summary: dean thinks he knows every girl on campus until you show up to his party with his best friends girlfriend
a/n: join the taglist!
you never should have agreed to come.
that thought had been stuck in your head since hannah practically forced you into her car an hour ago. she had shown up at your house unannounced, walked straight past your excuses, and informed you that you were going to a party whether you liked it or not. apparently spending every friday night at home with a book was becoming “a serious issue” in her eyes. now you stood awkwardly in the middle of a crowded house, clutching a red plastic cup filled with soda you hadn’t touched once, while music blasted so loudly it rattled your ribs. people pushed past you every few seconds, laughing and shouting over one another. you felt completely out of place. your oversized sweater suddenly seemed too warm, your glasses felt crooked, and every time someone glanced in your direction, your stomach twisted itself into another knot.
hannah, meanwhile, looked perfectly comfortable. she always did. she could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow have three new best friends within ten minutes. you envied that about her. she grabbed your wrist before you could retreat toward the nearest corner and tugged you through the crowd. “come on,” she shouted over the music. “garrett’s here.” you immediately knew what that meant. the entire reason she’d wanted to come tonight was because garrett was hosting. hannah had spent the last month pretending she wasn’t interested in him while simultaneously talking about him every single day. before you could protest, she was already weaving through clusters of people toward the back patio where a group of hockey players stood around talking.
garrett spotted her instantly. his face lit up in a way that made it painfully obvious he liked her just as much as she liked him. he pulled her into a quick hug before his attention shifted toward you. “so this is the famous friend?” he asked, smiling warmly. you felt your face heat immediately. hannah talked about you? apparently she did, because she grinned and nodded. “this is y/n.” you lifted your hand in a small wave. “hi.” your voice came out embarrassingly quiet. garrett didn’t seem to mind. he greeted you kindly before turning back toward hannah, already falling into easy conversation with her.
you were preparing to stand there awkwardly and count the minutes until you could go home when you noticed someone watching you.
it wasn’t your imagination, either.
across the patio, leaning against a railing with beau beside him, dean di laurentis was staring directly at you.
you recognized him immediately.
everyone did.
dean was the kind of guy people talked about constantly. girls talked about him because they wanted him. guys talked about him because they wanted to be him. he was handsome in a way that felt unfair, with dark hair falling messily over his forehead and a smile that somehow managed to look both charming and dangerous at the same time. every story you’d ever heard about him involved parties, hookups, or some girl crying over him afterward. as far as you knew, he had flirted with nearly every girl on campus at least once.
except you.
mostly because you spent ninety percent of your time hiding from people like dean di laurentis.
the second your eyes met his, you looked away.
unfortunately, that only seemed to make him more interested.
when you glanced back a few moments later, he wasn’t leaning against the railing anymore.
he was walking toward you.
your stomach dropped.
“hannah,” you hissed.
she looked over. “what?”
“dean’s coming over here.”
instead of being concerned, she looked delighted.
traitor.
by the time dean reached the group, you were actively considering pretending to receive an emergency phone call.
“garrett,” dean greeted casually.
“dean.”
they exchanged a quick nod before dean’s attention shifted to you. not past you. not around you. directly at you.
his eyes lingered.
you immediately wanted to disappear.
“and who’s this?” he asked.
before you could answer, hannah spoke for you.
dean repeated your name slowly, almost thoughtfully. somehow hearing it in his voice made your heartbeat speed up. “pretty name.”
your entire brain short-circuited.
garrett started laughing.
hannah looked like she was trying not to scream.
you stood there frozen.
“thanks,” you finally managed.
dean smiled.
god.
that smile should have come with a warning label.
instead of leaving after the introduction, he stayed. then he started asking questions. normal questions. where you were from. what your major was. whether you were enjoying the party. that last one made you laugh accidentally.
“what?”
you shook your head. “sorry. i’m definitely not enjoying the party.”
dean grinned immediately. “honest.”
“you asked.”
“and you answered.”
“would you rather i lied?”
“nah.” his eyes sparkled with amusement. “i like honest.”
you weren’t sure why that response made your cheeks warm, but it did.
the strangest part wasn’t that dean was talking to you. it was that he seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say. most conversations you had at parties lasted less than two minutes before people got bored. once they found out you preferred books to drinking and spent weekends studying instead of going out, their interest disappeared almost immediately. dean, however, kept asking questions. when you mentioned reading, he asked what kind of books. when you mentioned your favorite authors, he actually listened. when you rambled nervously about a novel you’d recently finished, he didn’t interrupt or look around the room searching for someone more interesting.
if anything, he seemed more focused on you with every passing minute.
eventually the rest of the group drifted away.
you didn’t even notice at first.
one moment garrett, hannah, and beau were standing nearby. the next, they were gone.
it was just you and dean.
somehow that realization made your pulse jump higher than before.
the two of you ended up sitting on a pair of chairs near the edge of the patio where the music wasn’t quite as deafening. the cool night air felt nice against your warm face. dean leaned back casually, one arm draped across the back of his chair, while you sat curled slightly inward like you always did around people. despite that, conversation flowed surprisingly easily. dean had a way of making everything feel less intimidating. he teased you occasionally, but never cruelly. every joke felt light and playful. every smile felt genuine.
“so let me get this straight,” he said after listening to you describe one of your favorite books. “you willingly read nine hundred pages for fun?”
you laughed.
actually laughed.
the sound surprised both of you.
dean’s smile immediately widened.
“there it is.”
you blinked. “what?”
“your laugh.”
you groaned and covered your face.
he laughed softly.
“what? it was cute.”
“please stop talking.”
“not a chance.”
you peeked at him through your fingers and found him already looking at you.
not in the way most guys did.
not like he was checking you out.
he was looking at you like he genuinely enjoyed being around you.
that realization felt far more dangerous.
because you didn’t know what to do with it.
you understood flirting in theory. you had read enough romance novels for that. actually experiencing it was another story entirely. every compliment dean gave you made your thoughts scatter. every time he smiled at you, your heart forgot how to function properly. the worst part was that he seemed completely aware of the effect he was having. not in an arrogant way. more in an amused way.
like he found your reactions adorable.
which only made things worse.
“you know,” dean said after a moment, “you’re different than i expected.”
you frowned.
“you expected something?”
“everyone talks about you.”
that shocked you.
“they do?”
“yeah.”
you stared.
“why?”
he shrugged. “because you’re the mysterious girl who’s friends with hannah and somehow never comes to any parties.”
“that’s ridiculous.”
“maybe.”
you rolled your eyes.
dean’s grin softened.
“i’m serious, though.”
for the first time all evening, there wasn’t any teasing in his voice.
just sincerity.
“i’m glad you came tonight.”
your breath caught.
the words shouldn’t have affected you that much.
but they did.
because dean wasn’t saying them casually.
he meant them.
you could tell.
for a moment neither of you spoke. the sounds of the party faded into the background. people moved around the yard, music played somewhere inside the house, laughter echoed from the pool, but it all felt distant. dean’s eyes stayed locked on yours.
then he smiled.
small
soft.
different from the confident grin he’d been wearing all night.
and somehow that smile affected you more than any of the others.
“you’re blushing again,” he pointed out.
you immediately looked away.
he laughed quietly.
“cute.”
“dean.”
“yeah?”
“you’re impossible.”
his smile widened.
“you still haven’t told me to stop.”
the embarrassing thing was that you didn’t want him to.
and judging by the look on dean’s face, he knew it.
that realization sent your heart racing all over again.
somewhere behind you, hannah let out a squeal that sounded suspiciously excited.
you buried your face in your hands.
dean laughed.
and for the rest of the night, he never once stopped looking at you like you were the most interesting girl at the party.
Based heavily on Stephan Kalyan talking about getting into the head space of playing a playboy was hard because he’s been in a relationship for most of his adult life
dean di laurentis x reader
🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
The smell of stale beer, expensive cologne, and hockey gear was practically a permanent fixture at the Briar hockey house.
Hannah Wells sat on the edge of the plush leather sofa, clutching a red solo cup and trying to process the absolute whirlwind that was her life.
She was a junior, the exact same age and grade as the guys in this house, but up until a few weeks ago, she had existed in an entirely different universe. Her world was sheet music, quiet library corners, and trying to survive her classes. Their world was stadium lights, roaring crowds, and campus worship.
But now, thanks to a very specific, mutually beneficial arrangement, she was officially in a fake relationship with Garrett Graham. The captain of the hockey team.
As Garrett threw an arm over the back of the couch, laughing at something Logan said, Hannah looked around the room. Because she hadn't grown up in their loop or run in their circles for the last three years, she was just starting to get to know this tight-knit group of elite athletes. She was learning that campus rumors rarely matched reality.
Take Garrett, for instance—arrogant on the surface, but surprisingly sweet and protective when they were alone. Logan was a chaotic charmer, and Tucker was the quiet, southern gentleman who actually knew how to cook.
And then… there was Dean Di Laurentis.
Dean was currently leaned against the kitchen island, a smirk playing on his lips as he talked to a group of girls. He was devastatingly handsome, draped in designer clothes that cost more than Hannah’s tuition, and possessed a natural, effortless flirtatiousness that practically radiated off him.
Every time he winked, chuckled, or leaned in to whisper something, the girls around him practically melted into puddles.
Classic playboy, Hannah thought, making a mental note to keep her guard up around him. For the past three years, she had heard the hushed whispers in the lecture halls about the wealthy, gorgeous Di Laurentis. He just had "heartbreaker" written all over his face.
"Hey, Earth to Wellsy," Garrett murmured, nudging her knee with his. "What's going on in that head of yours? You look like you're analyzing a crime scene."
"Just observing," Hannah said, tilting her head toward the kitchen and taking a sip of her drink. "Does Dean ever stop? I feel like I'm watching a national geographic documentary on mating rituals. How do you guys live with a guy who constantly has a rotating door of girls?"
Garrett blinked, looked over at Dean, and then burst into a loud, booming laugh that caught Logan’s attention from across the coffee table.
"What's so funny, G?" Logan asked, wandering over with a bowl of pretzels.
"Hannah thinks Dean is trying to pull," Garrett chuckled, shaking his head. "She thinks he's a playboy."
Logan let out a dramatic gasp, dropping a pretzel back into the bowl and clutching his chest. "Oh, precious Hannah. No. I mean, I get why you'd think that. The hair, the clothes, the fact that he looks like he escaped a high-fashion magazine. But Dean? A playboy? Absolutely not. He’s been thoroughly, completely off the market since he was sixteen years old."
Hannah’s jaw dropped slightly. She looked back at Dean, then at Logan, then at Garrett. "Wait. Are you guys messing with me? Serious? But look at him! He's literally leaning his entire body weight against that girl's shoulder right now."
"That's just his default setting," Tucker chimed in, walking past the couch and grabbing a fresh beer from the fridge. "He's naturally flirty. It's an illness, really. The boy talks to a wall and the wall thinks it has a chance. But he is fiercely, terrifyingly loyal. He only has eyes for one person."
"If he's taken, why does everyone on campus think he's single?" Hannah asked, genuinely baffled. "I’ve heard girls in my music theory class talk about trying to get his attention at parties."
"Because he doesn't broadcast his personal life to the Briar puck bunnies," Garrett explained, his tone softening a bit. "And because she doesn't go here. They've been long-distance since freshman year. It’s hard, but they make it work. Speak of the devil..."
Right on cue, the heavy front door of the hockey house swung open. The noisy chatter of the party, the bass booming from the speakers, and the general chaos of the room seemed to fade into the background as a girl walked in, shaking out her hair from the crisp Massachusetts air.
You walked into the Briar house, immediately feeling the warmth of the indoor heating hit your face. You loved your school, but coming to the hockey house always felt like a different kind of sanctuary. You didn’t even make it three steps past the threshold before a blur intercepted you.
Dean’s face lit up in a way that completely transformed his usual smirk into a bright, genuine, breathtaking smile. He caught you by the waist, lifting you right off your feet and spinning you around as if you hadn't just seen each other a few days prior.
"Look who finally graced us with her presence," Dean murmured into your hair, before setting you down and pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss.
He didn't care about the crowded room, the girls he had just been talking to, or the guys shouting jeers from the couch. In that second, the entire room ceased to exist for him. "I missed you."
"Dean, I saw you on Tuesday," you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck and adjusting to the sudden warmth of the house.
"Tuesday was a lifetime ago," he replied smoothly, his eyes crinkling with affection. He kept an arm firmly hooked around your waist, pulling you flush against his side as he turned back to the room, entirely unwilling to let go of you.
Hannah watched the entire interaction, completely stunned. For three years, she had held a completely false perception of this guy.
The girl—you—didn't look like the typical girls who frequented these parties. You looked incredibly sharp, wearing a sleek jacket, your posture perfect, and carrying an aura of quiet confidence that instantly commanded respect without you even trying.
"Hannah, meet the real boss of this house," Garrett introduced as Dean led you over to the living room setup. "Dean’s high school sweetheart."
"Hi, Hannah! It is so nice to finally meet you," you smiled warmly, offering a hand. "Garrett has told us a little bit about you. Don't believe anything he or Logan tells you, by the way. Most of it is exaggerated hockey locker room nonsense."
"Hey! I am a teller of truths and a romantic at heart," Logan protested, throwing a pretzel at Dean, who caught it effortlessly with his free hand.
"Nice to meet you," Hannah said, still trying to reconcile the image of Dean the Campus Flirt with Dean the Devoted Boyfriend. "So, you're a junior too? But you don't go to Briar?"
"No, she's the resident genius," Dean bragged proudly, kissing the side of your head. He squeezed your waist, a look of pure adoration on his face that Hannah had never seen on him before. "She goes to Harvard. Just a quick drive down the road, which means I get to kidnap her every weekend."
"More like I come over here to escape the library and make sure you're eating something other than protein powder and frozen pizza," you countered, teasingly tapping his nose. "Harvard's midterm week is brutal. I needed a break before my brain entirely melted."
As the night went on and the party wound down, the crowd thinned out until it was just the inner circle hanging out. The music was turned down to a low hum, and the atmosphere became quiet and comfortable. Hannah found herself sitting at the kitchen island, pouring a glass of water, trying to process everything she was learning about this group.
You walked over to grab a soda from the fridge, stretching your arms slightly.
"So," Hannah started, a small, intrigued smile on her face. "Harvard? That's seriously impressive. No wonder Dean looks like he won the lottery every time he looks at you."
"Thanks," you smiled, leaning against the counter next to her. "It’s a lot of work, but I love it. Plus, being so close to Briar is a lifesaver. I don't think Dean would survive a true long-distance relationship. For all his tough hockey exterior, he's incredibly clingy."
"I have to admit," Hannah said honestly, lowering her voice a bit so the guys wouldn't hear from the living room. "I’m the same age as you guys, but I've always been so completely out of the hockey loop. I just assumed... well, everyone on campus talks about Dean like he's this legendary playboy. I totally pegged him for a heartbreaker when I walked in tonight."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh, looking over at the living room. Dean was currently engaged in a heated debate with Logan and Garrett about a specific NHL playoff game, gesturing wildly. But the beautiful thing about Dean was that even in the middle of a sentence, his eyes instantly flicked to the kitchen the moment he heard your laugh. He gave you a quick, reassuring wink across the room, ensuring you were okay, before turning back to the boys.
"Oh, I know the rumors," you told Hannah, your voice softening with genuine warmth and zero trace of jealousy. "Dean is a natural flirt. It's just his factory setting. He flirts with the cashier at the grocery store, he flirts with the GPS, he probably flirts with his professors without realizing it. It’s just his personality—he loves attention, he loves people, and he loves making people smile. But when it comes to his heart? He's a one-woman man. He's been my best friend and my biggest protector since we were juniors in high school. I've never had to doubt him for a single second, no matter what campus gossip says."
Hannah looked from you to Dean, seeing the absolute, unwavering adoration in his eyes. For all his flashy clothes, smooth talking, and confidence, Dean Di Laurentis was completely anchored by you.
"That's really amazing," Hannah said, feeling a pang of genuine happiness for you—and maybe a little bit of envy. Here she was, entangled in a complicated, stressful fake-dating scheme with Garrett to get another guy's attention, while Dean and you had something so profoundly real and steady right in the middle of the campus chaos. It made her realize how much she had misjudged the people in this house.
Just then, Dean broke away from the guys, practically jogging over to the kitchen as if he couldn't stand being away from you for more than twenty minutes. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and looking at Hannah with a playful grin.
"What are we gossiping about? Is it me? Tell me it's me. I love being the center of attention," Dean pleaded, his tone light and teasing.
"We were just talking about how lucky I am to have an amazing boyfriend like you," you lied smoothly, tilting your head up to kiss his jaw line.
Dean’s smirk instantly softened into something incredibly tender, his eyes darkening with affection as he looked down at you. "Damn right you are. I'm the lucky one. Now come back to the couch, Y/N. Logan is losing the hockey argument and I need my brilliant girlfriend there to witness my absolute intellectual victory."
As Dean led you away, his hand securely locked in yours, Hannah couldn't help but smile into her glass of water. Briar University was full of surprises, and as she navigated her own strange journey with Garrett, she was glad to know that true loyalty existed exactly where she least expected to find it.
The living room had transformed from a chaotic frat party into a quiet, post-game wind-down. The air was still thick with the scent of cheap beer and expensive cologne, but the heavy bass had been replaced by the low hum of the television playing NHL highlights in the background.
You let Dean pull you back toward the oversized sectional, sinking into the cushions right beside him. The second you were seated, Dean shifted, throwing his long legs over the coffee table and pulling you flush against his side. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, his fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt. It was an automatic reflex for him; whenever you were in the same room, he needed to be touching you.
"Alright, Harvard," Logan said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Settle a debate. Garrett claims that the Bruins’ power play strategy last night was flawless. I say it was entirely predictable and they got lucky. What’s the verdict?"
You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against Dean’s chest. "Are you asking me because you genuinely want my sports analysis, Logan, or because you know Dean will agree with whatever I say?"
"A little bit of both," Logan admitted with a grin.
"Don't bring her into your losing arguments, Huntzberger," Garrett chimed in from the other end of the couch, nudging Hannah’s foot with his own. Hannah was watching the exchange with rapt attention, her eyes darting between you and Dean. She still looked entirely fascinated by the dynamic—clearly still trying to reconcile the campus myth of Dean Di Laurentis with the fiercely devoted boy sitting in front of her.
"For the record," you said, tilting your head up to look at Garrett, "the Bruins were predictable. They relied too heavily on the drop pass at the blue line. If the defense had been faster on the backcheck, they would’ve been picked apart."
Dean let out a loud, triumphant bark of laughter, his chest vibrating against your back. "Ha! What did I tell you? Genius. Absolutely brilliant. That’s my girl." He leaned down, planting a fierce, proud kiss on your cheek, making you laugh and try to push him away.
"You're only cheering because she agreed with you," Garrett grumbled, though there was a smirk playing on his lips.
"I cheer because she's always right," Dean corrected smoothly, his voice dropping into that naturally confident, slightly arrogant tone he always used. But as he looked down at you, the arrogance completely melted away, replaced by a quiet warmth. "You want a drink? Water? A soda? I can get you whatever you want."
"I'm good, Dean. Just trying to relax," you murmured, reaching up to run your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. He practically purred at the contact, leaning into your touch and closing his eyes for a brief second.
Hannah watched this interaction, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She leaned over to Garrett, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "He’s like a totally different person around her."
Garrett looked over at Dean and you, his expression softening with a rare look of genuine respect. "Yeah, well. she’s his anchor. Dean’s got a lot of energy, a lot of flash. He likes the finer things in life, and he likes being noticed. But with her? He doesn't have to put on a show. She knows exactly who he is, and he'd burn the world down before he ever did anything to jeopardize what they have."
Hannah nodded slowly, absorbing the information. It was an eye-opening realization. Coming into this house, she had assumed the hockey team was a monolith of arrogant, untouchable playboys. But looking at Garrett—who was currently being surprisingly attentive to her—and looking at Dean, who was practically worshiping the ground you walked on, she realized how wrong she had been.
"Hey," Hannah called out across the space, wanting to pull you back into the conversation. "How do you handle the drive back and forth? Harvard to Briar isn't terrible, but with a Harvard workload, it's got to be exhausting."
You shifted slightly, resting your chin on Dean's shoulder. "Honestly, the drive is my decompression time. But usually, Dean's the one making the trip. He’ll drive down to Cambridge just to take me out to dinner for an hour before driving all the way back for morning practice."
"Wait, seriously?" Hannah asked, her eyebrows shooting up. She looked at Dean. "You drive two hours total just for a one-hour dinner?"
"I'd drive ten hours just to see her for five minutes, Wellsy," Dean said, his tone incredibly casual, as if he were stating a basic fact of the universe rather than an act of grand romance.
He winked at Hannah. "Plus, the restaurants near Harvard are way better than the greasy spoons around here. I get to dress up, show off my gorgeous girlfriend, and eat good food. It’s a win-win."
"He's omitting the part where he once showed up at my dorm at 2:00 AM during finals week just because I sounded stressed on the phone," you added, giving Dean a pointed look. "He brought three bags of takeout and a giant teddy bear that took up half my room."
"It was a tactical strike against your anxiety," Dean defended himself, a boyish grin spreading across his face. "And it worked. You aced that exam."
"Because I was terrified you'd show up with a marching band next time," you teased, turning around in his lap to face him fully.
Dean’s hands instantly found your waist, holding you steady. The playful banter of the room seemed to fade into the background as he looked at you, his eyes incredibly dark and focused. "I would have," he whispered, entirely serious. "If it meant making you smile."
You felt a familiar warmth bloom in your chest, reaching up to cup his jaw. For all the years you had been together, the intensity of Dean's devotion never failed to take your breath away. He was a flirt, a tease, and a total show-off to the rest of the world, but his heart belonged exclusively to you.
Across the room, Hannah watched the two of you, a profound sense of clarity washing over her. As she navigated her own chaotic, fake-dating journey with Garrett, seeing you and Dean gave her a glimpse of what real, unshakeable loyalty actually looked like.
And for the first time since she had walked into the Briar hockey house, she realized that beneath all the rumors and the campus hype, these boys were capable of loving fiercely.
The party had entirely cleared out by the time the clock bled past two in the morning. Logan and Tucker had disappeared upstairs to their respective rooms, and Garrett had walked Hannah out to her car, leaving the downstairs of the hockey house steeped in a rare, heavy quiet.
The low hum of the television screen cast flickering shadows across the living room, but the real heat was concentrated on the oversized sectional.
The moment the front door clicked shut behind Garrett, Dean’s entire demeanor shifted. The playful, casual banter he’d been maintaining for the group completely vanished, replaced by an intense, dark focus that was entirely centered on you.
"Finally," he growled low in his throat, his hands sliding up from your waist to grip your hips, pulling you flush against his lap so you were straddling him.
You let out a soft gasp at the sudden movement, your hands automatically flying to his broad shoulders for balance. "Dean, the guys are still—"
"The guys are asleep, and Garrett's outside," Dean interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, thick and raspy. His eyes raked over your face, heavy-lidded and burning with a hunger he’d been suppressing all night. "Do you have any idea what it was like sitting next to you for three hours, watching you laugh, hearing you talk to Hannah, and not being able to do this?"
Before you could answer, his hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head up and brought his mouth down on yours.
