“Cassandra woke up to the rays of the sun streaming through the slats on her blinds, cascading over her naked chest. She stretched, her breasts lifting with her arms as she greeted the sun. She rolled out of bed and put on a shirt, her nipples prominently showing through the thin fabric. She breasted boobily to the stairs, and titted downwards.”
“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—”
“Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly.
You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.”
You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words…
God help you, it does something to you.
Or
Lex is the worst boss, he's rude, demanding, and downright evil but... you think he's kinda hot.
Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, humping, degradation kink, masochist!reader, drunken confession, power dynamic
WC: 4.1k
A/N: Nicholas Hoult is just too fine as Lex, I had to click-clack on my keyboard and write this.
***
Your boss might just be the death of you.
Just hearing his name gave you a headache. You even think about him when you go to sleep. Nightmares of a skyscraper-sized Lex towering over you for all your nights and days, not to mention the freaky sex dreams, but those had to be locked away somewhere dark and never spoken of.
He doesn’t tolerate anything. Not mistakes, not excuses, and definitely not tardiness.
So you rock up to work 5 minutes late and hand him his coffee, knowing this might just be your last day on earth.
“The coffee is cold.”
Fuck me sideways.
“I don’t want your excuses,” he snaps, before you can even open your mouth. “Do you think failure is something I reward here?”
You highly doubt it. Even so, it wasn’t your fault. The line at Jitters was impossibly long since the location nearest to LexCorp was destroyed by a giant lizard man of sorts. Plus, he never even really drinks the coffee; it’s “burnt swill” and far too cheap for his liking. He only tells you to get him one to make your life that little bit harder, like a complete dick.
“Mr. Luthor—”
“You can’t even bring me a hot coffee, and on top of that, you were late. Maybe I should just fire you and replace you with someone who knows how to use a clock.”
His words are like daggers to the chest, but you’ve built up a pretty good resistance. Better to grin and bear it. This job paid quite well, considering the soul erosion, and having to deal with his temper tantrums and occasional threats of defenestration (at least it wasn’t the pocket universe prison). But it had benefits, and a good dental plan.
“I should just build an assistant.”
You hold back a sigh, Lex has told you this a million times, the same rant just repackaged in a different way.
“...one that doesn’t whine and make excuses and disappoint me.”
He looks you up and down as if assessing you. Compared to other assistants, you had lasted longer and you hadn’t even run out of his office crying… you saved that for the drive home.
You plaster on your best fake smile, the one that says I’m dead inside, but still very employable, and offer with practised calm, “Would you like me to get you another one, Mr. Luthor?”
He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether your continued existence is worth the effort.
“…Make it extra hot,” he finally mutters, turning away.
“Well? Don’t just stand there like a malfunctioning Roomba. I need a hot cup of coffee.”
“Yeah, I know…,” you reply, voice tight.
“If it isn’t to my liking, it goes in your face.”
***
It’s a Friday night, and you weren’t able to escape Lex’s office until well past 9, finding yourself late for hanging out with your friends, again.
Now you’re at the bar, drink in hand, trying to shake off the day. You’re probably drinking a little too much.
“Slow down, tiger,” one of your friends teases as you take another big sip.
“Trust me, I need it,” you mutter, barely hiding the exhaustion in your voice.
“Why do you even work there?” your friend asks, half-laughing, half-concerned. “He sounds like an actual villain.”
“You know why. It’s good pay, there’s a ridiculous benefits package, and lots of free swag… I got an iPad last month, plus…”
“Plus?”
You hesitate, taking a sip of your drink. If you weren’t so emotionally drained and buzzed, you might have lied.
“Plus, even though Lex Luthor is the worst human I’ve ever come into contact with… he’s kinda hot.”
Your friend chokes on their drink, nearly spitting it out. “Excuse me?”
You shrug, face half-buried in your glass. “He’s evil, yes. Morally bankrupt, obviously. But have you seen his jawline? And his eyes are like…,” you toy with the straw in your drink, coyly, “So blue.”
“Seek help,” they laugh.
After too much drinking, your friends stopped you from climbing on top of the bar and loudly declaring your love for mozzarella sticks; it was obvious. You’d definitely had way too much.
