nep

- unlike his frat brothers, clark isn’t one for parties. he’ll come and show face, but he’d rather be anywhere else.

- he really enjoys going to his classes. it makes him feel normal, especially if the frat was partying the night before. all of his brothers may be hung over, but he’s working through the day like nothing happened.

- i imagine you share a few classes with clark. maybe he’s majoring in… agriculture science? or journaling. take your pick. it doesn’t really matter.

- you know who he is. to everyone on campus, clark is like a god. he’s in his senior year of college and he’ll be graduating this spring with his degree, but in the time he’s been here, he’s made quite the name for himself.

- clark is the starting quarterback. everyone knows who he is. he’s the guy that leads the the bulldogs to victory every friday night. he’s also like… the hottest guy on campus?? and he’s insanely smart and well mannered??

- a well mannered frat boy is almost unheard of.

- anyways, you’re in a few classes together. you see each other in passing. you know who he is, and you thought clark didn’t know who you were. nah, he knows exactly who you are.

- one day, he would invite you out for coffee. it might’ve been a tuesday. a very unsuspecting tuesday. you might’ve been leaving class at the same time and clark would like stop and pull you aside, just popping the question like it was nothing.

- people would 100% stop and stare, but only for a quick second. this is college, not high school. people wouldn’t be stopping and staring at you in awe. they’re only stopping because that’s clark kent, and he might have a new partner?? this is news.

- coffee with clark is nice! he’s so sweet and he’s so kind, and he pays so much attention to you when you talk—absorbing every word you say.

- he would 100% pay for your order, and he would 100% give you a ride home.

- it’s never awkward with him, and omg he’s such a gentleman?? like opening doors for you (the proper way) and letting you control the air conditioning in his truck, and like idk—i’ve never dated a gentleman before-

- anyways, coffee dates turn into real dates at like restaurants and stuff. clark loves spending time with you. he loves how you don’t like idolize him and stuff, and he loves how you treat him like a normal guy and not some football god.

NOT TOTALLY PROOFREAD (BETA READ) .ᐟ

A/N: Mainly wrote this just to get my feelings out there. Some OOC probably. Just take that as part of my headcannon. ✧ദ്ദി( ˶^ᗜ^˶ )

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

A/N: May just turn this into a full Cecil X Reader or Cecil X OC

A/N: BTW, partially inspired by Wrench by Tortillaspecter on Ao3

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Let’s set the stage for who you are. You work for the GDA as a super agent (you have powers but don’t work as a hero). Mainly as a personal “shadow” to Cecil. You handle more stealth and rescue missions. Gathering entail, taking out powerful targets from the shadows, all that fun jazz. 

▶︎‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

If you’re interested in a power set—Your powers are supernatural stealth, intangibility, invisibility, shadow mimicry, short-distance teleportation, and the basic enhanced physiology (you know, such as strength, endurance, stamina, . . . flexibility, ehem, all that stuff).

▶︎‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You got taken into the GDA from the streets. Just a homeless nobody using their powers to survive. Reports of your powers caught their attention. After a thorough interrogation you were dubbed an acceptable candidate.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You went through various test on your body and grueling training. Eventually you were allowed a field run. On this field run you caught Cecil’s attention. He began to personally look after your training. He saw your potential while handling a monster attack in a city.  

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Your feelings for Cecil developed just four years into your partner ship. It was after you injured yourself while training. Of course he reprimanded you for acting reckless. But then, he sighed and gave you a bit of a pep talk. He knows you’re pushing yourself because you failed to rescue someone because you couldn’t reach them in time. 

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Cecil tells you about the origin of his scar. How he kept it to remind him of his failure. Cecil tells you not to let this failure destroy you. Let it become a motivator, a strength. To study and learn from the mistakes you made. He knows you understand your powers better than this. He then tells you to rest up and to never try that again. You really appreciated how he opened up to you. It left you yearning to know him more.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You spent several years as Cecil’s shadow. Always lurking behind his back. You spent a lot of time alone with him. In those several years you became close to Cecil. It wasn’t intentional of course. You are supposed to be able to trust each other to an extent. But, this “closeness” started to morph into something more. 

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Eventually after a bit of drinking after work this complicated partnership turns into a situationship. You initiated the first kiss. It was hungry, lustful, somewhat sloppy. Cecil was surprised but when you tried to pull away to apologize he pulled you closer. He started to kiss back with vigorous passion and want.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ After your little “tour” around his office. You also took a “tour” of his bedroom after a quick teleport. The morning after you both would have a talk. It was complicated, sort of awkward. Eventually a set of rules would be placed on how this “relationship” will move forward.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ The rules were simple. This wasn’t a romantic relationship. Hell, Cecil wished he could fire you or get rid of you. But, since he’s had a taste of you he can’t bring himself to get rid of you yet. He wants things to remain professional. No romantic gestures or special treatment. There will be no dates or anything like that. You will have a code to contact each other to meet up and have a “private meeting”.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You both lack the back bone and or emotional intelligence to confront your true feelings for each other. You just accepted the intimate closeness you now shared behind closed doors. Free to share your vulnerabilities. Cecil was content with the tranquility of his mind while at your side.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Sure, you had a few concerns when entering this fling. The age gap (late 20s to mid 30s for you, Cecil, in his 60s). . . Also the boss and employee dynamic (And maybe that mentor and mentee dynamic).

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Your little entanglement with Cecil goes on for three years. Your hookups started off at shady hotels and motels. Eventually you would find yourself at his home more often. And, you would often just keep each other company rather than just accompanying the bed together. For example, you would share music taste quite often. He would be entertained by your passionate lip syncing.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ In this false sense of bliss you would begin to believe Cecil might actually return your feelings. The talks you shared were the most vulnerable you’ve ever been with someone. Cecil hinted that he felt the same way. Just spending time with him at his place was enough to brighten your whole week. You also got to enjoy the pet names he calls you.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ But, this whole fantasy would blow up when you fell pregnant. After looking at your fifth positive pregnancy test, of course you panicked. Your job is extremely dangerous. How could you possibly raise a child in this field of work? You weren’t too far along so there was a bit of time to decide on what to do.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ The first step you took was to hide it. Cecil keeps a close eye on you as one of his closets subordinates. You had to use your powers to steal some pregnancy test. You try going on as if everything is normal until an incident occurs. (You either faint while aiding the GoTG or You faint while training). By the time you wake up in the med bay you got a very pissed off Cecil to deal with. 

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ An argument is had. Lots of yelling. Certain words are thrown around. Mainly by Cecil. You were called a liability, compromised, a hindrance. He called your situationship “A lapse in judgment” and “Just stress relief”. When you argued that he had been honest with you he just laughed. Gullible is what he called you. Cecil’s stare was icy. He chastised you for hiding this condition and putting yourself in danger.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ When all went silent. The two of you had a stare off. Both searching for something in the others eyes that they refused to reveal. With a sigh, Cecil stepped back. He then gave you the choice to take a paid leave while you dealt with the situation. Abortion, adoption, or just keeping it. He just wanted no involvement as a parent. In that entire “conversation” he only referred to you as Agent (L/N). He was already distancing himself from you.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Cecil then leaves to go back to work. You are left devastated but do your best to remain stone faced. Once you’re cleared from the med bay you pack up your desk and take your leave (you deny the pay). After that you say your farewells to a select few coworkers (excluding Cecil) then head home.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ To give yourself some peace of mind (and maybe wanting to get back at Cecil a bit) you remove your tracker implant. Then you proceed to get rid of  any other ways Cecil had of tracking you for a short period of time. In that time span of him trying to reestablish a connection you move away. 

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Since you’re a highly trained government agent (with super powers) and a mastery in stealth, it was easy for you to gain a new identity and appearance. Especially when it came to moving to a cozy small town.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You would spend a happily boring three months in this town. Your pregnancy was progressing at a healthy manner. You had the chance to learn your baby’s gender but you decided against it for now. A part of you wanted Cecil to be there. To see what his reaction might be. You snap out of your thoughts and hurry home.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ In the quiet of your home you often find yourself daydreaming. Mainly about the father of your little one. Concern for his safety still plagued you. There was no way he would risk getting another “shadow”. Can’t risk a repeat situation. As if, you know you left a lasting impression on the director. You can rest happily knowing that.

Somebody needed to do a psychology study on powered individuals and how it relates to their kinks. Because as much as you've looked around for any correlation, for any hint that what you feel is normal… you haven't found anything.

Obviously, you've found plenty articles and forums on kinks and yes, you know it's normal to have them. So long as it's safe and everyone consents, no kink is wrong or bad.

That doesn't mean you stop feeling weird about it though, because how can you ever begin to explain this… urge to be pushed down and taken? How can you ever date someone and tell them that you want to be held down and hurt, to pretend to be powerless as they take and take and take what they want from you? Especially if they know your superhero identity? It just wouldn't work.

They'd think you were weird. And you do feel weird for it, left in silence wondering if the others feel this way, if other heroes have ever wanted to be the weak victim in the bedroom, wanted to know what it was like to be overpowered and out of control without actually not having control.

Every time you get close to asking, something stops you. An emergency. A sudden moment of anxiety. The words catching in your throat.

Always something that prevented you from finding out if you were truly normal or just another freak in this fucked up universe.

You don't feel like a freak at the moment, though.

Lying in bed, eyes shut, room bathed in darkness; it's easy to pretend like this. Hand slipping into your shorts and stroking, rubbing yourself while imagining every taboo scenario your mind can come up with to get yourself off.

Your breathing picks up a little, otherwise you're silent, overly aware of the other occupants of the house. The more you came into your powers, the more your senses grew. And the more they grew, the more aware you became of yourself.

You couldn't imagine your brother's horror when his get stronger and he realises you and dad had probably heard him a couple of times. Something to tease him about if he ever truly pissed you off.

That aside, you're quiet, focusing on yourself, senses piqued, picking up on the distant sounds of the house and others in the neighbourhood. There's a rustling a few yards down, and a car honking in the distance, and…

There's this faint buzzing sound. It kind of reminds you of a light-bulb or a refrigerator, actually. And you've only noticed it recently, not long after your dad was attacked, in fact.

Sometimes, you like to listen to it and pretend it's like the internal buzzing of a camera, that somebody is watching you, microphone picking up on the soft shlicks and your breath hitching on the rare occasion.

It's hot. Makes you feel hazy, out of control. Weak.

The thought once again makes you cum.

Not long after getting your powers, you began to work for the GDA.

It wasn't long into your new superhero career that you began to grow bored with beating up the same villains who alwaysbroke out of prison after you put them there. Maybe it was the growing frustration coupled with teenage hormones, or maybe your morals had always been wonky, but after a certain point, you stopped pulling your punches, started hitting harder and leaving the villains so injured they were forced to stay in prison longer.

But, as always, they inevitably broke out again and the cycle repeated, though at that point they began to avoid you, choosing to run and hide rather than fight you.

… it shouldn't have been a surprise when your reputation tanked, whispers filling the streets and comment sections under clips of you full of fear and worries you were going to go villain.

Your dad told you to ignore them, that what you were doing was fine, okay, even. That somebody had to say enough was enough and fix things permanently.

You'd only been fifteen at the time, already having the power to play judge, jury, and executioner. It hadn't seemed right to you, even with the anger and frustration you became intimately familiar with.

Your dad had just ruffled your hair, a comforting weight on your head.

“We're Viltrumites, sweetie. We're the only ones who can decide what's right or wrong.”

Despite the reassuring words, the doubt lingered, the worry you might go too far. Or… no. Not the worry you'd go too far, but that you'd hurt someone who didn't deserve it. It was one thing to kill a murderer, it was another to kill someone who was only a criminal out of necessity. You didn't want to be that person.

That's where the GDA came in.

Even then Cecil had kept a close eye on you, seeing your power and your wavering morals and seeing the warning signs ahead of time. So, like he always did with potential problems, he stepped in.

Your dad would've told him to fuck off. Your mom would've warned you to never trust him. Mark… your baby brother probably would've said to listen to your parents.

Yet when Cecil Stedman appeared before your blood soaked form, a pile of flesh that was once a body beneath you, he stared you straight in the eye and offered you a hand.

“You look rough, kid. Come on, let's get you cleaned up.”

There he was, a completely ordinary man, weak and vulnerable, alone with a rabid beast. Yet despite the blood dripping from your hands and teeth, this weak human man had gently laid a hand on your shoulder and took you away.

You'd never felt so grounded, so… so…

It felt a lot like your dad, actually. Not familiar or comforting, no, but just as powerful, just as guiding, as controlling.

It felt like if you tried to lash out, he'd grab you by the scruff and go no, bad girl, and would hold you there until you stopped and listened.

It did something for you. The knowledge that Cecil would guide you, that he wouldn't let you become a monster…

Yeah, you liked that a lot.

Back then it had been normal, of course. Platonic, a hero-handler bond. Just listen to the voice in your ear and you don't have to worry about hurting someone with a baby at home, someone who's being forced to do these things.

Listen to Cecil and you can go home with a lighter conscience.

It had been normal.

And then you turned twenty and something in your brain clicked when you realised just how much power Cecil had over you.

You, a super powered hero. You, a Viltrumite hybrid. You, who can redirect meteors and blast through mountains with ease.

And yet one scruff on the back of your neck or a warning glare made you back down. Made you listen to Cecil like some well trained dog.

Yeah, you were totally normal about this. So normal in fact that after you started exploring your weird over-powering/force kink, you had to bat thoughts of Cecil away while you got off because otherwise you wouldn't be able to look him in the eye for a while.

Which you didn't want. He had such beautiful eyes– wait, no—

Once again, you wish there was a study done on this sort of stuff. Not your kinks this time, but on if it's normal for heroes to be so… hmm, submissive towards their handlers. So smitten.

You couldn't help it. Not when Cecil kept you in check, when he knew just what to do to help you. Nor did it help that you found him attractive, his competence and maturity and confidence all making you starry-eyed whenever you saw him in action.

You wanted that. You wanted that all the time. Not just on the field, but at home, too. Wanted Cecil to instruct you on how to do tasks you were still figuring out, wanted him to order you around on the days your mind was empty yet buzzing, leaving you frozen and unable to do anything because you just couldn't think.

You wanted Cecil to grab you by the scruff and to push you down. You wanted him to hold you down with his abysmal strength and force you to take it. You wanted him to use you not just as a weapon, but as a piece of warm meat as well, to empty all his stress and frustration into you until you were dripping with it.

You wanted to be crushed under his dress shoes and feel lesser than a pathetic human past his prime.

(… someone also needed to do a study about Viltrumites and their adoration for humans. Y'know. Someday.)

But how could you tell him that? You couldn't. You were too scared to. Just in case he rejected you, looked at you differently. You didn't– you couldn't risk it. Not with him. Not in case he put distance between you, if he handed you off to another GDA official, someone less able to keep you grounded and controlled.

Not that you'd allow him to. You only wanted Cecil. Nobody else. If necessary you'd force–

There it was again. That word. That urge to do what you wanted, fuck the consequences.

Killing, hurting, taking what you wanted, it was all the same in the end, no? Especially when you were too strong to be contained. And you know this. Cecil knows this. That's the whole reason why you have the Director of the GDA himself as your personal handler, both because he couldn't trust anyone else to be in charge of such a deadly asset and because you didn't trust or judge anyone else capable of keeping you in check.

And it just– it goes in circles. Round and round and round as you lie in bed or stand in the shower, eyes heavy and mind hazy as you want– want to be beneath him, want to be taken by him, want to be forced by him– and yet know you can't, can't risk it, can't ruin it, can't even begin to make yourself even imagine telling him because it's so shameful, so embarrassing, and so you–

You just–

The electrical buzz. A prickle on your skin. The tension in the air as it feels like the GDA is keeping a much, much closer eye on your dad, your family.

You lay in bed, naked, and pretend you're being watched, pretend somewhere in this room, Cecil has a camera watching you and can see the way your plump lips part around your fingers, stroking through your folds and making yourself blossom open for him as you touch yourself, quiet despite the need to moan and scream and beg as you thrash under someone you trust enough to play weak with.

You pretend even as you start to wonder if they really are watching you. It would be such an invasion of privacy if they were, you'd feel ashamed, dirty, if anyone at the GDA saw you like this…

Right?

Right. You would. Definitely.

You ignore the faint bit of hope in your heart, dumb thing stuttering at the thought that Cecil might be watching.

You also ignore the fact that you cum faster now, harder, with the almost guaranteed fact you might be being watched.

Afterwards, you blink slowly, cleaning your fingers off and turning onto your side, nuzzling your pillow. You listen for anything as you fall asleep, and you swear you hear a faint shift in that ambient buzzing.

Far away, sitting in a dark office, a man shuddered, cock jerking in his fist as he stared at the screen with heavy-lidded eyes.

Stroking himself slowly, milking the last of his pleasure, Cecil breathed a heavy sigh, grabbing a tissue to clean up. He did so quietly, waiting to feel some shame, but… well. He'd done worse than spy on a hero under his care masturbating.

Much worse.

So he didn't feel too bad about it– it's not like anyone would ever know– as he tidied up, zipping his pants back up, still staring at the screen where you were now asleep on your side, leg hitched up just-so that Cecil could see the sticky shine on your cunt, plump lips pressed together and covered in a fine layer of fluff.

You had a pretty pussy, he couldn't help but think. Really pretty. 

“Too pretty for me,” he muttered with a sigh, exiting the camera feed and standing up to head to bed himself. He needed to get whatever rest he could.

At least his nightly sessions with you tired him out plenty, so it wasn't long after his head hit the pillow that he was falling asleep.

Your head felt hazy.

Not surprising, since you haven't slept in days, too busy helping in Chicago.

With your brother still in a coma and your mom staying by his side, you decided to get out and actually do something. You just couldn't sit around and twiddle your thumbs, knowing the world was still reeling, that people were still suffering from what your dad did.

Your head felt empty, thoughts slow and foggy; your body was filled with a restless energy, leg bouncing as you sat, watching Mark's heart monitor with unseeing eyes.

Cecil had entered, said some words. Then–

Long fingers and a warm, rough palm grip and press into your neck; Cecil holds you by the scruff and grounds you, pulling you back down to earth immediately.

“Go on, kid.” He'd said, giving you a gentle squeeze; you revelled in it, quickly soaking up as much of this touch as you could before he pulls away. “Get some air. Do something.”

“Will you… be here?”

The question is far too telling, you feel. Vulnerable and hopeful. Despite the situation and the amount of stress he's under and the amount of work he must have to do, you're still asking him to be the voice in your ear, to hold your hand and guide you.

Pathetic. Yet you need it. Especially now, after… after everything.

Cecil gives you a look, not a particular long one, but one heavy with something. You can't help but stare at the bags under his eyes.

Oh, Cecil…

Finally, he sighs.

“Yeah,” he looks away. Drops his hand. “I'll be here, kid.”

Maybe he needed a bit of normalcy too, in the face of such a great betrayal from someone you both trusted.

The aftermath of Omni-Man’s betrayal changes things, especially for the people closest to him.

After seeing the sheer destruction your father caused with so little trouble, your fears about your own abilities resurge.

I could do the same, you think as you clear rubble. I could do all this and more. Right now if I wanted to.

And who would stop you? Mark was comatose, most of the heroes capable of stopping you dead…

It would be so, so easy.

And that scares you. It scares you so bad that the carefully applied walls you've put up begin to crumble, begin to fracture with every day that passes and you help clean up more and more dead bodies.

You look at them, at their faces if they still have them, and try to keep yourself grounded, keep your heart open and feel sympathy and empathy.

Yet it is so hard to keep doing it. Emotionally exhausted, you start to feel nothing as you gently place a child's corpse among the rest. And when you realise that, horror strikes you, cold and sudden and you just– you—

“Please– please, I just–”

“Kid, what's–?”

“Cecil, please, I-I just– I can't–”

“Kid, breathe! Now tell me what's wrong, what do you need?”

You gasp, inhaling deep, sucking in lungfuls of air scented with his cologne as you look up into his eyes, pretending you don't feel the way his heart is racing as you grip onto his jacket, pretend you don't notice you're scaring the shit out of him right now (no no no, never him, he can't be scared of you– you'll help him stop being scared of you) after you barged into his office and latched onto him with just enough strength to snap bones with ease.

“You.”

Cecil's eyebrows jump at your harried, desperate tone.

“I need you.”

Cecil had always known you had an attachment to him.

Some would say it was an unhealthy attachment. Cecil would say better unhealthy than nonexistent. Because at least this way he had the second strongest person on earth on a leash.

Well. The strongest now that Nolan had left.

It was normal, really. Superpowered individuals always ended up clinging to their handlers one way or another. He just had to look at the GDA’s records to see the proof.

Sometimes the attachments, the relationships between powered individual and handler, were platonic, familial, friendly. Other times they became romantic, sexual. Just another way to keep such powerful beings human, another tool to keep them doing their job and saving lives.

Cecil wasn't going to lie, he somewhat expected this to happen at some point. Though he expected it to happen much later. He was so much older than you after all, but with recent events…

Well, he couldn't blame you if you suddenly gained some daddy issues, now could he?

So yeah, he'd expected this to happen one of these days.

He just hadn't realised you'd always felt this way towards him.

A mistake on his part. In hindsight, it was obvious that you'd had a thing for him for a while now. Something to look for in old footage later. For now, though–

“Kid…”

“Cecil, please. I just– just hurt me. Hold me down. I-I need it.”

He'd sighed, stared down at your knelt form, hands in his pockets like this was just another moment between you and not like you were begging him to force himself on you.

(Like he'd said before though, he'd done worse.

Much, much worse.

So what was a little game of pretend?)

“… fine.”

The pressure was exquisite.

Heavy, on the edge of painful, cold, even. The heel of Cecil's dress shoe dug into your skull for a moment as he shifted his weight, then the toes were digging into your temple, pressing down, crushing your head into his carpet with all the force he could muster.

Which wasn't a lot. But that was fine. You were happy to pretend you were powerless, happy to set all your strength and invulnerability aside for something you've been aching for.

A hum catches your attention, and your eyes flutter, struggling to open as the pressure on your skull increases, brain squeezed pleasantly. For anyone else it would be painful. For you, it felt like a hug.

Looking up, you were blinded by the ceiling lights for a moment before your eyes adjusted, able to see him and not just his silhouette. Cecil stared down at you with all the coldness he usually reserved for others, one hand in his pocket while the other gripped a gun. You were familiar with the design, had it tested against you before. It tended to sting.

The thought of him using it against you right now had you dripping.

“Look at you… who would've thought.” He says, tone heavy as he pressed harder again before lifting his foot. Before you could rise up, he stomped down onto your back, forcing the air out of your lungs as his expensive shoe pressed between your shoulder blades. “I shouldn't be surprised though. Not really. Heroes always do weird shit in the bedroom.”

Well, that answered that question.

“Though I'll admit, I never expected this from you.” His foot dragged down your back, leather digging into your spine. “I honestly would've thought you'd like to dominate your partners, being a Viltrumite and all.”

Your mind feels blissfully empty, cheek squished against the carpet as your body lays pliant on the ground.

You hum quietly. “Don't wanna.” You murmur, words slurred as you drift off somewhere else, feeling so, so pleasantlyweak. “Could hurt someone.”

You can feel his eyes stare into the side of your head. A shiver goes down your spine.

“You're something else, kid. Honestly, it's a good thing.” He says, faux casual, right before shoving the front of his shoe right into your cunt, grinding the toe of it along your split.

You might scream from the shock of it, jolted out of that soothing headspace from the sudden ache of something hard and rough spreading your lips open and digging into your hole before roughly dragging down and pressing into your clit.

There's nothing nice about this, nothing pleasurable. And yet it sends sparks of heat through your body anyway, making your hips stutter, unsure of wherever to push back or away.

Cecil takes the decision off of your hands by grinding his foot harder against you.

Whining, you gasp when his hand suddenly grabs your hair, wrenching your head back and making your spine arch uncomfortably. Sparks of pain litter along your skull, small bursts that zap across your brain and make that need inside you purr with delight.

“The way you are… it's good.” Cecil assures you in that drawling, cold tone of his, conflicting with the praise of the words he says as he wraps your hair around his wrist. He tugs, pulls, tests what you can take and listening to your startled whimpers with hidden delight.

Sue him, but having such a powerful being literally under his foot… it did things for him. 

“Really.” He continues, rubbing the hard sole of his dress shoe against the plump mound of your pussy through your suit, the shape clinging and showing off your cameltoe. “After what your father did… we need all the assurances we can get that you won't turn out the same way.”

His honesty was appreciated even as it chilled you; you'd hoped you'd already proven yourself to him over the years.

“And you grinding your foot against my vagina does that how exactly?”

Your snark earns you a rough tug on your hair, one that bends your neck back enough for you to meet his cool glare.

“For one, it shows you don't have that fucking holier-than-thou attitude.” He snaps, getting into character. Or maybe he was actually snapping, letting out all his frustrations with you.

Good. You wanted it to be as real as possible.

“And secondly, it lets me know that if I ever have to take you down, it'll be much easier and cheaper than when we tried to take down Nolan.”

His foot pulls back and you yelp as he yanks you to your feet by your hair. Still gripping it tight, Cecil shoves you towards his desk, slamming you down against it.

Funny how if you'd used your own strength, the thing would've shattered.

“After all–” he grunts, yanking down your pants and underwear, baring your ass to him, “–all I'll have to do is take you over my fuckin’ knee.”

His hand snaps down and cracks against your ass before you can even register what's happened.

You tense up, taken by surprise, but once the pain registers and warmth blossoms against your cheek, you relax, going limp.

Seeing the way you immediately give in, Cecil exhales softly, amused.

“See? A good, submissive girl. You only need a strong hand to settle you.” He crooned, stroking your cheek before slapping it again. “That's all you've ever needed, huh? Someone to bend you over and fuck the attitude out of you? Hmm?”

His palm cracks against your other cheek twice, giving no break between strikes and making you tense up and shudder.

“Hell, sweetheart, you should've told me sooner. I would've made sure you were too docile to ever lose control.” He rubs your ass, squeezes the soft flesh before slapping again, watching it ripple with interest. “No more worries about hurting anyone. I would've had you well-trained, breaking you in until the mere thought of disobeying caused you pain.”

Skin hot, you press your face harder against the cool wood underneath you, sucking in shaky breaths. Your backside stings while your cunt throbs, leaking and clenching around nothing. And his words…

The thought of being Cecil's attack dog, being used by him however he wanted…

God.

Behind you, Cecil takes off his belt.

You can hear it, the metal clasp jingling and the muffled swoop of leather being pulled free. Your eyes widen as your heartbeat speeds up.

There's no warning. Not even a muttered “Prepare yourself”.

One moment everything is fine. And the next–

A sharp crack splits the air as his belt strikes across your ass, making you scream out and jolt.

“Cecil!”

“Shhh, shhh, that wasn't so bad, was it?” His words lack any care, cold and cruel. You almost don't like it. “Come on, I've seen you take worse than a bit of leather to the ass. You can handle it.”

And handle it you did.

With each sharp strike to your backside, you whimpered and yelped, sniffling as tears welled up in your eyes, mind emptying with each strike.

Your ass burned, sore and hot. Your inner thighs however were shiny, cunt dripping and making a mess.

You were limp on his desk by now, laying there as you absently stared at random knickknacks on his shelves.

In the distance, you hear his belt hit the ground, muffled by the carpet.

“Still with me, kid?”

His hand is warm from exertion as he cups your cheek, guiding you to look at him.

You blink softly, like a cat, feeling… something. Content, maybe. You feel… you feel perfectly beaten, if that was even a thing.

“Words, sweetheart. You want more or do you want to stop?”

At least he didn't ask if he went too far. Now that would've been insulting if he had.

“Hmm. I… I wanna…” You think for a moment, brows knitting together as you went over past fantasies. Slowly, your eyes lowered to his slacks, seeing the bulge there. “Can… can you force me to suck you off? Please?”

Something in his face softens, and with another sigh, Cecil pets your head.

“Course.” He mutters, the moment between you two soft and almost sweet. It lasts for a few more seconds, Cecil allowing you to recuperate, to push up and stand before he grabs the gun from earlier and presses it to your temple.

“Now, on your knees.”

You can't stop yourself from grinning even if you tried.

Hot and heavy on your tongue, Cecil's cock has a funny taste to it.

Fleshy, musky like sweat, but also something vaguely… sharp-sweet-bitter. Like chemicals.

You love it.

Bobbing your head as the gun presses between your eyes, you suck and slurp, eagerness making up for inexperience as you look up at him, unable to hide your heart-eyes even if you tried.

Cecil just panted, biting his knuckles and trying to keep up the act you asked for, but fuck him it had been forever since he'd last gotten a blowjob so he was really struggling to keep cool here.

“Fuck, that's it…”

“Such a good girl…”

“Might have to make you do this more… order you in here and keep you under my desk when you're not needed elsewhere.”

