myyunaverse

[myyunaverse]

Bedbound and Beloved

poly!wolfstar x reader ☆ 2.8k

summary: when you're caught in a bad fever and a nasty flu, you find yourself unable to handle it on your own - so you turn to the only place that feels safe: the arms of your boyfriends, sirius and remus.

warnings: illness, fever, nausea, flu symptoms, caretaking, bathing, non-sexual nudity, implied bedrest, vulnerability, dependence vs independence, teasing/bickering, mild language, emotional comfort, reader is sick but cared for lovingly throughout masterlist

One thing that never mixes well with being an independent woman who refuses to rely on anyone is being sick. Add a sprinkle of stubbornness, and well — you've basically brewed your own disaster.

You pride yourself on your independence. It’s one of the many reasons you consider yourself a great woman. You get things done. You take care of yourself. You don’t need to be fussed over or babied. But one thing you’re not particularly proud of is lying to your boyfriends.

Although… was it really lying? You did say you were fine. And technically, at some point, you will be.

Just not right now — not when you're curled up on the freezing kitchen floor, head pounding, limbs shaking, nose raw from sneezing nonstop, and every single breath setting off another coughing fit. 

The so-called very mild fever you swore was no big deal now feels like a roaring fire under your skin. 

So yeah, maybe “fine” was a stretch.

You regret brushing them off over the phone earlier. Sirius had asked if you needed anything before leaving for class, and you’d waved it off with a laugh, even though your throat had felt like sandpaper.

Remus had sounded a little more hesitant, like he knew, but you doubled down. You told them both you’d be okay.

Now here you were, sweating and shivering all at once, the room tilting slightly each time you blinked too long, and the worst part? They weren’t even home.

Remus was probably buried in books somewhere on campus — his TA duties piling up on top of his thesis draft — and Sirius, well… he was either in a lab, tinkering with some dangerous-looking thing, or fast asleep in class again.

Electrical engineering wasn’t exactly a career path that fit Sirius, but he insisted it was the only way to build a flying motorcycle one day, so here he was — chasing dreams and occasionally electrocuting himself.

You reach for your phone on the counter with trembling fingers, teeth chattering despite the fever.

Calling Sirius would be useless. His phone’s battery life was more unreliable than your immune system. You pray that one day this bastard would leave the house with his phone charged. So you press Remus’ contact and pray he’s not in the middle of grading papers.

It rings once. Then twice. On the third ring, he picks up.

“Hello?” His voice is slightly out of breath — like he’d rushed to answer — and just hearing it sends your throat tight with guilt.

“Hi,” you croak out, followed immediately by a violent coughing fit. It’s embarrassing, really, the way you can’t stop. “Sorry. I’m— I’m so sorry to call, I just…”

“Dovey?” he says, instantly alert. You can already hear him moving, the soft rustle of papers and the creak of a chair. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not feeling very good,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t wanna bother you. I really thought I’d be fine, but I— I think I made it worse and I’m kinda… dizzy? And cold? And also really hot? And I—” You cut yourself off with another coughing fit. “I just didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m coming home,” Remus says, already halfway out the door by the sound of it. “Stay where you are, yeah? I’ll be there in ten.”

You nod even though he can’t see it, clutching the phone like a lifeline. You think you manage to mumble an “okay,” but it’s mostly lost in another sneeze.

All your pride, all that independence — it fizzles under the warmth of his voice.

After Remus hangs up, you don’t even bother moving off the kitchen floor.

You probably should. The tiles are cold, and the chill seeps through your pajamas and clings to your spine, but there’s not a single cell in your body willing to shift.

Every part of you feels heavy—eyes burning, limbs aching, skin buzzing from fever—and all your body wants to do is sink deeper into the floor like it might swallow you whole and finally let you rest.

You close your eyes just for a second.

And then the door opens.

It swings in with a soft slam, followed by the frantic shuffle of shoes and the sound of something (maybe a coat? a bag?) being dropped on the table.

Has it already been 10 minutes? It surely didn’t feel like it.

You’re still half-curled on the tiles, blurry-eyed, when a warm blur of Remus hurries toward you.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, already kneeling beside you. “Oh, baby—how long have you been down here?”

You blink up at him, and your throat burns when you try to speak. Nothing really comes out except a choked, pitiful sort of noise—one you hate hearing from your own mouth.

And then, for some inexplicable reason, the tears just come. You don't mean to cry. You’re not even entirely sure why you are. But there’s something about the concern in Remus’ eyes, the way he cups your cheek like you’re made of glass, that just undoes you completely.

“Oh, love,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, alright? I’ve got you.”

You bury your face into his jumper, cling to him like a child, and if the feminism gods have a problem with that, they can take it up with your fever of 39.5°C and your inability to stand without swaying.

Remus wraps his arms around you and pulls you in close. You can feel how tightly he’s holding back his own panic. “You’re burning up,” he mumbles, already shifting to lift you.

“Fuck, you’re so warm—how long have you been this bad?”

“I dunno,” you whisper, your voice small and scratchy. “Just… really needed you to come. I’m sorry for calling.”

His hold tightens, and he presses his lips against your damp temple with a fierce tenderness. “No, dovey. None of that. You never apologize for needing me.”

He rocks you gently, as though his arms alone could steady the fever rolling through you. “I would drop everything for you. Always. Same goes for Sirius—he’s already on his way now.”

He gets you to the bedroom gently—your shared bed, where the sheets are still mussed from the last time you were all tangled together in the night—and the moment you’re lowered onto the mattress, the front door flies open again.

Sirius bursts in like a storm.

“Where is she?”

His voice is sharp, on the edge of frantic, and when he spots you in bed, his whole face shifts. The smirk he so often wears is nowhere to be seen. He looks genuinely scared.

“Siri,” Remus says, glancing over his shoulder. “She’s alright, she’s just—burning up. It’s bad.”

Sirius is at your side in two strides. “Fuck.”

He brushes your damp hair back, touches your cheek with such tenderness it makes your chest ache more than the fever.

“Why didn’t you say you felt this awful?” he asks softly, like you didn’t just fall apart the second Remus got home. “God, your skin’s on fire.”

“I’m fine,” you croak, which is a clear lie, and the look on both their faces makes that obvious.

“No, you’re not,” Remus says, already heading to the bathroom. “I’m getting a towel and the meds.”

“And water,” Sirius calls after him, eyes never leaving yours. “Get her some water.”

He turns back to you, scooting in closer so his thigh brushes against yours. “What do you need, love? Do you want a bath? Or just the cloth? Or—shit, you’re shivering.”

“‘m tired,” you mumble, voice hoarse. “Feel gross.”

Sirius sighs softly and presses a kiss to your temple. “We’ll clean you up, alright? Get you cozy and warm. Remus’ll be back in a second.”

You nod, eyes already fluttering shut. You know you must look awful—red-nosed and blotchy and fever-slick—but neither of them seems to care.

While Sirius takes over your bedside, determined to be of some use, he starts talking. Rambling, really — about flying cars, some ridiculous engineering technique he swears is foolproof, and the idea of installing a caffeine machine in the bedroom.

You’re too sick to do more than blink slowly at him, barely catching every fourth word, but his voice is animated and comforting. It fills the silence in a way that doesn’t demand anything from you.

He’s using his hands a lot, gesturing wildly as if trying to paint the pictures for you, even if your eyes keep drifting shut between one blink and the next.

Then the door creaks open again, and Remus comes back in with an armful of supplies — a towel soaked with warm water, a bottle of water, a tray with painkillers, a jar of balm, and the tired, deliberate tenderness of someone trying very hard not to panic.

He kneels beside the bed without a word at first, reaching to draw you gently out of the blanket cocoon. The second the cold air hits your skin, you groan and immediately burrow into his chest, voice thick and scratchy as you mumble, “You’re so mean. Evil. I’m dying and you’re freezing me out.”

Remus chuckles softly, carding his fingers through your hair as he murmurs against your temple, “I know, I’m such a meanie, aren’t I, dovey? Could you just bear with me for a second, love? I promise it’ll be quick.”

You whine louder but don’t resist as his hands slide under the hem of your shirt, damp and clinging uncomfortably to your skin. “You’re soaked through,” he mutters, frowning, “no wonder you’re burning up.”

“Everything’s uncomfortable,” you grumble, nose smushed into his collarbone. “Especially me.”

Sirius helps carefully, surprisingly gentle with his hands as he peels the fabric off your body. The air bites at your skin as the wet clothes are discarded to the floor, leaving you in nothing but your bra and underwear.

You shift miserably, trying to curl into yourself again. “My bra hurts,” you mumble, a little slurred. “Feels like it’s suffocating me.”

“Off it goes, then,” Sirius says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, unclasping it for you and slipping it away with practiced ease. “Shouldn’t suffer unnecessarily, should you?”

You don’t have the energy to feel embarrassed. Everything aches. You just let them move around you, limbs heavy, your body pulsing with heat.

Remus cradles your cheek in his palm, eyes scanning your face with soft, focused worry as he presses the painkillers into your hand and helps you sip some water.

“There we go, sweetheart. In you go,” he says, as Sirius leans over to scoop you up again.

“Bath time,” Sirius declares. “Let’s lower that volcano-core temperature, shall we?”

Remus checks the water once more with his hand before helping you ease into the tub, his touch steady and patient.

You let out a quiet sigh as the warmth soaks into your skin, easing the ache in your joints. He crouches beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and gently tilts your head back.

“You’ll feel better in a few minutes, promise,” he murmurs, pouring water slowly through your hair. “You’re already looking less miserable.”

You hum faintly in reply, eyes half-lidded.

Meanwhile, Sirius is perched on the edge of the sink, going through your endless row of shampoo and bath products like he’s narrating an expedition.

“Why do you have seventeen bottles labeled with botanical names I can’t pronounce?” he mutters, holding one up and squinting. “This one’s got oat milk and... fermented cactus? What even is a fermented cactus?”

“She likes her things,” Remus says mildly, lathering your scalp with gentle hands.

Sirius snorts and picks up another bottle. “This one smells like overpriced incense. My birthers used to keep this stuff in the downstairs bath for guests—”

Remus cuts him a look. “Your what?”

“My birthers,” Sirius says, as if it’s obvious. “You know, the people who legally created me.”

You laugh weakly, voice hoarse, but it earns a smile from both of them.

“Don’t encourage him,” Remus mutters under his breath, fingers still carding through your hair. 

Sirius shrugs. “Tell me it’s not accurate.”

“I'm too sick for this,” you murmur, and Remus presses a kiss to your temple.

“Which is why we’re getting you clean and warm,” he says softly. “And why you’re going straight back to bed after this.”

Once the bath is done, warm water trickling down your back and lulling the last of the feverish shivers out of you, Remus helps towel your hair dry while Sirius fumbles through the drawers in search of clean clothes.

“There we go, sweet girl,” Remus murmurs, guiding you to sit on the closed toilet seat as he gently squeezes the ends of your hair. “You did so good.”

Sirius tosses a hoodie onto the bed and rummages through the drawer. “Found the good ones,” he says, holding up a pair of soft, worn-in sweatpants with a little smile.

Before you can even protest, they’re moving with practiced ease. Sirius kneels at the edge of the bed, helping guide your legs one at a time into the sweatpants with careful hands, all the while muttering, “Easy now, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Remus slips the hoodie over your head, smoothing your hair back gently. “Arms up—there we go,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

Remus tucks the blanket up to your chin while Sirius straightens your pillows with military precision.

“Okay,” Sirius declares, collapsing onto the foot of the bed like it’s been a long day of war, “we’re ordering pizza.”

“No,” Remus says, without looking up from tucking in the extra throw blanket around your legs. “Absolutely not.”

Sirius blinks. “Absolutely yes.”

“You can’t feed someone who’s sick a greasy carb-bomb with no nutritional value—”

“Greasy carb-bombs are nutritional!”

“She has a fever,” Remus replies, standing up and crossing his arms. “And her stomach’s already messed up.”

“Yeah, but I’m hungry.”

“You can eat literally anything else.”

“I don’t want anything else.” Sirius throws his hands in the air. “I swear, no one in this house cares about my needs. I am starved. I have been tending to the ill. Where is the respect—”

Remus ignores that, tapping furiously on the screen. “Fine. Mushroom soup. Pesto pasta. And—ugh, why are there like eight places for soup.”

“Get the one from Café Flora,” you mumble from under the blanket pile. “They put thyme in it.”

“See? She agrees with me. She wants soup,” Remus says smugly.

“I want pizza,” Sirius whines, flopping dramatically against the mattress like a dying poet.

“You are getting pizza,” Remus grumbles. “I’m ordering it too. Just—shut up!”

“And what are you getting?” you ask sleepily, peeking out.

“A sandwich,” Remus says, too quickly.

Sirius squints. “Wait. From where?”

“That bakery near the library.”

“You’re getting a sandwich from a bakery and saying I’m the unhinged one?”

“I like it.”

Once everything is finally ordered, Remus nudges Sirius off the bed and crawls in beside you. Sirius follows, laying across the foot of the bed again, head resting on your calves.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur after a minute. “For dragging you both out of your day. You probably had work, or class, or lives.”

Remus shifts so he’s facing you fully. “Don’t apologize for being sick, love.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says, voice suddenly soft. “We’re not mad. You don’t have to be sorry for needing help.”

