can you pls do a clark kent fic based on this tik tok https://vm.tiktok.com/ZN8JeTgAa/
okay so silly and cute
pairing: clark kent x reader (gn!reader)
warnings: literally just silly fluff
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Clark shifted uncomfortably on the couch next to you as you set your phone up on the coffee table. He wasn’t too sure about your fascination with social media, especially as a guy who wasn’t all that pop culture savvy. He read articles and sometimes would get lost in comment sections, but he couldn’t scroll for hours on end like you could.
But you looked so cute asking him.
You started recording, picking up the bottle, talking to the camera about how you were taste testing a mango flavored soda.
“Okay, baby, you first,” you said, turning to Clark to hand him the bottle.
His eyes were trained on you behind his glasses, taking the bottle. He sipped first, making a pleased little sound.
“Hm… it’s good.”
“Fruity?”
“Very,” he nodded, smiling.
He kissed your cheek, handing the bottle back. He watched you talking again to your phone, practically sporting real life heart eyes.
Until he saw what you were doing.
He frowned, opening his mouth to speak, but not wanting to interrupt. He glanced at your phone as if the invisible audience would help him. You wiped the lip of the bottle off. After he drank. You may as well have thrown up at the idea of his mouth near yours.
“B-baby,” he muttered in shock and hurt. “What are you doing?”
“Hm?”
You smiled to yourself a little, finishing wiping the bottle clean before taking your own sip. He was as worked up as you thought he’d be.
“You wiped off after I drank—”
“Ooh, it is good!”
His wide eyes just stayed glued to you. You chuckled, glancing at him. The video ended after a brief review of what you liked.
He pouted until you finally gave in, telling him it was a prank. Though, the real fun came when you saw comments starting to come in:
“omg apologize to him NOW”
“isn’t that the reporter who’s friends w superman??? bro, he’s gonna come supercurbstomp you for messing with his bf”
“His puppy-dog eyes! He looks so in love, and you betrayed him! Haha.”
“does ur man have a brother by chance”
“Tiktok is totally on your side, babe,” you said, head on Clark’s shoulder.
“Hm,” he hummed once, his fingers dancing along your shoulder. “I deserve it after you did that to me.”
“Big baby.”
He grumbled, softening the second you proved you didn’t care about his germs by pressing your lips to his.
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x clark kent, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, severe kryptonite/magical injury, radiation poisoning symptoms, blood, pain transfer, self-sacrificial healing, medical trauma, near-death experience, panic, guilt, references to clark’s survivor guilt/kypton, emotional distress, angst with hurt/comfort
masterlist
word count | 12.2k
Clark Kent knew what it meant to be breakable. People forgot that. They saw the cape first. The shield. The impossible body cutting across the sky faster than sound. Bullets flattened against his chest. Fire bloomed harmlessly over his shoulders. Buildings groaned, planes fell, oceans rose, and still Superman arrived with steady hands and a voice that made people believe the world had not ended yet.
He understood why people forgot. Most days, it was easier if they did. Easier if the child trapped under rubble saw the red cape and thought, safe. Easier if the terrified man on the bridge looked up and believed someone unbreakable had come to catch him. Easier if the League could turn toward him when the blow was too heavy for anyone else and know he would stand between it and them.
Clark did not resent that. He chose it. Every day. He chose to be the thing between danger and everyone else. He chose to hold up the falling roof. He chose to take the hit. He chose to smile afterwards and say, “I’m alright,” because most of the time he was.
Most of the time, the bullets did not hurt. Most of the time, the fire was only warm. Most of the time, being Superman meant absorbing the world’s terror and giving hope back.
But there were exceptions. Kryptonite. Magic. Red sun radiation. Grief.
You, somehow, were all four.
Not because you hurt him. Because you could. Not with a blade. Not with green stone. Not with a spell carved from old gods. You hurt him by standing too close to his pain and refusing to look away.
The first time Clark met you, he was bleeding green. That was not a metaphor. It had been a League mission in Coast City. Some weapons dealer with more money than wisdom had bought a shard of kryptonite, ground it into powder, and loaded it into bullets.
Hal had called it “deeply tacky.” Bruce had called it “predictable.” Clark had called it nothing, mostly because one of the bullets had lodged between his ribs and breathing had become an extremely complicated group project.
The Watchtower medbay had been bright and cold around him. Diana stood at his left, one hand on his shoulder. Bruce was at the monitors, jaw locked, pretending his worry was data analysis. J’onn lingered near the doorway, his expression quiet and grave. Clark lay on the exam table and tried not to tremble. He failed. Green veins crawled under his skin from the wound, branching outward like poisoned lightning. Every breath dragged fire through his lungs. Sweat gathered at his temples. His hearing flickered in and out, catching fragments.
“Shard is embedded.”
“Radiation levels rising.”
“Can’t cut without exposing him to more.”
“Lead-lined tools?”
“Not enough.”
Clark closed his eyes. The room tilted. He heard Bruce say your name. Then he heard your footsteps.
Not fast. Not frantic. Steady. That was the first thing he noticed about you. Not your face, not your voice, not the warmth of your hands. Your steadiness. You came into a room where Superman was dying by inches, and you did not panic.
Clark opened his eyes. You stood beside the table, looking down at him with an expression that was gentle but not afraid. That surprised him. People were afraid when he was hurt. Not only for him. Of him. Of what it meant. If Superman could bleed, then maybe the sky was not as safe as everyone thought. You only looked at Clark.
“Hi,” you said softly.
He tried to smile. It probably looked awful. “Hi.”
Bruce moved closer. “He was shot with a kryptonite round. Fragment remains lodged between the seventh and eighth ribs. Radiation is spreading through his bloodstream.”
“Rude place to put it,” you said. Clark huffed a laugh. It hurt. You looked at him. “Sorry. Bad time?”
“No,” Clark managed. “Good distraction.”
“Great. I have many terrible jokes.”
Bruce’s stare could have frozen lava. You ignored him entirely. Clark liked you immediately. Which, in hindsight, was the first warning sign.
You held your hands near the wound but did not touch.
“Clark,” you said, “I can help. I need to touch the wound. Is that okay?”
He blinked. People did not always ask him that. Not because they meant harm. Usually, because he was Superman, and Superman’s body was treated like a tool in emergencies. Armour. Shield. Rescue equipment. Something useful and indestructible until suddenly it wasn’t. But you asked. Like his pain was his. Like his body belonged to him even when it was failing.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Your hands settled over the wound. The pain changed. At first, it sharpened. Clark gasped, back arching off the table. Diana’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Bruce snapped your name like a warning. You did not move.
“Clark,” you said, voice steady. “Look at me.”
He did. Your eyes held his. Warm. Human. Determined.
“I’ve got you.”
Heat bloomed beneath your palms. Not solar heat. Not sunlight. Something else. Something soft and impossible.
The kryptonite burn receded. The green veins faded under his skin. The shard pushed itself out of his body into your waiting hand, slick with blood and glowing faintly. The wound closed. His lungs opened. The poison drained from his bloodstream so quickly that the relief was almost painful.
Clark inhaled. Fully. He heard everything again. The hum of the Watchtower. Bruce’s heartbeat. Diana’s breath. Your pulse.
Too fast. Your pulse was too fast. You stepped back, dropping the kryptonite shard into a lead-lined tray Bruce thrust toward you. Your hand shook. Then you folded it behind your back and smiled.
“There,” you said. “Better?”
Clark stared at you. He could still feel your hands on his ribs.
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” You turned to Bruce. “He’ll need rest.”
Bruce looked deeply offended by the concept of someone else issuing medical orders in his medbay. Clark nearly smiled. Then he heard it. A tiny shift in your breathing. Controlled. Suppressed. Pain. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
Your gaze flicked back to him. For half a second, your expression went blank. Then the smile returned. “Just tired.”
Lie. Clark heard it. Not in your heartbeat. Not exactly. It was not always that simple. Heartbeats changed for many reasons. Fear. Pain. Embarrassment. Relief. But your voice had gone too careful. Like you had wrapped the lie in gauze before handing it over.
Bruce noticed too. Clark saw the way his eyes sharpened. But you stepped back from the table, already looking toward the next injured hero, and the moment passed.
Clark let it. He had just nearly died. You had just saved him. He was tired.
That was what he told himself. Later, he would hate that.
You became part of the League’s rhythm after that. Not officially at first. You were called in for emergencies. Then difficult cases. Then anything involving injuries too strange for standard medicine. Magic burns. Alien venom. Psychic backlash. Curses. Broken bones from battles fought in gravity fields human bodies were not meant to endure.
Eventually, people stopped saying, “Should we call them?” They just called.
Clark saw you often. In medbays. On battlefields. At disaster sites. In the quiet hallways after missions, when everyone had stopped bleeding and started pretending they were fine. You were good at seeing through fine. Mostly because you said it so poorly yourself.
He noticed that too. Clark noticed many things. People assumed his powers made him observant, and they helped, of course. Hearing through walls, seeing microscopic cracks, smelling ozone before lightning struck — useful, all of it. But journalism had trained something different in him. Attention. The patient kind. The human kind. The kind that looked at a person and asked, What are you not saying?
You were not saying a lot. After healing Barry’s fractured femur, you leaned on the medbay counter for exactly twelve seconds when you thought no one was looking. After healing Diana’s sword wound, you walked with a stiffness in your side that lasted the rest of the day. After healing Hal’s concussion, you wore sunglasses in three different Watchtower corridors despite the fact that the lighting had not changed. After healing Bruce from a magical burn that had eaten through three layers of armour, you vanished for six hours.
Clark found you in the observation deck afterwards. Not because he was spying. Mostly. You stood with one hand pressed against the glass, looking down at Earth. The planet turned beneath the Watchtower in impossible blue silence, cloud systems curling over oceans like brushstrokes. Your shoulders were tense.
Clark stopped at the entrance. “Can I come in?”
You turned. Surprise crossed your face first. Then something softer. “Of course.”
He entered slowly, giving you space. He had learned that about you. You gave everyone space and did not seem to know what to do when it was offered back.
“You disappeared,” Clark said.
You smiled faintly. “That sounds dramatic.”
“You vanished from Batman’s medical follow-up schedule.”
“Ah. So I committed a felony.”
“At least three, I think.”
Your smile widened. Clark felt absurdly proud of that. He came to stand beside you, not too close. Earth glowed beneath both of you.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Tired.”
“Only tired?”
You looked at him. There was no accusation in his voice. That seemed to make the question harder for you.
Your gaze moved back to Earth. “Mostly tired.”
Clark nodded. He did not push. You seemed to relax by a fraction.
“I know you can hear when people lie,” you said after a moment.
“Not always.” Your eyes flicked toward him. He smiled slightly. “It’s not magic. Heartbeats are complicated. People can lie calmly. People can tell the truth while terrified. Sometimes I hear that someone is upset, but not why.”
“Huh.”
“Disappointed?”
“No. Relieved.”
Clark looked at you. That was honest. It hurt more than the lie would have. He rested his hands lightly on the railing. “I try not to listen unless I need to.”
“That must be hard.”
“It is.”
“Especially in rooms full of injured people.”
“Yes.”
You were quiet for a while. Then, softly, “Does it hurt? Hearing that much pain?”
Clark breathed in. The question was not one many people asked. He looked down at the Earth.
“Yes,” he said.
Your expression changed. “What do you do with it?” you asked.
Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Some days? Fly faster.”
“And other days?”
“Go home. Call Ma. Make soup. Write something no one will publish because it’s too honest.”
You smiled. “Reporter problems?”
“Reporter problems.”
“I’d read it.” Clark looked at you. You looked back. The quiet between you changed shape. Then you glanced away, clearing your throat. “For the record, Bruce’s burn was worse than he admitted.”
“He’s bad at hiding pain.”
“He’s excellent at hiding pain.”
Clark’s mouth curved. “He’s bad at hiding from me.”
You laughed softly. It warmed the room more than the Earth’s reflected sun.
After that, Clark started finding reasons to talk to you outside of emergencies. Sometimes it was coffee. You liked yours with too much sweetness, which delighted him. He brought it once after a mission and tried to pretend it was incidental.
You took the cup, read the label, and looked at him with raised brows. “Clark Kent, did you memorise my coffee order?”
“No.”
“You are lying very badly for a journalist.”
“It was a lucky guess.”
“My name is written on the cup.”
He glanced down. It was. In bold marker. With a tiny heart next to it because the barista at the Watchtower café had apparently chosen violence. Clark adjusted his glasses, which he was wearing despite being in uniform because he had come from the Daily Planet and forgotten to take them off.
You smiled into the lid. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Later, he found tea waiting for him outside the debrief room. Chamomile. Honey. A sticky note attached to the cup. For when the world is loud.
Clark kept the note. Not in a sentimental way. Obviously. Just folded neatly in his wallet behind his press badge.
Normal behaviour. Entirely normal.
Diana noticed.
“They are kind,” Diana said one afternoon, watching you from across the training room as you argued with Guy Gardner about whether “walking it off” counted as a medical plan.
Clark looked up too quickly. “Who?”
Diana’s smile was terrible. “Subtlety does not suit you, Kal.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do.”
Across the room, you poked Guy in the chest and pointed sternly toward the medbay. Guy, astonishingly, went. Clark smiled before he could stop himself.
Diana’s expression softened. “You are fond of them.”
Clark looked down at his hands. Fond was a small word. Safe. Manageable. It did not cover the way his attention found you in every room. The way your tired smile stayed with him long after missions ended. The way his chest tightened whenever you swayed after healing someone. The way he wanted to know what made you laugh outside emergency lighting.
“I am,” he said.
Diana did not tease. That was how he knew she understood it was serious. “Be careful,” she said.
Clark’s smile faded. “With them?”
“With yourself.” He looked at her. Diana’s gaze was gentle and ancient. “You have spent your life being the shield,” she said. “It is difficult, sometimes, to let another stand before you.”
Clark looked back toward you. You were laughing now, head tipped slightly back, light catching on your face. His heart ached.
“I know,” he said.
Diana touched his shoulder. “I suspect they know too.”
The first kiss happened in Smallville. Clark had not planned it.
He had planned many things that day, actually. He planned to introduce you to his mother because Martha Kent had asked about “that healer you keep smiling about” enough times that avoidance had become impossible. He planned to show you the farm. He planned to not look too pleased when you immediately fell in love with the barn cats. He planned to make dinner with his mother and not use heat vision for shortcuts because she always noticed and called it cheating. He planned to fly you back to Metropolis before midnight.
He did not plan to kiss you in the cornfield at sunset. That part just happened.
“You grew up here?” you asked, standing between the rows as evening light turned everything gold.
Clark walked beside you, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “I did.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He looked at the fields. The farmhouse. The horizon. You.
“Yes,” he said.
You glanced at him. He looked away too late.
Your smile softened. “You’re different here.”
Clark laughed quietly. “Different bad?”
“No. Different like…” You searched for the word. “Quieter.”
He considered that. “I learned how to hear the world here,” he said. You slowed. Clark stopped with you. “When I was young, everything was too loud,” he continued. “Heartbeats. Insects under the soil. Planes miles overhead. People talking in town. My own blood moving. I didn’t know how to separate anything.”
You listened with your whole body. That was something you did. Made attention feel like a place to rest.
“Ma would bring me out here,” he said. “She’d tell me to find one sound at a time. Wind through corn. Tractor engine. Her heartbeat. My Pa’s boots on the porch.”
Your eyes shone.
Clark smiled faintly. “It helped.”
“I’m glad.”
The words were simple. They landed deep.
You reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket.
“Can I?” you asked. His breath caught. It was only his arm. He could lift planes. He could hold collapsing bridges. He had survived bullets, bombs, alien invasions. But your hand hovered near his sleeve, asking permission, and Clark felt undone by it.
“Yes,” he said.
You touched him. Lightly. Your fingers rested over his forearm, warm through the fabric. “You’re always so careful with everyone,” you said.
Clark looked at you. “So are you.”
Your smile faded a little. “Occupational hazard.”
“Is that all it is?”
The question came out softer than he intended. You looked toward the horizon. Gold light gathered along your profile.
“No,” you said.
His heart changed rhythm. Truth. Not the whole truth. But truth.
Clark stepped closer. You did not move away.
“Sometimes,” you said, “if I’m not careful, I think I’ll disappear into what people need from me.”
Clark knew that feeling. God, he knew it.
“The healing?” he asked.
You looked back at him. “Everything.”
The word held a door inside it. Clark wanted to open it. Instead, he said, “You don’t disappear when I look at you.”
Your breath caught. Clark’s face warmed. That had sounded smoother in his head. Possibly because in his head, he was less farm-boy-in-love and more responsible adult man with emotional coordination.
You stared at him. “What?”
“I mean,” he said, then stopped. Nope. No recovering. The cornfield was silent except for crickets, wind, and his mother’s heartbeat from the porch, where she was absolutely pretending not to watch.
Clark cleared his throat. “I mean I see you.”
Your face changed. The way it had on the observation deck. Like the words hurt because they mattered. “Clark.”
He loved the way you said his name. Not Superman. Not Kal-El. Clark. The name his mother called from the kitchen. The name written on bylines. The name that belonged to flannel shirts, broken tractors, coffee-stained notebooks, and a boy who once hid in cornfields because the whole world was too loud.
“I see you too,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him. Or maybe he kissed you. It became difficult to assign responsibility afterwards. Your hand slid up his arm. His palm found your waist. He bent carefully, always carefully, even though you tugged him closer like you were not afraid of his strength at all. The kiss was soft. Then not. Then soft again, because Clark smiled into it and you laughed against his mouth.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“Was that okay?” he asked.
Your eyes opened. Your smile was devastating. “Clark, you floated.”
He looked down. His boots were four inches above the dirt. “Oh.”
You laughed.
From the porch, Martha Kent called, “Dinner’s getting cold!”
Clark dropped to the ground so fast you laughed harder. His ears burned.
“Your mom saw.”
“Ma sees everything.”
“She’s smiling.”
Clark glanced toward the house. His mother waved with the supreme confidence of a woman who had raised Superman and feared nothing.
You waved back. Clark covered his face.
You kissed his cheek. He decided embarrassment was worth it.
Loving Clark was not difficult. At least, you made it look easy. That frightened him sometimes. Not because he thought you were careless with love. Because you were careful with it. You learned the difference between Clark and Superman without ever making him feel split in two. You did not treat his softness like a secret identity or his strength like a performance. You understood that both were real.
You sat beside him while he wrote articles at two in the morning, your legs tucked under you on his couch, editing his sentences with ruthless affection.
“Too noble,” you said, pointing at a paragraph.
Clark blinked. “It’s about city council corruption.”
“You still made it sound like a moral epic.”
“It kind of is.”
“It’s zoning laws.”
“Zoning laws matter.”
“Clark.”
He leaned over your shoulder. “What would you write?”
You thought for a moment, then rewrote the sentence in the margin. It was better.
He sighed. You smiled. “Don’t pout. It’s unbecoming for a Pulitzer winner.”
“I am not pouting.”
“You are farm-boy brooding.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
You were also the first person outside his family to learn how he listened when the world became too much. Sometimes he would go quiet mid-conversation, head tilting slightly. You would pause. “Emergency?” He would listen. Sometimes yes. Then he would kiss your forehead and leave in a blur of red and blue. Sometimes no. A siren already handled. A baby crying but safe. A car backfiring. A fight resolving without violence. On those nights, you would touch his hand and say, “Come back.”
Not from danger. From listening. From spreading himself across every cry in the city until Clark Kent became only a receiving station for pain. He always came back. For you, he came back. But he still worried. Because he noticed you, too. Your disappearances after major healings. The way your smile sometimes arrived half a beat late. The way you treated your own pain like an administrative inconvenience. He asked. You answered. Sometimes.
“Does it hurt you?” he asked one night on his balcony after you healed a burn across J’onn’s shoulder.
The city hummed below. You leaned against the railing, wrapped in one of Clark’s sweaters. It was too big on you. He had opinions about that. Several. None appropriate for the serious mood. “My power?”
“Yes.”
You looked down at your hands. “Sometimes.”
His heart tightened. “How much?”
“Clark.”
“I’m not trying to interrogate you.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
You looked up. The city lights reflected in your eyes. “If I tell you it hurts, you’ll stop asking for help.”
“I don’t ask for myself often.”
“That’s not better.”
He sighed quietly. You touched his hand.
“There are costs,” you said. “But there are costs to doing nothing, too.”
“What costs?”
You smiled sadly. “You know those.”
Clark did. That was the problem. You were both too good at making sacrifices sound reasonable. He turned his hand and laced his fingers through yours.
“One day,” he said softly, “you’re going to have to trust me with the whole truth.”
Your fingers tightened. “One day,” you echoed.
Lie? No. Not exactly. Hope disguised as a delay. Clark let it rest.
He would regret that later. He would regret many things later.
The mission began with Lex Luthor. Technically, Clark could not prove that at first. Batman frowned upon “I know it was Lex because it has his emotionally constipated billionaire stink all over it” as evidence.
Still. Clark knew. The first sign was a tremor in the Arctic. The second was a burst of red solar radiation detected by the Fortress of Solitude. The third was the emergence of a black-market satellite network using stolen Kryptonian coding from one of Brainiac’s old probes.
By the time the League traced the signal to an abandoned observatory in northern Canada, Clark’s stomach had already tightened into a knot. Kryptonian technology. Red sun radiation. Unknown magical overlay. That last part had Zatanna concerned, which made everyone else deeply concerned because when Zatanna looked at a spell and said, “That’s rude,” things were usually about to get apocalyptic.
You came to the briefing. Clark did not want you there. He also knew better than to say that in front of everyone unless he wanted Diana to give him the disappointed-warrior-princess look and Bruce to silently agree while pretending not to. So he waited until after. You were packing a medical kit when he approached.
“No,” you said before he spoke.
Clark stopped. You did not look up. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You have a face.”
“I always have a face.”
“Currently it’s the ‘please stay somewhere safe because I love you and I’m terrified’ face.” His mouth closed. You glanced up. Your expression softened. “I’m going, Clark.”
“It’s Kryptonian tech. And red sun radiation. And magic.”
“I know.”
“That combination could affect your power unpredictably.”
“That combination could kill you.” He had no answer. You zipped the kit shut. “I’m not going because I think you’re weak,” you said.
“I know.”
“I’m going because if something hurts you, I want to be there.”
Clark looked down at your hands. Hands that had healed him before. Hands that shook afterwards. Hands he had kissed in his kitchen, in his apartment, in the cornfield where he first floated because you touched him like he was only a man and still somehow enough.
“I don’t want you hurt because of me,” he said.
Your face gentled. “That’s not a choice you get to make for me.”
He looked at you. The sentence would come back later. A knife thrown forward in time.
He almost argued. Instead, he stepped closer. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
You smiled faintly. “I will be as careful as hero work allows.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. For a second, the Watchtower faded. Only you remained. Your heartbeat. His. The fragile, ordinary rhythm of two people who loved each other in a world addicted to ending.
“I love you,” Clark said softly.
Your hand touched his cheek. “I love you too.”
He kissed you.
Bruce walked in seven seconds later. “Are you done?”
Clark pulled back, ears burning. You smiled against his mouth. “Hi, Bruce.”
Bruce looked unimpressed. Or as unimpressed as a man could look while clearly relieved Clark had someone to kiss before dangerous missions.
“We leave in five,” he said. Then he left.
You laughed. Clark tried to smile. It did not quite land. You noticed. You squeezed his hand.
“Come back to me,” you said.
His chest tightened. “Always.”
Another promise that would soon become complicated.
The observatory stood beneath a dead sky. No stars. That was the first wrong thing. Clouds smothered the moon, but even beyond them, Clark could feel an absence above the facility. The air tasted metallic. Sound behaved strangely, swallowed at the edges by a field of red solar interference that made his skin prickle. The League approached in formation. Batman, Wonder Woman, Zatanna, Flash, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, Superman. And you, near the rear, protected but present, carrying a medkit and an expression that told Clark you knew exactly how often he glanced back.
“Stop checking on me,” you said over comms.
Hal snorted. “Trouble in paradise?”
Bruce said, “Focus.”
Barry whispered, “That means yes.”
Diana sounded amused. “Indeed.”
Clark closed his eyes for half a second.
You laughed softly into comms. The sound steadied him.
Then the observatory opened.
Not the doors. The building itself. Metal panels unfolded like petals, revealing a core of alien machinery beneath old stone. Kryptonian script crawled across black pylons, wrong and corrupted. Red light pulsed from the central tower, spilling over the snow in long, bloody shadows.
Zatanna inhaled sharply. “That is not just technologu.”
Batman’s voice was grim. “Magic?”
“Necromantic structure. Solar inversion. Something is using death as a battery.”
Clark’s blood went cold.
Then the first beam fired. Red sunlight lanced across the snow.
Clark dodged, barely. The beam struck a ridge behind him and vaporised stone.
“Scatter!” Bruce snapped.
The battle became chaos. Diana flew toward the central tower, shield raised. Hal constructed a barrier around the medical evacuation point. Barry blurred between pylons, planting disruptors. J’onn reached out telepathically and recoiled with a hiss of pain. Clark flew high, scanning for the source.
He found it beneath the observatory. A chamber carved into the mountain. At its centre stood a Kryptonian crystal engine wrapped in chains of spellwork and threaded through with kryptonite.