Each word hit you where you needed it most, clit hard and pulsing, begging for relief at this point. It even would've accepted the shoe again, anything to relieve the pressure.

You sucked on his cock and pulled back to swirl your tongue around his tip like a bright red lollipop. Then you'd move lower, lathering his sack with messy kisses that made him wish you wore lipstick. The image alone would've gave him enough material to jerk off to for weeks.

All the while you worshipped him, the gun remained against your head, an empty threat that had your heart skipping a beat regardless every time you felt or looked at it.

For so long you'd been weak, mortal. A gun had just been another thing in the world capable of killing you with ease. Just because you'd gotten your powers doesn't mean that fear had completely gone away. On an irrational level, it remained, giving you a dirty thrill every time Cecil ‘threatened’ you with it.

You wouldn't mind being fucked by one someday. Maybe record it and send it to Cecil? Or was that too much for your new arrangement? You'd ask later. For now though…

“Kid–” Cecil stopped you, yanking your head back. “Stop. Anymore and I'm gonna cum. And I'm too old to go multiple rounds.” He warns, cheeks flushed as he catches his breath, cock still twitching in your face.

You eye it hungrily but listen, remaining knelt between his legs like the submissive creature he was turning you into little by little.

Once he's not at risk of painting your face in white, Cecil speaks.

“So, what now?” He asks, setting the gun aside, practically a prop for all it could actually do to you. “Any ideas, kid?”

You frown, hands curling into fists as you try to ignore the pulsing between your legs.

“I… I dunno. I've never done any of this before.” You admit, making Cecil pause before sighing into his hand as he rubs his face.

“Of course you're a– fuckin’ forgot–” he cleared his throat, eyeing you before pulling you up with a hand around your throat. You come willingly, relaxing into his hold.

You'd kicked your pants off earlier, so as you straddled his lap, his cock was pressing against your puffy lips, tip smacking against your folds as you two adjusted, shivering at the contact.

You looked down, then up, meeting Cecil's gaze. You looked so cute like this, innocent, like you weren't incredibly dangerous and an apparent freak in the sheets.

Fingers flexing, Cecil squeezed your neck, watching the way your eyes fluttered briefly.

Looking down at your puffy pussy, Cecil couldn't help but think it was even prettier in person. Gently, he ran his fingers through your split, seeing how soaked they get with your sticky arousal.

“Anything in particular you want me to do here?” He asks, voice low as he circles your clit, feeling your tremble from it. Damn, but you were needy. Your poor pussy had been so neglected that just this had you ready to tip over the edge. “Because otherwise I'm just going to ‘force’ myself on you like you asked.”

You rapidly nod.

“That's it? You just want–? Okay,” he exhaled softly, almost amused at the pleading look you were giving him. Despite what they were doing and what you wanted, you were still so fucking cute.

Pushing his chair back, Cecil shoved you off his lap roughly, still gripping your neck, though now it was more of a choke. He felt you swallow as he stood, towering over you before he lifted you up (thank God for your powers otherwise this whole thing would've been impossible) and shoving you back down on his desk.

You writhed like a bug stuck on its back, eyes wide as he squeezed your throat while he began fingering you roughly, fast paced to prepare this tight little hole for his cock.

You choked a bit, gripping his wrist and pulling weakly at it, feet kicking wildly but nowhere near him.

“Calm down.” He snapped, landing a swift smack to your already puffy cunt, making you jolt. You stop squirming, allowing him to shove your legs up and out of the way. “Good girl. Now hold yourself open.”

You listened, gripping the back of your knees, looking up at him with faux nervousness as he scissored his fingers within you, hole swallowing them up and clenching hungrily.

“Jesus, kid,” he muttered, pulling them out– barely– and grasping his cock, “you're going to fucking choke me, aren't you?”

“You're the one with his hand around my neck, sir.” You murmur innocently, earning another squeeze for it; you go back to pretending you don't want this, whining as he tries pushing in, his veins bulging as he grips your neck tighter for leverage before finally, he pops in.

Your thighs tremble at the sensation while Cecil just gasps, taking a moment to breathe because… Christ on a stick, you're tight. Viltrumite muscles are all super strong apparently.

Staring down at you, Cecil loses himself for a moment, simply drinking in this pretty view he's going to be seeing a lot more of now. Shit, for once his luck was looking up. At least one good thing was happening after everything, even if it was mostly good for him.

As Cecil's hips slot against your ass, you let out a slow breath, dazed as you stare up at the ceiling.

You feel so… full. Full and stretched and warm. Yet your mind is blissfully quiet. You don't have to think or worry, no point in fighting– Cecil has already won, after all. His grip around your neck is firm, grounding; it let you know without a doubt that if you ever lost control or tried to hurt anyone, he'd be there to scruff you and crush you underfoot again, pressure on your skull until everything went quiet and all you could feel was him.

You'd never doubted he was perfect for you. Not even once.

You just hadn't dared to hope.

Pulling back, Cecil feels himself shudder as your walls try to hold onto him, to pull him back in. He couldn't recall the last time he'd actually slept with anyone, so it was a challenge not to blow his load then and there.

But once he regained control of himself? Once Cecil was sure he wasn't going to blow his load like a virgin? He snapped back into you and began to thrust.

Slow and steady at first, hips rolling forward to grind his tip against your g-spot with every plunge, then faster as he found a good rhythm that had your head falling back and eyes half-lidded, gaze distant and unseeing as you clenched around his cock and soaked his table with more arousal than he thought possible to produce.

Another part of your Viltrumite biology?

Regardless, it wasn't something he was going to complain about– much. His desk was probably going to smell like pussy for a while though.

All the while Cecil fucked into you, his hand remained around your throat like a brand, almost managing to bruise you. Each time his fingers flexed and adjusted their grip, you'd flutter around him, a sound warbling in your throat.

Considering the amount of teasing you'd received, it didn't take long for you to cum. Cecil felt it, cock gripped like a vice as your walls rippled around him, pulsing with heat and liquid as you jolted under him, mouth opening in a silent scream.

Cecil took a calculated risk and slapped you. Light, not able you harm even if he put his all into it.

A small gush of squirt escaped you.

“Fucking hell, kid, you really do like it rough.” He gruffly said, focusing on his breathing and pace, jaw clenching as he felt his balls tighten and draw up. “Next time you need this, tell me, and I'll prepare some bondage for you. Bet you'd like being tied up and incapable, yeah?”

You whimpered, legs encircling his hips.

“Yeah.” He nodded, hunching over you, thrusting just that bit faster to reach his finish. “Don't worry, kid, I'll handle everything. You just keep being good, and I'll give you what you need.”

His ragged words were cut off by a groan, and Cecil fell on top of you, forehead sweaty and pressing against your shoulder, holding onto you as he came. Thick ropes filled you, each pump stuffing you with (thankfully) unviable sperm.

Once done, he began catching his breath, turning his head so he wasn't panting directly in your ear. He also released his hold on your neck, shaking his hand out.

“Christ, I think that was more painful for me.” He muttered, slowly pushing up. “You alright?”

You just blinked slowly, an affectionate look on your face as you gazed at him, body limp and radiating satisfaction.

Huffing in amusement, Cecil slumped back into his chair, simply taking a moment to calm down, his old heart giving him its complaints.

When you sat up some time later, you looked down, embarrassed.

“Thank you for doing this, Cecil.” You whispered, voice somewhat hoarse; he had no doubt it would be fixed in less than an hour. “I… I know it's weird–”

“Damn right it's weird. But so are most kinks. And believe me, kid, yours is on the lighter side of the spectrum.” He said, wiping himself clean before tucking himself back into his pants. “So don't kick yourself over it. You hardly heard me complaining or needing convincing.”

You gave him a shy look. “You… like pretending to force your partners?” You ask almost hopefully.

With a sigh, he stood again, gently stroking your hair back.

“Not quite. But I do cross the line most of the time.” He hesitated, then, “… I've been watching you. At night. While you were getting off.” He admitted quietly.

“… you watched me masturbate?”

“Mmm-hmm. And I, uh, joined in.” He awkwardly admitted, but you deserved to know he was just as, if not more, perverse than you.

You stared at him, then shuddered, lips pressing together as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Kid?”

“… I think I just came again.”

Jesus.

You cleared your throat. “Uh… anyway, that's hot and I fucking knew I was hearing something, but uh… feel free to keep watching.” You offered him a slightly less embarrassed smile. “I don't mind.”

Cecil just chuckled, partially in disbelief and partially in shock. You just kept surprising him, huh?

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Now… how about we go shower?” He suggested, feeling filthy.

“Yeah! Ooh, and if it's alright… can I tell you about some of my fantasies? For future reference, of course.” You ask, Cecil withholding a smile at your eagerness.

Would you ever stop being so adorable to him?

Cecil Stedman hates texting. Maybe it’s the old man in him, but he actually despises it. 

With a life as disorganized and chaotic as his own, he desires a conversation either through his earpiece or face-to-face. Those forms of communication are more efficient, in his mind. For good reason, too. When he’s talking to someone in person, Cecil can accurately dissect body language, facial expressions, tone of voice, the whole nine yards. Is using his earpiece perfect? No, it can only get him so far, but it’s still much better than having to squint at a small screen, struggling to get his scarred thumbs to cooperate long enough to type out coherent words. 

If somebody doesn’t have the urgency to pick up the phone and dial a number, or flip a goddamn switch on their high-level government owned headset, then the situation at hand must not be a drastic dilemma. At least, not one that Cecil thinks he has to concern himself with.

Does his rapid sense of urgency come off as rude, maybe even self-centered? Absolutely. These conversations can be used as weapons, according to Cecil. He doesn’t care about other people’s feelings. He doesn’t have the time to. His work at the GDA is business only. That’s all his life is built around now. Cecil barely survives the legal battles that come with managing superheroes. Not even legal fights, physical ones too. 

Texting is a nuisance to Cecil, plain and simple. 

So when you, the new superhero recruit, send him a text message at 2:00 AM on a Friday, Cecil flat out ignores it. 

Well, at first, anyway. 

He doesn’t even read the words when they pop up on his smartphone (one he really doesn’t care for, but it was purchased for him by the GDA, so he feels obligated to carry it around). 

It was actually a miracle he even saw the notification in the first place. The phone was faced up towards the ceiling, discarded on one of the desks in the control room. His eyes had been glued to monitors, actively picking apart videos of Invincible’s fight earlier that day, the older man’s thoughts consumed with worry that the boy might end up like his father. When the screen lights up and a familiar ringtone chirps, all he sees at first is your name. With that, he immediately glances away and goes back to staring at the machines that hum quietly in the near empty room. 

Ignoring your text was easy, but ignoring the way his stomach dropped was near impossible. 

Maybe the age gap is to explain why you’re one of those people glued to your devices. Cecil is much older, so he genuinely doesn’t get the hype. On the other hand, you clearly do. You bother him all the time with random shit, especially over text. Any boundaries that the director tried establishing in the first place were long gone. Actually, there were none to begin with. That might partially be Cecil’s fault, but he likes to shift the blame to you as often as possible…which is all the time. 

It’s more than your age, though. You don’t just do this for fun. It doesn’t help that you are practically all by yourself in this world. No known family, barely any friends. Even the other superheroes found it hard to hold conversation with you due to your lack of social skills. Which makes sense given how Cecil found you. What used to be home was the operating table that some fucked up scientist utilized to perform far too many tests on you. The same deranged experiments that resulted in your cat-like ears, tail, and claws. 

It was quite the sight to see you unconscious on the floor after the GDA busted the lab. Debris was scattered around your naked feet, brushes of dirt splayed across your barren arms. Any furry part of your body was covered in a layer of filth. Cecil wasn’t sure what the hell to make of you at first. He couldn’t deny the fact you looked fascinating, though. A specimen he was completely unfamiliar with. It’s not often that GDA directors come across hybrids. Even though the original mission was meant to collect data on whatever the hell this scientist was producing, there was much difficulty in trying to pry his eyes away from your limp form. Cecil Stedman had no idea he’d be taking home a goddamn pet.  

To make matters worse, Cecil was the first face you saw when you came out of your coma. The moment your eyes fluttered open and he met your timid gaze, Cecil knew he was fucked. Your face was already pretty enough, why the hell did you have to have beautiful eyes too? Seeing your worried expression under the bright lights, hearing the pathetic little whimpers that snuck past your lips, it only complicated things further for the old man. It was at this moment he realized that you weren’t like any of the others. No, not even close.

Despite being poked and prodded by multiple GDA personnel, he was the only person who didn’t treat you like livestock. You were never a science experiment to Cecil. He had faith in you, hopes for your future. 

What he didn’t know, at the time, was that those dreams of seeing you flourish into a successful superhero came with a price. One that left his heart skipping a beat each time you’d reach out to him. 

Cecil has genuinely lost count on how many times he’s told you to stop bothering him with these stupid texts. For one, he thinks they’re annoying. Another reason is that he doesn’t want you to rely on him for every little thing. He knows why you’re doing it; you’re alone. But, your life was never in any type of distress that was genuinely concerning; you just liked having someone to annoy. His reactions always make you laugh, so it was practically entertainment at this point, just something to motivate you to keep moving forward in this fucked up world. 

That being said, it was completely normal for you to ignore Cecil’s protests and send message after message. What was unusual, though, was the timing. 

Never in the last year had you sent him something this late in the night…or, early in the morning? Whatever, Cecil knew it was strange to begin with. That’s what made his stomach churn and mind consumed with irrational thoughts. 

The command room’s atmosphere is chilling; the cold air seeping through the man’s expensive suit makes his skin prickle with bumps. The occasional beep from a distant monitor brings him back to reality. Cecil had been enjoying the brief quiet of his workspace given there were barely any employees present. Now, there’s this uneasy feeling settling on his shoulders and traveling down his spine. Any attempt to relax was completely out the window. You occupied his mind instead.

He’d been here all day catching up on Invincible’s stats as of late. Essentially, Cecil wanted to ensure there wasn’t anything he was missing that might come back to bite him in the ass. He had dismissed a handful of employees to go enjoy a quick break elsewhere just to enjoy some silence. Being surrounded by people for hours on end, he thought he deserved it. 

But then his phone is dinging, then once more. Twice in a row it alerts Cecil that there’s someone else on the other end that is in dire need of his attention. 

Cecil walks away from the desk towards a holographic map to put distance between himself and the wretched smartphone. He hears it go off a third time as his fingers type away at a keyboard, opening a 3-D blueprint of Chicago. The glow emitting from the advanced technology could not hide the device resting in his peripheral. He couldn’t even focus on the casualty reports for more than ten seconds before he hears that goddamn smartphone go off for what he can only assume is the fourth or fifth time. What on earth did you want?

The older man contemplates his next decision once, twice, then a third time just for extra measure. While it might be imperative Cecil educates himself on the recent structural damages in the city, he finds himself silently admitting that curiosity of your current whereabouts was getting to the best of him.

He can’t believe how easily he caves into your obvious demands. Before he knows it, Cecil angrily grunts mumbled words under his breath as he returns to his previous spot at the desk. He reaches out and picks up the smartphone, unlocking it in an instant. Squinting in the dark room, he mutters the texts only loud enough for himself to hear. Then, Cecil’s heart drops within seconds.  

All the texts were begging him for help. In rapid succession, you continue to spam him with frantic, panicked pleas. There was an easy pattern to follow right away; you were injured.

“cecil, PLZ i need help. i dont know what to do!!!”

“i know u can see these. plzzz cecil :((( help!”

“it hurts so bad”

“i dont know how much longer i can take it”

In an instant, he’s pulling up your coordinates on the monitor. That fateful day when his team discovered you all alone and exhausted to the point of passing out, he instructed his men to put a chip in the back of your neck. The process was pretty routine for other heroes he works with. If you, God forbid, tried running away at some point, he’d be able to track the movements. Your body was in enough pain at that time, that the insertion didn’t even wake you from your coma. Eventually, you did end up finding out about what he had done…and paid no mind to it at all. Cecil was a bit thankful you weren’t so mad with him. Sometimes the superheroes gave him pushback; the older man appreciated how docile you could be.

Despite the messages clearly indicating some form of danger, your coordinates showed you were well rested in the comfort of your apartment. It’s a tiny little place downtown, hidden from the rest of the city, but it worked to meet your needs. Cecil would have preferred if you just stayed at GDA headquarters instead, but he knew that you needed privacy at the end of the day. That being said, only a handful of workers at the facility even knew of it, one of them being Cecil himself. There are a multitude of security measures on top of that to protect you from unknown dangers. One of which being that anyone who enters the premises that’s neither you or him, an alarm would be triggered and GDA personnel would be informed immediately.

A totally normal precaution he definitely does for all the other superheroes…

The first question that crossed his mind was, had you been compromised? Were you in the process of being kidnapped, or worse? Then again, if that had been the case, you would have definitely tried contacting him via earpiece; there’s no doubt about that. Even when you want to bother the shit out of Cecil with these goddamn texts, you knew well enough that actual emergencies meant urgent communication. 

Yet, here you are, spamming him instead. 

Cecil fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

For the next few seconds, Cecil opens a different tab and begins typing your full legal name in the search bar. The chip in your body not only keeps track of your approximate location, but it also acts as a sensor that transmits any strange spike in your otherwise normal health readings. The little box of text showed the latest update on your vitals. He cocks his head to the side, noticing how unusually all over the place they are. 

You’re on extreme alert, perhaps just as much as you are when sent out on a mission. What stuck out to the man was seeing the accelerated heart rate; 115 beats per minute. That particular number was something he usually saw spike this high during your workouts. Next, he’s furrowing his eyebrows at the sight of your temperature matching that of a low-grade fever. 

At this point, he’s growing more and more worried over your safety. 

“Sir? Is everything alright?” a familiar voice asks from behind the director. 

Cecil glances over his shoulder just long enough to see who was speaking to him, even though he already had a clue based on the voice. His sharp eyes observe the personal assistant standing only a few feet away, noticing how Donald’s arms were clutching a variety of thick portfolios. They’re filled with paperwork that Cecil will need to sign at some point tonight, but he can’t even comprehend taking time out of his schedule to do that right now. He’s entirely focused on you instead. 

The director ignores Donald and continues investigating the monitor. He’s scrolling through anything else he might have missed from your health report. The screen gives him the same concerning numbers that had been plastered on there a couple minutes prior, as if he was hoping they would somehow go away and cease to be his issue. Cecil keeps looking at the logged data nonetheless, trying to find a pattern of some sort that might hint what you’re dealing with. Meanwhile, Donald takes a careful step forward. He notices the name of the file a few seconds later, causing his eyes to widen ever so slightly underneath his sunglasses. He asks with a careful tone, “Is she in trouble? What’s her latest update?”

“I don’t know for sure. I feel like she’s just trying to annoy me,” Cecil explains, as though your pain was literally meant just to get on his nerves. 

Another chime from the phone dings. The atmosphere between both men freezes for only a second or two. Cecil angrily picks up the device again and scans the notification.

“i don’t know who else to talk to about this. can u plz call me?”

Donald’s eyes seem to burn in the back of Cecil’s head. He wonders aloud, “Do you want me to…do anything, sir?”

Cecil pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. The tension in his jaw is still there despite his feeble attempt to calm down. “Fuck if I know.”

It doesn’t seem as though Donald is concerned about you. The distress in his voice feigns more worry for his boss than anything else, as if he is more concerned about the way Cecil was reacting than your health and safety. But then, he makes a comment that might explain the peculiar behavior. 

“It could be something to do with her hybrid DNA, if you catch my drift, sir.”

Cecil did not catch the drift, actually. Because he’s an old man and needs these things explained outright. Obviously. 

He likes order. He likes routine. He likes knowing what’s wrong with his superheroes without having to guess. So he blurts out, “What are you saying, Donald?”

“Just call her. I’m sure she’ll explain,” Donald replies with a soft sigh. He walks away to give Cecil privacy, only to turn around once to drop the stack of portfolios on the desk.

Those damn papers need to be signed. He knows that. Cecil knows better. But he keeps looking between the assigned workload and the text he just received from you as though, maybe, he has better things to do. He’s genuinely surprised he’s contemplating putting off his duty as the GDA director just to help you. Then again, aren’t you considered part of the job, considering he’s your boss?

It doesn’t take long to weigh the options. Cecil dials your phone number a few seconds later, holding the device to his ear while shoving his other hand deep into his suit pocket. The moment you pick up, his heart skips a beat. 

“Oh, Cecil? Are you there? Thank God!” you express, gasping at the realization he was on the other line. 

“What’s going on? Are you hurt?” Cecil asks. He musters enough courage to sound as careless as possible. Deep down, he’s anxious as hell to get an update. 

“Well, yes and no? I don’t know how to explain this without it sounding…weird.”

Cecil raises an eyebrow, “Huh? Spit it out, kid. I don’t have all night.”

He notices your hesitation and grows annoyed, almost snapping at you again before you finally reply, “I-I think I started my heat.”

The anger dissipates, replaced by a different emotion; Cecil’s stunned.

His breath catches in his throat and he has to cough into his hand. The command room feels smaller, the air still, only the sound of his pulse throbbing in his ears. His mind races with possibilities as to what this can mean, how this affects your duties as a superhero. None of your workload matters now though. What matters is ensuring you’re safe, protected, and above all, going to survive. 

“So? You’re on suppressants, aren’t you?” Cecil quips back.

He hears you take a deep breath. The brief moments of silence already tell him the answer, but the truth digs deeper in his chest, like he’d just been stabbed with a knife. “No, I don’t. When I left the lab a month ago, I told them I didn’t want those pills because I thought I could handle it.”

“And?...”

“I don’t think I can handle it, Cecil. I’m freaking out,” you explain, almost to the point of whining. 

Cecil should have seen this coming. With all the experiments that fucking scientist performed on you, the director had been informed that it was possible that you would eventually experience some sort of heat cycle down the line. However, your hormones were already so all over the place, the GDA found it was best to suppress any of those risks of ovulation. So why the hell did you think you were enough of a big girl to take this on like a champ? Were you just trying to prove something to yourself?

Or, maybe, prove something to him. 

“Kid, what the hell do you want me to do? Get the lab to give you those suppressants-”

“Yes! Please! That might help!” you exclaim miserably. 

He sighs heavily, clutching the phone tighter than before. “You do realize that no one is in the lab right now, right? They’re all home or working on actual life-threatening problems. Did you not fucking see Invincible today? I have bigger fish to fry.”

He hates having to put you down like this, but Cecil needs you to understand the reality of the situation you’ve placed yourself in. The timing is horrible. 

You exhale through your nose and say, “Please, there has to be something! I’m-I’m in so much pain.”

Hearing you admit that breaks his heart. But Cecil can’t get emotionally involved. He refuses. 

“Take care of it like other people do.” 

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, you question him, “What do you mean? How do other people take care of this?”

“You know exactly what I mean. It’s on those reality shows you watch all the time. Just figure it out and please don’t bother me again with this. I have bigger problems on my plate.”

“Do you mean…oh. Oh. That’s what you mean?”

He ends the phone call and discards the phone on the desk, face flushed a deep red.

It’s over. The phone call is done. Quick, simple, easy. Definitely for the best. He doesn’t need to actually help you through this. You’re a big girl, you’ll figure it out.

Well, he hopes so anyway.

But, what if you got confused about what he meant? 

Shit, now he’s pacing back and forth, staring at his feet while that goddamn phone call plays on loop in his head. You sounded so weak and hurt in ways he could never imagine. The hybrid abilities came with both pros and cons. This is one of those situations where it was definitely a con. 

But you should have known better. You should have asked for those pills the GDA used on you while they briefly kept you in testing. Cecil chalks up this entire situation as a natural consequence. Nothing more, nothing less. You’d find a solution to your problem and be on with the rest of your night. 

Except, he keeps asking himself if you truly understood what he meant. Obviously you knew he meant just to masturbate, right? He couldn’t bring himself to say that out right. That would be so inappropriate to suggest to his employee. Therefore, he knew he had to dance around the idea instead. However, for a split second, Cecil’s heart drops at the theory that you might be going through with something else instead.

Should he…do something about it? Should Cecil call you again? Or should he…

An idea crosses his mind. 

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it would be overstepping. 

Except…that’s the thing. There aren’t any lines to cross. There has always been a lack of explicit boundaries between either of you. Even when he’d tell you to stop bothering him, you kept up with it. You push and push, and he just lets you. If you’re allowed that kind of freedom with him, maybe he should be permitted to do the same.

The plan Cecil conjures up in his head isn’t the best, but how else would he know for sure one of his favorite superheroes was genuinely following his orders correctly? 

Perhaps, for just a quick second, he could view your search history. He knew your phone was also owned by the GDA. He’d be able to hack it no problem. 

All Cecil craves is to know what’s on your mind through the use of personal internet archives. It would give him an inkling as to what you might be doing this very moment, especially since he can’t see for himself what you’re up to. He briefly regrets not installing cameras in your living room…or bedroom, for that matter. 

The mere thought of invading your privacy in this way results in Cecil’s eyes narrowing at the computer screen. He exhales slowly, licking his lips slowly as he weighs the pros and cons.

Cecil isn’t usually this much of an overthinker. He’s the type of man who follows his gut instinct. When that might fail him, or at the very least cause him to double-check his options, he mentally reviews past experiences in his head and picks a previously similar choice that seemingly worked out well for the situation at hand. Cecil will forever aim to achieve an accurate result, even if the means of obtaining such are morally gray. 

He’s fucking dug into the depths of hell for some of the superheroes that work at the GDA. There was no part of their history left unturned by him and his team. Never before has he had to second-guess whether or not he should be looking up one’s search history. It’s not like there are any boundaries he can’t cross in the first place, right? There isn’t anything advising him to not do this.

Maybe Cecil tells himself that he’s just…curious about what you choose to do. That excuse falls thin just as quickly as it’s conjured up in his mind. Because then again, is he really being courteous in the first place when his mind has already pictured you in the different positions you might be in right now? One of which flashes across the front of his brain…

Cecil adjusts his tie once, then twice. 

Why does the thought of you all flustered in a mess of sheets have him acting like a damn teenage boy?

His hand hovers over the mouse on the desk. He’s practically twitching just thinking about what to do next. Cecil glances at the keyboard in front of him. It’s begging him to follow through with his plan. It’s for your safety, right? 

While the circumstances are slightly problematic, he ultimately decides on looking up your latest searches. He flies through all the necessary safeguards on the monitor, his fingers moving at a rapid pace. Right after logging into the appropriate system, Cecil purposely hunches over the screen to hide the evidence. Regardless of his pure intentions, Cecil has this strange voice in the back of his head suggesting that his subordinates would not exactly find what he’s doing to be a great choice. 

He ignores that little guilty twinge in his gut and continues typing away. After sorting through a mess of files, Cecil discovers what he had been searching for all along. The monitor’s bright, white light shines across the man’s scarred, pale face. The little pop-up window displays your search history in a neat order from oldest to most recent. 

Cecil’s eyes carefully scan what you had put into your search bar within the last five minutes. He’s thankful there’s even anything there to begin with, but he knew you better than most and figured you’d be glued to your phone.  

Upon reading the text on the screen, Cecil’s heart drops. Another chill runs up his spine at the realization of what you’re getting yourself into.

“bad hybrid heat solution”

“best ways to relieve heat pain”

“does sex help with heat”

“hook up apps”

“sneaky one night stands near me”

The warmth in his blue eyes evaporates, replaced by a cold stare. Cecil’s blood boils. 

He’s fucking livid. 

The director was under the impression you knew better than this. Gosh, he was convinced you were smart enough to see the obvious red flags that come with doing something so reckless. There’s so many reasons why it’s a horrible idea. You’re putting your safety at risk just for the sake of relieving some pain. 

Cecil’s head is throbbing at the thought of some complete stranger tending to your needs. He simply cannot let you go through with this.

Rarely does this man experience, let alone show, such raw emotion. A man with a chipped past like his own can’t display signs of weakness. But that’s what you are to the man; the reason he has the slightest loss of strength. Cecil hates that you are his kryptonite, because now all he sees is red. 

The sounds of the command room dull away, replaced by a ringing in his ear. 

Before he can process another thought, Cecil’s body is engulfed in energy and manipulated down to the cellular level. With your location at the front of his brain, his body rapidly reforms outside your apartment. He’s slightly disoriented when he comes out of it, and curses at himself for costing the GDA millions just because of his ridiculous emotions. Why did he feel so strongly about this to begin with? Regardless, there was no time for reflection. 

He comes face to face with your apartment door. Its brown, steel frame has various dents from past tenants. The number twenty-two sits under the peephole in a gold font. Cecil doesn’t even bother raising a hand to knock. He simply stands there in the barren hallway. The noise of the city outside these walls continues, but Cecil doesn’t pay any bother to them. His eyes are glued to the door as he impatiently waits. 

