jason todd who . . makes you feel chosen only when he’s bored, restless, or too wired from patrol to be alone with his own thoughts. who treats you like an intermission in his life, not a person. a place to crash his adrenaline, a warm break from the cold parts of himself he never bothers explaining.
jason todd who texts when it suits him and disappears the second you ask for anything that sounds like basic respect.
there are days where he’s in your space constantly, brushing your shoulder, stealing your food, touching your waist whenever he passes behind you, then there are week-long stretches where your phone is silent and he acts like you’re dramatic for noticing. he’s trained you into accepting scraps, because the scraps feel like gold when they come from him.
jason who keeps you at arm’s length but pulls you back the second you wander. you try to give him space, he complains. you try to set boundaries, he scoffs. you try to talk to someone new, suddenly he’s at your door, but he still refuses to define anything. he wants control without commitment, access without accountability.
who gets bored halfway through conversations about your day. you’re talking and he’s scrolling his phone, nodding at the wrong parts, barely listening.
jason who never introduces you as anything, not a friend, not someone important, barely even someone he knows. he’ll walk right past you in public with a nod, like you’re a stranger, and then be in your bed that night like nothing happened.
he ruins your sleep schedule because you never know when he’ll want you. who has you checking your messages at every stoplight, refreshing your notifications, waiting for his name. you hate the hold he has on you.
who makes jokes at your expense because he thinks it keeps things “light.” who notices when you flinch but doesn’t apologize for making you flinch. who says, “don’t be so sensitive,” whenever he hits a nerve he meant to hit.
jason todd who gets mean when he’s stressed. sharp-tongued, cold-eyed, saying things he knows will hit the softest parts of you. who throws words like knives because he knows you’ll never throw them back.
hates when you cry, not because it hurts him but because it makes him feel cornered. who says, “don’t do that,” like your emotions are an inconvenience he didn’t sign up for. who turns away when you need him most.
jason who gets pissed if you post a picture that suggests you’re together. if you mention him to a friend. if you say his name around people he doesn’t trust. “don’t make this a thing,” he snaps, like you committed some crime by wanting to be acknowledged. he doesn’t want to be known, or claimed, or seen. at least not by anyone but you.
who shows up when he needs you, not when you need him. who knocks on your door at midnight bleeding, bruised, eyes wild, and expects you to patch him up without question. who gives you nothing but attitude if you express even an ounce of worry.
who says, “we’re not dating,” like an excuse right before climbing into your bed again. who makes sure you know the rules but breaks every one of them when it benefits him. who confuses desire with tenderness and anger with passion until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
jason who knows he’s bad for you and stays anyway.
the way his fingers curl around the cigarette, the casual tilt of his head, how his lips wrap around it just so, not thinking about anyone watching but somehow doing it perfectly anyway. smoke curls from between them like it’s part of him, and your chest tightens a little because yes, he’s that good-looking.
the sharp line of his jaw, the shadow from the rooftop light brushing across his cheekbones, the way his hair falls just right into his eyes when he tilts his head back, it’s a whole aesthetic. you think, you could probably find a picture like this somewhere on pinterest. every small movement is deliberate and careless at the same time, like he doesn’t have to try and yet he owns the rooftop. you catch the way his shoulders flex under his jacket when he exhales, the way the smoke floats around him, haloing him like he’s some dangerous angel who doesn’t realize he’s already stolen your attention.
you think, probably too obsessively, that it’s unfair. that someone could look like this while smoking a cigarette on a random rooftop in gotham and make the whole city fall away around him. that the casual ease, the way he tilts his neck, his adams apple bobbing … it should be illegal. your brain keeps looping, over and over, because of course he’s hot, of course he’s jason todd, magnet of trouble, trouble you’d follow anywhere, and somehow he makes it look effortless.
“—- she’s delirious. i mean, look at her. can’t even think straight half the time, can’t stand on her own two feet without that idiot clown dangling over her shoulder.” he finishes his rant about whatever was bothering him most, today it was harley, dragging on the cigarette and letting the smoke trail lazily into the wind.
you nudge him lightly with your elbow. “be nice.”
he flicks ash over the side without looking at you, eyes fixed on the horizon. “it’s reality. she’s attached to a maniac, can’t leave him, can’t even defend herself properly. it’s pathetic. every time she opens her mouth, it’s like… it’s just nonsense. can you imagine following someone like that into battle? jesus, she’d get herself killed in five minutes.”
you can’t help the tiny smile, even as you roll your eyes. you watch him as he says it, the cigarette curling between his fingers, the tilt of his head, the flash of light off the edge of the rooftop glinting in his hair. your chest tightens a little, not because he’s mean, exactly, but because he’s so right in the way only jason can be. and also… hot as hell while being completely savage. “you’re enjoying gossiping too much,” you notice.
you huff, half in protest, half in awe. “i’m observing,” you correct, because yes, it’s unfair. yes, he’s infuriating. yes, your heart keeps catching every time the smoke curls around him, that smirk, that impossible posture. you can’t stop thinking about how much of a mess he makes you, messy thoughts, racing pulse, the way your chest tightens.
“observing, huh?” he teases, leaning just a fraction closer, eyes glinting, smoke drifting into your space. “come here. “
you barely get a breath in before his hand is on your jaw, firm, warm, calloused from too many nights of work. he turns your face toward him and your pulse jumps, traitorous, loud enough you swear he can hear it. his lips hover over yours, not touching, the distance is a precise torture. millimeters of heat, the kind that makes your lungs forget their function. he smells like smoke and leather and blood, the whole dizzying cocktail of jason pressed into the air between you. you part your lips without meaning to.
he notices.
jason’s smirk softens into something that makes your stomach flip, and then he exhales, a warm rush of cigarette smoke pushed directly into your mouth in one steady, controlled breath. you inhale on instinct. the taste hits you first, harsh, bitter, the kind of thing you shouldn’t want but somehow do anyway because it’s him. the smoke floods in burning at the back of your throat before blooming into something warm, fuzzy, almost dizzying.
your head swims. your heartbeat stutters. and maybe it’s the nicotine or the proximity or just the way jason stares at you like he’s unraveling you on purpose, but everything tilts, slipping sideways into haze, heat, and the electric awareness of his body inches from yours. you don’t know if it’s from the smoke or from the fact that your boyfriend is looking at you like this, like he knows exactly what he just did to you and is proud of it.
he drags his thumb along your jaw, slow, almost absentminded. “fuzzy?” he asks, voice smoky in its own right.
you nod, embarrassing, involuntary, too honest.
his smile is a slow, crooked thing, dangerous in the way only jason todd can make danger feel good. “yeah,” he leans in just enough that his breath skims your lips again, “that’s kind of the point.”
He hadn’t planned to get involved. He just wanted your douchebag boyfriend to shut up.
You’re at the bar, anger twisting your features, voice shaking as you call out your boyfriend for what he’s been doing behind your back and he just sits there, arm draped around the woman he’s been cheating with, looking bored. He didn’t even come here with you. He came with her, and he makes a show of it, grabbing her ass right in front of you, the whole bar eating up the drama like it’s the night’s entertainment.
You try to keep your dignity, chin up as you tell him it’s over, that you’re done. He just sneers, not even letting go of his side piece. “You’re not going to break up with me. You’ll come crawling back in a few days. Who the fuck else would want someone like you?”
The words hang in the air, heavy and humiliating, the entire bar watching. There’s a flush on your cheeks; anger, shame, the ache of being gutted in public. He goes right back to pawing at his new prize, never missing a beat. The room stirs, a few people exchange looks, but nobody moves. Nobody steps up.
Except for him.
He’s been standing at the end of the bar, nursing his whiskey, watching the whole thing play out with a dark, building fury. He doesn’t know you, not really, but he knows that look on your face; hurt trying to hold itself together, heartbreak turned to rage under the neon lights. And when your so-called boyfriend throws his last little dagger, something snaps in him. Enough is enough.
Now you can’t even catch your breath. Your head’s tipped back, mouth open, gasping for every shuddering inhale as he fucks you through another orgasm- deep, slow, devastating, hips rolling with a confidence you never got from anyone before.
His cock feels enormous inside you, stretching you out so perfectly it’s almost painful, but you’re greedy for it, clawing at his shoulders, legs trembling where they wrap around his waist.
He thrusts harder, and the words tumble out sloppy and shameless. “Fuck- oh god, you feel so good, so much better than-” You break off, whimpering, lost in the sensation, brain fizzing with the heat that spreads from your core to every fingertip. “Deeper- so deep- oh fuck- don’t stop, don’t ever stop-“
He fucks you through it, grinning, watching your face twist with pleasure. You mewl, you keen, high and desperate, not caring if the neighbors hear, not caring about anything except how good he makes you feel. “You’re perfect,” you babble, tears in your eyes, “No one’s ever- fuck, no one’s ever made me feel like this-”
His hand finds your jaw, thumb slipping into your mouth so you can suck, panting, eyes rolling. There’s a phone propped up on the nightstand, camera light glowing, and he glances at it with a lazy, satisfied smirk as you cry out again, coming hard around him. He keeps going, slower now, grinding in deep so you feel every inch.
You’re a mess; wrecked, blissed out, gasping, “God, you’re so much better than him- so much better, so much more-” and he leans over you, hand tight on your throat.
He looks right into the camera, smirking, voice low and cocky as he keeps thrusting, making you moan for the face time with your douchebag ex. “Did you hear that, asshole? She didn’t need you after all.”
And you sob, clinging to him, because it’s true; you’ve never been this full, this fucked, this wanted, and he makes sure you remember it with every perfect, filthy stroke.
Call of Duty: Phillip Graves, John “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Alejandro Vargas, Keegan Russ, Nikolai
DCU: Richard Grayson, Jason Todd, Roy Harper, John Constantine, Hal Jordan, Slade Wilson
Marvel: Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes, Eddie Brock, Wade Wilson, Johnny Storm, Peter Quill, Loki
Supernatural: Dean Winchester, Crowley, Lucifer, Gabriel, Balthazar, Benny Lafitte
summary: you have an oral fixation, & you have it bad. the fix? your boyfriends fingers.
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includes: jason todd x GN!reader, mature content (18+), shy!reader, oral fixation, finger sucking, mentions of oral sex, mentions of anxiety, mental health related undertones, kissing, ooey gooey love sick!jason, non- descriptive sex, no beta we die like jaybin, 1.7k+ words.