“I can go all night, guys, like don’t worry about me…,” you slur, wobbling slightly as you point at no one in particular. "Imma party till the sun down."
“The sun is already down and you need to rest,” your roommate muttered, helping you into a cab like they’d done one too many times before.
“So stubborn….” you pouted, slumping against the seat.
The cab takes off toward your house, the city lights blurring outside the window. Everything seems hilarious for absolutely no reason, until your phone buzzes, and the name on the screen nearly sobers you up on sight.
Lex Luthor.
“Yello?” you answer, a little too brightly, still halfway laughing.
“I need you back at the office immediately,” he says, voice sharp and without patience.
You glance at the time. Midnight. You audibly groan for at least five long seconds. “You’re joking, right?
Silence.
“M’not going anywhere near the office tonight…” you mumble, pressing your forehead to the cool glass of the cab window.
“If you want to keep your job—”
“Oh, shut up, Lex,” you snap, startling even yourself with the boldness. “It’s midnight. I’m like drunk. I just tried to dance on a bar. I can barely spell LexCorp right now, let alone walk in a straight line. So, unless the building’s on fire or Superman himself is currently punching your face through your desk," you pause to chuckle a little at the thought, "...this is gonna have to wait until I’m sober.”
A pause.
“...You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”
You let out a snort-laugh. "Kindly, fuck off."
You hang up.
The cabbie side-eyes you in the mirror. “That your boss?”
“Satan.”
You get another call, his name flashing on your screen like a curse.
“I’m giving you one more chance—” he begins, already seething in anger.
“Just because you’re all rich and like, hot and stuff, doesn’t mean you can call me at all hours…,” you slur, words tumbling out in chaos. “Do I want you to…I dunno, fuck me into next week? Perhaps. Do I think that I'd make a most wonderful cocksleeve for you, most definitely, but… You can’t call me in when I’ve already left for the day, you psycho!”
There’s a brief silence on the line. You can almost hear him recalibrating, trying to decide if you’ve finally lost your mind or just your job.
“Y’know what? Suck my dick, Lex.”
And you hang up again.
The cab is silent once more.
You lean your head back, eyes closed, a smug smile tugging at your lips. For the first time all week…you actually feel free.
***
Waking up the next day, you’re dying, head pounding like a jackhammer on concrete, mouth dry, and vision blurred. You can barely open your eyes.
You can barely remember the night before…it was a chaotic blur featuring shots, mozzarella sticks, and some questionable dancing.
Your doorbell rings. Once. Then again. Then again.
It’s way too early to be doing anything. It's one of your only days free from Lex, your sacred, holy, do-not-disturb-or-you-die day.
The bell keeps going off like someone's leaning on it.
You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, stumbling over a pile of laundry and empty takeout containers.
“Just a second, damn!” you shout, voice hoarse, tripping over a shoe and narrowly avoiding stubbing your toe on the doorframe.
The bell keeps ringing until you yank the door open.
“Satan!” you screech.
Lex Luthor, in the flesh. Looking pristine. In a suit. On a Saturday.
Without hesitation, you slam the door in his face.
Nope. Absolutely not. This is one of your Lex nightmares or maybe a hangover hallucination.
The bell rings again, and your heart sinks like a stone.
You slowly open it. “M-Mr. Luthor…”
He pushes past you like he owns the place, surveying your apartment with a look of barely concealed disgust.
“How…quaint,” he mutters.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, still clutching the door like it might protect you.
“I told you I needed you back at the office. Since you decided to ignore my very generous warning, I’ve come to you,” he says, glancing at a stack of empty chip bags like they personally offended him.
You stare, still in pyjama pants and a shirt that may or may not have cheese stains on it.
“Warning?” you repeat, blinking in confusion, your brain still booting up through the hangover fog.
Lex’s face shifts into something worse than anger, an evil smirk, smug and dangerous. “You don’t remember what you said to me last night?”
“We… talked last night…?” you ask, already feeling your soul start to leave your body.
You’re screaming on the inside. No, no, no. You’re a loose cannon when drunk. Lex steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s savouring every syllable.
“Oh yes. You were quite… spirited.”
You clutch your forehead. “Don’t tell me I threatened you. Oh please, don’t fire me,” you whisper, feeling the weight of every reckless syllable from the night before crashing down like a building demolition.
