#this has been percolating for a while

[foggyinphx]

"Sometimes, peace needs to be broken, and chaos must reign, just for a moment to build a stronger order." -Wilson Fisk

After rewatching DDBA season 1 again I'm back in the Fisk has Foggy camp.

Vanessa and Foggy were caught up in their own little Red Hook world, each keeping their partner uninvolved, aware of the season 3 truce. Each justifying it to themselves as what their partners don't know can't hurt them.

In good mafioso fashion, Vanessa doesn't do or say outloud the dirty work. Notice she never said the word "kill", Dex did. So Vanessa asked Buck to arrange everything Dex needed. But Buck, playing good soldier to both sides of the Fisk marriage, gave Wilson the heads up about the "kill Foggy Nelson" plan.

Wilson made a pact with Matt that he isn't going to break, because he would never break his word that way. He has some honor and pride after all. He also wants to save his estranged wife from herself. This is the second disloyal thing she has done in his absence. He's just recently returned home after his injury/recovery and he wants to be with her again. He can't just call off the hit though. His plans for his future mayorship have everything to do with Red Hook. Foggy is still a problem. So he has Buck give a different plan to Dex: Injure/incapacitate Foggy in a way that's recoverable, make sure there's a witness, Dex will be protected from the consequences. With his lawyer gone Dumb Benny will go to jail, illustrating to the public that crime in Red Hook punishable by law, nothing fishy going on here!

So a critically injured Foggy is whisked away by Fisk's people and Matt Murdock thinks Foggy is dead. Wilson is anticipating Matt's freak out. He wants the freakout, to turn Matt's world to chaos if even for a moment. He wants Matt to mourn the lost time like Wilson had to suffer every time Vanessa was ripped away from him. See how painful this is Murdock? How empty life can be? Well good news, Wilson Fisk didn't break the truce and will give you back your Foggy for the low low price of letting Fisk rule the city unimpeded.

But Matt throws a curveball. He gives up Daredevil and goes straight. Unexpected, but it makes Wilson's bid for mayorship easier! And should Daredevil ever come knocking, Fisk has the ultimate leverage: a living Foggy Nelson.

Wilson Fisk is the master of longterm planning, anticipating problems, and acting without anyone realizing. Before DD season 1 he amassed his power completely under the radar. In season 2 he took over an entire prison by networking with the right people and knowing where to move money. And in season 3 he manipulated an entire government agency to do exactly what he wanted by killing family members, canceling health insurance, and getting a waitress a new job. In DDBA season 1 he already had Adam. He already knew about Vanessa and her plan against Foggy.

"He's always a part of this." -Benjamin Poindexter

[tinglingfuckingsensation]

Baberoe postwar thoughts on my brain this week...not in the happy ever after way but in the scared and lost young queer men processing the war and trying to navigate being queer in postwar USA way.

Thinking about Gene nipping things in the bud before returning stateside because he can't see a future for them. Thinking about Babe, willing to risk it all, feeling rejected and unloved because Gene won't give him the time of day. Thinking about the thousands of miles of distance between them, about how their homes are diametrically opposed, Babe the city boy from Philly and Gene the country boy from Louisiana. Thinking about Babe trying and trying and trying to make it work. Thinking about how the love is there but it's still not enough. Thinking about Gene and his fears, how he can't bear the thought of risking Babe's life over this. Thinking how they both know they're doomed but still clinging to what little they can have. Thinking about Babe finally marrying a woman who already has kids of her own, about giving in and doing what is smart instead of doing what he wants. Thinking about stolen moments spread over years and years of hiding who they really are. Thinking about the friends who know and those who don't, about the loneliness that comes with not being able to fully be who you are. Thinking about the glimpses of another life that they can see, about other queer people they meet, about seeing a life they could have if they're brave enough to choose it.

[w1ld-wr1t3r]

Two words: Norrix wingfic

Coming soon-ish maybe to an AO3 page near you!

[fingertipsmp3]

I haaate when apple pay doesn’t work and I have to type my credit card number in because now I have to actually comprehend the ways in which I am damaging myself financially

[randomingoftherandomness]

.

[frosthidden]

PICTURE YOU - CHAPPELL ROAN

mutuals may interact, do not reblog without permission (personals gtfo)

Iisa frankenstein cap cred goes to @byroncapped

[nonempyreal]

cowboy shit - amazon prime's "reacher" / general military verse

Stop me if you've heard this one: Just a small town girl, living in a really fucked up world... No? Okay, here's how the rest of it goes.

Haven grows up in a very small town, with a family belonging to a church with ideals and doctrines that could best be described as "very intense". Strictness doesn't always foster adherence (rules are made to be broken, one might argue) and the teenager often finds herself in trouble with the county sheriff. It's when a US Army recruiter comes to the high school that Haven finally realizes her life could have purpose, and with the recruiter's promises of money, education, and human connection she enlists when she turns eighteen.

Basic training is a breeze - turns out hopping fences running from the cops is an apt precursor to agility exercises. The drill sergeants may not admit it, but her scrappy nature often proves to be an impressive advantage. She's on track to become someone great.

That is, until several weeks into her Advanced Individual Training to work as a mechanic. With not much to do on the weekends, Haven volunteers on base performing minor janitorial duties in some of the office buildings. One afternoon, she's mopping a tile hallway floor when she overhears a conversation she's not supposed to in one of the meeting rooms. Conversations between men whose military careers are about as old as she is. When they realize her presence, they quickly make note of her name and rank and order her to find a different hallway to scrub.

The following Monday in class, the simple task of filling a tire with air goes horribly awry when a tampered-with pressure gauge indicates the incorrect pressure and the tire explodes in Haven's face. With severe lacerations, impaired vision of the left eye, deafness in the left ear and impaired hearing in the right, recurring headaches and tinnitus, a stack of paperwork and a medical discharge squash her dreams overnight. It's only after it's all said and done that she realizes that was all planned to keep her from leaking secrets.

Struggling to find purpose back in civilian life and dealing with permanent disabilities, she gets a menial, remote data entry job and spends evenings learning robotics from YouTube videos and online courses. But don't assume she's lost her wild edge; the unceremonious end of her short-lived military career, as embarrassing and world-shattering as it was to her, ignited a deep and ugly rage inside her. Anger lurks in the shadows at every turn. The people she was supposed to be loyal to kicked her out to the curb as soon as she was no longer useful, and for what? To protect a secret she wasn't even sure she heard correctly in the first place?

[sirsparklepants]

When I was a teenager, I was always so embarrassed to be from the south. I ruthlessly suppressed my accent, laughed with all the jokes about the region because of course they weren't about ME (even though I lived in a small town in the south, they couldn't be about me, they were too mean-spirited), always picked Chinese or Mexican or Indian as my favorite foods and never admitted how much I loved barbecue and peach cobbler. Country music was something I only listened to with my grandparents. I pretended that southern culture didn't exist, that I had to get away from here as fast as I could.

Now I'm thirty and I'm sad for that person. Indian food is still one of my favorites, I love authentic Mexican, and egg drop soup is my comfort food, but I love to fry green tomatoes and debate people over the exact right way to make potato salad (it's the way my grandpa always made it, of course). I make fun of our conservative politicians and talk about the gerrymandering, lack of educational opportunities, and intentionally divisive politics that help contribute to the south's reputation. I love living somewhere where I stop to talk with my neighbors when walking my dog and wave to every car that passes me. If someone doesn't like my accent, that's on them. And I say "bless your heart" and don't feel uncomfortable because I'm afraid people will interpret it as "fuck you" (it's not, by the way. It only means "fuck you" if you're being passive aggressive, and being passive aggressive can make any phrase mean "fuck you"). There's a lot wrong about the south, but there's a lot here that's good, too, and I'm not going to throw the baby out with the bathwater, I'm not going to leave, and I'm not going to be ashamed of where I'm from, either.

[radiotransmissionaac]

Realising quite suddenly why ‘Sunday resets’ (do all chores on one day) don’t work for me is because, drumroll, I’m chronically ill. Who could have foreseen this? Watching videos and knowing people irl who do all weekly chores one day. Realise could put 10 minutes effort into tasks & then need lie down 1+ hour afterward.

But not give up. Just means have find own way to do including ask other for help.

[interstate40]

what if I actually sat down and started writing my novel rn. what then?

[transmasc-tabris]

The urge to rewrite some fics to put different headcanons that I didn't have the guts to share before vs the fact that that's a fucking stupid thing to do

[reasonsforhope]

"For years, California was slated to undertake the world’s largest dam removal project in order to free the Klamath River to flow as it had done for thousands of years.

Now, as the project nears completion, imagery is percolating out of Klamath showing the waterway’s dramatic transformation, and they are breathtaking to behold.

Pictured: Klamath River flows freely, after Copco-2 dam was removed in California.

Incredibly, the project has been nearly completed on schedule and under budget, and recently concluded with the removal of two dams, Iron Gate and Copco 1. Small “cofferdams” which helped divert water for the main dams’ construction, still need to be removed.

The river, along which salmon and trout had migrated and bred for centuries, can flow freely between Lake Ewauna in Klamath Falls, Oregon, to the Pacific Ocean for the first time since the dams were constructed between 1903 and 1962.

“This is a monumental achievement—not just for the Klamath River but for our entire state, nation, and planet,” Governor Gavin Newsom said in a statement. “By taking down these outdated dams, we are giving salmon and other species a chance to thrive once again, while also restoring an essential lifeline for tribal communities who have long depended on the health of the river.”

“We had a really incredible moment to share with tribes as we watched the final cofferdams be broken,” Ren Brownell, Klamath River Renewal Corp. public information officer, told SFGATE. “So we’ve officially returned the river to its historic channel at all the dam sites. But the work continues.”

Pictured: Iron Gate Dam, before and after.

“The dams that have divided the basin are now gone and the river is free,” Frankie Myers, vice chairman of the Yurok Tribe, said in a tribal news release from late August. “Our sacred duty to our children, our ancestors, and for ourselves, is to take care of the river, and today’s events represent a fulfillment of that obligation.”

The Yurok Tribe has lived along the Klamath River forever, and it was they who led the decades-long campaign to dismantle the dams.

At first the water was turbid, brown, murky, and filled with dead algae—discharges from riverside sediment deposits and reservoir drainage. However, Brownell said the water quality will improve over a short time span as the river normalizes.