The kiss wasn't the sweet, reassuring pecks he’d given you in front of the team.
This was demanding, possessive, and thick with the pent-up frustration of a week spent apart. His tongue parted your lips effortlessly, deepening the kiss until your breath hitched in your chest. You whimpered into his mouth, the sound completely undoing him. Dean let out a low groan, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you so tightly against him that you could feel the hard, rigid line of his desire pressing against your thigh through his jeans.
He broke the kiss just long enough to trail his lips down your jawline, his breathing ragged against your skin. His mouth found the sensitive spot right beneath your ear, biting down gently enough to make you shiver, then soothing it with the hot stroke of his tongue.
"Dean," you breathed, your fingers clutching the fabric of his Briar hockey jersey, tugging at it desperately. "We need to go upstairs."
"Not yet," he muttered against your throat, his hands sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm, calloused palms making direct contact with your bare skin. You arched into his touch, your heart hammering against your ribs. He traced the curve of your waist, his thumbs brushing the lower edge of your ribs, sending jolts of electricity straight down your spine. "I’ve been thinking about this all day in practice. Every single drill, all I could think about was getting you back to this house."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, intense, and completely consumed by you. There was no trace of the arrogant, smirking campus flirt that Briar University thought they knew.
This was the raw, unyielding version of Dean Di Laurentis that belonged entirely to you.
"You drive me completely crazy, Y/N," he whispered, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your hip, though his voice was entirely tight with restraint. "Every guy at Harvard looking at you, and all I can do is sit over here and wait for the weekend."
"You know I don't care about any of them," you whispered back, leaning down to press your lips to the center of his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. "I only want you."
A dark, possessive smirk finally cut through his expression, his chest swelling with pride. "Good. Because I'm not sharing."
In one swift, athletic movement, Dean slid his arms under your thighs and back, lifting you effortlessly off his lap as he stood up from the couch. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in his neck as he carried you down the dimly lit hallway toward his bedroom, his grip unbreakable and his intentions completely clear.
Dean didn’t even bother turning on the lights when he nudged his bedroom door open with his shoulder, shutting it behind you with a firm, decisive click of his heel. The room was bathed in the cool, silver glow of the moonlight cutting through his window, casting long shadows across the organized chaos of his space.
He didn't make it two steps toward the bed before he pinned you against the heavy wood of the door, the impact solid but careful. Your back flushed against the surface, and you let out a breathless laugh that was instantly cut short when Dean crowded his entire body weight against yours.
His hands slid down from your thighs, his palms flattening against the wood on either side of your head. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving against your breasts, the scent of him—expensive cedar wood, mint, and pure heat—completely enveloping you.
"Dean," you gasped, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jersey again.
"I'm losing my mind, Y/N. Seriously," he murmured, his voice a rough, gravelly whisper. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours with agonizing slowness, teasing the seam of your mouth until you parted your lips for him. When you did, he didn't hold back. The kiss was deep, wet, and utterly consuming, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that made your knees go weak. Thank God his hands migrated down to your waist, gripping you tightly enough to bruise, holding you up against the door.
You reached down, your fingers finding the hem of his heavy hockey jersey, and tugged it upward. "Take it off," you demanded against his lips.
Dean broke the kiss with a low growl, stripping the jersey over his head in one fluid, impatient motion and tossing it blindly into the darkness of the room. The sight of his bare chest—the sharp lines of his collarbone, the hard, defined muscle of his abs, and the faint scars from years on the ice—made your throat go completely dry. He was beautiful, and he was entirely yours.
Before you could fully appreciate the view, Dean's hands were back on you, working at the buttons of your shirt with a frantic energy that was entirely uncharacteristic of his usual smooth, calculated demeanor. When the fabric parted, his breath hitched. He mapping out every inch of your exposed skin with his hands, his thumbs dragging over the lace of your bra, making your hips unconsciously arch upward into his.
"You are so beautiful," he rasped, his eyes burning as he looked down at you in the moonlight. "It kills me. Every single day I'm stuck at Briar, it kills me."
He bent his head, his mouth dropping down to track a path of burning kisses from your jawline, down the column of your throat, to the sensitive valley between your collarbones. You threw your head back against the door, a loud, uninhibited moan escaping your lips as his teeth gently grazed the soft skin of your shoulder.
"Dean, please," you whimpered, your fingers burying themselves into his thick, soft hair, pulling him closer. Your thighs clamped tightly around his hips again, begging for a friction that was driving you both to the edge.
He let out a ragged breath, his hands sliding down to cup the undersides of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly once more. He carried you the short distance to his bed, tumbling both of you down onto the mattress. The cool sheets offered a brief shock of relief against your overheated skin, but it was immediately incinerated when Dean crawled over you, pinning your wrists gently beside your head.
He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling, his gaze so fiercely loyal and completely possessive it made your heart skip a beat.
"You're mine," he whispered, a stark, undeniable promise as his hips settled heavily into the cradle of yours. "Tell me you're mine, Y/N."
"Always," you breathed, pulling your hands free to wrap them tightly around his neck, pulling him down to finish what he started. "Only yours, Dean."
The mattress dipped under his weight as Dean shifted, freeing one of his hands from your wrist to trace the line of your jaw, his thumb wiping away a bead of sweat from your temple. His touch was suddenly a striking contrast—gentle, almost reverent, even while the rest of his body burned against yours with an undeniable, heavy urgency.
"Always," he repeated against your lips, the word sounding like a vow. "Good."
He didn't give you another second to breathe. His mouth claimed yours again, harder this time, demanding and deep. The heat between you was absolute, a fuse completely lit after days of forced distance. You hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him as close as physically possible, feeling the rigid tension in his thighs and the muscle of his back flexing beneath your fingertips. Your hands mapped the familiar expanse of his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he rocked his hips forward, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat.
Every point of contact was electric. Dean’s hands migrated down to your hips, his fingers digging in to guide your movements, establishing a slow, agonizingly perfect rhythm that had your head spinning. You arched into him, a soft, broken sound escaping your lips that went straight to his head.
He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin right where your neck met your shoulder, sending a violent wave of shivers straight down your spine.
"Y/N... God, you're perfect," he muttered, his voice entirely wrecked. The suave, unflappable Dean Di Laurentis was completely gone, reduced to a man entirely unraveled by the girl in his arms. He lifted himself up slightly on his forearms, his eyes locking onto yours in the dim moonlight. The intensity in his gaze was staggering—fierce, unyielding, and completely consumed by you.
The friction was building, a tight, coil of heat pulling tighter and tighter in the center of your chest. You gripped his arms, your eyes closing as the sensation threatened to overwhelm you.
"Look at me," Dean commanded softly, his voice a raspy plea.
You opened your eyes, meeting his dark, focused gaze just as he drove into you again, harder, matching his pace to the frantic beating of your heart. Seeing the absolute adoration and raw desire written all over his face pushed you entirely over the edge. A loud, breathless cry escaped you as the tension shattered, a violent rush of pleasure rippling through your entire body.
Hearing your release was the final thread for Dean. His grip on your hips tightened, his jaw clenching as he let out a low, rough shout, burying his face in your hair as his own climax hit him, hard and heavy. He held you tightly, pressing his weight into you as the aftershocks ran their course, his heart hammering wildly against your ribs like a trapped bird.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized breathing of the two of you.
Slowly, carefully, Dean rolled to the side, taking you with him so you were tucked securely against his chest. He pulled the thick comforter up over your bare shoulders, shielding you both from the cool draft of the room. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his hand resting flat against your stomach, pulling you so close there was no space left between you.
He kissed the crown of your head, his breathing finally beginning to slow down.
"I'm never letting you go back to Cambridge," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with sleep and exhaustion, but entirely serious.
You let out a weak, content laugh, resting your hand over his. "You have to. I have an exam on Monday."
"I'll buy the university," he mumbled, a classic, ridiculous Di Laurentis statement that made your heart swell. He squeezed your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer. "Whatever it takes to keep you right here."
You smiled into the dark, closing your eyes as the warmth of his body completely enveloped you. Outside his door, Briar University could think whatever they wanted about the flashy, flirty hockey player. But in the quiet of his room, you knew the absolute truth—Dean Di Laurentis was yours, entirely and completely, and he wasn't going anywhere.
Lawyer barbie helping langdon with his back pain. Idk massages? Maybe researching what he can apply to his back for pain (even though he's a doctor lol)
lavender & turmeric (lawyer!reader x frank langdon)
series masterlist
Frank winced as he took the small flight of stairs up into the lobby of your apartment building.
His hand slid down to his lower back, rubbing small, feeble circles into the ache lodged there as he waited for the elevator.
His back had been getting progressively worse over the past few weeks. What had started out as a small niggle had slowly spread into a constant, pulsing ache, occasionally sharpened by sudden jolts whenever he bent the wrong way or spent too long on his feet.
Which, unfortunately, was everyday.
He'd been trying to stay on top of his physio exercises, he really had, but work had been so flat out that by the time he dragged himself home after a 15 hour day, the last thing he felt like doing was getting out his roller and spending 15 minutes in agony.
The elevator dinged open.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed into one of the tight points near his spine, trying to loosen it as best as he could before he got to your door.
You had been flat out at work too, the last thing he wanted to do was to bring you down by talking about his pain. Or worse, make you worry that he might relapse.
So by the time he reached your apartment, he'd shoved the pain into the same small mental box he shoved everything else into.
He inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth as he knocked on your door.
"It's open!"
Even hearing your voice faintly through the door made him feel better.
The smell hit him immediately when he stepped inside.
Lavender. Eucalyptus. Something warm and herbal drifting through the apartment.
He dumped his overnight bag by the door, brow furrowing when you were no where to be seen.
"Baby?"
"Sorry, I'm here!"
You appeared from the hallway a second later and his exhaustion eased on instinct the second he saw you.
Your pyjama shorts sat low on your hips, swallowed almost entirely by an oversized graphic tee that matched one of his. The lettering across the front read 'we belung together' with a badly drawn set of cartoon lungs underneath.
"Hi." You smiled as you walked towards him.
"Hi." His voice softened automatically as he leaned down to kiss you.
You tasted faintly like peppermint tea.
Frank lingered for a second longer than intended before pulling away slightly.
"Why does it smell like a massage parlour in here?"
Your grin widened immediately.
"Because, tonight this is a massage parlour."
His brows knitted together.
Your smile somehow widened further as you laced your hand through his and tugged him towards your room. He came to a stop at the doorway, brows shooting up as he took in the sight before him.
Towels had been laid neatly across the bed. Candles flickered softly around the room, casting warm golden light across the walls. A line of massage oils sat organised on your dresser beside what looked suspiciously like hot compresses and ice packs. An incense stick curled lazily in the corner.
And on the bedside table sat a steaming mug.
Frank blinked slowly.
"...what is all this?"
"Well....I know your back has been bad lately."
His mouth opened automatically.
"And before you deny it-" You cut in immediately. "-don't. I know you."
Frank shut his mouth again.
"I know this probably isn't going to magically fix anything." You continued as you hurried over to the bedside table, "but I did some googling-"
Frank's mouth twitched.
"-don't be mean." You warned without any bite.
"I'm not saying anything."
"Your face is saying things."
He bit the inside of his cheek as he tried to fight the smile threatening to appear.
You carefully picked up the mug and chaperoned it back over to him.
"Anyway-" You continued determinedly. "-apparently hot and cold therapy can really help muscle inflammation and spasms, and lavender oil is supposed to help with relaxation-"
Frank glanced down at the mug as you handed it over to him.
"-turmeric has anti-inflammatory properties and the corner store near work where I get my peppermint tea also sells turmeric tea so-" You paused as you gestured to the warm cup. "Hopefully it tastes alright."
"....How did you have the time to do all this?" He asked after a moment.
You shrugged half-heartedly. "I made time."
Frank stared at you.
He didn't have the heart to tell you that none of this would probably fix his back.
But that wasn't the point.
Because no one had ever done something like this for him before. Like despite everything he was still something worth taking care of.
You shifted slightly under his gaze.
"I know this is probably all pseudoscience crap and sounds really stupid but-"
"It doesn't." He cut you off gently.
Frank swallowed hard, suddenly feeling something tight lodge in his throat.
"It doesn't sound stupid at all." He continued, quieter now.
Your expression softened instantly.
You watched intently as he lifted the mug up and took a tentative sip.
He nodded, taking another larger gulp. "It's good."
You smiled.
"Come here." You said softly, easing the mug out of his hands once he'd taken a few more sips. You set it down before gently tugging him towards the edge of the bed.
He obeyed without complaint, sitting down heavily with a low groan that made your face pinch with concern.
"Jesus, Frankie."
"I'm fine."
"Mhm." You deadpanned. "Take your shirt off."
His mouth twitched despite himself.
"Yes ma'am."
You rolled your eyes affectionately as he peeled his shirt over his head, but your expression faltered the second you saw the way the muscles along his back spasmed.
"Frank..." Your fingertips ghosted lightly over his shoulders. "You're so tense."
"Occupational hazard." He remarked as he laid down onto his stomach.
You shook your head before reaching for one of the cold compresses you'd prepared. Carefully, you pressed it against his lower back.
He hissed quietly through his teeth.
"Too cold?"
"No." He exhaled slowly as the cold seeped into his muscles. "Actually... shit. That feels good."
A tiny, triumphant smile spread across your face.
"Told you my googling was useful."
Frank let out a quiet laugh.
You worked slowly, methodically - alternating between the cold and warm compress. Then you switched to your hands, rubbing lavender oil into the tight muscles lining his spine. Your touch was gentle at first, exploratory, before growing firmer when you felt how knotted he really was.
Frank's head dropped forward.
He’d intended on protesting, telling you to stop fussing over him, but he couldn’t bring himself to utter the words.
He hadn't realised how bad it had gotten until now. How much tension he'd been carrying around without noticing.
Your thumbs pressed into a particularly tight spot near his lower back and he groaned quietly as you loosened the knot.
"Marry me."
You snorted. "I think that might be the least romantic proposal anyone's ever received."
"I'm serious." His voice came out muffled by the pillow he'd buried his head into. "You can have literally everything I own."
"So.... scrubs and take-out containers?"
"Hey don't forget the crippling emotional baggage."
"Oh I’ve already got that for free."
A laugh escaped him then - real and warm and helpless.
Your hands slowed slightly at the sound, your expression softening.
"I've missed that."
The quiet honesty in your voice hit him harder than expected.
Because lately he'd been exhausted. Distracted. Coming home with barely enough energy to hold a conversation before passing out beside you.
But you still did all of this for him. Still supported him no matter what.
Frank reached back blindly until his fingers found your wrist.
"I love you." He said simply.
Your chest tightened.
"I love you too."
You brushed your fingers through his hair. "Feel any better?"
Frank exhaled slowly as you slid off him so he could twist onto his back.
"Honestly?" He said as he laid back to look at you properly. "Yeah."
And he meant it.
The ache was still there, dull beneath the surface, but it wasn't consuming him anymore. For the first time in weeks, he felt relaxed.
"Really?"
Your hopeful smile made his heart stop.
Frank tugged you closer, your legs straddling his waist once more. "Really." He murmured.
Then he tilted his head up and kissed you, slow and lazy, grateful.
Your fingers slid into his hair instinctively as you kissed him back, smiling against his mouth when he made a soft content noise.
"See?" You said smugly against his lips. "Who needs a medical degree when you have google?"
He huffed out a laugh.
"Right, I might tell your clients the same thing about your law degree.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly and he laughed again - softer this time.
The kind of laugh reserved only for you.
"Ok." Frank leant over to grab the massage oil. "Now it's my turn to repay the favour."
Something in his expression and the glint in his eye made your brow arch skeptically.
"Uh huh."
"What?"
"You just want an excuse to grope my ass."
Frank placed a hand dramatically over his heart as he let out a fake gasp. "How dare you. As a doctor, I care deeply about your muscle recovery. I know how tight your shoulders get. "
You hummed disbelieving, leaning down to kiss him again.
"Although." He mumbled against your lips. "Seeing you all oiled up is a perk."
You laughed softly before pulling back just enough to dramatically cross your arms over your chest and narrow your eyes at him.
"I'm not undoing all my hard work by having sex with you and immediately throwing your back out again."
Frank grinned lazily up at you as his thumbs drew circles on your hips.
"If you want me to be a pillow princess tonight, just say the word baby."
You let out a dramatic groan.
"I seriously regret teaching you that term."
His smile widened as you failed to stay serious and giggled.
He tugged you down onto the bed beside him. You landed half on top of him with another laugh before immediately trying to shift off him carefully.
"Don't move too fast-"
"I'm fine." He wrapped an arm around your waist before you could pull away completely. "Besides, lying here with you actually counts as medical treatment."
"Oh yeah?"
"Definitely." He pressed a kiss against your temple. "Benefits include reduced stress levels. Improved mood. Lower blood pressure."
You snorted.
"You're an idiot.”
"Maybe." He smiled against your skin. “You still love me though."
Your heart swelled at that.
"Always."
Frank looked at you for a second like he still couldn't quite believe that.
Then he kissed you again - softer this time, slower.
The candles flickered around the room while your fingers drifted through his hair, and for the first time in weeks, Frank let himself relax completely.
summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust
word count 8K
content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.
a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language
masterlist | read on ao3
you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.
you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.
what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.
you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.
it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.
“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”
ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”
“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”
he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.
“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”
“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”
you sighed.
“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.
ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.
“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”
you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”
“so.... none of it?”
“exactly.”
pause.
just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.
“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”
“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”
you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”
he ignored you.
of course he ignored you.
the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.
for a second, nothing happened.
you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.
“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”
poof!
a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.
“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”
“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”
“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”
the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.
you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.
“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”
he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”
“define normal.”
“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”
you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”
“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”
you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”
“fair.”
then there was a beat.
“so.... that’s it?” you asked.
he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.
“that’s it.” he confirmed.
“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”
“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”
“great,” you muttered.
“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”
only for a while.
only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.
you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.
it should have been reassuring.
it wasn’t.
because about an hour in, you noticed something off.
not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.
you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.
“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”
ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”
“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”
“maybe you’re just stressed.”
you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”
you tried to ignore it.
it didn’t work.
because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.
you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.
“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.
except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.
this, whatever this was however, was far from it.
“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.
“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.
he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.
“....ryland?”
he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.
“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.
you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”
“fine. totally fine.”
“you don’t look fine.”
he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”
“you’re flushed.”
“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”
“....that’s not a thing.”
“it is now.”
you crossed your arms, studying him.
“you’re acting weird.”
ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.
“nothing. nothing. um—”
you frowned. “are you okay?”
“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.
“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.
by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.
“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.
ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.
he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.
your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.
you didn’t know why but it just happened.
you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.
you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—
you flinched.
jesus, what the fuck?
since when the fuck did you notice that?
nope. absolutely not.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.
it didn't.
you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.
that was a mistake.
because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.
your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.
and yet—
“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.
“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.
“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.
he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”
“it’s nothing.”
ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.
“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.
you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”
“you absolutely were.”
“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.
he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”
you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”
you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.
and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.
“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”
“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.
“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.
he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”
“obviously.”
“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.
he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.
“ryland.”
“....also very aware of you,” he finished.
pause.
“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”
“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”
you crossed your arms. “why?”
“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”
“i’m always here!”
“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”
you stared at him.
“more noticeable.” you repeated.
he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”
“it sounded very weird.”
“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”
“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”
“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.
you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.
then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.
“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”
“all of the above, probably.”
you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—
“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.
he went still. “what?”
you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”
“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”
you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”
“i don’t have a better word!”
“well, find one!”
“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”
you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”
“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”
“yep.”
“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”
“yep.”
“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”
he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”
you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”
“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.
“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”
you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.
you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.
“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”
“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”
“we observe.”
“we hypothesize.”
“we do not panic.”
“we are absolutely not panicking.”
you were both very clearly panicking.
“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”
“no judgment,” you agreed.
“elevated body temperature.” he started.
“check.”
“heightened sensory awareness.”
“check.”
“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”
you folded your arms tighter. “check.”
“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.
“check.”
he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”
“attraction?” you said bluntly.
he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”
the word hung there, heavy but accurate.
you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.
not just the symptoms.
the pattern.
your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.
you frowned, thinking harder.
“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”
“toxins,” he said automatically.
“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.
“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”
“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”
“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”
“so it’s not attacking us.”
“it’s affecting us.”
you both went quiet again, thinking.
he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”
he stopped.
you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.
his entire posture went rigid.
“....no,” he said.
your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.
he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.
“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”
“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”
he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”
“okay....?”
“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”
“ryland.”
he stopped and looked at you.
you held his gaze.
“say it.”
he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.
“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”
your chest tightened.
“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”
your breath caught.
he exhaled, defeated.
“....pollen,” he finished.
silence.
thick.
absolute.
you stared at him.
he stared back.
“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”
“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”
“so it’s not pollen.”
“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.
you both paused.
“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.
“yeah.”
another silence. longer this time.
he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”
he stopped himself.
you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”
he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.
you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.
to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.
you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.
“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.
he nodded, equally quiet.
“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”
“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”
“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”
you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”
“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.
“oh, jesus.”
another pause.
longer this time.
he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”
“wait it out,” you repeated.
“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”
“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.
“not even in a funny anecdote way.”
“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”
he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”
you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.
really looked.
the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—
“ryland,” you said slowly.
“yeah.” he did not look at you.
“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”
he let out a short, strained laugh.
“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”
your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”
his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.
“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”
pause.
you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.
the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.
you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.
“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”
you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”
he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”
“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.
“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.
you both paused.
“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.
“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”
another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.
another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.
you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.
it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.
and yet.
both of you looked away at the same time.
he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”
you perked up. “yeah?”
“isolation.”
silence.
“what?” your voice came out small.
“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”
you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”
“i’m not kidding.”
“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”
“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”
you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”
“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”
“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.
he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”
you stared at him. really stared this time.
“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”
“yes.”
“yao and ilyukhina are—”
“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.
“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”
“we’ll adjust.”
“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”
his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”
“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”
“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.
you took a step closer without thinking.
his entire body reacted.
it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.
that alone made your point for you.
you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”
he didn’t answer.
you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”
“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.
“or it could be days,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue.
“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.
“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.
you stilled. “what alternative?”
he didn’t say anything.
which, unfortunately, was an answer.
you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”
“we really don’t,” he said quickly.
“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”
he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”
“ryland—”
“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”
you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”
“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”
“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”
“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.
“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”
“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”
“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”
he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.
“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”
“we might not have a choice,” you said.
“we always have a choice.”
“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”
he flinched. barely, but enough.
“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”
your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.
“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”
“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”
“you don’t believe that.”
he didn’t answer.
you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.
“look at me,” you said.
he did.
“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”
his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”
“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”
“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”
“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.
“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”
you followed without realizing.
“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”
“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.
the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.
you frowned slightly. “what?”
he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”
“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”
“is it?” he asked quietly.
that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.
“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”
you stared at him.
he looked away again, jaw tight.
“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”
“it is for me,” he said.
there was a beat.
“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”
“i know,” he said. “i know that.”
“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”
“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”
pause.
you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”
“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”
you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.
“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”
“at what cost?”
a beat.
he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.
his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.
“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”
you didn’t answer right away.
he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”
there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.
“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”
you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.
“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”
“maybe not,” he admitted.
“then—”
“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.
you blinked. “ryland—”
“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”
“even if it makes things harder?”
