collywobblvs

[collywobblvs]

the ending was so cute tho, I loved it

Can you do smut with clark Kent, he is so big so he goes to deep and has to take you to the er, even though he hurt you he is very proud of him and his dick

Three inches from heaven

Pairing: david!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

A/n: as you can tell i'm really enjoying posting weekly extras

Summary: Every inch counts...especially when he knows how to use them.

Classification: Smut +18 | safe vaginal sex, praise, use of X-ray vision in a sexual context, depictions of bruising and visit to a hospital/ER, including unprofessional or comedic remarks from medical staff. Clark is extremely caring but also hilariously anxious, tending toward over-the-top worry and protective behavior but yk...it's Clark.

Word count: 3,7k

Divider by me ;)

“Kinky” wasn’t the word you’d use, it was more “adventurous” than anything else. You’d never had a partner you could trust this much before, so when you and Clark became official, naturally, you wrote a list of everything you wanted to try sexually. It was a long one, scribbled out with the kind of excitement you’d been too shy to ever act on before and Clark had been just as eager, if not more, to work through it with you. 

He treated it like a mission dossier, equal parts thoroughness and enthusiasm, even adding his own notes in the margins sometimes. You were getting close to “Sitting on Clark’s face” which he underlined and punctuated with five exclamation points, as if to make absolutely sure it wasn’t skipped, but tonight’s experiment was prone bone.

The night began like any other with a modest dinner, small talk, him cleaning up while you lingered on the couch, a soft kiss here and a brush of fingers there. You never planned when to cross something off the list, it always came after you were already warm, flushed and at least halfway undone from the way he worshiped you and tonight was no different. 

Two orgasms in, when your muscles were loose and your mind was humming, you finally asked for it.

Face down on the couch, you gazed out at the glittering skyline of Metropolis through the wide windows of Clark’s apartment. Your chest rose and fell in steady anticipation, your body already tingling. Behind you, Clark shifted into position, his knees bracketing your thighs as he bent over you while his lips brushed soft, reverent kisses along the damp trail of your spine.

“Are you sure?” he asked for the second time, voice low while his lips pressed against your shoulder blade.

You hummed your answer but he wasn’t satisfied with just that.

“You can stop me at any time. Don’t wait until it hurts. Even if it’s just uncomfortable, you stop me. You hear?” His tone was firm but gentle, a voice that left no room for doubt.

“Loud and clear,” you whispered, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze. He tilted your chin up and kissed you languidly, sealing the promise between you.

When he pulled away, he slid a pillow under your hips, lifting you just enough and adjusting you until you were perfectly angled. The cool air brushed your heated skin and then came the warmth of him. Clark’s tip nudged at your entrance, before he pressed forward with care, the stretch was immediate and the invasion enough to pull a groan from your throat and press your forehead hard into the cushion beneath you.

He stilled instantly. “Baby, you okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed, voice tight, before lifting your head to make sure he knew. “I’m okay.”

And you were. The position was intense, restrictive and it made him feel impossibly big inside you. He knew it too, you could hear it in the rough sound of his groan as he pushed deeper, every inch claiming you in slow increments. The way your body clenched down on him, walls fluttering tight around his length, had both of you struggling to catch your breath.

He inched forward until he was nearly bottomed out…nearly. You didn’t have to say a word before he was already checking with that telltale pause as he used his x-ray vision to confirm your body’s limits. His tip brushed your pelvis and he still had a few inches left, but he wasn’t about to risk hurting you.

“We’re gonna go nice and slow,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over your hip, reassuring you. His voice was steady but there was an edge of strain beneath it, like it was taking everything in him to hold in his release.

All you could do was nod, gripping the couch cushion as he began to move with careful precision, every thrust calculated and every pause a silent check-in. The city lights spilled across the room as his warmth enveloped you from behind, you felt at once completely overwhelmed and utterly safe.

Clark’s chest pressed fully to your back now, the heavy weight of him both pinning you and shielding you. Each deliberate thrust came in that slow, scooping motion and you felt it all, in the best way possible. The way he carved himself against your velvety walls, the way his hips rocked to angle deeper and the way his cock seemed to drag and nudge at every tender ridge inside you until your entire body shuddered.

“Uhhh–fuck, you’re…so deep,” you moaned, voice breaking on the words. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You’d thought maybe after two orgasms your body would be less sensitive, that you’d float in the afterglow but the opposite was true. Every nerve was heightened, raw and open and all you could do was cling to the moment. Your focus narrowed until all that existed was him, the ridges, the veins and the delicious weight of his cock stretching you. Your nails dug deep grooves into the leather cushions, desperate for anchor, while your blurred gaze caught only fractured streaks of city lights beyond the window. Your mouth hung open, letting small hiccups of sound escape each time he rocked into you while the pleasure bubbled uncontrollably.

His lips brushed the damp curve of your shoulder, his nose nuzzling into your skin. He murmured into you like he was kissing a secret there. “You’re taking me so good, baby. So darn good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, head tipping forward and you whispered with ragged need, “F–faster.”

He stilled just enough to ask, his voice still low and careful, “Are you sure?” Even now, even with the control it must’ve taken for him not to simply give in, he waited. He needed your confirmation.

You nodded quickly, desperately so. “Yes, Clark. Please...I- I need more.”

The change was immediate. He wasn’t ruthless, he never would be but the shift was enough that your body reeled. His pace picked up, hips rolling with heavier intent and faster, until your moans tumbled free with no control at all. Your back arched further, chest pressing harder into the couch while the tension in your body snapped tighter with every thrust.

“Mmmm–you’re so big…filling me up so good.” you cried, the words ripping free, unfiltered. You didn’t care how shameless it sounded, didn’t care if it made his ego swell, the only truth in that moment was the stretch, the fullness and the overwhelming pulse of him inside you.

He groaned against your skin, his voice dark and low as his arms locked tighter around your middle. “You’re taking it like a champ, baby.”

“Mmmmyeah?” you gasped, the syllable fractured by a sharp intake of breath.

“Mhm,” he hummed, warm and rumbling against the shell of your ear, his thrusts never faltering. His breath was hot, heavy, every exhale ragged. “I’m so proud of you.”

The words hit you almost as hard as the pleasure itself, leaving you trembling in his arms as the rhythm of his hips drove you closer to that unbearable edge.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long before your bodies found a rhythm that bordered on devastating. It was steady, hypnotic and deep enough to leave you dizzy. Clark’s pace never faltered, never reckless, yet it carried a precision that left no part of you untouched. The air in the apartment grew heavy and humid with the sharp mix of your moans and his groans, the slap of skin against skin filling the darkened room until it sounded like the walls themselves were trembling with you.

Then his hand slid up, warm and broad, wrapping around your throat with a pressure just firm enough to make your head spin. He squeezed lightly, careful yet commanding and your eyes immediately rolled back. 

“Fuck…I’m…Uhhh–I’m coming. Yes–” You choked.

The sensation tipped you over the edge with startling force, your orgasm tearing through you in a whimpering, broken sound that was equal parts whine and cry. It might have embarrassed you if it had come from anyone else’s touch but with him, there was only trust and relief. Only the gentleness threaded through every inch of his strength.

The pulsing of your release gripped him tight, milking him until he groaned loudly, burying himself deep as he spilled into the condom. The sound he made, low, guttural and raw, vibrated against your spine as his forehead dropped to the top of your back. Both of you were shuddering, caught in the tail end of the storm, your breaths ragged and uneven as the room gradually quieted again.

You stayed there like that for a while, two minutes, maybe more, bodies heavy and languid in the aftermath. When he finally pulled out, the absence was met instantly with the comfort of his arms wrapping you close.

As it always did with Clark, the intensity of sex melted seamlessly into tenderness. Aftercare came like instinct, his lips covered you in soft kisses while his voice murmured reassurances, his laugh breaking into warm little chuckles when you did too. There was something almost comical in the way he padded across the room, completely naked, just to grab the list and dramatically cross off “prone bone” with a grin.

You both ended the night in the shower, washing each other with lazy strokes and shared smiles, before collapsing into bed tangled together. His arms caged you gently, his warmth draped around you like a blanket and the last thing you heard before sleep was his quiet, content hum against your hair.

You slept peacefully for about three hours before the unease started creeping in. First a little shift here, a toss there and then the ache bloomed sharp enough in your lower stomach that you curled around it, clutching the spot. The mistake was letting a tiny wince slip out. It was soft, barely audible but of course, nothing ever got past Clark. He sat up so fast it nearly startled you more than the pain.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was low, urgent and already thick with worry.

You tried to brush it off, rolling onto your back with a weak laugh. “You and your superhearing. I’m fine, Clark. Go back to sleep.”

But “fine” had never once been good enough for him and you should’ve known better. He flicked on the light from his bedside table, casting a warm glow across the room, then promptly pushed the blanket off you.

“Excuse you!?” you protested as he straddled your hips and tugged up the hem of the shirt you’d stolen from him. “What do you think you’re doing? Hey, pervert–”

He didn’t even look at your face, his mouth twitching in something dangerously close to a grin. “Funny, you didn’t call me a pervert earlier when I was inside you.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “Well, that’s–”

But your retort cut off when he began pressing gently on your lower stomach, carefully as well as methodically, watching your expression like it was the most important readout in the world. The second you winced, he reacted like you’d been scorched. He practically leapt off of you, hands fumbling for some sweatpants as though fabric could shield you from whatever he’d just confirmed.

“Clark–”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he rushed out, voice strained as he guided your legs into the pants and tugged them up with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re bruising. I can’t see clearly how bad, so…” He trailed off, swallowing hard before helping you sit up, his hand splayed against your back.

The soft sound you made as the motion tugged at your stomach almost broke him completely. His jaw tightened and you realized his eyes were frantic. “We’re going to the hospital,” he said firmly. “We’re making sure it’s not too bad. No arguments.”

His statement was only half a lie. Clark could see perfectly well but his mind had already jumped ten steps ahead, imagining every possible worst-case scenario.

You blinked at him, both touched and exasperated. Superman, absolutely unshakable in every other way and here he was, pale and rattled over the thought of accidentally hurting you.

“Okay then, but Clark I can dress myself,” you said as he tied the drawstring of your sweatpants, trying to act casual even though the subtle brush of his fingers against your skin sent heat racing through you.

He nodded rapidly, eyes soft but frantic. “I know, baby,” he murmured, cupping your face and pressing a string of gentle kisses to your cheeks and forehead. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should’ve been more careful. I just—Well, it’s you and I–” His hands lingered as he slipped off your sleep shirt.

“You didn’t. I mean, not really… hard to tell when I was cramping around your dick,” you said, letting your voice take on that teasing edge, “but you know… details.”

He froze for a second, brow furrowing. “Are you… smiling? Why are you smiling?”

“Sadistic, right? Thought so,” you said with a small grin, the corners of your mouth tugging up as you watched him fumble with a clean shirt for you. “I’m trying to keep it in, but… you look really hot when you’re worried.”

Clark’s lips twitched into a nervous chuckle as he pulled the fresh shirt over your head. “Arms…I’m glad you find my worrying hot,” he said, his voice a mix of relief and self-conscious pride, before moving on to dressing himself. “But this really isn’t the right time.”

By the time you both got into the car and drove to the ER, your stomach still ached with cramps, but for some inexplicable reason, you couldn’t stop giggling. Half from discomfort and half from the absurdity of it all. His anxious nature made it almost impossible to keep a straight face. 

Clark hovered over you in the waiting room like a hawk, pacing slightly and muttering under his breath about how no one seemed to understand the urgency of your “condition.” He leaned over the receptionist counter, using his most serious, authoritative voice.

“My girlfriend was… uh… injured,” he said, trying to choose his words carefully. “It’s a… pelvis situation, very sensitive. We need a doctor, immediately.”

The receptionist blinked at him, confused. “Uh… okay… do you have an insurance card?”

Clark flinched, muttering something about bureaucracy slowing down life-or-death situations, then spotted a nurse strolling by, who he waved over frantically.

“Excuse me. Nurse!” he called, his voice full of desperate urgency. “She’s… giggling but bruised. Lower abdominal area. Pretty sure she needs professional evaluation. Stat.”

The nurse stopped and raised an eyebrow, taking one look at Clark’s intense, almost panicked expression and then at you curled slightly on the chair, clutching your stomach with a mix of pain and giggles.

She tilted her head, lips twitching. “Uh-huh… yeah, that tracks,” she said dryly, her eyes flicking back to Clark like, no wonder. “Room 3. You can wait there.”

Clark practically scooped you into his arms and carried you to the room, muttering apologies for the dramatic scene while simultaneously shushing your giggles. You could barely stop yourself from laughing at the sight of him tiptoeing as if the entire hospital were a crime scene.

Once you were settled on the hospital bed, Clark hovered like a shadow, wringing his hands and muttering, “I told the lady at the front desk, twice. I–”

“Clark, it’s a bruise,” you whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “People don’t come to the ER for bruises.”

His brow furrowed as he leaned down, lowering his voice. “People also don’t wake up in the middle of the night wincing. What if it’s not just a bruise? What if it’s a fracture? Or an internal bleed?”

You blinked at him. “You think you broke my pelvis?”

His ears flushed red. “...It’s possible.”

The nurse who had come in to take your vitals, clearly overheard and had to bite back a smile as Clark rattled off every symptom you didn’t have. “No fever, no nausea, no weakness in her legs but she winced three times on the way here and–”

“Clark,” you interrupted softly, pressing his hand, “I think I can handle answering the questions.”

“Sir,” the nurse said patiently, one hand on her hip. “She’s going to be fine. You can take a breath now.”

You tried to muffle a laugh. “Yes, do that before you get hospitalized,” you whispered, still clutching your stomach.

Then the doctor finally arrived, striding in with her clipboard and scanning the room. Her eyes landed on Clark, frozen mid-pacing next to the bed, pale and panicked and she immediately let out a soft laugh, as well as letting out a quiet comment on how giant your boyfriend looked perched in the corner, hands clasped like he was waiting for news of a life-saving surgery. 

“Oh… yeah. Okay. That’s the problem,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of her. But you?” she nodded at Clark, “Anything wrong with you besides the clear panic attack?”

He shook his head dramatically. “I’m completely worried, normal, casual about this and utterly terrified. All of the above…minus a few, maybe.”

“I know for sure ‘normal’ doesn’t belong on that list,” the nurse muttered. You laughed so hard your stomach pulled uncomfortably.

“He’s just…large,” you managed between chuckles.

“Unreasonably so,” she agreed, with the solemnity of a medical observation as if physics itself should’ve intervened.

Clark flushed bright red but didn’t back down. “I’m concerned. This is a… a delicate… very delicate situation.”

The doctor shook her head, smirking. “I can see that. Let’s get her checked and maybe… keep the heroics to a minimum?”

“He’s never been very good at that.” You snickered, letting your head fall back on the pillow. Clark gave you a pointed glare but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face as the doctor started her exam.

Even in the ER, Clark’s mix of worry, pride and ridiculous intensity made you laugh between groans and you both knew this was going to be a story retold many times, much to his chagrin.

The doctor, still suppressing a grin then gestured for Clark to step back. He hovered reluctantly, arms crossed over his chest like a storm cloud, peeking over her shoulder anyway.

“Alright,” she said, leaning over to examine you, “let’s see what’s going on here.” Her fingers pressed gently along your lower abdomen and pelvis, eyes flicking up at you with professional focus but her gaze couldn’t resist darting to Clark, who had gone completely pale.

“Uh… I’ll just… stand right here,” he muttered, inching closer than strictly necessary.

“Yeah,” the doctor said, raising an eyebrow. “This is… exactly what I expected. Very… inflamed,” she murmured, glancing at Clark. “Not from an accident, I take it?”

Clark stammered. “Uh, no! I mean–well, technically…yes? It was consensual, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“She wasn’t,” You mouthed.

The doctor tilted her head, eyes narrowing like she was solving a puzzle. “It happens. It’s nothing permanent. She’s perfectly fine, just bruised.” she said, letting out a small laugh.

You laughed weakly from the bed, covering your face. “See? Told you I’m fine.”

Clark froze. “Well you know I don’t like that word.” His cheeks burned red but there was no hiding the mixture of pride and embarrassment.

The doctor handed you some ice packs and gave Clark a pointed look. “Ice, rest, maybe a bit of over-the-counter pain relief and you,” she said, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, “next time, dial it down to… human levels. Got it?” The doctor joked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Clark said solemnly, almost saluting, though his lips twitched into a grin.

By the time the nurse finally waved you both out, Clark was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He had insisted on carrying you to the car to make sure you weren’t in pain, occasionally glancing at you like he might tackle anyone who even looked at you wrong.

“So…” he began as soon as you were buckled in, voice quiet but intense, “maybe we should… reevaluate the list. Make sure nothing on there…physically overpowers you again.”

You laughed, shaking your head, the seatbelt pressing across your midsection a sharp reminder of the last few hours. “Yeah… no way, I’m not gonna do that. God forbid I actually enjoy the stretch! You have a big dick, Clark, get over it! I knew exactly what I was signing up for when I wrote that list and trust me…I’m loving it so far.”

He blinked, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly. “I… okay. That’s more sincerity than I expected and I’m…very proud of you.”

“Been working on it,” you said with a playful smile.

Clark nodded, his expression softening. “I can see that. I still need to make sure you’re safe,” he murmured, tugging gently at your hand that rested on your thigh.

The doctor had insisted on rest, no activity, just to let the bruises heal but your mind had already wandered. “Which I’m sure you’ll enforce, Superman,” you said, pausing with mock seriousness. “Umm… so, about this whole resting thing…”

“Sweetheart–”

“How far are we taking that? Face sitting doesn’t really count, right?” you asked, smirking. “I mean, technically…”

Clark froze mid-hand squeeze, his eyes widening. “We’re still in the ER parking lot and you’re thinking about sitting on my face?”

“Yes,” you said, trying not to giggle. “It’s literally zero impact on the bruising. The doctor said no activity, but… come on, Clark… that face is begging for it.”

He blinked slowly, then cleared his throat, releasing your hand to push up his glasses and discreetly, or not so discreetly, readjust himself. “We’ll… uh… we’ll see,” he muttered, a faint blush coloring his cheeks as his mind raced.

“Will I… get an answer by morning?” you asked, glancing at the darkening sky where the first hints of sunrise were creeping in.

He started the car, eyes flicking to you with that mix of exasperation and mischief only he could pull off. “Baby, you’ll get an answer when I stop… leaking into my underwear,” he muttered, voice tight with effort. “Then I can think straight.”

You bit back a laugh, trying not to let the growing smile take over your face. “Will that be… soon?”

He shot you a glance, one brow quirking and lips twitching as if he were fighting his own amusement. 

“It’s unlikely,” he said flatly, though his eyes betrayed every ounce of delight and torment you were causing and you understood then, with a devilish grin, the absolute importance of depth. 

Clark clearly took it very seriously and you intended to test every inch of it.

A/n: If you had to write your own list, what are the top three things you’d put on it? I'll go first! 1. Having the guy wear a ghostface mask, motorcycle helmet or literally anything that covers his face while we... yk, 2. Cockwarming, 3. Watching my partner jerk it *bites finger* (If you judge me you'll have diarrhea for a month straight) Anyway!!

Thank you lots for reading, reblogging, commenting, requesting and following guys! love interacting with you all. See you later this week! 🫶

[collywobblvs]

RAWRRRRR

clark kent accidentally using you like a stress toy after a hard day of being superman

you don’t even get a hello before clark’s got his lips on yours.

he’d barely shut the front door before he was on you—lifting you off your feet with a soundless grunt, kissing you so deeply you forgot your own name. the door didn’t close all the way. his glasses are still on. his shirt’s still half-tucked from wherever he came back from. and he doesn’t seem to care.

his mouth trails down your neck, hot and shaky. he doesn’t talk yet, but you can feel it in his grip—he’s tense. wired. too quiet. the kind of quiet that comes after something bad.

you wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he exhales hard—like just touching you let him breathe again.

“bad day?” you murmur, brushing your lips against his temple.

he just nods. silently carries you to the bedroom like his life depends on it. like he needs you right now more than air.

then?

he lays you down.

tugs your clothes off like he’s being careful, but still rushing. his hands shake when he lines himself up, and he looks down at you like he’s asking for forgiveness before he’s even started.

“sorry if i’m bein’ selfish, sweetheart,” he says softly, cupping the underside of your knee and pushing it up toward your chest. “i promise i’ll take care of you after. i just—i really need you right now.”

and then he sinks into you.

you gasp. every time you think you’ve adjusted to his size, you forget—he’s massive. too big. stretches you so wide you feel the outline of him in your belly. but the worst part is that he doesn’t stop. he keeps going, keeps pushing your legs up, folding you into a mating press as his hips press flush against yours, cock buried to the hilt.

“oh gosh,” he breathes, jaw trembling. “you’re just so warm. so perfect. always take me so well…”

you can’t even respond—just whimper and arch into him, and he starts moving.

deep, dragging thrusts that shake the bedframe. his grip is vice-tight on the back of your thighs, his broad chest pressing your knees to your shoulders, sweat already starting to bead at his temple. and then—finally—he talks.

“this guy… this absolute jerk thought he could take down a whole city block,” he grits out, still speaking like he’s complaining to a friend, not while pounding your cunt like it owes him rent. “flung a taxi at a daycare, would you believe that? and people think i’m too soft when i hold back—golly…”

he punctuates the word with a sharp thrust, making your toes curl.

“so i didn’t. i didn’t hold back this time, i—I really gave it to him, you know? but then lex starts in with his ‘oh superman, you’re a danger to society’ speech and—good grief, darlin’, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—”

your fingers dig into his biceps as he fucks you harder, angling his hips just right to grind against your sweet spot. your eyes roll. your thighs shake. and clark—poor sweet clark—is too in his head to realize he’s fucking the soul out of you while venting about his commute.

“i was just tryin’ to help. like i always do. and people still looked at me like i’m some kinda monster, but then i come home and—and you let me do this, and—and god, baby—you always make me feel human.”

you can’t breathe. can’t think. your hands are scrabbling at his back, legs trembling in his grip, and he’s just moaning softly into your neck now, whispering sweet nothings while his cock splits you open.

“m’sorry, sugar,” he mumbles as your eyes roll back, pace never faltering. “didn’t mean to go this hard—just… needed to feel close to you. needed to feel good. you always make me feel good, angel.”

you’re gonna cry. he’s so deep you feel like you’re gonna pass out, and he doesn’t even realize he’s got you halfway to god while still talking like a 1940s housewife.

you try to tell him you’re close, but it comes out as a breathless sob. clark pulls back to look at you—sees the tears, the shaky mouth, the way your body’s convulsing beneath him—and his expression softens, even while his cock’s still grinding into your cervix like a battering ram.

“oh gosh,” he whispers, instantly panicked. “did i hurt you? are you—darlin’, are you okay? i didn’t even notice how hard i was goin’, i’m so sorry—”

you cling to him, voice wrecked.

“clark—don’t stop. please, don’t stop—just wanna cum—”

he exhales like you just saved his life. kisses your temple. then fucks you so deep you see stars.

your orgasm hits like a tidal wave—loud, messy, devastating. clark groans your name like a prayer and finishes seconds later, cock twitching inside you as he fills you to the brim, thick and hot and so much that it leaks out around his base, dripping onto the sheets in warm streaks.

and when it’s over, when your body’s gone limp and your breathing is ragged and you feel like you’ve been hit by a train (a hot, kansas-born train), clark gathers you up like you’re something precious. kisses your hair. wraps you in a blanket and tucks you under his chin like nothing happened.

“gosh, you’re good to me,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you put up with me when i get like that.”

you smile weakly, snuggled against his chest, still full of him.

“you can be rough with me anytime, clark. just… maybe warn me first so i'm prepared to see heaven again.”

he chuckles, sheepish.

“sorry, angel. guess i don’t know my own strength.” a/n: i still havent watched the new superman movie yet but i just had to

[collywobblvs]

this was literally so so good dude

the angst, the fluff, the smut all of it was amazing omgg

touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy). 

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep. 

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you. 

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really. 

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is. 

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative. 

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name. 

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about  the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone  in the shower.

Truly. 

You're just trying to get clean. 

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle. 

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow. 

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again. 

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and  fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly. 

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair. 

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin. 

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.  

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

.

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

.

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up. 

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you.  He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there. 

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door. 

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in. 

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway. 

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys. 

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there. 

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

 The banana bread. 

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong. 

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind. 

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it. 

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts. 

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now. 

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

[collywobblvs]

YUM YUM YUMMMY DUDE SLURPING HIM UP

Why He Held Back

Summary: You're trying to get your sweet, gentle boyfriend to take you a little rougher. But edging Clark Kent might not be such a good idea. A one-shot. (new crush alert) Warning: Smut.

