A boring b

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

The villain’s secret layer looks a lot nicer than he would’ve expected though. In fact, you can hardly call an apartment a ‘secret layer’, especially when everything is…unberably girly. Like an unicorn puked all over this living room.

His head snaps in your direction when you finally move, standing so incredibly still that even he couldn’t tell you were there at first. Inevitably, a groan escapes him. “Oh, man! You’re a girl?” he asks, disappointment obvious in his voice. “I can’t be sworn enemies with a girl!”

You eye him curiously after what he says, a soft smile adorning your lips. “Sworn enemies?”

“Well…yeah. You know how it is, right? Every superhero has their supervillain– and I mean, like, no offense, but you’re not exactly what I was expecting.” Then, you notice he tilts his head to the side, really taking a look at you. The pink dress, the heart pendant hanging from your neck, the incredibly gentle look in your eyes… “Wait– are you even a supervillain?”

That question makes you giggle, stepping even closer to him. “What? Absolutely not, silly! Why would I be a supervillain?”

“Uh, because you have me kidnapped in your apartment?”

“No, this isn’t me kidnapping you,” you snap almost immediately, hating how that sounds. “I just– I had to take a few safety measures in order for us to talk properly, that’s all.” That soft smile from before returns to your lips as you walk closer to the couch of your living room, taking a seat next to him. “I’m a huge fan, actually.”

He’s immediately surprised by that, watching as you lean into his personal space with a smile that, although sweet, holds some serious intensity that immediately alerts him not to let his guard down so quickly. No matter how adorable you look, there’s something almost dangerous about you.

“You’re a…fan?”

“Yes!” you reply excitedly, but your smile drops when you don’t sense the same excitement directed back at you. It shatters your heart in a million pieces almost immediately. “I guess you don’t remember me. A few months ago? Well, one and half, to be exact– or fourty-three days it we’re being extra extra exact. It was late at night and I was getting back home from work, and these two guys came up to me from behind–”

“Oh, that's right! You let me keep that Hello Kitty pepper spray you had in your purse. I totally remember now! So, uh…how have you been?”

“A bit sad, actually,” you reply with a pout, inching just a little closer to him. “You know, I wasn't able to tell you how grateful I was that you saved my life.” Pausing briefly, you run a finger down the side of his mask, all the way to his jaw as he simply looks back at you. “You're my hero. I just thought you needed to know just how much I appreciate you.”

“So that’s why you kidnapped me?”

He can see your expression changing from one second to the other, which is both impressive and terrifying. “I didn’t kidnap you. I just want to talk, okay? I’m not a creep.”

“Okay, alright. I’m sorry. In that case, you could’ve just said hi or something. I mean, I don’t want to question your methods– who am I to judge, right? But I think keeping me tied up is a little excessive.”

“Well, I didn't know if you'd even want to talk to me, so I had to make sure you’d listen. I mean, you're Evergreen’s savior and I’m just…I’m nobody. Why would you want to talk to me?”

“Trust me. I think if you came up to me I’d definitely be listening to absolutely anything you had to say. This is probably the longest conversation I’ve had with a chick as hot as you, actually.”

You can't help but smile wider at that, moving even closer as you shamelessly take a seat on his lap, arms wrapped around his neck. “Do you really think I'm hot?” you ask in a sweet voice, looking back at him with heart eyes.

He wasn't expecting you to sit on his lap, looking a bit disoriented all over again as he's barely able to nod. “I– well, I mean…”

Placing a hand on the side of his face again, you immediately decide to continue. “It’s nice that you think I’m hot, because I think you’re very hot too.” The proximity between you almost makes your head spin, letting out a nervous giggle. “I’m really sorry about the restraint, by the way, but I couldn’t risk you trying to get away when all I want is to tell you how much I appreciate you for saving my life. And…you know, this shouldn't even be said at this point, but just in case, I’m not keeping you here to hurt you or anything. I would never dare to hurt you. You're so precious. All I want is for you to be safe and happy– with me.”

Any other person would probably be panicking right now if they had their hands tied behind their back in some random woman’s apartment, watching her become scaringly intense for some weird reason. But that's not Adrian. If anything, he seems to be oddly into it. How is he ever going to reject the affections of a gorgeous woman? He's not that dumb. Besides, how much harm can you cause when you look like a character from the Barbie movie? 

You take his silence as an advantage to continue. “You know, I think you and I met for a reason. You were meant to save me that night, and if you didn't, I think our paths would've crossed anyway because we're destined for each other, don't you think?”

He hesitates for a second, fully aware of the sheer intensity in your voice that, although incredibly admirable, it's just slightly too much. Even for a passionate guy such as himself. “Sure,” he eventually offers, shrugging lightly.

Any hint of potential discomfort or uncertainty goes completely unnoticed, your brain only registering the fact that he's agreeing with you– that he also thinks the two of you are meant to be together forever. Feeling more giddy than ever, you pull him in for a hug, savoring the feeling of having him so close to you. Every single effort you've made has led you to this moment. To finally be able to be with him and express your gratitude and affection for the man who saved you thirty-three days ago. 

Countless nights you've spent following him around, him completely unaware of your constant presence. At first you weren't sure if you should even approach him or not. What if you got so nervous that you just wouldn't be able to speak a single word? You couldn't live with the thought of embarrassing yourself in front of him.

Everything about your inevitable reunion had to be perfect, so you calculated everything. You know this man so well already, you knew exactly how you would do it. The right moment to sneak up behind him. The right dose to knock him unconscious to give you enough time to drag him back to your car and safely tie him up. The excuse you'd give your boss to skip a few shifts at work this week until he settles down to your life together. 

