Hi! I’m Saph and I write for a few characters (Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Michael Kinsella, Bob Reynolds, Bob Floyd, Rhett Abbott, Clark Kent).
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Do we think that Frank is someone who is loud or vocal in bed, or is he like a "few grunts here an there" typa guy?
Ok I think Frank is vocal with praise and instruction but his pleasure is in grunts and groans.
So like, he's giving so so so much "good girl" and "that's it pretty girl" and "Doin' so good for me sweet girl" and "Love seein' you take me like this lil' mama" and "Look fuckin' gorgeous all spread open f' me" and "Lemme feel the way you can squeeze me sweetheart" and "Hands and knees babydoll, attagirl." Like you get the picture. He's got no problem making noise when it comes to praising you.
As far as his own pleasure, he's less showy. Frank just has an animalistic quality to him -- he's not necessarily suppressing himself but the natural stuff he emits is more like growls. It's rumbles in his chest. Grunts. It's controlled excursion. It's focused pleasure.
I am terrified of dogs omg they scare me so much, and I feel like Frankie likes dogs, so maybe reader hides it as best as she could in front of him, but maybe she freaks the fucj out. Bonus points if it’s a little dog like idk a chihuahua ? Idk dog breeds lmao. Also I love your thoughts on Frankie to me they feel so canon
Omg I gotta make a confession, I'm really not a dog person either. I'm sorry! I don't dislike them, I've just always been allergic and my grandma's dogs were so loud when I was little and they made me so scared. I HAVE bonded with a few friends' dogs in my life so I get the appeal obviously but I often feel skittish around them so I GET IT.
Anyway, I think Frank is perceptive enough that he'd pick up on your act pretty quickly. Maybe he didn't know the magnitude of it but he'd get the sense that they weren't really your thing and made the mental note.
However, one day when you're running errands, he has to stop at a friend's house to help them fix a garage door. You're waiting in the car while Frank is in the backyard but you decide to get some fresh air and see how it's going in the garage. You enter the backyard, unaware of the unleashed chihuahua in the fenced in yard and it comes barreling at you, barking and yipping on volume 10. Instinctively, you scream.
Like, reealllly scream. A scream that made your throat a little sore later. Your hands fly to your face and your body folds inward and you're sobbing within two seconds as you feel certain the dog is about to sink it's teeth into your leg.
Of course it doesn't. It was never going to. But before it would have even had the chance, all you feel is the rapid whoosh of Frank's body, his scent filling your nose before your eyes are even open, as one large arm curls around you and gently nudges you behind him as the dog's paws land on Frank's shins as it continues to bark. Your front is pushed to Frank's back as he mutters an "Easy fella, calm down" to the dog as he still anchors you to him with one arm. He gives you a few reassuring pats as he calms the dog down enough for it to stop barking and land back on all fours.
Frank turns to face you, keeping you pressed to him as he wraps his arms around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your forehead. He pulls away enough to cup your face and swipe at the tears at your eyes saying, "Little guy spooked you huh doll?" You nod, feeling like a fool for overreacting. "Wasn't gonna let nuthin' happen to ya, you know that right sweetheart?" he asks, nodding his head at his own answer as a prompt for you to nod yours. You comply.
"Just wasn't expecting it," you mumble and he kisses your forehead again in understanding. "You weren't expectin' it doll, I know."
After you've calmed down and allowed yourself to believe the dog wasn't a danger, Frank tries to warm you up to the little thing. You sit in his lap as the dog is at his ankles and he gives it some pets to show you it's friendly. He keeps a broad hand anchored around your waist as you offer some tentative pets, kissing your temple when you've managed to grow a little comfortable with it.
When you're headed out, just before Frank closes your car door he says, "Proud a'you sweetheart. Don't be hidin' stuff like that from me though, alright? Can't help if I don't know, ok?"
Hello 👋 hope you're doing well 💗 I know you're probably busy these days, so it's okay if you don't feel like reading my request lolYou know a lot of people say "couples should be very similar to each other, while couples who are different would have difficulties and put a lot of effort for each other" So how do you think someone like Frank who's practical and straightforward would be like with a girl who's sensitive, Sentimentale and romantic 🤔 I guess you can see that it's my personality lol
In general I don't agree with that advice at all because it ignores the more important thing-- VALUES. My husband and I are not all that similar but we share the same values-- we care about the same things in life (that doesn't mean we behave the same way or do the same things though). ANYWAY.
I think there's a version of Frank that LOOOOOOVVEESS a soft sensitive girly. Even a healed Frank is gonna need someone to protect, someone to fight for, someone to be in service to. Frank just needs that purpose. And I think a sentimental or romantic girl makes him feel fiercely protective. It gives him a reason to get up every day and make himself proud. Again, this goes back to his sense of masculinity. He wants to put his brute force and hard edges to use.
And the real secret is, Frank is a romantic anyway. I swear to god, Frank is one of the most romantic guys in the MCU. He's probably writing poetry for all we know. Do you see the way his face goes all soft and his eyes are all tearful when someone just says the name Karen?! HE'S A HOPELESS ROMANTIC AT HEART. He just wants someone to love.
So Frank would LOVE your softness. He'd feel an intense sense of duty to create a world for you that allows you to keep being soft.
It takes you some time to open your eyes. While you're not sure how much time has passed, you do know that you've never come that hard before.
Bob Floyd's mouth was fucking lethal. And if that's what his mouth could do, you were a little scared of his dick.
Which is what you expected him to mention, given that he hadn't come yet. But instead, he looks at you with those earnest blue eyes and asks,
"Wanna shower?"
It's then you become all too aware of your surroundings; you're in Bob's house, on his bed, whose sheets you have definitely soaked.
"Fuck, your sheets, I'm so sorry," you mumble as you try to get up. There's no way he would want to shower after-
"Hey! It's fine," his voice is soft, gentle, "I usually do laundry tomorrow, so they were going to get washed anyways."
Of course he has a set date for laundry.
When your friend first told you about Bob, you were unsure. You already had such shit luck on dating apps, there's no way a blind date could be better. Then your friend's girlfriend Nat vouched for him. She was a pretty good judge of character and if she was willing to recommend her copilot, he must be at least kinda decent.
It was worse. Bob Floyd was perfect.
He was an actual gentlemen. Not one of those guys that says he is and only holds the door on the first date. Bob listened, he genuinely wanted to get to know you.
At first you thought he didn't like you because he ended the date on an awkward side hug.
According to Nat that's just how he is at first.
But then Bob texted you back. And kept texting. Kept calling. Kept arriving on time with flowers. Kept slowly becoming more comfortable with showing physical affection.
Despite how wonderful he was, you two still did that awkward 'hey not that I'm wondering but what are we?' dance. You wanted to bring it up so bad and knew, in the back of your mind, that you could bring it up to Bob. That he would actually talk about it because he's a grown adult. But you had been burned before and spending time with him was just lovely, even if you were undefined.
Then tonight he brought you to the Hard Deck (you already knew Nat and pretty much the rest of the squad given her and Bob's combined stories). Introducing you to friends is a sign that you didn't plan to ghost someone, right?
He had left to grab you some more water (he insisted after seeing you take a tequila shot with Nat and Mickey). Not even a full minute had passed when some blonde Ken doll looking man walked up to you. Funny thing, pre-Bob, he would have been your exact type. But now you were reaping the benefits of having expectations. You wanted Bob.
Who jumped right to your defense. Who replied with "boyfriend" (same time as you) when asked who he was. Who after confirming that yes, you did mean that, took you back to his place and ate you out like it was his last meal.
Who now was leading you into his shower, pressing sweet and soft kisses to your bare shoulder. Who did not get an equal chance to come and wasn't bringing it up.
Instead he offered you his bottle of shampoo (actual shampoo, not the '12 in 1' stuff) and stepped aside to let you stand under his shower head.
He was so sweet and genuine, it drove you crazy. Bob probably wouldn't mention his lack of an orgasm.
Which is why you felt like the only logical thing to do was to get on your knees in the shower. For once, you actually wanted to return the favor. He made you see stars and was the sweetest man you had ever met, so why not blow him?
"Hey you okay- oh," his eyes widened when your tongue darted out to lick up his shaft. You never really thought a cock could be pretty, until you met Bob.
"You don't....have to um, you know-shoot," his head tilts back when your lips close around the tip of his cock. His breathing is uneven. Looking up, you can see his eyes shut in concentration, as though he's using all his willpower to not come.
Well that just wouldn't do. If Bob made you see stars, you were going to return the favor.
This is so weirdly specific and self indulgent but I get frequent kidney stones and have had to fight with nurses to get pain meds, and I just keep thinking about how Frank would be such an angel about “they ask what your pain level is, you don’t lie about it, ‘kay? You tell ‘em what it really is ‘n stop toughin’ it out,” and standing up for you when nurses don’t take it seriously 😭
girl everything i write is self indulgent so no sweat lol
Uh yes x 1,0000. First and foremost, Frank always believes you when you tell him what's going on with your body. No questions. So he's your ally here instantly.
I'm just imaging this with Neighbor!Frank because he's nothing but a gentle giant with you and maybe he's taking you to the ER for the first time and you see a TOTALLY different side to him. Like at first he's quietly stunned that you're trying to act like you weren't in so much pain that you thought you might vomit just 20 minutes ago. The nurse asks for a pain scale and you answer with a four and he's just slack-jawed at what the hell you're doing for a second.
He's holding up a meaty hand to the nurse like "hang on, hang on, a sec" before he turns to you like "Sweetheart, I saw you go pale and almost pass out. You looked like you been shot. The answer's ten."
You feel like that sounds dramatic so you're like "I know but it's been worse so--" but there goes his meaty hand again, saying "We in some kinda pain competition or somethin'?" and you're like who is this Frank??
So the nurse notes a ten but when the doctor finally comes in, the vibes are just off. He's scoffing at the chart, he's eyeing you and saying "10, huh?" and Frank doesn't like it right away. Frank is as subtle as a cruise ship because he goes from sitting to standing with his arms crossed within 30 seconds. The doctor asks a few questions that begins suggesting he thinks you're just trying to get your hands on some meds. Meanwhile you're writhing on the hospital bed and looking like death.