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A/N: for an anon request! i whipped this up real quick so hopefully it isn't completely unreadable... regardless this was fun to write & it definitely awakened something in me so don't be surprised if you see more of this sprinkled into my fics tehehe ;) just another quick reminder to some of the other requests in my inbox: i suck at requests lol! this might be a testament to that we'll see but i just simply write better without any prompts,, so my apologies if i never get to them but i still very much appreciate them & they motivate me in other ways to continue writing so keep em coming & i will do my best moving forward! ♣
You had been eyeing your boyfriend’s hands all week. The sight of those pale, scarred, thick fingers made your stomach flutter and your mouth water. You wanted to feel them, the press of them past your lips, to know the texture of those calluses against your tongue.
But instead of asking outright, you resigned yourself to staring. Like a half-wild thing sizing up its prey, hovering somewhere between fascination and aching need. All because you were far too shy to admit what you wanted. To ask would mean confessing your little… quirk. You had an oral fixation. And you had it bad.
You were almost positive Jason had some idea. I mean, he had to with how often you would desperately beg to suck his dick like your life depended on it. That, and the fact that you always seemed to have something in your mouth: gum, pens, candies, straws—literally anything that could give your restless mouth something to do.
But for some reason lately, none of that seemed to satisfy you. Not even his pretty cock did the trick; your mind was set.
It all came to a head one night. You lay sprawled across the couch, feet in his lap, the sleeve of his sweatshirt between your teeth as you watched—far too intently—the way his fingers moved across the controller. Quick. Precise. Scared knuckles catching the light every time he pressed a button.
You didn’t know how long you had been staring. Long enough that the cuff of his hoodie was dark and damp from where your mouth had been worrying at it. In your head, you kept trying to form the words—some way to ask, to explain—but each attempt fizzled out before it ever reached your tongue. The shy part of you always winning.
Unfortunately for you (or fortunately), Jason had clocked it the moment you sat down.
He didn’t look away from the screen at first. He just shifted slightly, one arm settling over your ankles, thumb rubbing idle circles against the arch of your foot.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, voice low, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all.
You hummed something noncommittal, teeth still sunk into his sleeve.
He glanced down, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know that’s my hoodie, right?”
You made a muffled noise, half-apology, half-deflection, but didn’t make any move to let go.
Silence stretched for a few beats, and stupidly, you thought that was the end of that. The illusion shattered the second he drew a deep breath and set the controller down on the coffee table, the game left to flicker aimlessly on the screen.
His hand drifted higher, thumb tracing lazy circles along your ankle, then your calf. You bit back a squeak at the feeling. What the hell had gotten into you?
“What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?” His rough voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. Those mismatched eyes of his pinned you in place, searching, patient, sharp.
“Nothing,” you said too quickly. Then softer, “M’fine.”
Jason huffed out a laugh, brushing his inky curls away from his brow with his free hand. “Uh-huh. Sure. You’ve been starin’ holes through me for days, sweetheart. You think I wouldn’t notice?”
Your breath caught. “I—wasn’t—”
He arched a brow at you. “You were. Wanna tell me why?”
You looked at him over the damp sleeve, pulse pounding, the knot in your stomach twisting tighter. It was such a small, ridiculous thing, but the buildup had turned it into something unbearable. He watched you knowingly for a moment, reading you in a way only he could, before tugging at your ankle and pulling you all the way up until you were straddling his lap.
“C’mon, sweetheart. We’ve talked about this—none of that shy shit with me. I promise nothing you say could ever change how I feel about you… you know that.” His voice was soft, eyes sweeping your face for confirmation.
“I know that, Jay,” you said, feeling a little sick at the gentle expression on his face. “It’s not you, it’s me. I just… I haven’t found the right words to explain it I guess.”
“That’s okay, dove. Just try your best.” He tilted his head, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone. You melted into his touch, anxiety slipping away piece by piece. He always knew exactly how to crack you with that sickly sweet tenor of his.
You gave the sleeve one last suck before letting the words fall out in a rush. “Ijustreallywanttosuckonyourfingers.”
His thumb froze on your cheek. Heat flared across your face as his eyes flickered down to where you had the hoodie caught between your teeth, then back up to meet your sheepish gaze.
“That so?” he rasped, voice lower than before.
You couldn’t read his face, couldn’t tell if he was mortified by your confession or if he felt something else entirely. Your brain felt scrambled, your tongue useless, all you could do was nod almost frantically.
He studied you for a long beat, then reached over and gently tugged the damp sleeve from your mouth. His tone softened. “You didn’t have to hide that from me, sweetheart.”
A shaky breath slipped from your lungs that you hadn’t realized you were holding.
“Didn’t wanna sound weird, I guess.” You shrugged, already feeling restless without the fabric between your teeth.
Jason’s hand slid from your cheek to your chin, holding your jaw as he drew you in for a slow, reassuring kiss.
When he pulled back, there was the faintest curve to his mouth. “Weird doesn’t scare me,” he murmured. “Next time, just tell me what you need, yeah?”
You shouldn’t have been surprised at how quickly Jason adapted to this, no questions asked. It was all the confirmation you needed to know he had definitely known about this long before you had even thought to bring it up to him. It had always been like this though, with everything, Jason just got you.
You nodded, the movement smaller and less frantic than before, despite the heat still clinging to your cheeks. You leaned in again before you could think any more into it, you took your sweet time kissing him, working your mouth in tandem with his. Every brush of his tongue against yours felt electric, you tangled your hands into his messy curls, desperate for something to ground you.
One of his hands held the back of your neck, locking you in place, the other that had rested on your jaw, briefly moved to brush back your hair. The brief absence of his hand only made the return of his touch sharper when his thumb settled on the dip of your chin.
You almost instantly pulled back, eager as you dipped your head just enough for his thumb to press on your bottom lip. Your mouth watered with anticipation, stomach fluttering as you searched his eyes in a silent question.
“Go on,” he said, his gaze never quite meeting yours, fixed instead on where his thumb rested against your parted lips.
You didn’t need to be told twice. You gave his thumb a hesitant kitten lick, testing and teasing before giving another. And then another before taking it fully. Your eyes fluttered shut as they fought to roll into the back of your head. You swirled your tongue around his finger, tracing every ridge and groove, and it felt like heaven—no surprise there. What did surprise you was the sharp, almost desperate whine that slipped from Jason’s throat.
Your eyes snapped open and caught his, dark and dilated, fixed on you with a heat that twisted your stomach.
“Fuck,” he murmured, rough and low. “Maybe I had a thing for this too.”
The words hit you like a spark. You giggled, muffled around his thumb, feeling the sudden, delicious weight of knowing you weren’t the only one entirely consumed by this.
But you had always been a wicked, greedy thing beneath your timid surface, and you wanted more. You kept working at his thumb—sucking, nipping, savoring the salt of his skin—and when you were ready, you slanted your hips against his, finding exactly what you were searching for.
The second you made contact with his thick, hard length, an involuntary groan ripped from your lungs, forcing his thumb from your mouth—a thin string of silver spit stretching between your lips and the tip of his finger. Jason watched the scene unfold before him in utter captivation, his mouth parted in a half-pant, half-silent moan, eyes flickering between his thumb and your face like he couldn’t quite decide which to land on.
“Holy fu—” he cut himself off before he even finished, maneuvering you in the blink of an eye. One moment you were in his lap; the next, you were pinned against the couch beneath the exquisite weight of him.
Your mind spun with the change of position, the feeling of his lips on your neck, and the anticipation of it all. But that dizzy, hazy feeling cleared the second you heard the metal clang of his belt being ripped off.
“Yes,” you all but cried. It would’ve been mortifying anywhere else, but not here, not when the thing you’d been craving was finally within reach. “Jay—”
He swallowed the rest of your words with a kiss that hit like a spark to kindling. Tongue, teeth, breath—messy and desperate. You could taste the restraint he was losing by the second. Every time he tried to pull back, you followed, hands knotted in his hair, his shirt, anything to keep him close.
It could’ve been seconds or forever before he tore himself away, both of you gasping. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged and hot against your lips.
“Sorry, I— I didn’t think—” he rasped, cutting himself off again, voice completely wrecked. You knew exactly what he was trying to say. His eyes were shut, jaw tight like he was hanging by a thread. “Is this what you wanted?”
You couldn’t answer him properly, not with words. If you could’ve, you’d have told him you hadn’t really known what you wanted when this started—just that strange, consuming need for his fingers on your tongue. But now that you were here, with him above you, breath heavy and trembling with restraint, you knew.
It wasn’t just what you’d wanted. It was what you’d needed. And somehow, he always knew.
But instead, you just opted for a simple and desperate: “Yes, yes, yes, yes Jay, please.”
That was all the confirmation he needed. He stripped your pants away, pushed your underwear aside, and in one beautiful, sweeping motion—he slammed into you and slipped his two middle fingers past your lips.
pairing. clark kent x fem spidergirl reader
in sum. you stop producing webs and to your chagrin, superman has the tech to help you. you’re desperate enough to ask, and like all things, your mission goes a little (very) awry.
word count. 8.3k
tags/content. 18+ mdni, humping & rough fingering, the suits STAY ON, pheromones and hormones, Weird metahuman anatomy, sex in a clinical (fortress?) setting, unclarified rut dynamics, clark whimpers agenda, identity porn and silliness
— my singular contribution to kinktober is the vague idea of metahumans having weird sensitivities and okay maybe clark licks ur web shooter don't ask....
METROPOLIS — Industry magnate Lex Luthor announced Friday trials for what biomedical professionals are calling a new frontier in disease treatment. According to a follow-up press release by spokesperson Talia Head, the effort—a window into the wider, secretive “Project Cadmus”—involved the creation of a new transgenic and radiation-treated species equipped with deadly venom that, in the correct amounts, could prove to be groundbreaking.
—
THE DAWN OF DOOMSDAY DOESN’T START with a galactic conqueror or an asteroid. It doesn't even start with Lex Luthor.
It starts with Superman—dimpled, cheery, annoyingly kind Superman.
And of all travesties, it also starts with the sore spinneret that’s been bothering you for weeks.
Which is to say, when you’re swinging above the sidewalk of East Siegel Boulevard with the afternoon wind screaming into your ears, you probably shouldn’t ignore the pain in your wrist and aim at the next scaffold because you’ll probably eat shit on the pavement for the third time this month.
So here you are: frustrated, face itching from your healing factor, wrists sore with the ailment that’s befallen you. You’re tucked into a serene alcove of brick-walled apartments and bodegas, licking your wounded pride with a hot dog in hand—because Queensland Park hot dogs make everything better.
Oh, and there’s this group of guys across the street who won’t stop dogging on you for your series of accidents, which unfortunately always goes viral within the first thirty minutes of it happening.
They’re a picture-perfect fraternity. Fighting the November wind in Met U hoodies and selvedge denim, gathered around the hot dog stand on the cracked pavement of the curb. Your mask pushed up to your nose, feet dangling off a billboard plastered with Zatanna Zatara’s drop-dead gorgeous face and a bunny popping out of her top hat.