Click to read on dark mode( turn on desktop view if you're reading on mobile.)

No one eats it like Clark does.

Your toes curl, and you squeeze his head between your thighs. You've asked him so many times how he does it. One moment, he's fucking you deep and fast with his tongue--so warm it's borderline hot--your hand gripping his hair, holding him to you as he parts your folds with his fingers, stretching you open while he stabs into you over and over. Next, he's lapping at your juices, flicking your overstimulated clit with a tongue that’s suddenly ice-cold.

The first time he ate you out, he left you a trembling mess--his hot and cold therapy throwing you over the edge again and again.

He seemed most at home with his mouth between your legs. On days you refused to let him go, he'd plow into you with his fingers until every bone in your body turned to jelly and you couldn’t cling to him anymore.

The first time he entered you, it was written all over his face--he was holding back. The way he moved reminded you of someone crossing a slippery ledge: cautious, intentional, as if one wrong move might send him crashing into the deep below.

You tried to unravel him. Tried to get him to lose himself in you the way you lost yourself in him. But he always smiled down at you--patient, sorrowful--like you didn’t know what you were asking.

So you discovered edging.

Every day when he came home from the newspaper office, you’d meet him at the door in something tiny and tight--thighs out, curves popping, just enough covered to make him reach. Then you'd slip away before he could touch you.

You’d laugh and flirt. Cook his meals while indulging him with wet, lingering kisses. Add a little extra sway when you walked past him.

But when he reached for you, you'd kiss him and pull away.

“It was a hectic day, babe. Maybe tomorrow?”

And ever-gentle, ever-patient Clark would nod, ask if you needed anything, and head for another cold shower.

It took a week to crack him. But you did it.

It was Sunday. He’d been home all day. The flimsy baby tee you wore showed every bit of your areolas, and the boyshorts wedged in your ass left the full globes of your cheeks jiggling as you moved in faux-hurry, “busy” with fake chores.

You pretended not to see the tent in his boxers. Or the growing wet spot at the tip.

He gripped the TV remote loosely. The screen forgotten. His eyes followed you like a hawk--devouring, calculating--until he couldn’t take it anymore.

You were bent over the washer in the laundry room when he stepped behind you and tugged down your shorts.

If he noticed how damp they were, he didn’t say a word.

He just lifted you like you weighed nothing and French kissed your swollen labia.

He’d eaten you standing before- holding your legs over his shoulders, head buried deep- but this time…

This time, he lifted you straight to his mouth like a girl-shaped cup and drank like a man dying of thirst.

You were caught between the shock of his strength and the ecstasy of what he was doing to you.

The moment he sucked your orgasm out of you, he lowered you and bent you over the washer.

The nudge of his cock against your opening was your only warning before he plunged in -- one brutal stroke that shoved you up the machine.

Your mouth opened in a silent scream.

One hand pressed to the small of your back. The other braced your neck.

He leaned down and growled into your ear, “Brace yourself.”

You clutched the machine.

His next thrust dislodged the scream from your throat. He ground in, tip bullying your cervix.

His thighs trembled. He groaned- like he was losing control.

And then he went wild.

His hips slammed into you, over and over, each stroke pushing you farther up the washer. His arm around your waist yanked you back onto his cock, meeting every hard, punishing thrust.

Your feet dangled. Your legs shook.

Spots exploded behind your eyes as pleasure collided with pain-- your insides twisted up around him, your body desperate to keep up.

He bent over you, grabbed your wrists, and wrapped your arms around the machine. Planted his knees wide. You felt the washer tilt with the force of his strokes… and then he fucked you like a man possessed.

Wet, obscene sounds filled the room, punctuated by your raw cries and his primal grunts. Your body was wrecked. Your pleasure hole destroyed.

You lost count of your orgasms. Wondered how he kept going, hips still bucking with delightful frenzy.

The claps came faster, louder, and your voice rose into something unrecognizable. Your walls fluttered around him, struggling to keep up, as slick spilled down your legs.

And when he finally growled his release, shooting deep, you knew two things:

He had come undone. And you were never edging him again.

Note!!

Likes are loved, reblogs are appreciated, comments are encouraged(I want to read your thoughts😘!!). You can post my fics outside Tumblr only by sharing the website link.

Please remember to read my stories on the website to support your girl, and it's in dark mode, so it's easier on your eyes. Make sure your phone is set to desktop view if you're using your mobile. Thank you for reading! Will be doing more Clark fics, so stay tuned!!!!

[collywobblvs]

this was so so so so so so so good bruh

— ☆ﾟNOT TONIGHT, SWEETHEART || CLARK KENT — PART 2

MINI NOTE: this was not supposed to be that long LMAO. but here we are. hope everyone who asked for 2 is fully fed and satisfied 🫡

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, soft dom clark kent, fingering, first time sex, size kink, emotional edging, very slow stretch, praise kink, cock worship, soft aftercare, deep intimacy, no use of y/n

The rain is steady outside, soft against the windows, and the bedroom is warm — quiet in that way that makes everything feel like it’s holding its breath.

You’re straddled across his lap, sitting over Clark’s thighs, your hands resting on his shoulders. Your sleep shirt is still on, barely covering anything. His sweats are loose, and you can feel the heat of him pressed against the thin fabric of your panties. Neither of you is fully undressed yet, but the tension between your bodies is unmistakable.

He’s watching you closely — eyes low, fingers running lightly up and down your bare thighs. He hasn’t kissed you in a while. Not since you whispered it.

“I think I’m ready.”

And you meant it.

But Clark doesn’t move on words alone.

He tilts his head slightly, gaze steady. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” He brushes his thumb just under the hem of your panties. “We’ll take our time.”

There’s no performance in his voice. No teasing. Just steady patience — quiet and warm and deliberate.

He shifts on the bed, gently guiding you onto your back. You lie down slowly, heart thudding as he stretches over you, holding himself up on his elbows. You reach for him instinctively, and he kisses you — not deep, not possessive. Just soft. Grounding.

Then he speaks against your lips. “Let me feel you first.”

Your breath catches. “Okay.”

His hand slides down your side, tracing over your hip, then gliding between your legs. He doesn’t go for your clit right away. He cups you over your panties first, palm warm and firm, applying just enough pressure to make you twitch.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmurs, voice a little lower now.

You shift beneath him, embarrassed. “I’ve been thinking about this for days.”

He huffs softly. “I can tell.”

He tugs the fabric to the side. His fingers slip between your folds, spreading the wetness slowly, coating his fingertips.

Then one presses in.

You gasp — even now, after weeks of preparation, the stretch is immediate. His finger is thicker than anything you’ve used on yourself. Bigger. He doesn’t thrust. He just slides in, slow, steady, all the way to the knuckle.

Your body tightens around him.

He watches your face.

“Still tight,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, breathing hard. “Yeah.”

He starts to move it — not fast. Not even rhythmically. Just in and out, slow and careful, watching how your body takes it.

You squirm slightly. “More. I want more.”

“Hold still.”

His other hand comes to your waist, pinning you gently.

You freeze.

“You’re not ready for more until your body stops fighting it.”

You bite your lip, trying to stay still.

He fucks you with that one finger for a while — slow, deep strokes — and you can’t stop whimpering. Your hips twitch, but he holds you firm.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, eyes locked on your face. “That stretch? That’s one finger, baby. One.”

You nod, biting back a moan.

He pulls out slowly, then pushes in again. Your breath stutters.

“I could make you come just like this,” he says.

“I want more,” you whisper again. “I want you.”

“Not yet.”

He kisses you softly, then adds a second finger.

You gasp, thighs jerking, your walls fluttering hard around him.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Still tight. But your body’s opening.”

He stretches you slowly, fingers scissoring just enough to coax more space. His mouth drops to your chest, kissing softly while his fingers move deeper, pushing against something that makes your breath catch.

You moan aloud, and he stills.

“Right there?” he asks.

You nod quickly. “Yes—please—”

But instead of speeding up, he slows down. His hand on your waist holds you still, and the thrust of his fingers turns smooth again — deep and patient.

“You need to take your time,” he murmurs. “Let your body get used to it.”

“I want you inside,” you breathe, arching.

“I know you do.” He presses a kiss to your collarbone. “But I’m not going inside until you’re soft around two.”

You try to lift your hips again, but he doesn’t let you. His fingers keep working you open, coaxing you, filling you. You feel every slow drag, every curl, every careful press.

It’s not until a few minutes later — when your thighs stop shaking, when your walls stop fluttering tight around his fingers and start welcoming them — that he finally shifts.

He pulls out slowly.

Your body clenches at the loss.

Then he leans up over you again, looking down, and says softly, “Now I’m going to show you what you’ve been preparing for.”

And when he slides his sweats down and you see him. You don’t know what you expected to feel in this moment — this exact moment, with him kneeling between your legs, his hands warm on your thighs, his gaze low and deliberate as he strokes himself slowly in the glow of the bedroom light.

But you hadn’t expected this.

You hadn’t expected the silence.

The unbearable hush in the air as he parts your thighs further with just the weight of his palms, easing you open like a secret. Your heart stammers inside your chest. Your breath feels thin. Every part of your body is humming — with heat, with nerves, with some kind of raw, open vulnerability that feels too big for your skin.

And then you see him.

Not just glimpses — not just the outline through his sweats like all the nights before — but all of him.

Thick. Heavy. Veined. His cock is flushed dark at the tip, the size of it terrifying and beautiful all at once, and your stomach clenches so hard you nearly forget to breathe.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Clark doesn’t move at first. He watches you watching him, his hand wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, fingers slow, almost lazy in how he strokes himself.

The contrast of it — your wide eyes and his impossible calm — sends a hot flush crawling up your neck.

His voice is low. “Too much?”

You shake your head, but your mouth is dry. “It’s just… I didn’t know you were…”

“Big?” he finishes, a little amused. His thumb swipes lazily across the head of his cock, catching the slick there. “You knew.”

“Not like this.”

He doesn’t respond. Just shifts forward slightly between your legs, guiding himself toward your center. You tense instinctively, and his eyes flick up.

“We don’t have to rush.”

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” you breathe. “I want to feel it.”

“Then let me show you what it feels like,” he murmurs, leaning over you, bracing himself with one arm above your head as the other reaches down between your bodies.

The head of his cock brushes against your entrance, and your entire body jerks.

The heat of it is unreal. He hasn’t even pressed inside, and already your walls flutter open, slick with anticipation, nerves drawn tight.

You whimper, breath catching.

Clark watches your face closely, his body still. “Easy,” he says softly. “Let me feel you first.”

He nudges forward, no more than an inch — and still, you gasp.

It’s not even the stretch yet. It’s the threat of it. The promise.

Your body reacts like it knows what’s coming, like it’s preparing itself to be overwhelmed.

“Relax,” he whispers. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You try.

You try to breathe, to stay still as the head of his cock starts to press in — slow, devastating pressure that makes your thighs tremble. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. It’s not pain. Not quite. Just the impossible fullness of being opened wider than you thought your body could manage.

Clark stills immediately.

“Too much?”

You shake your head frantically. “No—no, I just… you’re really… there.”

He gives a quiet, breathless laugh, but it’s strained.

“I haven’t even given you more than the tip.”

You blink. “That’s not possible.”

“It is.”

You look down between your bodies and see it — just the head inside you. Barely that. And still, your body is clenching around him, trying to hold him in, trying to adjust, even as he hasn’t moved.

Clark’s eyes flick up again. This time, they’re darker.

“Still think you’re ready?” he asks softly.

You reach up, hand brushing his jaw. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He kisses you then — slow, grounding — and when he pulls back, his hips shift.

A little deeper.

You gasp.

Your eyes squeeze shut, head tipping back into the pillow, and he freezes again, waiting, letting you breathe through it.

Your legs twitch around his hips.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You weren’t kidding. This is going to take time.”

His voice is rough when he answers, but patient.

“We’ve got time.”

He kisses your cheek, the side of your neck, whispers how proud he is of you, how beautiful you are like this — stretched around the thick head of his cock, trembling, trying to take more.

And slowly — achingly slowly — he starts to push deeper.

The second inch is worse than the first.

You can feel every vein, every deliberate grind of him easing deeper. Your walls resist him — fluttering, squeezing, fluttering again — as if your body can’t quite decide whether to cling to him or push him out. But Clark doesn’t stop. He moves so slowly you can feel every second stretch into forever.

He’s breathing hard above you, chest heaving with restraint, his biceps trembling where they’re braced on either side of your head. He doesn’t look at your body. He watches your face. Like he’s reading you for every twitch, every wince, every spark of pleasure that flickers behind your lashes.

“Still good?” he whispers, voice rough.

You nod, then shake your head, then nod again — completely overwhelmed. “It’s so much…”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, dropping his head to kiss the skin just below your ear. “I know.”

It’s not pain. Not even close. But it hurts in that way that’s almost pleasurable — an ache, a burn, a tightness that coils low in your belly as your body learns to make space for him. You’ve never felt so full in your life. And you know — terrifyingly, wonderfully — he’s not even halfway in.

Your thighs quiver. You can feel yourself dripping around him, and he groans when your hips shift, the movement making your body clench again. His teeth grit. His jaw locks. The hand beneath your thigh flexes, tightening its grip.

“Don’t move,” he warns, even as his voice softens. “You do that again, and I won’t last long enough to give you everything.”

You swallow hard, but obey. He’s right. Your body is already threatening to spiral. The pressure is building with nothing but the stretch of him, no thrusting, no friction — just the sheer act of taking him. Slowly. Inescapably.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m trying,” you breathe. “I want to take you.”

“You are taking me,” he says, the heat in his voice barely contained. “God, look at you. You’re fucking incredible.”

His lips graze your jaw, then your cheekbone, then down to your throat. He doesn’t push deeper until your breath steadies — and even then, it’s barely more than a measured inch at a time. Every movement feels calculated, studied, almost reverent.

When he bottoms out — when his hips finally press flush against yours and he’s buried so deeply inside you that it feels like he’s touched something no one ever has — your breath catches so violently you see stars.

You don’t speak. You can’t. All you can do is gasp and hold onto him, nails digging into his back, your legs shaking around his waist.

Clark doesn’t move. Not a single inch. He stays completely still, letting you take it, letting your body adjust to the impossible weight and heat of him fully inside you.

His mouth hovers over your cheek as he whispers, “That’s it. All the way. You’ve got me.”

A tear slips from the corner of your eye — not from pain, but from the overwhelm. From the feeling of being filled. Of being chosen. There’s nothing between you now. No teasing, no holding back. Just Clark, deep inside you, his body molded to yours, his presence so all-consuming it feels like gravity.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter now. His thumb brushes the tear from your cheek.

You nod, blinking up at him. “I just… I’ve never felt anything like this.”

He smiles then — not cocky, not smug — just soft, full of something deeper. Something quiet and possessive.

“I told you I’d make it worth the wait.”

You laugh, breathless, and your hips twitch instinctively. That’s all it takes — just that little movement — for his body to twitch in response, the drag of him inside you sudden and sharp.

You gasp.

And then you moan.

“Clark—”

“I know.”

He pulls out just slightly — an inch, maybe two — and pushes back in. The movement is slow, deep, maddening. You arch off the bed, every nerve ending lighting up. The stretch is still there, but your body isn’t fighting anymore. You’re welcoming it. Gripping him, begging for more.

He thrusts again, just once, and you make a sound he’s never heard from you before. Half-shocked, half-desperate.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You feel like velvet. Jesus Christ.”

You cling to him, nails scraping down his spine. “You’re huge. You’re so deep—”

“I know. I know, baby.”

Another thrust. This one slower. He grinds into you at the end of it, and your head falls back with a gasp.

“Too much?”

You shake your head wildly. “No. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Clark kisses you then — full and deep, like he’s sealing the moment between your bodies, like he’s giving you a part of himself that no one else will ever touch. When he moves again, he doesn’t ask for permission.

Your body already knows the answer.

He starts to thrust with purpose — not fast, not rough — just deep and controlled, every roll of his hips deliberate and angled. He watches your face the whole time. He wants to see it when you break.

You don’t last long.

Your body’s been spiraling toward this for days. Weeks. Months of wanting him, waiting for him, dreaming of this exact stretch, this exact press of his hips, this exact weight of his body filling you up.

You come so hard, so fast, it doesn’t feel real.

The orgasm tears through you like a shockwave. Your thighs lock around his waist, your nails dig into his shoulders, your breath catches in a half-scream that doesn’t even sound like your voice. You cry out his name, half a sob, as your body trembles beneath him.

Clark holds you through it. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t thrust. He just stays deep, whispering praise into your skin — good girl, I’ve got you, let it happen, let me feel it— and your walls spasm around him, again and again, pulling him even deeper than before.

You’re crying when it ends. Just a little. Not sadness. Just… everything.

He brushes the hair from your face. His voice is quieter now. Raw.

“You okay?”

You nod, dazed. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just presses his lips to your forehead.

And then, as your body softens around him — tender and wet and open — he starts to move again.

The way your body is trembling beneath him should be enough to make him stop. But it’s not the kind of trembling that means pain — it’s the kind that comes from being cracked open, reshaped. The kind that means your body’s never known this kind of fullness before.

Clark’s voice is unsteady when he speaks — not from loss of control, but from the depth of what he’s feeling. You’ve come already. Your body’s slick and shaking and pulsing around him, and he’s still holding himself back because even now — buried this deep, this far gone — you still come first.

His mouth is pressed to your jaw, murmuring softly. “I’m gonna let go, baby… but I need to know you’re okay. Still okay?”

You nod, breath hitching. “I’m okay. I want you to.”

Your words make something in him break.

He groans into your skin, hips grinding once, twice, until he finds that final, perfect depth — and when he comes, it’s with a low, shuddering breath against your neck. You feel him pulse inside you, thick and hot and deep, and even though you’re still so sensitive, the warmth of it makes you gasp again, thighs twitching around his hips.

Clark doesn’t collapse.

He doesn’t go heavy with satisfaction or smugness.

He stays completely still for a beat — one arm trembling beside your head, the other sliding to cradle your jaw, his forehead pressed to yours as his breath shakes in and out of him.

Then he kisses you.

Soft. Not because he’s satisfied — but because he needs to make sure you’re still there with him.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You shake your head, blinking up at him. “No. Just… stretched. But in a good way.”

A soft exhale leaves him. His eyes close for a second like he’s silently thanking whatever power let this moment happen — without hurting you, without pushing too far.

And then — carefully — he starts to pull out.

The motion is slow. Gentle. His hand comes to your hip like a warning, grounding you while he withdraws. And even though you whimper slightly at the loss, he watches you closely the whole time, making sure you’re not in pain. He pulls out completely, breath catching at the sight of himself, slick and flushed, glistening with your release. His cock twitches once, but he doesn’t look away from your face for long.

“God,” he says softly. “You took all of me.”

There’s no pride in his tone. No arrogance. Just awe. Something raw and reverent.

You’re blinking up at him, dazed, still breathless from everything. “I didn’t think I could.”

He gives you the smallest smile, brushing his knuckles against your cheek.

“You were perfect.”

You shiver — not from cold, but from the after. From the wide, open feeling left in your body now that he’s no longer inside you. Clark notices it instantly.

“Wait here,” he says gently. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He’s off the bed for barely twenty seconds — just enough to grab a warm cloth, one of your softest throws, and help clean between your thighs with the kind of care that makes your throat tighten. He’s not clinical or distant. He’s quiet. Focused. Like this is sacred too.

Once you’re clean, he slides back into bed beside you, tucking the blanket over your legs and pulling your body carefully against his chest.

His arm wraps low around your waist.

His other hand finds your face.

And when he kisses you again — slow and close and just your lips this time — it feels different.

Grounded. Calm. Real.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“I just want to be close to you.”

“You are,” he says, resting his forehead against yours. “You always are.”

His fingers trace your spine, slow and steady. You’re still sore, still warm inside, but your heart feels full. Not from the sex. From him. The way he watched you. The way he held you. The way he pulled out the second you were done, just to make sure you were okay.

“I’ve never felt so safe,” you whisper.

Clark’s voice is thick when he answers. “You are safe. With me? Always.”

people who asked for part 2 : @horrorbloodhound @onrsie @23sOfia @kisses4rafey @take-it-on-the-run @serendippindots @okayiamkassandra @tvdelrey @otakusimp1 @gra-hamcrackers @mavuika-kisser @zenoxl @lizzylynch1 @froggypoggy222 @boom-boombang @heavenme31 @bluestuesday @jellybelly898 @honeyvelvtt @iloveyourmom17 @promiscvus @luvmarissaaa @bangtanskz @reprehensible-ghost @gothamnighthawk @dhvnigvil

[collywobblvs]

say less clarkie

— ✩ ·˚ NOT TONIGHT, SWEETHEART || CLARK KENT

MINI NOTE: idk what to tell you. i sat down to write smut and accidentally gave clark kent a whole emotional dominance arc. like why is he so calm. why is he edging her with morals. i didn’t mean to make this sweet AND unhinged but here we are. anyway. enjoy the finger olympics.

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, soft dom clark kent, emotional edging, size kink, intense finger training, no p in v, lowkey aftercare, no use of y/n

comment if u wanna be tagged for part 2!!

Your hips roll without meaning to a slow, helpless movement, desperate to take more. Clark’s hand is between your thighs, thick fingers teasing your slick folds, and the muscles in his forearm tense under your grip as he presses just the tip of one inside you.

And immediately —

He stops.

Freezes.

Your body tightens around him like a vice and he’s not even halfway in.

His breath catches, and his eyebrows draw together. You hear it, the slight hitch in his throat. The change in his breathing. He pulls back, just slightly, then tries again, easing in slow, slow, slower, as if going gentler might change something.

But it doesn’t.

You’re still clenching around him, tight, small, unbelievably narrow.

His jaw locks.

He’s still now. Perfectly still.

“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

You blink up at him, dazed. “What?”

His eyes lift to yours. And they’re different now.

Focused.

Sharp.

Stern.

His voice is low, gravelly, and completely calm. Too calm.

“You can barely take my finger.”

You shift your hips, trying to adjust, trying to make space but he holds you down by the waist with one firm hand.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, eyes locked on where you’re joined. His voice is too steady, too controlled, like he’s barely holding something back. “Just stay still.”

“But I—”

“I said still.”

You obey instantly. His tone leaves no room for argument.

He sinks the finger in a little deeper, barely more than a knuckle. Watches your face.

You wince, but not from pain from the stretch. The pressure. The impossible tension inside you trying to accommodate even a fraction of him.

“Goddamn…” he breathes, more to himself than to you.

His voice is deeper now. Tighter. Measured.

“You’re so tight, baby. So fuckin’ small. I’ve never—”

He trails off. Shakes his head slightly.

You bite your lip, eyes wide, trying to read his face.

“Is that… bad?”

“No,” he says. Instantly. Confident. Sure. “Not bad.”

He looks up again, and this time, it’s different.

It’s decision.

“But it means we’re not doing what you think we are tonight.”

Your breath catches. “What do you mean?”

His thumb grazes the inside of your thigh, slow and firm.

“I’m not going inside you.”

You blink. “Clark—”

“No.” His tone doesn’t change. Doesn’t soften. He’s calm, but commanding. Like it’s not up for discussion.

“But I want—”

“You want a lot of things,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean your body’s ready.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, leaning in to brush his lips against your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You think I’m gonna watch you struggle to take a single finger and still try to fuck you? Is that what you thought this was?”

Your heart pounds. You swallow. “I thought you’d… try.”

“Oh, I will,” he breathes, dragging his mouth down your chest. “I’ll train this sweet little body to take everything I give it. Inch by inch.”

Then his eyes flick up.

“But not tonight.”

You whimper, shifting again, but his grip tightens instantly hard enough to make you freeze.

“I said no.”

His words send a throb straight through you. There’s nothing uncertain about him now. He’s made his decision and you’ll take it.

He presses the single finger back in, deeper this time, and your walls flutter around him. Your breath stutters.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That stretch? That pressure? That’s one finger, baby. One.”

He kisses your cheek, soft and slow and then his voice turns to steel again.

“You’d split on my cock right now. Cry. Maybe bleed. I’m not gonna do that to you.”

“But I want to—”

“You’ll get it when you’re ready,” he says simply. “When I decide you’re ready.”

You whimper again, frustrated, breathless, needy.

And that just makes him smile.

“There she is,” he says, a little rougher now. “Getting squirmy. Already begging, and I haven’t even given you two yet.”

He adds a second finger slowly and your whole body tenses.

“Jesus,” he groans. “Still so tight. This is gonna take a while.”