Frank cuts the doctor off mid-sentence and says "Lemme tell you somethin' bud-- if I was layin' in the bed saying my pain was a level 10 you'd be pumpin' some goddamn drugs into me and fluffin' my fuckin' pillows. Change your fuckin' tone when you talk to her."
And everyone is simply stunned into silence. A few awkward moments pass before the doctor clears his throat and mumbles a shitty apology and then directing the nurse to put the order in.
Once they leave the room, Frank is back to being a big softie with you-- smoothing the hair out of your face, bringing you ice water and saying "It's ok to cry doll. Body's goin' through a lot. Bein' braver then half the men I know." He was like a loyal pit bull.
summary : when frank gets home hurt, you can't help but soak up all the pain
warnings : mentions of blood, injury and extreme angst
word count : 3.3 k
a/n : not proofread and based on a rq by @veralinasol (lowk sucks but yeah)
The apartment is warm. Comfortably warm. The kind of warmth that settles into the walls after a long day. Music hums quietly from the speaker on the kitchen counter. Something old. Something Frank claims he hates but somehow never asks you to turn off. You move around the kitchen in socks, stirring a pot of sauce with one hand while scrolling through your phone with the other.
It's peaceful. Ordinary. Exactly the kind of evening you've learned not to take for granted.
The clock above the stove reads 8:42. Frank said he had to cancel.
Something came up with Dinah and Micro, and he has to handle it. You know that, and honestly, you don't mind the peace and quiet once in a while.
You'd rolled your eyes when he'd texted it. He'd responded with a thumbs-up emoji. A crime, honestly. Frank Castle should not be allowed to use emojis. You make a mental note to tell him that tomorrow.
The thought makes you smile. Outside, rain taps softly against the windows. Inside, the sauce bubbles.
The music plays. Life feels normal.
You curl up on the couch with a bowl of food, blowing on it softly as you reach for the TV remote.
The couch sighs beneath your weight. A blanket gets pulled over your legs. Your bowl settles comfortably in your lap. For the first time all day, there's absolutely nothing demanding your attention.
No emergencies. No worrying. No waiting for Frank to stomp through the front door at some ungodly hour looking like he got into a fistfight with the city itself. Just you.
Dinner.
And whatever terrible reality show you're about to pretend you don't enjoy.
The TV flickers to life. You take a bite of pasta. Hum happily. Outside, rain rattles softly against the glass. The apartment feels safe.
Cozy.
Lived in.
Your eyes drift briefly toward the framed photograph sitting on the shelf beside the television. Frank. Scowling. Obviously. Because every photo of him somehow looks like evidence from a police investigation. You smile around another bite.
"Handsome asshole." The picture doesn't respond. Probably for the best. You sink deeper into the couch. The episode starts. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. You lose yourself in it.
The music. The rain. The food. The warm apartment. The complete absence of danger.
It's nice. Really nice.
Then— A noise.
Your attention barely shifts. Probably the pipes. Old building. Happens all the time. You keep eating. The TV drones on. Another noise. A little louder. You pause. Fork halfway to your mouth. Frown. Listen.
Nothing.
The apartment settles around you. The refrigerator hums. Rain taps against the windows. You shake your head. Probably upstairs neighbors. You go back to your show. A minute later— Thunk. Your stomach drops. That definitely wasn't upstairs. The sound came from somewhere inside the apartment.
You slowly lower the bowl into your lap. Mute the television. The sudden silence is startling. Your heart beats a little faster.
The lock clicks. You freeze. For one glorious second you think you're imagining it. Then the front door opens.
Heavy boots. A familiar curse. The sound of knees hitting the hardwood. A wet, gargling cough.
"Baby ?" His voice is heavy, broken, crackly. He coughs, and you hear something splatter on the ground.
Your bowl hits the coffee table so fast sauce sloshes over the rim.
"Frank?" No answer. Just another rough cough.
Wet.
Wrong.
Every nerve in your body lights up. You are already moving before you realize it. The blanket tangles around your legs. You nearly trip over it. Bare feet slap against hardwood as you sprint toward the front hallway.
"Frank!" The sight that greets you steals the breath from your lungs. He's on one knee. One hand braced against the wall. The other pressed hard against his side.
Blood runs between his fingers. Not a little. Not enough to brush off. Too much. Way too much.
The front door hangs half-open behind him. Rain blows in from outside, dampening the floor around his boots.
"Jesus Christ." Your voice breaks. Frank lifts his head. The second he sees you, something in his expression softens. Not relief exactly. Recognition.
Like he's finally made it somewhere safe.
"Hey, baby." You could kill him. You could genuinely kill him.
"Hey baby?" you repeat. He winces. "Hey baby?" Your eyes fill instantly. "You're bleeding all over my floor!" A weak huff leaves him. Almost a laugh.
"Yeah."
"Frank!"
"I know." Another cough bends him forward. Blood spatters the hardwood. Your stomach drops.
"Oh my God." The fear hits so hard your knees almost buckle. Frank sees it immediately. You drop to your knees beside him, pushing at his shoulder to get him up halfway so you can look at his wound.
"Sweetheart—"
"What happened?" Frank looks away. You immediately know the answer. Something bad. Something bad enough that he doesn't want to tell you. "Frank." He sighs.
"Took a round." Your heart stops. A round.
A bullet.
A bullet.
"Oh my God."
"It's through-and-through."
"Frank."
"I'm okay." You shake your hand, stumbling to your feet and diving for your phone.
"I need to call 911- you need, Frankie, you need a hospital-"
"No-" Frank reaches for you and falls face first on the hardwood, groaning as he can no longer move. "Fuck- Baby, please. No."
The sound he makes when he hits the floor tears straight through you. Not a yell. Not even a curse. Just a low, exhausted groan. Like he's running out of energy to hide how much pain he's in.
"Frank!" You drop the phone immediately and scramble back to him. Blood is everywhere.
On the floor. On his shirt. On your hands the second you touch him. Your stomach turns.
"Jesus Christ, Frankie." His eyes squeeze shut.
"I'm so fuckin' sorry." He rasps. You hook your hands under his shoulders, trying to help him sit up.
Frank weighs a million pounds. Or maybe you're just shaking too hard. Either way, it takes everything you've got. Eventually he manages to get one arm beneath himself and pushes upright with a grunt. The movement clearly hurts. A lot. You see it. The tightness around his eyes. The way his jaw clenches. The little hitch in his breathing.
And because you're you— Because you absorb every ounce of what he's feeling without even trying— Your eyes immediately fill again.
You maneuver him to the couch and let him slump down, his back arching in pain as he lifts his shirt higher up his chest.
The second the fabric lifts, you wish it hadn't. The wound isn't just a little hole.
It's angry. Raw. Blood slicks across his skin in dark sheets, tracking down his side and soaking the waistband of his jeans. The exit wound looks even worse. For a moment, all you can do is stare. Frank notices immediately.
"Hey." You blink. "Hey." His voice is softer this time. You force yourself into motion.
"Towels." The word comes out thin. "I need- I need towels." You disappear into the bathroom before he can answer.
Not because you need towels. You do. But mostly because if you stay there another second you're going to completely lose it. The bathroom light is too bright. Your hands shake as you yank open cabinets.
Towels. Gauze. Alcohol. The first aid kit. Your vision blurs. You blink hard.
You gather everything into your arms and march back into the living room before your emotions can catch up. By the time you return, Frank is exactly where you left him. Head tipped back. Eyes closed. Breathing hard. Trying very, very hard not to look as exhausted as he actually is. The sight hurts.
God, it hurts.
"Don't fall asleep." One of his eyes opens.
"Wasn't gonna."
"Liar." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. You hate that smile right now. You hate how much blood is underneath it. You drop onto the coffee table in front of him and immediately press a towel against the wound. You clean. Apply pressure. Replace soaked towels. Your movements are efficient. Automatic.
The way Frank taught you. But every time he winces, your stomach twists. Every time his breathing catches, yours does too. Every time his shoulders tense, your chest aches. Like you're carrying part of the pain with him. After twenty minutes, your hands are sticky with blood. Your knees hurt.
Frank looks pale. Too pale. And you're getting tired. Not physically.
Emotionally.
The kind of tired that settles into your bones. The kind Frank wears every day. You see it now. Really see it. The exhaustion. The constant pain. The way he keeps going anyway. Something in your chest starts to crack.
"Baby." You don't answer. You're focused on wrapping fresh gauze around his side. "Sweetheart." Still nothing. Because if you speak, you'll cry. And once you start, you aren't sure you'll stop. Frank watches you for a long moment. You sniffle and tighten the gauze. Frank jerks. A sharp hiss escapes him, and his hand darts out to wrap around your wrist, his grip bruising. You feel it like someone shot you too.
"Shit. Shit - I-I'm sorry, Frankie." You rasp, backing away from him, hands shaking and soaked with his blood.
"I-It's fine, mama." he hums, holding his hand out, beckoning you back towards him. But you can't move. You're staring at him. At the blood already reddening the gauze. At the condensation collecting on his brow, on the sickly paleness of his skin. For a second, neither of you moves. Rain taps softly against the windows. The refrigerator hums. The clock on the wall keeps ticking.
And all you can see is blood. His blood. Everywhere. On your hands. Under your fingernails. Soaking through the towel you'd just replaced.
Red against pale skin. Red against the couch. Red against everything.
"Baby." Frank's voice sounds distant. Like he's speaking from the other end of a tunnel. You don't answer. Your eyes stay fixed on the wound. On the evidence that he could have died. That maybe he still could.
That he came home instead of a hospital. That he chose you first. Something twists violently in your chest.
"Sweetheart." His hand is still extended toward you. Waiting. Patient.
You stare at it. Then at him. And suddenly all the effort you've spent holding yourself together starts slipping. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just little cracks. Tiny fractures spreading through something already breaking.
"I'm scared." The words barely make it out. Frank's expression changes immediately. The pain. The exhaustion. All of it takes a back seat. Because now he's looking at you. Really looking at you.
"Oh, baby."
"I'm scared."cYour voice wobbles. You hate it. You hate how small you sound. How vulnerable. How terrified. Frank shifts forward. Immediately regrets it. A sharp breath escapes him. Pain flashes across his face. But he keeps reaching for you anyway.
