ℳ.

His mouth moved over yours like he was trying to savour the taste— like he was trying to exist within it. He was desperate—teeth clashing messily with yours—but painstakingly slow, lips moving like he was trying to console himself.

“You want it?” you whispered meanly, urging a low sound from the back of his throat.

His black tresses were disheveled, loose strands falling over his tanned skin. Sweat clung to the nape of his neck, fingers red from gripping the jagged metal over pens. Bruises blossomed across his neck, an ivory scar embedding itself on his collarbone. He was a pathetic mess over you, desperate enough you could mistake him for a virgin. If it hadn’t been for his unwavering stamina the first time you fucked him, you probably would have assumed that he was.

You tugged the collar of his jacket as he threatened to ease off of you, forcing his full weight over you.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “Don’t be like that.”

You reached between you two, squirming as your hand lowered over his jeans, palming him through the rough denim.

He sucked in a breath, losing a gasp to your warm fingertips, “Please, don’t tease me.”

His voice dropped an octave, finding a commanding tone that had heat pooling in your stomach.

You nodded gently, nudging the zipper over his boxers, feeling the firm shape brush over your knuckles.

Clark has the most impressive length—a perfectly round un-cut tip that flushes out around the paler skin of his thick shaft. It formed the most beautiful curve, one that you were convinced God shaped for you—to hit every sensitive spot around your velvet walls.

The first time you saw it, you’d nearly gasped, lips parting in what could have been awe or anticipation—you hadn’t been sure.

He’d been anxious, almost embarrassed, as it bumped his abdomen, blood pulsing against his flushed tip.

“I’m not sure if it’s too—or-or whatever. I don’t know,” he stuttered. “I can put it away.”

It’d become a perverted obsession ever since.

“You’re so big, Clark,” you say it with a twinge of a laugh, the words taunting and rude as they roll off your tongue, but he doesn’t care.

He unravels in your grasp, whimpering sounds into your freshly-washed hair as he feels your hot palm wrap around the bare skin of his length.

He watches your fingers move over him through the thin space between your bodies—your thumb brushing over his rosy pink tip—and his gaze meets yours, tears welling up in the creases of his eyes.

“You like this?” you batted your eyelashes at him as you smirk, a light tease that grazes his ecstasy just as softly as your fingers.

He just nodded his head, eyes wide and unfocused as he bucked against your hand, black curls falling over his forehead.

“God…” he mumbled, face burrowing into your neck.

“Move for me, darling,” you ask sweetly, guiding his hips from off of yours, letting his broad shoulders fall against the leather armrest.

You eased onto your knees, thighs splaying earnestly over your calves, kneeling in a prayer. Your alter. Your sin.

You wrapped your bruised lips around the tip of his cock, pressing your tongue flat along the underside. His calloused palms clutched at your hair, carefully cradling your skull as his maimed fingers dug into your scalp—rough and mean.

He’d never gotten quite used to it—the pressure—and his throat released a whine that his tongue presses into a quiet hiss.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice low like he wasn’t ready for you to hear him.

You let your head bob—the tip hitting the back of your throat just enough that you gag slightly—eyes flickering up toward his face, eliciting a sudden whisper from Clark, “Don’t—Please don’t look at me right now.”

His hips rolled like he was trying to bury himself in you, each thrust painstakingly slow but extending the limits of your throat each time, like a jagged blade shaping basswood.

Spit gathered around your mouth, dripping obscenely over his length, saliva dragging against the veins that pulsed the rhythm of his heartbeat around his cock.

It was lewd, the wet sounds the suction made. It was contact you both could get buried in, a drunken intimacy that tightened the room like air being vacuumed from full lungs—the only things in the entire world just he and you.

His calloused fingers dug into your cheeks, forcing you to look up at him as your throat caught around his swelling tip. He didn't smile or smirk, he only held you, piercing cerulean eyes staring at the ruined mess he made you—hips still stuttering over your tongue like he's afraid you'll stop him but too greedy to stop himself.