“I’m still sorry,” you whisper, blinking too fast. “You’re taking care of me and I look like a drowned rat.”

Remus leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You look adorable.”

Sirius grins. “The prettiest, most pathetic little blanket burrito I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re not alone, dove,” Remus says. “You never have to be.”

Sirius crawls forward to sandwich you in a hug. “And besides, now I get to eat pizza in bed and pretend I’m being a martyr. It’s my favorite combo.”

You laugh, muffled into Remus’s shoulder. “I love you both.”

Sirius ruffles your hair gently. “Yeah, yeah. We love you too. Now rest up. Your soup’s coming. My pizza’s coming. And Remus’s sad sandwich is coming too.”

“What’s wrong with my sandwich?”

“What’s not wrong with it?” Sirius says, suddenly dramatic. “You know what Regulus and I lived off as kids? Sandwiches. Sad, lifeless sandwiches. Because our birthers couldn’t be arsed to learn how to cook or parent.”

Remus throws his hands in the air. “Oh my god.”

“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, now fully on a roll, “you eating that in front of me is triggering my inner child. It really reminds me of being psychologically ravaged by my birthers—”

“Can you stop saying birthers,” Remus explodes, finally snapping. “It makes it sound like you hatched out of a government lab.”

You burst into laughter, nearly choking on nothing but the warmth of your own giggle. Sirius beams, victorious.

“Well,” he says smugly, “have you met Walburga? Would explain a lot.”

And as Sirius and Remus bicker on you sink deeper into the warmth of the blankets, your cheek pressed to Remus’s shoulder, Sirius’s fingers tangled loosely with yours.

You’ve always been stubborn about your independence, but maybe letting yourself lean a little wasn’t the worst thing.

Especially when it came from two complete idiots who somehow made you feel a little more human again.

[myyunaverse]

I need you to feel alive

clark kent x f!reader

cw: smut (mdni, 18+), superman stamina, reader passes out during sex, worried!protective!lclark, a thousand apologies, p in v, creampie, overstimulation (r)

wc: 1k

a/n: I recently fainted (in a very different scenario than this one) for the first time in my life and I feel like it changed me as a writer lol, so this was born

now playing: Void - The Neighbourhood

Your thighs ached, your clit throbbed and you wondered whether you were drooling.  Clark’s cock bullied your cervix with every thrust – and not for the first time tonight.

The number of releases you had shared in the last few hours was lost on you. Your brain had stopped working somewhere after number six and that had been when the sun was still setting. Now, it was pitch-black outside. 

Sweat dripped from Clark’s brow as he thrusted into you again, the mushroom head of his cock slipping along your velvety walls until it met that spongy spot deep within you. A broken cry elicited from your lips along with a breathy whisper of his name. You weren’t sure if he even heard it. Actually, you weren’t even sure if any sound had made it out of your mouth. 

Kryptonian stamina was not to be underestimated, so the fact that Clark was at the point of sweating was rather telling of the kind of night you had had.  Purple marks littered every inch of your skin, from the underside of your jaw to the curve of your breast. Saliva, cum and your own juices were in places they had never been before, dripping between your thighs, mingling on your back and painting the skin of your tummy. 

It was filthy, it was nasty, it was so Clark and you.

“You with me, baby?” He asked, not stopping the roll of his hips as he tried to merge himself even deeper in you. There was a rasp to his voice, an almost broken quality while he let himself be enveloped by your fluttering walls. 

You nodded as dark spots flickered across your vision. “Mhm,” you slurred and he halted. Still sheathed in you, he grabbed your chin with a trembling hand as he struggled to keep himself in check.

“Can you say it with big girl words, please?” Clark mumbled and brushed his thumb across your jaw.

“I’m good,” you muttered, “But this is the last one, okay?” 

He nodded affectionately and placed a gentle kiss on your cheek which contrasted like black and white as he resumed rutting his hips into yours. 

“Last one,” he echoed, “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Taking it like the best girl in the world. My girl.”

The bed creaked dangerously as his pelvis pushed forward again, and your eyes rolled back until you saw stars. He panted in your ear while his whole length twitched in you. Three shaky fingers found your clit, drawing messy circles, almost slipping off with how wet you were. Anything was lube tonight: spit, previous cum, sweat. 

He fucked into you a little faster like he had taken pity on your aching body. One part of you – your brain – knew two things: You should either tap out or at least tell him to hurry up. But the other part of you – namely your cunt – clenched around him so tight that he winced, not letting go yet. 

“Baby, gosh, you are gonna.. oh my…,” he grunted and circled your throbbing bundle of nerves faster while diving harder into you, little desperate sounds tumbling from his mouth, “Please, you’re…. you feel so good. Just one last…”

The spots on your vision darkened even more and spread as your orgasm built up. 

“Clark,” you whined and he misinterpret severely. 

“I know, baby, almost there,” he drawled and increased the rhythm of his hips and fingers even more. 

Your release washed over you like a tidal wave, tingling from your spine to your fingertips and toes. A moan that rivaled any pornstar’s slipped from you and your nails weakly dragged across his back while he buried himself to the hilt in your warmth. 

Then the world went dark. 

“Oh… oh gosh, what the… baby? Sweetheart? Please, oh my gosh, please wake up. Can you hear me?”

Your vision didn’t return immediately, neither did the feeling in your fingers. You laid on the mattress, something warm dripping out of you and a clammy hand held yours. 

“Sweetheart?” Clark repeated and then you started seeing him. At first it was just a faint silhouette, then his edges sharpened and baby blue eyes looked at you, filled with horror, concern and relief all at the same time.

“Clark?” You asked, feeling cold sweat pool on your skin. 

He breathed out a shaky laugh and you saw tears build on his waterline. 

“Fuck, you scared me so much. Are you okay? Can you hear me? Can you see me?”

You hadn’t heard him cuss that often in the time you had been together, so his word choice was quite the shock to you. 

“Yeah,” you muttered and wiped a hand across your face. “I’m good.”

When you attempted to sit up, his large hand immediately sprawled across your collar bone, pushing you back down.

“No, sweetheart, please… just stay. My word, you… you were gone for… I don’t know… twenty seconds? I think my heart didn’t beat once.”

He pushed a sweat soaked strand of hair from your forehead and placed a kiss right against your temple. “You feeling okay? Can I… can I get you some water… or something to eat?”

You shook your head and the feeling in your hands returned, like needles pricking your fingertips again and again. 

“No, I don’t need anything. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He gently cradled your face between his hands and tilted your head to meet his eyes.

“Please don’t apologize. That was… that was on me… I am the one who’s sorry. I shoulda…. I shoulda seen that you were done. I’m sorry, I was so selfish. Please forgive me.”

Clark’s voice shook with unshed tears, his fingers desperately holding onto you. His lower lip wobbled and his eyes… his eyes glistened as he struggled to meet yours.

“It wasn’t your fault, baby,” you muttered and now you were the one reaching out to cup his face. “I should’ve told you. But nothing happened, I’m fine. Just… you’re just that good.”

A wet chuckle sounded through the room and he pulled you into his arms. 

“You’re insane. And I love you. But you’re insane,” he muttered, gently swaying the two of you back and forth. 

❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆

[myyunaverse]

i have this unrealistic fantasy in my head where if you calmly and logically explain something to someone perfectly they will understand your position and gain knowledge from the exchange. unfortunately in the real world this does not happen often

[myyunaverse]

wiping his kisses off (clark kent x fem!reader)

summary: you hop on the trend of wiping off your boyfriends kisses off, only to cave in a matter of seconds.

content: just fluff, pet names, clark being the cutest ever i want to smush his cheeks

—————————————————————————

it was cruel. but you couldn’t help yourself.

all clark ever wanted to do after work was kiss you all over and hold you as if your body disintegrated the stress of the day from his. but tonight, after hours of doomscrolling, you just had to try the trend on clark.

you hear the lock on the front door click, in sync with a heavy exhale of relief. you turn to look over the couch to see an especially disheveled looking Clark taking off his shoes with his heels and placing his briefcase on the floor.

“hey, you,” you chirp, leaning back on the couch to get an upside-down view of your boyfriend, your voice so syrupy and inviting Clark could practically start floating.

“hi baby,” he says softly, smiling when he sees you sitting so pretty on the couch, quilt draped over your lap with a book on top. he pads over to you, stalking above your form behind the couch. “missed you, missed your face,” he bends down to meet your laid back head and presses a long, tender kiss to your lips. when you separate, he barely has time to admire your face (as he always does) before you wipe your lips with the back of your hand. he slightly retracts away, brow furrowing in confusion. he ducks down to kiss you one more time, to make sure he’s seeing right - only to be met with the same sight he’d witnessed before.

“why are you doing that?” he asks, face inches from yours.

“doing what?” you act oblivious, stuck between keeping a serious face or grabbing his and kissing it all over, saying you didn’t mean it.

“wiping them off,” he says, deflated, and it makes your heart ache. he’s so innocent and so obviously hurt. you know Clark and you know where his mind has immediately gone - to the pit of self-doubt that tells him it’s his fault. “did I do something?”

that damn kicked puppy look is what gets to you break. you spring up, bouncing in the couch cushions, to throw your arms around his neck.

“imsorryimsorryimsorry,” you say between kisses that land in various places on his face. he’s confused at first, but his arms eventually fall to their natural place around your waist. “it was a prank..” you admit, biting your lip.

“a prank?” he raises his eyebrows. “you wiped my kisses off, as a prank? What happened to my sweet girl?” he pouts, the mix of your pet name and how he looks so genuinely disappointed is enough to make your stomach sink with the realization that maybe - no, definitely - you fucked up. your nerves settle when a smile breaks at the corners of his mouth.

“jesus, you’re going to kill me,” he lifts a hand to brush the hair out of your face, palm resting on your cheek. “i thought you were mad at me or something. I got scared.” he says softly. Ouch.

“fuck, no, Clark,” you grab his face, smushing your lips to his in a harsh kiss. “i’m so sorry, I felt so bad doing it - I just saw it on TikTok - fuck, I’m sorry, I love you-“ you kiss him again, and this time he reaches up to wipe your kiss off his mouth.

your jaw falls open, releasing a dramatic gasp. “touché, Kent. touché,” you smile, tracing his jaw with your finger. “can we kiss for real now?”

“oh, now you want to kiss for real?” he teases, squeezing the flesh on your hips. “you’re lucky you’re so cute.”

“and ‘m still your sweet girl?”

“always.”

—————————————————————————

a/n: pls send asks so I don’t fall off the deep end!! im working on my last request now pls give me everything

[myyunaverse]

Thinking about Clark buying his pretty gf Superman merch with the 'S' on it because I'm in love with that man!!

Cw: smut, fluff, petnames, Clark literally loves youuu, dry humping, creampie

The first time hes privy to your liking of his merch is when he comes home one day to see you in your pj's on the couch. Silky shorts hugging your soft skin with your hair put in rollers and a big familiarly colored 'S' on your v-necked tank. But it's not just any 'S', its Superman's symbol. His symbol.

That kickstarts him getting you matching sets and boxer shorts decorated in the red and yellow symbol. More pj tops, v-neck tanks with the symbol planted straight in the middle to accentuate your perky tits, hair clips with the symbol contrasting so prettily against your hair. Red, blue and yellow bows that you clip onto anything and everything you can, not just your hair —Clark came over one day to your apartment to find Krypto with one clipped into his fur.

You often joke about how you've always been Superman's biggest fan and now you look the part. He even got you a custom made suit just for you to play around with and dress up all cute for him.

He'd be lying if he said it didn't make his heart beat just a little bit faster when you're dressed up in his favorite set of all; a blue v-cut top that wears his symbol right across your tits, and a pair of blue pj shorts littered in the red and yellow symbol with little red and yellow hearts.

Clark pulls you into his lap at the foot of your bed as soon as you're within his grasp – he can feel his cock fill out at the plush of your ass pressed up against him.

With your back to his chest, he moves your hair to rest over your shoulder, pressing kisses up the column of your neck as you use his thighs for leverage, rocking into him.

"Look so pretty," he murmurs against your soft skin, "look so pretty n'smell so good," he pulls the middle of the 'v' of your top down to reveal your tits.

"Clark...," you hum, arching back into him and reaching a hand up to rest at the nape of his neck.

"Mhm," he hums, slipping his hand past the fabric of your top to squeeze and cup your tits, "what is it, sweetie?'

You give a soft moan, running your tongue over your soft lips, "Clark, please touch me."

Clark hums, moving your hair again to kiss the other side of your neck this time, licking a long stripe to your ear, "I am touching you, baby."

Fighting the urge to whine, you rut yourself into him, holding back a moan at his choked gasp when his cock slips into the curve of your ass.

Clark immediately finds purchase at your hips, helping to move your body against his own. Somewhere in the heat of it, he pulls his cock out of his boxer shorts to let the flushed pink tip rest against the curve of your ass, groaning when his pre spills onto the fabric of your pj shorts.

The weight and heat of his cock is delicious against you, pulling a choked whimper from your lips. "Please," whisper, reaching to take ahold of his length to press up against your soaked folds through your pjs.

Clark hums from behind you, "Shhh, I got it, baby." And you're reminded of just how big he is when he slips your thighs over his forearms so that you fall back against his chest. He pulls your pj shorts to the side and slips his cock into your heat in an instant, the vibration of his groan thick against your back.

