chloe

she • 19 • infp

[quigleysfreak]

part two!! to akotsk chars as snakes!! (boidae and pythonidae edition!!!)

there are also old but !! its fun so like whatever if anyone wants like more in depth reasons why i chose the species i did LET ME KNOW!! i would love to make a post abt my bullshit

[quigleysfreak]

a knight of the seven kingdoms characters as snakes!!! (colubridae edition) i made these in like march but never got around to posting them ♡

(also all the maekarlings are lampropeltis 2me)

[quigleysfreak]

all the maekarlings are king/milksnakes bc theyre lowk known for cannibalism occasionally and i thought thats so targaryen of them

[quigleysfreak]

a knight of the seven kingdoms characters as snakes!!! (colubridae edition) i made these in like march but never got around to posting them ♡

(also all the maekarlings are lampropeltis 2me)

[griffnoir]

apples crisp, knighthood acquired, new house thriving, wife secured, heir on the way, business expanding, congratulations ser raymun of the green apple fossoway YOU are the winner

[quigleysfreak]

thats my goat

[quigleysfreak]

eating so many apples to be accepted into raymun fossoways lineage

[lovebugism]

✶ — THE WRONG THING !

summary: on the eve of your arranged marriage to baelor targaryen, your childhood best friend, daeron, indulges you in one final night of defiance before he loses you for good - and baelor does not take kindly to learning that his nephew has taken his future bride to a brothel. (6k)

characters: daeron targaryen / fem!reader, baelor targaryen / fem!reader, maekar targaryen

contents: friends to lovers, arranged marriage, angst, implied age gap, so much yearning, depressed!daeron (fork found in kitchen), also baelor would absolutely talk you through it cw for vague mentions of ocd and smut 18+ (MDNI): public sex kinda, fingering, dry humping

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

You were to be wed on the morrow, and Daeron sank into his cups.

He had long lived in the folly that he would marry you someday — his first ever friend, and the only girl he ever dreamed of. But then the crown fell into great debts to your father, who managed all the gold mines from Oldtown to Summerhall; and the only way the king saw to foot the bill was to wed the man’s daughter to his own heir.

By all accounts, you were taking your betrothal far easier than your best friend. You had no other choice but to keep your wits about you, to plaster an artificial smile on your face and mindlessly agree to everything everyone ever told you to do, or to think. Even now, you let Baelor Targaryen — the husband you did not ask for — give you a tour of the newly decorated throne room where you would have your reception — which you had no say in.

The orante sea of Targaryen red and Highgarden gold blur together, along with Baelor’s words, as you avert your gaze to your hands, where you scratch fresh marks to your already raging nail beds.

“What do you think about it, princess?”

You only vaguely hear Baelor’s words through the metaphorical cotton in your ears. You blink hard and whip your head to face him, smiling before you’ve even registered his question. “I think it’s beautiful, Your Grace— Your mother did a wonderful job decorating.”

“While I appreciate the compliment, my lady, I was referring to our… arrangement,” Baelor corrects with a polite smile, half-hidden behind his greying beard. He slows to a stop in front of you, and you catch a whiff of the musky oils he’d bathed in — a stark contrast to your much lighter, floral aromatics.

“Oh. Right. I think— I think that it’s…” You stumble over yourself to find the words; not the ones you want to say, perhaps, but the ones you’ve been groomed to. Baelor ducks his head to flash you a patient look, and your cheeks flare with embarrassment. “I think that it is wise, Your Grace. If our marriage can ease the crown’s debts, I’m glad to be of service.”

“Is that you speaking, my lady?” he presses with a soft squint in his blue-brown irises. “Or your father?”

Your breath stutters. “I— I’m not sure what you mean, Your Grace.”

“What is it you want, princess?”

Your mouth parts to answer him. But, before you can stutter out a response you only halfway mean, the sound of chair legs scraping the cobbles rings through the expansive room. Your heads whip in tandem in the direction of the raucous noise, where you find Daeron trying and failing to catch himself on a table by the door.

He’s well drunk despite the early afternoon, wearing the ale in his wild golden hair, glassy blue eyes, and flushed red cheeks. He struggles to readjust the ornately decorated bench he’d run into with sloppy hands. It takes him several seconds too long to notice the looks he’s getting in response.

“My apologies…” he slurs, pink lips curling into a sloppy grin that doesn’t match the solemn look in his light eyes. “I seemed to have— Lost my way…”

“Aye. That much is quite clear,” Baelor sighs, much too used to his nephew’s antics by now.

The boy had always favored his ale, but never quite this much. He’s been haunting the halls of the Red Keep for some weeks now — the Kingsguard once found him in a ditch off of Flea Bottom the day it was announced Baelor would be wed to you, all bruised and bloody from the fighting pits. He hasn’t been fully sober ever since.

“Apologies, princess,” Baelor murmurs to you. “Do forgive my nephew.”

“No forgiveness needed, Your Grace—”

There’s another grating scrape, followed by a dull thud of a heavy body hitting the ground as Daeron trips over his graceless feet. He groans when he hits the unforgiving ground, writhing with only his long legs visible from your view of him.

Your features crumple with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy as you look on at the drunken boy. “I should take him to his chambers before he hurts himself—”

“The knights can escort him, my lady,” Baelor tells you.

“He’s much too fragile for that,” you quip with a tender smile. “And as I said— I don’t mind helping, Your Grace.”

Daeron doesn’t make it easy for you.

He never has, in truth, but least of all now.

He smells of musk and sweet ale as he falls heavily to your side, forcing you to carry the brunt of his weight as you help him back into bed. He falls heavily onto the feathered mattress, limp and unmoving. You exhale an exasperated breath and reach for his legs to situate him properly on the unmade sheets.

“Why must you make everything so difficult?” you huff.

Daeron’s head lolls against the pillows, golden hair sitting wildly around him.

“Why must you wound me so?” he argues in indistinct slurs. His glassy, red-rimmed eyes blink slowly up at your towering figure. He musters a trembling grin at the confused look you give him in return. “We both know it is not my uncle you want, petal…”

His eyes flutter shut as he lifts a sloppy hand to his face, trying and failing to find the rogue strand of hair clinging to his lashes.

“What I want doesn’t matter, Daeron,” you sigh and help him brush the golden tress back behind his ear.

Your breath catches in your throat when the boy’s warm hand wraps suddenly around your wrist, fingers warm and gentle as they linger on your wild pulse. He peers up at you with a pair of wet, ocean-colored eyes and murmurs quietly, “I don’t matter?”

“You know that isn’t what I meant,” you whisper and jerk your hand from his grip. “The decision is already made. The hall is already decorated. I’m getting married whether I like it or not—”

“You could always change your mind,” Daeron lilts, as if it were so simple. “And it would all be done with…”

“Not all of us are allowed to be so selfish, my prince,” you mutter bitterly and turn on your heel, heading the short distance for the pitcher of water and bowl of dates left on the table by the balcony. “Some of us actually have to think about other people from time to time.”

Daeron scoffs sloppily, folding his lanky hands across his lean stomach. “I think about other people,” he argues like a child.

“Do you?” you hum with a palpable lack of enthusiasm, beneath the sloshing of water you pour for him in a chalice.

“Aye, my lady… You,” he answers, smiling lazily when you glare at him over your shoulder. “I dream only of you— My Flower of Highgarden.”

“The Flower of Highgarden,” you correct him of the silly nickname that’s haunted you since birth, and walk the water and dates back over the drunken boy. You leave both at his bedside, with an air of distance about you that makes his chest ache. “I am getting married on the morrow, Daeron. It’s happening. So please, get a hold of yourself— if not for your sake, then for mine.

The evening air outside the Red Keep swells with the scent of sage and fresh flowers. A silken breeze rushes through the skirt of your dress as you lean over the balcony, bathing in the sweet scent down below, where the smallfolk leave bouquets and handmade trinkets by the castle’s entrance.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur to the man beside you, with your gaze still lingering on the shuffling crowd. “We don’t do this in Highgarden.”

“It’s custom for people to leave their blessings the night before a royal wedding,” Baelor explains. “Though, to be true, I have never quite seen it like this… They have taken quite a liking to you, it would seem.”

The kind smile he gives you makes your cheeks flare red-hot. You despise his attention as much as you crave it, desperately so. You fake a smile and swallow hard, picking again at the scarred skin of your nail beds from where your hands rest on the balcony. “Well, I am— pleased that the realm is, Your Grace—”

Your breath catches in your throat when Baelor’s wide hand splays suddenly over both of yours, effectively ceasing your assault on your delicate fingers. You peer timidly at him from beneath your lashes and cower at the warmth in his mismatched eyes.

“You are the most comely girl at court,” he tells you, gutwrenchingly gentle, as his fingers smooth over the red marks on your skin. “Why must you destroy yourself this way?”

“Apologies, Your Grace,” you murmur shyly, clearing your throat as you slide your hands from his grip, clasping them behind your back. “It’s a habit I haven’t quite been able to break, it would seem…”

Baelor softens and takes a step closer, pervading the scent of the late evening with his mixture of leather and musk. “I understand that… that I am not the husband you wished for,” the man starts slowly, calculating each word from his mouth. “But I will do right by you, princess. I can assure you of that.”

“I know you will, Your Grace. You’re a good man,” you say with an honest smile. “Even if it was not what I desired, I am no less pleased that it turned out to be you, Your Grace—”

“Baelor,” he corrects with a soft grin, taking a step closer and swiping an eyelash for your cheek. Your skin flares when his hand lingers there. You wonder if he notices.

“Baelor…” you repeat, far more timidly in comparison.

His mouth parts to speak, but he stops himself short. A flicker of confusion dances over his scruffy face before he wonders aloud. “Pardon my forwardness, my lady, but… Have you ever been kissed?”

Thoughts of Daeron flash instantly across your mind at his question. He’s always there in some way or another, stashed somewhere within each of your fondest memories — how he held you when you were younger; how he kissed you, how he touched you.

But that was all make-believe, you figure, a game of house you knew was always bound to end.

So you shake your head against the man’s softly calloused palm and answer, half-truthfully, “Never in a way that mattered, Your Grace…”

The answer seems to please him as his kind smile slowly returns.

“May I?” he offers vaguely.

You know you can’t say no. You’re not sure if you want to. So you nod and whisper back, “Of course…”

You tilt your chin to meet him halfway when he ducks down to kiss you. His beard tickles your delicate skin, a rather foreign sensation compared to Daeron’s shaven face. His lips are thinner than his nephew’s, too, tasting of sweet mint leaves and bitter whiskey. It’s different — good different — and you finally forget to be nervous as you reach suddenly for his bearded jaw.

Baelor freezes against you when you lick into his mouth, with far more expertise than someone who had never been kissed before. It surprises him as much as it excites him; the notion that there is still so much he doesn’t know about you. You catch him smiling softly to himself about it when your kissed lips part with a quiet click.

Your glassy eyes widen into a not-so-subtle look of shock at yourself. You bring your trembling hands back down to your sides again. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I— I forget myself—”

“No. Don’t apologize,” the man murmurs in an achingly gentle voice that does not match the fire in his blue-brown irises. “If you apologize every time I kiss you from now on, you’ll be spending a lifetime doing so, won’t you?”

His words, the solemn promise in them, make your stomach do a backflip.

“Aye,” you nod on bated breath. “I guess so…”

You’re still reeling from the adrenaline rush of kissing a somewhat stranger — both your soon-to-be husband and future king — when you return finally to your chambers. Your heart lurches to a fluttering stop at the shadowy figure you find lying in your bed, bathed in a golden sea of flickering candlelight. You exhale a relieved sigh when you find it’s only Daeron making himself at home in your bed, but you are still no less aggrieved to see him this way.

“What are you doing here?” you snap and quickly close the door behind you.

“Waiting for you, of course,” the now mostly-sobered boy responds through a groan, stretching out his tired limbs as if he’d just been sleeping. His thin chemise rises up his torso when he folds his arms behind his wild head, revealing his pale skin and the tuft of golden hair trailing down into his trousers.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” you argue. “What would people think if they saw the two of us in here like this?”

“Who cares?” he scoffs with all the carelessness of a young prince, smiling wider when you scowl at him. “We know the truth of it— What anyone else has to say on the matter doesn’t concern the two of us.”

“That’s because no one ever taught you that it’s not about the truth of it,” you spit and storm his way, yanking your silken sheets from beneath his dirty boots. “It’s about perception. And you know your father would be cross if he found you in here—”

“My father is always cross,” Daeron scoffs.

“Only because you make him so.”

“Tell me, petal…” the boy begins, swinging his long legs off the mattress and peering up at you with a pair of glittering blue eyes. “Have you ever done the wrong thing?”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m looking at him,” you deadpan.

“Ouch,” he grimaces, grabbing at his heart over his baggy tunic. “But I presume I deserve that…”

“Aye. You do.”

He reaches for your hand when you try to turn away, wrapping his warm fingers around your smaller ones to keep you in place. “Come with me. To Flea Bottom.”

“Flea Bottom?” you repeat with an incredulous twist to your features, scoffing out a faint laugh. “Why would I go to—”

“To do the wrong thing,” Daeron finishes for you, tender with a lingering hope. “With me.”

You shake your head and try to pull your hand out of his, but he only holds you tighter. “I can’t, Daeron…”

“Live for yourself for a change,” he tells you, begs you. “Just once. And I will never speak to you of my heartache again, I swear it.”

By all accounts, you probably should’ve known by the subtle glimmer in his soft blue eyes that he only met trouble. Maybe that’s why you went with him in the first place, you think, for a bit of trouble — god knows, that’s all he’s good for. But, even still, you let him dress you in his trousers and baggy shirt, removing any remnants of your status, before stealing you away to the labyrinth that is Flea Bottom.

He keeps your hand clutched in his larger one as he leads you through the unpaved streets of twisted alleyways, reeking of stables, mud, and baked bread. You laugh like a pair of children as you chase gracelessly behind him, forgetting for a fleeting moment that you are to be wed on the morrow — that you will soon be expected to become a wife and a mother before the season is through.

Eventually, the loud chatter and swirling smoke from flickering fires gives way to something quieter, dimmer; smelling of sweat, sex, and soft perfume. Daeron tucks you into his warm side as you duck into a narrow hall, where moans and cries of pleasure bounce off the cobblestone walls. Your footsteps stutter in shock.

“You didn’t tell me you were taking me to a pleasure house—”

“Aye. I didn’t,” Daeron hums with a lazy grin. “Because you wouldn’t have agreed to come otherwise…”

The brothel is dark, lit only by rogue torches growing slowly dim on the walls. The naked bodies surrounding you on either side are bathed in shadow. The hand not clutching the back of Daeron’s cloak rises instinctively to cover your eyes, shielding them from the lurid sight of sex that sits everywhere you look.

“No. Don’t,” Daeron says and reaches for you with his free hand, curling his lanky fingers around your wrist to gently urge your hand from your face. “I want you to watch— To see what it looks like when you take what you want…”

Your eyes are slow to part from his lighter ones. You glance tentatively all around you — at the woman riding the face of a man on a nearby couch, of another man sandwiched between two masculine bodies by the wall, of two women caressing their naked bodies with gentle touches. It’s completely and utterly scandalous. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.

“No princes, no thrones…” Daeron whispers with his mouth pressed to your ear, and his chest against your back. “No debts, no weddings… Just—”

“Fucking?” you tell him.

“Pleasure,” he corrects. “So, ask yourself, petal, and be truthful… What do you want?”

It’s a simple question. One you couldn’t answer if you wanted to.

You want to be queen, like your father always groomed you to be — you want to marry Baelor, to be rich and powerful and idolized. But another, not-so-distant part of you yearns to be without responsibility and consequence — you want to be with Daeron in some far-off place by the sea, you want to fuck and drink and travel the world and never stick around long enough to learn anybody’s names.

You want all of it. And even though you know you cannot possibly have it, you try hard to take it anyway.

You reach out for Daeron and cradle his shaven jaw like you’re holding the sun in both hands. You drag him to you and press a searing kiss to his mouth, wasting little time in tasting him as your tongue licks suddenly between his parted lips, entwining with his own like velvet twisting with velvet.

Daeron grumbles a moan against you. He slides his warm hands beneath your borrowed shirt, up your stomach, and over your ribcage. He leaves faint trail marks along the skin of your back when he scratches his dull nails down your spine. You shiver against him, and he smiles into your kiss — inhaling your gasped breath when he pushes you suddenly into a cobbled wall, breaking the impact with a hand behind your head.

His mouth pulls away from yours with a low smack, lips swollen and rosy and shining with your spit. His eyes are heavy-lidded as he traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.

“What do you say, My Flower of Highgarden?” he slurs, panting hard against your mouth. “Are you going to take it?”

“Depends,” you challenge on bated breath. “Are you going to give it to me?”

The blonde boy nods, with a pink smile blooming lazily on his mouth. “Aye… I am.”

He ducks down before you can blink, kissing you hard enough to bruise. He swallows each of your quiet moans as his fingers creep toward your borrowed trousers, loosening the knot there with eager hands. Your fingers wrench the thin fabric of his tunic into fists to keep him impossibly close while his sneak beneath the hem — past your stomach, over a tuft of coarse hair, and down towards where you need him most.

You coat his middle finger in a thin layer of honey when it slots between your velvety folds, whimpering when he nudges softly at your sensitive clit.

“I can feel you throbbing,” he slurs against you. “’S like a heartbeat…”

“Please…” you sigh, though you’re not sure exactly what you’re begging for — please don’t tease me, please make me feel good, please fuck me.

“I’ve got you…” Daeron murmurs, panting against your mouth and swallowing your moans when his long finger slips finally inside you. His lip quirks into a crooked smile at the pretty noise you make for him.

You only vaguely feel him rutting against your thigh, pressing his stiffening cock against you to ease his own ache while he continues to pleasure yours.

“I’ve got you… Let me have it…”

Your moans fill the shadowed hall, and entwine with all the others.

You scrub the remnants of the sinful night from your body and prepare to become a dutiful bride by early morning. You’re still buzzing from the adrenaline rush as you writhe restlessly beneath your silk sheets. You can almost still feel Daeron’s fingers inside of you, if you think about it hard enough, as well as the outline of his hard cock pressed against your outer thigh, from where he’d gotten off humping your leg like a hound.

You revel in the night as much as you mourn it — pleased to have experienced it at all while simultaneously grieving that you’ll never be that girl again; and still a little surprised that you got away with it at all.

Almost.

A quiet knock from a delicate hand echoes through your expansive, pitch-black bedroom. Your heart lurches into your throat — a fleeting horror that turns into ice-cold panic in your veins a second later. You rise slowly, propping your weight on your elbows, and gazing wearily at the shadow looming beneath your door.

You swallow hard and pray your voice doesn’t shake as you call out, “Come in.”

The heavy door creaks open. A sliver of golden light from the torches in the hallway fills the room as one of your handmaidens shuffles in, gaze averted and hands clasped together. She curtsies and clears her throat, “Pardon me, my lady— but the Lord Hand has requested your presence in his study.”

You hope it’s still too dark for her to see the look of fear that flashes across your features. “The hour is quite late…” is the only thing you think to say, with an audible waver in your voice.

“Aye, my lady,” the young girl nods with an apprehensive gaze. “But he said he was urgent.”

“…Alright, then,” you nod once and hold your breath until the maid scurries off back the way she came. She closes the door behind her with a dull click, and the room returns to a velvet black darkness, with only your trembling breath to fill it.

You’re still in your thin white slip when you make the long trek to Baelor’s study, weaving through the candlelit maze of the Red Keep with two knights flanking you on either side. They work for your father, sworn to protect you and you alone, yet you can’t help but feel a bit like they’re leading you to a slaughter now.

They open the double doors of the expansive study for you and remain just outside of it while you saunter slowly in — slippers scuffing the cobbles like your feet are made of bricks, sweaty hands picking at your worry-worn nailbeds. You wear the guilt all over, like a bad dog with blood on its muzzle.

The fear in your stomach blossoms something fierce in your chest when Baelor’s eyes meet yours from across the way, sitting at his desk with Maekar and Daeron standing just before him. The older men are still in their day garb, made of Targaryen red and black, while the blonde boy remains in the baggy tatters he’d taken you to Flea Bottom in.

Daeron wears the sin all over still, hardly bothering to wash it off his skin, lest some of you go with it.

You cower on instinct when their gazes snap suddenly in your direction. You know you’ve long been caught, even when Baelor gives you a kind smile as you approach him.

“Thank you for coming, my lady,” he says in a gentle voice and sets his quill into the inkpot at his side. “I know the hour is late. I hope I did not disturb you.”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” you assure him and clear your throat when the words get stuck there.

“I thought it prudent to make you aware of some rather… troubling accusations,” the man continues with a knowing glint in his brown-blue eyes, flickers of candlelight dancing in his gaze. “You and my nephew were spied, some hours ago, beyond the walls of the Red Keep, engaging in behaviors that were… unbecoming of a woman of the court…”

“So we snuck out and drank a bit of wine,” Daeron laughs at your side, not yet showered and still reeking of sex and ale. He glances at you with glassy eyes and a lopsided grin before turning back to Baelor. “It’s hardly enough to warrant such arbitration, wouldn’t you say, uncle?”

“You were seen defiling the princess the day before her fucking wedding,” Maekar spits from the boy’s other side, jaw clenched tight behind his silver beard. “You’re lucky I’m not shipping you off to the Free Cities to make a man out of you.”

