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You stood in front of Clark with your arms hanging loosely at your sides, fingers barely twitching with nervous energy as you watched every tiny furrow of his brows and every subtle shift of his mouth as he read the script in his hands. He kept going back and forth through the pages with care like the paper itself was fragile, like it had been printed on the same material as the constitution and one wrong movement might tear history apart.

He had only just arrived at your Airbnb, his hair was slightly disheveled from the flight over and the soft crease of a long journey lingered in his clothes. You had rented the place specifically to get away from the city, tucked somewhere quiet and far enough from the noise that you could actually breathe and focus on the role you had been dreaming about for years. You had gotten the news two days ago and told absolutely no one, not even him, which had taken a monumental amount of restraint on your part, only sending him an address and a time and trusting that he would show up and of course he had.

Now he sat in the armchair like he owned the place, elbows resting on his thighs, shoulders broad and slightly hunched forward in concentration. His glasses perched ridiculously high on the bridge of his nose like he actually needed them to read while carefully scanning every page like a man studying sacred scripture instead of a theater script.

“Are you like…out of batteries or something?” you asked quietly, tilting your head as you stared at him. You had been standing there for what felt like ages, waiting for the inevitable moment where he would simply blur through the pages at superspeed and be done with it in a second. Instead, he was reading at a painfully human pace, taking the time to dissect every letter, every word they formed and meaning behind them, while you stood there vibrating with anticipation.

“Almost done,” he murmured without even glancing up.

That was it, you threw your head back with a long, dramatic sigh, your eyes rolling toward the ceiling as it felt like the words you had been holding inside for two whole days suddenly burst out of you all at once.

“It’s a really big deal…huge,” you started, gesturing vaguely into the air as you began pacing in front of him. “They took forever to decide because the script also got picked up to be extended into a movie and they want to keep the same actors, so they really had to make the right choice.” You nodded to yourself like you were confirming the logic aloud. “I’m not saying I’m the right choice, that would be…stupid.”

You let out a short, awkward chuckle as your pacing picked up speed.

“And narcissistic, which I’m not. I mean, I’m terrified.” You admitted, glancing over your shoulder at him briefly before continuing your restless circuit across the room. “Absolutely terrified which is funny because I’ve wanted this for so long but now that it’s actually happening it’s…scary. Like, I can literally see the success coming straight at me and it feels like that time I almost got ran over and I just froze in the middle of the street.”

You pointed at him mid-pace.

“Thank the stars you were there because if you hadn’t been I’d definitely be dead. I mean who freezes like that? Who just stands there while a car is coming straight at them?” You kept rambling, words tripping over each other faster and faster. “And it’s not even like that’s a just a mere possibility because the show’s already been sold out, the company posted the dates and the paid waitlist and all the dates sold out immediately which obviously means I cannot die, but it feels like that would be the safest option right now because–”

Clark finally closed the script. The soft sound of the pages folding together cut cleanly through your spiraling monologue as he leaned forward and placed it gently on the nearby table before looking up at you.

“If anyone deserves this,” he said simply, “it’s you.”

“Well you’re saying that because you’re you and I’m ‘me’ only to you,” you replied instantly, waving a dismissive hand, “and not to the thousands of people who’ll come see it.”

You paused for half a second before another thought struck you.

“By the way, I wanted to get you a seat but you’re too tall for the first row and it’s fully booked because I forgot to do it in time, so maybe just do the thing where you look through walls…from the opposite hemisphere.” You shrugged. “Actually that might be safer for everyone because what if I projectile barf all over the front row? It would be really unfortunate if you were sitting right there.”

“I can make myself really small,” he said casually as he stood up and stepped directly into your pacing path, timing it perfectly so that you walked straight into him before you even realized he had moved.

“Oop,” you blurted out as your forehead collided with his chest and you stumbled back, looking up at him. “Great example you just gave me right now.”

“You’re vertically and orientationally challenged,” he replied, one corner of his mouth curling slightly. “My size has nothing to do with it.”

You punched him lightly in the chest before slipping past him toward the open kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water.

“You know they paid for my stay here?” you said over your shoulder, leaning against the counter as you took a sip. “I mentioned once that I like finding quiet places to work on my parts and they just went ‘How much do you need?’ It’s insane, Clark and you’re standing there making jokes about it.”

“You’re tense.”

“I’m scared,” you countered immediately, your eyes drifting toward the script across the room like it might suddenly grow teeth and bite you. “What did you think about it? Do you think I can do it?”

“Why are you doubting yourself?” he asked, genuine concern slipping into his voice because this had been your dream since before either of you were old enough to understand what dreams really meant.

“It’s…it’s different,” you said with a small shrug.

“You mean the sex scene?”

“Implied sex scene,” you corrected quickly. “At least on stage.” Your voice dropped slightly. “I’ve been told I’ll need to think about how much of my body I want to show for the movie version. They have body doubles and prosthetics and all that…” You waved your hand vaguely. “Which I’m not worrying about yet because that Hollywood debut won’t happen if it doesn’t go well on stage.”

“You should start worrying about it.”

You groaned loudly. “Clark! You’re not helping!”

“Then tell me what you need!” he replied, laughter bubbling between his words.

You nodded once. “Page thirty-eight, there’s a–”

“Makeout scene,” he finished.

“Kissing scene,” you corrected immediately. “I was thinking about taking creative liberties with it.”

He let out a small chuckle before he could stop it. “You’re telling me you’re thinking about giving a peck to the guy you’re supposedly head over heels for?”

“My character…not me,” you corrected again, pointing vaguely toward the abandoned script like it might back you up in court.

“Right…right,” he said slowly, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “That’s not realistic.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m not an acting coach…or a director,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting into a grin, “but I can sure try.”

“I’m really regretting this,” you whispered mostly to yourself, dragging a hand down your face.

“I’m at your service.”

“For anything?” you pressed, narrowing your eyes at him. “No matter how weird and completely out of nowhere the request might be?”

“Anything,” he repeated, nodding firmly this time, like a man unknowingly signing a legally binding contract.

You inhaled once, bracing yourself. “You need to be my first kiss,” you said and when Clark didn’t move, you spoke again. “And second…and third,” you continued, warming up to the idea the more you said it out loud. “Actually I’m thinking we should regularly kiss all throughout rehearsals and until the premiere so I can really know what I’m doing.” You gestured between the two of you like the plan was extremely reasonable. “And it’ll be you and not some…guy I’m contractually obligated to make out with for six hundred and forty thousand dollars after tax.”

Clark blinked at you once, so you kept going.

“Just in case,” you added quickly, “if it makes you feel better, I’ve been thinking about it for…” you glanced down at your watch dramatically, “fifty-two hours, forty-six minutes and thirteen seconds.”

“I’ve been thinking about it since I met you.” He breathed and you almost froze.

“Which,” you said after a moment, recovering with a small nod, “makes you the perfect candidate and teacher. And it also means it’s time we forget the ‘we can’t do it because it’ll mess up the friendship’ pact we made.” You lifted a hand dismissively. “I know, very selfish of me but do you really think I’d willingly go twenty-five years without having my first kiss if I didn’t think it mattered who the guy was?”

Clark drew in a slow breath. “I can’t tell if that was a rhetorical question or–”

“The answer to both questions is ‘no,’ Clark,” you said flatly, rolling your eyes. “Now please tell me you’ve kissed a thousand girls and you’re secretly a kissing champion or something,” you begged, clasping your hands together briefly before another thought struck you. “Actually minimize the number, whatever it is. Keep it under ten…no, five.” You grimaced. “I don’t like how jealousy makes my blood sugar spike.”

“That amount is in negative numbers by now,” he sighed.

You blinked.

“Every time I think about kissing you it just goes lower,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck, “and that goes really fast when the starting number is zero.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. “We’re fucked,” you muttered to yourself.

Clark scratched the back of his neck again, clearly uncomfortable. “Not even that,” he said. “Given we’re still both virgins.”

You stared at him with wide eyes and obvious disbelief. “Clark, I thought you got over me!” you blurted out.

“Me?” he shot back immediately, throwing his arms out from his sides. “What about you!? Am I wrong for thinking there still might be hope?”

“It’s different! You’re Superman!” you pointed at him, stating the most obvious fact in the universe because…well, he was perfect either way and it’d be foolish to hope no one noticed it.

“And I want you!” he replied, sounding almost offended. “Can’t a guy be picky?”

You would’ve tried to match his indignation if he didn’t look so painfully sincere standing there, big, awkward and impossibly earnest in the middle of your temporary kitchen. Instead you exhaled slowly and nodded to yourself, your brain clearly trying to reroute. You spoke again after a whole minute.

“Are there YouTube tutorials for this kind of thing?” you murmured.

Clark nodded thoughtfully. “I thought they would let us kiss when we did Romeo and Juliet in middle school.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Is that why it didn’t take any convincing for you to audition?”

“I was thinking about my extracurriculars,” he mumbled, suddenly very interested in the pattern on his socks.

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it, bright and sudden, carrying away a small piece of the tight knot of anxiety that had been sitting in your chest all day. The two of you had probably been idiots for not exploring this years ago but it wasn’t like your friendship hadn’t already been its own kind of relationship, just one that somehow skipped the kissing part.

“Okay, okay,” you breathed, lifting your hands in surrender. “We can figure this out.” You studied him for a moment. “You said you’ve thought about it, right?” you prompted. “Conjure up something that happens here and just…do it.”

Clark glanced around the place as if an invisible audience might suddenly materialize to judge him. He looked genuinely conflicted for a second, like he was weighing whether he was actually allowed to listen to you but eventually he decided.

He took three slow steps toward you before placing his hands on your hips, the warmth of his palms grounding you in place for half a second before he effortlessly lifted you up and set you on the counter. The movement was so easy, so controlled, that it felt like if he let go you might just float straight up and knock your head against the high ceiling.

When he set you down carefully, you cleared your throat.

“Do you need time to think about it?” you asked. “Maybe go on YouTube again and–”

You were cut off by his lips crashing onto yours. It wasn’t rushed exactly because his mouth was soft, gentle even but the suddenness of it made your eyes fly wide open for a second before your body finally caught up and your eyelids fluttered shut. With one last press of his lips against yours he pulled back just slightly, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw as he tilted your head toward him.

Clark barely parted his lips before meeting yours again and this time you followed instinctively, mirroring the movement without thinking, like both of you had simply discovered something you’d been missing and now needed a little more of it.

“This is weird,” you breathed, your smile pressing against his lips as they curved in response.

“Feels good though,” he grinned, drawing a soft chuckle from you. His mouth trailed from the corner of your lips to your jaw, then down to your neck in a series of dizzying kisses that forced your eyes to flutter shut. He could even hear your pulse racing, feel it throbbing against his full lips. The hand gripping your hip tightened, pulling you closer, while your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle there.

Nervousness fluttered in your chest, unrelated to him, as every heartbeat aligned with the heat of his kisses.

“Where did my confident girl go?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and husky in a way you'd never heard, sparking a smile even as pleasure built steadily within you.

“Overly confident…which apparently was another role she played a little too well, then had the nerve to say method acting wasn’t her thing.”

“What’s this then?” he asked, his hips rutting forward instinctively, grinding his hardening cock against your thigh through his pants.

“Told you…rehearsals…practice, if you will.” Your words dissolved into a whimper, a needy whine of his name escaping as desire coiled tighter. “For which I’m willing to go all in.”

“All in,” he echoed, his breath hitching as your hands dropped to his belt, fumbling with the buckle before tugging at the zipper of his pants.

“I intend to study that script thoroughly.”

“The script or what’s in my pants?” he teased, nipping lightly at your neck before capturing your lips again in a deep and messy hungry kiss.

“Both.” You breathed the word against his mouth, your hands slipping into his boxers. He shivered as your fingers wrapped around the thick base of his cock, all the pent-up longing from that first kiss surging forward, demanding release.