"Come here." You shake your head. Not because you don't want to. Because if you move, you're afraid you'll fall apart. "Sweetheart."
His voice is so soft. So tired. It nearly kills you.
Frank closes his eyes briefly. Like he's absorbing the distance. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.
He shifts on the couch, trying to lean forward to grab onto you, and a roar of pain leaves his lips and his hand presses to his side.
"Frank-" You rasp, falling to your knees in front of him, sobbing as you push him back onto the couch. "Don't- Don't do that- oh my god." You cry, shaking your head.
One hand immediately finds your arm. Not to stop you. To reassure you. You're crying now. Really crying. Not the quiet tears you'd been trying to hide. Not the sniffles you'd been swallowing every time he winced. The ugly kind. The kind that steals your breath.
The kind that hurts.
"Jesus Christ." You wipe furiously at your face. "You can't— you can't do that."
A weak huff escapes him.
"I'm fine." He rasps.
"I can tell you're not." You sob. "Every- Every time you get hurt. I can tell you're in pain. I can tell you're exhausted." You grit out.
"Baby-"
"And it hurts me, Frank." You sob, head falling onto his knee as you cry. "It hurts me to see you like this."
"Baby.. Hey, no.. C'mon, don't cry." The words are ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Because he's sitting there with a bullet wound in his side, bleeding through fresh gauze, pale enough to scare you half to death.
And somehow he's comforting you. A broken laugh escapes you. It immediately turns into another sob. Frank's face crumples.
Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough that you know he's hurting in more ways than one.
"Sweetheart." You shake your head against his knee.
"No."
"Baby—"
"No." Your voice cracks. "You don't get to do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like this is okay." The confession rips itself out of you. You don't even mean to say it. But now that it's started, you can't stop. "You don't get to come home half-dead and tell me not to cry." Frank goes quiet. Very quiet. Your hands clutch at his jeans. Blood-stained fingers bunching the fabric. "I hate this."
His hand settles on the back of your head. Slowly. Carefully. Like you're something fragile.
"I know."
"I hate when you get hurt."
"I know."
"I hate seeing you in pain." His thumb moves through your hair.
"I know, baby." Your chest aches. Actually aches. Because he sounds so tired. Because he's not arguing. Because he understands. Because he's felt this exact helplessness before.
A hundred times. A thousand. Watching people he loved get hurt.
Watching them bleed.
Being unable to stop it.
The realization nearly breaks you all over again.
"I can feel it." Frank frowns.
"What?" You lift your head. Your face is soaked. Your eyes burn.
"I can feel how tired you are." The words come out before you can stop them. Frank's expression shifts. Confused. Heartbroken. Both. "I can." Your voice trembles. "Every time you wince, I feel it." You wipe angrily at your eyes. "Every time you look exhausted, I get exhausted." Another sob. "And every time you're hurting, it feels like I'm hurting too." Frank stares at you. Completely still. Rain taps against the windows. The apartment feels too quiet. Too small. Too intimate. Finally, Frank reaches forward. Cups your cheek.
His hand is rough. Warm. Familiar.
"You know what's funny?" Your eyebrows pull together.
"What?" A tiny smile touches his mouth. Barely there.
"The whole damn world thinks I'm the tough one." Fresh tears spill down your face. Frank wipes one away with his thumb.
"But you're the one carrying both of us." The breath leaves your lungs. Immediately.
"Frank—"
"No." His voice is gentle. Firm. "Listen to me." You do. Because you always do. Because it's Frank. "You got the biggest damn heart I've ever seen."
You make a wounded sound. Because that's not fair. Not when he's looking at you like that. Not when he's the one bleeding. Not when he's the one who almost died.
"I don't wanna lose you." The words fall out before you can stop them. Raw. Honest. Childishly honest. Frank's entire face changes. The softness disappears. Not because he's angry. Because it hurts. You can see it. The thought hurts him too.
His hand slides to the back of your neck. Pulling you closer. Until your forehead rests against his.
"You listen to me." His voice is rough. Low. Certain. "I'm right here." A kiss presses against your forehead. "I'm not goin' anywhere tonight." Another kiss. Against your temple. "You hear me?" His nose brushes yours. "I'm here." Your eyes squeeze shut. Because you need that. Need it desperately. Need something solid to hold onto. Frank's hand moves back into your hair. Massaging your scalp slowly.
The same way he always does when you're upset.
The same way he does when nightmares wake you up.
Patient.
Steady.
Loving.
"I'm sorry, mama." He says gruffly. "I'm so fuckin' sorry. This ain't fair to ya." The apology breaks something inside you. Not because you're angry. Because he's apologizing. Because he's the one bleeding through bandages. Because he's pale and exhausted and barely holding himself upright. And somehow he's still worried about you. A fresh sob tears loose. Frank immediately reaches for you. Ignoring the way his face tightens. Ignoring the wound. Ignoring everything except you.
"Hey." You shake your head. "Baby, look at me."
"Frank."
"Baby—" Your hand lands against his chest. Not hard. Just enough to keep him still.
"You got shot." The reality of it crashes over you all over again. You can feel your throat closing. Your eyes burn. "You were hurt." Another pause. "And you still came home." The last part comes out small. Almost broken.
Because that's the thing that keeps getting you. Not the blood. Not the wound. Not even the fear. It's the fact that when he was hurt, when he was exhausted, when he was barely standing— He came to you. Frank's eyes lower. Like he doesn't know what to do with that.
"Course I did." The answer is immediate. Simple. Obvious. Like there's no other possibility. Like there never was. You stare at him. Frank shrugs one shoulder. Instantly regrets it. Winces.
"Jesus Christ." You grab his arm.
"Stop moving."
"Tryin'."
"No, you're not." A huff of laughter escapes him. Weak. Painful. Real. And suddenly your eyes fill again.
Because he's still Frank. Still making jokes. Still trying to make you feel better. Even now. Especially now. The realization hits hard enough that you have to look away. Frank notices immediately.
Of course he does. His fingers find your chin.
Guide your face back toward him.
"Hey." You swallow. "Hey." His thumb brushes beneath one eye. Wiping away tears before they fall. "I need you to hear me." Your lips wobble. Frank waits. Patient. Until you finally nod.
"I'm listenin'." His eyes lock onto yours. Steady. Certain. The same look he gets when he needs you to believe something. Something important.
"You're a saint." Your breath catches. Immediately. Because you know exactly where this is going. "You hear me?"
"Frank—"
"No." His voice is gentle. But firm. "You sit here worried sick every time I walk out that door." His thumb strokes your cheek. "You patch me up." Another stroke. "You put me back together." Another. "You love me." Your throat closes. "And somehow you think that's something you gotta apologize for." A tear finally slips free. Frank catches it with his thumb.
"I don't."
"You do." His voice softens. "You think feelin' all this makes you weak." You immediately shake your head. But Frank just gives you a look. The look that says don't lie to me. "You feel everything." His hand settles against the side of your neck. Warm. Protective. "And that's exactly why I keep comin' home." The room goes completely still. Rain against glass. Your breathing. His. Nothing else. Frank's eyes don't leave yours. "No matter what happens." His voice drops lower. "I know there's somebody here who'll fight like hell to keep me alive." Your face crumples. Instantly.
"Frank."
"And that's not weakness." The words come out rough. Certain. Like fact. "That's the strongest damn thing I ever seen." You can't stop crying now. Not at all. Frank opens one arm. Careful. Limited by the wound. But open. An invitation. You don't hesitate.
You climb into his lap anyway. Immediately. Like gravity. Like instinct. Frank groans quietly from the movement. But his arms lock around you the second you're close enough. Holding you tight. One hand settling against the back of your head. The other across your spine. And for a long moment neither of you says anything. You just breathe.
Together. Your face buried in his neck. His cheek resting against your hair. Finally you feel his lips press softly against the top of your head.
"I'm okay." The words are whispered. More for you than for him. "I'm right here." Another kiss. "I'm not goin' anywhere." You squeeze him tighter. Immediately feel him smile against your hair.
Tiny. Tired. Fond.
"Though if you squeeze much harder," he murmurs, "you might finish the job that bullet started."
Note I love Clark Kent so much and I still have no idea why I only have one fic about him here, that's gonna change from now. Anyways, I am sorry if this is a tiny bit angsty but I swear there's fluff and smut and you're gonna be nauseous because these two love each other way too much. Like a lot.
Clark’s night had been a particular kind of hell. He didn't remember landing on your terrace.
One moment he was standing in the cratered ruin of what used to be a warehouse district on the outskirts of Metropolis, his hands still trembling from the echo of kryptonian fists meeting flesh, and the next he was here—boots silent on the weathered tile, the city sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of light and shadow.
The villain had called himself Pavor. A meta-human with the unsettling ability to weaponize fear, to reach into the deepest, most vulnerable parts of a person's mind and pull out their nightmares made manifest. Clark had faced worse. He'd faced world-enders and reality-benders, creatures from the Phantom Zone and gods from distant pantheons. But Pavor had done something that none of the others had managed.
He'd made Clark watch you die.
Not just once. A hundred times. A thousand. Each death more intimate and horrible than the last. A car accident on a rain-slicked street where Clark was too slow, too far away, his super-hearing catching your final breath across seven city blocks. A terminal illness that ate through your beautiful, laughing body while Clark held your hand and felt the life drain out of you, powerless to stop it because even he couldn't cure the incurable. An explosion in your apartment building that he arrived at two minutes too late, your favorite mug still warm on the kitchen counter, your scent still lingering in the hallway.
The worst one—the one that still had his hands shaking even now—was the simplest. You'd been walking home from the grocery store, a bag of oranges in your arms, and a man with a gun had wanted your wallet. In the vision, Clark had been standing right there. Right. There. And he'd still been too slow. The bullet had entered your chest before he could move, and you'd looked at him with such confusion, such betrayal, as if to say why didn't you save me? when you didn't even know he was there at all.
The villain was neutralized now. Sedated in a meta-human containment cell, his fear-dust swept up by biohazard teams. But the images lingered, burned into Clark's brain like afterimages from a nuclear blast.
He needed to see you.