You swear that she winks at you sometimes.
“You’re that Spider-girl on Youtube, right?” shouts one of the guys. He’s got a smear of mustard on the corner of his mouth. Talks like he’s from Bakerline, which is a long way from Queensland, but the hot dogs are objectively better here, so. “Do the splat!”
“No!” Your flustered shout is pitched in mortification. Blood rushes to your cheeks, embarrassment nestling behind your ribs. You’re about ready to rip out your hair inch by painstaking square inch. “Come on, man, I’m trying to take a lunch break here.”
“What the hell’s even up with you, bro?” another one of them asks.
You work your jaw, temples tight. “It was an accident. God, am I not allowed to make mistakes when I’m stressed out?”
Which. Yeah, stressed out is the understatement of the fucking millennium.
Working at a daily paper does that to people. Turnarounds so tight you can hardly breathe before you’re meeting fresh dead ends in sources and opening a new document for an article that’ll only last a day in print. News cycles are fleeting, but the pressure isn’t.
“Man, if I were you, I’d get laid. That shit solves everything.”
Raucous laughs; the frat guy who said it gets a handful of slaps on the back. You shove the rest of your hot dog into your mouth—salt and sweet bread bursts on your tongue—and crumple the paper tray in your lycra-gloved hand.
Today’s wind is good for a day of swinging. It’s unfortunate that your earlier incident has made you wary of shooting webs anytime soon.
It smells like salt and—weirdly—Brylcreem when you come to your feet. The skyline stretches for what seems like miles, stalagmites of Art Deco and Mid-Century modernist buildings cut-and-pasted together.
Sun’s resting in the sky at one o’clock. It’s about time you head back to work and deal with the rash of red-penned edits on your article, but...
You’re a little hesitant to leave now.
Maybe it’s the way the city looks back at you, tall windows winking with sunlight and pigeons cooing from under the eaves. Maybe you want to stay on your little perch for a while, let your heart swell with how much you love the mundanity of home in Queensland with all her bumper-to-bumper streets and quintessential sunniness.
Or it could be the group of frat guys who’ve elected to stop ribbing you and enjoy their hot dogs. If I were you, I’d get laid and the whole works. They’re kind of right; between cramped articles, malfunctioning drip machines, and patrol, you haven’t found a way to make time for a little action that isn’t web-slinging some mugger to the wall.
Or…the skyline. Clear and true blue and dotted with clouds you’d only see in an edited sitcom. Cut out by buildings that spell out hope in your heart, the earnest promise of truth, justice, and a better tomorrow.
Truth, justice, and a better tomorrow.
The idea crests out of the fatigued and stressed waters of your mind, leaps to your mouth before you’re able to stop it.
“Superman.”
It’s quiet. Not in a whispering way. Not even in a way that suggests a secret.
Just—there. Slightly defeated by the nag of something building up in you, the itch of needing to do something but being powerless to act on it.
You say it like the solution has fallen into your lap by pure coincidence. Like you should trace your lip with trembling hands after speaking his name.
The air stills in a slightly odd way, making the hairs on the back of your neck prickle to attention. A shadow falls over you, blotting out the afternoon sun, and the sound of a cape snapping softly in the breeze prompts you to turn around, meeting the eyes of—
“Holy shit, it’s Superman!”
The frat guys start scrambling to cross the street, dripping mustard and ketchup onto the pavement, hollering about dude, you’re so fucking cool, can I get an autograph?
You try your best to frown at Superman, but the glare of the sun peeking out from behind the crown of his slicked-back head makes it hard. You’re pretty sure you just look like you’re squinting to save your life.
He just grins back at you, puppyish with that signature loose curl falling over his forehead. Stands cardboard-stiff on the billboard’s rusted grate, as if he’s got livewire twined around his bones.
As if he isn’t actively encroaching on your patrol territory. As if he’s Queensland’s friendly neighborhood hero, which is your title.
The thing about this is: Superman might have won the hearts of the rest of Metropolis and the world, but this little borough, this little slice of 75-cent hot dogs and bodegas with cloudy windows is yours.
He thinks it’s his too. Flies over you sometimes, red boots scuffed at the toes, cape rippling in the breeze, smelling slightly like ash and Brylcreem.
You yank the bottom half of your mask back over your mouth. "Superman.”
This one is steadier. Colder, like you’ve finally remembered to tighten up and keep your reputation consistent.
He pinkens a little. Just a faint blush blooming from cheek to cheek, stretching across the bridge of his nose. Darts his eyes down to his feet, then back up to meet yours.
“You...” Superman makes a face, brow wrinkled and glittering blue eyes squeezing shut as he chooses his next words very, very carefully. More likely than not, he probably remembers the time you shot a web onto his mouth for saying something that was meant to dig under your skin, no matter if he really meant it.
He decides, while still finding great interest in a painted section of Zatanna’s glossy billboard hair as he mumbles, “You called for me.”
A heat burns under your mask, smolders in your ribcage. You’re blunt, but it’s a lot better than being sharp enough to prick, “Can we go somewhere more private?”
You fix him with the best stony look you can muster with dinner-plate lenses. Superman is just watching you with slightly furrowed eyebrows and a tilted head, like he isn’t sure but still half expecting you to say sike or jump at him.
“Oh,” he says. One short syllable straining under a metric ton of confusion, because you’ve never called for him before and hell, you’ve never been this nice either. “Like, I’ll meet you on the roof of…the Daily Planet, or something?”
Bad idea. You’d probably keep him waiting for hours while you sort out the trains to keep your glitching spinnerets closed, and you can’t afford to wait that long.
“No.” You shift on your feet, lycra flexing around your ankles. “Where’s your fortress?”
“Why do you ask?”
Frustration bubbles in the hollow of your throat. Hisses beneath your sternum, corroding your chest. “Just—god, I need your tech, okay?”
The admission swings in the air for longer than you’d like.
He’s stunned, for one. Eyebrows lifting and mouth corners wilting, blinking a few times to make sure that you’re stone-cold serious.
Kneads his next words very carefully in the pocket of his dimpled cheek before deciding on, “Is this about your accident?”
You can’t tell if the flare in your stomach is because you’re miffed or mortified. Superman isn’t supposed to do social media, unless he’s going on the Daily Planet’s account to debunk something with a selfie of himself as proof of identity.
But he does. And he’s seen you in your most embarrassing, dream-about-shitting-your-pants-at-school, viral moment of stretching out your arm to shoot another web and breaking your nose on the curb.
Oh god.
“Well—maybe. Maybe not,” you stammer to the same rhythm of your leaping pulse.
Superman breaks into a blinding, thousand-watt smile. Shines like you should squint or just stop looking entirely for the fear of being bestowed with something so purely good.
“I can’t believe it, Spider-girl is asking me for help,” he says, dimples winking at you chumpishly. Does this thing with his hands, shrugging a little before letting them flop back to his sides, like someone’s cracked a joke so unbelievable that he has to react to it physically.
You make a note to maybe—alright, definitely—be a little less curt with him.
“Sure,” you mutter, turning to the billboard and slapping your palm onto the glossy surface. It sticks, to your (mild) surprise. Who knows, anything could be happening with your powers. “If you want it that way.”
“Of course.” He says it with unbridled excitement. It’s definitely cliché, but he’s reminiscent of a kid set loose in a candy store.
But that’s Superman, isn’t he? The all-American son who comes out every year to root for the Meteors and gets spotted by meta-battle chasers eating a fucking hamburger on the corner of Shuster and Reeve.
(It’s kind of endearing now that you consider it. Maybe he isn’t so different from you—after all, you sneak out of work to grab hot dogs from Mr. Kreuk’s stand every Monday.)
“Then I’ll see you in…” you let the wheels in your head grind the math for you, sticking a foot onto the billboard now “…four hours.”
His face falls as you start scaling the glossy surface. “We aren’t going now?”
You grunt as you hoist yourself higher, palms and soles peeling and resticking onto the vinyl print of Zatanna’s perfectly poreless face. The breeze whistles softly in your ears, the sound of gulls from the bay singing along with the ever present backdrop of traffic noise.
“Unlike you, I’ve got a nine-to-five instead of a secret fortress. Rent’s not cheap in Queens.”
“Ha,” he laughs, though it sounds like he’s just suppressed a snort. “Yeah, I get it.”
“Do you now?”
You drag yourself upright, precarious on the beams behind the display. Looking down, you find that he’s still watching you from the grate, cape swaying gently in the wind with the barest impression of his dimple reminding you that he finds all this amusing.
“Yeah,” Superman stammers. Smiles, a little stilted, like he’s not quite sure of what to do with himself now that you’re leaving. “Midtown.”
You think it’s a hallucination at first. Maybe it’s a side effect of your broken spinneret. Maybe it’s just the weather, or a bug flying past your ear, or even someone else saying it.
You’re harsher than you intend to be. “What?”
“I said Midtown.” He shrugs like he isn’t taking it too personally because he never does, looking almost like some sheepish bastard when he repeats himself. “I live in Midtown. Rent’s a lot more reasonable, but I’d like to live here someday. Just…the atmosphere and general opposition to gentrification, I guess.”
Your breath stills, if only for a moment. It’s stupid, really.
How that presses at something in your chest you didn’t expect to be exposed. How that just makes Sense—yes, with a capital ‘S’—and fits right into the neat puzzle of Superman.
You’re the one who feels like you don’t know what to do with yourself now.
“Cool,” is what you manage after a stagnant moment, embarrassment’s shadow painting your neck. You jab your thumb over your shoulder in the general direction of the bridge to New Troy. “I gotta—”
“—oh, yeah, of course—”
“—get back to work, you know—”
“I know,” he laughs, hanging his head to hide whatever stupid grin he’s wearing on his face now. “I have a job too, so—”
You hold your palm out to stop him. “Okay, a little too much information. Don’t go spoiling the movie just yet.”
“Right.” Superman flashes that oddly charming, upside-down grin, dark hair shining under the afternoon sun and broad palm pressed to his nape. “You know how to call for me in four hours.”
“Yeah.”
“In a while, crocodile.”
And like that, the billboard rattles with the force of his takeoff, wind billowing over you like a wave on the days the shoreline gets crowded. His red cape arcs over the blocks, cheers rising as he zooms across the borough and towards New Troy.
You let out a slow stream of air and ignore the ache rolling through your chest.
He’s such a cornball.
—
“So, Miss Genius,” Cat picks through her words as you plop into a chair and roll toward her without a hitch, “I have huge gossiiiii—oh my god, did the office casual police jump you when you took lunch?”
You make a pathetic little squeak, tilting your cracked phone screen into the light and catching a glimpse of yourself.