There's even a plan that, although still in the making, seems good enough to stop his stupid friends from intervening if they decide to piss you off enough to do something about it– especially that dumb blonde bitch that he hangs out with so much.

No one can disturb your time with him. You'll make sure of it.

When you move back from the hug, your eyes scan the mask, almost as if you could actually see the man underneath. “Can I take the mask off?” you ask sweetly, tightening your hold around his neck just enough.

“I– I mean…I have a secret identity for a reason,” he replies, a bit nervous. It's not like he'll be able to prevent you from taking it off anyway if you're not satisfied with his answer. “You know, if so many people find out who I am, then…it's not really secret anymore.”

“But I would never reveal who you are to anyone,” you insist, frowning just enough at that accusation. 

“I’m not saying that you would!” he says immediately after, noticing the slight shift in your demeanor. Holy shit, you're terrifying for someone who looks so harmless and cute! “I’m just saying that maybe some can, you know, torture you or something to get that information.”

“Well, they'll have to kill me before getting anything out of me,” you shrug casually, still not understanding the issue. “I would never betray you, baby– and besides, if I was in that situation, I’m sure you'll come rescue me.”

“Yeah, no…right. Sure. I just–”

“Ugh. Fine!” you snap, interrupting him as you stand up from his lap. It's irritating, but you let it be for now. It's not like you haven't seen his face countless times already anyway. Soon enough he'll give in. He just needs more time. “I won't remove the mask, but…” your voice trails off playfully, offering him an innocent smile as you get down on your knees before him, “you have to let me show you how grateful I am to you for saving my life.”

He’s completely frozen in his seat. Not like he has much room to move anyway, but you can just tell his body goes rigid at the implication of what you're about to do. 

“W-What do you mean?”

That only makes you smile wider, leaning closer until you're resting both hands on his thighs, noticing the way his breath gets caught in his throat almost immediately. 

“I think you know exactly what I mean,” you reply, fingers trailing further up his thighs, inching impossibly closer to where you ache to touch him. You realize he's starting to give in, judging by the way his hips thrust up just enough, his body starting to beg for more attention. 

“No, I actually…I have no idea what you mean! That's why I–”

“I want to personally thank you for all you've done for me and our city, that's all.” 

When you do finally touch him, it's like an act of mercy. His hips thrust up, seeking more friction from your hand as you palm him over his pants. The breathy sound that erupts from him already has you clenching around an intolerable void that only grows more and more uncomfortable as you continue pressing your palm against him.

Leaning forward, you press your cheek against his thigh, almost hypnotized by his crotch as you feel his erection growing underneath your hand. His sounds only become more frequent and urgent, hoping you'd do more than just this.

“Wouldn't you just love to feel my mouth on you?” you whisper, voice so casual he has to take a second to take in your words, because it doesn't sound like someone who's talking about sucking his dick right now. 

“W-What? Oh…that's– holy fucking shit, that sounds just…perfect.”

You look up at him through your eyelashes, as if you have absolutely no idea what you're doing to him right now. “Yeah? You'd like that?”

“Would I– would I like that?” he asks in disbelief, feeling like he might actually combust right there and then just because you're looking up at him in such an innocent way. “I would beg you on my hands and knees right now if I could. You're so– wait, you are going to suck my dick, right? Because if you're just going to leave me here with nothing, I– I might actually kill myself.”

His breathless ramble makes you inevitably giggle, almost in awe at how worked up he's getting already. “I’d do absolutely anything for you. Unless…you want me to do whatever I want to you?”

That question makes him moan out loud, hips pathetically trying to achieve more friction as he curses under his breath. That's probably the most perfect answer he could've given you. 

Your beloved superhero seems to enjoy being at your mercy a little too much.

He lets out an audible sound of relief when you finally do more than just touching him, hands working on getting rid of the barriers of clothing separating your skin from his. Sliding his pants just enough, you're met with the heavenly sight of his cock– hard, swollen, precum smeared on the tip. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out as soon as your hand wraps around him. From the base to the very tip before you slide your hand down the length of him again, starting to stroke him at a controlled pace.

You look up at him as soon as he starts to thrust up into your hand. “Stay still,” you warn him with a little smirk, squeezing his cock just a little tighter as if to emphasize your words.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sounding like he's barely keeping it together. “It's a bit difficult not to…it feels so fucking good.” A deep groan escapes him when you tease his tip with your thumb, his body betraying him as he inevitably squirms under your touch again. “Shit. I’m sorry…I’m so sorry– I’m really trying.”

Your other hand rests on his thigh, nails digging onto his skin. “Try a little harder then.”

“Y–yes. I’ll try. I'm sorry. I’ll– oh my God!”

His head snaps back in pure ecstasy when he finally feels your mouth on him, the muscles on his thighs and lower abdomen tightening as soon as you dare to lick up his shaft, the saltiness invading your mouth and completely numbing your senses, making you ache for more.

The flat of your tongue meets his skin again a few times before you provide much needed attention to his tip, swirling your tongue around the head while you inevitably moan against him, the sound and vibration making him almost shiver.

He looks down at you, completely in awe of the way you taste him so eagerly, almost like you’re worshiping his cock. You wrap your lips around his leaking tip, using your hand to stoke him so not a single inch goes unattended. Before he can prepare himself, you take him inside your mouth until you’re completely full of him, and he can practically feel himself pressing against the back of your throat. 

When you take him out of your mouth just enough, you sink back in with a determination that has him on the verge of collapse. “Don't stop, please,” he urges you, barely able to control himself from thrusting into your mouth because he knows he's not allowed to do that. He has the urge to tangle his fingers in your hair, but he quickly remembers that his hands are tied behind his back. Painfully defenseless. Entirely at your mercy. 

There's something incredibly exciting about that, and it makes the pleasure coursing through his veins multiply by the trillion. 

