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pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – garrett’s father shows up at a game, and the aftermath hurts worse than the black eye.
warnings – mentions of domestic violence, abusive father, childhood trauma, emotional breakdown, crying, panic response, hockey injury/black eye, strong language
notes from me – i've had a few requests for this moment, and wanted to write it v carefully! i took a lot of inspiration from the scene where garrett tells hannah abt his dad <3
word count – 7.5k
navigation – masterlist |
The thing about sitting in Garrett Graham’s letterman jacket at a Briar hockey game was that it made people stupid. Not her, obviously. She was being incredibly normal about it. Mature, even.
She'd only rolled her eyes twelve times since they’d left the parking lot, which, considering Lucy had made a full production out of tugging the jacket collar up around her face and going, “Oh my God, babe, do you smell that? Commitment,” felt like a real exercise in restraint.
Monique had been worse, because Monique had a quiet voice and a deadpan delivery. She kept looking over with her chin tucked into her scarf, eyes flicking from the jacket to the ice, then back again, like she was watching an organism evolve in real time.
“He is not my boyfriend,” she said, for what had to be the fourth time, settling deeper into her seat like the plastic could open up and swallow her if she pressed hard enough.
Lucy, sitting on her left with her knees angled toward her and a cup of something hot steaming between both hands, made a sympathetic little noise that had absolutely no sympathy in it. “Of course.”
“He isn’t.”
“Right,” Monique said. “He just kissed you goodbye in front of half the hockey house and gave you his jacket because you shivered once.”
“I was cold.”
“And he, famously, is the only man at Briar with access to outerwear.”
She huffed, sinking her chin into the collar because the arena was freezing and because, unfortunately, Garrett’s jacket was stupidly warm. It smelled like cold air and detergent and that clean, sharp soap from the bathroom at the hockey house, with something underneath that was just him in a way she was trying very hard not to examine in public.
“You’re both being unbearable.”
Lucy brightened. “Because we love you.”
“Because you’re obsessed with my downfall.”
“Same thing.”
Down on the ice, the team was warming up, bodies cutting through the pale scratch of skate marks, pucks snapping hard off sticks and boards, the sound ricocheting up into the stands like little bursts of thunder.
It always amazed her a little, how different Garrett looked out there. Like someone had taken the boy who sprawled across the couch at the hockey house with his knee nudging hers, stealing fries from her plate, and sharpened him into something clean and fast and almost vicious. He moved like he belonged to the rink. Like the cold had been made for him.
She spotted him before he spotted her, which felt like winning something small and embarrassing. He was skating backward near centre ice, helmet tipped enough that she could see the dark mess of his curls escaping beneath it, mouth moving around something he was saying to Logan.
Logan shoved him lightly with one gloved hand, Garrett shoved him back harder, and then Garrett’s gaze drifted up toward their section like he’d felt her looking. It was ridiculous, how quick his face changed.
One second he was all hockey captain focus, jaw set, shoulders loose, stick held easy in one hand. The next, his grin cracked open bright enough that Lucy made a tiny gagging sound beside her. He lifted his chin at her, smug and warm at the same time, and she gave him a wave that was supposed to be casual and came out entirely too fond.
His eyes dropped, caught on the jacket around her shoulders, and the grin did something worse. Softer. More private. Like he was trying to pretend he didn’t like it and failing so badly he should’ve been embarrassed.
“Oh, babe,” Monique said under her breath. “That is a boyfriend.”
“Shut up.”
“He saw you in his jacket and almost forgot he had legs.”
“Shut up.”
Lucy leaned over her knees, waving down at the ice with a wide grin like she was trying to get them married before the first whistle. “Garrett! We think you’re very brave for not having a girlfriend!”
Her stomach dropped straight into her shoes. “Lucy.”
Garrett, mercifully too far away to hear, only pointed his stick up in their direction before turning back toward the drill. But he was still grinning. The asshole.
By the time warmups started winding down and the arena filled properly, the air had shifted into that restless pre-game buzz that made even the metal railings feel charged. Students packed into rows with painted faces and cheap signs, somebody behind them was already yelling at a player who hadn’t done anything yet, and the announcer’s voice came in and out over the speakers while the lights washed everything in cold white.
She had just turned her head to answer Monique, who was asking if she wanted to split fries at intermission, when an older couple paused at the end of their row.
The man looked familiar in the vague, unsettling way people did when you’d seen their face somewhere but couldn’t place the context. He was tall, broad through the shoulders even under his coat, with a square jaw, silver threaded through his hair, and the kind of presence that made space feel like it ought to rearrange around him.
The woman beside him was polished, pretty in a neat, expensive way, her smile already prepared before she’d fully made eye contact.
“Oh– sorry,” she said automatically, shifting toward Lucy to make room. The jacket bunched at her elbows as she moved. “There’s space here.”
The man shook his head once, not dismissive, but close enough to it that her body noticed before her brain did. “It’s fine.”
He stepped past her, his knee brushing the edge of the row, then stopped halfway through lowering himself into the seat when his eyes landed on the jacket. The Briar lettering, Garrett’s number stitched into the sleeve.
Something in his expression flickered. Recognition, maybe. Possession, almost, though that was a strange thing to think about a jacket.
“Graham?” he said.
Her hand tightened slightly around the cuff before she realised she was doing it. “Mhm.”
He looked at her properly then. It was a quick look, assessing, the kind of look she’d seen from attending physicians when they walked into a room and decided in half a second whether you knew what you were doing. It didn’t feel rude enough to call rude, which made it worse somehow.
“Phil,” he said, holding out his hand. “Garrett’s father.”
For a second her brain went perfectly blank, like someone had dropped a sheet over every thought she owned. Phil. Garrett’s father. Garrett’s father, sitting next to her, with his hand out, while she was wearing Garrett’s jacket and had spent the last twenty minutes arguing that he wasn’t her boyfriend.
“Oh,” she said, and immediately wanted to walk into traffic. “Uh. Hi.”
His hand was firm around hers. Too firm, maybe, or maybe she was being ridiculous because her nervous system had just been handed a situation it hadn’t studied for.
She gave him her name, then remembered to smile, then hated that she had to think about smiling, because there was nothing actually wrong. People met parents. Normal people met parents. Girls met the parents of boys who were not their boyfriends all the time, probably. Maybe. Fuck.
Phil repeated her name like he was filing it away. “This is my fiancée, Cindy.”
Cindy leaned forward slightly, her smile warmer than his but still careful around the edges. “Lovely to meet you.”
“You too,” she said, and meant it enough. Cindy seemed nice. She had a gentle voice, pretty earrings, a hand resting lightly in her lap. Normal. Fine. Everything was fine.
Lucy, to her credit, had gone unusually still beside her, which meant either she was trying not to say something insane or she had also felt the temperature around them change by a few degrees. Monique gave a polite smile and then looked at the ice with the laser focus of someone pretending very hard not to eavesdrop.
The lights dropped. The crowd roared. The starting lineup began. She did what she always did when Garrett’s name came over the speakers. She cheered, because she liked seeing him win and because he was impossible not to cheer for when he skated out with his chin lifted and that loose, cocky glide like the entire arena was a room he’d already talked his way into owning.
He came over the boards with his stick in one hand, shoulders squared, helmet low over his eyes, and she cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling loud enough for Lucy to laugh beside her. “Graham!”
Garrett looked up. For half a second, he found her and everything was exactly the way it had been during warmups. His face opened, instinctive and bright, because he had seen her. Then his gaze moved one seat over.
The grin fell off his face so fast it barely looked like an expression changing. It looked like something had been cut. Her hands lowered slowly from her mouth.
His body went wrong in this tiny, awful way, one shoulder tightening, his stick hand flexing once, jaw locking hard beneath the cage of his helmet. From this far away, with the arena loud and the lights sharp and bodies moving everywhere, nobody else would’ve noticed, but she noticed.
She noticed because she had watched Garrett relax under her hands on a couch, had watched him half-asleep in a kitchen at midnight, had watched him come back from games buzzing and smug and high on adrenaline. She knew the way his confidence usually sat in his body.
This wasn’t that. His eyes flicked back to her. Sharp. Caught. Like he’d walked into a room and found a door missing. She lifted her hand a little, uncertain, the motion barely more than a question.
Garrett’s mouth moved around something she couldn’t hear. Then Logan skated into his shoulder, saying something to him, and Garrett snapped his head away like he’d been caught staring. The anthem started. Everyone around them stood.
She stood too, because her body knew what to do even if the rest of her had gone strange and cold.
“You okay?” Lucy murmured, so low it barely made it past the noise.
“Yeah,” she said, eyes still on Garrett. “I just– yeah.”
Phil didn’t say anything. He stood with his hands folded in front of him, looking down at the ice with a flatness that made the fine hairs at the back of her neck lift.
The first period was bad. Bad in the way Garrett wasn’t where he was supposed to be inside his own body. His skating was still sharp, his passes still clean enough that anyone else might not have caught the seams coming loose, but she could see it in the half-second too late he turned his head, the unnecessary shove after the whistle, the way he kept taking contact like he wanted it to hurt.
He was playing with his shoulders too high, jaw too tight, head whipping up toward the stands every time the puck moved out of his reach. Toward her. No, not toward her. Toward the seat next to her.
The first time he slammed another player into the boards hard enough to make the glass rattle in front of a whole section of screaming students, Lucy jolted beside her and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
Monique’s mouth pressed into a line. “That was… a lot.”
She didn’t answer. Her fingers had found the edge of Garrett’s sleeve and were worrying at the stitching, rubbing the seam back and forth under her thumb until it started to feel raw.
She kept waiting for Phil to react like a father. To lean forward. To swear under his breath because his son was losing his head. To look worried, even annoyed in a normal sports-parent way. Phil only exhaled through his nose.
It was quiet, almost nothing beneath the noise of the crowd, but she was close enough to hear it. Then he shook his head once, slow and disappointed, like Garrett had missed an open net in a peewee game instead of driving himself visibly off the rails in front of everyone.
Cindy glanced at him. “Phil.”
“He knows better,” Phil said, eyes still on the ice.
The words came out too controlled, worn smooth by use, like they belonged in a room where nobody else was supposed to hear them.
On the ice, Garrett clipped someone behind the play and got shoved back for it. The whistle blew. A ref’s arm went up. The crowd erupted into boos before the penalty was even fully called.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Logan barked from somewhere near the boards, loud enough that she caught it more by shape than sound.
Garrett didn’t look at the ref. He looked up. Right at her.
His face was flushed from exertion, mouth open around a hard breath, but his eyes were too dark from here, too fixed, and something in them made the noise around her go thin and far away. She could feel Lucy watching her now. Monique too. Phil was perfectly still beside her. The ref pointed Garrett toward the box.
Phil’s mouth tightened. “Undisciplined.”
It landed in her chest in a way it shouldn’t have. One word. Nothing, really. But her body did that quiet, clinical thing it sometimes did on placement, when a patient said something that didn’t match their injury, or a family member answered too quickly, or a bruise sat in the wrong shape under someone’s sleeve. Her brain started lining up details without asking permission.
Garrett didn’t talk about his dad. Garrett joked about everything until he didn’t. Garrett, who let her steal his hoodies and his food and half his bed, had never once said, You should meet my father.
Garrett, who could take a chirp from Dean, a shove from Logan, a full-body collision from a six-foot-three defenseman and grin through it, had looked up at the stands and gone pale under the arena lights because his father was sitting beside her.
The penalty clock started. She swallowed, and it felt like trying to get down a mouthful of cotton.
“I’m gonna…” she started.
Lucy touched her wrist under the jacket, gentle and immediate. “Yeah.”
Monique nodded once, already shifting her knees aside. “Go.”
She slipped out of the row with the awkward, whispered apologies of someone trying to move through packed seats without making a scene. Phil didn’t stand. He didn’t even really move his legs. She had to squeeze past him, Garrett’s jacket brushing his coat, and the whole time she could feel his attention on the side of her face.
“Nice meeting you,” Cindy said softly, and it was the first thing anyone in that little pocket had said that sounded human.
“You too,” she managed, then kept going.
The stairs down from the stands felt longer than usual, steeper, the concrete humming with the crowd above her. The arena had always seemed fun from the seats – cold and loud and bright, full of ritual and noise – but underneath it, past the ushers and the concession smell and the taped signs pointing toward restricted areas, it became something else. More industrial. Cinderblock walls, rubber mats, the metallic tang of skate blades and old ice, the sour-sweet smell of sweat and gear drifting from the corridor that led toward the locker rooms.
She wasn’t technically supposed to be there. She knew that. She also knew enough of the arena by now, had been kissed against enough back hallways and walked past enough equipment carts with Garrett’s hand warm at the small of her back, that nobody stopped her when she hovered near the mouth of the corridor and tried to look like she belonged.
The first period ended with the buzzer tearing through the building. A few seconds later, the team came off the ice in a rush of blades and noise and male anger, helmets shoved up, sticks clattering, voices overlapping. Someone slammed a glove into the wall. A coach barked something she couldn’t make out.
Logan came through first, red-faced and furious, snapping, “What the fuck is up your ass, G?” over his shoulder.
Garrett followed behind him. He looked worse up close. He wasn’t hurt, not physically, anyway, aside from the usual flush and damp curls plastered to his forehead and the little nick at his cheek where someone’s glove must’ve caught him.
But there was something too tight about him, something barely leashed beneath the pads and jersey, his breathing hard enough that his chest moved like he’d been sprinting. His eyes were flat with anger until they hit her. Then it all broke at the edges.
He stopped so abruptly Dean nearly ran into the back of him. “Jesus, Graham–”
Garrett shoved his gloves and helmet into Logan’s chest without looking at him.
Logan caught them on instinct, still scowling. “Yeah, sure, I’ll just hold your shit. Great talk.”
Garrett was already moving. She barely had time to step forward before he was in front of her, too close and somehow not close enough, his hands coming up like he wanted to touch her everywhere at once and couldn’t decide what was allowed.
He settled on her waist first, then her elbows, then the sides of the jacket like he was checking that it was still around her. His palms were damp through the sleeves. His breathing was loud between them.
“Hi,” he said.
It was so wildly, heartbreakingly wrong as an opening that she almost laughed.
“Hi,” she said, much softer.
His eyes moved over her face, quick and frantic in a way he was clearly trying to hide and failing. “You okay?”
That made her hand come up on its own. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Garrett.” Her fingers slid into the damp curls at his hairline, pushing them back from his forehead the way she had done half a dozen times in rooms where his biggest problem was pretending he didn’t like being fussed over. “Baby, what happened?”
His eyes shut for a second when she touched him, like his whole body had been waiting for permission to unclench and could only manage it in pieces. When he opened them again, they were still too bright, too focused.
“Please move.”
Her stomach dropped. Her hands started to come away from his face. “Oh. Yeah, sorry–”
“No.” His hands caught hers immediately, fast enough that she startled, but he softened his grip the second he realised. He brought her hands back to his face himself, pressing her palms to his cheeks like he could anchor her there. “No, not– fuck. Not you. Seats. Don’t sit there.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“Get your friends and move. Don’t sit there.” His voice cracked around the last word, barely, but she heard it. Garrett heard it too; she watched the flash of frustration cross his face, aimed inward, sharp and embarrassed. “Please.”
Behind him, the corridor was still moving. Players filing past, coaches calling, Dean hovering near the locker-room door with his helmet tucked under one arm and his brow furrowed in a way that looked too serious on him.
Tucker had slowed a few feet away, his mouth set, eyes flicking between them like he was noticing more than he wanted to. Logan, still holding Garrett’s gloves, had gone quiet.
She tried to keep her own voice low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. He just sat next to me, and then he saw the jacket, and I didn’t–” Her fingers tightened slightly against his jaw. “I didn’t mean to overstep if you didn’t want me to meet him.”
Garrett shook his head before she’d even finished. “It’s not that.”
“I swear, I wasn’t trying to make it a thing.”
“I know.” He said it too quickly. Fierce, almost. His thumbs moved once against her wrists, a small, restless stroke, like he was trying to reassure her while standing there with every muscle in his body pulled tight enough to snap. “I know. I don’t care that you met him. I mean, I care, but not like that. I just–” He stopped, jaw working. His eyes cut toward the tunnel that led back to the ice, then back to her. “I don’t want you sitting next to him.”
The fluorescent light overhead hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a coach yelled, “Two minutes!”
She looked at Garrett’s face. Really looked. There were things she could ask. A normal girl might have asked them. What do you mean? Why? What happened with your dad?
But she wasn’t standing in a normal moment, and she wasn’t stupid, and the body learned its own language when you spent enough time reading other people’s fear in hospital beds.
She knew what a person looked like when they were angry because anger was easier to hold than panic. She knew the tiny, devastating difference between protective and afraid. She knew what it meant when a grown man couldn’t stop checking the location of another grown man in a crowded building.
Her mouth went dry. She didn’t let her face change too much. That felt important. Garrett was watching her like he expected something to happen if she understood too quickly.
“Okay,” she said.
His shoulders moved with a breath he didn’t quite release. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, slow and steady, because something in him needed steady more than it needed questions. “I’ll text Lucy and Monique. We’ll move sections.”
His fingers flexed at her waist. “You don’t have to leave the game.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t want–”
“I know,” she said again, and she didn’t know the details, not really, but she knew enough for now. Enough to understand this wasn’t about him being embarrassed. Enough to understand that whatever Phil Graham was, whatever he had been, Garrett didn’t want him beside her in a place where he could see but not reach. “We’ll move. I promise.”
Garrett’s mouth pressed shut. He turned his head just enough to kiss the centre of her palm. The gesture was so soft it hurt.
He shuddered on the breath after, barely visible under all the pads and noise and anger, and she had the sudden, awful urge to take him somewhere quiet and lock every door between him and the rink.
Instead, she brushed her thumb over the cheekbone beneath his eye, feeling the damp heat of him, the faint scrape of stubble, the hard pulse ticking at his jaw.
“Graham,” Dean called from the locker-room doorway, voice rougher than usual. “We have a fucking game to play, man.”
Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Yeah.”
“Now would be good.”
“Yeah, I heard you.”
Dean’s eyes flicked to her. For once, he didn’t make a joke. That, more than almost anything else, made her chest tighten.
She lifted her brows at Garrett, trying for something like normal because normal was a gift she could give him in pieces. “You okay?”
The answer was obviously no. They both knew it. Garrett nodded anyway, because he was Garrett and because there was a game and because whatever had just opened between them was too raw to put words inside with half the team watching.
“Yeah,” he said, then swallowed. “We’ll– tonight, okay? I’ll–”
“Don’t explain now.” Her thumb moved once more over his cheek, and she let her voice soften around the command, because he listened better when he thought she wasn’t letting him off the hook entirely. “Just go win.”
Something in his face loosened by a fraction. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He bent before she could decide whether that was a terrible idea in the middle of a hallway full of hockey players and coaches and fluorescent lighting, and kissed her properly.
It wasn’t the kind of kiss he usually gave her in public, quick and obnoxiously smug, designed to make her roll her eyes and make his friends groan.
This was quieter. Messier at the edges. His mouth warm and urgent on hers, one hand sliding up to the side of her neck, the other still fisted in the side of his own jacket around her. She kissed him back because there was nothing else to do with all the feeling in her chest, because if he needed to come back to himself through her mouth for three seconds in a cinderblock corridor, she could give him that.
When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against hers, helmet gone, hair damp, breath warming her lips. “Thank you,” he said, so low it barely existed.
She swallowed. “Go, babe.”
His mouth twitched. It was tiny. Barely there. But it was Garrett enough that she felt her own lungs remember what they were for.
“Graham,” Dean snapped, but there was relief threaded through it now. “I swear to God, if you make me drag you into this room by your jockstrap–”
Garrett huffed, the sound scraping out of him half-laugh, half-breath. He kissed her forehead once, quick and hard, then stepped back. His hands lingered until the last second, fingers sliding off her wrists like he hated letting go, and then he turned, caught his gloves when Logan shoved them at his chest, and jogged toward the locker room.
Logan watched him go, then looked at her. For a beat, neither of them said anything. Then Logan lifted Garrett’s helmet slightly, like a sad little toast. “He’s gonna be less of a dick now, right?”
She let out a breath that nearly became a laugh. “God, I hope so.”
“Cool. Because he was doing the whole tortured captain thing and it was fucking up the vibe.”
“Logan,” Tucker said quietly.
“What? It was.”
Dean, from the doorway, pointed at her with two fingers. “You. Move seats. Tell your friends too.”
“I know.”
His expression softened, quick and uncomfortable, like sincerity made his skin itch. “Good.”
Then they were gone, swallowed by the locker room and the burst of voices inside, the door swinging shut behind them.
For a few seconds, she just stood there in the corridor with Garrett’s jacket heavy around her shoulders and the cold from the rink crawling along the floor. Her hands drifted up to the top of her head, fingers interlocking there, elbows out, like she needed to physically hold herself in place. The breath left her in one long, uneven puff.
“Holy fuck,” she whispered to no one.
“So that’s…” Garrett’s voice thinned out before it reached the end of the sentence, like it had snagged somewhere behind his ribs. He was sitting with his back against the headboard, one knee bent under the covers and one stretched out in front of him, still in the black sweatpants he’d pulled on after his shower, his hair damp and curling messily over his forehead. The bruising around his left eye had darkened since they’d left the arena, blooming purple-black beneath the bone, the skin there swollen enough to make him look a little unfamiliar if she stared too long. “Yeah.”
The hockey house had finally settled beneath them, the late-night noise thinned down to the occasional creak of floorboards, the muffled thump of someone closing a cabinet downstairs, the low murmur of voices from the living room that would rise for a second and then sink again like the boys were trying, badly, to be subtle about giving Garrett space.
His bedside lamp was the only light on, soft and yellow across the rumpled sheets, catching on the water glass on his nightstand, the edge of his phone, the pile of discarded gear near his closet that still smelled faintly like ice and sweat and the metallic air of the rink.
She was sitting beside him with one leg folded underneath herself, close enough that her hip pressed into his thigh. Her hand had been in his hair for the last few minutes, fingers moving slowly through the damp strands at the back of his head, not because she had any real plan for comforting him, but because stopping felt impossible. Like if she stopped touching him, the room might tilt too far in one direction and take him with it.
She took a breath, careful and quiet, then leaned in and pressed her mouth to the bare slope of his shoulder. His skin was warm beneath her lips. Too warm, maybe, or maybe her body was just paying attention to everything now – the tension in his neck, the way his hand was curled loosely against the sheet, the uneven drag of his breathing as he stared at the wall opposite his bed and looked like he was seeing something that wasn’t there.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
Garrett nodded once. His throat moved. “Yeah.”
She let her mouth rest against his shoulder for another second before lifting her head. There were a hundred things she could have said, and almost all of them felt either too small or too big. I’m sorry felt thin. That’s awful felt obvious. You didn’t deserve that felt true, but she didn’t know if truth was something he could hold yet without flinching.
So she stayed beside him, fingers still working gently through his hair, and asked the question that had been sitting carefully in the back of her mouth since he’d started talking. “Does anyone else know?”
His eyes flicked down to the duvet. The corner of it was caught beneath his hand, twisted tight in his fingers now, white-knuckled in a way he probably didn’t even realise.
“Logan,” he said after a moment. “Just Logan. I mean…” He swallowed, the sound rough. “The guys know I don’t–” His mouth pulled in a faint, humourless line, like even the phrase felt ridiculous for the size of it. “They know I don’t get along with my dad. They know he’s a dick. That’s all.”
She nodded, because that made sense in a way that made her chest hurt. Garrett could live with people thinking Phil Graham was an asshole. He could live with sharp jokes, with vague references, with a clean, manageable version of the story that didn’t require anyone to look too closely.
He could live inside the gap between what the guys knew and what had actually happened, because Garrett was good at taking pain and turning it into something people could stand to be near. A chirp. A closed door. A shrug that said nothing to see here.
She pressed another kiss to his shoulder, softer than the first. “Okay.”
Garrett made a sound that was barely a breath. At first she thought he was going to speak. His mouth opened slightly, his brow drawing together, and she felt him pull in air against her side like he was trying to push something down before it could come up.
Then his face changed. A crack through the careful flatness he’d been holding since the words had started coming out of him. His eyes squeezed shut, his lips pressed together, and his chin dipped toward his chest with this tiny, defeated shake like he was angry at himself for not being able to stop it.
“Oh, Garrett,” she whispered, and that was all it took.
He broke quietly. His shoulders folded inward first, as if his body was trying to make itself smaller despite every inch of him being built like a wall, and then the first sob dragged through him so hard she felt it before she heard it.
He turned toward her like he wasn’t fully deciding to, like some older, younger part of him had simply reached for the nearest safe place, and she caught him before he could apologise for needing it.
“Come here,” she murmured, already pulling him in.
Garrett went with a kind of helplessness she’d never seen from him. His forehead dropped into the curve of her shoulder, his arms coming around her waist, fingers fisting in the back of her shirt like he needed something to hold onto and hated that he did.
She wrapped herself around him as much as she could, one hand sliding up to the back of his head, palm firm over the damp curls, the other across his shoulders where all that muscle and strength was shaking under her touch.
He was too big for her to hold the way she wanted, too broad, too solid, but she tried anyway. She tucked her cheek against his temple and kept him there while he cried into her shirt, each breath leaving him broken and uneven.
“You’re okay,” she said, low and steady, though her own throat felt tight enough to bruise. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
He shook his head against her. “I couldn’t–” His voice tore on the word, and his hand tightened at her back. “I couldn’t protect her.”
Her eyes closed.
“My mom,” he said, and it came out smaller than anything she had ever heard from him. “I tried. I swear to God, I tried, but I was–” He sucked in a breath that didn’t go anywhere useful. “I was a kid. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t make him stop.”
She held him harder, her fingers pressing into his hair, her other hand spreading wide over the back of his shoulder. “Garrett.”
“I’d hear it and I’d just– fuck, I’d just stand there sometimes. I’d freeze. Or I’d go in and he’d look at me, and I knew it would be worse, but I still–” His voice collapsed into another sob, rough and furious and devastated all at once. “I couldn’t protect her.”
She shook her head against his, because the blame in his voice was so old and so deep that it made her stomach turn. It had lived in him for years, packed behind his ribs, disguised under trophies and goals and that bright, cocky grin he wore like armour.
“You were a child,” she said, and her voice came out firmer than she expected. “Garrett, you were a kid.”
He didn’t answer. His breath stuttered into her neck.
“You shouldn’t have had to protect anyone from him,” she said. “That was never supposed to be your job.”
His fingers flexed in the fabric of her shirt, and for a second she thought he might pull away. He didn’t. He stayed folded into her, face hidden against her shoulder, and she kept her hand at the back of his head because he seemed to need the pressure there. Something to push against. Something that told him where the room was.
“I don’t want to be him,” he said, almost inaudible.
She pulled back just enough to try to see his face, but he kept his eyes down, lashes wet and clumped, the bruising under one eye making everything about him look rawer. His mouth trembled once before he clenched his jaw like he could force it still.
“I don’t want to be him,” he said again, more ragged this time. “I don’t want that in me. I get so fucking angry sometimes, and tonight I was–” He dragged a hand roughly over his face, then winced when his knuckles caught near the bruise. “Fuck.”
“Hey.” She caught his wrist before he could do it again, thumb slipping over the inside where his pulse hammered too fast. “Look at me.”
He shook his head, but only barely.
“Garrett,” she said, softer now. “Please.”
It took him a second. It took three. Then he lifted his eyes. She hated what she saw there, because someone had put that kind of fear in a boy and then let him grow around it like it was just another bone.
Garrett Graham, who could strut across campus like he owned gravity, who could grin his way through almost anything, who could charm a room without even standing up straight, was looking at her like he was waiting for her to realise he was dangerous.
She brought his hand to her lap and held it between both of hers.
“You’re not him,” she said.
His face twisted.
“You’re not,” she repeated, and she didn’t make it soft this time. She made it certain. “You're not him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I do,” she said again, because this was one thing she could give him without hesitation. “I know you. I know how careful you are with people even when you’re pretending you aren’t. I know how you move Logan’s shoes out of the hallway when he’s drunk so he doesn’t trip over them. I know how you check the stove when Tucker falls asleep on the couch. I know you pretend Dean annoys you and then still save him the last slice of pizza because he gets pissy when he’s hungry. I know how you touch me.” Her voice caught, but she swallowed around it, leaning closer until her knee pressed into his thigh. “Garrett, you have never made me feel afraid of you. Not once.”
His eyes went wet again.
“You’d never hurt someone like that,” she said. “You’d never hurt me like that.”
The sound he made then was worse than the first sob because it sounded like relief and pain arriving at the same time. His face crumpled before he could stop it, and he folded back into her, harder this time, arms wrapping around her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe.
She didn’t care. She let him hold on. She held him back, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other moving slowly over his spine, feeling each shudder work through him and disappear into the space between their bodies.
For a while, there was only that. His breath against her neck. Her fingers in his hair. The lamp humming faintly. A car passing outside and washing headlights briefly across the ceiling. The ordinary world continuing in rude little pieces while Garrett cried.
Eventually, the sobs thinned. His breathing stayed uneven, but the worst of it loosened, leaving him heavy against her, drained in a way that made him feel younger and older all at once.
She kept touching him until he shifted, and even then she didn’t let go immediately. He was the one who pulled back first, dragging in a rough breath and wiping at his face with the heel of his hand.
“Sorry,” he said, hoarse. “Fuck. Sorry.”
She shook her head.
He looked away, jaw tight again, embarrassment rushing in to fill the space grief had left behind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“Hey.” She caught his face between her hands before he could retreat all the way into himself. Carefully, because of the bruise. “No.”
His eyes flicked to hers.
“No,” she said again, quieter. “You don’t have to apologise.”
Garrett let out a shaky breath through his nose, like he wanted to argue and didn’t have enough left in him to do it properly. “I just–”
“I know.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
He closed his eyes under her hands. For a second he leaned into her palms so fully that her chest ached. Then he opened them again, gaze dropping to her mouth, her chin, anywhere but directly into whatever softness he was afraid she had for him.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” he said. “At the game. I’m sorry I acted like that.”
She brushed her thumb lightly along the unbruised side of his face. “You were freaked out.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“No,” she said, because he was right and because she cared for him too much, in whatever unnamed, inconvenient way that lived between them, to pretend otherwise. “But I get why it happened.”
His throat moved. “I didn’t want him near you.”
“I know.”
“I saw you sitting there, in my jacket, and he was right there, and I couldn’t–” He broke off, frustration pulling at his mouth. “I couldn’t think. I just kept looking up and thinking, get away from him. And then I’d look back at the play and I’d be out of position, and then I got mad because I was out of position, and then I–” He shook his head. “It was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid.” She kept her hands on him, steady even when he looked like he wanted to fold away from the tenderness. “It was a lot.”
He let out something close to a laugh, but there was no humour in it. “That’s one word for it.”
She leaned forward until her nose nudged gently against his, careful of the swelling near his eye. “And you still came through.”
His brow creased.
“You did,” she said. “You moved me. You went back out. You played. You won.”
His mouth trembled, just once. He looked down, and she watched him fight the tears coming back, his face tightening with the effort of keeping it together. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” she echoed.
A long breath left him. His shoulders dropped a little with it, not relaxed, but less braced. He looked exhausted now, the adrenaline gone, the game gone, the confession gone, leaving only the boy under all of it sitting in the low light with a black eye and red-rimmed lashes and too many years of silence sitting open between them.
She slid one hand down to his chest, feeling the slow, uneven thud of his heart beneath her palm. “Do you need anything?”
Garrett shook his head.
“You sure?”
He looked at her for a moment, and there was something unguarded in it that made her breath catch. Then he reached for her, one hand settling at her waist and pulling her closer by degrees like he was asking without words. “Just this.”
Her eyes softened. “Okay.”
He shifted down the bed first, moving slowly like every part of him hurt more now that he had stopped holding himself so tight. She went with him, letting him guide her into the space beside him as he eased onto his back, then his side, then changed his mind and pulled her against his chest.
It was clumsy in the way exhaustion made things clumsy, knees tangling under the covers, his breath hitching when her elbow brushed a sore spot from the game. She murmured an apology, and he shook his head into her hair, arm tightening around her middle.
The room settled around them again. She tucked herself against him carefully, cheek resting above his heart, one hand laid flat over his ribs. His skin was warm through the thin cotton of his shirt, his breathing still uneven but gradually finding a steadier rhythm under her ear.
She kissed the edge of his jaw because it was there and because she couldn’t reach every place in him that hurt, but she could reach that.
Garrett’s fingers flexed once at her back, then smoothed slowly over the fabric of her shirt, not quite a caress, more like he was reminding himself she was real.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. She stared at the soft blur of his room in the darkened edges beyond the lamp – the open textbook on his desk, the half-empty bottle of water, the heap of hoodie on the chair, the game tape paused on his laptop from earlier in the week – and tried to make the pieces of him fit around what he had told her.
The boy who had tossed her his jacket that afternoon because she’d shivered. The captain who had come apart on the ice at the sight of his father beside her. The child who had stood in a house and listened for his mother. The man holding her now.
Her training wanted to make categories. To name responses. To trace the line between trigger and reaction, between fear and anger, between what a body remembered and what a mouth could bear to say.
But this wasn’t a case study, and Garrett wasn’t something to be understood from a distance. He was under her cheek, breathing carefully, his arm heavy across her back, his fingers curled into the side of her shirt like he might wake up and need proof she had stayed.
So she let the clinical part of her go quiet. She pressed her palm a little more firmly to his ribs.
Garrett’s chin dipped, lips brushing the top of her head. “You okay?” he whispered.
The question hurt, somehow. That he could be lying there hollowed out and still asking after her.
She nodded against him. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
She closed her eyes. “I’m sure.”
His hand moved once over her back. She waited until his breathing had slowed more, until the tension in his stomach eased under her hand, until the house beneath them was nothing but distant pipes and settling wood and the occasional muffled voice.
Then she lifted her head just enough to press a kiss to his chest, above his heart, and settled back down.
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summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.
do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is a single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
summary : clark loves you. but unfortunately, super-strength doesn't exactly have it's place in the bedroom.
warnings : shy!clark, big softie clark, smut, p in v, established relationship, praise, swearing, the list goes on.
word count : 9.4 k
a/n: i recently had someone ask me if i did DC- so this is my attempt ! I've legit only really watched this movie in the DC universe so if theres any issues pls lmk ! as usual, nor proofread !
The Daily Planet is surprisingly full today, and you snake your way through the crowds of reporters and journalists, carrying your bag pressed against your chest- too afraid to get something picked out of it.
You glance at your watch, biting on your bottom lip as you crane your neck, trying to look around to find your boyfriend.
Usually, he isn't hard to find. Large and bulky, yet always trying to fade into the background.
Except today, Clark Kent is nowhere to be seen.
Which is strange. Clark is many things — chronically late is not one of them. You pause near the elevators, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder while the bullpen buzzes around you at full volume. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Someone arguing three desks over about city permits. The air smells like burnt coffee and printer ink. Normally, Clark’s desk would already have a coffee waiting for you. Normally, he’d glance up the second you stepped onto the floor, face softening instantly in that quiet way that still makes your stomach flip. Today his desk is empty.
You frown.
A couple reporters brush past you, forcing you aside. Your grip tightens reflexively around your bag. God, this place is packed.
“Looking for Smallville?” Lois Lane appears at your elbow so suddenly you nearly jump out of your skin. She eyes you knowingly over the rim of her coffee cup. “You know,” she says, “for someone dating the human equivalent of a lighthouse, you’re weirdly bad at spotting him.”
“I can usually find him,” you defend weakly, glancing around again. “He’s just—”
“Late?” Lois snorts. “Yeah, that’s suspicious enough to file a missing persons report.” Before you can answer, the bullpen doors swing open.
And there he is. Clark steps inside like a man trying very hard not to take up space despite being objectively built like he could carry a pickup truck over one shoulder. His glasses are slightly crooked. Tie loosened. Dark curls wind-tossed like he came here in a hurry. The second he sees you, he stops moving. Not visibly enough for anyone else to notice.
But you notice.
Clark always looks at you like finding you in a crowded room is the best part of his day. The tension leaves his shoulders immediately. Then his eyes narrow slightly. Concern. You know that look. And sure enough, thirty feet away and through the chaos of the newsroom, your boyfriend has somehow already picked up on your mood.
You sigh internally. Super senses are honestly unfair.
“Hey,” he says softly once he reaches you. Lois makes a dramatic gagging sound before walking off. Neither of you pay attention. Clark’s gaze flicks carefully over your face. “You okay?” There it is. Not hello. Not good morning.
You okay?
You try to smile.
“Yeah.” His expression does not change. Because unfortunately for you, Clark can probably hear the tiny hitch in your heartbeat right now.
“You sure?” You glance around self-consciously.
“Can we maybe not do the concerned x-ray vision thing in the middle of your office?” Immediate guilt flashes across his face.
“Sorry,” he says at once, lowering his voice further. “I just—”
“I know.” And you do. Clark's concern never feels invasive. Just earnest to a fault. Still, the bullpen is crowded enough that bodies keep bumping into you from all directions, and every accidental shoulder check makes tension crawl higher beneath your skin. Clark notices that too. Of course he does. His eyes flick downward briefly as another reporter jostles past you too close for comfort. Then he shifts. That’s all. Just one subtle step closer. But suddenly the chaos parts around you. People unconsciously reroute before colliding with him, glancing up at the last second as though only then realizing there’s a massive man standing there. Within moments, Clark has effectively boxed you into a pocket of calm without touching anyone at all.
Your breath catches slightly. Because this is another thing about Clark: He is always aware of exactly how much space his body takes up.And exactly how to use it gently.
"You’re doing it again,” you murmur.
“What?”
“The weird protective farm-boy bodyguard thing.” A faint blush colors his cheeks immediately.
“I’m not—”
“You literally just became a human barricade.” Clark ducks his head sheepishly, which would work better if he weren’t six-foot-whatever and built like a rescue helicopter.
“I just didn’t want people shoving you around.” The sincerity in his voice hits you straight in the chest. You stare at him for a second too long. Clark notices instantly. “What?” You smile helplessly.
“You’re ridiculously sweet.” His ears turn pink. Adorable. Catastrophic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he mutters.
“It’s not.” You step closer instinctively, fingers brushing the front of his tie. “It’s just unfair sometimes.” Clark goes very still at the contact. Not tense. Focused. Hyperaware. You feel it every single time he touches you — or gets touched by you. Like some part of him is constantly calibrating pressure, distance, restraint. Even now, his hands hover near your waist without settling there. Waiting. Always waiting. Your chest aches a little at the sight.
“You can touch me, you know,” you say quietly. Clark’s gaze flicks up to yours.
“I know.” But he still asks: “Can I?” The newsroom noise fades around the edges for a second. God. You nod once. Clark’s hands settle carefully on your hips like he’s handling something precious. Not possessive. Not casual.
Intentional. His thumbs stroke once, tiny measured movements that somehow feel more intimate than if he’d dragged you into his lap.
“You’re stressed,” he murmurs.
“You can tell?” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth.
“Your heartbeat’s been fast since you walked in.” You groan softly.
“Dating a Kryptonian is humiliating.” Clark laughs under his breath, warm and low. Then his expression softens again.
“Did something happen?” You hesitate. And immediately his attention sharpens. It’s almost frightening, how quickly Clark focuses on you. Like the rest of the world lowers in volume the second he thinks you might need him. You look down, fussing unnecessarily with his tie.
“Train was crowded,” you admit. “Some guy kept trying to get into my bag.” Clark stills completely. You feel it happen under your hands.
Not anger exactly. Control. Tightening.
“Did he touch you?” The question comes out dangerously calm. You blink up at him.
“What?”
“Did he put his hands on you?” Your stomach flips a little. Not because you’re afraid of him. Because every protective instinct in Clark Kent clearly just lit up like a solar flare beneath his skin — and he’s trying so hard to keep it contained.
“No,” you say quickly. “No, I’m okay.” Clark exhales slowly through his nose. His grip on your hips loosens by a fraction. Measured. Always measured. Still, his eyes scan your face carefully like he’s making absolutely certain you mean it. Then, quieter:
“You should’ve called me.” Your heart melts a little.
“It was just a crowded train, Clark.”
“I know.” His thumbs brush your sides gently. “I still would’ve come.” And there it is again. That devastating sincerity. Like protecting you isn’t an obligation to him. It’s instinct. Breathing. Gravity. You smile softly despite yourself.
“You really can’t help it, huh?” Clark looks genuinely confused.
“Help what?”
“Taking care of me.” His expression changes instantly. Softens into something unbearably tender.
“No,” he says quietly. Then, after a tiny pause:
“I really can’t.” You sigh and pat his arm.
"Come on, Superman. You promised me a date night." Clark’s mouth curves immediately. Small. Soft. Fond enough to make your knees weak.
“Right,” he says. “Date night.”
“You did promise.”
“I remember.” But he still looks reluctant to let the subject go. You can practically see him replaying your train ride in his head, cataloguing every possible thing that could’ve happened to you. Honestly, sometimes you wonder how exhausting it must be to care this much about everyone all the time. Especially with the ability to hear the world constantly asking things from him. You slide your hands up his chest, smoothing down the front of his tie.
“Clark.” His eyes drop to your hands instantly. Focused. Always so focused on you. "Can we go, please ? If we stand in this crowded bullpen for one more minute I might have an aneurysm." Clark huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Yes, ma’am.” You grab his hand immediately before another reporter can cut between you, threading your fingers through his. Clark looks down at your joined hands like he always does — brief, soft surprise followed by something warmer. Something so openly affectionate it still catches you off guard. Then, automatically, his grip adjusts.
Gentle.
Measured.
Like even holding hands requires conscious calibration for him.
The two of you barely make it three steps before someone calls his name again.
“Kent!” Clark visibly resists the urge to sigh. You snort.
“You’re the people’s princess.”
“I don’t think Perry would describe me that way.”
“You underestimate your brand.”
Clark shakes his head, smiling helplessly, and lets you tug him toward the elevators. The second the doors close behind you, the noise of the bullpen disappears. Silence. Private. Clark’s shoulders loosen instantly.
You lean back against the mirrored wall with a dramatic groan.
“Oh my god.”
“You okay?”
“You work in a sensory nightmare.” Clark laughs softly.
“You get used to it.”
“No, you get used to it because you’re apparently emotionally equipped to hear twelve conversations at once without exploding.” His expression turns sheepish.
“It’s… a process.” You eye him knowingly.
“You’re listening to things right now, aren’t you?” A pause.
“…Maybe.”
“Clark.”
“I can’t really turn it all the way off.” The apology in his voice makes your chest ache a little. You step toward him before you can think too hard about it, smoothing your hands up the front of his shirt again. His tie is still crooked from earlier. Immediately, Clark’s attention locks onto you completely. Like a compass needle snapping north.
“You know,” you murmur, fixing the knot properly, “for someone who can hear basically everything, you’re surprisingly bad at listening to yourself.” His brows knit slightly. “
What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you say gently, “you’re exhausted.” Clark opens his mouth automatically. Probably to deny it. Then stops. Because lying to someone while they’re adjusting your tie in a tiny elevator is apparently beyond him.
“…Maybe a little.”
“A little,” you repeat flatly.
“I had three rescues before lunch.”
“Clark.”
“And there was a chemical fire in Hob’s Bay.”
“Clark.”
“And then Lois started a fight with a city councilman—” You reach up and cup his face. That shuts him up instantly. Clark goes completely still beneath your hands. Every time. Like affection still surprises him.
“You’re taking tonight off,” you say firmly. His eyes soften behind his glasses.
“I’m trying to.”
“No listening for disasters unless the city is literally on fire.”
“That feels irresponsible.”
“You are not responsible for every single person in Metropolis every second of the day.” Clark’s expression does something complicated at that. Not disagreement exactly. Just guilt. Because of course he feels guilty. You soften immediately. “Hey.” His gaze flicks back to yours.
“You’re allowed to have one nice night.”
The elevator dings softly. Neither of you move. Clark looks at you for another long second before finally nodding once.
“Okay.”
------------
Date night starts at a tiny little restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop downtown. Somewhere warm and dimly lit and quiet enough that Clark visibly relaxes the moment you sit down. No emergencies. No newsroom. No crowds pressing too close. Just you and him in a corner booth with low lighting and a bottle of wine Clark absolutely cannot get drunk from normally. Though apparently red solar radiation exposure from last week’s fight with some intergalactic asshole has temporarily lowered his tolerance. Which you discover approximately forty minutes in when Clark laughs too hard at one of your jokes and nearly crushes the stem of his wine glass in his hand. His eyes widen immediately.
