I'm actually exhausted by all this smut, I know it's Kinktober too but damn, I want devious hand holding, cuddles, forehead kisses, adopting a pet and the chaos behind it, family AUs, confessions that end in awkward but amazing first dates, comfort, rainy day blanket forts, getting jealous over a plushie, dumb fake arguments, putting their tooth brushes in the same cup and acting like it's some big milestone, accidental touches, lazy morning coffee, candid photos found and all
"She was wet as he slid his member in"
I'M TIRED
And my beef comes mostly from the lack of build up when it is smut, it's always either straight into it or like 4 sentences and dirty talking we're in
pairing | gazerbeam x fem!reader / simon j.paladino x fem!reader
word count | 5.1k words
summary | you, being edna’s glamorous assistant, build gazerbeam a solution to his powers, but you leave him with something far more dangerous: anticipation.
a/n | this is literally my first post that is not bucky barnes related omg 😟
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
divider by @uzmacchiato
Metroville, 1944
Simon James Paladino had told himself, quite firmly, that this was a practical errand.
A necessary one. A helmet adjustment, nothing more.
That did not explain, however, why he felt vaguely as though he were reporting to a headmistress for discipline rather than to a designer for equipment.
Edna Mode’s reputation preceded her. Brusque. Sharp. Efficient. He had braced for it, rehearsed a handful of courteous replies in his head during the drive over. The last thing he wished was to offend the only woman alive capable of reining in his… condition.
So when the door swung open to reveal you instead—
Well.
Not Edna Mode.
“Mr. Paladino,” you said smoothly, as though you had been waiting for him. Your voice was low, confident in that sultry way that suggested you always knew more than you let on. “You’re early.”
He cleared his throat. “Punctuality is… a habit of mine.”
Why did his collar suddenly feel too tight?
You only tilted your head, stepping aside so he could enter. The room smelled faintly of ozone and metal shavings, and somewhere a radio murmured out a lazy jazz number. It was less a laboratory than a den—a den belonging entirely to you. Blueprints, prototypes, half-dismantled gadgets cluttered the benches in a way that looked chaotic, yet purposeful.
You gestured to a stool. “Sit.”
So he did. Stiffly. Hands folded on his lap, posture ramrod straight. As though you might give him a grade for deportment.
You picked up a notepad, pen poised, and regarded him evenly. “Tell me what’s been happening. Faults. Glitches. Anything that needs addressing.”
Straight to business. He appreciated that. Or at least he told himself he did.
“The dispersal plating has weakened,” he replied in his usual monotone. “During field use, there is now a five-second delay before the absorption field stabilizes. Which means, in those five seconds, if my attention is… misplaced, the results could be catastrophic.”
He heard how flat it sounded. Catastrophic. As though he were giving testimony in court rather than describing the prospect of vaporizing someone.
Still, he went on. “Additionally, the weight distribution is uneven. Thirty-five minutes of wear induces strain in my cervical spine. I have had to adjust my stance accordingly.”
You jotted notes without interruption, expression unreadable. It unsettled him more than open judgment would have.
“Mm,” you murmured at last. “We’ll take new measurements. Start fresh.”
You reached for a caliper, and before he could object you were tilting his chin up with two fingers. Your touch was featherlight. Professional, no doubt. He reminded himself sternly that it was professional.
He tried very hard to look past your shoulder at a shelf of bolts. Anything but the sudden proximity.
“Funny,” you said after a moment, measuring along his cheekbone. “You don’t strike me as shy. And yet here you are, doing everything you can not to look me in the eye.”
The remark landed sharper than he expected. His spine stiffened. You thought him arrogant, like the others. Too self-important to acknowledge you. It was easier, usually, to let people think that. Explaining… explaining always sounded absurd.
Still, he heard himself answer flatly, “Better that than accidentally putting a laser through your skull.”
Your brow lifted slightly at that, pen still poised.
“How do you mean?”
His gaze flicked up—just once, startling blue eyes meeting yours before darting back to the shelf behind you. The briefest lock, but it felt like being caught off guard in court without a prepared statement.
“Eye contact,” he said stiffly. “If I fixate too long, the… energy discharge becomes unstable. Focus becomes dangerous. Uncontrolled.” His tone was clinical, as if reading testimony from a file, but he could hear the faint edge of discomfort in his own voice. “I’ve scorched walls. Furniture. Once a fellow’s hat at twenty paces. I prefer not to risk…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “Well. Better aloof than lethal.”
You didn’t answer right away. You only stood there, closer than necessary, eyes tracing the planes of his face with a focus that made his pulse thud uncomfortably in his throat. He was acutely aware of it—your attention, sharp and deliberate, like you were cataloguing every line, every angle.
He tried to hold still. Tried to remember this was technical, professional, nothing more. But there was a peculiar weight in the silence.
His collar felt too tight again. Ridiculous. He hadn’t even fastened the top button.
You hummed softly at his explanation, pen tapping against the edge of your notepad. “So that’s why,” you said, voice low, almost amused. “Everyone thinks you’re too haughty and conceited to look them in the eye… when really you’re just worried you’ll set them on fire.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He shifted on the stool, shoulders still square, jaw tight. “It… is the practical truth.”
You tilted your head, studying him like a problem that might actually be fun to solve. “There are ways around that, you know. Filters. Redirectors. Even minor dampeners. If the helmet feels too medieval.”
He made a quiet sound—something between a breath and a laugh, though it carried no real humor. “I have tried all manner of contraptions, Miss. Glass shielding, leaded lenses, reflective guards. None of it lasts. Nothing has worked.”
His pulse had quickened; you could see it in the hollow of his throat. He kept his gaze stubbornly averted, fixed somewhere over your shoulder, but you could feel his awareness of your eyes on him.
Amd you were still watching him, studying every line of his face as though you had all the time in the world. That was what made him nervous. Not the proximity. Not the calipers. Not even the fact that you now knew the truth. It was the way you looked at him like he was worth the focus.
You let the moment stretch just long enough for him to squirm before you finally broke eye contact, pen tapping once against your notepad. Your gaze drifted to the helmet sitting on the workbench.
“It’ll be done in three days,” you said lightly, as though the decision were already set in stone.
He blinked, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Three?” His voice was low, cautious, like he’d misheard. Then, after a pause: “…Are you certain?”
You pursed your lips, deliberately slow, eyes returning to his. “Two would be reckless. And you strike me as a man who values precision over haste.”
He shifted again, clearly unconvinced, mouth opening then closing as if to argue.
So you gave him the killing blow—a slow, knowing smile. “There’s a reason I’m Edna Mode’s protégé, Mr. Paladino. Three days.”
For a moment he only studied you, as though weighing whether you were teasing him or deadly serious. Then, at last, he inclined his head stiffly. “…Very well.”
And just like that, it was settled.
He rose from the stool with the same precision he had sat down, straight-backed, careful with every movement. It was the kind of posture drilled into a man, not chosen. He smoothed his tie once, unnecessarily, then reached for his hat where it rested on the bench.
“Three days, then,” he said, as though repeating it aloud might make it less unusual. His voice was steady, but you caught the faintest hesitation before he added, “Thank you… for your time.”
Polite. Formal. Distant.
You leaned a hip against the workbench, arms folding loosely. “Try not to miss me too much in the meantime.”
The line made him falter just slightly as he adjusted his coat sleeve. For the briefest second, his eyes flicked to yours again—blue and sharp, almost startled—before he tucked his gaze back to the floor. A small, stiff nod, and then he was making for the door.
You watched him go. Watched the measured way he carried himself, the tall frame, the dark hair perfectly in place, the way he seemed determined not to let a single detail slip out of line.
Beautiful, you thought. Quiet, deliberate, and so unlike the men who usually stumbled over themselves in your presence.
You tapped the end of your pen against your notepad, a smile ghosting at your lips. Three days would give you more than enough time to fix the helmet.
And perhaps… to build something else, too.
Three Days Later
Simon had always taken pride in his appearance. A clean shave. A pressed suit. A tie knotted correctly. It was a matter of professionalism—an extension of respectability in the courtroom, in public, even, yes, as a costumed hero.
That was what he told himself, at least.