“If we’re working on the sex scene, you need to stop doubting yourself.” His voice was rough with want as he gripped your thighs, hauling you to the edge of the counter. He shoved his pants and boxers down just enough to free his length, the heavy shaft springing out, already throbbing with need.

“You can coach me about confidence later,” you said, hooking your thumbs into your shorts and starting to nudge them down your hips. “Help me with this.”

Clark scooped you up effortlessly with one arm banded around your waist, his strength making your pulse spike. He tried to shove your shorts lower, but they caught on the curve of your ass. With a growl of impatience, he set you back down and gripped the fabric, ripping it apart in a sharp tear that drew a startled shriek from you and a quick slap to his arm.

“You’ll make enough to get new ones,” he teased, his grin wicked as he did the same to your panties, the scraps falling away to reveal your soaked pussy. He inhaled deeply, the musky scent of your arousal hitting him like a drug, making his cock twitch and a bead of precum pearl at the tip. The sight of your glistening folds had your thighs clamping around his hips, slickness smearing against his skin.

“We don’t know what we’re doing,” you breathed, your gaze dropping to his impressive length, thick and veined, making your mouth water with raw hunger.

Clark cupped your chin with his palm, tilting your face up to meet his intense stare. Without breaking eye contact, you spat into his hand, watching his eyes darken as he wrapped those slick fingers around his cock, stroking from base to tip, mixing your saliva with the leaking precum. His other hand slid between your thighs, thumb brushing over your pubic bone before finding your swollen clit, circling it with firm, teasing pressure. The motion stirred memories of overhearing you across the city, your moans muffled into your pillow as your fingers spread your pussy lips wide, plunging deep. Those nights left him no recourse but to stand under a freezing shower, fisting his cock until he came hard, over and over, spilling ropes of cum against the tiles.

He leaned in, pressing a searing kiss to your lips. “I do…we go all in.”

With that, he aligned the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, the heat of him teasing your dripping folds. In one swift thrust, he pushed inside, stretching your tight pussy around his girth. Your breath caught sharply, a gasp tearing from your throat as he filled you completely, far beyond what your fingers could ever achieve, his thick length hit depths that sparked unbearable pleasure and a little pain, the nerves igniting like fire.

He pulled his hips back slowly, the drag of his cock against your inner walls sending shivers through you, before slamming forward again, burying himself to the hilt. You moaned into his mouth, the sound vibrating between you as your lips crashed together in a messy, desperate kiss. His thrusts built a rhythm, each one deeper, harder, his hips snapping against yours with a wet slap that echoed in the kitchen. Your pussy clenched around him, slick and greedy, pulling him in as waves of ecstasy built, your nails raking down his back while he groaned your name, lost in the tight heat enveloping his throbbing cock.

“What are you?” he asked between deep groans, his voice rough with the strain of holding back as his cock plunged into your slick heat.

You whined sharply, your eyes squeezing shut as the thick tip of his cock dragged along your sensitive inner walls, sending sparks of ecstasy radiating through your core. 

“Horny…very horny,” you gasped, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

Clark chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as he nipped at your jaw with his teeth, a light bite that made you arch into him. His large hands splayed across your ass cheeks, fingers digging into the soft flesh to anchor you in place, preventing you from sliding too far back as he drove his cock fully inside, bottoming out with a satisfying slap of skin on skin. 

“Won’t deny that, but I mean on stage. What are you every time you act?”

You whimpered through the relentless thrusts, your mind fogging over as pleasure coiled tighter, each powerful stroke pushing you closer to the edge. His cock stretched you wide, filling every inch of your pussy with its throbbing girth, the veins pulsing against your clenching walls.

“You’re a star. Always have been and I need you to say it.” His eyes roamed hungrily over your face, taking in the way your brows furrowed in concentration, your lips parted as you fought to hold onto coherence amid the building bliss. Your nails scraped deeper into his shoulders, leaving red trails on the skin under his shirt as you clung to him.

“What did I say about coaching me?” you breathed out shakily, a faint grin tugging at your lips despite the haze, which only made his dick swell harder inside you, twitching with renewed urgency.

His hand shot up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as his mouth mirrored your grin in a wicked curve. “Don’t get smart with me, or I’ll stop.”

“You won’t,” you started, but the words cut off as his hips slowed to a torturous pace, drawing out each thrust in long slides that teased your entrance before sinking back in deep. His grip on your jaw tightened just enough to guide your gaze to his, the pressure firm and commanding. You blinked your eyes open, struggling to clear the lust-induced blur, your thighs and legs trembling at his sides as need pulsed through you. “Clark…” you breathed, hips tilting forward instinctively, desperate to take him deeper, to feel that full, overwhelming stretch again. “Clark, please.”

“What are you, sweetheart? You’ve always known it, so say it. The more you do, the faster I’ll go,” he assured, his tone laced with dark promise, eyes locked on yours.

“A star,” you whimpered, the admission spilling out like a plea and the moment the words left your lips, he rewarded you by picking up speed, his hips snapping forward with renewed force.

“And it’s time everyone else sees it too,” he groaned, feeling your pussy tighten around his pistoning cock from the praise, the slick walls fluttering in response. “Again.”

“Clark, please,” you begged, voice breaking as the pressure built unbearably.

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmured, his thumb returning to your clit, rubbing firm circles over the swollen nub that made your hips buck wildly. “Come on, humor me.”

“Uhhh, fuck! I’m a star,” you breathed, the words fracturing into a moan as ecstasy crested.

Clark’s thrusts quickened, pounding into you with raw intensity that made the cabinets rattle, dishes clinking together from the force of his slams. His lips crashed against yours in a heated kiss, both of you whimpering into the shared space as tongues tangled messily, seeking a rhythm that dissolved into chaos under the onslaught of pleasure. When it became too much, you broke away, burying your face in his shoulder, moans muffled against his heated skin as he fucked you harder, his cock dragging relentlessly along your g-spot with every plunge.

“I’m a fucking star!” you screamed, the climax ripping through you like lightning, your pussy convulsing around his shaft in powerful spasms, milking him as waves of release crashed over your body.

The sound and squeeze pushed him over the edge. Clark shuddered violently against you, his cock pulsing as he came deep inside in hot spurts of cum that flooded your clenching walls, filling you to the brim.

You both remained locked together, breaths heaving in the sudden quiet, chests rising and falling in sync. After a long moment, he pulled out with a wet pop, his softening cock slipping free and he groaned at the erotic sight of his thick cum leaking from your stretched entrance, dripping down your thighs in creamy rivulets.

You closed your legs tightly, your pussy twitching with residual aftershocks, aching for more of his thick cock even as his intense stare only heightened the lingering heat between your thighs. 

“Hard to believe you learned all that from YouTube,” you murmured, voice husky with satisfaction and a touch of awe.

“Is improv not allowed during rehearsals?” he asked, his words shaky with renewed desire, his cock already stirring and hardening at the erotic sight of your hardened nipples straining against the thin cotton of your shirt, begging for attention.

You nodded repeatedly, fingers fumbling to grab the hem of your shirt and tug it down in a futile attempt to cover yourself, though the fabric clung damply to your sweat-slicked skin. “You did good, just…you did really good. We should take five and redo it.”

“No pointers?” he grinned, that cocky smile making your core clench anew.

You shook your head firmly. “No, none of that…you have great creative instinct.”

“Sex scene back from the top?” he asked and you were nodding before the words fully left his lips, eagerness flooding through you.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s hard working through a scene without a script. We should rehearse until we find…the right angle,” you said, your eyes drifting inevitably back down to his impressive length, already thickening and curving upward with promise. “There’s a lot of choices here…I mean, the writers have…they have choices. It could happen anywhere.”

“Couch…shower…” He trailed off, glancing around the room with a predatory glint in his eyes, and you hummed in heated agreement, imagining the possibilities. “Thought you said you wouldn’t worry about the movie yet.”

“Time goes faster than you can fly,” you chuckled softly, the sound breathy as anticipation built.

“I should start charging you for the confidence coaching,” he teased, his voice dropping low. “That’s if you’re fully convinced.”

“All in,” you nodded, locking eyes with him as you watched his muscles flex while he strolled closer, the air between you crackling with tension. In one effortless motion, he scooped you up, hoisting you over his broad shoulder like you weighed nothing, drawing a surprised giggle from your lips that dissolved into a gasp when his large palm came down firmly on your ass, the sharp smack sending a jolt straight to your dripping core.

His fingers teased your slick entrance as he carried you toward the couch, tracing the swollen folds of your pussy, coating themselves in your mixed arousal. You squirmed against his hold, the position exposing you completely, your thighs parting instinctively as two thick fingers pushed inside your clenching heat, stretching you just enough to reignite the fire. He curled them expertly, stroking your inner walls with firm pumps that made your hips buck and your breath hitch in sharp moans.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in the movies,” he grinned wickedly over his shoulder, thrusting his fingers deeper as he reached the couch, the wet sounds of your pussy sucking him in echoing with each step. 

You moaned loudly into the start of a wild, unrestrained rehearsal night, one that wouldn’t include any acting on your part, just raw, endless fucking until every unscripted doubt was shattered.

“Yeah, I need to see how some actions will look in you know, real life. It’s already a romantic script; I don’t want to make it too cringe by writing stuff that would look terrible in real life. I’m gonna take my phone to record, wait for me here.” You turn, and oh, God, is that a hole forming in the back of your pants? Dick can literally see the strain in the cloth not to flash your butt around.

“Okay, I’m back-” He hears your voice, but he is stuck at the previous sight, because it’s unbelievable you thought to meet a stranger with clothes that barely stay together. “First scene will be on that wall, do you know how a kabedon works?”

“Yes, I do.” His blue eyes trail to the tripod where you are setting your phone.

“Good, now I need you to do it with me. Try to be as scary as possible. You need to look imposing.” You order him, already positioning yourself against the wall, lifting your hand up so your phone can start recording.

And Dick does it, hand naturally slapping against the white plain wall of your house, face immediately inching near yours, blue eyes a slit. “Is this good enough?” He whispers. He can’t help but notice the little blemishes on your skin, but what catches his attention is your smell; it’s not bad for someone who lives in a hole and mostly communicates in nerdiese.

He notices the little pout you make, how you bend your knees up and down, trying to find the right position. “Can you try to distance yourself a bit?” He nods, getting further from your face; the shine in your eyes tells him that you found the right setup.

“What would you say to woo someone that you bullied for months to chain them to you? To get into their minds?” Dick chokes a laughter after your questions, cheeks visibly puffing up. In which universe is it normal to ask these kinds of things? “I’m-I’m sorry! Tim said you have a lot of experience, so I wanted to hear your advice-” You start to stutter, fidgeting on the spot while Dick decides not to move an inch, enjoying in a twisted way your every reaction.

“I don’t truly know, I’m not the writer here, but-” He inches closer, the black locks that he previously pushed back disobeying and returning to frame his face, casting a shadow that only make Dick looks even more handsome “I’d get as close as possible, and I’d tell them to meet again at the usual place? Usually, it’s enough to convince them. Maybe it’s more the fear than the attraction tho, it depends on what you want to go with.” He whispers, thick index and forefinger lifting your chin, making sure your eyes are fixed on his.

Dick thought you’d stutter, that you’d close the gap between your mouths, or that you’d fumble, like the loser you are, but-

“That’s actually such a nice idea!” You hold your hand up to stop the recording. Then you clap them together, and a big smile graces your face. “Tim was right, you are a diamond mine of good ideas, I just need to dig further, as you know, develop them more.” You waltz away from his body, trotting towards your phone with a cheerfulness Dick didn’t expect.  

You don’t stutter, mumble, or stop, too embarrassed to continue. Instead, you ask for more, totally unaware or even worse, oblivious to his gestures. Something acidic stings the back of his throat, black, thick eyebrows knit together as everything seems to fly over your head.

“You take this hobby seriously.” He states, as you take him to the bedroom.

“Oh yeah, at times they also buy my stories! It’s a good way to make ends meet.” You smile back at him, completely unaware of the inner turmoil of the man behind you. “This is a bit of a weird request, so it’s totally fine if you refuse-”

“I will do-”

“But I’d pay you for it because you are exactly the right height-” You continue, excitement in your voice.

