#a-ha.writes

So you couldn't complain when he showed up again and again with new wounds that needed tending to.

You weren't scared of him. You figured that if he wanted you dead, he would have already killed you by now. It wouldn't even have been that hard for him.

His visits were becoming more frequent. Usually, you'd find him bleeding out on your couch, breath so shallow that you worried he wasn't breathing at all, but it was like he'd come to life when you would place your hand on his cheek and gently turn his head to see if he was still alive. Under different circumstances, it would have almost been romantic.

But you tried to stop yourself from thinking like that. You refused to get too involved with him. You didn't even know his name.

You couldn't deny that he's attractive, though. He's handsome, all sharp lines when you wiped away all the blood and pulled off his mask, well built, and god, his arms. You had spent your fair share of time handling his scarred biceps during his visits, and you don't think you would ever get tired of it.

You find him like always, but this time he's sitting on the floor with his eyes closed, against the wall and covered in blood.

"Still with us?" you ask, crouching down next to him.

He chuckles, slowly opening his eyes to fix his gaze on you, "Alive and kicking."

You roll your eyes, standing up to grab the first aid kit from under your coffee table. You had started leaving it there after his third visit. You don't go far, but you can feel his eyes boring into you. When you turn around, he doesn't make an effort to advert his eyes.

You crouch back down, there's so much blood that if can't just be his, "Where."

"Lower left. Stab wound," he weakly pulls at the bottom of his shirt, but you bat his uncoordinated fingers away.

You take over, peeling the fabric up to find the stab wound marring his toned stomach.

"Shit," you avoid eye contact as blood gushes weakly over your hands, "You need a real doctor."

He takes a shaky breath, which makes your eyes snap to his, "I trust you."

The look you give him is bewildered, "It's not about trust. I'm not qualified to handle this."

He just shakes his head, "I just need stitches. I'll walk you through it."

The bewilderment doesn't leave your face, but nonetheless, you bring the first aid kit closer. True to his word, he patiently walks you through stitching him up. Your needle work is unsteady, but he doesn't so much as flinch. The only clue you have to his discomfort is when he weakly grabs your arm, trying to stabilize himself.

When you're done, he doesn't let go of you. Slowly, you look up at him, and you can only describe the look on his face as hungry.

"Let go. I need to get bandages-"

"Dex," he breathes.

"What?" you ask.

"My name is Dex," he says.

You swallow, leaning forward slightly, "Why are you telling me this?"

Dex's lips quirk up slightly and he leans forward, too, "Because I trust you."

You stare at Dex, and he stares right back at you. It's you who closes the distance.

It's not gentle. It's like the two of you are trying to fuse with one another. Dex drops his hold on your arm and wraps his arms around your waist, staining your t-shirt with the blood from his hands and hoisting you up to sit on his lap. You balance yourself by sliding your hands up to rest on his shoulders. You grind yourself down on him, and he whimpers into your mouth. He shudders when you push your hands into the hair at the base of his neck.

When you pull back for air, Dex follows, trying to reclaim your mouth. When you don't immediately go back in for the kiss, he opts to mouth at your neck, dragging your shirt collar down to suck marks onto your collarbone. You moan, scratching at his scalp and pulling him closer.

You dip back down, finally giving Dex what he wants. He hums into your mouth, letting his hands disappear under your shirt, staining your skin with blood.

Your teeth catch his bottom lip, and iron floods your mouth. You try to pull away, worried you hurt him, but the pain must spur him on because he lets his hands drop from under you shirt and to your thighs. He pulls you closer, slotting you against his body like you were always meant to be there.

When he finally releases your mouth, his pupils are blown. He reaches his hand up to cup your cheek, brushing his thumb over the corner of your lips where his blood is fresh on your skin.

You smile as you look down at him, "That's a lot of trust."

He had fixed his gaze on you, clasping your hands between his, “New York, the FBI.”

You’d paused, looking down at your joined hands, then led him to sit down on your bed with you, “Where did this come from? I thought you were happy here.”

“No, baby, I am. I’m happy wherever you are,” He’d peppered your face with kisses of reassurance, “I just want you to be happy.”

You’d smiled, charmed by his affection, “Then why are you asking?”

“It’s withering you,” He’d let go of your hands, clenching and unclenching his fists, “Both of us.”

He’d rested his hands on his knees, waiting for you to respond. You had looked away, instead, fixing your gaze on a picture of the two of you on his nightstand. It was your wedding day. It had been the happiest day of both of your lives. Those had been good days. Before the FBI put him on security detail for Wilson Fisk.