“yeah,” he said. “even then.”
you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.
“you’re really that set on this,” you said.
“yeah,” he said quietly.
another pause.
“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”
he nodded once.
“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”
“we reassess,” he said immediately.
neither of you moved.
just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.
like it could disappear in a second.
like he might cross it.
like you might let him.
his jaw tightened.
his shoulders went rigid again.
and for a split second, he looked like he might—
but then he turned away.
“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”
you swallowed. “okay.”
“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”
“right.”
—
you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.
you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.
“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”
another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.
your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.
ryland’s voice.
ryland’s face.
ryland's arms.
ryland's hair.
just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.
with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.
“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”
you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.
“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”
you closed your eyes and tried to focus.
in.
out.
in—
“mhmmph—”
pause.
you blinked an eye open.
what—
“mhmphhh— fuckk—”
—the hell was that?
you tilted your head slightly, listening.
at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.
but then—
“oh, please— please—”
it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.
and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.
you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall
unmistakenably ryland.
he was in the room next to yours.
awake.
and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.
he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.
heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.
is he—
no.
no way.
no fucking way.
another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.
you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.
dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.
option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.
option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.
you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.
“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”
you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.
“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”
you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.
you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.
your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.
“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”
a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.
you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”
a beat.
“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.
before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.
no turning back now.
inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.
ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.
you didn’t give him time to speak.
you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.
he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.
for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.
then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.
the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.
after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.
“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”
“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.
you blinked. “what?”
“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”
you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”
“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”
“current events,” you repeated.
“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”
“and that data is?”
“i need you.”
a beat.
“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.
“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”
you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”
“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.
you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”
“yeah?” he laughed too.
“yeah.”
“can i kiss you again then?”
you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”
this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.
you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.
his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.
naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.
you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”
“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.
“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.
you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.
only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.
then you started to move.
slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.
gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.
“ryland— fuck, just like that—”
“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”
it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.
“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”
you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.
for a long moment, neither of you said anything.
you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.
ryland was staring at the ceiling.
very intently.
like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.
“....so,” you said eventually.
“so,” he echoed.
another pause.
you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”
he didn’t look at you.
“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”
you snorted. “wow. rude.”
“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”
“mostly,” you repeated.
“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”
you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”
“for the record, i did not consent to that.”
fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”
“unfortunately, yes.”
“and then to me.”
he hesitated.
“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”
you stared at him for a second.
then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”
“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”
“i could tell.”
another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.
“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”
he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”
“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”
“you did not hear everything.”
“ryland.”
he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”
“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”
“please, just kill me already.”
“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”
“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.
“just making sure.”
he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”
“oh, constantly.”
“i walked into that one.”
“you really did.”
another quiet moment passed.
you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.
“....hey,” he said after a while.
“yeah?”
there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”
it caught you off guard.
not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.
you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”
he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.
“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”
you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”
he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”
another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.
eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.
you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.
he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.
“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”
your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.
“…me neither,” you murmured.
that was the last coherent thing either of you said.
because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Synopsis: You see Peter for the first time in years and suddenly find it hard to be around him due to all his new improvements
Masterlist
After erasing the same spot on your paper for the fifth time, the paper finally tore. You ripped the page out of the notebook and crumpled it up in frustration. To your luck, Happy walked into the lab just as you threw it, nailing him right on the forehead.
“Oh. Throwing things before 11 am, are we?” He laughed as he rubbed the spot your paper ball hit.
“Sorry.” You grimaced. “I’ll pick it up. And then burn it. And then run into oncoming traffic.”
“Tough day in the lab?”
“Tough week.” You sighed and shut your notebook. “I’m about to throw this whole notebook in the fireplace.”
“Before you do that, I wanted you to say hello to our guest for the week.” Happy said and pointed his thumb at the hallway to signal that he had someone out there waiting.
“Sorry, Happy. I don’t know if I’m in a stable enough mood to be nice to strangers right now.” You told him, but he was already opening the lab door to let someone in.
“He’s not a stranger. He’s an old friend of your dad’s. Don’t you know Peter?” Happy asked as a guy your age walked into the lab. Time slowed down and you could have sworn a gust of air hit you, causing you to stumble back a little. “Bliss” by Mariah Carey started to play in your head as the most beautiful stranger made eye contact with you. He was in an Empire State University t-shirt that fit him just tad too tightly, but only because he was so defined. Curly brown hair that was just the right amount of overgrown spilled into his eyes, which he shook out of the way. He gave you a smile that felt like you just quite possibly started the second immaculate conception in your uterus.
“Did you hear me?” Happy asked, making you realize you’d been standing there in silence as you gawked at the boy.
“Sorry, I have my headphones in.” You lied once you composed yourself enough to speak.
“No you do-.” Happy began to point out.
“Sorry, was did you say your name was?” You quickly cut Happy off so he didn’t expose your lie.
“Peter. We met a couple years ago before the uh, airport battle royale, if you will.” He told you, and even his voice was attractive. You stared at his face for a moment but struggled to place him. You remembered your dad introducing you to some of his new recruits, but you knew you would’ve remembered if you met this man before.
“I was the sticky one in the red suit.” Peter followed up, hoping it would jog your memory.
That’s when it clicked for you. The picture frame on your dad’s desk, untouched in the years since his passing. There was a boy in the picture making bunny ears behind your dad’s head, the same boy in red and blue pajamas you showed your dad videos of all those years ago. That nerdy kid from the videos had somehow turned into the captivating man in front of you in the years since your last seen him.
“Wait, you’re Peter? Peter Parker?” You asked, failing to hide your disbelief. Peter let out a shy laugh and nodded his head.
“That’s me. Sorry, you probably didn’t recognize me. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Not since the um, well, it’s just been a long time.”
“Clearly.” You blurted, the quickly followed it up with, “I mean, what’s, uh, what’s new?”
“Not much. I’m in college, but I won’t bore you out the details. It’s really good to see you.” He said as he started to come closer to you.
“It is really good to see you too.” You replied, finally sounding normal just as he enveloped you in a hug. You stiffened in surprise before hugging him back. The scent of his cologne wafted off his skin and if he hadn’t been holding you so tightly, you might’ve collapsed on the floor.
“Sorry. I just don’t see many familiar faces lately.” Peter said sheepishly once he pulled away. From how tightly he hugged you, you could tell he really needed it. You had no idea what had happened to him since the last time you saw him, but the sadness in his eyes now told you it wasn’t good.
“It’s okay.” You assured him as you held his gaze. To make matters worse, he had the softest brown eyes you’d even seen. Much to your dismay, you were officially enamored with this man.
“Peter is staying here for the week while he’s home from college.” Happy told you. “Would you mind showing him around? I put his room right across the hall from yours.”
“Of course you did.” You mumbled.
“I can wait outside if you’re still working.” Peter offered politely.
“It’s okay. I need to clear my head a little anyway.” You decided and shoved what you were working on away from you.
As you led Peter through the halls of Avengers Tower, you made absolutely no eye contact with him. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further, so you made no effort to make conversation.
“It really is good to see you. It’s been such a long time. So many things have changed.” Peter said to break the silence. You allowed yourself just one glance at him, and immediately caught sight of his enormous bicep. You quickly looked away and sucked in a sharp breath.
“Yes, they most certainly have.” You replied.
“What was that you were working on?” He asked you on the elevator ride to the main floor.
“Just some stupid blueprints that I can’t get to work.” You sighed. “I think just gonna scrap it.”
“What’s it for?”
“I’m trying to make a bracelet for kids that can scan food and detect allergens. It’ll buzz and turn red if they can’t eat the food. But I can’t get it to stop exploding. And I don’t think parents want their kids to explode. Or, maybe they do, and I have a genius invention on my hands.”
“That’s an incredible idea. I don’t think you should scrap it. One of them has to not explode, right?” He asked. His encouragement sounded sincere, making you even more in love with him. You decided to probe for reasons to not be attracted to him, since that would be the only way for you two to coexist while he stayed at the Tower. You brought the tour to the kitchen and showed him the inside.
“This is the kitchen. You probably won’t use it much.” You assumed. “I know most guys our age are all about protein maxxing and pre-workout inhaling.”
“Not me, actually. I love to cook. I make all my own meals. It feels better to eat it knowing I prepared it.” Peter told you, because of course he loved to cook.
“Is that so?” You asked with a dry mouth.
“Yeah! I could show you sometime, if you like. What do you like to eat?” He asked.
“Well, I think my favorite food is something my best friend’s mom used to make a lot when we were kids. They’re called tostones. She made them the perfect amount of salty and crispy.”
“Hm. I haven’t heard of that, but it sounds really good. Are you two still friends?” Peter wondered, making things ten times worse. Asking questions to get to know you was not helping you not fall for Peter.
“We are. It’s just harder to find time for a family dinner nowadays.”
“I bet. Happy told me how busy you are. From what he said, it sounds like you’re ready to take over Stark Industries any day now.”
“That’s the goal.” You admitted. “It certainly pays to be a Nepo baby in a field I actually really enjoy.”
“Hey, you may be Tony Stark’s daughter, but you’re inheriting the company because you earned it.” Peter said sincerely. “I’ve read about the stuff you’ve made. You’re brilliant.”
“Oh, thank you.” You smiled shyly at the compliment. “I remember that you are as well.”
“I wouldn’t say brilliant. I’m nowhere near your level. But I know what to do when I’m in there.” Peter shrugged modestly, highlighting his perfectly broad shoulders.
“I bet you do.” You whispered.
“What did you say?” He asked.
“I asked what you like to do?” You lied. “Physics? Engineering? Chemistry?”
“I love it all. But I think engineering. I made these, actually.” He said as he clinked his wrists together. Two black bands formed on each wrist and he held them out for you to see.
“What do they do?”
To answer your question, Peter shot a web at a flower pot across the room. He yanked it back, caught he effortlessly, and then handed you the flower. You felt your face warm up and accepted it with a soft smile.
“You created those yourself?” You asked him with amazement.
“Yeah. It took me forever to get the web formula right. And then when I did, I had to reconfigure the shooter a thousand times to get it to stop sticking to the inside when I tried to shoot them. But now they work well. See?” He shot another web, but you weren’t sure what he was aiming for this time. You were too fixated on watching his veins when he flexed his forearms.
“Oh, I see.” You said under your breath.
“What was that?”
“I said it’s this way to our rooms.” You quickly covered up and faked a smile. You showed Peter to his room and then got out of there was fast as you could. You leaned against your door after shutting it and stared up at the ceiling as you caught your breath.
Once you were composed, you slipped the Kimoyo beads off your wrist and used them to call Shuri. When she answered, she appeared as a holographic projection in your room. You caught up with your friend for a little bit, but when she asked why you called out of the blue, you had to confess.
“You know Spider-Man?” You asked her.
“The sticky one? Only a little bit.“
“Have you ever seen him without his mask?”
“I have. At your father’s funeral.” She responded. That answer brought you right back to that day at the cabin. You vaguely remembered seeing Peter that day, but the day was mostly a blur. It suddenly made sense why he didn’t specify the last time you saw each other. He didn’t want to bring back bad memories for you.
“Why do you ask?” Shuri asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.”
“No reason.” You lied. “I just had a quick question about him.”
“I don’t know him too well, so I might not know the answer. What were you wondering?”
“Oh, not much. Just when did he, you know…” You trailed off at the end and gestured with your hand for her to fill in the blank.
“I don’t know.” Shuri said with a laugh.
“You know. Was he always so…” You tried again and gave her a look.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Shuri told you.
“When did he get so fucking hot?” You blurted, followed by you looking at your door to make sure it was shut. Shuri bent over laughing as your entire face heated up.
“I don’t know.” She said when she stopped laughing. “He got bit by that spider.”
“How swol was the spider?” You asked out of the corner of your mouth.
“I think I was told it was radioactive. I don’t remember if I was told about its muscle composition.” She replied, making you roll your eyes.
“I don’t know what to do, princess.” You groaned. “He’s staying here for the week, but I can’t be around him. He’s too sexy. I just tried to show him around the kitchen, and all I could think of was riding on a horse with him and holding on to his gigantic shoulders for support. How am I supposed to stay across the hall from him?”
“If you’re that attracted to him, ask him out.” Shuri said simply.
“I can’t. I can tell that he’s a really nice guy. I don’t want him to think I’m shallow and just trying to hop on that because of his looks. He deserves better than that.”
“Are you trying to hop on that?” Shuri asked, gathering from context clues what you meant by that.
“Oh yeah. Ohhhhh yeah. All day.” You answered, making her laugh again.
“Maybe he’ll be flattered.” She shrugged.
“I don’t think he’s that kind of guy. Which makes it even worse. He’s a gentleman. God, I wish I was dead.” You whined and flopped on your bed.
“People have worse problems.” She reminded you.
“No, I don’t think they do. His eyes are so brown, princess. You have no idea. They’re like the Willy Wonka chocolate river. And I feel like that little fat fuck that got too greedy and fell in.”
“Do I know Willy Wonka?” Shuri asked. “Has he been to Wakanda?”
“Honestly, probably.” You replied. “But no, you don’t know him. Oh my God. What am I gonna do?”
“I think if you’re worried about him thinking you’re shallow, then get to know him first. Maybe you’ll discover you don’t actually like him.” Shuri suggested. You sat up on your elbows and stared at a picture of your dad on your dresser. It was time to come clean about the other reason that had been eating away at you.
“Him thinking I’m shallow isn’t my only reason.” You admitted. “My dad only knew about Peter because I showed him the videos of him. He believed in him because I believe in him. If I mess this up with Peter, it’s like I’m cutting on one of my last remaining ties with my dad.”
“Maybe the reason your dad liked him so much was because he reminded him of his daughter.” Shuri said softly. You thought about her words and as much as you wanted to believe her, you were scared.
“You’re very wise.” You said finally. “Someone should put you in charge of country or something.”
“They should.“ She played along. You moved on and talked about other things, but a corner of your mind stayed on Peter.
When you walked into the kitchen the following morning, Peter was already in there. You were about to turn around to leave when he called you over.
“Good morning. Look what I got at the bodega.” Peter said and held up a bunch of plantains.
“Good morning.” You said back. “What’s that for?”
“Well, I looked up tostones after you mentioned them yesterday, and they looked delicious. And since you haven’t had them in a while, I thought we could make it together.”
“You went out and got plantains because I mentioned that they were my favorite?” You asked slowly.
“Sorry, is that weird?” Peter frowned and put the bunch down.
“No, no, no!” You quickly assured him. “It’s not weird at all. I just wasn’t expecting you to do something so nice after how crappy my tour was yesterday.”
“It couldn’t have been that crappy if I found my way back to the kitchen today.” Peter pointed out.
“That’s true.” You smiled. “Let me see your recipe.”
You helped Peter make the tostones and decided your plan to avoid him would start tomorrow. When they were ready, you sat down together at the table to try them.
“Are they as good as your friend’s mom’s?” He asked you between bites.
“Not quite. But still very good. Thank you for doing this. I haven’t had them in so long.”
“You’re very welcome. I wanted you to have a taste of something familiar since you don’t get to see your friend as much.”
“That was very kind of you. I can’t wait to send her a picture of these.” You told him. “She’s gonna be so jealous.”
“Wait, we should invite her!” Peter realized. “I’d love to meet your friends.”
You froze when he said this, suddenly feeling the urge to run away. He had already gone out of his way to make your favorite food, and now he was saying he wanted to meet your friends. Things were getting too real and you needed to leave.
“Um, I’m so sorry.” You said as you stood up. “I just realized I forgot to do something. I have to go.”
You left the room without further explanation, leaving Peter alone and extremely confused.
The next day, you skillfully avoided Peter in the kitchen at breakfast, and again during lunch. It wasn’t until you walked by the gym that you were no longer able to avoid him. It was your fault really, since you did a double take when you saw him doing pull up’s on the chin-up bar. It became extra your fault when you stopped to watch him.
“Oh, he’s ripped as fuck? Amazing. Just what I wanted to find out.” You mumbled sarcastically to yourself.
You were only there for a few seconds before he made eye contact with you. It was too late to take off running, despite how much you wanted to do exactly that.
“Oh, hey!” Peter greeted. “Can you come in here for a second?”
You contemplated running once more, but knew it wasn’t an option. Instead, you walked into the gym, right up to the man you were trying to avoid. His tight black tank top put all his new improvements on display, and you were fighting for your life not to pay attention to that.
“Hello, Peter.” You said calmly.
“I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you.” He said as he continued to move up and down on the bar.
“Talk to me? About what?” You asked and prayed for a bolt of lightening would strike that specific part of the Tower so that you would have an excuse to leave the conversation.
“Could you please wait a minute for me? I just have a few more reps.” He said, with manners he just had to have. You stared up at the ceiling to wait for him to be done.
“Take your time.” You squeaked out. He let go of the bat when he was finished and lifted up his shirt to wipe his face with it, giving you a full view of his torso.
“Fuck. My ovaries.” You whispered.
“Did you say something?” Peter asked as he continued to dry his face.
“I said there’s towels over here.” You covered up and grabbed a nearby towel. Without looking, you handed it to him and tried to compose yourself.
“Thanks.” He smiled at you, but you didn’t look at him.
“You wanted to talk to me?” You reminded him.
“Yeah. Are you busy tonight?” He asked you as he dried himself off with the towel.
“I might be.” You said as you forced yourself to keep eye contact and not look anywhere else.
“If you’re not, would you want to come with me to this party?” He asked. “I don’t really know the guy who’s hosting, but some of my friends from high school are going.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t know anyone.”
“It’s okay. You can stay with me. I won’t leave you to talk to strangers. I hate when people do that.” He told you, making you smile softly.
“Yeah, I hate that too.” You said. “I guess I could come to a party.”
You regretted it as soon as you said it. You were supposed to be avoiding him, but it just wasn’t in your willpower to turn down the cute boy inviting you to a party and offering to stay with you the whole night.
“Great.” Peter grinned. “I’ll come by your room around 7?“
“I’ll be there. In my room. Around 7.” You said and pointed finger guns at him, because why would you possibly be cool ever? You quickly put your hands down and hoped for that lightning strike again.
“Sounds good. I’m gonna do some push ups now. You’re welcome to stay and watch, but it’s not my best angle.” He joked, making you let out an audible gulp at the thought of him at that angle. You quickly cleared your throat to cover up the sound.
“Yeah, I definitely don’t want to watch you do push up’s. That would be crazy if I wanted to watch that.” You said through a forced laugh. Things quickly became awkward, and you decided you had to get out of there as soon as possible.
“So 7?” You said, and Peter nodded. You gave him a thumbs up and practically sprinted out of the room after that. You ran all the way to your room and slammed the door behind you.
Peter gave you another reason to fall for him when he showed up at your door 5 minutes early. Punctuality was rare among boys your age, but of course a quality that Peter possessed. If his workout attire hadn’t been bad enough, now he was in a button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You opened the door and let out a small sound that you hoped Peter didn’t catch.
“Hi. You look beautiful.” He complimented you, making you instinctively smile.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” You replied coyly. Peter smiled at you and offered his arm to walk you to the elevator. You thought he was going to press the button for the ground floor, but he went up to the roof instead.
“Where are we going?” You asked on the ride up.
“I was gonna swing us, if thats okay.” He said, making your heart pick up its pace.
“You want to swing me around the city in your big arms?” You asked before you could stop yourself.
“If that’s okay.” Peter repeated as he laughed.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s okay.” You told him and turned your face so that he couldn’t see you mouthing “Oh my God” to yourself.
When you got to the roof, Peter brought you to the edge.
“How does this work? Do I get on your back Bella and Edward style?” You asked him.
“Yes, actually.” He chuckled, taking you by surprise that he knew the reference. You shrugged and climbed on his back, getting enveloped in the scent of his cologne.
“Hold tight, Spider Monkey. And don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.” Peter said before shooting a web at a nearby building. Your dad was Iron Man, so heights did not scare you. What did scare you was getting attached to the feeling of holding Peter, which was admittedly a pretty great feeling. You let out a happy scream as he swung you from building to building. When you landed on the rooftop of where the party was, you fought the urge to hug him.
“Ready?” Peter asked you as he smoothed down his hair. You adjusted your outfit and nodded your head.
Once inside, Peter introduced you to his friends, Ned and MJ. You and MJ got to talking as Peter and Ned over some movie they had just seen. You liked watching Peter in this relaxed setting, but it wasn’t helping you to not fall for him. You stopped watching him and tuned back into your conversation with MJ.
You felt unexpectedly at ease with Peter’s friends. It didn’t feel like you’d just met that night and instead felt more like you’d grown up with them. They included you and got to know you, making you feel at home. Peter having a great groups of friends was yet another reason you were struggling not to fall for him.
“I’m really glad you said yes to tonight.” Peter told you once Ned and MJ walked off to refill their drinks.
“You are?” You asked him, feeling more comfortable around him now that you had some drinks in you.
“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to hang out with you, but I can never find you.”
“How strange.” You said through a fake laugh, because you 100% avoided him all day. Peter looked into your eyes for a moment with a shy smile on his face. You tried not to look back at first and looked all around the room, but your gaze eventually came back to him. You looked into his eyes and felt all your walls crumbling down.
“Can I say something and then we never talk about it?” Peter asked suddenly, making you freeze.
“Um, sure? You said nervously.
“I’m so sorry that I disappeared. After everything with your dad happened, I just couldn’t bear to come back to the Tower. But I should have.” Peter said with guilt in his voice. You were not expecting him to say this and blamed it on the alcohol.
“Peter, it’s fine.” You assured him. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You were his friend. We didn’t know each other.”
“I know. But I always felt guilty about not reaching out to see how you were. He loved you so much. And I loved him. I should have checked up on you. I should’ve gotten to know you.” Peter continued. You could see his eyes welling up with tears and didn’t know what to do. Without thinking it through, you put down your cup and pulled him into a tight hug. Peter immediately hugged you back and hurried his face in your neck.
“Now we’re the weirdos hugging in the middle of the party.” You said as you rubbed circle onto his back. He let out a laugh and hugged you tighter. He came up after another minute and rubbed his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I had to get that off my chest.” He said, looking shy now.
“It’s okay. And honestly, I should’ve reached out too. It was just all so crazy after he passed. But I saw the picture of the two of you on his desk all the time. I should’ve tracked you down. I should’ve gotten to know you.”
“At least we found each other now.” Peter said with a soft smile. You smiled back and nodded your head.
“At least we did.”
Ned came running back into the room you were in, interrupting your emotional moment. You were admittedly a little glad he did, because things were getting too real once again.
“Guys, they’re playing Spin the Bottle in the other room. In real life. Let’s go!” Ned said and pulled Peter’s arm.
“You coming?” Peter asked as he stumbled towards Ned.
“No thanks.” You shook your head. “I’m not really a kissing strangers type of gal. I just don’t think mono is for me.”
“Me neither.” Peter chuckled. “Maybe we can just watch and silently judge the players?”
You shrugged and followed him and his friends into the room. You didn’t really want to watch, but it would be a good preventative from another deep conversation with Peter. And so, you found a spot against a wall as others took their seats on the floor.
“What do you think about all this?” Peter leaned in close to you to ask. You gave him the side eye from how close he was and then looked away.
“I think someone of definately walking away from this with a cold sore.”
“Not that.” He laughed. “But I agree. I mean kissing for recreation.”