Green veins. Red sun core. Black magic.
Clark’s stomach dropped.
A voice came through the tower speakers.
Lex’s voice filtered through something else. “Hello, Superman.”
Clark hovered midair. Batman cursed softly.
“Luthor,” Clark said.
“Predictable, I know. I’d apologise, but neither of us would believe me.”
The red solar field intensified. Clark’s flight faltered. He dropped ten feet before catching himself.
You said his name over comms. He heard the fear.
He looked toward you. You stood near the rear line beside Zatanna, eyes fixed on him.
“I’m okay,” he said.
Lie. You knew.
“Kal,” Diana warned.
The mountain shook. From beneath the observatory emerged something shaped like a man but built from wrongness: armor plated in lead-black metal, veins glowing kryptonite green beneath transparent sections, a core pulsing red in the chest.
Metallo technology. Kryptonian engine. Magic binding. A weapon designed by someone who knew exactly how to hurt Superman and had decided that was not enough.
The thing looked at Clark.
Its chest opened. Kryptonite light flooded the snow.
Clark fell. Not far. Diana caught him midair, but the radiation burned through him even at a distance. His muscles seized. His vision tunneled green. The red solar field stripped strength from his cells while kryptonite poisoned what remained.
He hit the ground on one knee.
The weapon advanced. Diana slammed into it with a force that cracked the mountain beneath them. It staggered, then drove a kryptonite blade into her shoulder.
She cried out.
Clark moved. He did not think. He never did when someone he loved was hurt.
He launched himself forward through the red field, through the kryptonite radiation, through every alarm his body screamed. He struck the weapon hard enough to send both of them through the observatory wall and into the chamber below.
The engine activated. Kryptonite spikes rose from the floor.
Clark rolled away from the first. The second punched through his side.
The pain was absolute.
He screamed. Far away, someone screamed his name.
You.
No. He tried to push himself off the spike.
Another red solar pulse hit him. His strength vanished. The weapon seized him by the throat and lifted him against the engine core. Kryptonite radiation poured directly into his bloodstream. Magic hooked into the wound, preventing his cells from closing around the damage.
He could hear his heart. Too slow.
He could hear the League fighting above. Too far.
He could hear you running. Too close.
No.
No, no, no.
“Stay back,” he tried to say over comms. It came out as a wet gasp.
The chamber doors blew open. Batman entered first, cape torn, armour smoking. Diana followed, bleeding gold-red from the shoulder. Hal’s constructs slammed into the weapon, driving it back. Barry blurred to Clark’s side and stopped with horror across his face.
“Clark.”
“Don’t touch the spike,” Batman snapped. “It’s saturated.”
Clark could barely focus.
Then you were there. You slid to your knees beside him, ignoring Bruce’s sharp command to stay back.
Your hands hovered over the wound. Your face was pale. Clark had never seen you look afraid like that.
Not for yourself. For him.
“Hey,” you whispered.
He wanted to smile. Couldn’t.
“Hi,” he breathed.
Your mouth trembled.
Bad. Bad if you could not hide it.
“Don’t,” he said.
You shook your head. “Clark—”
“Don’t.”
The kryptonite spike pulsed. Pain tore through him. His body arched, but the spike held him pinned.
You reached for him. Clark caught your wrist. Barely.
His grip had no strength. He hated that.
“You can’t take this,” he said.
Your eyes filled.
He knew. Enough from your disappearances. Your tremors. The lies. The way pain followed your miracles like a shadow with teeth.
“You don’t know that,” you whispered.
“It’s kryptonite.”
“I know.”
“And magic.”
“I know.”
“And red sun radiation.”
“I know.”
“You’re human.”
Your face broke. “No,” you said softly. “I’m yours.”
Clark’s heart stuttered. Not from kryptonite.
From terror. From love. From the terrible understanding of what you had already decided.
“Please,” he whispered.
Your hand touched his cheek. “I can’t watch you die.”
“You ask me to come back to you,” he said, voice barely there. “Don’t leave me instead.”
The tears spilled over. For one second, he thought maybe it was enough. Maybe you would stop.
Then the weapon surged back to its feet behind you.
Diana shouted. Batman threw a batarang that shattered one of the pylons.
The engine pulsed. Clark’s vision went almost black.
His heart stumbled. You felt it. Your face changed.
Not fear now. Decision.
“I love you,” you said.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Your hands closed around the wound. And you breathed in.
Clark’s world became sunlight.
Not yellow. Not warm.
White. Blinding. The kryptonite spike slid out of his body as if expelled by force. The wound closed. Magic snapped. Red solar weakness evaporated. His cells drank in the faint solar energy stored deep inside him and reignited.
Strength flooded back. Breath. Heartbeat. Heat vision flickering behind his eyes. He gasped and fell forward onto his hands. Whole. Alive.
Then you screamed.
Clark turned.
The sound ended the world.
You collapsed where he had been, one hand clamped to your side as green-black veins spread under your skin. Blood soaked through your suit. A wound opened beneath your ribs, not identical to his but close enough, deep and glowing faintly with corrupted light. Your body convulsed once as red solar radiation and kryptonite poisoning tried to translate themselves into human biology.
You were not Kryptonian. You had no cells waiting for yellow sun. No alien physiology built to process the poison. No invulnerability to slow the damage.
Clark caught you before your head struck the floor. “No,” he said.
It was not a word. It was a denial of reality.
Your eyes rolled, unfocused with pain. He cradled you against his chest, one hand over the wound, and felt blood slide between his fingers.
His blood. No. Yours. Because of him.
“No, no, no.”
Batman was beside him instantly. “Kal.”
Clark heard him. Barely. Diana and Hal fought the weapon behind them. Zatanna’s voice echoed through the chamber, spells unraveling the engine. Barry was moving so fast the air shook.
But Clark could only hear you. Your heart. Too fast. Too weak. Wrong.
“Can you hear me?” Clark asked, voice cracking. “Please. Please, sweetheart, can you hear me?”
Your eyelids fluttered. You looked at him.
Relief.
Clark nearly broke in half.
“You’re okay,” you whispered.
“No.” His hand pressed harder over the wound. “No, don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that.”
Your mouth trembled. “Knew… it’d work.”
“You didn’t know you’d survive.” Your eyes drifted. He shook his head. “Stay with me,” he begged. “Stay. Come back to me.”
The words were yours. They hurt coming from his mouth.
Your fingers twitched weakly against the front of his suit. Trying to hold on. He covered your hand with his.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You had said that to him once. In the medbay. With green poison in his veins. He had believed you. Now he understood the cost of that comfort.
Your breathing hitched.
Batman’s voice cut through his panic. “The wound is radiological and magical. Watchtower medbay won’t be enough.”
Clark looked up. Bruce’s eyes were grim.
“Fortress,” Bruce said.
Clark did not wait. He gathered you in his arms and launched upward through the shattered observatory roof. Snow exploded around him. The sky opened.
He flew.
Clark had flown fast before. Faster than sound. Faster than bullets. Faster than disaster when he had no other choice.
He had never flown like this. The world became a blur of white and black beneath him. Cold air tore past his face. He shielded you with his body, one hand pressed to your wound, the other cradling your head against his chest.
“Stay,” he said again and again.
He did not know if you heard.
Your heart answered. Weakly.
Still there. Still there. Still there.
The Fortress rose from the Arctic ice like a memory of a world Clark had never truly known. Crystal towers caught the dim light and fractured it into pale, cold brilliance.
The doors opened before he landed. The Fortress recognised his distress. Or perhaps it recognised yours. Either way, Clark carried you inside.
“Kelor,” he called, voice breaking.
The Fortress AI responded immediately, calm and melodic. “Kal-El. Medical emergency detected. Patient is human. Severe radiation poisoning. Unknown magical contamination. Kryptonian cellular trauma signatures present.”
Clark stumbled. Kryptonian trauma. In your human body. Because you had taken it from him.
“Can you treat them?” he asked.
“Partial treatment possible. Human biology is incompatible with several injury markers. Recommend solar isolation chamber, magical contamination quarantine, and immediate stabilisation.”
“Do it.”
Crystal panels unfolded from the floor. A medical platform rose beneath golden lamps designed to simulate yellow sunlight for Kryptonian recovery. Clark placed you down as gently as he could.
Too gently. Not gently enough.
You whimpered. Clark flinched.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Mechanical arms moved around you, scanning, cleaning, sealing. A golden field lowered over your body. The wound in your side pulsed green-black. Clark stood beside the platform, hands stained with blood. Your blood.
“Radiation type resembles kryptonite but is altered by transfer through metahuman ability. Damage is less severe than original Kryptonian injury but remains critical.”
Less severe. Clark almost laughed. The sound would have been horrible.
Less severe did not mean survivable. Less severe did not mean fair. Less severe did not mean you had not taken a death sentence into your own body because you could not bear his.
His knees weakened. He gripped the edge of the platform. The metal dented beneath his fingers.
“Clark,” you rasped.
His head snapped up. Your eyes were half-open. Pain-glazed. Still searching for him.
He moved into your line of sight. “I’m here.”
You tried to smile. It failed. “Fortress?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty.”
A broken laugh caught in his throat. “Yeah. Pretty.”
Your gaze moved over his face. “You’re healed?”
Clark closed his eyes. Tears slipped free before he could stop them. When he opened them, you were watching him with aching tenderness.
“I’m healed,” he said.
“Good.”
“No.”
Your brow furrowed faintly. He leaned over you, careful not to interfere with the scanners.
“No,” he said again, voice shaking. “It isn’t good. Not like this.”
Your face shifted. Understanding. Guilt. Pain.
“I couldn’t let you die,” you whispered.
“And you thought I could let you?”
Your eyes filled. The golden lamps reflected in your tears.
Clark’s hands hovered uselessly. He wanted to touch you. He was afraid to. Afraid that even his gentleness would be too much for your damaged body. You noticed.
“Hand,” you whispered.
He stared. You moved your fingers weakly.
Clark broke. He took your hand with both of his, holding it as if it were made of breath. Your fingers were cold. They should not have been cold under artificial sunlight.
“Kelor,” Clark said, voice tight. “Why are they cold?”
“Circulatory instability. Treatment ongoing.”
“Fix it.”
“Treatment ongoing,” the android repeated.
Clark hated machines. Not always. Right now.
You squeezed his hand weakly.
“Bossy,” you whispered.
He laughed once through tears. “You’re one to talk.”
Your mouth twitched. Then pain seized you. Your back arched. The monitors shrilled. Green light flared beneath your skin, veins bright and horrible along your throat.
Clark froze.
Kelor’s voice cut through the alarms. “Magical contamination spike. Administering counter-frequency.”
The golden field brightened. You screamed. Clark almost shattered the platform.
Batman’s voice came through comms. “Clark. Status.”
Clark had forgotten the comm was still active. He could hear the League on the other end. Bruce, Diana, maybe everyone. The battle had ended. The weapon destroyed. The observatory collapsing into snow. He could not care.
“They’re in pain,” Clark said.
His voice did not sound like his own.
Bruce was quiet for half a second. Then, softer, “Are they stable?”
Clark looked at the monitors. He could read Kryptonian medical notation well enough. He wished he couldn’t. “No.”
You gasped as the spike passed. Clark bent over your hand, pressing his mouth to your knuckles.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Your eyes fluttered. “Don’t… be mad.”
He went still. Then lifted his head. “What?”
Your lips barely moved. “Please.”
Clark stared at you. Something inside him, already cracked, gave way.
“You almost died,” he said. You blinked slowly. “I almost watched you die in my place.”
Your eyes shone.
“I’m angry,” he whispered, like confession. Like sin. “I’m so angry I don’t know what to do with it.”
Your breath hitched.
Clark shook his head quickly, tears falling now. “Not because you saved me. I’m grateful. God, I’m grateful. I’m alive because of you.” His voice broke. “But I’m standing here whole while you’re poisoned with something meant for me.”
Your fingers twitched in his. “I chose it,” you whispered.
“I know.”
That was the problem. That was the wound beneath the wound. You had chosen. Not accidentally. Not under ignorance. Not because you failed to understand danger. You had looked at him dying and decided your suffering was acceptable if it meant his stopped.
Clark loved you for it. He hated it. He hated that his body was grateful. He hated that his lungs opened easily while yours struggled. He hated that some shameful, relieved part of him had felt the first breath after healing and thought, I get to live. He hated that your pain was the reason.
“You should have asked me,” he said.
Your face crumpled. “If I had asked…”
“I would have said no.”
“Yes,” you whispered.
Clark closed his eyes.
The truth. The soft, terrible theft inside the miracle.
When he opened his eyes, you were crying silently.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
He leaned down and pressed his forehead carefully to yours. The golden field hummed between you like warm static.
“I love you,” he whispered. “And I am furious with you. I don’t know how to be both.”
“You’re doing it.”
A laugh broke out of him, wet and wounded. Even now. Even now, you gave him that. You gave him a way through.
Clark kissed your forehead.
“I love you,” he said again.
Your eyes closed. “I love you too.”
Then you lost consciousness.
Clark did not let go of your hand.
Time moved strangely in the Fortress. Maybe because there were no windows that showed normal weather, no clocks that ticked in human increments, no city noise pressing in from all directions. Only ice. Crystal. Machines. Artificial sunlight.
Your heart.
Clark counted that instead.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
He sat beside you while Kelor filtered the contaminated radiation from your bloodstream. He sat while the wound in your side stopped glowing. He sat while magical residue burned away in tiny painful increments that made your body twitch even in sleep.
The League came after six hours.
Bruce arrived first. He stepped into the medical chamber wearing a thermal suit beneath his cape, cowl down, expression carved into something too controlled to be calm. Diana came behind him. Then J’onn. Then, after a moment, Lois.
Clark looked up when he heard her heartbeat. He had not realised Bruce called her.
Lois took one look at him and crossed the room.
No hesitation. No fear of alien machinery or Arctic cold or Superman with blood on his hands.
She wrapped her arms around him. Clark nearly fell apart. He held her carefully, because he always held carefully, and buried his face briefly against her shoulder.
“They’re alive,” Lois said into his ear.
“For now.”
“For now is where we start.”
He let out a broken breath. When she pulled back, her eyes were red. She looked at you on the platform.
“Oh, honey,” she whispered.
Lois loved you. She had from the first dinner, when you corrected Clark’s overdramatic article draft, and Lois declared you “the only person in this room with taste.”
Clark had been offended. Mildly. For show. Mostly, he had been happy.
Now Lois stood beside your bed, one hand hovering near yours. She glanced at Clark for permission.
He almost laughed at the ache of it. Permission. Everyone was learning too late.
He nodded. Lois touched your hand gently.
Bruce stood on Clark’s other side. For a long while, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “I should have known.”
Clark closed his eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
Clark turned to him. Bruce’s face was grim. Of course he was already assembling blame. Of course he had found some way to make your secret his failure. Batman could turn sunrise into a contingency if given enough time.
“No,” Clark said again. “Not right now.” Bruce looked at him. Clark’s voice roughened. “I don’t have room to help you blame yourself. I’m using all of it.”
Bruce went silent. Diana stepped closer, her gaze full of sorrow.
“They have saved many of us,” she said.
“Yes.”
“At cost.”
Clark looked at you. “Yes.”
J’onn’s voice entered gently. “They carried pain in silence because they believed silence was kindness.”
Lois’s hand tightened over yours. Clark swallowed.
“It wasn’t,” he said.
“No,” J’onn agreed. “But it was love.”
Clark looked at him sharply. J’onn did not flinch.
“Love can be misguided,” he said. “Even harmful. It does not become hatred because it wounds.”
Clark looked down. His hands were still stained faintly red despite washing them.
“I don’t know how to forgive them for saving me,” he said.
The words entered the room and opened something.
Lois looked at him. Bruce looked away. Diana’s eyes softened.
Clark laughed once, broken. “That sounds awful.”
“It sounds honest,” Lois said.
He shook his head. “I’m alive because of them. And I’m angry.”
“Yes.”
“They almost died.”
“Yes.”
“I should be grateful.”
“You are,” Lois said. “You’re also scared out of your mind.”
Clark’s throat tightened.
Lois touched his arm. “Smallville, listen to me. You don’t have to make your feelings neat before they’re real.”
He looked at her.
She smiled sadly. “You love them. You’re angry. You’re grateful. You’re hurt. All of that can sit at the same table.”
Clark exhaled slowly. The Fortress hummed around them. Artificial sunlight poured over your still body. All of it at the same table.
Messy. Human. Hard.
He could do human. He had been raised human.
He nodded. Only once.
But it helped.
You woke on the second day.
Clark was the only one there when it happened. Lois had gone to sleep in one of the guest chambers after threatening Clark with bodily harm if he did not “at least close his eyes for ten minutes.” Bruce had returned to Gotham to investigate the remnants of the weapon. Diana and J’onn were coordinating with the League.
Clark sat beside you, reading aloud from a book of poems his mother had sent years ago. He did not know if you could hear him. He read anyway.
His voice stopped when your heartbeat changed. Your fingers twitched.
Clark set the book down immediately. “Sweetheart?”
Your eyelids fluttered. Opened. Your gaze wandered across the crystal ceiling, unfocused, before finding him.
Clark forgot how to breathe.
“Hi,” he whispered.
Your mouth moved. No sound came out.
He reached for the water. Helped you sip. You winced. He felt it like a blow.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Your eyes stayed on him.
“Sun,” you rasped.
Clark blinked. “What?”
“Feels… like sun.”
He looked up at the golden lamps. “They’re solar emitters.”
“Nice.”
A laugh escaped him. Small. Shaky. “Only you would review alien medical equipment.”
Your lips curved faintly. Then your eyes moved over his face.
Checking. Always checking.
“Are you hurt?”
Clark closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, you were watching him with worry.
Not relief this time. Worry. Progress, maybe.
“No,” he said. “I’m not hurt.”
Your face softened. He held up a hand before you could speak.
“But you are.”
Your eyes lowered.
The room went still. Kelor’s machines hummed quietly.
Clark leaned forward. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
He nodded. His chest felt too small. “I need to ask you something.”
Your gaze lifted. Fear moved through it.
He hated that. He hated more that he had to continue. “How long has your healing worked that way?”
You closed your eyes. Clark already knew. That did not make it hurt less.
“Always,” you whispered.
He bowed his head. The word landed with all the weight of every miracle he had accepted.
Always.
The kryptonite bullet in Coast City. Bruce’s magical burns. Diana’s sword wound. Barry’s shattered bones. J’onn’s psychic backlash. His own injuries, again and again.
Always.
“All of it?” he asked.
Your eyes opened, wet. “Most of it.”
Clark’s laugh was barely a sound. “Most of it.”
“I’m sorry.”
He stood. Not because he wanted distance. Because staying still had become impossible.
You flinched. He stopped immediately. The reaction cut through him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly.
“I know.”
But your heartbeat had jumped.
Clark sat back down. Slowly. Carefully. He folded his hands together so he would not reach for you too quickly.
“You were afraid I’d stop you,” he said.
You looked at the ceiling. “Yes.”
“You were right.”
Your mouth trembled. “I know.”
“You lied to me. You let me believe healing me didn’t hurt you.”
Your eyes squeezed shut. “Yes.”
Clark inhaled. The air in the Fortress was crisp, sterile, cold beneath the artificial warmth. He could hear ice shifting miles away. He focused on that for one second. Then returned to you.
“Do you know what kryptonite feels like?”
You opened your eyes. Confusion flickered. Then understanding.
Clark’s voice stayed quiet. “I don’t mean now. I don’t mean after the transfer. I mean before. Do you know what it feels like for me?”
You shook your head slightly.
“It feels like every cell in my body forgetting the sun,” he said. Your face went still. “It feels like something inside me is being unmade. Not burned. Not cut. Unmade.” Tears slipped down your temples. “And you took that into your body without knowing if human biology could survive the translation.”
Your mouth parted.
No defense came. No soft lie. Only tears.
“I knew the transfer would change it,” you whispered.
“You hoped.”
You flinched.
Clark leaned forward, voice shaking now. “You hoped it would change enough.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I need you to say it.”
Your face crumpled. “Because I love you.”
The words hurt. They should not have hurt. Clark had heard them from you a hundred times by now. In his kitchen. Over sleepy phone calls. Pressed into his shoulder after long missions. Laughed into his mouth in the farmhouse kitchen when his mother pretended not to smile. Here, under artificial sun, with green poison still fading from your veins, they hurt.
“Love isn’t supposed to make you my shield,” he said.
Your breath broke. “You’re always everyone else’s,” you whispered. Clark froze. There it was. Your truth, sharp and shining beneath the wound. “You stand in front of everything,” you said, voice thin with exhaustion. “Bullets. Buildings. Monsters. Gods. Grief. You hear everyone, Clark. All the time. And you go. You always go.”
He looked down.
“I couldn’t stand there and watch the world finally be too heavy for you.”
His eyes burned. “I’m not the world.”
“You are to me.”
Clark’s breath left him.
You looked almost startled by your own honesty. Then you kept going, because apparently, pain had burned away whatever caution remained. “You’re Clark. You’re coffee rings on article drafts and half-burned pancakes because you use heat vision when you’re distracted. Your phone calls to your mom during storms. You’re pretending not to cry at dog adoption stories. You’re the way you say thank you to vending machines.”
“I do not—”
“You do.”
He closed his mouth.
“You’re not just Superman to me,” you whispered. “And I couldn’t watch you die like everyone had the right to ask it from you.”
Clark looked at you. The anger did not vanish. But love rose through it, terrible and bright.
“You think I could watch that from you?” he asked.
Your eyes filled again. “No.”
“But you chose it anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Because you thought my life mattered more?”
“No,” you said immediately.
Clark waited.
You swallowed. “Because in that moment, I thought I could survive it better than you could.”
He stared.
You continued, voice shaking. “And maybe that’s arrogant. Maybe it’s awful. Maybe it’s unfair. But I saw that thing killing you, and I knew my body might twist it into something less. Not harmless. Never harmless. But less.” Your uninjured hand curled weakly in the blanket. “I thought I could take enough of it to keep you here.”
Clark understood then.
Not forgiveness. Understanding. You had not thought yourself worthless. That might have been easier to argue against.
No. You had calculated pain like weather. You had seen a storm built to kill him and believed your body could break the wind. You had been right.
That was worse.
Because he was alive. And you were not dead. And some part of him, some grateful, horrified part, knew the math had worked.
He hated the math.
He reached for your hand. Paused. “May I?”
Your face crumpled. “Yes.”
He took it gently. Your fingers curled around his with weak desperation.
“I love you,” he said. You closed your eyes. “I love you so much that I don’t know where to put the anger.” Your hand tightened. “I’m grateful.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I’m grateful.”
A tear slid down your cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
“I know.”
He lifted your hand and pressed it to his mouth. Artificial sunlight warmed both of you.
“You saved me,” he whispered against your skin. You breathed shakily. “And you hurt me.”
Clark looked at you. Both truths sat there. Neither erased the other.
“I know,” you said.
“I don’t forgive you yet.”
Your face twisted.
He leaned closer. “But I’m here.”
A sob caught in your throat.
“I’m not leaving,” he said. “I’m angry, and I’m here. I’m scared, and I’m here. I love you, and I’m here.”
You cried then. Clark stood and bent over you, careful of every wire, every bandage, every bruise he could see and every one he could not.
He kissed your forehead. You clung weakly to his hand.
“I’m here,” he repeated.
Like a promise. Like a prayer. Like the first thing he could give you that did not require either of you to bleed.
Recovery happened under yellow sun.
Not the real one at first. Kelor insisted you remain in the Fortress until your bloodstream showed no trace of transferred kryptonite radiation. Clark translated the medical explanations into human terms, then Lois translated them again into “normal person English” because Clark, despite his best efforts, had started saying things like “cellular resonance contamination.”
You laughed so hard you winced.
Lois pointed at Clark. “See? You’re hurting the patient with nerd behaviour.”
Clark pushed his glasses up. “I’m not wearing glasses.”
“Spiritually, you are.”
You smiled from the medical platform, pale but alive.
Clark would take the teasing. He would take anything if it meant you kept smiling.
The wound in your side healed slowly. Not like a normal human wound, according to Kelor. Not like Clark’s either. Something in your power had absorbed, translated, and muted the injury, turning a fatal Kryptonian trauma into a survivable human catastrophe. A phrase Lois hated.
“A survivable catastrophe is still a catastrophe,” she said.
You nodded meekly. Clark raised an eyebrow.
You pointed at Lois. “I’m scared of her.”
“Correct,” Lois said.
Martha came on the third day. Clark met her at the Fortress entrance and immediately folded into her arms like he was ten years old again.
She held him without comment. That was his mother’s gift. She knew when words helped and when they only made the wound echo.
After a while, she patted his back. “Take me to them.”
You cried when you saw her.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.
Martha Kent looked at you in that way she had. Soft as pie crust, strong as a tornado shelter.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, sitting beside you. “I know.”
“I hurt him.”
“Yes.”
You flinched.
Martha took your hand. “And you saved him.”
Your eyes filled.
“And now,” Martha continued, “you’re going to have to do the harder thing and let him be hurt without trying to fix it.”
Clark stood near the doorway, throat tight.
You looked at him. Then back at Martha. “I don’t know how.”
Martha smiled sadly. “Most of us don’t, at first.”