His tone softens, just a little, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“But that’s alright. We’ve got time.”

You try to kiss him, try to distract him.. but he knows what you’re doing. He pulls back just enough to keep control.

“Tonight,” he whispers, “you learn how to take my fingers. That’s it. No cock. No begging. No arguments.”

You shiver.

“Understand?”

“…Yes.”

He kisses you again, slow and warm, as his fingers start to move, stretching you open with aching, deliberate care.

“That’s my girl.”

[collywobblvs]

i’d pay to beta-read this

Lex Luthor (2025) x reader

• he gets mad and locks you in an artificial pocket dimension

[collywobblvs]

can I eat this fic

bringing you back to earth

a stressful day has you running to clark, and he knows just how to set you straight.

a/n: more superman hehe i have so much motivation all of a sudden

cw: clark kent x fem!reader, established relationship, smut mdni, comforting, thigh riding, praise, pronebone <3, finger sucking, putting r in a headlock, he's soooo nice and soooo horny

wc: 2.3k

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

Bang.

The door shuts harder than you intended, but you can barely bring yourself to wince. Feet aching, you kick off your heels, shoving them haphazardly into the shoe rack by the door. Roughly hanging up your coat and bag, you shuffle into the living room in socked feet.

Your head’s killing you, a hand drifting up to rub at your temple. It’s like you have no awareness of anything around you, exhaustion narrowing your focus until all you can think about is this no-good, shitty day. 

Clark looks up from his spot on the sofa, and the weight on your chest lifts for a moment, but everything still suffocates. He can tell immediately, of course he does, lifting an arm to beckon you over as he puts away his book. 

You pad over without preamble, collapsing like a pile of limbs in his lap. A soft sigh leaves him, chest rumbling against yours as he rearranges you, biceps bulging as he lifts you into straddling his thighs, pulling your arms over his shoulders. 

There’s silence for a few seconds, Clark gazing into your eyes as you look off into the middle distance, mind stuck on everything but this moment. 

He squeezes your waist lightly. 

“What is it, baby?”

It takes a beat, but the words slowly come. 

“I don’t— I don’t know why I’m all… like this, but…”

He rubs an encouraging hand up your back, bringing stinging to your eyes. 

“I just had a shitty day. That presentation to the board was all messed up, the projector didn’t work and then I think they all got an email because they weren’t paying attention, then my manager gave me so much to do in like, less than a week, and—”

The all-consuming pressure starts up again, and the words dry up. 

Clark’s hands have migrated up, cupping either side of your face with a tenderness that makes you want to melt into him, if you could. His large thumbs swipe away the tears that drop to the apples of your cheeks, bringing a soothing heat with them. 

“Oh, honey…”

He’s more than experienced with all of your moods, but this one has only come up a couple of times in your relationship. When you get like this, stuck too far in your brain to be able to crawl out alone, you can be coaxed in different ways. 

“What do you need? I’ll give it to you, anything.”

He lowers his forehead to press it against yours.

You might need slow comfort, a bath with his searing-hot chest against your back. Or you could want to stay still, listen to his breathing until your quickened breaths slow to match his. Otherwise…

“Can you… Can you fuck me? Please?”

The plaintive request is followed by a heartbreaking sniffle, and he all but liquefies for you. 

Right. Sometimes you need to be overwhelmed by him, so much so that no other thought can even penetrate your mind. You need him to take the reins for once, to let you ride it out until even the notion of stress evaporates. 

He can’t lie, he relishes when you let him take care of you like this.

“Yeah, baby. Of course I will.”

Just the assent seems to relax you a little, your shoulders dropping just a little from where they were nearly touching your ears. 

A rush of pride runs through him. Knowing that he can have such an effect on you is a heady, intoxicating feeling. 

With a kiss to your temple, you feel his hands slip down to your thighs, wrapping your legs securely around his middle. With a soft grunt, he maneuvers up off the sofa, fingers tightening indulgently on the plush of your ass over your slacks as he guides you both into the bedroom. 

For a moment, all you feel is the warmth of his hands on your body, his hips against your pelvis. Once he lays you back on the sheets, you’re yearning for him, for him to get you better. 

“Please, Clark, want you to fix it.”

He nods down at you, laying his body over yours with careful precision. You love the feeling of his weight pressing against the length of your body, but you know he’s being cautious, making sure enough of him is braced on his elbow and knee so he won’t crush you.

“I will, just gotta be patient. Can you do that for me?”

His words have slowed, the enunciation much more pronounced. It causes your back to straighten subconsciously, your body reacting to his implicit command without a thought.

The room quiets until all you can hear is the drone of downtown Metropolis outside, and Clark’s slow, measured breaths. His hands have started to wander, broad, sweeping strokes up and down your side until his deft fingers meet your waistband. 

“Taking off your pants, sweetheart.”

You nod automatically, hips raising so he can pull off your slacks and panties in one go. His mouth has lowered to your jaw, lips brushing over the sensitive skin, making you shudder. 

“Want your shirt on or off?”

It’s muttered against your jaw, teeth scraping softly against you after his question. You need a few seconds to process it, but your answer comes quickly. 

“Off, please.”

He nods his assent, fingers slipping under your shirt and pushing the fabric up your chest. Raising your arms before he can ask, you allow him to shuck off both the shirt and bra, leaving you bare below him. 

His hands get to work immediately, greedily grabbing handfuls of flesh wherever he can. Groping at your chest, your stomach, your thighs, your thoughts follow him, reacquainting yourself with your body. 

His mouth has returned to your jaw, travelling the expanse of your neck to settle on your collarbone. 

“My smart girl, aren’t you? Always working so hard.”

He bites your skin softly, as if punctuating his statement. It prompts you to arch your back, pressing your body to him as hard as you can. You want him to get to it. 

“I know, I know. Be good, I’ll give you what you want.”

You’re expecting him to shift so his hand can snake down to the apex of your thighs, but he grips your waist firmly instead. In a sudden movement, he flips your positions on the bed, rearranging you so he’s the one settled against the many pillows, your legs spread to accommodate the bulk of his thighs under you. 

“Clark?”

Without responding to your question, he shifts you again, so your bare cunt is angled over one mouthwateringly wide thigh.

“I want you to get yourself there like this, baby. Can you do that for me?”

You’re a bit caught off guard, having expected him to lay you down and do the work for you, like he always does. But you can’t lie, his thigh does feel good pressed up against you, and you trust him. 

“I… Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

He shows his appreciation with a firm squeeze to your ass, lips curling up into a smile against your neck. 

You begin slowly, dragging your hips against the rough texture of denim over muscle. You’d expect it to be harsh, but every shift sends sparks up your spine, pleasure tinged with pain slowly bringing you back down to Earth. 

Clark doesn’t part from you, his large hands helping you move along his leg, mouth practically glued to any inch of skin he can access. 

It’s like you’ve fallen into a trance, tunnelvision until all you can think about is his thigh under you and his hands on you. 

“Clark, Clark, I—”

He soothes you with a soft cooing sound, lips travelling up to your forehead. 

“I know, baby. Feels good, huh? That’s good!”

His hands spur you on further, hips bucking wildly against him. There must be a wet patch on his jeans by now, but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

“You deserve to feel good, deserve— You deserve everything.” 

His voice is ragged, as if he’s the one getting off right now. Judging by the size of the tent in his pants, you suppose he is. 

You’re single-minded now, your only goal being getting yourself there. That just-out-of-reach, intangible climax that you’ll do anything to get. Clark seems to understand, his hands forcing you down further in his lap, grinding his thigh up until you cry out. 

He’s hit a perfect angle, pressing deliciously against your clit while giving you enough friction to want to hump him like a bunny. You’re damn near doing that anyway, hips moving incessantly against him. 

You’re cresting, getting higher and higher until, all at once, the wave comes rushing towards you, and you crash. Pleasure continues to arc up your spine, and you realise Clark was right. 

Your mind’s returned to you, and you feel more yourself than you did half an hour ago. It’s frankly overwhelming, and you choose to bury your face in his chest. 

Clark laughs breathlessly, a hand coming up to pet your hair affectionately. 

“Yeah? Feeling better?”

It takes some time before you’re recovered enough to come out, peering up at him with your chin pillowed on his chest. 

“Yeah…”

Your thought’s unfinished, though, and he knows it. He waits patiently for you to pipe up again. 

“But Clark?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can we still fuck?”

He can’t help but laugh, chuckles vibrating his chest until you join him in his mirth. It takes him a moment until he can sober up, but you know he won’t deny you. 

“Of course, baby. I’m never going to say no to that.”

With that, he surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing, filthy kiss that puts you in a haze. 

Even within that haze, you’re eagerly moving, knowing exactly what you want. 

He watches you get off his lap, watches as you stretch your legs out with a languid moan, and watches as you settle on your stomach on the sheets next to him, looking up with a cheeky grin. 

“This okay?”

Your Cheshire-cat grin only widens when you see him scramble to tear off his clothes, feeling him settle on his knees between your parted legs. 

You know he loves to have you like this, lying prone under him as he gets to overwhelm you with everything he’s got. But this is also for you. The feeling of him laying all his weight on you from behind never fails to ground you, and this will do wonders for bringing that last bit of you out from the cold. 

He lays his body over yours gingerly, pelvis pressing to your ass as he makes sure his weight is distributed evenly over you. It pushes a satisfied sigh from your lips, feeling rooted to the spot in the most wonderful way. 

It doesn’t hurt that you can feel the fervent heat of his cock, nestled between your thighs. You can feel that one vein of his pressed up against your slit, shuddering with anticipation as you recall how it feels inside you. 

One arm is laid on the bed next to your head, forearm so close that you could bite it. His other arm moves down, down, until he can grab himself, lining him up with your dripping entrance. 

With a tender kiss to the nape of your neck, Clark pushes forward. 

The burning stretch is blissful, the weight of his body on top of yours even more so. The gasps and moans leave your mouth unbidden by you, unable to resist the allure of his slow, solid thrusts. 

The vein is nudging perfectly against your walls, and the near-suffocating feeling gets your head right. 

“Good— God, you feel good. You good, baby?”

“Y-yeah, feels so good, Clark,”

You can’t finish your sentence, a particularly dirty grind of his hips against yours robbing you of the ability to speak. Each knock of his pelvis against you leaves you openmouthed, craving just a little more. 

His hand is right there, by your face, if you could just…

It’s like he can hear your thoughts, moving his left hand so he can cup your jaw a little. 

“What is it, babe? Y’want something… Oh.”

You don’t bother asking, craning your neck so you can envelop two fingers with your lips. 

The rough pads of his fingers brush against your tongue, and you feel sated, finally. He smells exactly like he should, soap, sweat, and something uniquely him that has you humming around his digits. 

A deep, guttural groan looses itself from his throat as he feels you suck on his fingers, sending yet another shiver down your spine. As if possessed, his free hand moves up to your neck, the length of his arm carefully wrapping around your most vulnerable area. 

He’s put you in a headlock, and you’ve been sent to heaven. 

Crowding you even further into the sheets, Clark lets loose, drunk on the sight of you. Gone are the slow, soft movements. Instead, he’s rutting feverishly into you, chasing the high that you’re approaching as well. 

With the cumulative pressure of his fingers on your tongue, his bicep digging into your throat, and the sounds of his moans, it’s no surprise that you’re falling apart nearly immediately. Tremors run through the length of your body, and you know your leg would be shaking if he didn’t have you pinned down. 

Clark, ever the giver, reaches his peak at the first sight of yours. His hips stutter once, twice, against you, until he pushes in as deep as possible, as if to ensure you’ll stay right there. 

You have no reason to leave, not when the stress that weighed you down has been lifted off your shoulders with his careful hands.

[collywobblvs]

thank you sm, angel!!

fav kind of tea is chamomile and peppermint but I’m open to anything really

and my period did start but I haven’t thrown up yet! I think it’s one of those cycles where I’m normally just chill but you never know!!

still haven’t gotten any tea yet tho 😭😭

hey queen!!

just checking in on you! how’re you doing? life treating you well? sorry about ur medical problems, hope that’s taken care of! take all the time you need ❤️❤️❤️

I’m supposed to be staring my period soon and I’m absolutely DREADING that because I’m running out of tea and keep forgetting to get more and I’m always throwing up on my period soon that’s just spectacular!!

anyways that’s mee!!

omg hi my baby :,) it’s been a minute since we’ve talked, i seen something related to your username on pinterest the other day and i always wondered what it meant LOL now i know!! and i’ve missed you! i am doing okay! getting my medical stuff in order, appointment tm so 🤞🏼🤞🏼🤞🏼

and oof i literally hate being on my period, they’re insufferable!! i hope it’s not too painful for you this month, take some ibuprofen or midol bbg <33

and omg i LOVE tea!!! i used to always drink it on my period but then i just grew into drinking it all the time, so now it’s my go to drink right after water 😭 what’s your favorite kind of tea babe?

and no i get it!!! my cramps are so bad i literally can’t do shit, i have to take a bunch of medicine just to feel half okay while im on it 😞 but i hope you were able to get more tea, and rest as much as you need babes!!!

[collywobblvs]

how the ending got me feeling like

★ summary: coming home after a long day of work to your boyfriend, clark kent.

★ pairing: clark kent x reporter!reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, smut, unprotected p-in-v, oral f-receiving, breeding kink if you squint, praise, use of y/n, cursing, potential superman spoilers, ungodly levels of clark kent being the best boyfriend in the world

★ word count: 3.7k

★ a/n: I saw superman tuesday and I have not been able to get clark out of my head, specifically the scene of them in the apartment. this is based heavily on that. this is also my first published writing, so please be kind to me or else...

The smell of pancakes enveloped your senses the moment you unlocked the door to your apartment. You knew automatically that once you walked into your kitchen, your boyfriend would be standing there still in his work slacks, slaving over the stove, making much more food than necessary for two people. This was beginning to become a pattern, an endearing one, but a pattern nonetheless.

“Honey, I’m home!” You drawled, hanging your coat up and letting your bag fall to the floor. As always, your instincts were correct. Clark was standing by the stove, his white button-up shirt still on, with his sleeves pulled up to his elbows. 

“Hi darlin’,” He said without even turning around. His eyes were laser-focused on flipping the pancakes onto a plate. Soon, the pan was abandoned, and he was rushing towards you, picking you up with ease. Giggles escaped your mouth when he spun you around the dim kitchen, pressing small kisses all over your face. 

“Did you miss me?” A squeal left your lips, kissing him back feverishly. 

“It’s been so long.” He chided, acting as if you two didn’t see each other in passing during your entire work day. Being a reporter alongside him at the Daily Planet had its ups and downs. Keeping your relationship a secret was tiresome, but worth it to avoid all the unnecessary attention. Besides, what's one more secret? There were no Superman photo ops or inside scoops from reporters about your relationship—simply Y/n and Clark. 

“Oh yeah?” You mocked batting your eyes at his giddy face. You’d never get tired of how excited he was to love you. 

“Every second without you is torturous.” His eyes shone from the reflection of the city lights reflecting off the windows. Once you were back on solid ground, you took a step around the kitchen, looking at his impressive spread of various breakfast foods. Notably, the stack of at least a dozen pancakes.

“One day we’ll have breakfast at breakfast time.” The teasing tone laced your voice as you reached to grab plates from the top shelf. He strided over and placed his hands on your hips, sliding underneath your shirt. His large hands engulfed your waist. 

“Oh, I see. I come home after a long day of work and slave over this hot stove for you, yet you’re so cruel to me.” He couldn’t keep a straight face as he said this, helping you grab the plates down. 

“A long day of interviewing yourself, huh? Tell me how that works?” You bite back as you both danced around each other in the dining room, setting the table and making each other's plates. 

“That’s not fair. It’s hard work knowing what to say-” 

“How is it hard work?” He closes his eyes tightly at your question, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“The questions are difficult to answer sometimes-“ 

“You make the questions!” 

“Yeah, well, I’m doing twice the work!” His arms flailed in front of him before he gestured for you to take a seat. The vein in his neck was protruding slightly, as it always did when you worked him up. You placed a gentle kiss on his forearm as he pushed your chair in for you. 

“You’re ridiculous.” You scoffed as he sat in front of you, passing the syrup. 

“And you love me.” There was that beaming smile again. A smile that could light up a thousand suns. The only reason you got out of bed some days. 

“Yeah,” You smiled. “I suppose I do.” There were very few things in this world you were sure of, and the biggest one was how much you loved the man sitting in front of you. From the moment he spilled coffee all over your desk and blushed so crimson you thought he was going to pass out. There hasn’t been a moment since you’ve felt unloved or unsafe. 

“One of these days, someone’s going to wonder why Superman likes Clark Kent so much.” You brought up, His eyebrows now in a constant furrow. With a mouthful of pancakes, he mumbled something incoherent. Once he swallowed, he began his arguments again. 

“It’s not hard to believe he’d find a journalist to confide in and only be comfortable with that one.” He rambled, not meeting your eyes. “It makes much more sense than him going on a press tour.”

“Isn't it a little morally wrong to bias yourself so much?” You finally ask. “You’re not gonna ask any questions that are uncomfortable to answer.” 

“Eat your pancakes. That I made. With love. Now.” He was tabling this conversation for now. Not a hint of actual anger in his tone. Your response was angrily stabbing the syrupy mess on your plate. 

“So aggressive.” His voice was barely a whisper as he failed at hiding his amusement behind his drink.

After a little more debating and a whole lot of pancakes later, you both stood side by side at the sink. It was an unspoken rule that if he cooked, you’d wash, but only if he was allowed to dry. He stood beside you, meticulously wiping the plates with a washcloth as if it were his favorite activity in the world. His brows furrowed in concentration, making sure there were no streaks. These were some of his favorite moments with you. Mundane activities like washing dishes, grocery shopping, or doing laundry. It made him feel normal; there were no secrets to be had within these walls. Just love in its purest form. 

The comfortable silence in the kitchen was soon broken by a large splash as the plate slipped from his hand back into the soapy water. It made a comical flop as it splashed water all over you, drenching you. The man's shoulders beside you began to shake silently, failing miserably to contain his amusement. 

“It’s not funny!” You shriek, trying to wipe the soap bubbles off. 

“Oh, it’s kinda funny.”

 You snatched the washcloth from his hand and tried to pat dry your now-soaked shirt. Aggressively patting the fabric while glaring up at him.

“Come on, I'll put it in the wash for you.” 

He did feel bad. Despite all his attributes, he was the clumsiest person alive. It was endearing when it wasn’t ruining your shirts, or your couch cushions, or the rugs. At least this time it was just dishwater. 

Trapping your bottom lip between your teeth, you peered up at the man. “Is this just some elaborate scheme to get me out of my shirt, Mr. Kent?” 

His composure shifted, and his giggles stopped abruptly. 

“No? No! Well, no, but wait-“ He rambled his face turning a pale shade of pink, “ No! But I’m not complaining now.” 

Suddenly, the mood shifted in the room from playful to tense with desire. Taking the teasing even further, you leaned back against the damp sink and grabbed the bottom button of your shirt, popping it open. Clark let out a shaky breath, his eyes never leaving yours. Before your fingers could even reach the second button, his body was colliding with yours. 

Your lips connect feverishly, teeth almost clacking together at how fast he moves. He tasted sickly sweet, still smelling faintly of syrup. A moan escaped the back of your throat, and he swallowed it greedily. His hands knocked yours out of the way, gently resuming your unbuttoning. The shirt was opened and thrown across the room in record time. With your damp shirt out of the way, he lifted you and plopped you down on the counter, his lips never leaving your skin. 

“What happened to putting my shirt in the wash?” No hint of real concern was in your voice as he dragged his lips to your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses on the newly exposed skin. Nipping at the juncture between your neck and shoulder, making you mewl in his grasp. 

“I’ll buy you all the shirts you could ever want.” His words slurred. “I will give you the world.” A promise he intended to keep. 

Your hands instinctively tangled in his unruly curls when he dropped to his knees, leaving a trail of open-mouth kisses over your chest and down to your navel. Pant buttons were fumbled with, and he took his time carefully pulling your bottoms off your legs. It took every ounce of his impulse control not to rip the fabric off your body. 

Your eyes met as he pressed a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. Taking the time to admire the hunger swirling around in his almost black irises. If only the world could see him now, on his knees, looking up at you as if you were a god. Ready to worship at his temple. 

Before you could fully soak in the sight between your legs, he attached his mouth greedily to your cunt, devouring you with fever. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as the pleasure licked up your spine. His fingers gripped your thighs, keeping you spread apart for him.

“Fuck-“ A gasp escaped from your chest, causing him to chuckle into you.

You tugged gently at the ends of his hair as he continued his assault. Nothing could be heard but your panting and the sounds of him lapping greedily at your core like a man starved. It wasn’t long before your legs were tensing around his head tightly. He moaned softly into your wetness, this turning him on as much as it did you. The vibrations caused your hips to jolt in shock, grinding yourself against him.

This spurred him to slip his hand around, guiding a finger into your entrance. His fingers moved in tandem with his mouth as he sucked your folds greedily. The one quickly turned into two, and soon he was curling them up into your sweet spot, making you see stars. His brows furrowed in determination to pry all of the pleasure he could out of you. 

“Oh fuck, Clark, I’m-“ Your head instinctively went to lean back in the haziness of your pleasure, but before it could make impact with the hard cabinet, Clark gripped your legs tight and in the blink of an eye you were transported to the bedroom, your back hitting the pillows gently. Nothing but a gentle whoosh and a change of location. A slight dizziness fell over you at this, your eyes closing to fight it off. All while his mouth and fingers never once stopped. There was no time to process what had just happened before your orgasm hit you.

A desperate moan of his name escaped as you came for him, hips bucking wildly. You had to pry his head away from you to ride out your aftershocks. If it were up to him, he’d live with his head between your legs. His face was glistening with your release, his grin cocky.

“Did you break the sound barrier to make sure I didn’t hit my head?” Disbelief in your voice. Your legs were shaking, your throat dry. 

“Would you rather I let you hit your head?” He hovered above you, his eyes almost black as he devoured you with his eyes. 

The grin that formed on your face was contagious. “God, I love you.”

“And I love you.” A kiss pressed to your neck, traveling down your chest again. 

You leaned up on your elbows to meet his gaze. “If you loved me, you’d take your clothes off. I don’t think it’s fair you’re fully dressed.”

 “Yes, ma'am.” He salutes, that Kansas drawl he denied was slipping through. He ripped his shirt off in one fluid moment, almost surprised he didn’t rip the thing in half dramatically. Taking your own time to admire his chiseled chest and the way his arms flex with each frantic movement.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” A dreamy sigh left your lips as you watched him crawl back in between your legs. 

“I’m the lucky one.” He said, giving you that bright smile before pressing his mouth to yours. You kissed him back feverishly. Your hands immediately went to his chest, feeling the hard ridges and curves of him. It wasn’t long before you were both bare, what little clothes remained long flung across the room. He was everywhere, all over you. His body lying between your hips, his hands roaming every inch of skin, while his hips rutted against yours messily. His hard length brushes against your inner thigh.

“Can I make you feel good again, baby?” He asks, his eyes meeting yours as he looks up from your chest. Nodding feverishly as he takes your hardened nipple into his mouth, circling the bud with his tongue. 

“Use your words, sweetheart.” He demanded, letting your nipple go with a loud, wet pop. 

“Yes, yes, please.” You begged. “Need to feel you.” 

He was never one to deprive you of what you needed. So he eagerly obliged, gripping his length in his hand, stroking himself a few times before lining himself up with your entrance. He slowly pressed himself into you, a whimper escaping his lips. His eyes squinted in pleasure when he bottomed out, your hips flush to his.  He gave you a moment to adjust to his size, as he stretched you in the most delicious way. A subtle shift of his hips into you and your head was thrown back into the pillows. The sheer size of him had you clinging to his shoulders like a lifeline. 

“Oh my god.” The words tore from your throat violently. 

“No god here tonight, baby, just me.” The cockiness exuded from his voice. Nothing made him feel more on top of the world than looking down at you, so full of him, writhing around in pleasure.  

“Need you.” You finally found your voice. You were throbbing around him begging for him to move. 

“I know. I got you.” He assured you snapping his hips into yours in a rhythm that took your breath away. Your nails digging into his shoulder blades so hard he'd be bleeding if he was anyone else. The slap of hips against each other was music to your ears. The wet friction of skin rubbing against each other deliciously. 

“Doing so good, sweet girl.” His voice came out in a broken moan, taken over by how good you were squeezing him. The compliment had you cockdrunk, mumbling broken curses. One of his hands gripped the bed frame, and his other wrapped around your thigh, holding it up to his chest as he entered you even deeper than before. His forehead pressed against yours, both of your panting and moans filling the air around. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t speak. All you could do was enjoy the feeling of him moving so deep inside you. 