It did not explain why, this Sunday morning, he had taken an extra ten minutes to polish his shoes until they shone, or why he had lingered at the florist debating the merits of roses versus lilies before abandoning the idea entirely and settling on a book—first edition, carefully wrapped. Far more suitable for a woman of intellect. At least, he hoped so.
He told himself it was simple gratitude. She had repaired his helmet, after all. A small gesture of thanks was only polite.
(And yet, every time the thought circled, he caught himself adjusting his tie again, as though you might notice the symmetry of the knot.)
The drive to Edna Mode’s home was uneventful, save for the persistent hum in his chest that he resolutely ignored. Anticipation. Ridiculous. He was here for equipment, nothing more.
He had just stepped out of the car, package tucked neatly under his arm, when a familiar voice cut through the morning air.
“Darling.”
He turned to find Edna herself sweeping down the path, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose despite the cloudy sky. She stopped dead in front of him, head tilted, arms crossed.
“My God, Simon,” she said, her accent slicing each syllable. “Why do you look as though you’re about to give closing arguments before the Supreme Court? For heaven's sake—it’s Sunday.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. “I—thought it best to present myself… properly.”
“Properly,” she repeated, eyes narrowing. Then, with a little smirk: “Properly for whom?”
He adjusted his tie, pulse skipping. “For… the occasion.”
She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Occasion, pah. Do not insult me with your courtroom jargon. You think I cannot see? You are not the first superhero to walk through those doors enchanted by my assistant.”
The words landed heavier than he expected. Enchanted. He almost dropped the package.
Edna was already marching toward the house, gesturing dramatically with one hand. “That infuriating Gamma Jack comes sniffing around here every Tuesday, like clockwork. ‘Oh, Edna, just a little adjustment to my gauntlets’—nonsense! He does not want my gauntlets. He wants her. Always asking, always lingering, never leaving. Tiresome!”
Simon followed stiffly, heat crawling higher up his neck. He gripped the package tighter, the brown paper threatening to crease.
“Honestly,” Edna went on, voice sharp as her scissors, “you men are all the same. Do you think she has not noticed? Do you think she does not know exactly the effect she has? Please. She was born knowing. It is practically in her posture.”
Simon’s throat worked. His mind scrambled for a proper reply, something—anything—that would sound dignified. Instead all he could muster was, “I… see.”
“Mm.” Edna glanced over her shoulder at him, amused. “Do not look so grim, darling. You are not the first, but perhaps you will be the least boring.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, mortified at how easily she had read him. If Jack—loud, brash, maddening Gamma Jack—came calling here every Tuesday… what chance did a stiff, dull lawyer have?
Edna paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, tilting her head back toward him with a sly grin.
“And Simon, darling?”
He met her gaze warily. “Yes?”
“Do try not to stare at her like a starving man at a steak dinner. It is unsightly.”
His ears burned hot. “I would never—”
She cut him off with a dismissive flick of her hand, already sweeping into the depths of her cavernous home. “You men always think you wouldn’t. That is the problem.”
And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the hall, pulse hammering, mortified that she had managed to pin him like an insect to cork with a single sentence.
Edna’s words clung to him like burrs as he walked the hall, every step echoing his mortification. Do try not to stare… Ridiculous. Unsightly, she had said. He would not give her the satisfaction.
Still, he knocked lightly against the already open door before stepping into the lab.
You were there, of course. As though the room itself bent around your presence. Hair pinned neatly up, lab coat falling sharp over a silk blouse and skirt. The faint shimmer of stockings catching the light when you shifted. He noted the heels—unnecessarily high for laboratory work—and looked away just as quickly, telling himself the observation was professional. Strictly professional.
“Mr. Paladino,” you greeted him, voice warm, smooth as honey, and your smile—God help him—your smile could have won an award.
He inclined his head, posture as formal as ever, though he felt oddly as though he had already lost ground. “Good afternoon.”
You gestured toward the workbench. “Your helmet’s ready. Took a little coaxing, but I think you’ll find it far less medieval now.”
He crossed the room, parcel still tucked neatly under one arm, and set it carefully aside. “I appreciate your attention to detail,” he said, words measured, clipped. “Truly.”
And he meant it. Perhaps more than he knew how to say.
You lifted the helmet from the bench with both hands, setting it gently down in front of him. “All right,” you began, slipping seamlessly into explanation, “first thing was the dispersal plating. I reinforced the layers with an alloy designed to stabilize the field immediately on activation. No more five-second delay. It should be instant.”
Simon blinked once, absorbing that. Reinforced plating, immediate stabilization. That meant he could—
He lost the thread for a moment, because your voice had dipped slightly lower on instant, smooth and certain, and he had to drag his thoughts back before they scattered.
You went on, tapping the side of the helmet with your pen. “Second—the weight distribution. I altered the frame, shifted the load away from the cervical spine. You’ll feel it balanced more evenly across the shoulders. Thirty-five minutes, sixty minutes—you shouldn’t notice the strain.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening. Shouldn’t notice the strain. God, he hoped you hadn’t noticed his pulse quickening.
You leaned in just slightly, one hand braced against the bench as you pointed to a subtle adjustment along the inner rim. “And I’ve modified the harnessing, so you won’t have to correct your stance every ten minutes like a soldier on parade. You can move like a man instead of a statue.”
His mouth parted, a breath slipping in before he remembered to close it. Move like a man instead of a statue. He had to clamp down hard on the irrational thought that you had meant it as anything other than mechanical.
He cleared his throat. “That is… remarkable.” His voice sounded rougher than he intended, so he repeated, more even: “Remarkable work. Truly.”
He tried to focus on the helmet in front of him, on the alloy, the dispersal, the balance—yet all he could hear was your voice curling smooth around each word, and it took every ounce of discipline not to lose himself in it entirely.
You let his praise for the helmet settle for a beat, then reached beneath the bench and slid a slim case across the table toward him. A knowing smile curved at your lips.
“For the courtroom charmer,” you said smoothly, “who doesn’t want to set his clients on fire.”
Simon blinked, posture tightening as he set his parcel aside and reached for the case. He opened it with the care of a man expecting some elaborate invention—and then frowned faintly at the sight inside.
“…These are glasses.” His tone was clipped, confused, as though you’d handed him a common fountain pen in a velvet box.
“Actually,” you said, still smiling as you stepped into his personal space, “they’re not.” You plucked the frames from their case with a delicate flourish. “Special composite lenses. They absorb and disperse excess discharge. To everyone else, they’re just your everyday spectacles.”
He stiffened as you held them up, as if the explanation had left him more unsteady than reassured.
You tilted your head, lashes low. “May I?”
His pulse jumped. He hesitated just long enough to betray himself, then gave the faintest nod. Carefully, he removed his own glasses and folded them with meticulous precision, gaze slipping deliberately away from you lest he linger too long.
You stepped closer still, your perfume catching faint in the air, your teeth grazing your lower lip as you lifted the new pair. He noticed it—of course he noticed it. His eyes dropped for half a heartbeat before he forced them away again, back to the safe blankness of the wall.
Then you slid the frames gently onto his face.
They fit. Perfectly.
“They look like your everyday set,” you continued, voice low, smooth, deliberate, “but the material is something new. Special composite, layered with a crystalline absorber. To anyone else, you’re just wearing ordinary frames. But these—these will swallow the beams before they ever leave your eyes. No more singed hats. No more avoiding people like they’re made of glass.”
Simon stood frozen, pulse thudding in his throat. The glasses sat light against the bridge of his nose, no different from the pair he had worn for years—and yet the very idea of testing them set his blood cold.
You tilted your head, smiling faintly as though coaxing a child. “Go on. Look at me.”
His stomach knotted. He gripped the edge of the bench to steady himself. Foolish. Dangerous. The lenses were unproven, untested in the field. If they failed—if even a fragment of energy slipped through—then the result would be—
He swallowed hard. “I… would prefer not to gamble with your life.” His voice came out tighter than he meant, almost strained.
“You’re not gambling,” you murmured. “You’re trusting me.”
Trust. The word landed heavier than steel. He had trusted devices before, engineers before. They had failed. Nothing had worked. Nothing had ever worked.