Maybe one minute passes, then another. He crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall opposite of the entrance. Suddenly, his ears perk up. He hears shuffling inside. There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled up, perhaps from a jacket or other article of clothing. Something heavy hits the ground, then there’s the sound of your feet stumbling around. 

When the door swings open, Cecil clocks your genuine surprise immediately. Your pretty eyes widen with fear, but he also catches the faintest blush dusted across your nose and cheeks. The baggy clothes cover any cat-like features, but he can see the way your cat-like ears twitch under the hoodie of your jacket. The air goes completely still for at least five seconds. Then, he finally gives you the only order appropriate for the situation. 

“Get your ass back inside, now.”

The world seems to stop moving at his words. Both bodies are completely still. Meanwhile, Cecil tries his best to ignore the rapid pulse in his ears. You remain quiet for a bit, apparently weighing how much trouble you’re likely already in. The GDA director doesn’t want to stand around and wait for you to figure it out though; you need to understand you’re already in deep shit. 

“Are you fucking deaf?” he asks, “I gave you a direct order, kid.”

He catches sight of a clear shudder running down your spine. The man’s request implies that this is a mere warning of what is to come, but it’ll get a whole lot worse if you don’t obey him. With a shaky inhale, you tentatively step backwards, attempting to shut the door in the process. 

Suddenly, with a loud bang, Cecil’s hand slams against it, making the door come to a complete halt right before the doorknob could click back into place with the frame. Your eyes widen, body jumping simultaneously. Completely unamused, he shoves himself into your private space without warning, closing it behind himself with another loud echo. 

He crosses his arms again, ignoring how much this space smells so strongly of you. There’s barely any lights on besides one in the kitchen around the corner. In the dark shadows, he juts his chin towards you and snaps, “Tell me exactly what you were about to do.”

“ I don’t know what you’re talking about-” you stammer, composure chipping away with each word. 

He cuts you off before you even have a chance to lie, because he knows that’s exactly what you’re about to do. “Shut and tell me. I already fucking know, I just want to hear you admit it to my face.”

The way he talks makes you freeze. You stay there, unmoving, taking in the underlying threat. Suddenly, anger takes over. With a displeased expression, you sneer, “You can’t be serious, Cecil. I’m in pain. Wh-What do you expect me to do?”

He quips back, “I expect you to act smarter. Going out at 2:00 AM for a one night stand with a stranger? You’re a goddamn superhero, you need to start acting like it. Getting in contact with an outsider, someone you don’t even know, to help you with your…your heat…it’s not-”

Cecil can’t bring himself to finish his harsh reprimand, because all of a sudden you’re bawling your eyes out. The tremble in your shoulders was a clear indication you wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon either. That alone makes his heart drop to his stomach. 

“I-I-” you sputter, crying rather forcefully. Each tear that streams down your cheeks is a reminder of the fact he has essentially cornered you into this position since he won’t let you find a solution in someone else. You wrap your arms around your body and look towards the ground, “I don’t know what to do anymore, I’m so scared and it hurts and…fuck, I don’t know!”

For a brief second, Cecil closes his eyes, as though seeing you fall apart in front of him was too much to bear. He only faintly feels bad for this predicament; just a smidge. 

He exhales and scratches the back of his head, awkwardly trying to figure out an appropriate way to go about this dilemma. He stares at you, gulping quietly as you continue to drown yourself in a burst of emotions. 

Cecil steps forward to close the gap. He lifts his hand and hesitates, then allows his fingers to curl themselves around your shoulder. You’re warm to the touch under all these layers of clothes. You stop your anguish and shoot him a confused look, sniffling away any remaining tears. 

He’s already decided what he’s going to tell you. 

It’s just that once he says it, there’s no going back. 

“Listen, you…you need to understand how dangerous it is to do something like that, okay? I can’t let you leave this apartment and risk your life,” he explains, absolutely sure that his argument is completely logical and not at all personal, “How about I try to get you something to help with the pain. You just have to promise me you’ll stay here, got it?”

Coddling a superhero after disobeying orders isn’t his usual motive. Cecil would rather someone shoot him in the head than be seen protecting you from what should have been natural consequences to your actions. You should be held responsible for any endeavors that clearly put your life on the line; for Christ’s sake, you’re an adult after all. 

But there goes that lack of boundaries again. 

You were different from the other superheroes he is in charge of. There was nothing that could change that truth.

“What can we do? I don’t have anything that can, well, you know,” you trail off, mind drifting to the throbbing discomfort in between your legs. 

Cecil has to force himself not to stare at the way you so obviously press your thighs together. Despite the strong willpower, there’s still a faint rush of blood somewhere it shouldn’t be. 

Goddamnit, he’s so fucked for this. 

But it would be cruel to leave you without at least offering some form of help. 

He tells you, “Go lay down, I’ll figure something out.”

The older man watches as you take in a great big breath. There is no immediate change in your appearance, given your eyelids are still so puffy and your breathing remains uneven, but it only takes a few more seconds til you meekly nod and step backwards. As you turn to walk towards your bedroom, Cecil notices your tail has snuck its way out of the baggy clothing. It appears limp, apparently tucking itself under your frame. He’s not sure he’s ever seen it so slack before. Usually, you’re swinging that thing around like it’s a toy. 

It’s only more of a confirmation of how under the weather you truly are. 

Cecil needs to help you, and fast. 

He waits until he hears you round the corner, and only then does he pinch himself on the wrist. The little nip at his weary skin tells him he definitely is in your apartment, helping you with your heat, finding a solution to your problem because how else would he be spending a Friday night. This isn’t a dream. Or is it? No, the thunderous pound in his chest from his accelerated heart rate was enough to convince him that he was not hallucinating this ordeal.

Cecil needs to act like this is normal. 

Because he’s sure that others in his position would do the same.

Right?

He’s just helping you, that’s it. So like a wild dog trying to pursue prey, he scouts your apartment for anything that could be of use. What exactly was he looking for? He didn’t even know himself, but Cecil figured that he would come across some item that would give him an idea. He likes to think he’s smart enough to come up with something on the spot like that. 

So when he finds absolutely no resources of value in your space, he begins to freak out. 

There aren’t any medications in your cabinets that would help with such specific symptoms. Actually, there’s a lack of any drugs in this place to begin with. He dives into drawers, underneath couch cushions, even behind furniture to try and find literally anything that might help, but he comes up dry. The only thing that he assumed might be of help was the hairbrush left on your bathroom counter. Its large handle could be of use in ways that Cecil really tries hard not to imagine, but then his mind wanders and he’s red in the face. 

He doesn’t want to give up. Especially on you. This is his mission right now and he’ll be damned if he fails. But before long, Cecil approaches your bedroom and knocks softly. He hears your frail voice telling him to enter and doesn’t waste another second. 

Standing in the doorway, he finds you sat upon your mattress. The blankets have been shoved to the furthest corner of the bed, sheets in a tangled heap. Only a couple pillows are left, as the rest had been discarded on the floor. Cecil notices rips in the fabric of the fitted sheet. They’re all in the shape of familiar claw marks he has seen during your missions time and time again. However, what makes his breath hitch is the little wet patch on your pants. 

It’s so obvious. You’re a goddamn mess.

Cecil has to physically mold himself to the fucking floor to not overreact. 

But then, he smells it. There’s a very specific, lingering aroma in your room that he can’t quite place at first. It’s musky, completely rich in a way that makes his spine tingle. The odor is overwhelming on levels Cecil swears is giving him sensory overload. 

Then, it clicks. 

It’s the scent of your arousal. Your desperation. Your heat.

At this point, he’s trying so hard not to inhale deeply and let himself get carried away. 

“Did you find anything?” you ask, eyelashes clumped together from your previous crying session. 

“Uh, n-no I didn’t,” Cecil explains, averting eye contact by staring at other parts of your room, “I already told you the lab won’t have your pills ready for a little while longer. We have bigger problems to deal with right now.”

“It’s fine, I get it,” you huff, pushing out your bottom lip.

That little pout was going to be the death of him. 

“You haven’t tried to, I don’t know, do it yourself?” Cecil asks, sparing a very quick glance in your direction only to look away again.

Without missing a beat, you wave your fingers in the air. Moonlight from the window makes your sharp claws glisten. “Does it look like I can?”

“Shit, sorry, I knew that,” Cecil’s eyebrows furrow together, momentarily forgetting how unnaturally long and edged your nails are, “you seriously don’t have anything to use to get yourself off? Nothing at all?”

“Cecil-” you begin, posture suddenly straightened at his implication.

“Kid, I know it’s fucked up for me to say this shit in the first place, but you put me in this position.”

Your cheeks flush a deep red. He wishes so badly he knew what on earth was going on in that head of yours. “So what should I do?”

Cecil pauses. Hair on the back of his neck raises as he realizes he simply does not have an answer for you. He sighs and drags a hand down his face, closing his eyes to think over what to tell you.

Then, he takes a step back. Not that he wants to, but because he thinks he has to. Maybe this is in your best favor, because what else is there to do anyway? 

“You’ll just have to deal with it. You got yourself into this mess, you can suck it up.”

The grimace on your face makes him wish he could take away all your suffering with a simple snap of his fingers. You look down at the heap of blankets and sheets at the edge of the bed, completely lost knowing the only person you thought could save you ended up leaving you high and dry. 

Cecil doesn’t wait for a response. What he told you makes him feel guilty enough. So with that, he simply edges away from the door and closes it behind himself, pausing a while to replay this entire situation in his mind. Those wide eyes stay at the front of his brain. He can’t get that look off his mind. But this is what’s for the best, right? 

He’s just about to walk away for good, maybe return to his duties back at the GDA, when suddenly he hears you cry again. Those deep, shallow breaths are loud as ever despite the bedroom door being completely closed. His morale cracks and he’s left almost grinding his teeth at the mere thought of you sitting so pathetically in there, all by yourself in agony. 

Fuck.

Seconds pass as impatience begins to grow heavy within his ribcage, weighing him down like an anchor, leaving him completely stuck in place right there in the middle of the hallway. 

He’s supposed to be the one who supports you, the managerial figure who protects you from conflict out in the field of superhero work. But right here in this small, downtown apartment, Cecil Stedman does not find himself battling with an alien or evil scientist; he’s experiencing an internal fight with his responsibilities as GDA director. Realistically, he should just evaporate out of here and leave you to find your own solution. 

But no, Cecil can’t do it. He can’t leave you like this. It would go against his role, his job, his ethics. He can’t even believe he was so annoyed with you less than an hour ago. Truthfully speaking, it was all a front. Cecil could never be mad at you, or so he likes to think. Perhaps after tonight he just might be. The way he’s acted in the past was to protect his image, a very purposeful act to convince himself that he didn’t care about you more than a boss should for their employee. 

But he does care for you. So much so that he wants to make you feel better as soon as humanly possible. 

It’s at this moment Cecil wishes he was a superhero himself, with a specific power that could get rid of this misfortune.

Then again…perhaps he doesn’t need to be a superhero for what you desire.

Once more tonight, an idea crosses his mind. It’s completely wrong, perhaps morally gray, but if he didn’t go through with his earlier idea, he would have never stopped you from hooking up with a stranger. So he thinks he has to be doing something right. 

Right as Cecil reopens the door, his heart jumps. You’re still obviously crying, but something else catches his eye sight; you’d discarded some layers of clothes, now only covered by pajama shorts and a thin t-shirt. You rest against the only pillow left and stare absentmindedly at the ceiling. Not only that, but your hand slows down from its previous motions against your clothed cunt. You’d attempted to get rid of your issue to no avail. Shooting him daggers, your voice trembles with obvious desperation. 

“The fuck do you want, Cecil?” you spit at him. 

He narrows his eyes at you, and only then do you go quiet. He continues traveling towards the middle of your room with an intense stare. Even though he hadn’t spoken a word yet, it was like you could tell his sudden impatience and annoyance had since disappeared. This makes you sit up straight and clutch the sheets. The sound of thread ripping underneath your claws makes his jaw tense up. 

“It’s really that bad, huh.” Cecil’s tone isn’t accusatory. It softens slightly. Still, your cat-like ears perk up at the change. 

With a quick sniffle, you reply, “Nothing I can do helps. It still hurts. I just want it to stop!”

Cecil is about to give you a snarky response when he catches sight of how bad your bottom lip tremors. Your voice wavers as the distress of the situation finally begins to catch up to both of you. This was serious, and there was only one resolution that Cecil could think of to make this gut-wrenching experience go away, even if it’s just momentarily. 

Cecil slowly approaches the side of your bed and sighs. While admiring your beauty in silence, he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. 

Before he can think better of it, his hand ghosts over your cheek. His thumb wipes away at the tears that continue to fall. His slight tenderness is enough to send your heartrate skyrocketing, and he swears he sees you press your legs together a moment later. You place your own hand on top of his to anchor him in place. Never had he been so intimate with any of his superheroes, let alone you. But Cecil doesn’t give a shit how out of line this is. He continues to hover quietly. 

“...Cecil?” you whisper.

He can’t tell if it’s the tone of your voice, or the way you said his name like a prayer on your tongue, but Cecil suddenly grasps your hand and yanks you up from the mattress. You stand on wobbly legs and follow him. 

He guides you to your desk in the corner of the room. Before you can ask what he’s planning, he places both hands on your waist and lifts you to sit on the edge of the piece of furniture. A small squeak leaves your lips at the sudden movement. Then, he’s caging you in, moving both his hands on either side of you and pressing them deep into the wood. His expression is hard to define due to how low he bows his head. 

“Cecil?” you ask again. When you get no reply other than a deep inhale, your fingers poke his arm. “Can you at least look at me? I feel like I’ve done something wrong…”

Your soft tail comes up and wraps itself around his other arm, and only then does he finally look directly at you. 

His pupils have engulfed the blue of his eyes. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as you tug on him, gently using your tail to pull him closer. He stumbles into you, moving to rest his forehead against your shoulder. The contact causes your breath to hitch and tail tighten around his limb. 

He practically mewls your name when he begins to say, “It’s nothing like that. It’s…fuck…”

His words begin husky and end barely at a whisper as he breathes in. He shudders at your sickeningly sweet scent, something he already wishes to never go another day without. Instead of flinching when your hands grab his back, he draws you in. As your claws pierce the material of his suit, he emits a sharp breath from the feeling of his skin being poked, grip growing tighter as a result of the sting. He would rather experience it than risk the chance of letting you go. 

It’s from that moment onward that Cecil seems to make his final decision. 

“Fuck it. Use me.”

Your eyebrows raise in response. 

“Use…you?”

He leans back, staring intently as his fingers leave the desk and clutch your knees. He spreads your legs apart and stares down at the obvious arousal coating your thighs. Cecil licks his bottom lip before resuming eye contact. The look on his face is almost unrecognizable, like he’s gone feral. 

“Use me,” Cecil murmurs your name in a sultry tone, “use my fingers.”

“What?! I-I can’t- fuck, this is wrong-” you begin to explain but the reasoning falls short the moment his hand comes in contact with the curve of your sensitive pussy. The gasp you release makes him nearly groan and he’d barely done anything yet. 

“C’mon, kid, use me. It’s the only way to make you feel better,” he mocks, fingers digging deeper into the shorts that cover your most vulnerable body part. He leans forward, lips hovering near your earlobe when he whispers, “Take these off, sweetheart.”

Without hesitation you follow his instructions, tail losing its grip around his arm at the same time your hands fly to your shorts to tug them down. The clothing is gone within seconds, but your shirt remains with two obvious mounds he knows damn well are your nipples poking through. Cecil doesn’t even bother assisting, he merely observes.

A slight flare of amusement lingers on his lips. There’s something indulgent in the way he watches you so carefully. It’s as though he anticipated you would act like this. 

"Eager," he says in a quiet, satisfied voice.

The pajama shorts, along with your soaked underwear, pool around your ankles. Your desperation is on full display now. Cecil spaces himself for only a couple seconds so that you can discard them on the floor. 

Heat rushes to your face and you let out a small whimper, “What? What’s funny?”

The man nearly combusts at how fast you spread yourself for him. He sees you properly now, and a knowing smile pulls at his lips.

You’re fucking beautiful. 

Cecil clicks his tongue, the weight of his gaze on your pussy makes you whine. He shushes you by settling between your legs. The moment his fingers graze the hot skin of your inner thigh, you groan softly under your breath. His other hand rests comfortably on your waist to anchor himself in place. He whispers in your ears once again, “Pretty funny this is the one time I asked you to do something and you actually listened. Didn’t have to repeat myself.”

You ignore the teasing and bite your lip, palms sliding up the front of his suit and locking themselves around his neck. If only slightly, you accidentally jerk your hips forward when he inches closer to the fat crease between your thigh and lower stomach. 

Cecil knows this is painful for you. Waiting longer than necessary would simply be inhuman of him. So with that, his middle finger toys with your wet lips, grazing your clit. The stickiness of your arousal immediately coats him. He presses a kiss to your shoulder the moment he pushes past your entrance and curls his slender digit inside your heat. It’s no surprise that your increased body temperature feels rather unnatural, but he knows he must be doing something right the moment he feels your legs quiver. 

All you can do is moan in response, hugging him tighter into your chest like your life depended on it. With a sharp inhale, you mewl, “Oohhhh, fuuuuck me-”

Cecil shuts you up the moment he’s slipping his finger in and out of your cunt at an agonizingly slow pace. There’s a brief pause in your words, then you’re moaning again and he swears he’s high off that sound alone. He can already feel your gummy walls tighten around him and he’s barely done anything yet. The glossy sheen that covers his hand triggers a large outline to form in the man’s trousers. 

“Was this what you needed, sweetheart?” Cecil jokes while smirking. He shoves a second finger inside without warning. The action makes you gasp and arch your back ever so slightly. 

“Please!” you cry out.

He picks up the pace and starts to stretch you, which only prompts you to dig your claws deeper into his shoulder blades. The roughness of his movements emits a pitiful cry from your pretty lips. The same ones Cecil wishes to kiss. His belt buckle knocks against the wooden desk as he absentmindedly thrusts towards your soaking heat. Fuck, he’s already getting carried away. But the feeling of your wet folds at his fingertips, the moans that echo off the walls, and how hard you cling to his frame makes him damn near dizzy. 

The director’s hand, the one not busy fucking your cunt, travels from your waist to your lower back. Once you notice the small change and look towards him, eyes blown out from nothing but pure lust, Cecil collides both your lips together in a messy, heated kiss. 

This action alone stirs the tight knot that had been forming deep in your belly. Your sudden orgasm washes over your body like a drug, a strong tingle starting in your spine and trickling all the way down to your toes. Your fluffy tail shoots upwards towards the ceiling, twisting and turning like it had no true destination. The near silent scream sent directly into his mouth, alongside the contraction around his digits, gives Cecil the confirmation that he had done exactly what he needed to do. 

But he was far from done with you. 

His jaw aches from how hard he devours you. You’re thrown off guard but continue to kiss him back nonetheless, cupping his face like he’s something delicate, careful not to scratch his scarred cheeks. The man curls both fingers inside you harshly, pushing against that spongy spot that makes you so, so sensitive. Still coming down from the first high, you practically yelp, “Cecil!”

He ignores the plea. Sure, it would be smarter to slow down, but he doesn’t care. He’s too far gone. All he can think about is making you come again just from his fingers alone. 

Cecil adjusts his hand so that his palm comes into direct contact with your clit, digging into the little nub while his digits rub that sweet spot repeatedly. Each little hair that grinds against his surface reminds him of how cute you really are even during such lewd activities. Before fingering you senseless, he made sure to stare eagerly at the trimmed strip of fuzz above your pussy. Somewhere deep down, Cecil had a feeling you kept yourself groomed in this way, like the good girl you are. 

He pulls away from your mouth, stumbling forward to grip the desk so he does not lose balance. Cecil stares into your eyes as he increases the speed. He hums in time with his thrusts. “You can do it, I know you can. One more time for me.”

“Fuck!”

Perhaps embarrassed from how easily he’s able to control you during such a vulnerable state, you shove your face into the crook of his neck, sniffling and crying from the intensity of your second orgasm. Just as the first time went, the impact makes your entire nervous system shake and you practically vibrate in his palm, tail brushing against his leg in the process. 

He eats all of it up. Every single second, because he’s not sure when the hell he’ll ever get to see something so beautiful again. 

Cecil slows his movements and takes a few seconds to play with your overly sensitive self, poking at the tender walls and listening to your whimpers. He’s so pleased with the mess he’s made of you. After letting you catch your breath, he slowly trails his soaked fingers out of your cunt and places his hand back down on the desk, just on the other side of your thigh. He leans in closer, lips hovering above your own. You continue to hold his face and look back at him like you were being treated exactly how you needed to be, like he had done something right.

He could close the gap. Right here, right now. Kiss you again and again like he was meant to, because at this point you feel so close to heaven that Cecil might be convinced the two of you were supposed to cross paths in life. Maybe he could stay here in this same spot for the rest of the night into the bleeding hours of dawn, fingering your sweet pussy and inhaling the scent of your arousal.

But then your hands leave his face.

And all of a sudden Cecil’s belt buckle comes undone. 

His eyes widened out of surprise. Straightening his back, his hands grab your wrists and halt you from being able to move further. You stare back at him out of surprise, and maybe even genuine confusion.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snarls, failing to nudge you away from his trousers. Your superhero strength definitely was not helping at this time.

“...you…don’t want to fuck me?” you ask with furrowed eyebrows and flattened ears. 

Cecil’s heart drops into his stomach much harder than any other time earlier this night. Both your bodies grow rigid, too overwhelmed to move. The old man’s heart hammers and there’s a temporary loss of focus for only a few seconds. 

How dare you speak so vulgarly to your superior…because, truly, it only makes him want to drill you. But then he’s reminded of how unethical that would actually be. 

“I’m not doing that,” Cecil begins to protest, tilting his head to meet your worried gaze, “I've already violated so many GDA rules. I’ve stepped out of line. You don’t need me to-”

“Yes I do, I need you so bad. I’ll just be in pain the rest of the night if you don’t help,” you plead, urgency laced in your voice. 

He lets out a small gasp at your words. That goddamn imaginary boundary, the one that never truly existed in the first place, had already been crossed, if one could even argue that. Cecil replays what he did tonight and realizes that he has tattered your work relationship to a degree that couldn’t be fixed. He’s fucked. Well, both of you are. 

What’s going to happen if the rest of the GDA finds out? How would the public react? Shit, how are Cecil’s superheroes going to treat him? They already hate his guts most days of the week. He’s never exactly been on their good side. If they catch wind he’s fucking the only superhero he’s been subconsciously doting on for the last year, they’ll freak out. 

However, something else overpowers these anxieties. All the outside commotion, those oddly specific sounds of this criminal-ridden city, have been nothing but white noise since Cecil appeared on the other side of your apartment door. He’s not sure he can recall the last time that has ever happened. You are like some sort of magic spell, drugging him into a cloudy psychosis where you do nothing but plague his thoughts. 

So when Cecil looks down at your hands, still resting on his belt buckle, and then glances at your puffy folds leaking that slick juice, his throat goes dry. 

Maybe you do need a thick cock afterall. More specifically, Cecil Stedman’s. Because it’s to help you with your heat, right? And what kind of director would he be if he left you to writhe in agony the rest of the night?

Cecil is completely stunned for a brief period of time. Then, he lets out a very slow breath and lets go of your hands to grip your bare thighs. As he speaks, his look is deadly serious. 

"You always act like a slut, or is it just for me?"

You smirk, tail swishing back and forth behind you. “Just for you.”

He nods towards his bulge, eyes shooting back up to meet your own. “Well, go on then.”

Your hands are pulling the belt off right away, operating at a speed nearly as quick as you did earlier when you were discarding your pants. Before you can even unzip the article of clothing, Cecil reaches for your thin shirt and pulls it over your arms and head, finally catching sight of the hard nipples that had been poking the fabric earlier. He cups your breasts, pinching your precious skin as you pull him in for another kiss using your tail. 

Cecil hears you purr under your breath in between each movement. The cold air in the room seeps through his boxers once his trousers finally begin to wiggle past his crotch. Cecil doesn’t separate from your mouth as he helps you with the burden of taking off his garments. He hooks his fingers around the waistband of his briefs and tugs them down above knees. 

His throbbing cock nearly smacks his lower stomach the moment it springs free. Cecil stops the assault on your lips to look at your face, admiring your reaction to how large his member appears. A little whimper sneaks past your lips at the sight. He swears he could replay that sound on loop forever and never get bored. 

Cecil’s thumb caresses your cheek, noting that you can’t tear your gaze away from his cock. “C’mon, sweetheart, this will help.”

Suddenly, his fingers are digging into your side and pulling you to the very edge of the desk. Your ass barely hangs over the side, but the discomfort doesn’t even matter because Cecil’s gripping his length and hovering over your pussy. The moment he glides his mushroom tip through your wet lips, though? 

Fuck. 

He is so, so fucking hard. 

You give the man a miserable moan, whining like you were some sort of wounded animal. Your legs wrap around his lower half so he can only move forward, which is exactly what you begin to beg for. He watches the way your tail wraps itself around his wrist as though to encourage him to work at a faster pace. 

“Yes, yes, yes, please put it in me,” you pout, completely in awe at how girthy Cecil is. You just know from the sight alone, he’d fill you up in all the right spaces. 

Cecil loves watching how you arch your back to his touch. He experimentally rolls his hips a few times, cursing to himself at how fucking wet you are. It oozes out nonstop, covering him in enough slick that he’s positive he could just slip it in now and have no problem. He slowly rubs his tip against your clit just to earn another whimper from you. He travels down your folds, stopping right at the hole that aches to be filled. He’s thankful for the little glimmer of moonlight that shines a perfect light on your pretty pussy. 

Actually, Cecil can’t believe this is still real and very much happening. His jaw twitches from restraint, trying to soak up this moment and prolong it for as long as possible. But then he hears you whine again and knows that at this point, he’s just being a dick. 

“Cecil, please fuck me, I can’t wait much longer,” you huff, extremely worried with how many seconds had passed since he started teasing you. 

“Fine, fine, whatever you say,” Cecil says sarcastically, mouth forming into the shape of an ‘o’ when he finally pushes inside. 

You cry out in surprise, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt finally feels that satisfying stretch. Each inch that drives deeper into you causes you to forget to breathe momentarily, your fluffy ears fluttering at the top of your head from the overwhelming sensation. Cecil, on the other hand, actually stops breathing all together. 

Because how the hell are you this perfect?

You’re so snug around his member, taking him like a good girl. Cecil grunts and tightens the grip he’s resumed on your hips. He throws his head back once he’s completely inside you, relishing in the feeling. He exhales, “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

“Cecil,” you gasp, your inner walls contracting around him just from the compliment alone, “need you to move.”

While Cecil is used to being the one to give out commands, his heart skips a beat at the way you so eagerly ask him to fuck you. 

A low, possessive growl crawls up from the back of his throat and he finally gives you what you’d been craving all night. He draws his hips back and thrusts forward, over and over again. He’s so deep and both of you are a mess as a result. 

“Uh, uh, uh!” you moan in time with each blunt thrust. Your entire body shakes, causing various items discarded on the desk to fall to the floor. 

“Always knew you were a slut. Fucking knew it,” the older man groans, staring at how you take him so well. Cecil fucks you on his cock with the type of energy he didn’t know he still had within him. It was the kind of vigor he was sure was left behind in his younger years, seemingly alive now that he has you caged here on the desk with nowhere to go but to continue pushing against his long, thick shaft. 

The rhythm of his punishing strokes pushes air from your lungs. Your tail has since left his arm and now lazily sways side to side next to you, ears completely flattened while you practically drool. You cry out, “Hng- oh- holy fuck!”

Cecil can’t seem to stop. He keeps drilling into your pussy to the point he swears you’re dripping on the pile of clothes near his feet. Each time his cock splits you in two, it’s thorough, but messy. Harsh, but necessary. Everything he does is as desperate as you. 

Once Cecil somehow musters up enough energy to quicken his pace, you fall backwards onto the desk and groan loudly. The movements make your breasts bounce, causing Cecil’s cock to twitch. With the intensity increasing, it’s no surprise the two of you approach your orgasm fairly quickly, but he’d be damned if he didn’t get you to finish before himself. 

Cecil doesn’t stop moving. With a thin layer of sweat building on his forehead, one of his hands leaves your hip to rub your clit in constant circles. 

“Ah!” you yelp. Cecil’s finger expertly swivels around the bundles of nerves like he knew exactly what movements were going to make you melt like putty. Your head lulls to the side, eyes closed as you focus intently on the rhythm of his hips snapping against your own. Accidentally, you murmur, “so-so fucking big, holy shit.”

Cecil hears the comment anyway and it boosts his ego to a new level. He smirks and mutters back, “Yeah? Who knew you needed my cock to feel better.”

“Sh-Shut up, Cecil, please I’m so close!” you exclaim, looking back at him with the most fucked out face he’s ever seen on anyone. 