“I think in September, we may have some Chinook salmon and steelhead moseying upstream and checking things out for the first time in over 60 years,” said Bob Pagliuco, a marine habitat resource specialist at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration in July.

Pictured: JC Boyle Dam, before and after.

“Based on what I’ve seen and what I know these fish can do, I think they will start occupying these habitats immediately. There won’t be any great numbers at first, but within several generations—10 to 15 years—new populations will be established.”

Ironically, a news release from the NOAA states that the simplification of the Klamath River by way of the dams actually made it harder for salmon and steelhead to survive and adapt to climate change.

“When you simplify the habitat as we did with the dams, salmon can’t express the full range of their life-history diversity,” said NOAA Research Fisheries Biologist Tommy Williams.

“The Klamath watershed is very prone to disturbance. The environment throughout the historical range of Pacific salmon and steelhead is very dynamic. We have fires, floods, earthquakes, you name it. These fish not only deal with it well, it’s required for their survival by allowing the expression of the full range of their diversity. It challenges them. Through this, they develop this capacity to deal with environmental changes.”

-via Good News Network, October 9, 2024

[valiantothello]

I often see the sentiment of "Dick grayson has a temper/is a huge asshole" percolate across this fandom and I want to talk about a few panels people typically use to show this.

Here's one from his New Titans days:

"YOU SEE THAT? "PLAYBOY POWS PAPARAZZI!" I CAN SELL THIS ONE TO EVERY PAPER IN THE COUNTRY! "I THINK HE BROKE MY JAW!" "PRINT THAT PHOTO AND I'LL BREAK SOMETHING THAT WON'T HEAL!" "I'LL SUE YOU, GRAYSON! I GOT IT ON FILM! I GOT WITNESSES!"

New Titans #97

But most people like to omit the previous panel:

"KORY, DON'T! KORY! YOU KNOW I DON'T CARE FOR HER. I WASN'T PAYING ATTEN-- I MEAN, I DIDN'T KNOW I WAS SLEEPING WITH HER. I THOUGHT IT WAS YOU! OH, GOD--KORY, YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU. KORY!?!"

"MAN, IT WAS A GOOD THING WE WERE FOLLOWING HIM!" "'PLAYBOY SLEEPS WITH GIRL-FRIEND'S TWIN AND DOESN'T KNOW IT!'" "MAN, IF I HAD A GIRLFRIEND LIKE THAT, I'D NEVER NEED TO LOOK AT ANYONE ELSE."

New Titans #97

Is Dick, who is being mocked and goaded for his own rape, lashing out and showing his "temper"? Or is he showing a reasonable reaction to the horrific things that are happening to him?

Another example is the time Dick killed the joker:

"ALL THE DEATHS! ALL THE PAIN! WHEN IS ENOUGH ENOUGH, JOKER!?"

"AW... JEEZ.. I HIT JASON A LOT HARDER THAN THAT. HIS NAME WAS JASON, RIGHT? SHUUH- SHOULDA VIDEOED THIS. OOOOH."

People often forget about this guy:

"WHATEVER STOKES YOU UP, PRETTY BOY... WHATEVER FEEDS THAT YUMMY-TASTY HATE BUBBLIN' UP INSIDE YOU."

Joker: Last Laugh #6

This is a classic moment of Dick Grayson being brainwashed, mind-controlled etc. The character creeping on Dick is called Rancor - a white supremacist meta who has the ability to dramatically increase the anger/hatred someone is feeling. Yes, Dick was furious that the Joker "killed" Tim, but there was no guarantee Dick was out to kill the Joker.

"NO ONE HATES HIM MORE THAN ME. NO ONE WANTS HIM DEAD MORE THAN ME. BUT THIS ISN'T THE WAY. "I KNOW, BABS. GOD HELP ME, I KNOW."

Dick admits to Barbara that he knows that he shouldn't kill the Joker despite expressing clearly that he wants to. But immediately after, Dinah says this to Barbara:

"I TRIED TO STOP KIM... BUT HE SUCKER-PUNCHED ME AND TOOK MY BIKE. HE DID APOLOGIZE THOUGH... STALWART TO A FAULT, YOUR GUY."

This panel immediately picks up after the last one. Dick fights with Dinah off-panel and apologises for it. We also know that Rancor was following him the whole time. Its reasonable to assume that Dick was lashing out at Dinah because of his altered emotions via Rancor's mind-control. Is it really fair to assume that had Rancor not been there, Dick would've went through with killing the Joker? I don't think so.

Another infamous one is Dick's fight with Donna:

"ON TOP OF ALL THAT, KOLE'S DEAD, AND WHAT DID YOU DO WHILE ALL THIS WAS HAPPENING? WHAT MENACE WERE YOU FIGHTING? WHAT WAS DISTRACTING YOU FROM FOLLOWING UP ON RAVEN'S "PLEASE, DICK--DON'T SAY IT."

"DISAPPEARANCE OR MENTO'S INSANITY? YOUR HUSBAND NEEDED HELP WRITING SOME COLLEGE PAPER! THE WORLD GOES TO HELL IN A HANDCART BUT YOU STAY AT HOME HELPING SOMEONE WRITE A LOUSY STORY!"

"STOP IT, DICK... STOP IT!"

New teen titans Vol 2 #19

The panels before it:

"I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU GIVE UP, DICK. KORY MAY BE MARRIED, BUT IT'S NOT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE. NOT FOR HER OR FOR YOU. AND I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU TAKE OUT YOUR FRUSTRATIONS ON THE REST OF US. DO YOU HEAR WHAT I'M SAYING, DICK?"

"DONNA, YOUR MISTAKE IS YOU ASSUME I GIVE A DAMN ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE SAYING. I DON'T. MOVE ASIDE, PLEASE. I WANT TO GO OUT." "NO. I'M NOT DONE." "I SAID I DON'T CARE, NOW PLEASE... MOVE." "NO."

New teen titans Vol 2 #19

Notice how Dick repeatedly tells Donna to let it be. He clearly didn't want to discuss the Karras-Kory marriage because he was also being ACTIVELY BRAINWASHED in this moment and is canonically lashing out at his friends and girlfriend because of it. Donna refuses to leave Dick alone, even adding a defiant "No." after he asks.

After Dick snaps and starts yelling some very, very harsh truths at her, Donna starts to violently lash out at Dick.

Notably, Dick doesn't hit Donna back despite his altered mind state. Whilst I'm not villifying Donna for having this reaction at all, she wasn't in the right either. Despite Dick telling her to back off, she did not. Despite knowing Dick was volatile at that moment - the whole reason she wanted to have the talk- Donna still couldn't handle Dick's anger without responding with violence. As such, this isn't; a show of Dick "losing his temper" due to him actively fighting brainwashing, a particularly good representation of their friendship or a girlboss moment for Donna.

There are other moments I could point out that fandom uses to display Dick's "temper" or him being "an asshole" (🙄) and the more I see, the more I notice how out of context these moments are displayed to be.

There's something very disingenuous about deliberately posting panels of Dick acting a certain way with zero context which leads people to believe he is acting that way with no provocation - which is usually not the case- all in the name of giving him a "character flaw". If you can't find said flaw without the character being mind-controlled or literally out of their mind in grief, is it really a character flaw or just fanon?.

[stillmonsterz]

be with her tonight

pairing: heeseung x reader

genre: smut

summary: every week, you go to the same coffee shop for their great service and wonderful drinks. but for some reason, the barista has always rubbed you the wrong way. he seems harmless, though.

contains: unprotected sex, rape, noncon, somnophilia, drug mentions, lying, swearing, johnny is there, mark is there, twitch mention

word count: 5.0k (unproofread)

---

Heeseung’s eyes were shifty, his hands trembling over the paper cups. He plucked one off, a grande, and started to prepare the same familiar order. Despite his quivering hands, Heeseung went through the motions of making the drink with the utmost of effort. A small splash of hot coffee dribbled from the spout onto his hand; he scarcely noticed the pain. 

He set the cup down on the counter and surveyed the small cafe where he worked. Patrons were settled into small wooden tables, the windows were bright, and succulents lined the windowsills. Heeseung tugged at the collar of his black button-up and adjusted his apron. His coworker, Sunghoon, noticed him and smirked. 

“Is she coming again today?” Sunghoon asked while he restocked the croissants in the pastry display.

It took a few seconds for Heeseung to process that Sunghoon was talking to him. “Huh?”

“That girl, what’s-her-name…” Sunghoon conspicuously slipped a small brownie bar into the pocket of his apron.

“Oh,” Heeseung said softly. “I dunno…” Of course you were coming today. You came here every Wednesday and Friday at 2:00 pm, during your lunch break. Your favorite coworker was off those two days, so you ate alone and got yourself a coffee and a pastry. You were coming today. Heeseung had to see you again. 

When 2:00 arrived and you hadn’t walked through the doors with your usual vivacity, Heeseung got nervous. He begrudgingly served some other people whose faces he couldn’t have recalled if he had been paid to do so. 

2:15 and Heeseung’s hands shook even more. Sunghoon was already glancing at him strangely, so Heeseung busied himself by wiping down the counter. Why weren’t you here? He only got to see you twice a week, so he savored the time where he got to drink in your face, to inhale your scent that percolated so harmoniously with the ubiquitous scent of coffee. 

As the second hand slipped to 4, a cold chill spread all over his body and he felt as though someone had forced him to swallow a handful of nails. They sat in his stomach, tearing apart the delicate lining, puncturing holes in his organs, ripping him apart from the inside. It was Wednesday. You were normally here by now. What had happened? 

The drink he had made you in advance was getting cold. 

Had you switched coffeeshops? Had you forgotten about him? What if you hated him? What if you had caught onto him?

Heeseung swallowed hard; he dug his jagged nails into the palms of his hand. “Sunghoon…” he began quietly, “I think I’m going to step outs-,”

The door opened and you stepped inside, waving at Heeseung. The nails melted away and were replaced by spoonfuls of honey, soothing his throat, filling him with golden light. 

“Hi,” you said, pulling your purse out of your wallet. You glanced over at the forgotten drink resting on the counter. “Oh, was that mine?”

“I’ll make you another one,” Heeseung said, far too quickly. He unceremoniously dumped the drink into the sink and started bustling about in the kitchen. Once he was facing away from you, a grin split across his face, and he had to restrain himself from giggling. You hadn’t forgotten him! You had come back. While he pulled himself together, Sunghoon input the order into the machine before wandering away, presumably to take care of more customers. Whatever. 

