Cas

Ted Kord, who finds himself moaning pathetically into a pillow as you fuck him with a strap under Barbara’s guidance.

Ted Kord, who cums embarrassingly fast the first time he gets to fuck you. So Barbara makes him wear a cock ring, letting you use him until you're done.

Ted Kord, who lets himself be used as nothing more than a fucktoy for you and Barbara’s whims, her riding him as you sit on his face.

Ted Kord, who blushes bright red when you’ve got him on your lap, loudly wondering if he’s ever thought about riding Michael like this.

Barbara Gordon, who holds Ted’s leash, making him kneel naked and unallowed to touch himself as he eagerly watches you eat her out.

Barbara Gordon, who draws the line at Booster Gold touching her but isn’t opposed to watching Ted fall apart as you and Michael tag-team him.

Barbara Gordon, who makes both men sit back and watch as she shows them how to really fuck you.

Barbara Gordon, who has you with your back to her chest, legs spread wide as she touches you, relishing the way you moan her name while Ted and Michael watch greedily.

Barbara Gordon, who makes the boys compete every day to fuck you, and when neither of them satisfies her requirements, she takes you for herself.

Michael Carter, who talks a big game but folds like a wet paper towel the second you touch him, stammering and blushing like a repressed virgin just from you sitting on his lap.

Michael Carter, who gags and cries on your strap until Teddy teaches him how to suck it properly.

Michael Carter, who begs to eat your pussy after Teddy’s fucked you, moaning like a bitch when you tug his hair hard enough to hurt.

Michael Carter, who cums untouched with just your fingers in his ass and Ted’s cock in his mouth, a drooling mess.

The bar is a kaleidoscopic prism of sensation—of glasses clinking, of free-falling liquids that are poured to foamy head in overlarge mugs, to people sloughing the struggles of another day added to the notch in their bedpost.

You three are already deep in your cups as you slump in various states of dishevelment across the circumference of the table. Foggy openly reclines, Matt slouches on his elbows, you prop your cheek on the table. 

The conversation has transitioned into amiable silence as you repose. And you’ve been relegated to people-watching, admiring a couple so closely entwined in mutual limbs that they must be melded by the mouth, the search of drunken tongues.

It’s the inebriation that encourages your own boozy tongue, thick and slow to vacillate sloppy words. 

“It must be nice to be kissed.” You comment in passing, atonal frequency. Matt pauses, the lip of his cup suspended mid-air to his mouth. Foggy shoots you a look of discerning bewilderment as he comprehends through the haze of beer. 

Matt recovers first, settling down the drink with muted click into a familiar rimmed ring of condensation. 

“You say it like you don't know what it is.” He communicates with unspoken question. The sigh you make is of a wistful melancholy, your shoulders heaving in grievous airs. Matt’s brow hikes up the acreage of his forehead as he realizes what Foggy is still doubting. 

“I mean—”—Your eyes are hesitant to meet his—“—I don’t.” 

Foggy interjects into the fray, his statement an expulsion of disbelief. “Get the fuck outta here.” 

This makes you purse your lips, a self-defensive grin of abashment that spreads slow on the curve of your mouth. You stare with dogged intent to the smudged tabletop; Matt senses the hike of your pulse that demarcates your shame. 

“Honest, I don’t. I—”—You huff in momentary sobriety as you slump your shoulders—“—God, this is so embarrassing.” 

There’s something still unstated in the cadence of this confession. Matt holds out a hand to pause the flow of conversation, to bid you look his way. 

“Hold on—”—He levies this at you like brandished steel— “—You’ve never been kissed before? Not once?” 

You wield what you can produce from the faltering crest of memories. “Well—I’ve been kissed on the cheek before. On the forehead.” 

Foggy pushes his way to the forefront with a clarifier. “By a partner?” 

“Uh.” You defer to silence, your only measure of escape. “No.” 

Matt picks up point for Foggy on this one, inching closer along the median to the heart of the matter. “Which eliminates the matters of the mouth entirely.” 

And at matters of the mouth; well, should you let your own eyes linger on the terrain of his, you are only grateful he’s unaware of this. But then you let yourself collapse tipsily onto the tabletop, letting the prolonged shame finally consume what remains of your dignity. 

“Look, this is humiliating.” You bemoan your kiss-less fate to your coworkers. “Could we possibly move on to other topics of conversation?”

You settle a resentful glare upon the two of them. “I mean, I know you two have gotten action before.” 

Foggy blusters with a laugh of disbelief; Matt remains captured in a somewhat stony silence. He seems to be riveted in the direction of your body, the mien that you preoccupy yourself with. The push and pull of your mouth as you enunciate syllables to make way for speech. 

“Yeah?” Foggy grins, willing to be game for this potential lambasting. “What makes us so ideal for it?” 

You roll your eyes rather skeptically to the ceiling, before returning your gaze back to them with only minor difficulty. 

“Pffft, come on.” You gesture to Foggy with a pirouette of fingers. “You have such a good sense of humor and big-dick energy you couldn’t be disqualified from a kiss.” 

Foggy seems minorly enthralled by this assessment of his character and proffers a look of smug self-satisfaction to Matt. Matt himself appears to be stifling a laugh. 

“Hmmm.” He directs your way as you beam. “I like you more and more.” 

You direct a hand over to your left-hand table side companion. “And Matt’s blind.” 

The expulsion of laughter from Matt is immediate at this observation. Fingers splay on the full of his chest as he looks after the intonation of your voice. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” He asks—meanwhile, Foggy appears to be in the process of resisting herniating a lung. 

You’re as matter-of-fact as you can be after the consumption of your body weight in alcohol. 

“Well, it helps you get in the door.” You explain, to Matt’s continued disbelief. “People take pity on a beautiful blind face and want to take care of you.” 

As Matt’s jaw draws agape, Foggy points the victorious, perfunctory finger your way. “Exactly. He goes for the empathy approach.” 

You nod in abject agreement while Matt finds himself under attack, holding his arms out in disbelieving spread. The conversation seems to have taken a turn from the lament of the work day to an impromptu roasting session. 

“This is ridiculous—”—Matt declares as the two of you smother laughter—“—Any kiss I’ve ever had has been mutually agreed decision. I never preyed on anyone’s sympathy for it.” 

“How would you know?” You ask, smiling along as you go back onto the offensive. “You sit there guileless and smiling and people just see you—”

Foggy is not exempt from his own contribution—“—And they think, ‘oh the sweet lawyer who saved those kids from the well’—”

Foggy clasps his hands in maidenly display under the cliff of his jaw; Matt welters in unvoiced outrage—“—I just have to think of some way to thank him—”

“Oh, I know!” You provide the coup de grâce, “I’ll give him a wet one on the lips.” 

The two of burst out into a peal of laughter, holding onto the table for lifeline of support, slapping each other with a pronounced zeal at your supposed victory. Meanwhile, your third sits broken and worn-down in his chair, assuming the thousand-yard stare of defeat. 

“I think this constitutes itself as harassment.” He finally offers as the two of you resuscitate. “There's a disability discrimination suit being written against you both.” 

Foggy is unmoved as he pulls at his shirt, working to distance himself from the high-top chair. “Ah, whatever. You’d never sink your co-partner and your best para.” 

Matt grimaces at the truth of the statement while you watch Foggy hop down to greener pastures.

“I'm gonna go use the bathroom.” He announces cheerily. “You two want anything for when I get back?” 

Matt defers to the classic, “Just a beer.” 

“I'm okay.” You smile him off as he makes departure, and the two of you let the ambience of the bar substitute for conversation. Even given the insults taken aim Matt’s way, there’s an ease in the quiet the two of you cohabitate. And the disjointed chorus of clinking glasses and spirited conversation takes auditory prominence. 

You’re savoring the final acrid burn of your drink when Matt suddenly speaks up. 

“You know, if you ever want a first kiss,” He says in lowered, rugged note, “I’m certain we could work something out.”

It’s not the alcohol that persuades the consumptive burn fluttering in the pit of your stomach, that ushers your throat to congeal to inarticulacy. That makes you stare at Matt, your heart squealing to stop—before resounding back into overdrive. 

You hope your voice doesn’t betray you as you force a playful smile on your face. “Oh, please. I’m not falling for the doe-eyed blind trick.” 

Matt smiles, but there’s no joke he makes on the territory of that mouth. He leans in, letting you taste a mote of cologne he still bears. 

“Who said it was a trick?” He smirks, the wicked quality of his smile taking prominence. “Maybe I’d just like to kiss you.” 

You scoff at this—but your body still moves in magnetic tether to him. Just as his does to you. “Because you found out I’m unclaimed territory?” 

Not wanting yourself to be easy prey. Establishing exactly what this is: an exchange of goods and services, or something more. You wait, with your pulse making elapse on the spread of your tongue, for his response. 

“No—”—Matt says, and there's something purposeful as he speaks—“—Because I’ve been wondering what your mouth tastes like.” 

When you laugh, the exhale of air is expressed upon the full of his lips, each syllable your mouth makes felt on his own. 

“How many times has that line worked for you, Mr. Murdock?” You grin. 

Matt remains collected, but the words ring glib. “Will you let it work now?”

“Let me get back to you.” You reply, and then you close the way across the threshold.

Let your first kiss start slow, as you feel the chafe of his mouth against yours, warm, dry—still upon beginning. And then his mouth moves against yours, lips parting as he searches for more access to you; your own, in your eagerness, do the same. 

His hand draws across the edge of your jaw, careful, deliberate, grounding—you circulate a breath through your nose as his thumb works up your cheek. And you seek out more, more to feel the shape of him against you, to encourage the heat that pools in between your legs the longer that you kiss him. 

The longer that you savor the taste of this man, the more you want the rest of him. His tongue laps with a gentility stoking the fire greater against the seam of your lips.

And as you open your mouth to him, his hands coax you further to him. And you let yourself be led, while taking the lion’s share of his mouth. As you let the want you’ve never experienced before consume you whole. 

Neither of you are aware when Foggy returns, takes admiratory glance of the sight of you both so tightly enveloped in the exploration of each other’s bodies. He just lets a triumphant cluck of approval tumble free, before he makes his way to the bar. 

“Get me a stiff one.” He instructs the bartender, sending a careful look back to where the two of you remain isolated in the oasis of the other. 

“Three of them.” He amends upon second thought.

Seems like he'll need them for when you two finally come back up for air, to the real world. For now, he’ll let the two of you indulge in matters long overdue. 

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You are, of course, as the beloved house-cat is inclined to luxuriate in the space between fondness and aggravation, to engage in a dollop of mischief. 

But at the very least, today you can make pretense that you operate in the spirit of scientific exploration. 

That’s what you tell yourself at least, during the onset of your experiment begun at the conclusion of patrol. When you say Tim’s name across the precipice of concrete ledge, your smile coy and coquettish in nature; his eyes gawkish and ogling as they find visual purchase upon yours. 

You’re dedicated to the task of swaying Tim, that you do not take ken of the other pairs of eyes that drag onto the meter of your form. But this will have consequences that you will make dedicated interaction with later. For now, all you do is extend your arms to Red Robin in come-hither appropriation. 

“Tim,” You plead in adjusted, sympathetic pitch—already he is crossing the rubicon to make diligent approach to you, moth to proverbial flame—“—Come cuddle with me.” 

His shoulders broaden, his eyes brighten at the task that you’ve given him, something stalwart takes hold of his frame. Makes him fill the suit in more valiant fashion than prior occasion. Again, you both are ignorant to the glares that are exchanged, the mouthed words that are given credence in conversation you are not party to. 

All you can focus on are those blue eyes in domino-mask that are aching to prove themselves worthy of the task. His arms look to make union between yours, his teeth issuing dissipating fog from the endured chill.

After all, your request was not borne of nothing. You merely needed appropriate instigation to bring him to you.

“You cold right now?” He asks, and when his arms encircle the span of your figure; it is resuscitative balm. He is personal knight in radiating armor, his hands gentlemanly and unyielding down the length of your back—they reside in the prescience of your upper back, gloved fingers darting over your shoulder-blades. 

“Course I am,” You respond, letting your teeth chatter for auditory measure, making jagged interval of the condensation that champs through your teeth. “Figured I could get a two-for-one handling the cold.” 

Tim nods as though you have suggested sage, excellent idea, the tick of his smile smug. The grasp of his arms careful and deliberate in choosing adequate spot to best allocate warmth. 

“Sure—”—He agrees, and his voice darts in lower register of huskiness, making access to heat pooling in junction of your legs—“—Hope you don’t mind my reach.” 

“I don’t.” And to better emphasize your point, you allow your head to rest on the firm plateau of his shoulders, to feel the unyielding armor and firm flesh-and-blood muscle that lies beneath. If he articulates stuttered breath, his heart traitorous in indication of exhalation—then you ignore this as well. 

All you surrender to the nuance of muscle, to better jar the pentameter of his pulse, is a murmured, “You feel good in my arms like this.” 

His chuckle is demarcated in the reverb of the ear cupped to his body, made double in the wintry air that you cling to him for comfort from. And his heart: it thunders with the implacability of a man too nervous to ruin a good thing. 