You stand there, suddenly very aware of your penguin pyjama pants, dishevelled hair, and clothes from last night strewn on the floor. Why is he here? You wonder. To fire you in person? To humiliate you in your own home? To casually mention he bought your entire apartment complex and plans to bulldoze it into a LexMart?
“I’m not here to fire you,” Lex says flatly, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
You let out a huge sigh of relief and, without thinking, throw your arms around him in a big hug.
“Really? Oh, Mr. Luthor, I swear I’ll never let you down again, I—”
“Unhand me.”
You freeze, then awkwardly peel yourself off him.
“I’m here to ruin your weekend,” he says simply, adjusting the sleeve of his very expensive suit like nothing just happened. “There’s a crisis at the lab. A very expensive one. And my top assistant, unfortunately, is you.”
You blink. “So… this is punishment?”
“Correct,” he replies. “Put on something that doesn’t feature flightless birds and be downstairs in ten.”
He turns and starts walking toward the door.
You mumble under your breath, “I hugged Satan.”
“I heard that,” he says, without turning around.
***
He definitely didn’t need you to be there.
He was fully immersed in the crisis himself, typing, calculating, and talking to himself in that way that made you question whether he needed any staff at all. Meanwhile, you sat off to the side, bleary-eyed, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, trying to make legible notes while your vision pulsed with every heartbeat.
Your hangover was still very much present, despite the painkillers you'd downed on the way there. Every flicker of the lab lights felt like a personal attack. Lex’s voice was like nails on your skull, and he was hammering away, trying to break it.
“Keep up,” he snapped without looking at you.
You jumped slightly, pen scratching a crooked line across the page. “I am,” you mumbled, even though you’d zoned out for the last five minutes thinking about the breakfast you didn’t get to have.
He gave you a side glance. “You look like a dying Victorian orphan.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples and trying to will your brain back online.
“So you think I’m hot,” he says casually, not even bothering to look at you, just staring at a holographic schematic like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade.
“Huh? Oh—I, uh…,” you stutter, your voice cracking under the weight of your own embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking last night.”
The memories of all the unhinged shit you said came back to like a brick being lobbed at your head. It was beyond painful, you’ll never say the word “cocksleeve” again.
He hums, completely unfazed. “Clearly.”
You sink lower into your chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
“I mean… it was the tequila. Tequila makes me say things. It also makes me... emotional.”
That emotion was horniness, so it’s not a lie. Why couldn’t it be sadness? At least if you cried to him on the phone, you’d be able to see if he had a heart.
“For future reference,” he says, still focused on his screen, “if you’re going to confess your attraction to your boss during a drunken meltdown, at least own it the next day.”
You blink at him… He wanted you to own it? You could do that.
“I mean… well, yeah, you’re hot, but you’re also my boss,” you admit, voice a little shaky.
“Confidence is rare these days,” he replies, not looking away from the screen.
You chew on your lip. “It’s hard to be confident around someone like you.”
He finally looks up, eyes sharp but amused. “Brilliant?”
“Crazy.”
You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head, thinking about his antics. “I mean, you threw a chair at a lead dev because they said they might not meet your impossible deadline. You also—uh—sent half of HR to Siberia for 6 months after they tried to intervene. And not to mention the obsession with Superman…”
You catch the flash of his jaw tightening. Okay, maybe that was a little too much honesty.
“I’ll shut up now,” you mutter quickly, eyes darting anywhere but his.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Go get me coffee. Obviously, that’s all you’re good for.”
The words sting, even though they shouldn't. You’ve heard worse.
***
After your drunken insults and confession, he’s been meaner, so much meaner. He went out of his way to assign you pointless tasks, fed you the wrong details for meetings just to watch you scramble and to give him an excuse to shout at you, and even had you write and make revisions to a speech he had to give, only to not use a single word of it.
“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—”
“Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly.
You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.”
You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words…
God help you, it does something to you.
You're so far gone, you don’t even know whether you want to slap him or crawl into his lap and beg for validation.
He steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat of his words. “And I wouldn’t have to listen to it talk back.”