Cecil presses down harder on your clit, narrowing his eyes. He leans towards you, listening at how your breathing is beginning to grow more labored and uneven. He growls, “Come for me, sweetheart.”

The words trigger an explosion within you. Your walls tighten around Cecil’s cock, which was still rapidly ramming into you at an extraordinary speed. The orgasm tears a low scream from you, your entire body going limp on the desk from the sheer intensity of it all. He begins to pant, chasing his own high moments later. His hand leaves your clit to play with your breasts, squeezing the warm flesh. He praises you, “Yes, just like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Hng, please, need it,” you beg, staring at him with flushed cheeks. 

Cecil is completely worn out, which doesn’t surprise him, so he quickly resorts to laying on top of your body, suit pressing against your hot and sweaty skin. His lips attach themselves to your neck, sucking like he was marking his property. He whispers, “So pretty like this. Could fuck you all night, you know. Just might have to.”

Your claws clutch his shoulders, puncturing the fabric. You gasp at the mere idea, pussy clamping around Cecil once again. He comes moments later, spilling into you and pumping you full of his seed. He knows he’ll regret doing that in the morning, or maybe even minutes after this, but right now he doesn't care. It seemed you didn’t either. You actually moan at the action, grinning at how the warm liquid seeps past his member and down your bottom. 

You faintly feel Cecil smile against your neck. 

You’re both quiet for a moment, panting ever so slightly. Cecil’s grip on your entire body finally eases. He pulls away and looks down at the mess he’s made; you, laid on the desk, red and full of him. Your eyes are droopy, either from drowsiness or lust, he wasn’t sure. Your hair is evidently knotted as well, a true sign of getting fucked nice and hard. 

Cecil momentarily worries he’s in worse shape, but before he can even take a glance in a mirror, he hears that all too familiar ring in his earpiece that work is summoning him. Now. 

Thanksgiving at Guardians HQ felt like someone had forced the fragile, warm holiday onto a battlefield. Cecil insisted it would 'boost morale', but the room still smelled faintly of dried blood and sweat underneath the scent of roast turkey. Someone had tried to cover the stench, Eve probably, with pungent cinnamon candles.

Kate worked at carving the turkey, attempting to make something domestic out of a team who hadn't been built for peace. Samson was already two bites in, eating rapidly like it would cause the meal to end earlier. Robot sat like an iceberg at the far end, observing, unmoving. You nearly laugh at the purely symbolic fork in his hand. Monster girl stabbed at her mashed potatoes like they were a training dummy, already dissociating.

Then, unfortunately, there was Rex: Stretched back in his chair, boots up, grinning with his showy kind of confidence that always felt one spark away from burning everything down. His hands were laced behind his head like he was posing for a camera that didn't exist, like the team was lucky to have him seated at the table. You sit directly across from him. Not that you had a choice. Rex was the last to join for dinner, and it was the only available seat.

Dinner started peacefully enough, the way all storms usually do. There was small talk. Eve tried asking everyone about their week, like this was some sort of normal work dinner and not a collection of superpowered disasters pretending to be average humans.

"How about we say what we're thankful for?" Samson speaks, tired of the tension. "Make it festive." You wished you had telepathy in this moment, so you could scream directly into his mind: No.

Everyone took turns like they were reading from cue cards: Gratitude for teamwork, for survival, for another rotation around the sun. Robot offers some statistics about the cultural value of ritual gratitude. Monster Girl shrugs and says she's grateful for the pie she hasn't even tasted yet. Then, finally, Eve gave an encouraging nod to you.

"...I'm thankful..." You say slowly, and calmly, catching Rex's eyes watching you, like a thumb pressed into a bruise. "For people who know how to get to dinner on time." There's a beat of silence, then Eve groans, knowing what's coming.

"My turn." Rex leans forward. "I'm thankful for capable teammates who contribute more than they complain." Kate puts her face in her hands.

"Here we go." Samson mutters.

"I'm thankful," You begin, setting your fork down gently on the table. "That low standards exist. It must make dating so much easier for some people."

"Oh please." Rex barks out a laugh: One sharp exhale filled with disbelief. It was almost as if he lived for this: The conflict, the spark, the chance to get under your skin. "Standards? Sweetheart, people line up for a guy like me."

"Not anyone with functioning vision, I guess."

"Well, you seem to stare at me plenty."

"Of course. It's like I'm watching a car wreck. Just can't pull my eyes away from the absolute disaster you are."

"Says you, Princess. When was the last time you got laid? Is that why you're always acting like you've got a stick up your ass?"

"Oh, of course you're thinking about my sex life, you man whore."

"What sex life is there to think about? I'm sure nobody wants to sleep with such a bitch."

There was something so naturally infuriating about him. Screw his stupid posture, his stupid smirk, his stupid personality. Maybe it was the candlelight, or the cheap warmth, or the way everyone collectively went silent while bracing for the next collision, but your blood boiled.

"Alright." Samson speaks up. "You two knock it off, or I'll send one of you outside."

"Good." You mutter, chair scraping back so abruptly that it startled Kate's third copy. "I'm getting some air." You don't wait for anyone to respond. Certainly not for Rex's voice trailing after you, singsong and far too pleased:

"Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Sweetheart!"

When you bust through the doors and into the hallway, it's much colder than you'd expected. You walk briskly, like the intense motion will shake the irritation out of you.

You hadn't meant to seem so dramatic. You only needed distance. Breathing room. Somewhere where the overwhelming perfume of holiday spices didn't press into you.

You weren't angry with Rex because he's obnoxious. You were angry because he was effortlessly obnoxious. He was born with an uncanny talent to pry at you like a puzzle box and chew on your pieces like some babbling toddler.

The worst part of it all? He knew.

He knew exactly how to slip beneath your skin and unfurl there. He knew how to rile you. How to haunt the soft parts of you that you wish didn't exist. He's a parasite.

He knows you.

You stayed in the hallway until the frustration wound down from a boil to a light simmer. Long enough for your breath to slow and for you to find peace in the fact that you believed you were finally alone.

Unfortunately, peace is a temporary visitor in this hell hole.

From around the corner, you heard rustling, and the sound of Samson's muffled voice:

"Be a man for once in your life and apologize."

Oh, no.

God, no.

"Why me?" You heard Rex snarl. "She's the one who started it!"

"Rex. Go."

There was a moment of silence, then a groan, then the sound of heavy, familiar footsteps storming down the hall towards you. Your jaw clenched as the footsteps came closer, and you turned around. You didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face before you had composed it into something sharper. Something that could pierce his ego.

He stopped a few feet behind you. You didn't have to turn around to see him roll his eyes. You could hear it. He was so lodged in the depths of your mind, you just knew.

"Hey." He speaks: One word. It's flat, uninvested, and completely lacking in remorse. You wonder if he ever considers other people's feelings while he tramples through the world. His world. "You stormed out." He adds, as if you weren't already aware. Still, you say nothing. He lets out a long, dramatic sigh. "Dude, Samson is totally on my ass about making holiday shit pleasant and whatever. So here I am. Doing the thing."

"That was not an apology." You speak finally.

"Yeah, well, I didn't do anything wrong." He huffs. You turn, slowly, and there he was: Standing in the awful hall light with hands shoved in his pockets. He looked annoyed, and that at least brought you some comfort.

"You're unbelievable." You hiss.

"Hey," He lifts his chin, as if his attitude wasn't already enough to reflect his narcissism. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Against your will, yeah."

"Cause everyone is making a huge fucking deal out of nothing." He groans. "What? What did I do? You're just mad I'm not on my knees for your royal highness-ness. You just want me to feel bad, but I don't. I'm not sorry for what I said."

"Yeah? Well, me neither." You say, but it doesn't make you feel any better.

"Great!" He throws his hands in the air. "Fantastic! Nobody's sorry!"

"I walked out for some space, which you are totally not giving me. I didn't want to cause a scene-"

"Oh, please. Everything with you is a scene. It's like you're some sort of attention whore." He takes a step forward, pointing an accusing finger at you.

You take a deep breath, shutting your eyes for several seconds, because the simple act of looking at him is awful enough. When you reopen your eyes, he's still there. Still smug. You still hate him.

"I don't want you here." You say, simply. "Especially not if you're just making things worse, as always."

"Well, I didn't even want to be here! Newsflash princess, I don't care about you. Samson forced my ass out here because you can't handle a simple dinner without getting your panties in a twist." He pokes his accusing finger at your chest, and you slap it away. Hard.

"Don't touch me!" You bark, taking a couple steps back to create more distance between you two.

"Oh, I'm sorry," He takes another step forward, crowding you until your back hits the wall. "Did me being within 5 feet of you ruin your night? You big baby."

You shove him. It's instinctual. Natural. It feels too good, and it sends him stumbling back only a step. His eyebrows raise, almost as if he's delighted.

"Oh? We're shoving now? Is that where we're at? You can't handle your big girl feelings?"

"You deserve worse."

"You think you could take me?" He shoves you back, much lighter than you had done to him. There's nowhere for you to go, your back pressed against the wall.

"I think, if you don't back off, I'll certainly give it a shot." You threaten. You're a superhero, after all.

"What is your problem?" He hisses, taking half a step back, seeing the look in your eyes. Ultimately, he still wouldn't want to mess around with you and your kickass powers.

"You!" The word rips out of your throat, like it's been waiting there for years. "You are my fucking problem, Rex!"

"Why?" He taunts. "Why? Cause I don't kiss your ass like the rest of the team does?"

"You just-" You take a step forward, shoving him again, craving that joy you found when you last shoved him. "You don't think!" You shove him again. "You don't respect anyone!" Another shove. "You're-" But before you can finish, he grabs your wrist. Not painful, but enough to stop the next shove which was already halfway there.

"Stop it."

"Let go."

"You stop first."

"Let go, Rex!"

"Make me." The words are so childish. So, infuriating. So, him. Too him. You struggle against his grip; his palms are surprisingly warm. "God, you're so... So-"

"What?" You bite out. "I'm so what? You think you know everything? You always-" But before you can finish, you see something in him snap, and he surges forward.

It's not gentle.

It's not sweet.

It's a collision: Your shoulder hits the wall as his fingers fly to your jaw, mouth crashing into yours with an ugly, hungry, reckless passion which feels entirely out of place.

You gasp out of shock and anger, and he takes that split second to his advantage. It's a breath, like an invitation. His lips are warm and desperate, like he's trying to win something: Trying to prove something.

Your hands fist into his shirt, not to pull his closer, not to push him away, but as an anchor through your confusion. Your whole body has betrayed you, leaning into him before your mind could catch up. He kisses like he fights: Messy and unrestrained.

It lasts too long, or maybe not long enough. It shouldn't have happened to begin with, which makes everything so much worse. Yet, worst of all, you don't pull away immediately. Rather, your lips move instinctually against his, like it's the most natural thing you've done.

By the time your brain catches up to the situation, his hand is already gripping your hair. You break away first, shoving him back with both hands, chest heaving.

"What... What the fuck Rex?!" You spit, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, but it doesn't help. You still feel the heat of his lips on yours. "What the hell!? This isn't some fantasy 'enemies to lovers' porn scene!"

"Wow." He blinks at you, the corners of his mouth twitching up into an infuriating smirk. "You kissed me back." He breathes like there's a mocking laugh hiding beneath it.

"i... What?!" Your chest heaves, still recovering from the collision of his lips, the press of his dominant body, and the audacity of it all.

"I said, you kissed me back." He repeats, a look of smug disbelief on his face. "i thought you hated me?"

"Don't be idiotic. I do hate you. I absolutely did not kiss you back, you creep." You snap, heat rising to your face.

"No?" He tilts his head, cocky and teasing. "So what would you do if I did it again?" He says, taking a challenging step closer to you.

"Rex, what the actual fuck." You take a timid step back, holding your hands out like a barrier. "I will kill you. Literally. I would. You take a step closer and I'll snap your neck."

"No you won't." He calls your bluff, hands coming up to your wrists and pushing them aside as his warm body inches closer and closer. You hate him. You hate his smug attitude. You hate the fact that in this moment, you can't find the power to shove him away. You can't use your powers on him. You can't do anything. You just stand there like a fish out of water. "Tell me no."

"What?"

"Say no." He urges. "Say you don't want me to." Your pulse quickens, and this feeling of adrenaline almost reminds you of the fight or flight responses you face nearly every day. "Say it."

You can't.

Why can't you? This man infuriates you to your core. There is no other person on God's green Earth that makes you feel this way. Nobody gets on your nerves the way he does. Nobody can find that one thing that makes you feel small the way he does. Nobody knows you like he does.

Shit.

Nobody knows you like he does, and maybe that's just it. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe that's why the words of protest are stuck on your lips. Maybe that's why you refuse to move.

He watches you. He's always watching. He knows you. He sees the war waging inside you, like he's memorizing it. His face lowers until his breath is hot against your cheek. He gives you all the time in the world to pull back, but you don't.

His mouth finds yours again, softer this time. No rush. No panic. His lips move slow, measured, like he's relishing in every second until you inevitably say no.

You hate him.

God, you hate him.

But you pull him closer anyway.

He feels your pull, and his restraint snaps, hands sliding into your hair as your back hits the wall again. Your leg bend just enough for his muscular thigh to slot between yours.

His tongue slides along your lower lip, searching for entrance, which you readily provide. His tongue tangles with yours in a messy, hungry dance. You taste the sharp tang of whiskey, which he must've swiped from Cecil's stash.

He tugs your hair, tilting your head back and deepening the kiss like he owns it. Like he owns you. Your fingers grip his shirt, wanting for a sense of control.

One hand slides down to grip the back of your thigh, hiking it up around his hip. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, squeezing, and he jolts forward, arousal pressing against you.

Your arms lock around his shoulders, nails digging into the back of his neck as he clutches the flesh of your thighs. You shouldn't be enjoying the strength behind his grip so much. You shouldn't be enjoying him at all.

You didn't think it possible for the kiss to become filthier, but it has: All wet heat and biting lips as your teeth clash. You manage to find small breaks between kisses to speak:

"You room, Rex." You command, breathlessly. He gives an enthusiastic groan as his face nuzzles into your neck, pressing light kisses on the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"You're assuming I can make it that far." He murmurs against you.

"Your. Room." You insist, sternly, feeling rather wary of the possibility that you'd be caught in this position. He lets out a sharp, frustrated exhale through his nose.

"Fine." He growls, reluctantly loosening his grip. His hands slip down to squeeze your ass one more time before your feet meet the ground. He grabs your wrist, practically dragging you down the hall with zero subtlety, his obnoxious boots scuffing against the floor. You stumble after him, trying to keep up with his shamelessly brisk pace.

He yanks open his bedroom door, shoving you inside and slamming the door shut behind him without a second thought. His room is exactly how you'd imagined: Messy with clothes scattered on the ground and posters of half-naked women on the walls. You don't have much time to see what other obscenities are lurking before his lips are on yours again.

He leads you backwards until you trip onto his bed, back pressed against the sheets as he comes down above you. His hips rest between your thighs, hands pinning your wrists beside your head. His lips move to your neck: Sucking, licking, and biting like he wants to leave marks. The thought is embarrassing, infuriating, and somehow, exciting.

He bites down near your collarbone, and your back arches off the bed. He lets out a pleased growl, releasing one of your wrists, his hand now free to roam your body. It slides down your side, his warm fingertips toying at the hem of your shirt.

Your newly freed hand is impatient, trailing down his chest and straight to the waistband of his pants. Your fingers break the seal, and you tug on the fabric.

He lets out a sharp noise when your fingers brush against the bare skin around his pelvis. His hips jerk forward, like your touch is magnetic. He pulls back to look at you, and you look right back. His pupils are blown wide, those pretty green eyes staring into yours. His hair is already disheveled, and beads of sweat form on his forehead.

"Take it off." You order, chest still heaving as your lungs cry for air and your head spins.

He grins, hand immediately working the edge of his pants and tugging them down with ease. He doesn't even bother kicking them all the way off: He does just enough to free himself. He's already twitching and leaking with arousal.

"Happy?" He taunts as he drags his impressive cock along your thigh through the fabric of your clothes. "Or do you have more to be bossy about?"

You're at a loss for words. You almost understand, now, why Rex is always such a pervert. If you were such a well-endowed man, you would be too.

"See something you want?" He teases, bringing his hand to himself and rubbing a thumb over the pre-cum oozing at his tip. He brings his thumb up to your lips. "C'mon. Have a taste." You silently curse your newfound submission as you take his thumb into your mouth, and he watches you such with half lidded eyes. "Good girl." He murmurs, pulling his thumb out and tracing your jawline.

"Shut up." You hiss while his thumb strokes your cheek, smearing your own saliva on your face.

"Ooh, can't handle a little praise?" He mocks, other hand slipping up your shirt to fondle you. "Don't worry. I like it when you're all feisty." You let out an involuntary sound as his fingers pinch your nipple, your legs tightening around his waist without thinking. Somehow, you're already soaking through your clothes, which only feeds Rex's ego. "Look at you. Already making a mess, and I've barely even touched you."

"Then touch me." You challenge.

Immediately, he moves you closer, like you weigh nothing at all. You shiver as greedy fingers dip under your waistband, hooking the fabric and pulling it down. A rough sound emanates from the back of his throat once your clothes are finally out of the way.

"Fuck," He exhales shakily. "Look at this." His fingers swipe through your slick heat, pressing against your clit. He relishes in the way you whine for him, shifting between your legs as he lines up with your drenched entrance. He teases for a moment, rubbing the tip against you. "Tell me what you want. Beg for it."

"W-What? Fuck off, Rex. Just do it." You stutter out, refusing to be reduced to some sort of pleading mess.

"Not good enough." He shakes his head with a smug grin. "I'm not doing anything until I hear it." He leans closer, hot breath against your ear. "I'll take care of you, princess. I'll give you exactly what you need. Just ask."

"Your ego is so annoying, you know that?" You grit. Then, his hips jerk forward abruptly, just enough to tease the head of his cock before he pulls back again. You gasp at the sudden motion, nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders. "Rex!" You hiss.

"Say it," He growls, hips stuttering forward again, sinking the tip inside you before he stops. "Or I swear to God, I'll leave you like this." He threatens, fingers digging harshly into your thigh.

"Shit, Rex-" Your head falls back against the mattress as you groan at the feeling of him idle inside you. You want more. It's not enough. "Give me more."

"More, huh?" You feel the way his body trembles as he holds himself back. "You need to say 'please' when you're making demands, princess."

"Fuck, Rex, you're just such an asshole." You whine as his he pushes forward an inch, but it's still not enough. "Please, okay? P-Please. Is that what you want, you arrogant-"

He cuts you off with a ragged groan, slamming the rest of his length into you all at once, a lewd wet sound reaching your ears. His hands fly to your hips, holding you down as he bottoms out. The feeling makes you lightheaded: You've never been so full.

"Quit squeezing." Rex pants, forehead falling against yours. "Shit... It's always the crazy bitches who are so tight." He swallows hard, letting out a pained noise.

"Stop talking." You groan, experimentally rolling your hips. Rex shivers at the motion. "Just move."

"Bossy girl." He huffs before pulling almost all the way out, then snapping back in, hard. His rhythm is brutal from the start, as if he's been waiting for this opportunity.

It's impossible to keep quiet: Not at that pace he's set. It's rapid and animalistic, like a punishment. Lewd sounds erupt from your throat with every rough thrust, knocking the air from your lungs. You press your lips together in a line, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your moans.

"Nuh uh." He grunts, rubbing circles over your clit. "Don't you hide those pretty sounds from me. You just don't want to admit it, do you? That you turn into such a pretty little slut for an asshole like me?"

He shifts your hips upwards; arms wedged under your back as he takes you at a new angle. The pleasure from this new position sends a loud, pornographic moan uncontrollably ripping through your throat.

"Ngh- Yes, that's it. That's it, baby." His mouth latches onto your breast, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. He lets out a strangled sound as you clench around him, rhythm faltering. "Fuck- Fuck- It's too good."

You grab his jaw, pulling him back up and crashing your lips against his. He groans into the kiss, licking his way into your mouth. His thrusts turn erratic, losing all pretense of control as the pleasure coils.

"Mm- S-So close-" You mewl. He growls against your throat.

"Yeah? Come on, then." He rasps, hips slamming into you harder. Faster. "Cum on my cock, pretty girl." His calloused palm wedges between your bodies, pressing down on your lower stomach. The pressure sends you over the edge.

He lets out a choked sob as you clamp down around him, his hips stuttering wildly before burying himself to the hilt with one final thrust. His release spills into you as his forehead drops against your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin.

Several moments of tattered breathing pass, unmoving as the reality of the situation sinks in to you both. Finally, he lifts his head to look at you: Face all flushed and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. His gaze flicks over the bites along your neck and the crescent shaped marks left by his nails in your skin.

"Y'know what I'm thankful for?" He mutters, drinking up your wrecked appearance with pride. "This pussy."

"You're done." You scoff, shaking your head at the absurdity of his statement. He pulls out before flopping onto the bed beside you and surprisingly pulling you into his chest. "Woah. I didn't know the great Rex Splode was a cuddler."

"I'm not a fucking animal." He scoffs, adjusting you over his arm. "I know what aftercare is. It's basic human decency." You stare at him, and he stares back, defensive as ever. "Don't be weird about it. You can leave if you want."

After a moment, you push off him, legs unsteady in a way you hope he doesn't notice. He's proud enough as it is. Yet, he does notice, and he sits up, watching you swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

You made pitiful attempts at cleaning up your appearance, redressing the bottom half of your body, despite his fluids leaking out of you. He sees you fumble, jaw tight and hands drumming on his knees like he doesn't know what to do with them. Another gush of warm sensation slides down your thigh, and you curse under your breath.

"Jesus." Rex mutters. "Okay. Move." He says, propping out of bed and grabbing a handful of tissues nearby. He steps in front of you like he's doing something completely normal. "Hold still."

You're too surprised at his behavior to argue. His touch is clumsy, but careful. More awkward than anything. He tries his best not to make eye contact. He finishes his clean-up mission quickly, stepping back and tossing the tissues in the waste bin

"I'm not leaving, leaving." You say finally. "We just... We need to get back to dinner. You know? Can't hide out in your room for the rest of the night."

"I mean, we could." He shrugs. You glare, and he responds my holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm kidding. Mostly."

You straighten up your shirt and glance towards the door. Rex runs a hand through his hair, trying to flatten it. This attempt fails miserably, and he grumbles something under his breath about 'this being so stupid'.

He opens the door a crack, peering out into the empty hallway. He jerks his chin in a silent 'go ahead' motion. You slip out first, heart hammering against your ribs, and Rex follows a few seconds later.

The door shuts softly behind you, sealing away the evidence of what just transpired inside. Yet, the heat follows you as you trek down the hall like two criminals fleeing the scene.

No matter how far you run from that room, no matter how far you run from him, it follows you: The heat. The understanding. The looming inconvenient truth:

Rex worms his way into you. Pushes your buttons. He wedges himself into the fractures of your soul with the instinct of someone who's mapped them by heart. He recognizes you with a familiarity too intimate for anyone else to ever achieve.

Rex knows you. For better, or for worse.

Rex shakes his head, his pudgy thumb wiping away the smears of strawberry ice-cream before looking back towards Mark.

Before shrugging his broad shoulders.

"Doesn't matter. I'm basically her fun uncle." Rex boasts before looking down at Winnie, dimples deep in his honeyed cheeks, green eyes sparkling. "Ain't I, tubby?"

"Dlickwee!" Winnie giggles.

"Don't call me a dickweed, you dyslexic shit."

"Rex, she's a baby!" Mark defends, hands hooking underneath Winnie's chubby arms, tugging her up into the air before ultimately settling her on his thigh, chonky fists immediately moving to tug on the collar of his shirt.

"When are you gonna tell him?" Eve's voice is quiet, turning away from where Rex has Winnie cradled and she stares at you, shovelling spoonfuls of ice cream into your mouth.

"I kinda wanna watch him figure it out himself." You speak through a full mouth, before looking back towards Rex.

"He'd make such a good dad if he wasn't....you know..."

"Slow?" Kate interjects, gaze lifting from her book and you purse your lips, reluctantly nodding your head.

"So, are you like, around all the time?" Mark questions, attention divided between where Winnie toys with the chain around his neck, and where Rex is lounged, one muscular leg extended over the armrest of the sofa and the other foot planted on the carpeted floor.

"Mhm." Rex hums. "I basically live there. You know, cause the kid's dad's a fucking deadbeat."

And Mark scratches the back of his neck, almost awkwardly, gaze shifting.

"Yeah, well, you know, he might... Not know he has a kid." Mark mumbles and Rex shifts, green eyes regarding Mark with a scrutinizing gaze. Before looking between him and Winnie.

The way how she's always been so affectionate with Mark, excitedly clapping whenever she sees 'Unca Mar'. And Rex sucks on his teeth, brows furrowing with suspicion.

"Real fuckin weird thing to say. Defending a deadbeat." And Rex shifts, elbows resting on his knees and he leans forward.

"You got a confession, dickhead?"

"Wha— No. No. She's not my k— I've never even had sex with anyone other than Eve."

And Rex snorts.

"Real sad confession, buddy."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

There's no way to explain the demonic horniness that shrouds you like a thick mist when you see the way Rex gently brushes Winnie hair, bristles gentle against her soft strands and she simply keeps her gaze focused on the toy in her hands.

Beside him, lay an assortment of different hair accessories. Glittery hair ties, elastics, bows, and an assortment of clips, all decorated with various yellow things. Plastic gummy bears, bananas, stars, hearts. Everything that came from a superhero salary in her favourite colour.

"Okay, Pooh, what's the look for today?" Rex questions Winnie, brilliant green gaze focused on her, her small body settled between his muscular thighs, the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up to the apex of forearm.

Veins bulge beneath the surface of the skin, scaling all the way up to wear the bunched fabric rests, wrists decorated with an assortment of jewellery. Namely black bands, brown beads and one very yellow friendship bracelet. Big, chunky beads that look jelly-ish, puffy letters that read 'WINNIE'.

Winnie babbles incoherently, pitch varying as her chubby hands continue to twist and turn the cube in her hands. Trying to assemble the colours in order.

"Hm.. s'thinking pigtails too. To minimise your mom's forehead genes." Rex snickers. "Dome headed."

And Rex divides the hair, carefully putting her hair in pretty pigtails like he's done many, many times before. Yellow decorates that gingery hair, green eyes obscured by yellow star-framed sunglasses and he waits until she lets out that squeal at her reflection before setting her down on the floor.

And she scrambles out of the room, excitedly, and Rex lets out a groan, arms stretching overhead before glancing towards you.

"Fuckin creep." He mocks, barely ducking the folded towel that's meant to collide with the back of his head.

"Fuck you. My forehead's normal sized." You defend, before shuffling properly into the bedroom, arms crossed over your chest and like clockwork, Rex's warm, warm hands move to grasp your hips, tugging you onto him unapologetically.

Your knees dig into the mattress on either side of him, your ass planted on his lower belly and your hands move towards bracing yourself on his chest. And Rex snorts.

"Muscle memory, huh?"

And you suck your teeth, rolling your eyes as you grab for the excess clips, sliding them into Rex's hair, your fingers carding through the tangerine strands, watching the way the silky tresses slip from your grasp with ease.

Rex swallows, gaze locked on your face. Taking in that wide eyed expression, perfect lips pursed in concentration as you continue to fuss with his hair, gorgeous eyes framed by the prettiest and longest lashes. And Rex's tongue brushes across his bottom lip, before he shifts beneath you.

And he just keeps staring.

Not only because you're just... So pretty to him, but he's looking. Really, really looking. He can see where Winnie gets her expressions. Pretty lashes with your eyes, that same... Thoughtless look behind them. God, it's like the lights are on but there's no one home.

His thumbs brush over your hip bones, the soft skin exposed by where your shirt rode up and Rex inhales sharply when he feels the way your thighs twitch at his sides.

And he's trying so hard to not look at your tits, pressed flush against the fabric of your shirt. God, pregnancy did you good.

"There's something we need to talk about later." Rex murmurs, swallowing down and he watches the way your movements halt, brows scrunching in confusion.

"Why can't we talk about it now?" You question.

"Because you might get mad and I don't wanna argue in front of the kid." Rex breathes out. "Not good for the developmental shit."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

Immediately when Winnie's with Mark and Sam, Rex is letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding and he's setting you down on the sofa.

Taking the seat across from you, and he crosses his arms over his chest, thick thighs spread and he leans back, doing the hip thing. You try to not focus on the bulge in the front of his sweatpants, and instead, on his face.

"What'd—"

"I wanna adopt Winnie."

It feels like a weight in your belly. Heavy, pointy edges poking into your intestines and you swallow, fingers fidgeting. And honestly, you don't know what's worse.

The fact that you'll have to admit the obvious truth, or the fact that either way, you'll be stuck with Rex indefinitely.