“Taking my cock so well.” He praised watching where your wetness formed a ring around his length. He slid in and out with no resistance. The lewd sounds bouncing off the walls. He committed this sight to memory. 

He could feel you clenching around him as his hand slipped down, rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head, your second earth shattering orgasm of the night on its way.

As if he read your mind he rubbed his thumb over your temple. “You’re gonna come again for me, huh?” He grunted, not relenting from his pace.

Words couldn’t form on your lips, just whines of his name over and over as your pleasure hit you in waves. He could feel everything. Every sigh of pleasure you made. He could feel the goosebumps rising beneath your skin, the sound of your blood rushing in your veins, and the subtle twitch of your body when you were about to come. He knew your body like the back of his hand.   

 “Oh yeah, you are. There you go. Let go for me.” 

You were coming around him before you could even warn him. Your brain was so lost in pleasure, you couldn’t even register that you were repeating his name over and over. 

“Good. Girl.” He punctuated with his hips, which were slowly losing their rhythm. Making sure to ride out your high with each deep thrust. 

“You’re gonna make me come.” His grunts came out faster as he gripped the bed frame tightly. The sound of splintering wood comes from behind you. Lost in the haze, you couldn’t care less if he broke yet another bed frame. 

“Please, baby, come for me.” Pressing lazy kisses down the side of his neck as his hips stilled and jolted inside of you. His groans were muffled by your hair as he drowned in his euphoria. His cock twitching inside of you as he came. Heavy breaths against your neck, he kept his thrusts slow, giving you every drop of himself. 

His head lolled gently to your chest, his body crashing onto yours gently. Bodies sweatily intertwined, basking in the afterglow. 

“I love you.” You whispered, rubbing his back gently as you both came down. His thumb was tracing small circles on your hips. 

 “I love you too, my beautiful girl .” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips before slowly pulling himself out of you with a hiss. But not without taking time to admire his messy handiwork. 

“You’re such a boy.” You chided as his hand drifted around the mess between your legs, his fingers trailing gently around your clit. Your hips jolted due to the sensitivity. 

“Can you blame me?” He smiled bashfully. He gave you one last playful pat before he crawled off of you, heading into the ensuite. 

Twirling around in the sheets dreamily, you watched his bare figure stroll into the bathroom. The sound of the bath water starting distantly made your heart swell. 

“Ms. Y/l/n, your bath awaits.” He bowed in the doorway, illuminated by a few candles he had lit on the counter. It wasn’t long before he was swooping you up bridal style. He placed you gently into the water, and as soon as your muscles hit the warm water, you couldn’t help the groan that escaped your lips. 

“I’ll be right back.” Another kiss to your forehead as he went to change the sheets on the bed and gather pajamas for you both. You weren’t sure how you got so lucky for this man to worship you. Placing pink bath salts into your bath and picking out pajama sets for you. You weren’t surprised to see a towel in the warmer either. 

The water sloshed around the edges of the tub when he slid in behind you. You both settled comfortably together. Your weight on top of him, legs tangled together, and his arms wrapped around your shoulders. His hard shoulder was the perfect pillow for you. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You mumbled while his hands smoothed down your hair. His own eyes closed, relishing in the feeling. 

“It’s a good thing you’ll never have to know.’ He reassured you, holding you even tighter in his arms, like at any moment's notice you’d fade away. Idle small talk filled the steamy bathroom. From how ridiculous the new deadlines were at work to how he’d been handling the conflict in foreign nations. 

“You just have too much heart. That’s not a bad thing, Clark. The world just hasn’t caught up yet. Don't let them take any of that kindness away from you.” 

“I’m just doing the best I can. I’m saving so many lives, but I can never save them all, and it kills me.” His voice was thick with emotion. You turned your body around and straddled his hips, careful not to flood the bathroom as you moved around. Grasping his face in your hands, you looked deeply into his icy blue eyes. 

“Exactly that. You are doing your best, my love. You’ve saved thousands of people, and you’ve inspired even more. You are a beacon of hope in dark times, yes, but don’t let that weight crush you.”

He responded by kissing you passionately. Not as hungry and desperate as earlier, but gentle, full of unsaid words of affirmation. Nothing but love flowing between you two. 

“I’m so in love with you. Every day, I find a new reason to love you even more than I do now.” You managed to say between his bashful kisses. 

“I’m gonna love you every single day for the rest of your life.” 

“Pretty sure the saying is “rest of my life.” 

“I meant what I said. There is no me without you. I refuse to exist in a world without you in it.” His eyes were steady. You knew he meant every single word he said. Your brows furrowed, and you leaned forward, attacking your lips together again. His hands grabbed your hips, positioning them over his own. 

Before things could heat up again, your small oasis was soon cut short by the shrill sound of a ringtone you’ve learned to despise. The small flip phone on which you drew the Superman signal on the back of the day he bought it. His body tensed upon hearing it, knowing he’d have to leave. There were always going to be people to save. 

“What terrible timing they have.” His tone is flat, taking one last look to admire your bare figure on his lap.

A disappointed smile graced your mouth. “It’s okay.” You reassured him, his soft, tired eyes meeting your own. “Like you said. We have the rest of our lives.” 

 “I’ll come back as soon as I can.” He promised as he shimmied out of the porcelain tub. A chuckle left your mouth as you heard him whooshing through the apartment, getting dressed, not before answering the phone. You’d bet and then win that it was Guy on the other line giving him a hard time.

He gave you one last goodbye before he stepped out of the open window, flying off to save the world yet again. You settled back into the bath, letting the water engulf you. You knew what you were getting into the day he asked you to be his. The ache of missing him, the worry of something happening, yet you’d take it any day for the honor of being loved by him. So you’d enjoy the bath he drew for you, put on the pajamas he picked out, and curl up in the bed he made for you. Waiting for him to be back by your side. He’d go out and fight tooth and nail to save everyone to make it back to you in one piece. Because no matter what, he’d move the earth to make sure he was back by your side.

[collywobblvs]

ME NEXT ME NEXT ME NEXTTTT OH MY GOODNESS BROOO AGHHH RAGHHHH— *goes insane*

─ ✮⋆˙ 𝑯𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻 || 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

MINI NAT’S NOTE: i haven’t stopping thinking about this loser kansas failure man since friday. i literally got out of bed to write this because i can’t sleep. hope y’all love it, mwah!

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough sex, service top clark, he whimpers cause i said so, sexy uses of x-ray vision, clark kent can FUCK, super stamina yes god, hyperspermia, superman’s super huge dick, belly bulging, porn w.o plot, no use of y/n.

"Clark, please—"

Your voice breaks on his name, swallowed by the sound of the headboard slamming into the way again and again and again.

Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clark’s hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. It’s not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you. 

He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth time—or after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.

You’ve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.

You could take it, you’d take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.

Clark’s far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. He’s a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isn’t an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times you’ve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.

God, you really do love him like this though.

“Sorry,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby, you’re so good.”

Clark’s voice breaks on the last word like he’s begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way he’s fucking you—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bed’s screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.

Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. “Clark,” you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. It’s too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldn’t be physically possible.

The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clark—rain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. Clark hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.

“Five,” he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. “You’re so sensitive now, baby, I know—I can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do this—” he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. “Gosh, look at that.”

You’re soaked, ruined, you know it. You’ve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he can’t stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come again—please, baby, let me—please—”

He’s come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess he’s made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You’re already so full. You feel full.

The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasn’t stopped chasing it. He can’t.

"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. “Give it to me, Clark.”

That's all it takes for him to lose it again.

His body locks up—hips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.

You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens again—hot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clark’s gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

His cock doesn’t go soft, it never does. Not when he’s buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—‘m sorry—I keep—” His hips stutter and then roll again, like he’s addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. “It’s too much—I know, baby—I just—you make me so messy—”

There’s even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And still—he doesn’t stop.

“You—shit, you take it so good,” he moans. “My good girl—my pretty girl—look at you, look at how much I gave you.”

Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. That’s the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and you’re crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.

That’s a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.

Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. He’s made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count. 

He’s watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. He’s studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.

You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. You’re going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

“Please,” Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. “Let me—one more time, I promise—please—I know you’re full, baby, I know—just one more.”

“You’re gonna break the bed again,” you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.

Clark doesn’t respond—maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.

“I love you—I love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too good—god, you were made for me.”

The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrust—you can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

It’ll be worth it.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[collywobblvs]

OMGG PART 3 WAS AMAZINGGGG

1. I loved the reader’s characterization, the spoiled attitude and how it’s genuinely affected her in some sort of way and how she wishes to be better

2. the angst was so yummy dude, I was literally at the edge of my seat, especially when reader thought that Jason was leaving? and then the argument scene??? RAHHHHH

3. the smut was great, I recalled loved the plot build-up, I felt that it was more meaningful that way

all in all, it was great!! can’t wait for when part 4 comes out, keep up the good work!!

IF I WAS A RICH GIRL PT.3 ♡

pairing: bodyguard!jason todd x fem!reader x bodyguard!dick grayson

summary: the events of last night leave an ugly mark on your relationship with jason that also bleeds over into your time with dick. will the three of you find a way to make things work? or will some other security firm have to take on your case?

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, angst, double penetration (p in v + anal), fingering, car sex, edging, hints of exhibitionism, light brat taming, arguments, mommy + daddy issues

wc: 19.3k (good heavens)

a/n: the rock (me) has finally come back to tumblr dot com. i hope you guys like this chapter!! it's dramatic as fuck, but isn't that the fun of fanfic. and thank you for all the love on this story!! i'll have the next one out soon-ish. peace and love, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

part 1 | part 2

When your eyes finally opened again, you found yourself alone in bed.

The room was bright now, and the TV had been turned off. It was quiet, no soft breaths coming from either side of you, no hushed voices chattering back and forth above your head.

You sat up slowly. Judging by the intensity of the sunlight outside, it was a little later in the morning than you’d usually wake up. That explained why your bedroom was vacant spare yourself.

Your hand came up to rub the sleep from your eyes. Flashes from a few hours ago flooded your mind. Jason’s hands around your throat. Dick’s quiet retelling of the past. The harsh words exchanged on the balcony through the biting winter air.

How had everything shifted so much in such a short span of time?

You dragged yourself from the comforts of your pillows and blankets and stumbled into the ensuite bathroom. Your movements came slower, less motivated, like your body was weighed down with the pain from the night before. It was weird. As you moved, you felt this weight in your chest. Some lighter form of mourning. One that came laced with a substantial dose of anxiety. You tried not to dwell on it while brushing your teeth.

It just didn’t make sense to you. How could someone that’d only been in your life for such a short amount of time leave you feeling so out of sorts? A month ago, you didn’t know Jason or Dick existed. You’d lived for years and years without them. Even having them around now, it wasn’t anything serious. It wasn’t as though they were your boyfriends. They were just supposed to be for fun. And like with all your other objects of entertainment; when you tired of them, you should be able to start looking for the next. Never before had you been this unsettled by the possibility of losing one — or technically two.

Though, it probably wasn’t fair to think about the whole issue as if it was a collective one. Dick hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, he’d made all the right decisions. He told you not to go down there, to just leave Jason to his own devices for the night. You just thought you knew better.

As soon as you’d spit in the sink for the final time, back to your bedroom you went. Your luxurious pajamas landed in the nearby hamper in exchange for a soft pair of sweats and an oversized shirt from your dresser. You weren’t going anywhere today. There was no reason to dress up. Normally, you’d try a little more for something cute, but with the mood you were in right now, flipping through random pieces of clothing to find something pretty and comfortable was the last thing you wanted to do.

With a huff, you exited your room and headed across the lofted walkway to the stairs. You could hear their voices coming from downstairs. They were muffled, hushed under the assumption you could wake and enter the room at any time.

You padded down the staircase. As soon as you stepped into the living room, you saw them in the kitchen at the counter. Dick was on one side, eyes laced with concern and his lips in a straight, displeased line. Jason stood on the other. His head hung down towards the marble.

Neither of them saw you right away.

For a few seconds, you considered going back upstairs. You weren’t really in the mood for talking things out or forgiveness of any kind. But Jason wasn’t your boyfriend. He was your bodyguard, and you were gonna have to be around him at some point or another unless he asked for a reassignment. You figured it would be best to just get it out of the way now, to avoid letting the tension mount into anything more.

So you headed further into the room. You dragged your feet a little, trying to make some noise that would alert them to the fact that you were there. The small scuffles didn’t pull them out of their conversation with each other though.

It wasn’t until you were a few paces behind Dick that Jason caught sight of you. Like an ashamed dog, his eyes lowered towards the countertop he was leaning against. His usual demeanor had seemingly vanished. It was weird. You didn’t know what you’d anticipated from him, but it wasn’t this.

Jason shying away clued Dick in to your presence. He turned around, and to your relief, he seemed the same as normal. His soft eyes and faint smile beckoned you closer despite the awkwardness from the guy standing a few feet from him.

You tentatively walked the rest of the way to them. Even though he tried being subtle, you noticed how his eyes fell to the base of your throat, clearly trying to see how visible the marks from Jason’s fingers had turned out to be.

If today was any of those that came before, you probably would have been all over him and then bound around the island to give Jason the same treatment. Arms would have snuck around waists, and your face would have squished against either of their chests. Maybe if you were lucky (which, with them, you always were) they’d be kind enough to part your legs and start your day off extra nice.

But today, your palms stayed flat on the cold countertop. Your feet remained planted on the ground below you. You didn’t say anything, not a joke to break the ice or an accusation to bring the conflict to a boiling point. Just nothing. Absolute silence permeated the kitchen, and you found your eyes mimicking Jason’s gaze at the sleek marble.

The invisible wall of ice that had formed around you was broken by Dick’s hand landing between your shoulder blades.

“There she is,” he said, ever the mediator. “You sleep ok?”

“Yeah,” you answered. Your voice came out quiet. Maybe the quietest you’d been over the course of their stay.

You could tell he was trying to take some of the weight from the two of you, but everything still felt so overwhelming. 

His hand started to move in tight circles on your back, easing some of the tension in your shoulders. But when one part of you calmed down, it seemed like your anxiety just targeted somewhere else. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you tried to will your eyes to look at Jason. It shouldn’t be that hard… It was just an argument. Not the end of the world. Your body couldn’t seem to accept that though.

“How are you feeling?” Dick asked next. His hand slipped around to your front, boosting your chin to give him a clear look at your neck.

“I’m ok,” you said and shrugged. 

You took a step back from him and shuffled over to the fridge. Normally, you ate up attention like that. Milking injuries had become almost a natural talent for you at this point in your life. You’d picked it up at eight years old when you sprained your ankle during a tennis lesson. You continued with it at fourteen when your driver got into a car accident on the way home from school that left you with a fractured wrist. And you’d stuck with it at eighteen when you’d tripped while walking into one of your father’s campaign events.

One of the only times your father felt a need to take your side was when he believed someone or something else had harmed his daughter. Playing up how victimized you felt never failed to get you attention. It just didn’t feel right in this case.

If anything, for the first time in your life, you didn’t feel that desperate need to be noticed. You’d much rather shrivel up and seep into the crevices between the floorboards. Any attention to the small markings circling your neck just brought you shame, and more so, they made you worry about Jason. If you felt embarrassed and guilty, you could only imagine how he was doing.

It was kind of odd. You couldn’t remember feeling so subdued about something like this ever before. You’d been allowed to quit tennis over your ankle. You’d cried and cried for weeks about how terrified you were because of the car accident. And you’d thrown a monumental fit over the falling incident. All without ever for a second questioning yourself.

You could still sense Dick’s concerned stare on your back as you popped open the large refrigerator and briefly scanned the shelves for something to eat. Nothing looked good today. You nudged the steel doors closed again.

A quiet sigh left your lips. You knew you should try saying something, but it just felt weird with Dick standing there, almost supervising you and Jason like two rowdy pups that couldn’t be left alone together. You were sure Jason had told him what happened. How honest he’d been was the real question, but Jason was so hard on himself, you doubted he’d try to paint himself in a better light by withholding details.

Your eyes flitted between them, deciding how you should broach the subject, or if you should broach it all. Would pretending everything was fine be better? Who should you even address? It would be awkward to just talk as if Dick wasn’t there, but what business of his was it how ugly Jason made you feel?

Seconds later, as if some divine force heard your internal gripes, Dick’s phone rang from upstairs.

“Damn,” he said, looking between the lofted walkway and the pair of you. He seemed reluctant to leave. “I’ll be right back.”

You tried not to look too relieved as he left the room. With a deep breath, you took the spot he’d been standing in. Right across from Jason.

He finally looked at you. His murky green eyes stared across the island into your own. Your heart skipped a couple beats. You had to swallow down the nausea creeping up on you.

“I hope you know I feel like shit about what I said…” he started quietly.

You couldn’t take it. You looked down at the counter again where your fingers fidgeted idly with one another.

“You don’t have to. I know you were really upset. I shouldn’t have intruded,” you said at a similar volume.

“That’s no excuse. I should have better control.”

“Everyone slips up now and then…” you said and shrugged. “We can just forget about the whole thing.”

For a moment, you found the courage to look at him once more. But it evaporated just as fast upon seeing his expression. He looked worse than before. Sadness had mixed in with his shame, and it made you feel like throwing up.

“Really,” you continued. “It’d probably be for the best if we just moved past it. I’m not gonna hold it against you or whatever.”

“You could if you wanted to. You haven’t had trouble calling me out for anything else. I’d deserve it,” he said.

The words hung between the two of you. This was obviously not “anything else.” This wasn’t him teasing you with an annoying nickname or insulting your choice of clothing. This was him calling you out with nearly psychic precision, striking each of your insecurities with shattering force.

You simply shook your head. “It’s fine. I’d really rather just forget about it,” you said.

The ceiling creaked overhead, presumably from Dick walking around while taking that call. You hoped it would last a while longer. For once you didn’t want anyone on your side. You didn’t want him playing mediator.

Jason seemed reluctant to accept your answer, but given you were the one hurting it wasn’t like he had room to argue.

“If that’s what you want…” he said. “But just… I didn’t mean what I said.”

Maybe if you were in a better mood you’d roll your eyes or laugh at that. If it wasn’t such a sensitive topic, if the words didn’t hurt just to recall, if they didn’t apply to you, maybe you would have been happy to call him on this too.

“Yeah you did,” you said. “But I don’t blame you for it.”

“I don’t want-”

“Please just let me move on from it,” you continued. “I don’t want things to be weird from now on just cause you said a couple things about me.”

“It wasn’t just a couple things. You don’t have to-” he tried, but you took a couple steps back now. 

It was too much. You were trying to be the opposite of how you normally would act. You were trying to be better. Why was he pushing back? It felt like there was no way to win.

“It was, and I’m ok, really. I’d rather just leave it in the past and forget. I’m a big girl. I can handle a few mean words,” you brushed off.

He stared at you with those sad, traumatized-pitbull eyes but didn’t say anything more. You headed back to the stairs, following your original plan of retreating to your room for the rest of the day. Maybe time would make this feel better. A few days would allow the pain to dull, and things could go back to normal.

Nearly a week went by, and unfortunately, you’d been wrong. Things had not gone back to normal.

They weren’t as bad as that first day. For that first twenty-four hours after, tension was built into the very walls of the penthouse. You stayed in your bedroom, only going downstairs in the evening to grab some food.

Dick lingered around. He so obviously wanted to check on you and make sure you were doing alright while you so obviously did not want to talk about anything related to the incident with Jason. You didn’t know what Jason got up to most of that day. He never came up to try and see you or anything. He respected your space like you hadn’t with him. That thought made you feel worse.

That night you dreamt about the two of them. It wasn’t a nightmare. You didn’t thrash around like Jason had the night before. There was no intense action or dire situations. Instead, it felt empty. You walked around a world inside your head where both of them had left you, where they had moved onto other cases and left you behind as nothing more than a memory.

Your eyes opened in the darkness of your room. You didn’t have a racing heart or a frantic mind. Rather a sense of melancholic dread rattled around inside your chest.

You decided then and there that you would make sure your dream stayed just that. It wouldn’t become real. They wouldn’t just serve the rest of their time on your case like some awkward prison sentence. You always got what you wanted, and this would be no exception.

So the next day and every day that came after that you changed your strategy.

The next day you went downstairs, dressed like you normally would. You kept your head held high and your shoulders back, and you acted as if Jason had never called you the poster-child for daddy issues.

Dick seemed willing to play along with you like usual. He didn’t acknowledge how upset you’d been, content to move on exactly like you had asked. In his eyes, there was no use prolonging the whole thing. It wasn’t like you and Jason had gone back to being at each other’s throats, so that was good enough for him.

On the other hand, Jason wasn’t as easy to satisfy. It wasn’t that he disapproved of the way you chose to handle yourself. He wasn’t out right mean to you or anything like that either. He simply became… distant.

And you fucking hated it. You’d honestly prefer him tearing into you to whatever weird awkward limbo the penthouse had settled into now.

When the three of you went places, he remained completely professional. His eyes watched everyone in the room but you. And at home he was the same. He kept to himself, stayed silent during meals spare a few comments here and there. He wouldn’t joke around with you like before, but he wouldn’t mock you either. He was just indifferent, and it was driving you fucking crazy.

Dick tried reassuring you that it was normal. You hadn’t done anything wrong, this was just how Jason could be some times. He was a private guy, and when something was bothering him, he kept it to himself until it went away or his frustration bubbled over.

You tried accepting it, but it was a difficult transition. Jason spent most of his free time up in the guest room you’d assigned him to on his first day. A tiny piece of your brain assumed it was only a matter of time until he packed up his things and left you to Dick alone. You could imagine it — just waking up to him being gone. His stuff cleared from his room, his motorcycle gone from the parking lot. Not a word of goodbye. An exit as quick as he entered, leaving no evidence that he was ever a part of your life.

The whole dilemma consumed your thoughts while you tried watching this movie with Dick. You sat against him with his arm around your shoulders, your foot bouncing on the floor while anxiety completely clouded your mind. The fact that you had seen this movie before wasn’t helping you focus any.

You looked up at him to check how he was faring but found his head tilted back against the soft cushion. His eyes had fallen shut while his breaths came out at a slow, steady rhythm.

Just to be sure, you nudged him once.

“Dick?” you whispered.

Still nothing.

Ever so carefully, you pulled away from his body. Half of you expected him to wake up at the feeling of movement or the sudden lack of warmth pressed to his side, but he didn’t. He stayed sound asleep as you retreated from the living room and headed towards the stairs.

You knew it probably wasn’t the smartest decision. Shouldn’t you have learned your lesson about chasing after Jason? But even if the events of that night repeated, it didn’t matter. Fighting would be better than constant, unending tension. That was what you told yourself anyways.

As you crept along the walkway, you didn’t hear anything coming from his room. You wondered if he was sleeping already. The lights were still on though. You could see a sliver shining from where the door was opened just a crack.

Upon peeking inside, you didn’t know what you expected to see. Whenever Jason was with you, he seemed to do things he knew would entertain you or occupy your attention. Right now though, in the solitary peace of the bedroom, you found him reading.

He was lying on his bed, one hand holding the book apart above his head. His eyes scanned the pages quietly until his other set of fingers came up to turn the page. You stood there for a few moments, contemplating whether or not you should interrupt. But your longing for him won out over the small ability to be considerate you possessed.

You pushed the door open another foot or two and rapped your knuckles on the frame. See, you were being better. Two weeks ago, you never would have knocked.

He looked away from the pages at the sound. Once he saw it came from you, he sat up, putting the book on his nightstand.

“Oh, you don’t have to…” you started, but really you wanted his full attention, so you stopped yourself short.

“It’s fine. Did you need something?” he said simply.

You stood there for a few moments, not knowing what to do. Because, yes, you did need something. You needed him to stop being so fucking stiff. You were about one monotonous reply away from crawling on your knees and begging for him to disrespect you like a normal person again.

“Um… I just wanted to see you,” you said instead. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Taking a leap of faith, you walked into the room a few paces. He didn’t tell you to get out or back up, so in your mind, that was a good sign.

“Yeah?” he said.

You nodded. “I feel like I haven’t seen you that much lately…” you continued.

A huff of what sounded like laughter came from his lips, yet he didn’t appear happy. “Well, I’m doing fine. Same as always, you know,” he shrugged.

“Are you? You don’t seem the same…” you said, walking even closer to his bed. “I just…”

You couldn’t get the words out. Every sentence you spoke felt like traversing a field of landmines.

“You just what?” he asked.

Your eyes fell to his blankets covering the mattress. Part of you had hoped that he would just understand what you were trying to say. That he would want things to go back to normal as badly as you did.