“Oh my god.” You stare at the bent glass. Then at him. Then burst out laughing. Clark looks horrified.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You folded it like origami!”
“I was distracted!”
“You’re Superman!”
“That’s not helping!” You laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and Clark finally starts laughing too, ducking his head into his hand with obvious embarrassment. The sound of his laugh settles warm and glowing somewhere beneath your ribs.
God.
You love him.
You love him so much it’s honestly a little unbearable sometimes.
By the time dinner ends, you’re pleasantly tipsy. Clark is… maybe slightly tipsy. Which manifests mostly as him becoming even softer somehow. More openly affectionate. Easier smiles. His hand resting warm at the small of your back as the two of you walk home through the city. Metropolis glows around you in gold and neon. You stumble slightly on the sidewalk. Clark catches you instantly. Not dramatic. Just immediate. One second off-balance, the next securely steadied against his chest. His hands settle carefully around your arms.
“You okay?” You grin up at him lazily.
“You have insane reflexes.” Clark’s mouth twitches.
“Occupational hazard.”
“You smell good.” That catches him off guard. A blush rises instantly across his cheeks. “
I— thank you.”
“You’re pretty.” His entire face goes pink. It’s adorable.
“You’ve had wine,” he says weakly.
“And you’re huge.” Clark chokes on absolutely nothing. You laugh against his shoulder as he guides you carefully down the block. His hand never leaves your back. Measured pressure. Constant awareness. Like he’s tracking every tiny shift in your balance. By the time you get back to your apartment, you’re warm and sleepy and buzzing pleasantly enough that your filter has mostly dissolved. Clark notices immediately. Of course he does.
“You need water,” he says gently as soon as the apartment door closes behind you.
“You need to kiss me.” Clark freezes halfway through taking off his coat.
Slowly, he turns to look at you. You lean against the door, smiling lazily at the sight of him. Tie loosened. Hair messy. Cheeks still faintly pink from the wine. God help you.
“You’re staring,” he says softly.
“You’re beautiful.” Clark inhales sharply. There it is again. Praise hits him like a physical thing every single time. His eyes darken slightly behind his glasses.
“You’re tipsy,” he murmurs.
“Mhm.”
“And very affectionate.”
“Mhm.” A helpless smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. Then he walks toward you slowly. Carefully. Always carefully. His hands settle lightly on your waist.
“Water first,” he says quietly.
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m responsible.”
“You’re sexy when you’re responsible.” Clark looks like he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with that information. You giggle softly and loop your arms around his neck. Immediately, his entire body tightens. Not rejecting you. Restraining himself. His hands stay very deliberately at your waist.
“Baby,” he says softly. “You keep looking at me like I’m going to break.” Clark’s expression flickers. Because that hit something.
“You won’t,” he says immediately. Then quieter:
“But I could hurt you.” Your heart squeezes. Even now. Even after all this time. You and Clark have been phsyical. In more ways than one. Hell, he loves burying his face between your legs on any give day, or even feeling you clench around him, but he's always so soft and slow with it. As if he's constantly second-guessing himself. You brush your thumb gently along the back of his neck.
“Clark.”
“I’ve had wine,” he admits carefully. “You’ve had wine. My control’s already…” He exhales slowly. “Different tonight.” The honesty in it makes your stomach flip. Because he’s not saying he wants to hurt you.
He’s saying the possibility terrifies him. You soften instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Clark closes his eyes briefly at the name. You feel the tiny shudder that runs through him. “I trust you,” you whisper. His forehead drops to yours immediately. And god, the restraint in him is palpable now. Every inch of his body careful despite the way he’s holding you close.
“You shouldn’t say things like that so casually,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because you sound sincere.” You pull back just enough to look at him.
“I am sincere.” Clark’s composure cracks slightly. You can literally see it happen. His grip tightens by the smallest fraction before immediately loosening again with visible effort. Measured. Always measured.
“You make this very difficult,” he says softly. You smile.
“You’re cute when you’re trying not to manhandle me.” Clark makes a strangled sound somewhere deep in his chest. “Oh my god,” you whisper, delighted. “That did something to you.” He looks away immediately, embarrassed. Which only confirms it.
Your poor, sweet boyfriend.
So powerful.
So careful.
So devastatingly affected by being wanted.
You cup his face gently, guiding his attention back to you.
“Clark,” you murmur softly, “kiss me before your brain explodes.” His eyes search yours one more time. Checking. Always checking.
Then Clark kisses you like he’s still trying to be careful even when he wants you desperately. He kisses you like he’s afraid you’re going to vanish if he lets go. Soft, at first. Always soft. His mouth is warm, patient, gentle as anything. When he finally lets himself press you back against the door, you feel the solidity of his body in every careful inch; that same measured tension, all strength packed away like a secret. Clark’s big hands cradle your waist, fingers splayed wide, and you can tell by the way he keeps adjusting his grip that he’s thinking very, very hard about just how hard to hold on. You tease at his bottom lip, smiling into him, making a delighted noise that vibrates through his chest. The sound derails him instantly. Clark’s hands flex with the smallest want. He kisses you again and again, losing the rhythm each time you sigh, each time you gasp his name. Still, every motion is heartbreakingly careful—like he’s terrified of making a single wrong move. You break the kiss first,lips tingling, pulse in your throat. Clark draws back, breathing hard. His hands are still on your waist, thumbs pressed in careful circles, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you by touch alone.
“You’re so good at that,” you whisper, a little out of breath.
Clark’s tongue darts over his bottom lip. He looks startled; then, a crooked, shy smile cracks across his face.
“You make it easy.” He nudges your nose with his. His breath is sweet, dizzying, and it makes your knees loosen under you. You don’t think about it before saying,
“Can we go to bed? Or the couch? Or the wall? Literally anywhere as long as it ends with you inside me.” For a second, you think Clark will argue, or redirect, or do that thing where he tries to slow down to a G-rated crawl. Instead, he leans his forehead to yours and, without a word, lifts you off the ground. That carefulness, again: his hands are steady beneath your thighs as he carries you down the short hall. Every step is slow and measured, but you know - god, you know - Clark could have you on the bed in a microsecond if he wanted.
If he let himself.
If he let go.
He doesn’t.
He sets you down on the mattress like you’re made of spun glass and then kneels between your knees, bracing himself on the edge of the bed. He’s breathing harder than you, a line of color still rising in his throat. You run your hands under his shirt, palms splaying wide across his chest, feeling the way his heart hammers against your fingers. His hands are careful as he slowly peels your shirt off of you, his hands so incredibly soft as he cups the swell of your breasts through your bra. You sit up, fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons, biting your bottom lip. Clark makes a low sound when you finally get his shirt off, that soft farmboy sigh you know by heart. You’re both clumsy with the zipper of your skirt—his big hands fumble, like he’s too afraid to rip it right off—and when it hits the floor, there’s a heartbeat where you both just look at each other, breathless. You don’t feel remotely self-conscious in your underwear; Clark looks at you like every inch of skin is something holy. He’s not much better off, kneeling on the carpet in those ridiculous boxers you bought him—blue, with tiny red capes patterned all over. You reach for him, and he lets you, coming down over you so slow it’s almost funny, like he’s afraid to crush you under his weight. You thread your fingers into his hair and tug, and Clark shudders, mouth dropping open against your throat. He kisses you there, slow and careful, until the only thing you can say is,
“Please, Clark.”
God, you need him so bad.
You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the sexual frustration of him always holding back whenever he fucks you- but your entire body is on fire. Clark’s mouth is all over you—your throat, your jaw, the edge of your collarbone—every kiss so impossibly careful it’s like he’s terrified you might bruise. The room smells like him, clean and cotton-sweet, and you’re vibrating with want. Still, he treats every inch of you like it’s breakable, like his hands are a privilege he has to earn every time. He kisses lower, tongue flicking under the wire of your bra, and just the wet heat of it nearly turns your knees to jelly.
You squirm under him, hands winding through his hair, and when you arch up, Clark pauses. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and you can feel how much he wants to just let go. Like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping your panties with a single flick. He pulls back, breath ragged.
“Are you—” His voice is a rasp. “Do you want…?”
“I want you to fuck me, Kent.” Clark freezes, just for a second. His breath hitches, warm and humid against your jaw. Then his hand slides down, slow, deliberate, catching your thigh and drawing it up around his waist. Every movement is a test, a calibration, as if he’s waiting for the universe to sign off on each fraction of pressure. You nearly laugh, except all the air in your chest had vanished.
“Clark,” you whisper, “stop thinking. Please.” And then, less brave, “I won’t break.” He shudders, and when he kisses you again, it’s harder. Not rough—never—but with a hunger that startles both of you. The carefulness has an edge now. Like he’s holding back a tide. Clark’s hand cups behind your head, cradling, while his hips press you deeper into the mattress. The heat between your legs borders on unbearable. You arch up, greedy for all of him.
Truth is, all Clark wants is to fuck you the way you want. God knows he wants it too. But god, his strength- he can’t control it when it comes to you. When it comes to this.
Clark buries his face in the pillow next to your head. He’s shaking, and you can feel it: every muscle in his body strung tight as piano wire, teeth grit so hard you wonder if he might shatter them. You roll your hips up, seeking friction, and he whimpers, honest-to-god whimpers, before catching himself, arms trembling on either side of your body. His hand reaches between the two of you, slipping his jeans and boxers down, freeing himself. You bite your bottom lip, shimmying your underwear down your thighs before settling back down beneath him. You cup his cheek, smiling up at him as he kisses his way down your jaw, your neck, softly pushing his tip between your folds until it notches inside of you. You whine, hands flying up to dig into his shoulders, your eyes rolling back at the mere idea of having him deep inside you. He pushes in slow. So slow. The stretch is almost unbearable, a champagne fizz of pressure and fullness, but Clark doesn’t move except to spread your thighs wider, settling you around him like he’s setting the table for two. You dig your nails into his back, desperate for more, and he makes a torn noise in his throat, hips shuddering as he bottoms out. The first thrust is nothing. Gentle. Like he’s more focused on mapping out every centimeter inside you than getting anywhere. The second is deeper. Careful, reverent. Clark groans into your skin, burying his head against your shoulder as he moves, like the pleasure is almost too much. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and the next thrust is better, closer to what you need.
He’s big; that’s the understatement of the year, but he’s so careful—excruciatingly careful. He groans against your neck, whispering apologies and,
“Is this okay?”, while his hips rock in gentle, shallow thrusts, barely moving at all. It’s sweet and unreal and so frustrating you might lose your mind. You clutch his back, dig your nails in, desperate for him to just move, to just stop worrying and fuck you like he wants. The slow push and pull inside of you is building, and you try to screw your eyes closed, to focus on how he’s breathing and kissing your temple, but fuck- it’s not enough. If it were any normal night you’d tough it out. Do it for Clark, because he loves you and that look on his face whenever he’s terrified to hurt you. But you can’t - god, tonight, you just can’t. Your body is on fire and the pressure in your stomach is lessening by the second.
“Clark,” You say, and her voice is glassy with tears and need, “please, can you—can you just—” You can’t finish it. Can’t say all the things throttling your brain at once. That you want to feel him lose control, just a little. That the pressing thought behind your forehead is not fear, not even close, but the sick, needy thrill of being precious enough to destroy.
That you want marks.
That your bones want to feel how strong he is.
That your insides ache for the honesty of his strength, not just the gentleness of his hands.
Clark’s eyes snap up towards you.
“Shit, baby - are you- are you okay ?” He asks, his moments coming to a stop. The sudden cut off of the sensation makes you choke on a sob, thighs clenching around his waist, trying to drag him back towards you. Just that motion has you seeing stars, the sheer girth of him pushing in just a little farther. Clark’s hand fists in the blanket, knuckles whitening, the entire curve of his body straining with denial. He looks at you, really looks—eyes wide and blue and full of guilt, of fear, like he’s the only thing standing between you and a firing squad that just so happens to be his own goddamn body. His chest heaves. He pulls almost all the way out, a slow, trembling retreat, and you actually moan in protest, clutching him with everything you have. You want to scream at him, at yourself, at the whole rotten world for ever making him believe he needed to hold this much of himself back.
“Baby, tell me,” he begs, that Kansas drawl scraping raw across your skin, “tell me what you need—” You lock your ankles behind his hips, drag him in close so the blunt pressure of him is right there, so you can look him in the face when you say,
“I need you.” You whine. “Clark, please.” You grab his hand, latch it around your throat. “Just be rough. God, just fuck me.” You whine, shaking your head. Clark freezes, his hand limp around your throat.
“Sweetheart-” God. You can see the war inside him, the way his jaw flexes, the way his hand just hovers—like to even pretend to grip your throat is a holy act. You want to be filled to breaking; you want to be shattered, not by fear, but by love so bright it could burn your bones to glass and leave you still begging for more.
“Clark, please.” You whine, biting your bottom lip. “Please.”
“Baby, i don’t- I don’t wanna hurt you.” Clark’s hand is a trembling thing on your throat, as if any pressure at all might snap your head from your shoulders. His mouth works soundlessly and you can feel the heat of shame and need radiate off him in waves. It’s everything inside you, every raw nerve, screaming for him to just give in. You reach up, wrap your smaller hand over his and squeeze.
“I want you,” you whisper. “All of you, Clark.” The look in his eyes- like you’ve just given him permission to step out of a burning building- nearly splits you apart. His grip tightens, miniscule. Barely there, but it’s enough. The pressure is more suggestion than force, a soft claim that makes your breath flutter instead of halt.
"Fuckin' break me. Please." Clark’s eyes go wide, and for a second, you can feel him recalibrating, testing, searching for the exact threshold between safe and too much. He doesn’t test long.
He grabs your thighs and slings them over his shoulders, securing his arms around your knees as he pins them to his chest. A loud, unabashed moan breaks out of you as his cock drives in deeper, and your hands fist in the sheets as you nod.
"You're sure ?" He asks, kissing your calves gently. You moan.
"God, yes. Please, Clark, please." You whimper, writhing. His cock gives an impatient twitch.
He’s only human, after all.
Or at least, there’s a human inside him, somewhere under all the impossible muscle and bulletproof skin.
It’s the human part that finally cracks—the carefulness, the measured movements.
As soon as your back hits the mattress and Clark hears the way you moan for him, something inside him gives. Not all the way, not in a way that’ll snap you in half, but he stops thinking about every single Newton of force and just. Takes. You. He fucks you like every ounce of his restraint is spent. The thrusts are deep and sharp, Clark’s hands gripping so tight around your hips you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow. The thought only makes you wetter, makes your head spin. You claw at his back, desperate for any kind of anchor, and he grunts, a raw sound that’s nothing but animal. When you look up, his eyes are wild and shining, his chest heaving. Your nails scrape at his thighs, his name falling past your lips in desperate little whimpers.
He’s relentless, and it’s perfect. Every thrust is a wet, bruising promise that leaves you gasping, unable to do anything except clutch at him and ride the shockwave pleasure tearing through you. Clark’s hand never leaves your throat; his palm is so big it nearly cuffs your whole neck, holding it steady while he fucks you into the mattress with the abandon of someone who’s been waiting lifetimes to do this. You can’t think. The world’s narrowed to the heat between your legs, his muscled chest caging you in, and the ragged, helpless way he keeps whispering your name like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.
And he’s still so tender. In between the rough snap of his hips and the bruising grip on your thighs, Clark’s voice never stops—soft, frantic, endless praise spilling out between the curses and the whimpers.
“God, You’re doing so good,” he rasps, and the words are almost choked.
The praise is the best part. Clark can’t shut up, not when he’s this far gone. Every word comes out hoarse and desperate, like he’s praying you through the act:
“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, look at you, I—God, I love you so much—”
He says it like it’s never enough, like the words are the only anchor keeping him from bursting out of his own skin. Every time you moan, his grip tightens, and every time you sob his name, he gets rougher, like some ancient part of him needs to prove it can wreck you and put you back together in the same breath. You feel the world narrow to the places Clark touches, to the sound of your own pulse in your ears and his inhuman body above you, caging you in, worshipping you even as he fucks you senseless. He’s everywhere, all heat and muscle and the taste of your name leaving his mouth feels like sugar. He’s fucking you like maybe he’s allowed. Like maybe he can finally give you everything, the way he’s always wanted. There’s something wild in his face now, wet around the lashes, desperate and so needy.
God, where has this Clark been all these months ?
You should’ve pushed him earlier.
“Mmph, Clark-” His hand shifts from your throat to the underside of your jaw, thumb stroking the slick heat of your pulse, and he groans, a shaky, reverent sound that makes you want to sob. Each thrust is a little harder, a little less measured, until it’s just ragged need and the endless press of his body into yours. The sounds coming from your mouth barely resemble words, but Clark drinks them in like the air itself.
“Fuck, honey—” He breaks, voice cracking, hips snapping forward. “You’re perfect, you—God, you’re so good, you make me feel—” He grips your legs tighter, biting softly into your calf by his head. You arch into him, breath snagging as the pressure builds and builds, coiling up the length of your spine, white-hot and desperate. You’re so close you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams, every nerve ending tuned to the rough clutch of Clark’s hands and the wet heat of his breath on your skin. He’s relentless, each drive of his hips slamming you deeper into the mattress, and it’s not fear that has you gasping, but the bright, raw pleasure of knowing he’s finally, finally giving you everything. The words spill from him in a messy loop—praise, love, disbelief, every syllable a pulse that tightens the coiled heat inside you.
“Never—God, I’ve never wanted anything more than this, you hear me?” he groans, voice breaking over your name. “You’re fucking perfect, so good, so good, I—” He can’t stop, and you don’t want him to. Every time you moan for him, he answers with a desperate, reverent curse, his body shaking as he holds himself back from absolutely destroying you. Clark’s entire body trembles, the line of his shoulders drawn tight as live wire, but he doesn’t stop—won’t stop, now—his hips punching forward with a rhythm that’s all hungry madness, the way he bites your thigh a claim and a question in one. Each blunt, wet thrust goes deeper than the last, the force of it steady and unyielding, and your vision is already white at the edges. God, you’re so full, you’re not sure how the world has room for anything else. His hand tightens at your jaw, thumb stroking up your cheek; his mouth is hot and frantic on your skin, kissing everywhere at once as if he could memorize every atom of you in the time it takes to burn down to nothing.
He says your name between clenched teeth, voice all gravel and smoke, and you can hear the panic in it—like he’s scared he’ll break you, even now, even as you beg him to keep going.He drops your legs back down, wrapping them around his waist as he cages you against the mattress, his lips latching around your neck, biting and sucking at the skin before soothing it with his tongue, his fingers tangling into your hair as his free hand drifts down to grasp at your breast.He kneads, thumb skating over your nipple, gently at first—then not, because you’re arching into it, because you want him to take. His mouth follows, hot and wet, and you gasp as his tongue flicks, as his teeth find flesh and close. The sensation spikes, a live wire straight to your cunt. Your hips buck, helpless, and Clark’s groan vibrates against your chest. He’s everywhere, all at once. The world is only this: the way his cock fills you, the rough drag of his palm at your jaw, the wet heat of his mouth and the friction of his chest hair against your skin. You’re pinned, absolutely, but safe. Nothing could ever feel safer than this. Than Clark’s voice, hoarse and cracking, moaning your name like it’s a rescue signal. Like it’s hope. He snaps his hips into you, again and again.
“God, Clark- Fuck, yes.” You whine, eyes rolling back. He bows his head, lips parted, and the next groan is a prayer tangled in your name. His thrusts get rougher—each one flecked with apology, each one more desperate, more honest. He’s out of words for a second, just panting, his whole body trembling against yours like he can barely stand the way you feel, all soft and clinging and wet around him.
You grab at his hair and pull. His head snaps up; his face is flushed and wild, glasses fogged and askew, and you want to die for the way he looks at you.
“So good,” he chokes out, and it’s less a compliment than a confession. He pounds into you, the bed groaning in protest, but the only thing you can think of is the way he won’t stop touching you—hands everywhere, your jaw, your tits, your cheek, his thumb brushing reverent and possessive over your lips as if to remind you how soft he can be. When he pushes your knees nearly to your ears and pounds into you, the world goes white. The sound of skin on skin is obscene, the wet slap echoing in time with your pulse, with the rush behind your eyes, and you’re not thinking anymore, just feeling: the stretch, the pressure, the way he fills you until you’re sure you might rip open.
Clark’s rhythm turns ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back and the wild, greedy need to let go. Each sharp thrust sends you up the mattress, the baseboard groaning in protest. He’s breathing hard and wet into your mouth, his voice unspooling desperate, broken, helpless praise against your lips. The world funnels down to this: Clark’s cock driving into you, filling you so completely you can feel the reverberation in your ribs and the fuzz of your brain. Your vision blurs—white-hot static behind your eyelids, ears ringing with the wet slap of bodies and Clark’s name clawing out of your own throat. He braces one hand on the headboard, the other cupping your jaw, thumb stroking the line of your cheek with an obscene kind of tenderness as he fucks you into the mattress. Your hands strain for an anchor—his back, his hair, shoulders slicked with sweat.His name leaves your mouth in a wrecked gasp, every syllable ragged, desperate, a prayer. You can’t keep your eyes open—sensation is all there is, your body trembling under the endless, pounding pressure of Clark’s cock, your hands clawing for any scrap of him you can hold. Every wet slap is a promise, every rough thrust a gift. The praise pours out of Clark without any filter now, no shame, just joy and need and awe. “Perfect, you’re perfect, you take me so good, so good, fuck—” It goes on forever, the world grinding down to the rhythm of his hips and the bright, sparking ache in your cunt, the way Clark’s hands grip you like you’re a lifeline.
You try to say something—no idea what—but it gets lost in a sob. Clark’s head drops, lips finding your cheek, your throat, your jaw. He can’t stop touching you, kissing you,biting at you, his hands squeezing, fingers digging into your skin like he needs to physically meld you into him. For a few, infinite cycles, it’s Clark’s mouth on your skin, the furnace of his breath, the thunderous rhythm of his body, and the not-quite-painful clutch of his hands. You’re dimly conscious of how you sound—all raw, animal noises stitched with Clark’s name—but the pleasure is too much, too bright, and you have no room for shame. You’re not sure if you've ever been fucked like this in your life, not even in the most fevered, secret version of your imagination. Not when every inch of your body is mapped by a kind of reverence, not when every bruising thrust is cushioned with gratitude, with the ceaseless pulse of I love you, I love you, I love you.
His weight over you is a living thing, heat and muscle and trembling restraint. Clark grinds in, again, again. When he shifts your legs back up, folding you nearly in half, your eyes roll back and everything comes flooding out. You can’t hold it. Not with the world blurred out, snapped to the star-burst pressure at the base of your spine. Clark’s cock hits the most impossible spot and you’re gone, body shuddering around him so hard your vision blows out in white. You claw at his back, desperate for an anchor, silent scream ripped out of you by the endless, perfect friction. Your cunt clenches down, over and over, and you hear Clark’s answering whimper—wrecked, panicked, impossibly sweet.
“Good girl, oh fuck, that’s it, take it, you’re so perfect,” he chokes, not even a full second before he comes apart. He groans, biting down on the meat of your shoulder, his whole body going rigid as he empties himself inside you. You feel the heat of it, the wild pulse, the way he tries to slow down his hips even as his control snaps. He buries his face in your neck as you whine, your pussy clenching around him pathetically as he keeps your hips pinned to his, desperate to make you take every drop. He collapses with exquisite, shaking care, braced on his elbows so his weight never really lands. His body is wracked, heaving, pure animal satisfaction laced with the panic of someone who’s just realized he might have gone too far. His chest presses yours in a damp, perfect seal, and for a long time all you can do is lie there and feel how fast his heart slams against your ribs, beating in time with your own.
Clark’s breath is everywhere—on your cheek, your ear, warm puffs that smell like wine and sweat and something sweet that’s just him. He doesn’t move, not even a little. You realize he’s looking at you, searching your face for any sign of hurt, any flicker that you want to take it back. You’re dazed, trembling, but you manage a smile. Somehow, you’re the one who brushes at the wetness on your temple, smearing the tears you didn’t even realize you had shed out of pleasure. He kisses your temple, your cheek, your neck.
“God, you’re crazy. You’re fuckin’ crazy.” He hums, shaking his head. He leans up on his arms, groaning as he peels himself off you. You whimper, thighs clenching as he pulls out, your walls spasming around nothing.
Clark hears it, of course he does, and his breath hitches like you’ve just struck him.
And then he sees you.
Really sees you.
His eyes, soft and hazy just a second before, sharpen with a sudden, horrified clarity. He’s looking at your neck, at the dark, blooming marks his mouth left behind. His gaze drifts lower, to the fingerprints already purpling on your thighs, the red lines on your hips from where he held you too tight. He’s tracing them with his eyes, his face going slack with disbelief, then flushing a deep, sickly shade of pale.
“No,” he whispers, the sound barely there. “Oh, God. No.” The rough, adoring man from moments ago vanishes, replaced by this stricken creature looking down at you like you’re a masterpiece he’s just defaced. His hand, which was stroking your hair so gently, freezes mid-air. He looks at his own palm like it’s a weapon, then back at the bruises on your skin. A tremor runs through his whole body, violent and profound. He’s off you in a flash, not with the smooth, controlled grace you’re used to, but with a clumsy, desperate scramble that sends him tumbling off the bed and landing hard on the floor. He doesn’t even seem to notice the impact. He’s on his knees beside the mattress, his hands held up in front of him, palms out, as if to show you they’re empty. As if to prove he’s no longer a threat.
“Are you okay?” The words are a ragged, desperate rush. “God, tell me you’re okay. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t… I lost control. I didn’t mean to. I would never—”
"Clark-" You croak, trying to reach for him, your throat dry and a little achy, and you bring your hand up to press against the skin there. You hiss in a breath at the tenderness and you look down at yourself. The bite mark on your shoulder as bled a little, and you have bruises forming on your hips already, the indents of his finger. There's a slight bruise near your throat, compiled with about twenty other hickeys spread over your body. Clark looks devastated. Not embarrassed. Not awkward.
Devastated.
Like the sight of your bruises physically hurts him.
“Clark-”
“I hurt you.” His voice breaks on the words. You push yourself upright immediately despite the pleasant ache in your limbs, reaching toward him again, but Clark flinches back before your fingers can land. That hurts worse than the bruises.
“Hey,” you say softly. “No.” His eyes flick up to yours.
God. He looks terrified. Not of you.
Of himself.
“You’re bruised,” he whispers. “I left marks all over you.” You glance down again. Honestly, it’s a little intense. Your thighs are definitely going to ache tomorrow. There’s already the shadow of fingerprints darkening your hips, your neck a mess of red and purple where his mouth lingered too long. And maybe a tiny irrational part of your brain feels a pulse of satisfaction at the evidence of him all over you.
But Clark looks sick over it.
“Baby,” you murmur carefully, “I asked for that.”
“You asked me to trust my control,” he says hoarsely. “And then I lost it.”
“You did not lose control.” Clark laughs once. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“The bedframe is cracked.” You blink. Then glance over your shoulder.
Oh.
Okay, wow.
The headboard is, in fact, split down one side.
“…Huh.” Clark buries his face in his hands. You would laugh if he didn’t sound so genuinely miserable.
“I shouldn’t have—” He cuts himself off hard enough his jaw flexes. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve kept going.” Your chest tightens painfully. Because that’s the thing. Clark could’ve ignored you. Could’ve treated you like you didn’t know your own limits. Instead he listened to you the entire time. Checked constantly. Stopped the second he thought something was wrong. Even now, all his panic is centered on whether you’re okay. You slide carefully off the bed, wincing slightly as your legs hit the floor. Clark’s head snaps up instantly.
“You shouldn’t get up.”
“There’s the bossy farm boy again.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You step toward him slowly. Clark stays frozen where he kneels beside the bed, looking deeply conflicted about whether touching you is still allowed. That alone nearly breaks your heart. You stop directly in front of him.
“Clark.” His eyes lift reluctantly. “You did not hurt me.” His gaze flicks instinctively to the bruises blooming across your skin.
“You are literally bruised.”
“I bruise easily.”
“I left fingerprints on you.” You soften your voice further.
“And I asked you to.”
“That doesn’t mean I should’ve.” Oh. Oh, there it is. The real fear. Not that he crossed a boundary. That he enjoyed it. You kneel carefully in front of him, ignoring his immediate distressed expression at you putting pressure on your knees.
“Clark,” you say quietly, “look at me.” He does. Eventually. Blue eyes wrecked with guilt. "I'm okay." You breathe. He's quick to shake his head and before you can even process what's happening, you've been put back on the bed, his movements frantic.
"I'm- I'm gonna- I need to uh- Clean you up- fuck." He shakes his head, storming out of the room.
The second he’s gone, you hear it. Not with super-hearing. Just regular hearing. Cabinets opening too hard in your tiny bathroom. The sink turning on. Then off. Then on again. Clark panicking. You sit there for a moment in the wrecked bed, sheets tangled around your legs, chest still heaving faintly from everything that just happened.
Your body aches. Not badly. Warmly. Deep in your hips and thighs, the kind of soreness that settles after being thoroughly loved. And somewhere beyond the doorway, Clark is unraveling. You sigh softly and drag the sheet around yourself before standing carefully. Your knees wobble immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath. From the bathroom, Clark’s voice comes instantly, strained and alarmed:
“What happened?” You blink. Then laugh helplessly despite yourself.
“Nothing happened, babe, my legs are just jelly.” Silence. Then, quieter:
“Oh.” You pad slowly down the hall. Clark is standing at the bathroom sink like a man preparing for emergency surgery. The sight nearly destroys you. There’s a washcloth folded with painful precision beside the sink. A little first-aid kit open on the counter. Three different ointments sitting out like he’s trying to identify the correct treatment for “overenthusiastic alien boyfriend.” Clark himself looks wrecked.
Hair a disaster.
Chest flushed.
Glasses gone.
And his hands— God. His hands are shaking. He notices you instantly in the mirror.
“You shouldn’t be standing.”
“You keep saying that like I survived a car crash.” His expression twists.
“That’s not funny.”
Okay. Right.
You soften immediately.
“Clark.” He turns then, fast enough to make the towels flutter slightly from the displaced air before he visibly reins himself back in. Even upset, he’s controlling every movement now. Overcorrecting. Like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. Again. The words hit you like a bruise.
“Hey.” You walk toward him slowly. “Stop apologizing for a second.”
“I bit you hard enough to bleed.”
“You barely broke skin.”
“I bruised your throat.”
“You barely touched my throat.”
“I cracked your bed.”
“…Okay, that one’s fair.” Clark looks actively miserable that you joked. His shoulders are so tight they look painful. You step between them carefully and reach for his hands. He hesitates. That hesitation hurts.
“Clark.”
“I just—” His voice catches hard. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sure I never hurt anyone.” You wrap your fingers around his carefully trembling hands.
“And you think one rough night suddenly makes you unsafe? It doesn't. It makes you human.” His jaw tightens. Clark’s expression crumples slightly around the edges.
“You make it sound noble,” he whispers.
“It is noble.” His laugh comes out rough.
“Baby, I had your legs over my shoulders while I was—”
“Yes, thank you, I was there.” Clark shuts his eyes briefly like he cannot believe this conversation is happening. You squeeze his hands gently.
“You didn’t become cruel, Clark.”
“No,” he says immediately, horrified.
“Exactly.” His eyes open again slowly.
“You were rough,” you continue carefully. “But you were still you.” Clark looks unconvinced. “You were still checking on me. Still holding me like I mattered. Still acting like my comfort was important even when you were halfway out of your mind.” A flush creeps slowly back up his throat. Because he remembers. God, he definitely remembers.
“You literally called me perfect every thirty seconds.” His entire face goes crimson.
“Oh my god.”
“No, it was actually very informative.”
“Please stop talking.”
“You’re apparently incapable of shutting up when you’re emotional.” Clark drops his forehead onto your shoulder with a groan. The tension finally breaks a little. Just enough. You smile softly and thread your fingers through his curls. He stays there for a second, breathing you in.
“You wanna know something?” you ask quietly. He nods once against your skin. “I’ve never felt safer with anyone than I do with you.” His inhale catches sharply. “Even tonight,” you continue softly. “Especially tonight.” Clark looks up, genuinely stunned by that.
“How?”
“Because you were paying attention to me the entire time.” His eyes search yours like he’s trying to understand. “You know how many people treat roughness like they stop having to care?” you murmur. “You didn’t. You cared more.” Clark’s expression shifts slowly. Not relief. Not fully. But something gentler than panic.
“You really mean that?” You smile softly.
“Clark Kent, you looked ready to call an ambulance because you left hickeys.” His ears turn pink instantly.
“I panicked.”
“You catastrophized.”
“The bedframe split in half.”
“You're superman, unfortunately.”
“That’s not helping your argument.” You laugh quietly, and this time Clark’s mouth twitches too. Small. But real. Finally, carefully, he lifts one hand toward your throat again. He pauses just before touching the bruised skin. Asking silently. You nod. Clark’s fingertips brush the marks with heartbreaking gentleness. Like apology stitched into touch. His expression turns conflicted again almost immediately.
“Jesus." A strange flicker crosses his face then. Something warmer.
Darker. Immediately followed by guilt for feeling it. You catch it anyway.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. Clark instantly looks alarmed.
“What?”
“You liked it.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did.” His entire body betrays him at once. Flushed throat. Averting gaze. Tiny flex of his jaw. You stare at him in delight. “Clark Kent.”
“I’m having a very difficult evening.”
“You’re having a bisexual farmer crisis because your girlfriend likes your giant hands.”
“I am begging you to stop saying things like that.”
“You manhandled me a little and now you’re emotionally compromised.” Clark makes a helpless sound and drops his head against your shoulder again. You laugh softly into his hair, wrapping your arms around him carefully. After a long moment, he finally murmurs:
“…Did you really like it?” The vulnerability in the question nearly kills you. You pull back enough to kiss him gently.
“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth. “I really did.” Clark exhales shakily. Then, after a tiny pause: "Now, Superman, you better carry me back to our room and help me get dressed because I think my legs have just stopped working."
Clark laughs. It comes out breathless and disbelieving, the sound muffled slightly against your mouth like he still can’t quite process the fact that this conversation is real.
“You can’t walk?” he murmurs.
“You folded me like a lawn chair, Kent.” His entire face goes red again.
“I said I was sorry.”
“And now you have to deal with the consequences of your actions.” Clark’s hands slide carefully to your waist again, hesitating for only half a second this time before settling there fully. Still gentle. Always gentle. But less afraid now.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. You tilt your head.
“You’ve asked me that approximately forty-seven times.”
“And I’ll ask forty-seven more.” Your chest warms painfully.
God.
You reach up and smooth a curl back from his forehead.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. “Little sore. Extremely satisfied. Mildly concerned about my structural integrity tomorrow morning. But okay.” Clark groans quietly and drops his head back.
“You are impossible after sex.”
“You made me like this.”
“That feels scientifically unverifiable.”
“You’re a journalist super-hero. Investigate it.” A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth again. There he is. Finally. You tap his chest lightly.
“C’mon, big guy. Rescue mission.” Clark’s expression softens into something unbearably fond.
“Yes, ma’am.” Then he bends and slides one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. And even now—even after all of that—he lifts you like you’re precious. Not fragile. Precious. The movement is so smooth your stomach barely swoops. You instinctively curl against him, arms looping around his neck while Clark carries you back toward the bedroom.
Well. The partially destroyed bedroom.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully, “we probably should’ve had the super-strength conversation before my bedframe died in the line of duty.” Clark huffs out a laugh.
“I can buy you a new one.”
“You shattered this one with your hips. I think you owe me at least three.”
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"its not the same without you, i miss you so fucking bad" you whine, straight into your phone, hoping robby can sense the depths of your despair even when he is miles away "you literally ruined me robby"
you're not on video call, so that means you dont get to see how much the words make his fucking ego soar, that it shows in the rising smile that he aims at the ceiling of his stupid hotel room, his eyes gleaming with something sickeningly satisfied and also just plain selfish
the idea of you needing him to properly get off is producing a high he didn't even know he could experience at this point in his weathered life
his dick got alarmingly hard from the moment he heard the sadness etched into your voice, when you told him neither your poor little fingers or your toys were being sufficient anymore, that you needed him there to finish you off in the way only he knew how to do
just imagining the pout on your face as you confessed all this to him made robby's own features turn in awe
he's riding the intense power trip when he starts tugging at himself, the image of you pathetically writhing in bed, struggling without him, is enough to get him so hot and bothered that his hand set a merciless pace
"oohhhh poor baby..." he coos in a low raspy tone, the feigned pity in his voice is very convincing, as if your agonizing and miserable predicament doesn't have him ready to fucking burst at any given moment "need me to come home so soon? i just got here"
theres a pitiful sigh he hears you make at the end of the other line, something that makes robby chuckle through his ragged and harsh breathing, allowing him to mask the debauched wet sounds of his hand gliding on skin
"just promise you'll come straight to me when you're back?" you ask, more like demand, not once thinking about hiding your eagerness from him, you already know it secretly drives him crazy
you also already know he's touching himself while still pretending to entertain your little conversation
"you know i have an early shift" he comments rudely, curtly, just because he doesn't want you to hear the tightness thats taking over his vocal chords
but when you make a noise that resembles a petulant sob in response, robby thinks he might just spill all over his hand, he has to abruptly stop his stroking movements otherwise he would have groaned real fucking loud into the receiver
"after that, then" you plead, your tone high and needy while you grin wildly at the emptiness of your room "promise? please please michael, i cant stand another day of-"
"fuck me!" robby finally moans, hoarse and pained, ripping his little facade into pieces, the movements of his hand doubles tenfold when you utter a heated whimpering please right back at him
"yeah baby" he encourages "promise ill ruin you ten times over just so you miss me all the more fucking worse next time i'm gone"
contents (nsfw): Ser Duncan The Tall x fem!mer!reader (Reader has long hair because of it), wounded knight saved by a mermaid trope, switching POVs (indicated with dividers), descriptions of pain and wounds, wound tending, mild blood and gore, some fluff, virgin!Dunk, soft!Dunk, mutual pining, size kink, Dunk has a big dick (I don't make the rules), slit fingering, very slight choking, unsafe sex, monsterfucking.
synopsis: Wounded in battle he doesn't know if he won or lost, Duncan stumbles into what he thinks is his final resting place. There, a siren finds him, and she decides to spare him and keep him.
word count: 12,6K
a/n: Banner is by me, dividers by @honeyluvsw! Some dialogue is in Gaeilge, but it's translated within the text. Fathach Caoin means 'gentle giant'.
He’s seeing red. Everything around him comes muffled, as if the world has been packed with wool, but inside his own body there is no hush at all. His heart booms in his ears. He hears blood leaving him in slow, thick spills with every step. Then, the wet pull of torn flesh at his side each time he lurches forward, the wound widening, skin stretching, opening. Bruises come up under his harness like something boiling. His body has turned loud as a battlefield, though the forest itself has gone strange and far away. All the noise erupts from within him, while Ser Duncan The Tall stumbles forth through the strange land, seeing red.
The trees begin to thin by such small degrees he does not mark it at first. Trunks stand farther and farther apart, the undergrowth giving way under his boots to softer ground. Above, the sun has gone to a pale smear behind steel-coloured cloud, drained of all warmth and shape. He keeps on a little farther by stubbornness alone, one step and then another, until the wood opens sudden and wide before him. His knees fold. His sword slips from his hand. He goes down full-length upon a patch of yielding grass, too spent to break the fall, cheek turned into the damp. Somewhere close by, the world gathers itself into a single sound: the low hum of water. A bank, then. A shore of sorts. His last crossing, he thinks dimly. When he shuts his eyes, the red at last gives way to black.
He had wanted knighthood so long it seemed, once, the whole shape of a life. In younger years, trailing after his old master, watching and learning, he had thought of knights as men made for roads and vows and hard duty borne plain. He had not thought on how they died. Or rather, he had thought it would be as his master died: after long service, after years spent in defence of those weaker, with witnesses near at hand to mark the passing of a good man. Age upon him, and peace of a sort. Duncan had carried that picture without knowing it, as boys carry many foolish certainties. Never had he reckoned with ending this way—alone in a red wood, blood soaking into strange ground, unable even to say whether the last fight had been won or lost.
His fingers have gone cold. So have his feet, his arms, the long hefty span of him. The chill is working inward, creeping from the edges, and the rest of his body feels heavy in some queer and dreadful way, as if the earth has begun to claim him piece by piece. It is a weight alien to him. Duncan has known weariness, hunger, what it is to ache clean through after a day in the saddle or a hard bout in the yard, but this is different. This is heaviness without labour and cause. One that drags a man down and means to keep him.
Suddenly, warmth spills over the back of his neck.
He comes to in a jerk of breath, half-lucid. A face hangs over him, close enough that he sees the beads of water trembling on skin, the startled wideness of her eyes. Her mouth is parted. It is full of teeth, small and shining and far too many, and she watches him with the still intent look of something wondering whether he will go peaceably.
Duncan swallows. Even that hurts.
“Have you come to carry me over?” he asks, and his voice shakes like an old man’s.
She says nothing. Only cocks her head, studying him.
He tries to wet his lips and cannot. “Beg pardon,” he murmurs, for courtesy’s sake if nothing else. “I never thought death would have so fair a face.”
Her gaze shifts at that, though whether in surprise or hunger he cannot tell. Then, the dark takes him again.
A noise comes from within the trees. At first it reaches you through the water as blunt disturbance only—stamping passed down through mud and root, a dull knocking felt more than heard. Then come the sounds above it: groans and wails like some wounded thing, and the shrill scrape of metal grinding on metal. When your head breaks the skin of the pond and your ears clear the water, the truth of it comes plain: no beast; a man. His shape flickers between the trunks, hunched and monstrous in the dim.
You keep low beneath the spread of frogbit and white water-lily. The pond has taught you patience. Through the torn green of it, you watch him blunder nearer.
He is vast. Not merely tall, but made on a scale that puts him wrong against the wood. The trees themselves seem to crowd back from him. Iron drags at every step he takes. What serves him for a second skin has gone red in places where the blood has soaked through and dried and soaked through again. He has no helm. His head hangs bare. Whatever face he was born with is all but lost under blood, mud, and the blackening swell of bruises. He comes on bent at the middle, one hand clamped to his side, the other still wrapped stubborn round a sword that appears to grow heavier with each stagger.
Men do this. They go out under bits of cloth and beasts sewn on shields, under one lord’s temper and another lord’s hunger, and tear one another to ruin over slights, borders, pride, inheritance, the old dead grievances of old dead men. They fight their fickle battles over fickle things and pay the dear price with their fickle lives. You do not know what quarrel has opened this one from rib to hip. You do not know whether he earned such an end entire. Yet if he is witless enough to wear steel and bleed for some lord’s cause, then it is grace enough from any god that he should die in a place as fair as yours.
It makes your work easier. There is no need to sing for him. No need to show him a glimmering shoulder through the reeds, no need to sweeten your mouth and set a trap in your voice. Someone else has done all the hard part already. They have wearied him, broken him open, driven him half-blind right here. All he must do now is come near enough.
And the fool does. You see the moment the trees begin to fail him. The ground changes first. Leaf mould gives way to blacker, softer earth. Moss fattens green around the roots. Sphagnum swells at the water’s edge in thick, wet hummocks, bright as something lit from within. He stumbles into the clearing as if he has reached the last place appointed him and knows it.
One more step. Another. Then his knees give way.
The sword drops from his hand and vanishes into the moss with hardly a sound. He falls face-first onto the bank, onto soft bright spread of grass, all that huge bloodied length of him striking the earth. He does not even throw out a hand to save himself. For a breath he lies still.
Then the pond gathers itself around him and gives him one last sound: its low hum against the shore.
Near enough.
You draw yourself from the water slow as a reptile, hands first, then shoulders, then the long drag of the rest of you through weed and black silk mud. Pondweed clings between your fingers. Duckweed pearls green along your wrists. The smell of his blood hangs so thick in the damp that it touches the back edges of your tongue. Fresh. Salt-rich. Strong. Flesh like that would feed you well. Might make you stronger too.
Without the trees to diminish him, and laid flat upon the bank, he looks no smaller. He is still an enormity. A felled thing, all sprawled in a ruinous heap. Breath yet labours out of him in thin, rattling bursts. So he lives. Barely.
You sink nearer, careful with your hands, with your weight, your mouth already parting over the place where neck meets shoulder, where the flesh would be hottest and the taking quickest, when—
He jerks. You go still at once and wait.