“Right,” Daeron scoffs. “Punish me for going to a brothel by sending me to the sex capital of the Seven Kingdoms— Ow!”

Maekar’s ringed hand slams hard into the back of the boy’s wild head. He grimaces, rubbing at the crown of his golden tresses with a pale hand.

“Do you not deny it?” Baelor asks you, with a suspicious squint in his gaze, as if he were distantly hoping you would.

“No, Your Grace,” you mutter with an averted gaze, etching new marks onto your delicate fingertips. “I did sneak out—”

“She lies,” Daeron blurts before the words have properly left your mouth. “She did not leave of her own volition, uncle. I forced her out… Wouldn’t take no for an answer…” Daeron’s drunk slurs trail off as he turns to flash you a lazy grin and a pair of squinted eyes. “Better a liar than a whore, right, petal?”

“Watch your tongue,” Maekar scolds from his other side.

“But there was no defiling, father, of that I’m sure,” Daeron continues anyway, head swiveling as he turns to face the other man. His smile widens beneath the strands of blonde hair hanging over his eyes. “I only used my fingers—”

“You idiot,” the father hisses, scooping his son up by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back towards the entrance.

Daeron’s stumbled footsteps echo in the otherwise silent study as he staggers behind him on graceless feet. He’s all but thrown out the door when Maekar swings it open again, only to slam it shut behind him with a booming thud a second later.

The sound rings through the suffocating quiet that you and Baelor are soon left alone in — the kind of quiet that snatches all the air out of a room; the kind of quiet that makes it suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Does he speak the truth of it?” the man wonders after a few long moments, with one arm propped along the arm of his chair and the other folded along the table’s edge.

You inhale a wavering breath.

“He does, Your Grace,” you murmur, lacking the courage to meet his eyes. “I had not planned it— Nor did Daeron, I think— It was simply the circumstances of the moment in which we found ourselves in that—”

“Did you like it?” Baelor interjects your rambling, which he knows is only full of the words you’ve been conditioned to say, and not the ones you truly mean.

You falter at the simple question. “I-I’m not entirely sure what you mean, Your Grace—”

“I’m entirely sure that you’re entirely sure what I mean,” the man hums with a kind smile, chair creaking under his weight when he slouches further into it. “Did you like being undone in a pleasure house like a common whore?”

His words, foreignly brash, and his eyes, foreignly hardened, make your stomach do a backflip.

“I… I don’t know—”

“You never do, do you?” Baelor mutters with a sympathetic squint to his mismatched eyes. “You’re always so concerned about what everyone else wants— What everyone else thinks of you— That you never learned how to form your own opinions…”

You shift uncomfortably before him, feeling utterly dissected under his prying stare and grimacing when you dig a fresh mark onto the skin of your pointerfinger.

“So I’ll ask you again, princess,” the man continues, leaning forward in his seat and never once taking his eyes off you. He peers at you over the flickering candles and repeats, more slowly this time. “Did you… like it?”

You swallow hard and nod once.

“Yes,” you hear yourself say on bated breath. “I think I did…”

“What about it did you like?”

You struggle to catch your breath, more so to find an adequate answer.

“I think that I— I just spent so much time worrying about my duties as the… the wretched Flower of Highgarden,” you laugh bitterly at the stupid nickname. “That I forgot what it meant to feel good. That I was allowed to feel good, and suddenly I was surrounded by people just taking what they wanted, and I felt so…”

“Free?” Baelor finishes for you, brows raised to his hairline.

“Powerful,” you correct, squinting like the word is half-foreign on your tongue.

Something flickers in his brown-blue eyes, something more than just the candlelight, as if he were finally seeing you for the first time.

His chair legs scrape the cobbles as he rises slowly to full height, rounding the table in measured strides, ambling towards you like a predator stalking its prey.

“Is Daeron who you want?” he asks with lowered brows. “Is that where your loyalties lie?”

“My loyalty is to the crown, Your Grace—”

You clear your throat and tilt your chin to meet the man’s gaze when he towers over you, smelling of leather and the old books he spends most of his days studying. Your breath stutters when he suddenly reaches for your face.

“Don’t answer from here,” he murmurs lowly, tapping gently at your skull. His pale pointer finger trails down — past your cheek, over your jaw, and down your thrumming pulse — until it rests along your sternum, just over your racing heart. “Answer from here.”

You inhale a wavering breath, glassy eyes darting back and forth between his unblinking ones.

“In a… In a perfect world…” you start in a trembling voice, struggling to keep the man’s gaze as you turn instead to your reddened nail beds. “Daeron and I would take off for Sunspear or Casterly Rock— Somewhere by the sea, where the sun is always shining— And the world would just be the two of us, fucking and drinking and loving all we want…”

Baelor’s brows perk at your sudden brashness. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because this is not a perfect world,” you answer plainly, half-morose. “And I’m not so selfish as to pretend that I don’t have my own duties here…”

Baelor’s lip quirks in a gentle smile beneath his greying beard as he exhales a laugh through his nose.

“A trait rather befitting for a future queen, perhaps…” he hums and points his mismatched gaze to the silk bow sitting at the chest of your slip, tracing it with the tip of his pointerfinger.

“Despite my… regrettable actions…” you trail off, just barely able to meet the man’s gaze as you peer up at him from beneath your lashes. “My racing mind did inevitably run into thoughts of you, Your Grace…”

“Really?” he hums. “Pray tell.”

“Daeron asked me what I wanted, and I thought first of you,” you confess. “And I realized I had grown quite attached to the thought of becoming your wife. Of ruling beside you— some many years on, of course, but— The sheer thought of it made me… It made me feel like I could conquer worlds.”

“Aye,” Baelor nods, with a fire in his brown-blue gaze that matches your own. “We will.”

He’s kissing you before you can blink, pressing his mouth to yours and cradling the back of your neck in a calloused hand, urging your jaw upward with his thumb. He steals the breath from your lungs under the weight of his searing kiss, as fierce and merciless as taking a bite out of an apple. It’s all tongue and teeth and spit — a passion you weren’t sure a man as wooden as Baelor was able to give, or otherwise cared to.

A string of saliva connects your mouths when he pulls away from you. Baelor smiles softly to himself when you try hopelessly to chase his kiss, swiping the thread of spit away with the pad of his thumb when it clings to your chin.

“Did you cum?” he asks you, then follows quickly at the look you give him. “When my nephew fucked you with his fingers at a whorehouse— Did you cum?”

His prying gaze darts rapidly between your glassy one as you struggle to answer — unsure of whether to be honest or to tell a feeble lie in hopes of placating his ego. You decide, finally, to tell the truth.

“Yes,” you answer and nod once into his hand.

“And I trust it will be the last time?”

“As you command, Your Grace—”

“Baelor,” he corrects.

“As you command, Baelor.”

There’s a twinkle of subtle mischief in your gaze that makes his lips curl into a quiet smile. He leans down again, and you think he’s going to kiss you, but he only traces the bridge of your nose with the tip of his.

“You are not as soft as the tales would tell it, are you? Flower of Highgarden,” he hums in a melodic voice, breath fanning over your mouth. “Gentle, yes. But not soft.”

“What’s the difference?” you whisper, and he feels the breath of it over his bearded chin.

“A soft person wouldn’t dare touch a knife, would they? But you… You’d kiss my forehead before pressing a blade to my neck— That’s gentle,” he explains, walking you backward with meandering footsteps that rhyme with your own.

Your breath catches in your chest when the backs of your thighs collide suddenly with the edge of the table. It scrapes once on the cobbles, and then again when Baelor urges you suddenly around with a firm hand on your elbow. He spins you away from him and presses you further into the wooden edge with his chest flush against your back.

“And I am— The idiot who would thank you for slitting my throat…” he mutters in your ear, scruff scratching at your neck as his calloused hands crawl up your thighs, pushing up the hem of it as they go. “As long as it meant you touched my skin…”

His wide palms trail over your hip bones, up your stomach, and past your ribcage. They settle finally under your breasts, just lingering there, and you wonder if he can feel the way your breathing stutters beneath them — if he can feel the way you fight the urge to grind your ass against his cock.

“Is this wise, my lord?” you whisper, nose brushing his bearded jaw when you peer hesitantly over your shoulder. “Our wedding is at dawn— They’ll be expecting a bedding ceremony—”

“Aye. They will. And you can pretend to be the sweet, virgin wife for the people on the morrow all you want,” Baelor hums, reaching for his belt with one hand to undo the buckle there. “But there’s no use in pretending when we’re alone, is there?””

Excitement stirs in your flaring chest and down into the pit of your swirling stomach, throbbing somewhere in the depths of your loins the same way you had for Daeron. You keep his stare when he pulls his half-hard cock from the confines of his trousers, mouth watering for a taste of him.

“No… I suppose not,” you say on bated breath and let Baelor fuck you stupid in the middle of the candlelight study — moaning his name within the cobbled walls, mere hours before you recite your sacred vows before the gods.

[quigleysfreak]

im freaked out🤤🤤

[tser]

Hello! Do you know of any snake-safe air fresheners, candles, etc? The person I live with wants to use that sort of thing to cover up the sometimes-funky smell of our rented apartment. Since I have snakes, I don't think it's a good a idea, but can't come up with another solution to hide smells out of our direct control. (I also have asthma, so I don't much like scented candles either, but I mostly worry about the snakes).

I know how appealing a good smell can be, but you’re right to be wary of scented products. 

All candles produce some soot. Soot is impure carbon particles, the result of incomplete combustion of the fuel. Improper burning and wick trimming results in more soot, and though some candles are advertised as safer, or even soot free, they all produce soot and all can produce more or less depending on how they are burned. In addition to this, all candles will produce smoke, particles of burned material which are visible in the air. The smallest particles are actually the most dangerous, because they cross cellular membranes.

The scents in candles, air fresheners, and many kinds of incense are either essential oils (”natural”) or fragrance oils (”artificial”). Though essential oils are “natural” (produced through intensive processing), they release volatile organic compounds (VOCs). These are irritating and potentially dangerous to humans and other animals. Many are safe for human use only in very specific ways, in specific dilutions.  

Animal safety information is very much lacking for essential oils, and misinformation is rampant. Some of the essential oils known to be toxic to certain animals are often listed as “natural medicine” for those species online, or included in products meant for those species! 

Oil diffusers are not a safer way to use essential oils around reptiles; the essential oils still offgas VOCs (and do so even more at higher temperatures).

Why are scented products dangerous for reptiles? Snakes are particularly sensitive for a variety of reasons, such as some only having one functioning lung. Some reptiles have very primitive respiratory systems. Others, like birds (which are also reptiles) have very specialized systems.

I personally advise against all air fresheners, sprays, scented cleaning products, candles, and incense around reptiles.

If they must be used, use them in a different room, with good ventilation (fans blowing the air out, windows open, etc.). Do not use them in the room with the reptiles.

In a small apartment, be extra careful, since the air space is small.

There are some safe alternatives! 

If possible, open windows to freshen the house; outside air is almost always cleaner than inside air! VOC levels in the house are generally two or three times that of outside. Circulate air with fans.

Houseplants help eliminate VOCs from the air. NASA recommends two or three plants in 8 to 10-inch pots for every 100 square feet. Some are better than others; you can search online to find out which plants are safe for your situation (if you have pets that might eat them!) and which will do the best job.

Simmer orange, lemon, or lime peels with spices (such as cinnamon sticks) in a pot on the stove. Do not allow it to boil dry; burning food is dangerous too. (A slow cooker is a great option.)

Simmer tea, herbal tea, or coffee. (Again, don’t let it boil dry!)

Put citrus peels down the disposal in the sink.

Stud an orange with cloves and hang it somewhere, or use herbal sachets (dried herbs in cloth bags).

Use odor absorbent products such as charcoal, baking soda, or zeolite (you can find dedicated products in pet stores, department stores, and online). Just make sure no one can get into them. You generally hang them around stinky places, and replace as recommended for the product. (Coffee grounds also absorb odors!)

Vinegar diluted in water helps eliminate odors (of course it will smell vinegary, but when it dissipates the other smells are gone as well).

Water infused with whole herbs can be misted around safely (look for rose water recipes; can be adapted to other safe herbs like fresh lavender; or simply make like tea). Unlike essential oils, these are not dangerously concentrated. You can mist this around the house, or soak cotton balls in it and place in jars. 

I hope these ideas help!

[strawberrychapstickkisses]

𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆

steve harrington x fem!reader

WC: 2.1K

𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂 : being steve harringtons girlfriend is not easy.. between dealing with crazy ex girlfriends and your boyfriend almost getting killed by monsters, you are stretched to the limit. steve is the most kind and supportive boyfriend you could ask for though, always making sure he's there for you. so, when you ask for his help with your homework, steve is happy to oblige. little does he know, this homework is a little unconventional...

𝓐/𝓝 : holy shit stranger things s5? wtf. like actually wtf. anyways im back on that steve harrington wagon so enjoy my weekly fixation on him before i go back to stiles stilinski lol

𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 : no use of y/n, grinding, making out, banter, steve from like season 2? idk what season steve this is tbh, a little ooc but he's still hot dw, steve is taller than reader, reader studies psychology in some capacity, subby steve but like still in control yk, kinda sad bit, steve's dad sucks

"steve, the girl in the car next to us is staring.. hard." you murmur quietly under your breath, trying to make it look like you aren't even talking. looking straight ahead, you can still see her eyes burning a hole into the window through your peripheral vision.

"yea, i know hon, just ignore her."

"what do you think im doing?!"

finally, the light turns green and he pushes on the accelerator, leaving his mega fan at the stoplight. a breath comes out and you look at him, astonished.

"i know you said you've been around, and obviously i don't care, but how on earth do we manage to find a fling at every place we go to together?! i might have to make a bingo card with all the places at this point."

"you make me sound like such a man-whore."

"i'm not making it sound like anything, that is what you are harrington. a raging man-whore."

steve looks over, unimpressed by your insults. his hair, perfectly styled on his head, is getting in the way of looking at his side profile, which you stare at, unashamed. steve is so beautiful, it is a miracle he even noticed your existence. you're not ugly, not at all. you've got your own look and style, making sure to highlight your natural features and flaws too.

but steve just radiates cool and collected energy. he just stands out from everyone else, his personality is captivating and charming. he's everything and somehow, he noticed you. well, you noticed him.

you were sitting at the back of math, struggling to find the answer to a simple question when you notice steve 'the hair' harrington, sneaking looks at your paper.

"what are you doing..?"

you whispered to him quietly and he looked up at you alarmed, but his face immediately dropped when seeing you.

months later when he finally asked you if he could be your boyfriend, he described the moment. time slowed down and all he could focus on was your eyes, peering into his so curiously but with a hint of humor.

steve said he was entranced by your beauty and natural poise. you giggled at that, thinking it was a ridiculous statement but steve deadpanned and told you that you were one of the prettiest girls he'd ever seen.

remembering the moment now was very nostalgic, even though it had only been six months since you started dating. now, sitting in his passenger seat watching him, you reach across to adjust his hair so you can see him more clearly.

"ah, watch the hair!"

"oh whatever steve, you love it when i fix your hair."

he lets out a gruntled noise and lets you run your fingers through the strands. you style it back to its original puff but with room to see his face from your seat.

you go back down to your seat but lay your legs over his lap. you lay your body on the long front seat and feel steve instinctively set his hand on your knee. his thumb rubs the skin and you keep staring at his face from your position.

"oh shit, i forgot."

"what, what?"

"will you help me with my psychology homework?"

"why...? why on earth would you want my help?"

"aw stevie please! i need your help."

he sighs and looks down at you, skeptically looking for a con. steve is smart to look for one, he knows you well. he'll never see this one coming though.

"..alright, when we get back to my place, i'll help you study."

"thanks baby."

throwing the pet name at him, you watch a smirk creep onto his lips and his hand moves to your thigh instead to pat it goodheartedly. you sigh and lean your head back until it hits the leather seat and you can shape the stains on the roof.

"when you said you had homework, this isn't what i had in mind.."

you laugh and keep working at steves bicep with a pen, poking and prodding at different spots. your straddling his lap and he's laying under you, starfish style, in nothing but his boxers. a wet dream come true.

you really do have homework, it would probably be fine to just complete the paper labeled 'sexual desires, arousal and erogenous areas' but this was more fun, and steve doesn't have to know. as you trace your pen along his arm and bicep, you watch his face for any signs of arousal or desire. nothing. his eyes remain up at the ceiling and his crotch is undeniably soft.

it would be better if you could actually touch him, but the hands on study you are conducting needs to be neutral. if you were using your own hands to trace along his different body areas, steve would probably cum in his pants on account of it being you. that isn't viable research and you do need to do well on this section of psychology.

"baby, what are you supposed to be doing right now?"

"the unit my class is studying right now is the psychology of arousal and sexuality. i'm conducting an experiment on you stevie."

his breath halts, before continuing at a regular pace. i should probably write that down..

"wait, you're trying to turn me on with your pen!?"

you groan and stop tracing along his ribcage. you grab his chin and force steve to look you in the eyes.

"i am trying to find your erogenous zones. i am trying to conduct research but if i touch you with my actual hands, the data isn't neutral anymore."

his face is squished up in your hand so he just blinks and you let him go. steve lays back down with his hands behind his head and he watches you trace a swirly pattern onto his pec.

"something tells me this wasn't actually your homework..."

your silence speaks volumes, and you stop your pen again, peering up at him through your eyelashes and smiling sweetly.

"just some extra curricular work, that's all honey."

steve laughs and his chest shakes. his hands come out from behind his head to hold onto your hips, pressing you down onto his lap harder.

"well, i am fine to help you but... what do i get in return baby?"

you smirk and lean your face down to his, your mouth hovering above steve's. his breath is hot and you look down at his lips, slightly open and looking perfect. kissable.

"mmmm, i don't know... what on earth could steve harrington want from his girlfriend..?"

steve smiles and looks down at your lips before leaning up and connecting your mouths. his kiss is soft and slow, his hands coming around to hold the small of your back. you let your hands rest on his torso and trace circles onto the hair that sits on his chest. steve smiles and leans his head to the side to get a better angle and you use the opportunity to push his head down back onto the bed.

you feel his cock stand up between your legs and you grind down onto it, steve squeezing your flesh tighter at that. the hard bulge presses onto your clit and you gasp softly, letting steve slip his over eager tongue into your mouth.

you move your hands from his chest to his hair, pulling at the long strands and listening to him groan into your mouth, kissing harder and thrusting his hips up into your warmth. you moan and he kisses up into your mouth, straining his neck to reach.

one of steve's hands starts to unbutton your blouse, starting from the top and reaching the middle before his hand comes to cup your tit through your pink bra.

you pull away, breathing heavy and eyes dilated. steve looks into your eyes and rubs his hands along your waistline. his erections is pressing into your thigh and when you try move so steve can be more comfortable, he groans and pins you in place.

"don't. move."

"aw baby, are you gonna cum?"

"shhhhh..."

you smile cheekily and lean down to kiss his neck, sucking and biting at the hickeys you gave him a few days ago. you turn your head up slightly to whisper into steve's ear.

"it's okay hon, i just want you to feel good."

you nibble at his earlobe and a helpless whimper leaves him as you start to slowly circle your hips. you quietly say sweet nothings into his ear while kissing his neck and grinding down onto him, letting his groans and whimpers encourage you.

"no, baby stop. stop, stop."

you immediately stop and your lips pull off his neck with a quiet pop. you bring your hand down to caress his face, making sure he's okay.

"shit, what's wrong?"

"nothing, nothing. you're amazing, but... i think i just heard my dad pull up the drive."

you strain your ears for any sound and sure enough, you hear a car door slam shut and keys jingling.

"fuck fuck fuck"

you quickly climb off steve and toss him his pants. you quickly rebutton your shirt and attempt to pat steve's hair down to look less sex-driven. his hickey's are turning purple now so he grabs a sweater from his hamper that has the high school crest on it.

you look at both of you in the mirror. fuck it's so obvious you were making out. steve gives you a smile that says what can you do? and grabs your hand to drag you downstairs.

.....

"hey dad."

steve calls out and starts to walk down the stairs with you trailing behind him. you're not fond of steve's dad. he's obviously told you about him and you've met him once or twice but his attitude towards steve is so rotten it makes you sick.

not to mention he treats you like he's too good for you. like you're some trash his son brought home and he's above you.

steve wants his approval so badly it makes your chest hurt. you feel for him in that way, wanting approval from parents.

"hello son."

you can see his suit clad figure from the stairs and you pause at the bottom, letting go of steve's hand.

he looks up at you questioning and you assure him it's fine, telling him to go talk to his dad. you haven't seen his father in months and reminding the man of your name can get tiring.

steve goes up behind him and starts talking to him, trying to start a conversation. his dad just sneers slightly and walks toward the kitchen. your heart sinks as steve's shoulders fall. poor stevie.

you walk over to where he remained standing and grab onto his arm. he looks down at you with sad eyes and you lean into him.

"are you okay..?" you whisper and steve clears his throat. he looks back down and nods.

"i don't even know why i try at this point."

"you try because you see the good in people. you're an amazing person and if your father can't see that then that is truly his loss."

steve smiles and leans down to kiss you on the forehead. you come around to hug him and you nuzzle your face into his neck as steve tightens his arms around your waist, clinging to you.

you both stand there for a while before steve pulls away and grabs your hand with his. as you pass the kitchen, you see his dad on the phone with someone and can hear him raising his voice, insulting the person on the other side.

steve leads you up the stairs and you head to his room, shutting the door. you both hear his dad yell some more before slamming the receiver down. he then yells out to steve, something muffled and then the front door slams shut. his car pulls away and you're alone again.