You sat down on the edge of his bed. Your first instinct was to get more confrontational. Dragging this out was painful. It would be so much easier to strike, to force him to tell you why he’d been acting this way, why he’d been punishing you for his own actions. But you knew that would only make things worse.

“It’s nothing. Nevermind…” you finally answered. “What were you reading?”

You were trying your hardest to appear unaffected. It wasn’t the best performance you’d ever given, but if he saw through it, he spared you the torture of saying something.

“Nothing special. Doubt it would be your taste.”

“How do you know? I like all kinds of things.”

“Do you even like to read?” he asked. 

“Oh come on,” you scoffed. “I’m not stupid if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

For the first time in days, a bit of his spark flickered back to life. 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say. It just doesn’t seem like something you’d enjoy doing. Reading takes patience. Something you don’t have a lot of.”

You knew he was joking, but it stung. The words sliced into you like fresh cuts on already wounded flesh. They were just another way he disapproved of you.

“I have the patience… I used to do it a lot more when I was younger, but if something interests me, then I’ll read it.”

Getting all sad probably wouldn’t help your case, so you tried remaining lighthearted. You didn’t want anything serving as a callback to the other night. If that meant shoving your feelings down and putting on the face you wanted him to see, you could. You’d had a lot of practice at that over the years.

You rolled your eyes and crawled closer to him. “Just tell me what you’re reading,” you said. 

Maybe you just had to take the first step. If you could entice him into playing along with you, that could repair things.

“Why are you so interested?” he said. He wasn’t moving away at all. That was good.

“I wouldn’t be if you weren’t being so secretive,” you replied.

The two of you stared each other down for a few seconds before you lunged for the nightstand. He sprung into action just as quickly. His arms looped around your waist, keeping you away from your target. For a split second, everything fell back into place.

You squirmed in his grasp, playfully wrestling him a little. He did it right back. The size advantage he had on you made it a quick struggle. In no time, you were flat on your back, pinned to the mattress with him above.

He gazed down at you, and he looked like the Jason you knew. There wasn’t any forced restraint or haunted resignation. His features relaxed, his eyes softened. All as he focused on you.

You opened your mouth to taunt him again but he beat you to it.

“Pet Sematary,” he answered. “Pretty basic.”

You grinned up at him, elated at his shift in attitude. And he actually smiled back at you. It wasn’t a big one, but it rarely was with Jason. If anything, it was the best case scenario for this situation, so you were more than pleased.

That was until his eyes drifted down. It was a natural movement, one he had done many times before while on top of you. But now his pupils didn’t catch on your collarbone or breasts. Instead, the marks on your throat brought them to a halt.

The little bruises from his fingers had almost healed by now. They were barely there, close to being completely faded. But that wasn’t good enough for him.

He brought one of his hands to your neck. His index finger traced over them, dragging across them as if playing connect the dots. That smile melted away in seconds.

You grabbed his hand, gently wrapping your fingers around his palm. “They don’t hurt,” you said softly.

“Doesn’t matter. They shouldn’t be there at all.”

“It was just an accident, Jason,” you said. Your voice had gone so quiet it was only a couple decibels louder than a whisper.

“One that never would have happened if I was doing my job,” he said. He brought your hand to his lips, leaving a soft kiss on your knuckles before he let you go entirely and sat up.

You followed him upright. “Oh come on. This isn’t… It’s not like that,” you said. You were trying your hardest to be careful and not overstep again. “Even if you were being the absolute pinnacle of professionalism, that still could have happened.”

“It wouldn’t have,” he said.

“It could have. It’s not like you were distracted, so I got hurt or something. It was totally out of your control. There was nothing to protect me from there. You let your guard down because I let you. Because this isn’t like your other jobs. You couldn’t have done anything to stop this.”

He shook his head, dropping it into his hands for a moment. “I should have known better. Even if there’s nothing to protect you from, I shouldn’t be putting you in danger by letting you get so close to me.”

Without even thinking about it, you rose to your knees behind him. Your arms draped over his shoulders, and you slotted your head against his neck. You could feel his heart beating with your own against his back. Your eyes closed. You couldn’t help but think he might have been right in saying you were out of your depth the other night.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered with a few kisses to the back of his neck. “You pushing me away for the whole week feels worse than a few seconds of your hand on my throat.”

His fingers began to trace small lines up and down your forearm. “It was a few seconds then, but it could have been so much worse. It’s not worth the risk,” he said.

“Yes, you are,” you said, bordering on pleading. Your arms' grip grew tighter around him. “I miss you, Jason. And it’s so fucking stupid because you’re right here. I see you everyday. You’re only ever a few rooms away. But I miss you. You feel so far away, and I hate it.”

What you really hated was the fact that you could feel your throat starting to close up and tears stinging your eyes. In an attempt to keep them hidden, you squished your face against the back of his neck harder. It had been years since you had this much trouble hiding pain. The last time had to be almost a decade ago, some time during your teenage years.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. But he didn’t take it back. He didn’t pull you closer. He didn’t say anything that gave you the impression he’d be letting you in again any time soon.

“Don’t be,” you said, your voice cracking against your will. “Don’t be sorry, just be normal. Just be how you were. Just stop shutting me out.”

“I can’t. Hurting you fucks me up too, you know? I can’t do it again,” he said softly. He sighed and gently began to peel your arms off of him. “You’re a sweet girl. For all your attitude, you got a good heart buried in there somewhere. All that shit I gave you, it was just-”

“Wh-what?” you stuttered incredulously. A few tears leaked from your eyes simply because of how much they had widened. You wiped them away as quickly as you could. “What are you doing? Why are you talking like this is a break up or something? Like you’re trying to let me down gently?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to make you feel better, but-”

“Oh my god. You are. My bodyguard is dumping me,” you said and pulled back from him all on your own.

He looked at you, not in anger or satisfaction. If anything, he just looked tired.

“Call it what you want. I just want you to know that I didn’t mean that shit I said, and I don’t want you believing any of it. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” you repeated, your regular attitude clawing its way back to the surface. “So what? You’re just gonna ignore me for the rest of the time you’re here?”

“No. I’m gonna talk to Dick tomorrow about reassignment.”

Hearing that shattered what little you had left of your more demure facade. The words struck you like bullets. You got off the bed and onto your feet. Playing nice was bullshit if this is what it got you.

“Well go ahead then! Do whatever you want! Just leave like nothing ever happened! If you think I’m gonna beg you to stay here, you’re crazy!” you snapped.

He just stared at you, which only made you feel more pathetic. Here you were yet again, stamping your feet and trying to hold back tears over an argument. The only difference between then and now was he sat behind a desk instead of on the other side of a bed.

You didn’t wait for a response. Getting out was all that mattered. You turned on your heel and practically tore the door off its hinges as you left. It stayed ajar while you stormed down the remainder of the walkway. When you went into your own room, that door slammed firmly behind you.

The loud bang from upstairs snapped Dick awake. He came out of the haze of sleep immediately on edge when he realized you were no longer at his side.

After shutting the tv off and rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes, he headed up there. On the way past Jason’s room, he peered inside. All he got from him was a grim look and a shaking head. At least he could be sure nothing was seriously wrong now.

He headed the rest of the way to your room and slipped inside without a sound. It was quiet in there — dark spare the dim glow of your bedside lamp. He’d expected worse for some reason. You seething or in tears, pacing with some furniture knocked over or at least a couple pillows scattered around.

But you were just lying on your bed, completely still and silent. It was only when he got closer could he see that you were nearly vibrating with how upset you were.

“Hey, you disappeared on me,” he said while approaching the bed. He started off light, trying to get a read on just how bad your mood was. All the bickering he’d seen between you and Jason prior to this was just that — bickering. But the door slamming hadn’t sounded like the conclusion to a minor disagreement.

And you gave him no response, so he figured it was worse than whatever he thought.

He sat down on the side of the bed and leaned across to rub your shoulder. Your muscles were taut beneath your skin like a rubber band close to snapping. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

“Jason is a fucking asshole, that’s what,” you choked out.

That was all you really said about it to him for the rest of the night. You’d give little pieces here and there about how you hated Jason and you wished he’d just left you alone to begin with. He tried coaxing out the full story, but you wouldn’t budge.

He did all that he could — stayed with you until your body went lax and your cries decreased to occasional sniffles. You just needed some time to calm down, he assumed. Tomorrow you’d tell him what happened or he’d find out from Jason, and everything would work out.

However, the morning brought a different story than he’d hoped.

You slept in much later than usual. He figured it was half due to the exhausted state you left yourself in after being so upset and half due to the overcast weather outside. The sea of clouds blocking the sun left your bedroom doused in murky gray, much darker than usual.

Once you were up, he tried offering to take you out for some breakfast. He’d drive you anywhere you wanted to go. The two of you could even walk around after, maybe do something else until you had to get ready for the fundraiser you were attending in the evening. He thought it would be good. A distraction and a way of keeping you and Jason separated.

But all it got him in return was a glare.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Not in the mood. That’s ok. Do you-”

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me or like take me out to pity breakfast or whatever,” you interjected.

“Hey,” he said, more serious than he usually spoke. But he had to be. You had more bite in your voice than he’d heard so far. “It’s not like that. I’m doing anything out of pity, and you should know that.”

“Well that’s what it feels like. I can deal with being upset, you know. I don’t need you trying to handle it or distract me,” you huffed. You rose from your bed and began putting the pillows and blankets back into place with obvious irritation.

It was becoming clear to him that you were just in a pissy mood, and you were going to be difficult for the sake of it. Jason’s warning from that first day rang through his head again. Maybe his charm had reached its expiration date with you. But unlike Jason, he didn’t have a problem remaining cordial with you.

“Fine. If you need space, I’ll leave you alone,” he said as he began to back up towards the door.

Before he could leave, you asked one more thing. “Have you talked to Jason yet?”

His brow raised at the word yet. “No,” he replied.

“You should. He’s the one that could use handling,” you grumbled while walking towards the ensuite bathroom.

He just let you go without saying anything else. It was probably for the best that he did talk to Jason while you mellowed out some more.

“What did you do?” he asked as he entered Jason’s room without so much as a knock.

Jason, who had been in the middle of doing some sit ups on the ground next to the large windows, didn’t stop his reps upon Dick’s intrusion. He simply glanced over at him, unamused.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“You know what I’m talking about. Why is she so upset?”

Finally, he sat up for good. Though he didn’t seem eager to have the conversation. With a bitter laugh, he shook his head and stood up.

“She told you it was my fault?” he said.

Dick paused before shrugging. “In so many words.”

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “She must be really pissed if she won’t even tell you the full story.”

“So you tell it to me.”

“There’s not much to tell. I told her I was sorry, said she was a nice girl, and told her I planned on asking you for reassignment,” he said before looking over directly at Dick. “So, I guess I’m asking now. I think I need to be moved to another case. What do you think?”

Dick rubbed his eyes. That would do it. Now it made perfect sense to him why you’d been so agitated. He sighed before making eye contact with Jason again.

“Is that really what you want?”

He nodded, expression hard and unfaltering.

“Alright… I’ll see what I can do. I’ll make a few calls tomorrow,” he said. “Are you leaving now? Or-”

“I’ll stay till you find me something else. Not like I’m in a rush. I don’t have much else to do,” he shrugged.

“You gonna come to that fundraiser tonight?”

“Might as well,” he replied.

Dick nodded. “Right… Well I’ll let you know when I work something out.”

That served as his parting statement to Jason. There wasn’t much else to discuss between the two of them. At least not right now.

He headed out, shutting the door behind him. From there, he didn’t know where to go. Technically he had his own room, but the penthouse had become a tangled web of tension. He felt like no place would bring refuge right now.

With a sigh, he headed in that direction anyways. He wasn’t happy about Jason’s decision for more reasons than he could articulate to either of you. Not only were you gonna be even more miserable when he actually left, but Dick didn’t want to see him go either. 

Jason kept things balanced around here. You and him bounced off each other, took out all your frustration towards life on one another. With him around, Dick could always be the good cop. He could forever be the one to take care of you, to fix things. He never had to deal with your attitude before this morning.

But he also didn’t want Jason to go because he knew what this was. He’d done it before. Most severely after that case went wrong, but whenever he made a mistake it seemed he couldn’t help retreating.

The same man who never turned down a fight, who talked more shit than anyone else he knew, fled at the first sign of someone wanting to get closer. Dick used to not understand, but he’d drawn conclusions over the years. No one could see the deep cracks along his surface if he ran before they ever got close enough to get a good look.

He flopped back on the bed, noticing how the mattress had less spring than the one in your room. It didn’t matter. It would be comfortable enough for him to relax until the three of you had to drive across town for the fundraiser later tonight. 

Maybe after that he could talk to Jason, try to convince him that this wasn’t something he needed to run from. If that didn’t work, maybe he’d talk to you about the importance of being able to let things go, that every rejection wasn’t a personal attack of the highest degree. Hell, maybe he could just get drunk enough at the fundraiser that the two of you would have to take care of him and come back together over that.

It didn’t matter. No option was gonna be fun, easy, or pleasant.

God, why couldn’t the two of you just go back to banging things out?

You spent most of the day in the bath. Hours went by with your body submerged in steaming, rose-scented water. It was hot enough to sting. Almost as if you believed the heat could kill the gross feeling of abandonment crawling all over you. 

Every time the water got cold, you’d refill the tub. Candle light flickered along the walls, painting the pale tiles in shadows. You watched them shift around in silence, not in the mood to occupy your attention with anything. It was too hard to focus. Everything seemed to remind you of your current dilemma, and the inability to distract yourself made you wish you hadn’t been so hard on Dick who probably would have been successful at relieving your stress.

Once you finally couldn’t stand the feeling of your water-logged skin anymore, you rose to your feet and pulled the drain. The water rushed away in an urgent spiral as you reached for a towel. The pale pink fluff dragged across every inch of your body. You shimmied it around yourself until there wasn’t a bead of water left to roll down your skin.

The rest of your routine came in that quiet, practiced way that seemed automatic. You applied a healthy coat of lotion all over, squirted a few different serums into your hands to work onto your face.

By the time you made it back to your bedroom, it was late afternoon. The sun was setting outside. From the lower angle, it cut through the clouds, painting your room a warm orange.

You still had a couple hours before that fundraiser. That stupid fucking fundraiser. Quite possibly the last place on Earth you wanted to go tonight. You couldn’t remember what charity it was for, let alone why your father was making you attend. He’d already won the election. What was the point of kissing ass now?

Staring at your phone, you tried to think of any excuse that could get you out of it. There had to be a way you could stay in and wallow instead of mingling with a bunch of walking bank accounts for the evening. Just one call feigning cramps or something…

It wasn’t worth it though, and you knew that. If you ditched this thing, you’d have to do something more torturous next week. You’d get a call from your mother about how much he did for you, how it disappointed him when you couldn’t be bothered to show some gratitude. 

When he expected you at something, you went. That was that. You dressed up all pretty, smiled for pictures, and tried to conceal your misery until you were allowed to slip away. At least now that you were older, you didn’t have to go home with them.

You walked over to your closet, running your fingertips along your options for a dress tonight. Your mother had sent you one like she did for all the events you attended with them. It was long, emerald green with off-the-shoulder sleeves. But like with all the gowns she sent you, it would stay hung up on the wardrobe door for the night.

Instead, you selected a dress that was to your liking. It was just as long as the other one but in sparkling silver. The straps were thin on your shoulders, and the waistline was snug around your figure.

You put on some makeup to match and styled your hair with a little more effort than you would on any other day. It was weird. As much as you hated things like this, you found yourself always trying your best with your appearance. No matter how many you went to, you never fully understood your own motivation. 

Part of you thought it was a way of proving something, showing off to them that you were still at the top of your game no matter what bullshit they threw at you. Another part believed it might be petty. Your mother, for all the years she treated you as competition, could now live with the fact that you were beating her each and every time.

Or then again, sometimes you believed you just liked looking nice. Who was to say?

When you had finished assembling your look, it was almost time to go. The bright orange sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, and the skyscrapers had all lit up in its place. You rose to your feet and slipped on some pumps to go with your dress before heading out of your bedroom for the first time today.

You could hear one of them downstairs in the kitchen. Dick or Jason, you couldn’t really tell. The sounds weren’t distinct enough to make a real guess. You honestly couldn’t say who you’d prefer it be right now. Both would be awkward.

It didn’t matter though. You’d have to face them both before leaving anyways. You headed downstairs and towards the kitchen quietly. Upon getting closer, you saw Dick. He stood there in a crisp black suit, fixing his tie. Even if you were in a shitty mood, you couldn’t come close to denying that he looked good.

Once he heard the click of your heels entering the room, he looked up. He seemed to have a similar reaction to your outfit. His pupils raked downward over the length of your dress before returning to your face.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft. It made you feel like total shit. You could snap at him for no reason, and he’d still talk to you as if you were the most precious person on Earth.

“Hey…” you said back.

“You look beautiful. That dress-” he said with a playful whistle, “-good choice.”

“Thank you,” you replied, looking down at the sparkles sewn into the fabric.

The prospect of apologizing for earlier popped into your head, but before you could act on it, another voice interjected.

“Ready to go?” Jason asked.

The deep timbre of his words pulled you around to finally face him. You tried to hide your reaction as best you could; though, he probably saw the way your eyes widened based on the smirk that appeared across his lips. 

Like Dick, Jason wore a dark suit. Only with him, it was much more jarring to you. Dick looked almost natural in nicer clothes. They went right along with his pretty hair and picture-perfect smile. But before this very moment, you’d never even imagined Jason in clothes other than the plain shirts and pants he normally wore.

His shoulders were so broad and his arms so thick that part of you would have thought a suit would look comical on him. But that clearly wasn’t the case as he stood before you now, dressed in fabrics tailored to him exactly.

“See something you like?” he asked. He stepped in your direction before slowly doing a 360, mocking the way you’d shown off to him time and time again.

“I’m looking at you, aren’t I? So obviously not,” you said flatly, looking away before you embarrassed yourself further.

“Ouch, that hurts, you know,” he said, unable to hide his amusement as he feigned a wince.

“Why are you even coming? Don’t you have some place better to be yet?”

“I didn’t know you were so eager to see me go,” he taunted. “But not yet. Plus, I don’t want to miss one of my last chances to enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

Your expression grew more irritated, but before things could get any worse, Dick’s hand landed on the small of your back.

“Let’s head out if we’re all ready to go,” he said.

Reluctantly, you nodded. You shuffled towards the exit of the penthouse, grabbing your clutch off the side table on your way there. 

Just a few hours. You could get through this.

Your hand shielded your eyes from the few flashing lights that shrouded the entrance of this place. It wasn’t a swarm by any means, just a few photographers here and there from local papers. Definitely not the largest crowd you’d seen before the doors of an event you were dragged to.

Not far behind, you could hear Dick handling the valet and Jason shutting the back door. You didn’t bother waiting for them. You made your way up the stone steps to the doors of the hotel without stopping for a single picture.

A hand slipped around the crux of your elbow as you got closer to the large glass front. You didn’t have to look to know it was Dick. While his and Jason’s hands weren’t that much different physically, their touch was like night and day. The way they grabbed and handled and held alone was enough for you to separate the two.

“Something wrong?” you asked quietly.

“I should be asking you that with the way you bolted,” Dick replied at the same volume.

You took a brief pause from walking to look over your shoulder at him. A few paces back from him, you spotted Jason lagging behind a bit, keeping clearly intentional distance between him and you.

“I’m fine. I’m just not in the mood for pictures or any of that,” you said.

“I get it. I just couldn’t have you getting so far ahead. I don’t know if they’ll let us into this place without you,” he joked.

“They’d be doing you a favor,” you sighed before resuming your walk, albeit at a slower pace.

You kept it slow enough that Jason was forced to catch up to you or risk looking out of place. He came to follow at your other side while the three of you strolled through the open entryway.

It led into a foyer of sorts. One with sleek marble floors and a trio of ornate chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. Staircases and elevators led to other floors of the building, but you knew the luxury event hall was just further along on this level.

You didn’t speak a word while walking down a spacious hall. It didn’t take long to reach the room you were looking for. It was one of the first ones to your left.

The door was propped open, giving you a preview of your night. A warm glow doused the room. Tables took up most of the space, and there was a bar off to the side. Patrons meandered about, drinks in hand while they talked to one another. Wordless music drifted out from inside, loud enough to provide a background to conversations without overtaking them.

Without trying to give away how much you dreaded this whole thing, you stepped forward. You tugged your arm free of Dick’s hold before heading in further at the pace of someone wading shark infested waters. 

At first, you didn’t recognize around half of the guests. They could have been out-of-state invites or some of the foundation’s employees. Maybe they were just people in this city whose circles you never had the pleasure of mixing with.

But as you got deeper into the room, familiar faces started sprouting up like weeds. You saw a handful of his associates along with their spawn littered throughout the place. A couple of them waved to you. They smiled at you with the manufactured joy of people you were forced to socialize with during adolescence. You offered a fake smile back though and gave them a lazy flick of your wrist as acknowledgement. 

Dick and Jason weren’t talking at all. They offered no distractions or relief from this crowd. You ended up glancing in their directions once or twice to make sure they were still there. Of course, they were. Dick was watching the place, observing the other people here with thoughtful eyes. Jason was also focused on them, but for a visibly different reason. Disdain oozed from his very being. He didn’t hide the fact that he loathed these people like you did. A sliver of you wondered if any of that judgement rubbed off onto his perception of you. As if it wasn’t tarnished enough already.

All you wanted was to find an open table. Most of them were occupied by a couple of people or had drinks scattered on top of them, marking that someone had already claimed part of it. You wanted one that offered the largest chance at no talking.

You thought you spotted one over towards the wall opposite the bar. Just as you were about to dash for it, you noticed the group standing a few feet from it. They were a collection of a suits with dresses attached to their arms, but only one pair shot a wave of nausea into you. Your mother and father in all their glitzy, artificial glory.

Before you could escape to the bar or hide in the bathroom, he had his sights on you. He called out to you in that tone that naturally boomed across the distance. You wished you could dissolve into the floor. Or, at the very least, collapse and have to be carted away from them off to the hospital.

They were the people you most wanted to avoid speaking to unless it was completely necessary, the two individuals that were absolutely guaranteed to make your mood worse, so of course, you’d spot them right away. And of course, they’d drag you into a conversation you wanted no part of.

Your mother started gesturing you over along with him. You forced your feet to move step by step in their direction. The fake smile didn’t find its way to your lips this time.

On the bright side of things, your father had all but dismissed the other men he’d been talking to by the time you approached him. That was for the best for both of you. With the mood you were in, you weren’t confident in your ability to bullshit smalltalk with his colleagues.

You could barely stand the hug he pulled you into. Pressed against his side, you mumbled out “Hi, dad.”

He smiled down at you as he let you stand straight again. “You’re late,” he said. “I almost thought we’d missed you or something.”

“No… there was just traffic,” you replied, smoothing your dress out a bit.

“That’s why I offered to send you a driver for tonight.”

His hand came out to gently pinch at the flesh of your cheek. You couldn’t turn your head away fast enough. It was more humiliating than normal. Jason and Dick were right there. You didn’t want to sound petulant, but the entire display made you look like a spoiled child.

“A different person driving the car wouldn’t have made the traffic clear up any faster,” you said.

He chuckled before sighing, making a show of your denial for the rest of your little group. “You keep growing up, but I can always count on that attitude never changing.”

You gritted your teeth to stifle down the response you might have given if there wasn’t a crowd of strangers around. Instead, you focused your attention on your mother, offering a wave in her direction.

She reached out for you, her hands smoothing over your shoulders and down your arms in place of a verbal hello.

“You didn’t like the dress I picked for you?” she asked.

“It was fine. I just wanted to wear this one tonight.”

She just hummed and raised her brows. Calculated indifference. A weapon in her arsenal she used against you often. You fucking hated it but wished you could wield it in your own right just as much. That was one thing you hadn’t gotten from her. The ability to detach with total ease. To ice everyone out and leave them still so desperate to be let back in again.

Useful attributes like those had skipped you right over. You’d inherited her eyes and figure, her volatile emotions and apparent need to handle everything in the most dramatic fashion possible. The small part of you that always felt spited, neglected, looked over — you were convinced it came from her as well, either in the form of genetics or learned behavior.

She was everything you loathed about yourself in the form of someone else. She was the future you didn’t want, a walking ghost of a past you got to live in right now.

You stared at this older, sadder version of yourself for a few more seconds before she did you the favor of looking towards the men behind you.

“Who are your friends, sweetheart?”

“They’re not friends. They’re the bodyguards dad hired,” you said flatly. You weren’t in the mood and she wasn’t worth a more accurate label. You glanced back at them one at a time. “This is Dick, and that’s Jason.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jason said, formal as ever. He stuck out his hand and shook hers.