Youre sobbing in his hold at the stretch of him –rendered immobile and cock-dumb as he splits you open – his corded length running up against your gummy walls in such a way that you keen, throwing your head back against his shoulder in which he meets you halfway, pulling you into a wet and sloppy kiss.

Clark pulls away to watch as your brows furrow as he continues to pump into your cunt –your eyes wide and lashes strewn together with tears of pleasure.

"Aren't you just the prettiest thing," he keeps your legs pushed up against your chest, reaching his hand to your jaw to slip his thumb past your soft lips. "Superman's biggest fan, isn't that right, pretty girl?"

You almost cum on the spot, nodding dumbly and letting out a hitched gasp when his balls tap against your swollen folds with the pump of his cock.

"Yeah, there she is." Clark smiles in such a way that your heart skips a beat, his baby blues softened by his dark lashes and pouty lips. "There's my girl," he presses a kiss to your hair, spreading his thighs beneath you to pump deeper into your heat.

"Clark, oh my god." Your eyes flutter shut at the stretch and your mouth waters at how impossibly deep he is, "Clark–" you try to warn him that you're near your peak, that the band wound tight in your cunt is about to snap.

He's always so in tune with you and there's nothing but the gentle touch of his hand to your cheek and the circle of his thumb against your clit in his responsiveness to you.

"Can feel y'holding back." He changes positions so that one of your thighs rests against his own, holding you propped up in his arm as he continues to circle your clit, "Just cum fr'me, baby. M'right behind you."

And when you do, its so intense that your legs feel numb for a moment and your heads gets all foggy in the perfect way. You reach for him in the fog of it – sobbing as your cunt tightens around his pulsing length.

Clark shushes you softly, cooing and guiding you through it. "I know, I know. Doin' so good fr'me... I know... M'right here." He cums with a soft grunt, burning himself into your hair, and pressing soft kisses to your clammy skin, laughing exhaustedly into the thick air of your room.

"You can't be wearing this shirt around me," he pulls at the fabric of your top, covering your breasts back up. "You hungry?" He asks, pecking your lips softly.

[myyunaverse]

🜼 ⋆ clark kent using his x-ray vision whilst he’s fucking himself deep into you.

you can feel him twitching inside you when he says it—his curls damp against your cheek, breath stuttering while your bodies press tight together in the heavy heat of the bedroom.

he’s deep. deeper than usual. your legs are wrapped around his waist, and his hands are shaking just a little as he presses you down into the mattress, keeping you there while he grinds into you slow.

“baby,” he whispers. “wanna try something.”

that voice. all gravel and apology, like he knows he’s about to ruin you.

you blink up at him, dazed. the room is warm, sticky with sex, your skin sticking to his in every possible place. “you’re already trying something,” you mumble, breath catching when he rolls his hips again.

clark grins, curly hair falling into his eyes, the cocky side of his smile showing through just enough to make your stomach flip. “not that,” he murmurs. “just—lemme see.”

you don’t even get to ask what he means. his eyes flicker for half a second, glowing faintly, and you feel the tension bleed out of his body as he groans low and quiet.

then another thrust—slow, devastating, all the way in. and clark chokes on his own breath.

“sweetheart,” he mutters, looking through you now—inside you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his voice goes thin with awe. “you’re taking it—baby, you’re really taking it. all of it. fuuuck.”

your mouth goes dry. you clench around him without meaning to, and he groans like you’ve punched the wind out of him.

“i can see it,” he whispers. “your walls are pulling me in—fuck—you’re so tight, i can barely—”

another thrust. slower this time. deeper. like he’s following something with his eyes.

“clark,” you breathe, already trembling. he’s moving like he’s under a spell. completely absorbed. like what he’s seeing is holy.

“you’re so full,” he murmurs, voice rough now, broken. “baby, i’m all the way in—I’m there—you’re stretched so far I can see the bulge—”

you sob into his shoulder. he kisses you like he’s trying to soothe it, but his cock twitches again and he thrusts just a little harder. he’s watching you take it, his x-ray vision trained on the space between your hips, following how his cock drags through your soaked, aching pussy like he’s mapping you from the inside out.

“gonna memorize this,” he groans. “gonna remember the way your pussy opens up for me forever. the way it sucks me in—fuck, sweetheart, you feel that?”

you do. you feel every vein, every pulse, every slow drag of his thick cock splitting you open. it’s too much. and still, you cling to him like you’ll die if he stops.

he shifts his hips, angling himself just a little different—and when he hits that spot, the one that makes you cry out into his mouth, he moans like he felt it too.

“there. right fucking there—your body shudders every time i hit it. god—i can see your cervix. she’s twitching, baby. she wants it.”

you whimper his name. your legs tighten around him. and clark loses it.

his hands come under your knees, pressing them back toward your chest, folding you open for him like a book. he holds you there, panting, eyes still burning with x-ray light as he pounds into you, each thrust wetter, messier, more frantic than the last.

“you’re gonna come for me like this, sweetheart,” he rasps, “with me balls-deep inside you, watching your body milk my cock—fuck, baby, that’s it—that’s it—”

you unravel with a scream. it’s so deep it feels like it cracks something open inside you. he watches the whole thing. watches your cunt spasm and clench, eyes wide and glowing, mouth slack with awe.

he doesn’t last long after that.

“oh my god, oh my god—fuck, sweetheart, i’m gonna—”

he thrusts hard, hips jerking, and then he stays there—buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, cock throbbing as he fills you to the brim with low, gasping groans.

“look so pretty like this,” he whispers. “so full of me. and then clark speaks again, softer and reverent this time.

“let me stay. just a little longer.”

[myyunaverse]

please can i rq clark seeing shy!r naked for the first time? :) luv u

fem, 1.3k cw suggestive “Like a sleepover?” Clark asks.

You wince. “Uh, yeah. I guess so.” 

What you’d been trying to propose was your first proper boyfriend-girlfriend night together, but sleepover is aptly childish. Fitting, and it makes you wonder if Clark thinks you’re an idiot. Because maybe you’re supposed to clash into one another after the perfect date and just— just suddenly be staying the night. But it hasn’t come naturally. 

See, Clark’s too polite. Too afraid of pressuring you into things you’d love to do.

His courting has been similar to the sort of stuff you see on mildly inaccurate regency tv shows —he’d one day, out of the blue and completely unbeknownst to you, developed strong feelings for you. A few weeks later he was sharing the news with you like some sweet reenactment of Mr. Darcy —I like you, honey. I– I have strong feelings for you, I want to take care of you, and I need to tell you before it drives me crazy. 

How crazy could he really have been? Still, what were you supposed to do, say no? As awkwardly shy as you may be, the zing you get when Clark touches you, looks at you, says enough. You hadn’t needed convincing. Clark would take very good care of you if you’d deign to let him, and so far… 

“Honey?”

You turn in the mirror. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

You know he won’t ask you to hurry. He probably won’t ask what you’re doing, too scared to startle you. Maybe you’re sneaky shaving or trying to pee and he knows that, so he’s careful. 

You’re trying to get over the way you look in your bra and panties. The bra doesn’t fit you nicely, the panties are too plain. It’s stressing you out, thinking he’ll see you in this bra with the fat of your armpit pinched weirdly and the grody little straps and end up wrinkling his nose. 

“How about I go make us something to drink?” 

“That would be nice!” you call, clearing your throat. “Yes, I mean. Please.”

“Don’t say please. I’ll be right back.”

You frown at your ugly bra and reach behind yourself to unhook the clasps, letting it fall away. That’s not… awful. You put your pajama shirt back on, a dark blocky thing that stops a quarter of a centimetre above your plaid pants. When you move, it shows your skin. 

They’re sort of ugly pajamas, aren’t they? The bottoms have seen better days. 

Your head pounds. 

“Shit,” you mumble, kicking out of your pants. “Oh, no, shit.”

“Baby?”

“Huh?” 

“You okay?”

“Yeah!”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine. I’m just– I just–”

Clark’s footsteps warm the floor outside of the bathroom. You’d left the door ajar unthinkingly, but Clark doesn’t push it open fully. “What’s wrong?” he asks nicely. 

“Clark…”

“What can I do?” 

You shrug out of your stupidly short t-shirt and hold it to your naked chest. “Sorry. Don’t… I just need a minute.” 

A silence bends. It’s nearly the whole minute, when Clark is clearing his throat, still waiting at the door. “You know I’m not expecting anything from you, right?”

“I want to give it to you, though,” you mumble, knowing his keen ears will pick it up. “Just nervous.”

“Don’t be. You’re already the most beautiful girl in the world–” You snort loudly. “I’m serious. I’m not kidding.” 

You sober. Scrunched up t-shirt trembling ever so slightly in your hands, you let it fall on top of your pants and try to be cool. Calm, collected, you channel the steadiness you keep for your most terrified moments. You probably won’t look half as unbothered as you're hoping for, but all you need now is to stop your hands from shaking. 

“You sure?” you ask. 

“You’re beautiful. I’m sure it only gets better.”

“You’re one to talk,” you say, trying to be the teasing, funny girl instead of a tangible ball of nerves in need of coaxing. Clark Kent is the most beautiful guy you’ve ever met, point blank. He can’t understand what it is to look at him and feel like you’re being touched by the sun when he smiles. His little black curls and the wrinkles beside his eyes, his lashes. Prettiest man you’ve ever met. 

“Can I come in?” he asks. 

You cling to the hopefulness in his tone and approach the door. Slowly, you peek out from behind it, hiding the bulk of your chest and your legs. 

You meet his eyes. He’s looking right at you. 

“Promise you won’t laugh,” you say under your breath. 

“Baby, that’s the last thing on my mind.” 

“Promise.”

You feel silly asking, but Clark lets you act this way. Like, he takes you as you are, always, with gumption, like every second he gets to spend with you is one he’d planned on anyhow, no matter what you want from him, or what you want to give. It’s why you can murmur stupid question at him on the ride home (‘cos yeah, he’d still like you if you were a worm), and take his hand at inopportune times. It’s why you asked to spend the night, before he brought it up himself. 

“I promise,” Clark says emphatically. “I won’t laugh at you.” 

You cover your chest with one arm and let the door open. 

Clark lets out a funny breath, and it DOES sound like a laugh, but the look you give him is so wounded that he immediately bites his tongue, “No,” he says, breathless, “I’m–” Clark takes a step back. “Honey, I wasn’t expecting you to be– is– I’m trying so hard not to swear right now.” 

“You can swear, Clark. You’re twenty nine.”

“Such a mouth on you,” he says without any heat. Then he’s quiet, and his fingertips reach for your arm. He brushes the length of your forearm to your elbow, your skin all hot and warm, waiting impatiently for something new. “So soft…”

“My bra was stupid, and my pajamas are so old, and I just– just wanna be pretty, for once. For–” you, you’d have said, if he didn’t cut you off. 

“You’re pretty all the time,” he says, grasping your arm tightly. His eyes flick down to the valley of your chest, the slight curve of your side, your hips, your thighs. His eyes seem darker. The dim lighting must do you some good. 

“Kiss?” you propose. It’s the only way you’re ever gonna be able to move your arm. 

Clark nods surely. Eyebrows kissing in a pinch, like he’s pained, but good pain, his eyes scrunching shut tightly as he ducks his head for a kiss. It’s different from any other kiss he’s given you before, not for want of gentleness. You’re open to him, for this. He’s meeting you halfway, and he’s careful, but he isn’t shy like you are. His lips are sweet and then parting. Tingling pleasure, your hand straying slowly from your chest to hold his abdomen, fingers downward. 

“Hey,” he gasps quietly, almost lost to your mouth. 

“Sorry–”

He clasps a hand over yours to hold it there. “Hey,” he says again, “please. I was just gonna ask if you wanted to move. It’s not exactly warm in here.”

“And it’s warmer in your bed?”

He’s smiling as he goes in for another kiss, his teeth against your lips. “‘Xactly,” he mumbles, breathing in hard, turning his head, “you’re such a dream. So…”

His hand slips down your back. You cant your chest toward him, soft pressing into solid, begging to be held. 

Clark drags you into his arms.

“Pretty,” he says.

[myyunaverse]

clark would so pick up dizzy!roommate!reader with ease to move her aside if shes accidentally in his way in the kitchen !!!

well, yes! i’m still obsessed with the idea of ditzy!roomate and clark being incredibly touchy and romantic, but she’s a little bubble-headed and doesn’t realize they’re totally in boyfriend/girlfriend territory <3

cw: , fem!reader, nsfw mentioned

“and clark-clark you’ll never, ever, ever guess what shade of lipstick i found at the store today… guess guess!” “‘m not sure, sweet girl, ‘s it the black honey one?” “YES!!!”

you’re bouncing up and down, blowout and tits shaking with movement as you follow your roomate clark around the kitchen. he’s been insistent on cooking dinner for you since you burned your finger for the 6th time in one week on the burners. frankly, he was a little tired of peacefully working on an article upstairs and suddenly hearing a loud “ow!!!” followed by a weepy “clark!!!” coming from the kitchen.

and not tired of you, per se. tired of running down the stairs, glasses slipping off, and seeing your sobbing, devastated face as you clutch onto your ring clad fingers. his heart just about shatters everytime he hears your dreaded “l-look… i did it again” :(

so yes, clark is desperately trying to make you some dinner before your weekly rom-com viewing; tonight, you chose the movie. though, if we’re honest, he always lets you choose.