“Girl, you look like you needed a matcha latte yesterday,” she adds.
You know you’re feeling a little frazzled, nerves bitten through by your encounter with the weirdly endearing Superman who lives in Midtown and quips cliché phrases.
But you look the part too: the collar of your sweater bunched up, cuffs folded at odd angles, mascara smudged. It’s a miracle that Cat—sharp eye extraordinaire—didn’t catch on to the glaring edge of your costume’s lycra sleeve peeking out.
You tug yourself into shape as she waves it off and dives into her next spiel.
“—and like, they’re so different but I’m kind of starting to see the vision.”
You clear your throat a little, just to make sure you don’t slip up and say something stupid like ‘I think Superman might really like Spider-girl’ or whatever is on your mind.
Cat’s got this story on some popstar and her new man. Says it’s groundbreaking because Little Miss Singer has been keeping it secret for months, but she’s got an exclusive interview with said couple, and she’s going to break a love story so sweet and sexy and whatever that the Planet’s entertainment column will go down in history, right next to GQ and People.
“Right,” you say, tilting your chin up to offset the mild discomfort now settling below your throat.
It’s not every day you rush back to work with only your wall-climbing powers and shove your clothes back on without changing out of your costume first. You really need to find the time to tailor the lycra again.
“Oh, hun, are you alright?” Cat’s neatly shaped brows furrow and she smooths her cool fingers over your shoulder. “You look a little ill. Is it stress? I think it’s stress—the news’s been heavy lately, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, lots of stuff going on this week,” you eke out. A tingling sensation needles at the apex of your wrists—spinnerets again.
You massage them over the soft cuff of your sweater. “Think I might be getting some carpal tunnel, too. All these edits.”
“Oh…” She leans a little closer, whisper conspiratorial, “Is it Clark again?”
Oh indeed.
Sweet, helpful, hapless Clark Kent. Who arrives late to work with the same Jitters cup in hand and never fails to smile despite having the misfortune of always catching the train that’s going to be delayed by an hour.
Smells like newsprint and ink toner and something country-like when he leans in close to point out problems in your proof prints. Writes his edits in the margins of your proofs in blue pen that smudges onto your thumb sometimes.
“No,” you keep it hushed, pushing down the image of your colleague’s tragically dorky grin, “it’s just stress, like you said.”
Cat’s look is pointed. “Really.”
You itch under her gaze, an exasperated frown pulling at your mouth. She always knows. “Alright, it’s Clark again.”
“Oh, hun…”
“He just—god, he’s so” —you groan— “ridiculous. He just can’t accept that Spider-girl sucks, so he’s taking it out on me because I’m the only one brave enough to say it.”
Which, of course, is probably the best cover you have ever thought of. No one would expect some lowly reporter to be Queensland Park’s honorary granddaughter, much less one that campaigns against Spider-girl as much as Lex Luthor does against Superman.
And alright, being the number one fan of every superhero, Clark Kent is probably less than pleased to have heard your opinions. For god’s sake, his hero tier list has everyone sharing the number one spot—excluding Booster Gold.
Last week, he said that he was ‘working on that.’
So. You’re about ninety-percent sure that he doesn’t like you. As in, vaguely displeased—not hate, because he just isn’t that type of man—with your guts.
He isn’t necessarily rude. But he does regard you with an air of faint I-don't-wanna-be-here, steels his eyes onto your forehead when he speaks to you and wipes the forever lingering smile off his face.
Cat’s jaw falls ajar, eyes zoning out to glance at something behind you.
You force a strained exhale through your nose, the inside of your cheek raw from how hard you’re restraining the urge to gnaw on it. Wheeling around in your chair, you meet the wide, curious eyes of Clark Kent.
“Hi, Clark.”
He flashes a sardonic type of smile, all bite and no bark. The kind that means to leave an annoying little papercut on your fingertips. The kind that makes something in your chest squeeze tight, like you’ve unwittingly become a stress ball.
“Hi.”
Doesn’t even say your name. Barely stands to make eye contact with you, opting to take the easy path and distract himself with Cat, asking about photo-ops and quotes and pretending you don’t exist.
So, yeah. You’re definitely sore, and beyond embarrassed at the fact that you are, considering you indirectly brought this upon yourself.
“Sorry, hun, you were saying?” Cat asks once Clark has cleared his too-large body from her desk, leaving only the faintest whiff of his cologne lingering.
Smells handsome, and that’s the only word you can muster to describe it. Makes you tilt your head slightly for more until you realize just how strange that is.
You’ve never chased a scent before. Hell, you make a habit of shutting them out, letting your sight and spider-sense to help you navigate during your vigilante hours.
But this is different. Addictive different. Dangerous different. Sets slow, dancing bells off in your head, a reckoning. Like you’re bating your breath and waiting for something to come to fruition.
“It’s nothing,” you tell Cat. She just gives you a polite, HR sort of tight smile.
When you settle back into your own chair and turn away from the slouched form of Clark’s back, you realize some familiarity to his cologne.
Brylcreem.
And when he says goodbye to Jimmy, and Lois, and even Steve, you work the inside of your cheek and stop holding your breath when he passes you without a word.
For the first time in your life, you’re going to be overjoyed to see Superman.
—
An arduous piggyback ride and several skin scrapes later, you’re shivering on the examination table, hard and painfully cold under your ass.
“It’s fucking freezing,” you chatter, lips now beyond chapped in the five minutes since you pushed up the bottom half of your mask to your nose. Lycra is far from an insulating material.
The Fortress of Solitude is a huge chunk of crystal stretching toward the clear sky like a stalagmite, every shard refracting with the light of the unforgiving Arctic sun.
It’s blue in here, the shade that reminds you of good days in Metropolis. When the clouds are sparse and everyone rushes to the verdant parks in droves, a sea of heads trying to find space on the grassy lawns. Or when you step out of the Planet with a freshly published article, which means you have approximately five hours to enjoy your freedom before you start another story.
A pale blue kind of feeling. Mellow. Peaceful.
The Superman Robots, as he so endearingly named them, are flitting around you while he fiddles with the workstation’s strange buttons and toggles.
Superman flicks a switch and a light buzzes on above you, warming the tender skin of your inner wrist.
Ouch—it’s pretty inflamed by the looks of it. Puffy, so much that you can hardly see the small slit where your web-silk is supposed to eject from.
A robot prods at it and you hiss.
“Sorry,” you hear Superman mutter from the console. He twists his mouth, brows furrowed in confusion. “No, that’s not right.”
Fingers fiddle around the knobs and switches. The pink tip of his tongue peeks out from the seam of his mouth as he dials one last control, and something comes buzzing to life.
“Oh, that’s it,” he breathes, a relieved smile rising to his face.
“What’s what?”
“I synthesized it,” Superman says. “The spider that bit you.”
You frown, panic skipping behind your ribs. Carefully, like you’re some wounded animal and not a metahuman vigilante, “How’d you know about that?”
He just tilts his head owlishly, says, “Well, it’s in your genome. Says here that your DNA was introduced to radiation via bite two years ago.”
“That’s a fucking secret, Superman,” you bristle, sliding your palm over your exposed wrist.
“It’s really not.” He frowns down at the displays lighting up the console, casually scanning the lines of alien language that leave your truth naked to him. “And you can call me Kal-El. Kal, for short.”
Is he fucking serious?
He blinks at you, twice. No change in expression.
He’s being fucking serious, you realize. And that sinks something heavy in you, the knowing and the guilt.
That you aren’t a born metahuman. That you, of all people and chances, were accidentally bitten by the radioactive spider that was supposed to save the world. The same spider that contracted some previous pathogen from your blood it hadn’t been exposed to in a sterile lab and according to insider reports, wiped out the entire test-tube-grown population.
You’re harboring the secret to superhealing that could cure cancer while Luthorcorp sweeps up the last of their failed experiment. And Superman knows and somehow, he can remake the spider.
You take a steadying breath, arms crossing. It’s a sign of nervousness, but people do it for a reason, and you really need that security when it feels like he can see right through your skin and bone, like he can see the unnatural spider venom fused with your platelets.
“Aren’t you scared that I’ll find you out with a name like that?” you ask, tone level. Another robot wraps a benign hand around yours, peels it back to expose your spinnerets to the air again.
You shiver at the cold pressing into the inflamed swells.
He hums. “It’s my Kryptonian name. Like you said, I’m not spoiling the movie yet.”
Kal—your brain stutters at the thought of calling him that—turns to face you fully, cape sweeping around his ankles in some way that mesmerizes you. Smiles, soft. Leans back against the console like this is just another Tuesday.
“Great,” you mumble, knowing he can hear it. “Now I have to come up with a fake fake name.”
An amused scoff leaves him. “Kryptonian,” he corrects.
“Right.”
Neither of you say anything for a while. Just let the silence breathe a little steadier than it’s been for years. Let the console trill between beats, something strange happening in a weird prism attached to the metal as Kal synthesizes the spider.
You remember it. A web-funnel, mutated. Thin legs that hardly grazed your skin before it sank its fangs into the back of your neck.
You still have the scar, raised and thick, a reminder of the great responsibility that comes with your power.
Kal forces an exhale through his nose. Tightens his fists and presses them against the metal.
“That’s weird,” he says, voice rumbling with frustration like a storm on the horizon. Clicks his tongue, dimples flashing as he bites the inside of his cheek. “I can’t print it.”
Your thoughts screech to a halt. “Print? As in, printing an organism from, what—a scab?”
“Well—it’s not really a carbon copy.” He tucks his chin in, almost bashful. “Krypton had rules against that kind of stuff. It’s more bits and pieces than a sentient body.”
“Still,” you say, sitting up straighter, “that’s sick.”
His eyebrow twitches. Mutters, “Why, thank you,” in a way that’s so stunningly earnest that it makes your chest kick.
You don’t know why the question comes to mind. You don’t even know why you decide to act on your curiosity.
“So, do you have any weird alien stuff going on with your body? Other than the flying, obviously.”
Kal pauses. The loose curl lazing on his forehead sways slightly.
Quiet, with his eyes fixed on his bright boots, “I…have glands. That secrete…”
He winces like it’s something to be afraid of. “Pheromones.”
Your face falls flat.
“Dude, humans have those too.”
“I know,” he says, quickly. A little too quickly. Pushes off the console to pad over, hands clutched behind his cape in a sheepish manner. Bastard. “It’s different, though. They’re sensitive to touch and swell up every few months, like yours.”
Juts his chin out briefly, signaling the undersides of your swollen wrists still turned up to the bleak ceiling. You suddenly feel too exposed, and not exposed enough.
Kal continues, thumbing the underside of his jaw, where the hinge meets the soft lobe of his ear. “It’s around here.”