And yet—your eyes stayed fixed on him, calm, unwavering, patient. That smile that could undo men.
His pulse thundered louder. He shifted, fingers flexing against the bench, the breath in his chest shallow and sharp.
His jaw worked, tight enough that it ached. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, in the hollow of his throat.
“I have… scorched walls,” he said stiffly, voice rough as gravel. “Furniture. Buildings at twenty paces. Do you imagine I could live with myself if the next thing I ruined was—” He cut himself short, breath catching. “No. I will not.”
You only smiled at him, slow, deliberate, like you were in on some secret he hadn’t caught up to yet. “Simon,” you said softly, his name a velvet weight on your tongue. “If I thought there was even a chance these wouldn’t work, do you think I’d be standing here asking you to look at me?”
The words lodged somewhere behind his ribs, pressing into a place he usually kept barricaded.
His fingers tightened on the edge of the bench until his knuckles whitened. It will fail. It always fails. You’ll prove her wrong, and she’ll die because of it.
You leaned just a fraction closer, lashes lowering, smile still calm, unwavering. “Trust me.”
His throat went dry. His body obeyed before his mind could protest.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his gaze.
For an instant his whole body went rigid, every nerve braced for catastrophe. The familiar prickle began at once—the heat at the back of his eyes, that awful surge that always meant disaster. His breath caught sharp in his chest. God—no, not her, not here—
But the charge never escaped.
The lenses held. The energy went nowhere.
Nothing happened.
For the first time in years, the power coiled harmlessly inside him, swallowed whole before it could slip free. And he was looking—actually looking—straight into your eyes.
Panic froze him at first, his pulse hammering so violently he thought he might be sick. But then—slowly, disbelievingly—realization seeped in.
He could look at you.
Properly.
Greed overtook him before he could stop it. His eyes traced every detail as though starved—your expression, calm but intent; the arch of your brows; the shape of your nose. And then lower—God help him, lower still—to the curve of your mouth, lips soft and parted in that poised, sultry half-smile you wore like it had been designed for you alone.
He drank it all in, helpless, his stare lingering far too long, ravenous in its new freedom. For a man who had spent years denying himself even a glance, it felt indecent—sinful—how badly he wanted to memorize every line of your face now that he finally could.
You let him stare, soaking in the weight of his gaze, until you finally tilted your head, lips curving.
“Careful,” you murmured slyly, voice smooth as silk. “You’ll burn a hole through me anyway, staring like that.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Simon remained perfectly still, locked in place, eyes fastened to you as though the moment he looked away it might all collapse. The familiar pressure still built behind his eyes—the heat, the unmistakable spark of activation—and yet nothing left him. The lenses drank it down, swallowed it whole, kept it caged.
It should have reassured him. Instead, it terrified him. Terrified him, and thrilled him.
Because he could not stop.
His gaze traced over you greedily now, shameless in its hunger. Each detail of you hit him like oxygen after suffocation, like sunlight after years underground.
And still, his power pulsed and pressed at the edges of him, straining—but held. Contained.
His heart hammered, chest tight, the sound of it deafening in his ears. He should look away. He should. But he couldn’t. Not when it finally, finally, did no harm.
Not when it felt like he’d been starving, and you’d just given him permission to eat.
His throat worked, dry and unsteady, before at last the words scraped out, hoarse and stiff.
“…It’s… working.”
The sound of his own voice startled him, as though it had broken the spell. Sense rushed back in jagged pieces, mortification following quickly on its heels. His gaze faltered at last, dropping away as he cleared his throat.
“Forgive me,” he managed, straightening his shoulders as though posture could patch over the rawness in his tone. “I—thank you. Truly. I cannot…” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I cannot overstate what this means.”
His hand fumbled briefly before he remembered the parcel he’d set neatly on the bench. He reached for it now, fingers too tight on the brown paper as he held it out to you.
“I—brought this. A token of gratitude. For the helmet,” he said, voice finding the stiff, formal cadence he clung to like a lifeline. “It is a first edition. I thought… perhaps it might suit.”
A pause, his eyes flicking back to yours for only a heartbeat before sliding away again. “Though nothing, of course, could compare to what you have just given me.”
You took the parcel from his hand with a little smile, unwrapping the brown paper neatly rather than tearing it. Inside was a handsome, clothbound volume, gilt lettering still bright along the spine:
“The Collected Discourses of Epictetus: Revised Classical Edition.”
An intellectual’s book. The sort men kept on their shelves to signal refinement, but few ever read beyond the first chapter.
Simon stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, watching you closely. He expected you to smile politely, perhaps remark on the binding—courteous, perfunctory. That was the best he could hope for.
Instead, you traced the spine with your thumb, eyes lighting faintly in recognition.
“I’ve read this one,” you said softly, almost sheepish. Then you hesitated, lips pressing together before you admitted, reluctant but honest, “In fact… I have the full collection at home.”
Simon blinked once. His stomach sank. Of course. Of course you would. Brilliant, sultry, dazzling, and well-read besides—why had he thought for even a moment that he could impress you with something so meager?
His jaw tightened. He adjusted his cuffs, as though the motion could hide the quiet flush of mortification creeping up the back of his neck.
“I see,” he said at last, monotone steady even as his thoughts ran roughshod. A fool, Paladino. You’ve brought sand to the desert. She has everything already, everything, and you thought to hand her crumbs.
He cleared his throat, “If there is…” He paused, started again, voice carefully measured. “If there is anything I might do in return for your generosity—for the helmet, for these glasses—”
He faltered, not quite able to finish the thought. His pulse beat heavy in his throat.
You leaned closer, smile curling slow and deliberate, lashes low but gaze unwavering. “Yes,” you said, smooth as silk. “You can take me to dinner.”
The words landed like a blow to the chest. For a moment, Simon simply stared at you, utterly unmoored. His lips parted, but no sound emerged.
Dinner. You had said it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though men like him were asked that every day by women like you.
He swallowed hard, collar suddenly too tight again. “I… beg your pardon?”
But you only smiled, unwavering.
You didn’t give him the space to retreat into formality. Instead, you stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the two of you were nearly chest to chest.
He could smell your perfume now—something soft, heady, maddening—and when you tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, your lashes fluttered just enough to make his pulse spike.
“I’ll let you take me to dinner,” you repeated, voice low, velvet-smooth, as though you were granting him a privilege.
Simon froze. Stared at you again, blue eyes wide behind the new lenses, every thought scattered like papers in a gale.
For one suspended heartbeat, he did nothing. Just stood there, stiff and silent, as though his brain had simply shut down.
Then, belatedly, instinct took over. He adjusted his tie—unnecessary, perfectly straight already—and then his glasses, even though you had only just fit them on him. “I—yes. Of course. If—that is—”
He stopped, cleared his throat, tried again. “Would you permit me… the honor of taking you to dinner, then?”
The words came out more formal than he intended, a courtroom plea rather than an invitation, but it was the best he could manage while his pulse thundered in his ears.
“I—ah—would of course need to make arrangements,” he said, voice tight, every syllable weighed like evidence before a jury. “A proper establishment, nothing too—nothing unsuitable, you understand. Friday evening, perhaps, though I would need to—”
He stopped, adjusted his glasses, pulse hammering loud in his ears. “That is, if Friday does not suit, then Saturday—though I imagine your calendar is far less… available than mine—”
His words trailed off, strangled somewhere between panic and formality.
You only smiled at him, calm, assured, head tilting just slightly as though you’d been waiting for him to tangle himself into knots. Then you leaned a fraction closer, lashes lowering, your voice smooth as velvet.
“When and where, Simon?”
The question cut clean through his fumbling, leaving him blinking at you, throat dry, as though he’d just been cross-examined and found lacking.
He froze for half a heartbeat, then straightened, as though hauled upright by invisible strings. His hand twitched once more toward his tie before he forced it still at his side.
“There is a place downtown,” he said at last, voice clipped but steady. “Mastro’s. Quiet. Respectable. Friday evening, seven o’clock.”
The words landed like a verdict, decisive at last.
His pulse still thundered in his ears, but he held your gaze—truly held it this time—waiting for judgment.