"I'm basically her dad already. I sleep here, I get her ready in the mornings, I feed her, I buy her that stupid Lab— what the fuck even is that?"

"It's a Labubu." "Well, it's La-expensive as fuck. Why can't she just play with socks like I did when I was a kid?" Rex huffs, and your brows raise.

"Was CPS ever called?"

"This isn't about me." And Rex inhales sharply. "I wanna... Officially co-parent Winnie. Like... As her dad and not her... fun uncle."

And you swallow.

"Rex... " You speak so softly, your fingers fiddling and you keep your gaze lowered.

"You remember... That one time in Cecil's office?"

"Which one? There were," He snorts, "quite a few times in Cecil's office."

"When... You were like, really depressed and you were kinda desperate, even though we were mad at each other. And like, you called me and I came and—"

"Oh, you came. You came three times." Rex boasts, before shifting in his seat. "But what about it?"

This is nerve wrecking. You'd think a former assassin would be a smart guy but no. Rex is dumber than a bag of rocks.

"Well... We didn't use a condom. And you didn't... Pull out either, because I didn't wanna make a mess and—"

And Rex's expression darkens. Brows form a deep frown, his jaw clenches and you're preparing for him to... Well, blow. Especially when you see that low, almost angelic glow beneath his skin and Rex takes a deep breath.

"I have a fucking kid and you didn't think to tell me?" Rex grits, blunt nails digging into his biceps as he tries to reign in the anger that's settling at the pit of his belly.

He's just mad that you didn't tell him.

"I thought you'd know by now." You murmur. "You sleep over a lot, she looks like you, she acts like you."

"I thought it's like fucking cats!" Rex groans, hands moving to card through his hair, muscular fingers tugging his hairtie off and he takes a deep breath.

"Rex, you haven't not been here, for the last two years. Are you even fucking?" You question.

"No, because— oh shit, I'm a dad." Rex mumbles, the reality sinking in. "...and I'm not beating her."

"I think you're still eligible for me to call CPS."

Rex doesn't really know how he didn't put it together as soon as Winnie popped out of you.

Literally.

He was in the delivery room, fingers laced with yours, wiping away the sweat from your hairline and making sure you didn't pass out from exertion.

He should've known when you tested her name out on your tongue, murmuring 'Winnie Sloan' as she nursed from you. And he definitely should've put two and two together when he found himself attending Daddy & Me classes.

Fuck. You'd even hummed 'she has your eyes' offhandedly as you fell asleep, in his arms.

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

"I'm gonna watch a movie. You wanna watch?" Rex leans against the doorframe, arms folding across his chest, muscles bulge and green eyes watch you avidly as you pull a T-shirt over your head.

"What're you watching?" You question softly,

"The Mummy." Rex hums. "Brendan Frasier's one."

And it isn't even long before you're curled up, Rex's arms wrapped around your waist, his face pressed against the curve of your neck and his eyes are basically shut.

Even breaths leave him, his body warm against yours, your legs entangled and his palm remains splayed across the soft flesh of your belly, tucked away behind the fabric of your thin T-shirt.

"You want me to turn the movie off?" You ask softly, shifting a bit closer to Rex and he shakes his head.

"Hm-hm... m'listening, baby."

His voice is a low, sleepy rumble, body pressed so firmly against yours only for his lips to ghost the curve of your shoulder, the ball of his nose pressing against your pulse.

"..you smell good..." Rex mumbles lazily. "...really good."

And he shifts behind you, his free hand moving from being tucked beneath you, and instead, moving to your inner thigh. He guides your legs to part, calloused fingertips pressing into the soft flesh as he shifts your body, until your thigh's tossed over his legs.

And his hand nestles between your thighs, warm palm pressing against your even warmer cunt and he coos sleepily. Flimsy panties do nothing to tamper with your sensitivity, and Rex lets out a sleepy breath.

"I haven't had sex in two years."

Rex's voice is lazily, a sleepy murmur that's nearly drowned out by how fast the blood is rushing in your ears, your breaths just a bit uneven as his fingers press against your clit. Softly, gently. Circling the bud as his half-asleep brain pieces together the words.

And you nod your head, trying your hardest to keep your mind easy and clear, your chest heaving.

"You're gonna let me fuck you right?" Rex breathes out, pressing lazy kisses against the skin of your neck, his fingers tugging your soaked gusset aside, before dragging along your cunt. Slick fingers trace your slippery slit and he lets out a breath.

"Right, baby?" He murmurs softly. "You gonna let me fuck you nasty?"

And two fingers plunge into your cunt, warmth blossoming in your belly and if feels like electricity's crackling just behind your mound with each flutter of his fingers. And you nod your head, weakly.

"Uh huh?" Rex coos softly. "You gonna let me?"

There's nothing that's preparing you for the way that his fingers are fucking into you, curling against all the right spots while his other hand cups your chest, thumbing over your nipple until it pebbles beneath his thumb.

"Mhm... m'gonna let you..."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💥୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

And by God, do you let him.

Nothing prepares you for the way his cock bullies it's way into your cunt, your back arched like a fucking cat, cheek pressed against the pillow and your hands grip the sheets.

And Rex's hands move to palm the fleshy globes of your ass, spreading them just so he can watch your drooling pussy swallow him whole, inch by inch. Nothing separating you, and Rex's plump bottom lip is wedged between his pearly teeth as he watches that unexplored hole clench and flutter.

And he rolls his hips against yours, cock sloppily kissing your cervix and smearing precum against your walls, his gaze remaining locked on that pretty, furled target.

"God, you're so fuckin sexy..." Rex breathes out, hands moving to grasp your hips instead, pulling you back to meet each brutally slow thrust of his hips.

You're so warm, gooey walls fluttering around every inch and vein, slick oozing down your inner thighs and you're breathing heavy. Sounds muffled by the pillow, the fat of your ass bounces off his hips and he watches as one of your hands weakly attempts to reach behind you, fingertips ghosting over his lower belly to push him away.

"Rex...." You whine. "S'too deep.."

"Move your fucking hand." Rex grunts, one of his hands moving to pin your hand at the small of your back, and he watches your other hand move, reaching out towards the headboard instead.

And the glimpse of faint scratches against the headboard makes his head spin in that way that has him letting out a weak whine, leaning over you to grasp at the headboard. The muscles in his forearm flexes with his grip, his hips snapping unforgivingly against your ass until your cheeks burn red.

His other hand presses down in the centre of your back, forcing your back into an even deeper arch, listening to the way your moans are muffled.

Your cheeks are deeply flushed, skin glistening with a thin sheen and Rex pants, brows knitting into a frown when he feels your walls flutter and spasm, almost uncontrollably.

And he pulls back, until only his fat, mushroom-y tip remains buried in your warm cunt and your holes flutter when you feel the way he spits on your cunt, before pushing back inside.

And before you know it, you're coming around his cock, a frothy ring forming around the base of him, and he moans.

"That's it, baby. Come for daddy." Rex groans. "Be my nasty girl."

Rex has you in a fucking headlock before your brain's come down from your orgasm.

Your throat nestled in the crook of his elbow, bulging bicep against the side of your face and his weight is pressing you into the mattress, hips rutting wildly and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder.

And Rex is fucking you like an animal.

Groaning against your shoulder, weighing you down until your knees are weak and threatening to give out beneath you and he presses a kiss to that spot just behind your ear.

His voice low and just a bit hoarse.

"Let's see if I can make you remember..." He takes a deep breath, hips grinding against yours and you feel the way his cock twitches,

"who's your daddy."

Mark had never been the jealous type.

When the other kids on his baseball team would hit homeruns as a child, he would just cheer loudly; happy for their success and never once weighing them against his own shortcomings. In school, if his friends aced a test he would smile warmly and give them an encouraging pat to the back – even if he himself had barely managed to pull off a C+. He never viewed others as competition, truly believing there was enough goodness and success in this world to go around.

So why, then, did he so often now find himself leering at your friends?

You all were apart of the same clique in high school, eating lunch together and mingling in the halls between classes. The girls of the group, however, naturally seemed to gravitate toward one another, their conversations often filled with hushed chatter and occasional high-pitched giggles as the sweet smell of candy and flowers lingered in the air around them. It was both intoxicating, and intimidating.

He’d sit with William, only a few feet away but feeling like he might as well have been on the other side of the planet. And to make matters worse, William seemed to have the ability to easily flow between conversations – talking with Mark one minute then turning out of nowhere towards the feminine energy, picking up on something in the girl’s discourse that piqued his interest. They’d welcome his input, it always seeming to inevitably end in a chorus of laughter. How the hell did William do that? And why couldn’t Mark do the same?

Through the muddled noises of the girl’s tittering together, Mark always managed to single out your voice. It called to him like a siren’s song, his eyes lingering on the side of your perfect face as you smiled, lips parted and eyes closed. God, you were so perfect.

Occasionally, he’d find some buried courage within himself to try and join in the laughter – sliding a bit closer in your direction as he chuckled unsurely. And every time, the groups giggles would quickly die away, suddenly everyone seeming to need to clear their throats and look away. But not you. Your smile would linger as you turned your beautiful eyes onto him, leaving Mark struck dumb.

Most days though he would just watch from the outside as you all conversed together, his stare growing heavy as he looked between the other girls. Why were they all so greedy? Wasn’t Mark allowed in on the fun too? He wanted to laugh, dammit, and be in on the joke with you. In fact, he wanted you to laugh at his joke for once, and curl your lips upward because he said something that you liked. Was that really too much to ask for?

His internal struggle only seemed to worsen as he graduated high school and you both moved on to college. He was over the moon when he found out the two of you shared a class – introductory to physical geography. Mark was notoriously bad with this subject, and for once that seemed to work in his favor as study sessions became the new norm between the two of you.

And that brought him to where he sat today, cross-legged on your dorm room floor surrounded by textbooks, maps, and a heap of highlighters.

Your space was cozy, warm with the soft glow of a desk lamp accompanied by the quiet hum of music in the background. You were laid on your stomach across the bed, flipping through notes with a furrowed brow as you lost yourself in the studies.

Mark glanced up from the textbook in his lap, but his eyes didn’t land on the topographic map he was supposed to be memorizing. Instead, they found you.

You were chewing on the end of a pen, brows drawn together as you underlined something in your notebook. You looked tired—but beautiful. God, even the way your foot swung lazily in the air behind you had him captivated. He wasn’t even sure he was blinking anymore.

“You okay?” you asked suddenly, not looking up.

His heart jumped. “Huh? Yeah. Totally. Why?”

You finally lifted your head to look at him, and it took everything in him not to melt under your gaze. “You’ve been staring at the same page for, like, five minutes.”

“Oh.” He chuckled nervously and looked back down at the map, heat rising to his cheeks. “Guess I’m just... zoning out.”

You hummed, rolling onto your side so you could face him properly. “Want me to quiz you on drainage patterns again?”

He groaned theatrically and flopped back onto the floor, covering his eyes with one arm. “Not the drainage patterns…”

You laughed—really laughed—and he felt it bloom inside him like warmth from a sunbeam. It was such a rare sound, at least when he was the cause of it, that it left him stunned for a moment. He peeked out from under his arm to see you smiling, chin resting on your hand.

“What?” he asked, softer this time.

You shrugged, but your gaze didn’t leave his. “Nothing. You’re just funny sometimes.”

“Funny ‘haha’ or funny ‘weird’?”

You pretended to think for a second, then grinned. “A little bit of both.”

He grinned back, because God, that was something, wasn’t it? He could take ‘a little bit of both’ if it meant you were looking at him like that.

For a beat, neither of you said anything. The music in the background shifted to a slower track, something dreamy and low, and Mark let himself imagine—just for a second—what it would be like to move from this floor to your bed, to lay beside you and talk about the constellations or your favorite song or whether you ever thought about kissing someone like him.

And before he could stop himself, he said:

“Can I dress you?”

You blinked. “What?”

His brain practically short-circuited. “I—I mean not like that! I mean—not in a weird way! Not like… dress you-dress you. Just like, clothes. You. I mean—” He groaned and ran a hand down his face. “I heard you’re going to that concert this weekend and I thought… maybe I could help you pick out an outfit?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused but unconvinced. “Mark… what are you even on about?”

He blinked, a little stunned by your reaction—like he’d genuinely expected you to take him seriously. You turned back to your notes, head lowering to refocus on the page.

But Mark didn’t move.

He stared for another second, then leaned forward, brows pulling together as something clenched in his chest.

“Aren’t we friends?” he asked suddenly, voice low and a little sharp around the edges.

You paused, pen halfway to the paper.

“I mean,” he went on, gesturing vaguely toward the room, the books, you, “you go shopping and hang out with your girl friends all the time. You laugh and do all this fun, random stuff with them, and no one thinks it’s weird when they pick out your outfits or tell you what shoes to wear or whatever. But I say one thing—one slightly weird thing—and suddenly it’s like I’m crazy.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him again, this time blinking in surprise.

Mark huffed, crossing his arms. “I just thought it would be fun. Like, something friends do.”

He sounded a little pouty now, and maybe he knew it, but he wasn’t backing down. Not when he’d finally gotten a tiny bit of the closeness he’d wanted for so long. Not when he could almost taste what it’d be like to be on the inside of your world, just a little more than before.

“You never let me in,” he muttered under his breath. “Not really.”

You stared at him, mouth parting like you wanted to say something—but the words didn’t come right away. The moment stretched out between you, thick and awkward and a little bit raw.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” Mark added quickly, voice softer now, “I just… I don’t know. I wanna know you like they know you.”

You sat up slowly, brow furrowed, clearly trying to make sense of everything he just said.

“Of course we’re friends, Mark,” you said, your voice careful but confused. “But… I mean… girls do that stuff. We help each other pick out outfits, and gossip, and vent about boy problems—”

“Boy problems??” Mark cut in, practically lurching forward.

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Are you having boy problems?” he repeated, eyes narrowing with an intensity that would’ve been comical if he didn’t look so genuinely concerned. “Is someone bothering you? Who is it? What’d he do?”

You blinked. “Wait—what? No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Because if a guy is messing with you,” he went on, his voice rising a little, “I swear I’ll—”

“Mark!” you said, loud enough to cut through his minor spiral. He froze mid-sentence, still visibly buzzing with protective energy.

You stared at him, unsure if you were about to laugh or throw a pillow at him. “Oh my god. I meant in general. Like, when girls talk to each other, that’s what we talk about. I wasn’t saying I have some guy hurting my feelings right now.”

“Oh,” he said, deflating slightly. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense. Totally.”

He looked away for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, and muttered under his breath, “...would’ve kicked his ass, though.”

You snorted despite yourself, grabbing a pillow off your bed and tossing it lightly at him. “Mark.”

He caught it with a grin that he tried to hide behind mock indignation. “What? I’m just being a good friend, remember?”

Your expression softened a little, but the confusion didn’t leave your eyes. “You’re a very… intense friend sometimes.”

Mark shrugged, half-smiling. “Guess I just like being around you more than most people.”

There it was again—that earnestness. It clung to his voice like honey. Not quite a confession, not really a joke. Just enough to leave you wondering what exactly he meant.

You gave him a look—equal parts fond and exasperated—but didn’t press the weirdness any further. The moment seemed to settle, the earlier tension dissolving into something more comfortable. You turned back toward your notes, laying flat on your stomach again, chin propped in your hand as your other foot swayed lazily in the air.

Mark watched you for a moment from the floor, half-expecting his heart to settle too. It didn’t.

His eyes drifted to your foot.

It was moving rhythmically, back and forth like it had a mind of its own. He followed it with his gaze, fixated. A quiet little thought popped into his head—uninvited, but not unwelcome.

Before he could question it, Mark stood up and made his way over to the bed. Without thinking, he sat right beside you, staring down at your foot like it had personally challenged him to a duel.

“Maybe I could paint your toenails,” he said.

You didn’t respond at first, clearly thinking you’d misheard him.

“…What?”

Mark’s hand was already around your ankle, gently lifting your foot like it was the most normal thing in the world. He looked at it thoughtfully, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah. I could totally do it. You have good feet for it.”

“Mark!”

He looked at you innocently. “What? I’m serious! I’ve got a steady hand. I could do, like… stripes. Or little flowers. Maybe stars? That’d be cool.”

You stared at him like he’d just offered to build you a rocket ship out of Q-tips.

“I cannot tell if you’re messing with me or having a mental breakdown in real time.”

“Can’t it be both?” he said, smirking now, still cradling your foot like it was the most natural thing ever.

You covered your face with your hands, muffling a laugh into your palms. “Oh my god.”

“What color would you go for, anyway?” he asked, gently wiggling your toes like he was already imagining the polish. “Something bright? Black? Maybe that dusty pink thing you wore last month?”

Your hands slid down your face just enough to peek at him through your fingers. “You noticed my toenail color last month?”

“I notice everything about you,” he said plainly.

And the thing was—he did. He really, truly did.

He noticed the way you scrunched your nose when you were concentrating. The way you flipped your pen between your fingers when you were trying to remember something. The way you always tugged your sleeve over your hand when the AC was too strong in the classroom.

And yeah—he noticed your feet.

It wasn’t like a thing, not really. He didn’t plan to notice them. It just… happened. Like the way your sneakers would dangle from one foot when you were sitting cross-legged, or how your toenails always seemed to be painted in these soft, thoughtful colors. Once, you’d had tiny stars drawn on your big toes, and he hadn’t been able to stop glancing at them the entire group study session.

Now he was actually holding one of those feet.

His thumb moved without him really telling it to, tracing gently along the arch, then rubbing slow circles into your heel. Your skin was soft. Warmer than he expected. And your toes were so... cute. Ridiculously cute. Delicate, even. The kind of detail he wouldn’t normally think twice about, but now it felt like he was touching something private. Sacred.

A weird warmth coiled low in his stomach, catching him off guard. He swallowed hard.

Wait.

No.

No, no, no.

He wasn’t a foot guy. He wasn’t. That wasn’t his thing. That had never been his thing.

So then why was his brain stalling? Why was his heart picking up speed like this? Why was he imagining kissing the tops of your toes and thinking it would be the most intimate thing in the entire universe?

What the hell is wrong with him?

He shifted slightly, trying to hide the rising flush in his cheeks, still absently rubbing your foot as if he hadn’t just mentally broken into an entirely new category of emotional—and maybe physical—confusion.

God. If William ever found out about this, he’d never hear the end of it.

But you weren’t pulling away. You were still laying there, letting him touch you, your shoulders gently rising and falling with your breath.

And somehow that made the heat in his chest worse. Made the moment feel heavier. Like something he wasn’t supposed to have—wasn’t even supposed to want—was suddenly right here in his hands.

Mark’s thumb brushed slowly across the top of your foot again.

You still didn’t move.

He blinked, watching your body for any kind of reaction—any twitch, any hint of discomfort. But all he could see was the slow rise and fall of your back as you laid there, face turned slightly away, quiet and calm.

And still, your foot stayed right there in his hand.

His heart skipped a beat.

Wait... is she into this?

He froze, eyes locked on your ankle like it had suddenly become a sacred object. His brain scrambled—grabbing at signs, trying to piece together the puzzle like it was some kind of test with no answer key. You weren’t pulling away. You weren’t laughing at him. You were letting it happen.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

She’s letting me touch her. She’s letting me hold her like this. Maybe—maybe she wants this?

And in a sudden wave of breathless, clumsy, Mark Grayson confidence, the kind that usually came right before he got punched in the face by a supervillain, he thought:

Just do it.

No more thinking. No more waiting.

Just do it.

He leaned in. No hesitation this time. And without another word—without asking, without explaining—he pressed his lips to your toes. A soft, warm kiss. Tender. Deliberate.

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even romantic in the traditional sense. It was something else entirely—quiet and reverent, like he was thanking them for carrying you through the world, for letting him be this close, just for a second.

And when he pulled back, heart thudding in his chest, he didn’t move.

He just looked up at you.

Waiting.

Mark pulled back slowly, eyes wide and searching your face for any sign of… anything, really. He had no idea what was going on right now, but something was happening, and it was either going to go terribly wrong or way better than he had imagined.

The silence between you stretched out longer than he expected. You didn’t move—didn’t say anything—just stayed still, propped up on your arms, your foot still gently in his hand. But the weight of the moment was thick, pressing against him, making his stomach churn.

And then, slowly, like a wave crashing toward him, you turned your head.

Your eyes found his, a flicker of confusion dancing in them as you met his gaze. You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him, your brow furrowing slightly. Then, you parted your lips, exhaling just a little as you said, barely above a whisper, “Mark…”

His heart hammered in his chest. Oh God. Oh God, what the hell was she thinking?

He quickly glanced away, biting his lip nervously. “What? I mean… what’s the big deal? Isn’t this what friends do?”

It came out so much faster than he meant, a forced attempt at nonchalance that was painfully obvious. His eyes were wide, maybe a little too wide, but he couldn’t help it. Oh God, I can’t believe I said that.

“You know, like… helping each other out, right? With stuff. I thought… I thought you might want me to do something nice for you or whatever.” He was spiraling now, digging himself deeper and deeper. “Like, friends help each other pick out outfits or—”

But then he trailed off, realizing how insane he sounded.

Your expression didn’t change much—still that slight confusion, but now something else, too. A spark of humor? A glimmer of something else he couldn’t read?

He swallowed hard. He had no idea what to do next. His whole body was practically vibrating with the intensity of everything he’d just done.

“Well?” he managed, trying to salvage some kind of dignity. “Isn’t that what… what friends do?”

You stared at him for a beat longer, just long enough to let the silence hang heavy between you. Mark was practically sweating, looking anywhere but directly at you, and it was… almost adorable. Almost.

Then, a small smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. Just a hint of mischief, something playful, but not mean. You tilted your head ever so slightly, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them:

“Friends, huh?” You let the word hang in the air, slowly leaning back on your elbows. “So, you’d do this to… oh, I dunno, William?”

Mark froze, his eyes snapping to yours like he’d been slapped with cold water. His mind scrambled to catch up with your teasing tone.

“Wha—what?” he stammered, now visibly flustered. “No, I mean, not William! I—I’m just—look, it’s different with you! You’re my… my friend, and—”

You raised an eyebrow, your smirk only widening at his increasing panic. “Different, huh? So you’d kiss William’s toes? Is that what you’re saying?”

Mark’s eyes widened even further as his brain absolutely went haywire. “I—I—No! No, of course not!” he blurted, hands flailing awkwardly. “I didn’t mean—God, that’s—no, just—look, you’re—you’re different, okay?” He paused, biting his lip like he was trying to hold back an entire speech that he couldn’t quite figure out. “I just… you’re… you. And I…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. You leaned back on your arms, grinning slyly, watching the storm inside his brain, thoroughly enjoying every second of it. Slowly, deliberately, you spread your toes apart—just a little—enough that the movement caught his eye, the stretch of your foot making the room feel even closer.

“Is it my toes you like,” you asked, voice teasing, “or maybe, is it… me?”

Mark froze.

His heart skipped a beat, then pounded loudly in his chest. He blinked rapidly, face flushed as his gaze locked on your foot once again. He could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks, a mix of confusion and something else he wasn’t sure he had the courage to face.

“You—you—what—what are you—” His words faltered, his brain scrambling to make sense of your teasing tone and the way your foot had just moved. Were you playing with him? Testing him? Or were you serious?

No. No, no, no, she couldn’t be serious. This was a joke.

But his heart was thudding too loudly in his ears for him to think clearly.

The corner of your mouth twitched upwards as you leaned in just slightly, your playful smirk never fading. “Well, Mark,” you said, your voice low and almost teasing, “are you gonna answer me?”

Mark’s mind went blank. His pulse was racing. His whole body tensed, frozen in a mix of terror and need. He could feel his chest tightening as your words hung in the air, spinning in his head like some impossible puzzle he couldn’t solve.

He was spiraling.

If he didn’t answer—if he didn’t say something now, this moment, this tension, was going to stretch out forever, and it would be so much worse than just admitting it. His palms were sweating, his heart pounding in his throat.

Just say something. Anything.

His eyes flickered between your smirk and the way your foot rested in his hand. Then, without thinking—without considering how ridiculous it sounded—he blurted it out in a single breath:

“You. I like you. All of you.”

He swallowed hard, the words coming out faster than he could stop them. “Not just your toes. I mean, yeah, your toes are cute and all, but... that’s not the point! I—I like you, okay? All of you.”

The confession hung in the air like a heavy weight.

Mark’s face flushed a deep red as he realized what had just tumbled out of his mouth. He opened his mouth again, ready to apologize, or explain, or somehow unsay what he’d just said. But no words came.

Instead, he just sat there, staring at you, his eyes wide with shock and embarrassment, waiting for whatever came next.

The words hung in the air between you like a live wire, crackling with unspoken meaning. Mark was still sitting there, frozen in place, completely vulnerable, his mind still trying to process everything that had just escaped his lips. His heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst.

You didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you just watched him, your gaze intense, studying him like you could see straight through him. Your chest rose and fell, just slightly, and Mark couldn’t help but notice how close the two of you were now, the tension practically vibrating between you.

And then, after what felt like an eternity of silence, you spoke.

Your voice was quieter now, softer—but laced with something Mark couldn’t quite place. Something daring.

“Then prove it.”

Mark blinked, his stomach lurching at the words.

He felt his breath catch in his throat, his pulse spiking again. His eyes widened, and for a moment, it was like everything around him disappeared. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

All he could do was stare at you, completely caught off guard by your response.

You weren’t laughing. You weren’t shying away. You were just looking at him—waiting. Quietly, calmly, but with a certain expectation in your eyes.

The weight of your words pressed down on him like a thousand pounds.

Prove it?

His brain sputtered. What did that mean? How did he even begin to prove something like this? He could barely even comprehend what was happening right now, let alone how to react.

But deep down, he knew. He knew exactly what you were asking. And he knew—knew—there was only one way forward.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Mark leaned in closer, his hand falling away from your foot as his body instinctively moved toward you. His heart was hammering in his chest, clouded eyes never leaving yours as the tension between you both thickened with each passing moment.

He slowly crawled up the bed, inch by inch, as if his body was acting on its own, taking over, moving closer to you with a sense of inevitability. He stopped above you, staring down at the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—your hair fanned out around your head, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips looked so inviting, so right.

He swallowed hard, his arm trembling on either side of your head as he held himself up above you. But then, without thinking about it any longer, Mark leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. The contact was light, hesitant, just a test—an almost unsure kiss. He pulled away quickly, unsure of what he was doing, his heart racing in his chest. Was it too much? Too soon?

But you didn’t pull back. You didn’t shy away.

That was all he needed. His breath hitched, and before he could second-guess himself, Mark dove back into the kiss. This time, it was deeper, firmer, the hesitation melting away as he found himself falling into it, like a man starved. His lips moved against yours with increasing urgency, his hand finding your face, gently cupping it, as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

The kiss was clumsy at first, raw, desperate—Mark couldn’t help himself. He wanted you. Needed you. And you were finally here, pinned beneath him, in this moment. His body pressed against yours, his chest tight, his hands roving across your skin, his fingers trembling as he explored.

His lips parted nervously, but you immediately reciprocated – was this all a dream? His tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting you like this for the first time. He couldn’t help the groan that rumbled through his chest, his hips subconsciously pressing down harder into yours. And you, in turn, back immediately painfully aware of the hard length pulsing against your inner thigh.

After a time that felt way to short in Mark’s opinion, you gently pushed him away, just enough to create some distance between you. Mark’s chest heaved as he pulled back slightly, his eyes wide, still clouded with a mix of desperation and shock. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body still buzzing with the intensity of the kiss.

His hands hovered uncertainly in the air as if they didn’t know what to do without you there. “Wait… what—what’s happening?” he gasped, his voice a little shaky, trying to make sense of what just happened.

You smiled softly, teasingly, a playful glint in your eyes as you looked up at him, enjoying the way his expression was still a mix of confusion and urgency. You let your head fall back down into the bed, your posture relaxed, while his body still felt tense, like he was poised to dive right back into it.

“Yeah,” you said with a little shrug, “that’s not what friends do, Mark.” The teasing smirk on your face only deepened, and your voice lowered into something more playful as you added, “You really gonna tell me that friends kiss like that?”

Mark blinked, looking almost flustered by the teasing, but his expression quickly morphed into something more determined—more sincere. He leaned in a little closer, his voice barely above a whisper, his words coming out with a mix of uncertainty and raw honesty.

You must have something. Everyone has something. But it is impossible to find that something, when you’re always launching LuthorCorp missiles at him and threatening him with lab grown kryptonite. Clark didn’t even know that stuff could be grown in a lab, until he landed down in your labs for some run-of-the-mill standoff, and found himself face to face with your pretty eyes, and a gun, loaded with kryptonite bullets.

Not that you’re pretty. You’ve got objectively nice features, and Clark is far from blind, but beauty does not speak to character.