“Been waiting to hear you say that.” He makes in confidence to you, a secret that he carries with utmost sanctity. Even though the two of you cannot suffer under the illusion that you are alone on this rooftop, at the conclusion of your duties.

The best he may do is keep this to the mutual cradle of each others arms. And his hand palms flat over the span of your back, greedy to memorize the terrain of your body that is immutable under him. 

“Does it compare to what you thought?” You ask, nuzzling the sink of your cheek against him—prompting another treasonous noise to escape him. You can’t help but smile at how easy of a task it is to unmoor this studious vigilante. 

“Even better.” He mutters, and there’s a forlorn yearning that is made nascent in this admission. Something stirs in the housing of your ribs and draws saccharine-sweet, delightfully opalized in the mien of how he holds you. 

“Careful—”—you tease back in lilting cadence—“—I might ask you to keep doing this.” 

And when his arms clutch about you to better maintain the privilege, his voice speaks at odds to the dictation of the request. 

“Oh, no, that would be horrible.” He jokes, to better ensure that you don’t realize that you’re already in too deep with one brother made notch on the bedpost. But you won’t realize this until later. 

It’s an unspoken rule that whenever someone is on patrol, the others are set as watchmen to carry the torch for their return. The others have undertaken the expectation, and you yourself are no stranger to the task given you. But it’s always expected, unspoken rule and unwritten custom of tantamount significance. 

You’re not tired as you sprawl across the comfortable chair sequestered in necessary arrangement, in the depths of the cave. The darkness has long since lost frightening quality, and the shadows that keep menacing curvature around recessed walls and low-hanging stalactite have grown to comfort you. 

The cave is a safe haven where all little bats and birds come home safe. And so you sit with your fellow charge for the night, and wait. 

Your gaze meanders away from the territory his broad-shouldered form has taken up, that thatch of white hair that shocks through the dark—to the time that is delineated in artificial bearings on the screen. 

“They’re back late.” You comment, looking at the hours that have continued in irrevocable passage. You don’t let yourself worry. Not until the sunrise returns in cresting arrival to summon the dawn. 

“Better they’re out with company,” Jason reassures you.

His voice is composed with corrugated intonation, amber whiskey and slow-spooned molasses that sinks through the arteries of your veins, the channels of your body. It imparts experience and comfort that you seek with the unspoken question you make. 

“Yeah,” You agree, once again returning your long-reaching gaze to beyond. The light at the end of the tunnel displays pinhole of nighttime sky—and with them, the prodigal children yet to return. “They’ll have each other’s backs.” 

“Better to pass the time,” Jason suggests, his gaze unnoticed in your periphery, the desire unspoken even in prose of his syllables, “If you got someone to keep you warm.” 

You let your worry transition into bewilderment, into curiosity. And then, finally, into sluggish comprehension as you take the way those thighs, housed in grey sweatpants, have spread wider on the chair.

How those abyssal green eyes are watching you, like predator encroaching through the tall grass, awaiting the lowering defenses of prey. 

You recall your interaction with Tim from the previous week, earmarked by the shoal of those warm hands, the oasis of his body in frigid weather. And the cave is no stranger to chill: though you have yet to ever find salve like this. 

“Oh,” You let smile take foundation on your face, let sly, wily approach bleed into your answer. “You’re offering?” 

“Saw you ask Tim.” His face remains impartial of any emotion. But his shoulders school out to make sacrifice of his body, his legs pitch and tilt open. Beckoning you to the temple that he willingly offers shelter in. 

“Thought I’d nominate myself.” He concludes; and then: smile takes crooked posture. Crooked, playful, attractive posture. Those eyes are daring you to play the tête-à-tête he’s brandished as challenge your way. 

“I only asked Tim,” You proper up buttress of defense—after all, you must explain the anthropological aspect of your study, “Because I'm conducting research.” 

“Yeah?” His teeth are given perfect exhibition, canines taking prescience in the pronunciation. “How’s that work?” 

“Trying to ask people to cuddle—”—You return in coy answer, keeping yourself neutral, though your smile is traitorous to a fault—“—And see who’s the best.” 

His smile does not waver. But his body seems to grow in proud stature: you cannot deny yourself a visual glimpse of the testament of anatomy he has become over the years. 

“Well, come on over, sweetheart,” Jason returns, his finger tapping careful metronome on the chair, “Come test me out.” 

The way he offers it is layered in entendre, implicative of further exploration of the body. You try to avoid clotted swallow to regulate the pulse ascending to the nape of your tongue. Try to deny peristalsis that will allow you better means to focus. You rivet your attention on closing the distance instead. 

Your limbs carry so much more gravity, when you are the one that must make consumptive act to walk over to him. To allow your body admission to the cradle of his—to have no more than mere fabric separate the encompassing swathe of his body and yours. 

He’s hot—every square inch of him blazes in heady, sweltering thoroughfare. And his arms, coiled with the task of enfolding around your waist are both protective and ardent. 

“Rest your head on me,” His words carry gentility that the hunger of his body belies, “I don’t mind.” 

And so you do, letting your temple settle into the hollow of his neck, curling up upon the altar of muscle made yours. He feels so good to the touch, his hands of chivalrous navigation. 

“What do you think?” He asks, and his question is a rumble of sensation that makes circuitous route through your body. 

“Think,” You admit with growing smile, “I’m finding my judgment shifting.”

“Good.” His hands settle on the crook of your arm, intent to keep you in his embrace. “Good.” 

You have made yourself comfortable enough that you don’t see the satisfaction inlaid to the spread of his smile. But you don’t realize the dangerous waters you grow deeper into, when Jason is so excellent to hold. 

The eldest of the brothers is made available at more convenient time: when you have been granted reprieve of duties, rotational shift of the team determining that you will not be the one with harboring lantern.

But even then, you both cannot make orbit out of the heavenly body that is Wayne Manor: and so the two of you make residence in the living room, a quiet movie making sedative, somnolent ambience. 

But the two of you are distracted by matters of other things. Your arms have beckoned out to the brother who has yet to be tested, but it is not without him to luxuriate in being smug. A trait he has passed on to all of his siblings. 

And so he leans back, those toned arms spreading about the backing of the couch. His smile cocky and of cavalier clarity as he looks keenly upon you. 

“About time you ask me.” He gloats—and yet in the gloat is an assertion of wounded nature. He smarts at being asked last, at being final rung on the ladder. You will have to earn your way to enjoy the presence of his body. 

You offer initial statement to the tableau, still keeping your arms aloft. “Figured it was perfect because we’re watching a movie.” 

He makes a harrumph, jilted cuddler left standing at the altar. His smile is of roguish cadence, daring you to keep trying. Daring you to seduce him your way. 

“But that’s the only reason?” He retreats to offense—still smiling, still daring. “Am I just convenient eye candy to you?” 

You roll your eyes, though remain steadfast to the cause. As your eyes take exploration over him, he can’t help but proffer out aspects of his body ideal to the cause. Those impressive shoulders. That toned chest, the ample thighs. 

All yours for the taking—should he allow it. Your voice is dry. “You’re being neither convenient nor eye candy right now.”

“Oh,” And here he clasps crumpled fist to the spot his heart takes residence in, “Like an arrow through the heart.” 

“More like duct tape on the mouth.” You grumble, but he’s had his moment to whinge in despair. You clamber over to let yourself take position on the spread of his body, something his hands are eager to guide you along to.

They dare at the very mores of social propriety, lingering on access of thigh, on structure of ribcage—on the small of your back which summons instinctive shiver—

But you’ll give him one thing. He is an excellent cuddler, the shape of his body perfect diameter to yours, the warmth that he exudes of perfect distinction to the cool air of the room itself. And when you rest your weary head upon the slope of his shoulder, you can feel the exulting triumph that radiates off of him. 

“Well?” He asks, keeping a mockery of demure comportment in his voice. Playing the innocent, when he is anything but. “How do I shape up?” 

“Pretty good,” you admit as you match your body in perfect slot against his, “Pretty good.” 

“As I thought.” He returns with subdued glee. And if you are not given opportunity to leave his arms, the abode of his body until the movie has concluded—well, it’s not as if you were making marked effort to leave. 

“I think this will make them mad,” You assert from the support of Bruce’s enfolded arms, “But I think that you’re the best for it.” 

“That’s a surprise,” Bruce says in dry monotone. His heart is careful dirigible that resounds through the carriage of your ear pressed upon it. “Why is that?” 

“Because you’re a dad, Bruce,” You return with abject fondness that you don’t make disguise of. His chuckle, amused notion at this, takes deep root through you as it rumbles by. “Dads always are the best cuddlers.” 

“And because the other three you’ve tested it with have nefarious intentions?” Bruce asks in further wry inquiry—how very like a father—your second father by any means—to get to the arterial heart of the matter.

You dither in silence for a second as he carries you further up the stairs in the clasp of those careful arms. 

“I don’t think they’re nefarious,” You offer carefully. “But they are obvious.” 

“But have any of them won the test?” He asks—and it’s clear he’s not asking about your scientific method. You know what he’s asking about. So the two of you while in this comfortable silence as he continues to be vessel up into the darkness for you. 

“I’ll have to think on it a little more.” You admit to him. “Maybe even do some more testing.” 

“Better do it quick,” Bruce returns in deadpan. “I think they’re going to do something stupid.” 

“When do they not?” You ask—again, another mirthless chuckle. But he doesn’t dispute this. 

“Let me know when you do,” Bruce returns, “So then I can finally reduce my painkiller intake.” 

Your shared, quiet chorus of laughter carries you both up the stairs, and into the quiet of the night retiring into silent repose. 

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“Clark,” you moan weakly, a shade pathetically from the edge of the couch, “I think—I think I’m not long for this world.” 

Clark only offers you a gentle smile as he continues to work at the task most insistently demanding his attention: making breakfast.

Damn him for looking so perfectly unruffled, with hair tousled, ruddy smile that sits with faint flush on the apple of his cheeks so well. Damn him for being so angelic as the smell of sunny-side up eggs and toast and bacon sizzles all in separate pans. 

“It’s just a hangover, honey,” Clark says in tender fashion; there is no shade of reprimand or judgment for how hard you went in the paint last night. All there is, is a degree of love that he always bears for you, that he carries in the breadth of those cornflower baby blues. 

“Why did I agree to drink with Kara?” You groan. The act of lifting your hand to cover your face in dramatic fashion saps the marrow from your bone, the willpower from your body. You consider writing your last will and testament to your husband. 

“She’s really persuasive when she wants to be,” Clark tries to smother his smile on your behalf, but it still bleeds through. You’re too busy in the throes of post-alcoholic despair to truly trouble yourself with the lilting tease. 

“What was I thinking?” You ask to nobody in particular save the grim reaper looming over your body, ready to shuffle you off this mortal coil. 

“You were thinking,” Clark’s voice draws in proximity to you—a glass of orange juice with mouthwatering condensation floats into view, “That you could go toe-to-toe with a superhuman that isn’t near red kryptonite.” 

Clark is the picture-perfect husband; he’s delicate as he nudges you up onto his lap, as he persuades you to take a few healthy sips of OJ.

In the comfortable atmosphere where you languish to die, the smell of food wafts over to you; rather than curdle your stomach, it smells like the manna of heaven just out of reach. 

“Clark?” You ask weakly as you finish rehydrating the shriveled body that once was named you. He looks down at you, smile growing, thumb stroking up and down the slope of your cheek. 

“Yeah, honey?” He asks in soft, suffused tempo. You can only lean your head helplessly into the solace of his palm, admiring the heat that is salve to the pain resounding through your temples. 

“Is Kara…” You wet your lips with what little moisture you can spare, managing a croak. “Is Kara as fucked up as I am right now?” 

“Do you want the truth,” Clark says as he settles down the cup on the coffee table, “Or do you want me to lie?” 

“Lie, please,” You return back in hoarse diction; your husband performs valiant deed by keeping a neutral face. 

“She’s miserable,” Clark lies without missing a beat; if you didn’t know better, you would consider him telling the truth. “I’ve never seen her so hungover.” 

“Good,” You let your eyes draw closed, “Good.” 

“I have to get up to finish cooking,” Clark murmurs back, his knuckle taking careful knead of your temple: you make gusty, relieved sigh. How is this man so damn perfect? “Are you gonna be okay if I do that?” 

“I think so,” You whimper back—you accept the press of Clark’s lips against yours, firm and buoying and yours. You desperately miss the physical afterimage as he pulls away, as he guides you back down to lie of your own volition on the couch. 

“I’ll be back,” He promises. The sound of him walking back to the stove is both inspiring and heartbreaking.

The two of you reside in the ambience of food still marinating in butter, the smell of grease that will hearten you back to life. You do your best to complete your first impressive feat of the day, and manage another swallow of OJ without spilling a drop. 

“What did I do to deserve this?” You ask quietly—you hear the clink of silverware as Clark nears with two plates belching welcome steam, carried aloft in the flex of those perfect biceps.

You get ample view of them as he settles them down on the coffee table, resumes the position of nursing you back to health. 

