patch him up whenever his big mouth got him into trouble.
It seems today was one of those days, as you made your way to the rather empty infirmary and saw Edward laying in bed, flicking through a book without a care with one hand, the other handcuffed to the side. The doctor that saw to him had been rushed off his feet, rumblings of a mass riot causing all of the staff to be more overworked that usual, if that was even possible for a place like this. Still, you stood by his bed and closed the privacy curtain.
"There you are sweetheart, I was beginning to believe i'd been forgotten about. A distressing thought, i'll have you know."
You can't help but laugh softly at his dramatics, as he lowers the book to his side to give you a look at his face. A cut was across his cheek, not overly deep.
"Ah yes, this. Well that'll teach me not to display my mental superiority at dinner time, lest i'm slashed again. I really should have enacted some sort of revenge before one of the idiotic guards blundered in."
"Does it hurt?"
"Nothing more than a scratch, my dear."
There's that smile again, self-satisfied and smug, but with a hint of something else. He adjusts himself so he's sat more upright, watching with sharp eyes as you look through his medical chart, not missing the slight confusion on your features.
"Does anywhere else hurt?"
"If i say my chest, will I get to remove this horrid jumpsuit?"
You flush in spite of yourself, laughing softly at his insinuation which delights him greatly. Placing the chart down, you look back at him as he adjusts himself yet again.
"I see no reason why you'd need to stay, I can call for you to be escorted back to your cell now."
"Yes about that," he starts, looking around in a dramatic manner, "why is there no guard here anyway? Don't tell me they hardly see me as a threat? I'll have you know I-"
Shaking your head, you interrupt him. "No no, there's rumors of a riot starting. Everyone is on high alert. And it seems that there's a mistake on your chart...it says you have a broken leg. I doubt they thought you'd get very far."
The momentary annoyance of being interrupted dissipated when he heard your words, and he lets out a bark of a laugh.
"Oh the ineptitude of these fools truly never fails to amuse me." With a smirk, he tilts his head as he looks at you before continuing. "But i'm sure a girl like you wouldn't have made a mistake like that."
At his praise, you can't help the flush of pride that swirls in your chest despite who he is, as you smile softly. Pleased with the way you respond, he reaches up and gently tugs you closer to the bed by your arm.
"Does it take truly so little to flatter you?" he asks, causing you to look away for a moment before he squeezes your arm. "No. Look at me."
You do as he says, looking at his eyes through his glasses, before nodding a little. "I guess not..."
"Pity." he murmurs, looking at your chest unashamedly. "I'd have thought you'd be used to compliments, looking like that."
You feel the embarrassment and excitement bubble up in you at his words, despite your better judgement, despite the fact that a criminal mastermind is flirting with you and you like it. Forcing yourself to clear your head, you glance away yet again.
"Thank you."
"No problem darling."
Before turning to leave, he coughs slightly to get your attention.
"Hold on a moment. You really think it's a good idea to go out there? You said it yourself, a riot could break out at any moment." he declares, his eyes firmly fixed on yours.
"Well...yes. I could always go with the guards, they'd protect me."
"I could protect you." he says without missing a beat, without blinking. The look of shock must be evident on your face as you look at him.
"Why would you do that?"
"Why do I do anything?" he challenges, the rattle of the handcuff cutting through the room.
"...you do things when they benefit you." you say softly, trying to match his gaze.
"Exactly. Or maybe I want to protect the pretty nurse who always turns a blind eye when I don't swallow my pills."
"I-I don't-"
"Don't lie sweetheart, it doesn't suit you."
Hesitating, you glance down to where his hand is cuffed to the bed. This is a bad idea, an awful idea and you know it. But your apprehension is delicious to him, and he leans in as best he can.
"And you like the idea, don't you? Of The Riddler's protection?"