"god what an asshole."

you nod and look at him again, making sure he's okay. steve doesn't look too bothered by it anymore though, looking down at you with heavy eyes.

"now... where were we?"

[quigleysfreak]

😛😛😛

[missposessive]

..WHEN DID YOU GET HOT?

ex childhood friend!clark x fem!reader

authors note - this is completely and utterly unrealistic because we know clark/david has never been ugly a day in his life..but for the sake of the plot! we pretend. listen to when did you get hot? by sabrina carpenter for the full effect. mwah!

warnings - provocative language, you n clark are awk, ‘friends’ to lovers, unprotected p in v sex (wrap it up!), creampie (don’t do that!), size kink if u think about it, clark gets on his knees mhmm, why am i lowkey bullying you in this fic, clark is a bit ooc, porn with plot, your mother is home! pervert! switch!reader, switch!clark, size kink (it’s clark, cmon!), tiny angst if you squint, hair tugging, cunnilingus (r!receiving), making out.

you swore.

you swore you needed glasses because there’s no way that standing in front of you was Kansas-boy-clark-kent.

why was he even here? your mom said she had a surprise for you but goddamn.

“he was back in town, his ma reached back out, figured a reunion dinner was appropriate.”

sure. appropriate almost twenty years later.

he was still a gentleman though, making sure to hug or greet you and your mom. he brought cookies, chocolate chip. he smiled, the dimple on his cheek still there like it’d had vanished when you left his life.

safe to say your mother was still a fan of him. and you..you were just starstruck. he was big. still had those ‘prescription’ glasses of his. he looked as if he could lift your car with his hand. little did you know he could.

“hi,” he spoke, that stupid smile plastered on his face as he waved like he wasn’t two inches from your face. you smiled softly back, nodding like you were about to salute him or something. you quickly realized that was stupid and decided to finally speak up. “clark.” you nodded again, his voice coming past your lips in the weirdest tone you’ve ever spoken in. your mother looked at you concerned before her hand finds clark’s back, smiling at him. “let’s get you some food.” she spoke.

you barely conversed with clark, worried that you’d stumble over your words or completely ruin things. you were a woman now, act like it.

the sun went down, all the dishes now in the sink as you and clark hugged your mom, her yawns evident that she needed a good nights rest after so much cooking and cleaning throughout the day.

clark rolled up his sleeves, turning the water on as the smell of cinnamon and amber lingered in the kitchen when he pumped the soap. he pushed his glasses up with his forearm, soap coating his long, thick fingers…oh girl, get a grip.

you walked up to the sink, feeling like an idiot for staring. you didn’t want word getting out that you were lazy while your childhood best friend did all the work for your mother. she always did like him more. “need any help with that?” you spoke, looking up at him. he was like a giant. at least 6’3, 6’5, 69..469..

“that’d help,” he smiled at you, scrubbing the plate. you nodded, still standing awkwardly next to him. he didn’t exactly leave much room.

you grabbed the plates and put them on the dish rack when he finished scrubbing them, your fingers brushing every couple of bowls. you both stood quiet and if it weren’t for the creaking of the sink every time he shifted the faucet, it’d be fatally awkward between the two of you.

you put the last plate on the dish rack while clark wiped his hands, handing you the towel before his backside hit the counter.

“soo..what’re you up to nowadays?” clark spoke, turning his gaze to you. “uh you know. just the usual.” you said, an awkward smile on your face. he nodded in response, his smile never going away. “and what is that?” he chuckled. you perked up a bit, hand on your hip like you were on a mission. “i make drinks. at a cafe..barista.” you spoke, nodding like you were trying to convince yourself of your own occupation. he seemed to show genuine interest at that. “oh, what can you make?” “uh..anything.” okay so. if clark hadn’t known you as a child, he would’ve assumed you hated him. your replies were short, you were awkward. but you couldn’t help it.

he was so..handsome. which was something you never thought you’d say about clark kent. the ugly kid you met a door down from your townhouse.

you’d noticed from the 1,000th glance you gave him that the outline of his cock through his slacks was promising.— and that was an understatement. you bet his light rod was like, bigger than zeus’.

“what do..what do you do?” you spoke, staring up at him. “i work as a journalist at the daily planet. if you’ve heard of it.” his hands find his pockets as he smiles at you. it never once went away. you nodded, playing with the nonexistent ring on your finger. “yeah—yeah! one of my old friends work there too.” you spoke. “ouch. guess i’m not special then.” he clutched his heart. you chuckled at that, the first genuine one he’d gotten out of you.

but then the silence. oh, the silence. you both knew each others occupation..what else was there to know?

“how long have you been in town?” you asked, hoping this conversation lasted a while before the silence became deafening again. “around two weeks,” he nodded after releasing the inside of his cheek from between his teeth. “ma would’ve came but she had to take care of some stuff with the animals back home.” you nodded in response, mirroring his cheek biting before swallowing.

“that’s nice.” literally what. yes! it’s very nice that his mother wasn’t able to make it! “not nice that martha wasn’t able to make it—i just meant-” you were quickly cut off, a cheeky smile on clark’s face as he nodded. “i know,”

silence. again. you looked outside of the window near the sink, acting like the vacant street was interesting. did the road get darker than last time? the yellow lines are really fading, they should repaint—

your attention turned back to clark when you realized he stepped just a bit closer, probably just trying to see whatever was so interesting outside. but for the first time tonight, your heart nearly dropped when you realized clark wasn’t smiling, and he wasn’t looking outside. his eyes were locked on you, and they wandered when you weren’t looking.

‘sorry i did not see the vision,’ you thought to yourself, swallowing again. if only there was a conveniently placed faucet for your parched throat..oh wait!

but you barely had time to react before clark leaned down a bit, eyes locked on your lips. “i always thought you were pretty,” you almost frowned because you definitely could not say the same about him. he was an ugly kid but a sexy man. and you let yourself feel flattered by his words. why bring that up now though?

“are you seeing anyone?” clark asked softly, glancing back into your eyes. you stood frozen like an idiot before shaking your head, managing to mumble out a soft ‘no.’ and that was all the confirmation clark needed. sure he was being a bit of freak right now, but he was still a gentleman! his pointer finger and thumb grabbed your chin a bit, making you look up at him, and trust you were looking. he smiled, a dimple peeking through his cheek before he leaned in, breathing against you. you decided to yourself ‘screw it, screw him, a fine man like this hasn’t come into my life in a minute.— or ever.’

so you kissed him first, hands finding the back of his neck as your nails ran halfway through his curls, careful not to separate them. he didn’t hesitate to kiss you back, hands gripping your hips gently as you both breathed into it, not pulling back once.

that was until you both had to breathe. clark took that opportunity to find a vacant countertop, lifting you up before you wrapped your legs around his waist and he gently put you on the tiled counter. then your lips were on each others again like they never left.

both of your heads moved like you were fighting with each other with your lips, the kiss becoming more feverish with every second that passed. clark felt like he was being edged when you pulled away, holding him tightly against you. his eyes stood closed for a long period of time, his ears barely registering a single thing you said when you spoke.

“clark,” you breathed out against him. he opened his eyes, his glasses foggy from your breath, his hair a bit disheveled. you both just stared at each other, just like earlier. but this time it wasn’t awkward. it was wanting, longing. his hands found your thighs before he kissed your lips again. then your jaw, then your neck. you sighed, being mindful to stay quiet but it was a challenge.

his other hand went to roam your waist, your hands falling to his shoulders. “do you want this?” you asked, figuring he wouldn’t unless you forced it out of him. he nodded almost eagerly, pulling back to stare at your face. “yeah— yes. yes i do.”

and that was all you needed. you would’ve made a move, if clark’s movement didn’t stop you from doing so. he continued kissing your chest until his fingers wrapped around the hem of your shirt, lifting it up as he felt your warm skin underneath. you stared at him intently, chewing down on your lip like it’d escape from your face. “can i?” he asked softly, and you nodded in response before he stripped you of your shirt, putting it down next to you. he let out a shaky breath, staring at your chest. sure, you had a bra on, but it was still the most he’d ever seen of you. he stared, you stared, both looking at completely different things. his eyes flickered up to your face before he reached behind you, unhooking your bra like it was nothing as it pooled into your lap. even you struggled with that. it was like clark had superpowers.

now your chest was on full display for him, and you found your body getting hotter by the second when he wouldn’t look away, like he was in a trance. then in the blink of an eye, he leaned impossibly closer to you, lips finding your chest as he peppered kissed between your breasts, kneading them softly.—or at least, he tried to do it softly.

you sighed out at the relief, the feeling, the love.

his lips went lower, and lower, and lower until he reached your throbbing cunt. he unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them down, wasting no time before he tossed them with your shirt. his breathing picked up after he saw the wet spot on your panties, his hands on your bare thighs as he lowered himself onto his knees. you looked down at him, propping a foot in his shoulder. he smiled softly which could’ve made you pass out. literally.

you both shared a glance as he asked for permission with his eyes. all you could do was nod once more before he hooked his fingers around the fabric and pulled it down, lifting your leg a bit with his other hand to get them off of you. and when he did..when you were completely bare in front of him..he folded. he lowered himself even more just to look at everything. then, he leaned in, throwing your leg over his shoulder gently before kissing your thighs, bringing you closer to his face. he glanced up at you, glasses tilted and probably on the verge of breaking with how much times he bumped into your clit with them, cheeks flushed. “clark..” you muttered, and he licked a fat strip through your folds, kissing your inner thigh and repeating the motions until it became torturous.

until you had to beg. “please clark,” you sighed out. usually, unbeknownst to you, clark would’ve made you beg more. but he couldn’t deny the throbbing and straining in his own pants. this wasn’t just for you. “i got you,” he mumbled.

suck.

pop!

it was euphoric. he knew where the clit was. you didn’t have to guide him, didn’t have to scold him..he knew. and that made you wanna break this man.

then he kept sucking, making lewd slurping sounds like there was no tomorrow. you’d gotten nervous of getting caught but that worry went out the door when he shook his head. you were already seeing stars and you were only a few minutes in. clark’s eyes never, and i mean never left your face. every knit of your brow, every part of your lips, every bite, every sucked breath..he saw it all. he saw what he was doing. he was the cause. you buried his head in between your thighs as his hands went behind you to grip your ass, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth as he just kept sucking. he wouldn’t stop. it was like he never ate pussy before.

“fuck—jesus christ, clark.” you moaned out, shaking as you covered your mouth. you almost whined when he pulled away, breathing heavily, chin and mouth soaked. that makes for good lipgloss.

“just me.” he breathed out, glasses fogged up again. you bit down on your lip, pulling him up by his collar before he smiled down at you. he kissed you, hands now rubbing your thighs as you tasted yourself on his tongue. then..pop!

one button.

pop!

second button.

clark watched intently as you unbuttoned his shirt, every separation of the fabric revealing his toned chest. when you got to the last button, you wasted no time popping it before clark took his shirt off himself, letting it pool to the floor. you stared with no shame as he just smiled, noting that you were clearly impressed. he was massive. that shirt was deceiving. where did he fit all that? “you’re huge,” you blurted out, tracing his chest with the hair on his happy trail making you wanna squeeze your thighs together. he only nods in response before unzipping and unbuttoning his slacks, taking them off as well. when he puts those to the side, he was left in just his boxers.

this was almost like a horror movie. almost. all you saw was the outline of his cock. twitching, throbbing against his grey boxers. just begging to be inside of you..begging.

you reached down, too needy to even care about much of anything anymore as you slid them down. you stared just like clark did earlier with your breasts and your folds. shameless. lustful. admiring, it was long, hard, thick. everything you’d told your friends you needed.

a good dicking down.

and clark came through with what you needed. when he slid himself inside of you, your hands found his back as he buried his face in your shoulder, thrusting into you repeatedly. no, you didn’t care that your head hit the cabinet, but clark did. he cared for you. his hand found the back of your head, blocking it from hitting the wood as he let out shaky breaths against your ear, kissing your neck whenever he had to mumble them.

his hips slammed into yours with little to no remorse, and you felt all of it, every inch. “feels so good,” clark mumbled out, and you nodded in response. “so good, clark..”

his other hand found the very same cabinet, palm against it as he continued rutting into you, faint slapping noises coming from below. and when clark looked down. he nearly came inside of you. he let out a small whine, seeing cum pool beneath the two of you, sticking to the back of your thighs when he kept pounding into you. he kissed your lips, continuing his deep and calculated movements, the kiss filled with tongue and fervor.

“i’m gonna cum. i’m gonna cum—” clark mumbled against your lips, brows furrowed. you didn’t pull away. you let your nails dig into his back, your chest pressed against his. but when you noticed he tensed, on the edge, you noticed he was going to pull away. luckily your legs were already wrapped around his waist, so you pulled him back into you. “stay,” you mumbled, breathing patterns synced with his. he looked at you with confusion, fear, lust..all of the emotions of a man.

“but—” “i’m on the pill. it’s okay.” usually clark would be smart about this. there’s still a risk. but the assurance on your face, how warm you were wrapped so tightly around him..

how could he deny you?

it wasn’t long until clark came inside of you, filling you up with his warm load, moaning and whining against your shoulder before his thumb went to rub your clit, stimulating you just enough so you could finish as well.

he went slow, fucking his cum deeper into you while you shook from your own orgasm. you both breathed relentlessly, sticky, hot snd sweaty. you were practically glued to the counter. clark rubbed the back of your neck, halting his movements just barely to have a moment.

“you’re beautiful.” he spoke softly, kissing your lips. you smiled against his lips, kissing him back for quite some time before pulling away for, you guessed it, air. not that you had much of that right now.

“i was thinking macadamia nuts for the next batch i bring over.” clark smiled, looking up into the corner before his eyes found yours again. you chuckled at his corniness before rolling your eyes. was that his way of saying he’d be back? you definitely weren’t opposed to the idea. not one bit.

..when did clark kent get so hot?

[se7entyrell]

so it goes (bruce wayne x assistant!reader)

warnings: 18+, mdni! age gap (25/40), boss/assistant power dynamics, they don't communicate their needs at all, unprotected pinv, fingering, oral (f!receiving), got a lot more romantic than i was intending tbh this was meant to be a quick fuck fic

His expression changes a little. One of surprise? You can’t quite tell, until he speaks. “If you really wanted to, I’d pay for it. You know that.”

Unfortunately, you do.

You know that if you asked for anything, he would do it for you. And that’s a very dangerous position to be in with your boss.

Honestly, while I was initially thinking about Battinson, I feel like you can picture Bale or Affleck for this fic too.

It's an open secret amongst certain Gotham circles that Bruce Wayne is sleeping with his assistant.

It just makes sense. Gotham's most eligible bachelor, spending lots of one-on-one time with a pretty girl fifteen years his junior. The rumours had started almost as soon as he laid eyes on you for the first time.

He only hired her for her looks. Entirely untrue. Bruce hadn’t even seen you before you started - had just looked at your resume. Anyone who thought Bruce Wayne had time to interview for assistants himself was out of their mind.

He was probably fucking her and decided to give her a job so he could do it on company time. Also untrue. While you were certainly aware of Wayne Enterprises and it’s elusive CEO, your first day at work had been the first time you ever interacted personally.

She’s just trying to sleep her way to the top. If that were true, you wouldn’t have applied for a job that barely covers your rent. Of course, as soon as Bruce had realised that your salary was leaving you scrambling for change at the end of each month, he had upped it. Quite substantially. But that’s beside the point.

You're at his beck and call, armed with his diary, aspirin, and whatever else he may need at any given time. It's become almost impressive, the way you can predict his needs before Bruce even becomes aware of them himself. It only took six months for you to become so in tune with his whims and mood swings, that he was convinced some days that you could rival Alfred.

Initially, that's all it had been. A good partnership. You’re an excellent assistant, and he paid you handsomely for it. But as time went on, the gazes started to linger, and the air began to shift.

Late nights would end with a shared whiskey, as he opened up to you in ways he’d never dream of with anybody else. His hand would find the small of your back at any given moment during the day, a grounding tactic for himself.

You learned first aid, and would budget time to patch him up each morning, as the situation called for. He knew you’d figured out his secret, but neither of you ever mentioned it. He simply let you bandage his fists, and clean his wounds, without complaint.

And then, one day, he kissed you.

You had been perched on his desk, watching him pace as you outlined the following week’s meetings. He liked to prune his schedule on a Friday, get rid of anything unnecessary.

As the night had drawn on, he inched closer to you with each passing drink. Your legs had parted on instinct, allowing him to slip between them and settle in front of you. His thumb had tucked under your chin, tilting it up towards him as he pressed his lips to yours.

You could taste smoke on his tongue. A cigar far too expensive for your tastes, you'd assumed.

It felt like it lasted for hours - Bruce's tongue tracing the seam of your mouth as his hands wandered, before he finally pulled back.

Embarrassed by his lack of control, your relationship had stalled, turning purely professional as Bruce tried to keep you out of his head.

Until he turned up at your apartment door two months later, bruised and bloodied, and had fucked you until you couldn't remember your own name.

Things were different from then on. It went entirely unspoken, but you knew the drill. Bruce needed release, and he needed it from somebody he trusted. In his office, after meetings - when he called, you came.

Finally, what everybody had assumed had been going on since the beginning came to fruition.

It’s a situation you’re more than happy with. Sure, it’s a little cliché. Older boss with his younger assistant - you’re positive HR have pre-emptive nightmares every time somebody spots you leaving Bruce’s office, lipstick a little smudged and dress crumpled.

But, despite what the general public may think, it works for both of you. You genuinely enjoy his presence, and you’re having the best sex of your life. In fact, you think the world would go round a lot smoother if more people fucked their bosses.

Besides, dating in Gotham is tough at the best of times - and you're not sure you'll ever be able to look at another man again after seeing Bruce Wayne on his knees, with his head buried between your thighs.

After the sex, came the gifts. Starting small, flowers soon morphed to jewellery and clothes that cost more than your whole apartment.

Now, when he keeps you late, Bruce has started taking you to dinner as an apology. Of course, the entire place is rented out, and each staff member signs an ironclad NDA to keep their mouths shut, but it feels dangerous nonetheless.

Nights out with your friends end with Bruce sending a car for you, just to make sure you get home safe.

“He's my boss, there's nothing going on” doesn't get you very far with them anymore. Especially on the nights the car headed for Wayne Manor. When you’d shed your heels at the door, before padding through to Bruce’s office and dropping into his lap to tell him about your night.

It's certainly not just sex anymore for you. And you get the sense it isn't for him either.

You can tell already that he’s more highly strung than usual this week, when he appears in his office first thing.

“I need you to cancel my 7pm tonight.”

“Got it. Cancelled entirely, or a ‘we'll be in touch’ kind of cancel?”

Bruce thinks for a second, discarding his jacket on a nearby chair. “If the McCoys cancel on Wednesday, slot them in there - if not, cancel entirely.”

You nod. “Bad weekend?”

“Hm?”

“You seem tense.”

He snorts. “I’m always tense.”

“Okay,” You begin slowly. “You seem like you’re about two meetings away from a mental break. Think you should take the afternoon off?”

“Can’t. We’ve got a gala tonight-”

“We?” You repeat, crossing your arms. “It’s not in the diary.”

“It’s new. But I want you to come. As long as you’re free.”

You’re always free.

“I can reschedule,” You shrug. “What’s it for?”

“Some Wayne Foundation thing - their speaker pulled out, so I’ve got to go now. I told Patty to email you the guest list, so you should have it soon. Pick you up at six?”

Lip between your teeth, you nod again. “I uh, I don’t have a dress.”

Not entirely true. Over the past few months, you’ve amassed quite the little collection, created from various prompts Bruce has tossed in your direction, along with his card. You get it. He’s a control freak, and he doesn’t like surprises.

He’d never actually have a problem with what you wore, but it thrills you a little that he’s paying attention.

Your only problem is that most of the dresses he’s bought you are very much not gala appropriate. They’re for hiding under a trench coat until you reach the Manor, before they swiftly end up on the floor of Bruce’s bedroom.

Or, they’re more casual - for work and socialising.

The few black tie dresses you do own are currently being altered - the stress of the last quarter caused you to lose a few pounds.

Immediately, he’s sliding the black Amex across the desk. “Take the afternoon off, go get whatever you want.”

“You don’t need any help today?”

He shakes his head, offering you a small smile. “I’ll be okay. Besides, you worked sixty-one hours last week. That’s way too much.”

You note that he includes your time alone as work, and your expression falls a little. You school it into neutrality, hoping he doesn’t notice, but of course he does. “Thank you, Mr Wayne.”

A mere workplace formality. Bruce hates being called Mr Wayne, especially by you, but when rumours are already running rampant about you both, neither of you want to add fuel to the fire.

This afternoon, you’ll make $250 dollars for spending a few hours shopping. If you weren’t so wildly infatuated with Bruce, you’d sleep with him just for that.

*****

Bruce comes to your door. Despite your many insistences that you’re perfectly capable of getting in the elevator, and walking out the front door, it’s a habit that’s been impossible to break.

Your only instructions for the dress had been black. While the satin number you’d landed on was perhaps a little more revealing than would be considered appropriate for an assistant, you knew Bruce wouldn’t mind. The neckline plunged low, and the slit sat high on your leg, but it fit you well, and wasn’t too eye-wateringly expensive.