“Nothing, baby,” He reassures you, “You’ll be fine again by later today.” 

“You promise?” You ask blearily, with the demeanor of the martyred saints. Again, he performs spectacular feat by resisting a laugh; he only nods as he worries his hand up your cheek. 

“I promise,” He says. “You want me to feed you?” 

You nod, benevolent even at your lowest. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” 

Clark proffers a fork, buttery hashbrowns speared on the end. “I ask myself the same thing every time I look at your pretty face.” 

“I owe you my life, Kent.” You say, and then open your mouth.

“I love you too,” He chuckles; the kiss he presses to your forehead is the first of many, as he takes care to resuscitate you back to life. 

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“The problem is,” Leon inserts into the conversation without any preamble, “is that I can’t keep up with the new lingo nowadays.”

You send him a slantways look, admiring him in profile—somehow, even in the depths of being utterly unmoored, he still cuts a dashing figure. Still broad-shouldered and endearing, as his brow furrows and that familiar crinkle of crow’s feet manifests in the corners of his eyes—utterly baffled.

This is why, in this dichotomy, these oppositional ends encapsulated in one man—you laugh. A genuine, ebullient noise, made to share in his pain. You can’t help it; you’re always charmed by Leon.

Even as he seems to maintain his gaze upon you in confused focus while you prop your head in the crook of your palm. An empathetic smile crosses your face as you look at your better—your elder, you suppose.

“That’s just how it goes, old man,” you say teasingly, without bite; this is why he’s emboldened to send you back what you would qualify as a sheepish grin—“—Times change and so do what’s cool.”

“Didn’t expect it to just creep up on me like that.” He continues, his voice coarse with the gravity of years suddenly catching up all at once. You giggle again, trying your best to smother it in the heel of your palm on Leon’s behalf.

“What’s the word, Mr. Kennedy?” You ask, prompting the swivel of his gaze up from the unerring table surface up to the minutiae of your face. At this, he makes a dispassionate sigh through his teeth, shrugging.

“Too many to count.” He admits—and this makes three laughs in short span of time—“—Sherry doesn’t mean to, but she keeps throwing in things that I just have to nod along to.”

“Give me something,” you urge him, holding your hand out to receive his answer. “At least one.”

He pauses now, retreating into the fog of stymied memories as he searches for something. Finally after the elapsing of a meandering second, he produces an answer.

“Cooked?” Leon asks, a crease manifesting between the knit of his brow. “But there’s two meanings to it—”

“Uh-huh,” You nod agreeably, “That’s right.”

He seems a little more heartened at this confirmation. “Okay. Also—”—He sends you a confirmatory squint through his confusion—“—Aura?”

“Yes, that one’s being repurposed,” You explain with a jovial grin; as time passes, it’s becoming more and more difficult to be able to repress another laugh threatening to make way. “They had that one back in your time though, didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” He grunts dismissively, settling an impressive column of an arm back on the table, “But I don’t know if I really got it back then either.”

You know that you’re gracing him with a full-bodied smile, but you’re having too much fun now. Leon is making it too much fun; you cross your arms as you tick back in your own seat.

“Any others?” You inquire, because you don’t want this little dalliance in whimsy to pass by too quickly. He thinks, mellow as he considers one to make an even three.

“Sherry and her friends say that I have a—”—Here, he has enough sensibility to be somewhat abashed about this term—“—Dad bod.”

And this is when the dam breaks with finality; the laugh that bursts from you is explosive, rocketing you forward in your seat.

But there’s just something so adorable about this man who has saved the world multiple times over, fought countless enemies beyond most people’s mortal capabilities. And yet, he still remains confounded by that everlasting mystery of raising a daughter and having to interact with her friends.

“Poor Leon,” You chuckle, looking at the bracing grimace that he sends your way, “Still can’t escape the barbs of a girl with her clique, huh?”

“I didn’t know it was a barb,” He confesses, “Because they wouldn’t tell me what it meant.”

“Well, do you?” You ask with a teasing angle to the upturned corner of your mouth. “Have a dad bod?”

“I don’t know,” He says, and perhaps it’s because it’s the late, after-hours nature of the conversation. Perhaps it's the relaxed ambience that the two of you have happily cohabited in here, that has made your senses dulled.

“Is this a dad bod?” Is what Leon says next. Then, before you can conceive possible prediction for what he could possibly do, he slowly, almost shyly, hucks up the hem of his shirt.

And all you can do, for lack of better word, is stare at the mouthwatering display before you. Old he might be, but that word seems to falter in the space of the absolute testament before you. The one that proclaims in lurid display musculature sculpted by hard work and divine intervention.

He’s jacked—you think that you could grind meat on those abs, given the chance. When he takes in a protracted, shuddering breath, you see the flex of his stomach, the coil of exertion, and this draws your eyes down to the sharp v that ascends from his waistband.

You don't even realize you’ve been staring far, far too long at the fine layer of hair that composes a happy trail that you desperately, desperately want to see the end of the rainbow at. It's here that Leon speaks.

“You can touch it if you want to,” Leon says, and the muscles only coil taut at this, breaking the spell. Letting you catch that honeyed undercurrent in his voice, tear your eyes up to see the tentatively hopeful look he casts your way.

“You think it’ll help with my research?” You ask, because you’re always one to play games, now that you know the score. And lucky for you, from the quiet grin manifesting on Leon’s face, he’s eager to walk the walk with you.

“I hear that hands-on experiences are always the best,” He replies. There’s something rich and low that sends a shiver down your spine, to cause all the right locales of your body to perk up with interest.

“I prefer being wined and dined first, Mr. Kennedy.” You straighten up in your seat. Testing the waters that your superior, your better is making overtures at that you want to explore. And his hands finally lower at this, concealing the most-definitively not dad bod that you’re already missing sight of.

“I never said I wouldn’t,” He says, and there’s almost something offended at this—again, you feel a pang of fondness for this gentleman trying to offer his body to you.

But there’s still a wicked spark of mischief in his eyes as he maintains marked intensity with yours. “But I never heard there was any shame in a practice run.”

“You know,” You find yourself inching along, tethered by a force far more magnetic than verbal application can explain, “I hear that practice does make perfect.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Leon smirks, and his hand is so gentle as it draws up the landscape of your cheek, “Why don’t you come here so we can get started?”

“Aye aye, Mr. Kennedy,” You make breathless chuckle against the terrain of his lips. Looks like you’re going to get some extensive field experience with Mr. Kennedy’s dad bod after all.

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You manage to suppress the tears long enough to close the door to office behind you. It’s only when the lock shuts securely in the jamb, the final seal between you and the outside world, that you let the first wracking sob snuffle out of you.

And then, in the privacy of Murdock and Nelson’s Law, you feel like you can crumple against the door and cry. There’s something about the muffled world outside, a city of people with problems far greater and larger than yours, that feel so far away. In here, you have the solitude at last to finally let it out, to let that hiccoughing sob free.

It’s late enough. Everyone’s gone home; Karen and Foggy walked out together, Matt said he’d lock up and so he did—it’s you who allowed yourself back into the closest sanctuary to home.

But when you hear a tumble of noise from down the hall, you find enough wherewithal within you to freeze. Give yourself enough composure to let the tear tracks dry on the landscape of your face as you straighten up, adrenaline running free-fall through the channels of your veins.

And the darkened hallway devoid of human life continues to yawn wider with another clatter of noise; something’s fallen over. A grunt—masculine in nature—chuffs through a door. You’re too scared to move, too distant to tell which room it is.

Stupid, stupid—you search the nearby reception desk for anything of formidable defense. The next best thing you find yourself wielding in awkward, inexperienced manner is a decorative paperweight; the glass-blown one Foggy got from Coney Island.

Something about the heft is reassuring to you as you make an idiotic decision and trail a shaky step in the direction of the sound.

“Hello?” You demand in a voice less impressive than you hoped it to be. “Who’s in here?”

Another scuffle, a grunted oath—you make another harangued step forwards as your mind races.

This is a not insignificant law office—who’s come in here to steal something? One of Fisk’s goons? One of Spider-Man’s multitudinous enemies looking for testimony that’ll put them away for good? Bullseye; or even worse—Frank Castle.

“This is private property,” you continue, “You need to leave—”

The door to the left—Mr. Murdock’s door—opens to reveal a silhouette obscured by shadows. And you make your best game throw and huck the paperweight as hard as you can.

“Whoa!” Shouts a very familiar voice, in parallel with the wet slap of flesh connecting with previously lobbed object—and you gasp aloud.

What was once fear transforms to a more different type of horror as the figure emerges from the shadow. And something in you wonders if you’ll still be in possession of employment tomorrow.

“Mr—”—You feel stifled for words as you watch one of your bosses appear, illuminated as if by saintly glow of fluorescent lighting—“Mr. Murdock, oh my God—I’m so sorry—”

“No harm, no foul,” Mr. Murdock smiles gamely as he approaches you, his cane navigating the glossy floor elapsing space between you both.

“See?” To your imminent surprise, he holds up a hand to reveal the intact paperweight, your failed weapon of choice.

You barely have opportunity to marvel at how it has remained intact, much less how you didn’t murder your boss, before another thought surfaces to the foreground of your mind.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Murdock?” You ask in what is best classified as shock. “I thought everyone went home—”

“I apologize,” Matt explains, giving a grimace in the general direction of the paperweight he clutches, “I forgot some files that I needed to store away, so I had to come back.”

“Oh,” you say, deflating in worry that is now giving marked way to embarrassment. “I thought you were—”

“A thief?” He asks with good-natured smile your way. And now you simply feel foolish as you accept the paperweight he returns back your way to replace.

“Either that or Spider-Man,” you answer, “I can’t tell which one is worse.”

Mr. Murdock chuckles, a sight that looks welcome on that handsome face of his—something heartens within you at this. At least, until he cocks his head at you and makes inquiry you’re bereft of answering.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, and it’s here that there’s a touch of confusion to his face as his eyebrows join together. “Could’ve sworn that you had a date tonight.

And it’s here that you’re left at a loss for words, your answer far too bitter to wish to provide. It sits on the palate of your tongue, acrid and biting, a flush of emotion torrential as it courses through you. You’re only glad that Mr. Murdock can’t see you now, see the gloom that settles over your face at his reminder.

You know that you’re taking far too long to reasonably provide an answer. That you’re leaving your boss in the dark both figuratively and literally. So when you speak, your voice is of halting reticence, your answer slow and sluggish to provide.

“He stood me up.” You return. And perhaps it’s the emptiness of the office surrounding you both that makes it sound so tinny, so hollow, so lifeless. You direct your gaze to the floor, intent to avoid the stare that Mr. Murdock cannot provide—confessing this to him is damning enough.

When he returns a response to your answer, you’re relieved that he’s not surprised. False platitudes wouldn’t help you right now. His intonation is flat, inquisitive: almost as if he’s angry on your behalf, his temper barely kept in check for your own personal welfare.

“How do you know?” Mr. Murdock asks, and you don’t think he’s ever spoken in such level directive. But the question is another knife in the back that you’re not willing to bear: you confess your truth to the floor once more.

“Well—”—You swallow back the tears that you’re now certain he must have heard—“—He was supposed to be there at seven. And now it’s—”

You don’t even want to look at the clock on the wall, ticking its metronomic rhythm for the two of you to listen to in mocking progression of the day. The tapestry of stars that yawns outside of the window explains enough, the hubbub of a city that is settling down for bed concludes the rest of the story.

“Much later, huh?” He asks, and there’s a gentility that you don’t expect. But it hurts all the same; this is why you decide to avoid providing a response. You’re unsure how steady your ability to verbalize is right now.

The two of you stand there, you regarding the floor, he sharing the privilege of your close proximity. And thankfully, rather than expect you to take the lead, he’s generous enough to do it himself.

You always did like Mr. Murdock’s voice, and this time his voice is such a warm, brandy-amber caramelized note as he speaks to you.

“Well, his loss.” He asserts with such certainty you usually only hear him wield in the courtroom. This is why you pull your gaze up from the linoleum to the determination resting on his expression.

“I don't know what he’s thinking standing up someone fantastic like you.” He continues.

This is when you finally vocalize the most appropriate sound in this conversation: a shy, embarrassed chuckle. It’s another small mercy that he’s not able to hear the uptick of your heart pounding in rapidly increasing speed.

“You don’t have to flatter me, Mr. Murdock.” You huff through your teeth, trying to avoid acknowledging the heat underneath your cheeks.

“I’m not—”—And there’s something in you that wants to so desperately believe this, even in the malaise of the rejection you just faced. As you watch the way that the half-assured smile establishes itself on his face, makes bearings before awkwardly growing more in endearing manner.

He clears his throat, the fluorescent lighting of the office making prismed reflection off of his lenses. “If I wanted to flatter someone, it would be the debt collector when they come by tomorrow.”

The laugh that you make is genuine; the first one that you haven’t had to force since your terrible experience. It feels warm and welcome after the cold dearth of emotion that you’ve been submerged by.