Heeseung lifted his head up to face you again.”The same as usual?”

You nodded and grinned. “Same as usual. You know me so well.”

If only you knew, Heeseung thought. “You were late today- I mean, you came in later than you, uh, normally, arrive, at the uh, here. Why?” Heeseung wasn’t known for his eloquence on a normal day, but you rendered his vocal cords obsolete, his frontal cortex inoperable. 

“Oh, well, had a long day at the office,” you said, tapping your card on the reader. “Another useless meeting from HR.”

Heeseung wished he had something clever to say, something that could win your heart, make you love him. Instead, all he could offer was, “That sucks.” He bit his lip and got another grande cup so he could remake your drink. 

“It does suck,” you said with a wry smile. “How’s your day been?”

You were asking him how his day was, too? Heeseung nearly dropped the cup as he pumped syrup inside of it, and he couldn’t stop the smile from creeping onto his face. “It’s been…good. Good. A little busy.”

“Well, busy is good,” you said. Then you cleared your throat. “Hey, I was going to come over on Saturday with a…friend of mine. What time do you think would be the best? You know, so it’s quiet?”

Heeseung carefully pressed the lid onto the cup, scrunching his nose as he thought. “Probably…I’d say 5 pm-ish? Most people don’t really want a coffee around that time.”

“Good to know,” you said, placing your wallet back into your purse. Heeseung admired how confident your motions were, and his eyes lingered on your hands. When his eyes flickered up to your face, he realized that you were looking at him. 

Desperate to seem like he wasn’t ogling you, he stammered out, “Y-your friend…does she work at the same, uh, place as you?”

“He actually works down at the insurance company, the one on Smithson?” you kept talking, but Heeseung couldn’t hear a word. His blood ran cold, and his vision went blurry. Him. He. You were going to have your date here? You must despise him. 

Heeseung thrust the cup in your direction. “Uh, enjoy,” he murmured, looking away from you.

“Thanks, Heeseung! You have yourself a good day,” you said brightly before leaving. 

Heeseung felt Sunghoon put a hand on his shoulder, heard him ask if Heeseung were okay. “I feel sick,” Heeseung whispered. “Could I step out for a bit?” Heeseung didn’t actually hear Sunghoon’s answer, but Heeseung was already leaving, stripping his apron and casting it aside someplace in the little break room. He tugged his worn leather jacket on and went outside. The sun stung his eyes so he lowered his gaze to the ground. Heeseung sat down on the concrete step leading into the back room and fished his lighter and cigarettes from his jacket pockets. 

He took a long drag as he tried to calm down, but it was difficult. Every time he thought about your date with some other guy, he started to feel strange. Beyond his initial panic and feelings of abandonment, there was something else nipping at him. A feeling he couldn’t quite place, but it was harsh and red and ragged. 

Heeseung wasn’t an idiot. He knew he wasn’t normal. He knew that his fascination with his pretty customer was irrational, and deep within his heart, he knew that you didn’t belong to him. Yet at the same time, Heeseung knew that you should belong to him. Already, he could read your emotions so well, and that was just after quick interactions twice a week for 3 and a half months. Heeseung would do anything for you, just so he could bask in your sweet glow. 

Normally, the world was cold and boring. Everything was predictable and trite. Heeseung couldn’t remember a time in his life where there had been any novelty. Talking to people wasn’t fun to him at all; navigating the labyrinthine social rules that others seemed to understand effortlessly just made him feel confused and worn. All throughout elementary school and middle school, even into high school, Heeseung had been ignored and ridiculed. He couldn’t decide which was worse. Even at his menial barista job, people purposefully averted his gaze. 

Not you, though. You had given him a bright smile and had even dropped money into the little tip jar. Most importantly, you had awarded him his first compliment. Despite his current misery, Heeseung smiled at the memory. You had sipped the coffee he had made you, your eyes had lit up like a little kid’s, and you had said, “You make great coffee, Heeseung.” When Heeseung had protested shyly, you had continued. “No, no, this is really good. You have a knack for this, you know.”

Heeseung took a long drag off of his cigarette as he sulked. Tears pinpricked his eyes at the thought of you disappearing from his life. Of course, he figured he could always spy on you at work (he had spent hours trying to find your LinkedIn based off of your first name), or maybe break into your house and hide under your bed (he had followed you home from work a few times.) but it just wouldn’t be the same. What made him happy was that you chose to come see him. There were a lot of cafes near your workplace, some even closer than Heeseung’s, but you came to his. Even if it wasn’t for his personality, you liked the coffee that he made. You chose him, but now you were choosing some other guy. And if this date went well, then you might disappear from his life.

Salty tears streamed down his sallow cheeks, and Heeseung swiped them away with his free hand. That feeling simmered within him, festering within him like rot. Angry. That’s what he was. Angry, upset, mad. 

Heeseung couldn’t let you disappear. He couldn’t let you go. 

He stubbed the cigarette out on the step and started coming up with ideas.

Then Heeseung smiled. 

– 

You pursed your lips in the mirror as you applied your red-tinted lip gloss. You had your coffee shop date at 5, and you wanted to look nice. The way you saw it, it was a win-win: you got to get a free coffee and pastry out of a guy, and you could finally subtly let Heeseung down without having to acknowledge his feelings for you at all.

It wasn’t hard to tell that Heeseung felt something for you. Ever since you had complimented his coffee, his dull eyes had developed a shine whenever he saw you. He always made your coffees with the utmost of care, which was one of the reasons why you kept coming back instead of going to another place. And, of course, you’d be lying if you said that his attention didn’t flatter you in some small way. Heeseung wasn’t necessarily unattractive. If he did something about his lank hair, stopped fidgeting so much, and could string together a sentence without stammering, he’d be passable. Even cute. That wasn’t the problem.

It was the same thing you had told your friend and workmate just before she had proposed the date idea. “He’s just…creepy,” you had told her over a shared Cobb salad. “Something about his eyes.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” she had said, snapping her fingers. “Like they’re empty, right?”

“Exactly,” you had said, relieved that she understood. “Empty. It freaks me out.”

Your friend took a bite of salad and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “So stop getting coffee from there.”

“No can do,” you had replied. “Gotta take you there sometime. The coffee is amazing.”

“Okay, well, just tell him to back off.”

You frowned. “Technically, he’s never actually said he liked me or done anything or anything, so…”

“Subtly hint that you have a boyfriend?”

“I’m a bad hinter.”

Your friend groaned. “You suck, you know that?”

The two of you had hemmed and hawed over the dilemma before she had offered up a solution: Find a guy from the office, ask him out on a coffee date at that exact place, and make it seem like you were enjoying the date.

So now you were in your bathroom, tucking the front of your sweater into your skirt. As you were posing one last time, you got a text from your date, Mark. He had texted you a succinct “yooooo i’m pulling up 😬”, so you locked up your apartment and walked out. 

When you got to the coffee shop, you were initially worried about Heeseung’s reaction. He looked like a sad little deer when he got upset. You shook your head slightly to get those aberrant thoughts out. You were here to get him off your back, anyways. So that the creepy barista wouldn’t get any ideas and you could keep enjoying some of the best coffee in this part of downtown.

You needn’t have worried, though. Heeseung was kindly towards you and your date. He had even taken your coats at the door and hung them up on the coat rack at the front. He had plied you with pastries, and even stuttered out a, “T-take care of her, she’s a good one” to Mark. When you glanced at the counter, you could see Sunghoon smiling at Heeseung as he brought out refills of coffee and dusted extra powdered sugar onto delicate little desserts. 

Mark looked at you with glee as he dug into his second croiffle. “Nah, this place is dope,” he said, crumbs surrounding his lips. “I see why you come here every week.” You hadn’t bothered telling Mark about Heeseung. It seemed a bit cruel to use a guy  to get rid of another unsavory guy.

You reached out and rubbed some of the crumbs from his mouth, hoping that Heeseung would see you. “Yeah, it’s great. Maybe…” you lowered your voice and leaned in, “this could be our spot, you know?”

Mark gently reached out and took your hand. “Why were you wiping my nose, weirdo? Did I get crumbs up there?”

“Huh? I was wiping your mouth…” you reached out with your other hand to touch his mouth, but your arm started to feel a bit heavy. 

“You okay?” Mark frowned as his eyes scanned your face. 

You nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

“Drink a little more coffee,” he suggested. “It’ll make you alert and shit.”

As you sipped your drink again, you realized that the drowsiness wasn’t going away. Even though you had downed a whole grande latte, you felt like you were about to

–

You slumped over the table and Heeseung had to suppress his smile. This part had to be perfect. He called your name and strode over to the table. Mark was just sitting in his chair, frozen. “What happened?” Heeseung asked, trying to make himself sound worried. His naturally anxious tone actually helped him.

“N-nothing, she just…fell over,” Mark said, staring at you. “I dunno, she must have had a long work week. Or she’s anemic, women are always anemic.”

Heeseung made a show of checking your pulse on your wrist and on your neck. Getting to touch your velvety skin, and not just a quick brush of hands when he handed you a coffee cup, was exquisite. He could already feel himself getting hard, so he had to move fast. 

“I’ll take her to my place,” Heeseung said, already lifting you out of the chair. Mark quickly stood up, blocking Heeseung’s path. Heeseung bit back a groan. 

“Nah, shouldn’t I, you know, take her home? I know her from work,” Mark said, crossing his arms. He looked from Heeseung to you to Heeseung to you as though he were following a ping-pong match. 

Heeseung sighed and attempted to try using that wheedling, condescending tone some male customers had used on him sometimes. “No offense, but when normally, a pretty girl like this passes out on a date, it’s not because of a-anemia.” 

Mark stepped back, holding his hand to his heart. “Ay man, are you tryna say that I roofied her? I’m not like that!”

“Yeah, well…” Heeseung pushed past Mark, carrying you in his arms. “I don’t know you, do I?” Then he paused and turned around. “Tell you what. You give me your number, and after she gets a little more rest, I’ll call you so you can pick her up, okay?”

Mark nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, sounds good, thanks.” He told Heeseung his number, and Heeseung carefully repeated the numbers in his head. “I think I’mma head home, thanks for the…hospitality.” Without his jacket, Mark stepped into the cold and ran to his car. 

As Heeseung was leaving, he called out to Sunghoon: “Cover me until I get her some medical help, okay?” Sunghoon gave him a curt nod, and Heeseung left the coffee shop. 