The muscles on his lower abdomen tighten even more, eyes glued to you as you bob your head up and down, giving him probably one (if not the best) blowjob of his entire life. It's messy and eager, a sense of pure devotion in each and every one of your moves, and it clouds his mind and prevents him from forming any sort of rational thought.

“I think I’m gonna– if you keep this up…”

The warning is adorable. As if there's anything that would make you want to move away now. If anything, the announcement of his imminent orgasm only fuels your determination even more. By the time he's hitting the back of your throat again, he’s unable to hold it back any longer, filling your mouth with his warm and sticky cum as a broken moan leaves his lips. Breath uneven, head slightly tilted to the side as he watches you, legs trembling just enough with the aftermath.

You’re inevitably moaning around him when he cums so intensely into your mouth, swallowing dutifully until there's nothing more he can give you. “Holy shit, you're amazing,” he mutters, still very much trying to recover. “That was– get over here. Sit on my lap again.” As if suddenly realizing how demanding his voice sounded just now, he immediately tries to correct that statement. “I mean, please. You know, I tried harder like you said...please.”

The fact he's trying to almost negotiate with you for a reward is the cutest thing ever, not to mention that it’s incredibly hot the way he just repeatedly grants you full control over the situation. He has no issue asking and hoping that you are merciful enough to hear him out– perhaps you can get him to beg for something if you refuse to give in long enough.

But right now you don't refuse, wiping your mouth with one of your hands before getting back on your feet, only to sit on his lap like he requested. “What is it, honey?” you ask as soon as you're sitting comfortably on top of him. 

“Uh, you can…like, maybe remove the mask if you want,” he mutters, hesitation still evident in his voice, but there's also something else in the way he speaks. Is it longing? You don’t know what it is exactly, but it works to send a shiver down your spine.

“But what about your secret identity?”

He stays quiet for a few seconds, trying to find it in him to care about that at this point. “Whatever, I'll live. I just really want to kiss you right now.”

The sheer desperation in his voice makes you shiver yet again, a sense of accomplishment overpowering your sense because he’s willingly revealing who he is to you. Again, not like you haven’t seen his face and know his full name already, but there’s something incredibly special about the fact that he’s okay sharing that with you. It means he trusts you, just as much as you trust him.

This is just further proof that you’re meant to be together. Your plan is working without even having to do much– he sees it too, without having to help him understand!

When you remove his mask, you’re met with the most adorable little smile ever, almost shy, as if you didn’t just have his dick in your mouth mere minutes ago. You’re not quite sure if you like the way he’s looking at you as if you’re a complete stranger, but you don’t dwell too much on it, because just like him, you’re also desperate to kiss him. Your hands rest at each side of his face as you lean down closer, until your lips press against him and you feel like all your time planning out this moment was so worth it.

He makes a faint sound against your mouth, partially because he’s enjoying kissing you, partially because he’s once again reminded he’s tied up when he tries to reach out to touch you. “This is…uh, it’s not like I don’t like the ropes…” he mutters against your lips, words slipping in a rushed manner so he could go back to kiss you as soon as possible. “Like, it’s actually kinda hot that I can’t move, but…can’t you just untie me for like two seconds?”

You move back enough to look at him, gently tracing his cheek with your fingers as he immediately leans into your touch, because he’s so desperate for more contact that he’s not going to deprive himself of any single chance of feeling you near him. 

“I can’t do that, baby. I’m sorry,” you offer him sweetly, lightly shaking your head. “That’s not how this works.”

“So, you’re– shit, you’re really into the bondage thing. Okay. That actually makes you even hotter. Uh…okay, then just– come here…”

He leans in, eager to kiss you again. His desperation awakens something in you, crashing his mouth against his as he lets out a low groan when your tongue slips past his lips. Now, you devour his mouth with a hunger that’s been building up for months, ever since you first laid eyes on him. 

Another sound escapes him when he feels your fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the way he writhes underneath you. Your other hand travels down his body, smirking against his lips when your hand wraps around his length again, realizing he’s starting to get hard once more.

Your hand moves up and down in a slow rhythm, eliciting more sounds from him that only grow louder and clearer when you trail your lips down to his jaw, quickly moving further down to press kisses to his neck now. 

“God, you’re amazing,” he whispers, leaning his head back to grant you better access to his neck. “I don’t– what did I even do to deserve this?”

“I told you already,” you reply. “You’re my hero. This is my way of thanking you.”

“In that case, I guess I’ll have to keep saving you,” he comments, making you giggle. “Keep getting in trouble all you want, just– you know, not too much trouble. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Ever. You’re too…fuck– you’re too perfect to get hurt.”

“You’re so sweet,” you reply softly, unable to resist the urge to sink your teeth onto his neck, earning a full blown whimper from him. “And since we’re talking about it…I don’t think I’ve fully expressed my gratitude to you just yet.” Moving back, you lock eyes with him as he looks up at you expectantly. “There’s more I want to give you.”

“Anything,” he nods immediately. “Do whatever. Please. You can do whatever you want to me, I don’t care– I should be thanking you.”

He makes you laugh yet again, and you allow yourself a few seconds to look at him adoringly, poking his cheek. “You’re really funny.” As you’re looking at him, taking note of just how handsome he is, your smile drops just a little when you suddenly remember something. “Oh! I’m sorry– do you need your glasses?”

That question makes him immediately frown. “Wait, how do you–”

You completely ignore his immediate confusion as you stand up from his lap, walking towards the coffee table before you move closer to him again, smiling brightly as you put them on. “There you go! I found them when I took all your weapons away.” And then you laugh, like it’s just a funny anecdote that happened while he was unconscious.