“Thanks.” You breathe. You clear your throat. When did the temperature so swiftly rise in the office? It seems of paramount importance to continue the conversation before you lose any coherent train of thought you have.

“I—I guess I just didn’t want to head home first,” You offer nervously into the comfortable silence, “So I thought I’d head by the office first.”

You’ve seen the look on Mr. Murdock’s face before, the very one he bears now. Of being caught in a precipice of emotion, articulating in his mind’s eye the path that lies before him.

You’ve just never had the opportunity to see it levied against yourself rather than someone he cross-witnesses in court. But the way that he runs the pad of his thumb under the chisel of his jaw, the way that his brow knits together as he thinks: something’s up.

“I see.” He continues in enigmatic delivery. “Well, maybe it was a stroke of good luck.”

You blink, because as of right now, disregarding the slight reprieve, you most certainly do not feel like you’ve felt any stroke of good luck.

You frown in bemusement up at him. “How’s that work out?”

“Well,” He beams down to you, proffering his cane out to articulate his point, “I have a free evening and you seem to have no plans.”

At this, his free hand turns out to you, palm out, upturned in extension of olive branch. “How about we make something of it?”

You hear, but you don’t comprehend. You understand, but you don’t want to believe. This is why when you ask, your voice is still clouded with the worry that you’ll be going two for two on dates tonight.

“What do you mean, Mr. Murdock?” You ask, and that mysterious smile has yet to fade from those full lips. In fact, they seem to have grown rather exponentially instead.

“I remember you mentioned you wanted to try out that jazz bar,” He inclines his head so that he can direct those sightless eyes your way, beyond the plane of his glasses, “With the nice mocktails.”

You nod along, still unsure of the proposal that he’s levying to you; ever the orator, he gladly continues.

“And I happen to know that if you walk in with a person with a cane—”—At this, he holds up his only weapon to navigate the storied streets of New York—“—You’ll be given ADA accessible seating right at the front.”

He leans in as though to share conspiratorial secret with you, though the only people that occupy the space are the both of you. His smile now seems positively roguish.

“And—I hear that there’s a Miles Davis tribute tonight.” At this, those teeth finally come on display, and how beautiful they are as the rest of him. But you can’t resist yours either; they rise to the forefront in parallel with him, a blooming wellspring of emotion finally allowed to rise free.

“Mr. Murdock—”—If you’re drawing closer into his gravitational orbit, neither of you take care to make mention of it—“—Are you suggesting we use your disability to our advantages?”

Your boss offers idle shrug that seems to neither confirm nor deny.

“When the pros are so far and few between—”—He offers the cane up as visual reminder—“—And I want to make sure I see a real, genuine smile on your face tonight—”

And at this, you find it very hard to even try and conceal yours now—“—I find it necessary to milk it as much as we can.”

Maybe the tears will return again, but for more positive, bountiful reason. You thank your stars one final time that Mr. Murdock remains unaware of this.

“That's really sweet of you, Mr. Murdock.” You finally say when you’ve summoned enough wherewithal to be able to verbalize clearly. “Thank—thank you. That sounds wonderful.”

And he doesn’t have to be a mind-reader to know that there’s nothing but sincerity in your voice. When the shoal of heat your body makes is so close to the oasis of his own.

“Call me Matt.” Matt grins at you, offering the crook of his elbow for you to take hold upon. “And mocktails are on me.”

He starts to lead you to the door, an impressive feat all things considered; but, you suppose he’s owned the place long enough to have careful internal record of its roadmap.

Something wicked inspires itself and must make itself spoken. You don’t feel brave enough to tell him to his face, though he can’t see—so instead, you direct it to the doorknob you open with a careful twist of your wrist.

“Careful—”—You giggle—“—After a night of non-alcoholic beverages and smoky room jazz, just make sure you don’t catch feelings for me.”

You’re teasing. But you’re also not. Good thing Matt will never know.

“I’ll make sure to let you know.” He returns in rich baritone—and it’s your cowardice that prevents you from seeing the smile that plays on his face. The one that holds all the answers that you have yet to know.

“Why don’t you lead the way?” He asks—and so you do.

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Your eyes flicked between the two of them. She was all heat and curves, curls bouncing as she tilted her head at you. He was quieter, watching you with sharp blue eyes that didn’t waver.

Your pulse kicked up hard in your throat. “Wait. Are you… are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”

The man finally spoke, voice low and smooth. “We’re asking if you’d like to come home with us.” He let the word home hang there and then offered the faintest smirk.

You put your glass down a little too quickly. “You can’t just… walk up to people and—”

“Why not?” the woman interrupted, laughing, completely unapologetic. “We’re honest. You’re gorgeous. We think you’re gorgeous. And we like to share.” She glanced back at him, brushing her fingers against his shoulder.

Heat prickled at the back of your neck, they were magnetic together even more than apart. You couldn’t stop staring at their hands, the way his ring glinted when he touched her hip, the way she leaned toward him. And now their attention was squarely on you.

The man tilted his head. “You can say no,” he said, softer now. “We don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But if you’re interested…” His eyes swept you up and down, subtle but unmistakable. “…we’d make it worth your time.”

Your mouth went dry. “You two are insane.”

“Maybe,” she said with another laugh, curls bouncing as she leaned down closer. “But you’re not walking away, are you?”

And the truth was you weren’t. You shook your head a little. “I don’t even know your names.”

Her laughter spilled out of her as she leaned back just enough to look at you properly.

“Oh, you’re right.” She pressed a hand dramatically to her chest, eyes sparkling. “Where are my manners? I’m Koriand’r.” She rolled the name on her tongue before grinning wider. “But my friends just call me Kori.”

The man beside her leaned a little closer, resting his elbow on the bar casually, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. “Dick,” he said simply, offering his hand out to you like this was the most normal introduction in the world. His palm was warm, grip steady, like he was daring you to pull away.

Your eyes flicked between them, you suppress a laugh at how surreal this was.

“Now you do,” Kory said, tilting her head, curls brushing over her shoulder. “So? What’s yours, gorgeous?”

Your lips parted, heartbeat kicking hard as you gave them your name.

Dick smiled at the sound of it while Kory repeated it under her breath, tasting it like a secret. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that they were both leaning just a little too close.

“This is insane,” you whispered.

“Or,” Kory countered with a sly grin, “it’s the best decision you’ll make all week.”

Dick could see in your eyes a flicker of doubt, you weren’t confident on going home with two strangers that have been eyeing you the whole night.

“C’mon. Let us buy you a drink.” Dick said with a tiny smile, offering his hand.

Your throat felt dry, though not from the lack of alcohol. Their combined attention was dizzying. You let out a shaky little laugh, eyes flicking between them, searching for some crack in their confidence and finding none.

“I could use a drink.” You smiled shyly, accepting his hand guiding you towards the bar. You shivered at the touch of Kory’s hand in the small of your back.

The drinks arrived, cold glasses set down in front of the three of you. Dick slid yours closer with two fingers, his rings clinking softly against the glass.

“Cheers,” he said smoothly, raising his own. Kory followed, her grin sweet but wicked at the edges.

You hesitated, but lifted yours anyway. The first sip went down sharp, heat blooming in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the way both of them were looking at you.

Kory leaned in, elbow on the bar, curls brushing your bare arm. “You’re even prettier up close,” she murmured, eyes lingering.

You swallowed hard. “You two always pick people up in bars together?”

Dick laughed quietly. “Not always. Only when the vibe’s right.” His dark eyes found yours, daring you to look away. “And with you? The vibe’s very right.”

Kory’s hand slid just close enough to your knee that you felt the ghost of her touch. “We could stay here all night and keep talking.” Her voice dipped, teasing. “or we could take this somewhere more private.”

You blinked at her, pulse stuttering. “You mean…”

“We mean,” Dick cut in, smiling like he’d already read your thoughts. “No pressure. But you should come home with us tonight, you won’t regret it.”

Kory giggled softly, leaning in closer so her perfume wrapped around you. “And we’ll take very good care of you.”

Dick swirled what was left of his drink, eyes still fixed on you. There was a smile on his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.

“You know,” he said slowly, “we don’t usually bother pushing this far.” He leaned a little closer, his arm brushing yours. “But I think you already know we’re not leaving this bar without you tonight.”

The statement landed heavy. Kory’s hand finally settled on your knee, she tilted her head as her mouth curved into that sultry smile. “Why would we? You’re exactly what we were looking for.”

Your throat went dry. “That’s… a lot of confidence.”

Dick chuckled, he set his empty glass down and angled toward you, his knee brushing yours under the bar. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t feel this too.”

You tried, but his gaze held you in place.

Kory leaned in so close you caught the sweetness of her drink on her breath. “We’ll be good to you,” she whispered, voice soft but full of heat. “But we’re not walking out that door without your hand in ours.”

Dick’s hand brushed your arm, light but purposeful. “So,” he asked quietly, “are we going to finish these drinks or are we leaving now?”

You were completely naked in the bed of their apartment, they never stopped looking at you while they also discarded their own clothes. They were both built like greek gods, both with perfectly toned stomachs, strong arms and legs that could easily suffocate you.

Kory sat on the edge of the bed first, her big curls falling around her shoulders, eyes roaming your body with a hunger that made your stomach flip. Dick followed with his gaze just as intense. You shifted nervously under their combined stare, pulling the sheet a little higher over yourself.

“Don’t hide,” Kory murmured, her hand reaching out to pull the sheet right back down. Her palm was warm brushing over your thigh. “You’re too beautiful to hide.”

Dick sat beside you, his hand landing on the other side of your hip, trapping you between them. “She’s right,” he said, voice low and smooth, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look at you… spread out and waiting for us. You’re perfect.”

Your pulse thundered in your throat.

Kory’s grin softened, but her touch didn’t. Her hand slid up your stomach, fingers brushing over your breasts before cupping one, thumb flicking your nipple until you gasped. Dick leaned down, kissing your shoulder. His mouth trailed up to your neck, lips teasing the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. 

“Let us show you,” he whispered against your skin.

Kory climbed onto the bed fully, swinging one leg over so she was straddling you. She looked down at you with that same fearless smile, curls bouncing as she leaned forward just enough to press her breasts against your face. 

“Can you taste me, gorgeous?” she teased, tugging her crop top over her head and tossing it aside.

Dick’s hand slid between your thighs, his rings cold against your burning skin. He teased your folds with deliberate strokes, never quite giving you what you needed. 

“Already wet,” he whispered, smirking against your throat. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

Kory giggled when you whimpered beneath her, rolling her hips just enough for you to feel the heat of her against your thigh. 

“She likes it,” she said, “look at her squirm.”

Dick finally slid two fingers inside you, his pace controlled but firm, curling them just right. You moaned, and he bit your shoulder lightly, as if savoring the sound. 

“Say it,” he demanded softly, his lips brushing your ear. “Say you’ve been waiting for us.”

Your voice broke. “I… I have.”

Kory gasped dramatically, leaning down to kiss you deeply, hot and hungry, her tongue claiming yours while Dick worked you open with his hand. 

“Mmm,” she purred as she pulled back, licking her lips. “So sweet. I want her mouth, Dick.”

He chuckled low, pulling his fingers from you only to suck them clean before shoving them back inside. “Greedy,” he teased, eyes darkening as he watched your reaction.

Kory slid further down until she was straddling your face fully now, lowering herself with a wicked grin. “Be greedy with me,” she whispered. “Eat.”

The second your tongue touched her, she moaned, throwing her head back, her curls bouncing as her hips rolled against your mouth. Dick kissed your stomach, trailing down until he replaced his fingers with his tongue, lapping at you with slow, deliberate strokes that had you arching off the bed.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined,” he groaned against you.

Kory leaned forward, tangling her fingers in your hair, guiding your mouth against her. “Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice high and breathless. “You’re so so good.”

You were shaking, every nerve lit on fire from their combined touch. His mouth devouring you, her heat pressing down against your tongue, their hands roaming, gripping, owning every inch of you.

Overwhelmed, overstimulated, you muffled a cry against Kori’s slick folds, and Dick laughed darkly, pulling back just enough to look up at you. 

“Already?” he asked, lips glistening.

You didn’t answer him, you couldn’t with your mouth full, so you just tugged his hair and pulled him back between your folds. He went back working his two fingers knuckles deep and his tongue lapping over your clit while Kory rode your face.

“Fuck, D-Dick I’m—” you blurted out, bucking your hips up feeling the sting in your walls, only for him to put a hand on your stomach keeping you in place.

“Yeah, baby. C’mon. I’ll eat it all up.”

His voice rumbled against your core as his tongue flicked faster. His fingers curled, hitting that exact spot inside you that made your vision blur. Your hands clawed at the sheets, at his hair, at Kori’s thighs above you, but there was no escape from how they were devouring you.

Kory was gasping, grinding down onto your face with no shame. “She’s so good, Dick fuck her tongue is perfect.” Her nails dragged down your chest, leaving faint red trails over your skin. She tugged your hair to keep your mouth right where she wanted it. “Don’t stop, pretty thing.”