“So,” your start trails off for a moment. “How’d you fix it?”
You don’t expect him to tell you. You surely didn’t think he would blush scarlet. Almost scandalized, as if you were spreading hearsay on the streets of Gotham, that damn cesspool of rumors.
And it’s strange, how that sight of his ears and whole face blooming with a pretty color throws your stomach for a loop.
It’s now that a Superman Robot decides to butt into a conversation it was supposed to be a background in: “Why, it’s relieved due to his cycle.”
“Five,” he warns, low.
You swear Five shrugs in exasperation, like a teenager sick of their mom nagging them to clean their room.
“Cycle?” Your face morphs into one of curious surprise. How interesting, that metahumans have such strange anatomy. “Do tell. Do Kryptonians menstruate?”
Five creaks. “No, they—”
“I don’t,” Kal butts in, blush darkening. He averts his eyes, avoidance heavy in his already broad frame. “It’s...” Flicks his eyes to the ceiling like he’s waiting for an asteroid to strike him down. “...sort of like a rut.”
You blink once.
Twice.
“Okay.” You don’t miss the way your own voice squeaks. Like you’re trying to keep it cool. Like you aren’t actively shooting down any thoughts about what Superman in rut looks like. “So, do you secrete fluids or anything?”
He groans, burying his face into his palms. Almost whines when he laments, “Jesus, no, but I don’t ask if you shoot web fluid from anywhere else, do I?”
You burn bright. Eyebrows shooting up to a high angle. Yank your hands out of the light and fist them in your lap. “Well, it’s not like I’ve tried.”
He considers you for a moment. Works the inside of his cheek. Steals a look at the console, which blinks in error-code red.
Kal sighs, motioning for you to scoot your legs over. You comply, and he perches on the edge of the table, broad hand held out like a white flag.
“Gimme your hand.” It’s accompanied by the slightest wiggle of his fingers. “Superman Robots, you’re dismissed.”
You frown, but you’re already reaching for him. Tentatively, of course. You still need to retain some semblance of nonchalance. “Why?”
His skin is warm. Comforting in a way you didn’t expect it to be. He smooths his thumbs over the delicate skin of your wrist, careful to not press too hard.
You shiver nonetheless.
“The synthesizer doesn’t print radioactive material,” Kal explains, under-breath. Just on this side of loud enough for only the both of you as the robots march away. “But if I know one thing about swollen glands, it’s that they’re in need of release.”
A thrill of frisson races down your spine when he gently, ever-so-slightly brushes over your spinneret. There’s a difference to being touched by another, you learn, instead of yourself or a robot.
Feels like connection. Like your nerves want to shoot themselves out of the tiny little organs in your wrist and wrap around Kal’s careful fingers.
“See, when mine get inflamed, I soften the outer edges and progress inwards,” he continues, voice a lull in this too-bright, too-clean room. “That way, everything has somewhere to go.”
You hum, eyelids fluttering at the sight of his thick fingers soothing small circles on your skin. “You never told me whatever else happens during a Kryptonian rut.”
He pauses for a split second. Sits a little stiff, but keeps going even though his flush is returning. “I…can take care of myself, Spider-girl. There’s no need to wonder.”
The double entrende is so obvious that you fear Lex Luthor would outright call him dumb and not some pretentious, poetic word that would otherwise further emphasize naivete.
A soft laugh escapes you, bitten off at the end because he’s rolling over the tiny opening of your spinneret and god, stars burst in your head. Heat flickers in your cheeks, an unexpected wash of breathlessness sparking against your diaphragm.
“Funny,” you strain, trying to ignore the slow creep of something now curling in your belly. It’s quiet, and Kal tilts his body toward you just so to hear. And since when did Brylcreem and whole-milk smell like needing to shift your hips?
You mean for it to be a joke. Just something that had floated to the surface at the last second, and already, it was too late to stop yourself:
“Y’know, those fanboys were all about getting laid to destress.”
Kal pauses in his kneading of your wrist. The swelling has decreased, but your skin is still hot—less from the inflammation though, and more from the neck prickling, stomach somersaulting, would-Kal-be-good-at-kissing wrecking havoc on your body.
He studies you with a look that is just this side of hesitant. Parts his mouth a few times, not sure of what to say.
It’s now, with a maybe hanging in his shoulders, this slow breath he takes as he weighs his options, that you remember something Jimmy had shown you last week.
It was Kal, slamming into a metahuman at full-throttle. Jimmy quipped something about taking a punch and Superman unbarring the holds. Despite the gross underestimate you’re mentally trying to calculate, you think you could take it. You could keep up, if he’d let you.
He might be thinking the same, because he shifts his hold on you and guides your limp, unexpecting hand toward the underside of his jaw. Your fingertips brush against the soft, warm spot he showed you earlier, and he shivers.
It isn’t one that comes from the cold—it rips down his whole body in such a visceral way that you can’t help but hold your breath. It comes out in a shaky exhale and fluttering eyelids. The gland pulses under your touch, and you can feel how his blood is rushing faster beneath the skin, how the air ripens with a sweet, slightly earthy scent.
Like cinnamon in oatmeal on a chilly morning. Like an old, threadbare shirt that’s just small enough to be criminal, freshly dragged out of the dryer and warm on your skin. He smells unbelievably good, in a way that sets off a bloom of warmth over the knob of your neck, just beneath your bite scar.
Hypothesis: you think his pheromones are inadvertently doing something weird to your hormones.
What’s worse, you think that the seat of your panties might officially be damp.
“I read,” he starts quietly, voice laced with a rasp. You feel high-octane, an anticipating thrill running circles behind your ribs. “That spider mating season is happening right now.”
“Oh, yeah?” It comes out shakier than you want it to be. Your foundation’s crumbling, embarrassingly fast. “So you think my problem’s gotta do with not being horny enough?”
“Maybe,” he rumbles, voice almost a groan. “God, I might have that problem too.”
Your stomach coils tight, the end of your rope fraying and sparking with electricity. You want to drown in his heavy, homely scent forever. Kal presses down on your spinneret to remind you to respond, and all you can manage is a restrained, “Gonna do something about that, Kal-El?”
It’s less a snap under tension than a thunderclap of desperation. Kal is bearing down on you in seconds, forcing your back to press into the exam table’s hard surface, and his nose is buried so brutally against the crook of your neck that you’re sure something might bruise.
You gasp, heart thundering in anticipation. He’s heavy on you, two hundred something of superpowered muscle and sinew. And that wave of pheromones crests over your head, crashes down like vengeance.
“You smell so good,” he rasps. That sets you off, and you start to shift your hips up slightly, just enough to brush against the quickly growing tent in his trunks. To believe they were silly—now all you want is to peel them off with your teeth.
He glances up at you, and his eyes are blown so fucking wide that your heartbeat ratchets up at the sight. Barely a touch and you’re both already wrecked, and you’re reaching up to knot your hand in the short strands of soft hair at the back of his head. Kal makes a weak little sound.
“Sorry,” you mumble, pulling him closer to trace the top of your nose over the swollen gland just under the love of his ear. It’s like something’s taken hold of your body and helping your hormones stage a mutiny. Satiation coils low in your belly, and an uncontrollably coy smile rises to your mouth. “Can’t help myself.”
Bottom lip tempting, eyes glimmering with alien stars, he asks with a plea woven into his voice, “Can I kiss you?”
It’s strange.
One moment you’re half-ready to use your adhesion abilities to make him stick as closely as possible to your body, and the next, you’re being splashed with the reminder that he’s only ever seen your mouth and he’s asking for that.
Which is arguably the most intimate thing two people could do. The thing meant for people in love. You don’t love Superman. Hell, before today you hardly tolerated him—but that was before you found out he lives like you, and he’s secretly softer than you ever imagined, and he trusts more than he should.
And the request lances through the tenderest part of your chest. He’s asking. Not demanding. Not just crashing his lips over yours like the movies, where the dramatic irony is present that these two people really want each other and don’t need words.
Kal is…hesitant. Gentleness chemically bonded to the calcium in his bones. Consideration glueing together every thought that crosses his mind.
You hum, the thought of him treating you like a lover settling next to the desire piling in your stomach with uncharacteristic quietness.
“Wouldn’t that be improper?” you deflect. You betray yourself, though, sneaking a glance at his parted, pinkened mouth.
He cranes his neck to find a sweet spot you didn’t know you had—just beneath the swell of your throat—and you suppress the choked sound begging to escape from you.
“Is it?”
Wry, “You tell me. Kissing on the mouth is meant to be somewhat affectionate. Elicits chemical response, nerve endings, blah-blah-blah, et. al.”
He smothers an amused huff into your skin, broad, warm hands kneading slow circles over your hips. Smiles against the slope of your neck. Breathes deep, voice hoarse, “‘S there something wrong with that?”
“You hardly know me.”
“I know.” Kal pauses to crack a smile. It’s real. Genuine. Makes your heart leap to heights it hasn’t before. “But I admire you. I want to know you.”
And fuck, if that doesn’t land. He wants to know you. For the first time, the suggestion doesn’t sound half bad.
Still, you decide to blame it on pheromonal-slash-hormonal mutiny when you tug him closer by the curls to kiss him.
Kal’s sigh is full-bodied. Tension evaporates from his bones. The sound he makes is less a moan than quiet acceptance of pleasure.
Sparks fly in your brain, ricochet down to your core. Feeling his plush lips sliding over yours in such a cradling, gentle way does something to you. Placates the storm boiling in your lungs, calms the thundering of your heart.
Feels almost right, in a way.
You let your instincts take over. Let one of your hands trail down to find his, guide it to wiggle between the waist seam of your costume. Need pulls at you, sharp and incessant.
The soft, whispery sounds leaving his mouth between increasingly hungry kisses are getting a little louder, a little more desperate. Wanton. Needy.
They finally reach a peak when he dips his hand beneath your waistband, nudges aside the thin panties you wear under the lycra. When his fingertips prod at the wet spot in the gusset. When you feel something go pop, or release, or just float away from your skin, and suddenly you can smell something sweeter and familiar mingling with Kal’s scent, and he just grinds his hardness into your thigh without warning or shame.
“You have glands?” he manages, dipping down to lap at your exposed neck. You shiver when he moves to another spot, his spit drying to the frigid air of the fortress. “No wonder you smelled like heaven.”
You’re just this side of lucid, but you can tell it won’t be long before you’re lost to delirium. Already your head is cottony, hardly tethered to gravity.
Another experimental grind into your thigh sends you into near frenzy, nerves going haywire as Kal breathes sweet nothings in your ear, broad fingertips slowly stroking over your cotton-covered cunt.