“Oh. I never thought about it like that. I guess I would say to each their own, but it’s not really my style.”
“Me either. I don’t want to kiss some stranger at a party with a bunch of people I kinda know watching. I think a kiss should mean something.” Peter said as he looked at you. You looked back for just a moment and then quickly looked away.
“So when you’re kissing for meaning, who is it with? Girls? Boys? A little bit of both?” You asked him. If he was gay, maybe it would help you get over your crush faster.
“Girls. Though, if you can believe it, I haven’t been too lucky in that department.” He said with a half hearted chuckle. You smiled in response but internally cursed that he wasn’t gay or a player.
“Well that’s probably because you’re hideous to look at.” You said bluntly, making Peter laugh. You cracked a smile but continued to avoid eye contact with him.
“Thank you. I was hoping you’d notice.”
“I’m teasing.” You assured him. “I was honestly stunned when you walked in the other day. I could not believe you were the same Peter my dad used to talk about.”
“Stunned?” He asked. “Why?”
“Because I would’ve remembered if you had that face.”
You folded your lips in after you said it, knowing you had said too much. You hoped he wouldn’t catch it and move on, but to no avail. Peter was leaning in closer to you with a big smile on his face.
“What about my face?” He asked with an amused look. You opened your mouth to respond, but were interrupted by everyone’s eyes turning to you. You looked down at the bottle on the floor and saw it was pointed in the gap between two players and set directly at you.
“It landed on you, miss Stark. Guess we have to kiss.” A guy you’d never met before said as he stood up.
“Oh, I’m not playing.” You smiled politely and turned back to Peter.
“You’re in the room. Rules are rules.” The guy continued as he walked towards you, making you and Peter slowly turn to look at him. You exchanged a look with each other before looking back at the guy.
“Well, the rules don’t apply to people who aren’t playing, so.” You said with zero politeness this time.
“Hey, if you have an issue, take it up with the bottle. Just give me a quick one. I’ll be gentle.” The guy chuckled and stood in front of you. Peter stepped in between you suddenly and pushed the guy back.
“She said she wasn’t playing.” Peter said sternly. The corners of your mouth tugged into a smile after seeing the fire in Peter’s eyes.
“Woah. Sorry, dude. I didn’t realize you were her boyfriend.” The guy said in a different tone than the one he used with you. You rolled your eyes at the guys sudden ability to be respectful.
“Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.” Peter demanded. “She should not have had to say no more than once before you got it through your thick skull.”
“I’m sorry.” The guy begrudgingly said to you. You didn’t say anything in response.
“Go on. Fuck off.” Peter ordered, and the guy walked away. Everyone was staring at you at this point and a few had their phones out to film, one of the perks of being the child of a micro-celebrity. You looked around the room and felt your face getting warmer by the second.
“I think I’m gonna go.” You whispered to Peter. You swiftly left the room and Peter followed after you.
“Are you okay?” He asked once you were alone in the next room.
“Yeah, it’s just not really my scene. Thank you for inviting me though.” You said sincerely and started walking to the door again.
“I can walk you home.” He offered.
“Don’t worry about it. Stay with your friends. I don’t want you to miss the party.” You assured him, mostly wanting to be alone after that last encounter.
“I don’t care about the party if you’re not there. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I don’t want you walking alone.” Peter said as he gently caught your arm. You looked at where his hand was holding you and sucked in a little breath. Being protective of you was making it hard not to fall for him right then and there.
“Okay.” You decided. “We can walk together.“
And so you did. You walked side by side in silence all the way home. Peter had a no swinging and drinking rule, and you were both a little tipsy. But the cold New York air was helping you come back to your normal state of mind. The silence between you as you walked was comfortable, and you were grateful for that. You liked that he was someone you could be comfortable around without having to exchange any words.
“Brought her back safe, Parker?” Happy asked when the two of you entered the Tower.
“Yes, sir.” Peter said with genuine manners.
“Knew you would, kid. So, was this a date, or can I sleep peacefully tonight knowing you two are across the hall from each other? Because I’m not ready to be a grandfather.” Happy asked, making you start to choke on air. Peter clapped your back to help you out and you finally composed yourself.
“It wasn’t a date.” You finally croaked out. You looked over at Peter, was who surprisingly bright red.
“Not a date.” Peter agreed. “I just took her to meet my friends.”
“Good answer.“ Happy nodded. “Because your dad always told me any boyfriend of yours would have to go through Navy Seal level training before he was allowed to spend the night.”
“Again, not my boyfriend.” You stated as you glared at Happy for embarrassing you. Peter was smiling shyly and scratching the back of his head.
“Well if anything changes in the next 48 hours, let me know. I can have Peter sent off to bootcamp by the weekend. Night, you two.” Happy said before walking away. You and Peter stood there in silence for a minute, this time, a very uncomfortable silence.
“I’m gonna…” Peter finally broke the tension and pointed in the direction of your rooms.
“Right. Me too. Goodnight, Peter.” You said and forced a smile. Peter caught your eye and looked at you for just long enough to make your knees wobbly.
“Goodnight.” He said with a soft smile. You gulped and waited where you were until he was gone. When the coast was clear, you let out a loud sigh and rubbed your face. The week wasn’t up yet and you were losing the battle against falling for him more and more every day.
You eventually retreated back to your room, but you couldn’t settle down. Tonight felt very different between you and Peter, and you didn’t like how things ended after the connection you shared. After pacing your room for a full half hour, you decided to go knock on his door.
Peter just had to open his door with nothing on but a towel around his hips. You had caught Peter just coming out do the shower, and for some reason, he decided to open the door before getting dressed. He had another towel in his hand that he was rubbing back and forth on his damp curls.
“Fuck.” You practically shouted in his face. You instantly clamped your mouth shut and felt your eyes go wide.
“Um, what?” Peter laughed in confusion. You had to think quickly and your eyes landed on his phone cable on his night stand.
“Fuck…my phone charger. It’s broken.” You said weakly. “I guess. Can I borrow one?”
“Oh, sure. Come in.” Peter said and went back into his room.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll wait here.” You said and kept your eyes glued to ceiling to stop probing him with them. His back was to you now, which was not helping anything. Even his back was hot.
“You can come in. I want to show you something.” He said as he turned back to face you. Your eyes instinctively dropped to his waistband before going back up to his eyes.
“Show me something?” You asked in a low voice.
“One second.” He said and went into his connected bathroom. You blew out a breath once he was gone and fanned yourself. After emotionally connecting with him at the party, he just had to remind you why he caught your eye in the first place.
Peter came back after a minute in his pajamas, thankfully. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk drawer and handed it to you.
“What’s this?” You asked as you took it.
“Your scrapped design for the allergy bracelet. I hope it’s okay that I took it out of the trash. I thought it was too creative to throw out. But it was super crumpled, so I rewrote it as best as I could.”
“You saved my design?”
“Yeah. I think if we look at it together, we can figure out what’s missing. Maybe we can get it to stop exploding?” He asked hopefully. Thus, reminding you of the other reason you liked Peter. He was incredibly thoughtful.
“Thanks, Peter. That was really nice of you.” You smile softly as you looked up at him.
“It’s no problem. I had to save it. You’re an amazing inventor. You are totally going to run the world one day.” He said with a shy smile on his lips.
“If I don’t blow it up first.” You replied. It suddenly dawned on you how close you and Peter were. He was just inches away, close enough for you to smell the body wash he just used. You gulped a little and hoped it wasn’t as audible to him as it sounded to you.
“I don’t think you will.” He said softly. “And even if you did, you’d probably do it in a really cool way.”
He was so close now that a droplet from his hair landed on your shirt. You could see every freckle on his nose. He has creases by his eyes, something you somehow hadn’t noticed before despite all your staring at him. Peter seemed to be getting closer by the second, and you suddenly remembered you were not supposed to be falling for him. You pulled away and cleared your throat, leading him to do the same. He turned his face so you wouldn’t see his disappointment and grabbed a phone charger off his desk.
“Uh, here.” He said quietly and handed it to you.
“What’s this for?” You frowned.
“You said yours was broken.” He reminded you.
“Oh.” You laughed in embarrassment. “Right. I did say that.”
You and Peter stood in uncomfortable silence once again. You had come over to smooth things out, but somehow managed to make things feel worse.
“I should probably go.” You said, not bothering to hide how defeated you felt.
“Oh, yeah. I should probably get some sleep.” Peter said without looking at you. The vibe in the room had become palpably bad, but you didn’t full understand why.
“Goodnight, Peter.” You said for the second time that night.
“Goodnight.” He answered with a smile you knew was fake. You saw yourself out and shut your bedroom door behind you before dramatically throwing yourself on your bed.
For the next two days, you got serious about avoiding Peter. You made FRIDAY scan rooms for him before you left your own so that you wouldn’t run into him. If he did come into a room you were in, you made up a quick excuse to leave. You had nearly 48 hours of success avoidance of Peter until he found you on a late night trip to the kitchen to get string cheese.
“Can we talk?” Peter asked, making you jump in surprise. He had concealed himself behind the open refrigerator door so you didn’t know he had entered the kitchen.
“I can’t. I am extremely busy.” You lied as one of your cheese sticks fell on the floor. Peter bent down and picked it up for you.
“I feel like you’re avoiding me.” He said as he handed it back.
“What?” You forced a laugh. “What would make you think that?”
“Because ever since the night of the party, I haven’t seen you. You find an excuse to leave the room as soon as I walk in. You’re always running off if I try to talk to you. You don’t even look at me anymore.”
“Peter, I’m not avoiding you. I just have to leave the room a lot.” You lied, already feeling guilty for what you’d been doing. He sounded so upset and it was killing you.
“Did I do something to offend you? Because if I did, I am so sorry. Please tell me so I can make it right.” He pleaded. You felt a pit form in your stomach knowing you had caused him to feel punished for something he did not do. And yet, you did not have it in you to come clean.
“Yeah, actually.” You lied. “You did.”
“What was it?” Peter asked desperately. “Something I said?”
“Uh huh.” You weakly went along with whatever he said.
“Can you tell me what it was?” He begged.
“Wow.” You blew out a breath. “You really don’t remember?”
“No, I’m sorry. What was it?”
“I can’t believe this. How can you say the very offensive thing you said and not remember?” You asked him. You had dug yourself so deep now that there was no turning back.
“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.“
“Wow, y’all, wow.” You shook your head. “You’ve changed, Peter.”
You walked away from him after that, feeling yourself well up with tears once he couldn’t see you. You hated yourself for letting things get to this point. You wished you hadn’t avoided him and just spoken to him, or at least not convinced him he did something to hurt your feelings. You went to your room and wiped your face clean of your tears. The blueprint Peter had rewritten for you that was sitting on your desk caught your eye. You picked it up and looked at it again, admitting the swoops and slopes of his handwriting. That’s when you noticed something at the bottom.
“Genius girl, don’t give up. The world needs you to keep going.” He had written to you.
“Ohh, so I’m a massive bitch.” You said decidedly to yourself. You put the blueprints back down and went straight to Peter’s room to set things right. He opened the door after the second knock, looking that he too had shed a few tears.
“Can I come in?” You asked him. He didn’t say anything, but nodded his head as he stepped to the side. You sat down on his bed and he sat beside you.
“Peter, I’m so sorry.” You began. “I’ve been such a jerk to you.”
“What’s going on?” He asked in a quiet voice. “What did I do to offend you?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” You assured him. “You have been completely perfect since the moment you got here.”
“Then why have you been avoiding me?” He wondered. You looked into his eyes and let out a sigh. It was now or never to make things right.
“I just don’t know how to talk to you.” You admitted to him.
“Oh. I mean, I can kinda understand that. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”
“A really long time. And I wasn’t expecting you to be so…” You trailed off and felt your face warm up.
“So what? Annoying?”
“What? No.” You quickly assured him and shook your head.
“So weird? So rude?” He kept asking.
“Nope. Not those either. So, ummm….whats the word I’m looking for?” You asked and clicked your tongue.
“So what? What is it?” Peter put his hand on you shoulder and leaned it to ask you. You stared at him like a deer in the handsome headlights and blinked.
“Hot.” You said in the smallest voice you could muster.
“What was that?” Peter asked and leaned in closer to hear you better.
“So hot.” You said louder and flung your hands in frustration, making Peter jump back at the sudden loud noise.
“I heard you the first time, I just didn’t believe it.” Peter admitted out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re telling me you haven’t talked to me the last few days because you think I’m hot?”
“That’s what it was at first.” You confessed. “But it’s changed now.”
“I’m not following.” Peter told you, making you sigh.
“Look, Peter. When you first walked in, I was stunned, like I told you at the party. Because the last time I saw you, you were this excitable 14 year old kid who was filming himself doing parkour on top of buildings. And now…” You trailed off again and gestured to all of him.
“Now?” He asked, looking down at outfit as if you were referring to his clothes. You let out a groan and rubbed your face with your hands.
“Are you really gonna make me say it?” You whined.
“Yes, actually.” He said firmly, making you groan again. You gave him one last look before letting all your bottled up feeling out.
“Now, you look like Zeus, and I’m sure you have the lightening rod to match. I literally cannot look at you without getting bricked up. When you opened the door the other night in just your towel, I was like oh okay, I’m 21 weeks along, and it might be twins. When you were doing pull up’s in front of me, I had to clench my legs together to not flood the whole Tower and the surrounding neighborhoods. Probably New Jersey too, if we’re being honest. And if that’s not bad enough, you cook my favorite foods and ask to meet my friends. You stand up for me and make douche bags apologize for making me incompatible. You save my freaking scrapped designs and compliment my mind. You’re too perfect! So no, I can’t talk to you!” You finally said, shouting by the end of it.
Peter leaned back and stared at you with a stunned expression for a long time. You stared back with your lips folded in, not moving a muscle. This staring contest went on for quite some time since there was really no appropriate response to what you had said. You may have gone for overkill, but you figured he deserved to know the truth after avoiding him for two days.
“Lighting rod?” He said finally, making you bury your face in your hands.
“Is that really all you heard?” You asked through your hands.
“I don’t really know what I just heard.” Peter admitted. “So you won’t talk to me because you think I’m too perfect?”
“I can’t talk to you because I didn’t want you to think I was throwing myself at you just because you got hot.” You explained. “But then, I started finding out you’re this too good to be true stand up guy who is also hot. So now I hate you and I can’t be around you.”
“If you feel that way about me, why didn’t you just tell me? I wouldn’t have exactly been mad if you threw yourself at me.” Peter told you, making you smile a little. He gave you a look and you were suddenly feeling a little silly for ever coming up with your plan not to fall for him before finding out how he felt about you.
“Because. You were friends with my dad. And I didn’t want to mess that up. And I’m really busy in the lab. And we barely know each other. And…” You trailed off as Peter leaned in closer to you.
“And?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. Your faces were just inches apart now and your eyes were locked on his lips.
“And I can’t take it anymore.” You decided before climbing into his lap to pull him into a kiss.
Summary: A sunshine nurse who never lets Frank Langdon get away with his attitude finally snaps back and when he later gets jealous watching her laugh with Dennis, he’s forced to admit she’s gotten under his skin in a way no one else has.
Warnings: none
Frank Langdon is good at his job. Infuriatingly good, actually. The kind of good that makes people forgive a lot. His sharp tone in trauma rooms. His clipped orders when things go sideways. The way he can look at someone over the top of his mask and make them feel two inches tall if they move too slow or ask the wrong question at the wrong time.
Most people in the ER just deal with it. You do not. Which, apparently, is what gets his attention. It starts in trauma two on a slammed Tuesday when the department is already drowning before noon. Samira had texted you an hour ago that the board looked like hell and she was right. Every room is full, there are three holds in the hallway, Dana is moving at the speed of light, and the overhead speaker keeps chirping with new arrivals like the universe is mocking everyone personally.
You’re in trauma with Frank, Robby, Samira, and Dennis when EMS rolls in with a young guy after a high-speed MVC. Hypotensive. Barely responsive. Blood everywhere. Controlled chaos in the way only the ER can be. You move automatically. Gloves. Monitor. IV setup. You’ve done this dance enough that your hands don’t shake anymore.
“Pressure’s tanking,” Samira says. “I can see that,” Frank snaps, already at the bedside. “Can I get someone moving a little faster on blood?” You glance up from your line setup. “You can, but glaring at me won’t make the tubing prime faster.”
The room goes just slightly still. Dennis, across the bed, actually looks up. Frank turns his head toward you, clearly not used to being spoken to like that in the middle of a trauma. “Then maybe don’t waste time talking.” Your eyebrows lift. “Then maybe don’t waste time being rude when I’m literally doing my job.”
Samira’s mouth twitches like she is trying very hard not to smile in the middle of a possible disaster. Robby doesn’t even look up from the ultrasound. “Children,” he says flatly. “Focus.” You do. So does Frank. Because despite the little spark of heat, nobody in this room is here to lose. The blood gets up. The pressure crawls. Surgery gets called. The patient stabilizes just enough to move upstairs, and by the time the room empties, your pulse is still racing with leftover adrenaline.
You’re peeling off your gloves when Frank steps back in. You expect another clipped comment. Another polished little dig. Instead, he leans against the doorway, folds his arms, and says, “You always talk back like that?” You don’t even look at him. “Only when deserved.”
There’s a beat. Then, to your surprise, he laughs. Quiet. Real. “Good to know.” You glance up then, and there’s something different in his face. Not annoyance. Not ego. Something sharper. More interested. You toss the wrapper from the pressure bag into the trash. “Anything else, doctor?”
His eyes follow the movement. “Yeah.” You wait. His mouth tilts. “Nice work in there.” It throws you off enough that you blink. Because Frank Langdon is charming when he wants to be, sure. Everyone knows that. But this feels different somehow. Less casual. Less performed.
You recover quickly. “I know.” That gets another laugh out of him, and when he leaves the room he looks almost amused with himself.
Unfortunately, that is not the end of it.
After that, Frank starts seeing you everywhere.
At least that’s what Samira says when you come home one night and she watches you kick your shoes off by the door with narrowed eyes. “He likes you.” You look up from unpinning your hair. “No, he doesn’t.” She snorts from the couch. “Frank Langdon barely notices gravity most days. He absolutely notices you.” “He notices that I told him to quit being rude in trauma.”
“Exactly,” Samira says, pointing at you with a spoon from her takeout container. “And for some deranged man reason, that apparently did it for him.” You laugh and steal one of her potstickers. “You’re dramatic.” “I’m right.” You’re still laughing when your phone lights up on the counter.
Unknown Number. You open it.
Unknow Number: It's Frank. Samira gave me your number for a very noble reason.
You squint.
You: That doesn’t sound like Samira
Three dots appear immediately.
Frank Langdon: I needed to know where you get that coffee you bring in.
You smile despite yourself.
You: So you can insult more nurses more efficiently?
Frank Langdon: I apologized to exactly one nurse this week.
You: Was it painful for you?
Frank Langdon: Excruciating.
You stare at the screen, grinning before you can help it. Samira sees your face and points harder. “That. That is the face of a woman who is texting a problem.” You throw a napkin at her.
The thing about Frank is that once he starts, he doesn’t really stop.
It’s little at first. He saves you the good trauma shears when the old ones mysteriously vanish. He grabs your favorite coffee on the days he knows you’re floating down to the ER from another floor. He leans over the nurses’ station and says things in that low, lazy voice that make Jesse roll his eyes and Dana smirk behind her computer.
“You’re smiling at me again,” you tell him one afternoon. “That must be awful for you.” “It is. I like you better snappy.” His hand presses to his chest. “Cruel.” “You’ll survive.” “Barely.” He says it like a joke, but his eyes stay on you a little too long. And you notice. You definitely notice.
The whole department does.
Because Frank is still Frank with everyone else. Still brilliant. Still fast. Still a little too sharp when the stakes are high and somebody fumbles in a room that can’t afford mistakes. But with you, there’s this strange softness now. Like some edge in him files itself down the second you’re near.
Dana catches him handing you a coffee one morning and mutters, “This is nauseating.” Jesse glances over. “He brought her oat milk. He doesn’t even know my last name.” Samira just looks smug. “I told you.” You try not to think too much about it. Frank’s flirty. Frank’s charming. Frank probably makes half the city feel special when he turns that attention on them.
So you don’t let yourself make anything out of it.
Which is why later, when you’re laughing with Dennis Whitaker at the nurses’ station, it doesn’t occur to you for even one second that Frank might care. Dennis is mid-story, doing an aggressively bad imitation of Santos during a chaotic central line placement, and you’re laughing so hard you have to brace a hand against the counter.
“No, because that is exactly how she sounded,” you say through a laugh.Dennis points at you. “Thank you. Finally, someone appreciates my gifts.” “Your gift,” you say, “is surviving Samira and Santos at the same time.” “Barely.” You grin. “Tragic.”
Dennis is smiling too, warm and easy, and you miss the exact moment Frank walks up. You only notice when Dennis’ expression shifts into something more careful, more entertained. “Well,” Frank says. You turn. He’s standing on the other side of the station with a chart in his hand and that perfectly neutral expression that means he is, in fact, not neutral at all.
“Hi,” you say, still smiling. His gaze flicks from you to Dennis, then back. “Didn’t realize comedy hour started without me.” Dennis’ eyebrows go up. “You want in, Langdon?” Frank’s smile is thin. “Pass.” You blink.
Dennis, because he has a functioning survival instinct but enjoys danger in manageable doses, glances between you two and slowly pushes off the counter. “I actually just remembered Dana asked me to do literally anything else.” “Coward,” you call after him. “Alive,” he shoots back.
And then Frank is there, leaning one forearm on the desk, looking at you in a way that makes your stomach do something weird. “What was that?” you ask. “What was what?” You narrow your eyes. “That whole weird territorial thing you just did.” He looks almost offended. “Territorial?”
“Yes, Frank. Territorial. Like Dennis was going to steal your favorite toy.” His jaw shifts, just barely. “You’re not a toy.” “No kidding.” He exhales through his nose, glancing away for half a second before looking back at you. “You were laughing.” You stare at him. “I do that sometimes, yeah.” “With Whitaker.” “Okay?”
His mouth tightens like he’s annoyed with himself for even standing here. “He was leaning in.” You actually laugh again, softer this time, because suddenly this is making a ridiculous sort of sense. “Are you jealous?” “No.” The answer is too fast. You fold your arms. “Frank.”
He looks at you for a long second, then drags a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know.” It’s the first time you’ve seen him lose that smooth, polished grip he keeps on himself. The first time he looks less like golden-boy senior resident and more like a man who hates not having the upper hand. And for some reason, it gets to you. “You don’t know?”
His eyes stay on yours. “I don’t have any right to be.” There it is. The thing underneath. Even though he has no reason. Even though you aren’t his. Even though whatever this is hasn’t been named and maybe can’t be.
The noise of the ER fills the space around you. Phones ringing. Someone calling for transport. A monitor alarming down the hall. The whole world keeps moving while the two of you stand there in this tiny pocket of stillness. You tilt your head. “That’s not what I asked.” “I know.” “Then answer me.” He gives you a look that is all sharp edges and honesty and something almost helpless under it. “Yes.”
Your heart stutters. “Yes,” he repeats more quietly. “I was jealous.” You should probably say something witty. Something light. Something that doesn’t make this feel like the floor just shifted under your feet. Instead you hear yourself ask, “Why?” Frank lets out a small laugh with no humor in it. “You really need me to spell that out?”