Then Dick swooped in with his own hand, a smile already on his face. “It really is,” he said.

You couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes. The prince charming thing was cute when he was doing it to you. Not your mother.

She looked him up and down, a faint smile on her lips. “You’ll have to forgive my mistake. Neither my husband nor my daughter keep me in the loop with these kinds of things,” she said.

You could feel your blood pressure rising by the second.

“Because they’re just precautionary. They don’t actually do anything,” you said.

Your father cut you off. “Don’t be disrespectful. They do what I ask of them. They keep you safe. They keep you out of trouble.”

They keep you controlled. That was the final statement that went unspoken. Not that you minded. It wasn’t close to being true. You could only imagine the conniption fit he’d have if he caught wind of the fact that he’d basically been paying them to rearrange your insides on the daily for the past several weeks.

His attention landed specifically on Jason next. “I don’t think we’ve met face-to-face before. It’s nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand for a shake.

And Jason reciprocated without falter. “Likewise, sir,” he said.

Sir. You actually laughed. Jason could call you whatever he wanted but at least you had enough of a spine to not feign respect for people you could barely stand.

“Don’t feel too bad about it. He’s gonna be leaving soon anyways,” you said, trying to mask the bitterness lacing your tone.

That got everyone’s eyes on you. Your mother and father looked skeptical while Jason was almost glaring. Dick seemed concerned, but you were too irritated to care at this point.

“Is that so?” your father said, his eyes shifting from your direction back to Jason. “That’s a shame, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’s run someone off.”

“Dad-”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Jason said before you had the chance to snap. “She’s been a peach. There’s just another case that requires my attention.”

You wondered why he was even bothering with a lie. “Yeah. I didn’t run him off. He’s choosing to walk away,” you subtly shot at Jason.

Completely ignoring your comment, your father continued. “Well you’d be welcome back any time. Around my building or at some of our events. Even if she ever needed anyone again. I mean really, you’ve done such a good job with her. She’s mellowed out over the years, but by now, I usually would have gotten some kind of complaint.”

The words chipped at you bit by bit. Maybe if you didn’t resent him so much it wouldn’t have mattered. His remarks would feel like the playful ribbing he wanted them to sound like. They wouldn’t serve as bitter reminders of the image he painted of you, of how he took all of your bad decisions and shitty ways of handling things and made them who you were.

After taking a sip from her champagne glass, your mom looked at Jason too. “You two must have the patience of saints. The next time I go out of the country, I’ll have to get your number from my husband.”

You couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh please, mother. He barely tolerated me. I doubt he’ll want to be around either of the people who made me this way.”

And suddenly, it was awkward. Suddenly, they were all looking at you again, but this time with something close to pity. You couldn’t fucking take it. They could talk about you like you weren’t there, even shake hands over it for god’s sake, but you saying something in the same vein was too far apparently.

With a roll of your eyes, you mumbled, “I’m thirsty. I’m gonna go get a drink,” and then wasted no time before turning on your heel and walking off.

The heat of humiliation sweltered around your head like a monsoon cloud. It was a distant feeling, but familiar all the same. You didn’t understand it — why they stabbed at your insecurities so openly, why you reacted the same way after all these years.

You’d nearly reached the bar when a hand clasped around your bicep, stopping you in your tracks. Your head whipped around, ready to annihilate whoever was interfering with your escape plan.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Dick said softly. “You took off so fast. I just wanted to check on you, make sure you’re alright.”

He stood there with his worried expression and eyes full of the desire to help. Any other day you might have collapsed into his arms right then and there, desperate for him to make it better. But tonight your inflamed sense of rejection had control of the wheel.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“You don’t look it.”

“Well I am.”

He hesitated for a moment but persisted. Even with the groups of people scattered all around you, talking and moving about, he was determined to not let you slip away.

“You can tell me. We can talk about ‘real stuff,’ remember? I’m not trying to-” he started.

“There’s nothing to tell. I just can’t take them with their fake bullshit, and I can’t fucking take Jason going right along with it. That’s it.”

“That’s not nothing,” he said. “And I don’t blame you. I’m not gonna-”

“Look, I don’t need your help, Dick,” you said, quiet enough not to draw further attention. “I don’t need you to try and tell me it’s ok or that I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t need you to look at me like I’m some kind of broken Barbie doll for you to fix. This-” you gestured wildly at yourself, “-is just who I am, ok? I don’t need you making me feel like I’m any better.”

He didn’t try reaching for you again. You couldn’t blame him in the slightest, yet part of you still felt disappointed as his expression lost its persistence. Without physically moving at all, he retreated, pulled away from you and rescinded the lifesaver he’d thrown your way.

Your eyes stung as you turned around and stalked the rest of the way to the bar. This whole thing was spiraling so far out of proportion, and you just couldn’t get a handle on it. You quietly ordered yourself a drink, something strong enough to take the edge off. Something that could loosen you up and make you less likely to lose it on the next person who spoke to you.

Jason stood against the wall, watching as Dick came skulking back like a dog with his tail between his legs. He’d managed to drift away from your parents pretty easily after you stomped off. The area he was in now was relatively uncrowded. A couple of tables kept it blocked off enough that no one accidentally wandered over.

Dick came to lean next to him, his eyes still out on the main part of the room, intentionally avoiding your silhouette at the bar.

“She didn’t wanna talk,” he said flatly.

“Of course she didn’t,” Jason shrugged.

Dick sighed. He glanced at Jason for a moment, taking in his nonchalance towards your little episode.

“I know she gets on your nerves, but I think she’s really upset. I don’t think this is for attention or to cause a scene,” he said.

But Jason didn’t relent at all. “I’m sure she is. But she’s a big girl. If she wants help, she can ask for it. She can do more than stomp off like a teenager who got grounded.”

The conversation could have died there. In a way, Jason was right, and Dick knew it. You could communicate better. You could actually handle things like you claimed you had the ability to instead of sulking and avoiding. But he also knew it was a double-edged sword. Jason wasn’t the best at communication either. Trying to get the two of you to work together was like expecting brick walls to close the gap in an alleyway.

After a few minutes of silence, Dick tried again.

“Even if I don’t find you a case by tomorrow, I think you should leave, man,” he said quietly.

Jason turned his head, looking him in the eyes. “You’re kicking me out?” he asked, almost mocking.

Without a trace of humor, Dick nodded. “If that’s how you wanna take it, then yeah, I guess I am. Hanging around isn’t good for either of you. It drives you crazy, and it makes her sad. And I don’t want to be the one dealing with it all the time either, so I think if you’re done with her, you should just go.”

Despite the chatter of conversation and the hum of music all around them, the room felt silent for a moment. A shadow seemed to cast over Jason. His arms crossed over his chest and his gaze went back to the other part of the room. Some part of what Dick said had bothered him.

“I’ll try talking to her,” he finally said. “But if she throws a fit, then I’ll be done.”

For the first time in a while, Jason’s choice surprised Dick. He nodded, wanting to offer encouragement but fearing if he gave too much support, Jason would change his mind.

He took a breath before pushing off the wall and heading in that general direction. Dick watched from the same spot, silently hoping this wouldn’t end in a screaming match or security having to separate the two of you. You had seemed pretty upset when he went after you, but he wasn’t the one who’d done the damage. His comfort couldn’t heal your wound as easily.

His hopes didn’t go anywhere though because about halfway to the bar, Jason turned back to him with a perplexed look. He said something, but Dick couldn’t hear. He followed in that direction, allowing his ears to pick up the message the second time.

“She’s not over there.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, instantly looking for himself.

Sure enough, you were nowhere to be found. Dick brushed past Jason to get closer, his mind snapping into work-mode without missing a beat. He scanned the whole area, the surrounding crowd and the spots behind taller patrons. Still nothing.

“Fuck,” Dick said and rubbed his face.

“She’s probably still here,” Jason said. “It hasn’t been that long. She couldn’t have gotten too far away.”

Dick nodded. This wasn’t a matter of life or death. It wasn’t like other cases where losing sight of a client could mean the next time they saw you you’d be on the floor in a pool of blood or photographed in the paper after being found in a river. Rather, this was a question of whether or not next week they’d still be employed. Whether or not their firm would be able to find work in this city for much longer. Your parents had been singing their praises only minutes ago, but he could only imagine how fast that would change if you got into some sort of trouble. 

He could see it going wrong in so many ways. Different scenarios flashed through his mind like warnings. He could just imagine you wreaking drunken havoc out in the lobby. He could picture you picking up his car from the valet, taking it on a joy ride around town till you crashed into something.

His eyes swept the room one more time. He checked to be sure you weren’t moping around the edges or slumped over at a table anywhere. Once he was sure you’d left this room at the very least, he waved towards the door.

“Let’s check out there before we start thinking of any other place,” he said.

Jason went along without protest.

The two of them left the banquet hall and headed back down the hallway they’d come. They eyed each group meandering throughout, but you still weren’t there.

They reached the lobby. Luckily, you weren’t at the front desk having a meltdown. You weren’t around any of the other guests entering the main doors. You weren’t collapsed on the stairs. Dick was about ready to accept that you’d left when Jason broke him from his thoughts.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Dick’s head snapped in Jason’s direction before following his eyeline to a large pillar near the set of  elevators. Finally, you were in view. Your back was pressed to the marble, some guy leaning into your bubble. His laminated ID dangled between your bodies. Your fingers toyed with the hem of his tie.

Jason sounded and looked actually pissed. Dick knew he probably shouldn’t be the one to handle it if they didn’t want to cause a scene. But before he could suggest anything else, Jason was talking.

“Go get the car. I’ll be out there with her in a couple of minutes.”

“Jason, don’t-”

“Don’t worry, dad. I’m just gonna talk to her. Like you said,” he said. Though his expression gave the impression that a civil conversation was the last thing on his mind.

But he was already stalking over to the two of you, so Dick figured having the escape route ready was the best case scenario at this point.

As you twirled this guy’s crimson tie around your index finger, you also came to the realization that you had no idea what you were doing.

He’d been next to you at the bar when you threw back the shot you’d ordered. It took a second, but you recognized him after a moment of staring. You hadn’t seen him in years, not since your second semester of college. He hadn’t changed much since then. A different haircut, a nicer outfit, but he was still the same guy who’d come over at any time of night if you sent him a text about needing to have some fun.

And you needed some fun right now. You needed a distraction, and the way he was looking you up and down in return told you he was willing to to be one for the next couple of hours.

It didn’t take much to coax him away with you. A gentle touch of your hand upon his forearm, a lip bite, and a couple of innuendo-ridden statements about catching up and taking a trip down memory lane, and he was following you out like a dog on a leash. 

Men at these things were easy, and he was no exception. They wanted everyone to think they were so smart, so respectable, but they treated it as barely a step above a bar. At the end of the day, it was a place to find a hookup for the night before they headed back to the capitol or another event in the morning.

He was staying a couple blocks away at a more budget-friendly hotel. According to his ID and the facts he’d eagerly shared about himself, he was chief of staff for a representative also in attendance at the fundraiser.

You stood against the wall now, looking up at him. He’d called an uber, and now it was just a waiting game. Enough time for you to either double down or regret your mistake before you’d even made it.

Neither came to pass. Jason appeared beside you and your suitor faster than you could get away.

“There you are. I thought I’d lost you,” he said. His voice sounded lighthearted, but upon looking in his eyes, you knew that wasn’t the case.

“If only,” you shot back with a false smile.

“You know, if you wanted some attention, you’d only have to ask Dick,” he mocked. “There’s no need for the disappearing act.”

You stared at him with pure hatred — something much stronger than your normal annoyed side eye — as if you could will him away with the intensity of your anger alone. The guy who’d been so interested in you only seconds ago stood up straight.

“Who is this?” he asked, glancing between you and Jason.

“He’s no one,” you answered.

He looked at you with suspicion. That answer wasn’t gonna satisfy him. Not when the no one in question was someone like Jason. Someone who stood at least six inches taller and weighed a minimum fifty pounds heavier.

A few seconds passed before he fully turned to Jason. “Look, man, if you’re her boyfriend, she didn’t tell me anything about that. I’m sorry-”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He works for my dad-” you tried to cut in.

“I’m her bodyguard. But I do have some advice, kid,” he said, eyes flitting down to the badge hanging from his neck. “Consider this a favor. If you want any kind of job in Washington, banging a senator’s daughter when she’s got a few drinks in her probably isn’t the best way to go.”

“I didn’t-” you started but he already had a response.

“Maybe I should leave you two to work things out…” he said, clearly not wanting to deal with all of your drama.

“No! You don’t have to-” you tried.

But Jason smiled at him and ended the conversation with two words. “Great idea.”

Your old “friend” slipped back several feet, tapping the screen on his phone, if you had to guess, to cancel the ride. You rolled your eyes. He couldn’t even give you a wave goodbye before fading into the background with some other group of people.

Your attention snapped back to Jason, a glare already settled in your eyes. “I’m not drunk. I didn’t have that much to drink.”

“Then why are you acting like this?” he said, somewhere between taunting and serious.

“Oh fuck off! What? Are you jealous? You already told me you didn’t want anything to do with me!” you said, loud enough that a few people nearby looked your way. You went to swat at his chest, but he caught your wrist with ease.

He stepped closer, almost assuming the position that the other guy had vacated. “That’s not what I said,” he said, voice lowered. “And despite what you may think, I care about you. I don’t want you doing something you’ll regret or getting hurt just because you’re upset with me.”

“Give me a fucking break,” you scoffed. “You have no right. It’s not your job to stop me from making decisions you don’t approve of.”

“This isn’t about what I approve of. I’m getting paid to keep you out of trouble, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“Hm. It wasn’t considered trouble when you were the one getting to fuck me,” you said.

That touched a nerve. The air went cold around the two of you. Nearby crowds faded further into the backdrop. You stared at each other as if it was a contest with survival on the line.

Your wrist was still in his grasp, his strong fingers wrapped around your limb tight. You couldn’t just walk away even if you wanted to. But honestly, you didn’t want to. This hurt in the best kind of way. This was what you were used to, lashing out, tearing into another person and then letting them rip you to shreds right back.

Tension stirred between you both hot enough to create an electrical charge. You swallowed hard, waiting to see what he would do next. It was his move in this little game. His eyes stayed on you, pensive as he contemplated how to proceed.

“Look. I understand that you’re pissed at me, but you’re embarrassing yourself. You didn’t want to sleep with that guy. You wanted to make us feel bad or make yourself feel bad or I don’t even know. But it’s enough. You’re acting like a kid who got her favorite toy taken away,” he said quietly.

You could tell he was trying his best to stay cool, but his words had the opposite effect on you. He had hit the bullseye with that one. That ache in your chest grew more intense, strong enough to push a fresh wave of tears up into your eyes. 

“How dare you. You think you’re the toy? That’s rich,” you spat bitterly.

His brows furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

You tugged your wrist away hard to get free, but you didn’t go anywhere. You stepped forward, closing the minuscule amount of distance left between the two of you.

“You used me, Jason. You played with me until you got bored,” you choked out. “You didn’t have a problem being around me when I let you fuck me whenever you felt like it, but the second I wanted a little more, you just threw me away.”

“That’s not true,” he said, not even taking a moment to consider. It was an immediate defense.

“It’s not? Really? You know it is,” you seethed. “You try to act like you’re so much better than me, like I’m so pathetic, but you’re just as bad. You’re pathetic. You protect people for a living, but really, you watch out for yourself. You take what you want from people, and then leave when it gets hard for you.”

“Really?” he hissed. As if the two of you were magnetized, he seemed to be drifting further into your personal space with every moment that passed. The only thing keeping him quiet was the potential of causing a public scene. “That’s what you think? That I take? That I don’t care?” he asked.

“I know you don’t,” you said, simple and petulant but with enough force to wound.

Quicker than you could blink, the hand that was on your wrist pulled hard and began dragging you to the hotel’s front exit. You stumbled along behind Jason. For the sake of your dignity, you put on a show of resisting a little. 

He didn’t even seem to register it. The two of you continued through the lobby without incident. Attendants stood near the doors, saying goodbye and helping guests with luggage. Their customer-service smiles faltered as Jason blew by with you in tow. The look on his face was enough to ward off any goodnights from anyone.

You nearly tripped as he brought you onto the stone steps out front. The front of your heel snagged on a door stopper, but his strong grip was enough to keep you upright.

“Jason!” you scolded. “Slow down! I wanna avoid face planting and breaking my nose if possible.”

“Keep up then. You didn’t have any problem being fast when you were trying to run off with that little prick,” he said.

Thunder clapped in the sky above. It had started pouring rain some time between when you first entered the venue and now. You were still under part of the entry structure, so the water wasn’t hitting you yet. It was getting closer with each one of Jason’s forceful strides. You could see it smacking against the ground several yards away.

“Where are we even going?” you asked.

“Where do you think? To the car. Dick should have it back from valet by now,” he said. “You’re going home, and then you’re going to your room.”

You knew he said it on purpose. He phrased it like that to rile you up, to poke at you. But it worked nonetheless.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” you snapped and smacked his bicep with the back of your free hand as hard as you could.

Your hardest was nothing to him though. He whipped around faster than any human should be able to and grabbed your jaw.

“Do it again, and I swear I’ll fucking put you over my shoulder. I’ll carry you to the car kicking and screaming in front of all your daddy’s friends,” he said.

A chill shot through your body. For once, you didn’t have anything to say. Seeing him like that, jaw flexing, eyes blazing… you didn’t doubt that he would pick you up and cart you off like a bratty little kid if you didn’t listen.

He released your face and turned around, continuing in the direction of the street. The covering above ended in a few paces. Droplets of rain began pelting down on your skin, getting your dress and hair wet.

“This isn’t changing my mind, you know!” you called out to him from behind. Your desire to have the last word won out over self-preservation every time. “Dragging me through the rain, being all mean just cause you can’t handle the truth!”

He didn’t even stop walking to placate you. “Not a single word of what you said was the truth,” he said.

“Just because you don’t like it doesn’t make it not true!”you say. “This is exactly what I was saying! You can’t just have a conversation! You have to feel in control!”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said. His fingers were digging into your arm hard enough to bruise, but he still kept walking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The curb was coming up fast. You knew he was reaching the boiling point, but you didn’t care. You wanted to keep prodding and picking him apart until he crumbled.

“Of course I don’t. Because nobody can understand the great tragedy that is Jason Todd. We’re all too clueless and naive to know what you’ve been through,” you spat. 

The both of you brushed past the valet drivers like you had the employees inside. Jason briefly glanced at either side of the street to ensure the two of you wouldn’t be mowed down in the middle of this pleasant discussion.

He wasn’t giving you the reaction you wanted though.

“The reality is that you don’t want help, Jason! You act like you’re so irredeemable, like it’s not a choice, but it is! You keep running away and locking everyone out because you’d actually have to improve if you let them in! You’re gonna be alone forever, and it will be all your fault!” you said just as the two of you reached where Dick was waiting in the car across the street.

It was then, beside the sleek metallic black exterior, that he finally, truly cracked. He spun around, one hand clamping over your mouth and one pressing your shoulder to the car. You stared up at him with wide-eyes, taking in what you’d reduced him too.

“Be quiet,” he said. “Just stop fucking talking.”

The pressure on your face wasn’t that hard. Without much effort, you slipped one of your own hands up and pried his off. You opened your mouth to speak again, but he cut you off.

“You think I like pushing you away? That I like not knowing how to let you in?” he asked. His voice sounded strained, almost broken. “Do you think it’s fun for me to watch you get hurt and then tell me what a piece of shit I am? Do you think I want to leave you because I don’t know how to fix anything?! Don’t you think I wish I could be more like Dick? That you came to me as easily as you did him?”

Your heart pounded so hard in your chest that the sound rivaled the storm clouds. Streams of water dribbled down over his face like longer forms of tears. His damp hair stuck to his forehead. He looked like a mess.

“How am I supposed to know any of that if you don’t tell me?!” you asked, your voice cracking in shame a little. “I wasn’t trying to fix you or change you or whatever. I just wanted to be more than a client you tell stories about in the future.”

The argument stalled between you and him. He was breathing heavily, only a little harder than yourself. The pressure on your shoulder eased as his hand slid to the side and flatted against the car window. His other fingers went beneath your chin, tilting your head up. Your noses were less than an inch away.

“I swear…” he mumbled. “You’re such a brat. Think you know everything, but you’re fucking blind if you really believe you mean so little to me.”

There were no words in any language that could convey the emotion that flooded your body. He took your breath away while filling you with the most vigor you’d ever experienced. The dwindling anger in you vanished entirely. You could only think to do one thing.

Your hands wrapped around his neck and pulled him, closing the tiny gap between your lips. He didn’t pull away. His hands fell to your waist, keeping your body as close as physically possible to his.

In the back of your mind, you knew this wasn’t the smartest move. You’d already put on quite the show on the way here. The last thing you needed would be someone spotting you across the street and bringing the news to your father that you were making out with some stranger against another one’s car.

But none of that really mattered right now. It couldn’t. Not when you had Jason’s tongue entering your mouth. Not when you were stumbling around to the passenger door. Not when he was groaning against your lips in a way you hadn’t felt in what seemed like eternity.

He popped the door open before falling inside and tugging you on top of him. You slammed it shut behind the two of you, barely making sure your dress was all the way inside before diving in for more kisses.

“Woah, what did I miss?” Dick said from the driver’s seat.

“Shut up and drive the car,” Jason mumbled against your lips.

“I leave you two alone for five minutes, and I swear…” he said. You could hear that smug smile in every word.

The headlights beamed onto the slick road in front of the car. Rain continued knocking against the roof as he put into drive and took off. Dick had the radio on low in the background. The sound of your kisses combined with your and Jason’s breathing muffled it substantially.

You cupped Jason’s jaw, keeping his face level with yours. Your tongue flicked across his lips before delving into the warm cavern of his mouth. A small sigh fanned over your face, warm air that felt cool from the beads of water all over your skin.

He was just as eager as you. His hands stayed on your hips, gripping through the shimmery fabric of your dress. The skirt of it was already riding up from your position, and you were certain he’d have up around your waist in no time.

You ground yourself down on him, rolling your hips a few times in fluid motions. A quiet groan crept up his throat.

“You feeling a little desperate, baby?” he murmured. “Been a whole week since I had you.”

“Mhm,” you whimpered, pressing yourself down on him again.

He gave your ass a quick slap, a bit of encouragement before his fingers dug into the plush flesh. You moaned and dropped your head to his neck. Your lips found refuge in the skin there. You kissed up and down his throat with the same fervor you had for his lips. Little beads of water slid onto your mouth, rolling down from the strands of his hair.

Your teeth scraped over the pulsing artery in his neck. The sting of him wanting reassignment was still scorching inside you, so you wanted to leave some marks on him. Tiny purple flecks he could take with him on his new job.

“You were throwing such a fit… all cause you missed me,” he murmured right beside your ear.

“Cause you were being mean to me,” you corrected.

“Mmmm… that’s right. I guess I was,” he said.

He shifted underneath you, leaning further back into his seat. You chased after him with your wanting mouth. Your hands fell between your body towards his pants. You were more than ready to get to some real making up, but he stopped you short. His fingers clasped around your wrist and tugged it away.

“But it was only cause you were giving me such a hard time.”

He smirked as you whined in disappointment. You tried reaching down again, but like you’d learned many times before, your will was no match for his strength. He flipped you around on his lap with ease so that your back was flush against his chest.

Now his fingers tucked beneath the hem of your dress and yanked it upwards. He bunched the fabric just above your panties, leaving the lacy white exposed.

“You wouldn’t let me apologize, wouldn’t let me leave in peace, said some real nasty stuff to me, tried running off with some other guy,” he whispered, his breath hot on your neck.

“You deserved it,” you huffed as you wriggled in his hold.

Was using the painful events of the past week as foreplay the best way to cope with the ache they left behind? Probably not. But really, all you took away from that was that he sounded a little bit jealous, which had you preening more than anything else.

Jason’s hand slithered down your body to the space between your thighs. His fingers found your clothed cunt with practiced ease, almost muscle memory. He rubbed the thick pads of them over your clit, swirling over the little bud in rough loops.

A moan erupted out of you into the car. Your head flew back against Jason’s shoulder. It wasn’t like you’d been totally celibate since you and Jason fought, but his and Dick’s touches were different from each other. Not better or worse, just different. And you’d been missing Jason’s half of that whole.

In the midst of your ecstasy, Dick reached up towards the rearview mirror and angled it down to get a look at the action.

“Hey,” you whimpered with a little pout.