“and clark it’s gonna look soooo pretty with that new mauve dress i told you about, remember that? remember that one?” “mmhm. you tried that on for me last week, right?” “mhm! and you liked it right?” leaning on the counter next to him as he attempts to sautee your pasta dish; truth be told he loves when you talk, no matter how much it may be.

“yeah, baby, i loved it.” he looks around the kitchen, determined to find the spices he needs next. one is located just behind your lower back, right behind where you’re perfectly perched, crop top riding up on your tummy, watching him work.

as you talk about your new dress, how much you love summer, and if clark likes your new icy white pedicure (he ALWAYS does, maybe a little too much), he nods along, swiftly lifting you up onto the top of the counter, with two strong hands on your waist.

his hands are huuuge, by the way. so the weight of them against your sides, so snug and warm and safe, has you lightly gasping and pausing mid thought.

it doesn’t last long, though, as he peers in the aforementioned cabinet and looks for the spice, one knee kneeling on the ground, the other bended. his hand wraps around your ankle, rubbing his thumb over the bone as you continue to yap.

“mmhm, listen, why don’t i finish up here and you can go put on your new dress for dinner, yeah?” “really?!” “yeah, really. i just finished laundry so it should be all ready for you.” peering up at you, he smiles, glasses lightly fogged and lips pink from being licked in concentration.

leaning down to cup his face, you squeal and kiss his forehead. “help me down?” doe eyed and sweet, just like clark likes you best.

he smiles, that sweet dorky side smile and stands up to his full height. once again, he’s lifting you up by your waist, and placing you down in front of a him. a swift tap to your butt and a shy “g-go on.” and you’re flushed, bounding out of the kitchen and into your room to change— clark smiling to himself and continuing to cook for his sweet lil roomate that he keeps all to himself. <3

[myyunaverse]

THIS IS SOOOOO HYPERFEM!READER X CLARK ♡

[myyunaverse]

blanket fort - “thank you for picking me up- i know it’s late.” with fwb!sirius maybe? I’m thinking like.. you’re not together but you call him cos you need him and he comes right away <33 do with that what u will hehe

Ahhh thank you mal <3

cw: alcohol, attempted sa (mentioned, not in the scene)

fwb!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 969 words

You like it a lot when Sirius calls you his. It’s usually by accident. He calls you lots of things—gorgeous, sweetness, dollface—but never in the same tone as when that incriminating my slips out. My darling, he’d said once, teasing, trying to get you into the shower with him (it worked). Another time, kissing overstimulated tears off your face before they could fall onto his pillowcase, my lovely girl. Sometimes, you think it’s a little pathetic of you—not very feminist, that’s for sure. You like being independent. You aren’t anybody’s. You shouldn't want to belong to someone. But you do, and not just anyone; you want to belong to Sirius. 

So it’s possible that it’s only wishful thinking, when cool fingers brush the hair from your face and you think—you hope—you catch a murmured, “Oh, my girl.” 

Regardless of what you may or may not hear, you’d know the feel of that hand anywhere. 

Sirius is waiting when you unstick your lashes, looking down at you with an amused uptilt to his perfect mouth. He pushes more hair away from your eyes. The surface of the restaurant table feels nice against your cheek. 

“What happened to you, hm?” 

“I don’t know,” you reply drowsily. “What happened to you?” 

Sirius huffs out a laugh. “Well, I was sitting at home thinking about this bird.” 

“Gross. Is she pretty?” 

“Stunning. I figured I’d call her to see if she was thinking about me too, so I did, and do you want to know what she had the gall to tell me?” 

You put a hand under your cheek, angling your face to see him better. You are intensely curious. “What?” 

“She said that if I wanted to fuck her, I had to come and pick her up at the fancy hotel downtown. So, here I am.” He gives you a once-over. “I don’t think we’re going to be fucking, though.” 

You frown. “No?” 

“No, sweetness. Sorry.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” He strokes your cheek, smiling in a way that makes you feel all melty soft. “Hey, stay put for me a minute.” 

Staying put feels like all you know how to do. You assume Sirius goes somewhere, but you don’t notice. You blink, and he’s back in front of you, a glass of water in his hand where there wasn’t one before. He gives your shoulder a pat. 

“C’mon, sit up.” 

“M’okay,” you say, even as you do as he tells you. Your head spins once there’s no table to stabilize it. “I don’t need anything to drink.” 

Sirius’ eyebrow flicks up. “Who says it’s for you?” 

“Oh.” You’re strangely put out. “It’s not?” 

“No, it is.” He cracks, grinning. “Just have a little for me, babe. For my peace of mind.” 

You whine as he puts the glass to your lips, but you don’t have much choice. The water presses insistently at your mouth. Sirius holds the side of your face as you take it down, so that’s nice, at least. 

You breathe out after swallowing. You hadn’t noticed your throat hurting before, but it does feel better now. Sirius wipes a dribble from the side of your chin like it’s nothing. 

“I asked you to come here,” you say, “didn’t I.” 

Sirius’ lips quirk. “Demanded was more like it.” You put a hand over your eyes, and he tsks, laughing. “What, lovely, was it a bad night?” 

“Bad date,” you moan. “So boring. Worst conversationalist in the world, I could swear he was trying to get me liquored up.” The smile fades from Sirius’ face. You like this, strangely. You want his sympathy. “He’s staying here, you know. That’s why we met at the hotel for dinner, I was just too stupid to think of it.” 

“He tried to take you up to his room?” he asks. 

You make a wry sound. “Yeah, but he didn’t seem to like when I said I was too drunk to do anything.” 

Sirius skims you over. You don’t know what he’s looking for, or if he finds it, but his expression is uncharacteristically humorless when he nods. “Good girl.” 

You eye him. “Because I’m not having sex with other people?” 

“Because you’re looking out for yourself.” 

You sit with that for a while. You wonder if Sirius would be angry if you had gone up. Sober, that is. You wonder how he’d react if you told him about it later, what he’d think of you sleeping with someone who wasn’t him for a change. What would he think if he knew you only came on this date as an act of desperation? That you’d been so lovelorn, so pathetically hung up on him, that you’d gone out with the first person who made themselves available to you? 

Fortunately, you still have enough of your wits about you to know you’d hate yourself for asking. 

“So,” you say instead, “are you going to take me home now?”

Sirius grins. “I suppose I am.” 

You muster your best grin in reply. “I know how you love to take me home.” 

“Shush, lightweight. Drink your water, then we’ll go.” 

You pick the glass up to appease him. But when you only have a few more sips before leaning your head on his shoulder, Sirius doesn’t complain. 

“Can I ask you something weird?” you murmur. 

“Nothing’s ever stopped you before.”

“You’ll do something for me?” 

“Hm, depends.” Sirius is teasing, but when you fall silent his tone gentles. “What is it?” 

“Call me something nice?” 

You shut your eyes. Just inebriated enough to ask, just sober enough to be embarrassed. You’re sure he’s going to laugh at you. 

Sirius’ kiss lands softly atop your hair. “I’ll call you whatever you want,” he says, in that tone, that soft, incriminating tone, “my sweetheart.”

[myyunaverse]

clark kent core, nsfw ! mdni.

clark kent who, warms your side of the bed for you when you stay up late, lying on your pillow just so the sheets smell like him when you climb in.

clark kent who, leaves his reading glasses on the nightstand crooked and forgotten, too busy spooning you under the covers with his fingers lazily tracing the dip of your waist.

clark kent who, hums while doing the dishes, arms soaked up to the elbows, sleeves rolled, wedding ring gleaming, hips swaying while you wrap your arms around him from behind.

clark kent who, slips his hand under your shirt while you’re brushing your teeth, palm pressed to your stomach, lips against your shoulder, breath warm and quiet like, “i missed you today.”

clark kent who, doesn’t ask for sex. he just kisses you like he needs it, slow and full of heat, until you’re tugging him toward the bedroom with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth.

clark kent who, groans softly when you slide into his lap during a movie night, tugging the blanket up like it’ll hide how much he loves the way your body molds to his.

clark kent who, can hear your heartbeat spike the moment his thumb brushes just a little too low while helping zip up your dress.

clark kent who, presses you into the kitchen counter with a lazy grind of his hips, breath catching like it surprises even him, voice soft in your ear: “you really gonna wear this and expect me to behave?”

clark kent who, lets you wear his flannel while making pancakes, quietly tugging it off your shoulders when the batter’s done and replacing it with kisses along your spine.

clark kent who, picks you up with one arm while you’re folding laundry just because he can, setting you down on the washer and standing between your thighs, eyes soft and slow-burning.

clark kent who, fingers you under the table at sunday brunch, slow and hidden, like it’s nothing, like he’s just keeping your hand warm and then kisses your cheek like an apology.

clark kent who, lets you tug on his tie when you want him close, fingers slipping between the buttons of his shirt like he’s just come home from war.

clark kent who, likes you best in the morning, half-asleep, hair messy, thighs warm around his hips and kisses your wrist when you touch him there, slow and careful and still sleepy.

clark kent who, gets so soft when you’re in his lap, whispering how pretty you are between kisses to your jaw while your fingers tangle in his curls and your hips roll, slow and unhurried.

clark kent who, will spend the whole day fixing a squeaky door, putting up shelves, organizing the garage and the moment he sees you in the doorway with nothing but one of his t-shirts on, he drops the wrench and follows you inside.

clark kent who, touches you like he’s still amazed you let him. reverent, patient, hands roaming under your clothes while he breathes out your name like prayer.

clark kent who, always makes love to you with the windows cracked open, so the sunlight can touch your skin too. he’s not selfish!

clark kent who, gets lost under you, flushed and helpless when you kiss him like you mean it, hands trembling where they hold your hips, voice cracking: “you’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

clark kent who, holds your face in his hands after, both of you breathless, whispering “i love you” over and over like he forgot the world existed until now.

clark kent who, tucks the blankets around you afterward, kisses your forehead, and says, “go to sleep, i’ll clean up.” and he does. the towels, the sheets, the dishes, everything. because that’s just the kind of man he is.

[myyunaverse]

Seeing Stars

summary: after a bump on the head, you wake with your head on the shoulder of a beautiful stranger (who isn't really a stranger)

cw: hospital setting, concussion, memory loss, mention of vomit

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You wish the drone of all these people would quiet down so you could sleep better. You’re so tired, and conditions are perfect for it otherwise, your body heavy and a warm pillow of ideal firmness beneath your head. There’s a gentle brush of something against your forehead every now and then which feels inherently comforting. It does it again now. 

“That’s nice,” you murmur. 

A low chuckle. “Happy you think so.” 

You tilt your head towards the voice, startled to see a rather breathtaking man looking back at you. He’s close enough for you to count the long, dark lashes fringing his grey eyes and to catch the little tick his mouth does, as though he’s pleased to be looked at by you. Your warm, ideally firm pillow seems to be his shoulder. 

You sit up. Flashes appear behind your eyes; you blink to dispel them. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” the man says. He’s frowning, suddenly, brows sewn together in apparent concern. Every movement of his face only serves to make him lovelier; it’s dizzying. “What’s the matter?” 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.” 

The brow situation worsens. “Don’t be sorry for that, lovely. I hardly mind. Come on, why don’t you come back?” He folds a hand around the side of your head very carefully, as though wary of hurting you, to guide you down again. “The nurse said it’ll be good for you to rest while we wait.” 

You don’t argue, because he seems to know things. You trust him. Maybe it’s foolish, but who wouldn’t trust someone treating them so kindly, who presses his lips to your forehead as you settle and covers your ear with a hand when the wail of a passing siren cuts through the room and you wince. 

“I know,” the angel-man murmurs, sounding woefully compassionate to your plight. “We shouldn’t have to be here much longer. Are you feeling okay?” 

You hum unsteadily. 

“Do you think you might be sick again?” You’re unsure. “You should tell me if you might be. I’ll have to get a bag.” 

“Have I been sick?” you ask, looking up at him. 

Something flickers over his expression at your question. He rubs his thumb over the space behind your ear soothingly. “You have,” he answers, “but that was before we came, so it was a bit different. I don’t think they’ll let me follow you into the toilets here.” 

You feel your eyes widen. “You were there?” 

The man grins. It’s worse than anything he’s done so far, so dazzling you feel you have to close your eyes. You’re seeing stars again. 

“I’m not so terribly squeamish as to leave my loveliest girl all alone when she needs me,” he says. “I’m not that awful.” 

“I don’t think you’re awful,” you tell him. 

“No.” He makes a humorous-looking pouty face at you, still stroking behind your ear. “No, you wouldn't. That’s why you’re my loveliest girl, you’re too good to me.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“What does what mean, gorgeous?” 

You shy a bit at the misnomer. Surely people this beautiful shouldn’t just be dolling out compliments like that. “Your girl.” 

His thumb doesn’t stop petting you, but it slows. He looks at you for a handful of moments. It’s rather a lot; you shift in your uncomfortable, plasticy chair, but don’t think once of lifting your head from his shoulder. 

“Do you know who I am?” he asks eventually. 

You worry your lip between your teeth. “Am I supposed to?”

“No.” He folds his hand over your head again, kissing your temple. “That’s okay. You’ve had a bump on the head, and it’s made you forget some things, but it won’t be forever. My name’s Sirius.” He says this all very patiently. You get the sense he’s done it more than once. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now.” 