The thought was urgent, desperate, clawing at his chest with something that felt dangerously close to panic. He needed to see your face, to hear your heartbeat, to feel you—warm and solid and alive—under his hands. The rational part of his mind, the part that had been doing this for almost two years, told him to go home first. Change out of the suit. Put on the glasses and the flannel shirt and the carefully constructed persona of Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. That was the agreement, wasn't it? Not a formal one, not something you'd ever demanded, but something he'd built between you anyway. With you, he got to be just Clark. Not Superman. Not the symbol, the icon, the guy who caught planes and deflected asteroids. Just the man who burned his toast in the morning and left his socks on the bathroom floor and kissed the back of your neck while you were trying to make coffee.
But tonight, the thought of putting on that mask felt unbearable. Like another layer of separation between him and the thing he needed most.
So here he was. Boots on your terrace. The cape heavy on his shoulders, the House of El crest emblazoned across his chest. He'd never shown up like this before. Not once. You knew who he was—he'd told you, three months into the relationship, sitting on this very terrace with his heart in his throat and the words “I'm Superman” tasting like broken glass in his mouth—but you'd never seen him like this. The suit had always been something that happened somewhere else, in a different part of his life, the part he tried so hard to keep separate from the quiet sanctuary he'd found with you.
The sliding door was unlocked. It was always unlocked when he visited, a small act of faith that still made something in his chest ache. He could see you through the glass, curled on the couch with a book in your lap and a mug of tea steaming on the side table. You were wearing his university sweatshirt—the one he'd almost thrown away a dozen times because it was faded and threadbare, but you'd fished it out of the donation bag and claimed it as your own. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, still slightly damp from a shower, and you were absently chewing on your lower lip the way you did when you were concentrating.
His knees nearly buckled.
He'd watched you die tonight. He'd watched your eyes go dark and your heart stop and your blood pool on pavement, on tile, on the pristine white sheets of a hospital bed. He'd screamed your name in a dozen different nightmares, had reached for you a thousand times and come up empty. And here you were, reading one of your favorite books with your feet tucked under you, completely unaware that somewhere across the city, a so called God had been weeping over your corpse.
Clark slid the door open and you looked up immediately, a smile already forming on your lips—and then froze. Your eyes went wide, traveling from his face down the length of his body, taking in the suit and the cape and the way he was standing there like a man who'd just survived something he couldn't name.
“Clark?” Your voice was soft, uncertain, already tinged with concern. You set the book aside and rose from the couch, moving toward him slowly, carefully, the way you might approach a wounded animal. “Baby, what's wrong?”
He tried to speak. Tried to form words, to explain, to apologize for showing up like this without warning. But the sound that came out of his mouth was closer to a sob, raw and broken, and suddenly he was crossing the room in two strides and pulling you into his arms.
The contact nearly undid him.
You were warm. So impossibly, achingly warm, your body fitting against his like you'd been made to be there. Your heartbeat thrummed against his chest, steady and strong and alive, and Clark buried his face in your hair and breathed you in. Lavender shampoo. The faint trace of the tea you'd been drinking. Something underneath that was just you, the scent he'd committed to memory months ago, the one that meant home.
“Clark.” Your hands came up to cup his face, gentle but insistent, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, catching tears he hadn't realized he'd been shedding. “Talk to me. Please.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “There was a man tonight,” he said, and his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “He could—he could show people their fears. Make them real, somehow. In their minds.” He swallowed hard, and the next words came out on a shudder. “He showed me you. Dying. Over and over again. I watched you die so many times, and every time—every single time—I couldn't save you.”
Your breath caught. He felt it, felt the slight hitch in your chest, the way your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his jaw.
“Clark,” you whispered.
“I know it wasn't real.” The words came faster now, tumbling out of him like water through a broken dam. “I know that. I've dealt with fear-manipulators before, I know how it works, I know none of it actually happened. But I couldn't—I couldn't shake it. I couldn't stop seeing your face, couldn't stop hearing—” His voice cracked. “I needed to see you. I needed to hold you. And I couldn't go home and change first, I couldn't put on the glasses and pretend to be someone else for one more second, because I'm not—I'm not someone else, not with you, I've never been someone else with you, and I just—”
The words were coming too fast now, tripping over each other, spiraling. Clark could feel it building in his chest—that familiar, terrible pressure, the one he'd learned to recognize over years of burying things too deep. His heart was hammering, which was ridiculous because his heart didn't do that anymore, hadn't done that since he was a teenager learning to control his powers, but here it was, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. His breathing was too quick, too shallow, and he couldn't seem to get enough air even though he didn't technically need to breathe at all, not really, not the way you did, but his body didn't seem to care about technicalities right now.
She's dead. She's dead and you're hallucinating and any second now you're going to blink and she's going to be gone and you're going to be back in that warehouse with her blood on your hands and—
“Clark.”
Your voice cut through the spiral like a blade through silk. Not loud. Not demanding. Just there, steady and warm and impossibly, impossibly present.
“Clark, look at me.”
He couldn't. He couldn't look at you because if he looked at you, he'd see the bullet hole or the sickness or the closed eyes or one of the thousand other ways he'd watched you die tonight, and he couldn't—he couldn't—
Your hands moved from his face to his shoulders, and then you were guiding him, gently but firmly, until his back hit the wall beside the sliding door. Not hard—you didn't have the strength to move him if he didn't want to be moved—but he went willingly, bonelessly, because some deep part of him recognized that you were trying to anchor him, and he needed an anchor more than he needed air.
“There you go,” you murmured, and your hands were on his chest now, right over the S-shield, and he could feel the warmth of your palms even through the suit. “I've got you. I'm right here. Feel my hands, Clark. Can you feel them?”
He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. Your hands. He could feel your hands. Smaller than his and soft and warm, pressed against the symbol of his house, against the place where his heart should have been beating out of control but was instead starting, slowly, to calm.
“Good.” You stepped closer, and now your body was pressed against his, not in a way that was sexual but in a way that was grounding, solid and real and undeniable. You were warm all along his front, from his chest to his thighs, and he could feel every point of contact like a lifeline. “Now breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In...” He felt your chest expand against his. “...and out.”
He tried. He really tried. But the images were still there, flickering behind his eyelids every time he blinked, and his breath came out in a shuddering gasp instead of anything resembling controlled.
“That's okay,” you said, and your voice was so soft, so impossibly gentle, like you were soothing a spooked horse rather than the most powerful being on the planet. “That's okay, baby. Just try again. In...”
This time, he followed. His chest rose against yours, and he felt the way you smiled—felt the curve of your lips against his collarbone where you'd pressed your face.
“Good. So good. Now out...”
He exhaled, and some of the pressure in his chest went with it.
“That's it.” Your hands started moving on his chest, slow circles over the fabric of his suit, soothing and repetitive. “You're doing so well, Clark. Just keep breathing with me. In...”
She's warm. She's warm and she's solid and she's here.
“...and out.”
Her heart is beating. I can hear it. I can feel it.
“In...”
It's not the vision. The vision was cold. She was cold in the vision.
“...and out.”
She's not cold. She's never been cold. She's the warmest thing I've ever known.
“In...”
She's alive.
“...and out.”
She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.
Clark's eyes opened. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. And there you were—your face tilted up to his, your eyes soft and patient and full of so much love it made something in his chest crack open all over again. But this time, it wasn't the bad kind of cracking. This was the kind that let light in.
“Hi,” you said softly, and there was the barest hint of a smile playing at your lips.
“Hi,” he managed, and his voice was wrecked, scraped raw, but it was his again.
Your hands slid up from his chest to his face, cradling his jaw, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. You were so gentle with him, so careful, like he was something precious rather than something dangerous. He didn't understand how you did it. Didn't understand how you looked at him—at the suit, at the symbol, at the man who'd just fallen apart in your arms—and saw something worth holding.
“I'm here,” you said, and it wasn't the first time you'd said it tonight, but somehow it felt different now. Slower. More deliberate. Like you were pressing the words into his skin, making sure they stuck. “I'm here, Clark. I'm not a vision. I'm not a hallucination. I'm not going to disappear.”
He opened his mouth—to apologize, probably, because apologizing was what he did, was what he'd been training himself to do since he was old enough to understand that his existence was complicated—but you shook your head slightly, your thumbs pressing gently against his lips.
“No,” you said. “Don't. Don't apologize for needing me. Don't apologize for falling apart. You're allowed to fall apart, Clark. You're allowed to be scared and tired and overwhelmed and human, even if you're not—even if you're more than that. Especially because you're more than that. You carry so much. All the time. You never stop. You never let yourself just... be.”
Your hands moved from his face to his hair, pushing back the dark waves that had escaped the gel, your fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that made his eyes sting.
“So here's what's going to happen,” you continued, and your voice was still soft but there was something underneath it now, something fierce and protective and utterly, utterly sure. “You're going to stand here with me for as long as you need to. And I'm going to hold you. And you're going to feel me—every part of me—and you're going to let yourself believe that I'm real.”
You took one of his hands—his stupid, heavy, dangerous hands, the hands that could punch through steel and crush diamonds—and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart.
“Feel that?” you asked.
He felt it. Of course he felt it. He could feel the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his palm, could feel the expansion of your lungs with every breath, could feel the warmth of your blood moving through your veins. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt.
“That's me,” you said. “That's my heart. It's beating because I'm alive, Clark. I'm alive, and I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not for a very, very long time, if I have anything to say about it.”
“But you can't promise that,” he whispered, and the words came out broken, aching, almost childish and he didn’t stop himself. “I can't protect you from everything. I couldn't in the visions. I tried, and I couldn't, and what if—what if one day—”
“Then we'll deal with that day if it comes.” Your voice was firm, unyielding, nothing like the soft, soothing tone from before. This was the voice you used when you were drawing a line in the sand, when you were refusing to let him spiral any further. “But it's not today, Clark. Today, I'm here. Right now, I'm here. And you're here. And we're together, and we're alive, and we love each other, and that's enough. That has to be enough, because it's all we have.”
You lifted his hand from your chest and pressed a kiss to his palm, right in the center, your lips warm and soft against his skin. Then you turned his hand over and kissed his knuckles, one by one, a slow and deliberate ritual.