You let the corners of your mouth curve, slow and certain, savoring how stiff and formal he sounded even while asking you to dinner. “It’s a date, then.”
He swallowed, the words hitting him square in the chest.
You leaned back just slightly, eyes lingering on him as your voice softened to a hum. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Paladino.”
For a moment he could only stand there, rooted to the spot, before his body remembered what to do. He inclined his head in a stiff nod, recovering what little composure he had left. “Until then.”
He reached for his helmet, tucking it carefully under one arm, and began edging toward the door with exaggerated care.
And then, still holding your gaze, nodding once more—he turned, only to misjudge the distance. His hip caught the edge of a side table with a dull thud. The instruments rattled, one nearly toppling before he righted it with a sharp hand.
Simon froze, mortification written in the rigid line of his shoulders.
“Apologies,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses as though that would erase the stumble.
You had already turned your head, hiding the smile that tugged insistently at your mouth.
The drive home was mercifully uneventful. Straight roads, quiet streets, the low hum of the engine steady beneath him.
And yet Simon gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw locked, every mile an exercise in self-control.
It’s a date, then.
The words replayed themselves mercilessly, accompanied by the tilt of your chin, the curl of your smile, the hum of “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Paladino.”
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if that could scatter it. Foolish. Utterly foolish. He was a grown man, a practicing attorney, a licensed superhero. And yet one woman’s smile had unraveled him like a schoolboy.
Five days.
He groaned under his breath at the realization. Five whole days until Friday evening. Until Mastro’s. Until he would have to sit across from you, holding himself together under the full weight of your eyes and your voice, pretending he wasn’t hopelessly, helplessly—
He cut the thought off, pressing his lips into a thin line. No. He would manage. He must.
Still, when the light turned red, he caught himself adjusting his glasses in the rearview mirror. Again.
Simon James Paladino had never dreaded and longed for a Friday more in his life.
Kiss it better | Gazerbeam x Gn! reader x Gamma Jack
Summary: You’ve been working as a hero doctor ever since the NSA discovered your unique healing ability. The job pays well, but you wonder if it's worth it when the trigger to your power is a little… strange.
Author's note: First long fic! I'm ngl, I was tempted to quit since this was such a pain to edit and revise, but I finished it for you guys 🤗 Hope you enjoy! I also posted this on ao3 so if you prefer to read there, it's in the Gamma Jack/reader tag
Warnings: Suggestive
Word count: 4576
Gazerbeam sits on an examination table in your office, dressed in casual clothes, with his hands resting in his lap as you check his ankle.
He had sprained it during a mission, and the ache was impossible to ignore. Normally, Gazerbeam avoided seeking your help, preferring to let his body heal on its own. But when an injury threatened to hinder his performance—like this one did—he was willing to make an exception.
“It doesn't look too bad,” you murmur, studying the joint carefully. “Shouldn't be hard for me to heal at all.”
“That’s a relief,” Gazerbeam exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing. “There's plenty of work that needs to be done. I can’t afford to dawdle.”
You purse your lips at that. He could definitely afford to take a break from work occasionally, but you know he wouldn’t allow himself to rest if he felt like he could assist in some way. His selflessness honestly leaves you in awe sometimes.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t immediately go back to work after this, but I can't stop you,” you admit with a resigned sigh.
You’ve known Gazerbeam long enough to realize that dissuading him is an impossible task. There’s no point in trying to convince a man as stubborn as he is.
Instead of replying, Gazerbeam watches as you check his injury. When his gaze lingers for too long, he looks away.
“I'm sorry for troubling you with this,” he says at last, his voice low and distant. “I know you're probably very busy…”
“Don’t be silly,” you chide gently. “My job is to keep you guys in top condition. I’ll always be ready to help out whenever I can.” Then, softer, “You’re my friend, Simon. I’ll never be too busy for you.”
Gazerbeam’s shoulders drop further, his posture loosening at your reassurance. Despite the dull timbre of his voice, his emotions are written clearly across his face.
“I appreciate that,” he mumbles, glancing back at you. His eyes are filled with such a genuine fondness that it makes your heart flutter.
A sheepish smile creeps onto your face. “Well, you know how my powers work, so this might be a little awkward.”
A faint half-smile tugs at Gazerbeam’s lips. “Yes, I'm well aware of how your powers operate. It’s a unique gift, and I respect your professionalism, especially considering how unusual the trigger is.”
That makes you feel slightly better. “Thank you. That means a lot to me,” you say, sincerity softening your voice.
The faint hum of the air conditioner fills the room as you mentally prepare yourself to heal him. You always end up feeling a little embarrassed before using your power. It’s amazing, sure, but you sometimes wish it had a more conventional trigger—preferably one that doesn’t involve you kissing your patients.
After a moment, Gazerbeam speaks up again, his voice calm and reassuring. “Go ahead. Do whatever you need to do.”
You nod, feeling a little anxious. This is the first time Simon will see your power in action. You really hope he won’t be put off by it.
Taking a deep breath, you move closer to his sprained ankle, dropping to one knee. Settling comfortably between his legs to get a better look, you notice the slight tension in his muscles as you near. It’s subtle, but enough to make your cheeks warm.
Pay attention, you scold yourself. He’s injured. Don’t ogle him.
Tentatively, you reach out and carefully run your fingers over his ankle before taking a hold of it.
He tenses a little, jaw tightening just enough to notice. He’s clearly trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt—but the flicker of discomfort on his face and the subtle twitch of his hand give him away.
To help him, you already know what you need to do. Looking up at him, you silently ask for permission one last time. Once he gives a small nod, you lean forward and gently press your lips against his swollen ankle.
Even though Gazerbeam knows what to expect, he still jolts—not expecting the rush of warmth that spreads through his body when you use your power. A faint blush creeps onto his cheeks and he draws in a sharp breath.
You let your power work its magic, a soft glow emanating from your lips as you channel your energy into him. The swelling in his ankle begins to gradually subside, the inflammation fading as the tissues repair themselves.
As you lift your head, you notice the tightness in Simon’s expression has eased, and the discomfort clouding his eyes has begun to fade. You carefully set his ankle down, testing its mobility to make sure the injury is fully healed.
Gazerbeam takes a moment to collect himself, his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. “That, uh... that was quite nice. A relief really. It feels like I never sprained it at all.” His gaze flickers toward you, then darts away almost immediately. “Thank you.”
You gently set his foot down, feeling a flicker of satisfaction at the sight of him more relaxed. “You’re welcome,” you say warmly as you get up from your knees. “Try to take it easy for the rest of the day, okay? I don’t mind healing you, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t get hurt.”
He pushes himself to his feet, rolling his ankle in a slow circle to test the repaired joint. As expected, the pain and swelling that plagued him earlier is completely gone.
The corners of his lips lift into a small, sincere smile. It's moments like this when you're reminded of how handsome he is.
“I'll try,” he says, his tone softer than usual. “But I can't make any promises.”
You roll your eyes at his last comment, knowing that he’s not lying. He can’t promise that he’ll take it easy—because honestly, it’s just not something likely to happen.
He's always pushing himself. It's admirable of course, but it worries you sometimes. You're always concerned that he'll push himself too far and end up getting seriously hurt.
You're pulled away from your thoughts when you notice a splotch of red on the far side of his left cheek. How did you not see that before?
Without thinking, you reach out and gently turn his head to look at his cheek, worry etched on your face. “Hold still.”
He’s a bit taken aback but stays still, obliging without protest. You get a better look at the red mark on his cheek—a faint bruise, probably from a fight during his mission.
You tut softly, lightly touching the skin near the bruise with your fingers. “You didn’t tell me you got hurt here too.”
“It wasn't anything serious, so I didn't find it necessary to mention,” he admits.
Your brows furrow. If you don't treat it now, it'll only get worse with time. Sure, you could let him heal on his own, but knowing you can help and choosing not to? It doesn't sit right with you.
Before you can stop yourself, the words slip out: “Want me to take care of it?”
It takes you a moment to process what you said. If you were to heal his cheek, you’d have to kiss him there. You’re not sure if he’d even be comfortable with that.
Your cheeks warm. Not that you mind kissing him, but his comfort comes first. You hope he doesn't think you're weird for asking.