“I said I’m gonna do whatever you ask.” Dick snaps, interrupting your flow of words. Your eyes widen, with a shine that matches your smile.

“Okay, can you lie on my bed?” Meanwhile, I’ll adjust the settings.” You say. Dick can see your hand shaking, trying to find the right light setting and angle to record.

“So, you do this often with Tim?” He asks, voice not showing a hint of real interest. Dick makes himself comfortable; the mattress is pretty hard, and the cover is impregnated with the same smell your skin carries.

“Mh, not like this, but we brainstorm a lot together.” You say, still more concentrated on setting your phone in the right place. “We tried some times, but Tim doesn’t always have the right attitude for the role-” The same acidic taste of before fills Dick’s mouth. He finds himself biting the inside of his cheek until the skin breaks. He winces, all of this for a loser that can’t live any of these situations unless they pay.

Silence fills the room for a few minutes, you keep fiddling with your equipment, and Dick can’t do anything but look around. Your bedroom is the room that tells the most about you. Your dumb figures collection on the nightstand and the insanely big library that takes more space than your wardrobe. Dick is so bored that he scans every single book and comic there. You read a lot, but they all seem to have action themes, maybe horror, but for sure, far from the genre you work on. He rolls, stomach now flat on the mattress, further from where you are. You still don’t give him proper attention, and it’s fine as he notices something on the ground. A pink cover, two guys on it. Dick smirks, interested. He reaches out, pinches the cover, and opens it in a single, swift motion.

What he sees is gold. Because just his luck would open it while the two guys were at it. Dick grins, white teeth shining, saliva forming like a predator an inch away from eating the prey. He turns the pages as the situation gets more and more intense, eyes fixed on the degenerate scenario you seem to enjoy so much.

And then, because Lady Luck has a favorite and it’s Dick Grayson, he decides to lift a bit of the cover from the ground, and damn, your yaoi stash is impressive.

“Dick, stay there! That corner is perfect!” Your voice makes him jump, so caught up in your dirty little secret, he forgot he had your eyes on him. He throws the manga under the bed, before turning to you, a kind, and for trained eyes, fake smile gracing his handsome features. “What do we have to do now?” One arm goes back, supporting his head, as he puffs his chest out. Obviously, the display in front of you goes totally over your head. You sit next to him, your smell clogging Dick’s nose; he still can’t decipher if in a nice way or not.

“I wanted to recreate a scene where one sits on the other person's lap during, I don’t know, a pillow fight, but the situation is tense as they both don’t want to reveal the attraction to each other!”

“Can you show me the position?” Dick raises one of his brows. “I want to understand the situation better.” He smiles again, with the best-acted puppy look anybody could muster.

“Ah- yes, if it doesn’t bother you.” You mutter, eyes looking down at our hands, before you give the sign for the phone to start recording.

Finally, you are fidgeting. Your thighs are already trembling from the effort of keeping your hips up for such a little time. “Ohh, clear, clear.” Dick nods, tongue prodding at his wounded cheek. “So how do you want this to go?” You jerk up when you feel his hot hands on your thighs, not massaging, not holding, simply there.

“Okay, so if it was a pillow fight-” You break out from your embarrassment to grab the pillow next to Dick’s head, his blue eyes follow your movement, how you stretch, and how you try to push it-

“Hey! Do you wanna play pillow fight or just choke me?” He grabs it and lifts it from his head, a scenario straight from a thriller movie rather than a rom-com. And as he does that, anger dies in his throat, deep blue eyes widening at the sight of the cotton grey panties you are wearing.

Because you may not have noticed, but your sitting position, the broken elastic band of your pants, and raising your arms ended up in a dangerous mix. They weren’t even cute, hot, or nasty. Those are the panties you buy in 3 for 1 boxes by people who not only gave up on their sexual life, but on life all around.

But he isn’t embarrassed by you, by your terrible taste in your clothing style, by your smell that doesn’t want to leave him...

“Omf.” You say, now sitting entirely on his lap, “Was there something wrong, Dick?”

His cock twitches. His lips a thin line. Because playing around with someone with zero to no experience in intimacy can be fun, it can be freeing to see them squirm and fumble.

But his body craving you? Propesterous. Insanity. Out of the law of nature.

“Yeah-” he throws the pillow at your side, “Pillow fights don’t work like that. Don’t you have any experience?” You catch the annoyed undertone in his voice, too blunt not to be noticed even by you. He sees you flop down, like a dog that got caught doing something it shouldn’t have. And more importantly, pressing on it harder.

“No, I never had a pillow fight, not even with friends.”

“I wasn’t talking about that-” And even if he muttered that you must have heard him as you gasp, eyes widening, “If you want to do a pillow fight, the hit should be like this-” He doesn’t care for your reaction tho, as his hand grabs his pillow to hit your side. There is no strength in the hit, but your equilibrium is so precarious that you have to stabilise yourself by pressing your hands on his chest. He looks down at them, then at you.

“S-Sorry! I didn’t mean- I don’t want to push- Sorry!!!” Dick groans because of all the hints you could take today, you were only able to get the slight annoyance caused by his half-boner straining his jeans.

Dick is one hundred percent sure; you don’t even know he is annoyed due to that and not by your poor living skills.

You gasp as his hand actually holds you in place, fingers digging into the fat of your thigh. Dick moves under you, trying to get as comfortable as the position allows him.

“Don’t worry, I know you didn’t do that on purpose-” He wishes that “So, no experience, mh?” He gnaws at his bottom lip, waiting for your embarrassed and stuttered answer.

“Nothing eclatant or memorable.” That didn’t come.

Just say it’s none.

“When you are like this, you should be grateful for anything that comes by-” Dick’s nose curls at your statement, which sounds right but is deeply wrong and wretched. “Anyway, I don’t mind it, I can spend a lot of my time working on stuff I like.”

Yeah, I know he thinks, the pictures of the guys enjoying their time together flashing in front of his eyes.

“I know you have much more experience than me; that’s why when Tim asked if it was fine for you to come, I accepted.” Your voice is soft now, and Dick can’t help but hear a touch of sorrow.

His heart flutters. Maybe he’d been too mean—teasing and pushing until the rope snapped. Dick’s fingers tap against your leg like piano keys, while the other hand keeps its grip on the pillow.

“It’s not a problem for me to help you out.” You now look at him, it’s clear as the sun during a summer day that you don’t believe him. “At times, I’m just surprised by how clueless you are. We’ll work this out.” A sigh leaves Dick’s plump lips. “Pillow fights can be nice, but it always ends pretty badly for the weakest of the two. I guess I have the more dominant role, right?”

You nod, the usual concentration back as you go into work mode.

“Let’s leave the pillows there, I bet you can get the right inspiration from clips online from movies...” His voice trails off, getting both pillows out of your way. “The scene could play with me taking the reins-” His hands quickly trail to your waist, rolling your body under his. Big hands are now at the sides of your head, his hips between your open legs. You look so small under the man, so weak that for a moment Dick finds it hard to gulp.

You look cute.

His lips get closer to your ear, while you don’t move, not scared but curious about what’s gonna happen. “And release some tension, something you don’t know anything about, mh?” Dick’s voice sharp, as the press of his hips to yours, making you gasp under him. He doesn’t lift his head, but if this gesture doesn’t get the message across, nothing will. He tries to look at you, blue eyes moving towards your face, to catch a glimpse of your reaction, but if the gasp tells him something, he nail-

“Dick, this idea is genial.” You turn your head as best as you can to look at him, excitement echoing in your room.

Like the fuck off, echoing in Dick’s skull.

“There is tension, the passion that has been building up finally exploding!!” Your forefinger pushes away one of his black locks that blocked your view of his face, his deep blue eyes quickly darting away. “Thank you.” Your voice is so soft, it makes a shiver run down Dick’s spine. “I should truly pay you, you have been so sweet the entire time, helping me with these weird requests-”

“Don’t worry.” He decides to plant his face on the mattress, hoping you wouldn’t notice the red shame reaching his cheeks. His voice dulled by the mattress, your smell even stronger, permeating his whole body.

It’s intoxicating. Finally, Dick knows how it makes him feel. That’s why his whole body isn’t acting physiologically; it’s because it’s dizzy due to your smell.

“I like being of help.” He chokes out.

And then you hug him. His eyes snap open as he feels your hand caressing his back with the kindness of a friend. His body slowly presses against yours as his hands hold you in the most awkward hug Dick has ever experienced. “Thanks again.” You murmur again.

He doesn’t say anything, words dying in his throat while he chokes on your smell. Dick can feel the blush creeping up his neck and sliding down towards his chest, where his heart is thumping, angry and frustrated by the situation.

Maybe this time he’ll have to thank your obliviousness, when the hug finally breaks, and you won’t notice his sorry situation—

“Oh, sorry-” You chuckle, “I’m not used to hugging, I was pressing too hard, right?”

A waterfall of insults flows from his brain. He must be dreaming; all this day must have been a sick simulation, one of those tortures that Tim calls experiments.

“I’m fine, just a bit warm-”

“Oh! Let me cool down the room.” He pushes himself off you, still on all four as you raise your hand up to turn off the recording (You still had the mind locked on your project, Dick is amazed) and stretch to open the window, right next to the nightstand where your stupid figures are.

And it happens, the strings that kept your pants together stretch too far, a small hole forms right in front of Dick’s eyes. He turns his head down, black locks rolling down as if they followed the man's emotions.

This must be a fever dream.

At least you don’t ask him for anymore scenes, asking just if he needed something to eat or drink, or “Are you sure you don’t want money?” You are in front of your door, Dick’s hand already on the handle, ready for the right moment to escape, and release some...stress.

“Yes, I’m sure of it.” But maybe he should ask for a refund for the brain damage he went through that day.

You thank him again, waving at him as he opens the door, but...he stops.

“Would you like to see each other again?” Dick had to take a big breath before formulating this question.

“Oh? I don’t know when I’ll need help again for the scen-”

“Not for that. Just...eat something out.” His voice highlighted the word “out”. You need that. To go outside and meet people, and not for work, just because you need to live a little outside your safe nest.

“I-I don’t know, I usually-”

“We don’t have to go to parties, it’s fine even fast food at dawn.” He understands it would be a big step for you; he can’t push too much.

Now he sees you stutter, fidgeting like the loser he expected you to be. His heart flutters again.

“Okay...you have my number.” You mumble, face lowered, eyes never leaving his, which only makes them look bigger and cuter.

His chest swells before nodding as he exits your house.

“See you soon!”

This shouldn't be any different from when you were younger. You learned how to cook, how to call for help, how to stay safe, and you even learned how to change a tire with all the old mechanics books her mother said used to be your father's.

You've been sneaking out more and more. Convinced yourself that you don't belong with them. Certain, dead certain, they wouldn't notice if you were gone the next day.

As you turned down the television and added another log into the fireplace, you were certain they would sleep soundly without knowing you were ever gone in the first place.

While you were out in the diner having your dinner. Back in the shared house, they were still asleep. None the wiser to you sneaking out to the diner. As far as you were aware. They didn't know you were even gone to begin with.

What you didn't know?

Well, you'd have to come home after your dinner to see what happened.

While you were there. Those two were waking up from the post-love-making haze. They haven't noticed you weren't even in the house anymore. You never expect them to notice whether you're there. Or not.

Sooner or later, they might or might not assume you're cheating on them. You're not. But they don't know that now, do they?

You weren't the type to cheat. Not after witnessing the fallout of your mother doing the same to your father when you were just a child. You were only 10 years old when your world came down around you.

Ironically, it wasn't even him who cheated. It was your mother. Something people often assume she was the victim. Even after he died.

The shame built up from the seven years of having to hear your father cry himself to sleep most nights because of the mental health conditions he was battling, despite the amount of therapy he’s getting, from her betrayal.