You knew money would never be an issue for Bruce, but every time he handed you his card, you didn’t want to go too extravagant. Didn’t want him to think that’s what you were using him for.

Your assumptions are proven correct when his gaze casts over you as you open the door. Darkening slightly, his eyes work their way right down your body, muscle ticking slightly in his jaw. “God, you look… incredible,” He murmurs, taking a step over the threshold of your place.

“It’s not too much?”

He’s shaking his head, hands settling on your waist. That’s new. Normally he can make it an hour or two before initiating the physical contact. You lean in slightly, just enough to place your hands on his chest. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

“Think I’d rather stay here,” He hums, lips brushing yours.

“Yes, because arriving at your assistant’s apartment in a three piece suit isn’t at all suspicious.”

Bruce scoffs. “People will talk no matter what we do.”

A fair point, you think. But they probably wouldn’t talk as much if Bruce didn’t insist on having you by his side at all hours of the day. And if it wasn’t so painfully obvious that an assistant’s salary would never be able to pay for the lifestyle you’ve come to lead.

Realising that somebody’s going to have to be the grown-up, you pull back. “The board will kill you if you’re late.”

“Can’t kill me when I’m the one paying their salaries.” Nonetheless, he steps away, offering you his arm. You shouldn’t really take it. If there are any paparazzi outside, pictures of this situation could be damning. Yet you find yourself taking it anyway.

He leads you down the stairs, making more than one comment about ‘your piece-of-shit apartment complex’, and how you need to find a better place, one with a working elevator.

“I think you overestimate how much you pay me,” You reply, eyebrow arched. “We can’t all just purchase property at the drop of a hat.”

His expression changes a little. One of surprise? You can’t quite tell, until he speaks. “If you really wanted to, I’d pay for it. You know that.”

Unfortunately, you do.

You know that if you asked for anything, he would do it for you. And that’s a very dangerous position to be in with your boss.

“I… I don’t know if that’s appropriate,” You finally manage, casting your eyes downwards. An almost palpable pain passes through your gut, at the notion of rebuffing him in any way. But you know it’s for the best. You’re already in far too deep. You’re not sure it’s wise to get any further involved with him.

Sex is one thing. You don’t think you can come back from this.

There’s a visible stiffening of his shoulders, a wall going up somewhere in his brain to protect from rejection. “Of course. Forget I said anything.”

The ride over is quiet, punctuated only by your instructions on the attendees of the event. How he needs to ask about how Lester Mayhew’s wife is doing after her surgery, and whether Art Longfellow’s daughter is enjoying college.

Bruce exits the car first, moving round to help you out. As you emerge from the car, you feel a surge of disappointment from the reporters.

Every time you accompany Bruce to a gala, there’s a moment before your door opens where the press is praying that he’s finally brought a date. Instead, they get you.

The maybe-assistant, maybe-lover, that nobody’s ever brave enough to ask him about.

Despite the tension in the car, Bruce’s hand moves to the small of your back as he greets the reporters. It’s not often he’s up for much media interaction, but you figure he’s trying to minimise his alone time with you, and diligently answers every question thrown his way.

“You’re chatty tonight,” You comment quietly, after pulling him away from the final interview.

He shrugs slightly. “Just felt right.”

Entering the gala, attention snaps to him, and the persona is back. Charming billionaire playboy.

You’re at his side the entire time, whispering cues on each person he interacts with. How well he’s meant to know them, what they likely want from him, and whether he wants to oblige them.

Tonight, it’s mostly money. That, he can do.

Until Michelle Donachie appeared at his elbow. Tall, gorgeous, and heir to the second richest family in Gotham, she’s exactly the kind of person the press expects Bruce to be with. She’s exactly the kind of person you expect Bruce to end up with.

On nights like this, you’re starkly reminded of the fact that Bruce Wayne would never marry somebody like you. Instead, you’re a brief chapter in his life, relegated to the shadows before he finds his true love.

She’s very obviously into him. From the hand that curls around his forearm, to the way she bullies the poor waiter into switching the seating chart so she can be next to Bruce. Initially, you had been the shafted party, swapped to the very back of the room - but Bruce had put that straight pretty quickly.

Now, you’re on his left, while she sits on his right.

You last until dessert, opting to busy yourself with your work phone instead of listening to Michelle gush over her family’s French villa, and how Bruce would just love it there. You don’t dare look him in the eye - partially out of embarrassment from earlier, partly because you’re scared of what you’ll see.

Lust? Desire? Or, worst of all, love?

You know it’s coming eventually. What you’ve got going on can’t last forever.

But that’s a problem for a future you.

Mumbling apologies, you get to your feet, and rush off to the bathroom, slamming the stall shut just before the tears start to spill.

*****

“You’re upset,” He notes, as soon as the limo door closes behind him. His eyes are solemn, trying to search your gaze out as you pointedly avoid looking at him.

“I’m not,” You mumble, checking your emails. The dress rides up higher than you’d like as you get settled, slit exposing your upper thigh.

“You won’t even look at me.”

“I’m checking your emails. Just trying to do my job.”

Normally, you sit next to him. Currently, you’re sitting about as far away from him as you possibly can be. “You’ve been quiet all night.”

“This might be surprising to you, Bruce, but that’s the way assistants are meant to act.” Your tone has more bite than you intend, and you fight back a wince. His slight recoil makes you want to cry.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” He says, voice quiet. “With the apartment thing - I shouldn’t have offered-”

“Jesus, Bruce - I said it was fine at the time. I’m just tired, I want to go home.”

“You’re not fine,” He argues, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re choosing now to be observant? I’m surprised, after you spent half the night eye-fucking Michelle Donachie.”

Shit. You hadn’t meant to show your hand like that.

Embarrassment clouds your features, while Bruce lets out an incredulous laugh. “Are you jealous?”

Your response is immediate. “No. We’re not together.”

“We’re not,” Bruce nods. “Doesn’t mean I’d do something like that to you.”

Finally, you meet his gaze. In the dim light of the passing Gotham street lamps, Bruce can finally see the smudge of your mascara, the smallest tear tracks down your cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” He murmurs, voice so soft, so honeyed, that you almost want to cry again. “C’mere.”

Your body moves on instinct. Months of obeying Bruce’s instructions have led to a programmed urge to listen to him. You shuffle a little closer, just enough so he can reach out for you. A tug of his hand comes at the exact time the limo hits a speed bump, sending you directly onto his lap.

His arm is around you straight away, keeping you firmly against him, while the other pushes a stray hair from your face. “I’m not sleeping with Michelle. I’m not sleeping with anyone except you.”

That’s a surprise to you. While you spend most of your time around Bruce - you’d always just assumed there were others.

Of course there were. He’s Bruce Wayne. Every unattached woman in Gotham would like to make a pass at him.

“I don’t know if we should do this anymore,” You whisper, trying to ignore the cracking in your chest as you speak. “We’re walking stereotypes, for god’s sake.”

“If we were walking stereotypes, I wouldn’t be thinking about you at all hours of the day, missing you. I wouldn’t only be able to sleep when you’re in my bed, and I certainly wouldn’t think about putting my ring on your finger some day.”

You freeze, lips parted, and he continues. Bruce has never been good with words, much less words like that.

“You’re my number one girl, kid. Always have been. But, if that’s what you want, I can drop you home, and we can never discuss this again. Or, I can give you a good reference, get you a job wherever you want-”

You shake your head, fidgeting with your ring. “It’s okay. We can go to the Manor.”

He nods, moving to press a kiss to your cheek. Instead, you turn, catching him fully on the lips. It’s deepened quickly, pushing into him as far as you can, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach.

The car pulls into the driveway, and Bruce is leading you up the steps. The door is barely closed behind him when he’s back on you.

Your arms are braced against the wall for support, and you’re desperately trying to push the image of Michelle Donachie from your head as his lips trail along your jaw.

It’s only when his hands wander to the flimsy straps that hang on your shoulders, that you finally push him off.

“I’m not taking my dress off while you’re still fully clothed,” You reply, petulance tinging your tone. You’re fully aware of how childish you’re being right now. Bruce isn’t even yours, and yet you still can’t stand the idea of other women giving him attention.

Of him looking at other women the way he’s looking at you right now.

Hell, he brought you home with him, and you still can’t put it behind you. Her face continues to flash into your mind. The appropriate option for him.

Instead of arguing, Bruce indulges you, and sheds his suit jacket, before loosening his tie. You’ve made your mind up about staying, and that seems to be enough for him for now.

His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. You suck in a sharp breath, ignoring the amused glance Bruce sends your way.

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

“It’s the dress,” You reply, but he’s shaking his head.

“S’all you, honey.” Shirt gone, he’s sinking to his knees in front of you. “You were the prettiest girl in that place.”

Your first instinct is to roll your eyes, but when he reaches for your thigh, hooking it over his shoulder, you have to fight just to keep upright. The slit rides high, giving Bruce easy access to his final destination. “You’re just trying to charm me into your bed.”

“Best will in the world, I’ve never needed charm to get you into my bed.”

The quip knocks you off guard, and you laugh. “You make me sound like a prostitute.”

“I pay you to make my calendar work. The sex is just… a mutually beneficial perk.” A soft kiss is pressed to your knee. Then your inner thigh, and finally over your clothed core.

A soft whimper escapes, your hips bucking forward a little. “A perk? Real romantic, Wayne.”

Another kiss, another whimper. “Figured a proposal might scare you off.”

His fingers reach out, hooking your panties downwards, and all words leave you. Bruce’s mouth is wet and warm, licking eager stripes through your folds. Eyes fluttering closed, when your legs start to tremble, you let them. You know Bruce has you.

When his lips seal around your clit, it’s all you can do not to cry out. “G-god, Bruce-”

He doesn’t reply, too focused on the task at hand, but his finger teases against your entrance. Your hand reaches out, curling into his hair as you try and stay grounded. It doesn’t work. As soon as Bruce’s second digit is added, you’re near tears from the extra stimulation.

If only Michelle Donachie could see her Bruce Wayne now. On his knees for you. Only you.

The orgasm is earth-shattering. Maybe jealousy is the best aphrodisiac. He’s coaxing you through it, and then getting to his feet, gathering you into his arms. It’s a natural position, face pressed into his neck as his arm hooks under your thighs. Despite his efforts, you can feel your slick between your thighs, and you’re suddenly very glad you didn’t opt for a rental dress.

Soon, he’s at the master wing, and you’re being placed on the bed. “Ready for the dress to come off?”

You nod tiredly, allowing him to unlace the back. Featherlight kisses are peppered down your spine, while he sheds his own trousers.

You may be one of the people who knows Bruce best in the world, but he doesn’t get enough credit for how well he knows you. That while normally after galas you’re keyed up and ready to fuck, tonight you need something softer. When he sits on the edge of the bed, you’re in his lap again, legs braced on either side of his waist.

Already hard, his cock presses against your thigh, as he looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s gearing up to say something that neither of you can return from.

Instead, you beat him to the punch. “Do you love me?”

You have no idea where it comes from. You know that Bruce cares for you - he’s not an affectionate man, and yet he manages to carve it out of himself, just for you. He takes care of you, in more ways than one, and you know he’d take a bullet for you.

But that doesn’t mean he loves you.

You’re expecting hesitation. A complete non-answer. Maybe an outright denial. Not a single word.

“Yes.”

You let out a shuddering breath, before closing the gap and kissing him deeply. Your hips roll, and he groans into your mouth. Each movement brushes his cock against your core, the fabric of his boxers being the only fabric between you both.

Bruce has never been a talker in bed. Low grunts are all he lets himself away with. Entirely overwhelmed at the events of the night, you’re glad for that tendency now. You find yourself on your back, legs wrapped round Bruce’s waist as he grinds against you.

The boxers are gone now, lost in the shuffle, and he feels so good you think you might cry. He’s big, bigger than most, and he knows exactly how to use it. Hand slipping between you both, he lines himself up. “You want this?”

“Please.”

You’re not a religious person. But sometimes, when Bruce Wayne is buried to the hilt inside of you, you think you see God. It feels so different with him than it does with everybody else. So much more intimate, more important.

Even the very first time he fucked you - when you had been bent over your kitchen table - it felt special. Like you were meant to be with him like this. That gut feeling had been the only reason you let this continue as far as it has. Surely you can’t be doing wrong when it feels so right.

Tonight is somehow no different, and yet also an entirely different entity. Because yes, the way he moves his hips is the same, and the way you keen against him is the same, but the air is changed.

The overhead light is on. A small detail, perhaps completely unintentional, and yet you’ve never been able to see more of Bruce. The muscles that ripple across his back, the bruises that originate from an unknown source that you’ve never asked about.

That you’ve never needed to ask about.

Bruce has no urgency tonight. No all-consuming need to fuck until he’s too tired to think anymore. To dream. His movements are lazy, and a hand stays cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes trained on him. Eventually, the pace picks up a little. He makes you moan, cry, and whimper against his throat, as your heart beats out of your chest.

Before long, you lose count of your orgasms, and not long after that, all you can think of his Bruce. His name is the only thing that falls from your lips.

It isn’t until he pulls out and gently dabs at your legs with a towel from the bathroom that you can feel yourself returning to your body. Barely conscious, you curl into him as soon as he slips under the covers. A strong arm drapes over your waist, as he nudges his thigh between yours.

You go to speak, to tell him that you feel the same, when he stops you, seemingly knowing exactly what you’re about to say. “Tell me after you’ve thought about it.”

“I have thought about it,” You murmur.

“Can’t hurt to think a little more,” He replies, the smallest smile gracing his lips. “S’a big thing. To tell someone you love them.”

Ever the professional, your brain starts to whir, thinking about all the PR angles this thing could take - how you’d explain it to Wayne Enterprises. “Should we talk about this?”

“Tomorrow.”

There are endless questions you'd like answered. But Bruce's arm tightens around you, pulling you against him, and you let out a breath.

“Okay, yeah. Tomorrow.”

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[quigleysfreak]

yummy 😋

[maiamore]

clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.

cw: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, hate fucking, unprotected p-in-v, mentions of blood & violence, clark has a massive cock (ofc), sexual tension, dub con, clark fucks HARD in this (2.4k wc)

𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

clark kent had only ever dreamt of days where he'd meet his match.

he'd accepted that he was physiologically different that the humans that he kept company with. and that meant compromising. which was a multitude of things. he could only every use one percent of his actual strength in his daily tasks for starters — taking a boatload of mental fortitude to contain himself.

that applied to his sex life. an act he indulged in often.

maybe it was written in his DNA, or maybe having a significantly larger body to muscle mass meant your sex drive left you unbelievably insatiable. he couldn't tell. there wasn't much of a reference point he could compare to.

even then, it was…unfulfilling.

the women he fucked weren't to blame for it. truly. he'd learned after a couple of partners that his cock was disconcertingly massive in 'human' standards. to quote the most recent, he had a 'monster cock.' something he took literal offence to initially, but later learned that was a generic term for far exceeding 9 inches. and that meant only ever being able to fuck barely halfway in before most of them tapped out.

it was okay. he was okay with it. being superman had perks, doing good, keeping people safe. being sexually fulfilled wasn't on the forefront of his mind at all. but that didn't mean he couldn't dream of meeting someone who could keep up with him.

and that was why, clark kent was obsessed with you from the second you threw the first punch to his jaw.

"are you — … are you freakin' smiling?"

you had your knee pinned to his pulse point, knuckles flexed with clark's dried blood. other hand squishing his jaw when his smile tenses against your thumb. bloodied pearly whites peeking through. that wasn't the expression you expected from a man who was panting, bruised, and bleeding from cuts on his lips and nose.

"it hurts," he manages through a laughter of amusement, "like, actually hurts." your brows raise quizzically. it was a no shit sort of moment, because well, you'd swung at his face. repeatedly. but the crooked smile he was giving you, made your cunt clench. "okay. i do not have time to figure out what bullshit you're on. stay out of my goddamn way, superman."

he doesn't chase you when you'd gotten up, free-falling off the museum's building, thumb drive in hand.

after that, getting rid of him was near impossible. he was everywhere you were, disrupting your plans. and for some absurd reason — taking hit after hit, as if testing how much you could deal, and how much he could endure.

the next time you see him, he's skulking in your apartment, rotating a relic that didn't seem like it was from this earth.

"do you have a death wish?"

clark doesn't turn when he hears you approach him, tossing the armored headpiece up and down in his palms. "you're hera," he muses, eyes glinting when your footsteps cease where you stop short of him. the mention of your past alter-ego, sends a dreadful chill down your spine. his gaze drags over your civilian state, formal, a lanyard around your neck, pencil skirt, and a thin black rectangular framed glasses.

you snatch the item from him. dusting it off before putting it back in its' place. "i don't go by that anymore." clark stumbles backward when you shoulder past him. you don't wait before you swipe him clean off his legs, the cement floors crackling beneath his fall. "i'm giving you about twenty seconds to get out before i fuck you up, supershit."

clark reacts to that nickname instantaneously, pointing at you accusatory. "do not —" he grumbles. shaking his head before pulling himself up to his feet. you weren't paying attention to him, wrist twisted to look at the second hand tick on your watch.

"look. miss hera, i'm here to talk —"

"times up."

the force that sends him crashing into your bookshelf cracks the walls of your converted loft. you sigh, unwinding your wrist from hitting that brick wall-like chest. he doesn't want to attack you, and you see it in the way he's standing up, not getting into a defensive stance.

clark raises his palms to surrender. "please, i'm really not here to turn you in." you listen to him for a second, but you wind up to throw another. this time, he catches your fists, a crackle heard before he twists you around, pressing your fist to your back. "would you listen?" you swallow thickly, his voice blooming a warmth in you.

he grunts at you headbutting him, and you take the moment to loop your arm around his, throwing him in the direction of your television console. you briefly hear him mutter a quick 'oh geez that one hurt' in a tired boyish tone. clark looks up to the figure already charging at him. he catches you by your hips when you pounce on him, legs locked around his chest. "ow, ow, ow — i'm serious! just let me talk!"

you huff, holding him in a tight headlock where you were straddled. in the split second you hesitate, he blindly grabs around your back, holding you by the scruff of your neck before slamming you down like he was getting a feral cat off of him.

"that does it." gritting through your teeth, your heels meet the base of his jaw, and it cracks beneath the weight behind the kick. clark whines out loudly, stumbling back. his senses are attuned now, your head whips to the side when he strikes you for real, the glasses you had on flying right off.

"i really don't want to hurt you. " he pants, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. you attempt to knee him, but he catches you, the whiplash of him grabbing you by your throat has your hand grasping around his wrists. his cape flutters when clark catapults onto the other side. you let out a yelp when your back slams into the paintings behind you. he's close now, your chest heaving hard enough to graze his.

you spit out the blood that collects in your mouth, sizing him with a deadly look, "as if you can." clark looks at you intently, gaze flicking to the smear of scarlet on your lips. his jaw tightens, trying to figure out how he could get you to listen to him.

and then — he licks a stripe over your sliced bottom lip.

your whimper ghosts his jaw, and clark holds you still in place by the neck. large hands spanning your entire throat. your eyes dart to his, flitting left and right. his thumbs shift, just slightly, your pulse slowing beneath.

"you done?" he's close enough that you can feel the hum in his voice. your eye twitches at the smug tone.

"the nerve you've got…" you mutter, your own tongue catching your lower lips. he tenses at the sight of you licking over the glossiness he left.

the thrum in your chest is palpable. he feels it, and doesn't let go. the adrenaline of both the pain and closeness turning into something much more twisted.

"you're strong." clark leans close and you tip your head to the side to avoid him. he takes the opportunity to drag his nose down your neck. "as strong as i am." your breath stutters, thighs thrashing helplessly next to his hips.

"so?" you feel him sigh into your collar bone, his forehead rested on the shifted painting behind you.

"so…you can take it. take…me."

your brows furrow at that, but the answer comes in the form of the monstrosity pressed up against your abdomen, that was twitching. "is…is that what this is about? you needed a super-powered criminal fuck buddy?" the deliriousness in your tone is evident, and it seems to embarrasses him.

"this isn't ideal," he snaps in a hushed whisper. pulling back enough to turn your jaw to face him. "i know you want it too. i can…i can feel your heart rate picking up." he points out.

his face is laughably apologetic considering the span of events so far. "well, it's a given with you humping me."

clark's jaw flexes, "gosh you — the mouth on you." he sputters, the grip around your neck tightening a fraction. "you're so damn crass. this is ridiculous. what am i doing?"

you laugh in his face, and he perks up, staring blankly at just how pretty you looked when you smiled. "are you joking? you have your dick pressed onto me and you're questioning my language?"

clark winces, hips bucking into you when you point out the irony in the situation. "don't…talk like that," he's trying not to acknowledge the fact that he was quickly hardening, but your entire presence was a catalyst. "talk like what?"

he's almost certain you're being obtuse on purpose, but in the off-chance you weren't, "saying stuff like dick, and…humping so brazenly." a smile curls at the corner of your lips, and your hand drops, two of your fingers spreading apart to trace over the outline of his bulge.

"o-oh geez," he gasps, followed by a breathless "give-me-a-goddamn-warning."

the hold on your throat loosens. so you grab around his cock firmly, thumbing where his tip would be. "you're here to fuck me, right? so act like it."

clark looks to you, brows pressed into a knit. his arm snakes around your hip, "…very well, then."

you gasp at the shift in positions, where he now had you pinned on your unmade bed.

his hand curls around your wrist, slipping them underneath his suit bottom. clark jumps when your softer hands grip his bare length, it surprises you "oh."