Gazerbeam hesitates. Part of him wants to refuse, not wanting to trouble you with something as small as a bruise. But when he sees the concern in your eyes, he can't bring himself to say no. “Alright,” he says, his voice quieter than before.
His response eases your doubt, though a flicker of anxiety still gnaws at you. “Okay,” you say, doing your best to sound calm. “Could you lean down a little? You're a bit too tall for me to reach your cheek.”
He complies, lowering his head slightly so that he's at a comfortable height for you. “Like this?”
This flusters you more than you'd like to admit, the heat in your face worsening as the space between you shrinks. You force yourself to tune out the sudden pounding of your heart against your ribs.
“Perfect,” you say, your voice a bit shaky. “Now just stay still, okay?”
He nods and averts his gaze, the tips of his ears reddening.
You take a slow, steady breath, trying to calm your racing heart. It's just a quick kiss, you remind yourself. You're just healing him. There's nothing more to it.
But then why does it feel like there is more to it? Why are you suddenly more aware of his presence, of the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers as you cup his face, of the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes? You shake off your thoughts, refocusing on the task at hand.
You close the distance, gently pressing your lips to the bruise on his cheek.
As soon as your lips touch his skin, the familiar tingle of your power spreads across his cheek, healing the injury. His breath hitches ever so slightly. You wouldn't have noticed if you weren't so close.
You try to ignore the warmth spreading through you as your lips linger on his cheek for a moment longer before you pull away, breaking the contact. Taking a small step back, you give him a nervous smile. “There. All healed.”
He touches the spot where you kissed him, his fingers trailing over the now-healed skin. It's unmarked, the redness having completely faded.
“That… that feels much better,” he says, looking a little dazed.
It's a small thing, but seeing how affected he was from the kiss steadies your nerves. At least it's not just you feeling like this.
“Good,” you manage to utter. “I'm glad that helped.”
There's an awkward silence after that, neither one of you knowing what to say. You find yourself studying his face, noticing little details that you hadn't paid attention to before. Was he always this attractive?
“Well,” he begins, clearing his throat. “I should get going. I still need to file a report on my last mission.”
“Right, yeah," you say, forcing a casual tone despite the twinge of disappointment you feel. You didn't want him to leave just yet, but you can't exactly say that aloud.
“Take care of yourself, okay?” You offer a small smile. “And if you do get hurt again, don't hesitate to come to me.”
Gazerbeam returns your smile warmly. “Of course.” He takes a step towards the door but then pauses. “Truly, thank you. The work you do is very admirable.”
“You're welcome,” you beam, hoping you don’t sound too eager. “It's what I'm here for.”
He nods, looking like he wants to say something more, but ultimately decides against it. He gives you one last smile before opening the door and leaving your office.
Once the door closes, you collapse into your chair, letting out a deep sigh. What was that about? Why did healing him feel so… intimate?
With Gazerbeam gone, you're left in the quiet of your office, your thoughts swirling in your head. You can't help but replay the last few moments in your mind, the memory of his skin against your lips and the way he looked at you. It was probably nothing, right? You're just feeling lonely, that’s all.
You shake your head, trying to clear your mind. You can't afford to get distracted like this—you have a job to do. And so, you prepare for your next patient.
—
Gamma Jack had just returned from a mission, brooding over the fact that the supervillain he fought had actually managed to land a hit. His lip was split from the punch—courtesy of the villain’s ring, which had caught him square in the face.
He might have gone a bit overboard with how slow and painful their death was, but at the time, he was just too angry. Oh well. In the end, he did the world a favor by getting rid of them. One less supervillain to worry about.
He raises his hand, fingertips hovering just above the cut on his lip. The second they make contact, he lets out a sharp hiss.
Yeah. He doesn’t regret killing that supervillain at all, especially since they marred his face. It’s frustrating that he’ll have to wait for the cut on his lip to heal—it’s throwing off his otherwise handsome features.
Then, out of nowhere, he thinks of you. You’re a nurse… or maybe a doctor? He can’t quite remember. All he knows is that you could be the solution to his problem.
Since he’s at headquarters anyway, he figures it’s worth paying you a visit.
Gamma Jack strolls down the long hallway toward your office, humming to himself. His mind drifts to how good you look in that lab coat you always wear. He’s sure that whatever is underneath it is even better.
As he nears the end of the hall, he catches sight of Gazerbeam just as he’s leaving. His face is oddly flushed for someone coming from the nurse’s office.
“Finished getting some good ol' lovin' from our nurse?” Gamma Jack calls out with a playful grin.
Gazerbeam flinches, caught completely off guard by Jack’s sudden appearance, but he quickly regains his composure.
“Doctor,” he corrects smoothly. “And no, nothing of the sort. Just the standard procedure.”
If Gamma Jack didn’t know any better, he would’ve assumed Simon was just being his usual rigid self.
But unfortunately for him, Jack has sharp eyes. He noticed the red tint on Simon’s ears and neck almost immediately.
Huh.
So Simon has a thing for you. Why else would he be that red?
“You sure? You’re looking pretty flustered for someone who just got standard medical care,” Gamma Jack teases.
Gazerbeam adjusts his glasses even though they were already set correctly. “I’m perfectly fine. You should be more worried about yourself,” he says, nodding toward Jack’s face. “That looks like it hurts.”
Great, another reminder about his split lip.
“Ah, that? Just a little souvenir from a fight.” Gamma Jack shrugs off the concern. “I would say you should see the other guy, but… you know.”
“I suppose there’s no need to ask if you won, then,” Gazerbeam raises a brow.
He smirks. “Damn right. I always win.”
Gazerbeam shakes his head with a sigh. “Well, I have somewhere to be, so I’ve got to go. Goodbye, Jack. Make sure to get that cut treated. Wounds like that tend to get infected rather easily.”
Gamma Jack gives a casual two-finger salute as Gazerbeam walks away.
Once he disappears from view, Jack lets out a quiet chuckle. Simon has no idea just how obvious his crush is.
It’s a shame they both have eyes for the same person. He would’ve been the best wingman if Simon liked anyone other than you.
But that’s fine. Jack doesn’t mind a little competition between friends. It makes things more interesting after all.
He continues walking, eventually reaching your office. Instead of knocking, he decides to make a grand entrance.
—
The door flies open, slamming into the wall with a loud bang. You jerk in surprise, your pen and clipboard slipping from your hands and clattering onto the desk. You’re about to snap at whoever just barged in when you catch a glimpse of blonde hair and a familiar blue-and-yellow super suit.
Wait… Jack?
You’ve interacted with him a handful of times before, but it was mostly just him flirting while you shut him down. You’re not even sure he knows your name, let alone what your powers are; he certainly didn’t seem to be paying attention when you were first introduced, more focused on your looks than anything else.
Despite how annoyed you are with his entrance, you can't help but stare at him. He's a sight to behold: the way his suit clings to his muscular body, the confident smirk on his face, and those blue eyes that seem to pierce right through you—okay, enough of that.
You wonder why he’s visiting you, since he’s never done so in all your years working as a hero doctor. From what you can tell, he looks perfectly fine, aside from the cut on his lip.
He scrutinizes everything in your office as he saunters in, closing the door behind him with a kick of his foot. Once his eyes land on you, he flashes a charming smile. “Nice place you got here. But I personally think the view is better.”
He doesn’t even spare a glance at your window.
You sigh. You’re already exhausted, and the real work hasn’t even started yet.
You gesture to the examination table in the corner of the room, motioning for him to take a seat. “Cut the flirting, Jack. What do you want?” you ask, trying to keep your tone professional but failing to hide the slight exasperation in your voice.
He strides over to the exam table, casually swinging his cape over his shoulder as he sits down. He doesn’t hesitate to make himself comfortable, leaning back and spreading his legs wide, one ankle resting on the opposite knee.
“Straight to business, huh? I thought you’d at least have given me a ‘hello’ first, sweetheart.” He chuckles.
You roll your eyes. You’ve come to expect his overly confident, flirty demeanor by now—it’s a constant in every exchange you have with him. The man has ego for days, and it’s borderline intolerable. Still, something about him is magnetic, though you’d never admit that out loud.