She stayed the whole day. She brought soup, because apparently even alien fortresses benefited from soup. She made Clark eat. She made you drink tea. She charmed Kelor into raising the ambient temperature by two degrees.
“You negotiated with Kryptonian AI,” Clark said.
Martha shrugged. “I raised you. I’m used to stubborn alien things.”
You laughed. Clark loved both of you so much he had to look away.
That evening, after Martha and Lois had gone to sleep in the guest quarters, Clark sat beside you under the solar lamps.
You were more awake now. Still weak. But present.
Your fingers traced the edge of the blanket.
“Do you hear it?” you asked.
Clark looked up from the book he was pretending to read. “Hear what?”
“The world.”
He listened. The Fortress dampened most external sound by default, but not for him. Not fully. He heard ice shifting. Wind. Distant ocean. Farther, if he reached, the blur of civilization. Satellites. Planes. Faint cries and laughter and music scattered across the curvature of Earth.
“Yes.”
“Is it hard not to go?”
He closed the book. “Sometimes.”
“You’ve stayed here for days.”
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
Clark looked at you.
“With you,” he corrected.
Your eyes softened. “That sounds nicer.”
“It’s also truer.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then, “Are you angry right now?”
Clark appreciated the question. He hated the answer.
“Yes.”
You nodded. Your fingers tightened in the blanket. “Thank you for telling me.”
He set the book aside and leaned forward. “I’m less angry than yesterday.”
“That’s something.”
“It is.”
“Still not forgiving me?”
“No.”
Your smile was sad. “That’s fair.”
“I’m working on it.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to punish you with it.”
Your eyes lifted to his.
Clark’s hands curled together. “I need you to know that. I’m not withholding forgiveness to hurt you. I just…” He exhaled. “I still see you on the floor when I close my eyes.”
Your face crumpled. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I still see you pinned to that machine,” you whispered.
Clark went still.
Your voice trembled. “I see the spike. The green in your veins. Your face when you realised I was going to do it.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I keep saying that.”
He opened his eyes. You looked broken open by it.
“I don’t want you to stop,” he said softly. Your brow furrowed. “Not because I want you to suffer. Because I need to know you understand.”
Your gaze dropped. “I do.”
“I know.” He reached for your hand. “And I need to keep hearing it for a while.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
Clark lifted your hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”
You looked at him with a tiny, wounded smile. “For apologising?”
“For staying honest when it hurts.”
Your eyes shone. “You make that sound beautiful.”
“It is.”
“It sucks.”
“That too.”
A laugh escaped you.
Clark smiled. Small. Real.
Your breath caught.
“What?”
“You smiled.”
His smile faded into something softer. “I do that.”
“You haven’t much.”
“No.”
You looked at your joined hands. “I missed it.”
Clark leaned closer. “I missed you.”
“I’m right here.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I missed you while you were here.”
That made you cry.
He kissed your forehead and stayed close while you did.
No healing. No taking. No miracle. Just tears beneath artificial sunlight, and Clark learning that sometimes the brave thing was not stopping pain but remaining beside it.
The first time you tried to stand, Clark hovered. Literally.
You opened one eye from the medical platform. “Clark.”
His boots dropped silently to the floor.
Lois, sitting nearby with a tablet, smirked. “Busted.”
“I wasn’t hovering.”
“You were six inches off the ground.”
“That’s not hovering. That’s…” He searched for a word. You raised an eyebrow. “Vertical concern,” he finished.
Lois snorted. You laughed, then pressed a hand carefully to your side.
Clark moved forward. Then stopped.
You saw the effort. Your expression softened. “I’m okay.” He gave you a look. You sighed. “I am sore. Dizzy. Slightly nauseous. My side feels like it lost an argument with radioactive evil. But I am medically cleared to attempt standing.”
Kelor’s voice chimed, “With assistance.”
You pointed upward. “See? The house agrees.”
Clark did not like thinking of the Fortress as a house. Except maybe, with you in it, it had become one.
He came to your side. “May I help?”
Your face softened again. “Yes.”
He placed one hand at your back and offered the other for you to hold. You leaned on him heavily as you swung your legs over the edge.
Clark kept his strength carefully checked. Enough support. Never force.
You stood. For three seconds. Then your knees buckled.
Clark caught you instantly. You gasped, half from pain, half from frustration.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You went very still in his arms.
He realised too late.
Those words. Yours. His. The wound between you.
He started to let go.
Your hand grabbed his shirt.
“No,” you whispered.
He froze.
You looked up at him, eyes wet. “Say it again.”
Clark’s throat tightened. He held you carefully. “I’ve got you.”
Your face folded. This time, the words did not mean you had to bleed. They meant someone else could hold the weight.
You buried your face against his chest. Clark wrapped both arms around you, gentle as sunlight.
“I’ve got you,” he said again.
Your shoulders shook.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his suit.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
You huffed a weak laugh against him. “Say that again too.”
His eyes warmed. “I love you.” Your hand tightened in his shirt. “I love you,” he said, softer. “I love you. I love you.”
Outside the crystal walls, Arctic wind screamed across the ice. Inside, beneath yellow lamps, Clark held you upright. You trembled. He stayed steady.
That was something he could do. Not as Superman.
As Clark.
The League meeting happened one week after the mission.
You hated it. Clark also hated it.
Bruce insisted. Lois agreed. Martha said, “Secrets don’t heal just because you tuck them under the bed,” which ended the debate more effectively than Batman ever could.
So you sat in the Watchtower conference room wrapped in a soft sweater, one hand pressed protectively near your still-healing side. Clark sat beside you. Diana sat across from you, gaze kind but serious. Bruce stood behind his chair because apparently sitting remained a moral defeat. Barry fidgeted with a pen. Hal looked unusually subdued. J’onn’s expression was gentle. Zatanna watched you with the careful sadness of someone who understood magical costs too well.
You explained. All of it. The transfers. The pain. The way injuries changed inside you. The way some wounds softened and others didn’t. The way emotional and psychic pain could sometimes be taken, but unpredictably and dangerously. The way you had hidden symptoms because you believed everyone would refuse if they knew.
No one interrupted. That made it harder.
Clark could hear everyone’s heartbeat. The grief in the room had a rhythm.
When you finished, silence sat heavily over the table.
Then Barry said, very quietly, “My leg.” You looked at him. His voice shook. “After Gorilla City. You healed my leg.”
Your eyes filled. “Yes.”
Barry looked down. “I thanked you and ran six laps around the medbay.”
“You were relieved.”
“You were limping later.”
You said nothing. Barry closed his eyes. Hal leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I made jokes,” he said.
“You always make jokes,” you whispered.
“Yeah, well, now I feel like an ass.”
Diana reached across the table and placed her hand over yours. You looked at her.
“You should have told us,” she said.
“I know.”
“Your choice to bear pain does not erase our right to understand it.”
Your face crumpled. “I know.”
Diana squeezed your hand. “And still, I am grateful to be alive because of you.”
You sobbed once. Clark’s hand tightened under the table.
Bruce spoke next. “We need consent protocols.”
You let out a watery laugh. “Of course you already have a folder.”
Bruce’s eyebrow lifted. “Three.”
Hal muttered, “That tracks.” Clark almost smiled.
Bruce continued, “No healing without informed consent except in pre-authorised emergency conditions. Everyone will establish directives. Injuries must be disclosed afterward. No solo high-risk transfers. Mandatory monitoring.”
You looked exhausted just hearing it.
Clark leaned closer. “You don’t have to solve all of it today.”
Bruce paused. Then nodded. “Not today.”
That was Bruce being gentle. You seemed to understand, because your expression softened.
“Okay,” you said.
J’onn looked at you. “There is one more thing.”
You tensed. Clark did too.
J’onn’s voice remained calm. “You are more than the pain you can carry.”
The room went quiet. You looked away.
Clark wanted to wrap himself around you.
He did not. Not here. Not unless you asked.
J’onn continued, “Many of us have relied on your gift. We must now learn to rely also on your personhood.”
Your eyes closed.
That one landed. Clark knew because it landed in him too.
Your personhood.
Not power. Not function. Not miracle.
You.
The meeting ended slowly. Not cleanly. There were tears. Apologies. Awkward hugs. Hal made one terrible joke and looked relieved when you laughed. Barry cried openly and then apologised for crying, which made you cry, which made him cry harder.
Bruce handed you a tablet with the draft protocols. You stared at it. Then at him.
“Three folders?” you asked.
“Four now.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re a menace.”
“So I’m told.”
Clark waited until the room emptied. Then he turned to you. “How do you feel?”
You leaned your head against his shoulder. “Tired.”
“Only tired?”
He felt your smile against him. “No.”
Progress.
“I feel scared,” you said. “And guilty. And relieved. And like everyone is going to look at me differently now.”
Clark rested his cheek against your hair. “I do.”
You went still.
He lifted his head and looked at you.
“I look at you differently because I know you better.”
Your eyes searched his. “Not because you love me less?”
“No.” His voice softened. “Never that.”
You nodded. A tear slipped down your cheek. Clark wiped it away.
“May I take you home?” he asked.
“Fortress or apartment?”
“Smallville.”
Your face changed. “Really?”
“Ma has been texting me soup emojis for two hours.”
You laughed. Clark smiled. There it was. A small patch of sunlight through the ache.
“Smallville sounds good,” you said.
Smallville healed differently than the Fortress.
The Fortress had alien medicine, yellow lamps, crystal diagnostics, and an AI that could identify seventeen forms of radiation poisoning in six seconds. Smallville had Martha Kent. Which was better, in several ways.
You stayed in Clark’s childhood room because Martha insisted, and because Clark turned very red when you pointed out the little wooden airplane still sitting on the shelf.
“It’s cute,” you said from under three quilts.
“It’s old.”
“It’s cute.”
“It was a gift from my dad.”
Your teasing softened.
Clark picked it up carefully. His father had carved it by hand. The edges were worn now from years of a little boy’s fingers tracing the wings.
You watched him.
“He loved you a lot,” you said.
Clark smiled, sad and warm. “Yeah. He did.”
You patted the bed beside you. Clark sat. The bed creaked. Your eyes brightened with amusement.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it.”
“I thought you are very big for this bed.”
He laughed. You smiled, triumphant.
That night, Clark slept in the chair beside you and woke to find Martha draping a blanket over him with the long-suffering tenderness of a mother who had absolutely expected this.
“Clark Joseph Kent,” she whispered. He opened one eye. “You are not guarding the national treasury.”
He blinked sleepily. “No. Something more important.”
Martha’s expression softened despite herself. Then she smacked his shoulder lightly with the folded edge of the blanket.
“Bed. Guest room. Now.”
“I’m fine here.”
“You are six-foot-whatever and folded like laundry. Move.”
You stirred, eyes half-open.
“Listen to your mom,” you mumbled.
Clark looked betrayed.
Martha smiled. “I like them.”
“I’m injured,” you added. “You have to listen to me too.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“It is,” you whispered.
Martha laughed quietly.
Clark went to the guest room. Mostly because both of you were terrifying.
The days that followed were slow. You walked through the kitchen with one hand on the counter while Clark hovered within acceptable ground-level parameters. You sat on the porch in the morning sun, eyes closed, letting real yellow warmth touch your face. You helped Martha shell peas one-handed and complained that Clark kept trying to do everything for you.
“He gets that from me,” Martha said.
Clark looked up from the sink. “I’m right here.”
“I know, honey.”
You grinned.
He loved seeing you at the farm. Loved it so much it scared him. You looked softer there, wrapped in one of his flannels, sunlight on your knees, bandage hidden beneath fabric. Not healed. Not untouched.
But safe. Or as close as the world allowed.
One afternoon, he found you standing in the cornfield. The same place you had first kissed him. You wore his jacket over your shoulders and held one hand lightly against your side.
Clark approached slowly. “You okay?”
You looked over. “I think so.”
He stopped beside you. The corn rustled around you both. For once, the world was not screaming. Clark could hear cows in the distance. A truck on the road. His mother humming in the kitchen. Your heartbeat, stronger now.
You turned toward him. “I need to tell you something.”
He nodded.
You took a breath. “I don’t regret saving you.”
Clark’s chest tightened.
You continued quickly, “But I regret how. I regret not telling you the truth before. I regret taking your choice. I regret making you wake up to my pain.”
His throat worked.
“I don’t regret you being alive,” you said. “I don’t think I ever could.”
Clark looked down. The corn moved in long, golden waves.
“I don’t regret being alive,” he said. Your eyes filled. “But I regret what it cost you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely okay with it.”
“I know.”
“And if it happened again…”
You went very still.
Clark looked at you. “I don’t know what I’d choose either.”
That startled you. He gave a sad smile.
“I want to say I would respect your no. I want to say I’d let you make the choice and accept it. But if you were dying in front of me and I could stop it?” His voice lowered. “I don’t know…I think,” Clark said slowly, “that’s why I’m so angry.”
You whispered, “Because you understand.”
“Yes.”
He hated admitting it. Needed to.
You stepped closer. “Where does that leave us?”
Clark reached for your hand. You gave it to him.
“In progress,” he said.
A faint smile touched your mouth. “That’s very journalist of you.”
“It’s also true.”
“Do we make rules?”
“Yes.”
“Protocols?”
“Yes.”
“Bruce is rubbing off on you.”
“Unfortunately.”
You laughed softly. Clark lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.
“But more than rules,” he said. “We keep telling the truth. Even when it’s ugly. Even when it doesn’t make either of us look noble.”
“I can try.”
“So can I.”
You looked at him. “I’m scared you’ll always see me on the floor.”
Clark’s hand tightened around yours.
“I will,” he said.
Your face fell. He touched your cheek.
“But I’ll also see you here.” Your eyes lifted. “In my mom’s kitchen. On the porch. In the cornfield. Rolling your eyes at my drafts. Laughing at Lois. Falling asleep with three quilts because you say the farm gets colder than the Arctic, which is objectively false.”
“It does emotionally.”
He smiled.
“There,” he said. “That too.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“I don’t want the worst thing to be the only thing,” he said.
You leaned into his palm. “Me neither.”
Clark bent and kissed you. Gently at first. Then with all the careful longing of the days he had spent afraid to touch you too much.
You kissed him back with your uninjured hand curled in his shirt.
He did not float this time. Progress.
Then your mouth curved against his. “You’re trying very hard not to float.”
Clark’s ears warmed. “I am grounded by discipline.”
“You are grounded by trauma and corn.”
He laughed, startled and helpless. You smiled. The sound moved through the field, small and human and alive.
Clark kissed you again. This time, his feet left the ground by maybe an inch. You noticed. You did not mention it.
Kindness. Mercy. Love.
All things with fine print, maybe. All things worth reading anyway.
fem! reader, mdni. 0.9k words. it all kinda feels like too much for reader so she cries just a smidge (you're getting too good a dicking) no use of safe word or crying kink or anything like that, just some momentary comfort then they continue
it's not so much that you're sensitive, rather you feel a lot. and with Clark, you almost always feel everything.
he has that effect on you, especially when he's on you.
maybe tonight you were just feeling particularly fragile. maybe a little overwhelmed by your day and it all coalesced into a heaping pile of vulnerability right underneath Clark. he's sort of smothering you, skin fused with yours as he keeps you enveloped within his tight hold. like a kind of caging, your tits sandwich with the beef of his chest above you — pressure firm, as if he's eager to stay exactly as is.
it's slow. it's deep and controlled, his grinds into you. each push of his cock reaching further and further into you; so much so it's like you can feel him knocking at your lungs, hindering and staggering your every breath.
his happy trail skims at the lower of your stomach with each wind atop you, fuzzy hairs rubbing against your skin with the obscenely close distance he has above you. with the closeness of it all, he has his face buried in the crook of your neck; lips slightly parted on your collarbone as he sears sporadic, timely kisses just below.
yours is somewhat similar, head tipped back into the pillow, chin occasionally nudging and bumping at the meat of his opposing shoulder with each pant you choke out. you hold him tight and dear, arms enveloped around his back with fingers hooked into his skin, nails just shy of making visible marks either side of his spine.
Clark's great with you, in every sense of the word. you knew that if you were to say something, to announce it — he'd hear you and act upon it. you knew that if you told him you were starting to feel too much, he'd stop. though you weren't sure if that's what you wanted, for it to stop.
your pants and gasps grow silent in that way they often do when he's fucking you this good, your sounds of utter bliss becoming unsystematic in the time in which they're choked out. and it's as your body holds out on lewd and vocal response that you feel your eyes well — tears brimming quickly and thickly.
he's so lost in it that he doesn't realise, doesn't notice the slight salty smell blooming in your eyes or hear the difference in your hearts rhythm. he's selfishly consumed by the warm wrapping of you cunt around him and the feel of your skin against his that he's grown unaware.
and it's only when he feels you clamp suddenly around him and hears you hiccup a stifled sob, that he pulls his face from the side of your throat. he peers himself up and his eyes flicker over your face; movement quick and attentive so as to assess you sooner.
his winds halt, and it's then you tighten your thighs at the lower of his hips. like you're wordlessly telling him to resume, directionally trying to nudge him into you, even. though he's far, far stronger than you so that doesn't happen. instead, he lifts himself off you ever so slightly, keen to see more of you for a moment.
"too much?" he whispers his ask, voice sort of regretful — like he knew himself to be the reason for your tears.
your arms tighten around him and you reach up to kiss his lips. kissing him again, you pull back and shake your head; motion small and sure.
"positive?" his eyes soften a smidgen, brows furrowing as he looks down at you.
his gaze drifts to the little trail of wet running off the side of your face, and it's then he retracts his hand from behind your head to rid the evidential mark of something overwhelming. he's careful as he swipes away the bead of wet, thumb moving in a gentle caress to absorb the tear.
you nod against him and reach up to kiss him once more. one hand from his mid back trails downwards, palm gliding down his skin until you reach the top of his ass. your clasped hold pushes on him, like you're silently directing him to continue and wind into you again.
and while your pushes and nudges are tempting, he knows he can never fully continue until he knows the reasoning behind your tears. he'd feel wrong to resume while you're so clearly wracked with reluctant emotion.
but you know him well, you can piece together what the expression on his face means. so you reassure him, rather than answer strings of questions.
"it's just really good," you assure.
he smiles shyly a moment. his forehead lowers to yours, weight pressed firm to you as he nuzzles the tip of his nose into yours just below his.
"you're sure?" he hums, speaking soft against you.
you nod slightly and his head moves with yours. "positive," you hum, and further your pandering tries on the top of his ass.
"you'd tell me if you weren't?" he confirms, swallowing thickly as he eases his hips into you again.
you choke out a gasp when you feel him fully inside again, the entirety of his well-endowed, kryptonian cock filling you to the brim.
"of course."
the only way he can continue now, is if he can see your face. if he can see your eyes and the faces you make as he repeatedly pushes into you.
he can't enjoy himself if he's not sure that you are too.
You’ve built an empire out of cozy vlogs, candid Q&As, and a million followers who adore how “real” you are, even when you’re jet-lagged, spilling wax on your leggings, or eating takeaway in a hoodie. Manchester is just another work trip: collabs, content, and unboxings.
But then you keep seeing him.
The hooded masked stranger who passes you on rainy streets. He doesn’t care about TikTok, doesn’t ask for selfies, doesn’t even tell you his name. He’s steady, silent, and far too handsome for the mask and shadows he hides behind.
1. Lights On, Lights Out
2. Manchester Mornings
3. Curious for Content
4. Problem Here
5. Someone Who Sees Me
6. Offline
7. Midnight on Deansgate
8. Soft Light, Sharp Edges
9. Napkin Confessions
10. Unknown Number
11. Both
12. Next Time
13. Midnight Calls
14. Lower the Mask
15. Iron Works & a Wink
16. Errands & “As You Wish”
17. Soft Launch, Hard Fall
18. The Quiet Parts of Us
19. When the Waiting Ends
20. Unknown Territory
21. Before the Club
22. The Personal Viewing
23. Between the Man and the Mask
24. Hooks, Houseplants, and Half a Life
25. The Calendar on the Sideboard
26. Little Distances
27. No More Countdowns
28. First Brick
29. Housing Stress
30. More Simon, Less Ghost
31. Not Single, Not Sharing
32. Hands
33. Boyfriend Behavior
34. The Call
35. When You Come Back
36. Being Seen
37. Within the Year
💀📱✨🖤💄 💀📱✨🖤💄 💀📱✨🖤
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Make sure to comment on the most current chapter so I see it right away! Influencer chaos x Ghost broody silence is too good to miss 👀🖤
I had an idea and it spiraled! It was meant to be a blurb but it turned into a one shot, and it's smutty <3 I know I've been light on that lately but more is coming.
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Y/N and her newly established boyfriend had yet to be properly intimate.
Harry was a gentleman on all counts. He paid for their outings without question, he walked her to her door every single time, held every door open- car and building alike. The man knew the sidewalk rule and abided by it every time, he had his impeccable manners while talking to her, pulled out her chair when they went out to eat, he didn’t call her after midnight, and most of all- he hadn’t pushed for anything sexual.
The extent of it had been kisses that got heated enough for her to be pressed against the passenger door of his car before he’d apologized, fixing her lipstick with his thumb and told her with a slight blush on his cheeks that he’d ’gotten carried away’ and apologized for not controlling himself, but he was very enamored with her. Even if it left her with damp panties and a second heartbeat between her legs, the tenderness in which he treated her had been the stand out of it all.
It was the exact opposite of every man she had ever been with. There had been no hint of even daring to suggest a hook up, or bypass the dates to get to the ‘fun stuff.’ Granted, she had asked him what his intentions were when he’d asked her out originally and he’d seemingly honestly told her that he wanted a real relationship and connection- but Y/N had been a bit cynical.
So many times she had gone out with a man who said they were looking for something real but they’d attempt to speedrun the first date to get her alone, or see her a few times, fuck around and then suddenly ‘not feel the spark’ before moving on to another woman to do the exact same thing. Take, take, take without receiving. Literally, in some senses, considering an alarming amount of men didn’t know where the clitoris was located.
The dating scene had been fatigued for her for a long time, and despite the hopes she’d had for Harry, she hadn’t allowed herself to hope. That itself had been hard when it felt like her personal dream man had been laid out in front of her, with pretty seafoam green eyes and dimples she wanted to indulge in poking, so she had told herself that no matter how much she liked him, she would try to hold herself back.
Funny, that was. It hadn’t been that long into dating when she had realized how incredible he was. How intelligent and kind he was, how he had most of the qualities she’d put down in her journals at 3 am when she needed to dream a little bit. Harry was what she wanted, and allowing herself to want it openly had been hard- but she’d been met with a warm reception.
Being a very successful man in business with multiple companies and hats he had to wear, Harry could be seen as a bit stiff, but she’d been able to see past that because he was letting her. She’d seen him laugh and dance a little bit to music he showed her, and just because he was wearing a suit a lot of the time didn’t mean he was what she’d probably have shamefully assumed of a man like him at first glance. Harry wanted to be good, he wanted to give her what she wanted, and for once in her life, she had let go a little bit and let him.
God, she wanted to fuck him. He hadn’t budged on that, and she hadn’t pushed too hard, but thankfully she hadn’t been made to wait an excessive amount of time.
It had been 7 official dates, 3 coffee dates on their lunch at work and 2 times meeting for drinks until he’d asked her to be official. The meticulously prepared candlelit dinner at his place was where he’d gotten her favorite meal prepared, gotten her favorite eclairs from the bakery down the road, and had curated a playlist of artists she’d mentioned liking before he’d asked her on his couch if he would be able to have the ‘honor of being hers’ and vice versa.
It had been the easiest yes of her life, considering the man had put in more effort than she had thought possible. For once in her life she had felt cherished and looked after. He’d sent her money for her nails earlier in the day as well; which she had never asked for but he had said was ‘a man should look after a woman he cares about, even if they are more than capable of taking care of them selves’, and she had decided in the seat while getting her feet scrubbed and the cucumber lotion slathered onto her that she would stop at nothing to lock this man down.
Turned out he was one step ahead. He’d always been one step ahead. And it also turned out she had misjudged him, even if only just.
He had a lot of charisma that was disguised as something else; a big energy that had let her think that he had to be good in bed. That feeling had only been slightly challenged with how quickly he had calmed things down when she had wanted more a few times. In short- she had assumed that maybe the energy he put off was a facade and perhaps his one flaw would be he wouldn’t be very adventurous in the bedroom. Maybe a missionary with the lights off type of guy which, hey! It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. She could fix that.
Harry was a teachable man, considering how brilliant he was. He hadn’t been suggestive and she had sat back and had the self conversation about being willing to show him what she liked, to give him a crash course in dirty talk and how to fuck her how she liked because with everything else he had, sex was something she knew could be adjusted.
It was very, very clear, feeling his large hands on him and her bare tits exposed to the cool air of his bedroom that she had been sorely mistaken. Nipples swollen and sensitive from the way he’d sucked and let his teeth graze them, dress tossed to the side leaving her splayed out naked on his bed, he’d been unable to keep his hands off of her after she asked him if they could ‘do more’ now that they were an official item.
He’d taken the challenge very literally.
“Look at that little clit.” He murmured, brushing his thumb over the swollen nerve. Sitting on his knees between her spread, wet thighs, he looked more comfortable than she would be with hardwood digging into her knees, but it was most likely because of the distraction in front of him. “Poor thing. All sorts of worked up, aren’t you?”