Maybe you do. Maybe you just want to hear him say it. He steps closer to the station, voice lower now, meant only for you. “Because every time you walk in here, I know where you are before I even see you. Because you smile at everyone, but when you smile at me it ruins my whole day in the best way.” He glances down, then back up. “Because you’re nice to everybody and still somehow make me want to be better than everybody.”
Your chest feels tight. “Frank—” “And because,” he says, quieter still, “I know you’re not mine.” The words hit harder than they should. Not mine. Not his. But he wants. You swallow. “That sounds dangerously close to feelings, doctor.” That finally gets the ghost of a grin out of him. “Yeah. Terrifying, isn’t it?”
You stare at him for a second, at the man everybody thinks they understand. The confident one. The polished one. The one with the quick mouth and the quicker hands and the sharp edges that cut when things get bad.
But this version of him, the one standing in front of you now, looks stripped down to the truth. And maybe that’s why you smile. Soft this time. Not teasing. Just for him. Frank notices immediately. Of course he does. His whole face changes.
You lean your elbows on the desk. “For the record, Dennis was telling me a story about Santos nearly committing homicide over a mislabeled specimen.” Frank huffs a laugh. “That tracks.” “And for the record,” you add, “if I wanted you to make a move, I’m pretty sure I could figure out how to let you know.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for the briefest second. “Could you?” You feel warm all of a sudden. “Frank.” “What?” he murmurs. “I’m just asking.” “You’re impossible.” “And yet.” “And yet,” you echo, unable to stop smiling. Overhead, the speaker crackles with another incoming ambulance. Of course it does. The ER never gives anyone long enough to sit in anything important.
Frank straightens with a sigh, all that softness tucking itself back under his skin as the doctor comes forward again. But before he steps away, his fingers brush yours on the counter. Quick. Barely there. Enough to make your breath catch. Then he says, low enough that only you can hear, “Try not to flirt with Whitaker for the next twenty minutes. I’m fragile.”
You laugh, bright and helpless and completely gone for him now, and Frank’s mouth curves like he can’t help it.
“Go save your patient, Langdon.” His eyes stay on you one second longer than necessary. “Yes, ma’am.” He walks away, and you watch him go with your heart knocking hard against your ribs. Dana appears at your shoulder like she materialized from thin air. “You two done being insane at my nurses’ station?” she asks.
You jump. “Jesus, Dana.” She squints in Frank’s direction. “He looked jealous.” You try for innocent and fail immediately. “Maybe a little.” Dana snorts. “Good. Builds character.” Then she wanders off before you can answer, leaving you smiling to yourself like an idiot.
Across the department, Frank glances back. Just once. But it’s enough.
Because now when he looks at you, it feels like he’s not just seeing the sunshine nurse who snapped at him in trauma. He’s seeing the one person in the room who never lets him get away with anything. And maybe, just maybe, the one person he wants to belong to when all of this finally catches up with him.
summary: Langdon is floored when you suggest hitting up a renfaire, even more so when you actually seem to be enjoying yourself. When you get home, he gets to work trying to ensure your fun lasts as long as possible.
tags/warnings: fluff, smut, established relationship, fem!reader, roleplay (princess x knight), body worship, pet names (baby, Your Majesty, your grace, my lord/lady), oral (f receiving), masturbation (m, frank gets off giving head #munch), frank cums in his pants
word count: 3.2k
A/N: my first Langdon fic wooo! pt.3 of Sweetheart is coming but in the meantime, enjoy this tidbit, I've been frankpilled asf lately so maybe expect more of him...anyway hope u enjoy i lurrrrve this one ugh, someone take me to a renessaince faire...
When you suggested a renfaire on your joint day off, Langdon was as stunned as if you’d proposed. He supposes that by now he should be used to it, but it continues to floor him that not only do you tolerate his dorkier tendencies, you actually encourage them.
For every cool, interesting pop culture tidbit you’ve taught him, all he’s been able to offer in return are fun facts about obscure bodily functions and useless details about bygone eras. Not once have you ever made him feel inadequate, or given him that squint-eyed, slow nod that people do when they’re trying very hard not to cringe away from whatever gauche thing you’re saying. Only, it’s one thing to listen to him blather on behind closed doors. Entirely another to traipse around Pittsburgh dressed as medieval elven royalty, where real-life, adult people can see.
With a hand securing your pointy, papier mache hennin hat, you look down at him in his train seat. “Don’t look so nervous.”
“I’m not,” he insists, muttering with his head bowed towards you. “But people are looking.”
When you smile, the pointed ends of your plastic elf ears rise slightly. “Would you prefer they close their eyes?”
“Yes, actually.” Langdon is sure his own elf ears are suddenly sorely mismatched against his real skin blushing a deep, humiliated pink. He shifts in his seat and looks up through his lashes. “Maybe they’re looking because they think I’m a bad boyfriend. Are you sure you don’t wanna sit?”
“Not if you’re gonna keep being such a wuss.”
“I am not a wuss.” He pouts, indignant. “The chainmail just makes a lot of noise when I’m standing up, that’s all.”
That, and a slightly more embarrassing issue. Langdon is not a pervert, he does not need beautiful women in period–or rather, lore-accurate costumes to get off. It’s just, you are especially beautiful right now. Plus, helping you get ready this morning required both hands and a lot of ribbons, the locations of which he can’t stop mentally mapping. They’re at your hips, the small of your back, in your sleeves. You made a joke about a too-tight garter belt when he was brushing his teeth and he’s almost certain that you were kidding. He can’t stop thinking about untying it with his teeth.
He’s hoping for a breather when you get to the fair. Some revelry, some craft stands, a little sun-warmed ale in plastic viking horns. Instead, what he gets is a fucking ambush.
Complaining of the heat, you loose the ribbon around your collar and now, he has a full view of your collarbone and the dainty gold chain around your neck. The pendant? Lost somewhere in the folds of your clothes, or your cleavage which now, if you’re looking, is also visible. Langdon, of course, can’t stop looking.
After a good while of ambling, you stumble upon some archery. It's mostly kids and buckets of candy as a prize but with some encouragement, he manages to lose himself a little. You stand at his shoulder, cheerleading in brilliantly inaccurate old English.
“Hark, my lord! That was a terrific shot.” He shoots a fond smile over his shoulder and in the lull, you step closer for a moment. “If such a display of battlefield prowess continues, I may have to reward thee with a kiss. Or, you know…”
He does know. Or, maybe he doesn't, but he can certainly come up with a few ideas. Once he starts, though, he can’t stop. The last thing you should be doing right now is leaving things to his imagination, which he intends to tell you until he's interrupted by the instructor telling everyone to swap places. At your uncertainty, he urges you to take the bow.
“Don’t worry, it’s not as hard as it looks.”
You send him a withering look. “You’re a doctor.”
“Good point. We’re known for our universal arrow-shooting capabilities.” He maneuvers you by the shoulders, swapping places so that you’re staring straight ahead at the target, then shoots you a wink. “Deep breaths, my lady. You got this.”
“There are so many kids around, like–”
He cuts you off laughing. “You’re not gonna shoot anyone, relax.”
“Fine.”
Langdon realises his mistake immediately. The elaborately braided knot in your hair has been coming undone for hours, and now your face is framed by puffy strands of curls. Your hat’s cheap, stapled-on chiffon wafts elegantly in the breeze, the dress’s matching fabric clinging to all your most distracting features as you raise your shooting arm. He’s just about ready to fall to his knees when a small gaggle of children materialise by your side, staring up in awe as you take the shot. It lands wide of the target, by a margin anyone else would find embarrassing. You take it in stride, turning to the kids like a Disneyland princess on the clock.
“Oh my!” you cry, hands flying to your face. “The wind blew away my arrow. How rude!”
The kids’ laughter chimes over another round of arrows and a nearby dragon fight. You lead them towards it and they follow, grinning and scampering.
“The king will not be happy! Perhaps we should leave the shooting to my handsome knight?” You shoot Langdon a wink that nearly has him toppling onto the grass. One of the little girls in the group, with tattered purple fairy wings, grips your skirt and dutifully agrees,
“Princesses aren’t meant to shoot arrows.”
“Oh, but they can,” you insist, crouching to meet her eye, “they must simply practice first.”
Langdon hangs back with the few stragglers in your audience, right by a stall selling foam swords painted to look rusted and war-torn. Still beside the little girl in fairy wings, you tap your chin in mock-contemplation.
“Or perhaps we shouldn’t shoot arrows…Perhaps–” You leap up and grab two swords, gently handing one to the little girl. “We should be swashbucklers instead!”
The kids all clamour to snatch swords of their own and the little purple fairy shrieks with laughter as you challenge her to a duel, then let her win. Before being roped into the fray himself, Langdon watches with an uncontrollable grin. He thinks about marrying you the whole way home.
The second you get through the front door, you groan and throw yourself onto the nearest, cosiest piece of furniture. Langdon assumes you’ll nap while he showers, then swap places so he can be off his feet for five minutes and you can wrangle yourself out of all those ribbons. He takes his time in the shower, and keeps it freezing cold. You aren’t going to want to be bothered by the stubborn semi he’s been fighting off every moment he’s gotten you alone. Tonight, you can cool off, watch a shitty, braindead action movie, make out and go to bed. It sounds pretty perfect to him.
When he gets out of the shower, however, it seems like you have other plans. You’re not on the sofa where he left you; now you lay on your front in bed, scrolling on your phone and swinging your feet in the air. A pale beam of sunlight lays flat over you like a blanket and, probably reading something, you mutter softly under your breath. He may as well have stumbled upon you, lounging in real palace gardens, leafing through a leatherbound tome.
As you hear him come in, you give him a coy look over your shoulder, smiling softly. When you get a good look at him, you pout slightly.
“No more chainmail? What happened to my dashing knight in shining armour?”
“He got sick of sounding like a heap of silverware in the dryer.” Langdon joins you on the bed, sitting at your feet and absently stroking a hand along the length of your skirt. “But he’s still here and ready to serve. Your majesty.”
When you give him a broad, toothy smile, he could swear that it makes the sun shine a little brighter.
“What are you thinking for dinner?” He tries dragging himself back to the mundane, but none of that distracts him. You aimlessly ramble about takeout options and his heart rate reacts as if you’re psyching him up to ride into battle. When you sit up closer to him, legs tucked beneath you, he’s as dazzled as if you’re a mermaid he just watched clamber onto a rock. He doesn’t mean to derail the conversation, he is listening. But he has to kiss you, or his heart, he swears, will stop.
You moan softly into the kiss, practically melting under his touch. He cups a hand around your face, thumb gently stroking back and forth on your cheek as he feels himself twitch in his sweatpants. His tongue drags against your bottom lip as he deepens the kiss, and his hand moves from your face to your shoulder, to stick his thumb through the loop of a bow on your sleeve. He tugs gently and the ribbon slips undone. It happens so easily, and now your sleeve is loose and threatening to slip right off your shoulder. His breath catches and he aches all the way from his erratically beating heart to his crotch, where he strains against his boxers with equally as frenzied desire.
“I am,” he kisses you again, moaning into your mouth, “so in love with you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” you respond, mouth still stretched into a dazzling smile. He grabs your hand and interlinks your fingers with a smile of his own, then gives you a peck. Just as he’s trying to get up, he steps on your skirt and simultaneously, both of you grimace and burst into laughter.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He knows that it doesn’t matter, not to you anyway. It’s a cheaply made, then cheaply altered costume dress that you probably won’t even think of until next Halloween. Still, something about it just feels wrong, like doing vandalism in the woods or peeing in the ocean. Your smile gets a little conniving as you look down at him, on his knees and brushing imaginary dirt off your skirt.
“You look good down there.”
“I do?” He chuckles. “Well, I’m glad you like it, m’lady.”
As he starts to stand, you hold him down by his shoulders, eyes narrowed and mouth quirking. With folds of your skirt still held between his fingers, he chuckles again.
“You good?”
After another moment’s silence, you sit up and lean back, expression becoming haughty and pouting. “Is that any way to speak to your queen?”
Langdon grins. “No, I guess not.” You raise your eyebrows and he tries again. “Oh, uh–No, Your Majesty. Apologies. What I meant was, uh…Is all well, Your Majesty?”
“All is well, my lord. It could be better though, could it not?”
“How?” It comes out more demand than question, and his hand is already creeping up your skirt. Loose around your ankle, then flat against your calf, fingers ghosting over your knee and flattening again as they slide forward on your thighs. He stops when he gets to your hip and stares up at you, mouth slightly ajar. “How could I be of service, Your Majesty?”
Leaning forward, you narrow your eyes again. “You love this, don’t you?”
As sheepish as he gets, what use is there denying it? He’s throbbing in his sweatpants and already on his knees. “It doesn’t get weirder than this, I promise, it’s just–”
You hold a hand up to silence him and his mouth snaps shut. His dick throbs even harder, so hard now that it aches. If he knew what you wanted to do to him, he might be able to bear it. Just a glimpse into what you might be thinking.
“What–”
Your hand drops but your eyebrows raise. “Did I tell you to keep talking?”
Langdon swallows. “No.”
Somehow, your expression gets even more stern. He takes the hint and clears his throat.
“No, Your Majesty.”
You nod sagely and shoot him a wink, before bringing your posture back to austere and imposing. Just as suddenly, you throw yourself back onto the bed, your performance now that of a withered damsel in distress.
“It is so exhausting to be a princess!” you cry. “So boring to be kept here, day after day, stuck behind these castle walls.”
Amusement tugs at the corners of Langdon’s mouth and when you lean up on your elbows to look at him, you have a matching giddy smile on your face.
“Do you know, my lord, how utterly deprived I am of entertainment?”
“I can only imagine, your majesty.”
“You can! It is–” you pause to dab an imaginary tear, “so dreadful.”
He gets distracted just watching you, so hard it hurts but too blissfully in love to care. You have to nudge him with your foot to get him to snap back into character. “Oh, right, uh–My lady, would…Shall I…entertain you?”
You grin and it takes everything in him not tear off your dress and fuck you senseless without another word.
“You shall.” His other hand slides under your skirt, then both pull off your underwear in one swift motion, making you gasp. “Someone’s eager.”
“It is not only royalty, my lady,” he lifts your legs onto his shoulders, “who notice their deprivation.”
“So I deprive you now, do I?”
“Of course not.” He lavishes your thighs with kisses, nuzzling into your skin and grazing his teeth along the most sensitive spots. “If I could have you every second, of every day, it wouldn’t be enough.”
You lie back as he spreads your legs and runs his lips along you. It takes a herculean effort not to taste every part of you at once, but he knows how you like it. And he’s here to serve you.
Slowly, deliberately, he runs his two middle fingers along your skin. Just enough pressure to feel how wet you are and have you writhe under his hands, legs spreading further and a whine falling from your lips. He does it again, this time with his thumb and a little more pressure, so that he dips inside you. Your back arches and he groans, licking into you as his thumb continues to rub languidly up and down, slowly getting soaked.
“You are–” he groans again, tongue rolling forwards with more pressure. Fingers digging into your thighs, he tugs you towards him desperately, unable to do anything but hump the empty air and moan.
He breaks for only a moment to push two fingers inside you, hawkishly watching for your reaction. “How does it feel?” he mutters.
You moan and arch your back, but he shakes his head and curls the fingers pushing in and out of your body.
“Tell me, my lady,” he plants a soft kiss on your inner thigh, “tell me how I make you feel.”
“Good,” you moan, all breathy and whining. “You feel so fucking good.”
Frank nods to himself and watches as you clench around his fingers. His other hand rubs your body aimlessly, his gaze wandering and awe-struck. “You want anything else?”
“Just don’t stop.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He dives towards your clit so that you tug on his hair. Nails scratching, then stroking, soothing.
By now, his boxers are soaked with precum, a dark gray spot blooming through his sweatpants as he continues to grind against nothing. He cups his free hand around himself, lightly stroking through his clothes. It’s not enough, it won’t be until he’s buried to the hilt inside you.
“Baby,” he groans. “Baby, I need you.”
You hum and sit up on your elbows, biting down on your lip as he continues to fuck you with his fingers. “Who?”
“Sorry, your grace.” He chuckles and draws his fingers out of you, marvelling at the way you clench around nothing. As he goes on, he can’t help it; he has to reach inside his boxers. Distracted by his soaked fingers and the promise of tasting you still only inches from his face, all thoughts of his own pleasure are forgotten. He laps at you even more hungrily and you giggle through more moans, head thrown back.
“What happened to needing me?”
“Fuck, I do, but–holy shit, baby–” he gasps, “You like this better, right?”
“I like you, silly.”
“I know, I know. But I’m okay. I just wanna take care of you. Wanna be on my knees for you.”
“Oh my God, Frank,” you moan breathlessly.
His breathing stutters as he jerks himself off through his sweats, moans becoming equal parts halting and droning. His voice hums through you and his tongue works you closer and closer to an orgasm. As waves of pleasure shudder through your body, he has just enough room to pull back and mutter against you.
“That’s it, baby, give it to me. God–” through more gasps and whines, he cycles between swirling his tongue over your clit and begging you to cum as he bucks into his own hand. “Please, baby, that’s–-Oh my God, yes.”
He settles on sucking your clit, fingers still curling ceaselessly inside you. You cry out his name again and clench your legs around his head and as you cum all over his tongue, coating his face, he kisses you like a man famished. Groaning and keeping one arm looped around your thigh to keep you in place, he pushes his tongue into your sensitive cunt, plants soft kisses on your clit and whines frantic praises under his breath.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.” He lets out a broken, panting moan. “So good, baby. Thank you, Your Majesty, thank you, thank you. You’re so fucking perfect, I don’t deserve–Ah, I love you. I love you, you’re so good. Thank you.”
He continues muttering his thanks, working himself through an orgasm of his own. Your body twitches and arches away from his kisses but he can’t stop, can’t get enough. By the time he realises what he’s done, the dark, wet patch in his sweatpants is growing even bigger and his head is spinning.
“Shit, oh my God, baby. Sorry.”
“What do you mean?” As you sit up, your voice sounds as dazed as he feels.
“I was meant to fuck you. I didn’t even…” To refocus his train of thought, he has to shake his head. “Babe, I swear I don't know what happened. I just…”
He trails off again, sending a blissed-out stare between your legs and licking his lips. You giggle and pull your skirt down, ruffling his hair and standing.
“If our biggest problem is you enjoy going down on me too much, I think we’re gonna be just fine.”
As you stalk off to the shower, Langdon stays on his knees. Even though they ache, he wonders if he could find a way to stay here forever. He thinks of the hectic shift he has tomorrow, of all the sideways glances and awkward small talk he’ll have to struggle through, as he tries to regain his place in the PTMC. Right now, though, it’s just this: deep, steadying breaths and your release drying on his face, one of your dress’ ribbons torn off and strewn on the floor. He twirls it around his fingers and basks in this feeling. For the millionth time all day, he thinks about proposing. Just like this, on his knees, holding up a ring and totally at your mercy. Of all his fantasies, this might be his favourite. Though he wonders if now, instead of a ring, you might prefer a crown.
Synopsis: You see Peter for the first time in years and suddenly find it hard to be around him due to all his new improvements
Masterlist
After erasing the same spot on your paper for the fifth time, the paper finally tore. You ripped the page out of the notebook and crumpled it up in frustration. To your luck, Happy walked into the lab just as you threw it, nailing him right on the forehead.
“Oh. Throwing things before 11 am, are we?” He laughed as he rubbed the spot your paper ball hit.
“Sorry.” You grimaced. “I’ll pick it up. And then burn it. And then run into oncoming traffic.”
“Tough day in the lab?”
“Tough week.” You sighed and shut your notebook. “I’m about to throw this whole notebook in the fireplace.”
“Before you do that, I wanted you to say hello to our guest for the week.” Happy said and pointed his thumb at the hallway to signal that he had someone out there waiting.
“Sorry, Happy. I don’t know if I’m in a stable enough mood to be nice to strangers right now.” You told him, but he was already opening the lab door to let someone in.
“He’s not a stranger. He’s an old friend of your dad’s. Don’t you know Peter?” Happy asked as a guy your age walked into the lab. Time slowed down and you could have sworn a gust of air hit you, causing you to stumble back a little. “Bliss” by Mariah Carey started to play in your head as the most beautiful stranger made eye contact with you. He was in an Empire State University t-shirt that fit him just tad too tightly, but only because he was so defined. Curly brown hair that was just the right amount of overgrown spilled into his eyes, which he shook out of the way. He gave you a smile that felt like you just quite possibly started the second immaculate conception in your uterus.
“Did you hear me?” Happy asked, making you realize you’d been standing there in silence as you gawked at the boy.
“Sorry, I have my headphones in.” You lied once you composed yourself enough to speak.
“No you do-.” Happy began to point out.
“Sorry, was did you say your name was?” You quickly cut Happy off so he didn’t expose your lie.
“Peter. We met a couple years ago before the uh, airport battle royale, if you will.” He told you, and even his voice was attractive. You stared at his face for a moment but struggled to place him. You remembered your dad introducing you to some of his new recruits, but you knew you would’ve remembered if you met this man before.
“I was the sticky one in the red suit.” Peter followed up, hoping it would jog your memory.
That’s when it clicked for you. The picture frame on your dad’s desk, untouched in the years since his passing. There was a boy in the picture making bunny ears behind your dad’s head, the same boy in red and blue pajamas you showed your dad videos of all those years ago. That nerdy kid from the videos had somehow turned into the captivating man in front of you in the years since your last seen him.
“Wait, you’re Peter? Peter Parker?” You asked, failing to hide your disbelief. Peter let out a shy laugh and nodded his head.
“That’s me. Sorry, you probably didn’t recognize me. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Not since the um, well, it’s just been a long time.”
“Clearly.” You blurted, the quickly followed it up with, “I mean, what’s, uh, what’s new?”
“Not much. I’m in college, but I won’t bore you out the details. It’s really good to see you.” He said as he started to come closer to you.
“It is really good to see you too.” You replied, finally sounding normal just as he enveloped you in a hug. You stiffened in surprise before hugging him back. The scent of his cologne wafted off his skin and if he hadn’t been holding you so tightly, you might’ve collapsed on the floor.
“Sorry. I just don’t see many familiar faces lately.” Peter said sheepishly once he pulled away. From how tightly he hugged you, you could tell he really needed it. You had no idea what had happened to him since the last time you saw him, but the sadness in his eyes now told you it wasn’t good.
“It’s okay.” You assured him as you held his gaze. To make matters worse, he had the softest brown eyes you’d even seen. Much to your dismay, you were officially enamored with this man.
“Peter is staying here for the week while he’s home from college.” Happy told you. “Would you mind showing him around? I put his room right across the hall from yours.”
“Of course you did.” You mumbled.
“I can wait outside if you’re still working.” Peter offered politely.
“It’s okay. I need to clear my head a little anyway.” You decided and shoved what you were working on away from you.
As you led Peter through the halls of Avengers Tower, you made absolutely no eye contact with him. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further, so you made no effort to make conversation.
“It really is good to see you. It’s been such a long time. So many things have changed.” Peter said to break the silence. You allowed yourself just one glance at him, and immediately caught sight of his enormous bicep. You quickly looked away and sucked in a sharp breath.
“Yes, they most certainly have.” You replied.