"i-it's…not exactly small," he grits, panting into the side of your head when you stroke him with his guidance.

"no kidding. you're hung, big blue."

clark grunts at that, breaths turning heavier the more you're dry rubbing his cock. "like that. yeah... that's good."

you hum, lifting your hips to accommodate his bigger frame while he tugs his suit off. the impressive size of him comes to your view, and you let out a stuttered breath. your pussy clench almost as a pre-warning.

he drags your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. "g..osh.." he mutters, looking up to see that you've unbuttoned yourself enough to reveal the curvature of your tits beneath a lacy blue bra.

"like that we're matching?"

clark huffs out a strained laughter, head dropping lower. "that's not funny."

the smirk on you turns to a gasp when he drags his thumb over your panties, wetness slowly blooming where your slit would be. your hips tilt to his touch, and he hooks his thumb around the edge of the fabric, letting his finger dip into you just enough. you moan brokenly, looking down at the erotic sight before you.

his body was definitely as formidable as his cock, biceps visibly flexing at your ministrations. "the point…of this is so you can do what you want. right? just stick it in then."

the tremble in your voice gives away your nervousness.

clark rolls his shoulder, pushing a finger into your cunt, sounding unintentionally smug, "to fuck you…without tearing you. i need you to take at least four fingers." you clench, on instinct, when he says that. it seems to draw a cocky smile from him.

you aren't sure how long had passed.

somewhere between your second and third orgasm, you lost track of time. clark had his mouth latched around your breast, plunging his fingers deep into you, relentlessly pulling whimpers out of you.

"enough — fuck." you claw at his back, slick with sweat sticking to your cheeks. "just do it already." clark's still diligently stretching you out, marvelling at how your pussy accommodates his digits.

"okay, okay…"

you feel the loss of him all at once and with a flutter, his thighs pushes yours further apart where they were hoisted beneath your thighs. clark angles his thick tip at your entrance. "take a deep breath for me" he whispers, easing himself into you while thumbing at your clit. the reaction was immediate, you squeeze around him, hips already attempting to squirm away.

clark holds you down, feeding you his cock inch by inch and all you can do is brace yourself. "you feel — so.." he groans out, lips pressed at the corner of your parted ones. you're letting out choked, heavy breaths into his mouth, rendered mute, "so soft, a-and wet." you're teary, blinking through the blur that prickle the corner of your eyes. he feels your it wet his cheek, and he pulls back, like he'd been burnt.

"sorry, i'm sorry." his hip still. and somehow, the sting grows even more painful when he isn't moving. "are you okay? should i stop?"

your nails dig into clark's arms, dragging them down his bicep, leaving angry red marks behind. he doesn't expect it, when you grab around his neck, flipping him beneath you. you steady yourself on his chest and fully sheath yourself. the two of you groaning out in unison.

"fuck. oh fuck." clark gasps when your hips lift, and snap back down. he grabs around your thighs, stabilising you as you bounce on his cock.

"god, oh my god, it's like, you're in my…throat.." you're whimpering into his mouth, body falling limp after your brave showing of just having him fully in you. clark holds you up your jaw, drowning your moans in his mouth. his other hand slides down your ass, parting them with a finger, hold firmly around the fat. he takes takes charge to thrust up into you, deep.

"mm—ff..i-i know. it's a lot." he's blabbering in your lips, securing his hold, feeling your tight hole clenching when fingers spanning enough to graze past it, the tip of his finger rubbing where his cock meets your pussy.

it's too much, and clark knows. "y..ou're doing so g-good."

your breath stutters in his mouth, drooling into him helplessly. fuelled by the praise he gives. "so goddamn good." your cheeks presses onto his, panting when the white hot flashes take you to what's now your fourth orgasm.

it comes with no warning. he jolts once, heaving, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep into you. never-ending, seemingly. clark turns you over in a fluid motion, cock still pulsing into you with deep spurts. he presses his hand flat onto your abdomen, where the outline of him pokes at your belly.

he's in awe, fully in the depths of a newfound pleasure. a heavy palm swiping the sweaty strands of your cheeks.

clark readjusts his hold on you, a finger tearing your blouse fully apart. you jolt when the buttons clatter to the ground. with a proper jolt, you gasp out when he presses deeper into you. his palm cradling your jaw. "wait...what are you…—" he tuts, pressing a kiss on your parted lips.

"i haven't even begun fuckin' you yet."

[404superman]

the necklace ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Pairing: Clark Kent x reader! Word count: 2.2k

Description: You get Clark a silly little gift, a necklace with his ‘superman’ logo on it. He loves it when you bite it while he’s fucking you.

This was requested by the lovely @heroesnpink

Tags/warnings: smut, piv, allusions to breeding kink, clark is down bad, he’s sweet and hot as hell, necklace kink(?)

Note: Second smut for Clarkie, my god this man has me on my knees 🙂‍↕️ currently trying to catch up with the requests on my inbox! I hope I did this one justice, loved writing it🫶🏼

Masterlist

It started as a joke, really.

You wanted to give Clark something special for his birthday, but it was a bit of a challenge at first. Because what do you get the man who has everything? Who is everything?

Sure, you could give him a pack of mints and he’d still act like it’s the most precious gift in the world, just because it came from you. But you really wanted to do something that felt meaningful.

So you took half a day off from work to wander the mall, hoping to find something nice. You weren’t sure how you ended up in front of a jewelry store, staring at it’s window display, but the moment your eyes landed on it, you burst into a quiet laugh.

There, in the middle of a perfect burgundy velvet case under a spotlight, was displayed a necklace of the iconic ‘S’ symbol, identical to the one he wore on his chest.

“That’s hilarious,” you thought immediately, tilting your head and imagining the look on Clark’s face. You considered it as a joke, something to make him laugh. But the longer you stared at it, the less ridiculous it seemed.

Actually… it started to feel kind of perfect.

You couldn’t help it, really. Giggling to yourself like an idiot while you asked the clerk for the piece. Because you, dating Clark Kent, Superman himself, were about to give him a cute little necklace with his own symbol on it.

If anything, you thought it would be a funny gag gift. You’d laugh about it the whole night, he’d say it’s cheesy and then you’d end up returning it the next day like nothing happened.

And you did laugh the whole night about it. He did say it was cheesy. But you never returned it.

Because he ended up loving it.

Clark walks around wearing his superman necklace proudly, without a single hint of shame when Lois or Jimmy tease him after catching a glimpse of it under his collar.

“My girl got it for me,” he always says, like that explains everything.

Which, in theory, it kind of does. You could get him the ugliest tie in Metropolis and he would still wear it proudly every single day of his life if it made you happy.

Because his girl got it for him.

In the end, the necklace did end up being the special gift you wanted for him. Because yes, it’s cringy, but it means something. It represents everything he stands for, hope, courage, who he is, what he is on this earth for.

And Clark? he adores it.

He practically lives in it. Never even thinks about taking it off.

You don’t complain either. There is nothing sexier than Clark stepping out of a steamy shower, water droplets raining from his dark curls, running down the sharp lines of his gorgeous body. Only a towel covering his lower half and that little necklace gleaming around his neck.

You love pulling him by it, kissing him around it, feeling the cold of the metal against your skin when he hugs you. Getting a peek of it under his work shirts. You just love how much he loves it.

But what you love even more, is when he fucks you wearing it.

When he’s on top of you, his arms braced on either side of your head to hold his weight, caging you with those huge muscles flexing with every deep thrust.

It’s hard to focus on anything when Clark’s cock is buried so deep inside you it makes your whole body shiver, but you always notice the necklace. How it swings with the rhythm of his thrusts, crashing gently against his collarbone with every rock of his hips.

And he knows you like to stare at it. That knowing smile on his face is proof enough.

“Look at you sweetheart, always taking me so well,” he praises in that deep voice. A grin grows on his face like he’s not actively making you see stars around the charm hitting his skin repeatedly.

“Come on, darling,” he whispers, the necklace almost brushing your chest. “I know you can give me just one more…”

And you can. You’d give him as many as he wants.

Clark coaxes you through it, always does. He knows how much he takes, how his cock fills you in ways you were never meant to handle. How every time he makes love to you he gets that dazed, blissed out look in your eyes, and those moans slipping from your lips like you’re not even thinking, just taking him in. All of him.

And this is only your second round.

“Fuck– right there, Clark,” you whimper, barely. Your eyes do the rest, telling him thank you for fucking me this good.

“Right there?” he asks back with a soft chuckle, like he’s delighted to see you fall apart like that.

So he does it again, rolls his hips the exact same way, just to hear the broken sound that escapes your throat as your head falls back in pure bliss.

He leans in closer, burying himself deeper, if that’s even possible. He braces his weight on his elbows now, so he can slide his large hands to cup the back of your head, cradling you carefully. He then lifts your face toward his and places a kiss on your forehead.

And you smile, God you smile, because Clark always manages to be the sweetest man on earth while fucking you into next week.

He pulls apart just enough to look into your eyes, still supporting your head in his hands because he knows you can’t do it by yourself at this point. His mouth stays parted, letting out those heavenly filthy grunts that make you let him use you in any way he wants just to hear them over and over.

He keeps the unrelenting pace without breaking a single sweat, slamming in and out your pussy in sloppy sounds as your wetness drips around him. And that damn necklace keeps swinging, but this time is lightly hitting your collarbone, your jaw, your cheeks. The cold metal is a sharp contrast to your hot skin.

It’s driving you crazy.

“Clark,” you pant, breathless. “T-that thing…”

He slightly tilts his head, stuttering his rhythm when he realizes what you mean. One hand leaves your head, already reaching for the chain, but you stop him.

“No no … leave it,” you say, grabbing the chain and looping your fingers around the charm, pulling softly to drag him closer to your face. Your breath ghosts over his lips, giving him a quick peck before whispering. “I like it.”

“Yeah?” he asks back with a groan, in that maddening tone he loves to use when you do something that drives him crazy.

You hold his gaze, nodding innocently, and slowly pull the charm into your mouth.

Just the tip of it, the cold metal resting against your tongue. You suck it in, swollen lips wrapping around the symbol he carried in his chest like he’s your personal savior. And lord, he is.

Clark makes a sound you’ve never really heard before. A helpless, strangled growl under his breath. His next thrust goes harder, like he just can’t help himself. Like you fucked something in his brain chemistry by doing that.

So he keeps pushing, his speed and strength less controlled now, getting completely lost in the way your face contorts in pleasure while your moans get strangled by the charm in your mouth.

“Sweet Jesus,” he rasps. “Don’t–don’t do that unless you want this to be over right now.”

You can’t help but laugh mid bliss, the necklace charm falling from your lips with a soft pop as a result. You lift your hand to his chest, trapping the necklace between your skin so it doesn’t hit you again.

“You better hold it together for me, superman,” you tease.

Even if Clark doesn’t admit it out loud, you calling him ‘Superman’ in bed just tickles something in his brain. It flips a switch inside him that tells him to fill you up until you carry a baby from him.

Especially after the whole necklace moment.

“I-I dont think I can, sweetheart.”

He stares at you, barely enough blue left in his eyes from his blown pupils. Flushed cheeks, lips wet and parted like he’s seconds from begging you to let him break you. Of course he wouldn’t. Unless you asked.

But he’s too gone at this point. That usual gentleness, that unhurried, teasing control that lets him drag things out for hours so you have time to recover is gone.

Clark slams into you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, his hands now locking under your thighs to fold you up for a deeper angle, like he can bend you however he pleases. And he does, only him. He’s moving now with a pace he doesn’t let out that often with you, in fear of hurting you.

But right now? He’s letting himself be desperate. All because of a little necklace.

“You … you put that thing in your mouth darling, you don’t even know what that did to me–“

“Oh, I know,” you moan, your fingers gripping his chest like a lifeline, nails digging in. “I–I love when you lose your mind like this.”

He chuckles breathlessly, almost apologizing. “You don’t see me much like this … do you?”

You shake your head, too breathless to speak again. Because no, you don’t. Clark is always in control. Always worshipful, mindful, making love like he’s got all the time in the world. But there are still times where even a God like him folds under the weight of wanting you.

And now? That necklace, that cute little gag gift his girl got him is now his fucking kink.

He suddenly shifts again, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head while the other slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit instinctively.

“Wanna come with you, darling” he blurts out, disheveled strands of dark hair falling into his eyes as he watches your face when he plays with that sensitive spot. “Don’t think I’m gonna last long … not this time. Not after that.”

Neither are you. You never do with him.

You arch beneath him, back going high, thighs shaking under him from the overstimulation. It doesn’t take long before his name tears from your throat when you reach your orgasm for the … how many times now? Can’t even remember what number it is since you started.

“F-fuck–“ You cry out, nails digging into his biceps for dear life.

He dives in to kiss you through it, deeply, passionate, so fucking heavenly like the only way he knows how to kiss. The chain traps between your lips, the charm cold and wet from your mouth pressing against his tongue. He feels it, God, he feels everything… and that’s it.

He slams into you once, twice, and then he’s gasping against your mouth as he spills inside you in twitches. His body shakes on top of yours, choking on a groan so deep you swear you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. You feel him pulse deep, feel him bury his cum as far as he can go, like it’s feral instinct.

Because Clark Kent comes as hard as he fucks.

He stays inside you, panting, his forehead falls to rest on your collarbone like he needs a minute to catch his breath.

Superman needs to catch his breath.

You’re coated in sweat, the sheets a mess beneath you, and that dumb little necklace is still swinging lightly between your hot chests. He doesn’t move in a full minute, giving you time to come down from your own high, hands going instinctively to his head.

“You alright there, supes?” You whisper amused, running your fingers softly through his hair. He lets out a muffled groan.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles into your skin.

You bite your lip to prevent a laugh from coming out. You know he’s lying. His arms are still shaking. His whole body is tense in that ‘I need to pretend I’m fine so I don’t embarrass myself’ way that only happens when you truly, deeply break him in bed.

Because it’s usually the other way around.

“Clark.” You nudge his cheek softly. “You came in like ten minutes into a round … you never come in ten minutes.”

He finally lifts his head, face flushed red, curls sticking to his forehead, and those beautiful swollen pink lips pouting. Yes, pouting.

“You put it in your mouth.”

“I mean, it’s just a necklace,” you snort, shrugging innocently.

“But it’s the symbol. It’s my … you know …” he gestures vaguely at his own bare chest, clearly flustered. “It’s the whole thing … you, and that mouth, and me, and … I’m only a man, okay?”

“No you’re not,” you’re giggling now, fully delighted, as Clark just buries his face again in the crook of your neck.

He laughs against your skin, tickling you. “You know you’ve ruined it for me, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t wear this necklace anymore without getting hard.”

You both laugh again, tangled together, his weight on top of you makes you feel warm and safe. And somewhere between the breathless kisses and your fingers tracing lazy shapes on his back, you smile at the cold feeling of the necklace trapped between your bodies.

[crowshaped]

fellow losers first day fuckups

[neverinadream]

the first (fl)

summary: at sixteen, you were frank's first kiss and now you're his first affair.

pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader

word count: 4k

warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, cheating trope (don't interact if it's not what you're into), childhood best friend!reader, alcohol consumption, probably more porn than there is plot, dirty talk, no use of y/n but use of princess and baby, oral (reader receiving), fingering, p in v (protected)...i think that's it, let me know if i've missed anything

a/n: god, i am so bad at naming fics. anyway, i've had terrible writers block for the last month and i guess the best way to get out of it was to write for someone i have never written for, because that's not scary or anything. the smut is a little chunky. and a special thank you to @livinginastory for the support whilst i was writing this. feedback is always appreciated, enjoy!!

Bodies crowded around you, hypnotised by the liquor flowing through their veins and the music playing from the speakers. The dingy bar, once popular in the 90s, and now popular for its cheap drinks and lack of ID checks, wasn't top of your list for a good night, but the subtle smell of old cigarettes, stale beer, and whatever kept sticking your shoes to the floor had stopped bothering you after your second drink. Or maybe it was your third. A cheer crackled through the crowd gathered around the old jukebox and carried over the start of the next song, and you smiled deliriously, recognising it.

“We made out to this song, remember?” You lassoed your arms around Frank's neck, your lips pressed to his ear as you spoke to him. You were tucked away in your own space, Frank leant up against the wall and you tucked up against him.

“My sixteenth birthday party,” Frank remembered, running his hand over your side, the other remained loosely around his drink. His tender touch rippled warmth down your body, and it pulsed low at the bottom of your spine. “That was my first kiss,” he confessed, a deep shade of pink brandishing his nose. He was fortunate that you couldn't see it.

In the twenty-something plus years you had known each other, you had already accumulated enough material to tease him with, he didn't want you adding this to it too.

“No, it wasn't!”

Frank chuckled. “Yes, it was.” He squeezed your hip, unsure if the whimper he heard next was real or part of his imagination. “You saying it was good?”

“Maybe.” You pulled back to look at him, his stare soft around the edges but brimmed with curiosity. He takes a sip of his drink, and you try not to stare at his throat as he swallows. “You must've practised a lot on the back of your hand.”

“Uh, correction,” he quickly wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “it was a pillow.”

“It better not have been the one I used to sleep on during sleepovers.”

“No comment.” This makes you laugh, the sound light and welcoming to Frank after the gruelling hours he had just put in at the ED.

His eyes drop to your mouth, studying the shape of your top lip, trying his hardest not to reach out and trace the bottom one with his thumb. The glint of his wedding ring catching the overhead neon light as he takes another sip isn't enough to stop him from fantasising about whether or not you still kissed the same as you did back when you were sixteen.

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “Wanna do it again?” The words are out before he can stop them, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't take them back.

Your body stiffens “Ha. Very funny, Frank.”

“It wasn't a joke, princess,” he replies, dipping his head, meeting the end of your nose with his. “Kiss me.”

You were stuck, tethered to the spot, with a thick rope of tension that had been slowly pulling you both together the second you stepped inside the bar. Breaths become mingled together, his next one being the last one you breathed out, until you're both breathing as one.

“Fra-”

The rest of his name gets lost on his lips, his mouth coming down against yours, crashing with urgency. His hand drags up your body and around the back of your neck, pulling you into his space. You go with it, ignoring that voice in your head warning you against this, tightening your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. This draws a smile across his lips, and his chest vibrates with a soft, affirming hum.

The song ends and changes to some country song you didn't know the name to, but neither one of you pulls away. You were too lost in each other to notice. Or, perhaps you just didn't care.

Your back meets the wall as Frank turns, pinning you against it, whilst his hand blindly searches for a ledge or the edge of a table to put his drink down. A giggle jumps free at the triumphant laugh that gets wrestled to the back of his throat when he finally gets his other hand on your body.

His tongue licks into your mouth, tasting like spearmint gum and beer, and you whimper as he drops his hand, firmly grabbing at your bum.

“That fuckin’ sound, princess,” Frank growls, not denying himself the rush of excitement that comes with hearing such a sweet sound. He should've, but, God, he never felt more alive.

“What about it?”

That purr. The fly of his jeans had grown uncomfortably tight and it all has to do with the way you just fucking purred at him.

He wets his lips and traces his thumb along yours. “Just got me wondering what else I can do to hear more like it.”

A flurry of nerves bubbled in your stomach, popping as they tried to escape up through your throat. “Is that a good idea?” You ask, playing with the back of his hair. He arched his brow. “I'm trying to give you a way out before we cross a point of no return.”

You take a glance at the gold band wrapped around his finger, but there’s no guilt anymore. No voice in your head. And that worries you, because kissing a married man, in the back corner of some dingy bar, on a random Thursday night is what you shouldn't be doing.

“I think we already crossed it,” Frank murmurs. His voice pulls you back into the room.

He runs a calloused finger along the outline of your face, starting at your temple and slowly making his way down to your jaw. He dips and kisses you, his hand now firmly cupping your face, and your fingers tighten in his hair, knowing he was right.

“Say it, princess, tell me I'm right.”

The corner of your mouth knocks up an inch. Yeah, he was right, but you'd be damned to admit it. Wouldn't want to run the risk of making his head any bigger.

“Another drink?” You ask instead.

Frank shakes his head. “Maybe a cab instead?” He rests his hand on the wall as the other drops to your side, fingers skirting at the hem of your shirt, seeking out the strip of skin exposed from the material riding up. His thumb touches you first, pushing under your shirt, and you shudder a breath as more of his hand disappears. “Back to yours.”

“You don't want to go home to your wife?” You ask, coming away from the wall as his hand travels to the small of your back, pulling you into him.

“She's not the one I want to make come tonight.”

“Bold of you to assume you'll make me come.”

“Oh, princess, these hands aren't just for curing the sick and the injured.”

“Fuck-!” Frank drawls, mouth parted slightly, trying to find the right words to describe the sight of your simple cream bralette. You might've picked something sexier if you had known this was on the cards for tonight.

“Dr Frank Langdon rendered speechless,” you tease, jutting up onto your elbows. A sly smile curves your lips. “Now that's a first.”

He shuts you up, crashing his mouth down on yours, his tongue darting out, groaning at your taste. “I don't get speechless,” he mumbles into your mouth and curls his hand around the base of your throat.

You lie back, Frank's body moving with you, hooking your right leg up over his hip. A whimper slips out as you feel the hard bulge press into you, jolting a buzz from your head to the very tip of your toes. You had done that to him.