Y/N let out a soft sigh, nodding her head as she bit back a moan. The smallest touches were setting her off. Harry had turned her body into a live wire. With him circling over her clit and the hot wash of his breath as he spread her cunt open for him to see, it was becoming difficult to breathe. Life, and Harry apparently, had come at her fast. So fast that her head was spinning, showing her just how dirty the proper man could really be.
“Yeah, I bet you are. I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time. Did Y’know that?” Eyes looked up at her, dark and hungry as she shook her head in response. Words escaped her, but she managed to get out a strangled “N-No…” as he hummed under his breath.
That was in fact, news to her.
“I have been. Since the first night we’ve met. I tried very hard t’be good. To not think about you in such a filthy way, but it was difficult. Talked to you for a bit… admitted how absolutely incredible you are… how beautiful… and I knew you had to have the prettiest little pussy. I was wrong, though.” He turned his head just a bit to kiss her sensitive and slightly sticky inner thigh, letting out a chuckle when she jumped just a tad. “It’s even prettier. Most gorgeous cunt I’ve ever seen.”
It was unnerving to feel his gaze on her, to know he was well and truly up close and personal with perhaps the most vulnerable part of her, but she could see the admiration and hunger in his eyes. She couldn’t even pretend not to see it as he let his slippery thumb glide up to her mound of soft flesh above her cunt and back down to her entrance, spreading the slick around.
“Can’t believe how wet you’ve gotten for me. I won’t lie to you, my sweet girl… I’ve been dying for this to be mine.” His voice rumbled against her thigh as he laid a line of kisses, wet and slow up the sensitive skin. She’d have burn from his mustache on her thighs, surely, but Y/N didn’t care. It felt so good, her poor clit was throbbing underneath the passes of the pad of his thumb, and she wanted more.
“Please…” She croaked, lifting her hips. It felt hard to think, let alone speak, but he seemed to like that. Revel in the effect he had on her. “Please, Harry.”
“Please? Please what, sweetheart?” He murmured, pulling back from his kisses to spread her thighs open with his forearms. “What do you want me to do to my pussy, hm?”
Y/N bit her lip to bite back the scream, because what the fuck? How did he do that? How did he command her body so fucking easily that she could feel the trickle of arousal drip down her ass from the soft rasp of his voice and the intensity of how he spoke. Soft spoken, but meaning every syllable he let pass his lips.
His pussy. That was something he’d obviously been dying to say- but she hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted him to own it.
“Because, sweet, precious girl…” He sighed, spreading the lips open as he got a good look at her. “I’m not sure m’quite done admiring my pussy yet. So I think you can sit there and be the cute little thing you always are for me while I get better acquainted with her, and then I’ll give you what you want.”
It was hard not to let her hips jerk up as he tapped his fingertip over her clit, letting another breath wash over her as the heat of it made her stomach tingle. He was staring, admiring, analyzing her like she was art at a museum and that had never been anything close to what she experienced- so who was she to tell him no.
“Yeah I can… I can sit. I can wait.” Her throat felt thick as she spoke but she managed more than two words, and that was a feat in itself.
The smile on his lips was her even bigger reward.
“Thatta girl.” He praised, leaning up a bit to kiss her lower tummy- very close to where she wanted him to be. “I’ll always treat you well. Make it worth your while for letting me see what you’re letting me own, hm? Suck that pretty clit and make you stain the sheets… give you anything you want. Just need to stare a bit longer before I get her all puffy and wet… ruin her a little bit.”
She was already ruined, but she had vastly underestimated the way it would feel to have a man she desired so intensely to coo and stare at her body like it was his favorite thing.
Honestly, she had no idea how long it had been of his sweet and filthy words. His knees had to be numb as he dragged her to the edge of the bed, chuckling at her squeal of surprise as he pulled back for a moment to run his hand down her body. From her collarbone all the way to her cunt, cupping it in his large palm as she let out a strangled moan. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Seeing you spread open for me… You have no idea what that does to me, little treasure.” Clicking his tongue, he momentarily removed his hands to roll up the sleeves of his button up.
The always impeccably pressed and starched button ups, rolling the sleeves up his forearms as he began to look undone himself. The hair he gelled back tousled from her hands, a curl draped over his forehead and the 5 o’clock shadow was getting darker from when she’d first arrived. It was a brand new side to him.
“I’ve tried very hard to behave, Y/N. I’m a gentleman, and I will treat you as such… but something has clued me into the fact that it may not be what you want in this scenario, hm?” He shifted on his knees and she could hear the metallic clinking of his belt, but it was hidden from view. “I have to admit to you that I’ve never felt such unadulterated hunger in my life as I have with you. I don’t feel passion to this level. But you’ve brought something out of me, and I have to tell you that I’m becoming obsessed with you.” Lifting her leg, he planted a wet kiss to her calf. “With your voice.” A kiss to her knee. “With how you look at me, your intelligence…” he rounded up her thigh. “And now, this body.”
He audibly groaned as he spread her lips open with his fingers again, pursing his lips- and surprising the hell out of her- spitting on her clit. His eyes didn’t stray as she gasped, watching it slide down her pussy before he rubbed it into her already soaked skin. “So let me show you just how crazy you’ve made me. How obsessed I am with you. And most of all… how grateful I am that you’re letting me own you.”
Harry did more than that.
With his mouth on her, Y/N felt like she was floating. Again and again, he made her cum. Like a man starved, he’d barely pulled away from her pussy- save for letting his tongue run over her other hole which had her shuddering from the touch she wasn’t used to- and she had to wonder if he’d ever be able to be pulled away.
“You have no idea…” The usually well put together man whined against her pussy, trying to get her to cum a fourth time. It almost hurt, tingly and sharp, but she loved the pain as he sucked over her clit and sloppily spit back down over it. Webs of her arousal and his saliva stuck to his chin as he worked his fingers inside of her, the other hand keeping her down by pressing over her stomach. “No fucking idea what trouble you’ve just started.”
Y/N only hoped she could get more of it.
“It feels…” Y/N was finding it hard to breathe for an entirely different reason now. “God, it hurts but it feels so good. You’re r-ruining me. Like you said… oh, fuck.” Her hips tipped up as he curled his fingers, a deep chuckle vibrating against her clit. The sounds were pure filth. The squelch of his fingers fucking her deep and practiced, his mouth sucking on her cunt, his groans and her weak whimpers and whines as she tried to keep her head on straight bounced off his maroon walls. “H-Harry I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fucking cum a-again and… fuck, I’m gonna make a mess.”
She’d only been able to do it twice before, and she’d done it herself. Truthfully, the reason she didn’t go for it more often was because of the mess squirting made- but that didn’t deter the older man.
If anything, it spurred him on further.
“Make a mess then, treasure.” He panted, nosing at her clit. “Make a mess all over my hand and my face. I don’t give a fuck about the sheets.” One of the first true curses she’d heard from him had her clenching around him, but more than that was seeing him so undone. Wrecked by her alone, his new fascination with her pussy. “You’re going to give it t’me now. Alright?” His hand on her stomach came down to smack at her clit, the light, sharp sting making a gasp rip from her throat.
Fuck, that was good.
“You’re almost there. I can feel it. M’not stopping. Give it to me, Y/N. Let me see what my pretty pussy can do. Want the mess, want you to soak me. Be good for me, give it.” He was commanding it, keeping the pace just as he had it as his mouth went back to her clit.
Her body liked to obey.
With a scream that startled herself, she slapped her hand over her mouth as she came. Squirting on his fingers, she felt him moan against her pussy as he pulled his mouth off her clit and rubbed it frantically instead with his hand. “Give it t’me, give it baby- yes, yes, thatta-fuckin’-girl…. That’s what I want, give me what I want, let me give it to you- Fuck.” He snarled, tongue lapping over his fingers to taste her.
Writhing on the bed, she let out a little sob as she fell back flat on the bed instead of sitting on her elbows, body jerking as little bursts of her squirted over his fingers and surely soaked his hand. Never had she heard him so unhinged as he lapped her up, thanking her in between and telling her she was a good girl, that she was perfect as his fingers slowed until they stilled inside of her, kisses pressed to her thighs and belly as she got over sensitive.
It felt a bit fuzzy as she whined at the emptiness, a brief recalling of him saying to sit still before he was back, stroking sweaty hair out of her face and a warm washcloth gently cleaning between her thighs.
“There you are.” He murmured, voice warm and smile soft as he swiped his finger over her cheeks. “M’sorry baby. Got overwhelmed, hm? No more tears.”
Y/N hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. It just felt so good, she felt so safe, and she’d drifted away. Coming back to his smiling face felt very good, especially with his tender touch. “Hi.” She peeped, reaching up for him. There was no fight from him to come down, balancing on his one hand as he gave her the kiss she wanted.
“Hello, beautiful girl.” He murmured with an amused smile. “Let me take care of you, okay?”
“Mm… ‘Kay. For how long?” She asked without meaning to, but his answer was what she wanted to hear regardless.
“As long as you let me. I take care of what’s mine.”
summary: after reading a vulnerable text message by you about your past, Simon tries to comfort you
cw: abuse, sexual assault, neglecting, angst, shitty parent behaviour
A/N: I cried while writing this because that's pretty painful to write about, hope you still will enjoy it
wc: 2,5k
"One of the weirdest aspects is how my family deals with emotions, you know?
I know that after my parents’ divorce, when I was seven, my mother sent my sister and me to get checked to see if we were okay. A divorce can be pretty confusing for a seven-year-old and for a twelve-year-old too.
The real issues didn’t start immediately, though. They came a few years later. After my father started a new family. Don’t get me wrong, I like them now. But for a while, I didn’t. And it wasn’t their fault. When you’re younger, you don’t always understand who is actually responsible. So instead of blaming my father for his neglectful behavior, I blamed my little brother and his mother.
I blamed my father too, obviously, but it was more like: “Yeah, he loves his new family more, so I don’t like them. It’s their fault… and partly his.” Younger me couldn’t comprehend that he was the one fully neglecting me. I tried to understand him. I really did. But when the only way I found out he was coming over was the day before even though I had a phone at twelve and he could’ve just texted me, it didn’t really help.
I know my sister felt neglected too, somehow. I don’t really know how she felt, though. We don’t talk about feelings in this family. I think it all got worse when my grandmother died of cancer. My grandfather fell into something like a depressive phase, and I was just eleven. I didn’t feel like I was allowed to talk about my feelings. I mean, I understood that my grandmother was dying, that she was going to be gone. But before she died, I talked about the smell of decay. And to be honest, I still smelled it after she died. Sometimes I even smelled it years later.
Once, years later, my grandfather visited us. I stayed in my sister’s room, and he slept in mine. After he left, my room smelled like that again. Exactly like that. I was so overwhelmed that I think I screamed. I didn’t know how to deal with it.
Later on, things with my grandfather got even more complicated. He wasn’t the most tolerant person. He liked to claim he was, but he said so much bullshit about unemployed people and immigrants – even though my sister and I are children of an immigrant. It didn’t matter how many times my mother and sister told me to ignore what he was saying. I couldn’t. I couldn’t ignore it when he said something misogynistic. I tolerated it for a while. And when I finally snapped, I was the bad one. “He’s trying. It’s so difficult for him.” Why couldn’t he at least apologize? He never did.
There are so many reasons why I’m not able to talk to my family about issues. I’m just not used to it anymore. Maybe before all of that – before I was seven – I used to run to my mother when I fell and scraped my knee. Maybe I cried openly back then.
But after everything, I only did it once. When I had my first friendship breakup. I was eleven. After that, they basically never saw me cry again. Except when I accidentally hurt myself physically.
Over the years, I developed trust issues. Big surprise. And I stopped talking to my family about personal stuff.
Well, except political topics later on. Those we talked about. Kind of.
Another reason why I can’t talk to my family – especially my mother – is how she reacted when I said no. (This part is going to get deep. And yeah, maybe my weird former therapist was right about that one aspect)
After my grandmother died, there were times when I didn’t want to travel to my grandfather. I was around fourteen. There were several reasons. Not political ones at that time, I cared about human rights, sure, but I wasn’t fully aware of capitalism, colonialism, all of that yet. That came later.
The reasons were simple:
– I got nauseous during long car rides.
– I still sometimes smelled the decay.
– I had schoolwork to do.
It only happened twice, but apparently that was enough to leave a mark.
My mother slapped me in the face. My sister had slapped me once before too – because I used a word she thought was cringe. We never talked about that again. But still, slapping isn’t how you solve anything.
When my mother slapped me, my glasses flew off and she accidentally stepped on them. I was crying, of course. But I was more worried about my glasses being broken than about the slap itself.
You might think I must have said something horrible to deserve that. I didn’t. I said I didn’t want to go to my grandfather’s house. That I had other things to do. That was it.
She didn’t accept it. I had to go anyway. After that, I had to pretend I was fine because I had orchestra rehearsal and couldn’t cancel.
As for my therapist – despite him doing a pretty shitty job overall – one thing he said kind of made sense. He said that this behavior is probably why I struggle to say no. That I was taught to endure things, to be pushed past my boundaries. So I freeze. So my former friend was able to assault me.
And now I realize I already froze when my mother slapped me.
That’s probably why I can’t really talk to my family about my feelings. Why I’d rather cry silently. Why I had panic attacks after the assault and dealt with it alone.
That’s why.
Simon reads the message three times before he realizes he’s stopped breathing.
He’s still sitting in his truck when he opens it. Engine off. Keys still in the ignition. The world outside is loud in that distant, meaningless way – traffic passing, a dog barking somewhere, wind scraping along metal but inside the cab, there’s just the glow of his phone and your words.
One of the weirdest aspects is how my family deals with emotions, you know?
His thumb scrolls slowly. He doesn’t skim. He can’t. Every sentence feels like something fragile laid carefully into his hands.
The divorce at seven.
Your father’s new family.
The way you blamed the wrong people because you were a kid and kids survive however they can.
The smell. Christ.
Simon swallows when he reads that part. The decay. The screaming. The room that smelled wrong.
He keeps reading.
The slap.
His jaw tightens so hard it aches.
You didn’t want to go. That was it. You said no.
He exhales slowly through his nose, something dark and steady settling in his chest. Not explosive anger – he’s too controlled for that – but something older. Protective. Heavy.
And then the last lines.
Freezing.
Panic attacks.
Dealing with the assault alone.
His thumb stills against the screen.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
He doesn’t reply.
He doesn’t trust himself to.
Instead, he starts the truck.
The drive feels longer than it is. His mind keeps replaying phrases like fragments of radio static.
I didn’t feel like I was allowed to talk about my feelings.
My glasses flew off.
I had to pretend I was fine.
He grips the steering wheel harder than necessary. Not because he’s angry at you never that. Angry at the situation. At the fact that you were fourteen and learned that saying no earned you a slap.
He knows that lesson. Different details. Same imprint.
He forces himself to breathe evenly at the next red light. He doesn’t want to storm in like a man on a warpath. You don’t need rage. You need someone steady.
By the time he pulls into the driveway, the sky has gone dark. Your living room light is still on.
Good.
He’s out of the truck before he’s fully killed the engine.
You open the door before he knocks twice.
Your eyes are swollen. Not dramatically. Just enough that he knows you’ve either cried recently or are holding it back with everything you’ve got.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
He just steps inside and closes the door behind him.
“You drove,” you say quietly, like it’s a question.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“You didn’t answer.”
“I know.”
He takes his gloves off slowly, gives himself a second to ground, and then he looks at you fully.
“I didn’t trust myself to text back,” he admits. “Didn’t want to fuck it up.”
Your mouth twitches faintly at that, but it doesn’t quite reach a smile.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Just fragile.
Simon steps closer.
“Can I?” he asks softly, hand hovering near your arm.
You nod.
He pulls you into him carefully, like you’re something breakable. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. The other rests firm and warm between your shoulder blades.
You go stiff for half a second.
Then you melt.
Your forehead presses against his chest. He feels the hitch in your breathing. The way you’re holding everything inside like it’s a dam about to crack.
“I’m here,” he murmurs against your hair. “I’ve got you.”
That’s when the first quiet sob slips out of you.
He doesn’t flinch.
He just tightens his hold slightly, grounding but not trapping.
You cry into him – not loud, not dramatic. Just the kind that sounds like something tearing open slowly.
After a while, when your breathing evens out a little, he guides you toward the couch. He sits first and gently pulls you down with him so you’re half in his lap, half curled against his side.
He keeps one arm around you.
“I didn’t think it would still hurt like that,” you say hoarsely.
“It’s not a deadline,” he replies.
You look up at him, confused.
“Hurt doesn’t expire,” he clarifies. “Doesn’t care how long ago it happened.”
You nod faintly, staring at a point somewhere on his shirt.
“She slapped me,” you whisper. “And I was more worried about my glasses.”
His jaw tightens again, but he keeps his voice even.
“That’s your brain surviving,” he says quietly. “Find something practical. Something controllable. If the glasses aren’t broken, the world’s not completely falling apart.”
You blink up at him.
“That’s… exactly what it felt like.”
“I know.”
There’s a pause.
He inhales slowly.
“My old man wasn’t exactly gentle either,” he says carefully. “Different reasons. Different… shit."
You stiffen slightly at the shift in focus, and he notices immediately.
“I’m not saying it’s the same,” he adds quickly. “It’s not. I’m not pretending I know what that felt like for you. Just” He hesitates.
Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt.
“I already froze when she slapped me,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”
He brushes his thumb gently along your upper arm. Slow, steady movement.
“That doesn’t make you weak.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“It makes you human.”
The room is quiet except for the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the faint sound of wind against the windows.
“She said I had to go,” you continue. “And I went. And then I had orchestra rehearsal and I just –pretended. Like nothing happened.”
Simon nods once.
“That’s a skill,” he says quietly. “A shit one to have to learn at fourteen. But still a skill.”
You huff a broken laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
He shifts slightly so he can see your face better.
“When you said no,” he asks gently, “did you believe you were allowed to?”
You hesitate.
“I… I think so. I thought I was being reasonable.”
“And when she didn’t accept it?”
Your throat moves as you swallow. “It felt like I’d done something terrible.”
He nods slowly, eyes dark.
“That’s the conditioning,” he says. “You set a boundary. You got punished. Your brain learned that boundaries aren’t safe.”
You stare at him.
“That’s why I froze,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“And that’s why with…” You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.
His arm tightens almost imperceptibly around you.
“That wasn’t your fault,” he says firmly.
You don’t argue, but your eyes flicker with that familiar doubt.
He cups your jaw gently, guiding your face up so you have to look at him.
“That wasn’t your fault,” he repeats. Slower. Steadier.
Your breath shakes.
“I should’ve–”
“No.” His voice doesn’t rise, but it cuts clean. “Don’t do that.”
Silence.
He softens slightly.
“You reacted the way your body learned to react,” he says. “Freezing kept you safe before. It tried to keep you safe again.”
Your eyes fill again, but this time it’s different. Less sharp. More… understood.
“I hate that,” you whisper.
“I know.”
He rests his forehead lightly against yours.
“I hate that someone taught you that saying no isn’t allowed.”
You close your eyes.
For a moment, neither of you move.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you again.
“You saying no to me?” he says quietly. “That’s allowed. Every time. For anything.”
You search his face, like you’re testing the truth of it.
“And if I disappoint you?”
“You won’t.”
“And if I do?”
“Then I’ll handle my disappointment,” he replies calmly. “Not by hurting you.”
That does something. He sees it – the tiny shift in your shoulders.
“You drove here,” you murmur.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
A pause.
“I don’t like you sitting alone with that kind of memory.”
You lean into him again, softer this time.
“My therapist said I don’t have trauma,” you say quietly. “But probably have.”
Simon snorts softly.
“That’s the most useless sentence I’ve ever heard.”
You let out a small laugh against his chest.
“Labels aside,” he continues, “what happened mattered. It left marks. Doesn’t need a name to be real.”
You trace a faint line along his forearm absentmindedly.
“Do you ever feel stupid for still caring?” you ask.
“About old stuff?”
“Yeah.”
He considers.
“No,” he says finally. “I feel angry sometimes. But not stupid.”
“Why not?”
“Because it shaped me,” he replies simply. “Same as it shaped you.”
He brushes a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You were a kid,” he adds. “You deserved patience. And someone explaining things. Not a slap.”
Your face crumples again at that – not because it’s new information, but because it’s spoken out loud.
He pulls you fully into his lap this time, arms wrapping around you securely.
He sits with you like that for a long time. No pressure to talk. No demand to dissect every detail. Just warmth. Solid presence.
Eventually your breathing evens out fully.
“You’re not broken,” he says quietly, almost like he’s telling himself too.
You don’t respond, but your fingers tighten once against his shirt.
He presses a slow kiss to your temple.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he adds.
And this time, when you nod, it’s not out of habit.
blurb: harry and yn get mobbed really bad and once they get inside/into the car harrys really apologetic and feels so bad that yn got shoved and hurt but she doesnt mind and says its ok and harry says you didnt ask for this and then yn says neither did you :(
just a soft one!
Aw omg let me do this one!
Warnings- being mobbed, anxiety, a self victim blame thought from H
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It was something that he fucking hated.
Despised, actually.
The flashing lights were annoying when it came to him, but fortunately- or unfortunately depending on who you asked- he was used to it. It had been a norm for him for years and years, something that he’d gathered enough of a tolerance for that he could slip into a different place into his mind as he weaved through people shoving pens at him, yelling his name in his ear, asking invasive questions and put cameras right in his face.
It was something that came with the job, and he knew that. It wasn’t something he had fully anticipated the scope of, but he hadn’t gone in blind.
Unfortunately, (and again, fortunately) Y/N had.
It was one thing to be able to slip off into his head when he was surrounded- but when he had Y/N with him, that was no longer an option. She had been much more agile than he had assumed of her, much more graceful than he had been when he had gotten swarmed the first few months of stardom, but that only made him feel much more protective.
Harry prided himself on his manners. He was a polite man, and that hopefully would never change- but he had only been in this sort of situation around his family, and that thankfully hadn’t happened all too many times. It was easier to lay low with them, people didn’t seem as interested- but when it came to his girlfriend that the entirety of his fanbase seemed to be both enamored and intrigued by, it meant more people on their tail. They wanted the shot, to catch another photo of him pressing his lips to her temple, of his fingers slipped over her back pocket, and god knew what else… and well, Harry just wanted them to leave them alone.
Y/N was his safe space. His refuge away from the calls of his name and begging for a sliver of attention, the people who wanted a piece of him without knowing him. She got to have all of him, got to see the bits no one else did, and she loved him even so. It felt icky and uncomfortable to have people try so hard to pry their way into something so sacred. Not to mention how gracious Y/N had been throughout all of it, how understanding, and she hadn’t held it against him a single time when someone had interrupted them to talk or ask for a photograph.
Y/N was the most precious thing in the world to him, and he’d do whatever he possibly could to keep her safe.
So, it made more sense to him that he’d feel the rage inside of him when he felt his arm get tugged and the little yelp of his love’s voice in the middle of the mob, almost to the car. Stopping in his tracks, his jaw tensed as he moved to pull her into his chest, hand covering the back of her head as he rose his voice. “Back off. Back the fuck off. Don’t touch her, and make some room.” He clipped, pushing forward. “A photo isn’t worth someone getting hurt, for fucks sake. She’s a human being, not a prop. Watch it.”
It was by far the loudest he’d ever gotten with photographers and fans alike, but the feeling of panic was still in his throat as he got to the car and helped her into it. It remained as the driver took off, Harry holding her to him as he tried to calm himself down.
“I’m sorry, my love.” He said quietly against her hair, taking a deep inhale. “Are you okay? Hurt?”
“I’m okay.” She said, voice much lighter than he’d anticipated. “I think I wrenched my ankle a bit. Someone grabbed my coat and then someone else’s foot was in the way so I stumbled. But I’m okay overall.” He stroked her hand underneath his jacket, right over his thundering heart.
“Okay.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, sliding his lips over to her forehead as he let his eyes close for a moment.
She was here. She was safe. She was mostly alright.
“I’m sorry.” He croaked. “I know you didn’t ask for this. I’m so lucky t’be loved by you and… I know this is hard.”
“Harry.” Y/N pulled back, curling her hand over his jaw. “Neither did you. You didn’t ask for this. Just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean it’s okay.” Her sad smile made him exhale sharply, eyes lowering. It felt… strange for someone to say that. So often hearing that it was ‘just a part of the job’ had made his mind warp into more of the mindset of ‘you asked for this’ and that wasn’t true. “You just want to make your music, baby. And you should be able to do it without all of that… but,” lifting his face up a bit, she thumbed his bottom lip. “It’s a tiny, teeny, minuscule price to pay if it means I get to be with you. Okay? It’ll relax at some point. But I’m always going to be okay as long as you love me back.”
.ೃ࿔*:· — it was a new job. the first real big one. one that actually could lead somewhere and you wanted to do good at. it's only been three months, and you think you're starting to get comfortable with where you're at. the only thing looming above your head is the two visits to hr.
the job wasn't hard, at least it didnt feel like it. sitting at a desk in an office. the hardest part was how much the environment had shifted from your previous jobs. men were crawling all over now. the brooding kind, the ones that take everything so serious.
and they took it very serious when seeing how short that one houndstooth skirt was.
that was the first visit to his office. just an email sent in the middle of the day, nothing to draw attention from those around the office waiting with open ears. it was simple, and you thought that was the worst part. how professional it was to get yelled at like that.