“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”
Also, you swear he’s stalking you. He asked you to come in over the weekend again, and when you lied and said you were out of town visiting family, he texted back your exact location. With a text saying:
Lex Luthor, Devil Incarnate 😈: Here in 30 minutes or you're fired. 9:00AM
Or the time he remotely hacked your car, on your day off again, and had it drive itself to some barren stretch of highway, and called you just to “talk without distractions.” You sat there, white-knuckled and silent, while he calmly explained a new workflow system over the phone, blasting through your car speakers, like this was the most normal thing in the world.
Or when he had your favourite sandwich from our favourite sandwich place (that’s an hour away) delivered to your desk before you even realised you’d forgotten your lunch at home. You didn’t eat it, though; there was no way to prove it wasn’t poisoned.
It was emotional torture, back and forth, whiplash from cold indifference to laser-focused obsession. You never knew what version of Lex “Satan” Luthor you were walking into: the calculating genius, the passive-aggressive tyrant, or the man who sent you coffee just to make you question if it was laced with something.
The week had been brutal, and today? He was being insane, which was saying something. You were running on no sleep, your nerves fried, and it all caught up to you. You fucked up. Big time.
Missed a meeting. Sent the wrong deck. Double-booked his 3 p.m. with a LexCorp Board call and a classified tech demonstration with a Department of Defence liaison. Total scheduling collapse.
To make matters worse, Superman had apparently just finished dragging half of Metropolis out of a crumbling building, again, so Lex was on edge, seething with resentment and ego bruised beyond repair.
He kept you late. Everyone else had gone home. The halls were silent, the office dim and sterile, and you could feel the tension like static in the air.
“You’re shallow and stupid,” he snaps, glaring at you like you just insulted his favourite suit.
“...not any less than your girlfriends,” you shoot back without missing a beat.
His eyes narrow. “What was that?”
“It’s not a lie,” you say, “But I don’t get it. I mean, why them? You don’t even seem to like anything about them…”
“Sex.”
You choke on the word, air catching in your throat.
“Sex,” he repeats slowly, eyes locked on yours, “and they look good on my arm, fun to toy with in my free time, disposable when the game gets boring.”
You look down, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.
“Oh.”
“Does that bother you?” he asks, voice low and probing.
You shake your head, suddenly very flustered, words caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips.
Before you can react, he’s closing the distance, walking you back until your back meets the cold edge of his desk. The chill seeps through your shirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat from his intense gaze locked onto yours.
The room feels impossibly small, despite it being as big as Lex’s ego.
“Say what’s on your mind.”
What are you supposed to say? But that little, stubborn part of you wishes it was you, that he’d hold you, tote you around, and fuck you all the while telling you just how useless he thinks you are. What’s wrong with you? Maybe you really did need to seek help.
“I…that’s good for you and them, I guess.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes in all of your expressions, reading your mind like an open book, seeing every messy thought clearly displayed on your face.
“Remember what I said. Own it.”
You swallow hard. “But what if you throw me in a pocket universe to rot…forever?”
He shrugs, lips curling into a lazy smirk. “I might, either way.”
You take a shaky breath. “Okay, fine. I… I would like… to perhaps engage in… activities.”
Tired of your endless stammering and beating around the bush, he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him with no warning, then kisses you like he’s been holding back for far too long.
It’s sharp and commanding, no patience, like he’s proving a point. Like he’s tired of talking and you’re not getting out of this with clever quips or awkward half-confessions anymore.
Satan in a suit has it going on.
Your brain goes static. Your knees might’ve buckled if the desk behind you wasn’t there. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Is that clear enough for you?”
“Crystal.”
His fingers snake into your hair, yanking your head back, and a surprised yelp escapes your mouth.
“This is how you’ll pay me back for your terrible performance today.”
“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”
He tugs you back to him, your lips crashing together. Your breath catches, heart racing as the world narrows to just the two of you in the dimly lit office.
***
Since that day…well, you may or may not be having sex with him regularly.
Sex with your super evil boss isn’t exactly what you expected, but when it’s that good, it’s hard to stop.
And yes, may or may not be a masochist, because the way he’d pull you aside after a brutal meeting, his voice low and commanding, then take you somewhere private to fuck you senseless…it was addictive.
Sometimes, without warning, a sleek car would pull up to your place late at night, and a driver would escort you to his penthouse, where the city lights blurred into the background while he took you again, hard, fast and like he could take you apart whenever he wanted.