“These hands,” you said between kisses. “These hands have caught airplanes. These hands have held up buildings. These hands have saved the world more times than I can count.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were shining. “But do you know what my favorite thing about these hands is?”
He shook his head, not trusting his voice.
“They hold me,” you said simply. “They hold me when I'm sad. They hold me when I'm scared. They hold me when I'm happy and when I'm angry and when I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open. They hold me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting. And every time you hold me, I feel safe. Not because you're Superman. Because you're you. Because you're the man who loves me.”
A tear slipped down his cheek. You caught it with your thumb, wiping it away like it was nothing, like it didn't matter that he was crying in front of you for the second time tonight.
“I love you,” you said, and the words were so simple, so small, and yet they filled every empty space in his chest. “I love you, Clark Kent. I love the reporter and the hero and the farm boy from Kansas. I love the man who burns toast and leaves socks on the floor and cries at dog commercials. I love the man who showed up on my terrace tonight in his Superman suit because he was scared and he needed me. I love all of you. Every broken, beautiful piece.”
Clark let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for hours. The tension in his shoulders—the tension he hadn't even realized was there until this moment—began to ease. The images were still lurking at the edges of his mind, but they seemed dimmer now, less urgent, like nightmares fading in the light of morning.
You stepped back just enough to look at him properly, your hands sliding down to rest on his hips. Your eyes traveled over him—the suit, the cape, the S-shield—and instead of fear or uncertainty, he saw something else. Something that looked like wonder. Like acceptance. Like love, pure and simple and absolute.
"You know," you said, and your voice was lighter now, teasing at the edges, “I've always wondered what this suit would feel like. Before meeting you, of course.”
Despite everything—despite the nightmares and the panic and the tears—Clark felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Your fingers traced the edge of the S-shield, following the curve of the symbol. “It's softer than I expected. I always imagined it would be... I don't know. Hard. Impenetrable.”
“It is,” he said. “Impenetrable, I mean. Mostly.”
“Hmm.” You looked up at him through your lashes, and there was something in your expression now that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “And yet I can still feel you through it. Still feel how warm you are. Still feel your heart beating.” Your palm pressed flat against his chest, right over the symbol. “Still feel how much you love me.”
Clark's hands came up to cover yours, pressing them more firmly against his chest. “I don't know how to explain how much I love you,” he said, and his voice was raw but steady now. “I don't have words big enough. I don't have gestures grand enough. I just... I love you. I love you in ways I didn't know I could love someone. I love you in ways that scare me, because it's so much, and if I ever lost it—if I ever lost you—”
“You won't,” you said, and it wasn't a promise—not really, not one either of you could guarantee—but it was close enough. It was hope, and sometimes hope was all anyone had.
You rose up on your toes and kissed him, soft and slow and sweet. It wasn't the desperate, frantic kiss you always have. This was something else. Something that felt like a vow. Like a benediction. Like you were trying to pour every ounce of love you felt into him through the simple press of your lips.
When you pulled back, your eyes were bright, and your smile was the one he fell in love with—the one that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made him feel like he'd come home.
You kissed him again.
But now, it wasn't a gentle kiss, not the soft, sweet kind you usually shared over morning coffee or lazy Sunday afternoons. This was urgent, desperate, your mouth slanting over his like you were trying to pull the pain out of him through sheer proximity. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not caring that the gel he used to keep it tamed was probably leaving residue on your palms, and you kissed him until he forgot how to breathe.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I'm here,” you said, fierce and quiet all at once. “I'm right here, Clark. I'm not going anywhere.”
He made a sound—something broken, something grateful—and kissed you again. And again. And again, each kiss softer than the last, until he was just pressing his lips to your forehead, your temples, the corner of your mouth, the pulse point at your throat where your heartbeat still sang its steady, beautiful rhythm against his skin.
“I love you,” he said against your neck. The words felt too small for the enormity of what he felt, but they were all he had. “God, I love you so much.” He murmurs, nipping at your neck. “Can I take you to bed?,” he said softly, and his voice had shifted into something lower now, something that made his stomach tighten. “Please. I need—I need to feel you. All of you.” All you did was nod and that, besides that look in your eyes, was all he needed.
He started to lift you—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the way he always did because he could and because you made that delighted sound every single time—but you pressed a hand to his chest and stopped him.
“No,” you said, and there was a new edge to your voice. Something determined. Something that made him pause, his hands stilling on your hips. “No, Clark. Tonight, I was going to—I was going to take care of you.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit, right over where his heart was hammering. “When I saw you standing there, in the suit, looking like you'd seen a ghost—I thought, “okay. I've got this. I'm going to hold him. I'm going to love him. I'm going to make him forget every single terrible thing he saw tonight”.”
His throat tightened. “Sweetheart—”
“But then you kissed me.” Your voice softened, your thumbs tracing small circles against his chest. “And I felt how much you needed this. Needed me. Not in a way that I could fix by being on top, or by taking control. You needed to hold me. You needed to feel me underneath you, alive and warm and yours.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were so full of love that it almost hurt to meet them. “So I'm not going to fight you for it. But I am going to get this suit off you first.”
Clark blinked. “What?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth—the first real smile he'd seen from you since he'd arrived, and god, it was like watching the sun come out after months of rain. “You heard me, Kent.” Your hands moved to the clasp of his cape, fingers working with a determination he'd only ever seen you apply to stubborn jar lids and particularly difficult crossword puzzles. “I love you. I love that you showed up here like this, that you trusted me enough to come to me when you were falling apart. But I am not having sex with you while you're wearing enough spandex to make a 1980s rock band jealous.”
A surprised laugh escaped him—shaky, wet, still caught somewhere between a sob and actual humor. “It's not spandex. It's a Kryptonian combat weave—”
“I don't care if it's woven from the beard hairs of Zeus himself,” you interrupted, finally managing to unhook the cape and letting it pool to the floor in a dramatic puddle of red. “It's coming off.”
And just like that, something in his chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough for him to remember that this was you, that you'd never once treated him like a symbol or a savior, that you'd always been more interested in the man beneath the armor than the armor itself.
“Help me with the boots,” you said, already reaching for the zipper on the side of his right boot, and Clark found himself sinking onto the edge of the couch, letting you kneel in front of him and pull each boot off with a kind of focused intensity that made his heart ache.
You worked in silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft rasp of fabric and your steady breathing. When both boots were off—thrown unceremoniously into the corner, where they landed with two heavy thuds—you looked up at him, and your hands came to rest on his knees.
“Stand up,” you said softly.
He stood and you rose with him, your hands sliding up his thighs to hook your fingers into the waistband of the suit. “Arms up,” you murmured, once you saw it was a two piece suit and he obeyed, lifting his arms above his head as you peeled the top half of the suit off him in one smooth motion. The Kryptonian fabric whispered against his skin, and then he was standing in front of you in nothing but the blue undersuit and you paused, your hands flat against his chest.
“There he is,” you whispered, and your voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “There's my Clark.”
He couldn't speak. Couldn't form words around the lump in his throat. He just stood there, trembling under your touch as your hands explored the landscape of his chest—the scars you'd memorized months ago, the hard planes of muscle, the places where his heartbeat pulsed warm against your palm.
“Let me see all of you,” you said, and it wasn't a demand. It was a question, soft and open, and Clark nodded because he couldn't say no to you. Not tonight. Not ever.
You peeled the undersuit off him slowly, almost reverently, your knuckles brushing against his stomach, his hips, the sensitive skin at his sides. When it pooled at his feet and he stepped out of it, leaving him in nothing but his briefs—black, plain, the kind he bought in multipacks from the department store because who was going to see them anyway—you made a sound low in your throat that made his cock twitch.
“Beautiful,” you breathed, and your hands were on him again, tracing the lines of his hips, the jut of his hipbones, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his briefs. “You're so beautiful, Clark.”
“Sweetheart, mmhm I—” His voice came out strangled.
“Shh.” You pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with your mouth, kissing him slow and deep. “You said you needed to take care of me tonight. So take me to bed. But I want you naked when you do it. I want to feel you—all of you—nothing between us.”
He lifted you then—finally, finally—and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a quiet moan, your center pressing against the thin fabric of his briefs, and he could feel how warm you were, how ready, and it took every ounce of his considerable self-control not to just take you against the wall right there.
The walk to your bedroom was short but eternal. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest, fast and steady, and your mouth was on his neck, your teeth scraping against the sensitive skin just below his jaw, and by the time he laid you down on the bed, he was so hard it was almost painful.
You reached for the hem of his sweatshirt—the one you were wearing, the one that still smelled faintly of him underneath your shampoo—and pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. You weren't wearing anything underneath, and Clark made a sound like a wounded animal at the sight of you, bare and beautiful and spread out on the sheets like an offering.
“Clark.” Your voice was soft but steady. "”our briefs. Off. Now.”
He couldn't help the broken laugh that escaped him. “Bossy tonight.”
“You almost died in a who knows where and then watched me die a thousand times in your head,” you said, and your eyes were serious now, deep and unwavering. “I think I'm allowed to be bossy.” A pause. “Besides, you're the one who wanted to take care of me. Can't do that if you're not even undressed yet.”
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down, his cock springing free, hard and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. Your eyes dropped to it, and your lips parted, and Clark felt a surge of heat so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Come here,” you said, reaching for him. “Come here, I need you, honey.”
He crawled onto the bed, settling over you, his weight braced on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you. The contact was overwhelming—skin to skin, chest to chest, his cock pressing against your thigh—and you both groaned at the same time.
“I kept hearing your heartbeat stop,” he admitted, the words spilling out of him in a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours. “In the visions. It would just... stop. And I would scream, and it wouldn't start again, and I couldn't—” He pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in. “You have to understand. I've heard things. Seen things. In all my years doing this, I've witnessed horrors that would break most people. But nothing—nothing—has ever hurt like watching you die.”
Your hands slid down his back, fingers digging into the muscles there, pulling him closer. “I'm here,” you said, and your voice was steady even though your eyes were wet. “Feel my heartbeat, Clark. Feel it.”
He did. He pressed his ear to your chest, right over your heart, and listened. thrum-thrum, thump-thump. Steady and strong and real. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and he felt the vibration of your voice through your ribcage as you spoke.