" subject: Human Resources.
I've received a couple complaints today that I would like to go over and address with you. 1:15pm - please do not be late.
Simon Riley
Department Head of Human Resources
Room 113-A, Building C
Ext: 1072 "
it was just long enough of a wait until 1:15 for you to sit and pretend to type up an email task. that nasty feeling in your chest of guilt, and the hot flush of shame from the idea of being in trouble.
you walked down the hallway and to the front of his door at 1:10.
fogged windows and a black panel with his name. no one really went down this hallway unless they were here to see him. which didn't help the feeling of shame all that much.
knocking on the wooden part of his door before hearing the, 'come in.' your heart was already in the pit of your stomach, fingers absentmindedly pulling down your skirt a little bit more. giving an apologetic smile before he even had the chance to say anything.
it was quick. he kept it short.
"you understand the dress code policy, yeah?" - "it's just going to be a verbal warning this time." - "i don't want to have to see you in here again for something like this."
you nodded the whole time, shifting in the worn-down chair, and pulling the skirt down more while you did it. of course it was embarrassing being in there.
you opted for linen suit pants the rest of the month.
then the second incident didn't even feel like as big of an issue as the first. it was the way he handled this that made it feel worse.
the email came through once again, it had been almost five weeks since that first visit. just as simple, just as professional. smoothing over your blouse when you got to that fogged glass pane and knocking after a couple moments.
his eyes lingered on you a little longer. glancing down at the loose top and his eyebrows even furrowed just for a split second when he noticed you had abandoned that skirt from the previous visit.
simon was just the slightest bit condescending.
"do you understand what you're making the men here say?"
he said there were complaints about 'too much perfume.' which was reasonable. understandable. but he just made it feel dirty.
and it ended with another verbal warning. he said that three of those were a writeup, and he really didn't want to see you in here again.
now a couple weeks later, it was starting to feel less shameful to walk into work. putting your hair in those soft curls, a bow to pin back a pretty section of hair, only two sprays of the perfume behind your neck, buttoning the blouse all the way to the collar, and smoothing down the ivory suit pants.
this time you found yourself in front of his office, you could've cried before knocking. he hadn't sent an email this time, opting to call your extension, and get you in there now.
when you opened the door, your eyes couldn't meet his this time. you already knew what you were in there for.
fifteen minutes ago you had leaned over your desk to gather papers and loose sticky notes. the light toned fabric stretching over your ass and really leaving nothing to the imagination. only realizing too late what had just happened. it was like you could feel the eyes on you.
it felt so humiliating.
simon leaned back in his chair. the black button up stretching over his chest when he sighed. staring a hole into the center of your face, even if you refused to make eye contact. he spoke first.
"do you know how many complaints i've had about you?"
you couldn't say anything to that. what kind of answer were you supposed to give? maybe this job just was out of your understanding, it wasn't a good fit, no one wanted you here. that's what this felt like.
he let the words sink in and soak for a couple seconds. standing, walking around his desk and pointing to the chair in front of it. when you started to move, he walked towards the door and locked it.
only speaking once more when the weight of him was back in the chair across from you.
"skirt was too short . . . then it was the perfume . . and now the whole office can see what colors you prefer underneath? c'mon . ." he sounded disappointed.
the heat in your face traveled down your throat and into the center of your chest. it was just the worst. keeping your eyes down and a guilty apologetic look on your face. "it wasn't my intention." was what you said. keep it professional.
his finger tapped on the edge of desk, he was contemplating, but still staring you down.
"i'm starting to think you enjoy coming here. you were employed thirteen weeks ago. and you've been in here three times."
that made you look at him and swallow. if you really focused on the feeling, you could've thrown up.
"i apologize for what happened. there was n-" your voice is shallow before he cuts you off.
"you're not stupid." his tone was flat. "you know what tight pants do when you have red on underneath."
the air between the two of you felt so dense. it was one of those moments where you can't focus on anything besides what's currently happening. you couldn't say anything, even if you sat there thinking of a sentence for fifteen seconds.
and he let those seconds simmer. sat there and continued to let you think about what was going on. another sigh parted his lips before he leaned back again.
"stand up." it was so casual, there was instinct in the way you listened to higher ups. the sliding of the chair was the only sound as you rose in front of his desk.
"turn around."
his eyes were now hot on your backside. you were gnawing a new cut into the skin of your cheek. you weren't sure what to do with your hands. picking at your nails while you waited for him to say something else.
" . . . hides less than that little skirt did, if i'm being honest."
that was the final breaking moment in the professionalism of hr department head, simon riley. the atmosphere changed, and you could tell this was already so much different then the previous two times inside these walls. his chair squeaked and his shoes moved across the floor.
your heart skipped, and there was an unsettling lump in the back of your throat. it was more than nerves at this point.
his next sigh warmed the back of your neck. his hands rested on the side of your waist.
"why do you keep doing this, hm?" his voice sounded soft, but his fingers were kneading into your skin. his dark eyes looked down at you from an angle, still behind. the warm pads of his thumb rubbing into your bone gently.
"you are either desperate for attention . . . or far more naive than i give you credit for." simon's tone was so calm. it felt wrong for the way the tension was settling. like this was something he had thought about and contemplated on for too long.
your eyes stayed straight or looking at the ground below you. his fingers were so warm on the fabric covering your skin. it was bleeding into those parts of you you've been trying to avoid.
your lips parted to speak, only a faint attempt at words came out. he filled the empty gap for you.
"i have been patient. far too patient with you." his fingers moved to angle your hips. coaxing you to bend at the waist - and you did. his grip wasn't tight, there was full leverage to pull away if you wanted.
of course you didn't. not from a man like him. your body bent slightly, letting him press his hips back into your ass.
"this whole time you've been dressing like a promotion is just one tight blouse away." his voice stayed composed.
heavy fingers massaging into your muscle, you could feel his eyes just staring at your ass. the red lace even more noticeable with the pants stretched across it.
"you tell me to stop and i give you corporates hr number . . " he offered as an easy out. a second passed, then five more. nothing.
so he kept going. smoothed his left hand over your ass, one of his fingers dipping into the hem and hooking around it. tugging for fun. the right one around your waist came down in front to pull down the zipper of those ivory suit pants.
little whimpers started to leave your lips, being caught in the moment like this was not what you had expected this morning. but the idea of it being wrong, just made everything feel sooo good.
those pants came down just enough for him to lean back some and look at those pretty panties close up.
he laughed. just a short one.
"oh, you do like comin' in here to see me." his thumb sliding down the soaked slit between your thighs.
the whole time, he stayed completely composed. at least as best as he could with how hard the tent in his pants was straining. just a soft coo was the only break when he pushed them to the side and dipped his thumb in, just to tease.
your fingers found purchase on his forearm, it was across your tummy now. keeping you at that slightly bent angle for him. you were holding tight, putting all your energy into squeezing his arm instead of moaning.
even now however, you tried to defend yourself against the complaints. wanting to just say something to soothe that guilt still buried deep in your chest. "i wasn't trying to cause a problem with other people."
the voice was so soft. he knew you meant it. but he also knew you meant it when you apologized the last two times you were in that seat at his desk. so all it did was agitate him.
he pulled out, started messing with his belt.
"what did you think you were doing? you're not oblivious, and im not either. can see the way you wait for me to talk to you in the break room. know you're just aching for me to tell you goodnight when we clock out . ." his tone started to get more pointed. he got his pants down just enough to slip himself out. "could've filed a complaint myself."
the last sigh he let out was when he finally leaned you over a bit more and started to press the leaking tip of his cock into you. it wasn't sweet. it felt so wrong. you're staring directly at papers on his wall that talk about what a proper work place environment looks like.
there was no doubt that this would not be the last time he had you like this. that much was evident.
in the way he quietly groaned, the way his hips already stuttered, and his fingers dug around your waist more. you were already staining the black fabric of his chino pants.
"shoulda done this after that little skirt incident . . would've saved us a lot of bullshit."
Y/N, one of the few women on base, faces isolation and hostility from some of the team. When Simon notices a bruise on her face during a briefing, he demands to know who did this to her. As Simon's protective nature emerges, Y/N starts to realize she can trust him, and a bond forms between them.
The chatter in the TF141 base fell into its usual rhythm: the low hum of boots on linoleum, clipped banter between squads, the occasional bark of an officer. Y/N walked down the hall, her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, keeping her head low. She could feel the eyes trailing her like shadows, the ones that always lingered a little too long.
She wasn’t new. She’d been with 141 for nearly a year, ran ops with them, earned her spot ten times over. But being the only woman on base came with its own set of silent challenges. Most didn’t say anything outright, but the stares, the dismissive gestures, the whispering when they thought she wasn’t paying attention—it all added up.
Today was worse.
She kept her face angled away from others as she stepped into the briefing room. Her jaw throbbed, and the dark purple bruise that had bloomed overnight beneath her right eye was impossible to hide completely. She’d tried her best, with concealer and a little ice, but nothing could mask it entirely.
Simon was already inside, arms crossed over his chest, leaned back against the wall near the door. He barely acknowledged anyone else walking in, until he saw her.
His dark eyes narrowed behind the skull-printed balaclava.
Y/N avoided his gaze and moved to the far side of the room, settling into a seat near the wall. Soap and Gaz were chatting about some recent mission mishap, but their voices faded to a murmur when Ghost pushed off the wall and walked silently across the room.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in front of her, staring.
"You wanna tell me who did this to you," Ghost said finally, voice low, edged in steel, "or do you want me to find out the hard way?"
The room fell dead silent. Even Soap stopped mid-sentence.
Y/N glanced up, tension crawling up her spine. "It’s nothing."
Ghost crouched slightly, coming level with her, eyes unreadable. "That’s not nothin'. Someone hit you. That bruise’s fresh. Who was it?"
"It was an accident," she replied, too quickly. "I—bumped into something."
"Bumped into someone more like."
She clenched her jaw, wincing slightly from the pain. She hated this. Hated how his voice made the truth feel too close. Hated how her chest squeezed at the concern in his eyes. No one ever looked at her like that here, like she mattered.
Ghost didn't push her in that moment. He stood up instead, slowly, but the tension in his shoulders was coiled tight.
Price walked in seconds later, halting any further questions. "Briefing starts now. Listen up."
Ghost didn't sit. He leaned back against the wall again, but his eyes never left her.
The briefing wrapped in thirty minutes. Everyone filed out, some chatting about the upcoming op, others making bets on how long it would take before it went to hell.
Y/N tried to leave quietly, but Ghost blocked the doorway.
"Come with me."
She hesitated. "Simon, I'm fine."
"Don’t make me ask again."
That was enough.
She followed him in silence through the halls, past the barracks, until they reached the armory, quiet this time of day. He opened the side door and gestured for her to step inside. Once he shut it, the room fell into heavy silence.
"Talk," he said.
She leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. "You gonna interrogate me now?"
"If that's what it takes."
She exhaled sharply. "You don’t get it. It’s not like someone walked up and punched me in the face. It was more subtle. A shoulder check that went too hard. Getting tripped in the corridor. Shoved against a doorframe."
His jaw clenched.
"And when I said something," she continued, voice bitter, "they laughed. Said maybe I shouldn’t play soldier if I can’t handle the bumps."
Ghost stepped closer. "Names. Give me names."
"Simon—"
"Give. Me. Names."
"And what? You’ll scare them into behaving? That won’t fix it."
He tilted his head. "You think I’ll scare them? No. I’ll make them regret ever laying a hand on you. That’s a promise."
Her throat tightened.
He softened, just slightly. "You shouldn’t have to fight your own team just to exist here. You’re one of us. Anyone who can’t see that can answer to me."
She didn’t realize tears had welled in her eyes until one slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly.
Ghost reached out, slowly, deliberately, and gently tilted her chin so he could see the bruise better. "You deserve better than this."
His touch was unexpectedly soft for someone who'd broken bones with his bare hands.
"You don't have to handle it alone."
She swallowed hard. "I didn't want to look weak."
"Asking for help isn't weak. It's survival."
He stepped back, giving her space again.
"Tell Price," he said. "I’ll back you up. Hell, the whole 141 will once they know what’s been happening. You’re not invisible. Not to me."
Her voice was small. "You really think he’ll believe me?"
Ghost didn’t hesitate. "I know he will."
They spoke to Price that night.
Ghost didn’t let her do it alone. He stood beside her like a wall of stone as she explained what had been happening. The teasing, the "accidents," the silence that followed any resistance. Price listened, jaw set, fury building slowly beneath the surface.
He promised it would be handled. That those responsible would be dealt with. Swiftly.
And they were.
Over the next week, the atmosphere on base shifted. Those who had once leered or whispered now looked away. A few were gone entirely, transferred to other units, disciplinary action taken.
The bruise on her face faded, but the weight in her chest remained. Until one night, she found herself in the training yard after dark, watching the stars, lost in thought.
Bootsteps approached. She didn’t have to turn to know it was him.
"Thought you’d be asleep by now," Ghost said.
She offered a faint smile. "Didn’t feel like it."
He stood beside her, close but not touching.
"It gets easier," he said. "With time."
She looked at him, really looked at him. Even with the mask, his presence had become comfort, stability. "Why did you care so much?"
He met her gaze, steady and sure. "Because I know what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong. To think maybe you're only here because someone made a mistake. I won’t let you believe that. Not on my watch."
She swallowed past the lump in her throat.
"You matter here," he added. "You matter to me."
It wasn’t a confession. Not really. But it was more than she ever expected from him.
She bumped her shoulder gently against his. "Thanks, Ghost."
He looked down at her, and though she couldn’t see it, she could feel the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
wc: {744}
tw: explicit sexual content, fingering, praise, use of mirror. i'm literally in love with soft simon.
the room is dim. just the gold spill of lamplight and the hush of late hours pressing against the windows.
you're seated on his lap, spine drawn straight by the press of his chest against your back. both of you balanced on the edge of the bed, facing the tall mirror across the room—wide enough to hold the whole of you in its frame.
his arms are wrapped low around your waist, one hand resting just beneath your ribs, the other slowly traveling up.
the air feels thick. not heavy—but full.
of breath. of the soft, fabric-drag of his hoodie against your bare skin. of the sound of your pulse in your throat as he speaks quietly, voice low and close:
“look.”
your gaze flicks up—unsure, a little shy—and meets your reflection.
his chin rests on your shoulder. his eyes are half-lidded, unreadable behind the black paint that smudges the skin just below them. you can see everything—the slope of your neck tilted against his, the rise and fall of your chest as his hand trails lightly up your side. he watches you more than himself. always has.
“this,” he murmurs, fingertips dragging slowly down your arm, “this is mine.”
there’s no cruelty in it. no sharpness in his voice. only reverence.
he touches you like he’s learning something—like he’s honoring something. fingers grazing every inch of skin like it’s sacred, like the fact that you're letting him see you like this is a gift he doesn’t take lightly.
your hands drift to his knees, gripping soft cotton. grounding yourself.
his palm drifts lower, fingertips tracing slow circles over your stomach, hips, thighs—until your breath hitches.
he leans in.
“breathe.”
you do.
his other hand slips under your jaw, thumb brushing your throat. not to squeeze—only to hold. to feel the way your pulse quickens as he drags his lips over your shoulder, slow and burning.
you shift slightly in his lap—restless, aching. he doesn’t move to ease it yet.
“patience,” he says quietly, dragging his thumb along your collarbone. “don’t look away.”
your eyes flutter, caught between obedience and want. you stay.
“you always get like this,” he whispers, smiling against your neck. “soft. desperate. like your body knows i’m the one who takes care of it.”
your lips part, a quiet sound caught in your throat.
his hand slides lower—slow, deliberate—until his fingertips graze the warm, damp fabric between your thighs. he hums, the sound quiet and full of something fond. amused.
“already?” he murmurs, voice dipped in velvet. “sweet thing.”
his fingers toy with the edge of the fabric, dragging it gently aside. your breath catches.
“look at you…” he says softly, his words a whisper against your neck. “absolutely beautiful.”
two fingers drag through your folds—unhurried—spreading the wetness that gathered in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
your head tips back, a quiet sound escaping before you can swallow it. he watches your reflection, his expression unreadable but his grip steady. like he knew exactly what effect he was having—and adored every second of it.
he slides two fingers in with ease, your cunt sucking him in desperately. he’s memorized what makes you ache, what makes you unravel. every pump of his fingers is deliberate, coaxing, his thumb circling just where you need it. never too much. never too little. just enough to keep you teetering on the edge.
“there we go,” he whispers, watching your reflection as your body leans back against his chest, your eyes fluttering. “that’s it. let it happen.”
his other hand holds your waist steady, grounding you while the rest of you feels like it’s dissolving under his hands. your lips part around a soft sound, one you try to hide—but he catches it. his smirk grows, warm and quiet, and his voice lowers:
“don’t hold back now. want to see you fall apart for me.”
your fingers clutch his thighs, knuckles tight, back arching ever so slightly—and that’s when the tension in your core starts to break, warmth coiling tighter and tighter until it crests in a slow, aching rush. you go still for a breath, jaw slack, head tipped back, and then—
release.
it’s not loud. it’s not showy. it’s vulnerable. trembling. your chest heaves against his, muscles fluttering under his grip, and he holds you through every second of it—never letting go.
he presses a kiss just behind your ear—soft, grounding.
“good,” he murmurs, proud and quiet. “that’s my girl.”
summary: you meet your boyfriend and the rest of the 118 at a bar after work. everything is going well until buck has to pry some creep off of you.
word count: 2.9k
request: anon- i wanna see sum protective buck kind of stuff, maybe the same as the twelfth chapter where’s buck is defending her, maybe with different plots
a/n: i am SO sorry this took so long anon!! i love protective buck, he makes me feral, so thank you for requesting!! enjoy!!<33
warnings: creepy man gets grabby, no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader
You walk into the bar with a smile, eyes darting around the dimly lit building to try to spot your boyfriend in the crowd. He and his coworkers agreed to meet here after their shift, and he invited you along, knowing that his friends would love to see you, and vice versa. You begin to pull your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans, eyes still scanning the crowd as you get ready to text Buck. You finally spot him, though, and his face lights up when he makes eye contact with you.
You weave your way through the crowd, slipping your phone back into your pocket as you go. You mumble quick apologies as you squeeze your way past people, silently wondering why the hell there’s so many people here tonight. Usually, this place is pretty lowkey, but tonight, you can feel something in the air that is making the people of LA even crazier than usual. Must be the full moon, which Buck has told you everything about.
“Hi, baby.” Buck whispers in your ear as he wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into him. You wrap your arms around his torso as you nuzzle into his chest. No matter how many times he’s gone to work since you’ve started dating, you still feel an overwhelming sense of calm when you finally see him again; knowing that he’s made it home in one piece.
“Hi, my love.” you reply, angling your head up just slightly so he can hear you over the chatter and music of the bar.
“You want a drink?” Buck asks once he pulls away, moving his hand from your shoulder down to your hand. You nod, smiling as he gives your hand one firm squeeze. “The usual?” You nod again, and he gives you a wink, leaning down to give you a gentle kiss on the forehead before he journeys across the bar to get you your drink of choice.
You say hello to Hen, Bobby, and Eddie as Buck gets your drink, easily falling into conversation with them as they watch and laugh at Chim and Maddie playing pool very competitively. You laugh when you see Maddie sink yet another ball, and Chimney begins to complain very loudly that Maddie’s cheating as she does a little celebratory dance along to the music blaring from the speakers above.
Buck slows his pace as he walks back with your drink and a refill for himself, a smile growing on his face as he takes in the scene. You fit in so well with his family, and his heart swells at the sight of you, head tilted back as you laugh along with everyone else.
He hands you your drink, and you mumble a quick thank you as you keep your eyes on what Chimney calls his “comeback shot.” He’s completely focused as he bends forward slightly, eyes trained on the planned path of the cue ball, and you all go quiet, you and Hen grabbing each other’s hands and holding them up near your chest as you watch. When he finally hits the ball, it goes a little crooked, making him miss the shot, and he groans loudly, throwing his hands up in the air as he turns away. You and Hen let out disappointed sounds as your hands fall back down to your sides, and you lean back into Buck, looking up at him with a lovestruck expression.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Buck whispers into your ear. His arm instinctively moves to wrap around your plush middle as he pulls you further back into him, and you hum softly in agreement, leaning your head back against his chest.
“How was your shift?” you ask, turning your head and tilting your chin up to face him. He shrugs, a smile forming on his face.
“It was better than how the next shift is probably gonna go. Chim’s a sore loser, and he’s never gonna let me hear the end of ‘my sister cheating.’” he teases, his smile widening as he feels the vibrations of your laugh against his broad chest.
“Like you haven’t held anything against him like that.” you reply in the same tone, raising a brow. He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he looks away.
“That’s not the point.” he murmurs just loud enough for you to hear before taking a sip of his beer. The smile he was fighting erupts on his face when he hears you laugh again, looking at you over the bottle and giving you a wink.
“So, what is the point?” you ask as you turn in his grip, wrapping your arms around his neck. He shrugs, his hands moving to your hips, one squeezing your soft flesh while the other rests the side of his bottle on the fabric of your jeans.
“That you look gorgeous tonight.” he says in a suggestive tone, although it comes out as more of a question. You smile, averting your gaze as your cheeks heat up from the compliment. No matter how many times he compliments you, you can’t help but feel giddy.
“Nice deflection.” you tease, tilting your head to the side as you look back up into his eyes. You begin to gently sway side to side along to the music floating through the air around you, almost as if acting as a blanket to shield your moment from those around you.
He shrugs, a smirk forming on his face before he leans down to give you a sweet kiss, melting into your arms as he feels the tension from his shift slowly releasing from his body. He’s not sure how you do it, but he always feels like you’re able to lift the problems off his shoulders when he’s in your arms.
You’re ripped away from your moment when you hear Chimney calling your name desperately. You break apart from Buck’s embrace and turn to face Chimney with a smile, raising a brow.
“Come play with me. You’re the only other one that knows how it is to put up with a Buckley like I do.” You laugh, giving Maddie a knowing look as she hands you the cue stick with a roll of her eyes. She goes over and stands with Buck, and both of them look at you and Chimney beginning a new game with fond looks.
Your game is far less competitive than the one before, as neither you nor Chimney feel the need to beat each other. Even so, you can hear Buck and Maddie arguing with each other after each turn, telling the other person that a good hit didn’t count, and a bad hit deserves a redo. You all know that their argument isn’t serious; they both have small smiles on their faces, but it’s still entertaining to watch.
The game is at a standstill as Buck argues that you deserve a redo for missing the ball when you tried to shoot. You were laughing so hard at their antics that your hand slipped and made you just barely graze the cue ball, and while you were willing to give up your turn, as you were already losing by a long shot, Buck clearly has other plans.
“I’m gonna go get a refill. You want anything?” you ask Chimney, and he shakes his head.
“I wouldn’t come back if I were you. We’ll be here all night.” he teases, and you laugh as you shrug at his words.
“They could be arguing about who gives a better performance during karaoke. Could be worse.” you tell him. He hums in agreement, shaking his head as he laughs at the memory of their very long argument about it. While Maddie is a far better singer than Buck, he argues that he makes up for it with his “moves and face.”
You make your way to the bar; the voices of your friends being drowned out as you get further away from them. By the time you’re at the bar, you’re listening to a woman begging her friend for her phone back so she can call her ex, which makes you laugh. You wait at the bar for the bartender to make his way to you, and as you stand there, you feel a presence appear beside you.
You turn your head slightly; just enough to see the man from the corner of your eye, but he takes this clear sign that you don’t want to talk as an invitation.
“Come here often?” he purrs, leaning against the bar on his elbow. You scoff, shaking your head as you let out a quiet laugh. You turn your head to face him, raising a brow.
“Did you really just try to use that line?” you ask in disbelief. He’s cute, you guess, but he’s nowhere as attractive as Buck. And either way, nothing he could say would make you actually want to leave with him.
Although your eyes show clear signs of disinterest, he sees the way you turn to face him, and he smirks. Clearly to him, you want him to keep talking. He had been watching you all night, and although he saw you with Buck, he still decides to take a chance now that you’re alone.
“Why, is it gonna work?” he asks suggestively, sliding impossibly closer to you. You can feel his cologne burning your nose, and it takes everything in you to scrunch your face up and tell him to fuck off. You don’t though, instead giving him the benefit of the doubt; that he hadn’t seen you with your boyfriend earlier.
“Absolutely not. Sorry.” you tell him with an apologetic, yet vaguely fake smile. He smirks, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he leans down to whisper in your ear.
“You wanna get out of here?” This man clearly doesn’t know when to stop, you think. Did he seriously think you saying “absolutely not” was you begging him to take you back to his place?
“I’m good, actually.” you tell him, turning to try to get the bartender’s attention. You can feel unease creeping into your belly, and you can see the way his eyes travel down to your tits when your eyes move away from his frame. His smirk drops at your words, and he leans down so his face is right beside yours, the alcohol on his breath filling your nose and making your stomach churn.