“Oh.” That seems to make sense in his head, explaining why you suddenly know that he wears glasses. You hold back another laugh, because it’s actually entertaining to think he has absolutely no idea that you’ve seen him retrieve his glasses from a hidden pocket in his suit plenty of times. You’ve seen him take it off enough times to know exactly how the whole process goes. It’s one of your favorite things ever– being able to watch him through his window as he takes the suit off when he gets back home from his nightly patrols around the city.

The whole situation with the glasses is completely forgotten when you kiss him again, his mouth immediately moving against yours while you sneak your hands underneath your dress, sliding your panties down your legs before you find comfort on his lap again.

“Oh, shit– fuck, yes,” he whispers eagerly, looking up at you with pleading eyes. Knees pressed to the couch at each of him, you reach between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. “Yes, yes, yes, yes…holy fucking shit!”

Your moan mixes in the air with his whimper of pure relief when you finally sink your hips low, taking every inch of him at such a painfully slow pace, he feels like he might actually cry trying to remind himself not to thrust up into you.

When he finally bottoms out, you allow the two of you a few seconds to savor the feeling of him just being impossibly deep before you start to move, rocking your hips in a way that has the two of you gasping for air.

Pressing your hands to his shoulders, you start to ride him harder, completely overpowered by need. He searches for your mouth and you quickly comply, your tongue meeting his almost immediately.

You only move back when you feel him lift his hips off the couch, driving his cock even deeper inside you. “Stay still, baby.”

Despite your warning, he can't help the smirk that appears on his lips when one of your hands wraps around his neck, pushing him back onto the couch. “I can't…I want to, but I– you're so pretty.” His words make you tighten your grip around his neck almost immediately, earning a satisfied groan from him. “I can't get enough of you.”

“I’ll stop if you–”

“No, no. Don't stop.” He looks immediately panicked, sounding more breathless now that you're applying pressure on his neck. “Please, don't stop.”

“Then stay still.”

“Okay, okay! Sorry.”

Despite wanting to teach him a lesson, you couldn't bring yourself to slow down even if you wanted to. Not when you feel like each roll of your hips might be the one that finally makes you come undone on top of him.

Needing more support, you fully wrap your arms around him and lean into his body, immediately noticing how he takes that opportunity to press kisses against every inch of skin that he can reach.

“Keep moving…shit, just like that.” His breathless whisper makes you increase the speed of your hips, as if hearing his desperate voice is the only thing you need to fully collapse. “I don't think you're only going to see me when you need saving– I’ll keep coming back, just so I can fuck you in every single corner of this apartment.”

His words make your head spin, inevitably clenching around him as you hug him even tighter. “You can have me anywhere,” you whisper back, almost crying out loud because he just feels too good to handle. “Whenever, however…I’m yours.”

“That's so– you're so hot…”

You move back enough to look at him, fingers gripping his hair to force him to look back at you again. “Tell me you're mine.”

It's not a request, but more of a command. He really seems to like the more bossy side of you, nodding almost immediately after your words. “I'm all yours, yes! No one could ever feel– oh my god, you're so fucking tight– no one could ever feel like this.”

His words really do numbers on you, pulling at his hair as you hide your face in his neck, feeling like your body is going to collapse any second now. “Oh, Adrian, you feel so fucking good...” 

His name falls from your lips before you can register it, too light headed and desperate to even realize it. “How do you– nevermind. Say my name like that again, please.”

And you do, his name repeating over and over in the form of needy whispers before your orgasm hits you, your walls squeezing him impossibly tight as your movements falter. Not even a second later, you feel him let out a moan that sounds almost painful as he's spilling inside you, and you let him thrust up into you because there's something undeniably sexy in the way he desperately tries to fuck his cum into you with messy thrusts until he's done coating your walls with his release.

You hold onto him for a few seconds to recover, arms still loosely wrapped around his neck as you try to catch your breath. Butterflies erupt in your stomach when you feel his lips pressing soft kisses on your face, a silent form of appreciation from his part.

“I think I'm in love with you,” he mutters, sounding almost in disbelief at just how good this was. 

That comment should be taken as a joke, but your brain doesn't work like that. To you, it's not a joke. It's fate. You're his, and he's yours. Even if he’s trying to joke about it now, he can't escape the inevitable.

“I love you too.” You couldn't be more certain about it, and if you weren't still in cloud nice from your orgasm, you might've reacted negatively after hearing the way he chuckles. He genuinely thinks you're just joking, but it's fine. For now. Soon enough he'll realize just how strong your bond is.

A brief silence follows before you hear him speak again. “So, uh…are you going to untie me, or…”

“I want you to say no,” he says softly. “Just once. I want you to look at me and mean it. Because if you don’t … I’m going to forget to keep pretending you don’t already belong to me.”

And then he kisses you. It’s not messy. It’s measured. Intentional. Precise, like a bomb timed to the exact second you’d fall into his trap. His hand at your throat is light. Not choking, just owning. And when you gasp against his mouth, he says, “There she is,” like he’s just found his new favourite game.

You don’t remember being lifted. One second, his mouth is on yours, and the next, your spine hits the desk, papers scattering to the floor like ruined blueprints, and Lex is above you, undoing his cuffs with slow, practiced grace.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he murmurs.

His hands push your thighs open and he steps between them. You’re still dressed, but he doesn’t care. He’ll go through fabric if he has to. There’s something in his face - focus, but laced now with heat. Almost hunger. But buried under it, the same control that’s made him terrifying.

He doesn’t grab. No, that’s not Lex Luthor’s style. Instead, he claims.

Fingers press into your hips, guiding you to the edge of the desk, and his voice drops as his mouth brushes your jaw; “Everything I build bends to me. But you bend only when you want to. And god help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.”