“I love you,” you said into the quiet. “I love you, I love you, I love you. That heartbeat is yours. It's always been yours. Every single beat, from the moment we met until the moment I die—and I'm not dying tonight, Clark, I'm not dying anytime soon—every single one of them is for you.”
He kissed his way down your body. Slowly. Deliberately. Each kiss a confirmation, a reassurance, a tiny prayer of gratitude. He kissed the spot where your pulse beat at the base of your throat. He kissed the hollow between your collarbones. He kissed the swell of your breasts, took one nipple into his mouth, and you arched beneath him with a cry that went straight to his cock.
“Clark, mmhm oh fuck”
He sucked gently, then harder when your fingers tightened in his hair, and your other hand scrabbled at the sheets like you were trying to anchor yourself. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and your hips were rolling against his, your wetness slick against his stomach.
“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Clark, I need you inside me—”
He lifted his head, looking down at you. Your eyes were dark, your lips parted, your chest heaving. You were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he'd seen galaxies born and die.
“Not yet,” he said, and his voice was rough but steady now. “I'm not done taking care of you.”
He kissed lower, trailing his mouth down your sternum, your stomach, the soft curve of your belly. When he reached the waistband of your pajama shorts—the tiny cotton ones you wore to bed, the ones with the little strawberries on them that made him smile every single time—he hooked his fingers into them and pulled them down your legs along with your underwear, tossing them somewhere behind him.
And then you were bare beneath him, open and wanting, and Clark settled between your thighs like he was coming home.
He kissed the inside of your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, and higher, until his breath was hot against your center and you were shaking, your hands fisting in the sheets.
“Clark—”
“Shh,” he murmured, and then he licked you—one long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and the sound you made was enough to bring him to his knees if he hadn't already been there.
You tasted like heaven. Like home. Like everything he'd been desperate for since the first nightmare had taken hold. He buried his face between your thighs and worshipped you, his tongue drawing patterns on your clit, his fingers sliding inside you and curling just so, and you were crying out his name, your hips bucking against his mouth. He loves spending his time with you, licking, sucking and sometimes his teeth are involved.
“That's it,” he murmured against you, and the vibration made you whimper. “Let me hear you, my love. Let me feel you. I need to know you're real, sweetheart, I need to feel you come apart for me—”
You came with a shattered cry, your whole body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head, and Clark didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, softer, until you were pushing at his shoulders with trembling hands.
“Too much,” you gasped. “Too much, honey, I can't handle more.”
He crawled back up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he could feel your heart hammering against his chest.
“I love you,”he said, and it came out like a prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, baby.”
“Then fuck me,” you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Please, Clark, I need to feel you deep inside.”
He reached between you, positioning himself at your entrance, and paused. Looked down at you. Your eyes were wet, your face flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses. You looked utterly wrecked, and utterly here, and something in his chest cracked open and healed all at once.
“Talk to me,” he said, and his voice was raw. “While I'm inside you. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you're with me.”
“I'm with you,” you said, and your hands cupped his face, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. “I'm always with you, Clark. Now please—”
He pushed inside you. Slowly. So slowly. Inch by agonizing inch, watching your face the whole time—the way your eyes fluttered shut, the way your lips parted, the way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered how to say. When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt inside your heat, he stopped. Just held there, letting you both adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter of your body around him.
“Gosh,” he breathed. “Oh Gosh, you feel so good, my love.”
“I know.” Your voice was wrecked. “I know. Move, Clark. Please.”
He pulled back and thrust forward, and the sound you made was obscene, perfect, the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He set a rhythm—slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust a reaffirmation that you were here, you were alive, you were his.
“I watched you die,” he said, and the words came out between thrusts, ragged and raw. “I watched you die in a hospital bed. I watched you die in a car crash. I watched you die in something that could be our shared home.” His voice broke, and he thrust deeper, and you moaned. “I watched a man shoot you in the chest while I was standing right there, and I couldn't—I couldn't, oh damn.”
“Clark.” Your hands were everywhere—his face, his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer, holding him like you could keep him from flying apart. “I'm here. I'm here. Feel me—feel me, honey.”
He did. He felt the way you clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper. He felt your heartbeat thrumming against his chest, faster now, matching the rhythm of his hips. He felt the wetness on his cheeks—tears, his or yours, he couldn't tell anymore—and the warmth of your breath against his neck.
“You're so beautiful,” he said, and he was crying now, actually crying, the tears falling onto your face and mixing with yours. “You're so beautiful and I can't lose you, I can't—”
“You won't.” You kissed his tears, your mouth soft and desperate against his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his lips. “You won't lose me, Clark. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm right here, I'm right here, I'm always here.”
Your words became a chant, a mantra, a prayer, and Clark fucked you through it, hard and deep and desperate, his hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.
“Come for me,” he said, and it wasn't a request. “Come for me, sweetheart, I need to feel you—I need to know you're real, that you’re here, that you’re mine.”
You shattered. Came apart around him with a cry that was almost a scream, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice, and Clark followed you over the edge with a groan that was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He spilled inside you, wave after wave, his hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. Nothing but the sound of your hearts—his steady and strong, yours fast and fluttering—and the rustle of sheets as you both trembled through the aftershocks.
Clark collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head tucked under his chin and your legs tangled with his. He could feel your tears on his chest, could hear the little hitches in your breath as you cried, and he held you tighter, his lips pressed to the top of your head.
“I'm sorry,” he said after a long moment, his voice muffled by your hair. “For showing up like this. For—for dumping all of that on you. You didn't sign up for all this mess, baby.”
“Stop.” Your hand pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart. “Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for needing me.” You tilted your head back to look at him, and your eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. “I signed up for all of you, Clark Kent. The good days and the bad ones. The nightmares and the morning coffee. The cape and the glasses. You don't get to hide parts of yourself from me just because you think they're inconvenient or scary or too much.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “I love you,” he said, because the words were inadequate but they were all he had. “I love you more than I know how to say.”
You smiled—that soft, devastating smile that had undone him from the very first moment he'd seen it—and snuggled closer, your ear pressed over his heart.
“Then show me,” you said quietly. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Clark looked down at you—at the tear tracks on your cheeks, the love in your eyes, the way your body was pressed against his like you were trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there—and he felt something shift. Something settle. Something that felt like hope.
“I will,” he said, and his voice was steady now. Certain. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Outside, the city hummed its endless night-song. Inside, wrapped in each other and the quiet aftermath of love, Clark Kent let himself believe that everything might just be okay.
He had you, after all. And that was enough. That was everything. You are his everything.
Summary: Companion piece to His Shirt. Fluff to smut pipeline, though the sex is very sweet. You and Bob continue your late-night meetings, your friendship deepening into something more.
Rating: 18+
WC: 5k (complete)
CW: Fluff to smut, no use of y/n, reader is afab, reader swears, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, flirting, banter, romance, discussion of drug use, sleep disorders, teasing, pinv, ladies on top (feminism), unprotected sex, creative use of superpowers, bob has a praise kink if you squint, bob is sweet, even sentry is sweet.
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
“Maybe we should send him something.”
You and Bob sat side by side on the end of the kitchen counter, watching the man across the street in the window together, another late-night meeting for your club of two. You had both become a little protective of the stranger across the street, whose silhouette moved back and forth across a distant golden rectangle, a solemn shadow puppet playing to an unseen audience. Bob glanced at you, considering the suggestion with his lips tugged to one side. He watched you pick up your phone, open it, navigate to a search window.
“Like what?” he asked. “Pizza?”
“I don’t know, you met him,” you said, laughing softly. “There’s always flowers.”
“Uh-oh, two insomniacs ordering things off the Internet after midnight,” he teased, leaning into you just enough to make your neck flush. “One time in a blackout I tried to get a mariachi band.”
Your thumbs stilled on the phone screen, and when you turned your head to look at him, discovered his face hovering just by your shoulder. That was happening more, like he couldn’t help but drift into your orbit. “Did it work?”
“Oh, God no,” Bob snorted. “Couldn’t remember my buddy’s address. Gave up. Probably for the best.”
“I don’t know, a surprise mariachi band would be pretty bad ass.” You navigated to a floral delivery service and started scrolling through the options, Bob still glued to your side, his eyes following as you perused. It was easy to chat, but it was just as easy to be quiet. During these sleepless meet ups, you never felt pressured to fill the silence. Maybe that was why the admissions just tumbled out, because it didn’t seem like either of you expected them. The club was a judgment-free zone. “No blackout shopping but I had sleepwalking episodes in the facility. One time they found me on the roof.”
Bob lowered his head, blinking hard. “Does…does that happen here? The sleepwalking?”
“It hasn’t been an issue in a while, just the nightmares,” you said, pushing out an exhausted smile. “But I keep my door bolted just in case. Don’t worry, Bob, I won’t wander into your room.”
He shifted away from you slightly, chewing his cheek, then pointed at one of the flower arrangements on your phone. “That one’s nice.”
You couldn’t tell if the joke about winding up in his room had landed. Suddenly, he didn’t seem as comfortable leaning against you or looking at your face. Shit. “What’s his apartment number? I’ll need it for the delivery.” Maybe you could both just sweep that right under the rug, forget you ever said it. “And so the mariachi know where to go, obviously.”
Bob snorted, fidgeting with both hands in his lap. “It’s 3001,” he said. Then softer, after a quiet moment of your thumbs tapping the screen and the air con clunking above your heads, “It would be okay, you know.”
At that, you swiveled toward him, brow furrowed. He struggled to get the next part out, head dodging back and forth as he weighed the words, measured how they would sound.
“If you…I mean. If you ended up in my room?” Bob stared at the floor, a nervous flush dyeing his ears fluorescent pink. “I can think of worse things.”
You had thought that was under the rug, but now he had swept it right back out. The phone in your hand suddenly weighed thirty pounds. You swallowed and hoped he couldn’t hear how loud it was, because in your head it sounded like a sink backing up. “What should we put on the card?”
Bob glanced up at the ceiling for ideas. “Hope your mom is doing better, from your friends across the street?” He shook his head. “Too creepy, maybe? Thinking of you? Agh. Worse.”
You typed out “Keep going, king” and showed it to him.