“I think you’re lying. You just want me to keep trying.” he purrs, raising two fingers to the side of your jaw and tilting your head back to face him. You move your face out of his grasp, leaning back and off of the bar as you see that his nose is practically touching yours. You feel bile crawling up your throat as your eyes dart around the bar, trying desperately to meet one of your friends’ eyes, if not Buck’s.
“Come on, sweetheart. I know you’re desperate for it.” he says in a slightly condescending tone. Your brows furrow at his words. What the hell is he talking about? He grabs your wide hips roughly when you don’t respond right away, his words shocking you to silence. He pulls you against him, pushing himself against you at the same time, and your hands immediately go to his chest to push him away. He’s not exactly a big guy, but he must clearly have muscles under his shirt, as he barely budges at your desperate attempt to create some space between you two.
“I have a boyfriend.” you tell him, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the loud voices around you. Your eyes keep searching around the bar to anyone that will look at you. Surely, someone will help you. But no one looks. Everyone is in their own little world as they continue to talk and sway to the music with the people they came with.
“Well, he shouldn’t have left you alone.” he whispers into your ear, leaning down to place a hot kiss against your neck. You flinch as his lips make contact with your skin, trying desperately to wiggle out of his grip as his lips burn your skin. You want to find Buck, you want to launch yourself into his arms and never let go, but first, you need to get away from this creep.
“Hey! Get your hands off of her!” you suddenly hear over the music, and you sigh, head turning to see Buck stomping toward you. You barely even notice Bobby and Eddie a few steps behind him, immediately following him when they saw his body get tense and his fists clench at his sides.
You let out a sigh of relief as you feel the man ripped away from you, watching with wide eyes as Buck stares the man down and pushes his chest a few times.
“You confused about the word ‘no?’ Mean’s she doesn’t fucking want you.” he seethes. You gasp as Buck raises a fist, ready to punch the man, but Eddie and Bobby are rushing to him immediately and pulling him back. You almost laugh when you see the man use this chance as a time to scurry away, weaving himself through the crowd and toward the exit.
You take a few steps toward Buck, then wrap your arms around his torso, sniffling softly as a few tears fall from your eyes. Now that the threat is gone, you can’t help the tears from falling. You can’t imagine what might’ve happened if Buck hadn’t seen you.
“Shh. I got you, baby.” he whispers into your ear, his body relaxing slightly as he wraps his arms around you. He rubs your back slowly, chin resting on the top of your head as you try to catch your breath through your tears.
“Can we go home?” you ask him softly, looking up at him through your lashes. He nods immediately, one hand moving to your cheek to wipe your tears.
“Of course, baby.” he replies in a similar tone. He leans down to kiss your forehead, then looks up at Bobby and Eddie, who nod before he has a chance to speak. He gives them a tight-lipped smile, then turns you both towards the exit.
Once you’re out of the loud bar, he stops you, putting his hands on your arms and turning you to face him. He looks down at your sad, scared expression and your shaky hands and his heart breaks. He should’ve been there, he thinks.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a gentle tone. You nod slowly, letting in a shaky breath as you try to slow your racing heart. “I’m sorry, sweet girl. I should’ve-” You cut him off before he can say anything else, shaking your head.
“It’s not your fault. You were talking to Maddie, and I wanted to get another drink.” you tell him, sniffling softly between sentences. He sighs, bringing you in for another tight hug. You melt into his arms again, your body relaxing completely now that the sounds from the bar are no longer pounding against your skull and you’re back in the safety of Buck’s arms.
“But I could’ve-” he whispers, but you shake your head again, speaking before he can.
“No. Baby, it’s fine. You got there before anything could really happen. And you’re here now, so you can take me home.” you tell him, your last sentence almost coming out as a question. You tilt your head up to look at him, resting your chin on his chest, and he gives you a troubled smile as he nods.
“Okay. Let’s get you home.”
He leads you to his jeep with a hand firmly around your shoulders, almost as if shielding you from the world. If it were up to him, he would keep you within arm’s reach, or at least within eyesight from now on, but he knows that’s unrealistic.
Once you’re in the jeep and safely buckled, he moves around to the driver's side and gets in. Once his seatbelt is buckled and the jeep is in drive he puts a hand on your thigh, his grip tight as he thinks about that man’s hands on you. While he knows Bobby and Eddie had good reason to pull him away before he could get a punch in, he wishes he could’ve fucking killed him for even thinking about doing that to a woman, let alone you.
He helps you out of the car and up to his apartment when he’s parked in his parking spot, and then you both change into comfy clothes before you cuddle up on the couch. He puts on a movie, but his focus is on you, how your head is resting on his shoulder and your hand is tightly gripping the front of his hoodie. He kisses your temple, trying to read the expression on your face to make sure you’re really alright before he hesitantly moves his gaze to the tv.
“Thank you.” you mumble, not even bothering to tear your gaze from the tv as you speak. He squeezes your shoulder, shaking his head.
“You don’t need to thank me, baby. I’ll protect my girl. Always.” he tells you earnestly, and he means it. If you were to be in any kind of danger, he knows he’d do just about anything to make sure he’s in between you and the thing threatening to cause you harm.
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He must be one of the lucky ones who were chosen to be blessed in their lifetime. He can’t quite remember what good deed he did to deserve this—but he’s not letting her get away.
His ears were ringing and he felt dizzy, almost lost himself for a hot minute before remembering to keep his eyes on her. It would be a shame to close them.
His eyes couldn’t get enough of staring at her perfect body, right in front of him.
“So fucking beautiful.” He panted, his hands frantically roaming her skin.
She only responded with a soft whine, trying to keep up and ignore the cramping in her legs. She needed his cock, needed to ride him, no matter how tiring. She wanted to show him that she’s his good girl and that she can work for his cock to earn it.
It was hitting her sweet spongy spot, daring her to fall against Harry’s chest and beg him to fuck her.
But no, she bounced like a good girl on his creamy cock that was shining with a mix of their juices. She felt like their lower bodies were on fire—the heat bubbling up in her core was euphoric.
“Pretty girl showing daddy how much she loves his cock.” He praised her, moving a few hair strands from her face, before patting her head.
Damn right, she loved it.
The sound of skin slapping and her soft whines had him rolling his eyes. But again—he couldn’t keep his eyes away for too long. Her breasts were in his face, jiggling with every bounce, begging him to knead them and have a taste.
He untied her hair allowing it to cascade down her back. He adored her hair and loved giving her head scratches but most importantly he craved pulling it while he thrusted into her from behind.
“Gonna light me up with how warm your pussy is baby.” His raspy voice wasn’t helping her neediness, after all, she was in desperate need of his cock.
“N—need it.” She managed to confess through ragged breathing. The view he had may be sinful but hers is sending her straight to hell.
He was laid back against the headboard, a hint of a grin spread across his pretty face. His beard was still covered in her cum from when he worshipped her earlier.
His hair, so messy from the tugging yet still curly. She couldn’t help but glance down at his chest, a line of sweat trailing down to his chiseled abs that contracted under the dim light.
Not only can she feel how wet and messy they are but she can also hear it. In fact, his pelvis was already coated.
His pupils were blown and his lips were slightly parted in awe. He raked his eyes quickly from where they were connected, watching her sink on his length, to her gorgeous face and chest.
But—he can’t quite forget the setup he made. He placed a tall mirror behind them, so he can glance at it and get a good view of her back and ass that was red.
“Is that all you got princess, hmm? Thought you were my good girl.” He landed a harsh slap on her already sensitive cheeks.
“I—am.” He swore that she almost cried right there and then. He knows how uncomfortable the position must be and still—she fastened her pace.
“Shhhh baby, just take my cock. It’ll help your greedy cunt to rest.” He mocked, not forgetting to degrade her for her sigh of relief once he pushed inside—it was like her cunt needed his cock to survive.
His hands roamed her back which arched when he purposely thrusted all of a sudden. Her head rolled backward as she clenched on his swollen cock. She was his fucking sex goddess.
He couldn’t stop exploring her back as his ears listened to her beautiful whines and whimpers. He initially mocked her, asking her if she was ovulating—but maybe her pussy is just made for his cock.
He could tell that she was starting to get tired, her forehead dropped against his as she panted and held eye contact with him. His hand rested on her ass, rubbing over the red skin.
“Poor bunny, got tired already?” She nodded quickly, slowing down her pace.
“Then I should make use of this hole, right?” His deep voice went straight to her core as she whispered ‘please Daddy.”
He really felt like passing out from how good she felt, so warm and wet. Just for him.
He dug his heels into the mattress and placed his hands on her bruised hips before grinning at her and thrusting inside her.
“Need to do everything for you.” His thrusts were rough, and she could feel him in her stomach. “Always have to fuck this cunt or else you’ll drool like a puppy in heat.” The degrading went through her brain, making her moan like crazy.
He was feral with his pounding, she knew that she’d be sore for days to come. But she also knew that he would kiss her pussy to ease the pain.
She already came twice, almost came for the third time from riding him but she couldn’t continue. With his current rough force, she won’t last long.
He was so raw and primal—his tongue nipped at her skin, just anywhere. She could feel his rapid heartbeats, the thickness of his swollen length pulsing inside her as he fucked her repeatedly.
And god—don’t even ask her about his naked body, how his thighs and pelvis would look right now, all wet and coated from her juices. If she wasn’t already wrecked—he’d ask her to clean it up with her tongue.
“Cum inside me.” She begged as she held his face in her hands.
“Yeah? Is that what you want? My hot load inside of your cunt?” He teased, giving her deep slow thrusts.
“Yes—Daddy.”
“Hmm, maybe that’ll tame your pussy.” He pulled her hair roughly, and the sting of her scalp combined with his creamy cock was enough to tip her over the edge.
She trembled on his length, nails digging into his skin as she moaned his name like a mantra. His orgasm followed hers in a few seconds, unable to resist the clenching and pulsing of her warm pussy.
His hot cum painted her walls white, prompting them to moan louder as they kissed. The feeling of his cum deep inside her was like nothing else.
“My baby, so good for me.” He held her against his chest, as he pressed kisses to her face.
Sweat adorned their bodies and the smell of sex filled the room. He rubbed soothing patterns on her back before whispering to remind her of the bubble bath they had to take.
She simply replied by leaving a peck on his lips, and moving herself again on his sensitive cock.
Summary: “Harry, the quiet guy in the office, has silently admired you during your time working for the firm. Now that your work there is done, Harry finds that he can’t let you go just yet…”
A/N: SUP Y’ALL!!!! God I have just been waiting to be able to write again! I still have some exams coming up next week, but I spent all evening writing this one shot because I have been dying to get back into it😋 This is my first time writing a more subrry tinted fic, so I hope you enjoy it!
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Harry has never been one to talk much.
It is one of the reasons why he chose the career of software developing. Most of it, he could do on his own.
It wasn't so much that Harry hated people, he just preferred his own company. More people tend to complicate things, and Harry is a more logical guy.
That was until he met you.
About three months ago, the company for which Harry worked had started their expansion, and he was to lead the people transferred to that section of the firm. With the expansion also came new employees, and that’s where you came in.
You had been temporarily hired by the company to weed out applicants, and assist the current HR manager to help with the job interviews.
Harry still remembers that first day when you walked into the office, all nervous and fidgety. He had spotted you through the glass walls of his office, and couldn't physically tear his eyes off of you.
It wasn't until your third day helping in the office, that you actually met Harry. You had no idea what to think of him. Well, besides the obvious, of course. He was ridiculously handsome, and from the way he was staring at you, you figured that maybe he was thinking something like that about you too.
But he didn't talk.
Your first time meeting consisted of nothing but a gruff 'nice to meet you' from Harry's side, and no input in the rest of the conversation whatsoever. It was only a couple days later, when you asked the HR manager about it, that you found out that's just how he was, that he didn't really talk to anyone. From that moment on, there had been a surge of motivation to let him make you the one exception.
Harry was just fascinated by you, and he had no idea why. You were a ball of energy, talking so fast you'd think someone had clicked on your 'sped up' button, and you were chaotic, all over the place. The amount of times he watched you bump into people was impossible to keep count of.
Then, one day, you bumped into him. It should have angered him, the spilt coffee on his pants. But he had an extra suit, and you looked so worried, he didn't want to make you feel worse. You still felt bad, though, so you decided to make it up to him, and started getting him coffee every morning.
By the end of the first week, he looked you in the eyes when he thanked you. By the end of the fourth, he'd ask you how you are and recall things you'd told him. By the end of sixth, he told you things about his life, and by the end of the tenth week, you were having longer conversations with him.
It was difficult to keep up the small talk with him in the beginning. You soon found out that his lone wolf attitude may had something to do with his awkwardness. You thought, perhaps people weren't willing to work through that, and eventually he just stopped trying.
Such a prospect made you sad, and it only motivated you more to get to know him better. Of course, the longing glances, and standing unnecessarily close to each other with his knuckles barely touching your arm, those things helped too.
There was an undeniable tension between the two of you that you found incredibly difficult to decipher. The way he'd let you catch him looking at you gave it away quite clearly, but the lack of any real initiative confused you.
Had you read it all wrong? Did he even think there was something there too?
Unfortunately, there was no way to find out, as your assignment at the company was coming to an end. Today had been your last day, and tonight is a launch party to officially celebrate the expansion of the company.
You were a little sad to leave the company, especially since you really liked the people working there. It is why you are most excited for tonight.
Wearing a long yellow dress—it is your favorite color—you stride into the building. You are mesmerized by all the balloons and how pretty everyone looks. Wearing expensive suits or classy dresses. You immediately realize you might be a bit too happily dressed; everyone is wearing darker colors.
It does make it easy for everyone to spot you, though. By the time you've gotten your drink, five people have already walked up to you. About half an hour into the party, the CEO of the company takes the stage to give a small speech.
"I would like to thank everyone who has participated in making this expansion go as smoothly as it did. Your work does not go unnoticed." He says through the microphone. Everyone claps for a few seconds, and the man waits to go on until it is quiet again.
"Now, I have a special announcement to make. I have wanted to make this expansion happen since I began working for this company in 1988. Now that I finally have, I feel that my job at this firm is done. And so, I have decided to retire from my position as CEO."
Your eyes widen at the speech; you had no idea this was even a thing. By the sound of the gasps and murmurs traveling through the room, you deduce that the news is unexpected for the rest of the company as well.
"It is also with great pride that I present the new CEO of our company, chosen after careful consideration. If mr. Harry Styles could please join me on stage."
Your mouth falls open at the mention of Harry's name, and you are certain you will never be able to close it again when you see him walking onto the stage. He wears a black suit, perfectly tailored to his body, and the sight of him has you concerned that you may be drooling.
The bald man hands the microphone to Harry, who does not look very pleased to be on stage; it almost seems like he is regretting his decisions. Until his eyes meet yours, that is when you see him let out a breath.
"Thank you, Mr. Johnson." He says, breaking eye contact to look at his former boss.
Right, that was his name, Johnson.
"I look forward to leading this company into more successes, and I promise that I will put my heart and soul into it. I have worked at this firm ever since I graduated college and they offered me a job during my internship, and it is safe to say that I have not regretted that decision a day of my life. I have always been loyal to this company, and I will remain loyal to you. Thank you."
You are perplexed. Why did he never tell you about this? You are very happy for him, but you do find it weird. It also makes you doubt again. Did whatever you had been building up the last months not mean as much to Harry as it did to you?
Well, it doesn't really matter, you're gone after tonight anyway.
Once the shock of the news has calmed down a bit, the party resumes as normal. Most people visit Harry one by one to congratulate him on the position, but you steer clear from him. It is no use, after tonight you will probably never see him again anyway.
Time passes, and you think you're ready to go home. There was a file in the office you forgot to sign earlier today, so you head up to do that first. The office is entirely dark when you walk out of the elevator. It's kind of eerie, so you are quick to turn on the lights.
It takes you a few minutes to find the file, since the receptionist placed it on someone else's desk. You find it on your colleague's desk, and walk over to the receptionist desk to sign it. Laying it on the keyboard of her computer, you pray that she won't displace it again, and make your way back to the elevators.
A loud shriek escapes you when Harry suddenly walks around the corner. He covers his ears at the high pitched sound, shocked by how much he scared you. With your hand on your chest you try and steady your breathing.
"Jesus, you scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry, didn't mean to." He says, a bit of worry in his tone. You look up at him.
"What are you even doing up here?"
"I was looking for you." He shrugs.
"Why?" Your eyebrows furrow, that same old tension in your stomach settling like it does every time Harry looks at you for longer than two seconds.
"You've been avoiding me." He answers casually, and you feel your heart drop. You didn't think he'd catch onto it.
"Congratulations by the way, for being the CEO. That was definitely a surprise." There is a bitterness in your tone. It is Harry's turn to frown. He hears the condescension, but his mind can't seem to come to a conclusion. Why are you angry? It's so hard to tell.
This is why he doesn't do people.
"You're mad that I am CEO?" He guesses, and your mouth falls open, much like it did when Harry's new position got announced.
"What?! Of course not! I'm very happy for you." You sputter out. The last thing you'd want him to think is that you don't want him to be happy or satisfied or successful.
"But you're still avoiding me." He repeats slowly. "You know, I didn't tell you about it because no one was supposed to know. I had to sign for it and everything. It's nothing personal."
The painful grip that his potential distrust in you had on your heart releases at the sound of his words. You could have known that it was due to something like that, you work in HR after all. That fact alone makes you realize how invested you unknowingly had become in Harry.
"I...I figured." You give him a weak smile. Harry's eyes search for yours, holding onto your gaze once he has found it. You stay like that, staring at each other for a while until you break the silence.
"I'm heading home. I don't think I'll see you again, so good luck. I'm sure you'll do wonderfully."
With much difficulty, you manage to look away from Harry and walk past him. At least, you try to, because halfway through, Harry's hand grabs your arm. You stop in your tracks, looking back at the man who stopped you. The man who has been sending you mixed signals for the past few months.
"D– do you want to join me in my office?"
You refrain from the shiver that threatens to run down your entire body, and nod. Harry's hand slides down your arm to your hand, and he intertwines his fingers with yours before he leads you to the glass doors that belong to him. On your way there, he flicks off the lights, leaving the two of you in the dark.
The city lights light up the otherwise pitch dark office that belongs to Harry, for now. He will be moved to the CEO's office when he starts his new position.
You don't say anything as Harry closes the door, or as he walks to the closet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. You wait in anticipation of what he's going to do.
But then he sits down. He just sits down on his chair.
You stand there, staring at him, utterly confused about this man and his intentions with you, while he obliviously pours the whiskey into the glasses. In that moment, there is a switch inside of you, one that says: fuck it. This is your last day, you need a way to release this pent up tension, and you probably won't see him ever again after this. What have you got to lose? Nothing.
You walk over to the desk and sit down on it, extremely close to Harry. The split of your dress shows your bare, freshly shaved leg, and he seems to notice. His eyes pull to your legs like magnets, and he has to force himself to look you in the eyes as he hands you the glass of whiskey.
You try your best not to smirk at the effectiveness of your plan, focusing on your next move instead. Straight for the kill.
"So, why am I here, Harry?" You ask nonchalantly, taking a sip of your whiskey. It tastes quite strong, and it takes you a lot of effort not to have an expressive reaction to it.
"What?" He asks, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
"Why'd you take me here?" You ask again, setting down your glass at the table before moving to stand in front of him. "To admire the view?"
Harry looks out the window, but his head shoots back to you when he notices you're sinking onto your knees in front of him. He thinks he may have forgotten to breathe as he observes the lustful look in your eyes. His eyes travel down to your tits, even more visible from this angle.
"Because I've admired it every day for the past three months." You continue. Harry swallows, frozen by the overload of his brain and the sensitivity of the growing constraint in these pants. "Why don't you take your pants off for me? Just enough to give me your cock. I like you in this suit."
Harry doesn't let another second fly by before he is unbuckling his pants, sliding it down just enough for you to have access to his cock and his balls. Your mouth waters at the size and girth of it, your cunt getting wetter with every passing moment.
You shimmy forward, leaning over his cock and grabbing it with your hand. Harry sighs at the minimal contact, making you feel even more powerful. Looking up at him through your lashes, you ask him one more question.
"You'll hold my hair, won't you?"
With that, you take Harry in your mouth as far as you can, before pulling away from him. A gasp leaves his mouth, and his eyes fall shut as you pump him with your hand while your mouth kisses and sucks on the head of his cock. You begin licking and kissing down his cock, while your hand softly feels up his balls.
Harry feels like he is in heaven already, and he forgets everything around him. It is only when you completely remove yourself from him that he opens his eyes again, and he sees. Catching on quickly, he leans forward and gathers your hair, twisting it around his palm.
Satisfied with Harry's obedience, your mouth attaches itself to his cock again. You take him slowly, teasingly, and move your head up and down. With every movement, you take him an inch deeper.
"Oh, f–fuck!" He groans out when you gag on him because you took yourself too far too fast. You steady your breathing, which is a bit more complicated as you can only breathe out your nose. You resume sucking him off for a bit longer, bobbing your head down a bit faster. The small sounds that leaves Harry's lips, along with his scrunched up face, gives you enough indication that he is approaching his climax.
So you remove your mouth from his cock.
He lets out a whine at the loss of contact. If your panties weren't wet before, they certainly are now. You smile at the state of him; desperate and needy for you. The fact that you've managed to make him fall apart like this makes you incredibly horny.
"I want to take all of you in my mouth, daddy." You tell him, looking up at him with your big eyes. "You'll have to help me."
You went out on a bit of a limb when you decided to call him daddy, but he doesn't seem to mind at all. In fact, Harry's eyes light up and his jaw slacks at the mention of the pet name.
"Shit– anything, sweetheart. Whatever you need." He croaks out.
"I need you to fuck my mouth." You respond sternly, not wasting any time and taking him between your lips again. You push yourself down his cock as far as you can, breathing deeply before moving your hand to Harry's hand, which is holding onto your hair, and pushing your head forward to indicate that he needs to push his cock down your throat.
Again, it doesn't take him long to listen, because Harry's hips thrust forward, his dick gliding into your throat. You moan at the force with which he pushed, and keep your mouth wide open as you let Harry navigate your head.
Once he fully understands that you are allowing him to let him use your mouth, the true fun begins. With the firm grip he has on your head, he pushes you up and down at an ungodly speed. Your jaw is already tiring from its locked position, but you power through it because the sounds that leave Harry's mouth make up for it.
"Fuck baby, such a good mouth. Never had anything like this... Jesus!" He pants out as he begins to thrust up into your mouth, and you feel like you might pass out. Suddenly, he pulls you away from his dick.
You frown, and realize as he is grabbing for a tissue that he is avoiding messing up your face. You don't stand for it, though, and wrap your lips around his cock again just in time for him to come inside your mouth. You take him deeper and feel the way his sperm shoots in the back of your throat.
"Fuck! Shit, shit..." The not so wide arrange of curse words are the only thing Harry is capable of saying as he dumps his load inside your mouth. The fact that you were so adamant about having his sperm in your mouth made his orgasm even more intense.
Your mouth lets go of his cock with an exaggerated plop, and you swallow every last bit of him, grinning at his fucked out face.
"That was... amazing." He sighs, his gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes. You hum in agreement, and get up from the floor as he pulls up his pants. You are about to walk away, when Harry grabs your wrist.
"Where are you going?"
"Home." You answer with a smile, but Harry's grip on you only tightens. He shakes his head, his lips pouting.
"No, you need to stay. Let me make you feel good too." He protests. You squint your eyes at him.
"I don't need to do anything."
Harry's eyes widen. "You're right. But just let me make you feel good before you go, please? It's the least I can do."
Your mouth slowly forms into a grin, glad to have him where you want. Well, almost.
"Beg me."
Harry scoffs. "Are you serious? I don't really do begging."
You shrug, smiling at him. "That's fine. My vibrator can get me off too."
You take a few steps towards the door, while Harry contemplates his decisions. However, those were all clouded by the sole moment to please you the second you mentioned your vibrator. The image of you getting off like that is too much to bear. He needs to do it for you.
"Stop." He says. You turn around, and walk back to him as he gets out of his chair and gets on his knees. Grabbing your waist, he pulls you closer, his nose digging into your dress. His hands run up and down your legs, and it is making you weak in your knees.
"Please, let me eat you out baby. I'll do anything to make you feel good. I need to taste you so bad, please let me pleasure you."
You swallow, eyelids ready heavy, as you sigh out. "Alright."
Harry grins at your admittance of defeat, and stands up. He leads you to sit on his desk, your dress hiked up. He removes the stuff behind you, so that you can lean back entirely in case you want to, and waltzes over to his chair.
Spreading your legs, he rolls himself closer to you, and assesses your soaking wet panties. Chuckling, he leans to the side and grabs a pair of scissors, before he cuts the skimpy material from your body. You'd say something of it, but the sight of him admiring your pussy like this is too fascinating to interrupt. So, you keep quiet.
When Harry's thumb suddenly presses on your clit and begins to rub it, you can't help but gasp. His touch feels too good, and that blowjob got you really worked up.
"You have no idea how many times I've fantasized about this." Harry says, marveling at how reactive you are being.
"Me too."
His eyebrows rise up. "Yeah? Tell me more, baby."
You bite your lip, too obsessed with the pet name he's given you. It sounds so sexy coming from his mouth. He awaits your response with bright eyes, lazily rubbing your clit.