His hands slide up your thighs, your waist, your chest, pausing just long enough to see how far he can push before you tell him to stop. But you don’t. You stare back, almost daring him to keep going. Tempting fate.

Lex exhales through his nose like he’s amused. Or aroused. Or both.

When he finally undresses you, it’s not rushed. Buttons opened with precision. Fabric peeled away like an inconvenience. And all the while, he watches you. Not your body, your face. He’s taunting you. Driving you just close enough to the edge to make you beg.

“You should’ve left when you had the chance,” he says softly, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip. “I gave you an out.”

“You didn’t mean it.”

“No.” His smile is slow and sharp. “I didn’t.”

And then he pushes into you.

He fucks you like he’s proving something. Like each thrust is a statement of ownership. Not cruel, not desperate, but deliberate. Perfect rhythm. Perfect pressure. Like he’s calculated exactly how to ruin you without letting you fall apart too fast.

You whimper his name, and he stills. Because that? That’s the crack in his control.

He moves faster. Rougher. One hand on your throat, the other squeezing your thigh as if to keep you from disappearing. He watches you take it, your breath stuttering, back arching.

“Look at you,” he pants. “Fucking perfect. Giving in so easily. Letting me have you.”

You’re close. He knows it. He can feel the way your body clenches around him, sees how your eyes flutter and your lips part and your hands fist in his shirt like you’ll fall without him.

And then, just before you come, he stops.

Dead still.

You gasp. “Lex - !”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say you’re mine.”

You should resist. You should fight. Try to claw back any piece of self-control you thought you had. But you’re already gone.

“I’m yours,” you whimper.

He groans like it’s killing him, and then he fucks you through your release, your shaking, your surrender, driving into you like a man who’s finally found the thing worth breaking his own rules for.

Later, you lie sprawled on what used to be a $20,000 desk. Papers ruined. Lipstick smeared. Lex is still inside you, braced on his elbows, breathing hard.

He kisses you once, uncharacteristically soft, like he’s sealing a contract.

And when you whisper “What now?” into the crook of his neck, he hums.

one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. your dress is still on, pulled up just enough. his suit pants are halfway down. he didn’t undress you. he never does.

he fucks you like he’s staking a claim. slow, sharp thrusts, every movement controlled, calculated, like everything he does.

you gasp, and he tightens his grip just a little - not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you.

“you tried to cancel dinner,” he says, voice right against your ear, low and disappointed like a father, not a lover. “why?”

you don’t answer.

you can’t.

he’s already fucking the words out of you.

“tell me,” he says again, tone perfectly steady. “was it clark?”

your stomach drops.

his hips slam into yours harder.

“did he make you think you could leave me?”

you shake your head, too fast, too desperate. he doesn’t believe you.

he pulls out and turns you around so fast your palms slap the glass. his hand slides down your back. between your legs. finding you soaked.

“liar,” he says, and it almost sounds fond. almost.

he pushes back in and fucks you harder now, both hands on your hips, body caging you against the window like there’s nowhere else in the world you could ever belong.

“look at them,” he breathes against your neck. “look at all the people you’ll never be. free. ordinary. forgettable.”

you whimper. it only makes him smile.

“you’re mine,” he says, and it lands like a sentence. like a fact carved into your bones.

and when you come on his cock, forehead pressed to the glass, body shaking under him-

***

Your boss might just be the death of you.

Just hearing his name gave you a headache. You even think about him when you go to sleep. Nightmares of a skyscraper-sized Lex towering over you for all your nights and days, not to mention the freaky sex dreams, but those had to be locked away somewhere dark and never spoken of.

He doesn’t tolerate anything. Not mistakes, not excuses, and definitely not tardiness.

So you rock up to work 5 minutes late and hand him his coffee, knowing this might just be your last day on earth. 

“The coffee is cold.”

Fuck me sideways.

“I don’t want your excuses,” he snaps, before you can even open your mouth. “Do you think failure is something I reward here?”

You highly doubt it. Even so, it wasn’t your fault. The line at Jitters was impossibly long since the location nearest to LexCorp was destroyed by a giant lizard man of sorts. Plus, he never even really drinks the coffee; it’s “burnt swill” and far too cheap for his liking. He only tells you to get him one to make your life that little bit harder, like a complete dick.

“Mr. Luthor—”

“You can’t even bring me a hot coffee, and on top of that, you were late. Maybe I should just fire you and replace you with someone who knows how to use a clock.”

His words are like daggers to the chest, but you’ve built up a pretty good resistance. Better to grin and bear it. This job paid quite well, considering the soul erosion, and having to deal with his temper tantrums and occasional threats of defenestration (at least it wasn’t the pocket universe prison). But it had benefits, and a good dental plan.

“I should just build an assistant.”

You hold back a sigh, Lex has told you this a million times, the same rant just repackaged in a different way.

“...one that doesn’t whine and make excuses and disappoint me.”

He looks you up and down as if assessing you. Compared to other assistants, you had lasted longer and you hadn’t even run out of his office crying… you saved that for the drive home. 

You plaster on your best fake smile, the one that says I’m dead inside, but still very employable, and offer with practised calm, “Would you like me to get you another one, Mr. Luthor?”

He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether your continued existence is worth the effort.

“…Make it extra hot,” he finally mutters, turning away.

“Well? Don’t just stand there like a malfunctioning Roomba. I need a hot cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, I know…,” you reply, voice tight.

“If it isn’t to my liking, it goes in your face.”

***

It’s a Friday night, and you weren’t able to escape Lex’s office until well past 9, finding yourself late for hanging out with your friends, again.

Now you’re at the bar, drink in hand, trying to shake off the day. You’re probably drinking a little too much.