He was beautiful and trembling, lips loosely parted and curls sticking sweatily against his forehead.

Your spit was everywhere now, trails of it over his fat cock, saliva squelching against the tension in your throat and falling over your knuckles as you clutched him at his wide base.

“Baby, baby,” he repeated into the darkness, too drunk on the hollow of your throat to form any coherent thought; the noises that fell from his mouth were so close to embarrassing, little weak mewls that sounded like choking. “I want to touch you.”

His hands roamed your body freely, dipping into the lace if your bra and over the sweaty stretch of your shoulders. His rough fingertips slid between your thighs/-wedging themselves between your shorts and your underwear—fingers dragging sloppily over your folds, finding you already wet and wrecked.

Tears pooled in your eyes as he hit your the reflex again, eyelashes fluttering through the moisture, your lips humming low around his shaft as you protest his request. He moaned into the vibration, your lips touching his pelvis as you take him deeper, trying to chase his orgasm in an attempt to avoid your own. You just wanted to make him feel good.

He grunted, rolling his hips against your pharynx as you hollowed out your cheeks, the sucking sound reverberating throughout your apartment’s walls, “Oh, baby.”

He whispered, and it was almost pitying—the pad of his thumb delicately brushing a tear from your full, flushed cheeks.

You let your tongue swirl over his length in fervent circles, tracing the indents in his perfect cock, and it unwound him entirely.

His grip tightened, holding your mouth against him, unwilling you to move, “Mmh, I’m sorry.”

An unpleasant sting settled in your throat as you choked over his broad head, and his brows furrowed in response, tawny eyelashes fluttering shut guiltily. The warmth of your mouth and the hot breath fanning over his balls force him to grunt against his pursed lips.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispered and his words had a devoted kindness in them, a saccharine taste that rivalled the taste of his hard tip urging your gag reflex. “So perfect.”

He struggled in his power, fighting his strength in order not to hurt you.

Shame welled in his chest as he came, a trembling cry tearing through his throat and sounding into the empty family room, his guilt seeping into the spaces between the bookshelves and down your throat.

He panted as you swallowed against his cock, grunting painfully as your mouth tightened, “Jesus.”

“Was it okay?” you asked, pressing yours hands flat over the muscle of his thighs.

“I’m so selfish,” he said plainly, petting your hair with his lost sincerity.

Your gaze trailed over his features, examining his guilt-ridden expression that had recovered simply from his orgasm, “No. Don’t say that. I liked it, really.”

“I was so rough with you,” he blabbed, massaging your scalp with care. “I could have hurt you.”

He hated the idea of hurting you, even if he hadn’t quite.

“That’s okay,” your voice was nervous, a quiet confession as you mindlessly eased yourself into his lap. “I would have been okay with that.

He didn’t reply, he just looked up at you with a drunken expression, like he was trying to soak you into every crevice of his perfectly carved frame.

Your hands roamed over his tight shirt, hands finding the firm muscle of his chest in an attempt to comfort him, “I’m yours, Clark. Yours for whatever you want me.”

He reached out towards you, making no noise as he moved his palms, warm and wide, over your abdomen—fingers curling around the curve of your hips. His thumbs pressed firm into the bone there, carefully cradling your body against his.

It was hard for him not to hold you too tightly—his superhuman grip perpetually fighting his gentle carefulness.

“Hi Clark,” you breathed, your voice low and hot against the dip of his collarbones.

His subsequent “Hi” was hardly audible as he began kissing down the pulse of your neck, back arching into him as you moulded against the shape of him.

The apartment was dark, a dim flickering light overhead, slowing sounds of the city from behind the wide glass windows. Doors clicked shut, car engines dozed, but your heartbeat sounded palpably against the linen of your button up.

“Clark…”

A deep blush blooms across his face, pink trailing over his nose at the call of his name. He was easy like that.

“Yeah?” his voice was low, hot and dripping with a soft tenderness.