Turns out it wasn't just one affair. But multiple. A string of affairs for the past ten years. The past ten years of your life.

You didn't think Simon or Johnny were awake while you were in your bedroom ensuite. You were about to enter your walk-in wardrobe when your bedroom door creaked open. Right as you were about to step into your wardrobe.

All you had wrapped around your body is the fuzzy, warm towel, straight from the towel rack / towel warmer.

You pulled out a Garfield onesie and pulled it on. Followed by soft bed socks and went to hop into your bed.

You were thinking about what you said to your mother over the phone this morning when she tried calling you again. You wanted to repeat what you have already told her a million times in the past. Before your relationship with both Simon and Johnny.

Back when she left you, abandoned you, ditched you, threw you away the moment she started dating somebody new, when your father died when you were seventeen.

“I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion, did I?” you remarked. “You left seven years ago. You lost your right to be called my mother when you decided to leave. You are the failure here, not me.”

“You left. You don’t get to decide to worm your way back in,” you told her. “I don’t care. I am done trying to wait for a negligent parent and a deadbeat mother. My father is dead, there isn’t anything left for you here. Loose this number and fuck. Off.”

You didn’t know what to think of the woman’s audacity in trying to interfere with your choices. It was always about her, her status, what she wanted and what she ‘needed’. The moment you told her you weren’t going to be a lawyer, and you didn’t plan on growing up like her. Things changed in drastic ways that make fiction seem less nonsensical.

You didn’t tell her much else about what you wanted to do when your parents divorced at twelve. Things were easier when she left. You were able to exist without fear of ‘interrupting’ something.

You weren’t the daughter she wanted. Not like she wanted to parent you to begin with. Leaving all of that to your stay-at-home parent. Your father, who did more to keep the family together than your mother ever seemed to do.

You weren’t the daughter she wanted. Not like she wanted to parent you to begin with. Leaving all of that to your stay-at-home parent. Your father, who did more to keep the family together than your mother ever seemed to do.

You never really knew how to get her approval, and it didn't seem to matter what you did either.

You weren't going to get it.

No matter how much you begged for her to love you.

No matter how much you begged for her approval.

There wasn't much you could do other than cut contact with her. Remove her from your life before she poisons it completely.

It didn't stop it from hurting.

It didn't stop you from crying about it.

But you needed to do that for yourself.

Not her.

You.

Broken people aren't simply broken from trauma alone. Though it does help categorise what it is.

To provide a specific kind of mindset to assist, not to do things for you, but to help you through it.

Sure. You had your moments of doubt, anger, sorrow and something in between. A mixture of emotions you could never quite articulate as well as you wanted to.

Those mixed feelings were always chased by an empty feeling at the bottom of your stomach. Gnawing at you like you were the final supper to a feast that never ends.

Akin to trying to fill a void that wouldn't fill up completely. Something you were certain didn't belong to you alone.

A feeling passed down from one generation to the next. Like a present you didn't ask for. But received regardless of how you didn't want it. A present you couldn't refuse. No matter how much you wanted.

A family curse that didn't make sense yet somehow made too much sense.

Something no one talked about for the fear of making things too real too soon.

Something they were blissfully ignorant of. Until you started to feel it too.

The heavyweight pressing down onto your chest. Harder and harder. Until the life in your lungs couldn't hold anymore. Until you couldn't hold the air in your lungs anymore. Trying to keep yourself together. Wrapping your insides with duct tape and prayers to a deaf god.

If there was one. If there was indeed a god out there.

You were certain he didn't love you.

Or think of you in the same way you thought of him.

You tried sleeping. You did.

Sleep wouldn't come to you. It never did.

You walked to your office to practice your piano for a little while. Which often made you tired enough to fall asleep.

Now you’re thirty, and your father passed away when you were fourteen in his sleep. At least that is what you choose to remember about the cause of his passing. Fully remembering the real reason he died causes debilitating nightmares of finding him in his bed.

Things weren't the same again.

The alcohol took him in the night. The silent killer.

Things weren’t the same.

You knew things weren't ever going to be how they were again.

Even now.

You are still somewhat certain that things will never be the same as they were before.

You remember you had told your mother to skip the funeral. To not go to your father's funeral. You said she wasn't his wife, and she wasn't family anymore.

Even went as far as to say that she had murdered him.

You stopped taking her calls. You delete her emails she sends your way. Any attempt she had tried and continues to try was rejected. Repeatedly.

Any attempt to reconnect like your father didn't die and she didn't ruin your family were all denied.

Now? You tell people she's dead. That she died somewhere, and you didn't care to go to her funeral. Better off as an adult orphan than continuously harassed by a dead, deadbeat parent who couldn't be bothered to be there for you.

You tell people she’s dead even though she is quite alive, technically speaking.

In my mother’s opinion, I am certain. Unquestionable doubt now, she sees a monster reflected in her eyes. Like a lunar cryptid, vanishing the moment she looks away. I am aware of how she feels about me. I am aware that she didn’t want me. Don't let ignorance fool you, I am aware.

In some ways, you felt like she had every right to be scared of you. To be rejected by you. To be void of personal attachment. Your mother’s pleas fall on deaf ears and are treated with a strong sense of apathy. There isn’t much else she can or could do to reach you now.

There isn't anything you want to do to let her back into your life. She could beg and plead all day. You weren't going to budge. Your opinion of her isn't going to change.

There isn’t much she can do to change what she did. It’s despicable to think she could prove otherwise. Like nothing happened. Like anything, she could say, wouldn’t prove just how foolish she is in believing she is the victim in all of this.

You still remember your mother gave away your service dog, fed you your own pet rabbit. All the while saying you didn’t need such things. This was the final straw for your father, and he demanded a divorce for displaying senseless stupidity from someone who should have been a better mother.

It was your father’s idea to move away from the city and away from your mother. Plans fell through when he passed when you were fourteen.

“Love with conditions isn’t real love. It’s conditional love. Love based on false pretence. I don’t want it. I don’t need it, and I don’t want to speak to you or of this again. Understand?”

The pause in your mother’s breath when it hitched. You don’t know whether its foundation is in anger or frustration. You don’t care which.

Whatever she hoped to take from you isn’t there anymore. She ruined her family for what? For the sake of what? Her ego? Her career?  Laughable. Blameworthy. Egotistical. Selfish.

She forgets who raised you this way. Or, more like, she chose to forget in a surge of wilful ignorance. Like she doesn’t ‘remember’ when she put off her family for work. Purposefully putting things off time and time again. She only got worse after your father died. 

By worse.

She abandoned you on the doorstop of your Nonna's in Yorkshire and you never saw her again.

Now you are thirty years old hearing from her left a bitter taste in your mouth. Sitting at your father's old piano and you were certain she was only trying to get something from you.

You don't know what it is yet.

You're certain to find out what exactly it might be.

Her greed, narcissism, and her strong need for control were the things that killed him. Drove him straight into death's arms.

You jumped when Johnny placed his cold hands on your tits. You squeaked. Loudly. Jumping off the piano stool at least a good one inch.

"What hell man?" you grumbled, eyes wide, wider awake now than you were five minutes ago. To think you would have gone to sleep too.

"Couldn't sleep." Johnny murmered as he kept his cold hands on your tits.

"Same here. But at least I didn't put my cold hands on your pecs." you stated wriggling your eyebrows.

"I don't know you might like it more than you think." Johnny chuckled as he teased your already hardening nipples.

"I don't think this time or place to be doing this right now." you tried to say, pushing each word from your lips with great effort. You were going to say more, but your brain short circuited more as he continued to move his thumbs in circles.

You weren't at the piano for long. Johnny had a way of picking up and carrying you without waking the neighbours. He never did it to you when you had a Garfield onesie before though. He seemed to enoy it more whenever you wore it.

This shouldn't be any different from when you were younger. You learned how to cook, how to call for help, how to stay safe, and you even learned how to change a tire with all the old mechanics books her mother said used to be your father's.

You've been sneaking out more and more. Convinced yourself that you don't belong with them. Certain, dead certain, they wouldn't notice if you were gone the next day.

As you turned down the television and added another log into the fireplace, you were certain they would sleep soundly without knowing you were ever gone in the first place.

While you were out in the diner having your dinner. Back in the shared house, they were still asleep. None the wiser to you sneaking out to the diner. As far as you were aware. They didn't know you were even gone to begin with.

What you didn't know?

Well, you'd have to come home after your dinner to see what happened.

While you were there. Those two were waking up from the post-love-making haze. They haven't noticed you weren't even in the house anymore. You never expect them to notice whether you're there. Or not.

Sooner or later, they might or might not assume you're cheating on them. You're not. But they don't know that now, do they?

You weren't the type to cheat. Not after witnessing the fallout of your mother doing the same to your father when you were just a child. You were only 10 years old when your world came down around you.

Ironically, it wasn't even him who cheated. It was your mother. Something people often assume she was the victim. Even after he died.

The shame built up from the seven years of having to hear your father cry himself to sleep most nights because of the mental health conditions he was battling, despite the amount of therapy he’s getting, from her betrayal.

Turns out it wasn't just one affair. But multiple. A string of affairs for the past ten years. The past ten years of your life.

You didn't think Simon or Johnny were awake while you were in your bedroom ensuite. You were about to enter your walk-in wardrobe when your bedroom door creaked open. Right as you were about to step into your wardrobe.

All you had wrapped around your body is the fuzzy, warm towel, straight from the towel rack / towel warmer.

You pulled out a Garfield onesie and pulled it on. Followed by soft bed socks and went to hop into your bed.

You were thinking about what you said to your mother over the phone this morning when she tried calling you again. You wanted to repeat what you have already told her a million times in the past. Before your relationship with both Simon and Johnny.

Back when she left you, abandoned you, ditched you, threw you away the moment she started dating somebody new, when your father died when you were seventeen.

“I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion, did I?” you remarked. “You left seven years ago. You lost your right to be called my mother when you decided to leave. You are the failure here, not me.”

“You left. You don’t get to decide to worm your way back in,” you told her. “I don’t care. I am done trying to wait for a negligent parent and a deadbeat mother. My father is dead, there isn’t anything left for you here. Loose this number and fuck. Off.”

You didn’t know what to think of the woman’s audacity in trying to interfere with your choices. It was always about her, her status, what she wanted and what she ‘needed’. The moment you told her you weren’t going to be a lawyer, and you didn’t plan on growing up like her. Things changed in drastic ways that make fiction seem less nonsensical.

You didn’t tell her much else about what you wanted to do when your parents divorced at twelve. Things were easier when she left. You were able to exist without fear of ‘interrupting’ something.

You weren’t the daughter she wanted. Not like she wanted to parent you to begin with. Leaving all of that to your stay-at-home parent. Your father, who did more to keep the family together than your mother ever seemed to do.

You weren’t the daughter she wanted. Not like she wanted to parent you to begin with. Leaving all of that to your stay-at-home parent. Your father, who did more to keep the family together than your mother ever seemed to do.

You never really knew how to get her approval, and it didn't seem to matter what you did either.

You weren't going to get it.

No matter how much you begged for her to love you.

No matter how much you begged for her approval.

There wasn't much you could do other than cut contact with her. Remove her from your life before she poisons it completely.

It didn't stop it from hurting.

It didn't stop you from crying about it.

But you needed to do that for yourself.

Not her.

You.

Broken people aren't simply broken from trauma alone. Though it does help categorise what it is.

To provide a specific kind of mindset to assist, not to do things for you, but to help you through it.

Sure. You had your moments of doubt, anger, sorrow and something in between. A mixture of emotions you could never quite articulate as well as you wanted to.

Those mixed feelings were always chased by an empty feeling at the bottom of your stomach. Gnawing at you like you were the final supper to a feast that never ends.

Akin to trying to fill a void that wouldn't fill up completely. Something you were certain didn't belong to you alone.

A feeling passed down from one generation to the next. Like a present you didn't ask for. But received regardless of how you didn't want it. A present you couldn't refuse. No matter how much you wanted.