At this, you do lift your head. Sirius lets you, though he watches like he doesn’t intend to let you go far. “You and I have?” you ask.

The corner of his mouth ticks. “That’s right.” 

“How long is a while?” 

“You say two years.” He tilts his head from side to side, like really it’s up for debate. “I say two years and a few weeks, because I thought our first date was to the Ramones show but you thought we were hanging out as friends.” 

You gawp at him. Your mouth has actually dropped open. “Are you my boyfriend?” 

“Some have said that,” Sirius says, smiling. “I prefer exclusive live-in soulmate.” 

You don’t know how you know, but you sense he’s half joking about the last part. Not the first, though. 

“Really?” you ask. 

Sirius quirks a brow. “Is it so difficult to believe?”

“You’re just—you’re so pretty.” 

“Really?” His smile returns to knock the air from you. This one’s wide enough to make his lashes kiss at the corners. “You think so?” 

“Of course. You’re beautiful.” You shake your head, surprised when it hurts and then startled anew when Sirius cups your face to still you. You trace the length of his arm with your eyes, admiring the patchwork of tattoos that goes all the way up to disappear under the sleeve of his t-shirt. 

“Be careful with yourself,” Sirius murmurs. 

Your eyes flit back up to his face. “You have to know.” 

“Have to know what?” 

“That you’re beautiful.” 

Sirius looks absolutely delighted by you. “Well, it’s always nice to hear it,” he says. “Especially from someone so lovely as yourself.” 

You feel your features pinch with genuine dismay. “I don’t tell you?” 

“You say you don’t want to give me a bigger head than I already have. Something about throwing the earth out of its orbit or something.” He strokes your cheek while he talks, as though this sort of disparagement could inspire only fondness, but at your obvious distress Sirius softens. “I’m joking. You tell me, you just don’t usually look so surprised when you do. Come here, sweetheart.” 

He coaxes you under his arm, helping you snuggle up against his side where he can kiss your head as often as he pleases. It’s like Sirius knows exactly what you need; with your head against his chest, now the thing you hear most is the steady beat of his heart. His body works like a grounding point for you, calming your nerves and hushing your thoughts. The sweep of his thumb over your shoulder sends pleasant little shivers all down your arm. 

“You don’t have to be so shy, my love,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s only me.” 

If you weren’t shy before, you are now. You hide your face in his chest. “Please don’t call me that.” 

Sirius chuckles. “No?” he asks, his voice slow and syrupy sweet with a heart-pittering quality that rings familiar. “You usually like it when I call you nice things.” 

“It’s too nice.” 

He hums amusedly. “Sorry,” he says, in a tone not sorry at all, “I think you might just have to get used to that, lovely.”

[myyunaverse]

[myyunaverse]

boyfriend?

clark kent x fem!reader, wc 900

cw: reader is concussed, clark worries, idiots in love, lots of fluff, i’m sorry if this sucks cos it’s not proofread

summary: post-concussion, you fall in love with your boyfriend (again)

Clark didn’t consider himself a worrywart. He knew he was often exceedingly, overbearingly kind, and it wasn’t something he was ashamed of. You’d told him once it was your third favourite thing about him, after ‘his love for you’ and ‘his kisses’. He couldn’t deny that those were two areas he did put a lot of effort into.

But the sight of you like this, bruised, battered, and passed out on a hospital bed — it made him want to worry his brains out.

It wasn’t a major injury, Clark knew that. Just a concussion. No blood, no internal damage, no severe pain.

Yet the tiny voice at the back of his head kept blaming him, cursing him for flying around saving the rest of the world while his world took a hit. He didn’t think he could stop feeling guilty till you fully recovered, maybe a while longer.

The feeling of your hand twitching in his snaps Clark back to the present.

He glances over at you, downturned lips and tightly squeezed eyes, peeling them open. Your gaze darts around for a moment before landing on him.

“Hi, honey.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Hi.”

Clark hums in response, brushing his thumb over your palm. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart? Your head, does it still hurt?”

You don’t respond, eyes glued on him. Your brows pinch together, and your nose scrunches up, like you’re awfully confused but can’t figure out why. Suddenly, you try to sit up.

“Hey, woah,” Clark chuckles nervously, hand immediately jumping up to fold around your shoulder, gently pushing you back down. His other hand slips under the back of your head, a safety cushion as you deflate back onto the bed. “Easy there. You’re not supposed to sit up for a few more hours, remember?”

Blood rushes to your head. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Clark nods, palm moving up to cup your jaw. He presses his thumb into your skin.

Like a ripple, redness spreads throughout your face from the spot, bright and shy. He frowns. “Are you okay?” The back of his palm comes to rest on your temple, concern etching itself into his features. “Is it a fever?”

“No,” you say immediately, a little too loud for your liking, grabbing Clark’s wrist as he moves to pull away from your face. You cringe. “I mean, no, sir, I’m fine.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Sir?”

Your shoulders creep towards your ears, shyness written all over you as you let go of his hand. “I don’t… I dunno. Sorry, um, what do I call you?”

Clark realises. He softens, brushing his thumb under your eye. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?” you ask stupidly, a pathetic mess from the way he’s touching you. You feel like the sheer amount of prettiness in front of you was going to make you throw up, or maybe pass out again.

“What you call me,” he murmurs, smiling. “Or who I am.”

“Who are you?”

You looked so innocent, so sweetly anxious, that Clark has to stop himself from kissing you dizzy. He loves you, and he’ll have you any way, but the meds made you horribly soft and lovely. Affection felt like an ache in his palms.

He presses both palms to your cheeks. “You like to call me darling, or babe, sometimes. Clark when you’re mad at me, though.”

“Who’s Clark?”

He grins. “Me, silly.”

“Oh.” You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “Why babe?”

“‘Cos I’m your boyfriend,” he chuckles, love in the crinkle of his eyes. At the horrified look on your face, he can’t help but laugh again. “What, is that so bad?”

“No, no, not bad, it’s just —“ you splutter, looking dazed. You shake your head. “You’re my boyfriend? Mine?”

“Yeah, honey.”

“But you’re so pretty,” you murmur, embarrassed and starstruck all at once, gazing at him like a child would at a lollipop. You reach out to trace the slope of his nose with your pinky, awed. “Really? Are you sure you’re mine?”

It’s Clark’s turn to blush. He bends forward, trying not to grin too wide, and a honeyed kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah, all yours.”

You pull your hands to your face to cover it, curling away from him. Maybe he’s seeing what he wants to see, but Clark swears you’re smiling. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, lovely?” He laughs, fingers wrapping around your wrists to tug them off. “That’s not fair. Let me see your pretty face.”

“Stop!” you giggle, letting your hands drop in favour of letting his come to rest on your cheeks instead. You’re unbelievably bashful, teeth showing in your dopey smile as you gaze up at Clark with the love of a thousand suns. Clark wants you forever.

“I love you, silly girl.” He presses a kiss to your nose, one, two, three to your eyes and lips. “I love you.”

Stunned, you look like he’s just given you the world. He would, if he could.

You happily gather his palms on your cheeks to press onto your lips, your voice into them like a kiss in itself. “I love you, too.”

[myyunaverse]

walk him like a dog (s.o.b.)

Pairing: Sirius Orion Black x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Sirius Black has always been a dog—but the thing about dogs? They're loyal to only one person: Their owner

A/N: um this whole fic is just me calling sirius a dog so be prepared for that

credits to @cursed-carmine for the divider

The locker room buzzed with low voices and nervous energy. Players paced, adjusted gloves, tightened goggles, cracked knuckles. The scent of polish, sweat, and adrenaline filled the air. Green and silver glinted off every surface, and somewhere above, the distant roar of the crowd was beginning to rise.

You stood in front of your team, arms crossed over your chest, chin held high, calm as ever.

And when you spoke, the room snapped to attention.

"Alright. Listen up."

Voices cut off immediately. All eyes turned to you.

“You hit hard. You fly clean. No stunts unless I call them. You’ve worked your asses off for weeks—rain, snow, bruises, broken brooms—and today, it pays off.”

You paced slowly, gaze locking with your Beaters, your Chasers, your Keeper. One by one. Like loading a weapon.

“We’re going to show them—without a single inch of doubt—who’s taking the Quidditch Cup home this year.”

You let that hang, the tension curling in your teammates’ shoulders like springs wound tight.

Then your voice dropped, sharp and cutting:

"We're going to send those bleeding badgers crying back to their mummies."

That broke the tension. Laughter and jeers rippled through the room, players bumping shoulders, fists meeting palms with dull thuds of anticipation.

You smirked.

Held out your hand.

“Let’s turn those badgers black and blue.”

One by one, gloves slammed down over yours.

“Slytherin!”

You were carried into the infirmary without protest by Mulciber, allowing him to gently lower you onto the bed. Without saying much else, you interlaced your fingers neatly over your lap, settling in as you waited for Madam Pomfrey to arrive.

She seemed preoccupied with the other beds, where four more occupants were already receiving care.

“Nasty fall, (L/N)?” Potter’s voice broke through the quiet, a teasing edge to it, “Would hate for you to miss out on Quidditch for the rest of the season.”

You smirked, “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Potter? But sadly, no—just caught a nasty Bludger to the side when I grabbed the Snitch. So, I guess you Lions have no choice but to lose to us eventually.”

Your eyes flicked past him to the bed beside where Remus Lupin lay, looking far worse off than the rest of the Marauders—pale and sweaty, with Madam Pomfrey fussing over him. Without realizing, your lips pouted, curiosity flickering as you wondered what had gone wrong to land all four of them in the hospital wing.

Before you could study his wounds more closely, your line of sight was blocked by another presence.

Black.

Compared to the others, he looked almost unharmed, hands on his hips as he stared down at you with a cocky smirk.

“You haven’t given me an ounce of your attention, princess,” He said, voice dripping with amusement, “Only bantering with my best mate and mooning at Moony. Should I be offended?”

“Wasn’t aware I owed you my attention, Black.”

His grin widened. Typical.

It wasn’t the first time your sharp tongue had reeled him in like this, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sirius Black didn’t know how to leave well enough alone—and you had no intention of making it easy for him.

Merlin, he lived for it.

Before he could come up with something clever in return, Madam Pomfrey appeared at your side with a soft cluck of her tongue and a no-nonsense look in her eyes.

“Caught a Bludger, did you?” She muttered, her tone clipped as she summoned a vial and some bandages from a nearby shelf, “You lot play like it’s war.”

“I think anyone can admire the dedication to the game, Madam Pomfrey.” You replied mildly.

“Not when it might break your ribs, Miss (L/N).” She snapped.

Then, more gently, “Lift your shirt. Let’s see the damage.”

You didn’t hesitate—casually unbuttoning the lower half of your Quidditch jersey and lifting your shirt just enough to reveal the mottled bruise blooming along your side. It was ugly—deep and dark with angry purple edges, already beginning to swell.

His eyes darted instinctively toward the injury, then immediately away—head turning sharply to the side, jaw tight. His entire body went rigid, as if even the suggestion of your bare skin had turned his brain to static.

You smirked, voice syrup-sweet, “What’s the matter, Black? Shy?”

“I’m many things,” He muttered, ears tinged faintly red, “but I am trying to be respectful. For once.”

Your eyes flicked to him just once. He was still looking away—but his jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and you could feel the heat of his focus even if it wasn’t on your bare skin anymore.

When Pomfrey finally stepped back, she wiped her hands briskly on her apron and nodded, “You’ll bruise badly, but the swelling will ease by morning. Try not to exacerbate it for the time being."

"Understood. Thank you." You replied, voice even.

You slid off the edge of the bed with fluid grace, smoothing your jersey back into place with a flick of your fingers.

You nodded once toward her retreating form in quiet thanks, then turned to go.

You were hardly surprised when Sirius followed you out.

After weeks of this little push and pull—this dangerous game you’d both been playing—you weren’t even remotely surprised that he’d finally snapped the leash you’d had so delicately wrapped around his neck.

So now, here you were. Back pressed to the cold, rough stone of a quiet Hogwarts corridor, Sirius’s arms caging you in like he was the predator in this scenario.

But the truth was clear.

You were the one in control.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. You just blinked at him—slow, deliberate, almost lazy. And though your expression was frustratingly unreadable, there was something ghosting over your lips that drove him mad. A smirk that wasn’t a smirk. A glimmer of smugness that you refused to make obvious. It was maddening. Intoxicating.

Had it been anyone else he’d backed into a wall like this, they’d have giggled, blushed, reached up to tangle their fingers in his hair with wide eyes and parted lips.

But not you.

Your hands were tucked neatly behind your back like you were entertaining a child’s tantrum, waiting for him to exhaust himself. Always poised. Always untouchable. Always in control.

And God, it was driving him insane.

What he wouldn’t give to be caught in the eye of your storm—while the world bent and broke around you, you’d remain untouched, divine. He wanted to be yours. Completely. Worshipfully. Pathetically.

“What do you say we stop pussyfooting around and go on a date, (L/N)?” He asked, his voice low and rough with the effort it took to sound casual.

At that, you smiled—finally, a real smile, sly and slow like honey sliding down a knife.

“Sorry, Black,” You said, tone sweet as poison, “I don’t think I’d be interested.”

His brow twitched. “That’s not what you’ve been signalling these past few weeks.” He muttered, leaning in—just enough to try and catch your lips with his. Only to feel your finger press firmly to his mouth, stopping him dead.