You pulled the glasses from the bridge of his nose, his face flushed and familiar as your eyes readjusted. You leaned up, calves straining to stretch towards him, your wandering fingers finding the dark curls at the nape of his neck.

He bent just slightly as a compromise to your exertion, grasping at your ass to pull you flush to his cheat, your lips more level to his. He quickened as if he was finding bravery, lips grazing over your ear in the same motion, his teeth moving over the sensitive heat there. He brought his mouth back up to yours, messily grazing his tongue over the swollen flush of your lips.

Fervour always clung differently to Clark—heavy and hot like it was unnatural for anything so callous to stick to him.

He exhaled slow, like it was a chore, a tense clenching pulsing against his jaw. Not nervous, but tense, like he was purposefully drowning himself in you to escape whatever feeling the day had left him with.

His breaths were shallow, unbuttoning his collar as his adam’s apple bobbed against the width of his throat.

He left no space between you two now, pressing bruises into the curves of your body he grasped at.

This behaviour was abnormal—Clark was never like this—he was never so thoughtlessly eager. His usual inclination for reassurance seemed to dissipate in this moment; none of his usual “is this okay?”’s or “you liking this as much as i am?”’s.

You let your thumbs make small circles again his lower jaw—an attempt to gently slow him, “What’s wrong?”

As much as you enjoyed the sensation of his wandering mouth, you brought your hand to press against his cheek—a warning to yield.

He made a sound against your neck as you forced him to stop, his pursed lips still lingering against your skin.

“I just need a distraction,” he said in a shallow breath, forehead now tucked against your shoulder.

“From what?”

Clark Kent, always sturdy and in control, now melted against the heat of your skin—desperate hands clawing wherever they could reach.

“Is it work?”

He groaned, “I really don’t want to talk about it…”

He moved one of his hands to run against his flattening curls, fluffing up the noir softness.

“If there’s something wrong, you should be able to tell me.”

He pressed his nose deeper into your hair, enveloping himself in the sweet smell, “Just let me play for you a little bit, baby. No questions right now.”

He began nipping at your skin again, his impatient hands trailing down your thighs.

“Please,” he cooed, looking up at you with a warm, pleading gaze.

You nodded once, your anxiety still lodged discernibly against your throat.

Clark was a man of few words, and you knew that from the beginning.

His affections were silent—decorating your home like trophies of love. They started in bouquets of flowers and kisses atop your head, then graduated to warm folded laundry and home cooked meals; he wanted to show you his devotion, rather than tell you, but it always left you a little uneasy, even in its sweetness.

He would never straight-out lie to you, but you could always tell when he was leaving something out of his retellings of the day. In the first few months of your relationship, you were close to blaming it on infidelity, but when he came home with the first bruise against his eyebrow, you stopped asking questions.

The softness of his lips grazed your cheek as a smirk indented against his face, long legs tucking below him as he knelt against the hardwood of your skyline apartment.

He smiled as he looked up at you, as if you were giving him an unparalleled prize.

This was certainly one way to show you.

As if to soothe your lingering doubts, he pressed his thumb to the lace cloth of your lingerie, moving against your clit in small, certain circles.

Clark was a giver, and he was more altruistic than anyone you’d ever known. Sometimes, you would feel bad about it—trying to palm him through the denim of his jeans in a weak vindication—but he would just splay one hand over both of your wrists and pull the cotton of your panties over your knees; and it was hard to feel any guilt once he started.

He lifted you gently, one arm wrapping firmly around your waist as he eased you onto the counter, a shivering gasp escaping your lips. Your thighs half-heartedly clenched under his iron-clad grip, your body’s involuntary protest to your sudden ecstasy.

He kept his eyes trained on you as he moved, watching for every breath, every twitch, “You like it, baby?”

His voice was unsure, almost a choking whisper over your muffled whimpering.

You nodded quickly, hair shaking over your bare shoulders, covering the blossoming marks Clark’s desperate lips left behind.