You tried to answer, to beg, but Dick pushed two more fingers inside you, stretching you until your cry vibrated against Kory’s clit. She shuddered hard, laughing breathlessly as her hips rolled faster.

“That’s it,” Dick growled, sucking your clit into his mouth so hard your back arched clean off the bed. “I want you dripping all over my face. I want Kory to taste you when she kisses me.”

Your thighs were trembling, shaking around his head. “I-I can’t… ah!”

“You can,” he interrupted, biting your inner thigh hard enough to sting. 

“Listen to him, gorgeous. Make a mess for us.” 

Your whole body convulsed, stars exploding behind your eyes as your orgasm ripped through you, wet and overwhelming. Dick groaned against your folds, drinking you in while his fingers fucked you through it.

Kori gasped when your moans sent shocks through her own climax. “Oh fuck yes!” she cried out, thighs clamping around your head as she shuddered above you.

When you went limp, trembling and gasping for air, Dick finally pulled back, lips and chin glistening. He crawled up your body, catching Kori’s mouth in a filthy kiss so she could taste you on his tongue as he promised before.

a/n: this is a repost of a fic a deleted a while ago

There’s the soft, dimmed light of the kitchen that hangs iridescently soporific over the rims of your glasses, already half-consumed and imbibed over the whiling away of the past few rounds.

Chips worn-down in their storied usage litter the terrain of the marble countertop that the two of you engage in tabletop combat over, marking the passage of successfully completed rounds of poker.

Not that anyone’s counting—the company, in your purview, is reward enough. But if anyone is counting, then you’re the one who’s winning by a good mile.

Not that, it seems, Remy cares by any categorization a supposed loser would. Instead, he sits across the landscape separating you by a glossy corner and figurative miles, smiling.

The cards are wielded cavalierly in the fan of those wide fingers you’ve devoted far too much attention to as the alcohol has run low in your cups.

You’ve made dedicated anthropological study to the way that those fingers have rolled engraved chips over the ridge of those knuckles.

How those eyes that already catch such kaleidoscopic light seem to simmer with such reticent heat, in such marked fashion from how they do in other conversation or the heat of battle.

And he reclines languidly in the chair, a broad, uncovered arm leaning on the back of it in cavalier manner. A nonverbal display of the implicit apathy that he displays to repeated losses.

All you hope is that the sentiment doesn’t bleed over to the company that he shares with you. But in your boozy defense, you will note to yourself that the arc of his gaze has not slid from you once in the duration of your time shared.

And so you are emboldened. And this is what persuades the movement of your tongue, words persuaded by liquid courage that equips you with speech that you would not normally possess.

You take care to lean in; and if you are delusional enough, the appraisal of your eyes informs you that he does so by mirrored degrees. You hope you do not imagine the handsome smile that is already growing in fractional design on the curve of those full lips.

“Remy,” You begin the cross-examination you’ve restrained the last three rounds, “Are you playing this bad on purpose?”

Bold stratagem perhaps for any other. But to your growing audacity and burgeoning hope: he laughs. And the noise is coarse and roguish and suited to the ken of a man like him.

He cocks his head, letting the tension caught in the angle of his neck relieve itself—and perhaps you let your eyes linger on the way that the muscle coils and stretches as he does so.

Remy’s voice is a corrugated murmur, made at audible level just distinct enough to summon a lurid shiver that traverses the meter of your spine. He bears that masculine voice with a sensuous quality that you resent, for the effect that it has, when paired with the smolder of those gleaming eyes.

“Maybe you just not aware of ol’ Remy’s strategy, minou.” Remy says; you are given pearly glimpse of canine that makes manifest in his grin. Subtle enough to remind you that the wolf you play against has teeth to bare. But still you poke the bear.

“What’s that?” You ask, inching towards of him to make better jape. And should the corner of his mouth tug up at your continued valiance, then you are too focused on teasing to make notice of it.

“Make me realize you’ve been lying this whole time to everyone,” You make slow-going grin growing shyly appear greater still, “About how good you are at cards?”

There’s a note of wry amusement in the chuckle he makes through the press of his lips; when they purse, you are distracted by the fantasy of having them pressed against yours.

This is why you are belated in comprehending his response, still unaware of the way that his eyes have taken careful visual analysis of you.

“Don’t need a good hand if you know how to play the game.” He returns, and his voice is soft, velvet, dangerous in unknown quality.

You beam across the table at him, still taking care to conceal your hand, though the pantomime of this game has long been concluded. You still like to play the part, though.

“And what are you getting out of this game?” You ask, letting your voice draw low in this inquiry. If you are self-conscious about the answer that you have layered within the implication of the inquiry, you only hope that he is wise enough to figure it out.

“Learn how to figure you out, miel.” Remy answers, rolling those shoulders so that those shoulders score back with a tautness of musculature. Reminding you of the power that he wields but doesn’t care to wield in front of you.

“See what make you tick.” He continues, so that you can finally tear your gaze from the objectification of his body—up to that stare with such marked intensity.

“See what make you fluster.” He concludes, and you feel as though the room lacks atmosphere that it once possessed.

All the oxygen seems to have been sucked out with the nuance in that statement, the way that it feels as though you are only audience to each other.

“Well,” You grin to the marble island, trying to shake alcoholic daze and flustered heat from your body, “You already do a pretty good job of that.”

“Me? Ol’ Remy?” You feel brave enough to look up and find him in a state of mock-offense, fingers splayed out over his chest. Wolfish grin pulling carnivorous on his face to bely the statement he makes.

“Wouldn’t hurt a hair on your pretty head—”—He purrs out the words—“—Unless you ask.”

You deflect, making forced, lilting laugh to diffuse the tension. “You say that to everyone.”

Yet he is immovable in stature and gaze as he appraises you. “Only the one I like.”

You pause too long for the question to not have flummoxed you. But you pretend as though it hasn’t, as though the gait of your heart is not spurring to frenzied gallop in your ears.

“And do you like me?” You ask, hoping that your mouth does not tremble, that syllable does not waver, as you do so.

He doesn’t smile; if anything, there’s a degree of calm that seems almost contradictory to his character. Oppositional to the alcohol that he’s consumed with you that collects in amber dregs at the bottom of his glass.

“Who asking, minou?” Remy inquires in far-too-impartial tone. Now you know that it’s now or never, as the millstone around your neck grows heavier and adrenaline tracks down the rivulets of your veins.

“Uh—me.” You force the words through inverted peristalsis. It’s the only way that you’ll be able to say anything. “Because maybe…I’d like you too.”

And when there is silence that elapses in duration, in longer passage than necessary—you feel the cold shock of sobriety. Of the pit of your stomach that plummets down as you watch Remy, still guised in silence.

“Oh God.” Is all that you can say; you have to fight the nausea that seems to arise with swifter alacrity than you expected. The cards are abandoned to the table as you press the heel of your hand against your traitorous, wretched mouth.

“Was this a big mistake?” You ask in hushed directive; Remy, it seems, is rising to his feet to cross a meridian you fear you have burned down.

“God, Remy,” You whisper wide-eyed at him as he approaches; and the balm of his thumb as it swipes away involuntary tear making track down your face is irresistible. You don’t even realize when you lean into it.

“I’m so sorry—”—You begin, trying to find him through the gloss of instinctive tears, but he leans forward, hands clasped in scalding manner around the diameter of your face. And this is the only reason that your words halt; so that you can understand why there is something imploring in his eyes.

“Non, non, non—”—Remy soothes, and when those thumbs work up the plateau of your cheeks, you feel your words die in your mouth—“—What we got to be sorry about?”

“I just—”—Your words break, unable to carry gravity still collapsed upon you—“—You didn’t say anything.”

Remy, for once, appears to be on the other side of abashed embarrassment; his eyes run askance to the ground before finding yours.

“Je suis désolé, minou—”—And the genuine regret that draws in undercurrent, in the shame of his eyes: you believe him—“—Just can’t believe providence when it come find me.”

And you find it in yourself to allow a spark of hope to take blossoming foundation once more, as he holds you with a gentility you didn’t know he possessed.

“What…what do you mean?” You ask, afraid of what answer lies at the conclusion of your question.

At this, he finally laughs—the knuckle of his forefinger slinks up the edge of your jaw—possessive, you wonder.

“Thought we’d have to dance for a little more—”—Remy provides with utmost sincerity, the arc of his gaze holding you still—“—So I could court you proper.”

Court you proper—the phrase takes wretched real estate without real understanding—and then slowly, the pieces fit together in sluggish match. But Remy is patient as the subtle elation grows to delight. And when you grin at him, he makes breathless laugh at the hurdle the two of you have finally cleared together.

“Me?” You ask, wondering when you will wake up in the sanctity of your bed from wonderful dream. “Why?”

“Cause ol’ Remy only do it for the people,” He elaborates—and if he is closer, the husk of his breath articulated on your lips—“—He wanna give a lil’ lagniappe to.”

“Lagniappe?” You echo in butchered repetition; you are far too interested in the way that his hands draw to the nape of your neck. How you can taste his scent on your tongue. “What’s that mean?”

“How about I give you a hint?” Remy asks in wicked overture—and when he presses his tongue against the seam of your lips, you can only help but allow him in.

You didn’t expect the knit of his fingers as they worked up the underside of your shirt, leaving electric afterimage on the surface of your skin—but you need it, more than ever.

You didn’t know how much you hungered for the way that his tongue draws against yours—and when he sucks the taste of you onto his soft palate: you moan.

And this is another thing he takes with approving rumble that thrums through you, that sends a bolt of want through your body, to the junction of your legs.

So you do what anyone would: you pull your clenched fists into the collar of his shirt and pull him against you. So that you can feel the desire that rubs against your knee, the aftertaste of whiskey that is sweeter than any you’ve ever tasted.

You don’t know how you ended up in his lap, seated over the spread of that muscular thigh, drawn rigid so that you can find some relief as you grind against it. All it does is reward you with the needful groan that he ekes into the column of your throat, as his hands work to free you from the deadweight of clothing.

“Oh, you too good to Remy, minou,” Your man praises in gloating ease as his fingers search down the waistband of your pants. As you feel him approach relief that can only be given through his body. “You gonna like this.”

There’s a snarl in his voice that belies how starved he is. And as he works open the button of your pants, drags the teeth of the zipper in expert glide, keeps the suck of his mouth against your collarbone: you can’t wait to help satisfy his appetite.

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Everyone knows that your husband is unfaithful; it is question of who doesn’t know rather than who is aware. Yet you know what you are here for: pretty showpiece made to demonstrate what good breeding you shall provide for your lineage when the time comes.

Though, it appears that the time will never come, considering that your spouse’s eyes, and hands, wander. 

You know better than to contest it; you know the price that you will pay for derision or distance. So you play the part: awaken to handmaidens that rouse you in a solitary bed, let them entrap you in delightfully colored garments that belie the grave expression you are used to bearing. And you sit beside an unfaithful man when court is in session. 

Sometimes, you wish that your husband were not so accomplished—so very revered, so very beloved in Arthur’s Court. To see the way that sunlight catches the coil of his locks in such beautiful fashion, the arch of handsome jaw, the gleam of wandering eyes. 

Perhaps then there would be those that have sympathy for you. Save the people who have declined to share your marital bed with him. Or those who are also without agency to defend themselves. 

Perhaps it would make court today more tolerable, as you stand besides him in waiting. Watch him shift from foot-to-foot with restlessness that seems more irritable as of late.

He takes deliberation to avoid even sparing you glance, though you have been gusseted and laced into manner of colorful garments. Though you are every part the perfect spouse that he does not deserve. 

As he whispers to the squire besides him in muttered invocation “How I’d lop arm and leg so that I could retire to stables—Catriona says she has a surprise for me.” 

You try not to wince. Try to keep brave face as you think of that pretty-faced maid that casts insolent glances at you when you dine with your husband and she is forced to serve you.

You know she dreams of the privilege to wear your clothes, to eat your fine food, to be fucked officially by your husband. But the shine wears off for your husband quick. There will be others. 

This is the only reason that you keep your head high. At least, until squire engaged in conversation mutters back “Thought you were to see Tess.” 

You stiffen at this name that does not make registered documentation in your head. That does not ring spark of familiarity. In the distance, you are vaguely aware of Arthur thanking Galahad and Jason Blood for services rendered to the kingdom once more. 

“And I will, tomorrow behind the mill,” Your husband chortles back in low meter, “Should a man know to keep his mouth shut.”

They laugh for jokes that carry little water for you. But internally you are broiling with emotion. As the crowd erupts with applause for achievements that matter little, and you are forced like marionette on string to play spouse—and you clap. When you swallow, you wonder why it is so difficult to do so. 

When assembly is dismissed, you turn to your husband, lovely and arrogant and liar—and find that he is already walking away. Your hands clasp with such immediacy at the couplet of sleeve that it surprises you—and it surprises him as well. 

He turns, and you are spared the first glimpse he has squandered your way. And his eyes are cold—and his jaw is set. So bereft of the warmth that he will regale to passerby or woman that he wants to fuck. 