Waiting. Biding his time with pupils dilated so wide that they make you feel small. Frisson shoots up your spine when he presses a little hard, toeing the boundary.
Then it happens. It shouldn’t have been so significant, but here he is, responding to your half-cracked moan with one of his own, punctuated by a rock of his clothed cock.
You burn. But the desperation is getting to you. Like spinning-vision, chest-kicked-in desperation. The kind that makes you abandon all sense and plead, softly, “Please?”
Kal hiccups into your shoulder, hips rutting faster onto your thigh as he scoops your panties to the side. He blazes his fingertips through the wetness gathered at your seam—you shiver. Works his index finger in with hardly restrained enthusiasm, and you tighten your legs at the raw stretch.
He falls into line fairly quickly. Puts his superhuman adaptability to the test, taking only a few rocks and a crook of his finger to find a spot that makes you keen into his soft curls. Fireworks whistle in your core, and you’re helpless to the grind that takes over and makes you jerk your hips to meet the moment he sinks another into your cunt, down to the hilt.
You feel like a fucking teenager with him at your neck and you buried in his hair. Him throwing his weight behind the dry, wanting thrusts he’s pushing against you and you squirming as he finger-fucks you like a means to an end.
He rolls his thumb over your clit.
To clarify: he rolls his thumb over your clit. Fuck.
Kal responds to your gasp with a whimper of his own, breaths coming short and fast. Teases you again—and then another again, and over and over until the soft sounds leaving your mouth are the only thing you can hear over his low moans—the rough pad of his fingerprint catching on your nerves like a spark lit too bright, burning up too fast.
You’re at the edge of your wits.
Then he does the unthinkable. Well, as unthinkable as having his fingers in you, which was unthinkable an hour ago.
But this is somehow worse, and simultaneously the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
Kal takes your wrist. It’s terribly unfair, the way his hands are so skillful, gently smoothing his thumb over your still-swollen spinneret while the other does the same to your equally sensitive clit.
And he brings it to his mouth, scrapes his tongue hot over the tiny slit in your skin. You think you feel a vibration of something—a choked-out moan. Maybe your name, whined quiet like a question.
You can’t tell. You’re already cresting, mumbles pitched into his sweet-smelling skin, “Kal, Kal—fuck, that’s—”
He fucks you through your orgasm, even when you’re letting out an embarrassed whine at how the euphoria takes you, how control slips from your grasp for just a second. How he moans loud and searing into the skin of your wrist as a little spurt of web fluid escapes your spinneret.
And he fucking swallows it. This goddamn freak.
Your breaths shiver as you float down from your high. Between this moment and the next, Kal has stopped rutting your thigh, and a tacky heat blooms just above your skin.
Did he...?
“Shucks,” he gasps, unlatching his mouth from your skin. The sight of your spinneret, clear of any inflammation, greets you like a guilty accomplice. A spidery string of web fluid trails from the corner of his mouth. Repeats himself, a little clearer, “Aw, shucks.”
“What?” you croak, blinking a few times to readjust your vision. The pale ceiling swims above you.
“Nothing,” he stammers, shifting his hips guiltily. Slowly works his fingers out of you, coated to the knuckle with your arousal. You long for the ache, even after the sharp pull in your gut has subsided.
“Come in your trunks like a virgin?”
“Spider-girl!” He rushes to sit up, facing himself away with his ears tinged in a mortified scarlet. “That’s improper.”
Hypocrite.
You wiggle the waist of your costume back over your hips and prop yourself up on your elbows. “So, putting your fingers in your mouth isn’t?”
Kal freezes, caught. Angles his head slightly to glance at you from his peripheral, and there those skillful digits are, resting on the plush of his slick bottom lip. And if that doesn’t send a sharp sting of need through your chest, you’d be a traitor to human nature.
“You win,” he mutters, eyes flicking up in a manner so petulant you’re almost endeared by it. “You do taste good. I should collect a sample next time.”
You’ve half the urge to preen at that. Or smile. Or duck your head down and let the flush come to your cheeks, because Superman is pretty sweet for a guy who doesn’t know how to mind his own fucking business and leave you alone in Queensland Park.
“Next week, then?” you ask, pulling down your mask. Just to tease. Prod. See if he blushes on command.
He leaps into some semblance of properness, spine straining like he’s been drawn, quartered, and trying to keep himself together. His blush is blotchy, sitting somewhere between souring from panic and unfurled flustering.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammers. Some shy bastard he is. Real slick.
You’re wry when you counter with, “Well, I did. Your glands are still swollen.”
Kal considers you for a moment. Really looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out your inner workings. “So you’re suggesting we continue collaborating to offset our unfortunate biological responses.”
Well, said like that, you’ll admit that you would be floundering for your words too.
A sudden flare of meekness smokes between your lungs. “Sure.”
He tucks his tongue into his cheek, a secretive grin blooming at the corners of his mouth. That shouldn’t make something uncurl in your chest. Shouldn’t make your stomach leap like it does.
“Then next week, Spider-girl.”
—
You’re still thinking about Superman when you clock into work the day after.
How he smiled like you were the only person in the world. How he clutched you so gently when he flew you back to that billboard in Queensland, did a flip in the air when you asked.
Or how he stopped halfway into the trick, hovering upside-down in the air, cape fluttering right-side-up in the rippling wind. Grinned at you all coyly. Kissed the junction of your neck, right over the same spot he had moaned into an hour earlier.
Said goodnight, Spidey with a silly little wave and dimples winking at you, as if he was oblivious to the heat starting to simmer in your core again. Maybe he was. You like to think that he wasn’t.
“Woah,” Cat says, the click of her Louboutins grinding to a full halt. The ice in her matcha latte—oat milk, jasmine syrup, 60% sweetness, and it's already beading with condensation—shifts by a hair before falling still. “Well, Miss Genius, I’d say you have a glow about you.”
You flash a nervous grin, trying not to reveal too much. God knows how bad the gossip bug infects Cat Grant when she notices someone is just a sliver off from yesterday. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she ponders. Nods slowly, hair bobbing along with her. Purses her lips in that hint-hint, nudge-nudge way she does, trying to be inconspicuous about her interrogating. “Did you and Clark manage to sort things out somehow?”
A flash of cold sears down your spine. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, hun, he’s positively bioluminescent.” Cat tilts her head like a—well, a cat, as she is so aptly named. You’ve half the mind to quip something about curiosity killing, but you follow the angle of her head and oh.
Clark is positively bioluminescent. As in, the sun is filtering in from one of the high windows, and he’s bobbing his head to a song only he knows like a metronome, and are his feet fucking swinging under the desk?
What the fuck’s got him so cheery?
“So how was it?”
Cat’s wearing her Cheshire grin like a vintage fur coat found in new condition, eyes wide and imploring behind her huge glasses. You stuff down the panic gripping your heart and turn back to your article, fraught with annotations from the layout editor—because of course your shit doesn’t fit in the page without needing to fuck with the VA.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you breathe, propping your elbow against your desk so you can tuck your mouth behind your hand. “I’m a little too busy to be sorting anything out, especially with Clark Kent.”
“I’m talking about sex. And I’m gonna find out who the hell it was that’s got you badly hiding a lovesick grin—yes, I can see it—behind your hand.”
“Jesus, Cat, can’t I come to work with a little pep in my step?”
“No, you can’t.” She throws her head back with a mini cackle, heels resuming their usual chic click against the bullpen floors as she struts back to her desk. “I’m onto you, genius!”
“Good to know!” you call after her, heart still racing. Fucking hell.
Someone lets out a soft snort from across the room. You zoom in with your hearing, the hairs at the back of your neck prickling—it's Clark. A barebones grin rests on his lips as he shakes his head in slight amusement.
Whatever. It’s not your business, especially with a guy who seems to dislike you so much for a simple opinion.
It doesn’t matter that Cat thinks he’s wearing the same post-sex glow you’re wearing. Really. It doesn’t.
And it doesn’t matter that you can smell the faintest thread of Brylcreem either. Or that his hair is strangely familiar now that you’ve seen Kal’s curls in wrecked disarray. Or that the bow of his lip weirdly, uncannily known to you.
You grumble and wretch your screen to obscure your view of him.
Right. You have work to do, articles to finish, layout editors to argue with. And you have another date with Superman in one week.
So whatever Clark is up doesn’t matter.
Seriously.
note: hiii just a disclaimer that i do not have a part 2 in the books.... "but june what if u do have a part 2 eventually!!" i mean this as kindly as possible but eventually = an eternity, so please do not ask me about any continuations because you will Know if i am writing a continuation :))
in which, TALIA AL-GHUL has not been oblivious to your love-sick and desperate advances; a weakness in which she must correct.
‧₊˚✩彡
includes: talia al-ghul x fem!reader, assassin!reader, trainer!talia, slowburn, mature content (17+), hints of internalized homophobia, brief kissing / making-out, finger sucking, fingering, slight dumbification, power imbalance, subby!reader, dom!talia, fingering, slapping, face sitting (reader receiving), forced orgasms, hair pulling, brief sword-play, "ma'am" kink, degradation, overstimulation, dialogue is supposed feel.. professional / old-timey, 4.9k words.
‧₊˚✩彡
kinktober masterlist.
THE WHISPERS, no matter how hard the others tried, were always bound to make their way to you. falling from the sickeningly envious mouths of fellow assassins-- there was almost no doubt you'd find out about the snaking tones they carried, doused in jealousy and hot, hot, hot rage. nothing ever got past anyone in the league-- much less you.
and that was the issue.
you were the league's greatest gift after all; blessed with the brutality and insensitivity to the harshest of work, higher-ups respected you miles beyond the treatment any other assassin received. they nodded when you walked through meetings and smirked when your performance in training was nothing short of impeccable. best of all-- they congratulated talia on her phenomenal teachings, her protege yielding results much better than any one could have expected.
talia would nod, thin-lipped and curt. her mask of indifference was impenetrable in such settings-- though you always saw the glint in her eyes that followed. her chin would tilt upwards ever so slightly, and her shoulders would un-tense. pride.
you liked to make talia proud-- liked to see her relax, liked to see her gloat. so your achievement was static-- nothing short of perfection, punching, kicking, killing with a routine steadiness-- all for her.
for the longest time, you couldn't understand the reason behind this obsession you had-- just why her presence evoked such a forceful need to please. but you didn't question it-- couldn't question it, not when her approval was so compelling, so intoxicating.
alas, the rumors began. floating through-out your colleagues through bitter glances and snide remarks; eventually mangling themselves into harsher strikes during training and mistreatment when your leaders were not looking.