His lids drag open.
Blue. A strange clear hue infants keep before the world has time to weather it into something harder. His have stayed. Though pain has driven the sense from his face and left his gaze loose with it, the colour remains clean. A row of copper lashes rims it. Tells you what the blood and mud had hidden: that the hair under all that filth must run copper too.
He swallows. Winces for it. Looks at you straight on, with no flinching, no scramble to crawl back, no fumbling for the sword gulped by the moss.
He asks his question, and for a beat you only stare. Then it comes plain: he thinks you are the thing at the edge of life come to fetch him. A ferrier. A final guide. Death with a wet face and a patient mouth. The more he speaks, the less appetite you retain.
I never thought death would have so fair a face.
And there it is. It is not the praise that stays your teeth. Men have wanted beautiful things before. Men have called you fair with their hands already reaching. Men have named your mouth sweet and your body finer than any liquor, and meant only hunger by it. This is another thing. Stripped of wits by blood-loss, emptied near to death, believing you his last companion, this knight speaks to you as though you are owed gentleness. He thinks he has met the end of his life and chooses, in that meeting, to be kind.
You have never seen the like.
For a moment longer you remain above him, bent close enough to feel the heat leaking from his body into the chill air, your own hunger held open and waiting. Then his eyes slip shut again. The weight of him settles back into the earth. The bank goes quiet save for that poor, thin rattle in his chest.
Your mouth closes.
In your world, the choices are plain: eat or spare, whether it is your own kind or any other. Each is a way of keeping, in the strictest sense of the word. Who is kept in the belly and who in the groin depends on the keeper’s strength, or mercy. Just now, both are at war within you. You are stronger than the dying knight, for the moment. Yet you can see exactly how much the ugly world of men would lose if he were gone. And how much you might gain if you chose to keep him, the way a maiden keeps a man.
“Stócach amaideach,” you groan. A foolish lad indeed.
Both hands go to him first at the shoulder, to test the matter. Give him a shove—nothing. A second, harder. His body shifts no more than the grass does under him. The iron makes a carcass of him. Nearly seven feet of man, all breadth and bone, dressed up in rings and plates enough to drown an even bigger creature outright. You bare your teeth at him though he does not see it.
There is no hauling him anywhere like this. Not up the bank, not into the reeds, not to the shelf of drier ground beneath the alders. You might drag a stag. You might drag two men grown soft on bread and ale. This one is another matter. The blood has not emptied him of his size.
With a sound low in your throat, you drop flat upon your belly beside him, tail lashing once against the water and sending a fan of duckweed spinning. Mud cools your ribs, slickens the gills there. Annoyance goes hot through you all the same. For a little while you lie there glaring at the side of his ruined head, as though the knight has done this on purpose purely to spite you.
Then your eyes go to the armour. That, at least, can be mended.
You push yourself up and set to work. His belt first, stiff with wet and caked dark. The buckle fights you, so you wrench it free. Then the straps at his shoulders. His surcoat clings where the fabric has dried to him. Under it the mail hangs heavy as river chain. You plant one hand in the moss, coil your tail hard beneath you for leverage, and tug until the weight of it gives with a dull wet drag. Piece by piece, you unmake him from what men have put on him. A pauldron slick with mud. A vambrace. The quilted jack beneath, sodden through. Rings of mail whisper and clink against one another as you peel them back from his chest.
He grunts once when you shift him. Still alive enough to object. “Be still,” you mutter, though he has no say in it now—more of him comes free.
The body under all that iron is much as the rest promised: broad, hard, made thick with labour rather than vanity. His chest is furred copper-gold where it is not slicked flat with sweat. Old scars lie pale across his skin, each one laid down by some earlier foolishness survived. New hurts crowd among them. One brow is split deep enough to mat blood right through his lashes and into his hair. Purple has risen ugly under one eye and along the hinge of his jaw. His shoulder is swelling wrong beneath your hand, whether wrenched or bruised hard enough to half-dislocate. The worst lies at his side: a long slash below the ribs where flesh has opened and opened again with every step he took through the wood. Blood still wells there in slow thick gleams.
You draw back and look at it. A man should have dropped sooner from such a wound. This one had walked. Again you click your tongue at him, softer this time.
The bog gives you what you need, as it always has. You know where the thick green pillows of sphagnum swell brightest above the black water, where soft rush grows in clumps fit for binding, where yarrow lifts its ragged leaves higher up the bank, spared the deepest wet. You move quick, gathering with both hands. Sphagnum in great dripping handfuls. Yarrow torn bitter at the stem. A strip of bark from the willow bent low over the far edge of the pool. When you return, you rinse the moss in clear seep-water where it runs cold from the stones, then squeeze it once between your palms.
He does not wake when you clean the cut. His body only flinches under yours. Blood loosens and runs anew beneath the water. Mud comes with it. You work your fingers carefully through the parted flesh, clearing grit, clearing leaf-rot, clearing whatever would fester if left in. When the wound is clean enough to judge, you bend close and press your mouth to the torn edge of him.
Your saliva floods warm.
It tastes of iron and rain and man. Under your tongue the flesh stirs, not closing whole and clean—that would be a greater gift than he has earned—but quickening. The bleeding slows. The raw edges draw tighter. Heat gathers where your mouth has been, the body taking instruction from yours. You do it again, lower, then once more along the deepest part of the gash until your jaw aches and the blood comes less freely.
Curiosity keeps your hands on him after the bleeding eases. You set them at his hips, thumbs fitting into the hollows where hard muscle sheathes over bone, and wonder how such a frame would feel beside yours, under yours, pinned between your tail and the bank. For a moment you lower your cheek to the warm plane of his belly, where coarse hairs narrow and point the way down. Then, before sense can catch up, you slip a finger under the damp edge of his braies and lift. There the weight of him rests, soft with unconsciousness and still imposing.
“My, my,” you murmur, mouth wetting at the sight. No smaller than the males of your own kind, only stranger made—smooth where they are barbed, blunt where they are built for tearing. Pretty. To unwrap him and coax him up in your hand would not be difficult. But you want him back at full strength. Better to let the blood replenish before it is asked to labour elsewhere.
After, you pack the cut with sphagnum, dense and cool, pressing the moss into the cut place until it drinks what still seeps out. You bind him round with rush and the torn strips of his own undershirt, winding them firm beneath his back and over the waist. For the brow, more moss. For the swelling shoulder, willow bark chewed soft between your teeth and laid in a mash against the worst of it. You wipe your wrists across your mouth and sit back to inspect your work.
He looks only a little less like carrion, but it will have to do.
For a while you remain beside him as dusk thickens in the reeds, one hand spread on the broad plane of his chest to feel the rise and fall. It still rattles. It still rises. Great fool that he is, he keeps choosing life even senseless.
With the worst of the grime rinsed from him, the other kind of pretty emerges from under the wreck. His hair, where it dries in the last of the light, indeed burns a dark copper, made richer still by the sinking sun. Fair skin lies under it, though hard-used, and across the breadth of his cheeks there runs a scattering of freckles so pale they only show when the blood is gone from them. Strange, that a face built on such a scale should keep anything of boyhood about it. Stranger still that it does not make him look foolish. Only unguarded.
A giant sleeps at your shore, broken open, and he is gentle.
“Fathach caoin,” you murmur, as though naming him might make the task lighter. Then, with a weary glance at the bank and the darkening pond beyond: “You had best prove worth the trouble.”
He’s seeing orange. Warmth bakes him into the ground and paints the inside of his lids. Dunk feels significantly alive for someone who’s welcomed death with tranquil acceptance. Something binds his ribs quite tightly and the morning chill lakes his chest with gooseflesh.
He frowns before his eyes are even open. The hurt is there, yes, but dulled to something he knows how to bear. Instead of the white-red tearing he remembers and the feeling of his side coming apart each time he drew breath comes soreness. Pull. Throb. The pain a living man may yet complain of.
Slowly, as if he half expects the effort to prove too much for him, he pries his lids apart.
Sunlight drives in, bright and merciless. Duncan winces and shuts them again, turning his face away. For a little while he lies still with his teeth gritted, waiting for the hot dazzle behind them to settle. Then he tries anew, more careful, peering through his lashes first.
Sky. Reeds. The hard gold of morning laid over black water. No seven hells. No pale halls. No ferryman either.
He pushes himself up on one elbow. At once the world tells him several impossible things. His chest is bare to the air. Something coarse and damp is wound round his middle and under one arm, binding him up with more ingenuity than neatness. Looking down, he finds his side packed thick with green-brown moss where blood should have been. Another clot of it has been pressed to his brow. When he touches the binding with cautious fingers, he feels the pull of torn skin made tighter, cleaner, less ruinous than he remembers.
Dunk stares. “Well,” he mutters hoarsely to no one. “That is queer.”
A pile lies beside him on the bank, close enough that he might have reached it in the night had he been able. His surcoat, his mail, his sword belt, the quilted jack beneath—everything dark and stiff with dried blood. His sword has been laid atop the heap as if set there by a hand that understood what it was. The sight of it turns his stomach strangely. So he had not dreamt the fight, nor the wound, nor the red wood or the black water at the edge of it.
He looks again at the moss stuffed into his side. His hand goes once to his chest, as if to make certain the heart is still there and working—it is. A touch too fast, perhaps, but stout enough. He draws a deeper breath to test himself and finds the pain sharp but bearable.
Someone has saved him. The notion is so unlikely that it holds him for another moment, blinking in the sun, bare as a babe from the waist up and swaddled in reeds like some marsh-born fool. He is still trying to make sense of it when the pond beside him breaks with a sudden heavy splash. Something larger than a fish. Considerably larger.
He turns toward the sound and finds you already looking at him.
You lie stretched along a flat rock at the water’s edge, belly to the stone, chin propped in your hands as though you have been there some while, waiting for him to wake. There is nothing shy in the stare you give him. It is the stare of a creature keeping watch over what it has caught. Your claws rest plain against your cheek, curved and dark at the tips. Behind you, the long reach of your tail trails down into the pond and moves through it in an idle sweep that sends rings over the black water.
It is a tail fit to shame his legs. Longer by far than any fish’s ought to be, thick where it begins, made with a strength that shows even in stillness, it narrows and lengthens until the water takes it from him. Where it passes below the surface, it almost disappears. The pond seems to claim it for its own. Under the water it turns rich moss-green, flickering pale now and then like the quick side of a fish. Above the water, the scales catch the morning sun and answer it back in shifting colours—green first, then blue, then a coppery rose, then something gold at the very edge of each movement, bright and hard as the back of a rose chafer.
Dunk’s gaze follows the whole splendid length of it before he has the wit to stop. By the time he reaches the place where human’s buttocks should be, heat is already climbing his neck. He jerks his eyes aside and only worsens the matter for himself. Your body broadens there in a way that leaves him shamefully aware of himself, aware too that he is gaping and that you have likely caught him at it. He goes higher in haste, seeking some safer sight, and finds none waiting.
The scales climb and thin along your shape, framing the inward draw of your waist and the line of your spine before scattering into singular bright points that glitter in the sun like freckles thrown there by a careless hand. Along your ribs, slits open and close in a steady rhythm. Your forearms are drawn carefully over your chest, though what catches him hardest is your face.
He had seen it once before through blood-loss and darkness, and thought it the face of death. Morning does nothing to disprove him.
Your mouth is wet and soft-looking despite the sharpness of your teeth. Your lashes cast faint shadows. Your brows pull together in what seems meant for sternness, though something in the set of them goes sweeter than severe. You watch him with an intensity that strips him bare quicker than the lack of shirt ever could. Duncan swallows and feels the movement all down his bruised throat. Intimidated hardly begins to cover it.
He wets his lips once, then reaches blindly for the nearest bit of cloth from the heap beside him and drags it awkwardly across his chest, as though that might restore some part of his dignity. It does very little. Still, he gathers what remains and bows his head as best he can from where he sits.
“M-m’lady,” he says.
The word leaves him before he can better it. He has no notion whether you are a lady, some water-spirit, or a peril he ought to fear a deal more than he does. Courtesy is what he has, so courtesy is what he gives you.
His eyes lift again, wary and earnest both. “I would thank you,” he says, a touch hoarse, “if thanks is what’s due. Though I confess, I do not rightly know to whom I owe my life.”
“Dúisithe faoi dheireadh.”
Awake at long last.
You roll from the rock with scarcely a sound but for the slick slap of your body leaving stone. A moment later your tail hauls a great sheet of water in his direction. It strikes his shoulder and chest and darkens the shirt bunched there in his fists.
“You must wash,” you tell him. “You may no longer be dying, but other people’s death still clings to you. It disturbs me.”
“Beg pardon, I—” he stammers, blinking water from his lashes. “I’ve bled on your shore.”
That wins from you a laugh, full-chested and bright. You drift onto your back with the ease of something born to water, and the movement sends your hair sliding from your front. The glimpse of side-breast that follows is enough to set Duncan’s head swimming worse than the blood loss did.
“That you have,” you say. “Nothing cold water will not clean. Come—” You pause, eyeing him. “What kind of knight are you?”
“A hedge knight. Ser Duncan the Tall,” he says, eyes down.
At that, Dunk climbs to his feet, clutching the shirt. Then, as if seized all at once by the knowledge that standing half-naked before a water spirit may call for some greater decency, he drags it hastily over his head and very nearly tangles himself in it besides. When he straightens, he finds the cloth has shrunk by half a war. The hem catches well above where it ought to, leaving a broad strip of his stomach bare. Duncan could swear your mouth parts a little at the sight.
“Ser Duncan the Tall,” you repeat. Your hand spreads over the skin of the pond, fingers trailing. “Come. I’ll show you where the water runs clear.”
He goes as bid, though each step he takes toward the pond has a measure of caution in it, as if the water might change its mind and bite. The bank gives under his weight. Mud takes his feet to the ankle and holds them there a moment before letting go with a soft obscenity. He comes on anyway, the chill already rising from the water before he has set so much as a toe into it.
When he does, it is cold enough to strike a sound from him. He sucks breath through his teeth. The next step brings it to his shins, the next to his thighs. By the time it has him to the waist, the whole of him has gone tight with it. His wounds wake afresh under the shock. Cloth blooms and tugs round him under the surface, braies and shirt both dragging with the pull of the current. You move ahead with idle ease, and he follows as far as his long legs will allow. Half because you bade him, half because there is little else to do now but trust the creature who has already had him helpless and left him living.
The pond proves stranger the farther in he goes. The black stillness near the bank gives way to movement. Water threads colder and quicker round his knees, then his thighs, shouldering itself through narrow places between stone and reed. Ahead, it clears to glass over a bed of rock and pale sand. A basin, he thinks dimly. A widening in the course of some hidden run, where stream feeds pond and pond feeds stream in turn. He has just enough time to marvel at it before his next step finds nothing.
The ground drops clean away.
He pitches forward with all his size behind him and vanishes in a single great plunge. Water slams into his ears, nose, his open mouth. Something hard clips him on the face as he goes down—stone, sharp-edged enough to split the lower lip—and the taste of blood bursts quick over his tongue. For a flurried instant all he feels is cold. He flings out an arm and finds no purchase. Then, hands seize him under the pits.
Even now, with his clothes heavy, the water takes enough of his weight that you can haul him. He comes up hard, breaking the surface with a ragged gasp that tears at his side. Blood slips bright from his mouth and strings briefly from his chin before the current steals it.
“Forgive me,” he coughs, wiping at his lip with the back of his wrist.
Your eyes go to heaven, or whatever part of the sky may serve in its place.
By the time you guide him to firmer footing, the bottom has steadied under his soles, though the river still holds him high—up beneath the arms, cold at the ribs, tugging at his clothes. He stands there dripping and raw-lipped while you watch him as one might watch an ox brought in mud-caked from the field.
“You must undress.”
The words strike him near as sharply as the stone did.
Dunk blinks. “That would not be decent.”
“It would be fouler still to put those rags back over clean wounds.” Your gaze flicks once to his side, to the bindings gone dark in patches where the water has touched them. “You would ruin my work.”
That shuts him up more thoroughly than any modest protest might have done. “Aye,” he says after a moment, head bowing of its own accord.
His fingers fumble at the hem of the shirt. He peels it away in stages, the cloth reluctant to leave him. Across from him you have sunk almost wholly beneath the surface, all save the upper plane of your face and the shine of your hair fanned around it. The water holds your shoulders, your belly, the long hidden strength of your tail. Only your eyes remain fully above water, fixed upon him without so much as a blink, and something about that unwavering regard makes his hands clumsier still. He feels all at once too large for his own body, too visible in it, as though every inch he uncovered made his size, his awkwardness, his youth plain.
He gets the shirt off at last and stands with it bunched stupidly in one hand. You come nearer.
There is scarcely a sound to mark it. One moment you are several feet away, the next the water has shut and opened round you again at his side. You dip below the surface to inspect the wound, and Dunk, who has faced armed men before with steadier nerves than this, goes rigid all through. Cool fingers find the knot at his ribs. They work it loose with an efficiency that leaves no room for fantasy, yet fantasy arrives all the same, unbidden and hot. The reeds slacken. The binding eases. He lifts his arms because it seems prudent to put them somewhere, and winds up standing with them out from his sides in a posture so awkward he would laugh at it himself were he not busy dying of shame.
The moss comes free in blood-dark clumps. They spin away upon the water and catch in eddies near his hip. Your hands return. This is the first time he truly feels them: not the fact of being tended, but the touch itself. Your fingers are cool, though warmer than the current. Slender and firm. Certain in what they mean to do. They pass over the torn place at his side, then farther across him as you steady him with a palm spread low on his belly.
Every part of Dunk seems to wake.
Heat pours through him so fast it is near alarming. It starts where you touch him and goes everywhere else with indecent speed—up his throat, across his chest, down into the water where he would rather remain altogether unreadable. He fixes his eyes on the far bank. On a stand of reeds. On anything. The hand on his stomach holds him with easy confidence, keeping him from swaying while you clear the wound, and he throws all his strength into stillness. He holds himself rigid. Even the smallest movement seems perilous to him now. His breath goes thin and careful. His body, treacherous great thing, feels poised to answer even that much.
Water laps softly at his waist. Your hair moves against his skin once, a drifting brush, and he nearly groans from so little. He swallows and keeps his gaze pinned ahead.
The effort of seeming untroubled occupies him so completely he is half convinced he manages it. Then he hears himself breathe—thin, careful, wholly unlike a man at ease—and knows the game is lost.
When Duncan stands, you realise he has not borne the name The Tall in vain. He rises and rises, broad as a gate, sun-struck and awkward and shamefully magnificent. Your mouth parts, caught between awe and a hunger that sits perilously close to longing.
You lead him through the water towards the clearer part of the basin, and your fingers itch to lay hands on him again. The fool manages to stumble, worsen his hurts, and apologise for it besides, which makes your heart swell in a way that sits badly in your chest. His reddened lip distracts you so thoroughly that you duck beneath the surface to wash him.
While you work, it becomes noticeable.
Above the waist, Duncan holds himself as if discipline alone might carry him through it. He stands in the basin like some half-ruined statue planted there by an older people, chin up, mouth set hard when you peer at him through the wavering skin of the water, eyes fixed stubbornly on the trees beyond your head. His hands stay spread from his sides, fingers splayed, as though touching you by accident would be the greater impropriety.
Silly man.
Below the waist, his body keeps no such vows. It knows you and answers. Your hair drifts with the current and combs across the taut plane of his belly. At that, his pelvis gives the smallest, betraying hitch. Lower still, the thick shape under his braies stirs and knocks against the damp cloth, a blunt, eager motion that sends a small heat through you sharper than any craving. He goes all the stiller for it, as though he might shame the flesh back into obedience by refusing to move another inch.
When the work is done, you decide to be cruel enough to enjoy it.
You rise slowly, fingers following the plane of his stomach, and break the surface so close to him that he starts. Water spills from your lashes and straight across your open eyes, and still you do not blink. “It heals well,” you tell him.
“H-how?”
“All the tricks the hedge-witches know too. Plants, mostly. And then some wound-licking, like all beasts do.”
You watch the meaning strike. First confusion, then comprehension, then a flush that begins high on his cheeks and runs everywhere: down his throat, up to the tips of his ears, even into the split and swollen shape of his mouth. His gaze jerks away and comes back again, poorer for somewhere to rest. It is a lovely thing to do to him.
His hands drop beneath the water, too late to hide what has already announced itself. When he looks at you again, the blue of his eyes has gone grave enough to pin. “You’re no beast to me,” he says, and says it like an oath.
The words catch you wrong-footed. Before you can think better of it, you lunge and wind your arms round his neck, bringing your mouth near enough his bruised lip that he must feel your breath there. “I am a beast,” you hiss. “You live because I chose not to feed. Because I chose to keep you.”
His answer is stranger still. Instead of putting you off, he catches you. His hands come to your waist on instinct, spanning so broad they nearly cover the gills laid along your ribs, steadying you where the water shifts under your weight. “Keep me?” he asks, and the words come rough, thinned by the effort it costs him not to notice how your breasts have pressed to his chest.
You nod. “Even if you run from me, it is no great loss. The world has too few men who can look death in the face and mind their manners. Too few who, once made prey, speak kindly to what means to devour them.”
“Are you,” Dunk asks, voice gone low and uneven, “meaning to devour me?”
You smile at that, slow and mean. Your tail coils round one of his legs, the fin dragging light along the inner seam of his thigh. “Would you have me?”
He jerks at the touch and clutches you tighter before sense returns and he tries, clumsily, to loose his hold. You do not let him. “I—” he begins, and fails. His throat works. “I oughtn’t—I mean—”
“Do you fear me?” you ask. “I gave you the force your body needs to mend itself. If I had wanted you dead, I had better chances of it when the bank was drinking your blood.”
“No,” he says, and then, because truth seems to drive him even where he would rather hedge, “No, only—I swore vows. To defend the innocent. To do no dishonour where I can help it. I’d serve you gladly for what you’ve done, but—”
Understanding comes over you whole. It is there in the way he cannot meet your eyes for long, in the care with which he holds even the body he wants, in the shame that seizes him over wanting at all. This vast creature of iron, oath, and sinew; this man all through in his shoulders, his scars, the weight between his legs, the old-fashioned decency that dogs him like a second shadow—and here, hidden in plain sight, the untouched part of him. The boy still tucked inside the knight.
“You’ve never had a woman,” you say softly.
Dunk shakes his head once. Abashment settles red along his skin again, deeper this time, and something like fear goes with it.
It makes you ease. Your grip slackens, though you do not yet slip from where you hang at his neck. “Does it pain you?” you ask, and bring a hand to his mouth. Your thumb passes over the split in his lip, smearing what blood has dried there. He flinches hard enough for the water to stir round you both, then gives a small, unwilling nod.
“Would you like me to mend that too?”
“Please,” Duncan says, and his lids lower as if in surrender.
You lean in and lick the cut clean. His eyes shut fully; yours stare. Your mouth closes over his lip and draws at it, then worries it with the gentlest edge of your teeth, careful of the torn place. His arms gather you closer. Strong. Enormous. Built for hauling men from saddles, for splitting shields, for holding fast—and now holding you with such caution that the thought of what else those arms might do goes through you like fire.
His mouth parts under yours. The sound he makes is so slight you nearly miss it, a breath more than a voice, and you take it in greedily. He breathes through his nose, hard and unsteady, one broad palm spread between your shoulder blades as though to keep himself from crushing you nearer.
So you deepen it. Your tongue goes into his mouth with all the boldness he lacks, while his answers with a care that undoes you more thoroughly than hunger ever has. He tastes of river water, blood, and the plain, clean want. A hand leaves your back and comes up to your face, awkward in its tenderness, pushing the wet fall of your hair behind your shoulder. From a single kiss you know enough: he would be fervent and quiet both, and all the fiercer for how he tries to govern himself. But the fear in him stays your hand. He is not yours for the taking.
You draw back by degrees. “There,” you murmur, close enough that your mouths nearly brush again. “It should trouble you less by morning.”
Then, you force yourself to loosen from him altogether and turn half away, though it does nothing to cool the ache low in your body. “You may remain here until you are mended. A day or two, I think. I’ll bring fish. You may make a fire on my bank if you like. And after that, you may go—if going is what you want.”
When you look back, he is standing just as you left him: dazed, eyes gone bright as wet glass, his bruised mouth drawn into a frown as though he does not trust the ground under him. He swallows once. “I thank you for your kindness, m’lady,” is all he says.
He is grateful. For the food. For the fire you let him light. For the mercy of being allowed to remain what he is at heart, though Dunk has the growing sense that it is you who preserve his virtue, not he yours. That first night he sleeps with his belly full, his side held in a band of warmth, his body laid in the soft cradle of the grass. The fire cracks and settles beside him. Beyond that comes the lazy wash of water and the faint shifting drag of your tail through it.
He dreams.
Of your mouth first, cool and clever on his split lip. Then of it lower. Of his own full of your breast, drinking at you like a starving babe made monstrous. Of his hands running up the long strength of your tail until they find your hips and hold them down. Scales scatter over your back in his dream like coins on a saint’s cloth, and he counts them with his tongue. Your hair winds round his throat like a ribbon and pulls when you want him closer. Your hands go to his backside and drag him hard against you, and the force of it jars through his whole body until he wakes with a gasp, hot through, his cock throbbing so fiercely under his braies it near doubles him.
For one sick instant he thinks you must have seen it. Then shame takes him by the nape and he turns hard onto his belly, as though the earth might swallow what his body has done. By the time the dawn has thinned the mist, the linen between his legs is damp and cooling and he can scarcely bear to think of himself at all.
You spare him the privacy of not noticing, or else you are kind enough to pretend. Dunk does not know which. He only knows he would split his lip anew for the chance to taste your tongue again, and the knowledge sits in him like a brand.
Until now he has always known his body in one fashion only. As weight, reach, hunger, ache. As a thing for fighting in and sleeping hard upon. As something too large for most benches, most doorways, most rooms, most companies of men. It serves him well enough with a sword in hand and badly enough when there is no sword to hide behind. His business has always been to master it, to make it useful, to keep it from frightening decent folk more than can be helped.
Around you another kind of knowing steals over him. He feels your eyes on him and they do not hold the flinch he is used to. Sometimes there is curiosity in them. Sometimes amusement. Once or twice a look that smoulders so plain it puts heat into his face and lower. At moments there is even fondness, which disarms him worst of all. He is certain he looks at you much the same and wonders if you know it. Wonders if a creature such as you can smell want on a man the way a hound scents blood.
Decency remains dear to him. Dear as his vows, dear as any lesson Ser Arlan ever gave him. Yet for the first time in his life the thought of something softer and stranger than his own calloused fist closing round him keeps him restless at night and tight-strung through the day.
That day passes in your company. He tells you of his old master, and you listen with your head tilted and your hair afloat round you in the shallows like weed in a current. In return you show him the marsh as though it were a keep under your charge. You tell him of your kind in scraps, never enough to satisfy him. You show him where the yarrow grows white at the edges of the reeds, how to gather sphagnum from the wetter ground without taking rot with it, how willow bark must be chewed soft before it will give up its bitterness proper. He watches your mouth while you work and has to look away when the thought comes of what else he might lay between those teeth for gentle use.
He mends quickly. Quicker than he ought, perhaps. By the second evening he can stand without feeling the world slide off its hinges beneath him, and that ought to please him. Instead it leaves him sore in some place no salve will reach. For you have not only spared him and kept him, but released him besides, and Dunk has seen so little mercy in the world of late that he scarcely knows what to do with this kind. It does not feel like mercy at all. It feels like a hole opening in his chest as the light goes out, broad and clean and incurable.
He lies wakeful by the bank while the last of the fire gnaws itself into red. After a time he rolls to his side and watches you drift in the water, half-lost in reeds and moon-glimmer. You hum into the night, low and strange, the tune turning back on itself like current in a narrow place. It puts him in mind of no song he knows. A marsh spirit’s song, perhaps. Or a prayer said by something older than men.
He thinks, not for the first time, how beautiful you are. Not in the dainty fashion of courtly tales, all ribbons and rose-leaf mouths, but in some harsher, truer way. Beautiful as deep water, as polished stone, as the flash of a fish’s belly before it is gone. He thinks too how lucky he is that it was you who found him and not some greediest thing the bog had hidden. Any fiercer creature might have taken the copper from his purse, the sword from his hand, the flesh from his bones. You took only the blood he could spare and then gave him back the rest. It feels almost as if some god bent close to him in the dark and chose, for reasons of its own, to be gentle.
The thought leaves him raw. Absently, he says into the reeds, “I shall be in your debt all my days.”
You start as though struck. Your head comes up sharp from the water. The humming breaks. For an instant he thinks it was the words alone, but then you turn too quickly and the long of your hair snags in the split crotch of a root thrust out over the bank. At once you jerk the wrong way. The strands draw tighter. Water slaps. You hiss—a quick, furious sound more like an otter’s than any lady’s.
Dunk is on his feet before his side has time to object.
“M’lady—hold still.” He stumbles the last step and drops to one knee at the bank. You bare your teeth at him, half in pain, half in temper, one hand tangled in the caught mass while the other braces on the root. The more you pull, the worse it winds.
“Do not tell me to hold still.”
“I only meant—” He stops himself, for this is plainly no hour to explain. “Only let me help.”
You glare at him through the dark shine of your wet hair. Then, with a muttered Mo chreach in a tongue he does not know, you cease fighting it. It sounds like it means Curse it.
The caught strands are wrapped tight round a knob of bark and threaded through a split in the wood where floodwater must have worried it open. Dunk sets both hands to it with more care than he has ever given a blade-edge. Your hair is slick as river weed and finer than any silk he has touched, and every time his knuckles brush the side of your neck your breath goes short. That does not help him any.
“There,” he murmurs, though there is not yet any there to it. “I have it. Near enough.”
“You do not.”
“Ah,” he admits. “Not yet.”
A laugh catches you by surprise then, small and unwilling. It startles him worse than your teeth did. He glances up. You are watching him with your mouth parted a little, all that fierce, uncanny beauty drawn close and strange in the moonlight.
So he bends back to the work, patient as any septa with a snarl of thread, prising one lock free after another while the bank smells of mud and willow and the water keeps kissing softly at your ribs. By the time the worst of it loosens, he is breathing hard, and not only from the ache in his side.
What comes over him then Dunk could not have said, not for all the gold in Casterly Rock. Perhaps it is the sight of you bent fierce and helpless over your own caught hair. Perhaps the feel of it still sliding over his hands. Perhaps only the thought of leaving at dawn and going from this place with nothing of you but the memory of your mouth. Whatever it is, it has him speaking before sense can catch up.
“Would you like me to braid it?”
You stare at him. In the moonlight your eyes look blacker than the bog. “Can you?” you ask at last. Then, with that sharpness that never quite leaves you: “And will my bare chest not shame you?”
A breath of laughter from him. “It surely will,” he says, honest as ever. Then some small, stubborn courage rises in him from parts lower than his vows and lodges square in the chest. “But I’d count it an honour besides.”
“Yes,” you say, quick and certain, as though you had only been waiting for him to prove worthy of the task. “Braid my hair.”
So you turn your back to him and come nearer the bank, sitting, while Dunk settles awkwardly behind you. He is no great hand at it. Once, long ago in Flea Bottom, he watched women plait one another’s hair on stoops in the evening light, fingers flying while they gossiped and laughed and cuffed any boy who stared too long. He remembers only the principle: divide, cross, gather, keep even. His hands are built for reins and sword-hilts, not this. Still, he tries.
The first pull earns him a flick of your tail and a hiss through your teeth.
“Beg pardon,” he mutters.
“Do not beg. Learn.”
So he learns. A little. Enough to draw the mass together and work it down into something serviceable, if not handsome. It lies thick as a rope by the time he reaches the end, damp and heavy in his hands. All the while you sit strangely still for a creature of current and appetite, save for the occasional impatient twitch when he tugs too hard. Dunk does his best not to notice the whole smooth span of your back before him, bare where moonlight finds it, narrowing to the wet dark of your waist. He notices it all the same. By the end of it his mouth has gone dry.
“Done,” he says, and hears how weak it comes out.
Then, gods above and all the stranger gods below, you turn.
Moonlight has you whole this time. No reeds in the way. No water to break you into pieces. You come between his spread knees with the slow certainty of something that has already decided the matter, and settle there close enough that the cool of your skin reaches through his clothes. “Thank you, ser,” you say, and sweetness in your mouth is a far more dangerous thing than any hiss.
His heart turns over so hard it near stuns him. Before he can think what he is about, he takes your hand and bows his head to it, pressing his mouth to the back of it in a gentlemanly way, as though you were some great lady and he a proper knight with a proper title to his name.
Your fingers curl against his. Still holding, Dunk takes your palm and turns it over in both of his. He brings one claw to the split in his lip and presses until the cut opens fresh. Pain bites, quick and clean. He keeps your finger there while the blood wells dark along his mouth and watches what comes over your face when you see it.
“Would you mend it once more?” he asks.
Your answer is to catch the end of the braid in one hand, wind it once round the back of his neck, and draw him in.
This time there is nothing medicinal in it. You drink from the torn place with open greed, tongue hot and searching where before it had been careful. Dunk makes a rough sound into your mouth and grips at your waist, all thought burning off him in a rush. The blood is hardly there before you have taken it. What remains is the kiss itself, deep and wet and ruinous, until his head swims worse than it did from the blow that felled him.
“I thought,” you breathe, the words broken by another hungry press, “you meant to leave me without letting me have you.”
His eyes roll back with the force of wanting. He gathers you closer without meaning to, one arm under you, the other firm at your back, and rises in a single clumsy surge to his feet. The movement tears at his side and he barely feels it.
“Have me,” Dunk says, and there is only naked truth to it. “Gladly. I do not know what you see in me, m’lady, nor why a wonder such as you should want aught of mine—but if you do, I’d be the world’s greatest fool to deny you.”
You look at him then as if he has said something finer than he knows how to say, and for once you do not mock him for it.
So he carries you.
He carries you as though he was built for nothing else, down from the bank and over the water to the flat stone where first he saw you rise, pale now under the moon and waiting like an altar. Your arms stay looped round his neck. Your braid drips cold against his shoulder. His pulse beats wild where your breast is pressed to him, and by the time he sets you down, his hands are shaking with the effort of holding back all the things he means to give you if only you will show him how.
For one wavering instant he only looks at you, chest labouring. You give him but a moment to stand there in it.
One of your hands goes to him, greedy and unashamed, and the touch of it through the cloth strikes through him so hard he bows like a man hit low with a poleaxe. Breath leaves him. His fingers claw at the air beside him before finding the rock. Heat tears through his middle, bright and ruinous, and with it a helpless sound he has not the dignity to swallow back.
“Mercy,” he says, though there is no true wish for it in him. “Slow—pray, slow a little.”
Your eyes flash up at him, bright with appetite and amusement both. He feels warm to the throat, near trembling, and still he tries for courtesy, for order, for some scrap of knightly manner in a place that has stripped him of all armour worth the name.
“I’ll do as you tell me,” he says, voice roughened nearly past bearing. “Only—show me. I would not wrong you for want of knowing.”
That stills you. The greed stays in your face, but it settles into something more intent. You ease back against the stone and let your body lengthen there, all bold invitation and perverse ease, your hands opening toward him as though calling a beast from the dark. Moonlight gathers along the line of you. Your tail glimmers where it falls away into shadow. Your breast spills softly with the movement, and Dunk, poor soul, is half-struck through by the sight of it.
He comes when beckoned. With obedience and without confidence. With awe, almost. He lowers himself to his knees over you, great and awkward and trying so hard to be careful that you give him a charmed look. The rock receives his weight with a dull scrape. His breath comes hard through his nose. He does not know where to put his hands until you take one of them and place it high, against the soft warm weight of your tit. The other you guide lower.
He shudders. Squeezes your chest and takes note of how neatly the heft of your breast fits his palm. The rest he lets you guide, because the threat of shattering from the sight alone is far too great.
You draw his fingers over the scales until skin finds a hidden place where they part. There lies a slit, smooth and silky and made to unman him. Duncan breathes, “Oh, by the gods.”
“This is where you fill me,” you tell him, eyes rapt. “This is where I want you.” Then, your lips find his once more. He tastes the same tongue that healed him, the same teeth that could end him and did not. Never in his life had Duncan thought he would find anything to swell so sweetly in his mouth as food or ale, yet here it is. How he came all this way with no more than grateful pecks to the cheek and otherwise wholly unkissed feels, all at once, beyond belief.
All the while, you keep guiding his hand until your body answers him open. And Duncan is made painfully aware that up until now, the body has only ever seemed to him a thing for work. Whenever he had been troubled by primal urges, he tried to throttle the feeling by haste and harshness, or else by the sheer force of his will. Now, as he slides one finger inside you, he’s being shown plainly that bodies exist not only for work. Gods have given them the ability to feel pleasure and it is evident on your face and in the way your shape flutters and arches and pushes itself onto him.
“You’re the softest thing I’ve ever touched,” he whispers, bewildered by himself. By the way his blood shifts places and fills him below the loins until he’s hard. By the way he answers your wetness with his own—pearling at the tip, soaking through the cloth and making the crown of his cock feel cold when he shifts on his knees.
“More,” you rasp, wriggling. “Give me one more.” At that, your hand finds the braid. You draw it over your shoulder and wind it twice round his neck, slow as a tether being laid. Not hard enough to hurt. Hardly hard enough to hold at all. Just enough that he feels the claim of it. Just enough that he understands.
He brings his forehead to yours and the second finger inside, feeling you stretch and swallow him down to the last knuckle. Mere thought of the same sensation enveloping his cock sends Duncan’s head spinning.
When he thrusts gently, the loveliest purr spills out of your mouth. Your face rises and rubs itself on his, lips pulling on his chin and cheek rasping on cheek. “Is liomsa thú,” you murmur.
“What’s that mean?”
“You’re mine,” you tell him. “No soul will know but you and I. But you are.”
“Aye,” he breathes. “That I am.”
“Then give me the rest of you,” you say. “Fill me properly.”
The words slice through him like strong drink on an empty stomach. For half a beat Duncan can only stare, as if he has misheard you and the night will kindly correct itself if he waits.
It does not. You mean it. Worse—better—you mean it without shame, as though wanting him were the simplest thing in the world. No woman has ever spoken to him so. No woman has ever looked at him as though his body were something desired for its own sake and not borne because it must be. Heat surges through him so hard it leaves his thoughts in disarray. He has dreamed, in the clumsy miserable way of lonely men, but dreams had never prepared him for the sound of such words in a living voice, said with your mouth still swollen from his kisses.
When he pulls his hands out of you, they come covered in clear brine. He fumbles at the ties of his braies with fingers that no longer seem wholly his own, and your palm comes over his—cool, assured, impatient with trembling. Your fingers tangle with his and for a moment he can do nothing but hang his head down and watch the two of you joined there. The way you help him find his girth and stroke it. The way your slick coats him. His hand, obeying, as though it has always belonged under your instruction.
“Gods help me,” Duncan mutters. “If you keep on so, I shall shame myself.”
By the time you draw him nearer, he is beyond any rescue. Your hands go elsewhere then—up under the hem of his shirt, stripping the last hindrance from him, then down again with fresh purpose. They travel the width of his sides and settle hard at his buttocks, claiming, directing. Duncan bows over you on a shuddering breath, feeling himself handled like something wanted, something chosen, and scarcely knows how to bear it.
“Have no fear,” you say. “I want you.”
He nods, more to himself than you. “If I hurt you—”
“You won’t.” Your fingers stroke his cheek. “I know your size and I will take it. Courage, my Fathach Caoin. My gentle giant.”
His eyes mist up. He’s there, on the precipice, with your warmth calling him on. Gaze steadfast on yours, Duncan lets himself breach you. And you welcome him like the bravest thing he’s ever seen. Crown already swallowed by your body, yet your face is still clear. There’s an eager stretch around him and a twitch of a tail below him. It coils round his thigh, his knee and ankle, while one of your fists finds the braid once more and pulls, collaring his neck tighter. It’s all the signals he needs to persevere.
The more of him you take, the greedier your answer grows. Claws in his arse, muscles working on his cock in vicious spasms, he manages to fill you with everything some trickster god has given him, and he finds it accepted.
Your mouth is agape. Breath comes through it loud and ragged. “Yes,” you grit, eyes rolling and all of you twitching. “Gods, fuck me. Make me yours.”
“Sweet mercy,” Duncan says, voice gone rough. “You ask it as though I could deny you aught.” His brow drops to yours, air shaking out of him on its leave. “If I am yours, then have all of me.”
At first, he scarcely thrusts. Ruts, more like. Feels the shape of you inside, plastered snugly to him. When he discovers he’s being received fully and without reluctance, his movement boldens. His hips rise and fall, and instinct guides him. Pleasure guides him too, for beyond being permitted, Duncan is being answered as well. With tightness. With the press of your belly into his. With your neck baring and gills there quivering around air whenever he sheathes himself up to the brim.
That is the miracle he never thought possible. With a lifetime of too much ringing around him, awkward and large, he was convinced romance was not written for him. Yet here you are, with hunger gathered on your features and no shadow of hurt visible. It shakes him, that. Here, in your hold, that old wrongness turns. Here what he is suits and is welcome.
“You were made for this as much as for war,” you say, as if reading through his thoughts. “More. I like what you do to me.”
It makes him release his own little stuttered moan. “M’lady—”
Your arms circle his shoulders and hold. “You sound so pretty. All of you is so beautiful, Duncan.”
He searches your face for foulery and finds none. Only bliss and appetite. Only round, wet mouth and dark eyes. Duncan has been commended for strength before, for endurance, for taking a blow and giving one back. None of that has prepared him for the shock of finding that his hands, his mouth, his earnest body can bring a creature like you to such clear delight. With each look, his courage grows.
That growth proves dangerous soon enough. Wonder gives way to urgency. Urgency mounts toward something steeper. Duncan feels it gathering in him with an inevitability that borders on terror. He has been admitted to a marvel and already fears the speed with which he may be cast out of it. The thought makes him cling harder to what steadiness he can muster. He tries to linger, tries to learn the pace of your pleasure and keep himself to it, but his body has begun to outrun obedience.
“Look at me,” you say. “Keep on, you needn’t worry. You please me—ah—” There’s a twitch inside you that nearly ends him. “You fit me. Gods, you please me—”
What happens after, he cannot rightly say. First, your neck wrenches, then delivers your face close so that you can kiss him. Little mumbles of yes and oh and ones that call on various gods in various tongues flood his mouth. His throat gets cinched by your hair and your arms, and tail wraps round him so fiercely it makes his leg go numb and cold at the toes. Chest flattened against his you moan out his name into the night and then—
He’s seeing white. It overtakes his vision entirely when your body does an unimaginable thing. Traps him in that narrow edge of flesh and milks him for seed. Ferocious and wild, it takes and takes, and Duncan’s understanding of himself alters. He is not taking. He is giving and being wanted in the giving.
“My sweet Lass,” he rasps, manners abandoned. “I never knew—Gods, I never knew.”
Dunk never knew something could feel like this. He’s never been shown that things could live where brutality and tenderness meet. That bodies can do all this: bleed, bruise, fill and empty, hurt and please, all while remaining gentle. His gentleness drives him to a point where he feels sensations folding in on themselves. His toes curl against the stone so much that his foot almost cramps. Thighs harden. Lungs burn, yet he feels the most alive he’s ever felt. His belly tugs so violently it is as though someone has delivered a blow with an iron fist. Amidst all this ruthless undoing, Duncan senses his soul coursing through his blood vessels, pushing through his pores in its rise to meet you.
Warmth becomes warmer. Wetness grows wetter. All of his joins all of yours. The pull empties him of everything he carries right into the snug nook of your body. “Yes,” he mutters. “Yes, gods help me.”
With that, he forgets the weight of himself and falls on top of you off his trembling arms. His face lands right into the curve of your neck and the breath that comes through slits there cools the slickened skin of his forehead.
For a little while you do nothing but hold him through the ruin of it.
Your hand moves slow between his shoulders, then lower, smoothing the hard jump of muscle as if gentling some great spent beast after battle. Praise comes from you under your breath in scraps and murmurs, half words, half wonder, and Duncan, who had thought himself beyond surprise for one night, finds that too much for him as well.
A laugh bursts out of him sudden and helpless, honest as the rest has been. It shakes once through his chest against you. He lifts himself just enough to look down, dazed and shining with it still, then bends and presses his mouth to your forehead with a care that seems almost too tender for the body that has just spent itself so violently.
“There are no words for it,” he says. “None I know, leastways. For making me feel—” He stops there, smiling crooked at his own uselessness. “For this.”