You grab your pen and clipboard from your desk and make your way over, standing in front of the exam table and preparing to get started.
“So,” you begin, trying to sound as detached as possible, “what brings you to my office today?”
Gamma Jack releases a puff of air, amused by your attitude.
“You sure don’t waste any time,” he says with a crooked grin, tapping his split lip, caked with dried blood. “I need you to patch this up for me. Had a little run-in with a supervillain earlier—got me with a cheap shot. I’d rather not walk around with a scar ruining my good looks.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes again. Typical. Of course his main concern is his appearance, not the injury.
Leaning in, you tilt his chin up with your hand to get a closer look at the cut. He lets out a chuckle, clearly enjoying the attention.
“You know,” he says, voice dipping into a husky tone, “You’ve got really nice hands.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. “Shut up.”
“What? I’m just stating a fact,” he retorts, grinning.
This is what you dislike most about him—his shameless, relentless flirting. You wonder if he even means half the things he says, or if it’s all just empty words thrown out without a second thought, meant only to charm and lower your guard.
You choose to ignore his comment and examine the wound on his lip, assessing the damage. The cut isn’t too deep, but it still needs cleaning. Releasing his chin, you reach over to the nearby drawer and pull out some cotton balls and antiseptic.
“This may sting a little,” you warn, dabbing a cotton ball in antiseptic and bringing it to the wound.
Gamma Jack winces as the antiseptic makes contact with his torn lip. “No kidding. That stings like a—ow!”
You smile at the look he shoots you, knowing it’s from the extra pressure you applied. “Oh, tough guy like you can’t handle a little pain?” you tease.
He narrows his eyes at the jab. “I can handle the pain just fine. I just wasn’t expecting such rough treatment from you, doc.”
You scoff but keep working, your touch careful as you clean the injury. Gamma Jack remains still, his eyes locked on you, studying every precise movement. The intensity of his gaze gets under your skin, and you seriously consider smacking your hand over his eyes to make him stop staring.
When you finish, you take a step back, scanning him once more to make sure you haven’t missed anything. The cut on his lip is clean now, leaving only a faint line where it split.
“All done,” you say, gathering the scattered supplies and tucking them away. “You’re good to go now. See ya, Jack.”
Despite your care, Gamma Jack doesn’t look relieved or thankful. In fact, there’s a hint of annoyance in his expression—a slight furrow in his brow, like he’s more irritated than anything else.
Weird, but whatever. His feelings aren’t your problem. As long as he’s physically okay, that’s all that matters to you.
You turn away to jot down some notes, assuming he’d leave now that he was no longer in any need of treatment. The scratch of your pen against paper fills the otherwise quiet room as you focus on your task.
It stays that way for a while—until Gamma Jack clears his throat.
“That’s it?”
You glance over your shoulder. “Excuse me?”
“That’s it?” he repeats, gesturing to his lips. “No special kiss?”
Your jaw drops. Special kiss!?
Left speechless by his words, it takes you a moment to answer him. “What in the world are you talking about?”
You’re almost certain Jack has lost his mind when he simply grins at you, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“C’mon, don’t play coy.” He tilts his head. “You know exactly what I’m takin’ about.”
“I don’t.” You do, but you can’t believe he’s actually asking for a kiss. You were so sure he had no clue how your power worked. Of course this is one of the things he remembers about you.
Gamma Jack smirks, raising a brow. “Oh really? Not a clue?”
You resist the urge to slap him. Seriously, is he this shameless?
Not that it’s surprising. With the number of people who fawn over him, it’s no wonder he’s like this.
“You’re unbelievable,” you huff. “I’m not kissing you.”
At your refusal, Gamma Jack groans and flops back on the exam table, dramatically posing like a dying Victorian woman.
The sight is so ridiculous you have to bite back a laugh. He looks so damn silly.
“Why not?” he practically whines.
“Uh, because it’s unprofessional? I’m your doctor. I don’t go around kissing my patients.” You pause, then add, “Not like that, at least.”
Gamma Jack shoots you a skeptical look. “Then why did Gazerbeam look so flustered coming out of your office, huh?”
“What?” You sputter, caught completely off guard.
He sits up, leaning back on his hands. You don’t fail to notice how his arms flex with the movement.
“Oh c’mon, don’t look so shocked. I’ve got eyes, y’know. I saw the way he was all red-faced. Couldn’t even look me in the eye when he passed by. Well, not that he usually does, but you get what I mean.”
You avoid his gaze. “Maybe he had a fever.”
Simon’s face did feel pretty hot when you kissed him. You refuse to believe anything other than that… yeah. (You’re in denial)
Gamma Jack snorts. “A fever? Yeah, probably one for you. He was as red as a beet. That doesn’t happen to a guy unless he gets something real good.”
Your face burns at the insinuation. “Shut up. It’s none of your business what happened with him.”
He laughs and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t get all huffy with me, babe. I’m just sayin’.”
If he weren’t capable of erasing you from existence with a flick of his wrist, you’d choke him out.
“Don’t call me that,” you grumble, turning away to fiddle with some paperwork. Suddenly, it becomes very interesting.
“Aw, why not?” He leans forward, trying to catch your eye. “Don’t you like it?”
You grit your teeth. Why does he have to sound so smug? And why does it suit him so well?
“No. I don’t,” you say shortly, still looking anywhere but him.
You can feel Gamma Jack’s eyes boring into the back of your head. A shiver runs down your spine, but you act unaffected.
“Liar,” he drawls.
At this, your patience finally snaps. You whirl around, ready to give him a piece of your mind—but the words dry on your tongue when you take in the way he’s looking at you.
Gamma Jack stares up at you with half-lidded eyes and a knowing grin on his lips. He gives you a very obvious once-over, clearly enjoying the way your lab coat looks on you. Then his eyes slowly rise to meet yours, his grin widening to reveal perfect white teeth. It’s infuriating how attractive he looks right now.
“You’re so—ugh!” You rub at your face. “Do you really want me to heal your lip that badly?”
He pretends to ponder the question, stroking his chin with a playful smile. “Maybe,” he says. “It’d be nice not to have a cut there at all.”
“Your lip will heal just fine on its own, without my help. The cut’s shallow, so it shouldn’t even scar,” you say flatly.
“Yeah, but a kiss from my favorite doctor skips the healing process,” he winks.
Oh, for the love of—
You stomp over to Jack and pull him into a kiss, letting your frustration spill out.
He makes a startled sound but quickly matches your intensity. His hands slide to your hips, pulling you closer, and he groans as he returns the kiss just as fiercely.
The kiss is rough, messy, charged with both anger and desire. He nips at your bottom lip, making you gasp, then seizes the moment to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue inside. His taste is intoxicating, and you can’t help but moan, fingers clutching at the fabric of his suit.
Using his grip on your hips, he pulls you onto his lap so you’re straddling him. You feel every contour of his strong body pressed against yours as his hands roam freely.
He breaks away from your lips only to trail hot, wet kisses down your neck. Finding a particularly sensitive spot, he sucks on it, leaving you breathless.
Gamma Jack chuckles softly against your skin. “I knew you wanted me. Don’t worry—I want you just as badly.”
You part your lips to reply, but he silences you with another kiss before you can speak. You melt into him, fingers tangling in his blonde hair. It’s almost easy to forget why you were angry in the first place.
Then you finally pull away, cheeks hot with anger and something you’d rather not acknowledge. You look at him: his lips are healed but swollen from the kiss, eyes glazed with desire. He’s like this because of you.
You ignore how much you like that thought.
Wiping your mouth, you try to regain your composure. “You got your kiss, you bastard. Happy now?”
He smirks. “Ecstatic.”
You’re just starting to move from his lap when the door to your office swings open.
“Hey, you know the drill. Got any—” Hypershock’s eyes go wide, disbelief halting him mid-sentence.
You and Gamma Jack both freeze, but your reactions couldn’t be more different. Horror and embarrassment slam into you, while Jack just flashes an easy, confident grin.