"Your arms... I'd think about them so much. And your hands, I'd imagine you choking me with them. They're so big..." You begin, and you know that you could go on for hours if you had to tell him about everything you've thought about doing with him, or doing to him.
Harry doesn't say anything, instead responds with two fingers entering your pussy. You moan at the feeling of his large fingers pumping in and out of you. It feels way fuller than your hand already. His two fingers is the equivalent of your three fingers.
"We can definitely make those fantasies come true..." Harry says softly. "But first, let's make you come, hmm?"
You nod, your head falling back and allowing yourself to fully indulge in the pleasure Harry's giving you right now. You let yourself lay on his desk, wrapping your legs around his shoulders.
"Fuck, that feels good– oh fuck!" You shriek out when Harry tongue begins attacking your tongue after he adds a third finger. He speeds up the movements of his hand to match those of his tongue, and holds onto that tempo until your mind can't conjure up any more words to speak to him.
With the control entirely out of your hands, you let Harry guide you to your orgasm, which washes over your body like a tidal wave. You unconsciously push Harry's head further into your pussy with your legs. With an arched back, you moan at the sensitivity of your clit.
Harry lets you take a minute to catch your breath before he pulls on your arms to have you sit up straight. He is smiling sweetly at you, and your heart warms at it.
"You okay?" He asks, kissing your hands. You nod, trying to ignore the flutters in your heart at the way he is being so gentle.
"Thank you for letting me make you feel good, baby." He says, getting up and leaning into your face. His nose brushes against your cheek as he plants his lips on yours. Your arms wrap around Harry's neck as you kiss him deeper, too caught up in how good he feels and how much you want him.
You're never this greedy. You've never felt like you needed a man's cock inside of you. Like it was the only feasible option. You feel it driving you crazy, and you're sure it is the only reason you say— no, ask:
"Please, fuck me."
The grin that forms on Harry's lips makes you feel like you should regret what you said. A grin like that usually belongs on your face in situations like these. But you need him so bad, you don't really care that you are the desperate one this time.
"Oh, you're begging now too, huh?" He says cockily. You glare at him, pissed that he's acknowledging your neediness and mocking you for it too.
"It's alright baby, I'll give it to you. 'M cock's already hard again from watching you come like that. So fucking sexy..." He says. He pulls his pants down and lifts you off the table, turning you around to the glass windows and pushing your hands against them. "Bend over a bit and speak your legs for me, baby."
You do as he says, biting your lip at Harry's hand that pushes away your dress and roams over your ass. He positions his cock at your entrance and pushes himself into you, sighing in pure relief. You shut your eyes tightly at the size of him filling you up.
"Fuck, you feel good baby." He says, slowly beginning to move in and out a bit. You let out a soft 'yes', causing Harry's jaw to clench. He spanks your ass, watching as it bounces from the impact, and his cock twitching at your yelp.
"Perfect fucking ass... perfect fucking girl, aren't you?" He groans, now lazily thrusting into you. He wants to give you time to adjust, but he learns your wishes when you begin to push yourself back into him.
"Ah, I see. Greedy girl wants to speed things up, hmm? Your wish is my command." He mocks, but does speed up his pace. His hands hold your waist as he begins to pound himself into you, your ass shaking at the impact. He spanks your ass again for good measure, obsessed with the way it moves.
You nearly lose yourself in how good it feels, but you know that he can get deeper than this.
"I want to ride you... want to feel you in my tummy." You spit out, hoping he understands what you're saying in your croaky voice.
Harry listens, pulling himself out of you immediately and taking a seat in the chair. You turn around and walk over to him, throwing your legs on both sides of his lap, before grabbing his cock and sinking yourself down on it.
It goes smoother this time, but Harry's really deep now, just like you wanted. The sensation is everything to you, and it isn’t hard to tell how good it feels for him too. Glad to have a bit of the control back, you start to bounce on his cock.
Harry’s eyes travel over your body, fascinated by the way you are moving above him. His hands travel to the straps of your dress and push them down until he can get your tits out of the top part of your dress. He begins to massage them as you keep impaling yourself on his dick over and over again.
"Fuck, daddy, you feel so good... so good for me. Listening to me. Knew this was the best way to fuck you... you love it." You slur happily. Harry nods profusely at your words, jaw clenched and moaning out in pleasure.
"Yes, needed it so bad baby. You're fucking daddy so good..."
You smile at how caught up Harry looks in his pleasure, like he doesn't know what to do with it. You, however, do know what to with it. You grab one of his hands and wrap it around your throat, before you do the same to him. With his hand on your neck and yours on his, you begin to fuck him as fast as you can.
"Ah, fffuck... shit! Holy shit!" He yells out, and automatically thrusts himself up into you, reaching an even further level of deepness you had never thought possible. That along with your hands on each other’s necks, is enough to know that your climaxes are near.
"Come inside me daddy." You pant out, and he does. It is as if your permission set him off. You smile in delight at the feel and knowledge of his cum being so deep inside of you.
You fuck Harry through his orgasm, and even after. He squirms in his seat. "Wait— too sensitive."
"I don't care, I haven't come yet. Don't you want to make me feel good? Have me coming around your thick cock?" You say sensually, and Harry nods. "Words."
"Yes– fuck! I want you to come, please come around my cock. Please, please..." He begins to beg, a tear rolling down his cheek.
Your toes curl at his whiny voice, and soon your juices are gushing all over his cock. Your pussy contracting around him seems to set Harry off even more, as you feel even more sperm spraying out of his dick and into your walls.
You ride out your high until you can't move anymore. You sit there, forehead pressed against Harry's as you both come down from what just happened.
After a minute or two, you decide to pull out. Slowly but surely, you manage to get Harry's dick out of you without hissing too much at the sensitivity of every single body part down there.
You lean against the desk, too wobbly to stand on your own, and you let Harry wipe you clean with the tissues on his desk. After cleaning himself up, he stands up and positions himself in front of you.
"Hey." He says. Your hand cups his jaw and your thumb wipes away the tear that is far down his face now.
"Hi." You tilt your head. The both of you burst out laughing, still surprised by what went down just now.
"That was really good." He says once the laughter has died down. You nod in agreement.
"Good enough for a repeat?"
Harry pretends to think it over, before he responds: "under one condition."
"And what would that be?" You quirk up an eyebrow, intrigued by his vagueness. He smiles at you so wide that you wonder if his mouth might be hurting.
"You let me take you out on a date first."
You roll your eyes, pretending not to be amused as he chuckles at your reaction. But the second you see the look on his face and the sincerity behind it, you realize that he is being quite serious about this request. You bite your lip, wanting to kiss him right then and there.
Summary: Your Vegas trip to celebrate your friend's birthday turns into a night you hadn't expected when you meet Harry Styles in the casino.
Warnings: Fingering, hand kink, gambling (well, it is Vegas). 18+ ONLY!
Word Count: 3533
A/N: One shot originally posted in 2017. Inspired by Harry's performance at the iHeart Festival in Las Vegas. Edited to be a reader fic. This is for the gals with the obsession with his hands. Also, rereading this, I realized you aren't that great of a friend, but hopefully you can look past that lol.
"Thank you," he said to the crowd. "I am a narcissist, so that will help my ego, thank you very much."
"Oh God," you rolled your eyes. "Like he needs any help boosting his ego."
You felt Simone poke you in the side, her apparent glare of disapproval burning a hole into your profile. You chuckled as you lowered your head. She'd drug you to this iHeart Radio concert in Vegas. You hadn't really wanted to go when she announced she had tickets, but because it was part of her birthday trip, you'd agreed to attend.
Harry Styles. Give me a break, you groaned. The kid had come out looking like a cross between a court jester and a Tim Burton character in his harlequin suit and nearly see-through shirt with a big bow at the neck, and you were supposed to swoon? Apparently so, you thought to yourself when you heard the crowd made up of mostly females fill the room with screams louder than any heavy metal audience you'd ever been a part of. And you supposed the bow was supposed to signify his desire to be a present you were to unwrap?
You giggled during his set as he pranced across stage trying to be a rockstar. You had to hand it to him. He definitely had the stage presence and charisma, and despite the fact that you'd never been a fan of boy bands, you could see why he had so many fans. Plus, you had to admit even if only to yourself, he had an incredibly handsome face. No doubt he knew it though.
Stepping further out to the catwalk, Harry gave the audience what they came for, even if they hadn't initially come to see him in particular. You couldn't help it though. Watching him dance around in that suit had you laughing, especially when he'd bop his head from side to side as he sang about "having your baby" and "it's none of your business."
By the time his set was over and he'd walked off stage, you knew Simone was waiting to let you have it. You gave her a smirk as she shook her head at you and rolled her eyes.
"I don't wanna hear it," she said.
"What? I didn't say anything!" you laughed.
"No, but you're thinking it."
"What?" you held up your hands. "It was actually not bad. I kinda liked it."
"You thought it was funny."
"Yeah," you laughed harder. "It was. But that last song's gonna be stuck in my head for a while, so you should be happy about that."
"Ugh," Simone groaned.
You stayed for a few more acts that you didn't think were much better before finally calling it a night and heading back to your hotel.
"You're going to bed?" you asked when you saw Simone pull her bag of toiletries from her suitcase and walk to the bathroom.
"Yeah...why?"
"This is Vegas!" you exclaimed. "The city that never sleeps."
"I thought that was New York."
"Whatever. Let's go hit the tables."
Simone slumped her shoulders. "I'm kinda beat."
You stuck out your bottom lip in an attempt to sway her with a pout. "But your birthday's not over."
With a sigh, Simone dropped her items on the bed and grabbed her purse.
"C'mon," she grinned. "Just an hour or two."
"Yay!" you squealed as you opened the door and stepped out into the hall.
Luck was on your side for the first twenty minutes or so, and you were up a good three hundred when you suggested you make your way to the higher dollar tables.
"Are you kidding?" exclaimed Simone. "You'll lose it all on one bet!"
"It's called gambling," you snorted.
Despite her argument, Simone followed you to one of the exclusive rooms. You saw the pit boss eye you as you sat down at the table, but he didn't say anything when you laid down your chips. Hesitantly, Simone did the same and you caught her swallow hard when the dealer placed a card in front of her and then one in front of you, followed by two more cards facing up. You grinned when yours was an ace, and the dealer slid the cards into the finder. Flipping up the bottom card, he revealed a Jack.
"Woohoo!" you cheered.
"Damn, you are on a streak," Simone commented as she decided to stay on a six. Unfortunately, the dealer didn't bust and she lost. "Crap. I'm gonna sit the next one out. Meet you at the bar?"
You were barely listening. Something - or someone - had caught your eye as he walked across the room.
"I'll be damned," you muttered.
"Huh?"
"Look who just walked in," you nodded toward your right. "Mr. Ego himself."
"Holy shit!" Simone breathed. "Ooh he looks good, too. He changed out of his suit."
You turned your head slightly to notice that he indeed was wearing a basic white t-shirt and black jeans.
"Well of course," you mocked. "Even a narcissist like himself can't keep up the facade all night."
"Stop calling him that," Simone argued. "You know he was just being cheeky, and he doesn't have a big ego."
"Please," you rolled your eyes. "His ego is so visible; I can almost watch it grow."
"All bets up," you heard the dealer say.
"Oh, I'm done," Simone shook her head while you placed another healthy bet.
The dealer slid the cards in front of you. Your top card was a three. Not good. you took a peek at your bottom card. A queen. Shit. Fortunately the dealer had a four, so he was likely to bust. you went with the odds and stayed. Turning over his bottom card, the dealer revealed a ten. Taking another card, he turned over a king. Yes!
"Oh my God woman, you have some luck!"
You beamed at Simone just as you heard another voice behind you.
"Ah, wonderful," he clapped. "Looks like I picked the lucky table."
"Hello."
It was Simone who actually spoke. For the first time ever, it seemed you were tongue-tied.
"Hi," Harry greeted. You caught a glimpse of his dimpled grinned before his fingers grazed your back and he took the seat next to you.
Clearing your throat, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Harry placed a stack of chips on the table. But it wasn't the obvious amount of money he was willing to chuck on a single bet that caught your attention the most. It was his hand and the lovely rings that adorned it.
You'd always had a thing for nice hands on a man. And Harry definitely had them. Long, slender fingers, great for playing piano, guitar and...other things.
The cards were dealt, and you peeked at your bottom card. You already had seventeen and the dealer had a five showing. You were definitely going to stay. You watched Harry's hand as he tapped lightly on the table, seeming to contemplate his next move. Suddenly, he leaned towards you and whispered.
"What should I do?"
You raised a brow. "Excuse me?" The kid didn't know how to play?
"Well, I...I know the rules of the game. It's just...you seem to have the luck on your side, so I wanna make sure I make the right move."
"Oh," you chuckled. You looked at the dealer's card and pointed. "He's only got a five. Odds are, he's gonna bust."
"And why's that?"
"Because...the dealer has to get to at least seventeen. You have to assume he has a ten underneath. So that's only fifteen. The next card has a high chance of being a ten or a face card. That would make him bust. So...you have a three. If the card you're not showing is anything over an eight, you're gonna want to stay."
"What if it's an eight?"
You grinned. "Well then, that's eleven. You're gonna want to double down."
With a stoic expression, Harry grabbed a stack of chips the same height as the first and placed them next to it. Then he nodded and gestured at the dealer who laid another card down for him. A queen. When the dealer revealed his own cards, your prediction had been right and he busted. Harry turned to you with a Cheshire cat smile.
"Thanks, love," he said.
You couldn't help but smile back. "Anytime."
You played several rounds, both of you winning most of them except when the dealer got an automatic blackjack. You heard Simone yawn behind you, and you felt a tinge of guilt that you'd almost forgotten about her.
"Are you ready to go?" you asked her.
"Yeah, but you can stay."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course." Then she leaned to whisper in your ear. "I told you he's not a bad guy."
You pursed your lips. "I didn't say he was."
"Yeah...you kinda did."
"Okay, okay," you nudged her. "We'll talk about it later."
You said a quick goodnight, and she walked away just as Harry got another blackjack. He hooted, making the dealer chuckle.
"I reckon you're good luck," Harry beamed at you.
You shrugged, nonchalantly. "I have my moments."
You watched as Harry inspected his next facedown card, completely mesmerized by his hands. You suddenly felt flushed as you wondered what they would feel like on you. You blinked hard and shook your head. What the hell was wrong with you?
"I really like that ring," you finally said aloud.
"Which one?"
"That rose-shaped one. Very pretty."
"Thanks," he looked at the ring and back up at you. "It's one of my favorites."
A handful of games later, you realized you must be up at least a grand. Unfortunately, luck only lasted so long, and you started to lose, busting a couple times and then staying when the dealer got a twenty.
"I think it's time to cash in," you admitted. "While I'm still ahead."
"Oh, don't go," said Harry. "You're my good luck charm."
You laughed. "I'm sure that's not true. You're doing great on your own."
"Stay. Please."
You sucked in your lips as you looked at his face. Goodness, he was cute. Perhaps you had been a little harsh, dismissing him merely because of who he was...or rather, who you suspected him to be. It wasn't fair.
"Okay, but I'm not playing anymore."
"Then we'll play something else," Harry suggested. "Craps? Roulette?"
"I'm not good at either of those," you frowned.
"Roulette's easy. It's just a guessing game. C'mon."
Taking your chips, you followed Harry to the roulette table where a larger crowd was gathered.
"Pick a number," he said.
"That easy, huh?"
"Sure," he shrugged.
"There's probably more to it than that, but I have no idea," you commented.
"Probably. But we're just playing for fun."
You watched the wheel spin and the little ball stop in the number twenty-two. A woman squealed and the dealer paid her her winnings.
"Playing for fun is for Monopoly money," you said. "This is real money."
Harry chuckled. "So was blackjack."
"Yeah, but I know how to play that."
"Pick a number, love," he said again. "Or a color if you'd rather."
You looked at the board and considered your options. Finally, you chose the number thirty-five. You watched Harry's fingers as he placed a stack of chips on the number itself, more on the column, and even more on black. You weren't sure how much money that was, but you weren't about to ask. Your stomach was in knots as you watched the wheel spin. Finally, the ball stopped.
"Number eleven!" the dealer shouted. Your heart sank, but you caught Harry smiling.
"What happened?" you asked.
"You won," he replied. "Twice."
"Huh? How'd I do that? He called eleven."
"Eleven is black and it's in the same column as thirty-five. That's where I put the bets."
"Oh," you mouthed.
Harry rubbed his hand up your back. "Told you, you're my good luck charm. Now pick another number."
"I can't keep betting with your money!"
"Alright. Then we'll use yours," he reached for your hand.
"Hey!"
Harry laughed harder, grabbing only a few of your chips. "C'mon, pick something."
"Fine, but I'm just choosing black."
"Black it is," Harry nodded, setting your chips down. Then he took more of his own and placed them between several different numbers in different places. you weren't sure what he was doing, you were lost. Finally, he turned to you.
"Have an idea," he said.
Sliding the rose ring off his finger, he kissed it, then placed it on top of your chips on the black.
"What's that for?" you inquired.
"That's yours if you win."
All you could do was stare at him. The dealer spun the wheel, you could hear the ball bouncing and the other players cheering. But you just stood there staring at Harry Styles. This guy you'd thought was a complete egotistical douchebag until about thirty minutes ago.
"Number seventeen!" the dealer called.
You cringed, trying to read the expression on Harry's face. But he merely stared back at you.
"Is seventeen black?" you asked him.
He threw his head back and let out a loud guffaw. "Yes, it is."
Your eyes grew wide and you pushed his chest with your hands. "What the fuck, no way!"
Harry continued to laugh as he covered your hands with his that clung to his t-shirt. Your eyes fell down to look at them and it was then that you noticed his shirt was almost sheer, just like the one he'd worn on stage, minus the pineapple shapes. You could see several splashes of ink displayed on his chest, and for a second you wished he would let you examine them all in private.
Your chest rose and fell from excitement and exhilaration, and you chuckled to yourself. Letting go of you, Harry collected the winnings and his ring.
"Here you are," he said, handing it to you.
"No," you shook your head. "No, I can't take that."
"Why not? I said it was yours if you won."
"This is too..." you felt the ring in your hand momentarily. "No, I can't accept it."
Twisting his mouth in confusion, Harry watched you as you slid the ring back on his gorgeous finger.
"That's where it belongs," you whispered.
"Sorry?"
"On your hand," you let out a sigh. "You have really beautiful hands."
You heard him giggle slightly as you continued to stare at them, taking them both in your own hands as though you were inspecting them. You were probably creeping him out, but you were lost in your own thoughts.
"Um...here's your...your money," he swallowed, releasing his hand from yours and reaching for your chips.
"Oh, thanks. I should..."
"No, thank you," his lips curled up. "I really do think you had a lucky streak tonight."
You grinned at him, your tongue darting out of the corner of your mouth. "Not completely lucky."
Harry's smile grew as he raised a brow at your cheeky comment.
"See ya, Harry," you winked and turned around. "I had fun."
"Wait, where are you going?" you felt his hand on your arm.
"To my room," you pointed up at the ceiling.
"Do you have to?"
You paused and glared at him. This guy was very hard to read. You could tell he'd been flirting with you, but it also could've been harmless, and he was just being kind. Now he didn't want you to go? You bit your lip and stepped closer to him.
"I guess not," you nearly whispered. "But I think I might be done with gambling for the night."
"No worries," he said low, his eyes looking down into yours. "We could go somewhere else."
"What'd you have in mind?"
"My room."
You should have known he'd have one of the biggest rooms in the hotel. It took up nearly the entire side of one floor, front to back. You stared out the windows at the city lights, the amazing view taking your breath away and making you feel alive at the same time.
"Here you are," you heard Harry say behind you.
You turned to see two glasses in his hands. Taking one from him, you murmured a thank you and took a sip of the best tequila you'd ever had in your life. You threw your head back with a sigh as you heard him hum in agreement.
"So you stay in rooms like this...all by yourself?"
"Yes. Sometimes."
"Must get lonely."
"Sometimes."
Taking another sip, you strolled around the outer perimeter of the room, stopping at the other corner window where you could see a view of the mountains.
"I love Vegas," you commented. "I used to want to move here. It's like it's own little word, separate fr-"
Suddenly, your glass left your hand and Harry set it on a nearby table. Then he grabbed you and kissed you, hard, his tongue darting deep into your mouth.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded as his lips traveled down your neck.
"What?" you asked, breathless.
"What you want me to do to you. I'll do whatever you like."
"Oh..." you said with a moan. "Your hands. I want your hands on me."
"Okay. Where do you like to be touched?"
"Anywhere. Everywhere. I just...I want those gorgeous hands and fingers on me."
Harry's eyes met yours, and he nodded his understanding. Reaching behind you, he found the zipper of your dress. It fell to the floor instantly, pooling at your feet. Though there was a cool temperature in the room, you suddenly felt hot all over as Harry's gaze roamed your body. Then giving you his hand, you stepped out of your dress and kicked off your heels. He pulled you closer to him until his hands cupped your naked breasts. You shut your eyes at the contact, the sensation already more than you could bear.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his thumbs grazing over your nipples causing goosebumps to rise over your flesh.
You covered his hands with yours, slowly guiding one of them down to your panty line.
"Mmm," he sounded as his fingers slid down and met wetness.
You heard his breaths quicken with yours, and he swallowed hard. His fingertip touched the outer rim of your center, teasing you in tiny circles. You bucked your hips to allow him access, but he was insistent on keeping with his own rhythm.
"Please," you begged softly.
"Not yet, love," he cooed.
Releasing his hand, he pushed your panties down and off. Then he kissed you again before guiding you to the plush sofa. He sat down and pulled you on top of him so that you straddled him, your hands on his shoulders. His eyes dark and lids heavy, his hands caressed you softly before kneading your breasts, his fingers pinching your nipples.
You moaned low, wishing he would put his mouth on them, but you could tell he was taking you at your word, giving you exactly what you'd asked for. You looked down at his hands as one slowly slid down your stomach, and his thumb met your already swollen bud.
"Oh God," you panted, lifting yourself on your knees so he had better access.
Harry then brought his hand to his mouth where you watched him lick two fingers before returning them to your clit. He stroked you slowly, making your knees buckle until he finally, ever so gently, inserted one finger, then a second.
You threw your head back, your own hands clawing at the neck of his t-shirt as you rode his fingers. You could feel the cold chill of his rings against your skin and you let out another cry of pleasure.
"Tell me how it feels," you heard him say as he picked up speed.
"So good," you breathed, urging his other hand up your breast to your neck. "Feels so good."
Harry brought his fingers to your mouth, where you licked the tips seductively before sucking.
"Mmhmm," he agreed. "You look so good, too."
"I want you," you sounded, looking at his face, his shirt in your fist.
Harry chuckled. "I'm right here."
"I want you inside me," you clarified.
"I am inside you," he smirked. Cocky asshole.
"No," you pouted, sliding your hand down his chest to the bulge in his jeans.
"You said you wanted my hands." Harry raised a brow smugly, his fingers nearly finding just the right spot. You leaned towards him, your head falling in the crook of his neck.
"Please."
"I'm gonna watch you come like this," he said. "Then we'll fuck, yeah?"
You moaned against his skin, your hips bucking as you felt yourself reach your peak.
"Say my name when you come," he growled.
You looked into his eyes and smiled. "So you are a narcissist. I knew it."
"You bet I am."
You rolled your eyes, but not at him. The truth was, there was no way you couldn't have said his name. He made you come harder than anyone ever had. Twice.
Harry Styles and his fucking ego.
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thinkin about simon fingering your pussy like this. it's too much, so much. you try to block off your clit because the heel of his palm digging into it might make you cum right around those thick two fingers lodged deep inside that cunt.
"wait, si," you groan while watching the quick flicking of his wrist. it feels so much more than it looks. even just by hiding your clit from him he manages to reach it from the inside.
curls his fingers so that way he can reach all your sensitive spots on the pads of his fingers. jerks his wrist to chase your hips when you try to squirm away. you can't take it, and he keeps moving his fingers in a 'come here' motion to coax you to cum all over his hand. don't you want that? why you trying to hide? he just wants to make you feel good. no matter. you'll feel good no matter what kinda handicaps you put in place.
"no runnin'. feels good, yea? don't you wanna feel good?" he grins at the way your hand twitches. can't control yourself and need to grip onto something. you're at such odds with yourself. keep trying to hide that pretty little clit from him.
or maybe you're trying to rub your own clit. is he not doing that good of a job that you need to take care of yourself? oh, baby. he'll coo at you and try to slap your own hand against your clit the way his hand moves over yours. or were you just trying to get yourself to cum faster so it'll be over quicker.
"s'too much," you plead. "go slower. i'm gonna-"
"tha's what i want. want you to cum all nasty over my fingers. you gonna give in and give it to me?" you can barely keep your hand in place from how much you move those hips. you also need something to grab onto as you ride his fingers. clenching your fist and nearly throw a hand down to his wrist or the sheets beneath you. simon grins and keeps up the endless assault of your poor pussy.
doesn't matter if he's rubbing at your clit or not. he's made a plan to get you to cum on his hand and he wants it messy.
the hot-for-teacher fantasy (ta!harry x student!y/n)**
summary: when y/n discovers her charming, handsome college teaching assistant harry styles is also a porn star, it awakens intense lust and longing. one day, harry calls her for a private study session. she wonders what he'll teach her, oblivious that harry knows everything.
words: 4k+
warnings: flirting, fluff, smut. p in v sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, kissing, dirty talk, creampie.