“Yeah. Yeah, that works. If I got that it would make me feel better, you know?”
You filled out the rest of the form and ordered the flowers. Silence descended again between you, your heels thumping against the counter as you swung them arrhythmically. "Is it weird that this feels like the most superhero thing I’ve done since joining up?”
“No.” Bob smiled, leaning into you again. “I feel the same way. Just actual good. When we blow up a building, I tell myself at least someone will get an insurance payout.”
“Huh. Never thought of it that way.”
Bob shrugged, lifting his head a bit higher, shaking his hair back. “Hey. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Thought you were here for the power of a thousand exploding suns thing,” you teased, locking your phone and gazing across at him.
“Well. Sure. Yeah, I mean. Yeah.” He snort-laughed, one of his more devastating quirks. “That’s why I’m part of the team, but I’m here—” He gestured to you and then the counter and then the windows. “—to entertain you with useless trivia and all the dumb shit that goes through my head.”
It isn’t dumb to me.
“It does make the nights go faster,” you said, trying to hold his gaze but finding it made your face insanely prickly and hot. It was such a bad, bad, big bad idea to form a crush on a teammate, but his huge blue eyes and crooked smile were starting to rewrite common sense in your brain.
“Good,” he said, with a single nod. He slid off the counter, offering to help you do the same. This was your favorite part of the club, when Bob’s strong hands held your waist and you felt the heat of his body as you slid against it, commanding yourself to think chaste thoughts until you were alone in your room. “Good,” he repeated, grinning down at you. These little goodbyes seemed to be getting longer, each of you less and less willing to be the one that made the first move.
“Goodnight, Bob,” you said, softly and with regret.
Two nights later, your dreams were strange. Not the average terrifyingly vivid, violent, and disturbing strange, but a totally new kind of weird. You dreamed that you were floating, winding through the tower just a few inches off the ground, toes pointed down, almost dragging along the floor. For a while, in the dream, you hovered in front of the window where you and Bob liked to watch the man across the street. It felt like you were there for hours, just drifting, just hovering, disconnected from your body, disconnected from time.
Then, you were warm, small, bunched up like a star that could fit in your hands. All the existential nothingness of the rest of the dream fell away, and you were in your body again, safe and protected. It made you want to curl up like a kitten.
You woke up in a panic, gasping for air, scrambling and clawing at a stranger’s arms as you were returned to your bed. Those powerful arms belonged to a stranger until the moonlight through your window caught on his face and hair, painting him in with long strokes of silver. Bob. He looked more serious than usual, flecks of gold dancing in his eyes. His brow was pulled low in concern.
“You’re okay,” he was saying, standing back, letting go.
You looked around at the tangled mess of your bedding, at the pillows knocked on the floor, at the scratches you had dragged down Bob’s shoulders. “What…”
“You were sleepwalking,” he said gently, sitting at the edge of your mattress. “You were in the common room. Do you remember anything?”
“No.” You passed a trembling hand over your face. “Bob, your arms. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
He glanced down at the marks as if he hadn’t been aware they even existed. Before your eyes, they were beginning to fade and heal. The gold in his eyes flared and then extinguished, his expression sweeter as he glanced at you behind a frazzled lock of dark hair. “It’s nothing. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Bob reached for the blanket bunched by your feet and fluffed it, dragging it up your body until you were covered. It was then that you noticed you were just in a flimsy bra top and your underwear. You huddled under the blanket, mortified.
“Try to sleep,” he said, one hand smoothing the blanket across your chest before he stood. “You’re safe.”
The next morning, there was a black, worn t-shirt waiting for you outside your door. Folded, but not particularly neatly. You emerged from your room feeling like a feral badger scuttling out of their den. Did anyone else know that you had been found wandering the common room in the middle of the night like a total ghoul? Did they know Bob had found you, swooped you into his arms and carried you back to bed? If anyone else on the team did find out, you would never hear the end of it.
You carried the shirt back into your room and shut the door, shaking it out. By now, you knew the scent belonged to Bob. It was an old band shirt for a group you hadn’t heard of. You didn’t know why he had left it there, though you weren’t about to complain. Maybe it was a subtle: hey, cover up next time, you were tits out in the common room.
That didn’t seem like Bob. Even passive aggression was too hostile for him most days. You dropped the shirt on the end of your bed and wandered out to find breakfast. Yelena and Bob were chatting in the kitchen; she was busy making coffee in a crop top and workout shorts while he scraped cream cheese across two halves of a toasted bagel. He certainly wore a pair of loose pajama pants well, but somehow, he was just as tempting in a plain tee and a cozy, oversized cardigan. He was looking down at his bagels, laughing at something Yelena was telling him.
His words from the night before returned to you, sweet, blossoming through you like spring. You’re safe.
Right then, it felt like you could believe it.
Bob glanced up, noticing you first. You allowed yourself to enjoy the way his nose and cheeks turned red, his eyes snagging on you before they drifted back down to his food. “Hey,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. “Hungry?”
“Forget bagels I’m about to make a latte that will blow your head clean off,” Yelena said, tossing you a rakish glance over her shoulder. "I was just asking him what you two get up to out here all night. He's playing dumb but maybe you'll crack..."
Bob smirked down at his knife, then mimed zipping his lips shut.
"I am a softer target,” you joked, joining Bob at the end of the counter, ground zero for your late-night chats. “I’d say join us and find out but I wouldn’t wish this affliction on anyone.”
“Sucks,” Bob agreed. He turned back to the refrigerator and pulled out the bag of bagels, wordlessly toasting another one. When he returned to his plate, he pushed it across the counter toward you with a shy smile. “I’ll make more.”
“Bob.” You shook your head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Don’t fight him on it.” Yelena sighed, slapping the side of the espresso machine impatiently. “He already made me eat, if we don’t say yes, he’ll wait so long he'll starve.”
Bob cleared his throat softly, moving his head to one side. “It’s just polite.”
“You got your suit back, Bob, you’re not our maid anymore,” Yelena joked. She pulled a shot from the machine and dumped it into a double-walled glass already packed with ice. “Much to Walker’s disappointment.”
You hadn’t been present for the period when Bob was denied his Sentry suit but given the way he stared at his hands like they had betrayed him, you got the impression it was not a proud moment. Crunching your bagel, you tried to cheer him up, rounding the end of the counter to touch his shoulder lightly. “I bet you looked killer in the little outfit.”
Bob snorted. His eyes were playful, bright, as he leaned against the counter, swiveling toward you, giving you his full attention as he murmured, “It’s still in the closet if you ever—”
“Oh my God, shut up.” Yelena cut him off, kicking toward his hip and missing. “Okay, curiosity satisfied. Barf. Now I know what you two pervs are doing all night. Wish I could unknow it.”
“That’s one way to get her to stop,” you muttered, sharing a quiet laugh with him.
Yelena finished dumping espresso shots into cups, slopped milk into them with the precision of Alexei fresh off a bender and shoved the drinks toward the two of you before taking her own glass off toward the observation deck.
“Do I ask you if I need the feather duster back, or—” Bob called after her, chuckling at her exaggerated shudder. When the door shut in her wake and you were alone with him, Bob hazarded another long look at your face. “I didn’t actually have an outfit. I just did the dishes sometimes and—”
“I know, Bob,” you assured him, putting down your bagel before you could choke on it.
Nodding hurriedly, he crammed the rest of his bagel in his mouth and chased it with the drink Yelena had left for him. You ate in silence for a while until he leaned in to press his thumb against your lip, wiping off a smear of cream cheese.
“You, um, had something just there,” he said, wiping his hand off on his crumpled-up paper towel napkin. “How are you feeling? After...after last night…”
Your mouth tingled where he had touched it, your own fingertips rising to graze across that spot. Avoiding the pressure of his eyes, you swirled the ice in your own glass, listening to it clack softly against the glass. You wondered what he must have seen when he came out into the common room, you in your undies, staring at nothing, stiff and senseless as a zombie. You just wished you had been awake for the next bit, when he scooped you up and held you against his naked chest, carrying you silently through the tower and back to your bed.
Suddenly, you were grateful for the full-on blast of the air con, your face burning at the image of him holding you like that.
“I’m bearing up,” you told him. “Managed to grab a few hours.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Same.”
“Bob…” You started, rubbing one finger across an imagined stain on the marble counter. “Did you leave a shirt outside my door?”
“Oh.” He pulled the two halves of his cardigan closer across his chest. “Yeah, I thought you might need another one. You…you weren’t wearing the pumpkin shirt last night when I found you.”
“It’s in the wash,” you said.
Bob paled, eyes widening. “That makes sense, should’ve thought of that, yeah. Sorry, you don’t have to keep that other one if you don’t want it, I just…” He glanced down at his bare toes, then seemed to summon a whisper of courage and darted his eyes back to your face. The powerful heat he carried everywhere reached you before his physical presence did, his hand sliding near yours on the counter, his cardigan brushing your forearm as he closed the distance between you. You waited for him to finish his thought, breath lodged in your throat, his chest so close to yours you worried he could feel your heart hammering away. “I just like the way you look in my clothes. I like the way you look all the time, but…when it’s just my shirt and those shorts…” He trailed off, blinking hard, seemingly struggling to get the next part out. “It does something to me.”
Bob’s hand crept closer, then carefully folded over yours. You closed your eyes, so full of his heat you couldn’t think straight. “I like it, too,” you said finally.
The door leading outside cracked open. Bob let go, shooting you a nervous glance before taking a step back. Yelena stomped through the common room, tracking back to the kitchen, throwing you both a squint before returning to her espresso machine. “Mission board is lighting up,” she sighed. “Last chance to get caffeinated, kiddos—it’s going to be one of those days.”
It was, as Yelena predicted, one of those days, which meant that by the time you crawled into bed, freshly showered, hair damp, dressed in the black shirt Bob had left for you and laundry day panties, you actually plunged into a deep, restful sleep.
It didn’t last the whole night, it never did, and after just a few hours, you found yourself stirring, flopping onto your back with a groan. You lay there for a while, the smell of Bob’s shirt a comforting companion as you shifted and tried a few different configurations with your legs and arms, trying to work out the persistent knot in your lower back. Nothing helped. After glaring up at the ceiling for a while, it occurred to you that Bob hadn’t washed this tee, just chucked it outside your door. He didn’t just like you in his clothes, he liked you in his clothes that were still covered in his soap and sweat.