“Sounded pretty speechless to me,” you reply, his hand slipping down your bodies to where they met, and your eyes closing as his long fingers tease you.

“Uh, eyes on me, princess,” you open them on command. He wets his lips, drawing your eyes to them. “No closing your eyes, no looking away - look only at me. Think you can do that?”

You nod, silent and obedient.

“Good girl,” he hums, and pushes his fingers under the waistband of your panties. He groans, feeling you coat his fingers, but those piercing blue eyes never leave yours. They hold you hostage. “Jeez,” you both share a moan as he delves deeper, introducing himself to the warmth of your cunt as he slowly slips a finger inside. “Christ, you're so wet, baby. Is this my doing?”

That word. It wakes up that little voice from earlier, the one back at the bar that warned you that this was a bad idea. Baby, that should be reserved for the woman he'll go back to once whatever this was, was over. It was for Abby. Not you, no matter how much you secretly like it.

He must've seen the hesitation storming inside your eyes, because he quickly asks, “is that okay? Can I call you baby?”

No, say no, the voice says, but you fight it back to whatever corner of your brain it came from, and nodded, “s-sure.”

You could let your regrets eat you up in the morning. If you had any.

He nuzzles his face into your neck, peppering your skin with light kisses, getting himself lost in the traces of your perfume that still clung to your skin. “Should've done this a long time ago,” he mumbles, still working his finger in and out of you at an agonisingly slow speed. Again, the words leave before he can rethink them, but he knows deep down he wouldn't take them back.

He works his mouth lower and you tip your head back, exposing more of your neck to him, whimpering as he nips and sucks at the sensitive skin.

“I need more, Frank.”

“I'm getting there,” he chuckles, “just give me a second.” He lifts his weight up with his other hand, placed carefully at the side of your head. “You're kinda impatient, you know that?”

“And you're a tease,” you bite back.

His lips twitch, something sly hugging the corners that pulses at the bottom of your spine. “Oh, I can be a tease, baby.”

You crimp your bottom lip between your teeth and whine as he withdraws his finger. But you don't have a second to protest. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down, your hips lifting involuntarily to assist him in taking them off. The buttermilk yellow becomes a blur as they get thrown over the back of your couch, joining the rest of your clothes.

He takes a deep breath in and groans on the way out, a look of starvation glazing over his eyes, as he rests back on his knees, spreading your thighs apart. “Look at you,” he mumbles, voice lost in his shirt as he grabs the back, removing it.

“You gonna do something, or just stare like a creep?”

“A, I’m not staring - I'm admiring,” he hooks your left leg over his shoulder, slotting himself between your thighs, “and B, I'm definitely not a creep.” His head turns and his lips brush against the inner of your thigh. “I'm many things, princess, smart, dashingly handsome, but creep is not one of them.”

“You forgot full of…” you're cut off as Frank sinks his mouth onto your pussy, his tongue flicking over you in long, slow strokes. His eyes flick up, a chuckle vibrating against your clit, and you scowl, throwing him a look that says, “shut up.”

“No, please, finish what you were going to say.”

“Asshole.”

He deliberately takes his time, teasing you with soft flicks of his tongue, and another laugh passes his lips at the heavy crease in your eyebrows. “What's the matter, baby?” He coos, toying your clit with his thumb, rubbing it in slow circles. His head tilts as the annoyance deepens, lips twitching at your scowl. “Where's that pretty smile gone?”

You pop up onto your elbows. “Pretty?”

He smiles. “The prettiest.” He flicks his eyes down, following the path he lines out with his finger from your clit to your hole, and slips a finger in. “Almost as pretty as this,” he murmurs, adding a second, his long fingers stretching you out to fit him.

Your head tips back on a moan. “Finally,” and Frank chuckles, pulling out a gasp as he sucks your clit into his mouth.

The two together send you flat onto your back, one hand grabbing the edge of the couch to stop your hips from bucking up. The other fists his hair, a hiss passing through his teeth as you pull hard on his roots.

“Like that, baby?” Frank mumbles around you, and you nod, whining as he curls his fingers. Every crevice of your body floods with pleasure. “You're fuckin’ dripping.” He pulls away, chest heaving, looking at the sheen that coats his fingers. “Knew you’d be this good,” he groans and buries his face back into your pussy.

You damn near explode as the tip of his tongue touches you, moaning his name louder.

He pumps his fingers faster, adding more pressure. “Gonna come?”

“Shit-! Yes!”

“Do it,” he orders, dialling into what your body needs, stroking his fingers at the right angle, meeting a spot rarely found by most people you have slept with. “Come for me.”

Wave after wave of pure pleasure pulses through you, never ending. And you cry out, unfiltered and barely functioning, as Frank keeps working you, coaxing you to the very end of your orgasm. You were sure if he kept going, you would quickly reach a second.

Your fingers relax and your chest sags, and he finally relents, pulling away with your release on his face.

He dusts his lips over your thigh. “You good?”

“I might need a minute,” you mumble, your lungs working extra hard to catch your breath. You catch his eyes and your cheeks bloom with warmth. “Maybe two.”

He cups your cheek and kisses the other. “Take all the time you need.” Unfolding away from the couch, he searches his jacket pockets for his wallet, flipping it open and sighing. He normally kept one in his wallet, in case he and Abby needed one and they weren't at home. “Er, you've got condoms, right?”

“Bathroom.” You lazily point in the direction of the door behind you. “Back of the cabinet.”

He returns quickly, the silver packet clamped between his teeth, his hands frantically working at his belt.

“We really doing this?” He asks, mumbling around the packet. It isn't hesitation you hear in his voice, but disbelief.

“Want me to pinch you?” He pulls his boxers down with his jeans, his cock springing free. Your core clenches around nothing, desperate to be filled. “Jesus,” you blurt out, mouth moving quicker than your brain, eyes widening at its size.

The condom pinches between his fingers. “What's the matter, princess?” He cocks his brows, grinning at your reaction. Wrapping his hand around his shaft, he works his hand in long, languid strokes. “Scared it won't fit?”

“Oh, please,” you lie, “you're not even that big.”

“Now that's a fucking lie,” he laughs, eyes brightening as he does, rejoining you on the couch.

Climbing onto his lap, you remove the bralette, and watch his eyes all but roll out of his head.

“I guess it's my turn to say Jesus.” The bridge of his nose flushes pink. Both hands press your breasts together and his cock twitches between you. “Just…gorgeous.”

“My eyes are up here, buddy-”

“Whoa! Buddy?” He cuts you off. “You just came on my face.”

“And that makes us what?” You tilt your head. “The last person who made me come on their face was a friend too.” You tap his wedding ring. “And it probably won't be a one time thing.”

He parts his lips and understanding flashes in his eyes.

“But I was better, right?”

You roll your eyes. “You're unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

You snatch the condom from the couch cushion and tear it open, fisting it onto his cock, Frank groaning just as you wrap your hand around his shaft, lifting and lining him up at your entrance.

He hisses through his teeth, chin tipped down, watching you sink, taking inch after inch until there's nothing left. It shouldn't have felt this good to be this deep inside someone who wasn't his wife and, yet, to him it feels like you were made perfectly for him.

You fist your hand in the back of his hair and bring his mouth to yours. Faint traces of yourself linger and you whimper at his tongue moving against you.

“Go slow,” he mumbles against your jaw, kissing a line down to your ear. His fingers dig into your hips, squeezing firmly. “I don't want this to be over yet, but I'm not sure I'll last that long.” You rock your hips, your body jerking as he bucks, thrusting up. “I was nearly gone just from you coming on face.”

You selfishly didn't want it to be over either. The rough, calloused touch of his fingers digging into your flesh. The groaning into your ear each time he thrusted up to meet the rocking of your hips. The way he sounds when he calls you baby. It pulsates your body with electricity. You knew sex with anyone else wasn't going to match up to this right here.

“Fuck-! Yes, keep doing that,” you plea, throwing your head back, Frank's mouth latched around your nipple.

You pull hard on his hair and he sucks harder on the peaked tip. He swaps to do the same to the other.

“Frank?”

“Whatcha need?” He asks, mumbling into your chest as he kisses over your skin. “Tell me, baby.”

“You.” Your breathing was hard and heavy, head fuzzy from pleasure. “Touch me.”

His hand trails to where your bodies meet. “Like this?” He touches the tip of his fingers to your clit, the nub swollen and slick. “Want me to touch you here?”

You nod, holding tight onto his hair, and trying not to dig your nails too deep into his shoulder.

“Christ, getting fucking tight,” he groans into your neck. Tension builds, coiling tight at the bottom of his spine. If you kept this up, he was gonna bust.

He circles your clit as his tongue commands your mouth, circling his other hand around your neck, bringing you closer. He keeps the kiss slow, languorous. Every moan, whimper and whine gets lost on his lips.

You break out a cry when he starts thrusting his hips up into you, assisting you as your thighs tremble from the strain. “I can't hold on much longer,” you rush out, seeing stars from the way he applies pressure to your clit.

“Come, princess,” he grunts, biting down the growl that rolled across his tongue, coming up deep from within his chest. He moves his hand away from your neck, skirting down your chest, bruising your thigh as he grips it firmly. “Been so good to me all night,” he coos, talking against your temple as your head deflates into his neck. “Do this one thing last for me. Come all over my cock like a good girl.”

That was it. You careen over the edge, basking in ecstasy. You cry out Frank’s name, hips stuttering, your muscles trembling as you clench around him. His head tips back against the couch, joining you, guttural groans filling the air as he finishes, spilling into the condom.

You both stay like that for a while, Frank still inside, your bodies still joined together, coming down from your respective highs. His lips skirt over your hair, cheek pressed to you, whilst his thumb strokes a slow path up and down your back. And you keep your face nuzzled into his neck, trying to memorise what it was like to smell traces of your perfume on his skin. You wanted to stay in the moment for as long as you could.

“Still with me?” Frank asks, whispering as not to disturb the peace. You nod. “Can we stay like this for another minute?” You nod again, half-smiling against him.

Taking a bite of your apple, you chew quietly, listening to the bathroom tap run for a few seconds, the old water pipes groaning, and shut off. Hunger was your personal demon after sex, but the lackluster selection in your fridge had left you snacking on the lonely apple in your fruit bowl. You make a mental note to go buy better groceries tomorrow.

Frank appears as you take a second bite, interrupting you mid-bite. “You should let me have a look at those pipes.”

You swallow and wipe your mouth. “They're fine. It's an old building, the pipes are gonna make a noise.” He looks at you, “whatever you say,” spoken silently with his eyes. “Your shirt's behind the couch,” you mumble, watching him pick up cushions, searching for it.

He thanks you with a rushed smile, the kind that barely curves his lips.

“So, uh, are you good?” He asks. “Are we good?”

You take another bite and chew quietly as you think about how to answer his question.

“I don't regret it.”

Again, you take a bite.

“Abby and I haven't had sex in over a year.”

“Most married couples haven't had a sex in over a year, it's basically the norm,” you mutter, avoiding his eyes. You take another bite, chew and swallow. “It's not exactly a great excuse to cheat.”

“And I never have until tonight.” He braces his hands on either side of your thighs, caging you to the counter you sit on. “Well, there was this one nurse who tried to ask me out before Tanner was born, but I haven't slept, kissed or ever thought about going with anyone else. Ever.”

“I'm all out of gold medals.”

“Hey.” He hooks his finger under your chin, turning you to look at him. You could've avoided his gaze but those piercing blues held you in place. “You could've stopped this at any point, but you didn't.”

Dismay sweeps over you, settling heavy on your chest.

“You wanted this as much as I did, don't deny that just because you suddenly want to make yourself feel guilty about what we did.”

“You don't have to be such a dick about it,” you mutter, part scowling at him.

“I'm not trying to be,” he apologises, sweeping his thumb over your cheek. “Tell me, do you regret it?”

You sigh, shaking your head. “No.”

“So, what's the problem?”

“I don't know,” you shrug, “guess I'm just a little too much in my head about it all.”

“Then maybe you should get out of it.” You fire him a look of annoyance and he just chuckles, knowing there's no malice behind it. “Look, can I crash here? It's late, I don't want to wake the kids up.”

You finish chewing your last bite and fix your shirt, hopping down. “Take the couch,” you mumble, tossing the apple core in the trash.

“The couch?”

“The couch,” you echo. “There's blankets and extra pillows in the cupboard, and the pipes don't creak too much at night. You'll be fine.”

“Seriously?” You give him a pointed look, turning as you reach your bedroom door. “Right,” his shoulders slump, head nodding once, “got it.”

“You should think yourself lucky, most get kicked out before they're even dressed.” You brace your hand against the frame, chewing your bottom lip. “Question.”

“Shoot,” Frank mumbles, grabbing a pillow and blanket from the cupboard by the front door.

“Was I really your first kiss?”

His lips twitch. “You remember what I looked like back then, right?” He dumps the pillows and blanket, and sheds his jeans. “Limbs too long for my body, awful haircuts done by my mom…” A smile splits your lips, remembering it all too well. You spent countless hours teasing him for not being able to say no to his mom when his hair was getting too long in the front. “I wasn't the dashingly handsome guy I am today.”

You turn away, hiding as you roll your eyes. “Goodnight, Frank.”

“Goodnight, princess.”

[stethosc0pe]

never be like you

frank langdon x goth!reader, slight/past trinity santos x reader

wc: 9k!

content/warnings: LOVE CONFESSION!, canon typical gore maybe idk, blood, jealousy, fluff, yearning, angst, arguing, banter, langdon being desperate for that thang, excruciatingly dialogue heavy, gross abuse of italics, flashbacks, moving in, neighbors!!!, best friends!!!!!!, best friends to lovers, pre-established relationship, divorce, Frank has no kids, rehab, benzos mention, alcohol, weed, smoking weed, # they are drunk and high, reader is PGY-5, reader has a Buick LeSabre, reader wears all black, reader has black hair, hopefully no exclusionary language (no mention of hair texture, skin color, weight or height), slight/past santos x reader, no smut sorry (next chapter tho), bisexual reader :P

a/n: hey. we are jumping around in time! here’s chapter two, which is technically chapter one bc it is a prequel. It can also be read as a stand alone. but if you read this and enjoy it, like a stone is it’s follow-up. no smut in this one, but next chapter with be about their first time and will probably be all smut :3 I AM NOT A DOCTOR SORRY IF THERES MEDICAL INACCURACIES!!

if you see this: ·:*¨༺ ♱ ✮ ♱ ༻¨*:· it means there is a spotify link to a song for you! i feel like it can be hard to follow because we are jumping around in the timeline, so i only put two in here. but there will probably be more in the future. unfortunately it is my condition to create stress inducing pieces of work. reader has a david fincher lisbeth salander-ish aesthetic but not necessarily a lisbeth salander physicality, skin tone, body type or shape, height etc. all my reader characters are bisexual even if not explicitly stated. memory is indicated by large chunks of italics.

this fic is named after Never Be Like You by Flume :P

read like a stone here

You moved to night shift while Frank was at rehab. 

It’s just easier this way. You stopped finding yourself able to sleep well after the sun went down anymore. You sweat and have gory nightmares. You’ve never been one to shudder at gore, but these were highly indicative of stress. 

Sometimes the hospital blows up, flames licking up the walls.

Sometimes you’re eviscerated, an autopsy being done on you.

In these dreams, no matter what, you are always, always, at work. It is always, always daylight. And you look around for Frank. Someone to commiserate with. To look over and see him torn open too, and feel comforted. 

And he is never, ever there.

You tend to psychoanalyze everyone you meet. Silently, of course. Everyone except yourself. You can’t see that you’re having these vignettes in your dreams because you just miss him. And the botched routine has started to get to you, because a vital piece is missing. It’s a routine years in the making. And you fucking hate change. 

It seems to be making your mind violent.

Abbot accepted you immediately into his team. It’s harsh to settle into, but the knife always dulls. 

The nightmares stop. Now you dream of nothing at all. Like black out curtains. You wonder what it’ll take to have a good dream. And to remember it when you wake up, too.

You tell Frank all about the switch over when you visit him at the rehab center. You tell him about the nightmares, the switch over, and the nightmares’ departure all in one sitting. He has to pull it out of you, because you don’t want to talk about yourself at the museum of his addiction. You haven’t talked about yourself in a long time. The medical field will do that to you. But you talk, and it all comes spewing out. And there’s not much Frank can do about it from there. It seems to comfort you for now. And that’s good. 

But it’s Frank’s first week back, and he’s never been to work before where he knew you weren’t coming back. You’ve taken days off. Gone home early, shit like that. Now you’re just… on the other side of the clock. And he rarely sees you anymore. 

And there’s this new guy. He’s a PGY-3 and he definitely wasn’t hired to take your place at day shift, though it feels that way to Langdon. He’s 5’6 and has a very patchy mustache. He’s happy to be there. Like, suspiciously chipper. Frank knows they will not get along.

The week comes to an end slowly. It long. People know. Rumors spread, especially when you get caught stealing pills. And with that, comes people walking on eggshells around you. It’s fucking annoying. And he has no one to hold him to it and through it on his lunch break and in busy halls. There is no one to make him belly laugh. There is no one he’s excited to make laugh.

You are both suffering for this. 

You could not fathom the change of him being gone, so you throw your entire work life into upheaval, having to learn a whole new night routine after all. He’s back now, and the original change can be rectified. You know that. You don’t know why you stay at the night shift.

Frank cannot fathom the dissonance of you being gone. He can’t seem to stop looking for you. He wants badly, badly, badly. But it’s selfish to ask you to come back. You’re finding comfort in the night shift from what plagues you. And that’s good, he tells himself. Over and Over.

He texts you. He calls when it’s really bad.

The phone rings 4 times.

‘Hello?’ You answer, voice husky.

‘Hey. Were you sleeping?’ Frank says, trying to be as considerate as he can be. He’s eloped outside for a second to do this.

‘Almost. I was just about to get in my coffin. You’re lucky, cuz there’s no service in there.’ You sound like you’re rubbing your eyes.

‘S-Sorry.’ You don’t expect this stressed tone from him. You expected a joke back.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m fuckin’… It’s rough here today.’ He leans against the outside wall of the Pitt. ‘Y’know- I don’t like this little shit who’s taken your place.’

‘They didn’t take my place. No one did.’

‘Well, he’s using your locker.’

‘Who is it?’ You were sitting up before, probably to answer the phone, and it sounds like you’ve just sunk back into bed.

‘I don’t even know his name. I don’t want to know. He’s a transfer.’

‘I was a transfer.’ You say, monotone.

‘Yeah, but they don’t make em’ like you anymore.’

‘They tried. When they made you.’

He laughs, and you chuckle, and there’s a comfortable silence. He’s imagining your face, hair put up for bed. And as for what you wear to bed, he…

‘Can… can I see you this weekend?’

Frank has been sober from benzodiazepines for almost nine months now. Three in inpatient, which he thought was overkill, but whatever. And five in outpatient. He still has to go to meetings and do drug tests to make sure his job at the Pitt keeps. He’s moved into the apartment across from yours, and he was seeing you at least twice a week. Usually on the weekends. You run errands together. 

Then, it slowly evolved into a situation that was entirely too domestic to be comfortable. But it is. 

Some days, Frank hears your key turn in your door from his apartment and is at your heels before you’ve made it in. He comes in with you and you eat something together usually. You talk over your food until you’re too tired to stand anymore. The lines close in farther and farther. You tell him you’re going to bed, and the first time this happens he asks if you want him to leave. Only if you want to, you say. Watch TV. I have HBO. 

Just lock the door when you leave. 

He doesn’t know what you mean by this, since he doesn’t have a key to your apartment. You’re sleep deprived, he supposes. So, he stays until he wants to lay in a bed instead of a couch. When he needs to leave, he takes your key off the ring and locks the door with it, and then he slides it back under the door for you. 

You pick it up when you get ready for work. You keep picking it up each time until it has surely, solidly become a thing to expect.

Sometimes Frank felt like you were his only friend. Him and Abby’s friends chose her in the divorce. The others from work called and texted but… he only saw your face. 

Your apartment smells like you and it smells lived in. The blankets are pilled and frayed like you’d taken them from home. There are things to look at. Trinkets and books and loose papers scattered around. The walls have frames and art and your high school diploma. They aren’t glaringly white and empty like his. And you’re right across the hall. It’s hard to resist the urge to be with you.

Even if you’re just sleeping in the next room.

Now Langdon’s back at work, and trying to get a hold of you is like hell. Because, y’know. You’re sleeping, but it’s different now. You're nocturnal, and when you aren’t at work, you try to rest like every other doctor. 

Your door is closed before he can make it in now. It feels like a tombstone staring back at him; unmoving and final. 

And he needs sleep of his own. 

The symbiotic relationship seems to be at a disconnect.

He hears you clear your throat softly.

‘I’m off Saturday, but a bunch of us are going out then. Ellis and I- and… pretty much everyone who doesn’t have kids to put to bed. And I’m on call Sunday, so...’

‘Am I not invited?’

‘I was gonna ask, but I didn’t think you were doing bars yet. Or ever.‘ 

‘I can do a bar.’ He really shouldn’t. Not yet. He’s not far enough removed from it all. Or, that’s what the professionals would say. But he will abandon caution to not have to wait another month to see you. Risk relapsing one addiction to feed another.

On the other end of the phone, you’re worried for him. But you’re not his keeper. Just his friend. 

‘…Okay.’

-

Frank has a car. He’s always had a car. And it sits in the apartment complex lot getting dusty. You and him are usually going to the same place, anyways. Why double the air pollution? And, okay, he likes being your passenger princess a little bit. 