Not that you’re beautiful, either. And even if you are, it’s rotted away by whatever is on the inside. Whatever runs so deep, he can’t find that tiny blossom of good, no matter how hard he tries.

“You don’t want to do this.” He’d told you, that day in the lab.

When you’d smiled, it had reminded Clark of the wolves that used to hunt Ma and Pa’s sheep. The ones that hadn’t been afraid of him, and had gnashed and snarled until he dropped them miles away from the farm.

“You don’t know anything,” you’d drawled. “About what I want to do.”

That had seemed fair. He really didn’t. “There would be a death on your conscious-“

“This wouldn’t kill you, you fucking pussy.” You’d rolled your eyes, and Clark had blinked.

“That language doesn’t seem necessary-“

“Oh, I’m sorry, boy scout.” You’d smirked. “It wouldn’t kill you, you flying, caped, monkey-squirrel, sweet baby of justice.”

“I-“ That had been strangely hurtful. “I’m just here to turn off Luthor’s reactor, okay-“

“It’s not Luthor’s reactor.” You’d snapped. “It’s mine.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it kind of says Luthor on the side-“

“I’m well aware of what it says.” Your lip had curled, and Clark had tilted his head.

“You know, this thing is probably going to blow and take out the whole city.”

You’d scoffed. “No, it won’t.”

“I have friends who are professionals in this kind of thing, they say it will.”

“Your friends are wrong.”

Clark had shrugged. “Maybe you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.” You’d raised your chin, and his lips had twitched slightly. He towered over you—he towered over everyone—but watching you trying to be taller was like some puffed up, feral cat. He’d pick you up with one hand and not even blink.

Not that he’d try to pick you up. You were a lady, and a human.

Although lady was by the loosest definition.

“Everyone is wrong sometimes,” he’d said gently, and you shrugged.

“I’m not everyone.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being like other people-“

“I know.” You’d smirked. “But I’m not.”

This had been deeply frustrating. “Okay, just- Look, I really need to turn off your reactor-“

“And I’m really going to shoot you if you do that.”

Clark had rubbed a hand over his face. “I mean- I’m really asking you not to-“

“That’s not how shooting someone works. This,” you’d waved your gun. “Isn’t a mutually consenting act.”

“It’s- You’re going to kill thousands of people! Let me-“

“No.” You’d hissed when he took a step forward. “It’s perfectly safe, and you’re not touching it.”

“If it was perfectly safe, would Lex Luthor have funded it?” Clark had challenged, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “Would he have really taken a chance on something that’s actually going to help people besides himself?”

Your eyes had narrowed, and for a brief second, Clark had thought he’d gotten through to you. It had been a glorious second. He’d decided that you really were pretty, and beautiful, and all the other adjectives to describe someone who had a face like the moon.

Then you’d shot him. Point blank in the chest.

Clark had been shot a lot before. He’d been exposed to kryptonite a lot before, as well.

That had maybe been the first time he’d thought he was dying. When he’d woken up, Gary told him he’d been groaning a woman’s name in his sleep.

Your name.

Clark had decided he didn’t like you. Maybe you weren’t a bad person—he was clinging to the idea that deep, deep, deep down you’d shot him because you were being blackmailed, or were deep undercover, or Lex had you under some kind of mind control—but Clark didn’t like you. It wasn’t even the shooting thing. It was something deeply you, that wiggled into him like a worm in an apple, and made his blood pressure rise at the sound of your name.

And you’d been right. The reactor hadn’t blown up. But that was luck from a very thin draw.

Next time, Clark would stop you. Then he’d tie you to a chair and have a very long, in-depth conversation where he figured out something to like about you, then everyone could move on.

Lois has a new informant. She won’t say who it is, no matter how much Clark causally pokes.

“Confidentiality, Kent, you know I can’t tell you.”

“Yeah, but- It’s me. You know me, Lois, I’m not going to tell anyone-“

“It doesn’t matter that it’s you.” Lois sighes, giving him a pointed look. “I promised her I’d keep it between us, and that doesn’t mean turning right around and telling anyone. I worked really hard to get her to trust me. I’m not blowing that for anyone.”

Clark raises his brows. “So it’s a woman?”

“I- Yes. But that,” she points a finger sternly, giving Clark a firm glare. “Is all you get.”

“Well, do you at least really trust her?” He braces his hands on his hips. “If she’s informing you on Lex Luthor, that means she’s close, and- You know I think anyone can change, but you should always be careful with Luthor’s people.”

You.

Clark is thinking, very specifically, of you.

Because nobody moved on, and Clark has not stopped you.

If anything, he’s found more and more reasons to dislike you. And Lois insists her new informant is reliable, but now Clark is also worried that you’re going to find this mystery woman, and do something to her. You’re everywhere like that. He thinks you might be more dangerous than Luthor.

And you were always hovering somewhere behind Lex now, pretty and sharp-tongued and annoying. Clark couldn’t fight Lex when you were always just there watching. It felt like you were judging him, which he didn’t care about, but he still didn’t like.

Every time he slipped up in a fight, he could see you in the corner of his eyes, tilting your head like you were about to dissect him. If he was trading remarks during a fight and you were there, it was always impossible to find something smoother and more confident than whatever slipped like music from your lips. When it was your invention he was on, he’d started bringing back up in case you tried to shoot him again, but instead—in a much more inconvenient fashion—you’d decided to find a new way to evade him, every single time.

“You’re five minutes late.” You’d drawled a few months ago, not looking up from your desk as Clark and Guy landed in your lab.

Usually, by now, Clark had put a villain through at least three lab rebuilds. He liked seeing what they did with the new place, how they’d improved on it from the old one that he’d either wrecked in a fight, or gotten them kicked out of for committing a multitude of crimes.

You’ve had the same lab, the whole time. He was getting sick of its soft colored walls and clean floors, of all the strange clutter you kept between parts on the desk. It was mocking him.

“I didn’t know we were on a timer,” he said your name, and you hummed.

“You don’t know a lot of things, Superman. And I doubt Guy Gardener is going to help you fill in the gaps.”

Next to him, Guy had scowled. “How the hell did you know-“

“I have security, you know.” You’d spun in your chair, giving them a flat look. “And you’re the only one he hasn’t tried to use yet.”

You’d smiled, and it had been all full-lipped and sweet. Your hair had fallen a little over your face. You never smiled at Clark like that.

He’d felt kind of sick. You smiling just seemed to have that effect on him.

“I think you know why I’m here-“

“Of course I know why you’re here.” You’d cut Clark off with an insulted glare. “And you know what I’m going to say, and we both know how this is going to end. We can catch up first, if you want. I’ve been getting really into baking, since we last caught up.” You’d spun in your chair, and now you were smiling at Clark, but it was colder. Mocking. “My friend is having a baby, so I’m making cookies.”

Guy had frowned. “For… A newborn baby?”

“For her, dumbass.”

He’d blinked. “Wow, you’re- Mean.” Guy had grinned, and Clark remembered why he’d decided to bring him last. “I like it. Question, what are your superpowers again, and do they come out in any weird sex ways.”

You’d snorted. “No.”

“No, no superpowers, or no sex stuff-“

“Yes.”

Guy had frowned, looking down at his outfit like that was why he might be getting rejected. Clark had cleared his throat, saying your name in the way he always forced himself to. Gentle. Like he was talking to a rabid animal.

“We’re going to take the code to the beacon, now-“

“Supes.” You’d sighed, kicking your feet lazily. “You don’t need to do the whole thing anymore. It’s just me.” You’d smiled. “Come fight, and lose.”

Clark’s jaw had ticked. You said it so goddamn confidently, and once again, you were right.

He and Guy had given it their all, but you’d been ready. You were always ready, and always smiling, and always right, and it made Clark want to beat his own head against a wall.

“Bye!” You’d waved cheerfully when he’d retreated, beaming all bright and pretty. “You’ll get me next time, big guy!”

There had been a fever like feeling in his body, when he’d flown away. You hadn’t even shot him this time.

“What’s that girl’s deal.” Guy had grumbled while they patched up, scowling at the air. He’d gotten the worst of it.

“I don’t know. She just… Showed up one day.”

And like a weed, he hasn’t been able to get rid of you since.

It was driving him out of his mind.

Clark was running out of people to back him up. He was getting more and more distracted by your presence, and he was starting to recognize your smell. There was this cinnamon-apple candle you lit to stem off the chemical lab smell, and you used a similar kind of perfume, and every time he smelled it that fever returned. It got to the point that he’d smell the air for you like a dog, the second he touched down in a fight.

He’s worried it’s turning into an obsession. He even asked Luthor about you. About where you came from, why he hired you, anything to help him understand exactly what made you so… you.

“Why, Superman?” Luthor had smirked. “You like something you’re seeing? Because let me tell you, she’s more than worth the purchase, if you’ve got the money. Or you could just pick her up and carry her off, like the ogre brute that you are-“

Clark had knocked him out. He wasn’t going to entertain that.

But he still started watching closer, the way you and Luthor interacted. It was more than boss and employee. You smiled at him. He’d defend you in a fight, which was never a good sign.

Clark didn’t think he’d ever felt sicker, than when he pictured you and Luthor.

Together.

You smiling at him. Quipping at him without any venom or mockery in your voice. Tossing your air and batting your eyelashes, and-

He actually had no idea how you’d flirt. Clark pictured it something similar to a predator corning prey, but there was no bigger apex in this ecosystem than Luthor himself.

That was what Jimmy called a power couple.

Clark didn’t like it.

He didn’t like that, like that weed, no matter how he tried to pick away his thoughts of you they always grew back. You were stuck to him like a plaque, like a moss, like a parasite. You took his attention, his energy, a lot of his pride, every time you knocked him down without lifting one finger, your hair never even getting messed up in the fight.

Clark doesn’t like you.

He thinks he might hate you. He’s never really hated someone before, and he doesn’t like that either.

But he’s trying, so hard, to find something for you. And there’s nothing.

And he hates you even more, for that. For shaking him, and everything he knows. For getting such an iron hold on him without trying, digging your fingers in and leaving marks so deep, they don’t even fade when he doesn’t see you for months.

He hates that he still looks for you in those months. That it’s not relief when you’re gone, but something cool and light in his chest when you’re back. He tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the fever. They’re not useful feelings, in dealing with the everything about you. He thinks they’re just byproducts of the hate, because he never feels them with anyone else.

Clark’s a grown man. He thought he’d felt most things.

And now you’re here.

And he’s really never hated anyone more.

“Kent.” Lois taps his desk, her voice a hushed whisper. “I need a favor.”

Clark looks up from his desk with a frown. Lois doesn’t ask for favors a lot. Lois doesn’t ask for anything a lot. ”What’s wrong?”

“Remember that informant I’ve been working with? The one who helped me break the piece about LuthorCorp and the animal experimentation?”

Clark nods. He remembers that clearly. Just as clearly as he remembers your lab, and all the super-powered bears that attacked him in your defense.

“Well, she told me she thinks Luthor is onto her. And I know he’s onto me.” Lois sighs, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ve had someone following me all week. My phone isn’t bugged, but I never let it leave my pocket, and- I checked my laptop. Someone installed a malware, it’s been downloading my emails to an off-bank server.”

Clark’s hands curl on his keyboard. “You think they’ve gotten to your woman-“

“No. She’s smart.” Lois frowns. “She’s been using some kind of extra-burner email? I don’t know. She explained it, I didn’t really follow. You’ll see.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Clark pauses. “I’ll see?”

“Yeah. That’s the favor.” Lois pats his shoulder. “You’re taking over for me.”

“Lois, I-“

“Look, she’s got a lot of information. I can’t tell you anything specific, but this is the best source I’ve gotten, maybe ever. I’m not losing her.”

“Well, you and I- We’re different.” Clark leans back in his chair with a pleading expression. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help. He’s just worked with Lois’ informants before, and they’re all very disappointed he’s not Lois. “Did you ask her, if she’d be fine with me taking over-“

“Oh, I told her everything. And don’t worry.” Lois smiles. “She’ll go easy on you.”

“Easy?” Clark laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses. “I mean, It’s just a meeting, right?”

“Sure, buddy. Just a meeting.”

Lois is good at a lot of things. She isn’t good at being reassuring. 

But Clark can’t say no. Not to her. Not when it’s something that’s going to help people.

He’ll meet the informant. Maybe she’ll be able to help him take down Luthor for good.

And, a tiny, bitter little voice crows from the back of his head, maybe she’ll be able to help him take you down.

Clark needs to stop predicting things. He’s bad at it.

He walks into the library at noon on a Wednesday, just like Lois told him to. He sits in the romance section, his posture straight, his expression perfectly approachable as he scans politely over the titles on the shelf. His One Desire. Her Sin. The Roses In Lace. Lost at Sea. Found at Sea. Lost in Him. Found in Him. There seems to be a pattern, and he wonders about the overlap between stories. The informant is running late. Maybe she decided she didn’t want to work with him. Clark’s never loved these romances, but there must be some appeal to them if they’re so popular. Reading is always good for you, and—as he takes one of the books off the shelf—he decides there isn’t really a better way to kill the time.

It’s a bit of a drudge. The prose is lacking, and the two characters seem to have less chemistry than the cows back home. Clark re-reads a few sentences over and over—the word cock is used quite a lot, and it’s starting to sound fake in his head—and the positions they’re getting into can’t be physically sound. Maybe he’s imagining them wrong.

“You’re amazing.” She whispers, her lips tinkering over the soft, meaty flesh of his ear.

This man must have big ears. And Clark pauses, because there’s a faint smell of vanilla and apple, and it makes him look up with a frown.

He must be imagining things. Or maybe his brain just associates you with meaty ears. Brains are strange like that. And you are haunting every facet of his life.

“I want you.” He growled. “You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen. My whore.”

Clark’s frown deepens. He doesn’t think this book is for him.

“That one is bad.”

Clark looks up from the book, and his jaw drops.

You’re standing across the table from him, your head tilted slightly, eyes locked onto his.

“The sequel is better.” You hum, pulling out a chair. Sitting down. “I think the author really took the criticism of this one into consideration. She stopped using the word meaty so much.”

Clark blinks like an idiot. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually been this close to you before. You’re wearing normal-people clothing, instead of a lab coat with the LuthorCorp brand logo. You’ve got sunglasses on the top of your head, and your face is open and relaxed, but that might just be your inherent smugness.

Whatever perfume you use is suffocating him. Clogging his thoughts, smoking out everything but the ringing song of your name.

“Are you the bird?” You ask him, still tilting your head, and it’s kind of like how you look at him during fights.

You know. A loud alarm blares in his head. You know he’s Superman.

Clark laughs weakly, adjusting his glass. “I- Uh- I’m a human man.”

Why the fuck would he say it like that. He never says it like that. He’s been lying about his identity his whole life, and he’s never been such a fool to call himself a ‘human man’-

“Congratulations?” You look like you’re trying not to laugh, and Clark feels his face heat.

There’s the fever again. Your attention is searing, and it’s winding his muscles so tight his hand has to curl into a fist on his knee. Maybe it’s your perfume. Maybe it’s some kind of secret pheromone.

“Are you, um-“ He looks around the empty shelves. “Are you looking for something?”

You tilt your head again. Clark swallows.

“I, uh- I can help you find it.”

“No.” You lean forward, and Clark is frozen in his seat. “I think I found it myself.”

Oh.

No.

The bird. Lois told him her informant would ask for the bird, and he’d have to say he was still growing wings. He remembers the conversation clearly. He even told Lois he thought that was a little convoluted, and she’d laughed.

But now you’re in front of him. And you always make his—incredibly controlled—thoughts all scrambled and messy.

He adjusts his glasses again, clearing his throat. “I’m not a bird.” He says slowly. “I’m still growing wings?”

You smile.

And that’s not the smile he’s seen on you in the lab, or the saccharine, almost siren-like one you gave Guy.

It’s real. It’s a real smile, that makes your eyes shine like stars. The light pours out over you, and you look even more beautiful than before, and Clark didn’t think that was possible.

He didn’t think he’d find himself leaning forward, instead of away. His body drawing itself forward like a boulder being dragged out to sea. He’s not a movable man. He’s trained himself to think and restrain his every movement, every craven or hungry desire, for the safety of everyone around him.

But you smile.

And he can’t do anything but move.

“I’m Clark Kent.” He sticks out a hand, and you glance down with an unreadable glint in your eyes.

“Clark Kent.” You echo, and he nods.

“Sorry I’m not Lois.”

You smile again, at that. It sends a rush through Clark like a drug.

“I’m not.”

You take Clark’s hand. He’d always thought your skin would be cold and scaly, like a crocodile.

It’s warm. Soft and warm, your fingers brushing over his wrist. His head spins, and he swallows on his own, bubbling, confusing thoughts. They’re more bursts of emotion. Sparks you’re making fly through his body, and a sticky feeling over his heart that oozes like honey.

You say your name, and Clark bites down an I know.

I know you. You’re the bane of my existence, and I think you might’ve put Lois under a spell. You’re putting me under one now. Let me go, because I know what you are.

He’s so sure, that he knows what you are.

But you settle into the seat, and smile again, and Clark doesn’t think he knows anything at all.

The first interview goes well, if not a little awkward. Clark stumbles over his words, and finds himself staring at you a little longer than normal. Worse, you don’t seem fazed by it, just smiling right back and batting your eyelashes like some kind of doe he knows is made of teeth.

That’s the truly confusing part. Clark knows you. He thinks he knows you. He was pretty sure, that he knew you.

And the woman sitting across from him at the table is not you.  

“How’d you meet Lois?” He asks casually, as you’re wrapping up. It’s a reasonable question. Naturally curious for anyone, not just Clark, who might have a pit growing in his stomach, that can only be fed by knowing more about you. “I mean- I’ve seen you on the news. You’re close with Luthor. She said she had an informant-“

“Didn’t think it would be me?” You smile again, and he coughs.

“Didn’t think it would be anyone close to him.”

“Well.” You shrug, sliding your sunglass back over your brow. “Close is a very strong word.”

You don’t offer him more than that. He doesn’t get a chance to ask.

When you leave, he stands in the romance section for about three minutes, trying to figure out what just happened. Trying to make sense of a world that’s flipped, and constant in his life being changed.

He hates you. It’s been about a year and a half since you showed up, and Clark has become very certain in the fact that he doesn’t hate anyone, expect for you. Lois would call that an exception that proves the rule.

And suddenly, you’re splitting the rule clean down the middle, with a single smile.

When he gets back to the Daily Planet, he relays almost everything that happened to Lois. He leaves out how he’d stared, and how pretty your eyelashes were, and how when you laugh for real it’s a musical sound. Like a bird, ringing through the air and calling everything else in response. Clark swore he felt a dizzying cloud form in his chest, when he heard your real laugh.

But that’s not something Lois needs to know, so he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t tell anyone.

He just thinks about it. Over, and over, and over again. He put your next meeting on the calendar. He stares at the date, and finds that pit in his stomach trying to gnaw at time. To get you closer again.

When the day comes, he goes early with an extra coffee in hand. He decides he’s trying to test how much you really trust him. Most villains never accept food or drink from anyone. They’re too paranoid.

The first part of his plan goes wrong when you’re there first. Waiting at the same table as before, reading one of the romance books off the shelf. You don’t look up, when Clark sits across from you.

His foot bumps yours, under the table. He forces himself to ignore how the small touch shakes him like lightning.

“You’re early.” You say, and he smiles.

“We’re here at the same time.”

“I know.” You glare at him over your book. “And I’m early. But I’m always early.”

“You were late last time.”

“I was testing you last time.” You shrug. “I wanted to see if you’d give up, and leave.”

Clark blinks. He’d suspected that. It had been another part of his plan, to try and make you admit that everything you do is calculated and crude in some way.

He really hadn’t expected you to just… admit it.

“Did I pass the test?” He asks, a little stupidly. You finally set the book down, and smile.

 “I don’t know yet.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “Can I ask what my grade is right now? If I’m still being tested?”

Your smile widens. It’s an enchanting sigh. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

Clark wishes he knew what that meant.

He wishes his own plan was better, too. He offers you the coffee, and you take it, but maybe you just like free coffee. He did get it from the fairly expensive place down the street.

Your fingers brush, when you take the cup from his hands. It’s worse than the foot. He’s almost stunned for a second, his eyes locked onto you like you’re a magnet.

He learns nothing. You’re just as restrained and open as the first time, when he finally remembers he’s supposed to be interviewing you. He asks about Luthor’s plans down at the harbor, and you tell him about the deep-sea mining and threat to the environment. He asks if Luthor knows about the risks. You laugh, and it’s a little dry, but still one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.

“You think he cares?”

Clark knows he doesn’t. He’s just surprised you know, too.

“Well,” he clicks the recorder off, and you raise your brows. “You do work for him. You know him better than I do.”

“Hm.” You take a long sip of your coffee. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It has to be, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think it is.”

It’s good to know that, even when you’re being nice, you’re still infuriating. “You’re the closest member of his inner circle.” Clark argues. “You have to at least know a little about him. I only interview him.”

“You interview me. And Superman. Do you not know us?”

Clark swallows. “I know Superman. But- We work closer on things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. I can’t say anything else.” He sits up a little. “Superhero business.”

You just give him another strange look. “Does he ever talk about me?”

Clark blinks. He thought you just forgot he existed, every time he flew away. “Uh- No?” He’s worried if he talks about you once, he’s never going to shut up. “Why? Do you- What do you think of him?”

“Of Superman?”

Clark nods, and he has to drag himself back from leaning over the table. He doesn’t know why he’d let himself ask that. But it’s too late to take it back.

“I work for Lex Luthor.” You shrug, turning your coffee in your hands. “Opinion is a luxury I’m not afforded.”

He frowns. “Everyone gets an opinion. You can have it privately, but you still must have one.” You must think of me too.

“Maybe I do.”

“So you do.”

“Maybe.”

“You can tell me, if you agree with Luthor that he’s a- a plague sent to destroy humanity-“

“I don’t think that.” Your voice is suddenly harsh, and Clark blinks.

“Then what do you think?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. Clark snaps a pencil between his fingers.

Your gaze drops down to the fractured pieces, and you smile again. Clark realizes his breathing is shallow, because—for reasons he’d rather not thing about—this matters. You matter.

“I think he’s good man.” You say slowly. “And I think he’s a hopeful fool, and- Dangerous. To me.”

Clark swallows. He can’t think of anything to say, so he just nods, and goes back to his pre-planned questions.

He thinks about your answer, for the rest of the week. It plays over and over in his mind, and he writes it on scraps of paper at his desk. It should make more sense. He should be able to let it go.

But it’s a part of you. And Clark’s never been good at letting you go at all.

Clark’s dependent on the pheromone theory now. Because if you’re just like this—if you just consume his thoughts and follow him into his dreams, all on your own—he thinks he might be screwed.

He’s screwed.

Clark counts down the days until you meet, and tries to talk to you as much as he possibly can when you’re there. He wants to understand, how you can be the impossibly enchanting woman across from him at the table, and the crude shell of a person who hovers behind Luthor at every press event and meeting.

The woman you are here is good. Amazing. Still made of some barbed wire, but Clark’s getting better at weaving through it. And it’s not even that he’s uncovering that rot he’d always thought you to be made of. You’re just… Not made of it. Not here.

Here, you’re made of flowers and honey and soft, summer fire. Here, Clark can picture you laughing with wind in your hair, teasing him without any venom all the time. He likes everything he learns about you here.

He doesn’t understand how you’re the same person.

“Do you like these books?” He asks, nodding to the shelves of romance, and you shrug.

“So what if I do?”

“Nothing. Everyone- They can like whatever they want. I just… Didn’t peg you to enjoy The Summer of Sin.”

Your face relaxes slightly. “Why not? Do I not look like a romantic?”

Clark swallows. He thinks you look like everything. He barely knows better than to say it. “I’ve imagined you’re more of a nonfiction enjoyer.” He settles on smoothly.

There’s a glint in your eyes. He knows immediately he’s made a mistake.

“You’ve imagined me?”

All the time. Most of his thoughts circle around you, and it’s even worse than before. Clark’s found himself memorizing every detail about you he can scrape, weaving them together like a gorgeous, puzzled tapestry of a woman he knows he’s obsessed with. There’s no use fighting it anymore, when he wakes up and wonders what you’re doing. When he wanders through the day seeing you in every ray of sunlight through the windows and longer shadow on the floor.

He’s hoped, at some point, that he’d find the string of you that unravels the whole thing. That tells him he was right the first time, and you’re no work of art. Just so shiny he’d been blinded, and everything he’d thought the first time had been right.

But that string isn’t coming. And the more Clark learns about you, the more every color he’d painted you with become inverted.

You’re not shiny up close. You’re just… Glorious. Like water catching on the ocean, exposing the glittering rocks and life below.

“I- I don’t- Not in- I think about you, yes, but-“

“What do you think about me?”

Clark’s face must be burning red. He really wishes you’d stop looking at him. “A lot of things.”

That unreadable look flashes over your features. “Are they good?”

There’s something oddly heavy, in your voice. Clark can almost feel it in his hands, fluttering and delicate.

“Mostly. Yes.” He tries to offer you a smile. “But you are strange.”

You scowl. “I am not strange-“

“You like romance books-“

“Which is very normal.” You raise your chin, and Clark grins. It gets cuter every time. “They’re fun, Clark. Sometimes, you just need fun.”

“What’s fun about them?” He really wants to know. He wants to understand you.

“I- I don’t know.” You glare down at your hands. “It’s escapism. You get to imagine that you’re a princess or something, instead of- Just another fucking person.”

Clark frowns. “I don’t think you’re just another person.”

You snort. “Yeah. I know.”

“I’m serious, you- You’re a genius-“

“I’m tired.” You say firmly, and Clark realizes that you are.

There are bags under your eyes, almost perfectly covered by concealer. Your lips aren’t chapped, but there’s a little puff on the lower one from chewing, and your shoulders slumps. He doesn’t know how he never noticed before.

Maybe you just never showed him. Never let him see.

“I know,” you speak slowly, not looking him fully in the eyes. “That these books are stupid. But I like them. They- They help.”

“Help? With-“

“Everything.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “I could help. If you ever- Needed it. With anything.”

And he means it. He really would.

You smile at him, and he wants to ask if you think about him too. Not Superman—a hopeful fool, dangerous to me—but just Clark.

Instead, he just smiles back, and reveals in the way he sees your gaze relax.  

He likes you like this. You’re really not that different, when he thinks about it, and he doesn’t understand how he was ever so wrong.

Clark is beginning to give up on understanding.

He just wants to know you.

He’s back in your lab, for the first time since he took over for Lois. It’s about the docks, and the deep-sea mining, and the pump that you told him—told Clark, at least—was going to be put in the water. Jimmy found out that the pump was going to be filling the bay with a toxic chemical that’s been compared to a truth serum.

Clark can’t understand why you’d tell him, if it was your design.

And he doesn’t understand why you’re just lying on the floor of your lab, scrolling on your phone when he arrives.

He clears his throat, and you sigh, craning your neck to frown at him.

“You’re here.”

“You and Luthor are going to pump the water with chemicals that will alter the free will of the people in Metropolis.” He’d been rehearsing, on the flight over. He’s trying to sound more heroic, and not dwelling on why. “Hand over the pump, and we can do this the easy way.”

Your lips twitch. “You mean the way where I kick your ass, and then walk away untouched.”

“I don’t know if you kick my-“

“Yes, I would.”

Yes, you would. “Just- Tell me where the pump is, please.”

“Oh, there’s no pump.”

Clark blinks. “What.”

“I don’t have a pump. I made that up.”

“Wha- Why would you do that-“

“I was testing something.” You shrug, patting the floor next to you. “Sit down.”

Clark squints at the floor next to you. There’s nothing under it. When he looks at the ceiling, there’s nothing there either. You’re just… Asking him to sit down.

He pulls his cape behind him, and sits with his legs crossed at your side. You flop back down, your knees pulling up and your arms around your stomach. Clark doesn’t expect the silence to last so long. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, especially as they start to itch. Something about you is magnetic. There’s a wrinkle in your brow he wants to soothe with his thumb, but that might end with him getting shot again-

Your eyes suddenly lock onto his, and Clark swallows. In the low light, they glow like gemstones. He thinks he could get lost in them, if he was allowed to. Even if he wasn’t really sure what he’d been diving into, he’s come to find that you don’t exactly fall into predictably.

He likes trying.

Clark thinks he might want to learn everything about you, until he’s the only person in the world who understands.

“Hi.” You whisper, your eyes still locked onto his.

Your voice is softer than he’s ever heard it before. It’s unsettling, like silence before a storm.

“Are you alright?” He asks kindly, and your eyes narrow.

“Should I not be?”

“I don’t know. That’s kind of why I’m asking.”

He tries to smile at you, welcoming and warm. Your lips twitch. That’s better than nothing.

Even if you sigh, and look back up to the ceiling. Leaving Clark leaning a little forward, wondering if it’s wrong to lean closer, and try to drag your attention back.