“What?” he laughed. “You were giving me a hard time too, sweetheart. I deserve a little compensation.”

“That’s right. Let Dick watch. If he’s not taking your side, you know you were pretty bad,” Jason said. 

His freehand came up to paw at your breast. It slid under the top of your dress, getting his palm on your bare skin. Your flesh was smooth as silk, malleable and pliant under his command. He squeezed it nice and tight how you like before his fingers began toying with your nipple.

The car came to a stop at a red light. You kept moving, writhing and squirming on his lap. Your heels came off at some point. They dropped to the floor with one another. Dick watched with his full attention now. His eyes raked over your face and your gyrating torso, your swiveling hips and finally Jason’s digits delving under your panties to get at your pussy.

He didn’t waste time. The tip of his fingers poked at your entrance before the rest of them slid inside. He pumped them in and out. You were wet enough to make it easy, and your arousal only spread with every thrust of his wrist.

You mewled, arching your back off his chest. Your eyes rolled back so hard you thought you saw the headrest behind you.

“You're lucky these windows are tinted, princess. Otherwise you’d be giving the car next to us a real show,” Jason teased.

Your walls spasmed around his fingers. You turned your head to the side, lazily glancing out the window with half-lidded eyes. The vehicle to your right had a man and a woman around your parents' age. They sat with their eyes on the signal ahead, waiting for it to flip over from red to green. Both of them remained completely oblivious to the scene stopped beside them.

“Would you like that, baby? Everyone seeing how bad you want me, how desperate you get without me taking care of you for a little while?” he breathed. “How pretty you look when you’re all worked up?”

To go along with his words, his hand left your chest and crept towards the button to open the window. It took your brain a couple of seconds to register what the movement actually meant.

“Jason!” you whined, bucking your hips and grabbing his hand away.

Both him and Dick laughed. His arm snuck around you, pulling you close as could be.

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” he said. “No one else gets to see that. Just me and Dick.”

“Just you and Dick,” you repeated with a faint nod.

Your body melted against his radiating warmth. You relaxed again, letting the pleasure overtake you once again. He was rubbing you just right. The heel of his palm ground on your sensitive clit while his two fingers continued to curl inside of you.

You were fast approaching the edge. Your breaths came quicker, your limbs got more fidgety. But just as you began to crest that high, the light beaming into the car swapped to green. With the red went your pleasure, fizzling out as his fingers pulled away.

“Jason!” you said again in that same whiny tone. You tried to smack his arm, but he was quick enough to block.

“What?” he teased, pecking at your neck and cheek.

In the haze of a lost orgasm, you struggled to get the words out. You looked to Dick for help, but his eyes were back on the road. He tutted, sensing your indignant look.

“Ah-ah. You didn’t want my help, remember?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” you whined. Your bottom lip started to puff out into your signature look. “Can’t you guys gimme a break this one time. I was upset too, y’know…”

Jason let out a breathy laugh behind your ear. “Yeah, you were,” he said softly between a few more kisses.

His hand made its way back down to your center and stayed there for the remainder of the drive. He kept you on the edge, bringing you close enough just to teeter but not actually finish. It drove you crazy in the best way.

You didn’t even notice your surroundings as Dick turned off of the main road and pulled into the parking lot for your building. It only dawned on you that you were back home when he shut the car off and the engine went quiet. 

Jason pulled his hand from your panties again, this time for good. Your head floated off his shoulder and glanced around. By now, your legs felt as wobbly as a baby deer and your head was spinning without the constant rush that had been coursing through you for the last twenty minutes.

Even though you hadn’t cum, the same sort of needy longing welled up inside you while looking between the two of them. Jason was just grinning at your little stupor while Dick had a bit more fondness written on his face.

You couldn’t help it. Before you knew what was happening, you were crawling over the center console into Dick’s lap. Your arm wrapped around his neck and your lips peppered kisses all across his face.

“I’m sorry I was giving you a hard time,” you mumbled. Jason being mad at you was one thing — almost a natural stage in the cycle of your relationship at this point — but Dick having any sort of negative feeling towards you? Dick who was so sweet and caring and everything you needed whenever you needed it? That could not stand.

He chuckled, his lips curving into a smile under all your affection. “That’s alright,” he said softly. “You were just having a shitty day. It happens.”

“Not to you,” you said, only half-joking.

“To me too.” He smiled. 

On the opposite side of the car, the passenger door popped open and Jason got out, the straps of your heels hooked around his index finger. He ducked back in, giving you two a look that suggested he wanted to move things along.

“You got her?” he asked.

Dick nodded in return.

The door slammed shut, and his hands rubbed up and down your back. “You wanna walk or…”

“Or.” You nodded.

Returning one of your small kisses, he opened the driver door. He shifted you off his lap before stepping out. You watched him move, admired how the nearby lamppost cast a glow over his fluffy hair and striking features, ogled how his arms flexed as he fixed the skirt of your dress.

After he deemed your appearance suitable if anyone happened to spot you on the way in, he lifted you from the seat and nudged the door shut. He held you like a princess while walking to the sleek entrance of your building, and with the stars sparkling overhead, he looked the part of prince charming.

You let your head fall back over his arm as the three of you headed in towards the elevator. The doorman nodded at Dick and Jason as they passed with you. You doubted anything they saw would get back to your father, but just in case, you’d rather have them report that you’d had one too many at the event than the fact that you were making out, ready to fuck both of your bodyguards as soon as the elevator struck floor 70.

Once those doors shut to give you three the privacy of the cabin, you were squirming out of Dick’s arms onto your feet. You reached up towards Jason, pulling him down to your mouth in a hasty exchange. Your other arm reached back for Dick though, still wanting him close.

He was happy to oblige. His lips found your neck and planted soft pecks all over the area that spanned from your ear to the strap of your dress. 

You hadn’t had both of them on you in what felt like an eternity, and now it was like reentering heaven. Hands gripped your hips, felt up your ass, rubbed across your stomach. You couldn’t keep track of what limb belonged to who, but that was fine.

As soon as that delicate chime resounded through the small square space, the three of you stumbled into the penthouse. You didn’t have a specific destination in mind. In all honesty, you would have been content to do it right there on the entry floor.

But they guided you down the hall and into the living room. Your palms found the back of the couch. You used the smooth surface for balance while they continued their dual efforts. Jason still had command of your mouth while Dick had moved his attention elsewhere. His nimble fingers took hold of the zipper on the back of your dress, working it down with ease.

That shimmery silver fabric parted to reveal your spine. He hooked his digits around one strap and then the other, slipping them off in tandem and leaving you there in your pristine white lingerie.

“You knew we were gonna be making up, wearing something this pretty,” Jason mumbled as he lightly snapped the hem of your panties against your skin.

“Nuh uh. I’m always this pretty. You should be used to it by now,” you said with a little smile.

“Yeah, yeah.” He grabbed a handful of your ass cheek before giving it a firm smack.

Dick’s hand laced with one of yours and began pulling you around the end of the sectional so that you all were on the side of the seats. You plopped down, leaning back and showing off a little for them.

The view didn’t go unappreciated. Their eyes traced over about every inch of your frame while undoing their ties and shrugging off their suit jackets. You took the time to pull off your panties and kick them aside.

Jason finished undressing first and sat down beside you. His hands grabbed your waist and tugged you on top of him. Your thighs spread across the width of his meaty legs.

“You want me first tonight?” he asked, reaching down between the both of you to stroke his cock. He swiped his thumb over the tip. A bead of precum followed, a pearly drop he smeared on your soaked folds.

You bit your lip, hesitating for a moment before answering. “I want both of you first…” you say tentatively.

His brows raised, but you could see in his eyes he was far from opposed to your suggestion.

“You want both? At the same time.”

You nodded.

“You think you’re ready for that?” he asked, almost teasing. “That’s a lot, especially for someone like you. You get overwhelmed so easily.”

Your face heated up, especially cause he had a stupid smirk on his. With a little scoff, you nodded again.

“I want it. I want all of you while I have you. Don’t wanna waste any time waiting for anything.”

Your fingers caressed over the muscular swell of his biceps, a distraction from the sentiment hidden within your words. Jason sensed it too. You knew without even looking. His hold got slightly softer, he stopped rubbing the head of his cock over your slit for a moment. But instead of dwelling on it, he looked beyond your shoulder.

“You hear that, Dick? You think she’s ready for two at the same time?”

You felt the feather-light touch of Dick’s fingers on your shoulders before he even responded. They massaged your muscles, swirling around as he leaned down to kiss the skin next to your ear.

“If that’s what she wants,” he said. “You know I have a hard time giving her anything but.”

It was hard not to squirm under all the attention, but you managed to stay composed. You planted your palms on Jason’s chest and gave him a subtle set of puppy eyes, just for good measure in case he wasn’t sold on the idea yet.

But his velvety tip slotted at your entrance again. He pushed up a little, just to tease the idea of popping inside.

“You gotta hold still, alright? No moving around or trying to help out,” he said.

You nodded again just as he slid a couple inches of his length inside. Your lips rounded out as the familiar stretch hit you. You wanted so badly to sink down, to take more until you were settled on his lap, but he just told you not to move.

Luckily, he acted for you. His hands clasped around your hips and brought you down until he was fully sheathed inside of you. He kept you there for a moment before rocking you up and down a couple of times.

Your head fell back, only for the sight of Dick smiling down at you to fill your vision. He pet one side of your head, his fingers curling to cup your face while his other set ventured South. Jason had you still now. His hips did all the moving so Dick would have the opportunity to open you up.

His thumb was the first thing you felt. He rubbed it on your puckered entrance. You couldn’t help it, how your eyes widened a little. Both at the same time. It was really gonna happen.

“Tell me to stop if you feel anything you don’t like,” Dick said softly, planting a kiss on your forehead and then dropping into a crouch to focus his attention down there.

His thumb left you, but just for his tongue to replace it. You squealed at the wet sensation, your hips jerking involuntarily.

Jason’s hands tightened around you. “Fuck, she’s liking it so far,” he hissed as your walls fluttered around his cock.

Dick chuckled from behind you and then really went for it. You leaned forward onto Jason’s chest, giving him ample space to work.

He stayed down there for a little while. You couldn’t be sure how long — time was never easy to gauge in situations like this. He worked with a mix of his fingers and tongue. At first it felt weird. You’d never say it hurt, but it just felt odd. But as time passed and he stretched you further, you found yourself opening up to the possibility of this working.

Jason continued pumping in and out of you all the while. He kept his pace slow, not wanting to finish too early. His shallow thrusts gave you short bursts of pleasure. Enough to keep you somewhere in the middle of satisfaction and wanting.

You were hanging onto the edge when you finally felt a thicker nudge against your back entrance. Dick’s smooth hand rubbed over the length of your spine.

“Just relax for me, baby,” he said.

He slid himself up and down your crack a few times before finally inching in. Your nails dug into Jason’s chest and your toes curled. You squished your cheek against his skin. It wasn’t bad enough for you to tap out, but it was definitely more intense than a few fingers.

“You got it, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair. His thrusts even came to a halt, letting you focus entirely on adjusting.

“You’re doing so good,” Dick praised. His voice sounded so strained. You wondered how different it felt for him.

He pushed forward until you let out a little pained squeak. Then he paused. He stayed there and drew back before working in again. Once he finally got most of himself in, he stopped for real. Both of them kept completely still, just allowing you to take in being full of both of them.

“How’re you doing? Is it feeling good yet?” Jason asked softly.

You nodded faintly against him, keeping your head pressed to his body. The beat of his heart under your head helped ground you.

“You feel so fucking good,” Dick sighed.

“You can start moving if you wanna…” you said.

“You sure?” they both said, a rare moment where they sounded totally in sync.

“Yeah,” you reaffirmed.

“You got it then. Always getting what you want,” Jason teased gently as he began working his hips once more.

Dick started a few seconds after him. He went a little slower, letting you get used to the movement. You mewled at the stretch, but it wasn’t painful like before. Along with Jason’s cock distracting you, it didn’t feel bad. You kind of started to like it.

Both of them kept firm grips on the flesh of your hips in different places. Dick’s thumbs pet stripes down the curve of your ass as his hips.

“So, so good for us,” he murmured with a squeeze. “So perfect.”

And praise came from Jason too, more freely than you’d ever heard it flow from his lips.

“Our pretty baby,” he cooed. “This is all you needed. To know we want you. To feel how much we need you.”

You nodded with a shuddery gasp, your head bobbing up and down lazily. Their rhythms were practically inverses of each other. When one went in, the other slid out. You were completely full for fleeting moments but never totally empty.

After a little while, it was more than you could take. You melted onto Jason’s chest, half-heartedly grabbing at him in a bid for some sort of stability. He held you closer with one arm across your shoulder blades and used his other hand for more leverage on your hips to pump his cock deeper inside you.

Every brush of his tip against your sweet spot drew you closer to release. Your eyes fluttered and warmth flooded every inch of your body.

“I’m right there with you, princess. Come on. Let go for me,” he said.

The rumble of his voice coaxing you to the edge worked almost as well as his physical touch. Your muscles tensed up before you felt that euphoric burst inside. A loud moan poured out of you onto his chest. You rolled your hips on him, unable to stop yourself from ignoring his previous directions.

It didn’t matter though. Dick pulled himself out of you a second later. You heard a couple soft grunts and then felt the warm splash of his cum on your back.

Jason came inside you. He buried himself all the way to the hilt before letting go with a loud groan. His neck flexed while the muscles in his arms twitched. You would have really admired the sight if you weren’t so fucked out yourself.

The three of you all came down at a similar rate. Dick slumped down to sit near the both of you on the couch. He ran a hand through his hair as he caught his breath. You slowly rolled off of Jason and sprawled out across a few cushions.

Silence filled the room around you, but for the first time all week, it wasn’t awkward. You were totally content not speaking right now. There wasn’t some void waiting to be filled. Rather, you were content with only their presence.

Jason was the first to get up. He slowly rose from the comfort of the couch. You watched lazily as he headed in the direction of the stairs. For a second, your stomach twisted with anxiety. Had you let yourself be used again so easily?

But he came back not even a full minute later with a water bottle and a rag to clean you up. Dick slid closer, not one to leave you hanging either. He took the damp cloth from Jason’s hand and brought it down between your legs and over your back.

You laid there and let them tend to you without a word until Jason carefully guided you upright. He tilted the now-open bottle against your lips, getting you to take a couple swallows of the cool liquid.

“Take it easy, pretty girl,” he said softly.

A bead of water rolled down from your lips onto your chin as he pulled the bottle away. You wiped it off with your index finger, your eyes flitting between the both of them.

While you may have patched things up, they still weren’t entirely normal. You were in a weird sort of limbo right now, just waiting to see what they would decide to do next.

Jason leaned in to plant a barely-there kiss on your temple. You took his large hand in your own, clasping your fingers around the warm flesh. “I’m gonna go put some clothes on,” he said.

He stood up and headed towards the stairs again, this time to actually leave the room. Your hands trailed down his skin, lingering on his fingertips before finally letting him go.

You contemplated your next move for a moment before turning to Dick. You took his hand as you’d done to Jason’s and gave it a squeeze.

He met it with that small smile of his. Reaching out, the bows of his fingers coasted over your cheek.

“You feeling better than before?” he asked.

You responded with a nod, determined for that to be the absolute truth.

“Good,” he said.

You stood up from the couch next and began picking up the clothing that was strewn about the area. He helped you out, picking his own garments and a couple of Jason’s. Together you both took them upstairs to your room.

While there, you put on a pair of fresh clothes, just a t-shirt and some shorts. Nothing too extravagant. You were too tired for that. 

Dick followed suit, pulling on some sweats to lounge around in. He flopped back onto your mattress and opened his arms for you.

You smiled and looked away playfully. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna get myself some more water.”

“Don’t be too long,” he teased.

“Don’t be impatient,” you said, in the same lilted tone.

You shut your bedroom door behind you and made your way across the walkway. On the path there, you just happened to notice. Jason’s door was shut. Seeing that stung a little bit. Maybe you hadn’t mended things as well as you thought.

But you forced yourself to shake off the impending doom and gloom. Even if things weren’t perfect, they were a step closer to better. It might take time. You had patience, just like you’d told him. He was worth the effort.

Once you reached the kitchen, you did fill up a glass of water for yourself, but you didn’t head back up to your room immediately. Instead, you drifted towards the balcony doors. It was dark out there, the horizon so vast it made you feel as if the wind could sweep you up and carry you away.

You unlatched the lock and cracked the door open, stepping outside. The night air instantly sent a chill across your exposed skin. The wind nipped at your legs and sliced over your forearms. You wrapped them around your torso for some semblance of warmth.

Despite the wind, it was quiet out here. The city was lit up down below, but you couldn’t hear the noise of it. You approached the railing, still a step or two away from actually touching the barrier.

The fresh air filled your lungs. For the first time in days, you didn’t feel wound up about something. Things had settled with Jason, you knew Dick wasn’t upset with you, and you honestly couldn’t care less about the things your father had said earlier.

You wished you could be like this all the time. Serene and tranquil, not so reactionary, lashing out at the slightest deviation to your wishes.

The door opened and clicked into place again behind you. You spun around, heart beating fast, but it was only Jason.

“Hey…” he said, taking a few tentative steps in your direction.

“Hi…” You took a couple in his as well.

You met in the middle, equidistant from the glass doors and the steel railing. Your eyes met his. A silent exchange passed between the two of you, one without words or even coherent thoughts, just raw emotion.

His arm came out before you could say a word. He looped it over your shoulders and brought you in to his chest.

“Thought you never came out here?” he asked.

Your hand curled around his bicep. “I just felt like it tonight.”

Another few seconds went by with the wind doing all the talking. But he didn’t let things stall for too long.

“I went to your room. Dick told me you were getting water.”

“Why’d you go there?” you asked quietly. Your fingers swirled little patterns on his arm while hope bloomed in your chest.

“Maybe I wanted to be in there with you two tonight…” he said, so soft and faint as if he was forced to confess it.

“Just for tonight?” you whispered, tilting your head up to see him clearly. “Will it be your last?”

“No,” he said back. A simple answer, but the only one you needed all the same. He wasn’t leaving. Not yet anyways.

You squeezed your arms tighter around him, shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath of his air.

“You can always be in there. Whenever you want,” you said.

“Good. I’m gonna hold you to that for the next few weeks.”

The next few weeks. A dreadful reminder that your relationship rested upon the foundation of an ever-ticking clock. It didn’t matter right now though. Not while he was in your arms, telling you he wanted you back. You could worry about what would happen down the line in January when it came.

“Let’s start right now then.” You stepped back and took his hand, leading him back inside and up to the bedroom. In there, with both of them, time wouldn’t matter. Other assignments or obligations would have no effect. You could bury yourself in the mess of pillows and blankets, happy that you had managed to turn things around just this once.

[collywobblvs]

RAHHHHHH THIS IS SO GOODDD

୨୧﹕fem!reader, he makes u squirt

ryuken didn’t usually lower himself to debates about sex.

he was a man of precision. control. a practiced hand and a sharper mind. and right now, both were focused on you—laid out on his pristine sheets, legs spread, eyes hazy but stubborn, voice hoarse from earlier moans.

“i told you,” you huffed, panting, your body trembling under his touch, “i can’t. i’ve never—”

“that’s because no one’s tried properly,” he interrupted flatly, gaze focused between your thighs, where two of his long fingers were slowly pumping in and out of your soaked pussy, steady, relentless, curling with medical intent. “or you’ve never been disciplined enough to let it happen.”

you glared at him through the haze of pleasure. “it’s not—about discipline, ryuken—!”

his brow twitched. not in anger. in disappointment.

“don’t be ridiculous,” he said, voice calm and clinical. “this is anatomy. your body has the capacity to do it. you’re simply not trying hard enough.”

you whimpered as his thumb pressed against your clit—no circles, no teasing—just pressure, precise and maddening, dragging heat up your spine like a live wire. you bucked your hips involuntarily, but his other hand pinned your thigh down.

“stop fighting it. you’ll never make it acting like a brat every time it gets too intense.”

“i’m not being a—”

“then prove me wrong,” he snapped, a rare edge to his voice. “you keep insisting it’s impossible, and yet your cunt is swallowing my fingers like it’s starving. you’re dripping down my wrist, and you have the audacity to tell me you’re not close?”

you moaned, breath hitched, walls clenching around him.

“oh, i see,” ryuken muttered, lips curling faintly as he shifted lower, fingers plunging deeper, curling sharper now, brushing that soft, deadly spot inside you over and over with cruel accuracy. “this isn’t about impossibility. you just don’t deserve it yet, is that it?”

your body jolted.

“n-no—fuck—ryuken—”

his hand didn’t stop. his eyes narrowed.

“you’ve coasted by on half-assed orgasms and lazy men with no understanding of your body,” he said coldly, “and now you’re so fucking spoiled you think when something doesn’t happen instantly, it’s impossible.”

you moaned louder, hips rolling, clit grinding desperately against his thumb now.

“i c-can’t—!”

he slapped your pussy, quick and sharp. you squealed, hips jumping.

“say that again,” he growled.

your voice broke. “i—!”

“say it,” he barked. “say you can’t again, and i’ll leave you here a soaked mess with nothing to show for it but wasted potential.”

“f-fuck—please, ryuken, please don’t stop—”

“then stop talking,” he snapped. “shut your stupid mouth and let it happen.”

he shoved his fingers deeper, curling hard against your g-spot, grinding into it now, faster, thumb unrelenting on your clit. the pressure inside you coiled tight—too tight, too much—

“gonna—oh god—gonna pee—!”

“you’re not pissing,” he hissed, voice low, dark, nearly amused. “you’re squirting. that’s your pathetic little brain not catching up to your body. let it happen.”

and then your body gave out.

you screamed, thighs jerking against his grip, cunt pulsing around his fingers as a gush of warm liquid sprayed out, soaking his hand, his wrist, the sheets beneath you.

“f-fuck—!”

you shook violently, tears slipping down your cheeks, overstimulated and wrecked.

ryuken sat back slowly, flicking droplets off his fingers with surgical calm.

“there,” he said, tone dry. “was that so difficult?”

you could barely breathe.

“didn’t think so,” he muttered, already reaching for a fresh towel like this was just another routine procedure. “you’ll do it again.”

you whimpered.

“oh yes,” he said, tone final. “you’ll keep doing it until you understand what happens when you listen.”

his clean hand gripped your thigh again, dragging you back into position.

“now—try harder.”

[collywobblvs]

thanks for the tag sweetie pie!!

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child.

no pressure tags: @sabrinasopposite @brittscafe @sashi-ya @icycoldninja @subpopizzy @short-honey-badger @daylighted + anyone else!!

tagged by @oncasette love u roma 💗

rules: color the parts that are true about you

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

tags! @wolvisms @bradshawed @moonstruckme @cosmal @hufflezki @ribbonbiter @iamgonnagetyouback

[collywobblvs]

UGHHH THIS IS SO GOOD BROOO

Here is the link to my masterlist.

Will Graham: Unspoken Tension

I just want to start this off by saying this is not how I typically write. For those of you who have read a lot of my writing, this may be a bit of a surprise. I just wanted to test the waters with this. Will is typically super sweet and awkward in most things I write. And he will more than likely remain that way in most things I write after, unless you guys really like this. Like most things I write, I saw a TikTok and ran with it, but yeah, enjoy!

The classroom had been quiet for almost ten minutes since the last student left, their chair scraping back, final paper handed in with a shaky thanks, and the door clicking shut behind them.

You were still sitting, half-turned in your seat, watching Professor Graham pack up with the same quiet intensity he always carried. It was like he knew more than he let on or like he saw too much.

Your fingers were fidgeting with the zipper of your oversized tote as he shot you a small smile and headed to his office. The air still buzzed with everything left unsaid over the semester between the two of you.

Flirting that had danced at the edge of inappropriate. A smirk here, a lingering glance there. The time he stood just a bit too close behind you while you read a profile aloud. 

The time he muttered “clever girl” under his breath with a voice that felt like it scraped straight down your spine.

You told yourself it was nothing. You had to tell yourself it was nothing.

But now?

Now you were a couple of days from graduation. No more classes. No more titles. No more excuses.

Your sneakers echoed down the hall toward his office. Familiar. Tense. You paused outside the door, heart in your throat, and lifted your hand to knock.

“Come in,” came his voice. It was low, rough like smoke and tension.

You slipped in, shutting the door behind you gently, eyes locking with his.

His sleeves were rolled up, arms folded over the edge of his desk, dark curls a little tousled from him running his hands through them too many times.

“What are you still doing here?” he said, eyebrows raised with the barest smile at the corners of his mouth. “I figured you’d be out celebrating by now with your friends.”