With some difficulty, he managed to get you buckled up in the front seat of his old clunker. Now that he was alone and no one could see him, Heeseung could finally smile. The way you were sitting here, all dolled up, it almost seemed like you and him were on a date. You were going on a drive together after a date at the coffee shop, and you would be going home with him. Heeseung carefully adjusted the car seat so that you were reclining, so it would look like you were just napping. 

“Carbs will do that,” Heeseung said sympathetically, rubbing your hand. “Make you tired. You should know better, baby. You come here all the time.” He stroked your warm, soft hand, and he ran his fingers along your sweet little cheeks. The hand that caressed your face slowly fell to your chin, then your neck. “You look so pretty. You always look pretty, of course, but you looked really pretty today. All for me.”

His hand slid all the way to your chest. Heeseung hesitated; he was risking everything, and he didn’t have much time to execute the rest of his plan. Just one kiss, he told himself, just one. Heeseung leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, ever so gently. It made him shudder, the sweet taste of chocolate lingering on your lips. He wanted to keep going, but he would have to wait. 

As Heeseung drove to his apartment, one hand rubbing your thigh, he congratulated himself on his ingenuity. It hadn’t been easy to coordinate this plan. 

–

First, he had had to figure out who you were cheating on him with. That wasn’t hard; you had foolishly Tweeted: “sooo excited for Saturday!” and “onyour_mark” had replied with a devil emoji. A cursory flick through his Twitter account offered Heeseung an informative, if not somewhat nauseating, look into Mark’s life. Heeseung found out that he worked the same hours as you, but he was on a separate floor. He lived with a Twitch streamer, Johnny “suhcondem” Suh, who streamed on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. As he scrolled through Johnny’s Twitter account, Heeeung found that Johnny had once complained about his fans sending them dildos, pizzas, and other “weird ass shit.” Perfect. 

After that, Heeseung had searched for Mark’s Instagram. Thankfully, Mark had posted a picture of his outfits in front of an open window. Utilizing a combination of Mark’s own descriptions of his neighborhood and Google Earth, Heeseung had found Mark and Johnny’s apartment complex within three hours of tireless searching. He could extrapolate the floor from the basic positioning of the tree, and after scouring Mark and Johnny’s social media accounts for more descriptions of their living space, he had narrowed their apartment to a potential unit. 

Now came the more difficult part. Using Tor browser, Heeseung was able to access a site where he could purchase some Rohypnol. It cost a pretty penny, but Heeseung wasn’t about to experiment with other roofies and potentially ruin his chances of having you. He ordered it on Wednesday, and on Friday he had two packages sitting in front of his door, one small and unmarked, the other a lettermail package. Heeseung used gloves to pick up the white package and take out the white box. He couldn’t have his fingerprints on it, after all. The other package held precious cargo: a used Papa John’s uniform with a pizza carrier.

Next, he had to plant evidence in Mark’s room. On Friday, he begged Sunghoon to cover his shift, citing violent diarrhea. Heeseung knew that Mark would be working, but Johnny would be streaming all day. Heeseung changed into the Papa John’s uniform, threw his jacket over it, ordered a meat lover’s pizza from Papa John’s, and drove a few blocks away from Mark’s apartment complex. No way was he going to risk people seeing his car. 

Heeseung placed the pizza inside of the carrier and headed to the apartment. He was nervous about getting inside, but thankfully an older couple let him inside. With a tremulous hand, Heeseung pressed the button for Mark’s floor. If he screwed this up, then Mark would get to have you. The thought alone spurred Heeseung on to keep going. 

He walked to Mark’s door and rang the doorbell. After a full, heart-wrenching minute, Johnny opened up and gave Heeseung a slow once-over. Johnny was wearing a baggy hoodie that said “I ATTENDED SUH CON AND I GOT THE LONG JOHN” with sweatpants. 

“Uh… meat lover’s pizza for Johnny?” Heeseung said tentatively. 

Johnny groaned. “Dumb ass chat gotta stop buying me pizzas,” he muttered.

“What was that?” Heeseung asked, shifting his weight between his feet. 

Johnny shook his head and waved dismissively. “Sorry man. I uh, I stream on Twitch, so a lot of my fans like to send me shit. I didn’t order this.”

“Oh,” Heeseung said contritely. “Well, I can’t exactly keep it…” 

“Why don’t you eat it?” Johnny asked, leaning his arm on the doorframe. 

“I’m vegan,” Heeseung lied. 

Johnny chuckled. “I can tell. You skinny skinny.”

Heeseung laughed awkwardly. “Right, yeah.” He shifted again, and he could feel sweat pooling under his armpits.

“What, you gotta piss?” Johnny gestured at Heeseung. “You’re dancing like you gotta go.”

“Oh, yeah,” Heeseung said, trying not to appear too eager .”I drank too much, uh, soylent.”

Johnny stared at Heeseung like he was an idiot. “Whatever. You can use the bathroom. Use the one in my buddy’s room, actually. Don’t need chat to hear someone piss.”

As Johnny stepped aside to allow Heeseung to enter, Heeseung fought to keep himself in check. The apartment was as sparsely decorated as a Twitch streamer and male office worker’s living space could be. Which is to say that the only notable decorations were Johnny’s streaming awards that were strewn on the walls and Mark’s bible on the living room table. 

“You can just put the pizza down there,” Johnny said, pointing at the kitchen counter which was already littered with a variety of take-out boxes and greasy bags. “Down the hall and to the right for Mark’s room. Make it quick. Mark gets weird when people go in there.” Johnny retired into his own room, and from the clattering noises he made, Heeseung figured that he was going back to streaming. As Heeseung hurried into Mark’s room he heard Johnny say, “Chat, you’ve been very, very bad…” 

The first thing Heeseung did was take some rubber gloves from his pocket and tug them on. Then he scoured Mark’s room to try and find condoms. They weren’t in the bathroom, they weren’t in his nightstand, and they weren’t under his bed. Heeseung searched desperately for them, before he found them behind his pillow, along with some lube. Just how much fucking does this guy do?

Heeseung inspected the box and was pleased to find that him and Mark were actually the same size: Mark used Trojan larges. Then Heeseung frowned: him and Mark were the same size. Heeseung had always been proud of his size, but now it didn’t feel so special. No matter, Heeseung thought as he removed a condom from the pack, I’m the one who’ll fuck her. He slipped the condom into his pocket and made a note to purchase the same brand of lube. Heeseung went into the bathroom and pulled out the flattened Rohypnol box from a Ziploc bag he had kept in his pocket. He placed it inside of Mark’s trash can and covered it up with some tissues he found in there. As Heeseung searched, he found a tissue coated in Mark’s dried semen. Couldn’t hurt to have it. Heeseung put it in a spare Ziploc and kept it for later. It was nasty, disgusting work, but it would pay off. 

Finally, Heeseung did actually use the bathroom. All this stress made him piss a river. 

When he left the apartment, Johnny didn’t even notice. Heeseung had actually done it. 

– 

Now Heeseung gently carried you into his apartment. It was still early, so thankful there weren’t a lot of people milling around. 

He laid you onto his bed, and your head hit the headboard as he lowered you. “Sorry,” Heeseung said apologetically. “I’m sorry, baby.” Heeseung kissed your forehead. He could wash your forehead, but for the next part, he figured he should put on some gloves. Rummaging around in his nightstand, he found more latex gloves and tugged them on. 

Now that he finally had you, he didn’t actually know what to do. Should he take off your clothes first, or his? He decides to disrobe first, so he could take his time with you. Quickly, Heeseung tossed off his work clothes, throwing them into his dirty laundry pile. His room was about as bare as Mark and Johnny’s living room had been, but once you were his, he would decorate it however you wanted. 

Heeseung forced himself to take his time as he popped your skirt buttons, one after the other. It was the kind of skirt that opened from the front, so when he was done, he could part the skirt off of you, admiring your panties. 

“You wore this just for me?” Heeseung asked softly. God, he wished he could touch you, skin on skin, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He ran his finger along your clothed pussy, and he trembled from the white-hot flames he felt licking at his cock. Patience, he told himself. Patience. Your sweater came off next, and Heeseung folded it up into a neat square and set it to the side. 

Heeseung pulled the condom he had filched from Mark’s room onto his cock,wishing he could just go in raw. At least Mark used ribbed. Then, he got the lube from his nightstand and slicked his cock with it,making sure it wouldn’t be too hard to slide in.

 He couldn’t believe it. There you were, so pliant, so vulnerable, so his. Of course, now that he was hovering over you, he couldn’t deny the twinge of guilt he felt. As he tugged your panties down, he kept whispering apologies. “Sorry,” he said as his cockhead tapped your entrance. “I’m so sorry,” he said while marveling at the way his thick cock bulged your stomach. 

Heeseung moaned so loudly he thought for sure the neighbors would hear. But he didn’t care, even though he should. How could he care? He had never experienced anything like this. Your pussy was gripping him so tightly, its walls enveloping his cock so warmly, he couldn’t care about anything else. With some effort, he pulled out of you and drenched his cock with even more lube.

He plunged back inside of you and gripped your hips, admiring the way your tits jiggled as he fucked into you. As he took your pussy, it dawned on Heeseung that he wasn’t being very romantic about this. “Sorry,” he said, feeling like an idiot. Heeseung pulled out of you and used his gloved hands to put you in a more sensual position. He would just have to wash the places where your bodies touched. He put you on your side and crawled behind you, so that he was spooning you. 

He groped at your tits as he slid inside of you again. This much was much better. Ever since you had told him that you were going on a date, Heeseung had been edging himself for hours so he could last longer, just for you. He did it all for you.

Heeseung started going faster, pounding your cunt harshly. A part of him was sad that you wouldn’t remember this. No, you would wake up scared, wondering why Mark had done this to you. You wouldn’t even know that Heeseung had given you the most passionate fucking of your life. His headboard smacked against the wall as he pushed himself into you from behind. Using his gloved hand, he turned his face towards his. Your face looked so peaceful, and seeing it only made him go faster. The bed creaked as Heeseung relentlessly thrusted in you. He could feel you getting looser and wetter, accommodating his dick. 

Heeseung felt himself bottom out, hitting the firm muscle of your cervix. He couldn’t stop now. Heeseung gripped your tits, loosening his grip when he remembered that he could leave handprints, and thrust up and down. He could have spent all day in your pussy, but he didn’t have much time left. 