“Is there something you need help with?” He offers, and you let out a soft, huffing laugh.

“No. Not that you can help with.”

He frowns. “I don’t know. I- I’m actually pretty good.” He clears his throat. “At helping with things. It’s my job, in case you didn’t know.”

You laugh, and this time it’s a little louder. “You know what, I think I’ve heard.”

“You think?”

“I watch the news.”

“Ah.” Clark tries to read further into your expression. He doesn’t think he’s very good at it. “And what do you think, when you’re watching the news?”

“Of you?” You’re looking at him again. He sits up. He doesn’t want you to look away.

Clark nods. “I, um- I know they do a lot of pieces on me.” He clears his throat. “I read the Daily Planet.”

“Oh, you read it?”

“I’m not a big TV person.” He shrugs lamely, and you laugh again.

“Sure.”

The silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just… Odd. Clark doesn’t think he’d ever been in your lab this long without suffering an injury. It’s kind of nice. When he looks up at the ceiling, he realizes there are stars painted all over the tiles. That must be new. He would’ve seen it before, if it wasn’t-

“I had a bit of an… episode.” You murmur, and he thinks you might be reading his mind. “Last night. I started doing that, and couldn’t stop, and now…”

You trail off, and Clark takes a deep breath through his nose. He can only smell you, and that intoxicating perfume. “You air out the paint already?”

“I used a spray.”

“That you… invented?”

You smile. “That I bought from Costco.”

“Oh.” He’s making himself an idiot again. “I didn’t know you could paint.”

“I don’t anymore.” You’re silent for another moment, and Clark tracks your every breath. “You know, you’re from there.”

You point at the ceiling, and Clark cranes his neck to see the sky. You’re pointing to a cluster of stars a few tiles over, and it takes him a second to understand what you mean. You didn’t just paint the sky.

You mapped it. The constellations, accurate to the clear nights in Kansas he remembers so well.

And it feels like you mapped a part of him.

Clark looks down at you, and finds you watching him silently. He lays down slowly, just so your shoulders are brushing. When he offers you another smile, you return it.

He looks back to the sky, and lets himself exhale.

You’re not going to attack him, and he’s not going to ask why.

He’s just going to lie here, and watch the unmoving stars.

“I wanted to be an alien when I was a kid.”

Your words are sudden. As far as Clark had known, you’d been talking about LuthorCorp coverups. “Huh?”

“When I was like, five.” You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “I wanted to be an alien.”

“Oh.” Clark blinks. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to be something.”

“You are something.”

“Well, I wanted to be more.”

“What, an evil scientist?”

You go silent, and Clark wants to kick himself. That was rude, he’s never rude like that, you just- You do something to him. You make his brain fuzzy and his manners fade, clinging with sunken claws for control of his tongue and hands. He’s been thinking about touching you a lot. About grazing his hand over the small of your back when you walked by, or hugging you before you leave, to see how you’d fit in his arms.

He thinks you’d fit well. That whatever is making you tired and sad, he’d be able to wrap over you and fend it away. He’d keep you afloat like a lifejacket.

If you dragged him down with you, he might let you do that too.

He doesn’t think you would. Right now, you’re staring at your hand, lips pressed in a tight line, and Clark feels like a jerk.

“I- I didn’t mean-“

“It’s okay.”

“No, I’m sorry-“

“It’s fine.” You snap, and Clark swallows. “I’m fine.”

“You, um- You kind of don’t sound fine.”

“Well, I am.”

Clark doesn’t know how to push against you. He has all the strength in the world, but you’re the most immovable things he’s ever seen. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You’re silent again, and Clark adjusts his glasses. Lois is going to kill him, if he just ruined this. And he won’t even fight back. He’d deserve it, for making you look so sad.

“I’m not evil.” You mutter, and Clark sits up.

“I know-“

“But I’m not-“ You shake your head, still looking at your hands. “I’m not you.”

Clark frowns. He doesn’t understand what that means. “I mean… Yeah. You’re not Lois either. Or Luthor.”

You laugh, but it’s not full. It’s that hollow laugh you use, when Clark doesn’t understand something. “No. I mean- Yes, but that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” He asks quickly.

You stare at him. For a long, long moment, you’re looking right at Clark, and he’d swear the world stopped spinning if he didn’t feel the ground slipping from under his feet as his body tries to crash, face-first, into yours.

“I don’t know.” You say softly. “But- I wanted to be an alien.”

The words are supposed to mean something to him. He can hear it, ringing in your tone.

But either he’s not smart enough to understand, or you’re too smart, and you’ve dumbed it down for him so much it means nothing anymore.

“I didn’t want to be an alien.” He says carefully, trying to test the waters. “But- I wanted to be a farmer. Like my parents.”

You tilt your head at him, and Clark clears his throat.

“I think you’d be a good farmer. You’d like the sky. The quiet. You- You’d like it.”

He doesn’t think you’d like the bugs or the mud, but he doesn’t say that. That’s not important.

All that matters is your small smile, and the way you relax again.

And Clark thinks this really might be something big. Bigger than just an obsession.

He feels his whole world ease, when you smile. And he thinks it might be love.

He goes to your lab, for no good reason. There’s nothing for him to fight you about, no false plans to investigate. He just wants to see you, and he thinks he might be welcome.

He still hovers outside the window for five minutes, just to talk himself into it. Last time might have been a fluke, and he’s about to get shot again.

Clark decides that it’s worth the risk.

“Why were you outside for so long?” You’re lying on the floor again, and Clark sighs.

“Cameras?”

“Mhm.”

He smiles to himself, sitting at your side. “I was trying to figure out if you’d try to kill me again, if I came inside.”

You scoff. “I have never tried to kill you.”

“I have injuries that say different-“

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.” You look right at Clark as you say it, and he balls his hand into a fist.

He wants to trace the line of your teasing smile. He wants to memorize it.

It’s one of the last things he has to memorize about you. The most forbidden thing.

And he wants it more than anything.

“I believe that.” He says, and your smile widens.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Clark lies down, and you turn your head to hold his gaze.

Your breath is warm, fanning over his face. Your hands are crossed over your stomach, and there are tiny little divets in your face that Clark is only able to really notice this close. Your eyes are a little uneven, and your teeth a little crooked, and it’s all perfect.

“Can I ask you something?” You breathe, and he nods without thinking.

“Anything.”

You hum, fidgeting with your fingers as you look back up to the ceiling. “What do you think of me?”

It’s not what Clark expects, but you have such a habit of stunning him, he’s learned to recover fast. Clark clears his throat, watching your profile like if he stares enough, he’ll close his eyes and see you clearer than he does in his dreams.

“You don’t have to answer-“

“I think you’re a good person.” Clark murmurs, and you look back to him with wide eyes. “And I think you’re angry, and you should be, but- I think you’re a threat.”

“A threat?” Your brow furrows, and Clark shakes his head.

“To you.”

“You think I’m a threat to myself-“

“And to me.”

“I- But not anyone else?”

Clark shakes his head. “No. Not to anyone else.”

You laugh that hollow sound, and look back to the ceiling. “Someone once told me I was evil.”

Clark cringes. “He was an idiot-“

“He was right.”

You look to him, and there’s something so sad and heavy in your eyes, Clark is sure the only way to get rid of it is to burn it away. 

But all he can do is shake his head. “No. He wasn’t.”

“I’m a threat to you.”

“I know.”

“You’re Superman.”

“I’m aware.”

That gets a tiny smile. “Historically, threats to Superman are evil.”

Clark pretends to consider your words for a second, even though he already knows his answer.

“There are different ways to be a threat. There’s offensive, and defensive, and- Distractions.”

“Is that what I am? A distraction?”

Clark lets himself smile at that. You have no idea.

“I’m here, aren’t I.”

You laugh softly, your eyes still not leaving his.

“I read a romance book last week,” he adds, trying to get you to understand without spooking you away.

“Did you like it.”

“It was enlightening.”

“What,” you snort. “About sex?”

“No.” He snorts. “I’m- I know about that.”

“You’re a boy scout, Supes, it’s not insane-“

“I have everything humans do.” He gives you an amused look, and suddenly, you’re silent, your eyes shining in the dark.

“Yeah?” Your voice is barely a breath, and Clark shrugs.

“Yep. There were just some things in that book I don’t think anyone can do. Or- I guess, but it would take a lot of work. And most human men don’t have that stamina.”

He’s expecting a little, smart remark of and what, you do? But you’re just silent. Gaping at him, your face softly flushed. Clark isn’t sure what he did.

But he likes how relaxed you look. If it’s because of his conversation, he’s more than happy to offer more.

“I might read another, if you have any recommendations.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I didn’t like it a whole lot, it was very… explicit. But I’d read another.”

He doesn’t say for you.

But with the way your eyes widen slightly, he thinks you understand just fine.

“I’ll bring you some on Wednesday.” You whisper, and Clark grins. Gifts. That’s progress.

It’s only hours later, when he’s alone in his apartment, that he realizes what he said.

How, just like always, you scrambled him. You blurred lines.

Superman doesn’t know about the romance books. Clark does. But he just slipped into you like always.

Clark doesn’t swear, expect under two circumstances.

Sex, and when he’s really fucked up.

And when he realizes he’s all but told you he’s superman, there’s only one thing he can think.

Shit.

You’re not there, the next day.

Clark goes to the usual section, and you’re not there waiting for him. He waits until the librarians start to look at him weird, then he sends you a short, worried email, and leaves.

You don’t respond. He’s checking every five minutes, and the hours creep slowly as he refreshes, over and over and over, hoping this time he’ll just get a sign that you’re alive.

He doesn’t think you’d turn him over to Luthor. You’ve been working against Luthor for a while, with Lois, and even if you wanted to—which you wouldn’t—you’d have to admit that you’d been meeting him as Clark, and letting him into your lab.

Or you could just lie. You’re quite a good liar.

No.

You wouldn’t tell Luthor.

Clark still feels like his skin his trying to crawl off his body, the longer he waits. He considers asking Lois if you ever stood her up, but he already knows the answer.

You know. You know.

And now, you’re gone.

Clark drags his feet home. He’d flown to your lab after leaving the Daily Planet, and you weren’t in your lab, or any of the LuthorCorp building. Some part of him should be glad, if you just picked up and ran. Maybe you can find a farm, far away from Luthor, and live a nice, quiet life.

But most of him just misses you. And is worried, and wants you to come back. It would be creepy, to scour the whole planet to try and find you. And it would probably take a few days, if he’s really looking. But he could do it.

He’s trying to remember how much PTO he has banked, when he climbs the stairs to his apartment. You can’t have gone that far, unless you used a portal. Then you could be anywhere. If you’re on another planet, that’s going to take weeks, and if you’re in another galaxy that might be months-

You’re on the couch.

Clark opens his door, and finds you on his couch.

You smile at him, like you didn’t just break into his apartment. “Hi.”

“I- What are you-“

“I didn’t want to show up at the Daily Planet. Would have been asking for open fire.”

“Asking for- What the heck are you talking about-“

You pull up your oddly dirty shirt, and Clark feels his bones get heavy and cold. There’s a pattern of deep, purpling bruises all over your stomach.

You’re hurt. He’d been so stupefied by your presence, he somehow hadn’t noticed you were hurt.

His bag slips from his hand, as he rushes to your side. You wince, hissing through your teeth when his fingers graze one of the marks, and Clark swallows down his blurred anger and panic.

“You- Who-“

“Luthor.” You mutter. “Turns out he also has cameras.”

Clark’s gaze shoots up, and he finds you already watching him. “And he did this.”

“He got angry I wouldn’t tell him who Superman is.” You say flatly. “When we were clearly so cozy.”

His hands fist. If he went now, he’d be back within ten minutes, and Luthor would be chained to the top of the Eiffel tower, his bald head freezing off.

But you’re in front of him now. And that’s what needs to matter.

“Okay. We- We need to get you in a bath. I have a bath.”

“Wow, aren’t we fancy.”

He gives you a flat look. “Don’t sass me. I can leave you on the couch, you know.”

You tilt your head at him, and smile. “No, you won’t.”

Clark stands up, braces his hands on his hips, and glares at you. You glare right back, and he doesn’t know why he thought he’d ever possibly win this.

He groans, ducks down, and picks you up. You smile at him, and he sighs.

“I know. Don’t- You don’t have to say it.”

Your smile just widens, and Clark thinks he can lose a lot of fights, if they make you smile.

While you take the bath, he waits in his kitchen. You’re going to need to ice that, but he doesn’t actually have ice packs. He’s never needed them.

He flies up a little north to get them. You’ll be fine on your own for five minutes, and he doesn’t want to accidentally get you ice that melts too fast, or isn’t cold enough, or anything less acceptable than you deserve.

It’s a welcome distraction, too. From thoughts of you, in his bathtub. Naked and breathing slowly, your thighs pressed together underwater, or spread wide, baring you up to be seen-

Clark sticks his face in the snow. This is the last bit of control he’s managed to keep, the last leash he’s still on. He won’t let it slip now.

You’re wrapped in a towel on the couch, when he gets back. Clark frowns, and opens his mouth.

“I’m not made of glass.” You snap before he can speak, and he sighs.

“I know, but you are injured. It’s not good to put extra strain, when your body is already trying to recover-“

“Are you a doctor now, too?”

Clark stares at your scowl, and it slides off in a second. You look back to your hands, your voice turning into that smaller one he doesn’t think you use with anyone else.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’ve had a long day-“

“No. I- I was- I’m sorry.” You glare at him again, like you’re challenging him to try and refuse the apology again.

He wouldn’t dare.

“Okay.” He approaches you slowly, holding up his makeshift ice. “I- I got this for you.”

You frown at him. “A wet hand?”

Clark follows your gaze, and groans. He’d spent too long staring at you, and forgotten to wrap it in cloth. The ice melted.

“Alright, I’ll just go get more-“

“Don’t you have frost breath.”

Oh. He does.

But he wishes he protested more about that being a bad idea. It means he has to kneel down in front of you, very carefully open up your towel, and pretend he can’t see the underside of your breast as he blows on your stomach. Your whole body twitches under his hands, pinning you gently to the couch.

He’s still in control.

“How’d you know where I live?” He asks between breaths, and you grunt.

“I looked it up the day after we met.”

Clark looks up at you in surprise. “What? Did you do that with Lois-“

“No. Lois isn’t Superman.”

His fingers curl on your sides, and you blink at him with an oddly soft shine in your eyes.

The day you met. The day.

“You’ve-“

“Yeah.”

“But- I was wearing the glasses-“

“I know.” You smirk. “How ever did I figure it out.”

Clark rubs a hand over his face. “No, you don’t understand, they have this- It’s like a magic trick, that’s literally supposed to be impossible.”

“Shit.” You laugh weakly, your body curving from the pain. “I think you should ask for a refund.”

Clark chuckles, pinning you a little tight to the couch. He doesn’t want you to be able to move too much. You might get more hurt.

“Was it something I said?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“I- I just knew, okay? That’s it. It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

Clark thinks it does have to be a big thing. It should be a huge thing, that you’ve known the whole time, and just… said nothing.

But you’re still injured. And Luthor might be looking for you.

So he just sighs again and blows on your stomach. Your back arches into him, this time. If he couldn’t see the flutter of your eyes and ripple of your body under his hands—clearly trying to react as little as possible—he’d think you were torturing him on purpose.

“You should stay here.” He mutters. “Until it’s safe.”

You scoff. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Clark frowns. “Luthor isn’t going to let up until he finds you-“

“I can disappear-“

“Not right now. Not like this.” He grazes his thumb over your bare skin, and a noise awfully close to a moan escapes your lips.

“Clark, fuck-“ Your head tips back, your hand shooting into his hair, and that was a really bad idea.

Your moan might be the most addictive sound he’s ever heard. That’s a selfish thing for his focus to be, right now.

“You’re staying here.” He says firmly, then pauses. “Or- Lois can take you. If that would be more comfortable.”

He doesn’t want it to be. He wants you here, where he can keep you safe himself, and talk to you all the time. But it’s not about him. 

“No.” You snap. “I’ll go in the morning-“

“I’m not letting you do that.”

“Oh, you’re not letting me-“

“I’m not just- Just going to sit here and let you walk out, only to find out that Luthor grabbed you and now I have to go save you!” Clark’s voice is rising, but you don’t balk. You just roll your eyes, and lean your head back on the sofa.

“Please. You- You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what? Stop you from getting yourself hurt?! You work with Luthor, you know what he’s capable of-“

“You know what I’m capable of.” You hiss, and Clark shakes his head.

“And I know you’re a better person than he is, you won’t go to the same- The same insane extremes-“

“Won’t I? You said it, you said I’m an evil scientist-“

“You know I didn’t mean that-“

“Don’t I?”

“Yes, you do-“

“Do I-“

“Stop doing that!” Clark shouts, and your mouth snaps shut.

He doesn’t know when, but he’d risen up on his knees. Your faces are only inches apart, your eyes wide and lips parted, and for once Clark’s got you completely quiet. He grabs your knee lightly. He doesn’t want you to go away. 

“You are infuriating.” He mutters, holding your gaze. “And confusing, and I- I don’t understand howsomeone so… So-“ He shakes his head. “So you ended up with someone like Luthor. But I know that you’re not evil. And I know that Lex- He doesn’t forgive grievances. He won’t just let you go, and I’m not letting you get hurt.”

You stare at him for another handful of minutes. When you speak again, your voice is small. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why would you care.” You whisper. “I- I know what I’ve done-“

“It was never really you-“

“Then what I helped do, and I- I was just young, and stupid, and I didn’t have a lot of choices and he listened but- I still-“ You reach up, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Like he’s the last thing you have to hold onto in the world. “You stopped. You stopped asking me to stop, and you- I thought you gave up.”

Clark’s lips twitch despite himself. In way, he had given up.

He’d stop trying to convince himself there was anything about you that needed to be fixed.

“You’re not exactly a moveable person,” he mutters your name, leaning a little closer. “And I- I guess I just decided I didn’t care.”

“You didn’t care-“

“What you were doing. Or- Why. I trusted you.” Clark swallows. Your noses are bumping, and your skin is warm under his hands. “And I want to help. Let me help.”

You stare at him, and for a second, he thinks you’re going to try and pull away. So he says the only thing he’s been able to think of you, letting it fall from his lips with ease.

“I love you.” Clark strokes his thumb over that furrow in your brow, and your breath hitches. “Please. Let me help.”

Silence lingers again. It’s the loudest he’s ever heard.

And this time, you don’t break it.

You just nod.

Your eyes fall to Clark’s lips, then dart back up. Your breathing is coming shallow, and your skin is getting warmer. Clark’s drowning in you, in being this close, and then he smells it.

Need.

You need him, and he wants to give. To show you that something can be soft, that you’re worthy of every bit of care he has to offer. He leans in, just enough to brush his lips over yours.

You open for him in a second, a moan falling from your lips.

And Clark lets everything in him snap.

He surges up. Grabs your jaw to keep you steady, and kisses you with everything he’s let wind up inside him for months. His lips move against yours in a smooth rhythm, his tongue tracing over the line of your teeth before pressing down your throat. He can’t find himself to have enough of you, doesn’t think there can be enough. You taste a little salty, and your moans are soft and loud, and it’s just as addictive as the rest of you.

Clark presses over you, careful that his weight doesn’t crush you. You tip your head even further back, until your eyes are fluttering whenever he pulls away to catch the shortest breath. The kisses are sloppy, like neither of you can bear to pull apart for a second. His hand on your thigh wanders up, tracing over soft, hidden skin under your towel, and you shiver. For a second he’s ready to pull back, check that he’s not hurting you more, but you’re kissing him with the same desperate fervor as before. You let out a sweet little gasp when Clark squeezes your thigh, and his lips twitch.

You like.

You like this plenty.

Clark tips your head a little to the side, dragging his lips down your throat, letting his hand knead against your skin. You’re reactive, every light touch making your whole body shake. Clark has to bite down a groan, as the smell of your arousal starts to flood his senses. He nips under your neck, and a breathy whine leaves your lips, one hand shooting into his hair.

“Clark- Oh- Oh my god-“

“I know.” He mutters, sucking on the small hurt. “You got no idea, how long I wanted this. Thought I was going crazy, sweetheart, you have no idea-“

You make a mumbled sound, pulling on his hair, and Clark glances up to find you staring at him with shining, doe-like eyes. It knocks the air out of him, and that’s not supposed to be possible.

But you defy a lot of things, for him. What’s just one more?

“You,” he drops his brow against yours, and your hands press flat on his chest. “You are beautiful.”

Your lower lip wobbles, and Clark kisses you slowly. Lazily. He’s got you, pliable and wanting below him. If he’s taking anything he’s offered, he’s doing it for you, not to you.

And it pays off immediately, when you start to work yourself up. Your kisses turn frenzied, your hips rolling up into his hand, and Clark’s fingers brush against wetness, dribbling down your thighs. He groans against your lips, and is rewarded with another high, breathless plea.

“Want you.” He mutters, keeping his hand firmly planted down, closer to your knee. “I’ll be gentle, swear it, just- Want you-“

You nod, your mouth slack, and Clark pulls up with a small frown.

His hand on your head drags down to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. They hang open, and he has a feeling if he pressed his thumb forwards, you’d take it with shiny eyes and a moan.

But you’re just staring at him. All your bravado is gone, and you’re just blinking at Clark with a glazed, lustful expression.

“Can you say you want this?” He rasps, pressing his brow lightly over yours. “Tell me, baby. I can give you anything, but- You gotta tell me.”

You nod again, and Clark gently taps your lips.

“Words.”

“Yes.” You whisper, your fingers digging against his skin. “Clark, please, yes. I- I want you, want you so bad, please-“

Clark kisses you again, a little worried if he lets you keep going, you’re not going to be able to stop. You moan happily against his lips, and whine when he pulls away again.

He presses his brow back against yours, and lets his gaze drag slowly down your body. The towel has fully fallen away, exposing you to the room, and he thinks he’d be drooling, if he had a little less self-control.

“Holy…” He drags one hand slowly down your bare side, feeling the blood rush into his cock. “Fuck, baby, you’re- You’re amazing.”

Clark expects a teasing response, about the swearing. Instead he only gets silence, and when he glances back up, you’re staring at him with the widest, most flustered expression he’s ever seen. He squeezes your waist, and your hand flies up to cup his cheek. Clark smiles, and kisses the inside of your wrist, watching your breath catch from such a small touch.

Just to test, he moves his hand from your thigh to just under your breast, cupping your ribs and letting his thumb graze over your nipple. The reaction is immediate. You shudder, eyes batting and a long, musical whine filling the room.

Clark raises his brows, and your flush deepens, your eyes darting away. He can’t have that.

He mutters your name gently, and you shake your head, still avoiding his gaze.

“I- I’m fine-“

“You don’t look it.” He says, rising fully up so no matter where you try to look, you’re going to see him. “Sweetheart, I need you all into this-“

“I am all- You know-“

“I don’t. And you’re not looking at me.”

You sigh, dragging your face back, but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Clark frowns, worried that your injuries are worse than he thought, and you’re trying to push through it for his sake when he should be taking care of you and letting you rest-

“I’m not…” You take a heavy breath, your nose scrunched in the most adorable way he’s ever seen.

Clark says your name, and you shake your head, your arms wrapping around your stomach.

“I don’t do this.” You blurt, body curling into the cushion. “I don’t- I- Sex isn’t- I have a job.”

He blinks at you. “I… Also have a job-“

“You have a life.” You cut him off with a mumble. “I- I work. And I go home. And I look at the internet, then I work again, and I- I don’t- This.” You gesture between your bodies. “I don’t do this.”

Clark stares at you for a second. Your flustered, embarrassed expression, your heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Do you… Want to-“

“Yes.” Your eyes shoot open, pleading on his. “But- I just-“

You shake your head, looking back to some random spot on his shoulder.

“I’m not- I’m not good at it.” Your voice is small. “And you’re- You’re-“

Just to test something, Clark squeezes under your ribs again. A loud moan falls from your lips, your eyes wide on his as your whole body grinds up in response to the touch.

“Clark…” You whine, and he grins, ducking down to kiss you, slow and soft.

You melt right into him, another pretty sound escaping when he moves his full hand to palm at your breast.

“Oh- Oh my-“

“I’ve got you.” He kisses away your flustered pleas. “I can take care of it, baby, you don’t need to do anything.”

Your nose scrunches again, and Clark thinks you’d protest if you weren’t already so dazed from light touches.

He needs to work you up as much as he’s allowed. Needs to see what you’re like when you’re nothing but putty in his hands, because he loves your smart mouth, but he also loves the softness that only he gets to see.

This part of you, molten and writhing as the kisses grow more intense, is all Clark’s.

He drops one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on your breast, and starts to tease over your soaked folds. You arch into him, and he presses back down gently, giving you a stern look.

“I’ve got it.”

“Clark-“

He kisses your neck and you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Let me, baby.” He mutters against your skin, his thumb dragging over your clit. “Please.”

You nod, your body already going limp under his hands, and he grins.

Clark starts to kiss down your body, letting his hand against your core slowly work you up.

“You’re soaked.” He open-mouth kisses your neglected breast, petting your pussy with two fingers, letting them dip into your fluttering entrance with every touch. “You like me this much, sweetheart. ‘Cause I know how much I like you.”

He slaps your cunt lightly, and grins at the loud whine of delight that tears from your lips.

“There you go.” He slides two fingers slowly inside you, biting back a groan at how easy they go in, your walls fluttering around him. “That’s it.” He licks your nipple, scissoring his fingers slowly, stretching you open. “That’s a good girl, takin’ it so good for me.”

Oh, you like that. Your clench tight around him, dripping down his fingers, and Clark groans against your skin. Just the smell of your need is intoxicating, he needs to taste you or he thinks he might go mad.

“Lookin’ so pretty for me, sweet girl.” He kisses down your stomach, careful of your injuries. “Shit, your pussy is tight, bet it’s gonna feel so good ‘round my cock-“

You moan loudly, and Clark grins, tongue tracing over your hip bone as his fingers drag over your walls, looking for that gummy spot that’s going to give him what he wants. He finds it fast, and marvels in the way your whole body trembles, your fingers pulling weakly at his hair like you’re not sure what to do with the pleasure he’s giving you.

He watching your mouth hang open, as he crooks his fingers and starts to rub inside of you. Another lewd sound falls from your lips, and it’s the best thing Clark’s ever heard. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then the opposite thigh, then right over your clit. He keeps himself feather light and teasing, watching your body quiver with anticipation. He presses hard inside you, hovering his lips right over the little button, and grins.

“Relax for me, baby.” He orders, and you whine, but try. Clark can see how much you’re trying, but he’s already wound you up too much.

“I need- Clark-“

“I know. I’ve got you.” He uses his free hand to pull your pussy lips over from your clit, exposing the swollen nerves fully.

He blows on it once, starting to rub his fingers furiously inside you, and that’s all it takes.

The sight of you coming might be the best thing he’s ever seen. You’re gorgeous, shaking and writhing above him, the sound leaving you sounding like a siren call, his name the only word possible to make out between your moans. He needs more. He needs all of it.

Clark starts to lick your clit, light and fast, and your orgasm drags on. You won’t stop spasming around his fingers, still working you open, and your eyes get impossibly wide as you realize what he’s doing.

“Clark- Fuck- Oh-“ Your head throws back, your thighs wrapping tight around his head. “Oh- Oh- Oh my god-“

He doesn’t need to come up for air. He doesn’t need air anymore, not when he has this. He shoves his face fully into your pussy, starting to pump his fingers in time with the work of his tongue, and in no time your thighs are trembling, your body limp from the second orgasm he drags out. You’re gushing all over his face, your pussy so oversensitive that when he pulls out and just traces his fingers over your hole, your body arches like he’s fucking you into the couch.

You’re more than ready for him, but he still takes his time. He was right. You taste better than you smell, and he thinks he could get drunk on it. Clark drags his tongue down to your entrance, letting himself lap up your release with a loud moan. He’s so hard it hurts, and you’re so perfect, he might be about to blow it in his pants.

It’s an effort, but he pushes himself back up over you. You’re blinking at him all doe-eyed again, and he smiles. When he leans down to kiss you, you’re somehow more desperate than before.

“That good?” He asks softly, and you nod.

“So good.” You moan. “So- Oh my god-“

Clark’s fumbling with his belt buckle as you scratch at his chest, and you whimper against his lips as he drags the head of his cock against your puffy pussy. He marvels at the way you’re already trying to relax, your hips angling up to invite him in.

“You that desperate for some cock, baby?” He teases gently, and you nod like a bobblehead. “You want me to fill this pussy up, fuck you ‘till you can’t walk?”