“What was that you were working on?” He asked you on the elevator ride to the main floor.
“Just some stupid blueprints that I can’t get to work.” You sighed. “I think just gonna scrap it.”
“What’s it for?”
“I’m trying to make a bracelet for kids that can scan food and detect allergens. It’ll buzz and turn red if they can’t eat the food. But I can’t get it to stop exploding. And I don’t think parents want their kids to explode. Or, maybe they do, and I have a genius invention on my hands.”
“That’s an incredible idea. I don’t think you should scrap it. One of them has to not explode, right?” He asked. His encouragement sounded sincere, making you even more in love with him. You decided to probe for reasons to not be attracted to him, since that would be the only way for you two to coexist while he stayed at the Tower. You brought the tour to the kitchen and showed him the inside.
“This is the kitchen. You probably won’t use it much.” You assumed. “I know most guys our age are all about protein maxxing and pre-workout inhaling.”
“Not me, actually. I love to cook. I make all my own meals. It feels better to eat it knowing I prepared it.” Peter told you, because of course he loved to cook.
“Is that so?” You asked with a dry mouth.
“Yeah! I could show you sometime, if you like. What do you like to eat?” He asked.
“Well, I think my favorite food is something my best friend’s mom used to make a lot when we were kids. They’re called tostones. She made them the perfect amount of salty and crispy.”
“Hm. I haven’t heard of that, but it sounds really good. Are you two still friends?” Peter wondered, making things ten times worse. Asking questions to get to know you was not helping you not fall for Peter.
“We are. It’s just harder to find time for a family dinner nowadays.”
“I bet. Happy told me how busy you are. From what he said, it sounds like you’re ready to take over Stark Industries any day now.”
“That’s the goal.” You admitted. “It certainly pays to be a Nepo baby in a field I actually really enjoy.”
“Hey, you may be Tony Stark’s daughter, but you’re inheriting the company because you earned it.” Peter said sincerely. “I’ve read about the stuff you’ve made. You’re brilliant.”
“Oh, thank you.” You smiled shyly at the compliment. “I remember that you are as well.”
“I wouldn’t say brilliant. I’m nowhere near your level. But I know what to do when I’m in there.” Peter shrugged modestly, highlighting his perfectly broad shoulders.
“I bet you do.” You whispered.
“What did you say?” He asked.
“I asked what you like to do?” You lied. “Physics? Engineering? Chemistry?”
“I love it all. But I think engineering. I made these, actually.” He said as he clinked his wrists together. Two black bands formed on each wrist and he held them out for you to see.
“What do they do?”
To answer your question, Peter shot a web at a flower pot across the room. He yanked it back, caught he effortlessly, and then handed you the flower. You felt your face warm up and accepted it with a soft smile.
“You created those yourself?” You asked him with amazement.
“Yeah. It took me forever to get the web formula right. And then when I did, I had to reconfigure the shooter a thousand times to get it to stop sticking to the inside when I tried to shoot them. But now they work well. See?” He shot another web, but you weren’t sure what he was aiming for this time. You were too fixated on watching his veins when he flexed his forearms.
“Oh, I see.” You said under your breath.
“What was that?”
“I said it’s this way to our rooms.” You quickly covered up and faked a smile. You showed Peter to his room and then got out of there was fast as you could. You leaned against your door after shutting it and stared up at the ceiling as you caught your breath.
Once you were composed, you slipped the Kimoyo beads off your wrist and used them to call Shuri. When she answered, she appeared as a holographic projection in your room. You caught up with your friend for a little bit, but when she asked why you called out of the blue, you had to confess.
“You know Spider-Man?” You asked her.
“The sticky one? Only a little bit.“
“Have you ever seen him without his mask?”
“I have. At your father’s funeral.” She responded. That answer brought you right back to that day at the cabin. You vaguely remembered seeing Peter that day, but the day was mostly a blur. It suddenly made sense why he didn’t specify the last time you saw each other. He didn’t want to bring back bad memories for you.
“Why do you ask?” Shuri asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.”
“No reason.” You lied. “I just had a quick question about him.”
“I don’t know him too well, so I might not know the answer. What were you wondering?”
“Oh, not much. Just when did he, you know…” You trailed off at the end and gestured with your hand for her to fill in the blank.
“I don’t know.” Shuri said with a laugh.
“You know. Was he always so…” You tried again and gave her a look.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Shuri told you.
“When did he get so fucking hot?” You blurted, followed by you looking at your door to make sure it was shut. Shuri bent over laughing as your entire face heated up.
“I don’t know.” She said when she stopped laughing. “He got bit by that spider.”
“How swol was the spider?” You asked out of the corner of your mouth.
“I think I was told it was radioactive. I don’t remember if I was told about its muscle composition.” She replied, making you roll your eyes.
“I don’t know what to do, princess.” You groaned. “He’s staying here for the week, but I can’t be around him. He’s too sexy. I just tried to show him around the kitchen, and all I could think of was riding on a horse with him and holding on to his gigantic shoulders for support. How am I supposed to stay across the hall from him?”
“If you’re that attracted to him, ask him out.” Shuri said simply.
“I can’t. I can tell that he’s a really nice guy. I don’t want him to think I’m shallow and just trying to hop on that because of his looks. He deserves better than that.”
“Are you trying to hop on that?” Shuri asked, gathering from context clues what you meant by that.
“Oh yeah. Ohhhhh yeah. All day.” You answered, making her laugh again.
“Maybe he’ll be flattered.” She shrugged.
“I don’t think he’s that kind of guy. Which makes it even worse. He’s a gentleman. God, I wish I was dead.” You whined and flopped on your bed.
“People have worse problems.” She reminded you.
“No, I don’t think they do. His eyes are so brown, princess. You have no idea. They’re like the Willy Wonka chocolate river. And I feel like that little fat fuck that got too greedy and fell in.”
“Do I know Willy Wonka?” Shuri asked. “Has he been to Wakanda?”
“Honestly, probably.” You replied. “But no, you don’t know him. Oh my God. What am I gonna do?”
“I think if you’re worried about him thinking you’re shallow, then get to know him first. Maybe you’ll discover you don’t actually like him.” Shuri suggested. You sat up on your elbows and stared at a picture of your dad on your dresser. It was time to come clean about the other reason that had been eating away at you.
“Him thinking I’m shallow isn’t my only reason.” You admitted. “My dad only knew about Peter because I showed him the videos of him. He believed in him because I believe in him. If I mess this up with Peter, it’s like I’m cutting on one of my last remaining ties with my dad.”
“Maybe the reason your dad liked him so much was because he reminded him of his daughter.” Shuri said softly. You thought about her words and as much as you wanted to believe her, you were scared.
“You’re very wise.” You said finally. “Someone should put you in charge of country or something.”
“They should.“ She played along. You moved on and talked about other things, but a corner of your mind stayed on Peter.
When you walked into the kitchen the following morning, Peter was already in there. You were about to turn around to leave when he called you over.
“Good morning. Look what I got at the bodega.” Peter said and held up a bunch of plantains.
“Good morning.” You said back. “What’s that for?”
“Well, I looked up tostones after you mentioned them yesterday, and they looked delicious. And since you haven’t had them in a while, I thought we could make it together.”
“You went out and got plantains because I mentioned that they were my favorite?” You asked slowly.
“Sorry, is that weird?” Peter frowned and put the bunch down.
“No, no, no!” You quickly assured him. “It’s not weird at all. I just wasn’t expecting you to do something so nice after how crappy my tour was yesterday.”
“It couldn’t have been that crappy if I found my way back to the kitchen today.” Peter pointed out.
“That’s true.” You smiled. “Let me see your recipe.”
You helped Peter make the tostones and decided your plan to avoid him would start tomorrow. When they were ready, you sat down together at the table to try them.
“Are they as good as your friend’s mom’s?” He asked you between bites.
“Not quite. But still very good. Thank you for doing this. I haven’t had them in so long.”
“You’re very welcome. I wanted you to have a taste of something familiar since you don’t get to see your friend as much.”
“That was very kind of you. I can’t wait to send her a picture of these.” You told him. “She’s gonna be so jealous.”
“Wait, we should invite her!” Peter realized. “I’d love to meet your friends.”
You froze when he said this, suddenly feeling the urge to run away. He had already gone out of his way to make your favorite food, and now he was saying he wanted to meet your friends. Things were getting too real and you needed to leave.
“Um, I’m so sorry.” You said as you stood up. “I just realized I forgot to do something. I have to go.”
You left the room without further explanation, leaving Peter alone and extremely confused.
The next day, you skillfully avoided Peter in the kitchen at breakfast, and again during lunch. It wasn’t until you walked by the gym that you were no longer able to avoid him. It was your fault really, since you did a double take when you saw him doing pull up’s on the chin-up bar. It became extra your fault when you stopped to watch him.
“Oh, he’s ripped as fuck? Amazing. Just what I wanted to find out.” You mumbled sarcastically to yourself.
You were only there for a few seconds before he made eye contact with you. It was too late to take off running, despite how much you wanted to do exactly that.
“Oh, hey!” Peter greeted. “Can you come in here for a second?”
You contemplated running once more, but knew it wasn’t an option. Instead, you walked into the gym, right up to the man you were trying to avoid. His tight black tank top put all his new improvements on display, and you were fighting for your life not to pay attention to that.
“Hello, Peter.” You said calmly.
“I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you.” He said as he continued to move up and down on the bar.
“Talk to me? About what?” You asked and prayed for a bolt of lightening would strike that specific part of the Tower so that you would have an excuse to leave the conversation.
“Could you please wait a minute for me? I just have a few more reps.” He said, with manners he just had to have. You stared up at the ceiling to wait for him to be done.
“Take your time.” You squeaked out. He let go of the bat when he was finished and lifted up his shirt to wipe his face with it, giving you a full view of his torso.
“Fuck. My ovaries.” You whispered.
“Did you say something?” Peter asked as he continued to dry his face.
“I said there’s towels over here.” You covered up and grabbed a nearby towel. Without looking, you handed it to him and tried to compose yourself.
“Thanks.” He smiled at you, but you didn’t look at him.
“You wanted to talk to me?” You reminded him.
“Yeah. Are you busy tonight?” He asked you as he dried himself off with the towel.
“I might be.” You said as you forced yourself to keep eye contact and not look anywhere else.
“If you’re not, would you want to come with me to this party?” He asked. “I don’t really know the guy who’s hosting, but some of my friends from high school are going.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t know anyone.”
“It’s okay. You can stay with me. I won’t leave you to talk to strangers. I hate when people do that.” He told you, making you smile softly.
“Yeah, I hate that too.” You said. “I guess I could come to a party.”
You regretted it as soon as you said it. You were supposed to be avoiding him, but it just wasn’t in your willpower to turn down the cute boy inviting you to a party and offering to stay with you the whole night.
“Great.” Peter grinned. “I’ll come by your room around 7?“
“I’ll be there. In my room. Around 7.” You said and pointed finger guns at him, because why would you possibly be cool ever? You quickly put your hands down and hoped for that lightning strike again.
“Sounds good. I’m gonna do some push ups now. You’re welcome to stay and watch, but it’s not my best angle.” He joked, making you let out an audible gulp at the thought of him at that angle. You quickly cleared your throat to cover up the sound.
“Yeah, I definitely don’t want to watch you do push up’s. That would be crazy if I wanted to watch that.” You said through a forced laugh. Things quickly became awkward, and you decided you had to get out of there as soon as possible.
“So 7?” You said, and Peter nodded. You gave him a thumbs up and practically sprinted out of the room after that. You ran all the way to your room and slammed the door behind you.
Peter gave you another reason to fall for him when he showed up at your door 5 minutes early. Punctuality was rare among boys your age, but of course a quality that Peter possessed. If his workout attire hadn’t been bad enough, now he was in a button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You opened the door and let out a small sound that you hoped Peter didn’t catch.
“Hi. You look beautiful.” He complimented you, making you instinctively smile.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” You replied coyly. Peter smiled at you and offered his arm to walk you to the elevator. You thought he was going to press the button for the ground floor, but he went up to the roof instead.
“Where are we going?” You asked on the ride up.
“I was gonna swing us, if thats okay.” He said, making your heart pick up its pace.
“You want to swing me around the city in your big arms?” You asked before you could stop yourself.
“If that’s okay.” Peter repeated as he laughed.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s okay.” You told him and turned your face so that he couldn’t see you mouthing “Oh my God” to yourself.
When you got to the roof, Peter brought you to the edge.
“How does this work? Do I get on your back Bella and Edward style?” You asked him.
“Yes, actually.” He chuckled, taking you by surprise that he knew the reference. You shrugged and climbed on his back, getting enveloped in the scent of his cologne.
“Hold tight, Spider Monkey. And don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.” Peter said before shooting a web at a nearby building. Your dad was Iron Man, so heights did not scare you. What did scare you was getting attached to the feeling of holding Peter, which was admittedly a pretty great feeling. You let out a happy scream as he swung you from building to building. When you landed on the rooftop of where the party was, you fought the urge to hug him.
“Ready?” Peter asked you as he smoothed down his hair. You adjusted your outfit and nodded your head.
Once inside, Peter introduced you to his friends, Ned and MJ. You and MJ got to talking as Peter and Ned over some movie they had just seen. You liked watching Peter in this relaxed setting, but it wasn’t helping you to not fall for him. You stopped watching him and tuned back into your conversation with MJ.
You felt unexpectedly at ease with Peter’s friends. It didn’t feel like you’d just met that night and instead felt more like you’d grown up with them. They included you and got to know you, making you feel at home. Peter having a great groups of friends was yet another reason you were struggling not to fall for him.
“I’m really glad you said yes to tonight.” Peter told you once Ned and MJ walked off to refill their drinks.
“You are?” You asked him, feeling more comfortable around him now that you had some drinks in you.
“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to hang out with you, but I can never find you.”
“How strange.” You said through a fake laugh, because you 100% avoided him all day. Peter looked into your eyes for a moment with a shy smile on his face. You tried not to look back at first and looked all around the room, but your gaze eventually came back to him. You looked into his eyes and felt all your walls crumbling down.
“Can I say something and then we never talk about it?” Peter asked suddenly, making you freeze.
“Um, sure? You said nervously.
“I’m so sorry that I disappeared. After everything with your dad happened, I just couldn’t bear to come back to the Tower. But I should have.” Peter said with guilt in his voice. You were not expecting him to say this and blamed it on the alcohol.
“Peter, it’s fine.” You assured him. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You were his friend. We didn’t know each other.”
“I know. But I always felt guilty about not reaching out to see how you were. He loved you so much. And I loved him. I should have checked up on you. I should’ve gotten to know you.” Peter continued. You could see his eyes welling up with tears and didn’t know what to do. Without thinking it through, you put down your cup and pulled him into a tight hug. Peter immediately hugged you back and hurried his face in your neck.
“Now we’re the weirdos hugging in the middle of the party.” You said as you rubbed circle onto his back. He let out a laugh and hugged you tighter. He came up after another minute and rubbed his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I had to get that off my chest.” He said, looking shy now.
“It’s okay. And honestly, I should’ve reached out too. It was just all so crazy after he passed. But I saw the picture of the two of you on his desk all the time. I should’ve tracked you down. I should’ve gotten to know you.”
“At least we found each other now.” Peter said with a soft smile. You smiled back and nodded your head.
“At least we did.”
Ned came running back into the room you were in, interrupting your emotional moment. You were admittedly a little glad he did, because things were getting too real once again.
“Guys, they’re playing Spin the Bottle in the other room. In real life. Let’s go!” Ned said and pulled Peter’s arm.
“You coming?” Peter asked as he stumbled towards Ned.
“No thanks.” You shook your head. “I’m not really a kissing strangers type of gal. I just don’t think mono is for me.”
“Me neither.” Peter chuckled. “Maybe we can just watch and silently judge the players?”
You shrugged and followed him and his friends into the room. You didn’t really want to watch, but it would be a good preventative from another deep conversation with Peter. And so, you found a spot against a wall as others took their seats on the floor.
“What do you think about all this?” Peter leaned in close to you to ask. You gave him the side eye from how close he was and then looked away.
“I think someone of definately walking away from this with a cold sore.”
“Not that.” He laughed. “But I agree. I mean kissing for recreation.”
“Oh. I never thought about it like that. I guess I would say to each their own, but it’s not really my style.”
“Me either. I don’t want to kiss some stranger at a party with a bunch of people I kinda know watching. I think a kiss should mean something.” Peter said as he looked at you. You looked back for just a moment and then quickly looked away.
“So when you’re kissing for meaning, who is it with? Girls? Boys? A little bit of both?” You asked him. If he was gay, maybe it would help you get over your crush faster.
“Girls. Though, if you can believe it, I haven’t been too lucky in that department.” He said with a half hearted chuckle. You smiled in response but internally cursed that he wasn’t gay or a player.
“Well that’s probably because you’re hideous to look at.” You said bluntly, making Peter laugh. You cracked a smile but continued to avoid eye contact with him.
“Thank you. I was hoping you’d notice.”
“I’m teasing.” You assured him. “I was honestly stunned when you walked in the other day. I could not believe you were the same Peter my dad used to talk about.”
“Stunned?” He asked. “Why?”
“Because I would’ve remembered if you had that face.”
You folded your lips in after you said it, knowing you had said too much. You hoped he wouldn’t catch it and move on, but to no avail. Peter was leaning in closer to you with a big smile on his face.
“What about my face?” He asked with an amused look. You opened your mouth to respond, but were interrupted by everyone’s eyes turning to you. You looked down at the bottle on the floor and saw it was pointed in the gap between two players and set directly at you.
“It landed on you, miss Stark. Guess we have to kiss.” A guy you’d never met before said as he stood up.
“Oh, I’m not playing.” You smiled politely and turned back to Peter.
“You’re in the room. Rules are rules.” The guy continued as he walked towards you, making you and Peter slowly turn to look at him. You exchanged a look with each other before looking back at the guy.
“Well, the rules don’t apply to people who aren’t playing, so.” You said with zero politeness this time.
“Hey, if you have an issue, take it up with the bottle. Just give me a quick one. I’ll be gentle.” The guy chuckled and stood in front of you. Peter stepped in between you suddenly and pushed the guy back.
“She said she wasn’t playing.” Peter said sternly. The corners of your mouth tugged into a smile after seeing the fire in Peter’s eyes.
“Woah. Sorry, dude. I didn’t realize you were her boyfriend.” The guy said in a different tone than the one he used with you. You rolled your eyes at the guys sudden ability to be respectful.
“Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.” Peter demanded. “She should not have had to say no more than once before you got it through your thick skull.”
“I’m sorry.” The guy begrudgingly said to you. You didn’t say anything in response.
“Go on. Fuck off.” Peter ordered, and the guy walked away. Everyone was staring at you at this point and a few had their phones out to film, one of the perks of being the child of a micro-celebrity. You looked around the room and felt your face getting warmer by the second.
“I think I’m gonna go.” You whispered to Peter. You swiftly left the room and Peter followed after you.
“Are you okay?” He asked once you were alone in the next room.
“Yeah, it’s just not really my scene. Thank you for inviting me though.” You said sincerely and started walking to the door again.
“I can walk you home.” He offered.
“Don’t worry about it. Stay with your friends. I don’t want you to miss the party.” You assured him, mostly wanting to be alone after that last encounter.
“I don’t care about the party if you’re not there. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I don’t want you walking alone.” Peter said as he gently caught your arm. You looked at where his hand was holding you and sucked in a little breath. Being protective of you was making it hard not to fall for him right then and there.
“Okay.” You decided. “We can walk together.“
And so you did. You walked side by side in silence all the way home. Peter had a no swinging and drinking rule, and you were both a little tipsy. But the cold New York air was helping you come back to your normal state of mind. The silence between you as you walked was comfortable, and you were grateful for that. You liked that he was someone you could be comfortable around without having to exchange any words.
“Brought her back safe, Parker?” Happy asked when the two of you entered the Tower.
“Yes, sir.” Peter said with genuine manners.
“Knew you would, kid. So, was this a date, or can I sleep peacefully tonight knowing you two are across the hall from each other? Because I’m not ready to be a grandfather.” Happy asked, making you start to choke on air. Peter clapped your back to help you out and you finally composed yourself.
“It wasn’t a date.” You finally croaked out. You looked over at Peter, was who surprisingly bright red.
“Not a date.” Peter agreed. “I just took her to meet my friends.”
“Good answer.“ Happy nodded. “Because your dad always told me any boyfriend of yours would have to go through Navy Seal level training before he was allowed to spend the night.”
“Again, not my boyfriend.” You stated as you glared at Happy for embarrassing you. Peter was smiling shyly and scratching the back of his head.
“Well if anything changes in the next 48 hours, let me know. I can have Peter sent off to bootcamp by the weekend. Night, you two.” Happy said before walking away. You and Peter stood there in silence for a minute, this time, a very uncomfortable silence.
“I’m gonna…” Peter finally broke the tension and pointed in the direction of your rooms.
“Right. Me too. Goodnight, Peter.” You said and forced a smile. Peter caught your eye and looked at you for just long enough to make your knees wobbly.
“Goodnight.” He said with a soft smile. You gulped and waited where you were until he was gone. When the coast was clear, you let out a loud sigh and rubbed your face. The week wasn’t up yet and you were losing the battle against falling for him more and more every day.
You eventually retreated back to your room, but you couldn’t settle down. Tonight felt very different between you and Peter, and you didn’t like how things ended after the connection you shared. After pacing your room for a full half hour, you decided to go knock on his door.
Peter just had to open his door with nothing on but a towel around his hips. You had caught Peter just coming out do the shower, and for some reason, he decided to open the door before getting dressed. He had another towel in his hand that he was rubbing back and forth on his damp curls.
“Fuck.” You practically shouted in his face. You instantly clamped your mouth shut and felt your eyes go wide.
“Um, what?” Peter laughed in confusion. You had to think quickly and your eyes landed on his phone cable on his night stand.
“Fuck…my phone charger. It’s broken.” You said weakly. “I guess. Can I borrow one?”
“Oh, sure. Come in.” Peter said and went back into his room.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll wait here.” You said and kept your eyes glued to ceiling to stop probing him with them. His back was to you now, which was not helping anything. Even his back was hot.
“You can come in. I want to show you something.” He said as he turned back to face you. Your eyes instinctively dropped to his waistband before going back up to his eyes.
“Show me something?” You asked in a low voice.
“One second.” He said and went into his connected bathroom. You blew out a breath once he was gone and fanned yourself. After emotionally connecting with him at the party, he just had to remind you why he caught your eye in the first place.
Peter came back after a minute in his pajamas, thankfully. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk drawer and handed it to you.
“What’s this?” You asked as you took it.
“Your scrapped design for the allergy bracelet. I hope it’s okay that I took it out of the trash. I thought it was too creative to throw out. But it was super crumpled, so I rewrote it as best as I could.”
“You saved my design?”
“Yeah. I think if we look at it together, we can figure out what’s missing. Maybe we can get it to stop exploding?” He asked hopefully. Thus, reminding you of the other reason you liked Peter. He was incredibly thoughtful.
“Thanks, Peter. That was really nice of you.” You smile softly as you looked up at him.
“It’s no problem. I had to save it. You’re an amazing inventor. You are totally going to run the world one day.” He said with a shy smile on his lips.