His balls smacked into your thighs as he felt his orgasm approaching. It was unlike any other orgasm he had had; he had never felt so in-tune with his body, and the sensation burned. Heeseung grunted and pulled out of you before he came inside the condom.  Heeseung rolled off of the bed and laid on his carpet, panting. 

Soon, he would get up, wash himself off, then wash you off. Then, he would call Mark and say that you weren’t waking up. While Mark drove to his place to get you, he would use the cum he had extracted from Mark’s tissue, wet it with water, and smear it in your pussy. As soon as Mark had gotten you, Heeseung would dispose of the used condom and wash his sheets. After half an hour, he would call Sunghoon and say that you and Mark had forgotten your coats. 

Undoubtedly, Sunghoon would find the bottle of roofies that Heeseung had planted in Mark’s jacket. 

Heeseung sighed, completely content. After this, you wouldn’t trust men again, let alone Mark. Except, of course, for the man who had taken you home, tried to take care of you, and had called the police on Mark, the man who had assaulted you. 

Heeseung couldn’t wait for you to wake up.

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Seven: the emptiness has always been here

tw: alcohol, intoxication, sex talk, anxiety, angst, implied past non-con

“Are you sure you should be having another one?” 

The half-raised glass of the fruity drink you’ve ordered stops short of your lips at your co-worker’s question. You almost don’t hear her over the sharp chatter of the bar and the dull music blaring through a set of speakers shoved in some forgotten corner of the building. Cheryl stares at you with her question hanging heavy in her gaze as she glances back and forth between you and your glass while gnawing on her chapped lips. 

“Huh?” you question as you set your drink down on the table. 

“That’s almost your fourth one of the hour. You’re gonna get pissed before Méabh and I even get tipsy,” Cheryl tensely teases. 

“Oh,” you say. You look down at your drink and the liquid that swirls inside like a whirlpool before tilting your head. Have you already had that many? “Yeah, of course. Probably should hold off a bit.” 

The truth is, you’re already starting to feel the effects of the alcohol, and you have been for a while. Fruity drinks seem to be the bane of your existence with their saccharine flavor that lulls you into a false sense of security before dropping you into the depths of some drunken haze. Every time you look around at your surroundings, it’s as if your head keeps moving long after you’ve told it to stop. 

Neither of the women in front of you are very covert in their shared glances at one another. Their concern percolates from the pores in their skin where it drips onto the table in a sopping mess. 

“Cheryl invited you out because she’s worried about you,” Méabh suddenly blurts as her eyes land on you once more. “She thinks you’ve been more distracted than usual.” 

“Jesus Christ, Méabh. You can’t just blurt that shit out,” Cheryl chastises the girl as if she’s her own child. 

“Don’t look at me like that. We’ve been here for almost an hour and you haven’t even brought it up yet,” Méabh retorts. “It’s getting late, and I’ve got my tutoring job in the morning.” 

Really, you never would have expected something like this from Méabh. She’s always been a well mannered, reserved girl. Though she doesn’t sound angry or crass, she’s certainly assertive in airing out any sort of dirty laundry that might be lurking in the depths of this half formed conversation. 

“Distracted?” you repeat. The word feels heavy on your tongue, and your hand absentmindedly reaches out to grab your glass. “As in like… at work, or…?”

Cheryl turns her attention back to you where her gaze softens at the concern in your voice. “Well, not necessarily. It’s just that you’ve been acting like you’ve got something on your mind lately. I guess I’m just a little worried about you because everything with Eric seemed to happen so quickly, and now you’ve got yourself caught up with this other guy…”

Sweltering heat begins to rise in the apples of your cheeks and your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the embarrassment of Cheryl’s words, or the alcohol. Either way, you lift your glass off of the table and raise it to your lips for a quick sip as if your drink can alleviate the burn. 

“Oh. I guess you could say I’m a little distracted, but it's not because of Simon. I-I don’t think so, anyway,” you say, unsure. 

Both women hum and nod their heads in understanding, but their eyes still swim with unasked questions. The silence stretches between the three of you for so long you feel your fingers itch to down the remainder of your drink. 

“Well, how are things with you and Simon, then?” Méabh asks. Her soft smile illuminates the dingy corner of the bar you find yourself in, and it’s almost bright enough to melt the tension in your muscles. “I mean, you certainly seem happier with him than you ever did with Eric.”

Simon.

Simon Riley. 

Over the last few months that the two of you have been together, you’ve learned quite a lot about the man. He likes a warm cup of tea in the mornings, especially on cold or rainy days, though he often isn’t picky about the flavor. Every time you kiss the scar on his cheek, he shivers as goosebumps pucker along his keloid-dotted skin, and you like to trace them as if they’re constellations in the night sky. He hates Christmas, but whenever you try to ask him why, he just tells you that he thinks it’s too tacky. (This is a lie—you’re certain of it—but you’ve always refused to push him on it). If he has a family, he doesn’t talk about them, but he sometimes mentions small details about the members of the task force he’s a part of. 

Despite how reserved he can be at times, he’s absolutely charming, albeit a bit cocky in an endearing sort of way. He’s confident, and showers you with as much love and affection he can offer when he’s not on the other side of the world. On Valentine’s day, he sent you flowers at work (unsigned, of course, but you knew who they were from), and when you had gotten sick with the flu in the spring, he provided you with all the medicine you would need despite the fact you told him not to worry about it. 

He’s tall and looms over almost every other person you know, and he always seems to come back home with some sort of new wound from a mission. In a way, his height and stature should terrify you, yet he’s so soft with you. So sweet. 

He’s everything you could ever want, and maybe more than what you deserve. 

And yet, there’s still something that lurks in the back of your mind. There’s this plaguing, burning feeling that whispers to you day and night whenever your mind begins to wander. A seed of doubt was planted in you long ago by some foul, unkind hands. Someone had taken their trowel to cut you straight to the core where they shoved some terrible, decaying feeling deep inside of you before patting your flesh over the wound and leaving it to fester. Sometimes your throat grows so tight when you get near Simon, you think you might choke. 

But you aren’t about to spill all that to your co-workers. 

“They’re great. Yeah, things are good,” you answer while mustering a tight-lipped smile. 

“It’s the sex, isn’t it?”

Horrified, Méabh looks at Cheryl with wide eyes and mouth agape. “Bloody hell,” she breathes. “You yell at me for blurting out that we’re concerned about her like it’s some scandalous thing, but you casually ask her if she’s getting shagged?” 

“Well, I certainly worded it more tactfully than that,” Cheryl responds with a huff. 

If you weren’t sure where the heat in your face was coming from previously, you’re certain of it now. Once more, your hand grasps around your drink as you shake your head before downing a few large gulps. The sight of you—flustered and sweating—only makes Cheryl grin as she leans her elbows on the table. 

“But I’m right, aren’t I?” the woman pushes. “I’ve been on this earth long enough to know that sex can make or break a relationship. So, what is it? Are your needs not being met, or what? I wouldn’t be surprised if a man like him was all bark and no bite.” 

You avert your gaze and instead turn your attention to the table. It’s made of some overly shiny faux wood that has deep gashes in it from god knows what. The multicolored lights strung up around the ceiling reflect slightly off the dull plastic, but the hues begin to blend together in a shade that makes your stomach feel queasy. 

Maybe you really should have laid off the drinks. 

“We haven’t… we haven’t had sex,” you admit softly as you bite into the corner of your lip. 

“Oh,” Cheryl says, dumbfounded. “How long have the two of you been together again?” 

“A couple months? Maybe… four or five?” you throw out a guess, unable to think straight between the pressure of the conversation and the alcohol rotting in your stomach. 

The woman nods her head as she reaches up and shoves some of her greying hair behind her ear. “Well, that ought to be plenty of time. Are you just nervous?” 

“God, wouldn’t you be?” Méabh interjects with knitted brows. “You’ve seen the size of that guy. He’d probably break the bed and her goddamn hips with it.” 

Cheryl throws the girl a look of warning as your face falls into your hands. A groan emanates from your chest as you rub at your bleary eyes. “I don’t even wanna think about that,” you slur. 

Leaning across the table, Cheryl gives your shoulder a firm, motherly squeeze while offering you a sympathetic smile. “What’s the matter then, darling?” 

Your hands fall from your face and you stare at the table once more as you run through the countless thoughts bogging down your mind. It feels like it’s all you ever do these days—think. Think, and think, and think; and it is getting the better of you. Worms infest your brain, whispering terrible lies and sickening worries so much so that their thoughts have begun to replace your own. 

“I just, I dunno. After everything with Eric, I guess I’m maybe a little apprehensive?” you ramble. “Which is, like, stupid because they’re nothing alike. Like, I know Simon looks scary, and he’s in the military and he’s quiet but… fuck he’s…. He’s so good to me, you guys.” 

Eric was… less than perfect. The scar on the corner of your lip is a testament to that, but even before all that had started—back while you two were still in the honeymoon phase, before everything started going wrong—he had always put his needs above your own. There was no aftercare, or a gentle cooing of praise. Once he was finished, then so were you, and you were left behind to clean up the mess he made of you, and everything else. 

But Simon is different. He has to be different, because in reality, you’re terrified of getting that close with someone again. Of being used and tossed aside. So you panic as your mind rots and screams at you that if you don’t give in soon, mabe Simon will get bored of you, and you’ll end up all alone in this big city in your big apartment that you’re struggling to afford on a teller’s salary. 

Oh no—are those tears in the corners of your eyes? 

Once more, the rim of your glass comes up to your lips as you take another thick gulp to distract yourself before quickly blinking the moisture from your vision. Whatever horror that had been painted onto Méabh’s face has been replaced by the same worry that Cheryl wears. 

“Hey, it’s alright to be anxious,” Méabh assures you. “Eric was a right prick, you’ve got every right to be worried.” 

Cheryl nods in agreement. “But at the same time, don’t let that hold you back if it’s what you want. Keyword, what you want. Take all the time you need, but you can’t let that arse control you forever.” She takes a moment to pause and look you over, and she isn’t too shy about the smirk that appears on her lips. “Or, just dive headfirst into it. I think you’ve got enough liquid courage coursing through you for that.” 

It’s a joke—and a poor one at that—but you’re thankful for it nonetheless. You laugh a silly, unfiltered giggle as the two women beam at you. Whatever concern they had for you previously melts away as they change the spotlight of the conversation away from you and onto something else. 