You look at him as if his gratitude is a stranger thing than all that passed between you on the stone. Your fingers stroke through the damp at the nape of his neck, over the braid still looped there like some token of your claim.
“You deserve it more than any man I’ve met.”
The laughter leaves his face by slow degrees. In its place comes something quieter, heavier. He studies you and the dread arrives plain enough then, settling under his ribs where pleasure had just torn through him. Because a man cannot be given such a thing and fail to understand that it may yet be taken away.
“How am I to part from you now?” he asks.
You answer him honestly, as you have answered him in all things. “You are strong for it.”
Then you kiss him and gather him down again, one arm curved round the breadth of his shoulders, the other tracing idle paths along his back until the last fierce throbs ease out of him. Great body that he is, he grows heavier by the moment. Sleep comes on him without dreams. His head finds its rest upon your chest. The braid bejewels his throat and there he lies pillowed on you like something claimed and cherished both.
By morning the chill has found him first.
It wakes in his body and deeper than the body too, in the place where certainty ought to sit and does not. The stone has cooled under him. Mist lies low over the black water. Reeds stand pale with dawn.
Duncan opens his eyes and knows at once what the day requires of him. Whatever quarrel spilled him into your bog has not vanished. Roads still run outward from this place. Men still wait at the end of them with their needs, their vows, their battles. He knows he must rise. Knows too that seeing you again would be another miracle, and that miracles are not things a sensible man counts upon.
When at last he stands on the bank, iron on his body and sword at his hip, you drift below in the water and watch him. “Will you be here,” he asks, “if I come again?”
“I don’t know,” you tell him. “Come and see.”
The words might have been cruel in another mouth. In yours they fall as simple truth.
“But—” You lift a hand and beckon. “Give me your sword.”
He does not hesitate. That, perhaps, startles him more than anything. Dunk reaches for the blade and lays it across his palms before offering it over. You take it with both hands, testing the weight of it, your mouth tightening faintly at the smell of old blood still left in the metal. Then your other hand goes to the end of your braid. For a heartbeat he only watches, uncomprehending, until the edge comes up bright in the morning and he realizes what you mean to do.
“Wait,” he says, too late, and only because the thought of any part of you severed from the rest hits him oddly in the chest.
You cut through it clean. The shorn length lies across your palm, heavy as wet rope. You hand the sword back hilt-first. Then, with more care than men give holy relics, you place the braid in his hand.
“You have earned it,” you say. “Keep it, and remember me.”
Duncan looks down at what you have given him as though it were a king’s ransom or a saint’s finger-bone wrapped in silk. The braid spills over his callused palm and nearly to his knees, gleaming and impossible. He closes his hand round it slowly.
“I should remember you without help.”
“Yes,” you say. “But take it all the same.” Your gaze lifts to his, clear as cold water. “Remain gentle. Do not let the world temper you into something you are not. It has enough hard men already. I will not forget you, Ser Duncan The Tall.”
He comes to the shore in all his bulky magnitude, iron making a burden of him once more. Yet the burden sits differently now. He drops to one knee at the water’s edge, heedless of mud. His free hand comes to your face. Cups it. The skin beneath his thumb is cool and smooth and utterly dear to him. Then he kisses you with all the force left in him, with gratitude and hunger and the grief of leaving all tangled together.
“I’ve a love for you I’ll carry always,” he says against your mouth when at last he parts from it. “You made me a man, Lass.”
Something shifts in your face at that—fondness, perhaps, or pity, or the knowledge that men will always name themselves too small.
“You are more than merely a man, Duncan,” you tell him. “You are a giant. And wherever you go, I will keep you.”
He stays there one heartbeat longer, kneeling in the mud like a man before a shrine, looking at you as if he would learn the whole of your face by force and carry it clear to the grave. Then he rises, slow under the weight of steel and parting, and turns at last toward the trees.
summary: you make a joke about jack’s abilities in the bedroom and he isn’t too happy about it
warnings: kinda smutty? language, jack’s a little mean, erectile dysfunction reference, jack calls reader kid, age gap (readers age isn’t specified)
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It’s a nice dinner. Fancy. He’s worked hard, researched recipes he knows you’ll like, bought the good wine. There are candles. It’s so perfect, and he’s so perfect, and everything is lovely and sweet, and then you open that mouth of yours and stick your foot in it, and you don’t know why.
You can tell the mood has changed instantly, can see the dark look enter Jack's eyes, eyebrows raised as he stares at you across the table.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
You feel heat rising within you, your brain turning to mush as you try to stumble out some sort of defence.
"I wasn't...I mean, it was just a joke, you know? I don't..."
"You don't what?"
You swallow hard, watching the movement of Jack's hand as he wraps it around his wine glass, finger tapping on the stem as he waits for your answer, and you know you're in trouble.
The good kind of trouble.
Well, you're an old man now, baby, no shame if you can't get it up anymore.
God, why did you say that? You know it isn't true, know he can keep up with you on even your worst days, when you cling to him desperately, refusing to let him leave the bedroom until you're gasping and sweaty, so fucked out you can't even remember your own name.
You also know he has his pride, that he has that little dominating streak in him that has you on your knees in seconds if he asks. Put all of that together, and you have a feeling you know what's about to happen.
You're not exactly opposed to it.
"No answer, sweetheart?"
You don't know what to say, so you just shake your head, and heat pools in your stomach.
"That's what I thought. Know what I think? I think you say stuff like that to tease, get me all riled up, because you like it when I fuck you all mean. You don't have to do that, baby. All you have to do is ask."
You do like it when he fucks you mean, almost as much as you like it when he's sweet and caring, all loving touches and tender stares and brushing your hair back from your forehead.
"Is that what you want, huh? Because if it is, be a big girl, and ask."
"I..." you start, but your voice catches, and you want to sink into the floor, or into his lap, you're not sure which.
"Thought you said that you could handle a grown up relationship, kid? Gotta prove it and ask for what you want."
You take a deep breath, swallow every last ounce of pride, and whisper, voice barely carrying across the table.
"I want you to fuck me."
"Fuck you how?"
"Mean."
He sighs, stands up, and you watch as he slowly makes his way towards you, leaning down until your lips are almost touching, his finger under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"See. Knew you could do it, baby."
His mouth slides against yours and your hands automatically wrap around his neck like they belong there, and it gets filthy fast, all tongue and teeth and mingled breaths.
His hands slide down your waist, under your legs, and then he lifts you onto the table and you faintly register the sound of glass hitting the floor, but you can't find it in your to care when he grinds against you, hard and heavy.
"Feel that, huh? Feel like this old man can't get it up?"
You shake your head, pushing yourself further into him, whining and needy.
"Talking shit like you don't got me bulging in your stomach every night. Look at you, barely even touched you and you're a mess already. Sure you can handle it, sweetheart?"
"Yes!" You cry out, and he laughs at how loud, how pathetic you sound.
"Oh, found your voice now, have you? Enjoy it, cause it won't be long 'til you lose it again. You’re in for a long night, honey.”
Pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader x Michael Robinavitch
Words: 11.1k (i fear i blacked out and have no idea how we got to this place)
CW: explicit sexual content, 18+, nsfw, mdni
Tags/warnings: dom!abbot, soft dom!robby, brat/good girl!reader, D/s dynamics, lowkey power imbalance (but consensual), explicit age gap (reader is early/mid 20s, doctors are however old they are), pet names (jack calls you kid/baby and robby calls you honey/sweetheart), explicit language, oral (f and m receiving), protected piv sex (please wrap it up), dry humping, semi public sex, mild injury (reader burns her hand), lowkey sugar baby!reader and sugar daddies! jack and robby, spanking, threesome, sharing is caring, blink and you'll miss it daddy kink at the end, no thoughts just vibes
Summary: Reader falls for both Jack and Robby.
a/n: this is the most y/n coded thing i've written in a while
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.
You met Jack first after he decided to pull a double. Not unusual, but he was crankier than normal for some reason, the bitter and grainy taste of the coffee in the lounge wasn’t going to cut it, so he made his way up to the hospital cafeteria in search of fresh coffee.
You had just started your shift, still groggy and a little hungover from the night before. You were not supposed to be here that morning, but your boss had called at the ass crack of dawn to tell you that your coworker was sick and you needed to be the one to open. So to say you were in a bad mood would be an understatement.
Jack approached the counter, all arrogance and self-importance, and ordered an americano. No hello, no good morning, no nothing other than a dry, demanding voice. And you’re having none of it. But you don’t fight, you truly don’t give a fuck. You ring him up and get to work on his drink. There’s no one else around since it’s still very fucking early. So instead you decided to fuck with him.
You make a disgustingly sugary drink. I’m talking vanilla syrup, caramel, whipped cream — the works. And his americano, of course, you’re not a monster. But since he didn’t even deign himself to give you his name, you simply set your sugar explosion on the counter while you finish his up.
Without thinking about it, he picks it up and takes a swig, practically gagging as you crack a smile. You can tell he’s about to chew you a new one when he realizes that you’re holding out his cup and he’s the one in the wrong for assuming that the world belongs to him.
That made him stop for a second and reevaluate. He quickly blinks away the shame he feels from his behavior, finally looking at you like a human being, a kid just trying their best at seven in the morning. You offered him a kind smile and he reciprocates, brushing your fingers with his on purpose as he grabs the cup from you.
“I’m Jack.” Finally, some decorum. You tell him your name and he asks if he can take the other coffee as well, handing you a twenty as a half apology, half bribe. You nod and he literally goes right back down to the Pitt to do the exact same thing to Robby.
You met Robby a few days later. The morning rush long gone, you’re starting prep for lunch when he appears, basically materializes out of thin air. It’s always a shock the way he moves around so stealthily.
It’s been a rough morning, you can tell by how his entire body is tense and there’s lingering blood spots on the collar of his white undershirt. You don’t comment, you don’t even give him your overly cheerful, customer service greeting. Instead, you meet him where he’s at, soft and open.
He orders everyone doughnuts and you gladly chat him up while you fulfill his order. Three dozen, all baked this morning, glaze still shiny and not dry. He returns your conversation, engaged and not dismissive. He’s in it, asking you questions in return and seemingly interested in your answers.
He tells you about how Jack pranked him with the disgusting caramel latte and questions how in the world you could drink something like that. You tell him the truth, that Jack was being a dick so you wanted to mess with him. That makes him laugh loudly, the tension disappearing from his body for a few seconds. You reveled in it, in his attention, in now having a secret you two shared.
His pager goes off unexpectedly, as it usually does with doctors. You’ve been working at the hospital enough to notice that there’s never enough time, but the few moments that can be found to decompress here and there are everything to them.
He thanks you for the laugh, and the doughnuts, and returns to the Pitt without so much as a final glance. Much to your dismay.
You spend the next few days stuck in your head, in the daydream and fantasies of those two handsome doctors. You start asking around, a little unsubtly at times, but manage to get enough information on them for your silent crushes to only grow further out of control.
They’d never go for someone like you. They’re fucking doctors for fuck’s sake. Almost twice your age too. You’re just a kid who barely finished your college degree, lost and confused, too afraid to confront your own life. What the fuck could they possibly see in you?
You force yourself to not seek them out. It could be so easy too, just go downstairs at shift change, which you now knew was 7 am and 7 pm. Drop off leftovers from the day, or night, depending on what shift you were working. It made sense, wasn’t overly eager. There was a calculated, reasonable purpose behind your presence in their domain.
And it would’ve stayed as just a simple, stupid fantasy, had it not been for them coming back. It was innocuous at first. Robby would swing by every other week to get a pick-me-up for his staff and you’d chat. Or Jack would saunter through for a coffee around midnight and you’d take your break with him, making sure he ate something after the first time you’d heard his stomach grumbling and he seemed to not notice it himself.
They made you feel wanted, because you were. They were taking time out of their busy day, or night, to come all the way to the third floor and spend ten, fifteen, twenty minutes with you. And honestly, you would take as much as you could get. Between the two of them, there was always something to look forward to.
It was after a few months of this back and forth that you finally allowed yourself to venture down to the Pitt after a long night shift. Your manager had been a particular ass about throwing away perfectly good food, so you’d decided to stick it to him and taken the leftovers down to the ED in a final act of rebellion.
Your arms were full. So much so that you kept praying that you wouldn’t drop anything. You could not handle the humiliation of that happening. Thankfully, by the time you pushed open the staff exit into the floor, two of the nurses caught you immediately and helped take the boxes off you. You thanked them and the three of you made your way out to the hub where you caught the tail end of shift change.
The nurses were nothing short of boisterous about your generosity, announcing your arrival and putting a spotlight on you, causing all heads to turn. You tried your hardest not to run away and hide, blush already creeping up your cheeks as you caught a glimpse of Robby’s characteristically warm smile and Jack’s barely there smirk.
You did not dare look at them, you were not here for that, even though you desperately were. Instead, you cracked a joke, telling them that this was your little secret, your manager, who, everyone knew and disliked, couldn’t know you were doing this.
It took no time for them to dissipate as, well…the emergency department never stopped moving. A few more pats and thank you’s from doctors and nurses alike and you finally allowed yourself to meet their stare. Big mistake.
Robby had leaned down to whisper something in Jack’s ear and the blonde fully smirked now. Oh god this was bad. When he finished saying whatever the hell he was telling his friend, Robby shot you a sly wink and left, following his residents like a concerned parent.
Jack turned to you then and you finally noticed how stupid you must’ve looked standing there, in the middle of this chaotic room, like a deer caught in headlights. Pathetic, honestly. Self-consciousness crept up before you even knew it was there and you practically bolted. No goodbye, no nothing. You simply turned around and left through the main entrance this time. You didn’t stop until you were outside in the warm summer air.
You had no idea how long you’d been standing there when you heard him call your name behind you. “You alright, kid?”
You nodded, shoving every ugly emotion as deep as you could. “Yeah, just waiting for you.”
He chuckled at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “And here I was thinking you were running away.”
“You must feel so embarrassed right now.” You teased.
“Hilarious,” he stepped closer yet still gave you the distance you needed in case you didn’t appreciate his advances. “Where are you going now?”
“Home. You?”
“Home.”
You two sucked at flirting. You stepped closer then, distance shortening.
“You wanna get breakfast first?” He asked you then, finally.
You simply nodded and he led the way to his truck.
Back inside, Robby almost couldn’t believe his eyes. Jack Abbot was not there anymore. No whining, no fighting, no trying to bargain his way into a double shift. Surprised yet deeply amused, he finally noticed you’d left him, specifically him, a packed lunch and a perfectly made cup of coffee, one sugar, one creamer, just like he liked it.
Jack took you to a local diner for breakfast and you had finally spilled your guts to him about your whole life situation in general. Student loans, no idea what you were doing with you life, the whole impending doom and overwhelming anxiety of thinking about the future.
He’d opened up to you too, tragic backstory and everything. You couldn’t help but feel a deep empathy for him, for all that he had been through. And you definitely didn’t kiss him out of pity, no, you leaned forward out of a deep instinct that you couldn’t quite stop, not until your lips met his and you became overwhelmed with showing him how much you could feel his pain, his grief, his hurt and wanted nothing more than to help lighten his load.
Thankfully for you, he wasted no time kissing you back, the middle console of his truck effectively cock blocking him as he tried to pull you in closer. You giggled against his lips and he bit down in retaliation, causing a moan to spill out of your perfectly plump lips. That was all it took for inhibitions to get thrown out the window.
How you found yourself in his bedroom was a blur of reckless driving, a hand practically burning through the fabric of your jeans as it wrapped itself around your thigh, far too high up to be appropriate yet decent enough to force you to calm down. He called the shots here. And your core tightened at the knowledge.
Jack lived in a one story house, a quiet neighborhood, very family oriented. And since it was the middle of the morning and no one around to witness, he was unafraid to be seen. He parked with a screech of the brakes, desperate and eager, wasting no time to walk around to open your door for you, ever the gentleman.
But the second you were out of the car, his greedy hands wrapped themselves around your waist and his lips claimed yours once more. He pinned you back against his truck, his tongue making itself at home in your mouth as his hands raked higher and higher up your abdomen under your shirt.
You shivered, your own hands returning the sentiment, finding themselves tangled in his hair, pulling him closer to you, until his hips were pressed against your own and you could feel how hard he was under his pants.
That was enough for his patience to run out. He picked you up over his shoulder and practically ran into his house. You were so high, head feeling airy and body tingling with anticipation. The next thing you knew you were thrown on his bed, cold and perfectly firm yet soft.
He admired your already fucked out expression, reveling in the fact that he'd done that to you before he got on his knees in front of the edge of the bed. He pulled you towards him by your calves, slow and methodical hands kneading at them as he checked in with you. You gave him your consent eagerly and he practically salivated.
He undressed you quickly, boots, socks, pants — and then he paused at your underwear. It was a lacy number, white and absolutely drenched. He peppered kisses up your legs, his strong hands pulling your legs apart as he buried his nose by your pelvis. You couldn't take your eyes off him, he looked so — feral. Pupils dilated, breathing ragged, fingertips definitely leaving bruises from the death grip on your thighs.
“Please.”
That’s all it took. He slipped your underwear off your body and before you could even register, his mouth was on you, hot and wet, tongue savoring every ounce of you he could find. Lips sucked on your clit before moving his tongue down to your opening, teasingly. He repeated the motion for far too long, drunk off the pretty moans that you fed him in response.
When you began to whine and thrash against him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more anything, he locked in. He latched onto your clit, one hand leaving your thigh and inserting two fingers into you. You gasped, the feeling so perfect you could barely keep track of your breathing anymore.
You felt the pressure in you rise out of nowhere, your core contracting in search for release. He looked up at you, eyes almost daring and you stammered a string of incoherent pleas, begging for permission to cum. Oh he could’ve blown his load right then and there, of course you would ask for permission, you had always been well mannered, raised right.
He granted it immediately, doubling his efforts to get you over the ledge. You came hard and loud, writhing against him, hands tangled in his hair, pulling deliciously as your body trembled beneath him. He had done that to you. Pride made him blush, a new reason for him to keep going emerging.
He pulled out of you after you’d ridden out your orgasm, tent in his pants almost painful now. He searched the bedside table for condoms and groaned loudly when he couldn't find any. You giggled, watching him teasingly as he ran into his bathroom, hoping to find at least one so he could pound you into the mattress like he’d been wanting to for months.
There was none. He could not have been more frustrated. But when he returned to let you know, his disappointment quickly turned into excitement as he found you naked, on your knees exactly where he’d just been moments ago. God you were perfect.
And then you smiled at him and asked, may I? He almost stumbled with how eagerly he stepped forward. You took that as a yes and your hands got to work immediately. He should’ve stayed in his scrubs, the belt, button and zipper of his jeans now such a nuisance to him, but you made quick work of them.
Your hands were a little cold as they dipped into his boxers and pulled out his cock, sending a thrill across his body. Your eyes glossed over in what he could only describe as lust and hunger. He had never been self conscious of his body before, but the way you looked at him then, all veneration and desire made him realize he'd never loved his body as much as you seemed to be.
His cock twitched, precum leaking, the vein on the underside pulsing. And you salivated, opening your mouth eagerly and taking him into your warmth without hesitation. You took your time, slow and deliberate, tongue swirling around his tip as an appetizer before you took him further, head bobbing at a moderate pace in retaliation for what he had done to you earlier.
He chuckled darkly as he connected the dots. You were a brat indeed. And he couldn’t wait to tame you, to bend you to his will, to wreck you into submission. His hands found their way into your hair, discarding the hair tie and wrapping his fist in it instead. He began to set the pace, deliberate, demanding, in control.
You let him, throat relaxing at his display of dominance, hands wrapping around the base you simply couldn’t reach yet when you gagged around him. Too fast, too soon. He’d adjusted after that, slowed down, smiled at the streaks of mascara running down your cheeks.
And then, in an act of defiance, reminding him that you were not simply going to lie there and take it, your hands cupped his balls, massaging them with enough pressure to catch him off guard. He came down your throat with a gasp that quickly devolved into a groan, loud and powerful, feeding your ego just as much as you had fed his.
He pulled you off him with a pop as he caught his breath. Tension lingered, the spark of fear for what happened next. But then you laughed and turned his whole world upside down. He chuckled, it could be this simple. He helped you off your knees and brought you flush against him to plant a kiss on your lips. You could taste each other as he deepened the kiss, quickly getting you riled up and ready for round two.
Jack refused to let you leave until the last second. He had his shift and you had your evening off as they switched you back to days for a while, so he was determined to get as much of you as he could until time simply slipped from his fingers.
You’d ordered lunch, electrolytes and condoms, and he had graciously paid and faced the poor delivery guy. Being with Jack was easy, uncomplicated, at least in your little pocket of heaven. You’d managed to keep your hands off each other long enough to eat, nap and then he’d woken you up with his tongue deep inside of you.
When he finally buried himself inside of you, there were no words to describe how you were feeling. And luckily, he shared the sentiment as his eyes closed in pleasure, hips stilling as he let himself feel your walls around him, your pounding heart against his own, your choking breath against his ear.
He’d insisted he wanted to be on top, even after you begged him to let you ride him so he could be more comfortable. But he would have none of it. So there you were, on your back, legs wrapped around him as he thrust into you, both legs planted on the floor to get better traction.
He was ruthless in his approach, not shy about how rough he wanted it, about the high he was chasing after. And the way your nails dug into his back, the way you clenched around him encouragingly, the way you moaned and gasped into his ear, his mouth, his everything in response to even the slightest movement made him go feral for good reason.
His fingers were unashamed, moving against your clit with fervor, desperate to have you cum before him so he could finally stop thinking about what he was going to do to you and actually make it a reality.
He didn’t even wait for you to ask for permission, instead it was like he knew you were close by the way you clung to him tighter. He commanded it out of you, with words and actions, and you came like a tidal wave, wrecking, wet and without warning.
He buried himself deep inside of you and finally let himself fill up the latex, satisfied and satiated for the first time in god knows how long. You stayed like that for a while, wrapped around each other until he softened inside of you. He made quick work of the condom, cleaning you up with his tongue, playful and teasingly, before he pulled you into him and the two drifted into an easy slumber.
By the time his alarm woke you up, you could feel him tense beneath you, reality knocking down the door to your little paradise. You reassured him instantly that he would see you again, that he had nothing to worry about. And that seemed to do the trick as you messily made it to the shower. You made a mess before you finally allowed yourselves to clean up and wash the past two days away with deliciously scented soap.
You let him get ready as you rummaged through his fridge, gathering whatever you could find to put together a few meals for him. You knew he rarely ate, the adrenaline something that kept him awake and alert most of the time. But that didn’t mean you were not about to let him continue with these annoying habits. So you packed him food while he repacked his bag.
His hands roamed freely over your ass, up your hips until they landed comfortably around your waist. You had stolen a pair of his boxers and a dark navy long sleeve shirt. He was hard just at the sight of you in his clothes. You smelled like him too. It was honestly a miracle that he didn’t call in sick right then and there. No, you had to bribe him with a blowjob and a promise to see him before you clocked in for work the next morning.
He dropped you off at your apartment building and made a mental note of the address for later as you added your contact into his phone. With one last kiss, he finally let you go back to your life as he drove off into the distance into his own.
When he made it to work, renewed and with a lightness he hadn’t felt in a while, it took Robby no time to notice.
“You were right,” Jack confirmed and the two quickly found themselves grinning at the prospect of what was yet to come.
You were late for work the next morning. How could you not be? Your body ached, deliciously so, yet every step you took was a drag. Your alarm had awoken you far too early for your liking, having been used to the night shift for long enough that waking up at five am was now torturous.
You texted Jack that you would not be able to see him, already being on thin ice with your manager, you simply couldn’t afford a detour since you were already cutting it pretty close. He understood yet he was disappointed. Next time. Yes, of course there would be a next time. So why did you feel like there was a pit in your stomach, twisting and turning, bubbling with fear and self-consciousness?
You didn’t register immediately, but oh my god did it fucking burn. Your head turned to the oven in slow motion as if your brain had finally registered what you had done. Your hand wrapped around the edge of the scalding hot tray, no oven mitt, nothing to protect you. Fuck.
You cursed loudly, your coworker acting quicker than you as you retracted your hand and ran over to the sink. She turned on the faucet, cold water soothing the burn for only a second before the pain returned. And to make matters worse, that’s when he decided to show up.
Robby called your name instinctively, going from zero to sharp medical professional in a second. He unlatched the staff door and entered the small stand, gently grabbing your hand and pulling you out and towards the elevator. Keep your palm open, don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine, that’s it, you’re doing great. You did as he asked, moved wherever he led you.
You mimicked his breathing, long and deep, making sure to work through the pain. By the time you made it down to the ED, he was barking orders and asking his staff questions that you didn’t dare concern yourself with. All you knew is that within seconds you were sitting on a bed, Jack’s shirt was being cut so they had better access to your hand, and you were being hooked up to a few machines.
Robby’s eyes stayed locked with yours, always soft, always gentle. He took the opportunity to quiz his residents and you made the conscious effort to watch him do it. He commanded the room in a way that made you feel safe and seen. Where Jack gave orders, Robby gave space for those around to fill with answers.
You knew he’d made a big deal of such a small thing by the way Dana was looking at him, a knowing glance which caused you to finally put two and two together. You couldn’t help but stare at him wide eyed as he removed himself from the room after course of treatment was decided — something for the pain, something to treat the burns. Easy peasy.
He returned about an hour later with discharge papers. He could’ve easily sent anyone to do this but he hadn’t and that’s when you knew for certain. He walked you through the steps you had to take, signs to look for in case of infection and just general things to keep track of. You thanked him, practically purred your words, just as soft and kind as him, and you could see the blush turning his ears red.
And then the guilt settled in. You couldn’t possibly pursue him, what about Jack? Wait, had he spoken with him? Did he know about your day together? Was that what he had whispered—?
All questions remained unanswered as your roommate pulled the curtain aside, panic and concern crystal clear in her expression. You quickly shifted, Robby scribbling something on the back of your prescription, grateful for the interruption. He handed your roommate the packet and said his final goodbye to you, eyes heavy yet hopeful, almost. You watched him leave cautiously, unsure of where you would go from here.
You were off on medical leave for the next few days until your hand could heal. You stubbornly refused to tell Jack about the accident, he probably already knew anyway, Robby must’ve told him. It wasn’t until later that evening that your roommate had stepped out to go grocery shopping and help you by getting your prescription that she texted you a picture of what he had written on the back of it. His phone number, clear as day, with a little note to call him if you needed anything.
That only made the guilt grow stronger. You would not get in the middle of their friendship, you couldn’t. So you didn’t. You ghosted them both. For a good 24 hours until you woke up from a nap, the sun had already set, the city enveloped in stillness, but your fucking hand throbbed.
Your roommate had left to spend the weekend at her girlfriend’s, Jack had just started his shift and you would be damned if you asked him for help now, and so that only left…
Robby was at your door in a record twenty minutes. He found you panicked and crying, your pretty face scrunched in distress as you tried not to show it but he knew. He was so unbelievably gentle. Soft hands on your arms, he led you to your couch, trying his best not to linger on the coziness of your apartment. He sat you down and expertly removed the bandage, cleaning the wound all while he soothed both the burn and your reeling mind.
You’re doing so well, it’s not as bad as it looks, deep breaths for me, that’s it. If you had not been in so much pain you would’ve relinquished yourself to his praise and taken him in your mouth, whatever lingering fears be damned. It was easy to calm down after that, easy to melt into his touch, easy to let him do what he did best. It wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t weird for him to be there, at least you didn’t think so anymore. He filled the space as though he’d always been a fixture within it.
Once he was done, he gave your knee a little squeeze and stood to leave but your hand grabbed a hold of the bottom of his shirt and he stilled. To hell with feeling guilty. You asked him to stay, to let you invite him to dinner since he had been so kind to come all this way after a long and grueling shift.
Your breathing hitched when he agreed. You ordered takeout since you couldn’t cook and spent the next hour chatting about anything and everything that wasn’t Jack related. You avoided the topic like the plague and he wasn’t about to bring it up himself.
At some point you fell asleep, body dropping to rest your head on his lap. You had curled up on the couch, a silly movie on the TV. You were so comfortable, Robby’s fingers gently tracing circles over your exposed arm, lulling you into slumber. He watched you for a while, to make sure you didn’t roll over your hand, he told himself, but the truth was definitely not that.
He only remembers blinking awake a few hours later. You had shifted in your sleep, now practically sprawled across his lap, curled in on yourself, hot breath blowing against his erection. He stifled a deep sigh, practically biting his tongue in an attempt to not wake you. He couldn’t, not right now and especially not like this.
From what Jack had told him that morning, you were eager, boundless and feisty. Jack loved that energy, fed off it, turned him on aggressively. Robby would be lying if he said he didn’t find it incredibly hot as well, however, you had always been gentle with him and in return he had been gentle with you. He didn’t want to tame you, he wanted to…steer you in the right direction. And the way you had responded to his praise — his cock twitched. Fuck, he had been playing with fire, afraid to burn you or get burnt himself.
He scooped you up in his arms, determined to carry you to bed and leave, but he gravely miscalculated your mischief because the second your ass came into contact with his front, you ground down on him.
“Jesus Christ, honey,” he huffed, causing your eyes to blink open as sleep left you. You felt it all at once, like a jolt of electricity. His grip on you faltered and you, almost too eagerly, readjusted yourself so you were straddling his hips. He let you with no pushback.
You sank your core down against him, the friction eliciting a shy moan from you. He grabbed your hips, pushing you to rut against him harder. The movement caused a surge of courage to rush through you. You moved your hips in circles first. Slow and thorough. You wanted more than anything to feel him, all of him, and if the hard outline was any indication, you were sure he would’ve sent you right back to the ER.
So instead you enjoyed the friction, the possibility, the way the fabric of his jeans brushed against your clit, how his hardness pulsed against your aching hole.
He pulled you in close, your chests firmly against each other as he leaned in and whispered deeply into your ear. “That’s it, use me, honey. Make yourself cum.”
You shivered, turning your head to catch his gaze. You mouth hung open as you caught a glimpse of his pupils, his forehead scrunched in concentration, a tiny bead of sweat falling from his temple. Your lips grazed the corner of his, searching and curious, and he reacted instantly, closing the distance unapologetically.
He kissed you like his life depended on it, like he needed to put everything out into the open with this one kiss, because he wasn’t sure if he would ever get the chance to do it again. Certainty soon devolved into desperation as your tongue sought entrance and he let you, surrendering to your exploration, no longer shy or cautious.
You were so busy up there that you’d neglected what was happening downstairs, your hips stilling for a second. He was having none of it, his grip on your hips tightening as he moved you himself. Moans flew from your mouth into his and he could’ve sustained himself from just that. He was so close, oh god, he was about to cum in his pants from just a little humping like a desperate, hormonal boy, wasn’t he?
“Touch yourself,” he commanded and your good hand disappeared under the band of your shorts, fingers desperately running your clit.
“‘M close, please, fuck, may I please cum?” you whimpered into his mouth and he lost it.
“Yes, fuck—”
He didn’t hold back, groans and moans and ragged breaths hot on your cheek like a prayer. You snapped soon after, body shaking, your spend rushing out of you enough to mix with the wet patch that now adorned his jeans.
It took you both a second to catch your breath, to come back to the reality of your apartment. He peppered kisses along your jaw, showered you in praise and compliments, his good girl. You hummed in appreciation, growing desperate to show him just how much you liked it.
After a while of this he began shifting under you. “I have to go, honey.”
The nickname made you wetter and he could definitely tell as you weren’t subtle anymore, your face scrunching in pleasure enough for him to notice.
“Stay.” You demanded. He appeased you with a quick kiss but remained firm.
“I have work in a couple of hours and I can’t exactly walk in like this.”
He was right, he definitely couldn’t. You laughed at the state of his pants, earning your thigh a sharp smack in return. Your body tensed, clouded eyes turning back to him, no longer playful but hungry. He laughed then, a powerful belly laugh that only made your resolve to misbehave stronger.
“Tonight,” he soothed. “Definitely tonight.”
That’s when your bubble burst. The promise of next time. Just like you had Jack.
As if he could read your mind, he shifted your gaze to his. “He’s got today and tomorrow off. I’ll tell him to come over and we can all…talk.”
You were unsure if he actually meant talking but still nodded dumbly, his words somehow soothing the panic and ache within you. If he was so secure about this then you could be too.
“Good girl.”
Ignoring all medical advice, because let's be honest, who ever listens to doctors anyway, you found yourself clocking in for your shift the next morning. Only, instead of finding the stall unlocked, you found your manager locking it up for the first time since you'd began working there.
All hell broke loose when he saw you, accusatory finger in your direction as he blamed you for shutting the place down. Your accident had apparently triggered an internal audit by the hospital, something about work place safety. You tried to explain that it was a mistake you made but he wouldn’t have it.
In the next few minutes, you were out of a job and so unbelievably pissed off you— well, you walked your ass down to the Pitt looking for release.
And you found it in the form of a 6’1, bearded man, glasses hanging low on his nose as he typed up a report. It appeared like a calm morning so you slipped into the single stall bathroom and texted him to come find you.
He stood up almost too quickly, too eagerly and you couldn’t help but bite down a laugh. You watched as he made his way to the bathroom, glancing behind him occasionally to make sure that no one was particularly focused on him before he entered and locked the door.
You were on him before he could even turn around to greet you. Desperate lips clashing against his, eager hands undoing the knot of his scrubs and pulling out his cock before he could even tell you to stop. Once your mouth wrapped around his tip, any and all pushback dissipated.
You had been right, he was big, girthier. You tried your best to suck him off cleanly, but the truth was that you simply needed it to be sloppy. He leaned back against the wall to support himself, making sure to pull you away from the door in case someone decided to walk past and linger. It was all tongue and lips, wet and fast, no time to ask, no time to let yourself think.
He was close when he pulled you off him, lifting you up and pinning you against the now warm concrete instead. He asked you what was wrong then but you refused to tell him. All you managed was a need you inside of me now. Your gaze defiant, as if to say that you’d go look for the release you craved somewhere else.
That did it. He would give you what you needed, your empty threats of running off to Jack nothing more than a successful tactic to force his hand. You pulled a silver wrapper from your coat pocket and he rolled his eyes. Clever girl, cleverer trap. He ripped the wrapper with his teeth and rolled it down his length before swiftly holding you up with one arm beneath your ass while the other pulled your underwear to the side and aligned himself with your entrance.
Thank God for short skirts and easy access. It didn't matter how wet you were, he still needed to pace himself, entering you slowly to not cause you any unnecessary pain. You tried your best to relax around you, but it was impossible and you were getting more and more frustrated. So he pulled back. If this was as far as he could go then so be it.
He began thrusting his tip into you, slowly building a rhythm that was comfortable, that he could use to thrust more and more into you each time. By the time the first gasp left your lips, his own crashed over them, stifling you. He shot you a look of warning and you nodded, submitting to his lips without question.
He thrust into you quick and raw, desperate for release, for this to be over, for you to be satiated and for him to be able to relax back into the flow of the day. His thumb pressed against your clit, rough movements as he circled it. He didn’t wait for you to think, to process, to feel the rush, he just made you cum.
And that you did. Biting down on your lip so hard you almost drew blood. He followed you soon after, head falling to the crook of your neck as he caught his breath, reveling in the waves of your aftershock, powerful and constant.
“This,” he pants. “Never here again. Am I clear?”
You nodded, the reality of what you had just done finally weighing heavy on your shoulders. “‘M sorry.”
He couldn't stay mad at you, at least not now. He simply nodded in acceptance and kissed you deeply, for once not caring if he had been gone too long. He pulled out, readjusted, asked you to dispose of the condom outside of the hospital cause evidence, and with one final kiss, he reminded you to be on your best behavior until that night. You’d be meeting at his place, he would send a car for you.
He left the bathroom first and you followed fifteen minutes later, easily sneaking off as if you’ve done this plenty of times before.
You were suspicious that they must’ve done this before. It was clear by how comfortable they were around each other. You had made it to Robby’s apartment a little after eight, hand feeling much better and grieving process already underway. You’d cried all day, taken a much needed nap and even texted Jack to apologize for going MIA. He confirmed your suspicion that they did indeed talk to each other about you and promised that you’d hash it all out later.
So why were you so damn nervous?
You stepped out of the car just as Jack pulled up. His gaze locked with your own and kept you frozen in place as he got out, paid the meter and stalked towards you.
“Hey kid.” As if nothing had happened. You visibly relaxed and he took it as invitation to wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you into him as his lips claimed yours, demanding and hungry. “You still taste like him.” Your entire body tensed and the asshole simply chuckled against your lips, possessively forcing you to walk with him into the building.
He didn’t try shit, only kept you close to him as the elevator took you up to Robby’s place. He didn’t even knock, instead he pulled out a key. Cocky motherfucker had a key. Of course. You scoffed, unbelievable, and he smirked in response, opening the door and ushering you inside.
Robby’s home was much like yours, homey and alive, full of reminders of the beautiful life he has lived. You found Robby in the kitchen, boldly entering his home as if you’d always lived there. He turned to look at you, clean clothes, causal yet put together, hair still slightly damp.
“Hi honey,” he stepped towards you, leaning down for you to do the obvious. You did, obviously, without even realizing that Jack was leaning against the door frame, eyes watching you like a hawk.
“Whatcha making?” You asked him, curious.
“Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” Jack scolded, his tone definitely not playful anymore.
You turned to him, fire in your eyes, and pouted. “Robby, Jack’s being mean.”
Oh this was the game you were going to play. Unfortunately for you, little did you know that Robby and Jack, well they had talked, and gotten on the same page about how the night was going to go.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Robby started. “He’s gonna get much meaner in a bit.”
You turned to him, aghast, metaphorical pearls clutched as Robby only smiled softly, like he hadn’t just betrayed you.
“We can do this one of two ways, kid,” Jack announced, stepping into the kitchen so you could not escape now. “We either eat now and talk later, or we deal with you first and eat after.”
“I’m not hungry yet,” you replied boldly. It was a lie, you were hungry, but the thrill of adrenaline that rushed through you at the prospect of being dealt with was so strong that you were now starving for something else entirely.
You found yourself on Robby’s couch, sprawled over Jack’s lap, ass in the air, arms restrained behind your back by one of his hands while the other lifted your dress over your ass, the same one Robby had fucked you in earlier.
“What do you think, Mikey? One for blowing me off yesterday, another for getting injured and not telling me about it, a third for only calling you over for help, a fourth one for cornering you at the ED so that you could fuck the thoughts out of her head—”
You whined at that, the guilt only rising as he listed off every one of your offenses.
“That’s at least three,” Robby replied, casually, as he continued setting the table in front of you.
“So what’s that? Six?”
“Sounds fair.”
You couldn’t help the annoyed groan that left you, bratty and antagonizing. If they wanted to play rough you would give them exactly what they craved. Jack quickly smacked your ass, sharp and firm.
“None of that attitude,” he hissed. “You made your bed, lie in it with your head held high and we may be lenient.”
You huffed, eyes searching Robby’s for help but if his previous action were any indication, you would not find any. Instead he set down the plate in his hand and made his way over to you, kneeling down so he was at your eye level, a much needed pause in the game you were playing.
“Stoplight us if it’s too much, alright, sweetheart?” He stated, calm and gentle, zero judgement, no repercussion. As if to emphasize, Jack’s hand rubbed your reddening ass reassuringly.
“Okay.” You murmured, grateful.
“Okay.” Robby mimicked, getting up and this time, instead of returning to his busywork, he sat down on the armchair in front of the couch, legs spread open, gaze darkening. You whined softly and he turned back to Jack, a simple nod to proceed.
“You’re gonna count them for us,” he explained, voice deep and with a new edge. You could feel his erection poking into your side and could visibly see Robby’s pants already straining. God, they were perfect. “And you’re going to thank us, both of us, for each one.”
“Yes, sir.”
A combination of jesusfuckingchrist and motherfuckinghell spilled out of their mouths and you giggled, causing Jack to land another smack in retaliation.
“Easy kid, don’t enjoy this too much,” Jack warned but you couldn’t stop smiling, gaze locked into Robby who looked like he was about to lose all composure and fight Jack for a chance of dismissing all this punishment in search of the satisfaction of being inside of you once more.
“We’ll circle back to that later,” he told Jack and the man under you smirked in response.
“Alright,” and with no more preamble, Jack lifted his hand and landed the first real slap against the plushness of your ass.
The sound reverberated across the apartment, music to both the men’s ears. It took you a second to process, to allow your body to feel the sting.
“One,” you offered through gritted teeth. “Thank you Robby,” you said sweetly. “Thank you Doctor Abbot.”
Robby couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, quickly clearing his throat at what you assumed was Jack throwing him a death glare.
“Is that how you wanna play this, baby?” Jack rasped, hand kneading in emphasis.
“‘M not playing at anything,” you mocked.
That got a rise out of him as he landed two smacks back to back. Not holding himself back anymore. You moaned loudly, half in pain, half in pleasure.
“Two — three, fuck, Jack.”
“Much better,” he praised, as much as you would get out of him.
“Thank you,” you trembled.
“Halfway there, honey,” Robby’s voice was thick and heavy, you’d never heard it that deep before and it caused a rush of wetness to pool between your thighs. Jack chuckled then, turning you so your ass was facing Robby, so that he could see.
You tried to turn your head to see his reaction, but you simply couldn’t.
“I’m flattered, sweetheart,” Robby teased and you shivered.
“Alright, enough of that,” Jack sounded almost…jealous? He returned you to your previous position, hand hovering in anticipation.
You shuddered, body starting to strain, impatient. You squirmed, whined, arched your back. But nothing. For a second you panicked, had you done something wrong? But the second you began to second guess, Jack eased it all with a resounding smack.
You moaned a slurred thank you and he landed another in response. You could get used to this, to the comfort of structure and care.
“Four,” you swallowed. “Five. Thank you Jackie.”
“What, nothing for poor Robby?”
You huffed, turning your face back to look at the man before you. “Thank you, Robby.”
He shot to his feet at that and both you and Jack stared wide eyed as he made his way over and landed the final spank right over you soaked cunt. You wailed, pleasure oozing out of every single pore, body seizing with lust and need.
Tears fell down your cheeks, your chest heaved, your arms ached and your ass pounded in sweet, delicious pain.
Jack chuckled as he released your arms, shifting beneath you as he and Robby helped you get comfortable over his lap. You curled into him as Robby leaned over you, wiping the tear stains from your face and kissing away whatever hurt may have lingered. Jack held you close to his chest, lips practically attached to your temple as he kissed down the side of your face.
“You did so good for us honey,” Robby murmured against your lips and you returned a tired yet content smile in return. “I’m gonna check on dinner, I’ll be right back.”
You whined a little but didn’t complain. Instead, your fingers searched for Jack, soft touches over his jaw and lips begging him to lean down and kiss you. And he did, airy and gentle, with a softness you had not gotten from him yet.
You made out for a while, it was all you could do to keep yourself anchored to reality and yet it was not enough. At some point your eyes closed and you couldn’t open them back up.
You woke up a little later to the sound of warm laughter. You were still on the couch, Robby’s unbelievably large and comfortable couch, blanket wrapped around your frame. Jack was no longer there with you, instead, the two men sat at the dinner table, seemingly having just finished their meals.
You couldn’t help but watch them intently. They were so beautiful, especially like this. It was clear they knew each other very well and were comfortable with each other even after such an intimate encounter. It was easy for them to talk, to extend the bounds of their relationship to this, to you.
You started rubbing your thighs together unknowingly, the friction causing you fuss in search for more. But you had to be quiet, needed to if you were going to keep watching them. Your good hand snaked under your dress and panties, desperately in search of that warmth within you. As if almost on cue, the second that your fingertips grazed your clit, their conversation stilled and you didn’t even realize, too far gone from the simple pleasure of your tentative touch.
“Stop that right now, kid.” Jack’s voice boomed, effectively stilling your movements.
“We don’t wanna have to punish you again.” Robby finished.
“Yet.”
Gaze focused on them again, you stopped your movements, sitting yourself up on the couch. “Well if I can’t do anything about it then you do it.”
It was half a taunt, half an invitation, one that had both men shooting up to their feet instantly. You laughed at their eagerness and they graced you with shy smiles and blushed cheeks.
“You get her started while I put this away,” Jack offered, uncharacteristically composed and calm. Your eyebrows shot up in surprise which quickly turned to an almost inebriated happiness as Robby approached you.
“Hi sweetheart,” he greeted as he lowered himself to his knees in front of you.
“Hi,” you replied sweetly, your hands wrapping themselves around his neck without prompting.
“How’re you feeling?”