A family curse that didn't make sense yet somehow made too much sense.

Something no one talked about for the fear of making things too real too soon.

Something they were blissfully ignorant of. Until you started to feel it too.

The heavyweight pressing down onto your chest. Harder and harder. Until the life in your lungs couldn't hold anymore. Until you couldn't hold the air in your lungs anymore. Trying to keep yourself together. Wrapping your insides with duct tape and prayers to a deaf god.

If there was one. If there was indeed a god out there.

You were certain he didn't love you.

Or think of you in the same way you thought of him.

You tried sleeping. You did.

Sleep wouldn't come to you. It never did.

You walked to your office to practice your piano for a little while. Which often made you tired enough to fall asleep.

Now you’re thirty, and your father passed away when you were fourteen in his sleep. At least that is what you choose to remember about the cause of his passing. Fully remembering the real reason he died causes debilitating nightmares of finding him in his bed.

Things weren't the same again.

The alcohol took him in the night. The silent killer.

Things weren’t the same.

You knew things weren't ever going to be how they were again.

Even now.

You are still somewhat certain that things will never be the same as they were before.

You remember you had told your mother to skip the funeral. To not go to your father's funeral. You said she wasn't his wife, and she wasn't family anymore.

Even went as far as to say that she had murdered him.

You stopped taking her calls. You delete her emails she sends your way. Any attempt she had tried and continues to try was rejected. Repeatedly.

Any attempt to reconnect like your father didn't die and she didn't ruin your family were all denied.

Now? You tell people she's dead. That she died somewhere, and you didn't care to go to her funeral. Better off as an adult orphan than continuously harassed by a dead, deadbeat parent who couldn't be bothered to be there for you.

You tell people she’s dead even though she is quite alive, technically speaking.

In my mother’s opinion, I am certain. Unquestionable doubt now, she sees a monster reflected in her eyes. Like a lunar cryptid, vanishing the moment she looks away. I am aware of how she feels about me. I am aware that she didn’t want me. Don't let ignorance fool you, I am aware.

In some ways, you felt like she had every right to be scared of you. To be rejected by you. To be void of personal attachment. Your mother’s pleas fall on deaf ears and are treated with a strong sense of apathy. There isn’t much else she can or could do to reach you now.

There isn't anything you want to do to let her back into your life. She could beg and plead all day. You weren't going to budge. Your opinion of her isn't going to change.

There isn’t much she can do to change what she did. It’s despicable to think she could prove otherwise. Like nothing happened. Like anything, she could say, wouldn’t prove just how foolish she is in believing she is the victim in all of this.

You still remember your mother gave away your service dog, fed you your own pet rabbit. All the while saying you didn’t need such things. This was the final straw for your father, and he demanded a divorce for displaying senseless stupidity from someone who should have been a better mother.

It was your father’s idea to move away from the city and away from your mother. Plans fell through when he passed when you were fourteen.

“Love with conditions isn’t real love. It’s conditional love. Love based on false pretence. I don’t want it. I don’t need it, and I don’t want to speak to you or of this again. Understand?”

The pause in your mother’s breath when it hitched. You don’t know whether its foundation is in anger or frustration. You don’t care which.

Whatever she hoped to take from you isn’t there anymore. She ruined her family for what? For the sake of what? Her ego? Her career?  Laughable. Blameworthy. Egotistical. Selfish.

She forgets who raised you this way. Or, more like, she chose to forget in a surge of wilful ignorance. Like she doesn’t ‘remember’ when she put off her family for work. Purposefully putting things off time and time again. She only got worse after your father died. 

By worse.

She abandoned you on the doorstop of your Nonna's in Yorkshire and you never saw her again.

Now you are thirty years old hearing from her left a bitter taste in your mouth. Sitting at your father's old piano and you were certain she was only trying to get something from you.

You don't know what it is yet.

You're certain to find out what exactly it might be.

Her greed, narcissism, and her strong need for control were the things that killed him. Drove him straight into death's arms.

You jumped when Johnny placed his cold hands on your tits. You squeaked. Loudly. Jumping off the piano stool at least a good one inch.

"What hell man?" you grumbled, eyes wide, wider awake now than you were five minutes ago. To think you would have gone to sleep too.

"Couldn't sleep." Johnny murmered as he kept his cold hands on your tits.

"Same here. But at least I didn't put my cold hands on your pecs." you stated wriggling your eyebrows.

"I don't know you might like it more than you think." Johnny chuckled as he teased your already hardening nipples.

"I don't think this time or place to be doing this right now." you tried to say, pushing each word from your lips with great effort. You were going to say more, but your brain short circuited more as he continued to move his thumbs in circles.

You weren't at the piano for long. Johnny had a way of picking up and carrying you without waking the neighbours. He never did it to you when you had a Garfield onesie before though. He seemed to enoy it more whenever you wore it.

but tonight, something feels off. maybe it’s the long day catching up or the way his fingers dig a little too deep into your skin. nothing malicious, just the intensity building beyond what you can handle right now. your mind starts to wander and discomfort creeps in like a shadow.

you try to push through, but it only grows, which turns the pleasure into something sharper and less enjoyable.

“red,” you gasp out, the safe word tumbling from your lips before you can second-guess it.

satoru freezes instantly, his body going still beneath you. his eyes widens and the playful glint vanishes as concern floods his features. “hey, hey, okay,” he says softly, his big hands immediately loosening their hold. they slide up to your waist in a gentle, supportive grip instead.

he doesn’t pull away abruptly. instead, he helps you ease off him carefully before guiding you to sit beside him on the bed. “talk to me, baby. what happened? are you hurt?”

you shake your head as you catch your breath, feeling a mix of relief and embarrassment. “no, not hurt. just... it was too much. i don’t know, i felt kinda overwhelmed.”

satoru nods along without hesitation. he reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed and wraps it around you both in a comfortable cocoon. “aw, i’m sorry.”

his voice is steady. there’s no trace of frustration—just pure attentiveness. he shifts to face you fully, one hand attentively brushing a strand of hair from your face. “want some water? or should i just hold you?”

“water sounds good,” you murmur whilst leaning into his touch despite everything.

he’s up in a flash. grabbing a bottle from the nightstand, he hands it to you before settling back down, pulling you against his chest without crowding you.

“drink up, yeah? i’m proud of you,” satoru grins at you before placing a kiss to your temple. his arm sits loose around you, giving you space if you need it.

you take a sip and let the cool liquid ground you. “yeah.. i just didn’t want to ruin the mood.”

“ruin? nah,” he chuckles lightly, but it was gentle and not mocking. “the mood’s whatever we make it. we can cuddle, watch that little show y’ like, or i can make you laugh with my terrible impressions. your call.”

smiling faintly, you nestle closer, “cuddles for now.”

“whatever my baby says.”

he holds you there, his heartbeat steady under your ear, the earlier intensity forgotten in favor of this quiet comfort. satoru is always like that—larger than life in passion, but infinitely tender when it mattered.

GETO SUGURU :: concerned, cuddles you

suguru’s dark hair cascades over his shoulders as his hips moves above you, his thrusts deep and deliberate. you’ve always loved this about him—the way he takes his time, building everything up slowly, his big hands tracing your body like he’s memorizing every curve.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. your legs wrap around his waist to pull him in closer.

but as the moments stretch, a subtle ache begins to build. not the good kind, but something nagging. something pulling you out of the haze. maybe it is the position, or the way his weight presses down just a bit too heavily tonight. you try adjusting, but it persists, turning what should have been bliss into discomfort.

“black,” you whisper, the safe word cutting through the squelches and groans like a knife.

suguru stops immediately. his body tenses for a split second before he carefully withdraws, rolling to the side to give you space. his eyes search yours, calm but filled with worry.

“what’s wrong, angel? what do you need?” he asks with genuine concern. he props himself on one elbow, his hand reaching out to rest lightly on your arm. a grounding touch.

you take a deep breath before sitting up slightly. “it just... started hurting a little. i think the angle or something.”

suguru nods and his expression softens. “alright. we can stop here for now.”

without another word, he sits up fully, grabbing a robe from the chair nearby and draping it over you. “do you want to talk about it, or should i get you something? tea, maybe?”

“tea would be nice,” you say, appreciating his straightforwardness. suguru isn’t one for theatrics; he handles things with a quiet efficiency that always makes you feel secure.

he rises gracefully and slips into his sweatpants before heading to the kitchen. when he returns, he carries a steaming mug, handing it to you before settling back on the bed.

“chamomile. it helps relax,” suguru watches you sip it, his gaze steady but not intrusive. he soothes you by patting your hair gently, “i’m sorry if i didn’t notice sooner.”

“it’s not your fault,” you replied, the warmth of the tea and his touch soothing you, “i should’ve said something earlier.”

he shakes his head gently. “the safe word is there for a reason. you used it—that's what matters,” his fingers intertwined with yours, a subtle reassurance, “we can try again another time, or not. whatever you want.”

you squeeze his hand, feeling the tension ease. “yeah, of course.”

suguru kisses your temple before laying back and pulling you into his side. his arm is a loose circle around your shoulders. he talks softly then, about nothing in particular. his voice is a calming drone that lulls you.

as the night wears on, the discomfort fades into memory, replaced by the quiet intimacy of just being together. suguru kisses your forehead lightly. “rest, angel. i love you.”

NANAMI KENTO :: gentle, distracts you

the bedroom is dimly lit by the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows as kento moved inside you. his pace is steady and controlled, just like everything else about him.

his hands are firm on your thighs to hold you in place as he thrust in and out deeply, his breath even but laced with quiet groans.

“you feel perfect,” kento groans, his voice husky, eyes meeting yours with that intense focus that makes your heart race.

you’re beneath him, legs hooked over his shoulders. the position allows him to hit all the right spots while building that delicious tension.

but tonight, fatigue from the week has caught up, and what started as pleasure shifted into strain. your muscles ache in a way that isn’t enjoyable.

“pink,” you breathe out, the safe word clear and firm.

kento halts at once and his body stills completely. he carefully lowers your legs, easing himself out with utmost gentleness before shifting to sit beside you.

“are you alright?” he asks, his tone worried and warm, concern etching his features as he scans you for any sign of injury.

you nod as you pull the sheets up over yourself. “yeah, just... it was getting uncomfortable. my back, i think.”

“ah, got it,” kento stands efficiently, fetching a glass of water from the bathroom and returning with it, along with a damp cloth. “here, to hydrate. do you need anything else, sweetheart?”

“just water’s fine, thank you,” you say, taking a sip as he sat back down, his calloused hand resting lightly on your knee.

he gently wipes at your forehead with the cloth before pressing a gentle kiss to it. “i apologize. i should have been more attentive.”

“it’s okay, kento. really. these things happen."

kento nods before pulling you in for a comfortable cuddle, “still, your comfort comes first. do you want a massage?”

“yeah, a massage sounds good,” you admit, turning onto your side.

he nods. his hands—strong from years of sorcery—now gentle as they work over your bare back, kneading out the knots with precise care. “tell me if it's too much pressure, yeah?” he murmurs gently, his focus entirely on you.

as he works, conversation flows naturally. “how was your day? you mentioned that meeting earlier.”

you sigh under his warm touch. “tiring, but better now.”

“good.”

kento keeps it light, discussing mundane things—tomorrow’s plans and a new bakery he’d read about—avoiding anything that might pressure you. once the massage eased your aches, he pulls you into his arms. his embrace is firm but not overwhelming.

“thank you for telling me when you did” he murmurs softly into your. “your comfort is what matters, sweetheart.”

you nestle against him, his steady presence a balm. “thanks for being so understanding, ken.”

“always,” he kisses the top of your head, and you both lay there, his reliability shining through even in vulnerability.

FUSHIGURO TOJI :: awkward, holds you

the bed creak under toji’s weight as he pounds into your wet cunt. his grip is rough on your hips, pulling you back to meet each powerful thrust. sweat glistens on his scarred skin and his grin is feral as he watches you arch up beneath him.