“What have you need of?” Your husband asks, roughly, brusquely—not in manner that such esteemed lord should speak to his esteemed spouse. You find yourself stalled for words, especially in the face of the impatience that he so openly displays, the derision that curls arc of those full-bodied lips. 

“I had only thought,” You say, smothering need to express nervousness through the tic of your fingers, “That we might lunch together in the gardens.” 

His eyes regain a honed edge—apathy. Contempt, at best. “You are not wanting for company. You shall not require mine to go, nor mine permission.” 

Something spurs in the pit of your belly, a coalescing of emotions that you know you should be well-used to—but it burns white hot. “I would only wish for the company of mine husband.” 

He scoffs—as though he, too, is aware of the nominal quality of the title he bears. “And I would wish for reprieve from castle grounds.” 

You don’t know what motivates your mouth to move in articulation as it does. “I was not made to think the stables were not part of castle grounds.” 

Your husband draws still. Picturesque display of chivalrous beauty made beatifically malicious as he stares down at you. As he comprehends what you are aware of and considers best path of dialogue to proceed. 

He closes in with deliberate step—to passerby, it would be the way that loving couple embraces each other, the way his hand settles on your shoulder, his other to bid your chin look to him. 

“You shall not,” He directs with glorious, chiseled smile, “Deprive me of mine entitlements.” 

His hand clenches about your shoulder to agony with such alacrity you can only gasp. But he holds you still enough in the anchoring of his grip that you cannot move away as he leans in, almost as though to share kiss. 

“Nor, should you behave,” He whispers in shell of your ear, “Shall I deprive you of yours.” 

You go still, knowing you are at dangerous precipice. And when he presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, it is as if flint scratches upon steel. He withdraws, leaving the painful afterimage of his hand clenched upon your shoulder, bolstered by buoyant smile once more. 

“Good mid-day, my love,” He says; and to the innocent witness, they would not presume the derision that he speaks it with. But you alone hold the spectacle of his eyes that stare at you. 

And when he turns to leave—you can only watch the departure of his impressive figure in suffocating immobility. You are left standing a long while in the perimeter of King Arthur’s emptying court as you continue arc of gaze in the direction whence he left. 

You are stiff-legged as you retire from the courtroom, unaware of pair of eyes that watch you as you go. Trapped in the claustrophobia of your internal dialogue, you can only make familiar trail that you know to the gardens. Edenic in nature, dotted in clustered interval with seasonal flowers that make aromatic bouquet. Something beautiful to appreciate in the midst of such mundane horrors. 

So you find yourself, reposed upon marble bench underneath the long-armed, yawning branches of Yew tree, beset on all sides by bifurcated snapdragon and far-reaching lilies.

You are so busy wallowing in self-pity as you consider your fate—one of pretty, paralytic captivity—that you are unaware that you are awaited by audience until they make themselves known. 

Your name is such familiar yet melodic note on their tongue that you cannot help but find mesmerizing quality to it. As you find those sharp blue eyes that are watching you, have been watching you, summoned by well-known vessel. 

“Twas not mine intention to disturb,” Sir Jason Blood bows in typical modicum of respect, “But to request pleasure of thine company.” 

You find yourself at lack of response as you look at that angular face, as you consider those piercing eyes. How he befits such different archetype of beauty than your husband, who is of the classical type. This Jason Blood is cut from different, melancholic quality. 

“Oh,” You begin, remembering your propriety, remembering your duties, “Mine company is not privilege you need seek permission for, Sir Jason.” 

Perhaps there is ironic echo considering your previous conversation with your husband, though there is no way that your present company could know. Yet he speaks. 

“Jason,” He corrects you, and there is such stark delivery to his request you can only look back, “Was it not Jason when we were young?” 

“Were it was,” You agree, smoothing out the pleats of your sleeve, “Though we have since let youth pass us by.” 

“And still,” Jason returns in such neutral manner, “Your beauty remains untouched as it was years before.” 

You duck your head—knight of the Round Table he is, but you are married and he is not. This marks the intention of the conversation in different manner, with onus of responsibility on you to summon back etiquette. 

And yet still heat slinks under the sinew of your skin at the compliment. And you must resist the smile that wishes to make presence on your mouth. 

“You do me kindness, Jason,” You reply stiffly to the snapdragons that bow and bend in passing breeze—it is easier to regard them than the intense cant of those consumptive eyes. “It is heartening to see friendly face on these grounds.” 

Perhaps it is not necessary to emphasize syllable upon friendly—but you cannot be without attempt. Especially in such open-aired, public setting. 

This is why you are unprepared for Jason’s reply. “Your husband defiles the sanctity of your marriage.” 

Your eyes fly up with such immediacy, your body draws rigid with such instantaneous inertia that you can only stare. Can only utter in urgent whisper, “Sir Jason—” 

“And you are in want of better prospects befitting person of your station,” He draws closer, “And of fine character of quality.” 

You are looking askance for suitable exit, for proper means to leave this conversation. Yet that implacable approach is not stymied as he begins to corner you into what was once comfortable escape from your troubles. 

“Sir Jason, your words are unwarranted and without merit,” You begin, finding your footing on shaky ground. The words ring so blatantly false as you look at that encroaching figure. “Surely you do not carry such sentiment for your brother-in-arms.” 

“Were he my blood brother I would consider abortive measure,” Jason says, “And allow him painless death to afterlife, a privilege far more than he deserves.” 

“Sir Jason—”—There is no visible witness, but flowers have ears. You cannot be certain. “I require your apology at once—”

He is before you with such immediacy that you are summoned into silence. As he holds his hand out to you, and you look at what lies in landscape of open palm. 

“Should you wish better alternative to premeditated fate,” Jason says—and all you do is look at the black, waxy candle that is yours for the taking, “You shall do me great favor and light this candle tonight, whence you abed.” 

“I—”—You look at totem offered, look up to him. “I do not understand.” 

“Light it,” Jason urges, coaxing it into a hand that you don’t even realize you have extended out to him, “And you may provide inquiry then.” 

It is heavy. There is significant gravity to it as you hold it, and as you mull over the information that he has given you.

A saner person would exile him from the presence of your company, would inform your husband at once. Would not consider the absurdity of this interaction with second thought. 

But instead you reply, “I am grateful, Sir Jason.” 

“As am I,” He replies, maintaining the cant of those glacial eyes upon you. You still feel the press of them upon your body even when he has returned from where he came, leaving you alone in the gardens once more. 

It is ridiculousness. It is foolishness. You continue through motions of routine day, where you are made to dine in the company of Arthur and the other knights and spouses they make illusion of faithfulness to. Jason sits to distant corner, bachelor that he is, and only holds the presence of your gaze once before he returns to his cups. 

And you mull over the candle that has taken heavy occupation in the folds of your pocket. As you consider the foolishness of this venture, while you watch your husband have endured conversation with the scullery maid that refills his goblet.

As his hands wander to avenues that any would deem inappropriate, were it not your husband. And you, meant to abide in silence, return your attention to food that chews to ash in your mouth. 

You depart to your marital chambers alone at crossroads, with the pit of your stomach churning bile. As your maids shuck you of ornate, empty-purposed garments and undo the upholstery you have been made to take occupation in. 

And the landscape of your bed yawns ever wider. 

Candles are set, prayers are made, and you are left alone. And you sit within great silent interval in the middle of your marital bed, while your husband fucks an unknown woman on the other side of the castle. 

You do not realize that you are lighting the candle until you sit at the edge of your bed, watching plume of flame dance in flickering manner in the Stygian shadow. You look to the walls, to search for aberration, for change, for definitive appearance—but nothing happens. 

Perhaps it was symbolic, this gesture from Jason Blood. But you have little need for trinkets in the face of your reality. You sigh and make way to find slumbering distraction under the covers. 

The candle goes out.

And you are submerged into darkness, only illuminated by the thin slat of light that window makes into the room. For perilous second, you remain paralyzed in confused terror before you turn back—an errant breeze. 

But the candle, it appears, has re-lit itself. And with it, there is terrible company that stands in the threshold of your room, illuminated by dancing flame that illuminates iridescent eyes. 

“Great God,” you cannot find it in yourself to scarper back across the bed. Away from this monster dressed in clothing of gentleman, with red eyes that seem to see all in the confines of your room. 

“Good night, sleeping beauty,” The demon says, “Thou hav’st guest.” 

“I must be lost in dreams,” You assert. For this, you are rewarded with throaty, wicked cackle as he takes further step. And still you do not retreat. 

“Thou require’st demonic kin in aid—”—The demon puts his clawed hand to chest, casting his wretched face in more miserable shadow—“—Tis Etrigan that for thee, shall be best.” 

You cannot find conceivable answer to the walking illusion that haunts your room, only to watch him bow and approach. 

“Who dost thy need killed?” He grins. “Who dost thy need slayed?” 

You smell brimstone. You see the demonic take residence in your room. But still you cling to false hope—your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears. 

“I must be dreaming,” You say, “This is no more than illusion which plagues me.”

He chuckles again, and takes another treacherous step towards you, so that you might better witness the gleam of his canines. 

“‘Tis the liar that tells thee candied word,” He informs you, “Etrigan does naught but tell thee the truth.” 

The truth—you are reminded of his reason. His purpose for arriving. In the addled foreground of your mind, you think that there must be a reason for this dream. Some modicum of logic informs you: you must play along. 

Very well. You have played parts before; you shall play them now before deadly shade that occupies your slumber. 

“So, you are here—”—Your words falter as you look at the way that he stares back in voracious hunger—“—To help me? To…kill my husband?” 

Etrigan, it appears, is delighted to provide you answer. “So my good services have thus been spurred—”

At this, he offers humble bow to you, though his eyes never leave yours—“—So that I may slay thine husband forsooth.” 

You think of proper inquiry, before a thought prevails. “He is esteemed knight, though—of Arthur’s court. It would take—”

“Twould take a demon’s power what kill him,” Etrigan purrs.

There is audible delight in the way he speaks, in the guttural tones he considers murder with casual quality. You almost think of how feline he is in this moment, in the glee he takes. 

“And demon’s power be offered to thee,” Etrigan continues as he makes more considerable distance to you, “But Etrigan does not abide by free whim. A demon wants exchange be paid to me.” 

“Payment?” You ask, thinking of riches that are your husband’s, goods from your dowry that have long been squandered. “I have nothing of value to provide you.” 

He laughs, as though there is joke that you are unaware of being made. His voice is gutturally corrugated as he speaks again. 

“Thou hast handfasted with foul lying beast,” Etrigan says with such derision in reference to your husband who is in affairs unknown, “Perhaps Etrigan might serve better groom.” 

Once more in this odd dream, you are left without answer. With eerie quality of sensation that seats upon your shoulders. Much as it does thricefold as you ask, “You would wish to marry…me?” 

Again, a roaring bellow of laugh as though you have made witty joke. One of those talons works to stroke at his chin as he appraises you. And to your surprise, you do not find yourself shirking away from the impropriety of his gaze. 

“Fine spouse I’ll make once thine marriage is ceased,” Etrigan returns, “Better than facing such undeserved doom.” 

Your answer which you thought founded with good resource dies on your lips. A life as a shell, with your husband, in these gilded towers.

With little more to occupy you than the prospect of children he seems unwilling to produce, in an estate that is not your own, with nary an ally to accompany you. You stare at the demon who evaluates you with growing smirk. And you make your choice. 

“Marriage to demon cannot be so inferior to marriage with animal I have now,” You declare with the finality of one approaching the gallows. “I accept your proposal, Etrigan.” 

At this, the demon laughs, and evocative chords of Hell come with him—terrible and foul—but you do not flinch. You lack the will to do so as you make this tableau with hell. 

“A fine demonstration of thine valor,” He chortles, “Lucky me—to find mortal with mettle.” 

You think, at least, this shall be entertaining reminiscence when you wake up. But for now, you allow yourself to play along as the demon gestures to sands beyond you. 

“Return to thine bed—late be the hour.” Etrigan grins, and holds out a monsterous hand for you to hold. “But first, thine spouse has matters to settle.” 

“How will I know that you have been successful in endeavor you seek?” Still you approach the open threshold his hand is levied out to you. 

“A demon does not shirk in his duty.” He says with such velvet reassurance, you almost forget that you are in company of a demon. “Nor ere eve of wedding to such beauty.”

You realize he is referring to you. You swallow as you look at him—to your husband promised, in exchange for husband murdered. 

“Take this beast’s hand, mine sweet prize to be won,” He offers clawed, taloned hand to you once more. Should there be blood that rushes in your ears, the meter of your heart pounding in your throat, you are unaware. All that you are conscious of is the hand that looks for yours.

“Your word your bond—and his life shalt be done.” 

You do not know if it is desperation or madness that motivates you to clasp upon his hand with both of yours. But he cackles and it is a foul, wicked note that summons ailing wind that screeches high in your ears—

—And then you are awake in your bed, roused by shaking hands and terrified voices that work to return you to the land of the living. 

“Your grace, your grace—”—Your maid, eyes wide with fear and terror; you blink away the bleary guise of sleep. 