“Fuck,” you breathe out, your head tipping back like you don’t even have the strength to keep it up. “Clark- I- I-“

He kisses you deeply, muttering against your lips. “Say it. Say you want me, sweetheart, beg for me-“

“Clark-“

“You can do it,” he taps the head of him against your clit, and you squeak. “You’re so smart, you know how to say please-“

“Please.” You breathe, your eyes glossy, voice barely a breath.. “Please, please, fuck- please, I love you, I need you so bad-“

Clark slams over you, his head getting clouded as it absorbs your words. You love him. You love him.

He’d give you the world.

“Good girl.” He grunts, just to see you get all pretty and flustered about it, even as his dick grinds against your drenched cunt. “That’s my good girl, love you so much- You- Fuck- You have no idea-“

And he feels a swell of pride, at how well you’re reacting just to his words. You’re restless below him, not taking anything but just silently begging, and he’s going to give you it all.

“Lie down,” he kisses you lightly, guiding you onto your back in the cushions, hiking one leg up over his shoulder and pressing the other back into your chest. You pussy is on full display, letting his rub it gently as you settle into the folded position. He looks up to find you gaping at his cock, and he grins.

“You- You’re-“

“I know.” He clears his throat. He tries not to think about it. It’s far from the most important thing about him. “I’m gonna be gentle-“

“I- I don’t know- I don’t think I can take it-“

“Yeah, you can.” He leans down, kissing you sweetly. “You will.”

You whine doubtfully, but Clark knows what he’s doing. He keeps his lips working against yours, his thumb rubbing your clit slowly as he starts to slowly push himself inside. Your mouth falls into a pretty little O, and he chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“I know.” He coos, rubbing a little firmer. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweet girl, taking me-“ He bites back a groan as you wrap around him, warm and gummy and perfect. “You’re takin’ me so well, you’ve got it, almost there.”

You moan beneath him, and the sound vibrates around Clark’s dick. He has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from coming right there. He’s really not sure how long he’s going to last, but nobody can blame him.

Not with you, cockdrunk and gaping under him. He lets you adjust, when he bottoms out, and your breathing is shallow and breathy in his ear. He coos the best praise he can, while also trying to drag himself back under control.

When he rises up, dragging his hips slowly back, your arms wrap around his neck, and he groans.

“You feel so good.” He groans. “So fuckin’ good, I- Jesus.”

He pushes forward again, and you look up at him like he’s more than a god. More than the hero.

You look at him like he’s the sun itself, and he’s shining just for you.

He thinks he is.

So again, he lets himself snap.

Clark starts his pace slow and lazy, making sure he’s angled to drag over your g-spot with every thrust. He keeps his voice low, kissing all over your face, helping you through it.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “That’s a good girl, all pretty and dumb for me, you’re letting it feel good, aren’t you sweetheart?” He taps your cheek, pressing forward a little harder, and grins at your whimper. “Come on, you’re so good at telling me what you’re thinking-“

“More.” You breathe out, and Clark swallows. “More, Clark, more-“

“Yes, ma’am.” He grunts, slamming his lips over yours, and maybe another time he’ll be able to find it in him to tease you.

Today, he just needs to give.

He picks up pace without any further warning, and finds his own words slipping away fast. You squeeze around him, every time he bullies that soft spot inside of you, and the sound of your breathless gasps mixed with his cock slamming in and out of your cunt is almost too much for him to bear. He busies himself with kissing you everywhere he can reach, letting his hands wander to memorize every spot that makes you arch further into him, making the angle deeper, until he’s pressing against your cervix.

“Shit,” he groans, pressing his face deep into your neck. “Gonna cum, baby, need- Where do you-“

You don’t answer with words. You lock your arms around him tighter, rolling your hips up and keeping him thrusting, shallow and rough, against you. He’d laugh if his head wasn’t fogged with your touch, your body moving so well against his.

Clark pushes his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit back and forth as fast as he can. You shriek, overwhelmed by the sensation, and try to crawl away, but Clark pulls you tight into his chest.

“Can’t- Can’t take another-“

“Yes, you can.” He grunts, kissing your open mouth. “You can do it, baby, do it for me, come on-“

You cum with a scream of his name, and Clark feels something hot and wet flooding over his dick, as you contract tight around him. You’re squirting, gushing over his cock, and it drives him right over the edge. He feels himself snap, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into your through his release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

When he’s done, you’re trembling beneath him, your lips brushing over his jaw like you’re trying to kiss him, but don’t have enough strength. Clark takes over for you, turning his lips to capture yours in a lazy, loving kiss.

He grabs his shirt off the floor, along with a blanket tossed onto the coffee table, and uses them to cover you while he gets a cloth to clean you up with. You’re limp on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dazed smile, and Clark feels that pride blooming back in his chest, knowing he made you feel so good. You don’t fight it, when he dabs away your mixed releases, then pulls you into his arms. Brings you to the bathroom, waiting patiently while you pee before carrying you to bed.

If you need, he’ll sleep on the couch. But you’re getting the bed.

You sit in his lap, face pressed into his neck, and he drags his hand up and down your spine. You’re so soft, and his.

Like this, you get to just be his.

“You really love me?” You breathe against his ear, and he nods.

“Yeah. A whole lot, actually.” He pauses, then mutters, “And you-“

“Really.” You tilt your head, giving him a tiny smile. “So much.”

He chuckles, kissing you gently again. He’s never going to get tired of it. Never going to get tired of you.

“Stay here.” He mutters against your lips. “With me. If- If you want to, of course-“

“I do.” You breathe. “I want to.”

Clark leans back, cradling your face in his hand. “Really.”

You nod nervously, and he grins.

You smile back, tentative but real, and Clark presses back down into a kiss.

He doesn’t think there’s anything that’s quite as good as this.

As good as you, content and happy in his arms.

Lex Luthor is a busy man. You’ve come to expect certain things over the course of your relationship with him: late nights, early mornings and cancelled dates. But Lex always keeps his promises, and tonight, he’s promised you an entire evening of his time. Completely uninterrupted from work or whatever else could bother the two of you. Despite the literal pile of gifts you’d woken up to that morning, Lex’s company was the one Valentine’s gift that truly meant the world to you. 

The clock ticks around to 5 pm, and you’re standing in Lex’s penthouse, wearing a dress made from the finest silks on Earth. It’s one of the many gifts you’d received that morning, so it seemed fitting to wear it out to the restaurant Lex had picked out. The noise of the bedroom door opening causes you to turn towards it, eyes eager to eat up the sight of your man. Tall and broad, body clad in a tight-fitting black suit with a small, pink pocket square. Green eyes find yours as you both admire each other's outfits, a grin forming on Lex’s face as he recognises your dress. It’s only as he confidently saunters towards you that you realise just how long it’s been since the two of you had an uninterrupted date night. 

“Mr Luthor… You’re looking very handsome tonight.” You give him a smile, stepping closer to him as he stands in front of you. 

“I could say the same about you, love. I have to ask, where did you find such a gorgeous gown?” Lex reaches out a hand to hold your waist, fingers feeling the material and how it clings to your skin. You lay your hand on his arm, enjoying the feeling of closeness. 

“Why, thank you! As for the dress, well, I just couldn’t say- It appeared in my bedroom this morning.” You give him a playful grin, which makes his eyebrow quirk. 

“Perhaps it’ll appear on my bedroom floor tomorrow morning?” You blush at his flirt, squeezing his bicep as he pulls you closer. 

“Come on now, Luthor. We don’t want to be late for our reservation… again.” That doesn’t do much to discourage Lex as he leans in, capturing your painted lips with his own. 

The kiss is sweet and chaste, ending before it even begins as the buzzer for the Penthouse goes off loudly. Lex groans against your mouth as his driver voices out his arrival through the speaker. Bringing up a hand to Lex’s lips, you wipe the residue your lipstick left there, thumb sliding across his soft mouth. He pulls you to his side, walking the two of you to the elevator. 

As you stand in the lift, Lex leans down to brush his lips against your ear. “I can’t wait to get you back home tonight.” 

“Patience is a virtue, Lex.” You give him a sly grin, enjoying the feeling of tension which radiates off him in waves. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The restaurant is packed when you arrive, a long line stretching out the door as every high-class individual in Metropolis congregates. You frown at the queue before Lex just drags you to the front, everyone turning their heads and watching with awe and jealousy as he glares down at the host. Before you know it, you’re sitting in a chair overlooking the city, a glass of champagne in your hand. The table is covered in a floor-length cloth, decorated with a tall candle and a rose. Sometimes it really does pay to be with one of the richest men on Earth. Even Lex looks relaxed as he sips his drink, gazing at you while you talk about your day. The restaurant is quiet, with only a low murmur humming through the room as everyone has their own intimate conversations. Suddenly, there's a commotion by the door, and you both look in the direction of the entrance. 

You hold in a gasp as Superman walks into the restaurant, Lois Lane on his arm, as a waiter escorts them to a table. A glance over to Lex makes you frown. His previously relaxed demeanour shifts into one of repressed rage as he watches the hero get closer and closer. As if by some cosmic force, Superman and Lois are sitting right next to you and Lex. The two men look at each other, Superman looking uncomfortable as Lex barely contains his anger. 

You look at Lois, who glares at you. That makes sense. Last year at one of Lex’s charity galas, you’d thrown a glass of red wine at her after she’d implied Lex was working with terrorists. Why Superman would choose to go out to dinner in costume is beyond you, though, and you barely hide your scoff as you look him up and down. As a waiter approaches your table, Lex jumps out of his seat. 

“I demand to be moved! I will not be sat next to this, this-!” Lex struggles to take in a breath as the waiter stands there, terrified. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr Luthor, but there is nowhere for us to move you to. We are fully booked today and-” 

“I don’t care! I’m-” 

“Lex!” You interrupt him, not wanting him to cause a scene and ruin this evening for you. “It’s fine. Please…” Lex’s eyes soften, and he lets out a deep sigh. 

Settling back into his seat, the waiter shakes as they top up your champagne, stuttering out the specials. You make quick work of ordering the food, making sure to ask for a bottle of wine to accompany the main meal. Lex has a grumpy look on his face, dark eyebrows furrowed as every cell in his body tries to get away from the alien beside you. You bump his leg under the table, getting his attention. 

“Lex, just ignore him. Focus on me, alright?” You give him a smile, tracing your foot further up his leg. 

By the time your appetisers arrive, you’ve kicked off your heels and started rubbing along Lex’s inner thigh. Lex rolls his shoulders, his fingers drumming on the table as your foot moves closer to his half-hard cock. He barely notices the food in front of him as he stares at you, green eyes watching every microexpression as you grin at him. You dive into your food as you set your foot right in between his thighs, grinding slowly. He lets out a groan, which is poorly hidden by his hand, causing the superhero next to your table to glance over. 

Lex hurriedly picks up his fork, shakily taking a large mouthful of his wine as you keep your movements consistent. The blush which is forming on the upper cheeks of Lex’s face only spurs you on, your panties growing wet as you watch his hands tremble with each roll of your ankle. 

Superman is the last thing on Lex’s mind as he breathes deeply, struggling to focus on anything except the wonderful feeling you’re giving him. As he eats, all he can think about is how your pussy tastes better than anything some chef could cook up. He’ll make you regret this little stunt when he gets you home- hell, maybe even in the car. He'd sit you on his lap and tear that dress off your body, after all, he can always just buy you another one. Lex’s eyes slide down to your cleavage, heart racing as he imagines burying his face in there, sucking and licking your sweat as you ride him. It’s been far too long since he’s been sheathed in your sex, and as you send him a flirty wink, he’s reminded of that. 

A large hand wraps around your ankle, stopping your movements as the waiter shows up again, this time placing your mains on the table with a smile. Lex doesn’t speak, biting down hard on a finger as his face flushes a bright red. The grip on your ankle is tight, and you thank the waiter as they refill your glasses. Once they walk away, Lex returns his hand to above the table, attempting to nonchalantly eat as you resume your movements. You sip your wine as you feel his cock pulse beneath your ministrations, pre-cum soaking into his trousers. Lex sends you a pleading look, his hips thrusting against your foot as his hands shake. You press harder, squeezing your breasts together as you pretend to eat. 

That’s all it takes, Lex muzzling himself with his hand as his fingers dig into the tablecloth. As the cloth moves, a wine glass gets toppled over, spilling the liquid over everything. You’re too focused on the way Lex’s eyes lock onto yours as he cums in his pants, a promise lingering in those forest-green depths. You can feel your pussy clench around nothing, sending an aching need through your body as he shakes. 

Your waiter rushes over, carrying paper towels and apologising for the ‘wobbly table’. You aren’t sure if Lex hears any of it as he lets out a deep breath. He stands and yanks some of the paper towels from the waiter's hands, wiping his crotch and complaining loudly about wine spilling on his favourite suit. Based on his body language, you know he wants to leave, and you slip your shoes back on quickly. 

“Come on, my love. Let’s just leave. Clearly, this establishment isn’t worth our time.” Lex steps behind you, pulling your chair out for you and giving you a hand up. 

As you leave the restaurant, you see Superman’s horrified face, so you give the couple a little wave and smile. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dress he bought you barely survived the car ride home, Lex practically tearing it off you as the driver rolled up the privacy window. An eager tongue swirled over each of your nipples as a hand ripped your wet panties from your body. 

“Can’t believe you did that,” Lex pants into your chest as two of his fingers rub your clit, “Caused such a scene…”

“From my perspective, it was you who caused the scene, Lexy.” You barely get the tease out as he bites at your breasts, the fingers rolling your clit push into your sex. 

“Yeah? Maybe I should have bent you over that table and fucked you right there, since you apparently love making our personal life public.” You try and pretend like the thought doesn’t turn you on, but Lex feels you clench around his fingers. 

“I only did it to get your mind off things…” Lex looks up at your soft expression and grins as he curls his fingers, watching your reaction. 

“Well, you certainly accomplished your goal.”

He’d made you cum in the car, ruthlessly playing your pussy until you screamed. Then you’d arrived home, and he’d pinned you against the wall of the elevator. Hands held your hips steady as his tongue lavished your oversensitive clit, the mirror walls allowing you to watch as your expression shifted into ecstasy. Precise and thought-out licks and sucks had you coming as the elevator arrived at the Penthouse. Lex had bent you over the arm of the couch, tearing the thin fabric which hid your most intimate parts from him before pressing his cock into you. 

The still sticky cum acted as a sinful lubricant as he fucked you, all the frustration in his body acting like a viagra. The couch shifted beneath you with each thrust into your wet heat, his cock bullying your walls as he kept the pace brutal. When he finally orgasms inside of you, you think that it might be over for the night. But Lex always keeps his promises. 

Silver Beach. You’ve driven past its exit a few times on the way to your brother’s house in New Jersey. It’s probably an hour away. 

You glance outside the large panes of glass in Lex’s quiet office. The sun is still high in the sky, baking the city in a humid, stifling heat. Despite the state of the art AC system, you’ve discarded your sweater and Lex’s jacket is on his chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

The beach. 

You let your imagination indulge the thought. Ideally you’d be in Florida where the water is warmer, but with this record-breaking season, east coast waters could do. 

An intern enters the office with a knock and comes straight to you, holding a linen bag. 

Lex laughs upon their entry. “I can’t go anywhere without my secretary. But I need some time off. You’ll have to come with me.” 

You peer inside the bag.

There’s a towel, some sunscreen, a pair of sunglasses, and to your horror-

A swimsuit. 

The intern gives you a curious smile. You scowl back at them, and they flee. 

“....Sir.” 

Your eyes glue back to the contents of the tote.

Lex rises and drapes his jacket over his shoulder. 

“Like I said, I can't go anywhere without my secretary,” he says standing over you. He nods towards the exit. “I’ll see you downstairs in a few. Be ready to go.”

Wait. Is he referring to-

The door shuts behind him. You quickly stuff a hand inside the bag and pull out the bunch of fabric. 

It’s a sore excuse for a swimsuit. It’s patterned with pink flowers, giving it a tropical vibe. The strings of the bikini tangle in your fingers, and you sigh, dropping your head into your lap. 

He can’t be serious. 

As Lex’s closest secretary, you’ve learned to not ask questions. 

He needs a third coffee? Yessir. 

He tells you to shred documents he just finished reading… without logging them? Done. 

He requests to ensure a competitor’s presentation equipment “malfunctions”? You got it boss. 

There were more personal requests he gave you too. At first you wanted to file a complaint to HR, but you soon realized that it would only make it back to him and get you fired. 

And deep down, you liked working for him. Pay was incredible, and you didn’t mind wearing your hair “in a tight ponytail” or swapping your skirt for “a shorter one”. 

But this? 

The swimsuit is in your size, which is maybe more alarming. This was somewhat planned out. 

You bite your lip questioning your morals. But curiosity is getting the best of you. 

Lex Luthor, wanting to see you, on the beach? 

As much as Lex’s demands and requests made your face get flushed or cause you to lose your words, he never publicly embarrassed you. 

What’s the worst that can happen?

✹✹✹

The ocean air smells like salt and hot sand. 

Lex stands beside you in tailored black swim trunks, and an open linen shirt like he owns the coastline. 

He probably does. 

It’s clearly a private beach, and the only other people besides you two are his personal driver and a body guard stationed by the road, with a lifeguard’s tube in hand. 

“Go ahead, I’ll be a second,” Lex says to you, then turns around to the car and ducks his head in the passenger window to talk to his driver.

There’s a few umbrellas scattered around, but you make your way to the one with two conveniently placed beach chairs beneath. 

You stumble a bit in your flip flops provided to you via intern before you yank them off and throw them aside. Your shirt flaps open in the wind. You’re wearing your work clothes over the bikini since they didn’t give you any sort of cover up, and there was no way you were walking out of LuthorCorp half naked. 

Without thinking twice, you pull your laptop out of the tote bag and begin answering emails. 

Because of course you are. You work for Lex Luthor. 

Time off didn’t exist in your world.

A shadow falls over your screen. 

“What are you doing?”

You glance up at Lex, squinting into the midday sun behind his head. 

“Working. You brought me here to make sure nothing important was missed.”

He nods. 

“Hmm, can I see that really quick?” He asks, reaching out for the computer. 

“Sure.” 

Lex takes the laptop from your hands… 

..and calmly drops it into the sand.

“Sir!” You yelp, reaching out to grab it a second too late. Sand kicks up into the keys, rendering it useless. 

You jump out of the beach chair. Before you can even take a step closer, Lex bends down, and in one swoop, hooks his right shoulder into your hips and lifts you clean off the ground. 

“LEX!” 

Your protests dissolve into laughter as he carries you both towards the water. 

“This is ridiculous, put me down, AH-”

He strides into the rolling surf and tosses you. 

Cold shock steals your breath as you plunge into the ocean and you come sputtering. Your shirt and pants are drenched, weighing you down. 

He’s wading in himself, expression smug as he keeps his eyes trained on you. 

In a moment of frustration at him, you shove both hands forward, sending a wave into his chest, soaking his shirt completely. 

He turns his head to the side, and for a brief moment, you swear he’s about to fire you. 

Then in a swift motion, he splashes you back. 

The CEO of a multi billion-dollar empire is now engaged in a full aquatic battle with you. Lex is taller, stronger than you, so he fights back with ease. But your nimble movements are able to dodge some of his attacks. 

That is until you duck in the wrong direction and he reaches out to your shoulders, shoving you under the water. You resurface, gasping for air amidst the shock. 

He’s already retreating toward shore, his shorts soaked and peeling off his wet linen shirt, shorts darkened with seawater. 

“Oh no you don’t,” you mutter under your breath, taking long strides to get out of the water. 

As you come up to shore, you tug your wet shirt over your head, tossing it onto the stiff sand. Your pants follow, dropped in a damp heat beside it, leaving only your swimsuit and the saltwater gleaming on your skin. 

The second your foot hits the dry sand, you charge him. He turns around to the sound of your feet pounding into the white sand and you almost succeed at tackling him. 

His hands meet yours in a battle of push and shove. It’s a tangle of limbs and he laughs breathlessly as you grunt and fight him with all your strength. 

He manages to trip you, but you’re hanging tightly onto him, so you both collapse into the sand. 

The heat is nearly scalding your back while Lex hovers over you, knees straddling your body, one hand gripping both your forearms and pinning them above your hand, the other braced beside your head. 

“Now… did you really think you’d win?” He teases, pressing your arms firmer into the ground as you try to wiggle free. 

“Let…me.. go!” You yelp, but you’re having trouble hiding the grin on your face. 

He does release you finally, only to move his hand down to touch your shoulder gently. His gaze drifts across your face, then lower, thoughtful in a way that makes your pulse begin to climb. And you’ve become excruciatingly aware that this is your boss, and you’re his secretary. And this is a complete HR nightmare. 

You’ve never seen him without his slick button down shirts and ties. He’s more muscular than you realized, his chest broad and solid where it hovers over yours.

His hand shifts. 

Not enough to draw attention. Just enough that his fingers brush the strap at your shoulder. 

You register the contact as only a faint touch of pressure, too breathless and distracted by the intensity of his blue eyes to fully process it

Then-

He tugs, just enough for your strap to give way. 

You gasp, hand flying to your chest, clutching the front of your swimsuit before it can slip any further.

Lex is already rising to his feet, brushing off his hands, dusting you with sand. 

He turns and struts towards the water like nothing significant occurred. But you spot it, his shoulders lifting, like he’s chuckling to himself. 

You sit up in the sand, stunned, one hand still clutching the front of your pink swimsuit, the loosened strap dangling uselessly. 

He’s just reaching the shoreline. Sunlight flashes against the water, reflecting up at him, outlining the planes of his back and shoulders. He looks effortless and completely stress free, the linen shirt he discarded lies forgotten in the sand, leaving sun-warmed skin exposed to salt air and light. 

You stare. 

Completely. Shamelessly. 

Your brain offers no assistance. 

He wades deeper, muscles contracting and flexing to stabilize himself in the water. You’re still staring when he dives beneath a breaking wave and disappears. 

Heat floods your face, and the temperature outside isn’t helping. You look down, fumbling at the straps, fingers suddenly clumsy as you retie the knot. 

You shoot a glance backwards, noting that the makeshift lifeguard body guard has conveniently just turned around to give you some privacy. 

The knot is too loose. You tug it tighter. 

Too tight. 

You swear under your breath, fingers moving faster, pulse still racing from adrenaline and something far more dangerous. 

Perfect. The knot finally holds. You push to your feet. And head straight for the water.

The surf crashes around your thighs as you charge forward, salt spraying, cooling your sun-warmed skin. Lex surfaces just ahead, slicking water from his face.

Much too composed for your liking. 

You dive. The cold shock hits, sharper, the world muffled in rushing water, sunlight fractured into silver shards. 

Right as you near him, you surge upwards-

And his hands close around your wrists before you can splash him. 

You gasp, startled, breathless, suddenly held fast in the gentle resistance of the tide. 

He caught you. 

The water isn’t deep enough for you to stand completely flat, your toes just gracing the surface at the bottom, and unfortunately, Lex is much taller, planted firm, securing you. 

“You’re predictable.” He says calmly. 

“Hmph. You untied my swimsuit.” 

“And you tried to get me back.”

You tug at your wrists, but his grip is too firm. He’s not holding you hard, but between the rocking waves and the fact that you can’t fully stabilize yourself like him, it’s no use to try to escape. 

Words might release you. “This isn’t very professional.” 

His lips curl into a devilish smile. 

“You are,” he says thoughtfully, “a significant distraction” 

Lex’s eyes drop to your collarbone where the water meets you. 

“That tends to happen,” you reply, breath slightly uneven, “when one’s swimsuit is about to fall off.” 

He pulls you closer, just enough for your legs to brush against his in the tide. “Yes. It would be a terrible shame if you were to lose it in the ocean.” 

Your pulse stumbles. Knowing that he could easily untie your strap again, and you’d fail at covering yourself. 

Lex sees the panic in your eyes and huffs in amusement. He releases your wrists, allowing you to tread. 

He is merciful today. 

The ocean sways between you for a suspended second before exhaustion finally creeps into your arms and legs. The fights, the surf, and the heightened moment of tension just now, it all settles heavily into your muscles. 

You exhale. 

“I’m going back to shore,” you sigh.

His eyes linger on you a moment too long. 

“Retreat accepted.” 

✹✹✹

You collapse onto your towel, lungs still working to slow, your skin warm from sun, salt and exertion. The coastal air dries water along your arms and stomach in cool, whispering passes. 

A pair of sunglasses wait for you in the bag you brought, and you slide them over your face. 

Your eyes drift close. The waves crashing on the shore, seagulls cawing in the sky, and short breeze all lull you into a peaceful state. 

I should do this more often. You can feel weeks of stress melt away. Being Lex’s secretary hardly allowed for breathing room. 

Speaking of-

Your legs feel cool all of a sudden and you open your eyes, only to have your boss standing above you. 

Watching. 

You push yourself up on your elbows, and lift the sunglasses to the top of your head. “How long have you been there?”

He tilts his head as if examining an important file. 

“Long enough.” 

Heat blooms instantly across your face. Your legs shift to cross, a fruitless attempt to cover yourself. 

Water still beads along his shoulders. Sunlight traces the lines of his chest, corporate strength still evident in his posture despite the diametric setting. 

You try to look away. 

He crouches down beside you, close enough that you feel the shade of his presence before his voice reaches you. 

“You should rest,” he says quietly. 

“I am resting,” you quip. 

He leans closer, voice lowering, meant for you alone despite the lack of personnel on this beach. 

“You gasp when you’re surprised,” he murmurs near your ear. “I find that… memorable.” 

You blink, breath stopping for a moment. 

The ocean rolls. The sun burns. And security pretends not to notice corporate impropriety.

He straightens before you can respond and returns to the water.

You lie there, heart beating far louder now than the surf.

✹✹✹

Sunscreen. You forgot sunscreen. 

A soft rose glow across your shoulders and the delicate bridge of your collarbone greets you in the morning. It’s just visible above your neckline. There’s a similar tinge of pink across your nose and cheeks. 

You shower in the morning and it’s worse. The hot water spewing out makes you yelp as it hits your burned back. 

It’s worse than you thought. 

How long were we out there?

Time slipped away on Silver Beach. And it didn’t help that you didn’t have much to cover yourself up with. 

You opt for a blouse that dips just enough to reveal the faint burn at the shoulder line, subtle. A safer option would've been a higher neckline, but you wanted anyone observant enough to notice. 

Someone who would remember why it's there. 

It’s practical, you reason to yourself. Less fabric to rub against the sunburn. 

That is totally the reason why. 

✹✹✹

Lex’s office is in the same state it’s always in. Clean, tidy, a stack of papers here and there, and of course the man himself, behind his desk. 

You step forward and place his mug with hot coffee on his desk. He doesn’t look up immediately and instead sticks out his hand, a silent request for the tablet in your hand. 

“Sir,” you say, giving it to him. 

“Thank you.” 

He reads a few lines of the daily briefing, then pauses. 

Gaze lifting just for a moment. 

To your shoulders, then back to the online document. 

You circle the table and spot a new laptop on a chair in front of his desk. You had to request it since your old one had unusual damage from impact and… sand.

The silence stretches just for a moment as you stand and stare at the laptop, then Lex’s voice cuts through. 

“You missed a spot.” 

Your breath hitches. “I’m sorry?” 

His lips lift at the edges. 

“Suncreen,” he continues with an eerie calm. “Should be reapplied every ninety minutes. Particularly on the face and shoulders.” 

You shift your weight, and cross your arms. The faint burn warms under his attention. 

“That’s not your problem to worry about,” you say back. 

“No?” He replies, swiping his fingers across the tablet to lock it. 

Lex sets the tablet down and reaches for his coffee, taking a timid sip, keeping his eyes trained on you now. 

“I’m concerned when my staff arrives injured.” 

“I am not injured, it’s just a sunburn.” 

He lifts one brow, gaze flicking once more to the tinted skin on your shoulders. 

“If it’s making your work less effective, then it’s relevant.” 

You shake your head. “I’m fine. I burn easily. I’m used to it.” 

“You should be more careful then. Exposure has consequences.” 

He stands and makes his way over to you. He closes in enough for you to instinctively straighten. 

His hand lifts. Two fingers press lightly against your collarbone. Pain flares and you wince pulling back. 

“Ouch-” your hand flies to the spot. “What was that for?”

His mouth shifts, almost amused. 

“Just confirming. You do burn easily. Now we know.”

You stare at him, hopeful that the sunburn is hiding whatever blushing is happening under his watch. 

He doesn’t apologize. He’s not sorry at all. Instead he leans forward. 

Voice quieter now, he says, “Next time, wear sunscreen.” 

You blink. 

“Next time?” 

His eyes shift to your lips then back up. 

“Yes.”

Your pulse stutters. Then he steps past you, returning to his desk like the conversation was over. 

As he lifts the tablet again, he clears his throat. 

“And wear a different swimsuit,” he adds, like he’s requesting a change in the dinner menu. “Maybe one that… stays where it belongs.” 

Heat rushes instantly to your face. You lower your gaze to hide the grin.