Hypershock lets out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his eyes. “I just wanted some goddamn Advil. Is that really too much to ask for?”
he stared at your body strapped to those IV lines. you weren't supposed to end up like this, not you. especially not you. he'd watched countless of people get injured, he'd waited in hospital rooms of victims before, but nothing couldve prepared him for this.
a coma.
those were the only words he heard before his world crumbled.
he stared at the doctor in disbelief as his words started to blur. he didn't know what to feel. all emotions hit him at once. denial, grief, desolation. but it was the anger that hit him the most. he was angry at himself for not being there, for not protecting you when it mattered.
he had saved countless of lives. why couldn't he save yours?
then all those emotions ceased, and he felt... hollow. empty. numb.
he watched visitors come and go, leaving flowers and apologies. hell, some even cried. it was weird, though. as much as he wanted to cry, to feel something, nothing came out.
he stayed until the flowers wilted and the balloons deflated. he stayed by your side, holding your limp hand and tracing the lines on your palm.
the reality was the world didn't stop when his did. his city needed him. but it felt like he was betraying you by even thinking about leaving.
he had to leave. not before staring at you for hours straight, mumbling apologies against the back of your hand.
you haunted him.
in every mission, he desperately saved every civilain he could, because everyone looked like you — sounded like you.
then you stopped showing up in his dreams, and he realized he had forgotten how you smelt, then the sound of your voice — how you laughed, how you snored, how you talked.
on bad days, he'd stare at a picture of you, clutching your unwashed sweatshirt while your voice mail repeated in the background.
"hey? hello? i can't hear you! heyy? just kidding, this is a voicemail! leave a message after the beep."
you were so stupid, and he was stupidly in love with you.
the bad days soon became infrequent, as he felt himself slowly easing back into his life. he felt okay, for once. he felt like he was getting better.
on the drive to work, he opened the sun visor in his car. then something fell out, a note.
"no need to check how you look, handsome. youre the most irresistible man I know. <3
ps. buy me some shampoo? were running out. thank you, honey. youre so reliable."
reliable?
the realization hit him, and so did the grief.
he had to stop to bawl his eyes out, his tears dribbling down his cheeks as his jaw tightened, his lips and hands trembling.
reliable. hes not reliable. he will never be reliable.
it was the first time he sobbed after finding out about the news.
"I'm so sorry."
he whispered, knowing no one would reply back.
—
some gut-wrenching angst because I felt like it. sorry!
Gazerbeam you don't know how long I've waiting for this.... Reader and Gazerbeam get "Busy" as Syndrome says... Anyways Enjoyyyy
Simon Paladino was an influential man, always working pro-bono cases. Standing up against anti-super laws, while also secretly fighting crime himself. So how did you get here? Both arms pinned down into the mattress, the same fancy lawyer and super hero no hoovered over you. He’d lost the helmet, black rimmed glasses hanging almost loosely on his face. You could see your reflection in them, but what you truly wanted to see were those pretty clear blue eyes. His smile was almost shy, but he should know the deal by; as you’ve brought him here several times.
He leaned in, giving a slow but sweet kiss. Those same kisses now turn deeper, desperate and bruising as he trials down. His hands loosen around you, swiftly finding their way between you two. The sounds of fabric rustling and before you knew it his hand was up your skirt. Feeling at the wet spot you’ve been building in your panties. A soft breath leaving you, fingers finding Simon’s nape as you pulled him towards you.
“No time to wait, please, I need you.”
Clear blues glancing up at you briefly, he smiled. Eager as always he sees. Finger tips running up to pull your panties down and get to work. Once the way was clear he sat up, hands resting on your hips as he pulled you down towards him. If you could you would have started drooling, bare chested as his super suit bunched at the hips, messy hair and smudged and crooked glasses. He was almost edible, it's times like this when you wish to keep him in this exact moment. Relieving the way he feels tugging on your lips, enjoying the callouses scratching at your smooth unworked skin. God, you’d actually give this man 16 kids if he’d let you.
Grunt and the feeling of being stuffed full snapped you out of your thoughts. Mouth agape as you stare into the ceiling. You have to be quiet, it's already 2a.m. and you're about to be moaning like a pornstar. Who would blame you? This hunk of a man coming to you in that suit, pulling his tie loose. Then there's the other half, sweaty, tired and frustrated, he's ripped thick biceps and thighs making the navy blue fabric look like it's about to burst. God, you want every part of him.
“Sweetheart? Are you alright?”
You blink, locking eyes with him before nodding. A sigh of relief leaving, cursing your body to relax. You can’t tell him how you've thought about this very moment all day. This morning when he kept pulling that damned tie down while sitting next to you. Or the way his thigh jumped as he got impatient, and his hand flexing on the arm of the chair every two minutes.
“Fuck..”
You let out, swinging a leg around him. He glanced at you, hips moving slightly back and forth. It was steady, enough to get you going but not enough to satisfy the ache you had. Now you were the one getting impatient.
“Faster”
Was all you whispered, he picked up pace. Fingers leaving crescent shapes in the plump flesh of your hips, you were almost there. Almost at the very threshold to satisfy you. You started meeting Simon’s thrust, which soon turned into your sitting up. Now you had control of the pace, and that perfectly handsome lawyer you worked with was now beneath you.
Half lidded eyes, and a gap mouth as you used that poor man like a toy. He’d lower his head into your chest and you’d pull his hair to look back up at you. A flash of danger in his eyes as you spoke.
“No, you look at me, Mr. Paladino.”
For once he was actually looking at you, no fear of hurting you showed in him. Clear blue eyes watching as your eyebrows creased from the pleasure. He felt every time you clenched around him when he whispered-moaned your name. He even noticed that little shiver you get when he kisses each of your boobs like they are your actual lips. Just watching you get off was enough for him and god he is not lying.
“Ya’ almost there? Yeah, just a little longer baby and you’ll have it all..”
His voice was smooth, that quiet and somber tone now has a hint of lust in it. That same lust he spoke with was running through you. Your muscles grow tense, and you can feel them start to spasm. Simon quickly moved you back to lay on your back as he did the last of the work for you two. The rom filling with grunts and moans as he fucked you as hard as he could.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck!”
A deep breath.
“Yes yes yes yes, right there.”
He grunted, such a simple noise that sent you straight over the end. Your eyes squeezed shut, flashes of white behind him as you came hard… your body locking up as Simon continued his movements, he wasn't done with you yet. With what little strength you had, you wrapped and locked your legs around him. Keeping him in one place, that alone sent the man over. A grunt was heard as he finished. Arms catching himself before falling onto you.
The room smelt of sweat and sex, sounds of you both attempting to come down from that high. Your breathing rang loud in your ears, causing you to let out a little giggle. Simon looked at you.
“What are you laughing at?”
You pulled your shoulders up, tilting your head while continuing to laugh.
“Ohh just how I’ve waited all day for thissss.”
Your tone was playful, the man above you let out his own little chuckle. He moved over, now laying next to you on his back. You rolled onto your side, propping your head up on your hand. He looked straight up, eyes closed and glasses off. You could admire his side profile, god he’s so handsome is all you thought.
“Soooooo”
“Yes, let's take a shower sweetheart.”
He stood up, suit still bunched around his waist and now showing off those nice and toned back muscles.
A.N - OMG YOU GUYS!! Thank you for being so patient but here it is! This is my longest fic yet and I’m so excited for you to read it! I’ve been pretty busy with work so I’m glad I finally managed to pump this out. My next fic is definitely OC so stay tuned! I also have some spicy stuff in store for Simon so you’ll just have to wait!! Enjoy!!
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It had been 3 months since you had started dating Simon J. Paladino, and everything was perfect. Like sickly sweet perfect, like fairy tale, disney princess perfect.
You had never been one for romantic gestures but Simon made you feel so special. Since you had started at the firm, several people had warned you of Simon’s “rude” and slightly scary manner of behaviour, especially his refusal to make eye contact, but they couldn’t be more wrong.
He brought you flowers, cooked for you, comforted you after long days, he was the perfect partner. You were just glad you snatched up him before anyone else could.
The pair of you had decided to keep your relationship private, meaning you would not be sharing shit with the gossipy members of the firm. And it was nice, for a while, until fucking Sarah saw you push yourself up onto your tippy toes to give him a kiss outside the building for bringing you lunch on his lunch break.