“Yes, yes,” You say as you find your senses returning to you in slow execution, “What is the matter? What has happened?” 

“Your husband,” She says, and you find your body growing cold under her grasp that seeks to bring you to full-seated posture, “He has died—on the outskirts of the castle.” 

All you can do is stare up at her in muted shock. And all you can do is listen to the recounting of a tale that makes you grow colder still with every enunciated syllable. 

Of the way your husband was deeply in his cups as he wandered the grounds with er, selected company, as he meandered down the promenade of Arthur’s great courtyard. As he suddenly seized forward, wrenched forward by near-supernatural force, with great expulsion of blood from his mouth, flung into the air before horrified witness. 

“May I see the body?” You find yourself asking—the maid seems surprised at your inquiry. But soon you learn that there is reason for the hollow quality to her eyes. 

“There is no body left to speak of, your grace,” The maid says, and she makes the desperate sign of the cross. “At least—nothing that you would wish to see.” 

Miserable, painful, wretched death. Far from painless that he promised, you think. And something else in you thinks, Good. 

“I shall send message to your family’s house,” the maid utters, trying to find more purpose than dithering about to a mute. “Is there anything you need, your grace?” 

“I am—”—You think saying I am well would raise eyebrows. So instead you provide alternative of, “I wish to speak to Arthur once he is roused.” 

“I will request it, your grace. He is awake—”—She swallows—”—Down in the courtyard.” 

And with that, she retreats, leaving you to think of what has happened. Of implication you can scarcely comprehend—of freedom that suddenly is on great cusp for you.

You would think to laugh—but your hand it seems, has begun to burn. 

You clutch it to your chest in pain, gasping in arterial, ragged breath—how it feels as though the skin is sloughed from bone! You look down to your limp limb and can only stare. 

Where your husband’s ring should sit on your fourth finger—instead there is demonic brand in sigyl you have no ken of. But you know what it is. You know who is it from. 

And you know that it was no dream, after all. 

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You can’t stop staring at him, across the burnished surface of the pool’s perimeter, past those dappled waves that no one seems to be taking luxury of swimming through. Everyone seems to be devoted to the lawn chairs that dot the acreage, enjoying the bask of sweltering sun that has little to negate the desire to stay topside—and talk.

Or in your case, ogle. After all, with Mr. Summers lying back on his chair across the distance of the pool—there’s so much to ogle. What with how his biceps have flexed in stunning fashion with his arms crooked behind his head.

With those shorts that hang low on his hips, allowing you to see every square inch of those toned, prominent abs that are taking on tack of sweat accumulated from his recline. The v that makes delectable protrusion before descending down his waistband, to avenues you have yet to have privilege of seeing.

Not to mention the shorts are so little used by him that they must be Alex’s hand-me-downs foisted on him, a tad too short for his frame. But just short enough you can see the flex of his thighs as he adjusts, grunts and continues to lie stiffly under the scald of the sun.

He looks so good, he must be playing games with you. There’s no other explanation. This is why you sigh in such gusty manner that your company on either side have cause to look at the source of your internal despair.

“He has to know what he's doing.” You declare at low enough volume that it won’t carry. Rogue, to your right, props herself up on elbow, giving you stunning view of her own musculature in that neon green bikini.

“Who?” She asks, confusion borne in her voice as she searches your visual arc of gaze. Bemusement is quickly replaced by disbelief as she realizes who you’re looking at, and turns back to you.

“...Scott?” She asks. If there’s a twinge in her brow at your choice of men, you are diligent in ignoring it.

“Look at him.” You emphasize with urgency in your voice, trying to avoid using your hands to draw his attention. “All sweaty and glistening under the sun.”

At this, you reward yourself with another eyeful of your fearless leader, who adjusts—letting you see the roll of muscle in his stomach. You wish you could lick off the sweat that gathers there, taste the salt of his body on your tongue.

“Just—”—You make a low noise of need in your throat, clenching your fist. “Looking all gorgeous like that.”

At this, the thin veneer of composure Rogue’s been maintaining finally cracks; she snickers, though it’s not necessarily a mean sound. A sympathetic one, if anything.

“Think he's just trying to get a tan, honey.” She says, looking from you to Scott. As though she’s trying to discern what it is you see specifically.

Logan decides now is a good moment to pipe up from your left in low growl, nursing a cigar in his teeth. “Well, he’s doing a bad job at it. Man’s gonna be redder’n Wade in an hour.”

You send a look at the less-melanated that sit besides you. “Like you’re one to talk, Lo?”

Logan appears nonplussed by this as he lets himself roast in the sun, taking an ample puff from his stogie. “Healin’ factor don’t let me burn.”

“Hmmm.” Is what you settle upon best to avoid insulting the people that you keep company with.

Logan turns his head to you on deliberate swivel, watching you with careful regard. Appraising the way that you continue to admire across the uncrossed meridian, stewing in your unspoken feelings to necessary party.

Logan exhales dissipating vapor into the air, then speaks. “You wanna get his attention that bad, darlin’?”

You give him abashed grimace, sheepishness displayed in your eyes. “Does it show?”

“Okay—”—Something akin to a smirk plays on his lips as he says your name—”—You an’ Rogue, you two laugh real loud.”

For a second, the two of you pause in bewilderment—before following through, making laughter that you hope is genuine enough in cadence. You think that you manage, at the very least, to make it loud enough to draw attention.

You can only keep the facade going for so long before letting it fizzle into silence, “Okay. How’s he doin?”

Rogue lets her own laugh trail off abruptly as she directs her eyes in sidelong glance. “He’s lookin’ over here.”

“Good.” Logan crooks an imperious finger to you, beckoning you closer. “Now come here.”

As though pulled on marionette strings, you oblige, hefting your legs over the edge of your chair. Watching as he leans in with you across the threshold with a whiff of masculine sweat and smoke.

His voice is corrugated murmur in the shell of your ear, making a thrum of vibration thrill up the length of your body. “Come a little closer so it looks like you’re real interested in whatever I gotta tell you.”

Again, you obey, keeping your face neutral. Willing yourself to keep your eyes from the direction of Mr. Summers who still remains beyond your reach. Logan continues, each syllable working against you.

“When I tell you to,” He orders in gruff directive, “Go up and walk over to him and start some conversation.”

It's simple enough that you have enough room to cast doubt on it with dubious scoff. “You sure it’s gonna work?”

“Sure it will—”—Logan returns with easy, cavalier bearings (for him, anyways)—“—Unless you think Summers' is hittin’ that sunburn ‘bout now.”

And now, you finally let the drag of your eyes slink to across the pool—and see, with a thrill of adrenaline that furrows through your veins: Scott still reclines.

But his head is very definitively facing the direction of you and Logan. And the flush he bears across his face is certainly inspired by a degree of emotion he didn’t have before.

“Now get up,” Logan concludes with amusement laden in his voice, “An’ don’t fuck up the chance I gave you.”

It’s hot—but you feel as though you walk on glacial pinpricks as you begin your walk across the final miracle mile. Every single square inch of the real estate of your body feels doused in deliberate sensation, observed by the cant of the people who watch you go forth for the greater purpose of yonder—

And to a man who still remains lying on his lawn chair, acting as though he is not very pointedly watching your approach to him. The scald of the sun is no longer your enemy, as your thoughts pinball against the housing of your chaotic consciousness.

And finally, you find yourself standing at the foot of Scott’s chair, with a smile that you hope is far less nervous than the turmoil you feel within.

“Scott—”—You begin, keeping your voice at pert note.

Scott, to his credit, turns a hair too fast, a degree far too invested. An undercurrent of interest is laden in his voice as his face flushes darker, radiant blush blooming down the tips of his ears, the nape of his neck. It only makes you want to tear him apart with your teeth and tongue, with relish.

“Yeah?” He asks, trying to regulate his tone to nonchalance and horrifically failing. “What’s up?”

You nod your head in the direction of the clearly unused tube of sunscreen that sits on the empty chair besides him.

“Mind if I sit over here and put some sunscreen on you?” You ask, putting a hand on your hip. He bears those opaque glasses; but even they can’t disguise the obvious angle of his head that watches how it settles on the flush of your hop. How his adam’s apple bobs in tantalizing motion as he thickly swallows, his shoulders broadening out.

“You came all the way over here to ask me that?” He asks, never one to not shoot himself in the foot so close to the finish line. Even as the blush darkens further on his cheeks, an unmistakable stammer made clear in his voice.

“Well, yeah.” You grin, feeling a greater degree of confidence. “Maybe I want to make sure our fearless leader doesn’t get a sunburn.”

“Awful charitable of you,” he says—but there’s another unspoken question in that statement. Tell me you came over for me.

“And,” you tack on with a grin that can’t help but burgeon broader on your face, “Maybe I've just been looking for an excuse to feel you up.”

Scott’s mouth seems to draw open in disbelief—though the color he assumes takes the role of communicating what he wants. How exactly he regards that request that you’ve given him.

“I, uh—”—He ducks his head, clearing his throat—"—Well.”

“So how's about it?” You ask, feeling as though you might receive your desired answer—or you might make your leader herniate a lung.

“Sure,” Scott finally recovers enough, plateaus his shoulders in manner to make himself stolid, stiff, endearing man you are so fond of. “Only—”

“Yeah?” You ask, taking seat besides him on the chair, letting it settle to your weight. Watching as he takes ample regard of you, doused in sun that sloughs off your shoulders and illuminates you as fellow heavenly body. As he works his tongue over the full of his bottom lip, making internal risk—and daring out into the beyond.

“Only,” he confesses, “If you let me do the same to you.”

You can’t see his eyes, but you know they’re fixated on yours, as you feel great heat not inspired of the sun radiate up your body. Pulse in the junction of your legs, want that you’ve smothered finally given outlet to be expressed.

“Promise?” You ask, trying to ensure that your voice is not as breathless as you think it is.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he says in such shy, awkwardly charming manner—you can’t help but finally let yourself beam back at him.

It’s not until later, of course, when the two of you have retired to Scott’s room, that you get the chance to admire the fuller nuance of his body. To feel the smear of the lotion on his pecs as he lopes your ankles over his shoulders, tacky with exertion he’s gained from between your legs.

There’s something so intoxicating about the way his jaw is wet from his duration there, gorgeously obscene as he stares down at you with open desire.

“You want this?” He asks, running a broad, possessive—yet gentle—hand over your thigh. Making deliberate care to work you into necessary angle for this mating press.

The question feels almost ridiculous, considering how much you’ve moaned at the work of his tongue. Especially given how you whimper with such blatant need at the way his cock feels, nosing against your entrance.

“You want me?” He asks. There’s such yearning hope as he ruts his cock against you, making your fingers that clutch over his hands tighten. Your mouth fall open in a stuttering moan.

“Yes—please, Scott,” you beg, “I need you. Please.”

There’s no mistaking the openly covetous nature of your voice, the way you push the angle of your body against him for relief. And how he sucks deep, circulatory breath through himself at this admission. How his jaw sets in such handsome manner as he settles it within himself to satisfy you.

“Okay, honey,” he promises, pressing a lingering kiss to the full of your calf—leaving scalding tactile afterimage when he pulls away, “Let me take care of you.”

And then he sinks his cock into you, the slow drag filling you up with such delicious stretch. You can’t help but let your head fall back against the sheets, and moan in tandem with the chuffed sigh of satiation Scott makes with you.

“God,” Scott groans into the muscle of your leg, pushing the curve of his length further into you, “You’re perfect.”

If you could answer him, you think you’d say the same thing. But you hope the way you fit against him in such perfect complement, in this little slice of heaven—and the gasp of lewd satisfaction you make—tells him enough.

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You had been obsessed with it since you first saw your favorite actor on the silver screen, and he played a recurring role in your hypnagogic fantasies. Missionary, cowgirl, doggy, all the numbers to infinity and every letter in the alphabet. 

It had to be. 

And then it wasn’t. 

The first time was mediocre. But then again, isn’t it for everyone? Perhaps you couldn’t judge the very thing that has kept humans on this earth for six million years based on ten awkward seconds on an air mattress in someone’s dad’s basement with who knows what species of rat sneaking behind the moldy walls.

The second time was alright. You were just getting used to the feeling of someone being inside you, and the fact that it happened in a hot tub, jets blowing bubbles up your ass cheeks while a man’s unlubricated fingers poked and prodded at you, didn’t help. 

The third time was terrible. A balcony on a hot, summer night beneath an endless southern sun. Why did you keep choosing the worst places on earth to fuck? That one was on you. Mosquito wings in places no insect should ever be. And an ant bite on your ankle. No thanks. 

Fourth, fifth, sixth. One man. A different man. The same man who couldn’t get it up the first time but he begged for a second chance. An older man. A younger man. Two men? Hotel, bar, living room, car. Your sexual past was beginning to sound like Dr. Seuss slam poetry. 

Scratch. Veto. Eehhh. 

“It’s not you,” you promise sweetly, looking up at Leon. His wide, puppy-dog eyes hold blown pupils and oceanic irises that could stop a blind man in his tracks. You were completely starstruck when you saw him for the first time, shaggy blonde hair and lines carved by Michaelangelo himself. 