You sighed. “So horny”.
He laughed, full and warm, as his own hands trailed up your knees, your thighs and snaked under your dress. He pulled you towards him, bottom half hanging off the side of the couch. He distracted you with his movements, firm and just the right amount of pressure.
“I meant how’s your ass,” he hummed, hands trailing over it underneath your dress. You flinched slightly and he knew but still wanted you to tell him.
“Little sore.”
“Just a little?”
You nodded.
“Was that too rough?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
You nodded, enthusiastically.
“He could’ve hit me a little harder,” you whispered so only the two of you could hear and Robby smiled.
“Good to know.” He shifted. “And me?”
“You?”
He pinched your thigh, a silent watch it. “Yeah, me.”
You shivered at the action and the memory. “Very fucking sexy.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
He rewarded you by hooking his fingers underneath your underwear and pulling it off your body. They were drier now but the smell of your arousal lingered on the cotton sinfully. He bunched them up and made the show of stuffing them in his pocket, causing you to roll your eyes.
“I’ll get you new ones.”
“You better.”
Wasting no more time as Jack’s antics in the kitchen became louder, more desperate, Robby bunched your dress around your waist and pried your legs apart, resting one over his shoulder while he bent the other at the knee. His lips were on you before you could even react, hot tongue licking desperately. You erupted in a fury of moans, fingers threading into his hair and pulling him further into you. His lips sucked your clit in retaliation, teeth grazing you bud and sending a thrill across your body.
“You were right!” He groaned loudly enough for Jack to hear. “She’s delicious.”
You rewarded his words with a gush of wetness that spilled out of you. He scooped it clean with his tongue, one long, arduous swipe from your entrance back up to your clit. He moaned against you, savoring it.
His fingers entered the mix quickly after, two, without warning, thrusted in and out of you to the hilt. You were a writhing mess beneath him and he was becoming addicted to every sound he managed to pull out of you.
“Gotta get you nice and wet, don’t I, honey?” He was trying to kill you. “Can’t have a repeat of this morning.”
You nodded dumbly. If you could not take Robby fully now you would probably die of frustration. So instead you focused on the consistency of that familiar high you were chasing. Relaxing into him, losing yourself to the feeling.
“That’s it, honey, just come around my fingers, show me you’re my perfect, good girl—”
He didn’t get to finish as you exploded, coil snapping, body shaking in pleasure as your orgasm took over. He continued his movements through it, slowly helping you through.
“Jesus fucking Christ that was hot,” you heard Jack comment somewhere in your vicinity but you simply could not be bothered to pay him any mind. Robby did, however, and shot him a smile.
It took you a second to come back to, but the second you did, Robby was pulling your dress over your head, chuckling darkly at your choice of, or rather lack there of, a bra. He pulled you up to your feet, eyes raking over every inch of exposed skin, turning you around to revel in all of it that he hadn’t been able to see before. You giggled at how his eyes darkened, practically salivating all over again.
You eagerly helped him take off his own clothes before he sat down on the couch, condom wrapper mysteriously appearing out of thin air as he wasted no time putting it over his ever impressive length. Jack came into the room then, a playful smack on your sore ass before he turned you around to face him, his lips meeting yours in an all consuming kiss.
He used it to distract you as he moved you backwards towards Robby’s open legs. Finally, when you were within his reach, Robby pulled you down onto his lap, aligning his cock with your entrance and sitting you on him. You moaned loudly, fuck he was still so big. You braced yourself on his knees as he let you slowly sink yourself onto him.
“Look at him,” Robby encouraged and your eyes shot open to put on a show for Jack who was now sitting on the coffee table in front of you. He began to take off his clothes, painfully slow, almost mimicking your movements, daring you to pick up the pace, to take his friend quicker and as a reward you’d get to see him naked faster.
You did, rolling your hips to gather more of your slick around Robby before you took him further down. You fucked yourself on his dick painfully slow, making sure to get yourself even wetter before you even attempted to bottom out.
Jack’s shoes were gone, along with his pants and his shirt, leaving him bare in only his boxers, the final piece. He teased, hand ghosting over his clothed cock.
“Please,” you begged him but he wouldn’t budge. So you turned to Robby, eyes filled with tears. “Please, Robby.”
“You sure, honey?”
You nodded, desperate. “I need it, I just—”
“I got you,” he kissed your temple before he pulled your arms against your back and pulled you to sit upright, the last inch of his dick finally burying itself deep inside of you. The sound that flew out of your lips was inhuman. You were so fucking full. Jack’s eyes sparkled something dangerous as he stepped forward, his hand grazing down your stomach making you shiver and Bobby throb. Fuck, you could feel it and by the look on Jack’s face, he could see it. Robby moaned behind you, obviously seeing the same thing you were, the expression of pure lust adorning the other man’s face.
After a second of shock the squirming began. It was painful now. Jack reacted before Robby, pulling you off him. The man beneath you moaned loudly, slick gushing out of you as he pulled out.
“C’mere baby,” Jack prompted, sitting down on the other side of the couch and pulling his boxers down to reward you. “On your back, head on my chest.”
You did as he told, spreading yourself open for Robby who had regained his mental faculties and was now kneeling on the couch. Your hand wrapped itself around Jack’s dick before he even commanded you to, eager lips taking his leaking head into your mouth and taking care of him dotingly as Robby entered you again, the new angle much more pleasurable.
“You’re too fucking big,” Jack scolded.
“I know—”
“Gotta be more careful.”
“I know—”
You clenched around him, forcing a moan from his chest as he thrust into you at a tamer pace.
“I don’t wanna hurt you honey,” thank God for Robby reading your mind.
You squeezed again and he relented, hips slamming into you without fear. Jack chuckled beneath you, causing your attention to move back to him. Your eyes darkened as you took more of him into your mouth, teeth subtly raking up his shaft, causing his hips to jerk and for you to gag around him.
“Oh that’s how it’s gonna be?” He asked playfully as he grabbed a hold of your head, hips shallowly thrusting into your mouth as you did your best to relax your throat to accommodate him.
Your eyes became glossy once more, expression euphoric and blissful. Robby leaned down, mouth latching itself onto your nipple and sucking. The pain mixed deliciously with the intense pleasure they were giving you and you only got wetter at the prospect of him leaving a mark.
Jack shifted his position, turning onto his side to face you and have better access to your throat. You took everything he gave you, eager and hungry. You knew Robby was close when he started to rub your clit, a silent yet clear indication that he wanted your attention on him now. You tapped Jack’s hand around your head twice and he gently pulled you off him with a satisfying, wet pop, both of you turning to the spectacle that was Robby.
Brow scrunched in pleasure, one hand digging into your hips, the other rubbing your clit desperately as his gaze remained locked on how his dick slid in and out of you so perfectly. He curved his hips upward, hitting that particularly delicious spot inside of you, causing you to slump over Jack’s abdomen.
“Yes, please, fuck, more, more, right there,” you egged him on and Jack snaked one of his hands to your clit, taking over for Robby so he could focus on pistoning into you. He did, without hesitation, thrusts becoming sharp and thorough. “Robby ‘m close please, oh my god, please may I cum, I need—”
“Yes, yes, cum sweetheart,” he groaned, burying himself as far as he could go and finally letting himself go. His body went still on top of you, his moans a beautiful symphony of relief and satisfaction. Your orgasm flooded all of your senses. It was sharp and a little painful, the overstimulation starting to kick in as Jack continued to rub your clit. Your hand wrapped itself over his, trying to stop him but he was having none of it, so all you could do was let him do whatever he wanted.
When Robby pulled out of you, you felt categorically empty. Wetness stained the couch but you simply could not care as he caught his breath, sweat causing his body to glisten deliciously. He stumbled towards the bathroom as Jack stayed with you, pulling you up back to him, chest against his own, both your legs on either side of his.
You hid in the crook of his neck, still shaking a little from that. He chuckled against your ear, kissing your temple delicately as he ran his hands up and down your back, soothing.
“You up for round three?” He asked you, not pushy, simply checking in.
You smiled against him, straightening so you were face to face, and nodded.
“It will never be enough, huh?” He asked against you lips.
You smiled, blissfully. “You’re more than plenty.”
“Good,” he kissed your jaw. “Cause we don’t like sharing.”
And just like that, Robby reappeared, a clean pair of sweats on and a silver wrapper in between his fingers for Jack to grab.
With protection taken care of, you wasted no time sinking down on Jack. This time, you weren’t rushing after anything. You knew Jack was, but you were thankful for the few minutes of respite he allowed, where you could take things at your own pace and put on a show for the two doctors.
Robby sat down beside Jack, enjoying how your tits bounded with each roll of your hips and how quiet his friend had gone, no demands, no commanding energy, just a sucker enchanted by your pussy.
When Jack started thrusting up to meet your movements, it was all over. His hands wrapped themselves around your ass, claiming and demanding, causing the pain from earlier to ignite sparks within you. You clenched around him, picking up the pace. Now you were playing with fire.
Robby chuckled darkly, hand reaching out to play with your nipples as he admired his handiwork from earlier already purpling over your flesh.
“Make him cum, honey,” Robby purred. “He had a long night, he deserves it.”
You nodded, squeezing tight as you continued your movements. Jack let out a wail, the obscene, wet slapping sounds filling the apartment in the most satisfying way possible.
“That’s messed up, baby,” Jack scolded, his lips latching onto your other nipple. He tugged, causing you to scream in return.
Robby simply sat back and enjoyed, his own arousal slowly creeping back up, surprising him. It had been a long time since he’d been this…eager? He wasn’t young anymore, by any means, and with time came complications. But watching you and Jack in that moment, he had never felt more alive.
“Just cum,” you mocked.
“You first,” Jack teased.
“I insist.” You whined.
“I won’t lose, baby.”
“Please,” you moaned into his ear. “Please daddy, just—”
That did him in.
His orgasm took him by surprise. Profanities slipping from his lips, grip on you bruising, his things quaking. You and Robby locked eyes then, a joyful, knowing look between you. It was unbelievably satisfying to do this to Jack and the thought alone, the high of this power you held over him, made you cum for the third time.
You let your body get consumed by pleasure, almost falling off Jack but Robby was here to catch you, a steadying hand at your back. You hummed, content in every single way imaginable, as you let the waves crash over you, over Jack, and the man emptied himself inside of you.
Jack’s head slumped forward against your chest as you both regained your breathing, slow and steady. He chuckled against your skin, kisses trailing from your breasts until his mouth met yours in a sloppy, wet kiss.
“You played dirty.” He reasoned.
“I played to win,” you kissed him again, biting his bottom lip in yours.
Robby helped you off Jack and into his master bath down the hall, bath all made up with bath salts, lavender scented soaps and candles, scalding hot like you liked it. He helped you in as Jack returned, boxers back over his body, a glass of ice cold water and a piece of Robby’s chocolate cake for you to share.
This truly was perfection.
Conversation flowed easily as they confirmed they had done this before, not to this degree, but certainly in this shape. They were young, in med school, cunning rivals who hated each other and it turns out that all they needed to do to resolve it was to have a threesome with some girl they met at a bar one night. But that never went anywhere and so they had accepted their fantasy as nothing more than just that, something to bond over, to masturbate to late at night.
And then you came along and something in them just clicked.
“So what happened this morning? Why were you at the hospital?” Robby asked, spoonful of cake hovering just out of reach of your lips.
“Oh I got fired.” You said it so nonchalantly that they didn’t have time to process as you took the spoon into your mouth, grabbing it from him and continuing to eat. Jack burst out laughing first, but Robby didn’t follow, only stared at you dumbfounded.
“What’re you gonna do?” He asked softly.
“I dunno,” you replied honestly. “Go to culinary school, get really into pilates, keep you both busy.”
That made him crack a smile. The men before you shared a glance and they knew it without having to voice it. You were theirs now, and they were more than happy to take care of you, because you took care of them too, in more ways than they could count.
“Oh kid, we’re definitely gonna keep you busy.”
“So busy.”
You smiled brightly. “Can’t wait.”
Next chapter
a/n: i have a few more bits and bobs thought out for them but please send me requests. i am foaming at the mouth
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a/n: hiiii babes, did you miss me? im back with another slutty drop!!! thank you all so much for the love and support i’ve been receiving on the first two kinktober fics and i can’t wait to get the rest out to you guys! this was an idea i’ve been thinking about for a while now and i hope you enjoy <3 this one is truly for everyone who is clinically horny for this man!
summary: you crave his attention like air and no matter how long he makes you wait for it, he always gives in before you stop breathing.
warnings: SMUT!!!!! f!reader, age gap relationship, lowkey dark!robby, attention whore!reader, voyeurism (he’s looking even if he acts like he isn’t), size kink, degradation kink, corruption kink, dry humping (f! receiving), fingering, hand kink!!!! + finger sucking, fat cock!robby (duhhhh!!), pet names
he was finally comfortable. after a long, yet thankfully trouble-free twelve-hour shift, robby could actually unwind. no emergencies, no charting, just quiet for once.
by the time you finish your own work for the day, he’s already in bed. glasses low on his nose, reading the book you’d given him months ago—the one he kept meaning to start but never had the time for. his brows are faintly drawn, focused but relaxed, the lamplight tracing soft gold over his face. the grey in his hair glowing more than usual, as they immediately catch your eyes. his flannel pajama top is only half buttoned, the collar a little rumpled, and his faded green plaid pants hang low on his hips, loose and worn from use. a pair you’re sure you’ve stolen for yourself, while hoarding around his apartment the first few months of being together.
robby looks huge like this. it’s not just the shoulders—though they’re wide enough to almost crowd the headboard he’s resting again, the kind that make shirts strain at the seams—but everything else that comes with them. the long stretch of his body sprawled diagonally across the queen bed, taking up more space than seems fair. the bit of softness at his stomach that presses against the fabric of his top when he breathes, solid and warm and so so real. his forearms dusted with hair, veins running like soft cords against hands that look too big for the gentle way he handles things.
oh, those hands.
christ, those hands.
they deserve their own kind of worship. broad and square-palmed, made to work, for holding the weight of a million lives, to fix what is broken. what is hurting.
the knuckles are rough, the tendons shifting when he moves his fingers to turn a page. every inch of them are matched with quiet strength, the accidental bruises around your hips a true testament to that. there’s always a faint ghost of a cut somewhere, a reminder of what they’ve done all day and one you love to kiss in bed when you’re both too sleepy to get up just yet. and when they touch you, they’re soft and patient. capable of slicing open the cricothyroid membrane and inserting a breathing tube to a trauma victim at one hour and lazily soothing your trembling and arching back the next. the contrast makes you dizzy, their ability, their knowledge, their competence. how something that looks so capable of damage can touch you like you’re the most fragile thing in the world.
it makes your chest feel too tight, watching him like this. big and calm and unbothered. the picture of everything steady in a world that never is. you should really leave him be. let him rightfully rest. finally clear his mind and have an easy night.
but you can never seem to stop yourself and you—god help him—were circling him like a restless cat.
at first, it’s small things.
you disappear into the bathroom for a while—longer than usual. run the tap. flush once. twice. come back out, hair a little messier, like maybe you fixed it just to have something to do with your hands. your own pyjama pants swapped out for nothing. just robby’s med school long sleeve the only thing covering your body besides your adorable little white panties.
not even a glance over.
you then grab a pack of cookies from the kitchen, just one of the snacks robby buys you so you can munch on something while you’re working. you sit at the edge of the bed, crinkle the wrapper loud enough to echo across the room. you eat a few, decide it’s not what you want right now, and put away the rest. you try again with water, sipping, setting the glass down too hard on the nightstand. the sound breaks the silence for half a second, almost spilling droplets onto the wood surface.
nothing.
you’ve been pacing for the better part of ten minutes now. now it was the window—peeking through the blinds every few seconds like you were checking for weather updates that didn’t exist. before that it was the counter, pretending to rearrange things that didn’t need rearranging.
but now you start folding laundry. and no, not the clean pile you already did this morning, but the dirty one you’re going to be washing tomorrow. his hoodie, your socks, the same shirt twice because you don’t like how you did it the first time. you keep glancing over your shoulder, hoping the movement—any movement—will pull his eyes off that damn book.
he doesn’t look up.
and you know he’s probably laughing at you, even despite his complete and utter silence.
that’s the part that makes your stomach twist—the way he must see it, must notice, but won’t give you the satisfaction of even responding to your fussing.
so you sigh. loudly.
then tug open the dresser drawer and pretend to search for something you already know isn’t there. the sound of the fabric against upholstered wood, the deliberate thud of it shutting again, just anything to fill the quiet in the room as annoyingly as possible.
still nothing from robby.
you wander toward the mirror, add some chapstick in worry your lips had gotten dry during your 20-minute-back-and-forth around the apartment. you then drop the cap. pick it up, drop it again, this time with a muttered “oops.”
nothing. not even a peripheral glance to the lace edge of your panties that peek through when you bend down, arching your back like you know he loves.
well he’s doing this on purpose, you think. because he knows the second he ignores you, you’ll start fidgeting, pacing, clawing for attention. and he knows you hate it when he does that. which is also probably why he keeps doing it.
you sigh again, heavier. cross your arms while standing in front of the bed. then, when that doesn’t work, you start humming something faintly tuneless under your breath. anything loud enough to invade his silence.
the crinkle of the page turning is all you here in response.
“robby.”
“mm.”
that’s it. no other acknowledgment. eyes still fixed on the words printed on the book published god knows how long ago. you knew he’d like it, sure. you just didn’t think it’d replace you as his favorite bedtime activity. and honestly? it’s starting to piss you off.
you pick up one of the pillows hes not leaning on from the bed, fluff it, and drop it back beside him. hard. “you could at least pretend to notice me.”
he hums again. you swear there’s a smile in it this time.
“noticed you pacing for the last five minutes, sweetheart.”
“then why aren’t you saying anything?”
“i’m reading.”
“you’ve been reading for an hour.”
“and you’ve been interrupting for about a quarter of that time.” he flips another page, calm and unbothered. “want me to set a timer? see who gives up first?”
you scowl, because the worst part is that he’s right and he’s enjoying this. the quiet authority, the way his voice stays perfectly even, the fact that his glasses haven’t even slipped lower from how still he’s sitting. you could scream and he’d probably still underline a sentence before looking up.
you linger by the bed, fidgeting with the hem of your sleep shirt. “you could at least touch me while you read.”
“could,” he says, but he doesn’t.
you glare at him, then huff. you climb up onto the bed without another word, kneeling beside him.
nada.
until he shifts, the tiniest movement, his arm lifting like an afterthought so you can settle next to him if you want.
you don’t. well not yet.
instead, you sit, bare legs cold from all your walking around. close enough that the warmth of his thigh makes your skin buzz, but not enough to touch. your body hot and needy and radiating tension he’s somehow too composed to care about or maybe he just wants you to squirm. because of course he does.
you reach for his hand without a word. he lets you. lets you thread your fingers between his, lets you play with the pad of his index finger, pressing it to the tip of your nose and then to your lips like you’re trying to test how much attention he’s paying.
still reading.
but the twitch of his lips when you bring two of his fingers up to your mouth—pressing them flat to your tongue, letting them rest there as your lips close in on a slow, sloppy suck?
he notices that.
doesn’t turn to look, though. not fully. but his chin dips a little like he’s peering down at you through his glasses, tongue touching the inside of his cheek.
“you this desperate, kid?” his eyes flick up briefly, watching the way your throat moves as you swallow around his fingers. he doesn’t put the book down, doesn’t even move his hand, he just sits there and takes pleasure in your little desperate show for him.
his voice low, careless. pages still rustling in his other hand. “didn’t even give me a minute to finish the paragraph.”
you hum around his fingers, suck a little harder. swirl your tongue between the joints, down to the base. you want to taste his skin, the salt of him, the clean soap smell clinging to his knuckles from washing up.
when he finally turns to you—truly turns—he pulls his fingers back just a little, letting your mouth chase them before slipping them back in slowly, deeper. testing. watching you take it.
“filthy little thing,” he murmurs, more amused than aroused. But it’s there—just beneath. the clench of his jaw. the shift of his hips.
“you think suckin’ on my fingers all dumb and drooling is gonna get you what you want?”
you nod, eager. greedy. eyes glazed, thighs pressed together because your core is already throbbing, slick pooling as your body pulses with heat just from being allowed to savour him. any part of him.
he tsks. lets his fingers rest heavy on your tongue.
“you’re so fuckin’ needy, baby. can’t even wait till i finish the book? this gift of yours. gotta come crawling over like some stray beggin’ for attention.” he slowly pulls his fingers out and taps your cheek with them, leaving a smudge of your own slobber against your skin. “what, you start pulsin’ the second i sit down?”
you nod again, eyes wide. shame flickers somewhere inside you, but it only makes the ache worse.
“pathetic,” he says softly, almost reverent. one hand lifts to cup your jaw, thumb smearing the wetness against your soft lips. his palm covers nearly half your face, fingers squeezing in your cheeks. you suddenly feel stupidly small, almost breakable in his grip—the worst part? you love it.
“god, you’re so easy, aren’t you? just a little bit of my skin and you’re soaking through those cute little panties.”
you whimper, he did look you think to yourself, part of you smiling deep inside.
robby slides his hand down your chest, then into your lap. his palm settles low, right against your pulsing center, and he presses snug enough to make you squirm.
“look at that, all warm and eager.” his lips twitch up into a smile, “you’re not even ashamed of yourself?”
you shake your head, breath shallow. you can’t be. not when he touches you like this. not when he looks at you like he’s still half-convinced he doesn’t deserve it and yet still too selfish to stop.
his hand should still, his voice should soften. instead, his jaw tightens and his fingers flex against your skin like he’s testing how much more you’ll take. he likes watching you unravel for him, helpless and open and sweet. likes knowing that every trembling sound you make is because of him, and that he’ll never have the willpower to stop.
he’s watching every tiny reaction you give him—the way your eyes flutter, your breath catches, your hips stutter against his palm. you feel naked under his gaze.
robby huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head like he’s almost scolding himself. “lucky you’re pretty,” he mutters, low, rough. “wouldn’t entertain this shit from anybody else.”
you whimper at that, at the casual cruelty of it, the fondness buried somewhere in the gravel of his voice.
“you think you're special, acting like this?” he asks, thumb dragging down your clothed folds. a shiver goes up your spine, at the way the pad of him thumb forces itself up your entrance, feeling the way your cunt tries to mold around the intrusion. “you think this works on me, sweetheart? like i haven’t dealt with girls like this before?”
his eyes sit heavy on you, and you struggle to keep the contact. your hand moving to his wrist, as his fingers play with your slick-covered panties. “used to shut it down in a second. i don’t entertain brats, kid. but you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you? anything for my little attention whore.”
the words hit like a spark to dry kindling. your body burning bright with a sense of need and embarrassment. you cry without meaning to, body arching into his hand, eyes closing shut. your thighs tremble, your pulse thundering in your ears. every part of you feels wired straight to his voice, to the rough sound of it when he gets like this. his half-scolding, half-possessiveness. it’s filthy, the way it makes you feel small and wanted at the same time, like your body only exists to be looked at, touched, used by robby, and only robby.
he tips his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “you like that, huh?” he drawls, voice dipping with a smirk. “me tellin’ you how pathetic you look while you rut against my hand like a goddamn mutt?”
your breath hitches, a strangled sound spilling from you before you can swallow it back. your eyes flutter open but they don’t quite focus. your lips part, glossed with spit and want, trying to find words that won’t come to your tongue.
he catches it immediately, a faint grin spreading slow and cruel. “christ,” he murmurs, half wonder, half mockery. “you do like it. little thing gets off on bein’ talked to like she’s trouble.”
he leans in, voice soft at your ear: “go on then. show me. let me see what that pretty little pussy is whining so much about.”
you whimper as he cups you tighter—broad palm pressing right over the wet heat of your clit, two fingers lazily stroking up and down, letting the pressure taunt you once again. his hand covers you completely, so big it feels like he could swallow you whole. there’s no air left between your thighs, no space to think.
the cotton of your panties is soaked through, sticking deep against your folds, clinging like they’re begging for relief too. but robby just settles back against the pillows again. the book still open in his other hand. glasses still perched on his nose like nothing’s changed.
you blink at him. panting.
he flicks his eyes at you once—warning—before turning back to the page he bookmarked.
you shift against his hand, the fabric between your thighs dragging disgustingly damp. it’s makes you feel too hot, too tight. your fingers twitch toward the waistband before you can think better of it, ready to slip them off and find some more relief.
robby pulls down your thigh in your attempt to lift yourself up. he doesn’t look away from the book at first, just slides his wet thumb along the inside of your thigh. “leave ’em,” he says, voice quiet but with that warning edge you know all too well. his eyes flick to you then, steady and unblinking.
the air shifts. something in your chest flutters and folds in on itself. he doesn’t need to raise his voice, doesn’t need to do anything at all. just that look, the subtle press of his thumb, the reminder that he decides when and how you get what you want.
he drags his hand back into place, two fingers curling beneath the crotch area of your panties, nudging them aside with an infuriating calm.
his touch is maddening. just two fingers, rubbing circles right over your clit, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to test you, to see exactly how quickly you’ll come apart. you try to grind forward—just a little—and he doesn’t stop you.
but he doesn’t help you, either.
you end up having to do it all by yourself. so you position yourself over the only part of him he’s giving up to you. you roll your hips into his palm as his long fingers land near your entrance. you begin with small movements before the desperation hits you again, intentions hungry while your breath catches with every stroke of your clit against the calloused feeling of his skin.
he doesn’t even have to look fully to see the tremor in your thighs. the reflection in his glasses shows enough—your mouth open, your eyes glassy and your tits swaying with every messy motion of your body. if you were any closer his glasses would surely be fogged up.
your whines stay muffled by your lip caught in your teeth, but robby secretly loves the sound as a reading backdrop. “that’s it—yeah, just like that.” he mutters, flipping the page. fucking flipping the page. “christ, look at you. grinding that needy little cunt on my hand while i relax. can never just leave me be, huh?” he speaks with a chuckle. eyes falling low to the feeling of your wet core against his hand. a throbbing in his lap would be equally as noticeable to you if it wasn't masked by the blanket thrown over him. “make it worth my time.”
you whimper. your hands clutch at the sheets. your thighs shake from how badly you need more. just a little. please, just something inside you beg to yourself.
as if reading your mind, because of course he is, robby slips one thick finger in—slow, slow, slow—until you feel the familiar burn that you would scratch your eyes out for.
you squeal. eyes rolling, walls fluttering as he slides in only to the second bump of his joint, thick and warm but still so unfair.
he chuckles low, not even breaking his concentration of the paragraph hes on.
“cute,” he murmurs. “one fuckin’ finger and you’re already clenching like i’ve split you in half.”
he draws the finger out again, slick glistening in the lamplight. you whine, chasing the loss without thinking, and his mouth quirks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or scold.
“you act like we’ve never done this before,” he says, voice dipped in amusement. “every time, it’s the same damn thing. like you forget what you’re built for.”
your breath hitches, shame and need tangling hot in every bone, muscle and vein of your body. “baby,” he hums, lowering his voice, “my finger’s barely in you. how the hell are you gonna take my cock, huh, sweet thing?”
you cry at the thought, at the ache deep between your legs that remembers him too well. “tightest thing i’ve ever felt, sweetheart. s’gonna be my favorite little project to make it fit,” he told you the first time—hell, you’ve proven him wrong every time since. but it doesn’t mean it’s easy. that’s the best part: hearing him groan against your ear as your pussy fights against the thick and long intrusion, squeezing every inch of him whilst.
the pads of his fingers trace your entrance again, feeling the way it flutters open and closed around nothing. the air between you is dirty, the scent of sweat and your cunt, laced with something feral—obscene, quite honestly—filling his senses. he swears softly, the sound rough in his throat. fuck, as if you aren’t his kryptonite already.
you’re shaking now. grinding again, your slick dragging messily across his palm, making that filthy little sound every time you rock your hips forward. your pussy is aching, throbbing for more, for him, and he just keeps going, casually licking his free thumb to wet the paper and flip to the next. the faint crinkle of the book now sounds diabolical. the idea he can focus on whatever it is he's reading despite the circumstances in which you find yourself.
but hell he's got years of practice. years of teaching himself restraint. of biting back the groans when he feels his cock strain against the fabric of his pants. of going about his day pretending that he doesn’t want to just go home and fuck the living breath out of the sweet girl who looks up at him with puppy eyes that he’s never seen before in his life.
someone with so much unconditional love and desire for him.
someone who lives with such genuinity and purity.
there’s something crude about how good she is, how willing. how easy it is to make her fall apart when a sense of innocence still clings to her. something he knows he’s tainted for her.
and maybe that’s corruption: letting himself touch her like that. drown her young, soft body under the weight of his own. letting her hear what his voice sounds like when it’s dripping with filth, when he’s calling her sweetheart through his teeth. watching her tremble like she’s trying to fight a possessed being in her, and knowing she’ll succumb to it every single time.
and you know nothing better. addicted to it—the taste, the tone, the size of him. like a gambler chasing money for one more round, like a junkie needing another hit.
robby turns another page. you make a pitiful sound in your throat, too far gone to care anymore. eyes glassy. chest heaving while your throat hurts from all your panting. he can practically smell how close you are to the edge. “i didn’t say you could come yet,” he adds, coolly. “not until i finish reading.”
but then, he does it again. two fingers now, all the way to his knuckle, curling as they breach you—just enough to stretch your entrance and send a bolt of heat straight to your gut. he scissors them just so and your whole body jerks, thighs clamping down around him while a high cry crowds the space of the bedroom. he pulls out again with that same maddening calm.
“gotta say,” he murmurs, as if now just purely entertained by your little show, “you really are fuckin’ adorable when you’re like this. all dumb and wet and grateful just to hump my hand.”
your mouth opens, closes. you don’t even know what to beg anymore, but your hips are chasing something euphoric and no one can stop you.
robby leans his head back slightly, glasses sliding lower as he finally looks over at you—really looks. his palm flicks upward, pushing right over your clit.
your cheeks flame, and he grins when you try to look away. “don’t hide from me now, sweetheart. you wanna act like a little bitch in heat? then look at me while you do it. show me how pretty my girl cums, hm?”
and so you do.
almost instantly. your body gives in before your brain catches up, your hips jerk forward, legs trembling with ache as your orgasm rips through you fast and sharp, shamefully easy. it floods you in a blinding rush, so quick and hot it makes you cry out, high-pitched and broken. you throw your head back, body arching as your hand travels up your figure. palms squeezing your breast in the comforting way robby does, hands continuing to travel up to your neck. the things you normally mimic for yourself when robby isn't home to ground you back to reality.
robby feels it the moment you break. it rolls through you like electricity under his palms; he can feel your heartbeat where his skin meets yours. he watches you unravel with eyes narrowed, as he bites the inside of his cheek. there’s something dangerous about the way you lose yourself to him, about how easy it is for him to pull you apart with nothing but patience and tone.
he almost says your name, but doesn’t. instead he just watches. breath steady, chest rising slow against yours while you tremble and clings to yourself as you come down in fragments. he likes seeing the shift, the glassy almost sleepy aftermath in your eyes, the way you blink up at him as if you’re remembering where you are.
the reminder of how completely you trust him settles into the air. how easily you gives in when he’s the one guiding you there. it’s too much sometimes—the quiet certainty that you would follow his lead anywhere, even into the dark corners of himself he’s spent years trying to seal off. that you don't just let him touch you but instead you let him undo you.
it should scare him, the power of it. it should make him move a few steps back. but instead, he feels that pull in his chest. a dangerous, steady ache that says maybe he doesn’t want to be good anymore if it means giving up the way you look at him right now.
“jesus christ,” he mutters—half a scoff, half a groan, like he’s watching something pathetic and mesmerizing at the same time.
you’re gasping. the muscles in your body jerking with aftershocks every so often. legs clamped tight around his wrist like you’re afraid he’ll pull away before you want him to, cunt still fluttering around nothing.
he closes the novel. finally.
and then he turns to you. both hands come up—one to push your hair out of your face, the other cupping your chin to tilt your flushed and dazed expression toward him. you’re so glassy-eyed, eyelashes curled upwards as you look at him with a disgusting amount of admiration. every edge of you looks so soft, your face so spent and quiet in the aftermath that he clicks his tongue at you softly, still bordering on teasing.
“you poor baby.” you blink at him, still catching your breath from your bitten lips. “all that fuss, all that humping, and it took what? a couple fingers and some words to make you come like that?”
you whimper at his mocking. but he’s not done.
“didn’t even fuck you, baby. just let you hump yourself stupid on my hand.” he’s smiling now. that crooked, cruel curl of his mouth that only shows up when he’s thoroughly and deeply entertained. which isn’t too often to begin with.
“you embarrassed?” he asks, low and sweet. “not ashamed of those needy little thoughts that got you soaked through your panties? that you came all over me before i even touched you properly? that you love to be degraded like a little slut?”
you don’t answer, he doesn’t need you to anyway. so he leans in, voice softening but no less of a sharp tongue. “don’t worry, sweetheart. i already let you make a mess.” he kisses your cheek, warm at your jaw.
“and now that i’ve finished my reading,” he reaches down and hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your ruined panties, tugging them off with quiet finality. robby brings them up to his face, taking a deep inhale before tossing them over to the nightstand. “i’ll show you what real attention feels like.”
xoxo, liliana <3 | if you enjoyed reading, join the taglist!
synopsis Lion Kaminski has only ever fought for two things—Stan’s approval and your hands in his hair. In the hours before every underground fight, he doesn’t come alive until he sees you. You are the ritual. The reason. The tether. After the fight, when his body is wrecked and his soul frays at the edges, you hold him together with slow kisses and whispered promises.
warning(s). nsfw. mdni 18+. established relationship. reader's nickname is "lucky." language. canon-typical violence. some bruising/blood. lowk softdom! reader. emotional dependency. breeding kink undertones (possessive language). touch-starved trauma. praise kink. quietly feral lion. no use of y/n. not proofread.
pairing walter "lion" kaminski x fem!reader
#NAV.ᐟ jack o’connell mlist ⋆.˚ how they met
BEFORE EVERY MATCH, Lion waits. Quiet. Still. Like he’s not fully there until you touch him.
Itʻs the night before the fight. The motel smells like cigarette smoke and bleach. Thin curtains, bad pillows, the kind of bed that groans even under your soft weight. You're painting your nails—black with little stars—because it’s the one girly thing you still get to do when you're on the road with them. You sit cross-legged in one of Lion’s ratty old shirts, sleeves pushed up, your lip tucked between your teeth as you concentrate.
Lion’s watching you from the foot of the bed, knuckles bruised and swollen in his lap. He should be asleep. Fight’s tomorrow. But his eyes are heavy-lidded and stuck on you like gravity.
"You're gonna chip ‘em," he mumbles.
You look up and smirk. "You watching me that close, baby?"
He doesn’t answer. Just ducks his head, a faint blush creeping up under the hollows of his cheekbones.
You put the polish down and crawl across the mattress. Your knees brush his thigh. “What’s goin’ on in that head, hmm?” You whisper, voice soft like lullabies and lull in the storm.
He doesn't say much. He never really has. But his hand—rough, scarred, and trembling—rises to curl against your cheek.
“You’ll be there tomorrow, right?” he asks. And you know that question isn't about attendance. It's about survival.
"Yeah, baby. I'm always there."
Stanley’s pacing outside the locker room like a cat in a cage. Lion's got his hoodie on, fists tight in the pockets, head bowed like he’s praying to whatever’s left.
But he doesn’t move until you walk in.
You look out of place here, too pretty, too soft—like moonlight in a dungeon. You don't belong here, not in this washed-out world of sweat and blood and broken noses—but you come anyway. Like you always do.
His girl.
Lucky.
The whole ring, that’s what they started calling you too. Fighters spit to the side when you walk past, tap their gloves, muttering prayers under their breath like you're some saint.
But they don’t really know. Not like Lion does.
Because for him, his "Lucky" isn’t a charm.
You're oxygen.
No one dares mock you anymore. Not after they saw what happened the last time someone tried.
Lion sees you and straightens. Like his spine’s been tied to your heartbeat. Like your presence reassembles him.
You walk over, lip gloss glinting under fluorescents, wearing one of his oversized flannels over a top that reveals just the right amount of skin to have Lion’s head spinning, just a little. You've got two rings on your fingers and that necklace he gave you the night he won in Trenton.
“Hi, baby,” You say softly, kneeling in front of him.
He exhales like he’s been underwater.
“Hey.” His voice comes out low, barely there. Hoarse from the weight he carries and the fact that he doesn’t speak unless it’s to you.
“Head okay?”
He nods. Lies.
You take his face in both hands and kisses the tip of his nose. “You been thinkin’ too much again.”
He nods again. That one's honest.
You move closer, hands sliding down to his chest. Your fingers splay across his ribs. That’s where you always touch him first. Like a key fitting into a lock.
“You need me to do it?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer with words.
Just presses his forehead to your collarbone and breathes. So hard you feel his ribs move under her palms. That’s his answer.
You pull back enough to see his eyes. They're glassy. Desperate. Like they’ve seen the worst of the world and still found one soft place to land: you.
Your thumbs graze his cheeks. “Look at me, Lion.”
He does.
You start the blessing.
His hands are already out, palms up, desperate.
You take them, cold and calloused, and press kisses to every knuckle, slow. Deliberate. Your thumb brushes the scar near his thumb—the one he got the first night they met. Back when you weren't “Lucky” yet. Just some girl in the back of a dive bar who stitched up his hand without asking questions.
You kiss his jaw, then his forehead.
“Win or lose,” you whisper into his ear, “you come back to me.”
He nods.
You rest your hand over his heart. “You feel that?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s mine. It stays mine. Okay? Right here—you stay mine. You don’t lose that.”
Lion closes his eyes and leans into you, like he’s trying to breathe you in. You kiss his lips, slow. Not deep. Just enough. Just to center him.
When you part, Lion’s hand cups your neck like he’s grounding himself. Like he’ll lose control of his body if you leave too soon.
The crowd roars. Or maybe it doesn't. Lion doesn’t hear any of it. Blood drips down his lip, ear ringing, body sore like always—but the only thing he cares about is finding you in the blur.
He wins.
He always does when you're there.
The fight’s a blur of fists and flashes and his own blood dripping from his eyebrow—but you're there in the hallway after, holding gauze in one hand and his hoodie in the other.
And when he stumbles off the ring, dazed and shaking, he walks straight past everyone. Straight into your arms.
You catch him like he’s a crashing wave and you're sand. Your arms around his ribs. Your lips brushing the crown of his sweat-soaked hair.
“I got you,” you whisper. “Always.”
He presses his forehead to yours. Closes his eyes. Breathes you in like the first inhale after drowning.
“Take me home,” he says.
Lion never had soft things growing up. Not for long.
His life’s been cold water, cold concrete, cold hands. Everything that ever touched him left a bruise. So when you, his Lucky, came along—with your lip gloss smiles and pink hair clips and the way you always said his name like it meant something—it rewired his entire system.
He doesn’t know how to ask for touch. Doesn’t know how to beg. So he clings instead.
Sleeps with a fist in your shirt. Rubs his face into your neck like a feral cat. Kisses your wrists like prayers.
You call it sweet. Call him your baby in that soft, sing-song way that makes his teeth ache.
You don’t know it’s obsession.
That it’s faith.
That he wakes up in a cold sweat some nights terrified you’ll leave and take all the warmth with you.
When the world finally goes quiet and the cuts dry under stinging antiseptic, he never asks to be touched.
He just lays there—quiet, watchful, fists clenched—and waits. Like he’s hoping you'll crawl into him without him having to say it out loud. Like he thinks asking would scare you off.
But you know. God, you know.
He only breathes easy when you're on him. Above him. All over him. Like your weight alone keeps him from floating out of his body. Like you're the only thing holding the pieces of him together.
So you straddle his lap in the dim, creaky motel bed. The room smells like cheap soap and old blood, but Lion smells like salt and adrenaline and sweat-soaked cotton.
His hoodie is half-off. His eyes are glassy. He’s starving.
“Baby,” you whisper, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You with me?”
His hands come up slow. Almost like he’s afraid. Then they land—tentative, reverent—on your thighs.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “I just—fuck, I just missed you.”
“You saw me three hours ago.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. But his voice is a wreck. “Doesn’t matter. Miss you the second you’re not on me.”
You lean down and kiss him, slow and deep, and Lion whimpers.
Whimpers.
Because it’s too much. And not enough. And because every part of his body is begging to be kept.
When your hips rock forward, he gasps. You're warm, slick, barely grinding against him through your panties—and he’s aching.
“Please,” he breathes. “I need—I need you.”
“What do you need, baby?”
His jaw clenches. His hands shake.
“You. Just you. All of you.”
It’s not fast. Not rough. Not like what people expect from someone who fights for a living.
It’s slow. Deep. Devastating.
Lion is gentle. Not because he’s afraid he’ll break you—but because he needs you to stay. Because every thrust is a confession. Every breath is a vow.
“You feel like home,” he groans into your neck.
You cup his face, keep him close. “You are home.”
He loses it a little then. Voice cracking, hips stuttering, arms locking around you tighter like you're slipping away and he’ll never survive it.
“You’re mine,” he pants. “My Lucky. My girl. My fuckin' girl.”
The air shifts, his hips moves faster, like he’s scared you’ll leave.
Like this is the only moment he gets.
Like if he doesn’t show you—prove it—you’ll vanish and he’ll shatter into dust.
He’s kissing you everywhere. Your neck, your chest, your shoulders. Mouthing at your jaw like he’s praying. Whimpering your name.
Chanting it.
“Lucky. Lucky. Lucky—fuck—please, don’t go—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, nails digging into his back. “You have me. I’m yours.”
And that breaks him.
His head drops to your shoulder, and his body shudders. “I love you. I love you so much I can’t fuckin' breathe—”
He falls apart inside you—arms locked tight around your back, lips at your collarbone, moaning your name like it’s holy.
You feel every tremor. Every broken breath. Every part of him unraveling in your arms.
Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader x Jason Todd
Plot: What was supposed to be a simple mission to stop Ivy takes an unexpected turn when her latest scheme leaves you, Jason, and Dick trapped, and at the mercy of some very potent pollen. With your minds hazy and bodies burning, boundaries blur, and well... things escalate fast.
A/N: I don't know if this is what y'all had in mind with this spicy pollen fic, but as you might've noticed, I'm a yapper. I don't do 'let's get it and leave' type of shit. No, we're diving deep into the filth and the feelings. So yeah... this turned out way longer than expected, but your girl loves details 😭
The warehouse stinks of damp wood and fertilizer, the air thick with the scent of Ivy's latest eco terrorist bullshit. You, Jason, and Dick move quickly through the dimly lit space, scanning for the so called "pollen bombs" that intel suggested she was planting all over Gotham.
"God, it reeks in here," Jason grumbles, wrinkling his nose behind his helmet. "What the hell is she even tryin' to do? Make the city smell like a goddamn greenhouse?"
"Could be worse," Dick muses, flipping acrobatically over a crate before kneeling beside a sleek metal canister. "Could smell like Killer Croc's lair."
Jason makes a gagging noise, and you fight back a laugh as you crouch beside them, eyeing the canister. It looks pretty standard—small, about the size of a fire extinguisher, a simple pressurized trigger system on top.
"Think this is one of them?" you ask.
"Either that or the world's most industrial lookin' Febreze bottle," Jason mutters.
Dick scoffs, running his gloved fingers along the side of the canister. "Ivy's getting sloppy. This is—"
PFFT.
The release is instant. The three of you barely have time to react before a thick, pale green vapor hisses from the canister, spreading out around you in a slow, curling cloud.
"Shit," Jason curses, jerking back, but it's already too late.
Instinctively, he pulls you with him, yanking you closer to his chest as if that could shield you from whatever the hell is happening. His arm wraps tight around you, his body stiffening as the vapor swirls around all three of you.
The gas spreads, clinging to your clothes, sneaking past your masks. You inhale before you can stop yourself, and—
"Wait," you murmur. "Why does it... smell good?"
Jason and Dick freeze, both of them taking tentative sniffs. The air is thick with something warm and sweet—notes of honey and spice, deep and rich like fresh blooms in the summer sun. It's nice. So nice, in fact, that for a second, the three of you just... stare at each other, confused.
Jason exhales sharply, waving a hand in front of his face. "Okay. What the fuck?"
Dick coughs, looking around at the dissipating mist. "Maybe it's, uh... a trap? Some kind of knockout gas?"
"We'd be on the floor by now, Grayson," you point out.