“Dex, be honest with me,” You’d finally said.

He’d perked up at your voice, “Of course.”

“No. Don’t just tell me what I want to hear.”

You’d known, and still know, him so well, “… Of course.”

“Do you want to leave?” Your voice had been firm, but still strikingly gentle.

Dex had swallowed hard, and it had taken a great deal for him to finally meet your eyes.

When he did, his voice had been weak, “Yeah.”

And for some reason that was still beyond him, you had leaned forward and pressed the most gentle kiss onto his lips. When you had pulled back, it had taken all of his willpower not to follow you.

“Where do you want to go?”

━ ◎ ━

You toe off your shoes at the door. You can smell pasta wafting in from the kitchen.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get over this southern heat. How do people live like this?” You call out into the house, announcing your arrival.

You hang up your jacket on the coat hanger next to the door and round the corner, stretching your arms above your head.

You’re met with the sight of Dex at the stove, stirring the sauce for your dinner. He’s still in his work clothes, but he’s wearing the ‘kiss the cook’ apron you got him as a gag gift one year for Christmas. You thought it would never get worn, but something about it being a gift from you made it a frequent sight in the kitchen. His back is to you, so you saddle up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist.

“You’re later than usual,” He says without turning around, but you know him well enough to know that his words are tinged with relief.

“Traffic was bad,” You sigh, pressing your face into his back, “Plus, it means I get to come home to your cooking.”

You can feel Dex's shoulders shake with a silent laugh. He turns down the sauce so he can focus on you and presses a kiss to your cheek. His heart flutters when you giggle.

“Missed you,” He murmurs against your cheek, turning to face you and wrapping one of his arms around your waist.

“Mm. Missed you, too,” You say, kissing the corner of his mouth, “How was work?”

“Jim is going to be the death of me,” He says, a twinge of humor colors his voice, “But I don’t want to talk about work.”

You press your forehead to his chest and then pull away from his hold so you can walk to the fridge and grab a bottle of water. He watches you as you move through the space.

“The yard looks nice,” You say instead, “Mr. Johnson was asking me where we got our edge cutter.”

Dex hums in response, turning back to the food on the stove.

Your yard is a work of art. Dex lorded over it like with an iron fist. He said it kept his mind busy. You never argued, always eager to sit out on the porch while he toiled away, ogling him in his jeans and tightly fitted t-shirt.

When you had first moved into the neighborhood, he’d been a bit of a spectacle. Several of your neighbors had flirted with him, hoping he was a hot new single, but he quickly made it known that he was a happily married man when he would proudly show them his engraved wedding band with your initials on the inside.

“I told him he’d have to ask you,” You lean against the island, which has a decorative fruit bowl in the center, “So he might start bothering you about it… Sorry.”

Dex sighs, “He was bound to ask, eventually.”

He begins plating dinner, and you can’t help the feelings bubbling up at the sight of him like this. For so long, the two of you had been wound into tension. The stress, the city, and the FBI had all taken their toll on Dex the worst. He constantly worried about you, even though you were only in human resources. You were too close to it all for him to relax.

But now, you could finally see that he could truly relax here.

━ ◎ ━

The two of you are sitting at your dining table, eating the pasta that Dex so delicately prepared. He’s got that smile he always gets when he’s eating. You’d always thought it was so cute.

“Dex,” You break the comfortable silence, “Be honest with me.”

“Of course,” He says, putting his fork down so he can give you his full attention.

“No,” You quirk an eyebrow playfully, “Don’t just tell me what I want to hear.”

“…Of course.”

You drum your fingers on the table, “Are you happy here?”

A slow and steady grin spreads across Dex’s face. He grabs one of your hands and presses your fingers to his lips.

“I’m happy wherever you are.”

━ ◎ ━

You had chosen to adapt, like so many of the other people who lived here.

Your mask was simple, a black ski mask that you had modified minimally, but it was still important to you. The already corrupt police force had been touched by Fisk, and the people needed hope. Someone to reach out and help them.

The mask had also put a target on your back. You knew you were on Fisk's radar. Maybe not as high as Daredevil, but you had certainly made an impression on him.

Or at least you hope you had. It would be kind of awkward for you and this AVTF member if he was pinning you down in the middle of this abandoned warehouse for no reason.

You were on your back, already battered and bruised from the altercation that had proceeded this. Your mask was slightly askew, and you could feel the trickle of blood soaking into the fabric. However, you could see well enough to dodge the fist threatening to bash your skull in with a jerk of your head.