“fuckkk, y’ take it so well,” he growls. one hand slides up to tangle in your hair just enough to add that edge you both love.

you’re on all fours, the intensity raw, matching his no-holds-barred style.

but as the minutes tick by, the roughness edges into pain—his strength overwhelming in a way that tipped from thrilling to too much. your arms tremble and a sharp twinge shot through you.

“purple,” you pant, the safe word cutting through the haze.

toji stops dead, his body rigid for a moment before he pulls out carefully. his rough hands release you instantly. he gently flips you over, more tender than you’d expect from someone like him, and hovers above you.

his eyes narrow in concern. “what’s wrong? did i hurt you?”

you catch your breath while shaking your head. “not bad, it was just too intense. needed a break.”

toji grunts in response before sitting back on his heels, running a hand through his messy hair. “shit, my bad. got carried away.”

no excuses, just blunt honesty. he reaches for the water bottle on the nighstand and hands it to you. “drink. you good otherwise?”

“yeah,” you said, sipping as he watches you closely.

toji lies down beside you, one arm draping over your waist loosely. he’s a bit awkward, but not too much so. just unsure of what to do. “do you need more space? or...?”

“just this,” you murmur and lean into him.

toji hums roughly. his rough fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, soothing now instead of demanding. “alright. we chill then.”

your boyfriend isn’t big on words, but his actions show enough. he subtly adjusts the pillows, pulling the blanket up while making sure you’re comfortable.

“i didn’t actually wanna break ya, y’know,” toji huffs.

you giggle at his attempt at a joke. “i know. it’s fine.”

despite the now light atmosphere, toji pulls you closer against his bare chest, his voice dropping. “next time, speak up sooner if it starts feelin’ off, yeah?”

“deal.”

the conversation shifts to lighter stuff—his latest job, some stupid bet he’d won—his gruff humor easing the moment. toji might be a brute in bed, but he respects boundaries when it comes to you. as you relax against his chest, the earlier fire banks into warmth.

“get some rest, doll. i got ya.”

SUKUNA RYOMEN :: acts like he isn’t worried. (heian era)

the chamber echoes with your gasps, sukuna’s four arms holding you in place as he thrust relentlessly, his tattoos shifting with each movement. he is overwhelming, as always—dominating, his grin sharp and wicked.

“scream for me, woman,” sukuna rumbles. one hand pins your wrists above your head, another gropes your tits, while the others grip your thighs. you’re suspended against him, the power dynamic thrilling in its danger.

but tonight, the intensity crosses a line. his grip is too tight, the pace is too brutal and it stirs not just pleasure but genuine unease, a flicker of fear amid the haze.

“red,” you cry out the safe word you’d agreed on, voice strained.

sukuna halts gradually. his piercing red eyes narrow as he sets you down carefully on the bed, releasing all holds. for a being of pure malice, he respects this one rule fiercely—perhaps the only one.

“what troubles you?” he demands, voice still deep but lacking its usual mockery, scanning you all over with those crimson eyes. almost as if checking for injury.

you pant and curl up slightly. “it was too much. hurt more than felt good.”

sukuna tilts his head before sitting back with surprising restraint. “hmph. humans and their fragility.”

but there is no scorn; he grabs a cloth with a flick of his wrist, dampening it with water on the bedside table to cool it, and hands it to you. “clean yourself. speak up if you’re hurt somewhere.”

“i’m okay, my lord. just needed to stop,” you whisper and press the cloth to your skin.

he watches, uncharacteristically patient. “hmm.”

one buff arm reaches out, pulling you against his side—not forcefully, but offering warmth from his massive form. “what do you need?”

“water, please,” you suggest quietly.

sukuna grabs the goblet he still had from the little table and hands it over, “drink.”

as you do, he observes, his tone shifting to something almost conversational. “you endure much for one so weak.”

“thank you,” you reply with a small huff, almost a little chuckle at his attempt at praise for your endurance.

sukuna lays back and allows you to rest against him, his arms loose. he isn’t tender, but in this, he is attentive—ensuring no lasting harm while his presence is a shield rather than the usual threat.

as tension fades and you try to move, he clicks his tongue, “rest now or i’ll have you for dinner.”

in his own twisted way, it shows that he cares.

Somewhere in the back of his mind—before the three pints and the two shots—he recalls your hushed voice in his ear, outside the bar. It was low and sultry. Scratchy and strained, but not like how it gets after a long day of talking. No—

It was the type of strain that happens when you’ve spent too many hours screaming his name. When too many breaths have torn from your chest, ragged and pressed out by the strength of his hips.

That type of strain is his favorite…. But you had said something then—

You leaned close. The music from the bar was leaking out into the muggy, open air of the parking lot. There was noise from the road nearby. Fast cars, rubber peeling off of wet asphalt—

Wet asphalt emanating heat and earthy scents—

And there was you. He could smell you, too. His favorite scent. The perfume you always leave traces of, like love notes he finds well after you’re gone. Proof of your existence in his bed, near his clothes, on him. 

You leaned close. Yes, because of the noise—the music, the cars. 

And your mouth brushed the shell of his ear and he shuddered. You laughed. Sweet and teasing. You laughed. 

He shuddered again, or maybe he was just vibrating with excitement—he could never tell around you. Then he felt what you were saying before you even said it. Your kiss-bitten lips curved so delicately around every syllable. 

You called his name. 

His favorite shape your mouth makes…

Well, that, and the stretch of—

No. No, you said something. His name. That’s what you said.

That and something else.

What was it?

He closes his eyes, trying to relive the moment— Your mouth against his ear, your hot breath on his skin, his name on your lips…

Fuck, he can’t remember. And damn it, you won’t let him touch you.

You just took yet another shuffle-step to the right. He didn’t even realize he was leaning into you until you did that 

Come to think of it, what you said before probably had to do with why you’re not letting him touch you now. 

Usually you love it. You welcome his zealous exploration. He knows that, you tell him through the prettiest sighs—

And what you said—well, it felt important at the time. You dropped his hand to say it, so it must’ve been. 

But as the golden glow of the hanging light fixture shines down on you, your hair glinting with every movement, his patchy memory no longer seems all that significant.

The sound of dense resin knocking together draws his attention to the table, the green surface missing one less solid colored ball. 

“Yes!” Robin calls out, pumping her fist victoriously.

“Shit!” Steve curses at the same time, stamping the butt of his wooden cue on the floor. 

 “Oof, rough go, Steve.” You smirk, pretty as a picture.

Eddie wishes you’d look at him like that. 

Subtly, he brushes his arm against yours—the one that’s holding your beer. His eyes practically roll at the heat rippling across your soft skin.

But you move away at the first contact. That’s really starting to get on his nerves. Because what, is he radioactive or something? What’s so bad about him wanting to hold you?

You lean forward. “Maybe if you—” 

“No speak from the opposition!” Steve shouts stiltedly, sending an accusatory finger your way. His eyes flit from you to the table as he strategizes his next shot. “I will not let your womanly wiles corrupt me—”

“Mm, I would,” Eddie purrs lowly, floating into your orbit. His leisurely efforts are abruptly halted, though, when you jab a knuckle into his side.

Steve paces, wearing a chasm into the chipped, creaky floorboards of the old dive bar. “If you had bet on me like you should’ve, then maybe I’d hear you out. But since you’ve left me scorned, I’d like to keep my dignity intact, thank you.”

“For now,” Robin simpers, sending you a side-long glance. “Or wait, do we think he had any to begin with?” 

“Mmm, jury’s still out—” you shrug, lips curled like you’re trying not to laugh at the frazzled man’s brewing tantrum.

Eddie giggles, “Dignity…Steve.” The words feel heavy on his tongue, like he’s dragging each syllable out a second too long. 

Steve grumbles—something about trading. Or maybe ‘trait-or’? Eddie doesn’t know, he’s too busy weathering the turn of the earth now that you’re looking at him again. It’s been forever since he’s held your attention, and he was nearly at the point of begging. 

It’s not just your eyes on him, though. You’re smiling, too. It’s that knowing smirk he loves. The kind that makes his knees weak and his pants feel tight. 

But then your lips twitch, smile faltering as you peer down at his finger hooked in the waistline of your skirt. And suddenly, you turn to him, shifting your hip out of reach. He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue when you force a half-drank bottle of beer into his outstretched hand with a terse, “Hold this.”

Straightening up, he gathers himself, prepared to shoulder any task for you—no matter how trivial. His responding, “Okay, baby,” is drowned out by Steve’s loud cheer after finally pocketing a ball. 

You turn back to Robin and Steve, leaving Eddie chasing after your gaze. “I’ll get the next round.” And just like that, you’re gone. 

He jogs after you, the floor feeling uneven as he stumbles through groups of people. You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for the drinks when he arrives, looming over you with heaving breaths. 

“Oh, baby, y’look so pretty tonight,” he grunts, wrapping an arm around your waist, trailing his lips up your neck. 

You whip around, hand shoving against his chest until he stumbles back a few paces. His eyes widen, stinging from the pain of rejection, and he feels minuscule under your cold glare. 

When you swallow, glancing somewhere behind him, he has to stop himself from moving into your eyeline. Because damn it, if you’d just look at him longer than a second—

“You need to stop,” you hiss. 

His head jerks back, the burn of nausea twisting low in his gut. “Wha—”

“You said you’d be good, Eddie.”

He is being good! He’s being so good! All he’s done tonight is stare at you and touch you—you love when he does that!

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut in before he gets the chance to start. 

“You said you’d behave! So you better start now, or we’ll have to leave,” you grit out, stepping back from him once more. 

Following your movement, his overheating body crowds you against the bar. “No, please, don’t make us leave, baby,” he hurries, grabbing at your hips. “‘M havin’ so much fun, don’t wanna go—”

Your shoulders drop, you lean into him, and he almost closes his eyes, certain your lips will find his.

“Okay, then be-have,” you admonish, then turn to collect the drinks left behind by the busy bartender. 

Eddie decides he’d much rather have gotten a kiss than a warning.

Sliding out of his embrace, you march back to your party, a grumbled, “Just friends, Eddie. You promised they wouldn’t know—” fading the further you flee. 

And he feels like he just stepped into the Twilight Zone because what the hell? Why would he say that? That doesn’t sound like him at all—

“Thank God, gimme that,” Steve swipes a bottle from your arms, chugging it. He jabs a finger in Robin’s direction. “This woman wants me dead.” 

She snorts, then looks at you with an unimpressed glint in her eyes.

“Missed another shot?” you ask, brow quirked. 

“Multiple,” Robin confirms. 

“It is just not your night, is it, Steve?”

Before the beleaguered man can answer, Robin cuts in, elbowing him. “It’s never his night. That’s basically his whole thing. He’s, like, the personification of a Monday.”

Steve snaps, “Okay, that’s enough outta you. Just take the damn shot.”  

A loud clack, then a muffled thump into leather, and Robin laughs manically. 

Eddie watches you lean over the table, passing the girl her drink. Inch by inch, your skirt rises the more you reach, and his head drops to the side, weighed down by curiosity. 

He thinks of the black panties you shimmied on before coming here. He watched you then, just like he watches you now. Watched the way you wiggled the flimsy fabric over your ass, how the material covered your freshly fucked cunt so delicately. 

The same black fabric peeks out from beneath the hem of your skirt, only now, there’s a wet splotch between your folds, and he knows exactly what soaked through.

You straighten up—too soon for his liking—but Eddie’s still staring. Still leering at that cursed skirt. It’s never done him any good—always hiding you away. Then again, maybe it’s done him a world of good. It’s been the catalyst to many a sweaty tryst, that’s for sure. But right now, it’s useless fabric obstructing his favorite view. 

In the back of his mind, he vaguely registers the bickering going on around him, the music blaring. But his focus is divided between the sight of your upper thighs and the stirring in his pants. 

He reaches down to adjust himself, then quickly remembers the beer in his hand. The condensation beading down the glass has seeped into his skin, pruning his fingers. He doesn’t remember why he’s even holding the thing to begin with. 