“Slow down, tiger,” one of your friends teases as you take another big sip.

“Trust me, I need it,” you mutter, barely hiding the exhaustion in your voice.

“Why do you even work there?” your friend asks, half-laughing, half-concerned. “He sounds like an actual villain.”

“You know why. It’s good pay, there’s a ridiculous benefits package, and lots of free swag… I got an iPad last month, plus…”

“Plus?”

You hesitate, taking a sip of your drink. If you weren’t so emotionally drained and buzzed, you might have lied.

“Plus, even though Lex Luthor is the worst human I’ve ever come into contact with… he’s kinda hot.”

Your friend chokes on their drink, nearly spitting it out. “Excuse me?”

You shrug, face half-buried in your glass. “He’s evil, yes. Morally bankrupt, obviously. But have you seen his jawline? And his eyes are like…,” you toy with the straw in your drink, coyly, “So blue.”

“Seek help,” they laugh.

After too much drinking, your friends stopped you from climbing on top of the bar and loudly declaring your love for mozzarella sticks; it was obvious. You’d definitely had way too much.

“I can go all night, guys, like don’t worry about me…,” you slur, wobbling slightly as you point at no one in particular. "Imma party till the sun down."

“The sun is already down and you need to rest,” your roommate muttered, helping you into a cab like they’d done one too many times before.

“So stubborn….” you pouted, slumping against the seat.

The cab takes off toward your house, the city lights blurring outside the window. Everything seems hilarious for absolutely no reason, until your phone buzzes, and the name on the screen nearly sobers you up on sight.

Lex Luthor.

“Yello?” you answer, a little too brightly, still halfway laughing.

“I need you back at the office immediately,” he says, voice sharp and without patience.

You glance at the time. Midnight. You audibly groan for at least five long seconds. “You’re joking, right?

Silence.

“M’not going anywhere near the office tonight…” you mumble, pressing your forehead to the cool glass of the cab window.

“If you want to keep your job—”

“Oh, shut up, Lex,” you snap, startling even yourself with the boldness. “It’s midnight. I’m like drunk. I just tried to dance on a bar. I can barely spell LexCorp right now, let alone walk in a straight line. So, unless the building’s on fire or Superman himself is currently punching your face through your desk," you pause to chuckle a little at the thought, "...this is gonna have to wait until I’m sober.”

A pause.

“...You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

You let out a snort-laugh. "Kindly, fuck off."

You hang up.

The cabbie side-eyes you in the mirror. “That your boss?”

“Satan.”

You get another call, his name flashing on your screen like a curse.

“I’m giving you one more chance—” he begins, already seething in anger.

“Just because you’re all rich and like, hot and stuff, doesn’t mean you can call me at all hours…,” you slur, words tumbling out in chaos. “Do I want you to…I dunno, fuck me into next week? Perhaps. Do I think that I'd make a most wonderful cocksleeve for you, most definitely, but… You can’t call me in when I’ve already left for the day, you psycho!”

There’s a brief silence on the line. You can almost hear him recalibrating, trying to decide if you’ve finally lost your mind or just your job.

“Y’know what? Suck my dick, Lex.”

And you hang up again.

The cab is silent once more.

You lean your head back, eyes closed, a smug smile tugging at your lips. For the first time all week…you actually feel free.

***

Waking up the next day, you’re dying, head pounding like a jackhammer on concrete, mouth dry, and vision blurred. You can barely open your eyes.

You can barely remember the night before…it was a chaotic blur featuring shots, mozzarella sticks, and some questionable dancing.

Your doorbell rings. Once. Then again. Then again.

It’s way too early to be doing anything. It's one of your only days free from Lex, your sacred, holy, do-not-disturb-or-you-die day.

The bell keeps going off like someone's leaning on it.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, stumbling over a pile of laundry and empty takeout containers.

“Just a second, damn!” you shout, voice hoarse, tripping over a shoe and narrowly avoiding stubbing your toe on the doorframe.

The bell keeps ringing until you yank the door open.

“Satan!” you screech. 

Lex Luthor, in the flesh. Looking pristine. In a suit. On a Saturday.

Without hesitation, you slam the door in his face.

Nope. Absolutely not. This is one of your Lex nightmares or maybe a hangover hallucination.

The bell rings again, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You slowly open it. “M-Mr. Luthor…”

He pushes past you like he owns the place, surveying your apartment with a look of barely concealed disgust.

“How…quaint,” he mutters.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, still clutching the door like it might protect you.

“I told you I needed you back at the office. Since you decided to ignore my very generous warning, I’ve come to you,” he says, glancing at a stack of empty chip bags like they personally offended him.

You stare, still in pyjama pants and a shirt that may or may not have cheese stains on it.

“Warning?” you repeat, blinking in confusion, your brain still booting up through the hangover fog.

Lex’s face shifts into something worse than anger, an evil smirk, smug and dangerous. “You don’t remember what you said to me last night?”

“We… talked last night…?” you ask, already feeling your soul start to leave your body.

You’re screaming on the inside. No, no, no. You’re a loose cannon when drunk. Lex steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s savouring every syllable.

“Oh yes. You were quite… spirited.”

You clutch your forehead. “Don’t tell me I threatened you. Oh please, don’t fire me,” you whisper, feeling the weight of every reckless syllable from the night before crashing down like a building demolition.

You stand there, suddenly very aware of your penguin pyjama pants, dishevelled hair, and clothes from last night strewn on the floor. Why is he here? You wonder. To fire you in person? To humiliate you in your own home? To casually mention he bought your entire apartment complex and plans to bulldoze it into a LexMart?

“I’m not here to fire you,” Lex says flatly, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You let out a huge sigh of relief and, without thinking, throw your arms around him in a big hug. 