( "for god's sake," one of your fellow assassins sneered, teeth baring at you as she held impossibly tight onto your upper forearm. "can't you let one of us have the spot-light? must you be so selfish, so irritatingly powerful, all of the time?"
your feet swatted out from underneath you, causing the girl to lose balance and fall to the matted floor of the training area. she yelped, and in that time, you had managed to pin her underneath your body-weight, pressing into her back with your elbow hard. "i am not understanding of what you mean," you had replied through gritted teeth, "if you wish to be praised by our trainers, perhaps you should fight like it."
the girl groaned from underneath you as your elbow dug into the back of her ribs-- but you payed her no mind, vision dancing upwards to where the trainers were all observing the spar. eyes darting to talia, you saw her own flicker with satisfaction. 'again,' they murmured to you. so that's what you did-- fought victoriously against every other assassin they threw at you, barely breaking a sweat.
again and again and again. )
but what did it matter? none in the slightest, to you; the league members around you could be as bitter as they liked, for they were not the ones on the receiving end of talia's affections like you were.
perhaps affections was too strong a word, though; despite your spars and missions being executed flawlessly, talia took her delight in your victories impersonally, however praised she may have been. it was clinical, detached, her relationship to you. beyond your extensive training sessions, she barely offered you glances at meals or the curtesy of greetings outside of the mainly professional settings you were both always in. pondering this for longer than you would have liked, one night in the small privacy of your quarters, everything suddenly fell into place. it was glaringly obvious, now, why you clung onto every glimpse of approval she sparingly offered; why the rush you felt when she smiled at you, her younger protege, was so terribly intense.
you were to take what you could get, you thought, chewing at your bottom lip. the moon shone onto the sheets of your bed coolly, and something brazen sparked to life right in between your ribs. maybe, you thought in gluttony, you could force her to give you more.
and so that's what you had done-- and why, now, you had found yourself in an empty sparring room.
the cloth of your sports bra and leggings clung to your skin mockingly. your training session with talia was supposed to have begun almost fifteen minutes ago-- and if talia was anything, it was not tardy.
her absence was punishment, you could deduce that much; for what, though, you could not place.
sure, you had been overwhelmingly glued to talia's side for the past few weeks-- offering yourself to her in more ways than just a trainee; whenever she needed hydration or food-- you were there. if she needed an errand done, or something fetched, you had already completed the task before it could fall from her lips. at first, talia hadn't minded-- it was nice, having someone so in-tune with her every need, she needn't ever speak; it was just done. but after a while, your efforts had become obvious to the trainer. talia could read you like a book; although it would not have taken a genius to understand the shine in your eyes at talia's every breath in your direction. it was pathetic, talia had thought; and this infatuation was to be treated-- cured, instantly.
so she waited; in the shadows of the sparring room, watching you pace anxiously-- from corner to corner, attempting to decipher the punishment, understand where you had angered your goddess.
her voice broke you from your worrying, and made your throat tight. "you've been awfully attentive as of late," talia began, easily jumping down from the observing level of the sparring room to the mat where you stood frozen in place. "tending to my every need, as if.." with every step she drew nearer, and your pulse quicked, "as if your servitude could buy my affection."
you swallowed, and the sound of her heels clicking against the mat suddenly became an unwelcomed harmonization to your heart-beat, which pumped tauntingly throughout your ears. "i..." heat bloomed in your face, crawling up your neck like ants. "i don't... know...."
before you could blink, the blunt end of talia's sword connected with your ribs. air escaped your lungs suddenly, and you fell forward onto your knees. "stupid girl," talia sneered, peering down at you with disgust, "i believed i trained you better than this; better than to.. embarrass yourself, for someone's attention."
"that was never my intention," you sputtered, leaning backwards onto the palms of your hands as you watched talia come to a stand still in front of you. her shadow blocked out the minimal sunlight offered from outside, and the only distinguishable feature you could make out on her face was the glow of her emerald irises.
talia tsk'ed, using the blade of her sword to press against your chin; it tilted upwards to meet her gaze, sweat pooling at your hairline. "oh, but was it not?" she questioned lowly. "it's a weakness," talia countered, "you do know better than anyone else how we treat weaknesses, don't you?"
you were nodding before you could think, and the tip of her blade pressed further into your chin; it was a miracle she had not broken skin yet.
"speak." she commanded. "i have trained you to speak when you are spoken to, have i not?"
"you have, i apologize," your own eyes lowered, lashes fluttering against your cheek.
"you apologize to who?" talia asked, suddenly bending down to meet your eye-level. you could smell the intoxicating scent of her perfume-- jasmine and lavender-- as it radiated off her; much like what you assumed was frustration.
there were few times you were able to look upon talia's face so closely-- every beauty-mark, freckle, scar, painted across her face with such perfection it almost wounded you. "you, ma'am,"
there were even fewer times you had witnessed talia smile. often a seldom woman, there was little to smile about within her life and line of work, which blended messily in a conglomeration of rigorous training and strict habit. now though, the tiniest grin broke out across your trainer's lips; "good girl."
something within you sparked immediately to life-- it burned at your ribs, and made your core suddenly sop. shame should have been crawling up your spine, enveloping your mind-- this was the woman you looked up to!-- but you couldn't seem to get past this rush of infatuation every blink she offered gave you. it was as if every second glance she had given as a reward for your fighting was multiplied tenfold, and hitting you like a truck.
you couldn't fight the way your legs twitched closed, thighs pressing together to dull the ache that had bloomed at talia's attention.
"see," the woman scoffed, swatting a hand out against your leg to separate your thighs, "i've trained you for years, seen you as no less than my equal-- and you think i hadn't figured out what you really wanted?"
the hand she had used to keep your legs apart was suddenly on your jaw; her thumb stroked idly at your bottom lip, before entering your mouth. you gasped softly, taken aback at the gesture, though made no moves to stop her; in fact, you opened your mouth wider, inviting her thumb onto the plain of your tongue.
"ever since you started... shadowing me, without my request, i knew there was something you craved." talia continued, hissing ever so slightly at the sensation of you sucking on her thumb, "something more that you wanted-- something beyond the scope of our relationship as trainer and trainee."
there was a lapse in silence as her voice stopped-- the only noise being the tiniest of sounds you emitted as you continued to suckle on her digit. without warning, however, talia removed her thumb from your mouth-- grasping your jaw tightly in her hand, pulling you forward and closer to her frame. your faces were barely inches apart now, her breath fanning across your lips erotically. "say you wanted my attention." she whispers. orders.
the blush on your cheeks deepens. "i wanted your attention, ma'am."
talia hummed, inching her face closer to yours-- so close the proximity almost burned. "i don't reward weakness," she whispered, green irises darting down to the saliva-coated plump of your lips, "but obedience?" her hand trailed south, meeting the base of your throat and holding steady. "obedience i can work with."
you parted your mouth to say-- what? her name? to beg? you weren't sure-- but your lips parted, and your breathing hitched all the same. "ma'am," you croaked out.
talia reeled herself away from your frame as you spoke, swiftly standing. her vision darted across the sparring room, before landing on a support beam in the middle of the room. she jut her chin in its direction, her index finger pointing idly at it. "go sit against it."
your body moved without a second thought, hesitation nowhere to be found as your back pressed up against the support beam. the wood was cold against your exposed skin, shocking your system.
"you've trained your body so well, to obey to every command," talia spoke, admiring her nails idly-- as if she was bored by this entire ordeal. "but it seems i've found an area i, shamefully, had not thought to focus on," it was not long before talia was stood in front of you again, this time resting a palm flat against the wooden support beam to lean over your frame. "your mind."
talia cleared her throat to speak again. "tell me," she uttered, using a foot to shove your thighs apart, "what else did you want from me?"
when no words emptied themselves from your throat, simply at a lack of an answer, talia's voice filled the space again.
"what did you crave when you were following me around like a lost little puppy, huh? what is it that you wanted, every time you kneeled at my feet, offering me things i did not request?" her tone was mocking; clearly, she was getting more joy out of this than she was letting on.
"i.. i wanted you, ma'am," you whispered, feeling her stare intensify against you. "i realized there was something inside me that.. that screamed, every time you looked proud of me, every time you were satisfied with my work," your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you watched something in talia switch. "it's selfish, ma'am, it truly is-- but i could not bare to... only receive this affection from you during sparring hours, or- or whenever a mission was completed; i needed it far more than you can imagine."
your confession caused talia to falter, an emotion you could not place sweeping over her face momentarily. "you needed it," the woman repeated lowly, "do you know what it is like to need something so badly, you think you are going insane? do you think you have even a clue as to what yearning truly feels like? to want something so terribly it disgusts you?"
talia spoke with such ferocity, it was almost petrifying. this was now a woman you could not recognize-- her passion, her sentiment, her understanding-- blurring the edges of her face and turning her into a whole new human you did not know. it was startling, how quickly this evocation of emotions had occurred; how long had these unspoken feelings remained festering inside the second in command to the league?
"i do," you tried wearily. "god," you swallowed, running a hand down your face, "it brings such shame to me-- knowing the amount of nights i have laid awake, desiring nothing more than you-- wholly, unrestraint."
with your comment, you had expected talia's self-restraint to crumble-- you had expected her to fall to your level, pounce on you with such vigor it would have you seeing stars.
but that is not what happened.
at your comment, talia looked angered. dark eyebrows knit together and she scowled. "no," she suddenly argued, "do not speak to me of shame. especially when it--" talia faltered, and something rocked terribly within your gut because talia never faltered, "when it pertains to you, and wanting nothing more than to have you."
the hand that had been resting on the support beam suddenly found your hair-- and she yanked your face upwards to meet her gaze as she hovered above your frame. you winced, taken by surprise at her action.