He stared at you, lips brushing your fingertip, pupils blown. His breath caught, chest rising sharply. His eyes dropped to your mouth again and he clenched his jaw tight enough to ache—because if he didn’t, he might actually whine. Might beg.

“Why not?” He asked, voice hoarse and low, barely more than a whisper now.

You tilted your head, your smile that of a cat watching a bird flutter too close to the ground.

“I’m a very jealous woman, Sirius,” You said, voice light, playful—deadly, “And I have a reputation to uphold. Can’t have you embarrassing me with all your… side chicks.”

He swallowed hard. The words hit like a slap and a caress. His brain fogged. The rush of blood thundered in his ears, and the air between you crackled.

You pouted suddenly, lips pursed in a way that made his knees threaten to buckle. And then—casually, cruelly—you reached up and gave his cheek a light pat.

“Sorry, puppy.”

And with that, you slipped out from under his arm like water through fingers, walking away without looking back.

Sirius stood frozen, throat dry, staring as your hips swayed down the corridor.

Utterly wrecked.

Something changed after that night in the corridor.

Well—he did.

Not immediately, of course. First, he sulked. Dramatically. Unproductively. For a good day and a half.

He spent most of it brooding in the Gryffindor common room, staring into the fireplace like it had personally betrayed him, ignoring three different girls who tried to sidle up beside him and ask what was wrong. (The fourth didn’t bother asking—just sat herself on his lap. That earned her a single-word dismissal and a truly withering look.)

But after that?

He changed.

The flirting stopped. The lingering touches in alcoves, the smug little smirks in the corridors, the midnight broom closet rendezvous—all gone. He stopped accepting folded notes spritzed with cheap perfume and sealed with lipstick kisses. Stopped tossing winks like knuts. Stopped acting like every hallway was a catwalk and every girl in Hogwarts his audience.

The last girl he even entertained—a sweet, overeager Hufflepuff fifth-year who tried to earn his attention by helping him with Transfiguration homework—had burst into tears when someone joked that she must have “turned him gay.”

He just wasn’t interested anymore.

Because for once in his life, Sirius Black didn’t want meaningless sex.

He wanted you.

And the castle knew it.

Even though you hadn’t spared him so much as a glance since that night in the corridor. Even though you walked past him in the Great Hall like he was furniture.

Everyone still knew.

Which meant, of course, all eyes had turned to you.

Wondering when you’d notice.

Wondering when you’d give in.

Or whether, as Sirius feared most of all…

You never would.

You loved partying.

Loved the bass so loud it rattled your ribs, the way lights flickered like spells mid-duel, the sway of bodies pressed close on the dance floor. You loved shaking ass with your friends, loved the wild screams and clinks of raised glasses. Loved the moments where you stepped back, drink in hand, watching it all unfold—cataloguing the gossip in real time. Who was kissing who. Who shouldn't be. Who’d be crying in the bathroom by midnight.

But there was a distinct difference when the party was thrown in your honor.

The moment you stepped into the Slytherin common room, the room erupted. Cheers ricocheted off the walls, your little black dress catching the green and silver lights just right, and your open jersey—your surname stitched in bold—billowed like a cape.

You’d never been prouder of that name.

Not until Remus’s voice boomed over the speakers earlier that day, full of awe:

“(L/N) has made the miraculous catch of the Snitch—Slytherin wins!”

The memory played over and over in your head as your teammates lifted you onto their shoulders, parading you through the room like the queen you were. You laughed, kissed the golden Snitch in your hand, and smudged your lipstick across it with zero shame.

The party moved on around you, wild and electric, and you eventually found yourself perched on a velvet ottoman, nursing a drink and watching the chaos unfold with your usual sharpened gaze—until the Marauders appeared.

“Good game, (L/N),” James grinned, raising his cup, “That was some mighty flying. Looking forward to beating you in the finals.”

You scoffed, but smiled, “Thanks, Potter. Though I can’t see you being this cordial when Slytherin mops the floor with you.”

Then your gaze slid to Sirius, who hadn’t spoken yet.

“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve come over tonight, Black,” You purred, circling your finger around the rim of your glass lazily.

He grinned, wolfish and easy, “Didn’t want to be just another forgettable face in a crowd of nobodies.”

You chuckled, “Sure you didn’t just forget about me? Busy fending off your admirers, I’m sure.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to that gravelly register that drove you mad, “Sweetheart, everyone here knows there’s only one person I have eyes for.”

You were about to volley something back—something sharp and slick and just flirtatious enough to make him twitch—when the atmosphere cracked with a loud crash and an even louder voice.

“IT WAS A FLOP!”

Across the room, Ravenclaw’s captain, Muccullen—clearly drunk and still stinging from his loss today—was making an embarrassing scene.

“I would’ve caught that damn Snitch if the snakes didn’t play dirty!” He barked, sloshing firewhisky onto the carpet.

You barely blinked. Just raised a brow, unimpressed, letting his tantrum unfold like a child kicking their legs in a supermarket.

“(L/N) thinks she’s all that,” He continued, voice rising, “but that stupid bitch just got lucky!”

Now that made your brow twitch.

You weren’t planning to dignify it with a response. But then Sirius was suddenly in front of you, jaw tight, a quiet fury radiating off him like a pulse.

“Watch your mouth.”

Muccullen blinked slowly, swaying. “If it isn’t her mangy mutt,” He slurred, sneering, “You’re just as pathetic, Black. Chasing after her like a dog when she doesn’t even want you. Face it—the only reason she gets anywhere in life or on that bloody broom is ’cause that slag keeps guys like you wrapped around her finger.”

That much was true. Sirius was so tightly wrapped around your finger you could flick it and he’d bark.

Which is why Muccullen shouldn’t have been surprised when Sirius grabbed him by the collar.

You stepped forward then, calm and unbothered, resting a single hand on Sirius’s arm.

“Down, boy.”

His grip loosened—just barely. But it was enough.

You turned your gaze on Muccullen, voice cool and dangerous.

“You really know how to ruin a party, don’t you, Muccullen?” You said smoothly, “I won today because I was faster. Simple as that. You don’t want to get pummeled by Bludgers while chasing the Snitch? That’s a conversation to have with your Beaters. Go sober up. Losing on the Quidditch pitch is one thing. This? This is just pathetic.”

Sirius shoved him back as he let go, and Muccullen stumbled off with the grace of a wounded troll.

You exhaled, turning to Sirius.

And yeah… he looked hot.

Leather jacket clinging to broad shoulders. Hair a bit mussed. Breathing heavy like he wanted someone to give him an excuse to finish the fight. All for you.

He looked good defending your honor. Too good.

You sipped your drink with finality, “Well. On that note, I’m gonna turn in for the night.”

Sirius visibly deflated, like a puppy who’d been told no to a treat.

“Yeah, my roommates are gonna be partying all night,” You added, giving a theatrical sigh, “Figured I might enjoy the empty dorm for once.”

You nodded to Remus and James—who were both looking equally exhausted and wildly entertained—and started walking toward the staircase.

But you didn’t make it far before glancing over your shoulder.

Sure enough, Sirius was already staring.

You smirked. Winked. And then you lifted your hand, curled a single finger.

Come.

His face lit up. Like Christmas and fireworks and every wish he’d never said out loud just came true.

Behind him, James cackled. Remus shook his head, amused.

“Go on, lover boy!” James shouted, slapping him on the back.

And Sirius? He sprinted.

By the time he caught up, you were outside your dorm, and his arms were already curling around your waist as you let out a soft giggle.

He buried his face in your neck, breath hot, lips brushing your skin.

“You better take me out on a date tomorrow.” You murmured.

He smiled against your throat, “Anywhere. Anytime. Just say the word.”

Bonus:

If anyone had ever been afraid of the Marauders—afraid of Sirius Black, the uncollared dog of Gryffindor House, heir to the House of Black, all sharp teeth and dangerous smirks—all they had to do was witness how he behaved with his girlfriend.

The only girl who’d ever managed to train him.

It was almost comical, the way Sirius’s entire face lit up the second he spotted you in the Gryffindor common room. His smirk melted into a wide, boyish grin, wild grey eyes softening like morning light breaking through fog.

“Baby!” He practically shouted, immediately abandoning James mid-sentence and sprinting across the room like a man possessed.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before your armchair, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your lap like it was the safest place in the world.

You giggled—an uncharacteristic sound, at least to everyone else. But for Sirius, it was as familiar as his own heartbeat. You ran your fingers through his thick dark hair, nails scratching gently along his scalp, and Sirius all but purred, sighing into the space between your thighs like the tension had been holding him hostage all day.

“What are you doing here?” He mumbled, voice muffled against your legs.

“Class ended early,” You replied smoothly, a smile tugging at your lips, “and I wanted to see my favourite boy.”

Sirius groaned dramatically, turning his head to press soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your wrist, right against your fluttering pulse. Like he was grounding himself with the feel of your blood beneath his lips.

Across from you, James flopped onto the couch with a snort, “Merlin, (L/N), you’ve got him trained better than a show dog.”

You didn’t even look up from Sirius as you smiled, sharp and slow.

“Oh, she knows.” Remus added from his spot by the fireplace, flipping a page in his book with a smirk.

Sirius hummed, clinging tighter to your waist like he couldn’t stand to be even a millimeter away.

You leaned back in the armchair, letting him sprawl across your lap like a pampered prince, fingers carding through his hair as if you had all the time in the world.

“You’re clingy today.” You murmured, not unkindly.

“Missed you.” Sirius said simply, lifting his head just enough to look at you—like you hung the bloody moon.

You raised an eyebrow, tapping your nails against his jaw, “Did something happen?”

He pulled one of your hands to his mouth again, pressing a kiss to each knuckle like it was sacred ritual, “Nah. Just tired of pretending not to be obsessed with you.”

“Well, you’re doing a shit job of hiding it.” James snarked.

“I know.” He replied, unapologetic.

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[myyunaverse]

my girl

sirius black x fem!reader

summary: in which you overhear sirius calling you his girl, like it’s the simplest truth he’s ever known. thus, a lovesick and kiss-drunk sirius makes it his mission to say it again, and again, until you finally believe it.

warnings: fluff, excessive affection, pet names, public displays of affection, mild teasing, soft!sirius who’s so in love, overwhelming sweetness, lovesick behavior, lots of kissing, tooth rotting fluff

word count: 3.1k

masterlist

The thing about dating Sirius Black is that it never quite feels real.

Not in the way people describe disbelief, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in that strange, dreamy sense of stumbling into a story someone else might’ve written—some fairytale stitched with mischief and the kind of heat that lingers in the spaces between words.

It has been a few months now.

Enough time for your friends to stop blinking in surprise every time they catch you smiling at him, enough time for the rumors to die down and the whispers in the halls to quiet to a low murmur—though they never go away entirely when it comes to Sirius. 

He is, after all, Sirius Black: loud-mouthed and sharp-eyed, honey-voiced and maddeningly beautiful.

And yet, somehow, he chose you. Or maybe you chose each other, slowly, stupidly,and  sweetly.

You know what people must think. That you temper him. That he ignites you. That your silences fill in the blanks he never bothers to pause for. That he, for all his recklessness, somehow found something steady in you.

Which is why you’re heading to meet him now outside of class. Sirius had promised to spend the entire day with you today, as he was lately busy with studying.

You’re almost there when you hear his voice.

It’s not unusual—he talks loudly, as though the air is something that belongs to him, like even his words are allergic to restraint. But it’s the way he says something now that makes your steps falter. 

You’re still around the corner, concealed by the stone archway. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. 

“Sirius!” James Potter’s voice cuts through the corridor, warm and familiar, and it’s easy to picture his wide grin as he strides up to him. 

“Come on, padfoot. We’ve got a pitch slot and I need someone to test my latest throw. You still owe me from last week when you ditched.”

Sirius laughs, the sound low and raspy in the way you’ve come to know too well. “Didn’t ditch,” he says. 

“Oh, piss off,” James retorts. “You coming or not?”

There’s a pause. You imagine Sirius running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s pretending to think, when in reality he’s already made up his mind and just wants to seem dramatic.

“Can’t,” Sirius says finally, not sounding even the slightest bit apologetic. “I’ve got a packed schedule today.”

James scoffs, exaggerated. “What, you’ve started revising now? What exactly are you busy with?”

“No,” Sirius replies, too casual, too breezy. And then, with no warning at all, he adds, “I’m spending the day with my girl.”

It hits you like a whispered spell.

Not “my girlfriend,” not your name, not even some half-serious nickname. Just that. My girl.

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the way your heart is thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape your chest, of the heat crawling up the back of your neck, of the way your fingers have curled slightly into your sleeves like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. 

You’ve never been someone who takes up space easily, and right now, the sound of those two words fills every corner of your body, makes you feel almost... lit up.

It’s not the fact that he said it. You know you're his girl. He’s told you in the way he tucks his fingers into the loops of your jeans just to pull you closer in the quiet corners of the library. 

In the way he lights up when he sees you walk into the common room, mid-sentence with Remus, stopping only to grin like you’ve rewired the gravity in the room. 

In the way he sits behind you during study sessions just to braid strands of your hair and mutter things like “beautiful,” and “gorgeous.”

But still—my girl.

You’re fairly certain you and James both made the same face at the same time. That vaguely unhinged, utterly stunned, slack-jawed expression that usually precedes a dramatic spill or a burst of inappropriate laughter in the Great Hall.