“Really? Oh, Mr. Luthor, I swear I’ll never let you down again, I—”

“Unhand me.”

You freeze, then awkwardly peel yourself off him. 

“I’m here to ruin your weekend,” he says simply, adjusting the sleeve of his very expensive suit like nothing just happened. “There’s a crisis at the lab. A very expensive one. And my top assistant, unfortunately, is you.”

You blink. “So… this is punishment?”

“Correct,” he replies. “Put on something that doesn’t feature flightless birds and be downstairs in ten.”

He turns and starts walking toward the door.

You mumble under your breath, “I hugged Satan.”

“I heard that,” he says, without turning around.

***

He definitely didn’t need you to be there.

He was fully immersed in the crisis himself, typing, calculating, and talking to himself in that way that made you question whether he needed any staff at all. Meanwhile, you sat off to the side, bleary-eyed, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, trying to make legible notes while your vision pulsed with every heartbeat.

Your hangover was still very much present, despite the painkillers you'd downed on the way there. Every flicker of the lab lights felt like a personal attack. Lex’s voice was like nails on your skull, and he was hammering away, trying to break it. 

“Keep up,” he snapped without looking at you.

You jumped slightly, pen scratching a crooked line across the page. “I am,” you mumbled, even though you’d zoned out for the last five minutes thinking about the breakfast you didn’t get to have.

He gave you a side glance. “You look like a dying Victorian orphan.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples and trying to will your brain back online.

“So you think I’m hot,” he says casually, not even bothering to look at you, just staring at a holographic schematic like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade.

“Huh? Oh—I, uh…,” you stutter, your voice cracking under the weight of your own embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking last night.”

The memories of all the unhinged shit you said came back to like a brick being lobbed at your head. It was beyond painful, you’ll never say the word “cocksleeve” again. 

He hums, completely unfazed. “Clearly.”

You sink lower into your chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“I mean… it was the tequila. Tequila makes me say things. It also makes me... emotional.”

That emotion was horniness, so it’s not a lie. Why couldn’t it be sadness? At least if you cried to him on the phone, you’d be able to see if he had a heart. 

“For future reference,” he says, still focused on his screen, “if you’re going to confess your attraction to your boss during a drunken meltdown, at least own it the next day.”

You blink at him… He wanted you to own it? You could do that.

“I mean… well, yeah, you’re hot, but you’re also my boss,” you admit, voice a little shaky.

“Confidence is rare these days,” he replies, not looking away from the screen.

You chew on your lip. “It’s hard to be confident around someone like you.”

He finally looks up, eyes sharp but amused. “Brilliant?”

“Crazy.”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head, thinking about his antics. “I mean, you threw a chair at a lead dev because they said they might not meet your impossible deadline. You also—uh—sent half of HR to Siberia for 6 months after they tried to intervene. And not to mention the obsession with Superman…”

You catch the flash of his jaw tightening. Okay, maybe that was a little too much honesty.

“I’ll shut up now,” you mutter quickly, eyes darting anywhere but his.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Go get me coffee. Obviously, that’s all you’re good for.”

The words sting, even though they shouldn't. You’ve heard worse.

***

After your drunken insults and confession, he’s been meaner, so much meaner. He went out of his way to assign you pointless tasks, fed you the wrong details for meetings just to watch you scramble and to give him an excuse to shout at you, and even had you write and make revisions to a speech he had to give, only to not use a single word of it. 

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—”

“Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly.

You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.”

You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words…

God help you, it does something to you.

You're so far gone, you don’t even know whether you want to slap him or crawl into his lap and beg for validation.

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat of his words. “And I wouldn’t have to listen to it talk back.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Also, you swear he’s stalking you. He asked you to come in over the weekend again, and when you lied and said you were out of town visiting family, he texted back your exact location. With a text saying:

Lex Luthor, Devil Incarnate 😈: Here in 30 minutes or you're fired. 9:00AM

Or the time he remotely hacked your car, on your day off again, and had it drive itself to some barren stretch of highway, and called you just to “talk without distractions.” You sat there, white-knuckled and silent, while he calmly explained a new workflow system over the phone, blasting through your car speakers, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Or when he had your favourite sandwich from our favourite sandwich place (that’s an hour away) delivered to your desk before you even realised you’d forgotten your lunch at home. You didn’t eat it, though; there was no way to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

It was emotional torture, back and forth, whiplash from cold indifference to laser-focused obsession. You never knew what version of Lex “Satan” Luthor you were walking into: the calculating genius, the passive-aggressive tyrant, or the man who sent you coffee just to make you question if it was laced with something.

The week had been brutal, and today? He was being insane, which was saying something. You were running on no sleep, your nerves fried, and it all caught up to you. You fucked up. Big time.

Missed a meeting. Sent the wrong deck. Double-booked his 3 p.m. with a LexCorp Board call and a classified tech demonstration with a Department of Defence liaison. Total scheduling collapse.

To make matters worse, Superman had apparently just finished dragging half of Metropolis out of a crumbling building, again, so Lex was on edge, seething with resentment and ego bruised beyond repair.

He kept you late. Everyone else had gone home. The halls were silent, the office dim and sterile, and you could feel the tension like static in the air.

“You’re shallow and stupid,” he snaps, glaring at you like you just insulted his favourite suit.

“...not any less than your girlfriends,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

His eyes narrow. “What was that?”

“It’s not a lie,” you say, “But I don’t get it. I mean, why them? You don’t even seem to like anything about them…”

“Sex.”

You choke on the word, air catching in your throat.

“Sex,” he repeats slowly, eyes locked on yours, “and they look good on my arm, fun to toy with in my free time, disposable when the game gets boring.”

You look down, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

“Oh.”