***
Y/N tried hard not to stare at her extremely good-looking teaching assistant during her Friday college lecture. But Harry Styles was just so hot, with his messy brown curls, bright green eyes, and perfect smile. His tight polo shirt clung to his muscular chest and shoulders. Y/N had to look away before she started imagining what he looked like without his shirt on.
"Girl, you're drooling again," her friend Liz teased in a whisper, nudging her.
Y/N blushed. "No, I'm not!"
Lately, she couldn't stop thinking dirty thoughts about the charming TA. His deep voice and confidence made it impossible for her to focus. There was something really familiar about Harry too, but she couldn't figure out what.
During the break, Harry passed back their graded essays. Y/N's breath caught when he got to her row.
"Nice work on this one," he rumbled, handing her the papers with a crooked grin and letting his fingers brush hers.
"T-thanks," she stammered, flustered by his touch and scent.
After class, Y/N rushed out, head spinning. Harry was just too much for her self-control sometimes. His flirty vibe and hints of his ripped body under his clothes made her imagination go wild.
Later that night, Y/N was scrolling online when she saw a weird tweet from her friend.
"'Who knew our former classmate had such an unexpected second career?'" she read out loud. "What does that mean?"
Curious, she clicked the link...and her jaw dropped. Short video clips played of a VERY naked Harry, putting on an X-rated show! He slowly stroked himself while staring intensely at the camera.
Y/N watched with wide eyes, feeling heated. So THAT'S why Harry seemed so familiar - he was a porn star!
For the next few weeks, Y/N tried to act normal around Harry in class while secretly reeling over his shocking second job. Every time he handed back papers or leaned across her desk, new fantasies popped into her mind of him in those porn videos.
Flashes of Harry's chiseled body and sexy pouts made Y/N shift in her seat, growing wet. She started touching herself at night while rewatching his videos, wishing his large hands were on her instead of himself.
"Hey, everything okay?" Harry asked after catching Y/N spacing out for the third time that lecture. "You seem...distracted."
Y/N snapped out of her daze, cheeks burning.
"What? Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just a little out of it today."
Harry's brow furrowed, but he let it go and continued his notes. Y/N scolded herself - she needed to be more careful or he'd suspect something!
The semester continued torturously, with Y/N longing for the sweet yet filthy TA. She devoured every new porn clip, imagining his deep groans were because of her. Harry remained perfectly charming and professional, driving Y/N crazy.
***
One evening, he asked Y/N to stay after for help studying. Her heart pounded as they were finally alone together. Harry was dressed casually in a soft t-shirt that clung to his biceps and tight jeans that left little to the imagination.
"So, what did you need help with?" Y/N asked, trying not to stare at the bulge in his crotch.
"Actually..." Harry shut the classroom door and turned to face her with a smirk. "I know what you've been up to."
Y/N paled. "W-what do you mean?"
In one swift move, Harry crowded her against the wall, hands braced on either side of her head.
"I mean, I know you've seen my...other job," he breathed, leaning so close she could smell his sandalwood cologne. "Judging by how distracted you've been, you must be a fan.I know what you've been up to," Harry said, his voice low. "In fact, I have proof."
Y/N felt her face flush. What could he possibly know? She racked her brain but came up empty.
Harry reached into his bag and pulled out Y/N's notebook from class. He flipped through the pages until he landed on one with "H ❤️" scribbled in the margins.
"This looks an awful lot like the little doodles I've seen pop up in the chat during my streams," he said with a raised eyebrow.
Y/N's heart pounded. He knew about her watching his porn! She opened her mouth to protest, but Harry cut her off by capturing her lips in a searing kiss.
"Wanted to do this for ages," Harry growled between heated kisses down her neck. "Could feel you eye-fucking me every class."
"Harry..." she gasped as he palmed her breast. This had to be a dream!
Y/N instantly melted against him, whimpering into his mouth. They kissed hungrily, all the pent-up tension finally unleashing.
"You taste so fucking sweet," he groaned against her racing pulse in that smoky, ruined timbre that immediately flooded her core with fresh arousal. "Been driving me mad, pretty girl. Had to have you."
She had spent countless nights alone getting herself off to the fantasy of Harry - the casual acquaintance turned porn star she had established an embarrassingly strong fixation on. In those frenzied moments of pleasure chasing, her imagination had run wild with what it might feel like to have his large hands on her, to experience his undivided intensity and passion in the flesh.
But nothing could've prepared her for the reality. For this soft, reverent side of him she never could've pictured behind that dirty-mouthed and cocky boldness of his videos. Harry was watching her with those mossy green eyes, hooded but shining, his warm gaze flickering over her flushed face like she was the most precious thing in the world.
Y/N traced her fingertips over the sharp jut of his cheekbones, down the carved column of his throat, savouring the tickle of his rough stubble. She wanted to bottle the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne and sweat, to keep this moment perfectly preserved somehow. This exact pocket in time when Harry was focused solely on her, that made her heart swell and thighs quiver.
When she nodded mutely in response to his question, Harry leaned in to capture her lips in a slow, searing kiss. One large palm cradled the back of her skull, tilting her head for the perfect angle to lick into her mouth with slow and soft sweeps of his tongue. The other hand splayed over her ribs, fingertips trailing up to graze the underside of her breast, each pass lighting tiny sparks across her sensitive skin.
A soft keen parted Y/N's lips when Harry finally palmed her fully, the rough pads of his fingers finding her peaked nipple. His mouth instantly set to work soothing her desperate whimpers with deeper, more heated sweeps of his tongue. He continued paying homage to her breasts with laving kisses until she was writhing and panting.
"So pretty," murmured that devastatingly deep rumble. "So fucking soft and perfect for me, love."
Harry punctuated the dark praise with a sharp nip to the upper swell of one breast, soothing away the faint sting with rich swirls of his talented tongue. Y/N's back arched involuntarily, a strangled moan shuddering from her chest as the flare of pleasure echoed all the way to her clenching core which was already throbbing with need.
She grabbed at Harry's broad shoulders, tugging to seek out more delicious friction. But he seemed determined to drag this out as long as possible - their position putting her at his command as he mapped every inch of her squirming form in unhurried exploration.
His talented mouth continued blazing an open-mouthed path down her sternum, across the quivering plane of her belly, all while his callused palms held her hips in a firm, grounding hold. When his lips finally met the juncture of her parted thighs, Y/N let out a garbled keen, head thrashing against the hard floor.
Harry shushed her gently, nuzzling against her damp curls as his huge hands anchored her bucking hips in place.
"I've got you, sweetheart," he rumbled, hot breath ghosting over her sensitized flesh and dragging a desperate whine from her chest. "Be a good girl and let me take care of my pretty girl, okay?"
Y/N's chest felt fit to burst from the tangled storm of arousal, tenderness, and pure longing that seemingly came out of nowhere at Harry's husked promise to "take care of her properly."
She couldn't find the brainpower to formulate any response beyond a punched-out mewl, utterly spellbound already by the wicked promise in Harry's voice. She lay pliant and trembling as he hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, fully exposing her to the hot sweep of his piercing stare and the first scorching lap of his tongue against her aching slit.
What followed was a hazy, blissed-out oblivion of sensation as Harry set to work devouring her with so much focus. Focus she had only seen on him when he was in deep, grading papers. There were no more teasing licks or tantalizing nibbles - he dove in with determination, sucking at her slick folds and swirling his tongue in swirls around her throbbing bundle of nerves until Y/N was writhing and sobbing out his name like a prayer.
Her fingers twisted in those sweat-soaked chestnut curls, tugging and desperate for an anchor as the exquisite wash of sensation threatened to unravel her completely. Every breathless whine and whimper was duly rewarded with another purposeful flick of Harry's talented tongue, coaxing her higher and higher.
He lapped at her clit, one digit opening her quivering entrance to his assault. He pushed them in, while she arched her back, giving him a deeper angle. Wet noises erupted from between her legs, his two fingers perfectly anchoring inside, swiping against her sweet spot that had her whimpering like a muse.
He fucked his fingers in and out of her, the thick nerves on his arms seeming to be erupting to life. The same hands that she had imagined about, were now inside her cunt, wet and warm with how wet she was.
His other hand joined the slick heat of his mouth, cupping and kneading her bucking hips with possessive surety, it finally pushed her over the blissful edge. Y/N's whole body convulsed as her climax detonated with blinding intensity, keening gasps punched from her chest again and again on each bottomless wave of pleasure.
Through the whiteout ecstasy, she felt her hips being released. Then, powerful arms were scooping her up against Harry's solid chest, enveloping her entirely as aftershock tremors kept rippling through her frame. Her cries were instantly muffled as he kissed her, her taste lingering in their mouths as she drank him in.
"That's my girl," Harry praised, his voice almost low and aching with want. "So fucking gorgeous falling apart on my tongue like that, sweetheart."
Y/N could only whimper helplessly in response and manoeuvred herself closer to his sweat-slicked torso, shuddering at the raspiness of his voice. Large palms stroked soothingly up and down her back as she slowly came back to earth and rejoined gravity.
One calloused thumb caught a stray tear she hadn't even realised fell, swiping it away with tenderness. The gentle gesture finally focused Y/N's senses enough to really look up at Harry - and what she saw stole the breath from her lungs all over again.
His green eyes were molten and hooded, swirling with naked want but also something more profound. Harry gazed down at her with such adoration and protectiveness that another sob rose in her tight throat, heart spasming almost painfully.
"You're so beautiful," he rasped out. One large palm cradled the back of her skull as his lips found her swollen and panting mouth in a deep, searching kiss. "So fucking strong and brilliant and incredible. I've wanted you for so damn long, Y/N. Please let me..."
Y/N couldn't formulate a coherent reply. So instead she silently nodded, her assent between kissing him back with every ounce of frenetic passion burning through her and took Harry's full weight as he rolled them until she was cradled in his lap.
Their kiss turned searing and desperate as Harry skillfully discarded their remaining clothes. Y/N's strangled whimpers and whines were swallowed by his bruising mouth, her slick heat dragging against the hardness of his erection in tortuously light strokes.
Y/N instinctively sought out more of that maddening friction - rocking her hips up to meet Harry's in a desperate grind as she tangled her legs around his trim waist. The low, reverent rumble of approval he let out at her shamelessness made her entire body bloom with heat.
"So eager for me, aren't you love?" he husked against the swollen bow of her parted lips. Not waiting for a response, he sealed his mouth over hers in a lush, filthy kiss that left them both panting for air.
He teased her exactly to that tantalising edge of overwhelming bliss and sheer frustration until she was squirming and mewling into their heated embrace, nails scrabbling at the broad expanse of his sweat-dampened shoulders. At last, Harry tore away from her lips with a ragged groan, panting heavily as they pressed their foreheads together.
She was too far gone to feel self-conscious. The last threads of her self-restraint had snapped the second Harry palmed both cheeks of her ass in those huge, calloused hands and used his grip to pull her flush against the insistent jut of his straining cock.
"Wanted this for so long," he growled against her swollen lips before venturing down to scathe his stubbled jaw along the ultra-sensitive slope of her neck, leaving a stinging trail of fresh goosebumps in his wake. "Laid awake so many nights thinking about having you in my lap just like this..."
Y/N had no capacity to formulate a reply beyond a choked-off moan, hips canting of their own accord to chase that scorching friction. She wanted to whimper out, to beg him to stop teasing them both with this exquisite torment. But he didn't give her a chance, lush mouth finding her peaked nipple and suckling hard, stealing what little coherence she had left.
"Ah! ...H-Harry, please..." she panted out as sparks of both pleasure and sweetest pain lanced through her. She fisted those decadent chestnut curls tighter until he finally released her with a final teasing graze of teeth over her swollen, rosy bud.
He peered up at her with hooded, molten eyes, his pupils blown wide and inky with naked want. His mouth glistened obscenely in the low light. The sight alone nearly cleaved what little rational thought remained.
"Since you asked so sweetly..." he husked, gifting her one more searingly deep kiss before making a trail of open-mouthed licks and nibbles down the center line of her body once more. "My gorgeous girl deserves whatever she desires.Now look at me, love," he ordered, "Need to see those gorgeous eyes when I finally get to be inside my girl."
My girl.
Y/N's whole body locked up with need at his command. Their gazes crashed together in the space separating them - Harry peering down at her, mouth hanging open in blissful agony.
Holding that heated stare, he finally guided the slick blunt head of his cock to her entrance with one broad palm on her hip. They both exhaled harsh breaths in unison as he sank past that initial tight clutch, Harry's brows creasing with reverence while Y/N's mouth fell open on a choked off moan.
"You feel so good, baby, taking my cock like this," he groaned against her neck. "Wanted this pretty pussy for months."
The crude words somehow only turned Y/N on more. She matched Harry's thrusts, overwhelmed by how amazing he felt.
"You feel that, love?" he rumbled in that rasping timbre that immediately stoked the banked embers of her core back to feverish heat. "How fucking desperate you still are for me, even after falling apart so gorgeously?"
Y/N let out a helpless, pitchy noise of agreement muffled feverishly against the solid weight of his shoulder – nodding frantically as he kept up that slick, sinfully light rutting rhythm. Her entire body felt suspended in limbo, torn between too-much and not-enough with each deliberate slide of his cock spreading her wanting folds apart.
"Christ, you should see yourself right now," Harry practically purred in a haze of lust-drunk awe, swiping the pad of his thumb in a teasing circle around her revived, aching bud. When she arched into the contact with a strangled whimper, he let out a rumbling chuckle that reverberated through both their shuddering frames. "An absolute picture...and all for me."
On his final seismic stroke, the thick crown of his erection caught against Y/N's swollen, aching entrance - teasing her to the brink of shattering all over again. She let out a garbled noise that might have been Harry's name or just an incoherent plea, fingernails scrabbling at his back.
"Look at me," he ordered in a low rasp, drawing her hooded gaze up from where their damp bodies joined. Green eyes glittered with undisguised possession when their stares finally met - searing straight through her.
Holding that smoldering eye contact, Harry pressed forward with one inch at a time until Y/N thought she might combust from the sweet stretch and burn. Every shallow exhale punched from her lungs came out a choked whimper, matched by the fevered grunts rumbling from Harry's chest as he bottomed out, again and again.
Y/N's world had narrowed entirely to the joined point of their bodies, her fluttering internal walls struggling to accommodate the exquisite impalement even as fresh arousal flooded her with boneless surrender. She could only cling helplessly to Harry's sweat-slicked shoulders and lose herself in the intoxicating visuals before her - his arm muscles bunching with the strain, those ruddy, plump lips hanging open on ragged gasps.
"Fuck...f-feel so good, baby," he gritted out, words fracturing apart as his hips gave a minute involuntary roll. "Taking me so bloody well..."
A strangled cry escaped Y/N as that tiniest motion lit up every nerve-ending with bliss. Her heels dug into the small of Harry's back in a frantic bid for leverage, for friction, for anything to alleviate this keen edge between agony and rapture. He seemed to read her desperation, dropping his sweat-slicked brow to hers as he found her lips in a sloppy, uncoordinated clash of teeth and questing tongues.
Then he was pulling back in one sinuous torso-roll, finally giving Y/N what she craved as his initial retreat turned into a soul-shaking thrust that punched the air from her lungs anew. Somewhere in the spiraling vortex of sensation, she registered the harsh slam of his hips meeting her own, the strangled cry of gratification Harry loosed against her slack mouth as he set a steadily mounting cadence.
Any hope of finesse or coordination was swiftly abandoned as their shared need mounted inexorably higher. Y/N could only cling on and ride out the tide of Harry's sharp, bouncing strokes - bordering on too much even as every shuddering nerve ending begged for more, more, more...
Before long, his forehead had dropped to brace against her shuddering sternum, the rigid line of his body trembling with restrained power and exertion as his hips jackhammered with unchecked fervor. The slick, fiery noises of their joining felt loud enough to haunt Y/N's every thought from now until the end of time.
She could feel the heated pant of his breaths gusting across her neglected nipples with each punishing grind of their movements coming brutally unhinged. Every snap of his hips shoved impossibly deeper until she was seeing stars behind her screwed-shut lids, a high-pitched whine escaping with each narrow thrust mounting her up the cliff's edge.
Heat and tension built upon itself in a dizzying spiral, a thousand tingling points of rapture spiraling from Y/N's core until her entire being felt engulfed in the storm. Harry's large hand found her sweat-dampened nape and tangled in her hair, drawing her into a searing, wild kiss that only stoked things higher.
The groan he leaked into her mouth was utterly guttural and wrecked as she matched his hectic rhythm – nails dragging down the broad expanse of his quivering shoulders until her next orgasm suddenly crested with blinding force.
This time, there was no oblivion or sweet black voids of unknowing as Y/N came apart. Instead, she remained tethered to the blazing intensity coursing through every fiber, Harry's name escaping on a cracked litany as her release seemed to go on and on in pulsing waves. He swallowed each choked syllable, hips drilling her through the roaring tide until she arched clean off the desktop entirely.
Harry's broken cry of her name might have been reverent, might have been full of desperate adulation as he finally let go – thick spurts of wet heat joining the mess between their bodies as his tempo turned erratic and punishing. Y/N could only hang on with what little quavering strength remained, drifting in the bliss of euphoria.
Eventually, the high tides ebbed and they collapsed in a sweaty, ruined heap upon the desk's surface. Both of their chests heaved like they'd run a marathon, senses struggling to reboot as little aftershocks kept shuddering through their temporarily departed forms.
Incrementally, Y/N floated back into her body and surroundings – the achingly pleasant stretch and ticklish trickle of Harry's slowly softening length, the damp cling of their overheated skin, the stark scent of sweat and sex and desperation sated. She cracked heavy lids, momentarily stunned all over again at the debauched vision of the handsome man draped over and still sheathed inside her.
Harry's summer green gaze was already waiting, twin pools of blown pupils shining through a heavy-lidded swath of mussed chestnut curls. Enraptured affection and lust battled for prominence as he stared down at her, sucking in air like a drowned man breaching the surface. When she met his eyes, he opened his mouth only to release a choked exhalation – clearly as adrift in the tide of their passion as she was.
Y/N lifted one shaky hand to paw clumsily at the damp curls framing his face, caressing his flushed cheek in what she hoped came across as reassurance. Her other arm snaked around Harry's shoulders, anchoring him to her as he nuzzled into the gesture with a shuddering sigh.
This time when he found her mouth, the kiss was slow and deep and almost unbearably tender. Their heartbeats gradually realigned as they savored the languid exchange, prolonging the hazy afterglow for as long as possible.
Harry finally pulled back to mouth a reverent path along the curve of her jaw, words rasping low and ardent against the hammer of her pulse.
"You're so incredible, love," he murmured like a hallowed oath. Full of naked adoration and something deeper that made Y/N's newly reawakened heart clench and squeeze impossibly tighter. "Knew you would be...but god, you fucking ruined me just now."
His raspy chuckle carried an undercurrent of disbelief and familiar self-deprecation. Kiss-swollen lips trailed along the sloped curve of her neck and shoulder as he continued pouring out those hushed, awed confessions.
"Don't think I'll ever look at this bloody classroom the same way again...not after feeling you come apart around me so beautifully..."
After, they lay panting on the classroom floor, limbs tangled together. Y/N traced the bird tattoos on Harry's abdomen, unable to believe this had happened.
"If I had known this is what you wanted, I would've bent you over my desk ages ago," Harry laughed, still looking deliciously rumpled and debauched.
Whatever came next, whatever questions arose about the status of their relationship or the unorthodox circumstances that had brought them here, for now Y/N was content to simply bask in the warmth and connection she felt . Her wondering heart could wait until the morning.
sorry if there are any mistakes english is not my first language!
dadrry idea - harry and y/n together with the children go to a get-together at a restaurant with friends and family and in the middle of the get-together the younger baby starts crying with hunger just as the food arrives and harry goes out of his way to help y/n /n to eat while y/n breastfeeds, and to help the older baby eat too! you can add something if you want
——
You were at a new restaurant Harry had picked out for lunch, and you didn't know if it was the humidity in the air, but you had two incredibly fussy children wanting to make your first outing as a family of four a tricky one. The outdoor seating area was packed with people taking advantage of the weekend's beautiful weather. You counted yourself lucky to have found any available seating at all. You suspected Harry might have pulled a few strings since he knew the business and employees well, but he kept his lips tightly zipped.
Going to a restaurant used to be an untroubled experience before you had kids together. It was a simple sequence—sit down, order drinks and a meal, and talk without any disruptions. When the first baby came, supervising a newborn in any public place hadn't been without its fair share of stressful moments. Many trips to the bathroom to breastfeed or change a diaper made you feel prickly with anxiety. There was also the crippling fear of your baby having a piercingly loud meltdown and potentially annoying the people around you. It was why you relied on Harry to make these trips with you, whether it was grocery shopping, a stroll through the park, or going out to eat. You needed him to be the calming force. You needed his gentle methods of diffusing the cries.
When the second baby came along while your first was at the peak toddler stage, the mere thought of going to a restaurant or the store by yourself was daunting. Horrible thoughts battered your brain, like: What if a temper tantrum happens? What if I lose one of them? What if they get kidnapped right in front of my eyes? Progressively, the thoughts became more unrealistic, but they successfully kept you from venturing out alone with the two vulnerable halves of your heart. You wouldn't risk their safety by selling yourself as overconfident in terms of your motherly capabilities.
Now, you had your toddler incessantly saying "mom" while your three-month-old newborn squirmed in your arms, quietly whimpering near your breast and awfully close to making her cries known to every single person in the restaurant. Harry sat across from you, your eldest by his side with an abandoned coloring sheet crumpled in front of her. Phase One of her tantrum involved throwing a fit over the restaurant not providing a magenta-colored crayon. She whined and sulked until Harry set her on his lap and distracted her by having her recite the colors of the rainbow in order. It worked, but only for a moment.
Phase Two was when you were dragged into it. You had been to blame for her coloring sheet disaster, and while you simply told her that magenta wasn't a common color, she knocked over her sippy cup in protest of your reasonable explanation. She expected you to have the answer to every question in the universe.
Phase Three was happening right now. Her desperate attempts to get your attention were needling under your skin and whittling away at your patience. The meals hadn't been served yet, and the hunger and heat you felt were like little volcanoes waiting to erupt. One more spike of overstimulation, and you'd lose the last shreds of your poise.
You shifted in your seat, and when your newborn let loose that first wail, you stared at the cloudless sky and swallowed roughly. When you looked back down, you saw Harry eyeing you with steady focus. He knew the exhaustion was catching up. Last night had been full of anxiety and insomnia, which never paired well. It was a rarity that you were able to muster the energy to step out of the house today.
"Do you want to go to the car?" Harry asked, knowing the telltale signs of a hungry baby all too well.
You shook your head. "I can feed her right here."
He grabbed the nursing cover from under the stroller and handed it to you. Your eldest was stretching her limbs impatiently, still on his lap, and you were counting down the seconds until she became overwhelmed too.
After putting the nursing cover on and letting your baby latch, the food arrived. It looked delectable, but your appetite had somehow vanished within the past ten minutes. With the mind-body connection, you assumed your stress and frazzled hormones were messing with your stomach.
While you held the baby, Harry stabbed his fork into your tossed salad and brought a serving of iceberg lettuce and cherry tomatoes up to your mouth. "Eat," he said softly.
You could handle small bites, so you accepted his offering and munched on the crispy vegetables. It was a meal just light enough to settle nicely.
Back and forth, Harry fed you, his eldest, and also himself. She was calmer now, more interested in her kid-size chicken tenders than whatever she was angry about. In her floral summer dress and pigtails, she was a cute little menace. The toddler stage was chaotic, but in the best way.
Your mind drifted to Harry as you watched him make your daughter laugh with his silly antics, her lips no longer pouting. He had the dad thing down pat when his girls got fussy, yet he always checked in with you first to make sure you were all right. He knew your emotions lingered longer than a child's brief outburst, so you appreciated his attentiveness now more than ever.
After lunch, which had thankfully been peaceful once everyone's bellies were full, you all walked along the nearby Santa Monica coast to soak up the sunshine and refreshing ocean breeze.
Harry had the baby cuddled against his chest in a sling, which was a miracle worker for nap time, while you pushed the stroller with a nearly asleep toddler in it. You guessed tantrums were exhausting sometimes—hopefully, that meant the car ride home would be serene.
"Harry," you said from beside him. He never liked walking in front of or behind you. "Thank you for earlier."
He glanced over, practically glowing under the sun's mild presence. "What did I do?"
With a smile reserved just for him, you answered, "You take care of us." Guilt got the best of you when you added, "And I'm sorry for not being able to step up to the plate."
It consumed you in your weakest moments, but you didn't have to deal with it alone. Harry was there to shoulder it and shelf it for later.
"Sweetheart, you're the one who gave me these babies," he said, reaching his hand out for yours. You took it, and you instantly felt grounded. "You're the one who keeps them fed and growing healthy. You will always be the most important person to them."
"It's hard to believe it sometimes."
Harry squeezed your hand three times. "Then I'll be here to remind you every day. We'd be lost without you."