Still, as they share stories of their own failed relationships—in an attempt to make you feel better, you’re assuming—nothing can quite smother the disquiet in your brain. Your anamneses haunt you in some insidious way. You can recall Eric’s hot breath against the back of your neck and how the duvet felt against the side of your cheek. Not even the alcohol can rid you of this terror. 

Eventually, the three of you stay so long that the bartender stares at you with eyes begging for you to let him go home, so you down the rest of your drink before shuffling through your bag for a bit of cash. Having gotten enough to cover your drinks and give him a fair tip, you rise from your seat, but the moment you stand it’s as if the floor has begun to move underneath you. Old carpet sways and slithers beneath your shoes, and your stomach twists. 

“Whoa,” Méabh warns as she gently pushes you back into your chair. “Take it easy. I’ll take the cash up for you.” 

Huffing, you oblige. It doesn’t take them long to pay for everything and return to retrieve their bags. “Do you need a ride?” Cheryl asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah, I walked here.” 

Both women freeze, and after sharing glances with one another, they cross their arms. “You’re taking the piss if you think we’re going to let you walk yourself home,” Cheryl chastises. “Now, you either come with one of us, or you call that boy of yours to come get you.” 

A small scoff escapes your lips as you rummage through your bag in search of your phone. “Boy…” you mutter. Pulling your device out, you scroll through your contacts until you find Simon. “Six foot four, and you’re calling him a boy.” 

Simon picks up on the third ring. Even after all these months, you can’t get over the sound of his voice—deep and gravelly enough to scratch that itch in the back of your mind. The poor audio quality of the call doesn’t do him full justice, but just hearing the lilt of his accent alone nearly has you falling out of your seat. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” 

You swallow hard. “Hey, erm… I went out with a few friends from work, and uh… I know it’s late, and I’m sorry, but-”

“Need a ride?” he interjects, cutting you off in the middle of your drunken ramble. Not in a rude way, but in a way that was more finishing your thought process, like he’s privy to your own mind. Or maybe he could just tell what you were working up to asking by the slur in your words. 

“Yes,” you say with a breathy laugh. “Yes please.” 

“I’ll be right there,” he assures.

Once you two say your goodbyes, you look up at your co-workers with a toothy grin before they leave you to go back to their own homes and families. The noise of the bar has waned as the bartender washes up and hums to himself, but your eyes can’t help but wander back to the empty glass in front of you.

Had that really been your fourth drink? Or, was it your fifth? You can’t remember, but all you know is that you drank it too quickly. A crushing backlog of all the liquor you had chugged is finally beginning to hit you with fuzzied thoughts and poor motor function. Your stomach begins to spin as fast as your head, and you find your lungs stuttering as you suck in a deep breath in an attempt to steady your frayed nerves. 

Or, just dive headfirst into it. I think you’ve got enough liquid courage coursing through you for that. 

“Fuck…” 

It takes Simon a little over ten minutes to arrive, and his eyes land on you the moment he walks through the door. They widen slightly when he watches you stand from your seat and stumble to him as if the ground shifts beneath your feet with each pace. He makes no mention of your inebriation as he helps you into the car. You settle into the seat and chatter away like a mourning dove for the entire drive back to your apartment, and though you’re not sure if he even responds to half of the things you say, you find that your heart doesn’t lurch quite as bad as it did before. 

Things aren’t much different by the time you arrive home. Stairs prove to be a challenge for you, and you find your breath being stolen away as Simon rests his hand on your lower back to keep you steady. He trots a few steps behind you, watching you carefully in case you should fall. By the time you make it to the landing, he has to be the one to put the keys in the lock for you as your fingers can’t quite articulate the direction they need, and you keep scraping alongside the deadbolt. 

The very moment the door swings open, you toss your bag in some forgotten corner on the floor before making a beeline to the couch. If you stay on your feet any longer, you’re certain you’ll fall over, and you’re not trying to embarrass yourself that much in front of Simon. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you sigh as your body attempts to sink into your rocky sofa. “Sorry it’s so late.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Simon assures as he locks the door. “I don’t want you to ever hesitate to call me if you need me.” 

A soft hum rumbles in your chest as you watch Simon walk into the living room as he adjusts the straps on his mask. The sight of him alone sends your mind spinning worse than the liquor tainting your blood. His mussed hair looks like raggy ocean waves that you want to dive right into and drown in. Those broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his shirt have you wishing he would engulf you in a simple squeeze, and that smoky tattoo peeking out from underneath the sleeve of his jumper has your mouth watering. 

Simon doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of you, towering over you like some gargantuan beast, but his height is suddenly halved when he kneels in front of you. He eyes your feet with a sigh. 

“Gonna muck up the floors,” he mutters. 

You watch him with curious eyes as he reaches for your foot and hoists it up, placing it on his knee. Thick fingers work at your laces where he tugs on the double knots with ease until he’s able to slide your foot out of the shoe. He sets the disembodied item aside before gently lowering your foot back to the ground, and your heart pounds so violently in your chest at his softness that you swear you feel it palpitate. 

“It’s fine. I can always mop up later,” you say as you wiggle your toes. 

He smirks. “I doubt you’re going to want to do much of anythin’ later.” 

Once he starts on your other shoe, you find yourself enamored with his face—or, what you’re able to make of it through his mask, anyway. With it nearing summer, he isn’t wearing the balaclava as much and has instead opted for that same surgical style cloth mask he always wears to the bank. You like this one more because it shows his hair. 

But what you really want to see is his face. All of it. The slight stubble on his chin, the cheeks that you love to pepper with kisses and caress with your thumbs…

Before you’re able to make sense of it, you find your finger hooking underneath the fabric of his mask. Simon pauses only for a moment before he continues as if nothing happened, and he slides your shoe off with ease. When your feet are finally free, he looks up at you with shining eyes as you continue to tug on his mask. 

Reading your mind isn’t difficult—not when you’re all but begging for him with your hands—and in one swift motion, Simon pulls his mask off before setting it on the arm of the couch next to you. A grin cracks over the features of your face as your hand instantly makes its home against the flesh of his cheek. Your thumb could trace the scar on his skin for the rest of eternity. 

“You’re so handsome,” you coo. 

He doesn’t break eye contact with you as his hands slowly retrieve your shoes before he stands to his feet. “I know.” 

You scoff as he shoots you a playful smirk before walking towards the entryway where he dumps your shoes next to his boots. You watch him carefully—taking in how small your shoes look in his hands, how the fabric of his sweater stretches against his back as he leans forward, the way his hands rub at the back of his neck as he vanishes into the kitchen. 

“You’re awfully modest, you know that?” you call out, tone dripping in sarcasm. 

Simon huffs, but it’s quickly smothered by the sound of running water. “Haven’t been called that in a while,” he muses. Moments later, he returns back to your side with a cup of water in hand. “Drink.” 

Cool liquid washes over your tongue as you sip away at your drink, but you find yourself pausing when Simon lowers himself onto the sofa next to you. It’s the usual thing the two of you do whenever you’re craving a night in. Slight cuddling on the sofa, popping in something to watch on the TV while trying not to fall asleep—but this time, you can’t look away from him. 

His arm stretches along the back of the couch like a sprawling cat where his hand rests right behind your head. The thin fabric of his shirt stretches over the expanse of his chest, and you can trace the curves all the way down to the softness of his stomach. You wet your lips with your tongue as he adjusts his hips, rolling them along the cushion as he sinks further into the couch. 

“See something you like?” he asks, head tilting to the side as he goads. 

Why do you feel so… queasy? That twisting in your stomach and the spinning in your head has returned to play with you again, and not even several rapid fire blinks can force them away. Is it the alcohol? No, it’s never made your heart lurch like this—it’s never made it beat so fast that it feels like it’s going to rip itself to shreds. 

Is it Simon? 

Just dive headfirst into it. 

You take your eyes off Simon long enough to set your cup on the side table, and then you’re swinging one of your legs over him to straddle his hips. He looks up at you with his lips parted in surprise as he watches you settle yourself onto his lap. Cautious hands rise to rest on your waist, helping to steady your swaying body as you rest your grip on his shoulders. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” he warns, voice low as his eyes scan your face. 

Something in his eyes softens as he looks at you. Whatever playfulness or cockiness that had been there before melts away as his grip on you becomes more firm. His eyes are beautiful. Sometimes, when the sunlight hits them just right, the dark brown color brightens to that of sweet honey, but you find that you also like it when the color of his eyes are dark. Nothing but caliginous voids that invite you in, beckoning you closer so that they can swallow you whole. 

But everything starts to fall apart when you make sense of the fluttering in your chest. Panic manifests as an incessant trembling in your legs and a painful pressure building behind your eyes. Everything is too fuzzy. Too bright. Too soft. Too loud. Deafening. It’s too much. Too everything. It’s everything all at once. 

Except for Simon. He’s beautiful. So beautiful. So soft. So careful. 

Oh, how you want to fall into him. To fall, and fall, and let his arms catch you. To hold you. To pin you. (Pin you, and pin you, and pin you). How you want to feel his teeth graze against you and take. (And take and take and take and take and take). Fingers squeezing, bones fracturing—would it… hurt? 

Do you want it to hurt? 

Don’t you want it to hurt? 

Didn’t you like it when he hurt you? When you were with him? Him. Eric. 

Face first into the mattress, palm of his hand pushing you down (and pinning you, pin you, pin you, pinning you). He was always so greedy (and greedy and greedy and greedy and mean). Duvet suffocating you, pules muffled, tears soaked up so fast it was as if they never existed (but he likes when you cry, and cry, and cry, and beg). Didn’t you moan as if that’s what you wanted—what you enjoyed? 

You can’t let that arse control you forever. 

In a last ditch attempt to get your nerves under control, you grip the collar of Simon’s shirt with both of your hands before descending on him with your eyes shut tight. Flesh collides with your lips, but it feels empty. It’s algid, and biting. It’s not like the kisses Simon usually gives you. 

It’s wrong. 

When you work up the courage to open your eyes, you find that you haven’t even made it halfway to Simon’s lips because of the hand on your mouth. It presses firmly against you, holding you away from him as if you’re some animal to be contained. He’s created a barrier. A line—one he won’t let you cross. 

“You’re drunk,” he says, shaking his head. 

This is his answer. This is him saying no. 