“Does that bother you?” he asks, voice low and probing.

You shake your head, suddenly very flustered, words caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips.

Before you can react, he’s closing the distance, walking you back until your back meets the cold edge of his desk. The chill seeps through your shirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat from his intense gaze locked onto yours.

The room feels impossibly small, despite it being as big as Lex’s ego. 

“Say what’s on your mind.”

What are you supposed to say? But that little, stubborn part of you wishes it was you, that he’d hold you, tote you around, and fuck you all the while telling you just how useless he thinks you are. What’s wrong with you? Maybe you really did need to seek help.

“I…that’s good for you and them, I guess.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes in all of your expressions, reading your mind like an open book, seeing every messy thought clearly displayed on your face.

“Remember what I said. Own it.”

You swallow hard. “But what if you throw me in a pocket universe to rot…forever?”

He shrugs, lips curling into a lazy smirk. “I might, either way.”

You take a shaky breath. “Okay, fine. I… I would like… to perhaps engage in… activities.”

Tired of your endless stammering and beating around the bush, he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him with no warning, then kisses you like he’s been holding back for far too long.

It’s sharp and commanding, no patience, like he’s proving a point. Like he’s tired of talking and you’re not getting out of this with clever quips or awkward half-confessions anymore.

Satan in a suit has it going on.

Your brain goes static. Your knees might’ve buckled if the desk behind you wasn’t there. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Is that clear enough for you?”

“Crystal.”

His fingers snake into your hair, yanking your head back, and a surprised yelp escapes your mouth.

“This is how you’ll pay me back for your terrible performance today.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

He tugs you back to him, your lips crashing together. Your breath catches, heart racing as the world narrows to just the two of you in the dimly lit office.

***

Since that day…well, you may or may not be having sex with him regularly.

Sex with your super evil boss isn’t exactly what you expected, but when it’s that good, it’s hard to stop.

And yes, may or may not be a masochist, because the way he’d pull you aside after a brutal meeting, his voice low and commanding, then take you somewhere private to fuck you senseless…it was addictive.

Sometimes, without warning, a sleek car would pull up to your place late at night, and a driver would escort you to his penthouse, where the city lights blurred into the background while he took you again, hard, fast and like he could take you apart whenever he wanted. 

Now you’re in the middle of getting railed against his desk, your body completely naked, while he still has the majority of his clothes on. This was a normal occurrence in your life now. 

Your breasts press against the cold, smooth surface as you arch back, moaning loudly. Thank goodness his office is soundproof; otherwise, the noises you’re making would surely echo down the empty halls.

Sloppy sounds of his movements fill the room, you’re so wet you’re practically melting against the desk.

“Please!” you beg. 

“I don’t care if you finish or not,” he leans in a little closer, his breath hot against your ear. “If you want to, you’ll do it when I say.”

Your arms are pinned firmly to the surface as he drives into you relentlessly. He likes seeing you so messy. It’s a raw, desperate reminder of what he’ll never be: a submissive, devoted mess that lives only to please someone else.

“I’m going to count you down, so you better not disappoint me.”

You shake your head profusely, you know if you don’t cum when he tells you, he might not let you cum at all. 

“No, no, Lex, I’m not ready…” 

“5.”

A five-count? He wanted you to fail.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve on fire as the countdown begins, each number a test of your limits.

“4…”

You bite your lip, trying to concentrate on getting there on time. 

“3…”

Your pussy flutters around him as you feel yourself starting to get close. 

“2…”

His grip tightens, and you feel his cock start to twitch inside of you. 

“1…”

He floods your needy cunt with his cum, a satisfied moan escaping his lips as you whimper and writhe, loving how completely he fills you.

There’s no tenderness or aftercare; he pulls out, letting his seed dribble out of you and onto the floor. That’s your problem now.

“Wait, but Lex, I didn’t—”

“I told you the rules. It’s not my fault you weren’t able to cum for me the way I wanted.”

“But I was… I was so close.”

The pitiful look on your face is exactly what he wants. In his mind, you only deserve to cum on his terms, not your own.

You’re wrecked beyond repair but still manage a desperate, “Please…”

He arches an eyebrow, that familiar evil smirk curling on his lips.

“If you want to cum, hump my shoe.”

You think: how much is your dignity worth? Is it worth an orgasm? He smirks again, clearly enjoying your hesitation.

Apparently, it’s not worth much, because the next thing you know, you’re on your knees, rubbing your dripping cunt against the tip of his expensive shoe, rocking your hips like a woman possessed, chasing the orgasm he refused to give you.

“Can I use my fingers?” you whine, desperate to feel something press against your G-spot again. All it would take is a few thrusts…

“No. You lost that privilege.”

You pout but keep moving and try to hold onto his leg for leverage, but he slaps them away. 

“Hands behind your back.”

Grinding your clit against his shoes as best as you can without holding on to him, you feel yourself getting closer. You’re losing your mind, and he’s... scrolling through his phone?

This arrogant little—

“Please, look at me, Lex,” you plead, voice trembling.

He keeps his eyes glued to his phone, completely ignoring you like an asshole. 

“Lex, I’m so close, look at me.”

He continues scrolling, absorbed in whatever could possibly be so interesting when you’re right here.

“I’m begging you to look at me.”

The second he finally looks down at you, your hips stutter uncontrollably, and you lose yourself in a shattering orgasm.

“Fuck—fuck, Lex…” you cry out before resting your head against his thigh. You don’t even get a moment to catch your breath before he’s ordering you around again.

“Clean up the mess on the floor, and yourself, you look…” he trails off, pulling away from you and pacing the room.

“Draft up a report. I want it done by the end of the day. And I want a coffee from Jitters. If it’s cold, I’ll throw you in a river.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”