He wedged himself between your thighs—his torso broad enough to keep your legs well spread—coaxing your panties to the side as he dipped a finger into the slick of your folds. Just his index alone could be enough to make you finish; the perfect rhythm and sedulous angle pressing right against your sweet spot.

You felt yourself flutter helplessly around him as he slid another finger in. He grinned again as you exhaled, watching heat rush to your cheeks.

Clark could be mean. He liked to tease, to experiment, to play. It seemed to be his subsidiary mission in life—falling just short of doing the upmost good—to memorise each stutter of your heart as he explored every possible inch of your body. It was his goal to force your most devastating orgasm, one that would leave you gasping and quivering for hours to come.

His eyes soften at the sound of your strained little noise—creases forming against his eyelids as he squinted—a feeling closer to pity clouding his subservient lust.

He let himself move forward now—a fond gift to himself for his patience. His lips grazed against your slick, top lip catching over your clit as his eyes flickered shut.

His tongue flattened, barely rubbing against your skin as he dipped for his first taste.

His mouth widened quickly after, his tongue moving with fervour against your folds—warmth enveloping warmth.

A needy hitch caught in your throat, a choking whimper pressing through your pursed lips.

It was embarrassing how quickly Clark could unravel you. It wasn’t without effort on his end, trials of knowing just where to press against your clit, finding just what angle you were best fucked at.

“Is it good?” he mumbled against you, as if he wasn’t the one with his tongue down your pussy.

You didn’t say anything as he pressed his face completely flush against you, nose rubbing over your clit, tongue curling inside of you.

It wasn’t a stretch as much as it was an ache; the smooth softness of his tongue pressing right over the receptive nerves over your vaginal walls. Your body opened for him here, the velvet lining flat against the underside of his tongue as your hips rolled insistently.

“Jesus, Clark.”

He hummed against you, the vibrations leaving a trailing shiver over your spine as if to say, “I know, baby.”

It was obscene, the way his saliva fell over his lips and against the wet of your folds, dripping from you to the cold granite of the counter.

The squelching sound of his tongue against your pulse was nearly deafening in the silence of the kitchen, the low sounds of New York’s midnight just a murmur below your vehement moans.

“Fuck.”

A hiss passed through your teeth as he left a stinging bite to your clit, prolonging your orgasm and just about tipping you over the edge.

He lifted his mouth just barely, spitting over your folds with a vulgar amalgamation of his saliva and your slick, sending a cool wave of air over your fluttering heat.

He moved one hand from your thigh to roll over your bottom lip, thumb grazing against your teeth as you started to suck on his calloused fingers.

“Please fuck me, Clark,” you pled, mouth still full of his digits, and he shook her head, nose pressing firmly against your trembling clit, eliciting a gutteral moan from your chest.

He took the panting, pornographic noises falling from your mouth as an invitation to move faster—fists clenching as he clung to the countertop, the stone adorned there beginning to chip and crumble under his strength.

“Please give me one,” he whispered, fingers moving messily over your tongue, no longer pumping in and out of your lips with any rhythm.

He shuddered through your orgasm as did you, palms flexing against your thighs as the let you ride it out. You let your fingers curl against his black tresses, matting right where the slightest bit of sweat trailed down his neck.

You came twitching over his mouth, walls fluttering against his tongue as you let out a final shallow breath.

“Fuck, Clark,” you whispered, hands clawing at the unshaved stubble over his jaw as you eased him off of you.

He clung to your legs sweetly, face nuzzling against your palms.

“Thank you,” he nearly gasped, lips popping from your core with the most perverted sound. “Do you want dinner?”

You laughed, watching a bead of sweat trail across the contour of his cheeks, “Didn’t you already eat?”

The joke was kind of gross, and you regretted it ad soon as it fell off your tongue, but he just unbuttoned his shirt and laughed.

You let your eyes catch every inch of him; every dip in his bicep, every nerve of his jugular. Clark Kent was certainly the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

“I’m going to get redressed, and I’ll have a meal started soon,” Clark said, tugging his tawny belt from over his waist as he trailed into your bedroom.