Setting the bottle on a nearby table, he shuffles closer to you. You’re talking to Steve, and he’s not quite sure what you’re saying, but he hears you choke on your words the moment he presses against you. There’s a hiss of breath that sounds like his name, but his mind goes blank as tingling pleasure prickles up his spine, almost a relief of pressure. Or the temptation of relief. 

The feeling is small, but it’s intoxicating. Even more than the alcohol in his bloodstream. Because now he’s drunk on you. On what could be if he just bent you over and—

You cough, clearing your throat as you take a step forward—right up to the Pool table. Eddie grunts, grabbing your hips and dragging you back against him, this time with a stronger, steadying grip. 

“No, that doesn’t count as a mulligan— Hey! Ed, what the hell are you doing?”

Steve’s question falls on deaf ears, and your elbow digging into his ribs does nothing to deter his mission. Because the heat is building. In his flushed cheeks, in his muscles. Even lower. Incendiary friction sparks something dizzying and all-consuming. 

“Dude, at least let her breathe. No need to hover—”

He’s laughing, but Eddie doesn’t think it’s funny. Not when you slip from his hold, yet again, now an arms-length away. Too far. 

Your palms are planted on the glossy, oak edge of the table as you huff out something that sounds like it would’ve been a chuckle if it hadn’t collapsed halfway up your throat. “Think he just gets weirdly clingy when he’s drunk. Don’t know why I’m the victim, though—”

There’s a sharpness to your tone. It’s dulled by his inebriated ears. Undeterred, he closes in on you. “You’re so pretty, baby.”

The words slip out easily. Your shocked reaction only makes Steve laugh harder. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re really three sheets to the wind, dude—” 

Eddie ignores him, but then watches as he turns to you.

 “Does he think you’re someone else?” 

The question makes Eddie’s chest rumble. As if you could be anyone else. As if he could want anyone else this badly—

Wrapping his arms around your rigid frame, he can feel your ribs expand on the breath you draw in. Before a response tumbles past your lips, he squeezes you. Quick and firm. It’s the only warning he can manage without ripping fabric or leaving teeth marks on your delicate skin.

Because he knows what you’d say. He’s starting to catch onto the lies. And he’s not in the mood to play pretend anymore.

“How many has he had?”

Robin’s voice sounds distant as Eddie finds himself beside you again—not far, this time, but shucked off all the same—monitored under your eagle eyed gaze. When she calls your name, stealing your attention for…something about going home or taking a home, he can’t find it in him to care. Not about Robin’s itch for theft or Steve’s quiet, regarding stare.

He can smell your perfume. It calls to him, whispers of heat and closeness. Of the subtle change in the chemical makeup when you begin to warm beneath him, when his sweat mixes with yours. The evil scent pulls him in until his nose is running along your neck. You don’t jump nearly as much as you have been. He’s breaking you down. All he has to do is persist.

You reach across your body, finding his chest and he almost giggles at the half-hearted shove you give. Like it’s just for show. Like you don’t really want him gone. Then your fingers curl around the flimsy material of his shirt and he’s certain you don’t want him gone. How could you push him away if you’ve got a hold on him? 

With a groan, he presses his straining length against the underside of your other wrist, your palm still planted firmly on the edge of the table. It’s a slow, focused grind; his knees nearly buckle. Pushing harder as his own hands slide down your arm, he keeps you in place.

“Fuck, Eddie, st—”

“Holy shit, he’s like a cat in heat,” Steve mutters, cutting you off in what Eddie deems a particularly grating tone. It does nothing to aid the coiling need he’s trying to sate. 

Tension bleeds from your muscles in a slow-burning drip as your form sways just the slightest bit in his direction. He can feel you fighting the urge to melt into him. He’s waiting. Patiently. As patiently as he can without compromising his own desires.

Then, your chin tips and you whisper a lackluster, “Eds, seriously, not here—” over your shoulder. 

“Okay, what the fuck, man.” 

A large hand lands on his bicep, pulling him away from you. His heartrate spikes. 

A calamitous anger rages inside, catching like a wildfire through his veins. It feels like integrity but tastes like possession.

Whipping around, he smacks the arm away, blindly knocking the culprit back. 

“Dude! Actually get the fuck off her—”

“Steve, it’s fine!”

Your sharp tone slices through the fog in his mind; it settles the devastation inside, canning it for another time. He stares at your back as you move between him and a very angry-looking Steve. Chest all puffed out, the ex-jock is the picture of chivalrous defense, and he can’t help but grin. 

If the good knight only knew the things you’ve let Eddie do to you…

“Yeah, Steve,” he drawls, his heavy-lidded gaze sliding from the incensed man to you, the one-woman garrison emboldened by altruism and bolstered by sweetness. He inches closer; a shadow encroaching on the light, a predator going in for the kill. “She said it’s fine.”

His palms hover over your skin, consuming and reveling in the heat. Up your arms, around your shoulders, and back, he maps out your body, admiring the winding curves he’s traversed many times before. The simmering rage of the man in front of you only encourages his quiet appreciation. 

Slowly, delicately, he leaves a chaste kiss where your neck meets your shoulder. 

You tremble, blinking like you mean to steel yourself. 

And his grin widens. “See? She likes it—”

Steve snaps into action, but Robin is quicker, throwing her arm out in front of him. At the same time, you grab Eddie’s wrist, yanking him after you. 

“That’s it, I’m taking you home.”

He lets you drag him away, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. Steve tries to ask if you’re sure and you only let out a clipped, “See you guys later,” in response.

Eddie can’t help but congratulate himself on yet another successful victory. You’re his. You’re choosing him, again. A room full of people and you’re taking him home. 

He somehow feels both stone-cold sober and wasted beyond belief, all from your fingers digging into his pulse. And the alcohol. There’s that, too. 

Weaving through meandering patrons, the exit sign comes into view. You’re talking, but he can’t hear you. The words float ahead, jostled and spliced by the whining guitar riff peeling from the surrounding speakers. He hears the anger, though. It doesn’t bother him.

Once the door closes behind him, the stuffy bar now in his rearview and the night air filling his lungs, he drops his weight back, no longer moving so willingly.

You grunt, but otherwise seem unfazed. Only tightening your grip and continuing your lecture—

“—at fault. I mean, seriously, we fucking agreed! It was mutual! We said we didn’t want the dynamic to change, then you down a few too many, and now all of a sudden, you’re measuring dicks with Steve. I mean, you might as well’ve just pissed on me—it was too fucking obv—”

Pebbles kick up beneath his skidding shoes as he finds his balance. 

“Oh, sure, make this harder than it has to be. You’re great at that—”

The last word catches in your throat as he pulls you the opposite way, back to the bar. You stumble, trying your best to resist, but he’s moving you easily.

“Eddie, what the fuck did I say? If you can’t behave, we’re leaving. We’re not going back— Agh—”

Pressed against the brick wall of the building, hidden in the alley beside it, your complaints fall to unintelligible nonsense as Eddie attacks your neck, lips ravaging any sliver of skin he can find. His body envelops yours, keeping you still with a force he can’t find it in him to tame, especially for the sake of propriety. Not now. Not after waiting so dreadfully long. 

“E-Eddie, slow d-down, Jesus—”

“Can’t,” he grunts, finding his way to your mouth, mumbling like a wanton man. “I need you, baby. Need you so fuckin’ bad—” His hips jut forward, searching for reprieve from the miserable strain of his jeans. 

When your back arches, he sinks his talons in, blunt nails biting and fingers digging as he clings onto you. Because in this moment, you’re the only thing keeping him from falling off the face of the earth; he feels it racing beneath his feet. Your eyes on his, the taste of your lips—it slows everything down. 

“Shit, you’re so pretty. So, so pretty—” 

Every word is mindless, slurred, but true. Inhibition has long-since died a silent, restful death inside him, buried somewhere low, near the hearth that never stops burning for you. 

His hands grope and grab at anything they can reach—your ass, your thighs, your arms, your breasts. Anything. All of it keeps him here for one second more. Grounded in your softness. Steady on your terrain. 

“Eds, we—we have to go,” you gasp, pliant beneath his roving touch. He closes the gap, tongue tangling with yours in a sloppy, searing kiss that makes his mind whir and his ears fill with a fizzing sound.

“Nuh-unh, wanna stay,” he pants, nipping at your pulse point, feeling your blood rush. “Wanna stay with you.”

His hands slip beneath your skirt as you hold onto his shoulders. You give a weak push when his fingers pull at the gusset of your panties, but it’s not nearly enough to deter him. 

“We can’t st—ay, fuck— You’re drunk, Eddie. I don’t even know how you’re hard right now.”

He hums, straightening to his full height and pressing you harder against the wall. His breath comes fast; he can’t seem to catch it as he watches you. 

How is it not obvious?

“‘S you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your temple. “‘S all you. Makin’ me burn…. Makin’ me want you so damn bad it hurts.” 

You swallow, lashes fluttering as you lean into his gentle touch. “I’m sorry I hurt you…but we can’t do this. Not he—”

“You don’t want me?” His voice is brittle. Breaking. 

A night full of small rejections comes to a head as the weight of your words—sincerity and conviction threaded through every syllable—crashes into him, a frenzied tidal wave leaving wreckage in its wake. 

He only manages to retreat half a step before you’re pulling him back, arms wrapping around his neck. 

“I do want you,” you rush, pressing imploring kisses onto his rosy cheeks, tiny promises sealed with sticky lipgloss. “I always want you.”

His vision blurs as he peers down, frizzy curls hanging low in his eyeline. Confusion is a bitter thing as he finds the hem of your skirt. There’s mercy in the feeling of the grooved stitch beneath the rough pads of his fingers. 

“Even now?” he asks, low and timid for the first time tonight. 

Your arms release him, trailing down the sinewy plane of his chest. You lift his shirt only an inch—just enough for your nails to find his flushed skin, enough to feel him twitch as you explore so freely. 

“Always.”

He pauses, searching for something in your gaze. Or, maybe something in the silence. And it’s the silence that answers. 

With a hurried breath, he tears at your panties. It’s a quick, controlled rip, and he stuffs the fabric into his back pocket. 

You gasp, but he drops before you get the chance to scold him. His jeans do little to mitigate the sting of gravel as his knees hit the ground. He hikes your thigh over his shoulder, disappearing under your skirt. 

“Ed— Oh, God!”

His face drags through your folds, nose catching on your clit as his tongue sinks into you, plunging as deep as it’ll go. But the thundering ecstasy of finally tasting you—and himself—is cut short when you tug at his hair with a force far too sharp to be pleasurable. He groans, missing your heat as you haul him up to his feet. 

“Eddie! We can’t do that here,” you bite out, glancing behind him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

The worry in your brow catches on something inside him, and if he had the right words, he’d make it go away. But there are no right words, only burrowing panic and gnawing desire so deep, it’s almost torture.

“Please, baby, I’ll be good,” he pants, pawing restlessly at your body. “I swear to God, I’ll be good. Just— Just let me— Ah, Jesus!” His forehead falls to your shoulder and he hangs onto you, a firm grip on your ass as he pulls you into him. The movement is meant to alleviate, to save his sanity, but all it does is remind him of your denial, of the space he can’t close, and the release he can’t reach.

Your fingers begin to soothe his scalp. He matches his breathing to yours; in and out, in and out, in and out. 

Curious and tender, you mutter, “It’s really that bad?” 

He shakes his head, lifting it to meet your concerned gaze. 

You don’t understand. You can’t possibly know what it feels like. This dull ache. Persistent, like a gnat in his ear, it’s been with him all night, made worse by you. Your perfume, your soft touch, the glimmer in your eyes. The distance, the act, the canyon between words and truth. 

It’s all a great pain. An infection that’s been festering for hours. You have the medicine and you won’t give it to him.

His voice cracks, “So bad. I’m achin’ for you, can’t you feel it?” His hips jerk forward as he waits for your response, but the silence is too loud. He can’t stand it. 