You swallow audibly, not denying his accusation. "I can't...i'm not Harley Quinn or anything, i'm not gonna go running off with a psycho-"
"Don't call me that." he snaps harshly, his tone serious and even making you flinch a little. Upon realising, he clears his throat a little in an attempt to calm down. "I'm not trying to dump you in a vat of acid to prove your devotion darling. I'm simply saying I could protect you."
Upon being under your gaze yet again, he puts on a smirk. "Besides, I'm not blind. The way you look at me is quite different than the way the other dimwitted orderlies do. It's...refreshing."
You release a breath, shaky and slow as you weigh up your options here. If a riot does break out...he probably could protect you. And it's not like he has any reason to harm you, right? Nodding slightly, you try and come up with some pathetic excuse before he interrupts you.
"What time is it?"
Slightly bewildered by the question, you glance at your small watch and reply, "About 7."
He hums, rolling his neck. "Might be a good idea to get me out of these handcuffs sweetheart."
Frowning, you go to ask him why before the power goes out. The room is plunged into darkness, causing you to jump at the sharp noise of the lights going. Frantically you stumble to try and head backwards before you feel a hand grasp at your waist, and suddenly you're pressed against a man's broad chest.
"Okay, I may have lied about needing your help to get out of the cuffs." Edward murmurs, before laughing smugly.
Panic sets in as you scramble to get away from him, but he only laughs harder and uses both hands to hold you still.
"Oh please stop struggling. You know I could overpower you. But I meant what I said darling, I'll protect you." he coos into your ear, and you can feel the satisfaction radiating from his smile in waves as he lets go of your arm.
"Now, be a good girl and barricade the door when the lights come back on."
"How do you know the light's will-"
With a bang, the lights come back on, and on instinct you follow his instructions. Regardless of the morally dubious actions of the serial killer you've found yourself with, you know how bloody Arkham riots can get, so self preservation wins out as you take a chair and push it against the door. Barricading yourself in with The Riddler.
He watches you carefully, half expecting you to make a run for it, but being slightly relieved when you trail back to him. "Good."
"How did you know when the lights would go off?"
"You're a smart girl darling, figure it out."
He must have known about the riot, hell he might have planned it. But what you couldn't understand was...
"You planned the riot, or at least knew. But why aren't..." you pause, as he steps closer, too close, "why aren't you trying to escape?"
He chuckles, lifting his hand to cup your chin. "Oh you naive girl. You think I orchestrated this just to escape? Perhaps I was wrong about you, or perhaps you're just too modest."
Observing the look of realisation on your face, he strokes his thumb along your cheekbone. "You can't taste it until you undress it, what am I?"
You can't deny the hitch in your breath at his, albeit cheesy riddle, which causes him to laugh more. "The answer isn't what you're probably thinking, but it's still an apt description of what I want to do to you."
What he wants to do to you. That's all you can hear rattling away in your brain as you let him stroke your cheek, down to the side of your neck.
"And trust me my dear, I want to do a lot of things to you."
"Like what?" you ask, the words spitting out without processing, but he smirks anyway.
"You want me to tell you? Tell you how much I want to dominate you completely? Have you completely at my mercy, as this whole asylum tears itself apart from the inside on my orders?"
You couldn't suppress the small whimper that escapes your lips even if you tried, as you nod your head. Instead, he moves his hand to wrap around your throat, slender fingers gently squeezing.
"How about I show you?" he rasps out, before slamming his lips against yours. It's all consuming, the way he keeps you still with his grip as his tongue forces it's way into your mouth. He explores every inch, reveling in the small moans he swallows as he uses his other hand to grab your hips, pulling you against him so you can feel the bulge straining against the garish orange jumpsuit.
"Get on your knees." he growls out against your lips, and you drop obediently. "Good girl, you're learning your place."
Not deterred by his condescending words, you gaze up at him as his fingers fiddle with the zipper of his jumpsuit, freeing himself after a moment. Your eyes immediately dart to his hard cock, watching as he pumps himself a few times and gently rests it on your cheek.