His hand lingers on your mouth for a moment and he refuses to pull it away until you nod. A part of you feels ashamed. No, all of you feels ashamed. Everything from the strands of your hair to the marrow of your bone is riddled with contrition as if it’s a major compound of your molecular makeup. What were you thinking? Had you even been thinking at all? Is he going to see you as some idiot—some daft girl who doesn’t know any better?

You fucking minx. 

“Sorry,” you stutter out. “I, erm… I don’t know what I was… I didn’t mean to…” 

Simon shushes you as moisture begins to plague your face. His hands reach up to cup your cheeks where he wipes at your tears with his thumbs. “C’mere,” he urges, pulling you closer. 

Before you know it, you’re laying against his chest as his hand holds the back of your head, keeping you firmly tucked underneath his chin. While his thumb rubs soothing circles into the nape of your neck, his other arm stays wrapped firmly around your waist, making you feel secure against him despite the fact that everything feels as if it’s rotating into a black hole and trying to drag you along with it. 

You don’t want to cry, but you do. It spews out of you without any concern for you or Simon’s shirt. He doesn’t say anything, and you’re glad he keeps the silence unbroken. You don’t need to be questioned, or talked through anything—all you need is the firm reminder that you’re here with him. 

Once your sniffling and hiccuping stops, Simon’s hands slowly begin to move down your body. His fingertips run along your spine in smooth, solid motions, and you feel your body begin to go limp in his arms. The weight of alcohol begins to shut down your nerves in a rolling blackout, and eventually everything is obtund. 

Never have you felt so empty before. Never have you been aware of the gaping absence in your chest like you are now. 

No, the emptiness has always been here, looming somewhere in the dark chasm of your chest. You’ve just filled it with so much junk—so much nonsense—that you were able to forget about the lugubrious hole left where your stomach is supposed to be. But Simon has reached inside of you and ripped that unnecessary effluvium from your ribcage and is now staring right at that vacancy inside of you. 

For some reason, he doesn’t seem scared. 

Why isn’t he scared? 

The two of you stay like this for longer than you can count. Your knees begin to ache as you continue to straddle his wide hips, and your face feels raw as your cheek stays pressed against Simon’s damp shirt, but you ignore the discomfort. Eventually, the movement of his hands stops and he just holds you. There’s nothing but you, him, and the beating of his heart. 

Of course, there is still the festering wound in your chest that eats you alive from the inside out, but for a moment—a short, fleeting moment—you pretend that it isn’t here.

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[hederasgarden]

Under the Influence - Part 1

Summary: While investigating a suspicious pharmaceutical company, you and Clark find yourselves exposed to a drug that forces you to grapple with its unforeseen consequences. Pairing: Clark Kent x F!Reader  Word Count: 3.9K Warning: 18+ only, explicit sexual content. Dubious consent (reader and Clark are exposed to sex pollen), unprotected PIV, size kink, biting, angst and other untagged themes.  A/N: Thank you @ryebecca @clairewritesandrambles and @a-reader-and-a-writer for holding my hand through this and Becca for beta’ing!

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Masterlist ♡ Henry Cavill Characters Masterlist

It’s late, and the glittering skyline of Metropolis stretches out beyond the windows of the Daily Planet. The usual hum of activity in the bullpen is absent tonight – it’s just you, Clark, and an intimidating stack of boxes that seem to multiply with every passing minute. You may have indulged in a daydream or two about Clark just like this, but none of them ever involved so much paperwork.

You stifle a yawn, reaching for your coffee, only to nearly choke when you realize it’s gone cold. Grimacing, you set the offending mug aside and try to wash away the stale taste with water. The sound catches Clark’s attention and pulls him from his work. He offers you a wiry smile that you return, struck once again by just how handsome he looks. He makes it all too easy to have a crush on him, even though you know it wouldn’t go anywhere.

“I’ll put on a fresh pot,” he offers, stretching as he stands. 

Despite shedding his suit jacket earlier, and the way his tie is slightly askew, he still manages to look annoyingly chipper despite the late hour. You lean back to pass him your mug, your stiff muscles protesting. They ache from hours of sitting and sorting. 

“Back in a jiffy,” he promises, disappearing down the hall. 

By now, the two of you have been hunched over documents for nearly ten hours. Half of them are so technical they might as well be gibberish, but you’ve found a few leads in the financial papers. Unfortunately, your current stack of documents is so heavily redacted that they’re practically useless. You groan in frustration, resting your forehead on your arms until Clark returns, bringing the rich, intoxicating aroma of freshly brewed coffee with him. 

You accept the mug with a smile but quickly set it on the table when the warmth that seeps through the ceramic nearly burns your fingers. Not for the first time, you wonder how Clark managed to get the ancient coffee machine to percolate so quickly. For everyone else, it typically spewed out lukewarm sludge.

“Bet you're regretting volunteering for this assignment now,” Clark says. 

“Not for a moment,” you reply. “You’re still sharing that byline with me, right?��� You question, squinting up at him.

“I always keep my promises,” he says with such earnestness that you’re reminded once again why Perry liked to call him a Boy Scout.

“I’ll hold you to it because this story’s turned into a beast.”

Clark sighs, resting his hands on his hips as he surveys the cluttered table strewn with file boxes and paper.  “It really has,” he agrees. 

When Perry called for a volunteer from the pool of junior editors to help with an expose on Salvation Pharmaceuticals, you jumped at the opportunity and not just because Clark was the writer assigned to the story. Most of your days were spent copyediting stories and arguing about AP style. You were just itching for some hands-on research experience, although neither of you expected the thread Clark pulled to unravel so quickly or so thoroughly. 

What started as an investigation into government kickbacks and dubious congressional dealings rapidly evolved into something far more unsettling. Salvation Pharmaceuticals’ R&D department was embroiled in deeply questionable research, from a gas capable of erasing memories to a potent drug they called a truth serum. All of their drugs had horrible side effects, particularly the latter which worked by lowering inhibitions but also triggered something they called sexual psychosis.

Clark’s freedom of information request resulted in your current predicament. Based on the sheer number of boxes they sent it was clear the company hoped to overwhelm you with an avalanche of data and make it difficult to find what you needed. Unfortunately for them, Clark Kent was one of the most determined reporters you’d ever met. If anyone was going to get to the bottom of the story it was him. 

“Well…once more unto the breach,” you quote, holding up a fresh box of files.

As you lift the lid, Clark offers you a small smile, his cheeks dimpling. For a moment, you’re too distracted by him to notice the cloud of yellow dust rising from the box. It quickly expands, swirling into a thick mist that engulfs you both. Immediately, your lungs begin to burn, and you gasp for air. You push your chair back and struggle to stand as your vision blurs. 

A strong arm around your middle hauls you back, dragging your feet on the carpet. Clark pulls you to the edge of the room, and you lean into him, desperately trying to clear your lungs. Behind you, he grunts, his fingers twitching and spasming against your hip. It takes several moments for the air to clear, but when it does, you watch in horror as the yellow dust seems to melt into your skin.

“What was that?” You ask, voice hoarse.

Clark is silent and looks grim when you turn to face him. “I think that was the truth serum. The reports described it as yellow dust.”

You stare at him, bewildered. “Why would the dust be in there?”

“I don’t know. But I can guess.”

You rub your chest and take a hesitant step back. “I don’t feel any different. Do you?”

“No.” He presses his lips together, a muscle in his jaw twitching with tension. “Do you feel anything?”

You exhale slowly, taking stock of your body. “Maybe?” Your response is more of a question than a definitive answer. You feel oddly warm, but it could just be the adrenaline from the situation. 

“You’re sweating,” he observes, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. The warmth of his touch makes you shudder and you can’t help but notice how good he smells. “Your body temperature is elevated.”

“Huh?” You look up at him, momentarily lost in his gaze. “You’re hot, too,” you blurt out, mortified when the words leave your mouth.

“I feel fine,” Clark replies, either misunderstanding what you meant or choosing not to acknowledge the slip.

You step away from him, feeling your body buzz with embarrassment. Sweat dots your brow, and you’re halfway out of your thin cardigan before you even realize it. As you pace the room, you realize Clark might be right — the powder could be affecting you. You try to shake off the disorienting feeling that lingers, while Clark tracks your progress with sharp blue eyes.

“Should we call someone? Isn’t there a protocol for dealing with mysterious powders?” It’s difficult to think straight when your body feels like a furnace. “Clark?” You question.

His nostrils flare but otherwise, he doesn’t respond until you say his name again. “Yeah. There’s uh, an anthrax protocol. Perry’s got it in his office.”

Time seems to progress in strange lurches and lulls as you wait for Clark to return. You’re not sure how long he’s gone, each minute dragging as the heat within intensifies and your thoughts become increasingly muddled. There’s a growing pressure in your stomach too, something that radiates down. It’s not exactly painful, but it’s persistently irritating — a prickling feeling that needs to be soothed.

“I made the call,” Clark announces, reappearing. “They said it’ll be 30 minutes until they get here with everything they need. We just have to sit tight.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. If it really was the truth serum, and you’re starting to believe Clark might be right, there’s no telling what might come out of your mouth. Even now, as you pace back and forth, you feel a pressure under your tongue, as though the words are lurking just beneath the surface, eager to spring out. The last thing you want to do is reveal your stupid little crush on him.

“God, it’s hot,” you muttered, staring at the window. You press your palms to the glass. It’s cool to the touch and you lay your forehead against it, almost moaning in relief. You wish you could strip off your dress and melt into the floor. 

“Here.” Clark’s voice is closer than you expect.

You flinch at the feel of his hand on your lower back but let him turn you around to face him. He presses a glass of cool water to your lips, and you grasp his thick wrist as he urges you to drink it all, your gaze never leaving his. The moment you finish your mouth feels dry and your throat itches. 

“You have the bluest eyes,” you whisper. “You shouldn’t hide them behind your glasses.” You reach for them, but Clark stops you with a gentle hand on yours. Embarrassment rushes under your skin, and you draw back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“It’s the drug.”

“Why aren’t you affected?” You question. “You seem fine.”

“My biology is different from yours,” he says almost absently only to freeze a second later. He presses his lips together and clenches his jaw. For the first time since you met him, Clark looks genuinely unsettled. “The reports said it affected women quicker,” he adds before stepping back.

Your hand falls limply to your side as you watch him. Clark tugs at his already loosened tie, stretching his neck with an audible crack. A dark red flush creeps up his cheeks, making the skin around his eyes glow faintly. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a harsh breath through his nose.