So, you and him take your car to the bar. 

You walk a little ahead of him in the parking lot, and he gets to sneak a full look at you tonight. You’ve got your hair down but tucked behind your ears. You have this big, bulky, leather men’s bomber jacket and you wear it everywhere, hands always finding their home in the pockets.  In one of the other pockets, you have a lighter and gum. The jacket is cropped shorter than most jackets, so he can see your ass move in your pants as you walk. Your boots don't make any noise anymore, weathered by the many years you’ve been wearing them.

He has the instinct to run up close to you and make you hold his hand the whole night. He doesn’t want to lose sight of you. But he knows he will have to at some point.

Together, you and Frank enter. He gets a couple of hugs from Collins and Mel. Abbot pats him once on the back. They’re surprised to see him there. He’s never come before. 

You settle into the quietest section of the bar you can. There’s a big open space for people to dance in front of a small platform where a band plays for the night, and already people have gathered there. 

‘Are you sure you’re okay? Being here?’ You ask him.

‘Yeah, I’m… It feels good to be out. With you guys.’

You catch up with everyone for a good thirty minutes. Then the clock strikes ten, and you order your first drink. 

‘We might have to leave the car here. Cuz I kinda want to get blitzed.’ You say to Frank, and though the bar is a little loud with the music and all, he’s right next to you, so you don’t have to yell.

‘So, if I stay sober, can I finally drive it?’ Your faces are close. Maybe six inches apart.

‘Mmyeah. But don’t do that. We’re celebrating.’

‘Is it someone’s birthday?’

‘No. It’s Frank Is Nine Months Sober From Benzos Today Day.’

‘Oh, yeah. A fully gestated sober-baby.’

‘A baby, huh? Can I be the daddy?’

‘If you’re the daddy, it’ll look like the third Addams family baby.’

‘Pubert. He has a little mustache, it’s cute.’

‘Should I grow one?’ Frank asks. He touches his upper lip. You can’t tell if he’s serious.

‘No.’

‘You just said it was cute!’

‘He’s a baby!’

‘Gomez has a mustache too.’

‘You are not Gomez.’

‘I could be.’ He shrugs with wide eyes and a goofy closed lip smile. Neither of you meant for it to happen, but the next thought is obviously… who’s going to be Morticia?

It’s no secret, really.

‘You know you’re not going to grow one. So I’m not pulling at this thread.’

‘Why is it such a sure thing?’

‘You don’t have the je nais se quoi required.’

‘That’s not convincing to me because I don’t speak french.’ 

There are two MDs between you, and you argue like middle schoolers.

‘Neither do I. This is beginners french. Si tu te laisses pousser la moustache, je devrai baise sur ton visage.’ You start to get up from your stool to go see Santos, who is sitting at a four top with Garcia and Walsh. They’re having their own separate general surgery clique conversation. 

‘Hey, was that as filthy as it sounded?’

‘No.’ And then you’re away.

-

You sit at the empty seat adjacent to Santos. She’s on her phone and nursing something clear.

‘Drunk yet?’

Her eyes light up when she sees you. She ignores your question because she has something much more interesting to ask you. ‘Hey, do you know your blood type?’

‘Yeah, O neg.’

‘Universal donor. You donate?’

‘Of course.’

She nods and shakes her head like she’s found herself getting off track, ‘Anyways, I had a patient today with RH null. Rarest blood type ever. There’s only like, fifty documented cases.’

‘Fifty-one now. What was wrong with him?’

‘He screwed his sister-in-law and his wife hit him with her car. He was pretty much okay, though. And thank god, because if he had needed a blood transfusion, it would’ve been over.’

‘We’re on the wife’s side, right?’

‘Oh, definitely. And he didn’t even press charges.’

‘That was smart of him.’

‘I had to get help on it. Cuz honestly, I didn't know enough about his special blood to not accidentally kill this guy.’

‘Wow, you would’ve never admitted that six months ago.’

‘Yup. I watched Forrest Gump last night. Discovered the preciousness of life.’

Yeah, she’s a little drunk. You laugh with your chest. ‘No, you didn’t.’ You giggle out, shaking your head. 

‘No, I didn’t. But I thought you’d want to know about the blood stuff.’ She smiles, visually pleased at your reaction.

‘How thoughtful of you.’

‘I know.’ Santos glances behind you at the rest of your coworkers and sees Frank. ‘I can’t believe he actually came.’

‘We came together.’

‘Huh? Like a date?’ Pfft. If you and Frank going somewhere together was a date, you’ve been on a lot of fucking dates.

‘No. We’re like, neighbors, I guess.’ You fiddle with the wrapper to her straw that’s been discarded on the table. 

‘What the hell? Since when?’

‘Nine months ago.’

‘Oh, god. Am I the last to find out?’ She cringes and almost whines.

‘You’re the only one to find out.’

She sighs audibly. Some in relief, some in disbelief at the situation.

‘Well— That’s so weird. Unless you’re fuckin’. Are- Are you eating that poor man alive?’

‘No, ma’am.’ You like the image she’s painted for you, like you’re a praying mantis biting off a man’s head after sex. Then, you remember Whitaker. ‘Are you eating Whitaker alive, then? You actually live together.’

‘Well, no. But I’m a lesbian.’ She heaves an exaggerated sigh, ‘I should stop putting so much faith in your horoscope.’

‘Uh- Yeah. I’m nothing like Abby.’

‘But… That’s a good thing, though. They’re divorced.’

‘Mmm… regardless, I’m a…’ You scratch your head and scrunch your nose, ‘…big investment, I think.’

‘Are you a stray cat?’

‘I mean, like, emotionally.’ You laugh.

‘Oh, and you think you’re special? Everyone on our floor is practically falling off the fuckin’ bone.’

She looks around at her coworkers and silently judges. You feel like she’s about to go on a tangent, so you recenter her.

‘What did the Zodiac say about today specifically?’

‘Ummm… Today, something about the fear instinct. Fight or flight. Horoscope says you’re fight.’

‘You still check mine?’ Even though I’m night shift now?

‘You’re the only person I trust to keep me reading them a secret.’

‘Aww. Thanks. My little scorpion.’ You kiss her on the cheek. She leans into it, and giggles lowly with a rasp. You find that you’re affectionate with Trinity. She’s not a touchy person. You’re not a touchy person, not easily. So, at the beginning, there was no expectation for it. That’s what makes it feel so comforting now. It’s like you’re doing exposure therapy for each other.

And— you sloppily made out in the bathroom of this bar many months ago. It’s a good foundation for a beautiful friendship with no boundaries.

She thinks for a moment, takes a big swig of her drink, then shrugs.

‘But, hey- look, fuck what the ‘scope says about fight or flight—’ She makes quotations with one hand, ‘Not everyone is either or. You can be neither. Some people are both.’

‘I’m suspicious of your tone. Like you know something I don’t.’ You poke at her.

‘We’re about to find out.’

‘What?’

She points with her lips behind you. You turn your head to see that Frank has found himself a skinny blonde. She’s sitting in the stool you had left open next to him. They’re faces are so close, like an open invitation to physical contact.

You flee.

‘I’m gonna go pee.’

-

You go outside to smoke a joint. You go out the back door and take three hits. You stay until you start to feel it. It takes five minutes.  When you come back, the blonde woman is still there. 

You approach the opposite side of the bar, trying to put distance between you and Frank. Trinity finds you there, like she’s been looking for you since you fled.

‘I need a shot.’ You say. Santos calls the bartender over and orders you one. Don Julio.

‘Sorry.’ Santos says eventually.

‘For what?’ You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand after the shot.

Santos realizes you are not drunk or high enough to be talking about this, and you will hold onto your denial until you can’t see straight. She narrows her eyes at you and opens her mouth a couple times like she’s about to inquire. But she cares for you. So for once in her life, she’ll have some tact. 

‘I asked the band to play that song you showed me.’

She drags you to the dance floor. You are stiff as a board at first, but then the shot takes it’s place in your blood and you feel comforted by her. She’s good to you. 

Your arms are around her neck and you sway back and forth. You are glad to not be alone. And you are glad to be distracted. It’s nice to be without him for a moment. To have someone to feel loved by, even if it’s not necessarily romantic.  

You start to come back to center, and the high settles deeper in your body. The places where you need most to feel at ease; back, shoulders, and jaw.

Maybe in another life, or time…

…You and Santos were something. But things are much too complicated. And if there’s a way forward for this, you can’t see it right now. You are both crushing on people you work with. That feels gross. But the person makes you feel anything but.

You wish the timing was right for you two. But some time ago, you were dealt a hand with Frank's name all over it. 

Maybe that could change. Fuck, you don’t know.

So, you don’t talk. You just enjoy your respite with a woman you admire dearly. Her fingertips don’t burn like when you dance with a man, because there’s no presumptions about getting laid being made.

‘You alright, Harker?’ She asks you, eyebrows peaked in concern. She can see you thinking, your own eyebrows dropped low and eyes zoned out.

‘Right now, yeah. Later, I don’t know. I never know.’ You make a sad smile like you wish you could change it too.

‘That’s okay. Just be drunk with me.’

She pulls you closer so you’re hugging, the sides of your faces touching as you oscillate together.

·:*¨༺ ♱ ✮ ♱ ༻¨*:·

The band starts to sing Like I Used To.

Will the marker stain the skin?

Stole the dress I saw you in

Now nothing comes to mind

Saw a life as override

One more session overdrive

The ceiling is the roof

While you and Santos were talking before, Frank sat with the rest of his coworkers as the made lively conversation around him. He actually enjoys his colleagues' company. He drinks but paces himself. He steals glances at you. 

Santos says something that makes you crack up. He hears your full laughter. He wishes it was silent in here so he could hear it unaccompanied. He wishes that Santos did not possess the ability to make you laugh like that at all.

That’s fucked up. Don’t wish that, he chastises himself.

His vision is suddenly blocked. A blonde joins him, and he is less than thrilled but glad to be distracted.

She scooches in close to him. She buys him a drink. She is very pretty, and interesting to talk to. She’s a programmer. You have to be really smart to do that.

He wishes all that was enough for him.

Now… you are swaying with Santos, attached to her by bare skin. And he is feeling very different. Her hands everywhere he wishes they weren’t and your arms on her shoulders and slung around her neck. Hands thrown on your waist.

It burns Frank’s as he watches. He’s jealous. Does he have a reason to be? No, you aren’t his girlfriend. You’re friends with Santos? Right? You’re like, close, right? But this logic- it doesn’t deter him. The feeling is too vast, crossing over everything else.

He orders another drink. 

The music starts to sink into his bones and shreds him to ribbons.

He sees you, off his multiple drinks, through a series of memories from six months ago, shot to the heart via lyrics.

Change address and draw a line

Your voice on the other end of the line. 

Frank’s getting out of rehab soon. He’s reaching that ninety day mark steadily, and he needs to arrange for someone to pick him up.

He half expects you to not pick up. Then he remembers that you’re you, and if he misses you, you’ll just call back. 

‘Hello?’ You answer. He’s using the communal phone for this, so you probably don’t have this number saved, though he’s called you from here before.

‘It’s Frank.’

‘Oh, hey.’

‘Okay, so- basically, a week from now, my inpatient program is over. And I need someone to pick me up.’

‘What happened to your car?’

‘Abby took it home so it wouldn’t get towed.’

‘You really want the first thing you see out of rehab to be my shitty Buick?’

‘I don’t care. I’m just glad to leave. I’m gonna leave a Frank-shaped hole in the wall.’ You give him a chuckle for that. ‘And maybe I just want to see the smiling face of my dear friend. Did you ever think of that?’

‘Probably won’t be smiling but yeah, I’ll be there.’

‘At nine am.’

‘Nine am.’ You repeat back in concurrence.

‘Hey, don’t dress too much like an omen of death. I’m fragile.’

‘Well, if we’re making requests, please don’t dress like an undercover cop. Wait… no— never mind. That’s all you own.’

‘Bye.’ He rolls his eyes lightheartedly and hangs up.

Show my friends the silver line

You, leaning against your shitty Buick with sunglasses on and your hands in your jacket pockets. He’s walking out the doors of the rehab facility, and back into the world. Frank was in rehab for ninety days. He had a wife, and a house. Now he’s getting a divorce, and he and Abby are selling that house. It’s only the early stages of selling, so he still has a bed there, but he needs to start looking for new places now.

‘Hey.’ You say as he walks towards you with his bags. No smile but contentedness evident in your tone, ‘I’m here to pick up a newly-sober doctor with a pretty face. You seen him?’

‘Can I drive?’

‘Fuck, no.’

Call my family just to know they’re there

You, pulling out of the parking lot and into the nine am sunshine. You pull your car visor down to cast shade on your face.

‘Where are we going? I don’t exactly want to go home.’

‘We are going…’ You pull your bottom lip into your mouth, focusing on backing the car up. You look behind you to check your rear. ‘To my home.’

‘Aw, man. I’m not sleeping on your couch, am I?’ 

‘There’s an empty unit across from mine. I paid the first and last month’s rent.’

‘What? For- for me?’

‘For you.’ You keep your eyes on the road and make a turn, one hand crossing over the other. ‘Surprise.’

Sleeping in late like I used to

Frank almost leaves his stuff in the car. 

‘Hey. Bags.’ You remind him.

Right. 

He’s still a little confused.

Frank slings his backpack around his shoulder and you take his duffel bag. It’s fucking heavy. He’s high maintenance; he’s got aftershave and hair products and so many clothes stuffed in there. You don’t seem to be phased by the bag's weight. You’ve taken off your jacket since it’s nice out, and he gets to see your bicep flex and contract to carry his duffel.

You enter your apartment building and go up an elevator two floors without saying a word. Just the automated elevator voice saying Ground Floor, Floor two, Floor three.

That’s okay. You like the quiet. And you knew he’d be weird.

You turn the lock and open the door, gesturing for him to go in. He does, and he feels awkward. Like it’s not his place. But it is.

You show him. You show him every detail you find important. 

‘Welcome home, House.’ You grab his hand and pry it open, setting his new key in his palm.

‘Okay, so- it’s basically a carbon copy of my apartment.’ You start pointing in vague directions and he’s super overwhelmed, ’Kitchen. Bathroom. Shower with no tub.’ 

He notices you haven’t bothered to turn on the lights. The light comes through the windows that have no curtains yet. Your shadows are stark against the eggshell walls.

He keeps following you until you stop at a grey couch and a black entertainment center with a 45 inch TV on top.

‘This is Dana’s old couch. This is Perla’s old TV. Everything else… IKEA.’

You walk again, so he follows you again. Opening the door to the bedroom, you check behind you to see if he’s still there, because he’s been eerily quiet.

The bedroom opens to the cleanest bed he’s ever seen. No sheets. You haven’t picked out sheets for him. There’s no rug, no wall art, nothing personal. There’s a plain black nightstand with a plain white lamp. You’ve left it open for him to make his own.

‘Except… for this.’ You hold out your hands towards the bed like you’re Vanna White, ‘It’s a sleep number. For your fucked up back.’

You smile at him. Beaming, and he’s sure he’s rarely seen you with such excitement. Though it’s still restrained, not having found its way to your body. And the sunglasses are still on. 

He’s stunned. Unable to fathom.

‘How…’ He takes two steps into the room, and you’re behind him now, ‘…You did all this?’

Crossing my fingers like I used to

You, shrugging. ‘Soft place for you to land. Fresh start.’

‘Y/N…’ He sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Thank you. Really.’

‘Course.’ You shrug again, still smiling. He wants you to come sit down next to him.

You don’t. You won’t invite yourself to stay.

‘I don’t even know what to say.’ Frank runs his hand through his hair once and breathes out a brief, disbelieving laugh.

‘Say you like it.’

‘I love it.’

‘I’ll take you to get the rest of your stuff from Abby later-ish. Tomorrow, maybe. Take a shower. You smell like rehab.'

Waiting inside like I used to

You, before you’ve fully backed out the door.

‘Remember, first and last is paid for. The rest is all you. I’m not made of cash, you know?’ You joke.

‘You kinda are. You’re a doctor with no kids.’

‘So are you. Did you forget?’ You raise your brow at him like you're tough-love reassuring him that he’s still got a medical degree. You’re reassuring him he still has a place to be. And purpose. And help.

Avoiding big crowds like I used to

While he sits on the bed, the brand new bed, the very first thing he does is look up ‘sleep number price’.

On average,

They’re three thousand dollars.

Crawl the field and let you in

He starts to get hot. The rest of this specific memory is irrelevant. Because you are not there anymore.

Brand my heart I found you in

Frank lets the woman in front of him talk. He Mhm’s and Oh, Wow’s. He is busy watching you and Santos. 

Now nothing’s more apart

The blonde woman looks behind her to see who Frank has been staring at all night. She doesn’t know if it’s you or Trinity, but he loses interest in this clearly spoken for man. She walks away. 

He didn’t mean to scare her off. The woman’s name was Amy. He’ll never know.

Will my lover bе there, stay

Follow them to less the pain

The ceiling must be wrong

Lighting one up like I used to

Dancing all alone like I used to

Giving it up like I used to

Falling in love I like I used to

Frank waits in the hallway outside your door at 7 am the next morning. He’s waiting for you to get home. You round the corner, and at first glance you just see a 5’11 male figure loitering outside your apartment. There’s a stutter in your gait until you realize it’s him.

‘Holy Christ, you scared the fuck outta me.’

‘Didn’t mean to.’

‘I know.’ One corner of your mouth tilts up, and you stick your key into the lock. He follows you inside.

‘So- uh… Just to like, clarify… that mattress is very expensive.’

You huff facetiously, ‘Try not to count my money.’ Toeing your shoes off your aching feet, you let your bag drop to the ground and you shrug your jacket off as well. He follows you around to continue the conversation.

‘It’s multiple thousands.’

‘I’m a saver. Why do you think I still drive the car that I drive?’ You chuck your keys into a bowl on the kitchen counter.

‘You won’t buy yourself a car, but you’ll buy me a bed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Three thousand can buy you a car that doesn’t rattle.’

‘Yes, I know, dickhead.’

‘Y/N, I don’t know if I’m worth all this. Especially after what I did.’

Open my heart like I used to

You're both standing in your kitchen. Frank is standing aimlessly and listlessly in the center, no wall to lean against, no chair to sit in where he is. He's just standing there like a little kid, arms at his side.

You've turned around at the last thing he said. You face him now, arms crossed over your chest and resting against the counter behind you, the sharp corner of it poking into your back.

‘Well, you can’t return the mattress, okay? It was a final sale.’

You really don't want to talk about this. The why and the when and the how. It might just lead you to somewhere weird for the both of you; the true foundation for your care laid bare.

But he's still standing there, so you guess you have to continue.

‘I… want this to be as seamless of a transition as possible. A lot is changing. You’re gonna go back to work soon and people are gonna… look at you sideways. For a while. It’s going to be okay, but it’s going to be different.’

What you’re saying is realistic and not sugarcoated… it feels sad and heavy. 

‘And not to monologue, but...’ It seems like you’re struggling to collect your thoughts and articulate them in the most detached way possible. 

You suppose… the world will move on without you if you keep choosing to stay quiet because it’s easier. You can’t hide the fact that you consider him anymore.

‘When I was struggling… If someone had helped me, I would’ve had a much easier time being good at my job. Instead, I was cold to it all because I was alone.’ 

Somehow, in your monologue, you manage to specify nothing about this struggle you had.

You have a gift here. You are so kind in this it’s almost cumbersome with quiet grief. You must’ve experienced something that made you empathetic to this— his addiction. He doesn’t m know how else you’d show up with exactly what he needs. Maybe you went through something similar yourself. Maybe you lost someone. Addiction can be so many things. 

Maybe it wasn't an addiction at all. Just a chapter of your life you were poorer for. Some dark cloud hanging over you.

But something has broken you all apart and pieced you back together different.

‘I did all this because… I want you to get back to who you are. Who you are is…— a doctor. Focus on that. The rest will follow.’

You expect him to have something to say, irritating and vocal as he is. 

But he just listens. So you keep talking in the space he’s opened up.

‘And, y’know I didn’t want to have to say this, but since—apparently—you need convincing; I’ve never been able to spoil anyone I cared about before. I never had the funds, and— when I did, there was no one who needed taking in like a stray. So, let me do this. Okay? God, it’s like pulling teeth.’

Frank doesn’t say anything. After a while, he just nods. A smile rises to his face slowly. You’re very vehement about this. It feels good for someone to be vehement about you. You smile back at him in the way you do, like you’re annoyed by the act. 

You sigh, a weight lifted off your shoulder, spewed into the air. Then, you slant your eyes at him.

‘Why start an argument if you’re not even gonna try?’ You say.

He’s falling in love.

Making out long like I used to

Holding hands openly, rights to

Taking what’s mine like I used to

The song ends, and his attention is drawn to people clapping for the band. Your coworkers clap. Frank takes a beat. Half-drunk and set to implode, he claps eventually.

When he looks back, you have vacated the dance floor.

-

Frank wanders outside for some air. The door closes behind him with a slam, and then the sound from inside is muffled and contained. He gulps in a big breath of fresh air.

‘Hello.’

The sudden voice jolts him, expecting to be alone.

Frank turns around quickly to see you leaning against the brick wall of the building, holding a cigarette. Your back and butt are against the brick and both your legs shoot out at an angle in front of you. The top of your hair is lit up by the streetlamp above you. The beginning of a smile dusts your face at his shock.