“You’re just so pretty…” Dazed, his eyes rove over your wrinkled top, fabric askew and showing more skin than you started the night showing. “‘N so soft.” Ducking closer, he rumbles out a drawling, “Mm, you smell so good.”

Again, you look behind him, somewhere just over his right shoulder and he sways, chasing your gaze. 

“And you can’t wait ten minutes to get to your apartment?” you ask, eyes narrowed. 

He sags against you, a whine crawling up from deep within his throat. “No…. No more. I’ve been waiting all night. I can’t— I—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I hear you. Just— Hey, Eds, look at me—”

Your palms cradle his head and he can smell the lavender hand soap he put in his apartment just for you.

“Be quick,” you whisper, tipping your chin to hold his attention.

He perks up, swallowing harshly as he stares at you, trying to decode the two simple words. But you might as well have spoken another language because his mind is running circles around the meaning, never through. 

“Hey—” Your eyes dart downward, stall there, then you close the distance. 

It’s messy and wet and he can still taste you on his tongue—smell you smeared on his skin—but you don’t seem to mind as you deepen the kiss, your mouth parting around a moan. It’s over too soon, though. 

A delicate string of spit connects him to you as you pull back.  “Take what you need, ba—”

He’s moving before you even finish the endearment, hands racing across your body, tugging at fabric, kneading skin—anything he can touch. His jacket is around your shoulders in no time, protecting you from the rough brick. The cuffs on his belt clang as he unfastens the homemade contraption, the button of his jeans next.

“Oh, thank you, baby,” he breathes into your mouth, using his full weight to trap you against the wall. “Thank you, thank you—shit! You’re so good to me,” he whimpers, bucking his hips as he frees his length, wrapping a hand around the base until it throbs beneath his unyielding grip. “So fuckin’ good to me. Wanna be good to you, too.”

He fumbles a bit, struggling to move while still trying to maintain every point of contact he can. Once he manages to pick up your thigh, hitching it onto his hip, he guides the blunt tip of his cock through your slick folds. A soft mewl escapes you and the sound only makes him twitch, a stream of sticky precum dribbling from his slit. 

“Wanna be inside you. God, I always wanna be inside you—”

Your voice cuts him off, strained with a familiar need as your forehead falls to his. “Please, Eddie— Please just fuck me already, I can’t—”

His body responds before his mind even registers the plea, jerking forward until he’s buried deep inside you. A resounding groan echoes through the empty alleyway, drowning out your shrill cry. Though, you have enough sense to slam a hand over your open mouth, muffling the lewd noise

He, however, is too drunk to care. Drunk on the alcohol humming in his bloodstream. Drunk on the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight, he could count your heart rate just from the pulse of your pussy alone. 

“Ohh, my—fuck! Jesus, fuck—you’re tryin’ to kill me, you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he babbles incessantly, squirming from the pressure. 

Your hand drops to his shoulder, holding onto him so tightly, your fingers pinch. “E—ddie, shh—ah!” 

Torturously slow, he pulls out. Your cunt clings to him, contracting—almost a proper plea to stay—and yet, you seem to revel in the drag of his length. He knows you feel it. The thrum of his veins, the curve that stretches you, the thick ridge that catches on your entrance. 

With just the tip inside, he shudders, his head hanging as he stares downward. The bright neon sign on the corner of the building beams, making his cock shine with your arousal.

He pauses. 

Then, his hips snap forward, marking the start of a suffocating rhythm as he forces the breath from your body with every thrust. He moves wildly, a frenzied pace with one intention, and one intention only. 

“Oh, God, oh, shit, baby! You feel s’good.… Takin’ such good care o’ me—thank you! Thank you— S’sweet to me—” he pants, slipping a large, heavy hand behind your neck until your gaze drops, joining him as he watches himself disappear inside of you. “Ah, look at that— Mmm, so pretty when you’re full o’ me.” 

The wiry hair at the base of his shaft begins to stick to his skin, weighed down by the mess he’s making out of you. Glimmering slick forming a milky ring, droplets splashing from the strength of his thrusts. A giddy chuckle rumbles through his chest, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he admires just how wet you are. How wet he makes you.

The sound of his leather jacket scratching against the brick fills his ears as he falls against you, muscles straining. Your eyelids droop low, but your gaze hasn’t moved from where he’s fucking into you. His mouth finds yours, lips gliding as he hungrily swallows your every moan. 

Sweat beads at his hairline, and his nails sink into your thigh, drawing you impossibly closer. Because he needs more. He needs all of you. Your walls are pried apart by his thick length and it’s still not enough. 

He lets go of your neck, pushing two fingers into your mouth. “Suck.”

His breath turns ragged and you finally look at him, your eyes dark and glossy as your lips reach his knuckles, your cheeks hollowing out in that way that always makes his knees buckle. His hips jerk, rhythm shifting at the memory.

He can feel the flames spreading, overtaking the hearth, but he’s not ready yet. He’s not done with you. 

His fingers fall from between your lips as he reaches below, pressing tight circles into your clit. You choke on your breath and the sharp sound makes him grin.

“Yeah, there you go, sweetheart. Fuck—you’re so tight! Squeezin’ the life outta me— God, I know you wan’ it—cum for me. Soak my fucking cock,” he grits out, watching your eyes roll with rapt attention. “Mark me, baby, drown me—”

“F-Fu— Eddie!” 

Your back arches and you go rigid; he knows you’re on the very edge. He knows you. He knows the exact high your voice reaches before you come undone, and even though you’re trying not to, he knows you’re losing yourself.

“Give it to me,” he drawls, practically purring at you. “Give in, baby. Please, I know you need it—”

“Shh, shh, we have to—b—e quiet! You have t—o keep it d— Oh, God!”

Your cunt clenches around him, tighter than he can handle after suffering from your denial for so long. You're moving against him now, convulsing and chasing after the pleasure like an ebbing wave. His body starts to curl inward, but he tries his best to keep a good enough pace. Your moans ring in his ear as he drives into you, shivering at the obscenely wet sounds.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! F-Feels so— God, ‘m g-gonna fill you up, baby. Hm? You wan’ it? Wanna feel full o’ me? Wanna hold it for me? You’re always so good at it—”

His breathless words seem to have no effect on you as you settle limply, held up by his frame and the wall at your back. You give no indication that you heard him, there’s only the flutter of your lashes and the lull of your head against the brick. His palm presses against your neck, just enough to keep you still, to hold your far-out gaze. 

“You listenin’? Hm?” he pants, landing a firm kiss on your slackened mouth. “Y’gonna empty my balls for me, baby? Know you love to feel me drippin’ outta you.”

Your cunt responds with a weak pulse. He chuckles, only to be cut off by his own sputtering groan as a particularly deep stroke shoots right through him. You whimper, and he knows he’s the only thing keeping you from buckling to the ground as your arms struggle to wrap around him.

“E-Eddie…”

Static buzzes in his mind as you mewl, soft gasps hiccuping in time with his pounding thrusts. His hand drops low, splaying just beneath your navel. Then, he presses, relishing the catch in your breath. 

“Ah, there I am,” he mutters, going dizzy at the feeling of his cock-head nudging his palm. “Here, right? Y’gonna keep me here, baby?”

You nod, letting out a frail, broken sound that tells him all he needs to hear. You want it. Need it, even.

His eyes roll, balls pulling taut as his rhythm falters. “Oh, f-fuck! Jesus Christ, you’re made f’me—you are,” he grunts, nosing against your neck. “Fit together so nicely. Hmm, made f’me, made to be full o’ me—”

Your face crumbles as you clench around him once more, another orgasm rolling in, quiet as a tide, and this time it’s softer. He can still feel you shake, but there’s a dragging sense of freedom. Of letting go.

And you drag him with you. Under the tide. Under the surface where everything sounds fuzzy and he feels weightless. 

“Jesus—fuck! Ah, shit!”

He gives one final, deep thrust, burying himself inside your heat as he spills into you. Waves of pleasure crash through him, so overwhelming, his hips stall. He shivers, almost violently, and his words tumble out, barely loud enough to be a whisper. “God, baby, thank you. T-Thank you. Shit—you’re so good to me.” 

He stays like that—arms wrapped around you, your fingers in his hair—for a while. It’s only when you shift, repositioning yourself against the wall, that he picks his head up. Indulging himself in your gentle kiss. His languid lips speak a sweetness far greater than his words could manage at the moment.

“I feel better now,” he mumbles, letting himself explore along your jaw, lazy and sated, but needing to taste you all the same. 

“Yeah, I bet,” you snort, tucking his hair behind his ear, then twisting a damp curl around your finger. 

With much reluctance, he finally pulls out, both of you wincing at the loss. He fixes himself quietly, buttoning his pants again and hiding his smile as he notices you squirm. You adjust his jacket over your shoulders and smooth your skirt. His eyes follow the movement and all he can think about is how much he wishes he could just sit on the ground beneath you and watch himself leak out of your pretty pussy. 

But then you clear your throat, motioning to the end of the alley and he offers his arm. You smirk, shaking your head as you accept his offer. As he passes under the neon sign that says, “Bar,” he stares at the entrance to the building.

“Mm, I wan’ a beer,” he hums wistfully, starting to veer off course.

“Unh-unh!” Both of your hands circle his bicep, yanking him back. “No, we’re leaving. I’m taking you home.”

“But—”

“No ‘but’s.” You continue to drag him further away from the bar, heading toward his van. “You’re going home, then you’re going to sleep. And tomorrow, you’re gonna call up Steve and apologize for trying to fight him.”

Eddie’s face twists up, a sharp scoff falling from his lips. “‘M not apologizing. He was trying to touch you—”

“No,” you utter pointedly, digging into his back pocket—ignoring his quiet, “Hey, buy me dinner first”—and pulling out his keys. “He was not, that was you. He was trying to stop you because he thought you were being a perv.”

“I was being a perv,” he grins, watching you unlock the van. You shove him into the passenger side and he gracefully complies, settling in a haphazard huff. His eyes follow you through the windshield as you speedwalk around to the driver side door, which he reaches across the console to open for you. 

“An unwelcome perv,” you amend, climbing into the seat. You check the mirrors first, then turn the key in the ignition. Eddie sighs contentedly as the van rumbles to life, the tape he mixed for you already filtering through the stereo. 

He leans close, looming over you. With exaggerated slowness—a test, a toeing of boundaries—he drags two fingers up your thigh, beneath your skirt, until he feels the sticky combination of his cum and your slick smeared against your skin. “Knew you liked it,” he purrs lowly, sucking the digits clean. 

Your breath comes quicker and shakier as you give him a sidelong glance. “You’re disgusting.”

His grin stretches into something wolfish, something predatory and ostensibly clear-headed, despite the glossy look in his eyes and the sway in his body. Quickly, he makes another swipe between your legs, this time relishing the hitch in your throat as he grazes your warm, puffy folds. He shrugs, admiring the milky gleam on his fingers before taking them into his mouth once more. “Chef’s gotta taste his own food.”

With that, your trembling hand lands on the gear shift and the van jolts into reverse. 

A/ N: Guys, is this anything? Let me know🧎‍♂️It’s been in the drafts since October🥀  Also, it's the one year anniversary of me writing fics :) One year ago (almost to the day), I posted this rambling drabble. Since then, my work has improved so much, and I’ve gotten to talk to so many of you about your Eddie thoughts which is all I ever wanted from this.  Thank you for reading my silly, not-so-little ramblings. Thank you for making this an enjoyable space to create in. Thank you for always showing up to my ‘Is anyone interested in…’ posts with 110% enthusiasm. And thank you for talking to me about my writing. I think that’s what I appreciate the most—how much I get to connect with y’all over what I’ve worked so hard on. I love reading your reactions to my fics, I cherish them so deeply. I’m also glad you feel comfortable with me and enjoy my writing enough to want to hear my thoughts on your Eddie ideas. I love this space and I’m glad you guys are always down for a little chitty-chat.  Thank you for sticking around and taking an interest in my work and especially me as a person <3 Love you guys <3

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