It was the long journey of rotting; waiting pathetically for him like a dog on its heel. There was an aching left in his absence, one that didn’t go away with the memory of him—or your own wandering fingers.

You’d promised yourself you’d never be that girl, the one so desperately reliant on her boyfriend—reliant on his body—but there you sat, caught between his apartment’s walls.

You didn’t ask questions about John, not really. He wasn’t the type to ramble or talk often about himself; he left you wondering. You would wake up in the middle of the night—sunk in his sheets, trapped in his warmth—as he started rustling through his disheveled drawers, pressing cotton shirts into duffel bags. It soiled your sense of normality, the capriciousness of his job.

Tonight, the mahogany door of your dreary Manhattan apartment creaked at its hinges, rust sewing itself between the metal.

John could smell it as he walked through the door, how intoxicated you had become.

He peeled his maimed military boots from his heels as he pressed against the doorframe, watching you keen drunkenly against the couch—your eyes wet and glassy. He let his hands brush along the leather, rough calloused over his knuckles running over the imperfections. Sickeningly, your weakness harnessed his perversion.

“Hi,” he whispered, breaking midnight’s silence.

Even with your mind busy—the alcohol nearly olfactive in the scent of your blood—your eyelashes flickered at the sight of him, as if he was a figment of your imagination.

“John,” you breathed.

Your head spun with the precariousness of it all, arching gently into him.

He stepped forward, cupping your face against his tender palm, fresh cuts dug across his skin. The wounds under his flesh scarred the same way his absence did, a crucifying blossoming.

He chuckled meanly as he pressed his face into your scalp, satirising your pitiful efforts to crawl against him.

“You miss me?” he whispered in a low drawl, a taunting smirk forming against his lips.

What fell from your throat was nearly a whimper, an indisputable sound coughed up against your will.

“Oh, baby,” he said with a small chuckle.

He ran his fingers across your hips, dipping lower to palm around the thin linen of your shorts, “So tragic.”

The heat between your thighs was agonising, an inescapable warmth. You let your hips roll over his thigh as he sat next to you.

“Please,” your words weren’t even a whisper, they were nearly inaudible.

He let you murmur it over and over like you didn’t even know what you were begging for. It left a smile on his lips, how pliable and worthless you could be under him. He got off on the silence—your slow perversion.

In all his feelings about Hannibal Lecter, he couldn’t feed off of his tenets now. Dr. Lecter’s teachings would not become his lifestyle—not like this, not so willingly.

Love shouldn’t shudder with regret—Will Graham knew that—back pressed into the leather plush of the driver’s side.

That’s how he could bear to look at you. He could stand alone from his urge for repentance—exempt from the weight.

He could lose himself here, boundless, clinging onto reality in the depths of your eyes. It was his portal to a real soul, one unbit by his multitude of wrongdoings.

He needed to remind himself that you didn’t deserve it—his ferocity. His worst enemy was himself, and it was unholy to make it anyone’s problem but his own.

Even with the rotting ache for power clawing at his throat, when his cerulean gaze met yours, his transgressions could dissipate. Sitting here, against you, in your warmth, he could shed each sick mind Jack Crawford left him bathing in. He could remind himself that love—real love—still existed, untouched. He could find it all here.

The solubility of his sin against the liquid acceptance of your heart reminded him he could be whole again.

Even as his hands shuddered against the steering wheel—body draining to form the hollow shell of a man—your fleeting touch could bring him to the surface. You were his cure—any shallow facet of you enough to be his fix.

“Will…” you whispered, your words breaking the skin of his rumination.

He let his hand drag against the center console, calloused palm pressed into the bare flesh of your thigh; an anchoring gesture.

It was his reply, his “it will all be better soon.”

The interstate was empty in the shadow of midnight, and he wasn’t gentle against the truck’s accelerator.

He was running, escaping—he was ruling his life in the only way he knew how.