You stood there for a second too long before answering. “I'm meeting a couple of them later.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes dragging slowly over your form. “Congratulations on graduating. You’ve been...good to have in class. Really good (y/n).”

"Thanks, Professor Graham." You stepped forward. One. Two. Fingers found the lock on the door behind you. Click.

That made him blink.

“(Y/N),” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”

“Well, since you’re not my professor anymore, I can finally say this out loud: I really want to kiss you. I’ve wanted to since the first time I was in your class.”

He stood, but not surprised by your forwardness. You had always been like that. 

He was taller than you remembered. He always felt tall in class, in charge, but now, without a desk between them, the air thick with whatever the hell this was, he felt even larger. Broader. Sharper around the edges.

His dark eyes burned into you, jaw tightening like he was weighing every possible consequence and still thinking about doing it anyway.

“Since we’re being so honest, the feeling was mutual,” he said, voice low.

You inhaled like it was the first breath you’d taken in days. “Then why haven’t you?”

His head tilted, curls shifting slightly. “Because if I start... I won’t be able to stop.”

The room swayed for a moment under the weight of that admission.

“I don’t care,” you breathed, voice trembling slightly from nerves and not from fear. “I had a dream once. About you. About this. You took me on your desk.”

His reaction was instant. It was a quiet inhale through his nose, eyes darkening with something dangerous. Hunger. Restraint, breaking.

“And what else happened?” he asked, and something in your stomach clenched, warm and hot and trembling. You opened your mouth to respond, but got too nervous to speak.

You dropped your gaze, looking everywhere but at him. His voice was firm, almost teasing. “Don’t get shy on me now (y/n).”

You looked back up at him, licking your lips, trying to focus past the rush in your chest. “Then why haven’t you done it? Why haven't you kissed me? We've been alone plenty of times.”

Will didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped closer, eyes still locked on yours like he could pull every answer you’ve ever had from your mouth without needing a word.

“How old are you?”

You blinked. “Twenty-six.”

He nodded once, slowly, as if confirming something in his head. Then he gave you a look you couldn’t quite place, curious, cautious, almost reverent.

“How old are you?” you asked back.

“Forty,” he said plainly.

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t need to. You let the silence hang until it pulled something unspoken between you.

His head tilted slightly, searching your expression. “Is that too old for you?”

You shook your head, voice quiet, but sure. “No. But that does turn me on.”

Will exhaled through his nose, half-laughing under his breath like he didn’t believe you said it, like it was the final thread snapping inside him. His mouth twitched up at the corners.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warned, stepping close enough that the edge of his desk pressed into your lower back.

“Yes, I do,” you whispered. “And I want it anyway, Professor Graham.”

Will didn’t move, even with the weight of your words hanging between you.

“I want you,” you said again, firmer this time, watching how his jaw twitched.

He turned his head slightly, as if looking at you from another angle would make it easier. It didn’t. “You think you know what that means,” he murmured, voice rough. “But you don’t.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms under your chest, tilting your head. “Don’t do that. Don’t try to protect me like I’m some naïve undergrad. I know exactly what I want.”

He stepped forward again, slow and deliberate. His gaze dropped to your lips and hovered there, just for a second too long.

“That may be true,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now, “but I’d break your heart.”

You almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. A soft chuckle, really. “Maybe I’d let you.”

That got him.

His hand twitched at his side. For a moment, it looked like he was going to reach for you. The world quieted to the space between his chest and yours. The weight of it. The wanting.

You leaned in slightly, just enough to tip the moment over the edge.

But then: knock knock.

You jumped a little, forgetting where you were.

Will’s eyes shut tightly for a split second, as if physically pained. “Of course.”

Another knock.

“Will?” Alana’s voice filtered through the door. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”

Your body moved faster than your mind could catch up—legs crossed, spine straight, your final report suddenly in hand as you dropped neatly into the seat across from his desk. Cool, composed, untouched.

Will’s eyes scanned you once. You gave him the smallest smirk. Then he turned toward the door.

“Yeah,” he called. “Just a sec, Alana.”

He opened it slowly, stepping out and closing it gently behind him.

You could faintly hear their voices through the wood.

“Sorry,” Alana said. “I just wanted your input on that dismemberment case from Ohio. The new one.”

A pause.

“She’s cute,” Alana added in a whisper, teasing, gesturing toward the door with her chin.

Will’s reply was flat. “She’s my student.”

“So?” she said, arching a brow. “Besides, isn’t she graduating?”

Another pause. A rustle of paper.

He took the case file from her without another word and returned to the office.

You looked up with that same practiced innocence, chin resting on your hand, eyes wide. “What did Alana want?”

He shut the door with a click and held up the file like it weighed more than it should. “Case notes.”

Then he glanced back at you. His tone shifted. “She said you were cute.”

Your heart thudded behind your ribs.

You tilted your head slowly, lashes lowering. “And what do you think, Professor Graham?”

He stopped in his tracks. Entirely still.

He was looking at you like a man starved.

His voice came slower this time, deliberate. “I think you know exactly what I think.”

You stood now, just as slowly as you spoke, circling the desk until only the polished wood was between you and him.

Your fingers brushed over the surface—his desk. The one you dreamed about. The one you wanted him to ruin you on.

“I want to hear you say it,” you whispered.

Will’s mouth twitched, as if he was trying not to smirk. The tension in his jaw, the darkness in his eyes—it all told you exactly how close he was to losing control.

“You like control, don’t you?” you asked softly. “Being the one who knows more. Who holds back. Who makes everyone else squirm while you keep it all in.”

You rounded the desk fully, close enough now that your shoulder brushed his as you moved. You saw his breath hitch. Saw his hand flex like he was forcing himself not to touch you.

“I think you’re tired of holding back,” you murmured, stepping into his space.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” he said, his voice lower than ever now, barely a thread of warning in it.

But it wasn’t a rejection.

It was a line he wanted you to cross.

“I think I do,” you said. “And I think you do too.”

He didn’t move. Not away. Not forward. He stood there, staring at you like you were something carved out of temptation and fire. Then—

His voice dropped, almost a growl. “Say it again.”

Your brows lifted just slightly. “What?”

“Say you want me.”

You met his eyes and smiled, slow and deliberate.

“I want you.”

Two weeks later graduation came and went like a blur of handshakes and clinking glasses. There were photos, speeches, and extended family you barely knew hugging you too long. Your friends beamed. Your parents cried. Professors offered words of encouragement about your future.

You hadn’t texted Will. Not once. The urge had struck at least a dozen times. There were half-typed messages at 2AM, half-saved drafts. But you never sent them.

You’d made the first move. You’d told him what you wanted. And if he wasn’t going to meet you there… fine. You weren’t going to beg.

You didn’t beg.

Well maybe not unless he asked.

So when you saw him again, weeks later, it hit like a punch to the chest.

It was a quiet Sunday. The air was damp with late spring humidity. Mazy, your overly friendly Australian Shepherd, was tugging at her leash in that way she always did when she wanted attention from every stranger on the street.

You were halfway through the park, earbuds in, mind somewhere else entirely, when you heard the voice.

“(Y/N).”

You stopped.

Turned.

And there he was.

Will Graham in a worn charcoal sweater and jeans, curls messy from the breeze, sleeves pushed up just like always. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

Mazy immediately trotted up to him like she’d known him her whole life. Tail wagging furiously.

You watched him crouch down, pet her behind the ears. He gave her a soft smile, then looked up at you, blue eyes unreadable.

“You got a dog,” he said quietly.

“I did,” you said, watching his hands. “She was a graduation gift from my parents.”

He nodded, rising to his full height. “What’s her name?”

“Mazy.”

“She’s sweet.”

“She’s manipulative,” you said dryly. “Lures people in with the eyes.”

Will gave a quiet laugh. “Sounds familiar.”

Your stomach turned, low and slow. The air between you stretched. That same invisible wire, pulled tighter now. Older. Hungrier.

You tucked your hands into your coat pockets. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

“I didn’t expect to be here,” he said. “Walked a different route today. Then I saw you.”

You nodded, heart pounding beneath your skin. “You look tired.”

He smirked. “You look smug.”

You shrugged. “I’m just walking my dog.”

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he asked, stepping closer, not enough to touch, but enough to feel.

“Not a clue,” you said, eyes flicking down to his mouth and then back up. “You tell me, Professor Graham.”

Will inhaled sharply through his nose. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” you asked, voice low and teasing. “I’m not your student anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “You still feel like one.”

“You mean… untouchable?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his gaze swept over you in that slow, burning way that made your lungs forget what they were for. But still, he didn’t touch you.

“You’re doing it again,” you whispered.

“What?”

“Pulling away just when it gets good.”

“I’m not going to fuck you in a park (y/n),” he said flatly.

You laughed, loud and genuine, and Mazy barked as if she agreed. “I wasn’t asking for that. Yet.”

Will’s jaw clenched. His eyes dropped to the ground, and for a second, you saw a flicker of something broken, desire wrapped in fear. Want held back by guilt and time.

“I left the ball in your court,” you said softly, stepping just a little closer. “You didn’t take the shot.”

Will met your eyes again. Raw. Conflicted. A man unraveling slowly, methodically, from the inside out.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “Not yet. Not when I know I’ll ruin you.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t get to decide what ruins me.”

He swallowed. “You deserve more than—”

“Please stop.” you interrupted, firm this time. “You don’t get to do that either. I’m not some fragile thing you’re saving. I’m someone who wanted you.”

Will looked at you like it hurt to breathe.

Mazy tugged at her leash again, tail still wagging, sensing the shift in mood.

“I should go,” you said finally, voice quiet. “I have to get her home.”

You took a few steps, then stopped, half-turning to look at him over your shoulder.

“Call me,” you said. “Or don’t. But if you don’t, don’t ever act like I didn’t want you.”

You turned and walked away.

Will didn’t move.

But he watched you until you disappeared.

Later that night, you were fresh from the shower, hair damp, watching some reality tv show quietly in the background because you couldn’t stand silence lately. 

The oversized tee you wore that barely covered your ass stuck slightly to your skin, your legs bare and curled under you as you nursed a pint of ice cream.

Mazy lay stretched on the rug by the couch, twitching slightly in her sleep.

You had just taken a spoonful to your lips when your phone lit up across the coffee table.

Professor Graham.

Your heart stuttered.

You stared at the screen like it might burn you.

You picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

His voice came through low, edged with something darker than you’d ever heard from him.

“Tell me to come over.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m standing in my kitchen,” he said. “Phone in one hand. Keys in the other. So just say it.”

You set your ice cream aside slowly, heartbeat thudding. “What would we be doing if you did?”

There was a pause. It was just long enough to make your breath catch.

“First,” Will said, voice smooth, dangerously steady, “I’d press you against the wall. Wet hair. Damp skin. I’d taste the water sliding down your neck before I ever touched your lips.”

You gripped the edge of the couch cushion.

“I’d strip you in the hallway,” he continued, “but slowly. Like I’ve got time. Like I haven’t spent months thinking about this. Then I’d bend you over the kitchen table. Just to hear you say my name like it hurts.”

Your breath faltered. He kept going.

“Then I’d take you to the couch. Sit you on my lap. Make you ride me until you forget your own name. And then,” he added, voice lower now, “we’d end up in the shower. Water hot. Steam everywhere. Your thighs shaking while I fuck you against the tile.”

You were quiet.

Silent, actually.

Completely wrecked, completely speechless.

Will let the silence stretch just long enough before chuckling darkly. “What? Nothing to say now?”

“You’re just giving me empty promises,” you managed, breathless.

His voice turned sharp. “You think I’m lying?”

You licked your lips. “No. I think you’re cruel. I think you want to break me in half with words, but you won’t do a damn thing about it.”

Another pause. Heavy.

So you said it. Clear. Unapologetic. “Why won’t you just come over and fuck me Professor Graham?”

And that’s when the call ended.

The line went dead.

You stared at your screen, stunned, adrenaline crashing.

“Fucking coward,” you muttered, trying to laugh it off. But your heart was pounding too loud. You stood, pacing the room, still in nothing but a shirt and underwear. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream or throw your phone.

But then—a knock at the door.

Sharp. Urgent.

You froze.

Mazy perked her ears, lifting her head, tail thumping lazily.

You crossed the room slowly, blood rushing in your ears. You looked through the window by the door.

Will.

Soaked to the bone. Rain dripping from his curls. His clothes plastered to his body. Chest rising and falling like he’d been running—not from the weather, but from himself.

He had no umbrella. No coat.

Only his eyes, dark and locked onto the door, like he knew you were right there. Like he could feel you on the other side.

You opened it.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t say a word when he stepped inside.

Just closed the door behind him, locked it, and turned to face you like something primal had finally surfaced.

The kiss he gave you wasn’t rushed; it was measured. Controlled. Like he was still pretending he could pace himself. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your jaw, lips slow and deliberate against yours. But every breath that passed between you was ragged. Every soft groan in the back of his throat betrayed him.

His body was still soaked, rain dripping from his curls and clothes, and yet you didn’t care. Your fingers curled into the damp fabric of his shirt, clutching him like you might fall if you let go.

Will deepened the kiss, and his hands slipped down. They were over your neck, your arms, your waist. He explored like he had the right to, like he’d had a map of your body etched into the back of his mind for years.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his voice was thick. Rough.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” he murmured, watching your lips, kiss-swollen and trembling.

Your knees buckled. You actually whimpered, eyes fluttering as heat surged through every inch of you.

You weren’t just wet. You were overwhelmed. Drenched in everything he was, everything he’d kept from you until now.

You hated that it showed.

He saw the tears gathering in your eyes before they even fell.

“Aww,” he cooed, voice low and patronizing as he lifted one hand to your cheek. His thumb caught the tear that slipped free. “You poor baby. Use your words.”

You swallowed hard, eyes burning—not just from need, but from frustration.

He tilted his head, mocking curiosity darkening his gaze. “So you don’t beg?”

Your eyes flared. You stepped back, not far, just enough to glare up at him with fire.

Will just chuckled. Slow. Arrogant.

“You’re pissed,” he said, pleased by it. “What happened to all that attitude, sweet girl?”

He turned his back on you then, walking toward the couch. His wet footprints trail across your hardwood floor like evidence of a crime.

And without needing to be asked, without hesitation, you followed.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until he sat down and spread his legs. His soaked clothes clung to his thighs. His eyes met yours, and it was no longer a question of if this would happen. It was how long he’d make you wait to break.

“You’ve been such a good girl,” Will said, voice low, almost cruel in its gentleness. “So patient. You're so pretty when you need me.”

You stood in front of him, shaking slightly. You weren't sure if it was from the cold air he brought in or from the pressure of him finally seeing you like this.

“Take your shirt off,” he said softly. “I want to see how much you’ve missed me.”

You stood there in front of him, breath hitching, heart hammering, hands twitching at your sides.

The oversized shirt clung to your still-damp skin, rising just enough to expose the curve of your thighs, the edge of your soaked underwear.

Will leaned back into the couch like a man at peace. His clothes still dripped rainwater onto the floor, but he didn’t care. His eyes never left you.

“You’re still dressed,” he said softly.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t repeat himself.

He didn’t need to.

Your fingers found the hem of the shirt and lifted it slowly, watching him the whole time, searching his face for any flicker of weakness.

There was none.

You were left in nothing but those tiny, wet, barely there underwear.

Will's gaze dragged over you like a brand. Slow. Thorough. He licked his bottom lip, but made no move to reach for you.

You waited.

And then, after a long, pulsing silence—

“Beg.”

You blinked, caught between disbelief and raw heat.

“…What?”

That dark glint in his eyes? That wasn't playful.

“The next time I ask,” Will said, voice low, clipped, “won’t be so nice, (Y/N).”

You stared at him, heart sinking, throat tightening. Anger flared in your chest—but underneath it? Desperation. Shame, arousal, confusion. The tears came before you could stop them, stinging the corners of your eyes.

Will’s expression didn’t change.

You swallowed.

“…Please,” you said, barely a whisper.

He leaned forward slightly. “That’s not begging. Tell me what you want.”

Your jaw trembled. “Please, Will. I need you. I’ve been waiting for so long and I—” Your voice cracked. “Please.”

That finally did it.

He leaned forward, slowly, and rested his elbows on his knees, towering over you even seated. His hand reached up—fingertips brushing the damp skin of your inner thigh. You tensed.

He looked up at you. Sharp. Hungry.

“There she is,” he murmured. “Look at how needy you are. My pretty girl.”

The praise made you shiver. He thumbed a tear from your cheek again and this time, he didn’t mock you. This time, it was tender. Too tender.

It made you want to cry harder.

“Get on my lap,” he said. “Now.”

You obeyed.

You didn’t hesitate.

Not when his hands gripped your waist, not when he pressed you down against the hard line of him beneath his soaked jeans. Not when his lips ghosted your ear and he whispered—

“I’m going to make you ask for everything. Understand?”

You nodded.

“No. Say it.”

“…I understand.”

“Good girl.”

You straddled his lap, trembling—not from fear. From pressure. From the weight of him staring up at you like you were a masterpiece he had built just to destroy.

Will’s hands stayed firm on your hips, guiding you forward, grinding you down against the thick, unrelenting pressure between you. The fabric of your underwear dragged over him slowly, maddeningly slow. Too much friction and not nearly enough at once.

You whimpered.

“Say thank you,” Will murmured.

You blinked down at him, lips parted, flushed and dazed.

“F-for what?”

He raised an eyebrow. “For letting you ruin my lap.”

You choked on a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a sob—he didn’t care. He just tilted his head and waited.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He grinned. Pleased. Dark. Like this was all playing out exactly as he envisioned.

Will leaned forward slightly, mouth brushing your jaw, then down to your throat. He didn’t kiss you. He just breathed you in. You tilted your head on instinct, offering him more, needing his mouth anywhere, everywhere.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” he murmured against your skin. “Grinding on my lap. My desk. Your bed.”

You nodded fast, dizzy.

He let out a soft, cruel laugh. “I know, sweetheart. You practically drooled through class some days.”

You whimpered again, and this time he rewarded you. His hands slid up your waist, palms hot against your skin, thumbs brushing just under your breasts.

“Will,” you gasped. “Please.”

“Mm.” His lips finally touched the sensitive place beneath your ear. “Please what? Tell me what you want.”

Your whole body arched into him, like you were desperate for any contact, any friction, any release. “Please touch me Will. Do something. Anything—”

He gripped your hips tighter, holding you still.

“Anything?” he echoed, amused. “You’d let me do anything?”

You went still, breath caught.

And he grinned. Because that’s what he wanted. That hesitation. That need.

Then he finally, finally, slid one hand beneath the band of your underwear.

Your whole body shuddered.

Will groaned when he felt how wet you were for him. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with arousal. “So wet you’re shaking.”

You buried your face in his neck, whimpering when his fingers finally slid over you, slow and devastating.

"That won't do (y/n), look at me or I'll stop." He hissed in your ear. You gripped his shoulder, forcing yourself away from his neck to look into his eyes.

He didn’t give you what you wanted all at once. He toyed with you. Played you like an instrument he’d been tuning for years.

“You’re going to fall apart,” he whispered. “I told you this would happen.”

And you did.

Right there, in his lap, under his hand, gasping out half-formed words and soft cries, grinding down against his palm until the orgasm tore through you like nothing you’d ever felt before. You sobbed his name into his shoulder as your body collapsed against his chest, boneless and ruined.

Will held you through it, still stroking you softly, whispering praise in your ear. “I know, baby, I know. That’s what you needed, wasn’t it?”

You nodded weakly, still trembling, still wet and aching for him.

And Will, still fully dressed, still calm, still in control—smiled against your cheek and said, “You’re not done yet.”

[collywobblvs]

perfect give me 14 of these

i need a fic where hannibal or will is still a virgin

Oh this would definitely occur in college or university for Will. The shy, never stay at one place, timid boy just roaming the hallways. Until he is suddenly dragged into the quieter part of the building.

Your hand around his wrist. Dragging him away from eyes as he keeps his down. His lips parting to protest but the warm touch of your palm on his skin making his pale skin crimson red.

Not even a minute later, he is pushed against the wall. Your lips against his neck as your kiss however you like. One hand wrapped around his needy cock. His hands spasming against the wall.

Your wrist moves in slow shallow speed as you kiss the entirety of his neck. Free hand holding the back of his neck. Whimpers and whines leaving him, poor Will. Always a victim of your mind.

"want everyone to hear?", you whispered against his skin. A soft click of your tongue as you feel him leak more. But his lips lie. Head shakes from side to side. He is trying to keep his composure. He really is.

His eyes fluttering. Shallow breathes to mask the, once in a while, whimpers. Hand gripping the brick wall. Fisting to give himself strength.

But his hips still chased your hand. It still made his knees buckle. Sweat still formed on his skin. But when you did slide rightly once on his cock. His eyes closed.

Strings of curses and your name just slipped past without a care for anyones ear. Now, thankfully your other hand pressed against his soft lips to muffle them.

Almost falling to the floor as his hand clutched his bag, soft sobs leaving him. The orgasm making his eyes water. Your hand helped him calm down. Prolonging it to an end before you let his dick go. Slowly falling limp.

His deep breaths still echoed the empty hall as you chuckled. Taking out his handkerchief to wipe your hand before folding it neatly and putting it inside your own bag.

"a souvenir or maybe, something to return?", you said before pressing a kiss on his cheek and leaving him. A mess against the wall.

If this is how you repay him for helping out on a quiz. What would he get when he submits the important assignment he has done for you without your knowledge?

[collywobblvs]

BOAFFFFFF

୨୧﹕fem!reader, overstim w both

you’re not sure how many times you’ve cum—four? six? more?—because your brain’s gone soft, melted, wrecked between them.

your wrists are pinned above your head, suguru’s hand locked around them like iron, his grip unyielding as he kneels beside you, calm and composed like he isn’t the one making your thighs twitch uncontrollably. and between your legs, mouth stretched into a wicked grin, eyes twinkling with manic glee—satoru.

he’s been down there for what feels like hours.

“i mean,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, voice vibrating against your skin, “you said you could handle both of us. didn't you, sweetheart?” he presses two fingers into your slick, swollen cunt—easily, because you’re drenched, overstimmed, oozing—and curls them just right.

you wail. or try to. it comes out as a sob.

suguru chuckles above you, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “she’s trying so hard to be good.” his voice is velvet and cruel all at once. “such a sweet little mess now, aren't you?”

your hips jerk involuntarily as satoru’s mouth closes over your clit again, sucking hard, tongue flicking fast and sharp. your back arches off the bed, muscles twitching, the coil in your stomach pulled taut and thin like a wire about to snap.

“satoru—p-please—” you gasp, the words garbled and half-wrecked, your thighs squeezing around his head.

he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow down. in fact, he moans into your cunt like you taste like sugar, like he could live down there forever. his fingers keep pumping, curling, fucking into you as his mouth works your clit like he’s trying to force another orgasm out of you by pure will.

you’re crying now. can’t stop it. your eyes roll, tears spilling down your temples into your hair as your body spasms, jerks, chokes on another high.

suguru watches it all like it’s art. one hand stroking your cheek, the other lazily palming the bulge in his pants, smirking down at the way your chest heaves, the way you beg without realizing it anymore.

“there she goes again,” he murmurs. “such a good little toy for us.”

you shatter.

clit throbbing, cunt clenching around satoru’s fingers, thighs trembling so violently it feels like your bones might break. you sob his name, shaking, babbling incoherently as the orgasm rips through you—again. your body goes limp for a second, twitching in aftershocks.

but satoru doesn’t pull back.

no. he presses his mouth harder.

you squeal—guttural, instinctive—thrashing, trying to wriggle away. suguru chuckles again, holding you still with practiced ease, petting your hair like you’re fragile.

“you’re not done,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your nipple, watching it pebble. “not until we say so.”

“you’re still dripping,” satoru adds, lifting his mouth just enough to blow cold air on your soaked pussy, making your hips jerk. “still so fucking wet. this slutty pussy wants more.”

“no, i—i can’t—” you sob, but it’s useless.

satoru’s back at it. tongue dragging slow, teasing, just enough to build it up again. his fingers replaced with suguru’s now—longer, thicker, deeper. they slip inside you slick and easy, curling like they know exactly where that spot is, where to press, where to make your legs tremble again.

you’re gasping, moaning, twitching, begging now—no pride, no pretense. just a trembling, messy thing pinned between the strongest sorcerers alive, used like a favorite toy.

“you’re gonna give us one more,” suguru murmurs in your ear, voice low, lethal. “a big one. and then we’ll fuck you properly.”

you whimper.

satoru looks up, chin soaked in slick, eyes wild with that electric joy of his.

“one more,” he coos. “let go for us, baby. let us ruin you.”

and you do.