There's a beat of silence. The three of you just stand there, letting the last wisps of the pollen drift away, waiting for some kind of reaction—dizziness, nausea, anything.
But nothing happens.
Jason huffs. "So lemme get this straight. Ivy had all these bombs set up, and instead of droppin' us where we stand, it just..." he gestures vaguely, "Makes Gotham smell better?"
The absurdity of it hits you all at once. A soft giggle bubbles up in your throat, and then another, until you're actually laughing, shaking your head.
"Damn," you say, breathless. "Deadliest eco terrorist in Gotham, and she really just gave us a perfume sample."
Jason snorts. "The horror."
Dick rolls his eyes, standing up and dusting himself off. "Okay, well, if this was supposed to be some big master plan, I think we can call it a bust. Let's get back to the cave and let Bats know."
Jason claps a hand on your back, steering you toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah, before Ivy shows up and actually does somethin' dangerous."
None of you notice it yet. The subtle heat creeping into your limbs, the faint buzz just beneath your skin. By the time you're in the Batmobile, it's in you.
The car hums beneath you, the quiet rumble of the engine filling the space as Gotham blurs past the tinted windows. Jason's driving, one hand gripping the gear shift, the other draped lazily over the wheel. Dick's in the passenger seat, his mask still on, head tilted slightly like he's lost in thought.
And you? You're burning up, but not in a sick way. Not in an oh God, something's wrong way. It's just... heat. Low and thick, curling beneath your skin, settling deep between your thighs in a way that has you shifting uncomfortably in your seat. You tug at your collar, brows furrowing, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.
It's all there, wrong but right at the same time, pooling in the pit of your stomach, thrumming between your legs. Your thighs press together, the friction sending a sharp little spark up your spine.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare out the window, pretending like you're not embarrassingly close to squirming in the backseat of the goddamn Batmobile like some desperate, needy mess.
Maybe it's just—God, maybe it's just them. Jason and Dick, sitting up front, broad shoulders filling out their suits, muscles flexing with every shift of the steering wheel, every casual movement.
That's it, you tell yourself. That has to be it.
This is just because you've been down bad lately, right? Because let's be honest, you've spent way too many nights with your hand or your toys between your thighs, gasping their names into your pillow. It's ridiculous how often it happens, how they've completely hijacked your brain.
Jason, with his sharp mouth, broad chest, big hands. That stupid smirk that makes your stomach flip. His voice, rough and lazy when he calls you "doll" like it's the easiest thing in the world.
And then there's Dick. All smooth charm and soft lips, stupidly pretty even when he's bleeding, the kind of guy who can talk anyone into anything. That boyish grin, those ridiculous acrobat's hips. The way he looks at you sometimes, all teasing and playful but just sharp enough to make you wonder.
Truth be told, you're painfully under fucked. Gotham's dating scene is trash, and while you could technically take the edge off yourself, your current stash of sex toys is... underperforming. No matter what setting, what angle, it's just not enough. Not enough pressure, not enough stretch, not enough them.
Because the worst part? The part that keeps you up at night, panting into your pillow, legs shaking from overstimulation?
You don't think about some faceless, nameless fantasy. You think about them.
Jason, his big hands pinning your wrists down, his voice rough against your ear as he stretches you open. Dick, slick with sweat, his mouth everywhere, moaning into your skin as he fucks you deep.
Sometimes—fuck—sometimes, it's both. One of them eating you out while the other fucks your mouth, one stuffing you full while the other whispers the filthiest things in your ear.
Your fingers have been the next best thing, but they always leave you wanting. And now, sitting here, feeling hotter by the second, it's all rushing back—every desperate, aching thought.
No. You shake your head, pressing a hand to your cheek. Get a grip. You are not about to get horny in the goddamn Batmobile. Except... you already are. And you're not the only one.
Up front, Dick shifts in his seat, biting the inside of his cheek, his fingers curled into fists on his thighs. His suit is... well, not built for this. The material is thick, durable, but not forgiving. His cock is already half hard, twitching every time the car hits a bump in the road, the sensation sparking something hot and needy down his spine.
His jaw tightens. His thoughts have already turned against him, flashing back to every moment he's ever had to force himself not to look at you, not to stare too long at the way your suit hugs your curves, not to think about how sweet you probably sound when you moan.
But now? Now it's like those thoughts are pumping through his veins. He shifts again, pulling his hand over his lap, casually resting his elbow on the car door, tilting his head like he's just relaxing. But his fingers curl into his thigh, his cock throbbing against the fabric, and shit, he can't stop thinking about you.
He clenches his jaw. This is fine. He can just breathe through it, ignore it. Right?
Because it doesn't make sense. One second, he's fine, the next, his skin is tight, his pulse is loud, his body thrumming like it's been wired wrong. His mind flashes back to the warehouse, to the smoke. Shit. Okay. Okay, this is fine. Except it's not fine because he chances a glance in the rearview mirror.
And that is a mistake. Because there you are, brows furrowed, teeth sinking into your lip, looking so warm and soft and pretty.
He forces his gaze forward, but his dick throbs insistently against the fabric of his suit, demanding attention, aching in a way that has him pressing his thighs together and shifting in his seat, trying to be subtle about it.
But Jason notices, because of course he does. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers flexing as he watches Dick shift uncomfortably in his seat. The way his chest rises and falls a little too fast. The way he adjusts himself as subtly as he can.
Jason grits his teeth. Goddammit. This is already bad enough. He's used to getting hard, and that's not really news, considering he's around you.
It's embarrassing at this point. He's used to this constant, low level problem whenever you're near. The way his body responds to you like some fucking reflex. A glance, a laugh, a casual touch, and suddenly, he's half hard in his jeans like a goddamn teenager.
But this? This is different. This is fucking brutal. The heat is unbearable, his whole body buzzing with tension, his dick pressing uncomfortably against his pants. And fine, maybe he shouldn't be thinking about you right now, but his brain isn't listening.
It's giving him vivid fucking images—your lips wrapped around his cock, your pussy stretched around his fingers, the little gasps you'd make if he spread you open, if he fucked you just right. He exhales through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter, focusing on the road. Not now. Not fucking now.
And then there's Dick. Sitting there. Shifting around. Acting all innocent, but Jason knows. He sees the way Dick's jaw is clenched, the way he's hiding behind his fucking hands, the way his shoulders keep tensing like he's fighting something off.
And that's a whole other problem. Because Jason does not get hard around Dick. But now? Now, his cock is aching, pressing insistently against the inside of his jeans, and it's fucking weird because Dick is right there.
No way in hell he's acknowledging this. He focuses on the road, breathing in through his nose, willing the heat to settle, willing the blood to go anywhere but his dick. It doesn't work. His suit is hot, the collar too tight, his whole body buzzing with restless, frustrated energy.
His fingers flex against the wheel. "Goddamn it," he mutters under his breath.
Neither of you hear him, and that is concerning. And then, Jason chances a glance in the rearview mirror, and you're squirming.
Not a lot, but enough. Shifting in your seat, pressing your thighs together, lips parted ever so slightly, brows still drawn like you don't even realize you're doing it. He forces his eyes forward, gripping the wheel tight enough to hurt.
Oh, this is so fucked. And he knows—knows—it's about to get worse.
The second the Batmobile rolls into the cave, you're out.
"Okay—" you blurt, voice higher than usual. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."
You don't even wait for their answers before you're practically sprinting toward the locker room.
Jason clears his throat. "I think there was somethin' in that fuckin' smoke bomb."
"Yep," Dick says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking like he wants to say more but physically cannot.
Jason glances away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Y'know what, maybe she's right. A shower wouldn't hurt. Maybe wash these clothes, too, given whatever the fuck was in that shit is on us."
"Yep," Dick repeats, and then, without another word, both of them hurry toward the showers.
The locker room is sleek—clean lines, dark tiles, recessed lighting that casts a soft glow instead of that harsh, clinical brightness most locker rooms have. It's modern but comfortable, not cold or uninviting, just functional.
The walls are lined with neatly organized gear, each section personalized to its owner, creating a sense of quiet efficiency. Even the air has a faint hint of something metallic, like fresh tech waiting to be put to use. It's a space that serves its purpose, but it also feels like it's built for those who belong, making it almost... homey in its own way.
The showers are set up in a row, each with tinted glass dividers that fog up easily with the heat—not fully clear, but not enough to hide everything, either. No doors, no curtains, just a spacious, open layout that suddenly feels like the worst possible decision Bruce could've made.
Not that you're thinking about that. Nope. You're focused on the water cascading over your skin, the steam curling around you, the way your body still burns in a way that has nothing to do with the hot spray.
And okay, fine. You might be a little slow on the uptake, but even you have to admit now that this? This is not normal. You've never felt this desperate before. Not even after a dry spell, not even after the nights you spent aching between your sheets, body wired with need that just wouldn't settle. This is different. Worse.
You exhale sharply, pressing your palms against the cool tile as the water rushes down your back. Okay. Deep breaths. Just... get through this. It'll wear off.
But then you fucking hear it. Jason's low muttering as he steps under the spray, the deep groan he lets out when the hot water crashes over him. Dick exhaling hard, shifting around, the slap of water against skin as he pushes his hair back. And now, somehow, this is fucking worse.
Because your brain? Yeah, it's not helping.
It's giving you images. Images of Jason, big and broad and dripping, water sliding down his chest, over those stupidly defined abs, down to his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.
And Dick, all lean muscle and smooth skin, his own cock probably flushed and aching, his face tipped back under the spray as he runs a hand over his body, slicking up every inch of himself.
You squeeze your eyes shut. No. Nope. Not doing this. Not right now.
But the heat between your legs is unbearable. Your fingers twitch at your sides, your clit throbbing, aching for relief, and fuck it, you slip your hand between your thighs.
Your breath stutters, thighs trembling as you press your fingers against your puffy, soaked clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles. And God, you're so fucking wet. Soaked. You can feel it, slicker than you've ever been, dripping down your thighs, mixing with the hot water as you rub yourself with quick, jerky movements.
This should do. Probably. Hopefully.
You bite your lip, forcing your moans down, listening, but the water covers any sound, the steady rush of the showers masking the way you whimper when your fingers slide lower, teasing at your entrance, dipping inside just enough to send a shudder up your spine.
This is fine. They can't hear you. They don't know. Right?
Dick exhales sharply, bracing one hand against the tile as the hot water rushes over him. His body is wired, his skin flushed, his cock still painfully, achingly hard even after scrubbing himself down, after doing everything in his power to focus on literally anything else.
But it's not working. It's. Not. Fucking. Working.
His jaw clenches as he glances down, swallowing hard at the sight of his cock—thick and heavy, desperate, the tip drooling precum as it twitches in the air. Okay, he can fix this.
It's just... the pollen. That's what this is. Not him, not you.
It's just a chemical reaction, and the fastest way to get this out of his system is to handle it. Quickly. Before it gets worse.
So he wraps his fingers around himself and gives a slow, experimental stroke. The relief is instant.
A shudder rolls down his spine as his breath hitches, his hand tightening just slightly as he jerks himself once, twice, watching the way his cock twitches, the way another thick bead of precum leaks from the tip, slicking up his palm.
Fuck, this is bad. Because now, now that he's touching himself, now that he's letting himself feel it—you're there. Well, not right next to him. Not really.
But in his head? You're everywhere. Your mouth on his, warm and desperate, your hands roaming down his chest, slipping lower, wrapping around his cock, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes.
Your breath, hot against his ear as you whisper his name, your tits pressed against him, soft and warm, your nipples dragging over his wet skin as you shift in his lap, grinding against his cock, your pussy so wet he can feel it even through the heat of the shower. His pace stutters, his breath turning ragged as his hips rock forward, fucking into his fist like a desperate, needy idiot.
Because fuck, he is needy. And the worst part? You're. Right. There.
A few feet away, just behind that glass divider, water rushing over your body, slicking up every inch of your skin, dripping down your tits, your stomach, your thighs.
And he wants you. Has for a long time.
But now? Now, it's not just want. It's need, and it's fucking unbearable. His hand moves faster, breath catching as his muscles tense, his balls pulling tight, his whole body thrumming with the need to cum.
Because he just needs to cum, and then this will be over. Right?
Jason has the exact same fucking thought.
Because his dick? Yeah, it's not going down. Not even slightly. His head tips back against the tile, a slow, heavy breath hissing through his teeth as he fists his cock, thick fingers wrapping tight around the swollen length. He's had plenty of inconvenient boners before.
That's just part of the package when he's got you in his life—skintight suits, little smirks, the way you fight like you own the city, like no one can touch you.
Yeah, he's used to being hard when you're around. But this? This is fucking ridiculous.
His whole body feels wired, too hot, like there's an electric current running under his skin. His dick hurts, heavy and flushed, leaking against his knuckles as he starts to stroke himself, slow and firm, the pressure making his breath hitch. This should help. This has to help.
He forces himself to think about other things—literally anything else—but his brain? Yeah, his brain is not cooperating.
Because all he can see is you. Your body under the spray, your tits glistening with water, your ass round and perfect, your thighs slick and parted just enough for him to see the way your pussy clenches, desperate and aching.
And fuck, you're right there. Right. Fucking. There.
So close he could just step over, press himself against your back, run his hands down your body, feel the way your slick little pussy drips against his fingers.
Fuck. His strokes get faster, hips bucking up into his own grip, stomach tightening as he groans under his breath, low and rough, trying to chase that sharp, bright edge of relief.
Because yeah, if he just gets this out of his system, if he just cums, then maybe he won't be thinking about how he wants to bury his cock inside you so fucking bad he's starting to lose his mind.
You rub your clit in tight little circles, slick and needy, but it's not enough. The ache between your thighs burns hotter with every second, but you can't tip over the edge. Not like this.
Not with Jason and Dick right there, close enough that your mind keeps conjuring them instead of whatever weak fantasy you were trying to focus on. You bite your lip, hips shifting slightly as your fingers work faster, but it's no use, because all you can think about is how good their hands would feel instead.
Jason's fingers, thick and rough, stretching you open. Dick's tongue, wet and eager, lapping at you until you're a trembling mess. Fuck. You let out a shaky breath and force yourself to stop, frustrated beyond belief, body pulsing with need that refuses to be satisfied.
Meanwhile, Jason is in his own personal nightmare. Fisting his cock was supposed to help. He thought if he just got off, the unbearable need would settle. But no, he's still rock hard, twitching in his grip, and he's gritting his teeth so hard it's a miracle his jaw hasn't snapped.
It's worse because you're right there. He knows you're showering only a few feet away, completely naked, slick water running down that perfect fucking body of yours, and it's driving him insane. His strokes slow, and he tips his head back against the tiled wall, a groan tearing from his throat before he can stop it.
And that's when Dick stiffens. Not just in the obvious way, though yeah, he's still rock hard, still throbbing, and still aching for more, even after cumming. His skin is flushed, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, and his cock hasn't softened at all. He's still leaking, still desperate, and it takes everything in him not to wrap his fingers around himself again and just keep going.
Then Jason groans again, and it clicks. Dick's movements still. His brows furrow slightly. And before he even thinks it through, his gaze shifts—just barely—toward Jason's stall.
Jason, who is definitely still jerking off. Heat rushes up Dick's spine, a mix of embarrassment and something else—something dangerous—curling deep in his gut. They're both fucked.
Jason must feel the stare, because his grip falters. He huffs a breath, tilting his head to the side just enough that their eyes meet through the fogged up glass, and... oh. Oh, fuck.
The realization is heavy between them, thick with unspoken tension. Dick's lips part slightly, his fingers twitching at his side, and Jason—still flushed, still panting—grits his teeth, dragging a hand down his face like this is somehow his fault.
"This shit is fucked," Jason mutters, voice rough and strained.
Dick sways awkwardly, still pulsing with unbearable heat, and nods. Jason swallows hard, and when his gaze flicks to Dick, he finds the same wide eyed, panting, wrecked expression staring back at him. They're both so far gone it's pathetic. And if they're this fucked, then you must be even worse.
And then? You step out of the stall.
Wrapped in nothing but a towel, beads of water dripping from your skin, steam curling around you like a fucking wet dream. And when you lift your gaze and see them, your breath catches.
Jason is still gripping his cock, hand frozen mid stroke, his whole body stiff. Dick is still hard, still flushed, his eyes wide and dark as he takes you in. The tension is suffocating.
You all know what's happening here at this point. You swallow hard, your body throbbing with heat, and realization slams into you: none of you are getting through this alone.
The silence is thick, the kind that clings, all steam and heat and unsaid words hanging heavy in the air. All three of you just stand there, dripping wet, but you're the only one still clinging to any semblance of modesty, wrapped in a towel that suddenly feels too tight, too hot against your skin.
Dick and Jason? They're just there. Naked.
And maybe you'd all just keep standing here, awkward and unbearably turned on, if Dick didn't clear his throat and break the silence.
"So, uhm..." His voice cracks a little, and he grimaces before trying again. "There was something in the—"
"I know," you cut him off, and your voice is not as steady as you'd like it to be.
Jason, ever the blunt one, just snorts. "Yeah, so jerkin' off isn't doing shit."
That gets a laugh out of you, sharp and a little breathless. "You don't say."
And you really shouldn't be looking. You shouldn't. But they're right there. And when you finally, really let yourself look, trailing your gaze over bare skin, all toned muscle and broad shoulders and glistening tattoos, your eyes flicker down to their laps.
Fuck.
Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself, trailing down to where they stand, cocks heavy and thick against their stomachs, hard and mouthwatering, flushed at the tip.
Jason's hands flex at his sides, itching to reach for you.
Dick sways forward slightly, like he's barely restraining himself, like he wants to drop to his knees right then and there. And you whimper. A soft, needy little sound you cannot take back, and it feels like the air gets sucked out of the room.
Jason notices first—of course he does, always the one to pick up on the filthiest shit—and his eyes darken as his fingers twitch like he's about to grab you.
"So," he starts, voice thick, rough, the kind that settles low in your gut. "Maybe we should, uh... try and help each other out?"
You snap your gaze up to his face so fast your neck nearly cracks, and when you glance at Dick, he's already looking at you.
There's no denying it. There never has been. The attraction between you three has always been there, simmering under the surface, never acted on, never spoken out loud. You've thought about it. Of course you have. Working alongside them, running into them on patrol, spending late nights at the manor or in Jason's safe house—how couldn't you?
You know they like you. They know you like them. But friendship has always come first.
You know you're all good; you get tested regularly, a necessity when you're constantly fighting Gotham's worst, and besides, you're on birth control. You could walk away, end this right here, but they're right there. Naked, wet, needy, dicks that have no business being that fucking big, let alone rock solid.
And you want them so bad. So you do the only thing that makes sense: you let the towel slip from your fingers and drop to the floor.
The second it hits the tiles, their eyes devour you. It starts at your face, flicking down over the curve of your neck, the soft swell of your tits, the dip of your waist, the plush of your thighs, until finally, finally, both of them are staring straight at your bare, aching pussy, slick already glistening between your thighs.
And they look wrecked just from seeing you. Jason's jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and Dick sways slightly on his feet, but neither of them speak, too caught up in the sight of you until Jason finally breaks the silence.
"Fuck," he rasps, voice rough and thick. "You're fuckin' gorgeous."
Your face burns hotter, if that's even possible, heat rushing to your cheeks as they reach out almost in sync, hands gripping the knobs on their respective showers, twisting the water off in one smooth motion before stepping out.
And shit, they're even bigger up close.
Not just big, but big. Tall, broad, all muscle, sleek and strong, shoulders wide, thighs thick, every part of them defined—from the solid lines of their chests to the way their abs flex as they move, glistening wet, drops of water trailing down their skin in slow, teasing paths.
But it's their dicks that have you aching, twitching hard, flushed, heavy, and when Dick's cock gives a sharp throb, you bite back a moan so desperate it nearly chokes you.
Jason steps in first, heat radiating off him as he cups your cheek with one big, calloused hand, tilting your head up, eyes dark and hungry as he leans in.
And then he's kissing you. Hard, deep, hungry. His lips move against yours, hot and insistent, tongue sliding into your mouth like he's been waiting for this, starving for it, and fuck, he kisses like he fights—possessive, dominant, all consuming.
His other hand doesn't hesitate, palms smoothing over your skin, rough fingers sliding straight down to your ass, grabbing a handful, squeezing tight, yanking you up flush against him until his cock presses firm against your belly.
You moan into his mouth, body shuddering as heat coils in your gut, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, every inch of him burning against you.
Behind you, Dick curses under his breath, and you can feel the heat of his stare, feel the way his breath comes out sharp, ragged, as he watches Jason kiss you like he owns you.
Dick steps up behind you, heat radiating off his body, slick skin pressing against your back, and you melt between them. Sandwiched, trapped, caught between two broad, solid bodies, both of them flushed and aching, cocks hard and hot against your skin. Jason groans when your tits press into his chest, and then Dick—fucking Dick—lets out the softest, neediest little exhale against your ear as his hands slide up your sides.
His fingers trace over your ribs, then higher, cupping your tits, thumbs rolling over your nipples, teasing, stroking, making you gasp as Jason leans in and kisses you again.
It's not like before. This kiss is slower, deeper, Jason taking his time to drink you in. His tongue licks into your mouth, lazy, hungry, and his hands roam, one gripping the back of your neck while the other settles on your waist, fingers flexing like he can't decide whether he wants to pull you closer or just hold you there and enjoy every shaky breath you make.
Behind you, Dick's mouth is everywhere—pressing open mouthed kisses to your shoulder, up your throat, teasing your ear as his hand dips lower. Fingertips ghosting down, past your belly, until they finally find your puffy, swollen clit.
You twitch at the contact, a sharp little gasp escaping against Jason's lips, and Dick groans, louder this time, pressing a little firmer, rubbing teasing little circles as he mutters, "You're so fucking wet."
Jason pulls back just enough to watch your face, brushing his thumb over your kiss swollen lips.
His voice is strained, rough as he asks, "You okay with this? With whatever's about to happen?"
His eyes are dark, intense, filled with want but laced with concern, because they need this, need you, but not like this, not unless you want it just as badly. You nod quickly, already breathless, but Dick? Dick's not having it.
He dips his head lower, mouth brushing right against your ear as he whispers, "Use your words, love. We don't wanna push you into anything."
It's almost cruel, the way his fingers slow down, teasing, playing, rubbing lazy, barely there strokes over your clit when all you want is more.
"Yes," you gasp, pushing into his touch. "Please."
That's all it takes. Jason and Dick lock eyes, silent for a moment, and then? Dick nods once, sharp, decisive, and says, "Sauna. Now."
Jason groans. "Jesus fuck, Dickie-bird."
But he doesn't argue. He just watches as Dick takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, guiding you toward the sauna with Jason trailing behind, adjusting the settings so it's warm, comfortable—not stifling, just enough to chase away the cold still clinging to your damp skin.
And the sauna? Yeah, of course it's luxurious as hell. Bruce built it, after all. The benches are smooth, made from high quality wood, wide enough to lie down comfortably, and the warm lighting overhead makes everything feel softer, deeper. It's the kind of place you usually use when you're sore and beaten up after patrols, when you need to relax and let the heat soothe your body.
But tonight? Yeah, you're about to use it for something very different.
Before you can even process what's happening, Jason spins you around, hands everywhere, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing.
You yelp, legs spreading instinctively as he hooks his arms beneath your thighs, locking you open, exposing you, presenting you, and Dick fucking drops to his knees.
"Oh, fuck," he breathes, eyes locked on your dripping pussy, hands already reaching, fingers brushing your inner thighs as his mouth parts in awe. "Look at you."
Jason groans behind you, rolling his hips up just enough to grind his cock against your ass, kissing the side of your head, whispering, "You should see what you do to him, baby. He's fuckin' mesmerized."
And Dick? He kind of is. His chest rises and falls in shallow, desperate breaths as he stares, like he's starving, like he can't decide if he wants to taste you or just kneel there and worship.
Dick's hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing firm, grounding himself as he leans in, eyes fixed on your swollen, dripping pussy. His breath stutters out, warm against your slick skin, and he groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, this is so much better than he ever imagined.
And he has imagined it. More times than he'd ever admit. Nights spent fisting his cock to the thought of you, to the way your suit hugs your curves, to the way you smell when you're close, the teasing, flirty little smiles you send his way. He'd always wondered if you'd taste as good as you look.
"Fuck," he breathes, his voice shaky.
With two fingers, he spreads you open, watching your slick drip, glistening in the dim heat of the sauna, and his tongue flicks out, hungry, catching a taste before he can stop himself.
And it wrecks him. His mouth seals over your cunt, tongue pushing deep, groaning as he devours you, hot and wet, lapping up every drop like he's been starving for it. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you steady as he buries himself between your legs, tongue stroking, circling, pushing in deep before dragging back out, flicking against your clit in slow, teasing swipes.
And the sounds you make? Insane.
Breathless, needy, these little gasps and whimpers that make Jason groan behind you, arms flexing as he adjusts his grip, holding you up like you weigh nothing. Solid and so hot against your back, his cock pressing thick against your ass, twitching every time you moan.
"Fuck, Grayson," Jason mutters, voice strained. "She's gonna lose it."
And you are.
Because fuck, Dick knows how to eat pussy. He's skilled, dedicated, every lick and suck sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He moans into you, the vibrations making you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together, but Jason's grip doesn't let you move.
"Feels good, huh, baby?" Jason murmurs, lips brushing against your ear, his tone all smug and filthy, like he's enjoying this just as much as Dick is.
You can't even speak. Your fingers tangle in Dick's damp hair, clutching hard, back arching against Jason's chest as Dick flicks his tongue against your clit in quick, teasing strokes, like he knows exactly how to unravel you.
Jason groans behind you, his arms tightening around your legs. When your head falls against his shoulder and your eyes meet his, he kisses you.
Hard, deep, like he's claiming you, like he needs you just as much as Dick does. His tongue licks into your mouth, swallowing your moans, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, bruising.
You whimper against his lips, and he groans, rolling his hips against your ass, grinding his cock against you, needing friction, needing something, because fuck, this is too much.
And Dick? He just moans against your pussy, tongue fucking into you, making you shudder so hard Jason has to tighten his grip just to keep you steady.
"So fucking good," Dick mutters, pulling back just enough to flick his tongue over your clit before sucking it into his mouth, making you sob his name. "So sweet. Fuck, I could eat you for hours."
Jason breaks the kiss just to groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Christ, Dickie, you're gonna kill her."
Dick grins against your skin, licking another slow, teasing stripe up your pussy, savoring the way you twitch, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, the way your little gasps turn into full whimpers, desperate and broken.
His fingers ghost over your entrance, teasing, barely there, making your pussy clench on nothing. You squirm in Jason's hold, breath hitching as anticipation coils tight in your stomach, but Dick takes his time. Watches the way you drip for him, spread open and helpless, Jason's arms locked under your thighs to keep you wide and vulnerable.
"Fuck," Dick rasps, his voice thick with arousal, his breath hot against your pussy. "You're soaked."
His thumbs part your folds, and he groans at the sight—slick, glistening, so fucking pretty. His tongue flicks over your clit again, and your whole body jerks, a whimper spilling from your lips.
Jason tightens his grip, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his cock twitching against you as he murmurs, "Easy, baby. Let him take care of you."
And fuck, Dick does take care of you. His mouth works you over, tongue lapping at your swollen clit, lips wrapping around it to suck, firm and slow, drawing needy little noises from your throat. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady, keeping you from writhing too much even though all you want to do is grind against his face, chase the pleasure that's building fast.
Then his fingers press at your entrance again, just the tips, teasing, and you moan, the need to be filled overwhelming. He chuckles against you, the vibration sending another pulse of heat through your core before he finally pushes a finger inside.
It's so much thicker than yours, so much longer, stretching you just enough to make your walls flutter around it. He eases it in, lets you adjust, then curls it up, searching, until—
"Fuck—" you gasp, back arching as he finds that spot, rubbing against it before sliding another finger in beside the first.
The stretch burns just a little, but the way he moves them—God, the way they scissor inside you, slick and warm, thrusting deep—has your mind blanking.
"Feel good, sweetheart?" Jason murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw, hands adjusting their grip on your thighs as he holds you steady.
You nod frantically, but it's not enough. Not when you feel like you're unraveling from just this. "More," you breathe. "Please."
Dick groans like the plea physically pains him, but he doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, stretching you open as his lips wrap around your clit again, sucking just right, tongue flicking against the swollen bud.
Your thighs tremble, pleasure tightening, the slick sounds of his fingers fucking into you obscene, messy, wet. You're dripping, leaking down his hand, onto his wrist, but he doesn't care. His cock is throbbing, leaking against his stomach, but he doesn't fucking care.
All he wants is to make you cum on his tongue. And God, you're close. You can feel it winding tighter and tighter, pleasure curling deep, building fast. Your mind is spinning, flooded with heat and hunger, desperate to feel them everywhere. Their mouths, their hands, their dicks stretching you wide—
Fuck, you're gonna cum.
It hits you fast. A sharp, electric snap of pleasure, burning through every nerve, sending you spiraling. Your whole body locks up, and then, you're cumming, and it's so much. Your cunt tightens around Dick's fingers, pulsing, fluttering, sucking him deeper as wave after wave of heat crashes through you.
It's almost too much. Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and a broken moan spills from your lips as your orgasm drags you under, pleasure rippling through every inch of you. You don't know if it's that fucking pollen messing with you or if Dick just knows how to make you come undone like this, but it feels insane. Shattering, like you're falling apart in Jason's arms, completely helpless to the pleasure tearing through you.
But Dick doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, thrusting his fingers deep, curling them just right, rubbing against that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. His mouth stays locked around your clit, sucking, flicking his tongue over it, dragging you higher, stretching out your orgasm until it's too much, too intense.
All you can do is choke out a breathless, "D-Dick, wait—"
But he doesn't.
Your body jerks, overwhelmed, but he doesn't stop. His fingers work you open, deep and relentless, his tongue still lapping at your clit, pushing, pushing—
And then you gush. A sharp, full body shudder racks through you as hot, slick arousal pours from your cunt, drenching his fingers, his wrist, his fucking face.
It splashes against the sauna floor, and heat flares in your chest, embarrassment creeping up your spine as you gasp, "S-shit, I'm s-sorry—"
Jason lets out a rough groan, voice thick with arousal. "Fuck. A squirter, huh? That's so fuckin' hot, doll."
Dick doesn't care. He doesn't stop. His mouth stays on you, licking up every drop, his fingers fucking you slow, coaxing another trembling aftershock out of your spent, twitching cunt.
Your body is wrecked, boneless in Jason's grip, but Dick soothes you. Soft kisses pressed to your puffy clit, to your inner thighs, murmured praises against your overheated skin.
Jason groans against your ear, nipping at your jaw as he murmurs, "So pretty when you lose it, baby."
Dick finally pulls his fingers from your soaked pussy, and you whimper at the emptiness, body still twitching in the aftermath. He stands up, lifting his hand between you, watching the way your slick drips from his fingers before he licks them clean, moaning like he just tasted the best thing in the world.
And then he's kissing you.
It's not like Jason's kisses—Jason devours you, rough and desperate, all teeth and tongue. Dick? Dick takes his time. His lips move slow over yours, teasing, coaxing, his tongue sliding into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him.
His cock grinds against your swollen, soaked pussy, dragging thick and leaking between your folds, and you feel the heat of Jason against your back as he presses closer, lips finding your neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin, leaving marks.
Dick pulls back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with need.
"You still with us, love?" he murmurs, voice low, sweet, but so thick with hunger.
And you are. But you need more. Jason slowly lowers you to the ground, careful, like he knows your legs won't hold you up yet. And he's right. The second your feet touch the sauna floor, your knees almost buckle, but they're right there.
Jason's strong hands steady your waist, while Dick's arms wrap around you, letting you melt against his chest, your cheek pressed to his flushed, sweat damp skin. His heartbeat is racing, just like yours.
They try to soothe you, even though they're still buzzing with need, cocks aching, pulsing, leaking against your skin. You can feel it, how hard they both are, how they're holding back, muscles tensed like they're barely keeping themselves together.
Dick's fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head up as he murmurs, "You okay?"
His voice is strained, rough with hunger he's barely keeping in check.
You nod, breathless. "I need more. I want you both, I want—"
Jason groans, low and wrecked, because fuck, his dick hurts, throbbing, hot, swollen with need. He's usually not like this—he's got control, he can push past anything, but this?
That fucking pollen? His logic is gone. The only thing left is the raw, aching need clawing at his gut, the sight of you, flushed and needy, still dripping from what Dick did to you.
"You sure?" Dick asks, voice tight, hesitant, because they care, because you're friends, because this is everything all at once.
"Yes," you gasp. "Fuck, I can't—I need more."
They try to resist. Try to be good, to be the men who have held themselves back all these years, who have ignored the teasing, the tension, the way you've always looked at them.
But it's too much. You're naked, hot, trembling between them, still soaked with slick and sweat, so fucking desperate for them, just like they are for you.
They exchange a look, like they're about to actually say something, like they're going to make one last attempt at self control.
But you're having none of it.
You grab both their hands, lacing your fingers with theirs as you guide them toward one of the benches, the air thick with tension, steam, and the undeniable pull of something you've all been trying to ignore for too long.
You stop in front of Dick, looking up at him through heavy lidded eyes as you say, "Sit down."
And he does, because of course he does. Because he knows better than to fuck with you when you've made up your mind, and even though you're smaller than both of them, you've always had a way of getting what you want.
You grab a few towels, spreading them on the floor in front of him because, honestly? Your body is already gonna be wrecked when this is over—bruises, hickeys, everything—and you really don't need your knees all fucked up on top of it.
Then, slowly, you kneel between his legs.
Jason is still standing behind you, watching, stunned, because sure, you've always been bold. You've flirted, teased, laughed in their faces when they tried to resist you, but this? This is something else.
You turn your head, looking up at Jason through heavy lashes, and say, "I need you to fuck me while I suck Dick off."
They both go still. Like their brains just short circuited. Like they can't quite believe what the fuck just came out of your mouth.
And you can see it happening, the exact moment something inside them snaps, because they've both fantasized about this, both thought about it more times than they'd ever admit, and now? Now you're on your knees, looking up at them, demanding it.
Dick swallows hard, his cock twitching, leaking against his stomach. His hands clench at his sides like he's trying so fucking hard to keep control. Jason? Jason just lets out a rough, breathless laugh, shaking his head, because fuck, you're gonna kill him.
Your ass wiggles as you shift into position, and behind you, Jason groans, deep and rough. "Fuck, look at you."
His big hands settle on your hips, hot and firm, fingers flexing like he's trying so hard to keep himself in check. And he can't help it, so he slaps your ass, the sharp sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your cunt.
"Oh—"
You gasp, thighs twitching, and Jason smirks, rubbing the mark he left behind, soothing the heat with his palm. "You like that shit, huh?"
You nod, looking over your shoulder at him with wide, glassy eyes, and his grip tightens.
"Got it, baby."
Then you turn back to Dick, gaze dropping to his cock. And God, he's just as long as Jason, maybe a little thinner, but just as pretty, thick and flushed, the veins along his shaft standing out against the hot, velvety skin. Precum beads at the tip, glistening, and when you lick your lips, Dick shudders, his breath hitching in his throat.
Behind you, Jason's hands slide lower, thumbs dragging over the curve of your ass before he spreads you open, groaning when he gets a good look at you.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, almost dazed, like he can't believe what he's seeing.
You're so wet, swollen, your slick dripping down your thighs, smearing against the inside of his fingers. And your pussy? Fuck, it's the prettiest fucking thing he's ever seen—hot, flushed, clenching around nothing, like you're begging for something to fill you up.
His head tips back for a second, like he needs to pull himself together, but when he looks down again, when he sees your cunt flutter around nothing, aching to be fucked?
He's fucking gone.
Because he knows you're gonna squeeze his dick like a glove, knows you're gonna be so fucking tight, so hot and wet around him that he might actually lose his mind. You're perfect. And this? This can't be real.
But oh, it is.
You shift your weight onto your knees, looking up at Dick, and he looks like he's about to lose his fucking mind too. Especially when you wrap your fingers around his cock. He sucks in a breath, head falling back against the bench as your grip tightens, your palm gliding over his length, slow and teasing.
Then you lean in, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses to the inside of his thigh, and Dick whimpers. The sound makes your cunt throb, pleasure sparking up your spine, because he looks so good like this—so flushed, so desperate, so pretty.
His cock pulses in your hand, leaking all over your fingers, and you purr, "Poor Grayson," before pressing a soft kiss to the tip, tongue flicking out to lap up his precum, tasting the salt and heat of him.
Behind you, Jason curses under his breath, and then you feel the hot, thick weight of his cock press against your dripping cunt.
You gasp, back arching as he rubs the wet head of his dick over your slit, dragging it up and down, teasing your swollen, puffy folds, mixing his precum with your slick until you're soaked in it.
And you? You're trembling. Because you need this. You need them. The second your lips part, taking Dick's cock into your mouth, his hand tangles in your hair. His fingers thread through the strands, tugging just enough to make your scalp tingle, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his other hand cradling your cheek.
You moan around him, the sound vibrating through your throat, and he hisses, his head tipping back against the bench. "Fuck—"
You take him deeper, inch by inch, your jaw stretching to accommodate his length. He's thick, hot, the weight of him pressing against your tongue as you hollow your cheeks and suck. His thighs tense under your palms, muscles jumping when you bob your head slow, teasing, testing how much of him you can take.
His fingers tighten in your hair, his hips twitching—just barely—but you feel it, the way he wants to thrust, to fuck himself down your throat, but he waits, panting, letting you set the pace.
Behind you, Jason is shaking. Shaking.
His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips, his whole body tight, because fuck, your ass is wiggling, pushing back against him, grinding against his cock like you're trying to drive him insane.
And it's working. His dick throbs, thick and aching, leaking against your soaked, swollen cunt as you shift again, tilting your hips just right, and Jason snaps. He lines himself up and starts to push in, slow, deliberate, even though his whole body is telling him to fuck you, to take you, to split you open and wreck you.
But he waits. He has to wait. Because he knows he's big, and with how tight you are—so hot and wet, squeezing around just the tip—he can't move, not even if he wanted to.
His whole body trembles as he leans over you, pressing his chest to your back, grounding himself as much as he's grounding you. His big hands smooth up and down your sides, soothing, steadying, feeling the way your breath shudders as you try to relax, try to take him deeper.
But he waits, even though every muscle in his body is coiled tight, his jaw clenched so hard it aches, because even through the pollen haze, Jason cares. He needs you to feel good.
Your walls stretch around him, clutching at him, and he slides in so easily, your pussy welcoming him, pulling him in. He sinks in slow, inch by inch, splitting you open until he's fully sheathed inside you, buried to the hilt, and you can't help but moan. The vibration makes Dick's hips jerk, a curse tumbling from his lips as his fingers tighten in your hair.
And Jason?Jason groans, burying himself inside you, his forehead dropping against the back of your shoulder.
"Breathe, baby," he mutters against your skin, his lips trailing slow, soft kisses along your shoulder, his body trembling as he forces himself to stay still, to let you adjust, even though he wants to move so fucking bad.
He gives you time, even though his entire body is screaming at him to fuck you, to finally lose himself in the heat of your cunt.
"You're doin' so good," he rasps, voice strained, like the feel of your pussy wrapped around his cock is driving him straight to the fucking edge.
You slide off Dick's cock with a gasp, a line of spit still connecting your lips to his flushed tip. Your fingers tighten around the base, stroking him as your head dips forward, and Jason groans behind you, eyes clenching shut, breathing through it, fighting against the way your pussy is milking his cock.
You can't breathe. You can't think. The feeling is overwhelming, his cock pulsing deep inside you, stretching you so wide you feel full. Too full, almost, but Jason soothes you through it, his lips trailing soft, slow kisses along your skin.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters under his breath, his jaw clenched, his whole body so tight he thinks he might snap in half.
And then, finally, you shift against him. A tiny moan leaves your lips, and Jason can't wait any longer. Slowly, he pulls out, his cock dragging against your sensitive, fluttering walls, making your whole body tremble. Then he pushes back in, just as slow, filling you up again, stretching you, claiming every inch of your cunt.
It burns. It aches, just a little. Your whimper is soft, almost inaudible, but Jason hears it.
And he shushes you, kissing your shoulder again, whispering, "You're doin' so fuckin' good for me."
Jason's grip tightens on your waist, fingers digging into your soft skin as he starts to move, slow and deliberate, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, filling you up again, making you moan.
It's too slow, too teasing. You need more.
So you refocus, letting yourself drown in the heat of Dick's body, the way his cock twitches in your grip, thick and flushed and leaking all over your fingers. You slide your tongue over the tip, swirling around the slit, savoring the salty taste of his precum before taking him back into your mouth, sinking deeper this time.
The stretch is obscene, your lips stretched wide around him, your jaw aching as you push further, inch by inch, your throat tightening as he hits the back of your mouth. You gag, drool spilling from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin, but you don't care.
You love it. It's better than every fantasy you've ever had, better than every late night thought of them, better than you could've ever imagined. Because they feel so good, sound so good, and you know you're not coming back from this.
Dick is gone. His fingers tangle in your hair again, watching the way you take him, the way you look up at him with glassy, desperate eyes, and fuck, you're so pretty like this, drooling all over his cock, taking him so fucking deep.
His whole body tenses, muscles tight, abs flexing, the veins in his forearms standing out as he tries to control himself, to hold back, but Jesus Christ, you're making it so fucking hard.
Jason is just as wrecked. His pace is still slow, but he's obsessed, his mind fuzzy with how good you feel, how tight you are, how fucking perfect your pussy is wrapped around his cock, gripping him like a vice.
He has to see it.
So he moves his hands from your waist, big palms spreading over the curve of your ass, gripping the flesh before pulling your cheeks apart, groaning when he gets a clear view of your soaked cunt stretched so tight around his dick.
His cock twitches, a groan slipping from his lips because fuck, you're swallowing him whole, your pussy gripping every inch of him, making a mess all over his cock, slick glistening along his length.
This is the best pussy he's ever had. But he knows it's you. It has nothing to do with that pollen. It's you.
And he's so fucking gone over you.
You whimper around Dick's cock, your eyes flicking up to meet his, watching the way his chest rises and falls in quick, desperate pants. And then, slowly, you let him slip from your mouth again, gasping for air, your hand tightening around the base as you pant.
"Fuck my mouth."
Dick freezes, his breath hitching, his lips parting as his brows furrow, like he's not sure he heard you right.
"W-what?"
You lick your lips, eyes heavy lidded, spit glistening along your chin as you repeat, slow and clear. "Fuck. My. Mouth."
His whole body shudders, and he doesn't even think. Doesn't hesitate. He does it.
His grip tightens in your hair as he tilts your head back, and then he's pushing in, slow but firm, guiding his cock past your lips, groaning as the heat of your mouth wraps around him.
And behind you, Jason hisses, his fingers tightening on your ass before landing another sharp slap, making you jolt forward.
"Shit," he groans, his voice thick with arousal, dark with want. "You're freaky as fuck."
Dick's grip tightens in your hair as he starts to move, slow at first, thrusting shallowly, watching the way his cock glides over your slick tongue, the way your lips stretch around him, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.
"God, baby," he groans, voice strained, wrecked, his abs flexing as he pushes deeper, testing your limits, his hips jerking when you moan around him. "You feel so good—fuck, you're perfect. So sweet for me, taking me so well."
His words make your pussy clench around Jason's cock, the praise making your head spin, making you drool more as you relax your throat, letting Dick push deeper, the head of his cock nudging the back of your mouth. Your eyes flutter, heat sparking in your core as he fucks your mouth in slow, deliberate strokes.
His breath is ragged, his voice thick as he murmurs, "Just like that, pretty girl. You're doing so good. Such a perfect little thing."
Behind you, Jason groans, his grip bruising as he watches you take it, eyes dark, hungry.
"Fuck," he rasps, his voice rough, thick with need. "Look at you. So fuckin' nasty, baby. Goddamn, you're gonna make me lose my shit."
His hands slide over your ass, squeezing, spreading you open so he can watch the way your pussy stretches around his cock, gripping him like a fucking vice, sucking him in, milking him.
"You're so tight," he groans, his cock twitching inside you, his jaw clenching. "So fuckin' wet. Jesus Christ, this is the best pussy I've ever had."
The words make your walls flutter, make your body throb, and you can't help yourself. You push back against him, grinding your ass into his hips, moaning around Dick's cock as Jason curses, his fingers tightening on your ass.
And then he snaps. His patience shatters, his control slipping as he slams into you, knocking the breath from your lungs, making your eyes roll back.