‘Oh. Hey.’

‘What’re you doin’ out here?’ He inquires. Your face relaxes back to a furrow in the brow and an effortless frown in your eyes. Like you were making your face neutral before to signal to him you aren’t a threat, even though you are above him in the food chain. He walks over and parks himself to your left, mirroring your position exactly.

‘I’m always out here. I just say I’m going to the bathroom.’ You take a drag and blow it away from him, though he can still smell it, and it doesn’t smell like a cig. He realizes it doesn’t look like a cig either, really.

‘Is that weed?’

You nod, and you think for a second.

Then,

‘I don’t like being drunk. So, I figured… smoke, come back in. Have as much fun as everyone else is having.’

‘That’s true. I’ve rarely seen you drink.’

‘Mhm.’

‘Why don’t you like being drunk?’

‘I make less-than-desirable decisions.’

‘Like what?’

‘Settle down. You ask a lotta questions.’

He just desperately wants to know every part of you.

‘C’mon, what’s the worst decision you’ve ever made off the bottle?’

‘Probably… drive my car. Total it. But aside from that… I saw one too many of my friends blackout for it to be interesting to me anymore. Depending on the person, you just… you can just lose it. You lose your restraint. I need my restraint.’

‘Oh.’

You glance over to find him looking like he’s thinking very hard.

‘Weren’t expecting that, huh?’

‘Uh-uh.’ He shakes his head. 

‘I’ll take a shot, though. Jane Eyre says I’d rather die happy than dignified.’

‘Actually, I guess it does kinda fit? Being surrounded by a cloud of smoke does make sense for a girl like you.’

‘A girl like me?’ You smile as your left brow goes up in question.

‘Yeah.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Y’know.’ He shrugs, and gestures to your face, and down to the rest of you, how you’re all balled up, arms cradling you. And back up to your face. ‘Scary.’

‘Ohhhh. Okay. And we prefer to be called women, by the way. Not girls.’

‘Mmm.’ He puts his hands in his front pants pockets.

A moment passes, and you don’t take another pull from the joint, and he lets the silence ride for a while. There’s vibrations from the music playing inside to pad the moment that’s already fuzzy from drugs and alcohol.

Trying to get his next question out is like tearing skin from bone.

‘Do you like her?’ It’s blunt. 

‘Who?’

‘Santos.’

‘N- well… she likes Ellis.’

‘Wasn’t my question.’ 

‘No, I don’t.’ It’s a bit of a lie. You’ll always love her in a way that spills over a little. You don’t know if you’re willing to tell anyone something so sensitive, though. ‘I did. We had a thing. But those are fleeting.’

Yeah, not to him.

‘C’est la vie.’ Such is life, you say.

‘Blegh.’ He feigns disgust, ‘Too much French tonight.’

‘Lots of words are French, you just don’t realize. Cuz you’re uncivilized.’

He stays quiet. Expectantly.

‘Blouse.’ You poke the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Brunette.’ You point at his hair. 

‘Are you schooling me right now?’ He tries. You pay no mind to him.

‘Bachelor.’ You motion with the hand that holds your joint, up and down to his entire person like he had when he called you scary.

Frank thinks for a moment and shifts on his feet. ‘Touché?’ 

You start to hee-hee giggle and he follows. Not because it’s super funny. But maybe just because it’s him and it’s stupid. And he’s laughing because you’re laughing. And you’re both intoxicated! It feels giddy for a while, warmth blooming in both of your chests. 

‘And you? How’d it go with that girl in there?’

‘Mmm. Bad. Yeah… not good.’ He shudders a bit like he'd like to forget all that.

‘You fucked it up?’

‘No- umm… not my type.’ He rubs at his brow.

‘What is?’

He looks down at his feet. He shifts his weight back and forth.

‘Brown eyes.’

‘Ah.’

‘Black hair.’ You look up at him. He looks up at you.

Is he…? 

‘S-…’ His throat catches on the word.

‘…Scary.’

You freeze, the joint between your fingers stopping an inch from your face. 

You must be cross-faded from the shot you took.

You push off the wall, coming to stand completely on your feet. You start to feel that anxious feeling bloom, starting at your chest and spreading as far as you go. He watches you dutifully and lets you have your moment, impatient as he is.

You hide behind your hands for a second and pretend he's not there at all. You press your fingertips into your eyes.

‘What are you thinking?’ He asks quietly, drunk confidence wearing off.

‘I’m thinking I’m fuckin’ high.’ You look at the joint in your hand to see how much of it you’ve actually burnt through. Little more than you thought.

‘You’re not that high.’

‘Christ. I’m higher than I thought. I gotta go home, man.’ You start towards the parked car and he stops you by grasping you by the biceps softly.

‘Hey- no…’

‘What’d you say? Just a second ago?' You interrupt him, 'What were you telling me? Cuz I think I got it all wrong.’

‘I’m in love with you.’ He says, taking a sharp inhale after it’s finally out.

He doesn't know how much more straight forward he can be. He just wants you to know, and he wants to know back. Whichever way you respond, he wants the pining to be over with. He needs to get over you.

If it’s necessary. If you’ll let him.

‘Uhh…’ He's got a hold of you, so you have no choice but to look right at him. You look for the signal that he's being facetious. Or that he's blackout drunk. He looks... remarkably serious.

‘And I miss you. And I want you to come back to day shift. And I need you to know now, because… I feel like I’m gonna lose my shit being across the hall from you.’

‘What the fuck? No, you’re not.’ There’s the fight.

‘Why not?’

You’re shocked into silence again. Because you don’t know the answer.

He lets go of you and steps back a little, giving you space.

‘Look, you’re having trouble with this. I understand. It’s a grenade. And I wasn’t-‘ He rubs at his eyes and groans softly, ‘I did not plan on doing this tonight, but then I had two screwdrivers and a beer.’

‘Would you believe me if you were in my shoes?’ You’re not yelling at each other, but it’s getting there. It’s just… charged.

‘Yes! We’re good together.’

‘Stop.’ You sound annoyed. And he's beginning to feel offended that you aren't taking any of this seriously.

‘Why? You don’t feel the same?’

‘I feel…’ You drop the joint out of your hands and watch it burn a little longer on the ground.

‘I… feel…’ It seems you can’t bring yourself to say it. To say anything, one way or another. ‘I feel like you only want me because I was dancing with someone else.’

‘You- you think I’m jealous?’

‘I don’t know!’

Okay, now you’re yelling at each other.

‘Fine, I am!’

‘And you’re fuckin’ drunk!’

‘That’s such bullshit.’

‘Then why haven’t I heard anything about this before?’

‘Because I was married!’ Oh, my god, you do not want to talk about that.

‘And then I was caught out for being a druggie! Oh, yeah,’ His midwesterner accent slips out, ‘Let’s do it then! No- There’s- there’s no good time for this!’

He puts his hand on his hip, unsure what to do with his hands, exasperated and discouraged at your stubbornness.

‘Wait-‘ You remember what was going on in there, and suddenly you are even more angry at his hypocrisy, ‘You were in there with a blonde in your lap? But you’re mad at me for dancing with our mutual friend?’

Fight.

'I'm not mad!' He says, voice raised. Obviously not mad.

‘Oh, fuck off.’ You turn away, angry in your own way.

‘You fuck off!’

You spin around back to him with vigor.

'Look at you! Look at yourself, Langdon.' You hold a hand out at him, fingers flattened and all pointing at him.

He tries to check himself at that. He’s jittery and tipsy and rife with adrenaline and… a mess. He looks to the ground, tries to catch his breath, runs a hand down his face, and brings himself back as far down as he can get. Drunk and all.

‘Haven’t you ever heard that to get over someone, you have to get under someone else?’

You gawk at him, mouth open with a scoff in incredulity. Eyebrows coming down like a guillotine. That’s abruptly bold of him to say. And very clear. You look away from him and put your hands in your pockets. You’re retreating. He takes a step towards you, it makes your gaze snap back to him like you’re keeping your eye on a stranger.

Frank doesn’t want to be a stranger. He can feel you closing up. He’s getting scared. He’s going to start grasping at straws soon.

‘So, you’re jealous, too? Because of that random lady? You don’t have to be. That’s so stupid. You have me.’

You don’t like that he knows you’re jealous now. Like he has power over you. It feels like an exposed nerve. A button to be pushed at will. You just stare at him with your slightly agape mouth. But you don’t deny it, and with that, his flickering hope stays alight.

You snuff the joint out for good with the toe of your boot.

I need my restraint.

‘I’m going home.’ You scratch your head and realize you have to take him too, ‘Are you ready to go home?’

Flight, again.

‘No! Harker!’ His tone says We are not done here! Frank gets the sensation that everything is falling apart in this foreign place. He misses who he was before he got caught. He’s scratching and crawling to get back there. Just- sans drugs and with you.

He knew this would be hard to convince you of. It was hard enough to earn your friendship in the early days. But he’s started. So he’ll see it through.

He’ll try.

‘Then I’m leaving you here.’ You stomp towards the car.

‘Fine. Fuck.’ Frank is frustrated. He’s wounded. He gets in and slams the car door.

-

·:*¨༺ ♱ ✮ ♱ ༻¨*:·

The ride is quiet the whole time. It’s a warm night, and it feels like it might rain early in the morning tomorrow, so it’s just starting to get humid. You’ve rolled the windows down, and you have the AC on. Generally, this is counter-productive. But everything feels so restricting to you right now. You want to slice a cut into your skin and crawl out of it anew like a lizard. You try to feel the wind and the manufactured air. It’s warm, it’s cold, it’s physical. It’s something to grab onto.

You have your left arm bent and sat on the open window. The hand is balled into a fist and at your temple, like you should be resting your head against it. But you do not rest, your neck is tense and knotted, keeping your head straight and eyes on the road. 

Don’t look at him, you remind yourself.

Frank Langdon has been watching you. As he is wont to do. Your hair blows in the wind, and as streetlights fly by, they illuminate each strand. The light peeks through the gaps between tresses, lighting up your side profile. 

Frank started this car ride out the same as you. Perturbed and not knowing where you stand. Scared of what was in the atoms in the air between you. Now, every minute that passes by, his neck cranes and he faces you more and more. And every bit of anger you both feel, for whatever reason, is tamped down in this car. And all there is is time to think.

Earlier tonight, in the back lot of the bar, his mouth opened and words came out. He can’t put the words back. You can’t unknow what you now know. Frank can feel the weight of what he’s done. But you’re still there, his captive audience. There’s still a chance. You have laid all your spindly roots in him, thorned and black, and so grows something unruly. He can’t contain it anymore.

‘I love you.’ These are the first words spoken.

‘Langdon.’ You warn. The hand that’s steering the car wrings the wheel. Just be quiet, please. If we are both quiet, and nothing else is said, we can blame it on the weed and the liquor. Though, you’ve sobered a lot by now.

Frank has not. He's still tipsy. And you are so pretty. And there is so much more to say.

You start to cry. Quiet and stone faced, except your brow, which furrows and peaks with each wave of tears. You’re okay to cry in front of him. You’re just scared of what you’ll say, and what you’ll expose of yourself. What you’re scared to say is that this feels eerily similar to getting your hopes up for something that’s fake. Or doomed.

You’re scraped and bruised from the past. From words too cruel to stand. It's showing now, your drum of a heart sending blood to float it to the surface. And you can see him in your periphery watching you like a puppy.

He sees the change in your face and the tears come down. Over the brim of the eyes and trailing down under your jaw. He waits a moment. And then, again,

‘I love you.’ It’s quieter this time, ‘Why are you crying?’

‘Because…’ Though it pains you with every word, you manage, ‘I feel like this is all one big joke.’ 

‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’ He assures. It’s quick.

‘You’re like, important to me, y’know? I don’t wanna… I’m scared.’ You still haven’t looked at him. Your fingers come off the steering wheel a little bit, adjusting restlessly, and your eyes blur with more tears. You blink them out and down your cheeks.

‘Y/N.’

‘What?’ You raise your voice just a bit, distressed at his persistence.

‘I would never do that to you. I love you.’

‘Why do you keep-’

‘Because I’ve been wrestling with it for months. I just wanna…- Just let me say it.’

You turn the wheel to the right all of a sudden. You pull over to the side of the road, and he thinks you’re going to kick him to the curb. 

Instead, you just sit there for a minute. You turn the car off, and the AC goes with it. Your hand drops from the top of the steering wheel to the bottom, hanging there. You think to yourself that… not an hour ago, you were thinking you could never imagine you and Frank together realistically after seeing him with the woman at the bar. 

You’re starting to imagine. A seed is planted.

‘Months?’ You look at him finally, and he’s got the side of his face against the headrest, dutifully holding you in his gaze. 

He nods. His hands lay in his lap relaxed and face up.

‘I- I’m all fucked up. My paint is peeling. I’m a bitch. And I’m not easy to live with.’ You try to warn him off. He swears he’s never seen brown eyes look so blue.

‘Harker, It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.’ You cover your face with both hands for the second time tonight. You’re overwhelmed. ‘I’m an addict. I got divorced before thirty-five. And I’m a bitch, too.’

He pries one of your hands off your face. He puts both hands around it. You drop the other one to look at him.

‘Don’t you feel it?’ He brings your knuckles to his mouth, kissing it once, and then holding your hand, curled and tensed, against his chest. ‘Don’t you feel this?’

He’s starting to get circles under his eyes. They’re wet. You can see how you’re hurting him. You stare at him for probably thirty seconds. Could be much shorter. Time feels wonky here. He holds your gaze the whole time. You need to end his misery, even if the jump is terrifying to you. 

This could all end horribly, the devil on your shoulder whispers at you. But him, right in front of you… his face is telling you he does not care. Let it end horribly. Just let me show you how good it can be right now. 

Your chin quivers. You lick your lips for something you’ve never tasted before. You press your forehead to his, and you both close your eyes at the contact. It’s the beginning of something. Frank doesn’t know what yet; a rejection, an embrace, an I don’t know.

But you do. You know.

‘You know I do.’ You utter softly, heart beating in your ears.

You are deathly afraid. He breathes out in choppy puffs like he’s about to audibly sob, stomach twisted in knots. But he doesn’t. 

‘God, that feels good.’ He whispers. Cars and their headlights pass by your pulled-over one. The passengers of those cars have no idea there’s a whole world opening up here. It’s a complicated thing, but it’s hopeful to know something like this can happen even here, even in the back lot of the bar.

And if you trace your finger along the red string all the way back to the beginning, the first time you stepped foot into the Pitt. Robby introduced you to the current cast of doctors, and Frank can’t remember what the first thing you said to him was, but it was surely something short, sharp, and effective. Sharper than whatever snarky thing he’d said. Probably something like Hey, I didn't know the Pitt took transfers from Transylvania.

And you took a quick look at him up and down, and probably said something like…

Well, they take interns from Pleasantville.

And now, three— almost four years later, you still talk to him just like that. The only thing that’s changed within your dynamic is that he loves you now.

And… you love him too (?). He wants to be sure.

‘Can you say it?’ He asks of you, eyes still closed. God, he never stops.

‘I love you.’ You have little trouble saying the words. You’ve let it all go. The settings have already been turned over to Yes, I feel the same. ‘Okay?’

‘Okay.’ He says. You lean forward and plant a wet, closed-mouth kiss on him. He deserves it. He stuck it out.

‘Are you happy now?’

He is happy. But do not be fooled; he will never be kissed enough times by you to be fully satiated.

‘Yes. Let’s go home.’

As you start the car again, Frank lets his hand fall to your thigh. He tucks your fallen hair behind your ear so he can see you the whole way home.

You move back to day shift a week later.

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[oldermenfucker]

8 for Robby

I BEG

8: sex in exchange for a favor / prompts / TW: cheating, husband’s best friend trope with reader being Langdon’s wife.

“Please, Robby,” you are begging him to listen to you, “Make him take another double shift tomorrow and I’ll get lost from his life. I just need to drop the divorce papers and leave, but if he’s home, I can’t do it.”

“I can’t ask my residents to stay for double, it’s against—“

“Don’t, please, I’d… c’mon,” you close the distance between you, biting your lip as you rest your hands on his chest, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, “I’d do anything if you help me.”

Robby shakes his head, resting his hands on your arms to push you away, but when he feels you squeezing his soft cock through his pants, he’s had enough.

He has always found you attractive, always, nearly cursed the fuck out of Langdon when he would catch him eyeing Mel around the hospital. He had such a doll in his home and yet, he didn’t appreciate it.

“Get on your fucking knees then,” he whispers, eyes hooded and blown out with lust as he reaches to unbuckle his belt, “Next time, start with my cock down your throat instead of wasting your breath, you’ll need it more after I’m done with you.”

Oh, Robby can’t wait for you to get divorced.

[quigleysfreak]

[nogutsnogloria-deactivated20250]

summary: jack has baby fever. that it. that’s the tweet

jack abbot x nurse reader

warnings: hospital setting, talks of injury, talks of children, jack down bad, suggestive language, milf and dilfs in training

your night hadn’t been anything special at work just the standard trying to get beds cleared up, that was until a mother walks in with her three year old and a 10 day old baby. her three year old had fallen out of his bed and bumped his head in the middle of the night. the mother looked so exhausted and there was no dad in sight.

you slide open the curtain to get a bit of history, administer some children’s tylenol and take the toddlers vitals. talking to the mom you find out the new baby was born over a video call as her husband was deployed right now and couldn’t get home, she had clearly been running on fumes, she has help usually during the day but at night is when it’s really hard for her. ellis comes in to assess and decides that a ct should be ordered just in case. the mom is clearly torn about being with her toddler and her new baby. you take a look down at the baby sleeping in the car seat and before you can even think about it your offering. “i can watch her so you can be with him?” the mom thinks about it before she’s nodding with a “sure”

you take the car seat back to the nurses station and put it down on the desk next to you, and get to work on some charting. the baby starts to squawk letting you know she’s not pleased with something so you don’t hesitate to unbuckle her from the car seat and pick her up to soothe her, she settles falling asleep on your chest so you get back to work. you don’t feel his eyes on you while you do.

ellis and walsh come up to the nurses station. “girl your exploding ovaries over here” ellis says. “yeah especially abbot’s” walsh jokes. you look up at her with a roll of your eyes “yeah, right. it’s not me it’s the baby. she’s so good for a newborn.” and give her a shake of your head. “he has not taken his eyes off of you since you took her out of her carrier” you turn around and chance a look at your husband, and annoyingly the girls were right. he’s looking at you with something extra in his eye. not even looking away while he’s talking to shen about something. you give him a little smile letting him know that you caught him staring again.

everyone leaves you to work with your little assistant still sleeping on your chest. her mom and brother should be back from radiology soon, but not before jack comes over. he’s looking down at you from where he’s standing. “that looks, insanely good on you” you blush at him. “oh yeah? scale of 1 to 10, 10 being that red dress you like so much?” you just started the discussions of having kids of your own, both deciding that the time was right, just needing the biology of it all to be in your favour. he sticks his tongue in his cheek to stop the smile he wants to give you. shaking his head with it.

you notice the toddler and his mom are being wheeled back to the exam room. “i should check if they need anything” jack stops you before you get up. “no you stay i’ve got it”

he walks in and checks in with the mom, she says they’re all good but stops him before he leaves. “who would i talk to about giving our nurse recognition? she made my life so much easier tonight, not by just taking my baby so i could be with him, but she let me vent and ramble about my life and made me feel like i mattered. even though we are in the emergency room this is the most my mind has been at ease in two weeks, and now she’s taking good care of my baby out there, i think if there is anything i can do that can get her something i want to do it.” jack looks out at where you are, now standing and bouncing with the baby. “i can make sure she’s taken care of, we have some peer recognition systems in place. if you want there are patient satisfaction surveys online at the hospital website as well” he turns back to the mom with a nod. “your results should be in soon. just ring the bell if you need anything.”

results come back in and it is just a bump on the little boys head so you’re getting discharge papers all ready and buckling the little girl back into her car seat for her mom, making sure her hat is on and the blanket is tucked around her so that she doesn’t get a chill when they step out into the brisk early morning. your heading to the room with your hands a bit full so jack stops to grab the car seat out of your hands, and you won’t lie watching him carry that is doing something for you, but you have to keep it professional so you head in with the usual “if any thing changes come back to see us” your turning to the little boy “hey buddy do you want a sticker? i have dinosaurs and trucks. he nods and chooses his sticker. “can my sister have one too?” you smile at him “of course why don’t you pick one for her and keep it safe” the mom stands and gets her crew ready to go. “thank you for taking such good care of us” she grabs your hand and gives it a little squeeze. “it is no problem at all. i hope you can get a bit of sleep tonight.” with that she’s heading out the door heading home.

jack turns to you. “you really have to stop that you know” you look at him confused. “stop what?” he looks down in your eyes. “having all that compassion, you’re making the rest of us look bad. that mom all but handed me your next recognition award when i went in to see her” you blush and grumble a bit “seriously i’m just doing my job” he tucks a strand of hair out of your eyes. “i know you are, but you’re really good at it, just like you were really good with that baby.” he couldn’t not bring it up. you smile a bit shyly at him. “jack abbot do you have baby fever?” he laughs at that. “yes, actually i do. really bad. ever since you agreed to have one it’s all i can think about, shifts over in half an hour, lets see what we can do to break the fever” you smack his chest and roll your eyes. “meet you at the desk in thirty and then you are taking me home, i’ll see what i can do about that fever.”