“If I don’t blow it up first.” You replied. It suddenly dawned on you how close you and Peter were. He was just inches away, close enough for you to smell the body wash he just used. You gulped a little and hoped it wasn’t as audible to him as it sounded to you.
“I don’t think you will.” He said softly. “And even if you did, you’d probably do it in a really cool way.”
He was so close now that a droplet from his hair landed on your shirt. You could see every freckle on his nose. He has creases by his eyes, something you somehow hadn’t noticed before despite all your staring at him. Peter seemed to be getting closer by the second, and you suddenly remembered you were not supposed to be falling for him. You pulled away and cleared your throat, leading him to do the same. He turned his face so you wouldn’t see his disappointment and grabbed a phone charger off his desk.
“Uh, here.” He said quietly and handed it to you.
“What’s this for?” You frowned.
“You said yours was broken.” He reminded you.
“Oh.” You laughed in embarrassment. “Right. I did say that.”
You and Peter stood in uncomfortable silence once again. You had come over to smooth things out, but somehow managed to make things feel worse.
“I should probably go.” You said, not bothering to hide how defeated you felt.
“Oh, yeah. I should probably get some sleep.” Peter said without looking at you. The vibe in the room had become palpably bad, but you didn’t full understand why.
“Goodnight, Peter.” You said for the second time that night.
“Goodnight.” He answered with a smile you knew was fake. You saw yourself out and shut your bedroom door behind you before dramatically throwing yourself on your bed.
For the next two days, you got serious about avoiding Peter. You made FRIDAY scan rooms for him before you left your own so that you wouldn’t run into him. If he did come into a room you were in, you made up a quick excuse to leave. You had nearly 48 hours of success avoidance of Peter until he found you on a late night trip to the kitchen to get string cheese.
“Can we talk?” Peter asked, making you jump in surprise. He had concealed himself behind the open refrigerator door so you didn’t know he had entered the kitchen.
“I can’t. I am extremely busy.” You lied as one of your cheese sticks fell on the floor. Peter bent down and picked it up for you.
“I feel like you’re avoiding me.” He said as he handed it back.
“What?” You forced a laugh. “What would make you think that?”
“Because ever since the night of the party, I haven’t seen you. You find an excuse to leave the room as soon as I walk in. You’re always running off if I try to talk to you. You don’t even look at me anymore.”
“Peter, I’m not avoiding you. I just have to leave the room a lot.” You lied, already feeling guilty for what you’d been doing. He sounded so upset and it was killing you.
“Did I do something to offend you? Because if I did, I am so sorry. Please tell me so I can make it right.” He pleaded. You felt a pit form in your stomach knowing you had caused him to feel punished for something he did not do. And yet, you did not have it in you to come clean.
“Yeah, actually.” You lied. “You did.”
“What was it?” Peter asked desperately. “Something I said?”
“Uh huh.” You weakly went along with whatever he said.
“Can you tell me what it was?” He begged.
“Wow.” You blew out a breath. “You really don’t remember?”
“No, I’m sorry. What was it?”
“I can’t believe this. How can you say the very offensive thing you said and not remember?” You asked him. You had dug yourself so deep now that there was no turning back.
“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.“
“Wow, y’all, wow.” You shook your head. “You’ve changed, Peter.”
You walked away from him after that, feeling yourself well up with tears once he couldn’t see you. You hated yourself for letting things get to this point. You wished you hadn’t avoided him and just spoken to him, or at least not convinced him he did something to hurt your feelings. You went to your room and wiped your face clean of your tears. The blueprint Peter had rewritten for you that was sitting on your desk caught your eye. You picked it up and looked at it again, admitting the swoops and slopes of his handwriting. That’s when you noticed something at the bottom.
“Genius girl, don’t give up. The world needs you to keep going.” He had written to you.
“Ohh, so I’m a massive bitch.” You said decidedly to yourself. You put the blueprints back down and went straight to Peter’s room to set things right. He opened the door after the second knock, looking that he too had shed a few tears.
“Can I come in?” You asked him. He didn’t say anything, but nodded his head as he stepped to the side. You sat down on his bed and he sat beside you.
“Peter, I’m so sorry.” You began. “I’ve been such a jerk to you.”
“What’s going on?” He asked in a quiet voice. “What did I do to offend you?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” You assured him. “You have been completely perfect since the moment you got here.”
“Then why have you been avoiding me?” He wondered. You looked into his eyes and let out a sigh. It was now or never to make things right.
“I just don’t know how to talk to you.” You admitted to him.
“Oh. I mean, I can kinda understand that. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”
“A really long time. And I wasn’t expecting you to be so…” You trailed off and felt your face warm up.
“So what? Annoying?”
“What? No.” You quickly assured him and shook your head.
“So weird? So rude?” He kept asking.
“Nope. Not those either. So, ummm….whats the word I’m looking for?” You asked and clicked your tongue.
“So what? What is it?” Peter put his hand on you shoulder and leaned it to ask you. You stared at him like a deer in the handsome headlights and blinked.
“Hot.” You said in the smallest voice you could muster.
“What was that?” Peter asked and leaned in closer to hear you better.
“So hot.” You said louder and flung your hands in frustration, making Peter jump back at the sudden loud noise.
“I heard you the first time, I just didn’t believe it.” Peter admitted out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re telling me you haven’t talked to me the last few days because you think I’m hot?”
“That’s what it was at first.” You confessed. “But it’s changed now.”
“I’m not following.” Peter told you, making you sigh.
“Look, Peter. When you first walked in, I was stunned, like I told you at the party. Because the last time I saw you, you were this excitable 14 year old kid who was filming himself doing parkour on top of buildings. And now…” You trailed off again and gestured to all of him.
“Now?” He asked, looking down at outfit as if you were referring to his clothes. You let out a groan and rubbed your face with your hands.
“Are you really gonna make me say it?” You whined.
“Yes, actually.” He said firmly, making you groan again. You gave him one last look before letting all your bottled up feeling out.
“Now, you look like Zeus, and I’m sure you have the lightening rod to match. I literally cannot look at you without getting bricked up. When you opened the door the other night in just your towel, I was like oh okay, I’m 21 weeks along, and it might be twins. When you were doing pull up’s in front of me, I had to clench my legs together to not flood the whole Tower and the surrounding neighborhoods. Probably New Jersey too, if we’re being honest. And if that’s not bad enough, you cook my favorite foods and ask to meet my friends. You stand up for me and make douche bags apologize for making me incompatible. You save my freaking scrapped designs and compliment my mind. You’re too perfect! So no, I can’t talk to you!” You finally said, shouting by the end of it.
Peter leaned back and stared at you with a stunned expression for a long time. You stared back with your lips folded in, not moving a muscle. This staring contest went on for quite some time since there was really no appropriate response to what you had said. You may have gone for overkill, but you figured he deserved to know the truth after avoiding him for two days.
“Lighting rod?” He said finally, making you bury your face in your hands.
“Is that really all you heard?” You asked through your hands.
“I don’t really know what I just heard.” Peter admitted. “So you won’t talk to me because you think I’m too perfect?”
“I can’t talk to you because I didn’t want you to think I was throwing myself at you just because you got hot.” You explained. “But then, I started finding out you’re this too good to be true stand up guy who is also hot. So now I hate you and I can’t be around you.”
“If you feel that way about me, why didn’t you just tell me? I wouldn’t have exactly been mad if you threw yourself at me.” Peter told you, making you smile a little. He gave you a look and you were suddenly feeling a little silly for ever coming up with your plan not to fall for him before finding out how he felt about you.
“Because. You were friends with my dad. And I didn’t want to mess that up. And I’m really busy in the lab. And we barely know each other. And…” You trailed off as Peter leaned in closer to you.
“And?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. Your faces were just inches apart now and your eyes were locked on his lips.
“And I can’t take it anymore.” You decided before climbing into his lap to pull him into a kiss.
If there was a challenger 2 I want to be in challenger with Langdon and Whitaker LIKE IM MOT JOKING THE TENTION IS MAKING ME THROB JUST KISSS AND LET ME BE THERE TOO
⭐︎⋆˚࿔ ryland grace has a crush on the art teacher next door…and his students know it.
“Good morning,” you muse, leaning against the door frame during transition. Your hands are still stained with clay from helping students make figurines — he can see when your doors are both propped open. Not that he’s looking.
“Oh! It’s you! Hi there!”
“Your prep is next period, right? Can you do me a huge favor and watch my kids for a bit at the beginning of class?”
“No.” He blinks rapidly. “I mean, yes! No as in it’s no problem. I, uh — I’ve got you covered.” He gives a thumbs up. Smooth.
You laugh, a twinkling sound. “You’re the best. Thanks, Ry.”
You’re only supposed to address each other by your last names in front of the kids. That must have been on accident. But, either way, surely nobody noticed that, or the way he could barely muster a response as you left.
So he thought.
When everyone’s passing around the lava bean bag, the first student who tosses it to him wastes no time. “Are you and Miss Y/L/N dating?”
The whole class oohs. Middle schoolers.
“I — woah.” He immediately clears his throat. “No questions about your teacher’s personal life, guys. Come on.”
“So…are you dating or not?”
Before he can even get a word in, another declares, “I ship you!”
“Shh, don’t tell him that!” someone adds.
“Not going to ask what that means,” Ryland murmurs, almost to himself. When the class starts to get more out of control, he puts his hands up. “Alright, alright, guys, settle down. No, we are not dating. Now back to the lesson.”
Although, when he looks up what a ship is in between classes later, he feels so stupidly giddy that his face is on fire. He’s seeing stars, and not just from the models hanging from his ceiling.
summary: Langdon is floored when you suggest hitting up a renfaire, even more so when you actually seem to be enjoying yourself. When you get home, he gets to work trying to ensure your fun lasts as long as possible.
tags/warnings: fluff, smut, established relationship, fem!reader, roleplay (princess x knight), body worship, pet names (baby, Your Majesty, your grace, my lord/lady), oral (f receiving), masturbation (m, frank gets off giving head #munch), frank cums in his pants
word count: 3.2k
A/N: my first Langdon fic wooo! pt.3 of Sweetheart is coming but in the meantime, enjoy this tidbit, I've been frankpilled asf lately so maybe expect more of him...anyway hope u enjoy i lurrrrve this one ugh, someone take me to a renessaince faire...
When you suggested a renfaire on your joint day off, Langdon was as stunned as if you’d proposed. He supposes that by now he should be used to it, but it continues to floor him that not only do you tolerate his dorkier tendencies, you actually encourage them.
For every cool, interesting pop culture tidbit you’ve taught him, all he’s been able to offer in return are fun facts about obscure bodily functions and useless details about bygone eras. Not once have you ever made him feel inadequate, or given him that squint-eyed, slow nod that people do when they’re trying very hard not to cringe away from whatever gauche thing you’re saying. Only, it’s one thing to listen to him blather on behind closed doors. Entirely another to traipse around Pittsburgh dressed as medieval elven royalty, where real-life, adult people can see.
With a hand securing your pointy, papier mache hennin hat, you look down at him in his train seat. “Don’t look so nervous.”
“I’m not,” he insists, muttering with his head bowed towards you. “But people are looking.”
When you smile, the pointed ends of your plastic elf ears rise slightly. “Would you prefer they close their eyes?”
“Yes, actually.” Langdon is sure his own elf ears are suddenly sorely mismatched against his real skin blushing a deep, humiliated pink. He shifts in his seat and looks up through his lashes. “Maybe they’re looking because they think I’m a bad boyfriend. Are you sure you don’t wanna sit?”
“Not if you’re gonna keep being such a wuss.”
“I am not a wuss.” He pouts, indignant. “The chainmail just makes a lot of noise when I’m standing up, that’s all.”
That, and a slightly more embarrassing issue. Langdon is not a pervert, he does not need beautiful women in period–or rather, lore-accurate costumes to get off. It’s just, you are especially beautiful right now. Plus, helping you get ready this morning required both hands and a lot of ribbons, the locations of which he can’t stop mentally mapping. They’re at your hips, the small of your back, in your sleeves. You made a joke about a too-tight garter belt when he was brushing his teeth and he’s almost certain that you were kidding. He can’t stop thinking about untying it with his teeth.
He’s hoping for a breather when you get to the fair. Some revelry, some craft stands, a little sun-warmed ale in plastic viking horns. Instead, what he gets is a fucking ambush.
Complaining of the heat, you loose the ribbon around your collar and now, he has a full view of your collarbone and the dainty gold chain around your neck. The pendant? Lost somewhere in the folds of your clothes, or your cleavage which now, if you’re looking, is also visible. Langdon, of course, can’t stop looking.
After a good while of ambling, you stumble upon some archery. It's mostly kids and buckets of candy as a prize but with some encouragement, he manages to lose himself a little. You stand at his shoulder, cheerleading in brilliantly inaccurate old English.
“Hark, my lord! That was a terrific shot.” He shoots a fond smile over his shoulder and in the lull, you step closer for a moment. “If such a display of battlefield prowess continues, I may have to reward thee with a kiss. Or, you know…”
He does know. Or, maybe he doesn't, but he can certainly come up with a few ideas. Once he starts, though, he can’t stop. The last thing you should be doing right now is leaving things to his imagination, which he intends to tell you until he's interrupted by the instructor telling everyone to swap places. At your uncertainty, he urges you to take the bow.
“Don’t worry, it’s not as hard as it looks.”
You send him a withering look. “You’re a doctor.”
“Good point. We’re known for our universal arrow-shooting capabilities.” He maneuvers you by the shoulders, swapping places so that you’re staring straight ahead at the target, then shoots you a wink. “Deep breaths, my lady. You got this.”
“There are so many kids around, like–”
He cuts you off laughing. “You’re not gonna shoot anyone, relax.”
“Fine.”
Langdon realises his mistake immediately. The elaborately braided knot in your hair has been coming undone for hours, and now your face is framed by puffy strands of curls. Your hat’s cheap, stapled-on chiffon wafts elegantly in the breeze, the dress’s matching fabric clinging to all your most distracting features as you raise your shooting arm. He’s just about ready to fall to his knees when a small gaggle of children materialise by your side, staring up in awe as you take the shot. It lands wide of the target, by a margin anyone else would find embarrassing. You take it in stride, turning to the kids like a Disneyland princess on the clock.
“Oh my!” you cry, hands flying to your face. “The wind blew away my arrow. How rude!”
The kids’ laughter chimes over another round of arrows and a nearby dragon fight. You lead them towards it and they follow, grinning and scampering.
“The king will not be happy! Perhaps we should leave the shooting to my handsome knight?” You shoot Langdon a wink that nearly has him toppling onto the grass. One of the little girls in the group, with tattered purple fairy wings, grips your skirt and dutifully agrees,
“Princesses aren’t meant to shoot arrows.”
“Oh, but they can,” you insist, crouching to meet her eye, “they must simply practice first.”
Langdon hangs back with the few stragglers in your audience, right by a stall selling foam swords painted to look rusted and war-torn. Still beside the little girl in fairy wings, you tap your chin in mock-contemplation.
“Or perhaps we shouldn’t shoot arrows…Perhaps–” You leap up and grab two swords, gently handing one to the little girl. “We should be swashbucklers instead!”
The kids all clamour to snatch swords of their own and the little purple fairy shrieks with laughter as you challenge her to a duel, then let her win. Before being roped into the fray himself, Langdon watches with an uncontrollable grin. He thinks about marrying you the whole way home.
The second you get through the front door, you groan and throw yourself onto the nearest, cosiest piece of furniture. Langdon assumes you’ll nap while he showers, then swap places so he can be off his feet for five minutes and you can wrangle yourself out of all those ribbons. He takes his time in the shower, and keeps it freezing cold. You aren’t going to want to be bothered by the stubborn semi he’s been fighting off every moment he’s gotten you alone. Tonight, you can cool off, watch a shitty, braindead action movie, make out and go to bed. It sounds pretty perfect to him.
When he gets out of the shower, however, it seems like you have other plans. You’re not on the sofa where he left you; now you lay on your front in bed, scrolling on your phone and swinging your feet in the air. A pale beam of sunlight lays flat over you like a blanket and, probably reading something, you mutter softly under your breath. He may as well have stumbled upon you, lounging in real palace gardens, leafing through a leatherbound tome.
As you hear him come in, you give him a coy look over your shoulder, smiling softly. When you get a good look at him, you pout slightly.
“No more chainmail? What happened to my dashing knight in shining armour?”
“He got sick of sounding like a heap of silverware in the dryer.” Langdon joins you on the bed, sitting at your feet and absently stroking a hand along the length of your skirt. “But he’s still here and ready to serve. Your majesty.”
When you give him a broad, toothy smile, he could swear that it makes the sun shine a little brighter.
“What are you thinking for dinner?” He tries dragging himself back to the mundane, but none of that distracts him. You aimlessly ramble about takeout options and his heart rate reacts as if you’re psyching him up to ride into battle. When you sit up closer to him, legs tucked beneath you, he’s as dazzled as if you’re a mermaid he just watched clamber onto a rock. He doesn’t mean to derail the conversation, he is listening. But he has to kiss you, or his heart, he swears, will stop.
You moan softly into the kiss, practically melting under his touch. He cups a hand around your face, thumb gently stroking back and forth on your cheek as he feels himself twitch in his sweatpants. His tongue drags against your bottom lip as he deepens the kiss, and his hand moves from your face to your shoulder, to stick his thumb through the loop of a bow on your sleeve. He tugs gently and the ribbon slips undone. It happens so easily, and now your sleeve is loose and threatening to slip right off your shoulder. His breath catches and he aches all the way from his erratically beating heart to his crotch, where he strains against his boxers with equally as frenzied desire.
“I am,” he kisses you again, moaning into your mouth, “so in love with you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” you respond, mouth still stretched into a dazzling smile. He grabs your hand and interlinks your fingers with a smile of his own, then gives you a peck. Just as he’s trying to get up, he steps on your skirt and simultaneously, both of you grimace and burst into laughter.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He knows that it doesn’t matter, not to you anyway. It’s a cheaply made, then cheaply altered costume dress that you probably won’t even think of until next Halloween. Still, something about it just feels wrong, like doing vandalism in the woods or peeing in the ocean. Your smile gets a little conniving as you look down at him, on his knees and brushing imaginary dirt off your skirt.
“You look good down there.”
“I do?” He chuckles. “Well, I’m glad you like it, m’lady.”
As he starts to stand, you hold him down by his shoulders, eyes narrowed and mouth quirking. With folds of your skirt still held between his fingers, he chuckles again.
“You good?”
After another moment’s silence, you sit up and lean back, expression becoming haughty and pouting. “Is that any way to speak to your queen?”
Langdon grins. “No, I guess not.” You raise your eyebrows and he tries again. “Oh, uh–No, Your Majesty. Apologies. What I meant was, uh…Is all well, Your Majesty?”
“All is well, my lord. It could be better though, could it not?”
“How?” It comes out more demand than question, and his hand is already creeping up your skirt. Loose around your ankle, then flat against your calf, fingers ghosting over your knee and flattening again as they slide forward on your thighs. He stops when he gets to your hip and stares up at you, mouth slightly ajar. “How could I be of service, Your Majesty?”
Leaning forward, you narrow your eyes again. “You love this, don’t you?”
As sheepish as he gets, what use is there denying it? He’s throbbing in his sweatpants and already on his knees. “It doesn’t get weirder than this, I promise, it’s just–”
You hold a hand up to silence him and his mouth snaps shut. His dick throbs even harder, so hard now that it aches. If he knew what you wanted to do to him, he might be able to bear it. Just a glimpse into what you might be thinking.
“What–”
Your hand drops but your eyebrows raise. “Did I tell you to keep talking?”
Langdon swallows. “No.”
Somehow, your expression gets even more stern. He takes the hint and clears his throat.
“No, Your Majesty.”
You nod sagely and shoot him a wink, before bringing your posture back to austere and imposing. Just as suddenly, you throw yourself back onto the bed, your performance now that of a withered damsel in distress.
“It is so exhausting to be a princess!” you cry. “So boring to be kept here, day after day, stuck behind these castle walls.”
Amusement tugs at the corners of Langdon’s mouth and when you lean up on your elbows to look at him, you have a matching giddy smile on your face.
“Do you know, my lord, how utterly deprived I am of entertainment?”
“I can only imagine, your majesty.”
“You can! It is–” you pause to dab an imaginary tear, “so dreadful.”
He gets distracted just watching you, so hard it hurts but too blissfully in love to care. You have to nudge him with your foot to get him to snap back into character. “Oh, right, uh–My lady, would…Shall I…entertain you?”
You grin and it takes everything in him not tear off your dress and fuck you senseless without another word.
“You shall.” His other hand slides under your skirt, then both pull off your underwear in one swift motion, making you gasp. “Someone’s eager.”
“It is not only royalty, my lady,” he lifts your legs onto his shoulders, “who notice their deprivation.”
“So I deprive you now, do I?”
“Of course not.” He lavishes your thighs with kisses, nuzzling into your skin and grazing his teeth along the most sensitive spots. “If I could have you every second, of every day, it wouldn’t be enough.”
You lie back as he spreads your legs and runs his lips along you. It takes a herculean effort not to taste every part of you at once, but he knows how you like it. And he’s here to serve you.
Slowly, deliberately, he runs his two middle fingers along your skin. Just enough pressure to feel how wet you are and have you writhe under his hands, legs spreading further and a whine falling from your lips. He does it again, this time with his thumb and a little more pressure, so that he dips inside you. Your back arches and he groans, licking into you as his thumb continues to rub languidly up and down, slowly getting soaked.
“You are–” he groans again, tongue rolling forwards with more pressure. Fingers digging into your thighs, he tugs you towards him desperately, unable to do anything but hump the empty air and moan.
He breaks for only a moment to push two fingers inside you, hawkishly watching for your reaction. “How does it feel?” he mutters.
You moan and arch your back, but he shakes his head and curls the fingers pushing in and out of your body.
“Tell me, my lady,” he plants a soft kiss on your inner thigh, “tell me how I make you feel.”
“Good,” you moan, all breathy and whining. “You feel so fucking good.”
Frank nods to himself and watches as you clench around his fingers. His other hand rubs your body aimlessly, his gaze wandering and awe-struck. “You want anything else?”
“Just don’t stop.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He dives towards your clit so that you tug on his hair. Nails scratching, then stroking, soothing.
By now, his boxers are soaked with precum, a dark gray spot blooming through his sweatpants as he continues to grind against nothing. He cups his free hand around himself, lightly stroking through his clothes. It’s not enough, it won’t be until he’s buried to the hilt inside you.
“Baby,” he groans. “Baby, I need you.”
You hum and sit up on your elbows, biting down on your lip as he continues to fuck you with his fingers. “Who?”
“Sorry, your grace.” He chuckles and draws his fingers out of you, marvelling at the way you clench around nothing. As he goes on, he can’t help it; he has to reach inside his boxers. Distracted by his soaked fingers and the promise of tasting you still only inches from his face, all thoughts of his own pleasure are forgotten. He laps at you even more hungrily and you giggle through more moans, head thrown back.
“What happened to needing me?”
“Fuck, I do, but–holy shit, baby–” he gasps, “You like this better, right?”
“I like you, silly.”
“I know, I know. But I’m okay. I just wanna take care of you. Wanna be on my knees for you.”
“Oh my God, Frank,” you moan breathlessly.