“Maybe I should wait in the other room,” he grits out.

“Yeah,” you agree.

Clark barely takes a step towards the door before a sharp, unexpected wave of searing pain rips through your stomach, sending you crashing to your knees. The impact jolts your entire body, but that discomfort is overshadowed by a deep gnawing ache between your legs. You pitch forward onto all fours, struggling as your cunt flutters around nothing. 

“Oh,” you whimper, terrified as your mind recalls the adverse event report for the truth serum with perfect clarity. 

Following an increase in basal body temperature, patients exposed to the drug exhibit symptoms of full-blown sexual psychosis. This condition necessitates achieving climax to alleviate symptoms. Patients who are unable to reach climax experience a marked increase in heart rate and blood pressure, which in some cases progresses to cardiac arrest.

Every muscle in your body tenses, as a fierce, relentless pressure builds. Then, like the tide, it recedes, leaving you curled into a ball on the floor. Through half-closed eyes, you meet Clark’s gaze. He kneels in front of you and his expression mirrors your anguish.

“Clark….”

“I know,” he says quietly. His hands hover at your shoulder for a moment before he finally helps turn you on your back.

None of this feels real; it’s like a twisted wish gone wrong.

“Help me, please,” you cry, the words escaping in broken sobs. You’re too hysterical to feel ashamed about what you’re asking him to do. Details from the report keep replaying in your mind, fueling your terror. You don’t want to die.

Clark looms over you, a sheen of sweat on his brow. You stare up at him, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the pain in your core pulses and builds. The ache in the body is all-consuming, overriding everything else. Worse is the feeling of emptiness that you know he could fill. 

“Please.” Your voice fizzles out as a strong wave of pain slams into you. It leaves you reeling and disoriented. You claw at his arms, fingernails digging into his skin. 

“I’m going to help you.” He says, his gaze lingering on you as he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. “If-if you want me to,” he adds, and a hysterical laugh bubbles up inside you. Of course you do, you’ve dreamed of him since the day you met him in the breakroom. You just never imagined this. 

When another cramp leaves you panting and desperate you grit out a pained, “Yes.”

His large hand encircles your calf, gently but firmly pulling your legs apart so he can kneel between them. The cool air makes you groan and you try to curl in on yourself again, but Clark pins you to the floor easily. With shaky hands, he drags your dress up to expose your simple black underwear. The sight seems to transfix him and you watch his chest rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths that mimic your own. 

“I have to ah, I have to…” He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. When he shakes his head his glasses fall down his nose. “I need to get you ready.”

“I don’t care,” you sob. “Fuck me, please.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the part that's still you, is horrified by your words. You’ve never spoken to anyone like that, let alone a colleague or the man you have a crush on. But you know with a terrifying certainty that if he doesn’t fuck you, you’ll both die. 

“It’s okay,” he soothes, the calm tenor of his voice betrayed by the way his hand trembles against your thigh. He tears off your underwear with an ease that would give you pause if you were in your right mind.

Shame is a thing of the past as you spread your legs even further, allowing his hungry gaze to drink its fill. He parts your folds and draws two fingers through the wetness gathered there, starting with light, teasing strokes that quickly build to more. When his thumb finds your bundle of nerves, he rubs slow, soothing circles until the pain in your stomach eases a fraction. 

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, sounding breathless. “Doing so good for me, honey.”

You moan his name and he shifts closer, bent forward to watch himself work. Soon one kind of pressure recedes and another begins. You gasp, throwing your head back as Clark continues his slow assault, building in its intensity. When your legs thrash his other hand settles on your hip, holding you still as he works a thick finger inside. Your cunt clenches in response to the intrusion. Above you, he groans and his thumb moves faster. 

“More, oh god I need more,” you beg, keening when Clark pushes a second finger inside. 

The stretch of them both burns but that’s eclipsed by the pleasure you feel. You rock forward, trying to take more of him but he doesn’t let you, controlling the pace. You can hear yourself babbling, nonsensical words streaming from your mouth as he draws you closer and closer to your orgasm until, all at once, it overwhelms you completely. Your orgasm is almost painful and your hands curl into fists, your body contorting in response. The room blurs around you, and every fiber of your being is consumed by the relief you feel. 

When it passes you’re left trembling on the floor, avoiding Clark’s gaze. He hovers over you, his arousal hard to miss with the way it tents the front of his gray slacks.

“Clark.” You touch his chest, inhaling when his dark blue eyes snap up to meet yours. “Do you…” 

You can’t even force yourself to say it now that you’re back in your right mind. Clark shakes his head, withdrawing his fingers. You wince, and he looks pained. 

“We should —” he starts, but whatever he is about to say is abruptly cut off as he grunts and hunches forward, a visible shudder running through him. 

Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his face. When your fingers brush over the curve of his cheek he moans and surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that steals your breath. He forces his tongue inside and the heat of him is almost unbearable. You push at his shoulder, but he doesn’t relent. His hands travel up and down your sides and you feel that familiar pressure return to your core. It builds slowly, like the spark of an ember that will soon flare into a blazing fire. 

You shift under Clark, drawing your legs up as he swallows down your needy whine. By the time he pulls away, you’re feeling dizzy and gasping for breath.

“We need to,” you begin, squeezing your eyes shut as your body trembles.

“I know,” Clark replies.

He fumbles with his pants and you look up at the ceiling as he pulls himself free. It feels like a violation to look, but without your permission, you find your gaze drifting down. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his cock, just as big and thick as the rest of him. It’s red and weeping. Your cunt aches, and you toss your head side to side, trying to dispel the pain. 

Clark plants a hand near your head while he lines himself up between your thighs. He pushes inside slowly. It hurts, god, it hurts, but you need more of him, and you need it now. Wrapping his tie around your hand, you pull hard, urging him closer. He snaps his hip forward with enough force to jar your bones, and you wail in response. For one blissful moment, everything is quiet. Your buzzing mind and aching body are finally filled in a way they’ve been craving.

“Fuck.” The curse falls from Clark’s lips and brings you back to the moment. “You feel so good. You feel…” he trails off, his words bleed into one long, low moan that has you clenching around him. 

Above you, his handsome face contorts, his lips pressed tightly together. Tension lines the muscles of his jaw and his dark brows furrow in an expression that teeters between ecstasy and pain. Pleasure skitters along your nerves as he drives into you over and over again to reach some unknown place hidden deep inside. Your second orgasm rises to the surface just as swiftly as your first and Clark is relentless as he fucks you through it. 

There isn’t even time to catch your breath before his hands encircle your hips and he leans back, drawing you with him. The backs of your thighs drag over the fabric of his slack as he moves your body to meet his thrusts. As one orgasm fades you feel another spring to life, hastened by the feel of his calloused thumb on your clit. The need inside you burns even brighter, and a litany of desperate pleas spills from your lips. 

“You feel,” he pants, “just like I imagined.”

When you gasp his name he curls his body over yours, the new angle allowing him to move even deeper. You hold onto his biceps and listen to the desperate little noises that escape his chest with each thrust. His lips find the soft skin of your throat as his fingers dig into the neckline of your dress. He pulls hard and buttons scatter, giving him access to your shoulder. Teeth scrap over tender flesh and your back arches as another orgasm blooms in your stomach.

Waves of pleasure ebb through your body and your fingers tangle in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. Clark doesn’t falter even when you fall still beneath him. Your muscles ache, and your body feels tense and exhausted, but that frenzied need that’s driven you since the dust melted into your system slakes away until you’re left feeling everything. Guilt and horror fill your body like sand, weighing you down. 

Clark groans and you realize he’s still in the throes of the drug's effects. The ceaseless rhythm of his hips has turned painful and your insides feel raw. You push at his shoulder but he doesn’t even seem to notice, hitching your leg over his waist to push himself deeper. 

He shudders, gasping, “like that, just like that.” Then his teeth sink into your neck and he finally stills. 

Tears leak from the corner of your eyes as your breath comes in short little sobs, your heart fluttering in your chest. After a few moments, Clark stiffens and you know he’s come back to himself. He shifts, slipping out of you with a quiet exhale. You can’t stifle your whimper of pain and his gaze jumps to you. For a moment you stare at each other and the silence is deafening. Then he passes a trembling hand over his lips and rocks back, moving to his feet in a fluid motion. He turns from you to tuck himself away and runs a hand through his curls. 

You sit up slowly, drawing your knees to your chest while you hold the fabric of your dress together in an attempt to give yourself some dignity. It’s almost laughable after what just happened. Clark says your name and you stare at his outstretched hand. After a moment of hesitation, you take it and he pulls you to your feet. When he drops his jacket over your shoulders you feel a swell of gratitude. You let him guide you to a chair, wincing when you sit. Everything feels raw and tender. 

He clears his throat. “The response team is downstairs.”

“Okay,” you say numbly. 

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” he whispers. 

You want to tell him it’s okay, that it’s not his fault, but the words catch in your throat. All you get out is his name. Nothing about this is okay. How could it be? 

You wait together, Clark standing half a step ahead of you while you stare at his broad shoulders, lost in thought. He’s the one to greet the men and women in hazmat suits. You don’t catch everything he says, but his eyes drift back to you as he speaks. Before long, you’re separated, and the last image you hold onto is his hair tousled from your fingers and his wrinkled, untucked shirt.

From there, everything becomes a blur; moments merge into a disjointed sequence — being herded into a decontamination shower, the uncomfortable scratch of paper scrubs against your sensitive skin, a distressing medical exam, and then the questions. Endless questions bring back the haze of disjointed memories you’re struggling to process.

By the time you’re allowed to leave, the first rays of light filter through the windows of the bullpen. You watch the soft golden glow and listen to the faint chirping of birds. The city is waking up, bustling to life as it always does, but you feel disconnected from it all until you step into the elevator and turn to find Clark standing there.

He halts the doors from closing, his sad, mournful eyes meeting yours. A powerful wave of emotion rises in your throat as the weight of his guilt and your embarrassment settles inside you like a stone. There’s so much you want to say, so much that needs to be said, but it’s overshadowed by a deep ache in your chest. You feel so lost and unsure, terrified about what lies ahead that tears spill from your eyes, hot and unchecked. 

Clark exhales softly and steps back, but just before the doors close, he whispers your name. In that moment, everything else fades away — it’s just you, him, and all the unspoken words that linger between you.

Then, he’s gone and you’re left utterly alone. 

♡

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