The recognition was silent, even as he shoved clothes into suitcases, glass clattering together and he sieved through his belongings. He asked you to leave, to get up and pack as many things as you could. Without thinking, you did. It was your devotion to him that moved you, leaving you with half-empty purse and a handful of dogs in the backseat.

“Pull over, Will, please.”

He felt for you, as your voice caught, of course he did. He felt your anxiety creep into the back of his throat, the parasitic infection of his empathy.

Hannibal screamed “weakness” in his ear, and it clung to him like a cold, shuddering sweat.

The passing memory of it all—the metallic edge of prison bars and the firm stretch of a muzzle—it all served as a reminder; he was not a man. He was a mechanism. A fixture. A tool with a sole purpose.

“Do you even know where we’re going?”

He didn’t reply.

He shouldn’t care as much as he did, he fought his empathy with teeth and claws, a scraping desperation for individuality.

“Fuck, Will.”

It was sudden, the wave of anger.

It was his choking breath after drowning, an unbroken satisfaction.

He was forbidden from finding himself, from dissecting his mind, from finding what perversions were his and which were Hannibal Lecter’s. No one would allow it; not God, not Jack Crawford, not you.

He almost couldn’t believe it, the speed of his fury, rushing against his veins and throbbing in his bloodstream.

All his worst fears about himself were apparent in that moment, reinforced with the pressure of how badly he wanted to kill you.

He didn’t want to love you, he didn’t want to hate you, but here he was, the bitter sweetness of both glistening over his tongue. There was a complexity to it even he didn’t understand—the sexual charge of his fury, the way he seemed to despise loving you more than he really hated you.

He wasn’t sure what it was—a manifestation of his true self, or the murderous pulse his job beat into his heart. Whatever it was. it tore against him with teeth, chewing against his tender skin with a fortuitous softness.

The depth of his feelings were incomparable to anything he’d experienced before—sensations such as bitter flesh and carnal scars were astonishingly unstriking in the wake of his emotions.

“We can’t stay in Virginia, anymore.”

His voice was a whisper, barely audible over the muted growl of the engine.

The darkness flooded over the car, lapping like waves through the windows—the absence of light shed over your flushed skin.

“Why?”

It was pathetic, the reliance you found on him. He was the asteroid in your life, an irreparable scar, a sacred consequence, but an eternal indent in your soul.

The wheels tore gently across the pavement; a pale grey in the moonlight.

You could feel the tension in his grip on the steering wheel, raw, picked-at nails digging into the plush leather.

“We just can’t.”

His voice was breathy—hard but nervous—and you couldn’t stop yourself from inquiring further; a dangerous game of teetering at the edge.

“Because of Hannibal?”

You would’ve heard his jaw clench, even if you hadn’t seen it—the muscle there firmly indenting across his unshaved skin.

“Hannibal Lecter couldn’t force me into doing a thing.”

His voice was bitter, a spitting sort of edge you’d never heard in it before; more a haze of fervent anger than real words.

Will couldn’t make up his mind about Dr. Lecter even if he tried with all the force of his gentle scorn. The metallic sting of blood against his tongue—the most generous of the Doctor’s gifts—was not nearly enough to atone for his searing torment of his prison sentence.

No revered gift of hollow bones or marinated flesh could exonerate Will Graham’s perpetual sorrow.

His words bit like the sharp edge of a jagged cold, frost over the warmth of your cheeks—ice in the fire. He was blunt, mean in his discomfort.

You loved your boy as close to death as God would allow, but it wasn’t enough to keep hell away. You let him rule you, scarlet bruised knees flush against the ground of his altar.

The wind blew through your hair in the cracks of the truck’s windows, the gentle whine of a Labrador humming from the backseat.

It was a complex peace—a confusing comfort to sit bathed in Will Graham’s self-loathing.

It was an ugly headache against your scull, but it was constant—a beautiful lull in an empty symphony.

You let the dogs whimper, you let the frost crawl over your skin; you would not offer your comfort to your suffering boy.

You whispered, then—a hushed “Will” into the darkness.