"Fuck, yeah," Jason growls, dragging you back onto his cock, setting a relentless rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the steam filled air. "That's what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to fuck you like this? Shit, you're so fuckin' needy, baby."
Your moans vibrate around Dick's cock, making him groan, his hips stuttering.
"Jesus Christ," he gasps, his fingers tugging on your hair, his head tipping back as he watches you, his cock throbbing as you swallow around him. "You're so fucking good, baby."
Jason groans, his cock dragging against your walls, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure skittering down your spine.
"Look at you," he rasps, voice low, dark, wrecked. "Gettin' your mouth fucked, gettin' your pussy fucked—shit, baby, you're drippin' all over my dick."
His words send a sharp throb through your core, making your walls squeeze around him, making him curse.
"Yeah, you like that? You like bein' a messy little thing?"
His words mix with Dick's soft, sweet praise, the contrast making your head spin, making your body ache for more, more, more. You're soaked, you're gone, and you're about to cum so hard.
Dick's fingers clench tighter in your hair, his whole body shaking as you take him deeper, swallowing him down until your nose brushes against the soft patch of hair at the base of his cock. His moans grow louder, ragged, his hips jerking forward, his self control slipping between his fingers.
"Fuck, baby," he groans, his voice wrecked, shaking. "You're—shit, you're gonna make me—"
You hum around him, hollowing your cheeks, sucking him harder, and that's it. That's all it takes for him to lose it.
His cock twitches on your tongue, the thick veins pulsing against the heat of your mouth as his orgasm slams into him, ripping through him like a live wire.
"Oh, fuck—"
His breath catches, his whole body locking up as the first hot pulse of his cum spills onto your tongue, thick and heavy, coating your throat as he shudders, trembles, his head tipping back against the wall, his lips parting in a wrecked, shaking moan.
You swallow it all, every last drop, your throat working around him, and it's too much. His thighs tense, his abs flex, his breath coming in sharp gasps as his hips jerk, his cock throbbing, overstimulated, as you keep sucking, drawing out every last spurt of his release.
"Jesus Christ, baby," he whimpers, his grip tightening for a second before his hand slips from your hair, his body melting, shaking, spent.
You finally let him slide free with a soft, wet pop, licking the last traces of him from your lips, and when he finally cracks his eyes open, looking down at you with flushed cheeks and a dazed, blissed out expression, he groans.
"God," he breathes, still catching his breath, his thumb stroking along your bottom lip, cleaning up the mess he left behind. "You're so fucking good."
You only have a second to grin before Jason grabs you. His arm wraps around your waist, yanking you up, pulling you against his chest as he slams his cock back into your pussy, the force of it making you gasp, your body arching as he fills you up again, stretching you all over.
"Fuckin' shit," Jason growls, his voice low, desperate, his breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you, his cock hitting deep, slamming into that spot inside you that makes your whole body tremble.
His free hand slides down, finding your clit, rubbing in quick, tight circles, his fingers slippery with your arousal.
"You gonna cum for me, baby?" he grits out, his voice dark, wrecked. "Gonna soak my fuckin' dick?"
You whimper, nodding desperately, your nails digging into his arms, your whole body coiling tight, every thrust, every press of his fingers sending you closer to the edge.
Your head tilts back, your lips parting, and Jason takes it as an invitation. His mouth crashes against yours, the kiss filthy, messy, his tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the steam thick air.
It's too much. The way he's pounding into you, the way his fingers are rubbing your clit, the way his mouth is devouring yours—it's all too much.
You shatter. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, your body locking up as your walls clamp down around Jason's cock, your pussy spasming, milking him as you moan into his mouth, your whole body shaking from the force of it.
But he doesn't stop.
"Yeah," Jason groans, his pace relentless, his fingers still working your clit, pushing you higher, keeping you right there, shoving you into another orgasm before you can even catch your breath.
"Oh—fuck—"
Your whole body seizes, and then you gush, hot, wet, soaking his cock, the mess dripping down your thighs, pooling on the towels beneath you as your mind goes blank. Jason groans, his grip bruising, his voice full of awe and lust and pure fucking greed.
"Shit, baby," he growls, his hand sliding up your stomach to cup your tits, squeezing, his hips still slamming into you. "You're so fuckin' hot—goddamn, look at this mess you're makin'."
You're gone, trembling in his arms, panting, whimpering, still coming, your body wrecked, and he loves it.
But even after you've soaked his dick, even after you've cum so hard your legs shake and your body trembles, he just keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing his own high, refusing to let you catch your breath.
Your thoughts are a mess, a haze of heat and pleasure and pure, desperate need. Every time he thrusts back inside, it knocks the air from your lungs, sending another sharp jolt of electricity up your spine, making your toes curl.
His dick is so big, so hot, so thick, stretching you to your limit, the swollen head hitting your cervix with every deep, brutal stroke, the impact sending sparks of pain-laced pleasure licking up your spine.
Jason groans, his breath hot against your ear, his big hands sliding from your waist to your tits, squeezing, kneading, rolling your sensitive nipples between his fingers.
"Fuck, baby," he moans, voice wrecked, breathless. "You feel so good—tight little pussy's so fuckin' wet, takin' my dick like a fuckin' dream."
His voice is a growl, his breath ragged, filthy, and it makes you clench around him, your body reacting to the sheer, raw hunger in his voice.
"Drippin' down my fuckin' balls, makin' a mess all over me," he mutters, his pace getting faster, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin filling the air. "Such a fuckin' good girl, lettin' me fuck you like this—shit—"
His moan is deep, gritty, his lips brushing against your neck, and it makes your brain melt.
You can feel Dick watching.
His heavy, ragged breathing, the way he groans softly under his breath every time your tits bounce from the sheer force of Jason's thrusts, the way he's still hard, his cock resting heavy against his abdomen as he watches Jason destroy you.
Jason buries his face in your shoulder, his pace stuttering, and then his voice turns urgent, desperate. "Shit," he pants. "Where do you want me to cum, doll?"
The words slip out before you even think.
"Inside," you whimper, the plea ragged, breathless. "Inside me, please."
Jason groans, his arms tightening around you, his body shaking. "Fuck."
He grabs your waist, slamming into you, fucking you like a man possessed, like he's starving for you, like he needs to be as deep as possible, stretching you wide, filling you to the fucking brim.
And it's like something in Dick snaps. He drops to his knees, his big hands sliding up your thighs, and then his fingers find your clit.
"Oh—fuck—"
Your whole body seizes—Jason's cock splitting you open, fucking you deep and hard, pounding into your soaking cunt while Dick's fingers rub your puffy, far too sensitive clit, quick and precise, pushing you higher, driving you insane.
Then Dick leans in, his lips brushing against yours, swallowing your moans, devouring them, and God, this has to be the hottest fuck of your life.
His tongue, hot, wet, messy against yours, kissing you like he needs you, like he's starving for the taste of your pleasure.
And shit, these two men—hot as fuck, sweaty, desperate, ruining you. They are going to wreck you for anyone else for sure.
Jason groans, his pace brutal, his cock pounding into your swollen, soaked pussy, stretching you so wide, splitting you open, filling you so deep you can feel him in your stomach.
He's right there, right on the edge, voice rough, breath ragged as he mutters, "C'mon, baby, I'm so close. Fuck, gimme one more, let me feel you."
And then, Dick starts slapping your clit slightly. It's sharp, the sting mixing with the unbearable pleasure of Jason's cock fucking you stupid, and that's it, you snap.
Your whole body locks up, your pussy clenching down hard around Jason's cock, milking him, your legs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, drowning you in wave after wave of pure, burning pleasure.
Your mouth falls open in a wrecked, wordless moan, eyes rolling back, sweat dripping down your skin as you shake, your whole body on fire, pleasure exploding behind your eyelids, your clit throbbing, your walls spasming around Jason's thick cock.
And he loses it.
"Fuck—" His breath punches out of him, a deep, desperate groan rumbling through his chest, his grip on your hips turning bruising as your pussy chokes his cock, squeezing him so tight he can't hold back.
He buries himself to the hilt, grinding deep, grinding so fucking deep, and then, he cums. Thick, hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, painting your walls, filling you up so much you can feel it, dripping out around his cock, mixing with your slick as he lets out a deep, wrecked groan.
But he doesn't stop.
Even as his dick throbs, even as he pulses inside you, he grits his teeth and fucks it deeper, slow, deep rolls of his hips, making sure every last drop stays buried inside you, making sure you feel it.
Dick's fingers never stop, still rubbing your aching clit, making you whimper, making your whole body jolt, your thighs quivering, your nipples aching, your pussy so full and sensitive that every little movement makes you twitch.
And then Dick finally lets you breathe.
He breaks the kiss, his lips swollen, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark with lust as he soothes you, his hands smoothing up your back, down your arms, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your temple, whispering soft praises against your skin.
Your breath shudders out of you, your head dropping forward onto Dick's shoulder as Jason stills behind you, his chest rising and falling, sweat slicking his skin, his grip still tight on your waist, grounding you as you tremble in their hold.
Jason does the same, his big hands rubbing slow, warm circles into your waist, his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath deep, calming, as he lets you come down.
But it's not enough. You still need more.
Your whole body buzzes with it, aching with it, and before you can stop yourself, before you can even think, the words tumble from your lips, breathless, desperate, "I need... I—w-want you both at the same time."
Jason freezes. "Fuckin' shit."
His arm tightens around your waist, his cock still buried inside you, twitching just at the thought of it.
And Dick? His breath catches, his fingers tightening against your skin, his lips parting as his brows furrow, something unreadable flickering across his face before he cups your cheek, pressing soft, sweet kisses all over your flushed skin.
"Love, maybe we should—"
"No," you shake your head, chest heaving. "I need it. I—fuck, I need more."
Dick hesitates. "But we'd need lube, and—"
"I have some," you gasp. "In—in my locker. In my bag."
They both freeze. Jason raises a brow, his lips twitching, while Dick blinks at you, head tilting slightly.
"...You what?"
Your face burns. "I just bought it—I was gonna take it home, but I kept forgetting—"
Jason smirks, shaking his head, while Dick huffs out a quiet laugh before turning on his heel.
"I'll get it."
Your thoughts swirl, still dazed, still high from pleasure. It's really just a coincidence, something you bought last week and forgot to leave at home, but now? Now, you're just grateful you have it.
The second Dick is gone, Jason leans in, his lips brushing against yours, slow, deep, his tongue dragging along your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth. You moan softly, body pressing into his, heat still pooling low in your stomach.
When he pulls away, his smirk is sharp, eyes dark.
"You just bought it, huh?"
Your eyes dart away, face burning, and he chuckles. Then Dick is back, the bottle of lube in hand, and he's grinning, but there's something in his eyes, something darker, something hungrier.
He tosses the bottle onto the bench, his gaze flickering between you and Jason before he murmurs, "That's real convenient, sweetheart."
Jason's lips brush against your neck, hot and damp with sweat, his breath still ragged as he drags his mouth along your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses to the flushed heat of your throat. His hands slide down your waist, holding you, still keeping you close, as if he doesn't want to pull away just yet.
But then he does. His cock slips free, and the loss makes you whine, your walls clenching around nothing, feeling so empty after being stretched and filled so deep.
Jason chuckles, low and rough, pressing another slow kiss to your shoulder before he straightens, his hands steady on your waist as he helps you up, keeping you from collapsing completely. And then, his cum starts dripping out of you.
Thick, warm, messy, streaking down your thighs, slick and obscene, mixing with your own wetness, making your skin glisten under the dim lights.
Jason groans, watching it, his fingers squeezing at your hips before he turns you around, cupping your face with both hands, tilting your chin up so you have to look at him.
He kisses you, deep, messy, wet.
His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, curling against yours, dragging along the roof of your mouth, swallowing the small gasp you let out as he dominates the kiss.
It's all spit and heat, his grip firm, his fingers digging into your jaw as he devours you, groaning into your mouth, his own hips twitching forward instinctively, as if he's not done with you yet.
And maybe he's not. When he finally pulls away, your lips are slick with spit, swollen and tingling, your breath coming in short, shaky gasps.
But Jason just smirks, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip as he murmurs, "Took me so fuckin' well."
The praise sends a shiver down your spine, heat coiling in your belly, but you don't even have time to dwell on it because you're already turning to Dick, your whole body still thrumming with need.
"Lay on the bench."
His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but he doesn't question it. He grabs some towels first, spreading them out so he can sit more comfortably, before laying back, his cock still hard, standing thick and flushed against his stomach, twitching slightly as he watches you, pupils blown.
You barely give him time to think. You climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and the moment your soaked pussy presses against his cock, dragging along his length, he groans, his head falling back slightly.
"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping your thighs, sliding up to cup your ass. "That pollen fucked us up badly."
You nod, whimpering, rubbing yourself against him, smearing Jason's cum and your own slick all over his cock, making it all slippery, all hot, and then, Dick grinds right back.
His hands tighten on your ass, his hips rolling up against yours, rubbing the thick, leaking head of his cock against your throbbing clit, making you moan, making your thighs tremble from the overstimulation.
But you need him inside. Now. Lifting yourself up, you barely hesitate before sinking down onto his cock, and it's so easy. You're soaked, dripping, stretched wide and ready from Jason, and Dick slides right in, filling you up in one smooth, wet motion, the thick length of him pressing against every sensitive spot inside you.
Dick gasps, his fingers flexing against your ass, his chest rising sharply as his brows furrow, his mouth falling open in a soft, breathless moan. His thoughts are a mess.
He's inside you. He's inside you, and you feel so fucking good. So tight, so warm, so fucking wet, and it's all for him.
Well, for him and Jason, all of you caught up in this fever, this unbearable need, and fuck, he never thought this would happen, never thought he'd get to feel you like this, but now... now he can't stop thinking about it.
Can't stop thinking about how you feel around him, how you're squeezing him, how your slick drips down his length, coating his cock, making it so easy to slide deeper, making it so fucking hot.
"Jesus," he groans, his head tipping back, his fingers gripping at you. "Baby, you feel... fuck, you feel so good."
Dick can't stop kissing you. It's like he's obsessed, like he needs his mouth on you just as much as he needs to fuck you.
Every time his hips drive up, his cock sinking deep inside your dripping cunt, he's pulling you down to meet him, his lips crashing against yours, groaning into your mouth like he's drunk on the heat of you, the taste of you, the way your walls grip him so tight every time he moves.
"God, baby," he pants against your lips, voice breathless, wrecked, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts up into you again, harder this time, his cock rubbing against every tender, sensitive spot inside you. "I can't stop, I can't—"
You moan, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him, feeling every shift of his muscles, every snap of his hips as he fucks into you with slow, deep, needy strokes.
And across from you, Jason watches. His lips are slightly parted, his chest rising with each heavy breath, his eyes locked on the way Dick's cock sinks in and out of your soaked, used pussy, slick noises filling the sauna, making his jaw clench.
"Fuck," he mutters, his grip tightening around his cock, stroking himself slowly.
His breath catches as he watches the way your body takes it, how easy it is for Dick to slide into you after he already ruined you, stretching you out, leaving you so wet that it's effortless.
His free hand slides up your back, fingers tracing along the sweat slick curve of your spine, following it down to your ass, where he grips the flesh and spreads you slightly. The moment he does, he groans at the sight of Dick's cock fucking into your pussy, your hole clinging to him, soaked and messy, your juices dripping down to your thighs, making the whole thing so fucking filthy.
You hear the slick pop of a bottle being opened, and then, his fingers, cool and slick with lube, gliding over the rim of your other hole. A soft, teasing touch.
Your breath hitches, a shiver running through you even as you grind down onto Dick's cock, making him groan, his hands flexing against your hips. Jason smirks, rubbing slow circles around your rim, massaging the tight muscle, teasing it, not pushing in just yet.
"Gotta stretch you open first, doll," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the dip of your spine. "Don't wanna hurt you."
You nod, panting, pressing back into his hand as he finally, slowly, pushes in the tip of his finger. Your body twitches at the stretch, a sharp inhale escaping you as your walls flutter around Dick's cock at the same time, making him groan, his brows furrowing as he tries to keep himself from losing it.
Jason waits a moment, watching the way you react, his other hand rubbing slow circles along your waist, his voice softer this time when he asks, "You okay, baby?"
You exhale shakily, nodding, your body adjusting to the new sensation, the slight pressure of his finger stretching you open.
And then he starts to move.
Slowly, teasingly, fucking you with the single finger, slipping it in and out in careful strokes, feeling the way your body responds, the way your walls tremble around him, your moans growing softer, more desperate as he adds another finger.
A low, drawn out out moan escapes you, your body twitching, your walls fluttering around Dick's cock again, making him groan, his fingers gripping your hips harder.
"You're so fuckin' tight," Jason mutters, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as he works his fingers in deeper, stretching you open, his cock twitching at the way you pulse around him.
His movements stay patient, calculated, letting you get used to every single sensation, letting you feel it, your body reacting to both him and Dick at the same time, your nerves lighting up from how much stimulation there is, how they're everywhere all at once.
By the time he slides in a third finger, you're trembling, panting, your nails digging into Dick's shoulders as he groans at the way you keep clenching around him.
"You're doin' so good, baby," Jason murmurs against your back, pressing a slow kiss between your shoulder blades, fingers curling inside you, stretching you wider.
Dick keeps kissing you. He can't stop.
His lips keep finding yours between every breathless moan, every shaky exhale, every soft noise that leaves your lips as Jason's fingers work you open, stretching you wider, preparing you for his dick.
You can barely think. Your body is trembling, nerves buzzing, your mind foggy with want, with need, your hands gripping Dick's shoulders as he pants against your lips, "You feel so good, sweetheart, I—fuck, I need to feel you."
Jason growls against your skin, his fingers sinking deeper, pushing past the tight ring of muscle until he's knuckle deep, fucking them in and out in slow, filthy thrusts. He watches you shudder, listens to the way you gasp, the way your thighs tremble when he curls his fingers just right.
"Relax," he murmurs, dragging his teeth over your neck, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you still. "You're already takin' me so fuckin' well, baby—bet you'll stretch around my dick like a dream."
He spreads his fingers, stretching you wider, dragging them back just to push in again, deeper, rougher, wetter. The slick, obscene sounds of it make heat curl in your belly, make your whole body tighten, aching, desperate.
"Fuck, you feel this?" Jason grunts, his fingers twisting, pressing, stroking in slow, teasing circles. "So tight, so fuckin' perfect—gonna ruin you, baby."
Dick presses another kiss to your lips, then another, then another, each one deeper, more desperate, more needy, because he has to. He has to taste you, has to feel you, has to lose himself in you while Jason kneels behind you, his cock hard and aching, the tip glistening as he slowly, carefully pulls his fingers out of your ass.
A low groan rumbles in his chest at the sight, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you slightly, watching the way your body twitches, the way your ass clenches, still slightly open from how deep his fingers had been.
"Relax, doll," he murmurs, his breath warm against your spine as he slicks himself up with lube, rubbing the tip of his cock against your hole, teasing, pressing just slightly to gauge your reaction.
Your whole body shudders, and Dick cradles your face, kisses you slow, deep, as he whispers against your lips, "Breathe, pretty girl. I got you."
Jason presses in. Slowly. The stretch is immediate, intense, your body clenching around him as he sinks in, inch by inch, his jaw tight as he groans, hands gripping your hips, feeling the way you shake as you adjust to the sheer size of him, to the way he's filling you.
Dick can feel it too. Your walls clenching around his cock, getting tighter just from how Jason is stretching you open, making him groan, his hands flexing against your waist.
"Fuck, baby," Jason grits out, his breath coming out shaky as he finally bottoms out, his forehead pressing against your back, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths. "You feel so fuckin' good."
You're a mess. Your breath is shaky, your pulse racing, your body overwhelmed in the best way possible, stuffed full, stretched wide, both of them inside you, filling you to the absolute brim.
Still, it's not enough. You need more. And the moment you shift, rolling your hips slightly, feeling the way it makes Jason's cock nudge deeper, Dick lets out a sharp, wrecked sound and tightens his grip on your hips.
"Hold still, love," he breathes, his voice low, strained, adjusting his grip on you, making sure you don't have to move, don't have to do anything except take it.
And you will. You'll take all of it. Because they need this just as much as you do, and neither of them can hold back much longer.
Jason exhales hard through his nose, his grip steady on your hips, his cock pulsing, buried deep inside your ass as he presses his chest flush against your back.
His lips graze your shoulder, his breath warm, voice low and gruff when he murmurs, "Good? Still with us?"
You nod quickly, too quickly, your brain foggy, words barely forming as you pant, "M-Move, please..."
Dick is the first to obey. His fingers flex at your waist, his muscles tensing beneath you as he rolls his hips up, fucking into your soaked cunt slow and deep, dragging a moan from your throat as the thick length of him stretches you open all over again.
Jason groans at the sight, at the way your tight little hole clenches around Dick's cock, the way your body shudders when Dick fills you to the hilt, rubbing against the spots that make you gasp, make you shake.
And then, Jason moves. It's slow, deliberate, his hips grinding forward, easing himself out just to push back in, filling your ass just as Dick fills your pussy, the slow stretch making your breath catch, making your fingers curl against Dick's chest.
Your mind is blank. Absolutely fucking blank. You can barely register the words Dick is whispering, his voice soft, warm, each praise making you clench down tighter, "God, sweetheart, you feel so good—so tight, so perfect—taking both of us so well, baby, so fucking good—"
His words make your breath stutter, make your walls squeeze around him, make Jason groan, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs stroking your skin as he kisses your back, your shoulders, your neck, his lips soft, reverent, even as he fucks you.
And you can barely breathe. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your body trembling as they thrust into you, stretching you, filling you, overwhelming you with the sheer amount of pleasure you're drowning in.
Jason's hand slides around you. Finds your puffy little clit. Presses down. You wail.
Your whole body jerks, your breath shattering as Jason grins against your skin, his fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, slow and cruel, all while his cock grinds deep into your ass, making your walls clench around both of them.
Dick chokes on a moan, his hips jerking, his fingers digging into your waist, his cock stuffing your pussy, pushing deeper, hitting that spot that makes you keen.
Jason groans at the reaction, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, muttering, "Fuck, baby, that's it—take it—"
And you do. You take everything. The stretch, the pressure, the fullness, the filthy praise whispered into your ear, the heat of their bodies against yours. The way their cocks move inside you, making your vision swim, making your mind blank, making your whole body tremble as they keep fucking you.
And there's nothing—nothing—you want more.
Jason's fingers keep working your clit, slow and teasing one moment, rough and insistent the next, rubbing tight little circles that have your thighs trembling, your body caught between the steady drag of his cock in your ass and the deep, devastating thrusts of Dick's cock inside your pussy.
Your breath shatters, your body taut, stretched wide, so full, their cocks filling you over and over, slick and hot, the filthy sound of it echoing off the walls, slick wet noises mixing with your gasping moans, their groans, their praises.
Dick slides a hand up your waist, warm and firm, fingers trailing the sweat slicked curves of your body, before moving higher, higher, until he cups your breast.
A strangled moan gets caught in your throat as he palms you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, his grip firm, possessive, desperate, his hips never slowing, cock driving deep, kissing your cervix with every thrust.
Jason groans behind you, his cock throbbing, pulsing inside your tight, hot ass, his grip almost bruising at your hip as he watches Dick squeeze your tits, watches how you whimper and twitch, body so fucking responsive.
"Fuckin' hell," Jason rasps, pressing his forehead against your back, panting, "You're so tight, baby—grippin' me so good—"
Dick is all needy and breathless as he mutters, "You're so perfect—so wet, so fucking soft—"
And fuck, fuck, it's too much.
Your whole body tenses, muscles coiling, pleasure spiking, your slick dripping down, coating Dick's cock, soaking his thighs, Jason's fingers still rubbing your clit, still teasing, still playing with you.
Your vision blurs, your mouth falls open in a silent moan, and then you snap. Your orgasm rips through you like a fucking supernova, a shuddering, gut wrenching explosion of white hot pleasure. Wave after wave crashes into you as your pussy clenches, gripping Dick's cock so tight he chokes on a groan, hips faltering, hands gripping your waist to hold you there, fuck you through it, hips rutting up in messy, desperate thrusts.
Jason curses loud and filthy, his free hand digging into your hip as your ass tightens around him, milking his cock, making him throb, his jaw clenched so tight it aches as he rubs your clit faster, dragging out your orgasm, making you whimper, tremble, shake.
"That's it, doll," Jason growls, voice rough, filled with lust, "Fuck—look at you, so fuckin' messy, so good—"
Dick is moaning beneath you, his grip on you tightening, his cock still buried deep inside your spasming cunt, still rutting up into you, and it's so much, too much, your whole body a trembling, sweaty, soaked mess.
"M-more—"
Your voice is a broken little whimper, barely a sound at all, your body hot between them, overstimulated and fucked senseless, but still, still, you beg for more.
"H-harder—fuck—p-please—"
And that's it. That's it. Jason curses under his breath, and Dick's fingers tighten on your hips as something inside them just snaps, and they ruin you.
Jason grips your waist, holding you steady as he slams into your ass, hips snapping forward with messy, needy thrusts, cock stretching you wide, stuffing you so full, his abs flexing, sweat dripping down his chest.
Dick isn't any better. He's never fucked like this before, never felt like this before, usually so careful, so sweet, because he likes making love, likes taking his time. He's usually all slow, sensual touches and soft whispers, but the pollen, the fucking pollen.
You're soaking his cock, clenching around him, your pussy hot and wet and so fucking tight, making these little whimpering sounds that make his brain short circuit, that make him lose every single ounce of restraint.
He pounds into you, moaning, hips driving up to meet yours again and again, his mind blank, wrecked, obsessed with how you feel around him, how good you take it, how you keep begging for it.
"Yes—yes—yes—more—fuck—"
You can't stop babbling, pleading, brain melting under the push and pull of their cocks inside you, their hands gripping you, keeping you in place, using you, fucking you.
"More—more—more—"
You're whimpering, gasping, trembling, bouncing between him and Jason like you belong to them.
"F-fuck—"
Jason feels like he's burning alive, the heat of your body, the way your ass grips his cock, the way you tremble every time he fucks you deeper, the sweat dripping down his back, his chest, his hips slapping your ass, his free hand sliding up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck, squeezing just a little, just enough to make you gasp.
"Shit, baby, you're so fuckin' tight—"
And then—
"Fuck—fuck— fuck—"
Dick breaks.
His whole body tenses, back arching, muscles coiling as his cock jerks inside you, and then he's cumming, gasping, groaning, fucking his seed deep into your cunt, pumping you full, stuffing you so full, hot and thick. His arms lock around your waist, holding you down as he ruts up into you, still moving, still fucking you through it because he can't stop, can't fucking stop.
And you—
You feel it, feel the hot rush of it inside you, feel it leak out around his cock, smearing on your swollen folds, on Jason's fingers still working your clit, on his balls, sticky and messy, so fucking filthy. You love it, love the way it drips out of you, love the way Dick whimpers as he fucks through his orgasm, love the way Jason grunts behind you, voice rough, guttural.
"Christ, look at that—fuckin' drippin'—"
And he's still fucking you, still grinding against you, his cock still hard, still deep, still pounding your ass, and you whimper, still shaking, still so fucking sensitive.
Jason's fingers are merciless.
They press against your swollen, throbbing clit, slick with a mess of cum, circling it, teasing, rubbing just right.
"F-fuck, Jay, I—"
Your words break, barely more than a whimper, and Dick shifts beneath you, his hands tight on your hips, his cock still stuffed deep in your wrecked pussy, and he feels it.
He feels the way your walls are fluttering, spasming, gripping him, the way your whole body is starting to shake.
"That's it, baby, let go—"
Jason's voice is low, gravelly, and then it hits you.
A wave of white hot pleasure, so intense, so overwhelming, your whole body tenses and breaks at the same time, back arching, mouth falling open in a silent, shattered sob as you clench around both of them, your pussy squeezing Dick so tight he groans, hips jerking, and your ass—
"Shit—fuck—"
Jason chokes on his own breath, the sudden tight, spasming grip around his cock making his rhythm stutter, making his fingers falter, making his whole body tense as heat coils low in his gut, hot and throbbing, his hips snapping forward in shallow, desperate thrusts.
"Fuck— baby—"
His hand locks onto your waist, fingers digging into your soft, sweat slicked skin, and he buries himself deep, cock throbbing, pulsing, spilling inside you, thick and hot. He can't stop moving, can't stop grinding into you, fucking it deeper, groaning, shuddering against your back as his orgasm wrecks him.
You sob.
Not just because it's too much, not just because your body is shaking, not just because your clit is pulsing under Jason's fingers, because your pussy is still leaking cum, because your ass is stuffed with it, because the pleasure is endless.
You sob because you've never been fucked this good, because it's Dick and Jason, because your body is spent. Because you're so tired and still trembling, still whimpering as Jason finally stills behind you, followed by Dick, both of them still inside you, both of them breathing hard.
"Baby—"
Dick's voice is so soft, and you barely register it before your body gives out, before you collapse against his chest. His arms catch you, wrap around you, hold you tight, his big, warm hands rubbing slow, soothing circles into your back as you keep sobbing, sniffling, your body twitching from the aftershocks.
"Shit—"
Jason's hands smooth down your back, his lips pressing against the curve of your spine, kissing your sweat-damp skin as he exchanges a look with Dick, something unspoken, something concerned.
"Breathe, sweetheart," Dick murmurs, tucking you closer, his lips pressing to your temple, your forehead, "You're okay. We got you."
Jason hums against your back, his hands gentle now, tracing slow, grounding touches down your waist, your sides, rubbing at your hips, pressing softer kisses against your skin.
"M'sorry—" you hiccup, voice hoarse, and Jason shakes his head, arms tightening around you.
"Nah, baby," he murmurs, "Nothin' to be sorry for."
"We got you," Dick echoes, voice still so soft, lips still brushing against your skin, still pressing slow, tender kisses over your face, "We got you, love."
And the haze of the pollen is fading, just slightly, just enough to let the exhaustion creep in, just enough to let you sink into their warmth, just enough to let you breathe.
A little sniffle escapes you, barely more than a breath, and Jason exhales, his fingers tightening on your waist before he slowly, gently pulls out. You whimper, hips twitching at the loss, and he shushes you, hands smoothing down your sides, his voice low and gruff—
"Sorry, sweetheart."
It's only then, as his head starts to clear, that he sees you, like... really sees you.
The red marks scattered across your skin, the deep, dark hickeys, the little bruises blooming where fingers had gripped too tight, where mouths had been too hungry.
And normally, Jason wouldn't care. Wouldn't think about it, wouldn't dwell. But this wasn't some random fuck. This was you. And he cares about you.
He exchanges a look with Dick, who seems to be thinking the exact same thing, but before either of them can say anything, you lift your head slightly, voice soft, drowsy, still so blissed out.
"That was... that was so..." you pause as you take a slow, heavy breath. "That was the best fuck of my life."
For a second, they're stunned. Then Jason snorts, shaking his head as his hands squeeze your hips.
"You're somethin' else, pretty girl."
You hum, then shift, sitting up on Dick, your hands steadying yourself on his chest, his cock finally softening inside you.
Dick's hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear, his gaze soft, fond, full of something warm and aching.
"You okay?"
You nod, but he tilts his head, eyes scanning your face. "You sure?"
"So fucking sure," you murmur, leaning into his palm, letting his touch ground you, soothe you.
Jason exhales, then reaches over, fingers brushing your damp, sweat sticky hair from your shoulder before he leans in, pressing a soft, warm kiss to your skin.
They let you breathe, let you come down completely, their hands slow and gentle, smoothing over your back, your arms, grounding you with soft touches, murmured reassurances, little praises that make your stomach flip.
And then, you shift again, lifting yourself from Dick's lap, and—
Oh.
The mess is... everywhere. Your thighs are slick, cum dripping from your swollen pussy, smearing on Dick's softening cock, streaking down onto the bench beneath you, pooling on the towels.
And now that the pollen haze has lifted, now that your mind is clearer, the sight of it, the reality of it, makes your face go hot, embarrassment creeping up your spine.
They see it. They know you. Jason clicks his tongue, turns you to face him, and pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping tight around you, caging you against him.
"Don't do that shit," he murmurs, voice warm, rough, "It's fine. We'll clean up."
You bury your face in his chest, mumbling something unintelligible, and he huffs, hand smoothing down your back.
"Kinda late for that, doll."
You groan, lifting a weak arm to swat at his shoulder. "Shut up."
Dick chuckles, shaking his head as he stretches, standing from the bench, his legs shaky, his hands settling on his hips as he exhales.
"You two go ahead and clean up," he says, rolling his shoulders, "I'll handle things here."
And before you can argue, before you can say I can help or I should clean up too, he steps up behind you, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder.
"Okay?"
You nod, still tucked against Jason's chest, and Dick hums, brushing his fingers down your arm before stepping away.
But before you can step away, Jason's arms tighten.
"Wait—"
Your words die in your throat as Jason lifts you, carrying you towards the showers like you weigh nothing, and normally, you'd protest.
Would roll your eyes, would shove at his shoulder, would grumble about carrying yourself. But right now, you're too fucked out to care. So you just sigh, letting your body go boneless against him, arms loosely wrapping around his shoulders as he carries you away.
Jason sets you down and turns on the water, the warm steam curling around you, soaking into your aching muscles. And the second your feet touch the tile, your knees buckle. But he's there, his hands steady on your waist, keeping you upright, and you let him.
His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady breath before he lifts one hand, cupping your face, his calloused fingers warm against your damp skin.
"You sure you're okay?"
His voice is quiet, rough around the edges, something almost hesitant underneath it.
You swallow, blinking up at him, exhaustion pulling at your limbs, your bones, every part of you. "Yeah." Your voice is soft, barely above a breath. "I just... 'm tired."
He nods. "I know."
You pout, and God, it's that little pout that always made him wanna kiss you, that always made his chest tight, even when he'd told himself not to care, even when he swore he wouldn't let it get to him.
"I wanna go home," you murmur, voice small, pleading.
His fingers tighten just slightly on your waist. "We'll take you home in a bit."
He leans in. Just a little. Just enough to brush his lips over yours—hesitant, almost unsure, because apparently, the pollen's not fucking with your heads anymore, and maybe this is where it ends, maybe this is where it stops, where everything just goes back to the way it was.
But you kiss him back. Soft, gentle, nothing like the desperate, frantic kisses from before, and his breath catches against your lips.
You pull back, barely, just enough to whisper, "Will you stay tonight?"
His brows pull together, his fingers brushing along your cheek. "Yeah, baby."
Your stomach flutters at the rasp of his voice, and you swallow, biting your lip before murmuring, "Both of you?"
He exhales, tilting his head down, brushing his nose against yours as he whispers, "Yeah. Both of us."
You nod, barely there, barely anything at all, and Jason watches you for a second, something warm, something almost uncertain flickering behind his eyes.
And then, you kiss him again. Soft, sweet, exhausted. And something about the way his lips press to yours, about the way his hand cradles your face, about the way his body relaxes against yours, even now... it feels right.
Like it was always meant to be this way.
Like something shifts inside you, deep in your chest, something small and fragile and terrifying.
Because you've had only fucked up men in your life before. Men who hurt. Men who took. Men who left nothing but bruises and scars in their wake. And now you have them—Jason, Dick—and you're scared.
Scared of losing them, scared of ruining this, scared of the ache in your chest that tells you you want them, not just like this, not just like what happened tonight, but something tells you they feel the same. Something tells you Dick feels the same. Something about the way Jason holds you now, the way he kisses you like it's not just about the fuck, like it matters, like you matter.
After cleaning up and making sure there's no evidence of what went down in the Batcave, the three of you made your way back to your apartment, exhaustion settling deep in your bones, but something warmer, something unchanged lingering between you all.
You're sprawled across your couch, tucked between two very warm, very big bodies, soaking up their heat as you all demolish a large pepperoni pizza. Because after that? After the hours of fucking, the overstimulation, the pollen that had you all wrapped up in a desperate, needy haze?
You're starving. And for once, there's no tension. No awkwardness. No 'so... what now?' kind of moment.
Just pizza. Just warmth. Just them.
Dick sits to your right, long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers idly brushing over your shoulder as he chews, completely at ease.
And Jason's on your left, reclined, socked feet propped up on your coffee table like he owns the place, one arm resting over your thighs while the other holds his slice, chewing with that half lidded, relaxed expression that means he's content.
And the thing is, it's not weird. It should be, right?
You just got wrecked by both of them in the Batcave of all places, and now you're here, cuddled up between them like it's nothing, like this was normal, like this was just another night of the three of you hanging out.
Except, it wasn't just another night. It was the first time you'd crossed that boundary. The first time you let yourselves give in to the tension that had always been there, just beneath the surface, lingering, waiting for something—anything—to push you all over the edge.
And it should've changed everything. But it didn't. If anything, it felt like it enhanced it.
Like something had clicked into place. Like this was always meant to happen. Dick swallows his bite, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb as he watches you from the corner of his eye. And he knows you.
He knows that little crease between your brows means you're overthinking. That the way you press your lips together means you're trying to make sense of something, trying to name whatever the hell this is, trying to define it.
And for once, you don't have to. Because he gets it. He feels it.
He'd spent years wanting you, wanting this, but never acting on it, because you were one of his closest friends, because you were one of Jason's closest friend, because the idea of losing you over some reckless decision was too much, too dangerous.
Jason snorts as you grab another slice of pizza, shoving it into your mouth like you haven't eaten in days, and he bumps his knee against yours, mumbling, "Jesus, slow down, doll. You're gonna choke."
You roll your eyes, mouth full, and mumble back, "Whose fault is that?"
Dick laughs—a soft, breathy chuckle as he leans back against the couch, his arm draped casually behind you. "She's got a point."
Jason clicks his tongue, tearing off a bite of his own pizza. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."
And it's so normal. So easy. Dick can't stop thinking about it. Because this should feel different. He thought it would feel different.
That maybe things would be awkward, that maybe you'd pull away, that maybe Jason would crack some joke that would make it feel less than what it was, like it was just another fuck, another good time.
But it wasn't.
And this—this easy, quiet warmth, the way you're curled up against them like you've always belonged there, the way Jason hasn't made a single move to leave, the way he hasn't wanted to leave... it feels like something that was always meant to happen.
Because as he glances at Jason, sees the way he's watching you, the way his fingers absently trace circles into your thigh, the way he looks so calm, so sated—he knows Jason feels the same.
Jason, who for the first time in years, isn't holding himself back. Jason, who had spent the last two hours running through every memory of you in his head, trying to figure out how he went so fucking long without having you like that, how he ever convinced himself to not want you. Because he did.
And he won't fucking say it, won't admit it, won't even let the thought settle too deep in his chest, but yeah. Yeah, he feels it, too.
He watches as you swipe a thumb across your lips, catching a stray bit of sauce, your lashes fluttering with exhaustion as you sink deeper into Dick's side, and something inside him tightens.
Because this isn't just some random hookup. This isn't just some heat of the moment bullshit he can brush off and forget. This is you. And fuck, if that doesn't scare the shit out of him.
He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair before reaching for another slice, and Dick glances at him, something knowing flickering behind those bright blue eyes.
But neither of them say anything. Because there's nothing to say. Nothing needs to be said. This was the first time the three of you crossed the boundaries of your friendship.
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summary: what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?
wc: 11.4k (i'm just as shocked as you)
genre/tags: fluff/minor angst (miscommunication trope tbh)/smut (TWO smut scenes woohoo!), best friends to lovers, protected sex (condom/bc), p in v sex, oral (fem & male receiving), size kink (clark has a huge dick, but y’all know that 😝), slight praise kink
"just one night," you had said. "no strings. no feelings." you liar.
you were the one who proposed it – all cool and casual, as if it wouldn't ruin you. and now? you can't even get through a bowl of cereal without thinking about the way clark kent sounded when he moaned your name.
it's been a week. one whole week since he wrecked you and then kissed your forehead like it was nothing.
(it was something. it was everything and you hate him for it.)
because now? you know no one else will ever come close.
you scroll through tinder like a bitter old woman; this guy's too short. that one uses the wrong "your." one says their most irrational fear is "women." (kill me.)
all the while, a tiny voice in your brain that you wish would just shut up whispers: clark would never.
and thanks to that voice, you end up mentally replaying that night for the thousandth time – back when it all started. back when it was just popcorn, a movie and a stupid, stupid idea.
– thursday, 9:42 P.M.
it had started the way movies nights at your apartment always did: clark stretched out on one end of your couch, his arm over the back of it, a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and you on the other end, your socked foot tucked under his thigh, claiming the space like it was normal (which it was). you're halfway through some cheesy drama neither of you were really watching, spending most of the time catching up on life other than the daily planet.
you lean over, tossing your half eaten dragon roll from the takeout sushi platter onto the coffee table, before returning back to slumping against the couch, eyes scrutinizing the t.v.
then came that scene – hot and heavy kitchen counter action, complete with frantic kissing and someone getting hoisted onto the marble and you can tell it's a scene the actors had to practice at least three times by how seamless and graceful it seems.
you scoff, reaching for popcorn from the bowl between the two of you. "god, i miss that."
clark glances over at you, a brow quirking upward. "being thrown onto a kitchen counter?"
you popped a kernel into your mouth. "being kissed like that. hell, being touched like that. my last date ended with a side hug and apple cash request for half the appetizer."
clark winces, face visually contorting. "ouch."
you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back against the couch. "i'm in a dry spell so bad, it's actually concerning."
clark laughs. your transparence was something he had to get used to at first but over time, he realized that's just how you were. unfiltered. bold. honest in a way most people weren't. it didn't scare him. if anything, it made talking to you easy.
he nudges your leg. "join the club. last girl i dated told me i was 'too polite to be hot.' whatever that means."
your brows furrow, internally scolding the woman for ever saying a thing. "it means she had no taste, clark. trust me, you're hot and polite. some of us are into that, y'know."
clark flushes a little at that, lowering his head to conceal his shy smile but you see it anyway.
maybe that's why you said the thing. because of his dumb, stupid, clark smile.
you reach for another handful of popcorn, keeping your eyes fixed on the movie screen even though you've completely lost the plot. you may be blunt at the best of times, but even you have a little shame, so you cover it up well. "you know," you begin, tone softening considerably enough for clark to look over at you again, "we could fix that."
clark tilts his head, confused. "fix what?"
"the dry spell." you glance at him now, meeting his eyes. "you and me. just one night. a mutual exchange."
his mouth parts, just slightly, and then it opens and closes like a blubbering fish. you can practically see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw flexes before he clears his throat. "are you serious?"
you shrug like it's no big deal, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage. "sure. we're both adults. good friends. we trust each other. and we're both painfully single. why not?"
he says nothing for a moment. you can see him doing that thing that he always does: thinking it through, being careful, considering every angle, every potential consequence.
your nails dig into the rough fabric of your couch, dwelling on the proposition you just made. with every second that passes, regret sinks heavy in your stomach.
you open your mouth, ready to backpedal and make a joke of it. you'll laugh it off, blame the movie or your hellish dating era–
clark cuts you off before you get the chance, his voice low. firm. certain.
"okay."
your breath catches, brows lifting slightly.
his eyes are on you now, his expression steady, unreadable but darkened in a way that makes your skin prickles and goosebumps rise on your arms. "if you're sure," he adds, softer this time. "i'm in."
you blink. "yeah?"
he nods. "yeah. just two pals keening for mutual relief." despite the joke in his words, he delivers it a little more seriously.
you nod along. "exactly. just sex. no strings. no feelings. we're still friends after this."
"right," he agrees sharply, adjusting the black frames on his nose. there's something different in his expression now, something unreadable. it's times like these when you wish you could read his mind. you share a planet with a superalien and yet, there's no accessible device you can use to know exactly what clark kent is thinking. pity.
"okay," he says again, resting his palms against his thighs. one of his thighs presses to yours. did he scoot over? "so, when do we start?"
your eyes flutter, startled at the sudden shift.
"um... now?"
and then he looks at you, really looks at you in a way that sucks the breath from your lungs, his gaze drags across your face like he's memorizing every detail he's never let himself linger on too long.
a beat passes.
"now works," he murmurs, nodding to himself and you're unsure if you're seeing things but you think you catch his adam's apple bob in this throat.
he turns to face you and there's another moment of silence between you, darting eyes looking into each other's with neither of you sure how to make the first mood. the tense air falters slightly when you both laugh, visibly shaking as if trying to fray the nerves you feel.