"A man can get certain...urges in a place like this. A lesser man would have probably resorted to his own hand to achieve momentary gratification, but I knew...I knew if I waited, victory would be all the more sweet."
He taps his cock on your lips, and you open and let your tongue gently run along the head. Gritting his teeth, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls, keeping you still and not allowing you the privilege of tasting him just yet.
"Ask me nicely. Tell me you've wanted me the same way." he demands.
"I've wanted you." you reply, staring up and giving him the most pleading expression you can muster. "I've always been attracted to you, I've always wanted you Edward."
He groans quietly, running his cock along your lips once again, humming appreciatively as you seem to have learnt your lesson in keeping your tongue to yourself.
"I do love you saying my name. But I think a different word is in order, after all, i'm here protecting you."
You know he's desperate for validation, desperate to feel superior and in control, but god you want to give it to him so badly.
"I've always wanted you sir." you ammend.
"That or 'master' will do." he smirks down at you, before tapping his dick against your lips deliberately. Getting the hint, you open up and let him push your head. Luckily he gives you the grace to not shove his whole length down your throat, pushing you halfway before letting you set the pace. You get to work immediately, bobbing your head as you suck, blinking up at him to observe his reactions.
You can't deny he looks stunning, his frown and brow lines relaxing as he lets you service him, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment to truly indulge in your wet mouth. He'd been in Arkham a few weeks now, and if what he said about relieving himself was true, it really had been a while since he felt such carnal pleasure.
As he opens his eyes again, he looks down at you once more, stroking your hair as you moan softly around his cock. While he certainly isn't going to admit it, he's relieved you were so eager to get on your knees for him, happy he got the signals right, happy he wouldn't have to admit that his lust was unrequited, what's he thinking, he's the riddler! Any woman would be lucky to have him, he's a specimen -
His thoughts are stopped when you push further, taking him deeper into your throat before pulling away for breath, taking him in your soft hand and jerking him. He let's out a slightly higher pitched noise, before growling and gripping your hair with both hands.
"Arms behind your back dear, let's see if I was right to choose you."
You do what he instructs, taking a deep breath before he pushes his cock into your willing mouth. This time he doesn't hold back, holding you in place as he thrusts shallowly into your mouth, before pushing deeper. Suppressing the urge to gag, you moan brokenly around him as your fingernails dig into your own arms, willing against your body's natural instinct to put your hands on his thighs and push against him. Instead you behave, letting him fuck your mouth and take his pleasure from you.
The look on your face has him getting close rather quick for his liking, but he's way too desperate to care. Glazed eyes, spit covered lips and chin from where his cock is pushing out your saliva, he thinks you look gorgeous. His one hand remains in your hair as his other grips your jaw.
"So good for me...fuck, almost makes me wish I hadn't had those idiots cut power to the cameras in here. Seeing my favourite nurse choking on my cock..."
He moans softly, cock pulsing as he gets nearer his climax. Rhythm faltering, he desperately ruts into your throat, wanting to cum so badly it almost hurts. All the while he's mumbling and muttering how slutty you are, how much this is usually beneath him, how good your mouth feels until-
"I'm gonna cum, you're gonna, shit, swallow it...swallow it all." he demands, before his hips still as he pumps his cum down your throat. Choking, you do your best to swallow all he gives you before he releases the death grip on your hair. You pull away and gasp shallowly for oxygen.
"What do you say?" he says condescendingly, although you don't miss the laboured breathing that betrays his excitement.
"Thank you." you start, but the firm tap on your cheek gives you the incentive to rephrase, "Thank you sir."
"Better. You know how few people can say they've had the privilege of The Riddler fucking their face?"
Despite how fucked up morally you know it is, you can't help but feel slight pride at his words, knowing that it's you who he chose to sleep with. He tugs you up by the arm, before humming and squishing your cheeks together, tilting your face from side to side as he appraises you.