Now you’re in the middle of getting railed against his desk, your body completely naked, while he still has the majority of his clothes on. This was a normal occurrence in your life now.
Your breasts press against the cold, smooth surface as you arch back, moaning loudly. Thank goodness his office is soundproof; otherwise, the noises you’re making would surely echo down the empty halls.
Sloppy sounds of his movements fill the room, you’re so wet you’re practically melting against the desk.
“Please!” you beg.
“I don’t care if you finish or not,” he leans in a little closer, his breath hot against your ear. “If you want to, you’ll do it when I say.”
Your arms are pinned firmly to the surface as he drives into you relentlessly. He likes seeing you so messy. It’s a raw, desperate reminder of what he’ll never be: a submissive, devoted mess that lives only to please someone else.
“I’m going to count you down, so you better not disappoint me.”
You shake your head profusely, you know if you don’t cum when he tells you, he might not let you cum at all.
“No, no, Lex, I’m not ready…”
“5.”
A five-count? He wanted you to fail.
Your pulse quickens, every nerve on fire as the countdown begins, each number a test of your limits.
“4…”
You bite your lip, trying to concentrate on getting there on time.
“3…”
Your pussy flutters around him as you feel yourself starting to get close.
“2…”
His grip tightens, and you feel his cock start to twitch inside of you.
“1…”
He floods your needy cunt with his cum, a satisfied moan escaping his lips as you whimper and writhe, loving how completely he fills you.
There’s no tenderness or aftercare; he pulls out, letting his seed dribble out of you and onto the floor. That’s your problem now.
“Wait, but Lex, I didn’t—”
“I told you the rules. It’s not my fault you weren’t able to cum for me the way I wanted.”
“But I was… I was so close.”
The pitiful look on your face is exactly what he wants. In his mind, you only deserve to cum on his terms, not your own.
You’re wrecked beyond repair but still manage a desperate, “Please…”
He arches an eyebrow, that familiar evil smirk curling on his lips.
“If you want to cum, hump my shoe.”
You think: how much is your dignity worth? Is it worth an orgasm? He smirks again, clearly enjoying your hesitation.
Apparently, it’s not worth much, because the next thing you know, you’re on your knees, rubbing your dripping cunt against the tip of his expensive shoe, rocking your hips like a woman possessed, chasing the orgasm he refused to give you.
“Can I use my fingers?” you whine, desperate to feel something press against your G-spot again. All it would take is a few thrusts…
“No. You lost that privilege.”
You pout but keep moving and try to hold onto his leg for leverage, but he slaps them away.
“Hands behind your back.”
Grinding your clit against his shoes as best as you can without holding on to him, you feel yourself getting closer. You’re losing your mind, and he’s... scrolling through his phone?
This arrogant little—
“Please, look at me, Lex,” you plead, voice trembling.
He keeps his eyes glued to his phone, completely ignoring you like an asshole.
“Lex, I’m so close, look at me.”
He continues scrolling, absorbed in whatever could possibly be so interesting when you’re right here.
“I’m begging you to look at me.”
The second he finally looks down at you, your hips stutter uncontrollably, and you lose yourself in a shattering orgasm.
“Fuck—fuck, Lex…” you cry out before resting your head against his thigh. You don’t even get a moment to catch your breath before he’s ordering you around again.
“Clean up the mess on the floor, and yourself, you look…” he trails off, pulling away from you and pacing the room.
“Draft up a report. I want it done by the end of the day. And I want a coffee from Jitters. If it’s cold, I’ll throw you in a river.”
I've compiled a list of how high your SPECS levels need to be before you can realise a character. The numbers per category are for the maximum across the board (aka all your SPECS points are at least 70 etc) while the numbers next to names are the highest points exactly.
For clarity:
Sm - Smarts
P - Poise
E - Empathy
C - Charm
Sa - Sass
And because this post got so long, I'm going to put it under a read more
— warnings: blood play, violence, smoking, cigarette burns, manhandling, obsessive, not really an established relationship, slightly toxic.
—song recs while reading: haunted - beyonce + all mine - brent faiyaz
— not proof-read too well! apologies if there is some mistakes.