His breathing stutters as he jerks himself off through his sweats, moans becoming equal parts halting and droning. His voice hums through you and his tongue works you closer and closer to an orgasm. As waves of pleasure shudder through your body, he has just enough room to pull back and mutter against you.
“That’s it, baby, give it to me. God–” through more gasps and whines, he cycles between swirling his tongue over your clit and begging you to cum as he bucks into his own hand. “Please, baby, that’s–-Oh my God, yes.”
He settles on sucking your clit, fingers still curling ceaselessly inside you. You cry out his name again and clench your legs around his head and as you cum all over his tongue, coating his face, he kisses you like a man famished. Groaning and keeping one arm looped around your thigh to keep you in place, he pushes his tongue into your sensitive cunt, plants soft kisses on your clit and whines frantic praises under his breath.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.” He lets out a broken, panting moan. “So good, baby. Thank you, Your Majesty, thank you, thank you. You’re so fucking perfect, I don’t deserve–Ah, I love you. I love you, you’re so good. Thank you.”
He continues muttering his thanks, working himself through an orgasm of his own. Your body twitches and arches away from his kisses but he can’t stop, can’t get enough. By the time he realises what he’s done, the dark, wet patch in his sweatpants is growing even bigger and his head is spinning.
“Shit, oh my God, baby. Sorry.”
“What do you mean?” As you sit up, your voice sounds as dazed as he feels.
“I was meant to fuck you. I didn’t even…” To refocus his train of thought, he has to shake his head. “Babe, I swear I don't know what happened. I just…”
He trails off again, sending a blissed-out stare between your legs and licking his lips. You giggle and pull your skirt down, ruffling his hair and standing.
“If our biggest problem is you enjoy going down on me too much, I think we’re gonna be just fine.”
As you stalk off to the shower, Langdon stays on his knees. Even though they ache, he wonders if he could find a way to stay here forever. He thinks of the hectic shift he has tomorrow, of all the sideways glances and awkward small talk he’ll have to struggle through, as he tries to regain his place in the PTMC. Right now, though, it’s just this: deep, steadying breaths and your release drying on his face, one of your dress’ ribbons torn off and strewn on the floor. He twirls it around his fingers and basks in this feeling. For the millionth time all day, he thinks about proposing. Just like this, on his knees, holding up a ring and totally at your mercy. Of all his fantasies, this might be his favourite. Though he wonders if now, instead of a ring, you might prefer a crown.
can you write a reader x jack abbot night out/bar night with the pittlings? like mutual pinning turns into something more with the help of liquid courage
okay wait i loved this request so much because this is exactly the kind of jack abbot dynamic that makes me lose my mind a little. the mutual pining, the emotional awkwardness, the entire group knowing what’s happening before they do, and jack trying so hard to keep himself composed while reader sees straight through him? perfect.
𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐠𝐬 - ᴀ ᴊᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʙʙᴏᴛ ᴏɴᴇsʜᴏᴛ
parings: jack abbot x fem!reader
summary: check anon request
word count: 1.8k
warnings: alcohol consumption, fluff
Trinity had announced the bar night the way she announced most things— as a fait accompli, a statement of fact, a thing that was already happening and simply required everyone's physical presence to complete. There had been a brief resistance from Robby, which she had dismantled in under ninety seconds. Samira and Dennis had agreed immediately. Mel had been the first one to her jacket.
Cassie had come because she'd wanted to, which she'd said plainly, in the way Cassie said most things. I just want a fun night out. No further explanation. Nobody needed one.
Frank had volunteered as DD with the energy of a man who had thought about it and decided this was his purpose tonight. He'd said somebody has to be and looked at Dennis, specifically, who hadn't noticed.
You'd looked at Jack when the plan was announced. He'd already been looking at you.
"You going?" you'd asked.
"Probably," he'd said.
Which was, you'd learned, Jack Abbott for yes.
The bar was the good kind of loud. Not overwhelming— just alive. The kind of place that had been there long enough to stop trying to be anything other than exactly what it was. Dark wood. Good beer. A jukebox that Mel had claimed within three minutes of arriving and was now defending with quiet ferocity.
The pittlings had distributed themselves naturally: Dennis and Samira at the bar in the bright sociable way of people who talked to strangers easily, Robby and Trinity in a booth that had started as a ceasefire and was quietly becoming an actual conversation, Mel at the jukebox with the focused look of a woman on a mission. Frank sat at a corner table with his club soda and the peaceful expression of someone doing exactly what they'd planned to do.
Cassie had her ginger ale and was currently winning some kind of debate with Dennis about something you'd stopped tracking two exchanges ago.
You were on your second drink, sitting at the far end of the bar, and Jack was next to you.
This was not an accident. It had not been an accident any of the times it had happened before, either— the gravitational pull of two people who kept ending up in each other's orbit and had been quietly not talking about it for months. You were aware of it the same way you were aware of a bruise: constantly, without meaning to.
He was on his first drink. He'd been nursing it for a while.
"You're going to make that last all night," you said.
He glanced at you. "Pace myself."
"Into sobriety?"
"Into not being stupid."
You smiled into your glass. "Jack Abbott, afraid of losing control. Shocking. Never would have guessed."
He looked at you sidelong— not annoyed, not quite. There was something underneath the look that was almost wry if you knew where to find it, and you were learning where to find it. "You think that's what it is."
"I think you've had the same drink for forty minutes," you said. "I think you're very comfortable being the most competent person in any room and you don't love what happens when that slips."
A pause. He turned his glass once on the bar. "That's a lot of thinking."
"I'm an observer."
"You're a menace," he said, but quiet, and without any heat in it.
You laughed. He watched you do it.
That was the thing you'd filed away and kept returning to: the way Jack watched you laugh. Like it was something he was paying attention to on purpose. Like he was deciding something.
The night deepened. Mel's jukebox playlist evolved through three distinct phases. Dennis got into a spirited conversation with a stranger about Nebraska sports that Cassie was mediating with the patience of a UN negotiator. Robby, improbably, was still there— three drinks in, still almost smiling, Trinity having apparently cracked something open in him that the week at the Pitt had been slowly working on.
Samira drifted over at some point, looked at the two of you sitting close at the bar, said cozy in a tone of deep satisfaction, and drifted away before either of you could respond.
"We have an audience," Jack said.
"We've had an audience for months," you said. "Trinity has opinions. Frank has a timeline. I think Samira might be keeping notes."
Something moved across his face. He looked down at his drink. "That obvious."
It wasn't really a question. You answered it anyway. "Only to people paying attention."
"And you're paying attention."
"Constantly," you said. "It's extremely inconvenient."
He went quiet for a moment in the way that wasn't absence — it was the opposite, actually, it was Jack being very present and not saying anything yet because he hadn't finished thinking. You'd learned that too.
"I'm not—" he started. Stopped.
You waited.
"I'm not great at this," he said. "Anymore. I don't know if I was ever particularly—" He stopped again. Picked the words up differently. "It's been a long time since I thought this was something I was going to do again."
There it was. The thing underneath the awkwardness, the thing that was heavier than just being rusty.
You looked at him. He was looking ahead, jaw set in the careful way, like he'd said more than he meant to and was braced for whatever came next.
"This," you said. "Meaning—"
"Any of it." A beat. "Wanting someone. Letting it be a thing that exists."
The bar kept going around you, warm and indifferent to the small seismic thing happening at the end of the counter.
"Okay," you said.
He glanced at you. "Okay?"
"I'm not asking you to be good at it," you said. "I'm not..." you gestured at the space between you "I'm not handing you a rubric. I'm just sitting here."
"I know that," he said, a little roughly.
"Do you? Because you've got the face you make when you're bracing for a bad outcome."
"I have a face?"
"Jack. You have so many faces. You think you don't but you have a whole catalogue." You turned toward him slightly. "There's the one where a case is going wrong and you're recalculating. There's the one where Santos says something and you're deciding whether it's worth addressing. There's the one you make when someone says something true that you didn't want said out loud." You paused. "You're doing that last one right now."
He looked at you for a long moment.
"You're kind of a lot," he said.
"I've been told."
"I don't mean it like that."
"I know you don't."
The quiet between you was different now— not waiting, not careful. Just close.
"It's been a long time," he said again, quieter. Like he needed you to actually understand that. Like it wasn't an excuse but a fact he needed to lay down before anything else. Here's what we're working with. Here's what I'm bringing to this.
"I know," you said. And then, because you were two drinks in and Trinity's voice was somewhere in the back of your head saying you're not spending all night doing that thing you do: "I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right? Whatever pace this is. Whatever it looks like." You held his gaze. "I'm not going to flinch because you're out of practice."
Jack Abbott was a man who had things under control. Who kept the chaos of a Level I trauma center from flying apart by sheer force of will and institutional memory and the specific gravity of someone who had decided he was not going to let things fall. You'd watched him do it for months. You'd watched him hold the line through things that would have broken other people and go home and come back and do it again.
He looked, right now, like none of that.
He looked like someone who hadn't been seen in a while and wasn't sure what to do about being seen now.
"I don't know why you're—" he started.
"Because you're worth the patience," you said. Simple. Flat. The way you'd have said anything true. "That's the whole reason. There isn't a more complicated answer."
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Then he reached over and took your drink out of your hand, set it on the bar, and before you'd quite caught up with what was happening he'd closed the distance and kissed you — careful at first, the way he did everything, like he was making sure, and then less careful, his hand finding your jaw, and it turned out Jack Abbott out of practice still kissed like he meant every word of it.
You heard, from somewhere in the bar, the distinct sound of Trinity Santos saying yes under her breath like she'd been waiting for a very long time.
You pulled back. His hand was still at your jaw.
"That was—" he started.
"Yeah," you said.
"I didn't—"
"Jack." You were smiling. You couldn't help it. "That was good. That was very good. You can stop bracing."
Something shifted in his face. Not quite a smile — but the door to one, open. "Teaching old dogs," he said.
"You're not old."
"I feel it sometimes."
"Then it's a good thing I'm patient," you said.
He looked at you for a long moment, in the warm dark of the bar, with the jukebox playing something slow and Mel looking very pleased about the song choice from across the room, and Frank at his corner table nodding once with the serenity of a man whose timeline had just been confirmed.
"Yeah," Jack said finally, something settling in him that you could actually see. "I guess it is."
Outside, the air was cool and the street was quiet and Frank pulled the car around with the efficiency of a man who had been waiting for exactly this.
Cassie was already at the curb. She looked at the two of you and said nothing, just smiled the small private smile of someone who had noticed things a long time ago and was glad to see them work out.
"You need a ride?" Frank asked.
Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.
"We'll walk," you said.
Frank nodded. Cassie gave you a look that said good without saying anything at all.
Jack's hand found yours as you turned down the street — a little uncertain, a little deliberate, the gesture of someone re-learning a language they'd thought they'd forgotten.
You held on.
He didn't let go.
The city was quiet. The night was cold and clear. Behind you the bar hummed on, the jukebox turning over to something new, the pittlings still inside doing what they did— loud and alive and exactly themselves.
Ahead was just the street and the dark and whatever this was, starting.
how about going to sleep on the couch after a disagreement with frank but he’s unable to sleep without being next to you
new start
pairing: frank langdon x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
content warnings: established relationship, mention of rehab + frank's back pain,
a/n: guys this turned into a langdon character study and i'm very sorry about it. but i hope you like it nonetheless.
wc: 2.8k
You didn't think the night would end with you aggressively brushing your teeth as Frank muttered under his breath in the bedroom about it not being his fault.
This morning had been good. You'd woken up to his arm around your waist, his face pressed into the back of your neck, and for once, he wasn't already halfway out the door. The two of you grabbed breakfast at that fancy little place you loved so much. Then he dropped you off at work with a smile and a promise. "Dinner tonight. Your show. I'll grab takeout."
It was nice.
Right now was not so nice.
You practically punched the toothbrush back into the glass. You spat out the toothpaste, dragged the back of your hand across your mouth, and just stood there, staring down at the sink.
Frank was now standing in the doorway. His hair was messier than usual, pushed back by fingers that had been running through it all night. "Look. I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I swear."
You almost laughed. Because here's the thing, and you knew this, you accepted this when you fell for a man in scrubs, breakfast and dinner on the same day was a miracle. That was the kind of alignment of schedules that happened maybe once every three months if the stars cooperated and no one in the city of Pittsburgh decided to get sick or injured or die.
You almost couldn't sleep last night, smiling at the ceiling like an idiot, because for once, you were going to get two full meals with your boyfriend.
Except Frank was a no show.
He texted around 5 pm, just as you were packing up your desk, excitedly telling your coworker that yes, tonight's the night, we're actually doing Thai and the show and it's going to be great. The text said: "Car Crash. Gonna be late. Start without me. Love you."
You thought late meant 7 pm. Maybe 7:30 if it was bad.
You ordered the food at 7 pm. Sat down on the couch at 7:30. Watched the first episode alone at 8. Picked at cold noodles at 9. Texted him "you okay?" at 9:15. Got "still here." at 9:45. The second episode ended at 10. At 10:30, you put the leftovers in the fridge. At 10:45, you took a shower. At 11 pm, Frank walked through the door.
Eleven. PM.
Instead of being a reasonable boyfriend, he thought it'd be smarter to be a reasonable doctor. Which you understood. God, you understood. You understood that Frank's job is literally about choosing other people over himself, and over you, every single day.
You would have understood if it hadn't been today.
"Night shift was already there, Frank," you finally said, and your voice came out more upset than angry. That was worse, probably. He could handle anger. Anger he could fight back against. But this was just hurt and you could see him not knowing what to do with it.
You walked past him and didn't touch him or look at him.
Frank would have preferred it if you had pushed him, because then at least he could feel like he got what he deserved. But you wouldn't do that, because you knew it would hurt him, actually physically hurt him.
He stared at you in the bedroom as you brushed your hair.
"It wasn't my fault," he finally said. "There was a car crash. I couldn't just—"
"You could have left at 7," you said quietly, still not looking at him. "You could have left at 8. You could have left at 9. Night shift was already there, Frank. They had it."
"They needed—"
"They needed a doctor. They didn't need you."
That landed. You saw it in the mirror and you finally turned around.
"You came home at 11 PM, Frank," you said, and your voice cracked just slightly on the number. "Eleven. PM."
You might sound silly to other people. Some of your coworkers, the ones with normal boyfriends who work normal jobs, they'd probably roll their eyes. Oh no, he was saving lives and you're mad about takeout?
"I'll make it up to you tomorrow." his voice softer now.
You looked at him standing in the doorway and you felt the fight drain out of you. "Yeah, yeah, sure," you mumbled, dropping the hairbrush on the dresser.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly and for a moment you almost believed he meant it, but then he kept going. "Really, but they really did need my help."
There it was. The but. He just couldn't help himself. Even now, he still felt the need to defend himself.
You stared at him. The silence stretched between you and you could see him wanting to fill it. Finally, you shook your head. "Good night, Frank."
You walked out of the bedroom, behind you, you heard him take a step forward, but you pulled the door shut between you.
Stay on your side.
Frank stared at the door. The guilt hit him tearing at all the walls he'd built. He felt sick to his stomach.
He knew following you wouldn't help. So he swallowed his guilt, grit his teeth and turned off the bedroom light. He laid down on the bed. The sheets were cold on his side as he stared at the ceiling.
The shadows from the streetlight outside made patterns up there. He'd memorized them months ago, back when you'd fall asleep with your head on his chest and he'd stay awake just to watch your pretty face.
He knew he shouldn't have stayed. Of course he knew. He wasn't stupid. He knew it the moment he watched Donnie grab his jacket at 7:30, clap him on the shoulder, and say "Night shift's here, Langdon. Go home to your girl."
He'd nodded, said he would and then he'd walked back inside instead. He knew it at 8 PM, when Samira gave him a weird look and asked if he was picking up an extra shift. He knew it at 9 PM, when his phone buzzed with your "you okay?" text and he typed back "still here." instead of "I'm sorry, I'm leaving now, I'll be home in twenty."
He knew it at 10 PM, when Abbott found him reviewing charts that didn't need reviewing and said "Langdon. Go home. That's an order."
But he couldn't help it.
Sometimes he just worried about spending too much time with you, especially ever since he'd come back from rehab. It was almost like he felt terrified to be with you. He brushed a hand over his face, groaning at his own stupidity.
It sounded horrible because he loved you so much. That was the whole problem. He loved you so much that the thought of losing you made him spiral and ever since rehab, that fear had gotten more insistent.
What if he wasn't the same as before? What if the version of him that came back from rehab wasn't the version you'd fallen in love with? What if you preferred the old Frank?
What if you didn't like him sober?
The thought had been eating at him for months. He'd convinced himself that you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to prove that rehab hadn't really fixed anything.
So yes, after seeing your sweet smile this morning at breakfast, he got scared. He got scared of being the reason it disappeared, so he backed off.
Guilt simmered in his stomach all night at work. He felt it with every patient he checked on and every minute that ticked past 7pm.
Frank felt sick. He felt sick at 10:15 and he especially felt sick when he'd walked through the door at 11 pm, already rehearsing apologies that he knew wouldn't be enough. He'd found you sitting alone on the couch, some movie playing on the tv that you clearly weren't interested in. You barely looked at him when he came in.
He felt sick then and he still felt sick now.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars wondering why he was the way he was.
An hour must have passed at that point. The clock on the nightstand glowed 12:47 am when he finally turned his head to look at it, and the numbers blurred for a second before he blinked them back into focus.
Finally, he got up out of bed. His back seized as he swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He'd been standing too long at work. His own fault, he shook his head. Karma for what he did to you. He stood up slowly, one hand braced on the nightstand, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
When it did, he opened the bedroom door quietly, just in case you were asleep.
You were curled up on the couch with your back toward the tv and your face pressed into the back of the couch. Your knees were tucked up toward your chest, dead asleep.
There was no blanket, just your sleep shorts and his old hoodie.
He stood there for a moment watching you before finally going back to the bedroom as quietly as he could, grabbing the blanket you both fought over when the apartment got cold and came back.
He unfolded the blanket and laid it over you. You stirred slightly but didn't wake up.
He hesitated, then settled down on the couch behind you, lowering himself slowly because his back was screaming at him now, every movement sending new complaints up his spine. He fit himself against the curve of your body anyway, his chest to your back, his knees tucked behind yours.
You didn't move, until he gently, put an arm under your waist and pulled you back to his chest.
You woke up startled. Your head lifted over your shoulder, hair falling across your face, eyes squinting in the dark. You finally saw his face properly, but Frank already had his eyes closed.
He didn't want to know if you looked angry or tired or disappointed or worst of all indifferent. He didn't think he could handle you looking at him like he didn't matter anymore.
"Frank," you mumbled groggily.
"I can't sleep without you," he whispered. He wasn't sure he meant to say the words at all.
He slowly opened his eyes. You had turned to see him properly now, your hair was a mess and you were staring at him as if saying that's it?
And then, like you couldn't help yourself, you pressed closer. Your hand came up to brush over his back, the way you always did before bed. He'd told you once that you helped with his back pain, made it disappear.
You weren't actually healing him. He knew that, but somehow, in some way he couldn't explain, it helped, even if it was only in his head.
"I'm really sorry for missing dinner," he whispered.
His blue eyes stayed fixed on yours, even though everything in him wanted to look away. He took a breath as his arm pulled you closer, his fingers pressing into the curve of your waist because he was getting nervous now. The kind of nervous he hadn't felt since rehab, when he'd had to sit in a circle of strangers and admit out loud that he wasn't okay.
His other hand came up to toy with your waistband, pulling at the elastic. It was a nervous habit you'd noticed months ago and never mentioned, because you knew pointing it out would only make him more self conscious.
You let him, smiling softly and that smile encouraged him to keep talking.
"M'worried about you spending time with me," he finally breathed out. Once he started, he couldn't stop. "I don't know how to act properly around you. What if I hurt you? What if you don't like me sober?" His voice cracked slightly on sober, the word feeling weird in his mouth. "What if all— my— what if all my charms gone?"
He grimaced at that. Charm. What a ridiculous word. What a ridiculous thing to worry about, like he'd ever been charming, like he'd ever been anything other than a mess in scrubs who happened to get lucky enough to find someone willing to put up with him.
"What if we spend so much time together and you realize there's actually nothing good about me?"
Yeah, there he said it.
He didn't think he was good.
He didn't think he was a good person. He thought he was someone who'd done good things, but that wasn't the same as being good.
Maybe that was why he overworked himself. Maybe that was why he stayed past his shift, because by forcing himself to save lives, he could pretend he was a good person.
Not a guy who stole meds from his own patients. No. A guy who saved lives. With every life he saved, that somehow had to be proof that he was good. Right?
You stared at him. The silence stretched between you for a moment, before you finally spoke.
"Frank, you could've told me all of this," you whispered gently as you kept brushing one hand along his back. His eyes flickered with surprise and shame, but he didn't look away. "You could've told me this the moment you came back."
You were slightly shocked, honestly. You didn't want to believe that he felt like this for so long. It made your chest hurt.
Frank dropped his hand from your waistband, instead he turned onto his back. His hands moved to his face, brushing up and down, fingers pressing into his eye sockets like he could push the thoughts out physically. He groaned lightly, while your hand moved from his back to his stomach, brushing softly there.
"I know, I know," he mumbled, voice muffled behind his hands. He dropped them finally and met your eyes. "And I know I hurt you by not telling you. And I'm so sorry." His voice cracked slightly on sorry. "God, you have no idea how sorry I am."
"I think I have some idea," you whispered after a while as you met his guilt filled eyes.
Frank swallowed hard and he had to blink a few times to keep his vision from going blurry. "I'll make it up to you. I swear to you—we'll do anything you want all week. I'll even—I'll even take the week off." He paused and then desperately added. "A month, even."
He wasn't sure if he could actually take a month off. The hospital would probably have something to say about that. Robby would definitely have something to say about that, but he'd try.
You giggled and the relief he felt upon hearing this sound, almost knocked the wind out of him. Your giggle was his favorite sound in the world and he'd been terrified tonight that he'd never hear it again.
"Frank, slow down," you smiled, brushing a hair strand out of his face. Your fingers lingered there for a second and he closed his eyes at the touch like a cat leaning into a pet. "First of all," you said gently, "you do not need to take the week off. It's fine. You'll make it up to me on your day off."
He opened his mouth to protest, because it wasn't fine, but you kept talking.
Your hand came up to his chest and you rubbed your thumb softly. "And you never ever have to worry about that other stuff." You knew he was too vulnerable right now for you to state everything explicitly again. You tilted your head slightly, making sure you had his eyes before you continued. "I love you, Frank. And that's never going to change. No matter what."
You could swear there was a sheen of tears in his eyes, but then his chin dropped toward his chest, and he nodded slowly.
"I love you too." was all he managed to say.
You smiled softly, and then you put your head on his chest and let your leg hook over his hip. He pressed a kiss to your head. His lips lingered there for a second, warm against your hair, and you felt the slight tremor in his breath.
"We'll grab breakfast tomorrow again," he whispered. "I'll wake up early. We can go to the diner a bit further away. Your favorite." Yeah. He'd shed a tear or two. You could hear it in his voice.
"And I'll come home early tomorrow," he continued, pressing another kiss to your hair. "I promise." He pulled you even closer to him. "And I'll even bring chocolate cookies with me."
You giggled and tilted your head up to look at him, your chin resting on his chest. "Good," you smiled.