Somewhere in your brain, a single electrical wire sparked, and then everything short-circuited.

You could practically see James’s eyebrows lifting halfway to the ceiling, and it’s almost hilarious, almost.

Because you would have laughed—if you weren’t frozen, rooted to your spot like some enchanted statue.

Then came Sirius’s voice again, casual and clear, carrying from inside the classroom, smug in the way only Sirius Black can be when he knows exactly where he’s headed.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “She’s probably already out there waiting for me.”

James groans dramatically. “Tell your girl I’m filing for abandonment.”

“See you later, prongs,” Sirius calls back, followed by the scraping sound of a chair and the creak of hinges swinging open.

Panic sparks in your chest.

You leap back from the wall like you’ve just been caught with your ear pressed to the keyhole—because, well, you have, essentially—and immediately fumble with your bag, turning slightly so it looks like you’ve just arrived. 

And then there he is.

Leaning against the doorframe like it’s something he was born to do. Hair half-tucked behind his ears, tie loose, expression bright and unreasonably happy for someone who got an earful from Slughorn not two days ago. 

His eyes find you instantly, like he was already reaching for the sight of you before he even walked out.

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice soft and amused and utterly at home in the syllables.

“Hi!,” you reply, a little too fast.

His brow lifts slightly. “Hi.”

Your heart trips. “Hi.”

He stares at you for a beat, then lets out the kind of laugh that sounds like it comes from his chest. The kind of laugh that should probably be bottled and sold as some form of antidote in your humble opinion.

“You look a little too happy for a Monday, baby,” he says, stepping closer, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted as he studies you. “What’s happening?”

You shrug with deliberate nonchalance, fighting the smile that tugs at your lips. “Can’t I be happy?”

He grins like you’ve just said something precious. “Of course you can,” he says, reaching out to squish your cheeks between his hands so your words are suddenly a little garbled.

“Just wanna know what’s got you extra happy today.”

You mumble something unintelligible, eyes darting away, and he narrows his own suspiciously.

“Hmm?”

You free your face from his fingers and try not to giggle. “It’s nothing.”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, tilting his head with mock offense. “You don’t get to smile like that and then say ‘nothing.’ Come on, tell me.”

You hesitate, toeing the stone floor with your shoe. “I, um. I heard you.”

Sirius blinks. “You heard me?”

“In class,” you clarify, shifting your weight to the other foot and feeling heat crawl up your neck. “When you were talking to James.”

He tilts his head again. “You get happy when I talk to James? That’s new,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles softly across your cheek—his touch featherlight.

His eyes, usually sharp with mischief, are softened now, warm and brimming with a quiet kind of awe.

You swat at his chest lightly. “No, Sirius.”

He laughs again, utterly delighted. “Okay, okay, sorry. What did I say?”

You bite your lip and look away. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Now I need to know.”

You shake your head stubbornly, lips pursed, trying not to smile, but Sirius isn’t fooled.

He takes a slow step closer, tall enough that his shadow stretches over you, the scent of him curling into your breath. The air between you tightens.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, voice pitched low with amusement, grin sharpening like he’s just solved a riddle he’s been working on since breakfast, “Was it when I called you my girl?”

Your face gives you away in an instant.

Your eyes widen, the way they always do when you’re caught off guard, as if your thoughts have leapt too fast for your expression to catch up. Heat blooms high in your cheeks, blooming pink and soft across your skin like sunrise, betraying every effort to stay composed.

“Oh my god,” he says, actually laughing now, hands braced on his hips as if the revelation physically knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what got you all smiley?”

You narrow your eyes, cheeks blazing. “Stop laughing!”

He tries, he really does, but the laughter keeps bubbling out of him, shameless and golden. 

You huff and turn on your heel, nose in the air like you’ve just declared a personal war against him.

But you don’t get far.

Before you can take a single step away, he moves—quick and fluid, one long stride and he’s behind you.

His fingers find your waist with ease, curling firmly around your sides, and in one seamless motion, he pulls you back—hard enough to make you stumble slightly—until you're flush against his chest.

He holds you close. So close it feels like you’re standing inside the space between seconds.

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, brushing against your skin like silk. His arms slip around you fully, drawing you in again, and this time, you don’t resist.

“Why so shy, baby?” he whispers, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and tenderness all tangled together.

You pout instinctively, your fingers resting lightly against his chest. “Nothing.”

His brows lift. “No, no. No hiding. What is it?” He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “You are my girl though, right?”

You glare up at him, but your heart is not cooperating.

“You just... never called me that before,” you say, quiet, soft enough that it barely survives the space between you.

Sirius exhales, and pulls you even closer, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.

“Well,” he says into your hair, “You should start getting used to it.”

You don’t even get a moment to tease him back before he’s wrapping his arms around you again, tugging you flush against his chest like holding you is as instinctive as breathing.

He rocks you gently side to side, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and you can feel the quiet grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he speaks.

“You’re so cute, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for your ears.

He says it again, and again. Each repetition comes between a kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing against your skin with unbearable fondness, his long hair tickling across your jaw like satin.

“My girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your cheekbone.

Another kiss, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty girl.”

You giggle, trying and failing to turn your face away as warmth floods your cheeks. “Sirius, your hair’s tickling me—”

He just smiles into your skin, clearly unbothered. Another kiss, this one slower, more lingering, pressed just beneath your ear. “My favorite person.”

You squirm in his arms, laughing harder now, your hands curled into his shirt as you try to wriggle away, but he only holds you tighter.

“My most favourite girl.”

Each word hums against your skin like a spell.

And you, useless and smitten thing that you are, melt for him completely.

A quiet giggle escapes you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face in his chest to hide the way your cheeks are burning. 

You try to squirm away, overwhelmed and giddy, but his grip tightens gently and he tilts your chin up with two fingers, catching your gaze with a look so full of open affection it robs the breath from your lungs.

He holds your face like it’s something precious, like he’s afraid to let it go. His thumb brushes just beneath your cheekbone, featherlight and impossibly gentle, and then he says—quietly, sincerely—

“Can I get a kiss?”

The way he looks at you in that moment, like you’re his whole damn universe, is almost too much. 

His long black hair falls into his eyes, the ends brushing his cheekbones, his mouth barely parted.

His eyes are shining, glassy with something deeper than a smile, and he’s smiling anyway, soft and crooked like the words he wants to say are too big to fit in his throat.

There’s a trembling silence where you don’t know how to speak.

Because this is the part no one sees.

This is Sirius Black in love. Not loud, not cocky, not showy or flirtatious. But bare, unshielded, and tender to the point of devastation.

And somehow, it still surprises you—how much he feels.

Because he plays it smooth, always, with his smirks and his swagger and his stupidly charming quips.

But deep down, Sirius is just as flustered to be around you as you are around him. Maybe even more.

He still hasn’t gotten used to saying your name out loud without his heart stammering. Still can’t look at you some days without wondering if you’re a dream made flesh. Still marvels at the fact that when you walk into a room, you’re walking toward him.

He calls you his girl like it’s nothing. But to him, it means everything.

Because you’re not just his girl. You’re his world.

You lean up slowly, your hands resting against his chest like he might vanish if you touch him too fast. Then you press your lips to his, soft and sweet.

He smiles against your mouth before pulling back slightly, his eyes still closed, like he’s trying to savor the moment just a little longer. A beat passes. Then—

“Can I get another one?” he whispers, one eyebrow lifting, that same mischievous edge bleeding back into his voice.

You blink at him. “You’re so—”

But you don’t get to finish.

Because he kisses you again—harder this time. His hand cups the back of your neck, his other arm firm around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid the world might steal you away if he lets go.

And when he kisses you like that—like you’re his first and last prayer—there’s no doubt left.

Sirius Black is utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully in love with you.

And even if you don’t quite realize it yet — he’s been yours all along.

His lips are still brushing against yours when he pulls back the slightest inch, gaze hazy and wonderstruck, as though he’s only just now realizing that you’re real. 

His thumb is tracing absent shapes at your waist, his breath slow and uneven like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your mouth by air alone.

His eyes, dark and warm and barely blinking, drink you in like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of whatever this is.

And then, of course, he leans in again for a third kiss. 

You stop him with a hand on his chest and a breathless little laugh. “Sirius,” you whisper, dragging out the syllables. “You can’t keep kissing me, we have a whole day ahead of us, and we’re still in the bloody hallway.”

He leans his forehead against yours with a groan, dramatic and wounded, as if you’ve just denied him water in a desert.

“But I thought you were my girl,” he says, pout in full effect, lips parted and brow creased with the exaggerated tragedy of it all.

“My girl doesn’t let me kiss her as much as I want? This is unfair.”

You burst out laughing, fully this time, and the sound of it sends a visible shiver through him.

He never gets tired of hearing it, probably never will.

“Come on, Black,” you tease, grabbing his hand and turning on your heel to pull him down the corridor behind you, your fingers threading easily through his.

“I need someone to help me carry the books I ordered.”

At that, Sirius lights up like someone’s handed him a trophy. “Books?” he says, perking up.

“You ordered books and didn’t tell me? That’s a violation of trust. But don’t worry, love—I’ll carry them, all of them. You won’t lift a single bloody finger.”

You glance back at him with a smirk. “Wow, look at you,” you tease, eyebrows raised.

“All manly now, huh? Sirius Black, the knight in shining armor, savior of poor girls with heavy textbooks.”

“I am manly,” he insists, puffing his chest out like an idiot and giving your joined hands a little swing. “And chivalrous and noble and handsome and criminally underappreciated and—.”

You snort. “Okay, I get it!”

But just as you’re rounding the next corridor, Sirius glances down and suddenly stops short, yanking you to a halt beside him.

“Wait—you’re carrying your bag?”

You blink, confused. “Um... yes?”

He gasps so dramatically you’re worried for a moment he might start clutching his chest. “What a horrible boyfriend I am,” he cries.

“Carrying nothing. Letting my girl do the heavy lifting like some kind of untrained baboon.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as he makes a scene of freeing your bag from your shoulder.

“Give me that. No, seriously, give it. I was raised better than this. Even my horrible, bloody mother would’ve scolded me for letting you carry your own things.” – He takes the bag from you with exaggerated care, slinging it over his shoulder – “Granted, she’d probably scold me just for being in public with you, but the point stands.”

You giggle again, unable to stop smiling, as he then reaches for your hand once more, the two of you falling into step like you were made to.

Your hands swing gently between you, fingers warm and safe in his.

And from that moment on, he never stopped.

Sirius Black referred to you as his girl in every corner of the castle, whether you were there to hear it or not.

He’d say it proudly, like the words alone lit something inside him.

And when you weren’t around, you’d better believe he was still talking, still rambling, and surely still flustered.

Cheeks tinted a soft, unmistakable pink, he'd go on and on to anyone who’d listen—usually James—about how smart you were, how good you smelled, how pretty you looked with your nose buried in a book or your hair tied back or when you laughed with your whole body like you did when he tickled your sides.

James, for his part, teased him relentlessly. But Sirius didn’t mind. Not even a little.

You were his girl after all, and he wanted the whole world to know it.

[myyunaverse]

in a week. james potter x reader

james wants to rot inside you. and you let him *. ⋆ 3k words

part of the hozier series i'm writing with my girlies @twovialsofamortentia @mischievousmoony @prettydaisygirl !

cw: smut. fem!reader. established relationship. morning sex. light choking. spit. praise. degradation. tit focused (kinda). dry humping. piv. unprotected sex. thumb sucking. crying. begging. biting. unhinged/religious devotion. posessive!james. feral!james. overstimulation (he comes so many times i don't think it's possible). cursing. a bit of aftercare. lmk if i missed smth!

a/n: james would NOT survive in the same room as me

you wake up to the sound of birds.

the curtains move gently through the open window, the breeze soft against the bare skin of your arms, and there’s warmth at your back, alive, heavy, hard. his breath is slow on your shoulder. his thigh is tucked between yours and his arm around your waist, anchoring you to him.

james.

he’s still asleep. his cock is already half-hard, thick and insistent pressing on the curve of your ass. you shift slightly and he grunts, his nose nuzzling into your neck.

it’s not a surprise. he always wakes up like this, reaching for you in sleep like instinct.

as if he’ll stop breathing if he can’t touch you. as if he’ll rot without you in his arms.

you stay like that for a while, with the sweat slick warmth of skin on skin wrapping you like a cocoon.

the birds are chirping outside, awoken by the morning light. you see a few of them fly by, one or two even daring to land on the tree just outside the window.

then he speaks, low and raspy from sleep.

“still here,” he murmurs, tightening his hold. “thought you’d slipped away.”

“I never do.”

he exhales, rubbing and nuzzling deeper into your skin. “dreamt of you again.”

you hum. “yeah? what was I doing?”

“crying. moaning. you were… fuck, you were so wet.”

you feel yourself pulse at the sound of it—at the filth in his voice.

“I was inside you,” he says, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt, across your belly, higher. “and I kept thinking… let it kill me.”

his hand finds your chest, and he groans like your body hurts him.

“let me rot here,” he whispers. “right between your tits.”

“james,” you murmur, torn between laughter and a whimper.

“I'm serious,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “gonna build a shrine. right here.” he presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “holy ground.”

his thumb flicks lazily over your nipple and he moans like your body is sunrise itself.