Tyler Durden walked into your life like a lit match tossed into gasoline—sudden, reckless, and impossible to ignore. From the first glance, he unsettled something in you, like he had rewired your instincts to orbit around him. He wasn’t a person; he was a storm with a heartbeat, and you accepted that; begging to be struck. The connection you had with Tyler wasn’t romantic, it was ruinous. Obsessive, Addictive, A high that both of you chased. You fed off of each others damage like it was oxygen, and somewhere between the highs and the ruin, you stopped recognising who you were without him. Love, if you could call what you had with him that, had teeth. And Tyler? He made sure you felt every bite.
Tyler walked into the makeshift house you both shared with blood smothered all over his features. His hair was ruffled, shirt tucked into his denim pocket while his chest remained bare; only covered in deep red and purple bruises along with blood. He had that manic shimmer in his eyes once again, the one that appeared only when he came back from the club. He looked alive in a way that made your stomach churn with excitement and ecstacy. Tyler wasn’t smiling, but an expression close to it was carved into his face—as if he was daring the world to try him again. You didn’t flinch when he flung the door shut, You didn’t even bother to ask if he was okay.
Tyler Durden never came back wanting comfort, he came back wanting release.
“You should’ve seen the other guy. Fuck..you’d be proud” He chuckled, ripping open a box of bandages stashed on the top of the fridge.
“You know I’m always proud” you smiled half-assed, eyes still focused on the glowing TV screen.
Some nights, he would pull you close on the couch and kiss your calloused knuckles like you were a goddess. Whisper gentle words into your hair that sounded like promises; even though they weren’t. Other nights, just like this, he was someone else entirely, unleashed, all jagged edges, ready to bleed or to make someone else bleed just to feel his rapid pulse.
But you couldn’t hate it, how could you? You were the only one that understood him.
understood that itch underneath his skin. That need.
You could tell Tyler still hadn’t come down from the high of his fight. It was easy to see from the way his chest heaved up and down heavily, his fingers fiddling weirdly with a packed of cigarettes; unable to take one out without his hands shaking. There was something oddly violent about Tyler smoking, as if it was a warning. He’d light it with his twichy grin, suck the poison of the tobacco like it gave him control over something in his life, and let it bleed from his mouth like a threat. You watched him every. single. time. Hungry and stupid, aching to be apart of that ritual. It wasn’t just the look of him smoking— his cutting jaw, the rough hands, the tension in his shoulders, no, it was him being one spark away from burning the world down. You wanted the pain. The punishment. You imagined the cherry tip of the cigarette kissing into your skin, the searing burn of it biting into your flesh, the hiss and crackle of nerve endings set on fire. You yearned for that feeling; yearned to see his eyes darken as he noticed the control he had over you.
He moved like he knew you were watching, or more so, he wanted you to. The cigarette hung lazily between his plush lips, smoke curling up around his jaw like it worshipped him. His eyes met yours through the grey haze, narrowed and sharp, a flicker of something dangerous lurking. Tyler didn’t say a word at first. He inhaled slowly, deliberately, like he wanted you to watch the way his adams apple bobbed up and down as he expanded his lungs to accept the burn of the smoke. He then exhaled, and the smoke rolled out. Tylers lips curled into a smirk-like expression, leaning against the counter.
“careful, you’re going to burn a hole in me with that stare” he grinned.
You didn’t look away, your eyes tracing the sharp and lean physique lined with blood. You let the silence stretch, letting the moment hang heavy before you spoke.
“What can I say? You make a fool of yourself, and I can’t look away.”
Tyler’s eyes narrowed before he flicked away the cigarette, letting it burn itself out on the wooden flooring of the messy house. He pushed himself off the counter, approaching you slowly before leaning down to meet your face on the couch.
“You like what you see huh? blood and all.”
He continued to stand so close that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. the tension between you two palpable. His hand brushed against your arm as he reached up, wiping a smear of blood with him thumb from his neck. His eyes still locked on yours. Without saying a word, Tyler pushed his thumb past your lips, his gaze steady and intense. You didn’t pull away, allowing your tongue to meet the blood and sweat located on his finger. The room undeniably grew heavier with unspoken desire, Durden’s breath being caught in his throat for a brief moment.
“Not afraid of the mess, are you?” Tyler said in an almost growl.