Why was that kinda...hot?
Maybe because it was hard to think about any other man or anything at all when his smell was all over you. You told yourself it was fair game. If he was going to be a dirty boy, then you were allowed to be a dirty girl. In his shirt. With your fingers crawling down your middle to your panties, beneath them…
I just like the way you look in my clothes. I like the way you look all the time, but…when it’s just my shirt and those shorts it does something to me.
It was a testament to your willpower that you had been able to concentrate on the mission at all after that confession. The words spread through your chest down to your abdomen like the steady sweetness of his heat. Your back arched at the memory of how it felt moving through you when he held your arms and—
You were just starting to slide your fingers deeper when a soft knock at the door startled you. Shit. You flew upright, watching a shadow move across the sliver of light at the bottom of your door. Bob’s voice followed a second later, calling, “You awake?” And then, “Your door is open.”
So it was. You must have been so bone tired from the never-ending day that you forgot to close the door tight and latch the bolt. Reckless. Just a few light knocks had moved the door open even more, revealing a slice of the hallway, and of Bob’s shoulder. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, leaning forward. “I’m awake.”
Silence.
“Can I come in?”
Your hands shook on your thighs. Shit. Are we really doing this?
“Sure.” You hoped you didn’t sound as helplessly horny as you felt.
"Can I?"
"Yeah."
The door eased open, light from the hallway spilling inside. Bob slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He crossed to the bed in a few long strides, hovering near the foot of the frame until you patted the mattress next to you. What was the point in pretending? Still, he moved slowly, as if giving you time to change your mind. That was the furthest thought from your head when his weight depressed the mattress beside you, the warmth of his bare arm grazing you. Without further hesitation, Bob turned and gently tugged the collar of your shirt. His shirt.
“You’re wearing it.” He sounded relieved. His voice was hushed sweetness, his breath skittering across your temple as he leaned even closer, eyes sliding up and down your body.
You ducked your head, uncertain why you felt so shy and retreating now when all you had thought about for the last month was Bob spreading you like a rumor. But it was different now that he was right there with you, sitting on your bed in the middle of the night, nothing but a few small choices between friend and lover.
“I actually fell asleep tonight,” you said, closing your left hand over his right; he was still carefully feeling along the edge of the collar, hedging.
“Then why are you awake?” he asked, laughing quietly.
“Did something to my back.” You let go of him, reaching back to rub a concentrated circle over the painful knot on your left side. “Think I’m about five minutes out from a migraine at this point.”
The light on your nightstand flickered on, a pink glow illuminating just your little corner. Bob’s other hand met yours on your back, seeking carefully, pressing into the harder spot where your muscles had cinched. “Here?”
You nodded, going silent as his right hand slid from the shirt collar to your throat, his open palm on one side of your neck, his left hand smoothing across your injury. His dark lashes fluttered on his cheeks as he closed his eyes and channeled flickers of warmth against your oblique, heat penetrating deeper than any balm or pad could manage. The tension pulling between your back and the base of your skull gradually eased. Your shoulder on the left side lowered, the pain just a brief memory…
“Better?” he asked, still letting his warmth flood into you.
Bob smirked, eyes still shut. “That’s what ketamine feels like.”
You snorted. “We won’t volunteer you for the DARE demos.”
“Nah, you won’t need to try it,” Bob teased, eyes opening slowly. Your faces were so close now you could smell his shampoo and the smell of his bedsheets clinging to his bare chest. “You’ve got me.”
The world was abruptly the size of a shoe box, compressing the space between you, his heat less controlled now as it spiraled through your spine, tickling the base of your ears, spreading lower to glide down your legs to your toes. You arched subtly, lips parting. Bob’s fingers twitched on your neck as if bounced by your ratcheting pulse.
“You’ve got me,” he said again.
His nose grazed yours, and you were gone. Bob’s hand slid higher, cupping your jaw as he brought your mouth to his. His warmth, once so localized, was a fire raging out of control, tearing through your body until it felt like his shirt would burn off of your body. Your arms looped around his neck, and you swung your leg over his hip, twisting until you could straddle his lap.
He groaned, holding you tighter against him, lips opening wider to deepen the kiss, show you his eagerness, his hunger. His hands explored your back, then lower, gripping your ass and pulling, grinding you against his waist. He fell backwards across your bed, bringing you with him, smiling into the kiss as you fwoomped against his chest. At that angle, with your thighs clamped tightly on either side of his, there was no missing the hard bulge growing more insistent against your abdomen.
“Take these off,” you whimpered, breaking the kiss long enough to paw urgently at the waistband of his pajama pants. The gold in his eyes faded as he withdrew his hands from your back, hips lifting off the mattress so he could shove his pants down. All of that glorious, sun-warmed heat vanished, and without meaning to you made a sad little sound.
“Kinda greedy,” he teased, brows lifting at that noise.
You kicked off your own panties and swung your leg back over him, climbing back on top. “You have no idea.”
You reached for the hem of the shirt, but Bob’s hands closed over your wrists, squeezing. That warmth you loved so much roared back to life, like sunlight injected directly into your veins.
“Keep it on,” he whispered, voice harsh with desire, urging your hands away from the shirt and onto his shoulders.
You rocked your hips against him, letting him feel how wet you had become, in turn feeling the slick coating his shaft, his thick, reddened tip glossy with precum. Soon what was his wetness and what was yours was meaningless, indistinguishably mingled as you rutted against him from base to head, pulling the most delicious grunts and sighs out of his throat. Bob’s hands pulled you higher, curving around your ass, guiding you into the first stroke that brought all of your teasing to an end.
“Fuck,” he whispered, head falling back, eyes gold and blue and swirling into darkness as he breached you for the first time. Your hands slid to the hard plains of his chest, bracing there as you worked yourself down, fucking yourself onto him with careful, exploratory bumps of your hips. “You feel…you feel…” Bob never finished the thought, gulping air as you found your rhythm, riding him in earnest, leaning forward slightly to angle his pubic bone just there against your clit. Bouncing. Grinding.
His hands scooped around from your ass to your hips, higher, smoothing up your stomach to your ribs, to your breasts, holding them and squeezing them under his shirt, thumbs and forefingers tugging on your nipples until your gasps were guttural moans.
“That’s it,” he urged, sucking his lower lip into his mouth, watching you, perhaps enjoying the sensation as much as the show. “Are you going to cum on me?” he asked, all of his want for exactly that packed into his whisper. “Please, I want to see it, need to see it…”
It was never in doubt, but Bob encouraging you to cum, use his body, get yourself off on him was putting you into a frenzy. Even just looking at him under you, skin flushed, brows tense, pupils blown, made you want to unravel even faster.
His thighs tensed under your ass.
“Does it feel good?” he asked, a little frantic. “Do I make you feel good?”
“Feels amazing,” you promised, voice cracking as you rode him harder, chasing, chasing, and those words of affirmation made him swell inside you. He fit just right, but that feeling was… Fuck. Sweet Bob, desperate to know he was making you happy, pleasing you. “You feel so good. So good. So good…”
Lost in the praise, lost in the feeling of him, you gasped suddenly as he slid his hands around to your back and brought you down to his chest. Heat blasted through him like a furnace. Your cheek reddened where it touched his skin. He flipped you onto your back effortlessly, the steel bands of his arms flexing as he pushed you into the mattress, grip switching to your thighs as he rose onto his knees and took over.
His mouth slanted across yours in a bruising kiss, somehow sloppy and sweet, his eyes gold embers in the low light as he pulled away and kissed a line to your ear. He took up your same rhythm, driving into you with a snap on his hips as his power surged down and around your sex, packing behind your clit, your entire abdomen filled with him. “Tell me I make you feel good,” he whispered, biting your ear lobe, tugging in time to his strokes.
You did. Probably too enthusiastically, probably loud enough for the entire tower to learn just how much you liked it. But you were so close and it was clearly what Bob needed; he was swollen again, pressing his forehead against yours, sweating and gasping as you kept your legs wide open and let him work you to the edge. You held his shoulders, nails sinking in, words and sense falling away as light bled across the back of your eyelids, a last murmured, “so good, so good to me…” pushing the heat in your body higher. This close to the flame, there was no turning back, no hiding.
Your body clenched in shivering waves.
Bob’s orgasm followed yours, or yours started his, you couldn’t tell, couldn’t think. There were just his heat and his strength, his warmth coating you inside and out, and his surprised little gasps as he let go. You smoothed back his hair. He flopped bonelessly on top of you, aftershocks rippling down his back as he groaned and hid in his face in your neck.
After just a moment, his head snapped up, and he lifted himself onto his elbows, easing his weight off of you. “I haven’t done that since…Shit. Did I hurt you?”
You stared up at him, laughing, still trying to catch your breath. “No, no, you didn’t hurt me. But if you’re feeling out of practice we can go again.”
You smiled up at the ceiling as he twitched against you. He was still nestled inside you, softer though you wouldn’t call it soft. At the suggestion, Bob shifted against you, already hardening again. Jesus.
“Sometimes I don’t understand this strength,” he whispered, nuzzling against your throat, kissing the overheated skin there. “I break things. I don’t…I’d never hurt you.”
“That was the opposite of hurt, Bob,” you assured him, tangling your fingers in his hair. “I’ve never felt that good, maybe ever.”
He sighed contentedly, then groaned, fisting his hand in the front of your (his) damp shirt. You felt his brow tighten, his eyes squeezing shut as he leaned off of you, but only just, your legs intertwined, his face still pressed against your throat. “Can we stay like this? I think…I think I could sleep like this.”
You tipped your cheek against his head, and by the time you pressed a kiss to his temple and resettled your hands on his back, Bob was breathing deeply, fast asleep.
If the trash pickup people stop doing their job for two weeks you'd be throwing a fucking tantrum. Same for the janitors who keep your office spaces and bathrooms clean. (And that's before the various illnesses start to spread all over your city from the build up of pathogens.)
The people responsible keeping our spaces clean (and thus, mostly disease-free) should both be paid more AND thanked more.
jbbartram-illu
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
tangentwithtanner