"we should not be doing this," she rumbled, leaning down so that your faces were separated only by a few centimetres, "we should be training. that is what i am supposed to be doing--! and you're here, selfishly distracting me, thinking you can-- you can coax me into doing this with you, coax me into falling in love with you,"
your eyes widened, and for a moment, there was nothing you could say. "i--"
"no." talia spoke again, sneering again in your face. "you wanted my attention, huh? you wanted your compliance to my every need to get you my love," her lips ghosted over yours, and the low heart-beat of your cunt was growing all too consuming, "you don't deserve my love, nor my regard." she spat, voice lowering to barely over a whisper, "but i am not cruel. you wanted my physicality beyond sparring? fine, but you will not complain, and you will take it how i give."
talia's lips pressed firmly to yours, and she kissed you with such fervor it was dizzying. there was no procrastination in your movements as you kissed her back, lips parting to allow her tongue into your mouth had she wanted to. and she did-- because suddenly, her appendage was deep down your throat, consuming every sense you had. her hand tightened within your hair, yanking and pulling you closer to her with almost no struggle. when you both separated for air, her chest heaved as she spoke. "take off your pants."
fingers hooking into the waist-band of your leggings, you wasted no time in shrugging them past your ankles and letting them fall to the ground. talia's eyes bore into your core-- right where you felt your panties dampening-- and her lips drew tight.
the connection of her sword to the mats of the training area echoed lowly throughout the room. talia moved, slowly, inching forward as if this entire thing was not real and crawling on all fours, before she stopped right in between your legs. one of her hands, she brought to her mouth-- before spitting on two fingers, and immediately placing them onto your cunt. the wetness from her saliva combined with the slick from your pussy as she shoved her digits underneath your panties; inhaling sharply once she felt how aroused you truly were.
talia's fingers danced methodically at your clit-- rolling, pressing, teasing the bundle of nerves with no regard for your own release. she worked strictly against your folds, learning and adapting to your responses; training herself to the tune and song of your body.
her silence was not to be taken as dis-engagement, however; her pupils were blown wide, and the hairs raised on the back of her neck every time another one of your moans bellowed out throughout the room.
if you hadn't known any better, you would have assumed talia was just as aroused as you were.
shoving her appendages inside of you, curling suddenly, she spoke. it was low-- considering she had leaned forward, close enough to your body, to get herself inside of you. "is this to your liking?" she asked, though not of concern-- of the desire to learn. you knew your trainer well-- and could understand this was not for your pleasure, but to become knowledgeable in what you liked for the soul purpose of turning it against you in the future.
you nodded, head rubbing against the wooden support beam. your jaw had gone slack at her actions, eyes blinking furiously, willing your vision to stay forward-- willing them to not roll into the back of your head despite how good you feel.
"such a selfish little whore," she hummed, the heel of her palm grinding against your clit as her fingers continued to scissor in and out of you passionately. "begging for my attention, practically drooling over any and everything i do, just because you wanted my fingers in your cunt." at her words, the tips of her fingers found your g-spot-- and she was not merciful in her actions. curling and uncurling at a maddening pace, she continued to speak-- ignoring how your back arched off of the support post, or the way your hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly. "some of us have dignity," she uttered your name, and despite the disapproval it carried, it still went straight to your pussy, "some of us-- no matter how badly we want it-- must remain respectable when we want to be fucked by our protege."
you were gasping now, reality blurring as you slowly understood the implication of her words-- talia wanted you, too. though she had had much more restraint than you did; using that fact against you as she bullied your cunt.
"can you imagine that?" she laughed, chuckling lowly underneath her breath. "having to suppress the urges we have because we are honorable?" her fingers scissored again and again and again within your pussy, which drooled all over her hand needily. "clearly you can't. not when you're getting what you want."
"i'm going to cum," you say, suddenly, cutting talia off. her movements cease for a moment, and you cry out-- pleasure fogging your common-sense. though, talia begins to move again; her hand now pistoning three fingers in and out of you at a wild pace.
"cum then." she says simply. an order.
and your body obeys-- shuddering, your hips barely tilt off the floor as your legs twitch-- your orgasm washing over you with terrible intensity. you gasp, the breath stolen from your lungs as your cunt clenches around talia's fingers, strangling her digits with ease.
your trainer's movements, however, remain unyielding. she continues to finger-fuck you with the same vigor, her thumb pressing intensely at your clit. she does not speak as she does this-- does not baby you through your orgasm, and certainly does not let you ride it out; no, talia wants to keep you on that same high. she wants to keep you going, drawing out your orgasm drop by drop.
"oh, talia, i- i can't--"
talia's free hand releases your hair, and you felt a hot smack against the side of your face. the welt stings, and you yelp at the action. "that is not how you address me."
"ma'am--!" you cry out, hips thrashing at the sensation of her fingers continuing to work at your folds, her pace unrelenting.
"that's right." talia says, eyes darting down to your cunt and then back up to your face. "and i don't care if you can't take it-- this is what you wanted, isn't it?" she questioned mockingly.
"yes, ma'am, but i'm sensit--"
"i told you," talia interrupts, "you will take what i give." her fingers pull out of you momentarily, only to pinch your clit. your sobs suddenly rip through the training room, and talia pays you no mind at all. her hands continue to work at your body, one re-entering your weeping pussy and the other shoving the band to your sports-bra upwards to free your breasts. talia ducks her head, taking one of your nipples in her mouth and sucking.
your moans are certainly pathetic as she continues to lap your breasts, switching between each one methodically, all the while her fingers press against your g-spot intensely.
it's almost embarrassing, how fast your second orgasm draws up on you. you can barely announce it before you pussy is spasming against her hands, and your back is arching into talia's mouth as her tongue darts across the stiffened peaks of your nipple. wordlessly (but not silently-- no, talia groans as she feels you come apart on her hand), she continues to fuck you through your orgasm.
the corners of your vision are going white as you continue to cum, head lolling backwards onto the frame of the post. "fuck, ma'am," you whine, cunt beginning to pulse with pain as talia's movements do not let up.
another pinch to your clit has you sobbing again, although this time, real, fat tears roll down your face. your trainer's eyes dart upwards, before she peels off of your breast and-- without thinking-- licks the stripe of your tear away, tongue brushing against your cheek. "poor girl," she coos, fingers continuing to scissor inside of you, "when you cum again for me, i'll think about giving you a break."
"i cannot cum again," you argue, voice raspy from all of your moaning.
talia tsks, kissing down your collar-bone to your breasts again. "didn't i tell you not to complain?" she asks, before popping a nipple right back into her mouth, swirling it around her tongue. your reaction is stark, hips jutting against her palm even though the sensation of her finger-fucking you is quickly becoming all too overwhelming. "now you will see what happens to greedy fucking girls, who don't know how to accept what they've begged for."
✩✩✩
after your sixth orgasm, you think you have blacked out. all feeling in your cunt has gone, and you are unsure of how talia's fingers have not gone numb inside of you.
offering you a way out, however little you may deserve it, talia lets up. she finally reels backwards, withdrawing her hands-- only to wipe your cum and slick off on her assassin's uniform.
the woman sighs, before fiddling with her uniform's zipper-- letting it fall slowly, revealing her frame inch by inch. it's tantalizing. brown skin glowing underneath the subtle sunlight that snakes its way into the training room, talia peels off the rest of her clothes with ease-- remaining in a black lace set. "your poor cunt might break if i fuck it any longer," she coos, mock sympathy seeping from her words, "so i'm going to put mine on your face instead, and fuck myself on your tongue until i am satisfied."
her words spur you into action, setting your core on fire. before she can ask, you're laying backwards, scooting the majority of your body down and onto the floor-- the crown of your head hitting the mats with a soft thump. "please, ma'am,"
your pleading seems to please talia-- as the ghost of a grin washes over her face, and she hooks her black thong to the side, unveiling her own sopping pussy. "please what?" she questions, lowering herself onto her knees. hooking one over your chest, she stradles you-- her wet cunt mere inches away from your mouth.
saliva collects in the back of your mouth-- and your begging is without any thought. "sit on my face," you urge, hands tentatively moving upwards to grasp onto the plush of talia's thighs. they're warm, molding to the shape of your palms easily, as if they've been made especially to fit into your hold. "god, it's all i want-- let me make you feel good."
without warning, talia lowers herself onto your lips-- her taste and arousal encapsulating your senses. "god, thank you, yes," you cry out, tongue darting outwards to lick a stripe from her hole to her clit slowly. talia's hips stutter against your face, and you feel her nails dig into your scalp.
"yes," she moans, throwing her head back-- allowing long, brunette locks to flow down her back. "do that again--" she gasps.
you do as you're told-- flattening your tongue against her folds and passionately licking, her pleasure make your cunt throb. you moan against her pussy, the vibrations causing her to rock her hips harder into your face; grinding, fucking herself onto your tongue, chasing her own bliss.
"see," she whines, hips moving steadily against your face, "p-perhaps this is what we've been missing, this is how you can improve yourself tenfold," a moan rips though-out the sparring room, and talia's legs twitch from where they rest on either side of your head. despite this, despite her pleasure making it hard for her to form coherent words-- talia still speaks. "you have trained yourself to every breath i make-- taught you w-what i like, what i want," your hands squeeze at her flesh, hot skin melting in your palms, "but you knew-- this is what you wanted, right? to be underneath me, be devoted to and worship me," spreading herself impossibly wider on your mouth, talia's moans only increase in volume. "you knew you w-wanted to make me cum on your face, watch as- as i fuck myself on your tongue; such a lustful and selfish girl," talia groans, and you feel her cunt begin to spasm on your tongue, pulsing and throbbing in warning as her orgasm knocks the wind out of her lungs. "--god!" she yelps, eyes rolling into her skull as she cums all over your face, her slick coating your jaw and filling every sense you have.
reaching a hand between your face and her body, your index finger finds her clit-- and you begin to roll it messily, drawing out her orgasm, coaxing out another through the overstimulation as she had done to you. she protests, talia's hips bucking wildly against your face and fists yanking at your hair. "don't fight it, ma'am," you beg, tongue lapping at her hole, "please-- just let me keep making you feel good,"
"i--" talia tries to argue, she truly does, but her body betrays her as she falls forwards-- suddenly grinding impossibly deeper against your mouth. a broken moan escapes from her lips, back arching at the sensation of your tongue curling inside of her and your fingers pressing intently at her clit. "god, i think i'm--"
"yes--!" you sob, legs spreading instinctively despite the lack of stimulation at your own cunt, "please cum again, cum on my face."
and talia does. hard. her body shudders on top of your own, legs shaking and thighs twitching at the sheer force of her second orgasm on your face. her grip on your hair loosens ever so slightly, finally, as she slumps over, chest heaving up and down.
there's a certain silence that radiates through-out the sparring room, along with the scent of talia's perfume, and sex. sitting up, the woman beside you swallowed-- collecting her breath, and whatever last strings of dignity she had. "well," she cleared her throat, reaching over for her uniform, "it seems as though your efforts have not been in vain, for i have realized that i, too, may have..." you watched talia falter, the tint on her cheeks deepening a romantic shade of red, "desired you more than i originally thought."
"and i am ever grateful for this, ma'am," you replied, sitting up as well. the cool draft of air wafting inwards from the court outside of the training room hit your skin, and you shivered. green irises scanned your frame easily, up and down with a practiced precision, and to your surprise-- talia moved to grab your articles of clothing.
"get yourself dressed," she ordered calmly, "for we still have training to do, don't we, my girl?"
loren's thots: me when doomed yuri. GUYS i am so sorry i have not posted in a few days, the guilt is literally eating me aliiive.... this piece just gave me, honest to god, the WORST writer's block ever and when i finally got over it, it was thanksgiving lmfao which!!! happy thanksgiving to all my fellow canadians! (shh... im a day late but whats new)
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