“Soooo?”
Sarah had snatched a chair and pulled up next to your desk.
You turned to her and raised an eyebrow suspiciously.
“So what, Sarah?”
You chose your words carefully. If you let anything slip, it was guaranteed to spread like wildfire.
She was looking at you smugly now, but you refused to make eye contact.
“You and Simon huh?”
You nearly choked on your saliva as you struggled to maintain a calm facade. You wouldn’t give her anything.
“What about me and Simon?”
“Well.. I saw you guys outside the firm building looking awfully close?” She sneered.
“What Simon and I get up to in our free time is none of your business Sarah. And quite frankly you questioning me about my personal life is extremely unprofessional. Now, I’m going to lunch. Goodbye, Sarah.”
And with that, you gathered your things and took off to lunch without a look back at the now not sneering woman.
“Sarah knows”
You whispered, later that night in bed, curled up next to Simon with your head on his chest.
You giggle softly as he audibly groans, dragging a hand across his glasses-free face.
“I assume everyone will know by tomorrow?”
“Most likely. But they’ll probably question me about it, not you”
“If they make you uncomfortable you’ll let me know?”
You snuggled further into his chest, grinning at his words.
“Yes honey I will.”
You feel him press a kiss to your hair, causing a blush to sprout on your face.
“Good. Now get some sleep, we have work early tomorrow.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more, sweetheart.”
And that’s how the entire firm found out. Like you predicted, everyone came to you for questions first and avoided Simon. In short, you told them to buzz off or else. It worked fairly well.
To summarise, you and Simon were in a happy, healthy, secure relationship and there wasn’t anything anyone could do to change that.
It was a totally normal Saturday. You had the day off, Simon was out for the morning and you had errands to run, so you would have all the afternoon off for yourself.
You yawned slightly as you reached for a can of tomatoes. The grocery store near Simon and yours apartment was small, but full of decently priced, good quality items.
Pasta tonight, you thought to yourself, Simon’s favorite. A small blush rose to your cheeks. Every day, he worked so hard as a lawyer to fight for supers rights, it was only fair you did something for him in return.
“FREEZE!”
Your head snapped suddenly towards the noise, the sharpness piercing the calm atmosphere of the grocery store.
Three grown men entered the store, all brandishing guns. Your blood runs cold as you drop the can of tomatoes.
“ALL OF YOU ON THE GROUND NOW!”
Your knees instinctively give way as you slump to the ground. You considered yourself a fairly tough person, but all that toughness evaporated and gave way to pure fear.
You laid yourself stomach down on the floor and put your hands behind your head, inhaling and exhaling to the point of hyperventilation.
Thousands of thoughts ran through your head, How am I going to get out? Is the cashier ok? What if I don’t make it out alive? What are they going to tell my family? What are they going to tell Simon?
Your heart sinks to your stomach as you feel tears well in your eyes. No. You would make it out of this. You would see Simon and your family again.
You carefully turn your head to face the group of men, who were now threatening the cashier.
You gasps as quietly as you can when one of the men grabs the cashier, who couldn’t have been any older than 18 across the counter by his shirt, and presses his rifle square into the teen’s forehead.
“NO!”
You couldn’t stop the word from escaping from your mouth, you weren’t about to let that kid take the fall for something that wasn’t his fault.
“Oh, you wanna mouth off, eh?”
You yelp as one of the robbers grabs you by the hair and yanks you up so that you’re facing him.
You’re breathing heavily now, trying not to show fear, trying your best not to grimace despite the burning pain coming from your scalp.
You feel the cool metal of the rifle press against your forehead and you squeeze your eyes shut. You only hope the kid got away.
“So, pretty, what were you saying again?”
You force your eyes open again, to stare at his grotesquely, ski masked face (so different to your handsome Simon) . You open your mouth to tell him to get fucked, but before you can, a flash of red light sears though the air and knocks the gun out of his hands in an instant.
You turn your head as much as the hand in your hair will allow, to see the gun on the floor with two perfect, smoking holes burned right through it.
“Shit man we gotta go now!” One of the robbers said to the one holding your hair. “It’s-“
Before he could finish his sentence, several more short, sharp blasts echoed through the air, sending the other robbers' guns flying out of their hands.
Your breath caught in your throat as you whispered.
“Gazerbeam..”
The masked man stood tall and intimidating, his visor still glowing and smoking from his laser vision.
“Put her down.”
The robber dropped you in an instant, and you crumple to the floor, massaging your scalp to relieve the still burning pain, slightly dizzy
Luckily, you are smart enough to stay down and you see several more flashes of red light before all 3 of the robbers collapse to the ground groaning.
You hear Gazerbeam’s commanding voice fill the room through your dizziness. You exhale slowly and close your eyes, but you gasp at the sudden touch to your forehead.
Your eyes fly open to see Gazerbeam himself leaning over you, with a concerned look on his face.
“Are you alright?”
Still slightly reeling from the pain of being held up by your hair, you struggle to slur out an answer.
“I guess so… Oh!”
You gasp as he lifts you up bridal style to carry you out of the grocery store, whose windows were now shattered by bullets.
You can’t help the redness from rising to your cheeks at being lifted up so effortlessly. You felt a warmth settling in your stomach as you feel your body relax. Something about his muscles arms and stride was so familiar.
You instinctively wrap your arms around his shoulders as he walks toward the ambulance that has now pulled up outside.
“I saw what happened.”
You turn to face him, to see if what you heard was correct.
“You protected that boy in the store, that was very brave of you.”
Wow. A literal superhero calling you brave? Now you have seen it all.
“Oh! No no it’s ok! It’s what anyone would have done!”
You had turned red partly at the compliment and partly at the fact that he was still carrying you like you weighed nothing.
Both of you had made it to the ambulance, where he set you down on the edge of the vehicle, sitting down.
“You are a very courageous woman.”, He paused as a flush crept up past his masked face, “And beautiful too.”
Your mind went blank. The paramedic attending to you raised an eyebrow.
“Oh! Um..” If your face could go any redder you’d be a tomato. “I’m so sorry Mr Gazerbeam but I’m very much taken.”
“Oh. My apologies, I did not realise you were in a relationship.”
“No no, it’s alright, but no offence you couldn’t pull me away from my boyfriend if you tried!”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.. he’s so sweet and kind and loving, he’s funny too! In his own way but that doesn’t matter. God.. I’m so lucky to have him..”, You sigh.
Talking about Simon always got you rambling. Because of course you were going to brag about your hot lawyer boyfriend to the literal superhero hitting on you.
“Ah. Sorry. Well, I doubt that. I bet you're equally spectacular."
“Thank you Mr Gazerbeam, for saving me and everyone else. The community is safer with you in it.”
“Thank you for your kind words Ma’am, and my apologies again for being so forward.”
“It’s ok-“
A hand is placed on your shoulder. The paramedic.
“Miss? I think we should take you to the hospital to get checked out, just in case.”
“Oh! Right.. Well, thanks anyway! Hope I see you around!”
You wave goodbye to the superhero, who manages an awkward wave back. On the way to the hospital, you couldn’t stop thinking about how familiar Gazerbeam seemed, like you had seen him somewhere before.
The superhero was handsome and kind for sure, but he was no Simon J. Paladino.
———
Simon had made sure all the victims of the robbery were safe and uninjured, before running off to an abandoned alleyway.
He needed fresh air immediately.
As soon as he gets there, he rips the visor off his face, leans against the brick wall, and smiles the biggest smile he’s had in ages.
He couldn’t believe he had gotten so lucky with you.
Any other woman might have abandoned him completely for a little bit of attention from a superhero.
But not you. Not his love.
Guilt wracked his body in an instant. He wanted to tell you so bad it was physically painful. But he’d have to wait. You’d have to wait.
For now, he would stop by his apartment, change into civilian clothes and speed to the hospital. (He should’ve gotten there quicker, he should have killed the bastard who grabbed you like that).
He would dote on you for as long as you needed, while the feeling of you snuggled in his arms, with your arms around his neck while he carried you would stay fresh in his mind.
Perhaps, he would carry you like that out of the chapel on your wedding day.