"How about you lay on the bed." he says, and despite the phrasing, you can infer from his tone that he's not asking. So you do, hearing the cheap infirmary bed creak as you lay down. Outside you can vaguely hear noises, yells and chants mostly, but you try your best to tune it out as Edward makes quick work of ridding you of your nurse uniform. He gives a wolf whistle, smirking shamelessly.
"Not bad at all." he mumbles, which you assume is quite high praise for him, as he gropes your tits roughly. "I knew I wasn't wrong to have been taken by your looks. It's a bonus you have half a brain in there somewhere."
Feeling a little mean, he gives one of your breasts a sharp slap, grinning as you flinch and squirm. He repeats the motion, and again for a third time on the other one, before soothingly massaging the tender skin.
Before long, he can't resist parting your legs to get a good view of your dripping cunt, needy and pulsing after being treated so roughly by him.
"Oh poor thing." he coos, the falseness of his sympathy only adding to your arousal. "Do you need master's help?"
You can only nod pitifully, as he brings his fingers to your clit and circles slowly, as if observing the consequences of his actions. At your hips jerking, he uses his other hand to pin you firmly to the bed, the structure squeaking under the weight. He continues to play with your clit, alternating his pace and rhythm to keep you on edge, never quite allowing you to reach the peak of the satisfaction he could bestow upon you.
"Such a needy hole, look at it. It's just begging to be filled, isn't it?" he asks, to which you nod again. In response, he slaps your cunt harshly. "If i wanted to talk to myself, i'd have simply jerked off in the safety of my isolated cell. Speak."
"Yes, yes I want to be filled." You say quickly, embarrassment fading away to let the desperation uncurl its claws in your mind. Seemingly satisfied, he slowly pushes two fingers into your pussy, barely suppressing the groan at how wet and hot you feel.
Starting to pump his digits, he curls them to press into your g spot, watching as you tense and make soft moans at the sensation. His other hand wraps around your neck, smirking at your wanton desperation.
"So quick and eager to have a criminal's fingers inside of you. And a nurse at that, don't you have a duty of care?" he taunts sadistically, languishing in your shame and embarrassment as he keeps fucking you harshly with his fingers. You try and shake your head, but you can't with how he's choking you ever so slightly; a reminder that your life is in the hands of one of Gotham's most feared supervillians. And your cunt has never been wetter.
But you aren't the only one affected. Edward was never the type of man to be able to go multiple rounds, and age didn't exactly help that fact. But whether it was being in the Asylum, his abstaining from self pleasure, or just you, he was hard as a rock again and itching to know what your pussy might be like around him.
"Please..." you start to beg, slightly dazed from the onslaught of sensations.
"Please what, hm? Please stop? Please fuck me? Oh please I want to be fucked by the greatest intellectual this city has ever known?"
You can hardly digest the intense self importance he's displaying as you nod again as best you can. "Please fuck me sir."
"Getting better, but say it louder. More conviction. I'm not an easy man to please." he threatens, moving his fingers faster, practically bullying the inside of your pussy as he releases the grip on your neck, allowing merciful oxygen to grace your airways.
"Please sir, please fuck me. Please make me yours, your slut. Please." you beg between moans, body tensing.
"I will." he assures you, pulling his fingers out and bringing them to his face to observe your fluids, "but you should know, you became my slut when you so willingly got on your knees for me."
He grabs your hips and pulls you towards him as he kneels firmly on the bed, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it under you. You almost voiced your thanks at the action, before he rubs the head of his cock on your sensitive clit.
"Once more, for good luck."
What an asshole, he doesn't even believe in luck, you think to yourself, but the stimulation on your core was leaving your breathless and needy, so you indulge him.
"Please fuck me master, I need you. I need The Riddler."
Playing into his ego, his persona, almost always works (not that you know that, opting for an educated guess instead) and he rewards you by sinking into your pussy, moaning uncharacteristically higher pitched. Once he bottoms out inside of you, he takes a moment to really take in the scene in front of him, before grabbing hold of your hips and starting to move.