“Don’t give me the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing, alright? If you’re not interested, just put me out of my misery.” He sighs, gaze faulting to the floor between his feet, shoulders falling in defeat. 

You place a hand on his back, pivoting your hips on the sofa cushion to turn toward him. 

“Leon, no,” you croon, garnering his attention once more. He glances up and to the side, meeting your eyeline. “I am so interested. Like really, really interested.” 

The hottest man you’ve ever seen grace the planet was sitting in your living room, not even a foot away. And you were touching him!

Of course you were interested. 

“Really?” He asks, lifting his dark brows, as though he can’t believe that a woman would be interested in pursuing something deeper with him. 

‘Really.” Releasing your bottom lip from its prison between your teeth, you cut the bullshit, and ignore the ferocious flush rising to your cheeks. “It’s just that, I’ve had some really unsavory experiences in the past, and what you and I have now is so perfect. I don’t want to…I don’t know? Mess it up?” 

He blinks hard, and you could hit yourself for doing the very thing you were afraid of. 

“Gosh, that sounded bad. I don’t know how to explain it any better. I’m sorry if I offended you, I just…geez.” 

The two of you chuckle at your idiotic rambling, and you take another jab at trying to explain yourself. “Sex just hasn’t been great for me, no matter who I do it with or what we do. It’s just…bad. And every time I’ve made that leap with partners in the past, it ends up souring things between us. I really like you, Leon, and I don’t want to risk that. Not yet.” 

He raises a hand to cup your cheek, steadying your trembling chin. “Hey,” he coos. “Look at me.” How could you pass up an opportunity like that? The look in his eyes is tender and sweet, and the corner of his lips perks up into a half-smile. “I like you too. A lot. And as much as I’d love to take the next step with you, I understand.” He flexes his jaw and tears his gaze away from you for a moment before letting it return. “Although I’d really like to show you how good sex can be…with the right person.” 

You scoff, incredulous, though you wish you could stuff the sound back in your mouth and swallow it. To rectify the gesture, you arch a brow and smile. “Are you the right person, Leon?” 

He huffs a breathy sound through a big, pearly smile. “I like to think so. Will you let me? Show you?” 

Will you? Let him? Are you ready to be disappointed once again? To let your hopes fly high like a kite, only to be shot down once more? 

With Leon, yes. 

“Yes,” you say, the word more like a sigh on your tongue. 

“Lead the way.” 

Your bedroom is shrouded in shadows, only illuminated by the orange gleam of the street below as the rain-mottled window lets in the light from passing cars and the streetlamps that line the avenue. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, cupping your face, as if that isn’t exactly what the two of you had been doing all evening. You nod anyway, and his lips return to yours, meeting in a marriage of plump skin and tooth. He tastes like the bourbon he had at dinner, the mint he popped in his mouth after. Cinnamon and spice. 

He’s an amazing kisser, knowing exactly when to invite his tongue, where to swirl it around, when to bite and nibble, and how to touch your body as he does it. 

His hands find your waist, fingers splayed across your ribs like digits on the keys of a piano. Just the touch is enough to send electric eels coursing through your veins, shocks radiating from limb to limb. 

You can already feel a gush of arousal pool on the crotch of your panties, and your stomach feels hot with anticipation. 

“Still okay?” He asks, pulling away to tug at the hem of your shirt. 

“Still okay,” you repeat, helping him peel off each article of clothing keeping your body from him. Once you’re completely bare and reclined on the mattress, he remains standing above you, starting with his shirt. 

You watch intently as he gingerly unlatches the buttons, slowly revealing more and more skin, beautiful in its pale translucence. Taut muscles tense and release beneath it as he pulls the sleeves off his arms. Although you had already gotten a sneak peek at his biceps when he wore a short-sleeve tee, it’s as though you’re seeing them for the first time. Bulging balls of muscle. Virile veins. You salivate like a dog sitting for a bone, and your teeth ache, longing to bite. 

Next, his belt. The metal of the buckle clinks in the near-silence of the room, followed by the sound of zipper teeth being pulled apart. You swallow hard as he hooks his fingers under the band of his briefs, shoving them, along with his dress pants, down his thighs, fully revealing himself to you. 

You bite your lip to keep your jaw from dropping at the sight of his cock. The prettiest one you’ve ever seen. A perfect ratio of length to girth, a head already weeping with lubrication. A thick vein trailing up the shaft. 

He climbs onto bed with you, kissing the curve of your neck, trailing wet lips down to your breasts. His fingers play with one of your nipples while his teeth nibble gingerly at the other. You hiss, back arching off the mattress as a wave of pleasure rolls from your chest to your core. An itching sensation follows, and if you weren’t planning on letting him take his time, you’d beg the man to enter you right now. 

The point of his tongue flicks across the hardening bud of one breast as his hand palms the fat of the other, kneading the flesh. Mouth still latched onto your nipple, he moans, and the vibration elicits an embarrassing sound from your throat. It seems to goad him on even more, and he treks down your abdomen, planting chaste kisses down the line of your stomach, on the bones of your hips. 

Then, he presses your legs apart, hands wrapped around your waist as he dives into your pussy. Without any warning, he begins to devour you as though you’re the manna welcoming him after forty years in the desert. His tongue alternates between heavy, flat laps from seam to clit, and pointed licks that draw long lines up and down your inner lips, hitting either side of your throbbing bud. 

You mewl and yelp and whine. Fingers find his hair and tug. The muscles in your abdomen contract uncontrollably, and the sensation you have only ever felt when you are resigned to your room, alone except for the company of a battery-operated device, begins to grow inside you. 

He adds two fingers, stretching your hole, crooking them until you whimper and he knows he has found your sweet spot. 

It doesn’t take long for your climax to wash over you–no, this one hits you like a truck and backs up over your limb body for good measure. He doesn’t stop eating, even after you finish all over his face. Not until you physically push him off of you, too sensitive and sore to manage another touch. 

A grin appears on his face, and this is the most smug you’ve ever seen him look. You weren’t even sure you’d seen him so happy before. 

He wipes your juices off his chin and mouth with the back of his hand, rising to his knees before he comes onto his fists and crawls up your body to plant a wet kiss on your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You sure?”

As if he didn’t just give you the best orgasm of your life. Did he think you’d want to stop there?

“I’m sure, Leon,” you say in a gasping breath.

Still between your legs, kneeling, Leon nods, the gesture punctuated by a slight chuckle as he takes himself into his palm, pumping his cock to its full stiffness. 

His forearms bracket your head, one leaving for just a moment, maneuvering between your bodies to help glide the head of his cock into your dripping pussy. The stretch is delicious, and leaves you craving more. 

“‘S this okay?” 

Like it’s your first time. Maybe it is. 

“Very.” 

And he slides the rest of his length into you, his face contorting, head falling into the crook of your neck. A long, heaving growl leaves his chest, and for a moment, you’re not sure who is experiencing the most ecstasy. You or the man who is whimpering like a puppy above you. 

“Move, please,” you plea, hands coming to either of his cheeks as if to manually thrust his hips into you. He begins on his own, however, and you drink up the strangled noises he sings into your ear. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight, holy shit.” His voice is weak, breath hitched. “I’m not gonna last.” 

“Harder,” you cry out, wanting more of him. You’re not sure exactly what you need, you just need more of his cock inside you, his hands all over your body, his groans loud, and his breath hot at your neck. 

Faster. Harder. More, more, more. 

“Harder?” He asks in confirmation, the heads of his brows cinched. “I don’t know if I can–fuck–last if I go harder.” 

“I don’t care,” you sigh, holding his sweaty face in your hands. 

“Okay, shit, hold on.” He adjusts your body on the mattress, removing your legs from his waist, pressing your knees into your chest. As he pounds into you, his shaft rubbing against your front wall, and the new angle has you crying out for every name in your contacts. 

“I’m gonna come,” he groans, palms still digging into the backs of your thighs. “Fuck, fuck. I’m coming. Shit.”

After a few more seconds, a second orgasm shatters your body into a million shooting stars, and you clench around him in a staccato rhythm, practically milking him dry as he finishes inside. Aftershocks flicker like live wires through your body, starting in your toes, traveling up and down your legs, your arms. 

Leon collapses onto the bed beside you, his chest coated in a sweet film of sweat that catches the light with each labored breath he takes. 

When you trust that your voice won’t crack like a split log when you speak, words you never thought you’d say in a situation like this leave your lips. 

“Can we do that again?”

“Oh! That one’s easy. It’s because the rubber needs to be a certain softness so it'll have maximum grip and traction the road, but because of that texture it breaks down pretty quickly, usually around ten or fifteen laps, and so they can only give the tires so much time before it becomes dangerous and they have to switch them out.”

“But why do they have to do it within seconds?”

“Fast wins,” you smirked.

Clark wondered if driving a racecar would give him the same stomach-dropping feeling and talking with you did. He highly doubted it. Not even flying made him feel this weightless.

This date was a shock, even to him, and he was the one who set it up. You were so beyond his league it was embarrassing, and that’s including his secret double-identity. Perry had opened up a special spot for you at the Planet to be a Formula One reporter on retainer; with the sport’s ever-growing fanbase, citizens wanted the best news, and Metropolis’ popularity and involvement was on the rise now that they had a homegrown driver on the Haas team. You were a freelancer for a while, slumming it with the pit crews and any managers that would take you across the world on the basis you’d cover their guys, but when Perry offered you a steady job with a fund to bring you to every race with a team and a stake in the actual coverage of your own team, you took it. 

You came into work every day in a leather café racer and jeans, and somehow looked more professional (and certainly cooler) than anybody in the entire building. You knew carspeak, you knew cultures, and your stories came back with zero red pen from the chief, which created you quite a reputation. You were confident and immovable, suave and charming. You had the it factor, to say the least– that quality that made people see you and your job, and think, Yeah, that’s right. Clark, on the other hand, counted himself lucky if he could still see a word or two under the red ink on his articles. Clark usually spilled coffee on his shirt and stumbled his way through interviews. In all universes, he would not be close to your type, or your standards. But he had beat the odds somehow.

He had been pining after you for a few weeks– since you started, really– before Perry put him and Jimmy on your reporting team for a race. He was supposed to fly out to Las Vegas for the Grand Prix and help you cover the Haas team and their Metropolis-born driver, Ryan James. Clark, who usually never did a travel piece, went for the kid– he saved his hide a few times, back in the day– and for you. You were just so enigmatic, always asking the right questions, smiling, flipping your hair, making him feel stupid. He couldn’t get enough of you. And despite Jimmy’s jabs, you seemed to like him! You teased and prodded, and you gave him the pen holding your hair up when he fumbled his and lost it down a grate at the track. You even blushed when he stuttered a Thank you, and to him, that was cause enough to try. Foolish, he knew, but he had to believe in something. 

He asked you out as you were boarding the plane home. It was sort of an accident, actually. You were in front of him, struggling to shove your luggage into the overheard compartment, and he happily hoisted it up with one hand. You smirked and asked, “Got some muscle under that big suit, huh, Kent?”

He shrugged and nudged his glasses up. “Guess so.”

“Well, good for you,” you chuckled, sliding into the row of seats. Clark took the middle and Jimmy took the end, who was trying to hide his expression of amusement, as well as his anticipation of Clark making a usual fool of himself. 

“Your article is great,” Clark complimented, “Perry will love it.”

“Thanks. That means a lot, you know.”

“Sure,” he hummed, scratching his neck. “You know, maybe we could celebrate when we get back.” By this he meant bring everyone out, get a round, cheers to your Grand Prix break. But your eyes sparkled in a way he hadn’t seen before, and for a second he wondered if the plane was taking off, or if that was just him.

“Like a date?”

Clark nearly choked on his own spit. “I– well– you– um– if–”

You bloomed a springtime shade and tilted your head. “I’d really like that, actually. You’ll take me out, won’t you?”

Clark’s lips turned up. Always asking the right questions, he thought. “Y-yeah. Um, yeah, sure, I’ll… take you out. When we get to Metropolis.”

“Good.”

And so he did, and here you were. He was sure it was a fluke, and maybe he’d knock something over or say something dumb and lose it all by the end of the night. But for now, you seemed entertained enough answering all his beginner-level questions about Formula One. He inquired after the creation of the car bodies, what alterations must be made, why are they so low to the ground, how are even they safe. He asked you about the physical condition of the drivers, how it’s possible they can drive so long and not pass out or get dizzy. You indulged him all night, chewing on the straw in your margarita and smiling like front-page news.

“I didn’t know you were so curious about racing,” you grinned, nails tapping the table. 

Clark stared at them and shrugged. “I didn’t used to be.”

“Until you met me, you mean,” you pushed, and turned your palm up. 

Confident, he reminded himself, and when you wiggled your fingers as if to hurry him along, he recalled, and immovable. He slipped his palm into yours and squeezed. 

“Until I met you.”

“You’re cute, Kent,” you blushed, playing with his paw. “I might even let you take me on a second date. If you can keep up, that is. Racing’s a little fast.”