He watched you intently as you took your time, not breaking the eye contact you both shared as you swirled your tongue over his finger, allowing the taste of iron and tobacco from his cigarette abuse your tastebuds. His thumb slowly retracted from your mouth, the action almost torturously slow. The blood was now gone from his skin but didn’t fail to leave behind the deep taste that lingered. Before you knew it, Tyler leaned in to your ear, his lips brushing against the side of your face as he spoke with his deepened voice. The playful edge that was once there fading into something darker.
“Think you can handle more?” He grinned, his face still pressed closely to yours.
Of course you fucking could.
“I can handle whatever you give me, Durden.”
Tyler’s grin spread wider, the dangerous edge in his expression only making your pulse race faster. He didn’t need to say anything more—he had already decided. Without another word, he gripped your jaw, kissing you hard, the taste of smoke, blood, and something far more intoxicating mixing as his lips demanded yours.
The couch creaked beneath the weight of him as Tyler dropped down beside you, his body still radiating heat from the fight. You didn’t even have time to react before his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you into him with a force that left no room for hesitation. His lips crashed into yours—hot, desperate, full of something feral. He kissed you like he’d been starved for it. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His fingers tightened in your hair as he tilted your head, deepening the kiss with a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your mouth. You could taste blood—his or yours, you couldn’t even tell anymore, and it only drove you further into him.
You climbed into his lap without thinking, knees on either side of his thighs, pressing down against the bruises and scrapes that covered him. He hissed between his teeth, not from pain, but pleasure, like he wanted to feel it all. Like he needed it.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough and breathless.
His hands were anything but gentle. One fisted in your shirt, dragging you closer until your chests collided, the blood on his skin smearing against you. The other hand traveled down your back, gripping your hip so tightly it bordered on painful.
Your hands made their way into his hair, pulling hard enough to make him growl into your mouth. He bit your bottom lip, not enough to draw blood, but enough to make you gasp—and took the opportunity to push his tongue back into your mouth, hungry and relentless. Every kiss was rough, each one more demanding than the last, like he was trying to claim you with his mouth alone.
Your bodies continued to rut against each other, messy and desperate, no rhythm—just need. His hands were all over you, like he didn’t know what to grab first. He palmed your thighs, your waist, your ass—like he wanted to leave his mark everywhere. You broke the kiss for just a breath, your lips swollen, chest heaving. Tyler stared at you like you were the last thing he’d ever see. His thumb brushed roughly against your lip again, more possessive than teasing this time.
“You like it like this, don’t you?” he growled. “You want it rough. You want me like this.”
You nodded, breathless, already pulling him back in, and he didn’t hesitate. His mouth found your neck, biting hard enough to bruise, then soothing it with his tongue. You moaned, your hips grinding harder against him, both of you lost in the mess of it blood, sweat, teeth, tongues. It was chaotic, primal, obsessive.
And neither of you wanted it to stop.
Tyler didn’t stop kissing you—he devoured you. Every part of you his mouth touched felt claimed, marked. His grip on your hips tightened as he shifted under you, one quick motion flipping the two of you so suddenly that the couch groaned beneath the impact, your back hitting the cushions with a gasp. He hovered over you, hair wild, chest heaving, blood and sweat dripping from his skin onto yours.
“You always get like this after a fight?” you asked, voice breathless and cocky, even though your pulse was thrashing in your throat.
His smile was dangerous.
“No,” he said, dragging his knuckles down your jaw, then gripping it. “Only with you.”
Then he leaned down and bit your collarbone—hard. You gasped again, arching under him, the sharp edge of his teeth followed by the rough drag of his tongue that sent a shiver all the way through you. His hands were all over you now, pushing your shirt up, nails scratching down your sides, leaving trails of red where he touched.
He didn’t undress you gently. He tugged, yanked, pulled fabric out of his way like it offended him, growling when it caught. There was no softness—only the sound of threads straining, of breath caught in your throat, of his mouth on your skin like he wanted to consume you whole.
“You make me feel insane,” he muttered against your ribs, kissing down your torso, every word hot against your skin. “Like I’ll fucking rip the world apart if I can’t have you right here, right now.”
His voice was low, ragged, almost like a warning.
And you wanted it. You welcomed the madness.