You moan, the fingering causing your cunt to already be sensitive and on fire with urgency as he starts to fuck you. He bends over you, taking his glasses off and placing them at your side before starting to move his hips faster, determined to rid you of any other thought but him.
"That's it, fuck, go dumb on my cock for me." he encourages, as your eyes glaze over. "My dumb little nurse, so willing to spread her legs."
Not being able to deny his accusation, you simply hold on to his arms for dear life as he picks up the pace even more, thrusting into you and watching your cunt soak his cock in your wetness.
"Making such a goddamn mess." he grunts, leaning down and slapping your clit for the sake of it.
You whine at that, body jerking in response as he chokes out a small chuckle. Soothing it, he rubs circles with his thumb in time with his thrusts, content with the noises of pleasure that fall from your lips. Outside, the noise of the riot were obvious now, and he uses it to his advantage.
"What if someone were to see? Would they think i forced myself on you? Or would they see you for what you truly are? A whore who wanted one of her patients to fuck her." he demeans you, and all you can do is attempt to shake your head.
He tuts, leaning so his breath tickles your lips. "I told you, lying doesn't suit you sweetheart."
Perhaps you were a whore, for wanting a man like Edward to make you feel something, but you can't hope to deny that what he's making you feel is good, so damn good.
"I'm a whore." you mumble quietly, before he groans. He feels your walls tightening around him, can feel the way your body is tensing as you near release.
"Say it properly, and i'll let you cum all over The Riddler's cock. How about that?" he says it like he's giving you a gift, something so unbelievable that you should be grateful he even considered it. But either way, you give in.
"I'm a whore, i'm your whore sir." you manage to get out between punishing thrusts, nails digging into the meat of his biceps. "I'm The Riddler's whore."
He moans, slamming into you with conviction. "You're damn right you are."
You're unsure if that meant you had permission to cum, but between his thrusts and his thumb playing with your clit, you knew you couldn't stop it as you cum hard around him. Your back arches, giving him a hell of a sight as he chases his own orgasm brutally.
"Yes that's it, take it. Take what i give you...take my cum, god you're so lucky. So privileged, so-"
He cuts himself off with a groan, mumbling your name as he buries himself completely inside of you as he finishes. You squirm softly at the warmth of the sensation, but not being able to go anywhere due to the death grip he has on your thighs; you're most certainly going to have bruises.
After a few blissful moments, he pulls out, admiring how your cunt flutters around nothing before his cum slowly leaks from your used hole. He gently reaches down and collects some on the tip of his finger, before pushing it back inside, laughing at your overstimulated gasp.
"There. Now wasn't that more enjoyable than running to the guards for help."
Giving him a sweaty nod, he climbs off of you and fixes him jumpsuit, before rolling his shoulders and standing up. You force yourself to sit up a little, watching as he smirks.
"I'm a little ahead of schedule, I confess I was foreseeing a little more convincing on my part for you to let me bed you." he says, uncharacteristically self deprecating, now matter how slight.
"Ahead of schedule for what?" you ask, before your answer is revealed when he picks up an empty chair and smashes the window.
"Oh sweetheart, while I did want to fuck you, did you really think i'd not pass up the opportunity for escape? I think my sabbatical has reached it's conclusion." he announces, walking over and grabbing your wrist to look at your watch. "The morons should have neutralised the guard post by now, if they actually listened to what I had to say."
At your hesitance, he smirks as he lets go of your wrist and leans down to give you a lingering kiss. "Perhaps i'll visit you again, you certainly made quite the impression on me."
At a loss for words, you stutter out a quick "okay" before he turns and begins to climb out the window. Not before turning for one last look at you.
"I really should have left a mark, people need to know you're mine now. Get changed sweetheart, in my estimations you have about ten minutes."
With that, he's gone, and you're left on the bed, cum dripping from your cunt and sweat slowly evaporating from your naked skin. Still, you suppose, he did protect you from the riot.