"you're allowed to kiss me, clark." you crack a smile, further easing the tension and giving him the go-ahead.
clark nods, reaching his arm up. his hand comes up gently, fingers brushing along your jaw, like he's hesitant in case you pull away. but you don't. you can't. you're frozen in place, heart pounding in your ears as clark kent, your best friend, your coworker and lunch break buddy, closes the distance and kisses you.
it starts slow and you shouldn't be surprised.
he's soft, tentative, like he's testing the waters, but the second your lips part and your hands slides up the back of his neck, feeling the curls at the nape of his neck, it's like a dam breaks.
the kiss soon turns hungry, almost desperate in a way that makes you feel dizzy.
he groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your chest when you gently tug at his hair, pulling him closer to you. his hands find your hips and he grips them tightly as he sits beside you.
your free hand trails down to tug at his shirt. he's quick to lift it off, breaking the kiss for a mere second, tossing the fabric somewhere behind the sofa.
you don't remember how you ended up in his lap, only that you're straddling him now, grinding down over the thickening length pressed against his jeans.
your hands aren't shy in the way they glide across the newly discovered fair skin of his torso. he's on the fairer side but you can imagine the farmer's tan he'd probably sport had he stayed home and not moved to metropolis.
you knew clark was a big guy. everyone did. he's a tower of a man, standing over you at six-foot four-inches, yet with the most gentlest of demeanors.
there's nothing gentle about clark's body though. you have half the mind to ask him when he finds time to go to the gym consistently but the other voice in your head tells you it'd ruin the moment.
clark's hands travel everywhere, too: up your thighs, your waist, your back. he touches you like he's been waiting for this. starving for this.
he hides pent up energy a lot better than i do, you think to yourself.
your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh between them and he exhales sharply, like you've knocked the wind out of him.
"bedroom?" he pants against your mouth when you release his lip.
you nod breathlessly. "please."
he stands with you still clinging to him, lifting you like it's nothing (seriously, what can this man bench?), and in a matter of seconds, you're in your room.
it's not the first time he's been in your room. it's not even the tenth. he's helped you assemble ikea furniture in here. he's helped you hang picture frames and fix a broken drawer. he's sat on your bed, fully clothed, eating pad thai while you struggled to find what to wear for a particular date.
but this...
this is different.
this time you're underneath him, flat on your back, watching as he looks at you like he's never really seen you before. granted, he hasn't. not like this.
his hands smooth under your shirt, eyes trained on the faded material. you're about to ask what he's staring at when he murmurs softly, "this is mine."
you glance down, eyeing the oversized fabric plastered with the logo of an indie band you know nothing about. a distant memory flashes in your eyes. "y'gave it me after that big storm," you remind him, your tone matches his. "never asked for it back."
"so you decided to steal it?" he asks, eyes flitting up to yours, a hint of amused challenge in his eyes.
"more like long-term borrowing," you correct him firmly. "i was going to return it eventually," you add.
"eventually," he echoes, like he doesn't believe you for a second.
his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, brushing along the bare skin of your navel. it sends a shiver across your body, not only by his touch alone, but how he looks at you.
you swallow. "you want it back?"
clark hums, leaning in, nose brushing against yours. "eventually," he teases.
he kisses you again.
it's slower this time, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his hands skim your sides, pushing the shirt up gradually, savoring each inch of skin he reveals. your arch to help him, letting the fabric slide up off your arms, over your head and get tossed somewhere beside your bed.
clark sits back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and the look on his face makes goosebumps raise your skin. his eyes drag down your chest, still clad in a bra.
"um, may i?" he asks, voice strained.
a smile cracks your features, warmth blooming in your chest at the his display of shyness during your moment of intimacy. you nod with a hum of approval, grateful that the bra you decided to wear today had the clasp at the front between the two cups.
clark breathes out a quiet sound of relief, like he's also grateful for the simplicity. his fingers find the clasp easily, but he doesn't rush. he hesitates for just a second, giving you one last chance to change your mind, even though your body is already arching toward him in invitation.
the clasp clicks open with a soft snap and you bra loosens against your skin.
with a bated breath, you feel clark slide the straps from your shoulders carefully, until the bra has been tossed aside to join your – his – shirt on the floor. you blink up at him as he finally takes you in fully, his breath catches.
"you're beautiful," he says simply, like it's a fact. not a line, not flattery. just the truth.
you swallow hard, unable to speak, so you reach for him instead, pulling him down into another kiss, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. this one is deeper, messier. your tongue slide together, desperate and hot enough to make your thighs press together.
clark groans into your mouth, feeling the movement of your legs, as if he knows exactly what it means. his hands slide down your sides, settling on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles, just under the waistband of your sweatshorts.
then he shifts, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, pressing slow kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. you gasp when his lips find the sensitive spot below the corner your jaw, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks softly.
"clark," you whisper, barely able to get the word out.
he lifts his head slightly, eyes searching yours. "tell me what you want," he murmurs.
you bite the inside of your lower lip, feeling the heat pool in your lower belly. "i want you to touch me. really touch me."
he lets out a breath, nodding.
clark moves lower, trailing kisses down your chest, pausing to mouth at your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch beneath him with a croon. you moan softly when his lips close over your nipple, sucking at the stiffened flesh. your eyes flutter shut as his large hand gropes the breast that's not in his mouth, before it begins to trail down.
his hand coasts down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and then he goes lower, beneath the cotton of your underwear.
your breath hitches when his fingers brush over your slit, already soaked and his breath stutters against your skin. he releases from your nipple with a soft 'pop,' eyes meeting yours.
"oh my," he groans, "you're so wet."
you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. "yeah, well... you're kind of hot."
he huffs to himself – maybe a laugh, maybe it's out of disbelief – and presses a kiss to the slope of your breast before slipping a finger between your folds, circling your clit with a precision you don't want to know from where he learned. your body jerks at the contact, a soft moan leaving your lips.
clark watches your expression closely, trying to read your pleasure.
"like this?" he asks lowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.
you nod frantically, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. "mhm... just like that."
his touch grows more confident, smiling to himself as he coaxes another croon from you when he pushes the finger inside your velvet walls.
you gasp, hands moving to clutch his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut at the slow and deliberate stretch of his digit inside you.
he hums in approval at the feel, like the warmth of you is enough to drive him crazy. his thumb moved to your clit, circling in tandem with the curl of his finger, drawing sounds from your lips he's never heard before. now that he has, he doesn't think he'll ever forget them.
your hips buck up to meet his hand, your breath hitching as his finger begins to move faster and with more purpose. he carefully adds a second finger, watching your reaction closely.
"oh, clark," you pant, voice breaking.
"does it feel good?" he checks in softly, continuing to crook his fingers inside your gummy walls.
"y-yeah, real good," you nod, lashes batting.
your body burns and your pulse pounds in your ears, thighs trembling as he works you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.
"clark, i'm– oh my god–"
you're at the precipice. he can feel it, too.
"mhm, go ahead, sweetheart," he hums against your temple, his thumb circling faster over your clit.
you're unsure if it's his fingers or the pet name that triggers your orgasm but you cum with a sharp cry, legs tensing and back arching as waves of pleasure roll through your body. he doesn't pull his fingers out until you're gasping, twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.
when you finally open your eyes, you look at his expression: tender. a littler in awe.
you pull him into a kiss before you can overthink it, your lips a 'thank you' for the orgasm he gave you. one of your hands drift down and feel how hard he his through the denim of his jeans.
"your turn," you murmur against his lips.
clark shakes his head slightly, kissing your jaw. "we're not playing a board game."
you arch a brow, still catching your breath. "clark."
he grins softly. "okay, fine. 'm not going to argue with you."
you laugh breathlessly tugging at the loops of his jeans before your reach the button of them. he lets you unbutton his jeans, finding the zipper and pulling it down.
clark hisses when the zipper comes in contact with his bulge, separated by the cotton of his boxers. you glance up at him, eyes flitting to his face, just in time to see him bite down on his lower lip and knit his brows together.
you push the denim down his hips and he helps, standing off the bed momentarily to tug the rest of them down his legs and kicking them aside.
"those, too," you murmur, eyes zeroing on his boxers, more specifically the hard outline behind them.
clark exhales sharply, his cheeks tinting a faint pink as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and leans over to slide them to his legs before stepping out of them and leaving them in the pile on the floor.
your breath catches as he straightens again, fully bare now and yeah... you're in awe.
your eyes roam over him and he shifts slightly under the weight of your gaze. he's not bashful per se, but he's something close to it.
"jesus, clark," you whisper.
"what?" his ears flush a darker pink and that makes you grin because of course he's shy about it. it's so him, it almost makes your chest ache.
"you, clark," you smile, chuckling through your nose. "that," you add, nodding toward his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.
he sucks in a breath and you find his reaction dear. of course the guy with the biggest dick you've ever seen is modest about it. and of course it's clark kent of all men.
"c'mere," you beckon him over, sitting up in your bed. "wanna make you feel good."
he kneels at the edge of your bed, voice strained, raspy with want. "you don't have to," he murmurs but the twitch of his cock says otherwise.
"i want to," you answer softly, gently tugging him by the arm until he's settled against your headboard.
"sweetheart..." he trails off.
there it is again. that damn pet name.
"let me," you ask, practically beg, eyes boring into his with desperation. "please."
his lips purse as if he's holding something in and then he's nodding. "okay."
you wrap your fingers around him, heat returning to your belly when you realize your hand barely encircles his entire circumference. you stroke him once slowly, and clark's eyes flutter shut. his jaw tenses, tossing his head back against the headboard.
"god," he breathes, the sound low and guttural, like the air's been vacuumed from his lungs.
you smirk a little to yourself, tucking the moment away in your memory.
your hand moves again, slow and steady, watching his every reaction. you watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now, and the way his brows scrunch together while his lips part with a groan when you twist your wrist just the right way.
"feel good?" you ask.
clark's eyes flutter open, glassy and dark with heat. "yeah," he rasps. "feels... feels great."
you beam at his words, pride filling your chest.
you shift lower on the bed, settling between his legs and placing a hand on his thigh for support. his breath catches when he realizes where this is going and you don't give him a chance to overthink it.
you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he lets out a sound that's part groan and part whimper, hips twitching up instinctively.
he moans your name softly, pressing the back of his head harder against the headboard. part of you wishes you could take a picture.
you hum around the thick head of him as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue and easing forward until you feel the weight of him on your tongue, nearly overwhelming in girth. his hands twitch at his sides before one reluctantly moves up to your hair.
clark doesn't push. doesn't guide. he just holds, like he needs something to ground him.
you set a rhythm, bobbing your head and stroking him with one hand what you can't take. you relish in the way his moans grow louder, more broken, a sound you want etched into your mind forever.
"sweetheart," he calls, voice tense with strain. "you have to wait– i'm–"
you glance up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying to read his expression.
"you're going to make me cum," he warns, voice cracking.
why does he say that like it's such a bad thing?
you double-down, sucking harder in response, flattening your tongue along the underside of his cock again, and that's it.
clark groans, loud and low and helpless, as he comes, hips bucking once before he stills them. his hand fists your hair while the other attempts to cover his mouth as if he's afraid of waking the whole building (too late, you think).
you ease off him slowly when his thigh trembles beneath your hand, lifting your head up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.
he looks completely and utterly wrecked. his hair is mussed, his skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat. his eyes are still dazed, slowly blinking at you as he comes down from his high. he looks... so pretty.
"jesus," he pants softly. "you really didn't have to do that."
"i know," you murmur with a small smile, crawling up his body until you're in front of his face. "i wanted to."
and then he smiles at you, a dazed one that sucks the breath from your lungs that you cant help but lean in to kiss him. he reaches up to cradle your jaw, uncaring at the fact that he can taste himself on you. his other hand drifts to your waist, pulling you closer and against him.
your tongues meet each other's, gliding together in almost a lazy manner. his kiss is languid, almost reverent, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth.
you sigh into it, boneless and content as your body arches into his, bare chests pressing against each other's.
his hand drifts to your hip, toying with the hem of your shorts. "can't believe these are still on," he murmurs against your lips.
"you're the one who fingered me without taking them off first," you remind him with a chuckle.
"mm, my fault," he muses, beginning to tug down the material. you let him, allowing him to slide down your shorts until they're low enough for you to kick off and off the bed. "and these?" he asks, fingers playing with the lacy hem of your cotton panties.
you pull your head back slightly, eyes darting between his. "you want to?" you ask softly.
he swallows as he looks at your face in the dim light, just as flushed as his. "if you want," he answers, fingers still idly pinching the lacy fabric between his fingers.
you nod once with certainty. "yeah," you answer in a breath. "i do."
clark leans in to kiss you again, hands gripping your waist to flip you and ease you onto your back. he pulls away, his hands skimming your sides as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. his eyes meet yours once more, another silent check.
you lift your hips up in answer.
he slides your panties, soiled from your first orgasm, down slowly, tossing them aside into the growing pile on the floor.
you let him pull your thighs apart, exposing your core to the air and his gaze.
"you're so..." he trails off, but he doesn't finish, like the words fail him.
you look up at him, curious despite feeling so vulnerable before him. "so what?"
he smiles softly as if he's amazed. "just... beautiful."
your breath hitches at his words. it's so clark for him to say; it's so earnest and devastating at the same time, it makes your heart stutter in your chest.
he takes another glance down at your pussy before he snaps out of it, scooting away to reach for something on the floor. "i think i've got a condom in my wallet," he murmurs, a little hurried.
you choose not to dwell on wondering how often clark gets propositioned with sex to regularly carry a condom in his wallet.
it's clark after all.
any woman would be lucky to be with him.
you stop him, your voice calling out, "i've got a box somewhere in my nightstand."
the look on his face as he turns to look at you is boyishly flustered and adorable. you watch him crawl back over to you, hovering over you as he reaches in your nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil packet.
clark kneels up on the bed, leaning back against the back of his calves and carefully opens the packet. he rolls it on his hardened cock and you swear your brain circuits watching him do something so mundane and yet so intimate.
is this how you usually reacted to a date rolling on a condom?
then, he's hovering over you and his hand moves between you both, wrapping around himself and dragging the head of his cock slowly throughout your folds, gathering slick.
you whimper softly, hips twitching instinctively.
"you're sure about this?" he asks through gritted teeth, like he's not pressing his tip against your entrance, his restrain a hairline away from snapping. his glasses are already fogged and you hate to admit to yourself that it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.
"yeah," you nod, letting out a breath.
he nods back at you, maybe to himself, before pushing inside you.
you cry out softly at the invasion, the head of his cock stretching your walls as he sinks into you. your hands scramble to find something, anything, to hold on to. they end up gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his warm skin as your breath stutters.
clark is big. thick. huge as he fills you in a way that feels overwhelming yet perfect at the same time.
"'s tight," he rasps, staying still as your walls flutter around the two inches he has inside you. "'m sorry."
"don't apologize," you pant, your eyes fluttering. of course he's apologizing for being too big. "i can take it."
he groans at your words, unable to resist pushing deeper inside you, another inch entering your tight walls. "sweetheart, y'sure? i don't have to go in all the way–"
how sweet.
"please," you whine, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to you, not letting him pull out.
he grunts at your eagerness as you urge him in closer, deeper as he sinks another inch into you, the stretch burning just enough to make your toes curl.
"fuck," he breathes, like the sound is punched from his lungs. is this the first time you've ever heard him swear? you think stars form your pupils just because he sounds so pretty when he curses.
you feel so full, so deliciously and impossibly full and yet you still want more, knowing there's a little more of him to go. you babbles something along the lines of 'more' and 'please' and who is clark kent but the man who'd grant your every wish?
with one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out, cock fully seated inside you. he lets out a low groan, feeling his pelvis press against your slick fold. the breath in your throat hitches at the pressure, the fullness you feel.
for a moment, the two of you stay sill like that, bodies locked together and foreheads touching. clark removes a hand from your hips to gently brush your jaw with the pad of his thumb.
"you okay?" he murmurs, voice so soft it makes your chest ache.
you nod, nails pressing into his back, but your grip loosens slightly. "yeah," you manage to say, a little breathless. "just... give me a second."
clark kisses your cheek, then your temple. "take all the time you need."
and so you do. you catch your breath. you adjust, the dull ache between your legs slowly becoming one of pleasure. you give him a nod, tilting your hips, silently inviting him to move and he takes the cue.
he starts the thrust, slowly at first but it's deep. so deep. every movement is unhurried and almost reverent. his gaze remain on you, maintaining an intense eye contact through every thrust, his lips parted as soft groans leave his lips.
"i can feel you everywhere," you whisper, half-dazed. "you're everywhere."
his pace stutters for a beat at your words. he lifts his head to look at you, to really look at them. you think you see a flicker of something raw in his gaze but you can't be sure.
he leans down to kiss you and it's messy, deep, and needy, while his hips roll into yours with a growing urgency. his hips pick up their pace, moving harder and faster now, each thurst enough to make your vision blur with pleasure.
you clutch his back tighter as the coil in your belly gets tighter. your walls flutter wildly around him, desperate for release.
"sweetheart," clark pants, his voice ragged. "i'm so close."
you nod, voice barely a whisper, "me, too."
clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering as his body tenses. you feel him twitch inside you, his release crashing through you like a tidal wave, your own orgasm ripping through your core in response.
you cling to each other as your breathing slows, skin slick with sweat and hearts pounding in your chests. clark stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and you’re both too dazed to say anything.
then he presses a kiss to your forehead.
and that’s when you know.
you’re fucked.
totally, completely, emotionally fucked.
the next morning, you blink awake to an empty bed.
the sheets are cold and tangled where he was only hours ago. the faint scent of his cologne lingers, but the warmth is gone – vanished with him.
your hand instinctively reaches out, only to find the space beside you painfully vacant. no familiar weight. no slow morning breath against your skin.
you sit up slowly, heart hammering in your chest, eyes scanning the room. you notice the faint imprint on the mattress where he had lain, and your hands brushes over the cold sheets.
his clothes are missing too. no sign he'd ever been there.
you swallow the lump in your throat, running a hang through your messy hair and check the clock on your nightstand: 7:02 A.M.
how could he just... leave? no goodbye?
your mind races but you push down the swirl of panic, reminding yourself: no strings. no feelings.
you shake your head bitterly.
but the ache in your chest says another story.
your morning routine is quiet, your mind muddled with the memories of the night prior: the way clark's hands skimmed your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, the way his mouth moved so smoothly against yours, the way he practically engraved himself in your gummy walls.
you expected some form of conversation when you woke up that morning. then again, what would you even say? good job, clark! maybe too good of a job haha... ha.
maybe not.
but still!
a text. a note. something.
you keep glancing at your phone like it'll buzz with a text from him. but your screen stays blank. almost mockingly silent.
it was supposed to be uncomplicated. it was to just be physical. fun, even. and that's all it was – right? so why does it feel like he permanently carved himself into you and then disappeared, making you feel hollow?
you try not to spiral, really. but it's hard when your body still aches from how he held you, how he was inside you. you continue relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button.
within an hour, you arrive at the daily planet still shaken, though you pat yourself on the back for looking otherwise; your hair is neatly done, lip gloss on and blazer crisp over your shoulders. your stomach is still in knots but you're hoping the distraction of news will take your mind off it.
you half expect clark to avoid you completely, given how he left your apartment. instead, he's there, at his desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.
"morning," he greets, offering that charming grin that usually makes your chest warm. today, it makes you want to scream.
you manage a polite smile, your throat dry. "morning."
he holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "got your usual. extra shot of espresso. thought you might need it – perry's been on edge all morning."
your fingers wrap around the warm cup, but your heart twists at the casual way he says it. thought you might need it. not because of perry, but maybe because he spent the night buried inside you.
he moves on, heading over to jimmy's desk to talk about the recent superman sighting.
apparently there'd been some alien creature on the clinton bridge – some grotesque, hulking thing with four arms and acidic spit, according to eyewitnesses. superman had swooped in early enough before any casualties were made, defeating the alien. you suspect clark is the key reporter on the case, given his connection to the superhero.
still, since when did clark go to jimmy first about stories?
you stare down at the coffee in your cup as if it'd give you an answer.
the morning drones on. perry barks headlines across the office, jimmy's frantically pacing the tiled floors while chewing a pen cap and clark... clark is perfectly normal. he's chatting with interns, bouncing article ideas off perry, tossing you a smile when he passes your desk.
around noon, you're about to get up for lunch when he beats you to it, strolling over with a brown paper bag and a casual, "hey, got you that turkey pesto you like. hope that's okay."
you blink at him, startles as you crane your neck up to look at him. "oh. yeah. thanks." you glance toward the break room. "are you...?"
"nah," he cuts in, shaking his head. "swamped with edits. gonna eat while i finish the luthor piece."
and just like that, without waiting for you to respond, he's gone.
you try to not let it bother you. you try to convince yourself that this is how it was always supposed to be. always supposed to be before your big mouth ruined it.
but all you can think about is how warm he was in your bed. how soft his eyes were in the dark. how different he felt.
and how different everything is now.
what you don't see is the way clark watches you from his desk. how he catches every flicker of confusion on your face, every little sigh when you assume no one's listening.
the weekend creeps by in slow and dragged hours.
with no deadlines hanging over your head (no perry yelling in your ear about headlines), nothing to dive into, nothing to keep your brain from looping over every moment of that night – the silence is so loud.
you try to distract yourself. you do laundry, you achieve some cleaning, all while some old rom-com plays in the background – which just makes matters worse because even that couple seemed to check in on each other the morning after.
clark hadn't.
by sunday evening, you're mostly numb to it. not okay, but dulled around the edges. detached.
if clark could carry on so easily, so seamlessly (as if sleeping with your best friend was no big deal), then so could you. you'd have to.
monday rolls in with a dreary drizzle and a headache you can't shake, despite the two aspirin you'd taken already. when you step into the planet, clark is already at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard with the same focused expression he always wears.
he looks up when you enter, lifts a hand in greeting and gives one of his clark boyish smiles. "hey," he says, like nothing is different. "usual on your desk."
you blink. "thanks," you murmur.
the coffee cup is still warm when you pick it up. the lid has your name scribbled on it in his handwriting – something he does when he picks up coffee for everyone else in order to remember whose is who. your lid was always different – special – though. a smiley face is scrawled beside your name, just like always.
now, the smile seems like it's mocking you.
you shuffle into the morning meeting and take the seat farthest from him. clark barely notices. he doesn't even look at you.
at least not that you can tell.
lunchtime comes and goes. he stops by your desk with a neatly packed container of leftovers. "made extra this weekend. figured you wouldn't say no to pasta."
you look up at him, then the container in his hand. you can smell it from here. you love his cooking and you can feel your stomach rumble at the sight of it.
"thanks, but i brought mine." you give him a pressed smile, pulling out your own container from home. it's got a sad excuse of a sandwich in there but still, you're too proud to accept his.
you see something flicker across his face, so subtle and brief you're not sure if it was ever there at all, but he recovers fast. "oh. okay. cool." clark pats your desk softly before walking away.
by wednesday, your strategy of coping has been reduced to silence and sidestepping. an absolute shutdown.
you haven't looked clark in the eye once.
not really.
you pretend he's not there, except when you have to acknowledge him. and when you do, you do it with the same kind of politeness you'd give a coworker you don't really know.
you've been packing your own lunch consistently now, every day. it's not because you're being petty, but because you can't keep accepting his gracious offers.
today, he hovers by your desk with a paper bag and a hopeful smile. "brought you that chicken teriyaki over rice you like," he says. "figured you might not have had time–"
"i packed something," you cut in, before he can finish. you plaster a polite smile on your face. "but thank you."
you don't wait for his reply, turning back to your computer and after a moment too long, he sets the bag down and walks off.
you don't touch it.
today 7:15 P.M.
and that leads you to where you are now, scrolling on tinder in hopes – desperate hopes – for something, anything to distract you from your mood.
but there's a knock at the door.
you thought, no, you hoped clark would skip movie night. you really did. after days of keeping your head down, of ducking out of rooms the moment he walked in, of dodging any and every attempt at closeness, you figured he'd get the hint.
you freeze on the couch, bowl of half-eaten cereal in your lap and an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, phone in the other hand, screen still showing off a man’s dating profile. you consider ignoring the door. you could pretend you're asleep, or not home, or–
"hey," clark calls from the other side of the door, his tone gentle. "i brought thai. they were out of the dumplings you like so i got extra spring rolls."
your stomach flips.
you set the bowl down on the coffee table, standing from your seat and slowly pad over to the door, hesitating for a moment before you open the door.
there he is.
normal as anything. stupidly handsome in a soft blue henley and worn jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze. he holds up the takeout bag with a hopeful little smile.
you can't believe it took you sleeping with him to realize just how handsome clark kent is.
"movie night," he says simply, raising the bag for emphasis.
you blink, mouth opening and then shutting.
"i'm... not really feeling up to it tonight," you say, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "sorry. kinda under the weather."
it's a decent lie. passable. you even sniff for good measure, eyes avoiding his.
clark doesn't say anything right away.
behind his glasses, his gaze dips over you, scanning the faintest tension in your shoulder, the steadiness of your pulse, the evenness of your breath, the warmth of your skin. they're all signs that your body is just fine. signs that you're lying.
he doesn't call you out on it. he just lets a slow nod carry his chin. "okay..." he murmurs quietly, frowning. he hands you the bag of takeout anyway. "you can text me if you need anything, alright?"
you nod and start the shut the door.
he turns to leave, letting the door shut behind him and you move to place the bag on the coffee table.
but then clark stops. you don't even hear his footsteps on the stairs before they pause and double back to your door. the knock is softer this time.
you open the door again, brows furrowed in confusion.
clark stands before you, his own brows knitted. "did i... do something wrong?" he asks, his voice careful.
you freeze.
"what?"
"you've been avoiding me," he reveals gently. "not just today. all week."
your mouth is dry and it takes a second for you to swallow. "i've just been busy. tired," you answer weakly.
clark exhales through his noise, eyes narrowing slightly. he doesn't buy it. you can feel him not buying it. the air between you tenses but he still doesn't push you.
you sigh and rub your hand over your forehead in attempt to buy time and think of some excuse for your detached behavior that doesn't make you seem pathetic.
"i just needed space," you say finally, eyes still averted.
clark shifts his weight. "so i did do something."
"no!" you manage, too fast. too loud. then softer, you force calm into your tone. "no. you didn't... not really."
clark waits. patient. unmoving.
the silence is long enough that your embarrassment starts to rise hot in your cheeks. you should shut the door. thank him for the food. tell him you'll see him at work tomorrow and crawl back into the shell you've spent the last week building around yourself.
but you don't.
you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, staring off to the side.
"i just thought it'd feel different," you admit, voice so quiet and just above a whisper, you're unsure if he hears it.
clark's brow creases. "different?"
"afterward," you clarify. "i thought..." you sigh. "i don't know what i thought." your words trail off and clark doesn't rush you to elaborate.
he waits.
"i guess i didn't expect you to act so normal," you finally settle on. "and then i didn't expect me to care so much that you acted so normal."
clark's eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens. "i wasn't trying to brush you off."
"you didn't," you say quickly. "that's the worst part, clark. you didn't do anything wrong. you were just... being you. sweet and thoughtful and friendly and perfect."
with a calm tone, he murmurs, "well, apparently not if you're not okay."
you finally meet his gaze, though your head remains slightly tilted downward, looking up at him through your lashes.
"i was the one who said it'd just be physical. i made a whole thing of it. i joked about it. and then i–" you catch yourself. the words tremble on your tongue, about to slip.
clark doesn't look away, his gaze settled heavily on you. "you what?"
you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat.
"i caught feelings," you admit, the confession dragging out of you like you're wincing. "i said no strings but i lied. not on purpose, but... i did."
a beat passes.
you avert your gaze, too afraid to see his expression.
here's where your mouth moves before your brain can compute, attempting to fill in the excruciating silence.
"i didn't expect to feel this way," you say, quieter now. "but i do. and i just... i don't know how to be your friend and pretend like that night didn't change anything for me. i... i'm just sorry."
clark's eyes search your face, his face unreadable for long second.
then, he finally says your name. and the way he says it is so soft, so full of emotion, it feels like a kiss. he takes a step closer to you, crossing the threshold into your apartment.
"i didn't want to leave that morning," he says suddenly, voice low. "i had to."
that makes your head shoot up. you blink, head shaking slightly. "had to?" you echo.
his eyes flicker, almost like he regrets saying it, but he nods. "there was something... urgent. i should've left a note. i thought i could just... make it up to you. you know, the coffee, lunch, the usual clark stuff."
"i didn't know how to act," he continues, his head tilting down as he looks at you. "i didn't want to assume what that night meant to you since you brought it up in the first place... hell, i even asked steve about hookup culture and what was the appropriate thing to–"
"clark." you snap your head up to meet his eyes with incredulity. "you asked steve? for dating advice?"
clark huffs, shaking his head. "no, not dating advice. hookup advice," he corrects, matter-of-fact-ly.
"oh my god," you mumble to yourself. "you asked steve, the guy who has a horrible track record when it comes to woman for advice."
"well, i couldn't ask jimmy. he'd know it was about you and then i'd never hear the end of it."
you blink, stunned, your mouth opening slightly before you let out a short, surprised laugh. "you are so bad at this."
clark shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well. sue me for trying to respect your boundaries while quietly losing my mind."
you're taken aback. "you were losing your mind?"
his hand drops, and he takes another step closer to you. "you seriously can't believe i just walked away from that night and felt nothing," he murmurs, voice quiet and earnest. "i've been thinking about you nonstop. i couldn't be around you for more than a few minutes because every time i see you i..." he trails off, gulping.
"you what?" you ask softly, your breath halting.
"every time i see you, i want to touch you," he says, voice low, almost like he's confessing a sin. "i want to pull you into the nearest room and kiss you. touch you. hold you. have you."
your breath hitches in your throat.
clark takes another step forward, so close now you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. "and it's not just physical. i think about how you laugh when you're half-asleep. how you hum when you're focused. i think about things i shouldn't know after one night."
you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "clark..."
"let me be clear," he says quickly. "i do feel the same. maybe – probably more."
you glance up at him, noting the sincerity in his expression, the barely restrained tension in his frame.
"i'm not going to pretend it was just sex," he says. "not when every second of it felt like something i didn't want to end. not when i still think about the way you sounded – how you looked under me."
your breath stutters, legs nearly giving out at the memory alone.
his voice dips even lower, if that's possible. "not when i've had to physically stop myself from calling you every night since, just to hear your voice while i–" he cuts himself off, swallowing the words.
your stomach drops and a familiar heat grows. "while you what?"
"i think you know."
"every night?" you ask, your voice a small murmur.
he exhales sharply, face flushing but his eyes are still as darkened as ever. "yeah."
your chest tightens at the confession. there's a beat of silence where the air between you feels heavier than ever, thick with things you never thought he'd say. never thought he felt.
"i tried to respect the line you drew," he says softly, almost apologetically. "but i crossed it the second i touched you and i haven't been able to stop wanting you since."
your heart pounds in your ears. you want to speak, say something, but your throat is dry and your mind is racing too fast to catch a single coherent thought.
so you choose to act instead.
you surge up, gripping the collar of his henley, and kiss him.
it's clumsy at first, all heat and urgency and too many feelings shoved into the kiss. his hands immediately find your waist, anchoring you as your fingers tangle in his shirt, wrinkling the blue material between your fingertips. you're already tugging at him. tugging him further into your apartment – he takes the hint and kicks the door behind him.
he groans into your mouth when your hands slide uo under his shirt, palms brushing over warm skin. his muscles twitch beneath your touch, like he's been waiting for this.
he lifts you effortlessly – god, you missed his strength – and your legs wrap around his waist like it's second nature. your back meets the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth never leaves your. it's greedy, relentless. it's like he's making up for lost time. granted, he is.
his hands roam with a desperate urgency, memorizing every curve and contour of you with free reign. the heat between you is palpable, a built up tension bursting at the seams. you cling to him, breath hitching as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping softly.
"you don't know how much i've missed this," he murmur against your skin, voice rough with need.
you shiver, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, just beneath your ear, along the line of your throat. his breath fans hot against your skin. you're practically melting into him, undone by the weight and warmth of his body.
"i thought about you every night," he confesses, his pressing forward, still hoisting you up against the wall, making your breath hitch. all the while he presses open mouthed kisses to your skin. "your laugh." kiss. "your face." kiss. "your body." kiss.
you whimper, the memory of it rushing back all at once. you feel yourself clench around nothing, the heat in your belly pooling.
the words are stuck in your throat. you're too embarrassed to admit what he already seems to know: it was supposed to be just a hookup and you thought you could keep your heart out of it. but you failed. spectacularly.
so, instead, you lean in, teeth catching his bottom lip in a kiss that's filthy. needy. his groan rumbles against your chest, hand squeezing at the flesh beneath your thighs as he carries you, sliding up to your ass.
"i need you," you whisper finally.
his eyes darken at your words. "you have me," he rasps, and then his mouth is back on yours.
he carries you with effortless strength toward the bedroom, only breaking the kiss to make sure he's not bumping into anything in your hallway. your legs still stay locked around him, arms around his shoulders, fingers still tangled in his hair like you're afraid this moment isn't real. like he actually isn't here.
when his knees hit the edge of the side of your bed, he lowers you onto the mattress with a care that contradicts the heat in his gaze.
"tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips, his forehead brushing nose, voice barely holding back restraint. "and i will."
you shake your head. "please don't."
and that's his green light.
his mouth is back on yours as his hands trail down your body. they slide along the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until they find the hem of your hoodie. you easily slip out of it as he helps pull it over your head, tossing it aside. he pulls away for a moment glancing down at the shirt your wearing.
"what?" your question cuts through the tense air.
"you look better in my shirts," he murmurs, pinching the material between his fingertips.
you smile – grin, really – finding amusement in his words. "you should give me some more then," you answer, arms hooking around his neck. he lets you pull him in, smiling against your mouth as you attempt to press another kiss.
his hands grow more eager, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.
he lets out a sigh, eyes raking over your chest with reverence and hunger all tangled together. his large hands cup you through your bralette, thumbs brushing over the lace.
you whimper beneath him, fingers tugging at his henley until he stands over you, yanks it over his head. that was hot.
you'd forgotten just how solid he was. all broad chest, sculpted arms. smooth skin over muscle. the kind of body that made you ache.
your hands glide over his chest, fingertips trailing down the dip of his sternum to the line of his abs. his muscles twitch under your touch, and then he's lowering again, mouth hot and wet against the swell of your breast as he works your bra off.
he mouths at you, tongue flicking and teeth scraping enough to make you gasp, "clark." your lashes flutter, fingers reaching to tangle in his curls. one of his hands stay at your chest while the other slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, your heat unmistakable.
he groans, like it hurts. "oh my," he breathes, pressing his forehead between the valley of your breasts for a moment, like he's taking a moment to pull himself together. but then his fingers are moving again, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear in one slow motion. he drags them down legs, eyes never leaving your center.
you're wet. he sees it. you feel it.
"sweetheart," he murmurs like a prayer.
that damn pet name.
he knows you like it, he can tell by the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. clark makes a mental note to continuing calling you it.
then he sinks to his knees on your floor between your spread legs, your calves dangling off the edge of your bed. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs brushing reverently along the inside, like he's committing this to memory.
you're also committing the sight to memory. despite the obsceneness of clark kent kneeling between your les, there's still something so pure in his face: the adoration shining in his ocean eyes behind those glasses.
he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher and higher.
you suck in a breath when his lips ghost over the skin of your inner thigh and his glasses nudge you slightly. it unintentionally reminds you that it's him, still him, still the clark who holds open doors open and rambles about his dorky interests.
except now his hands are parting your thighs further, spreading you open.
"d'you wanna take off your glasses?" you murmur softly, swallowing thick.
he's quick – almost too quick – to shake his head. "mn-hm, wanna see you clearly," he answers, not revealing the real reason. he exhales shakily, seeing you up closes and the sound alone makes your core throb.
"so, so pretty," he says, almost to himself. he drags his thumbs along your folds, gentle at first. "
you drape your arm over your eyes, too flustered to answer and he smile – you can hear it in his voice, "don't hide from me now."
before you have a chance to answer, his mouth on you.
you gasp as his tongue licks a slow, careful stripe through your slick. when you whimper, hips shifting, his hands tighten on your thighs to hold you steady.
he eats you like he's starving, like you're the only thing he's allowed himself to have after months of being denied. his tongue flicks, circles, presses just right against you and he groans every time your body jerks against his face.
"been wanting to do this," he grumbles against your clit, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. "thought about it for days."
you gasp, back arching when his tongue plunges into your center, nose rubbing between your folds.
"clark," you whine, nails digging into his scalp as you push him closer to you, keening at the sheer pleasure from his nose and tongue. you don't know how long he's pressed to you like that but you're sure it's longer than a person can be before they need air.
he finally pulls away. "dunno why i didn't last week," he huffs to himself, as if he's scolding himself, breathing a puff against your twitching core, making your walls flutter.
he dives back in. he works you open with patience and purpose, like he wants to unravel you right here, right now, just with his mouth.
and you do start to unravel, your hips rolling and thighs tensing around his shoulders, his name slipping past your lips in broken gasps. you're close.
so, so close.
he pulls back.
your protest is immediate, a whimpering sound of frustration leaving your lips, but he's already climbing up over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips and murmuring softly, "i know, sweetheart."
you eagerly reach between your bodies, palming his through his jeans. he's already hard, straining, almost painfully so, and the sound he makes is low and guttural.
"clark," you pant, squeezing him through his jeans.
"yeah," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "yeah." he repeats with a nod, reaching down to unbutton his jeans with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you hear the rasp of the zipper being pulled down and then he's fumbling to shove them down just enough to kick off. his boxers follow and you can feel the weight of him slap against your thigh.
"normally, i'd want you to cum before i get inside you," he murmurs through a breath, swallowing hard. "but i just can't wait."
"it's okay," you say quickly, looking into his eyes, heat filling your gaze.
he glances around, reaching for your nightstand drawer and you stop him, grabbing his wrist.
with furrowed brows, he turns to look at you.
"i'm on the pill." you whisper, "and i promise i'm clean."
clark's jaw ticks and then he nods, only once, before you feel the deliberate roll of his hips as he lines himself up.
"you sure?" he asks, voice rough like gravel, like he's barely holding himself back.
you roll your hips back against him, nodding with a soft croon as the head of his cock glides between your slick folds. "y-yes," you breathe out.
"i'll have to go slow because..." he starts.
"–you're huge," you answer for him, a ghost of a smile on your face.
his face flushes. "i was going to say i had little time to properly prep you but i guess that also works."
you giggle, the sound a little breathless, a little wrecked as you lay plaint beneath him as he stands before you. "i mean... both are true."
clark huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but there's a brewing darkness in his eyes. "okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "deep breath."
you inhale and then he starts to push inside. the head of him prods against your velvet walls, barely squeezing through your entrance. the stretch is instant. it's hot, thick, overwhelming, just like you remember it but it's oh, so different now without the barriers of latex between you. you feel him more than ever, the bare skin of his cock sliding and rubbing against your walls.
"f-fuck," you whisper, fingers clutching the sheets.
"i know, i know," he pants, lifting the underside of your thighs up to anchor him as he struggles not to shove himself in in one push. "god, you're–" the glasses on his nose, fog up as he pants and slowly sinks another inch into you.
"so good," you whisper, your words a little slurred as you blink ip at him.
clark's jaw is clenched, tendons straining in his neck as he watches your face with utmost focus. it's like he's mapping your pleasure in real time.
"you're doing so good, sweetheart," he croons, squeezing the fat of your thighs. "so tight, warm... christ–"
you whimper, overwhelmed by the stretch and the praise. the way he's only barely in but you already feel full.
it takes a while for him to push himself in, whispering praises and sweet words your way all the while.
then, finally, he bottoms out.
a shaky sound spills from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt, pressing against a spot inside you that has you cumming in seconds without warning.
clark feels your walls spasm around him and he groans, throwing his head back. "shit, baby," he rasps, voice trembling. (mentally, you add another tick to how many times you've made clark swear). "did you just–?"
you nod, dazed, still catching your breath, your whole body twitching from the aftershocks as he stays buried inside you. "i... i didn't mean to," you mumble, blinking up at him, lashes wet.
his smile is crooked and fond as he looks down at you, pupils blown wide. "oh, that's alright sweetheart," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "you okay?"
you hum, looping your arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. your legs wrap around his waist, making his arms move from holding your thighs up to brace beside either side of your body. "better than okay."
he grunts at your closeness, rolling his hips just a fraction. "sweetheart, you're squeezing me s'tight."
"sorry," you whimper, attempting to unclench around him. "y'can move," you add softly.
his eyes soften as he looks down at you. "you're not overstimulated?" he asks.
you must have the kindest man inside you right now.
"i need you more than that," you answer, looking into his eyes with determination.
he sucks in a breath at that, experimentally bringing his hips back slightly before pushing back in. your walls are slick with your orgasm so it becomes easier for him to slide between your walls. at your soft moan and fluttering lashes, he starts to move.
clark pulls out a few inches and thrusts back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips. you gasp, nails digging into his back and he hisses softly.
the rhythm he sets is measured and patient, but every stroke presses right against that devastating spot inside you that made you fall apart the first time. he doesn't look away from your face, like every flutter of your lashes, every gasp and tremble is something sacred.
"you feed so good, sweetheart," he mumbles, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw. "could stay here all night. buried inside you. just like this."
you shudder from beneath him, his words sending another wave of heart in your belly. "you can," you murmur.
"yeah, you'd let me?" he grunts against your neck, needing the confirmation between every slow roll of his hips. his glasses press against your cheek to the point you're worried they might snap.
"mhm, we could'a been doing this every night since last week," you whimper, squealing when he deliberately snaps his hips against yours out of rhythm.
"then, i guess i have to make up for lost time," he murmurs against your skin, picking up his pace.
you cry out, legs tightening around his waist as he begins to fuck you harder. it's still tender but it's deeper now. it's more insistent, like he's trying to imprint himself inside you (you think he already has from the week prior).
“fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, anchoring him to you. “clark—”
he groans at the sound of his name, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “say it again,” he pants. “say my name like that.”
“clark,” you whisper, and he gives a sharp thrust in return that has your back arching, the pleasure overwhelming. you whine when he pulls his torso away from you, leaving your hands to grip the sheets beside you instead.
his fingers curl under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest to angle you open for him. the new angle has him hitting that spot with merciless precision, and your moans dissolve into something breathless and high-pitched.
“look at me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that contrasts how deep he’s fucking you. “wanna see your eyes when I make you cum again.”
your eyes flutter open, teary and half-lidded, and the moment they lock with his, noticing his blue eyes blown behind his fogged-up glasses, you shatter.
your walls clench around him, your cry muffled by the way he kisses you through your orgasm. it's the kind of kiss that feels like everything. it feels like home.
“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips. “good girl. you’re perfect. perfect.”
your body trembles under him, but he doesn't stop. not yet. he keeps thrusting through your aftershocks, voice low and ragged. “can I cum inside, sweetheart? please... need to feel it. need to feel you.”
you nod, dazed and desperate. “please, clark. want it.”
with a strangled groan, he pushes deep one final time, hips stuttering as he spills white ropes of cum inside you. he holds you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.
you don’t say anything for a while, your limbs heavy and boneless as his weight settles over you. clark’s still inside, still pulsing faintly, and your body feels like it’s humming, buzzing with the aftershocks. he carefully pulls your legs back down from your chest, letting them dangle off the bed again.
"you okay?" he asks softly.
you nod, a dazed smile on your face as you look up at him. "yeah."
he cups your jaw, thumb caressing your flushed skin softly. "sorry if i went too hard at the end," he murmurs.
"it's okay," you quickly reassure him, turning your cheek to kiss the palm of his hand.
clark smiles at the gesture, basking in the warmth of you and being inside you. "can i stay over?" he asks, breaking the silence that falls between you.
the way your eyes narrow makes his heart stutter in his chest, second guessing everything that just happened prior. but then you speak.
"are you going to leave in the morning like i was some dirty mistress?" you ask, tone mostly teasing.
his shoulders relax and he laughs through his nose, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "sweetheart, i'm sorry," he apologizes, smiling against your skin. "i swear it was urgent. i didn't mean to do a walk-of-shame on you."
"mm, yeah okay," you hum along as if you don't believe him.
he pulls back to look down at you. "i'll spend the rest of forever apologizing to you for it," he promises.
"you better."
sure, tonight he won't tell you the real reason he left in a scramble and without a word that morning was because of the alien monster wreaking havoc on the clinton bridge that he had to deal with as his alien superhero counterpart, but until then, clark will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.
for now, he'll be right here and by your side until morning light.
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