“I'm obsessed,” he whispers. “wanna live here. wanna die here.”

you squirm back against him and feel his cock twitch.

“oh, fuck—don’t do that,” he groans. “m’gonna come before we even start.”

“we haven’t started anything,” you tease.

“tell that to my dick,” he mutters. “he’s already giving his last words.”

you giggle, and james finally rolls you onto your back. his eyes are half-lidded, curls messy, and there’s something so beautiful about the lazy way he drapes himself over you, like your body is the only home he’s ever known.

he presses his face into your chest, nose nuzzling your sternum.

“I’m gonna die between your tits,” he murmurs.

“not very romantic,” you say.

“not very negotiable either.”

his lips move lower, tongue dragging over the fabric of your sleep shirt until it soaks through. he sucks gently at your nipple, even through the cotton, and you gasp at the heat.

“take it off,” he mumbles against your skin.

you lift your arms, and he peels the shirt away slowly, eyes trailing down your bare chest with open worship. his lips part. his hands shake.

“fuck me,” he says reverently. “you look carved.”

his mouth finds your nipple again, this time bare, and he groans. he suckles like he needs it to breathe—like this is communion. you whimper, hips shifting under him, and he growls, grinding down just enough for you to feel the thick press of his cock through both your clothes.

his hand slides down your thigh, then back up under the hem of your shorts.

“still have these on?” he asks, voice dark now. “that’s rude. you’re wet, aren’t you?”

you nod.

“words, baby.”

“yes,” you gasp. “I'm wet. for you. always.”

james moans, humping against you harder.

“gonna make you come just like this,” he mutters. “clothes on, tits out, my mouth on you. that’s all I need.”

his hips stutter. he spits directly onto your nipple, then sucks it clean. you cry out. your hands tangle in his curls. he’s rutting now, deliberate, hard, and filthy. the heat of him is overwhelming.

“feel that?” he pants. “that’s what you do to me. every morning. you walk around this house like a fucking dream, and i’m hard from the second i open my eyes. you know how many times I've come just grinding into your ass like this?”

you whine.

“too many,” he says. “and I’d do it a thousand more.”

you can’t think. you can’t breathe. his thigh presses between your legs and your clit rubs against the seam of your panties with every desperate shift of your hips.

you’re so close already.

james is panting against your chest, one hand splayed across your thigh, the other still gripping your breast like he’ll die if he lets go. you’re rutting against each other like animals, still mostly clothed, sweat slicking your skin where it touches.

“you gonna come like this?” he pants. “grinding against my cock like you’re in heat?”

you nod frantically. “i’m close… james, please—”

“yeah? want me to make a mess of you first?” he growls. “want to drip down your thighs before i even fuck you?”

you moan, your body trembling under his, and that’s all it takes—he presses his thigh harder between your legs, your clit catching perfectly against the pressure, and everything shatters.

you come with a gasp, hips jerking, nails digging into his shoulders. your thighs clamp around his leg, riding the wave of it, and james groans like it’s happening to him.

“fucking hell,” he breathes. “you’re so wet. fuck, I’m—shit, I’m—”

he ruts faster, cock twitching in his boxers, and then he’s coming too, his whole body stiffening as he groans into your chest. it’s filthy. raw. a low, desperate sound as he humps through it, grinding his cock against you until he’s trembling.

you lie there for a beat. ruined. his breath stutters against your chest.

“jesus christ,” he says eventually. “that was…”

you tilt your head to look at him. “insane?”

“religious,” he says. “that was sacred.”

you laugh breathlessly.

but james lifts his head, sweat damp at his hairline, eyes dark with something deeper now.

“I’m not done,” he says.

you blink.

“I need to be inside you,” he says, voice hoarse. “like—need it. right now.”

your body pulses at his tone. you nod, breathless.

he peels your shorts and ruined underwear down your thighs and tosses them somewhere behind him. his fingers trail through your folds, and he groans.

“you’re soaked. from just grinding on me. from my thigh and my mouth and my fucking voice.”

he leans down and spits onto your cunt, then rubs it in with his fingers, slow and dirty.

“open up for me,” he says. “let me ruin you properly.”

you reach between you to shove his boxers down. his cock springs free, already hard again, flushed red and leaking.

you whimper. “how the fuck are you—”

“angel,” he says, lining himself up, “I get hard just looking at you. you think coming in my pants could stop me?”

you laugh, barely. because he pushes in, thick and slow, splitting you open inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt.

“oh my—james—”

he groans, head dropping to your shoulder. “fuck, you feel like heaven. like the end of me.”

he starts to move, slow at first, deep and measured. you arch into him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, mouth open in a silent moan.

“gonna fuck you like it’s the last thing I ever do,” he whispers. “gonna leave bruises where my name belongs.”

one hand wraps around your throat, not tight, just holding you, a claim. the other drags up your ribs, over your chest, squeezing your breast until you cry out.

“you’re all mine,” he says, voice wrecked. “you feel that? my cock in you, my hands on you. you let me spit in your mouth, ride my thigh, come in your sleep clothes like you’re made for me.”

you nod. “I am.”

he groans. “say it.”

“i’m made for you. just you.”

his hips snap harder now, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. he spits into your mouth and watches you swallow.

“fuck,” he growls. “that’s it. my good girl. my filthy, perfect girl.”

you whimper beneath him, your second orgasm already building, your body desperate.

“I’m close,” you gasp.

“then come,” he snarls. “come on my cock, baby. show me how wrecked you are.”

you do.

it hits like fire, ripping through you, white-hot and violent. you cry out his name, clawing at his back, and he groans, hips stuttering as you clamp around him.

“shit—gonna come too—fuck—you’re squeezing me like you want to keep me inside.”

“I do,” you pant. “come in me. fill me up.”

he growls, deep and low and possessive. and then he’s gone, emptying himself inside you with a choked, broken moan.

he doesn’t pull out.

instead, he stays there. deep. his chest pressed to yours. both of you heaving.

“let me rot here,” he says again, quieter this time. “right inside you.”

you thread your fingers through his curls and pull him down for a kiss.

“stay,” you whisper.

and he does.

you don’t know how long you lie like that—him still inside you, softening slowly, both of you wrapped around each other like ivy. the room smells like sex. sweat clings to your skin. and james keeps whispering things into your hair that sound more like confessions than dirty talk.

“i’d die like this,” he breathes. “inside you. warm. buried. want my bones to dissolve here.”

“morbid,” you whisper, eyes closed.

“romantic,” he corrects, and presses a kiss to your jaw.

you feel him hardening again.

you open one eye.

“again?”

he shifts slightly, and you moan as his cock thickens inside you.

“course again,” he murmurs. “you think I can stop? after that? after you clenched around me like you were scared I'd leave?”

you whimper. your body’s still trembling. your clit still aches. but he’s kissing down your neck now, gentle, then harder, until his teeth scrape.

“you want to stop?” he asks, breath warm against your collarbone.

you shake your head.

he grins.

“didn’t think so.”

he pulls out slowly, and your body throbs at the loss. but before you can complain, he drags you into his lap, settling you over his thighs so you’re straddling him, your pussy hovering just above his cock.

his hands grab your ass, squeezing once before pulling you down to grind against him.

“you’re gonna ride me,” he says, voice like gravel. “until you can’t see straight.”

your hands grip his shoulders. his cock slides between your folds, not inside yet, just dragging along your slit, teasing your swollen clit.

“look at you,” he whispers. “so fucked out already. you still want more?”

you nod, dazed.

“use your words.”

“I want more.”

“greedy,” he murmurs. “my greedy girl.”

he leans in to suck your tit again, messy and hungry, while his hands guide your hips to grind down on him. it’s torture. wet and hot and not enough.

“beg for it.”

“james—”

“beg.”

you whimper. “please. please let me ride you. i need it. i need to come again. i want your cock so bad it hurts.”

he groans. “fuck—you’re perfect.”

you lift your hips and line him up, then sink down slow. both of you moan, heads falling forward, foreheads touching.

“good girl,” he breathes. “take it. take all of it.”

you start to move, rocking your hips, rolling them in messy circles as his cock presses deep inside you. james is unraveling beneath you, moaning into your skin, biting at your chest.

“god, you feel like sin,” he groans. “warm and tight and mine.”

you start to bounce, each thrust sending sparks through your spine. james loses it—his head falls back, mouth open, chest heaving.

you lean in and bite his neck.

hard.

“fuck—” he chokes. “do that again.”

you do. sinking your teeth into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. he thrusts up into you so hard it punches a moan out of your throat.

he grabs your hips and starts fucking up into you now, using your body like it belongs to him—and it does. you’re both gone. sweaty, loud, feral.

you spit into his mouth this time.

he swallows and groans like it’s air.

“I'm gonna come,” you gasp. “gonna come on your cock, james, oh my god—”

“do it,” he pants. “fucking soak me, baby. make a mess. show me what I do to you.”

you shatter. loud and wet and wild. you don’t even realize you're crying until james is licking tears off your cheeks, moaning praises into your mouth.

and then he comes, biting down on your shoulder, cock pulsing inside you, hips stuttering as he spills deep.

you collapse against his chest, trembling, boneless.

“I’ll never need anyone else,” he whispers. “ever.”

your bodies are tangled and soaked with sweat. the sheets are a mess. you’re not even sure where your shirt ended up, or when exactly james started trembling like he was about to cry.

but you’re still in his lap, his arms wrapped tight around you, cock twitching deep inside your soaked cunt, your heart beating against his chest like a war drum.

and james won’t stop kissing you.

lazy kisses. gentle kisses. desperate, open-mouthed ones that make you dizzy.

“still with me?” he mumbles, eyes glazed but fond. his hands are stroking your hips like he’s grounding himself.

you nod, forehead against his. “are you?”

“no,” he says softly. “i’m fucking gone.”

you laugh, exhausted.

but he shifts beneath you, and suddenly his cock is hard again. still inside you. still pulsing.

“james—”

“i told you,” he breathes, eyes dark and glassy, “i can’t stop.”

your thighs are shaking. your clit is raw. your whole body is too sensitive to move, but the idea of him fucking you again makes your core clench, greedy and ready.

james feels it. “oh, you liked that.”

he grins, devilish and boyish all at once, and then he lifts you up, just a little, until only the tip of his cock remains inside.

then slams you down again.

you scream.

“i know,” he whispers. “sensitive, yeah? but i need it, baby. need to see you come again. need to feel you fluttering around me while i ruin you for the fourth fucking time.”

you moan, overwhelmed and already so far gone that your eyes well with tears.

“aw, don’t cry,” he coos, cupping your cheek. “or do. i like it. you’re pretty when you sob for me.”

his thumb drags over your bottom lip, then shoves into your mouth. you suck on it instinctively.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

you nod, drooling around his thumb.

“that’s my girl.”

he starts thrusting up into you again, slow but punishing. you can’t even move anymore, so he uses his grip on your hips to bounce you, just enough to send lightning through your nerves. your eyes roll back.

“look at you,” he groans. “fucked dumb and still taking it. my perfect little mess.”

you whimper something unintelligible. he kisses your cheek.

“gonna come again?”

“I—I can’t—”

“yes you can,” he growls. “you’re going to. you’re going to soak me again and scream for it. come on, baby, give it to me.”

his fingers rub your clit, and it’s too much.

your orgasm rips through you, high and shrieking and borderline painful—and james moans like it’s his own.

he follows a second later, biting your collarbone, coming inside you one more time as your cunt flutters around him, pulling every drop from his cock.

this time, you really collapse.

fully limp.

james holds you tighter.

“my girl,” he breathes, over and over. “my girl. my girl. mine.”

you’re not sure when you blacked out. not passed out, just gone. drifting. floating somewhere above your own body, high on orgasm and heat and james’s voice murmuring filth into your neck.

you’re still in his lap. still full of him. the sheets beneath you are a disaster. his curls are damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. and his cock is finally soft again, tucked inside you like it belongs there.

neither of you speak for a long while.

james just breathes. kisses your temple. rubs circles into your back like he’s tracing a map he never wants to lose.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until he wipes the tears away with his thumbs.

“too much?” he whispers. his voice is hoarse. wrecked.

you shake your head. “no. never.”

he lets out a long breath and kisses your cheek.

“didn’t mean to fuck you like I’d never see you again,” he murmurs. “but you… you make me crazy.”

you look up at him. his eyes are blown wide, glassy with something that feels like awe.

“you okay?” you ask, barely a whisper.

he nods, then pauses. “no.”

your heart jumps. “no?”

he cups your face like you’re porcelain.

“no, I'm not okay. I'm in love with you. I want to spend every day like this. every night. I want to wake up hard against your ass and go to sleep with your taste in my mouth.”

your throat tightens.

“I want to build a life around your body,” he whispers. “I want to die between your thighs. I want to come inside you so many times that you forget what empty feels like.”

you blink, tears falling again.

he brushes them away gently.

“I meant what I said,” he adds, voice low. “let me rot here. right inside you. let me be the man who never leaves your bed.”

you nod slowly.

“then stay,” you whisper. “forever.”

james smiles, soft and wrecked and completely in love.

“forever isn’t long enough,” he says. “but I’ll try.”

he kisses you then, slow and deep. and even though your body is raw and trembling and ruined, you know he’d take you again if you asked. he’d give you everything. over and over.

because he’s yours.

and you’re his.

completely.

hopelessly.

forever.

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