With a swift motion, He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, his other sliding between you, teasing—taunting. You writhed beneath him, arching, desperate, and he just smirked.
“This is what you do to me,” he said, voice unhinged, pupils blown wide. “Look at you. You're just as fucked as I am.”
And he was right.
Because in that moment, with the taste of blood on your tongue and his hands all over you, you didn’t want love. You wanted destruction. And you wanted it with him.
With no time to spare, Tyler shifted his weight, forced your hips into the cushions, and ground himself against you hard. Denim met heat, friction sparking between your bodies like it had a life of its own. You gasped, your back arching off the couch as the pressure sent shockwaves through you. It was messy, relentless, filthy. Nothing delicate. Just the rhythm of his hips punishing yours, again and again, desperate and wild. You bucked up to meet him, testing the strength of his hold on your wrists—he liked that. You felt the grin in his breath before he shoved down harder, forcing your thighs wider with a rough press of his knee. The tension built fast, sharp and electric, every movement raw and frenzied. He was rutting into you like he needed it to survive, like getting closer to you—grinding harder—might be the only thing keeping him alive.
“Fuck,” he muttered through his teeth, panting now, his pace growing erratic.
You moaned beneath him, eyes fluttering shut, but he wasn’t having that. He released one wrist just to slap your jaw lightly—enough to snap your eyes back open.
“Eyes on me,” he ordered. “Don’t fucking hide.”
Your eyes met his. Dilated, wild, full of something darker than lust. Obsession. Possession. Hunger that went deeper than skin. He dipped his head and pressed his forehead to yours, hips still grinding like he couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe without it. He continued to grab your thigh and yank it over his hip, angling you just right—and when he drove his hips down again, your entire body jolted.
You cried out, fingers digging into the cushion, legs trembling from the sheer intensity of it.
“There she is,” Tyler rasped, a grin breaking across his face like something wicked. “You need this. You fucking love it.”
Your only answer was the way your hips rolled up to meet him, how your body moved without permission, chasing every punishing grind, every filthy drag of his hips against yours. He let go of your other wrist, both hands now gripping your waist, dragging you along with him in a rhythm that was pure chaos. There was nothing soft between you. Only bruises forming, fabric burning, bones aching, and the brutal need to ruin each other. You could feel him; every muscle in his body coiled and shaking under the strain. He was close to snapping. You both were.
And when it happened, when that last push shattered the tension—it wasn’t graceful.
It was violent.
Shaking.
Wordless.
And absolutely fucking perfect.
The couch was wrecked. You were wrecked. The room smelt of sweat, blood, and heat, reminiscent of the fight club itself.
Tyler stayed above you for a moment, his breathing ragged, jaw clenched tight, his eyes locked on yours like he was still in it. Still not done. His hands flexed on your waist, and for a second, it felt like he might start again, another round, another ruin.
But he didn’t.
Tyler pulled back slowly, dragging his body off of yours like it pained him to do it. His jeans were still halfway undone, blood drying in streaks across his chest and abdomen, the sharp lines of his body rising and falling with each breath. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The silence was loud enough.
You pushed yourself upright, dazed, trembling, sweat cooling on your skin in the aftermath. Your body ached. Your clothes were twisted, barely hanging on, and your skin was littered with red marks, smudges of blood. Some his, some yours.
He stood in front of you now, just looking. That same dark hunger still flickering behind his eyes. Like he still wanted more. Like he’d never really be done with you.
"You look good like that," he said finally, voice low and rough. “Ruin suits you.”
You stared up at him, unable to stop the slow curve of a smile from breaking onto your face, even if your legs were shot, even if your entire body felt like it had been taken apart and put back together wrong.
Tyler leaned down, grabbed a cigarette off the table, and lit it with a flick of his bloody thumb. He took a drag, slow and deep, then exhaled without taking his eyes off you.
“Don’t clean up,” he said, the smoke curling from his lips. “I like seeing what I did to you.”
Then he turned and walked off, shirtless, bruised, bloodied—smoke trailing behind him like a ghost. And even in the silence he left behind, the chaos still clung to you like a second skin.
And you loved it.
please remember requests are always open, and feel free to reblog ! <3
stormborns
theartofmadeline
andulkaphoto