The goon cried out when his hand met the concrete ground of the warehouse, and you used that moment of confusion to push him off of you and roll away from him. Your kegs were shaky when you finally stood, and the world seemed to tilt.

"Fuck," you brought your hand up to touch your temple, "You hit me hard."

The man, who had recovered from what you could only imagine was a shattered hand, didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he charged at you.

You still moved sluggishly and could only stumble back against the wall. He used that to his advantage and grabbed your throat, choking you. It was your fault, you thought, as you clawed at his wrist. You had known that his objective was to kill you, and yet, you had kicked away his gun earlier in your scuffle.

Between the blood loss and restricted air flow, you could feel yourself slipping. Your struggle had grown weaker, but it seemed to spur him on to crush your throat even tighter.

In your haze, you thought about how little your life had amounted to.

What was the point of all of this? You were just another freak in a mask, play acting as an Avenger. You didn't have even have powers, and martial arts could only get you so far.

Vaguely, you could taste iron and salt on your tongue, and you realized that you were crying.

Despite the brain fog, you focus on the man who was ending your life. There was rage in his eyes, but you couldn't bring yourself to return it.

Abruptly, anger morphed into confusion and then fear, and then the grip on your neck slackened. He fell forward slowly, and you barely had enough strength to push him to your left so that he landed gracelessly on the floor next to your feet.

You gasped for air, the sudden flow had startled your respiratory system. You doubled over, and only then did you see the combat knife that stuck out of his back and the blood pooling around it and seeping into the fabric of his shirt. The sight sobered you up, and you quickly straightened up to find your savior and could be killer.

Your blood rushed to in your ears as you whipped your head around, but your heart stopped when your hazy visions locked onto a figure slowly walking towards you. You squeezed your eyes shit, hoping your death would be quick this time. But like before, your death never came.

At some point, you had slid down the wall, your knees curled to your chest. Gloved hands found your temples and slowly moved your head from side to side to assess your injuries. You flinched at the contact.

"Easy there," said a deep voice, "Can you open your eyes for me?"

Either due to the blood loss, genuine fear, or a combination of both, you opened your eyes.

Immediately, you recognized the man crouched down before you.

Your mind couldn't form a full thought, but memories of pain and fear flowed over you. A phantom pain bloomed between your ribs.

You shivered, "Poindexter…"

Your vision swims, but you swear he cracked a smile.

And then, your vision went dark.

━ ◎ ━

When you came to, your head was throbbing and you were propped up against the wall.

You were completely alone, too. No sign of the AVTF goon's dead body. No sign of… him.

Tentatively, you struggled to your feet. Black dots danced across your vision as you swayed. You put your hand on the wall to steady yourself, but the surface was slippery, and your hand slid off.

A sticky red substance coated your palm. Slowly, you faced the wall.

Right next to where you had been sitting, a big red bullseye was painted on the wall.

━ ◎ ━

You hear a grunt, but also the telltale sound of heavy combat boots being toed off. You round the corner to the escaped perpetrator limping towards you. You meet him halfway, grabbing his bicep in an attempt to steady him. His opposite hand comes up to lightly rest on yours as you continue to walk with him, only letting go when he deposits himself onto the couch.

You sit on the coffee table, facing him, and pull open the first aid kit that’s already on the table, “Alright, Dex. Worst one first, come on.”

He lets you work, methodically cleaning and dressing each wound. He’s so quiet, the only sign that he’s alive is the steady rise and fall of his chest. You’d think he’d dozed off, but he winces slightly whenever you bring an alcohol soaked cotton ball to a particularly large gash.

“All done,” You say, starting to put away the supplies, “Now go take a shower. You smell awful.”

You’re done packing up the kit when you realize he hasn’t moved. Instead, he lets his eyes rake over you from his place on the couch. The two of you make eye contact, and you smile bashfully when you catch the devoted look on his face. You stand up to stand between his legs and cup his face in your hands. He closes his eyes, reminding you of a sunbathing cat, and you can’t resist the urge to lean down and kiss him softly.

“How many this time?” You ask, running your thumb over his cheek.

“Twelve,” he says, “Their deaths were quick.”

Your expression is unusually tender for such a violent statement, but his words mean the world to you. “I’m glad to hear that.”

And your words mean the world to him.

“Now, seriously. Go shower.”

━ ◎ ━

Benjamin Leonard Poindexter is a wanted man.

He’s wanted by the state for various accounts of first-degree murder.

He’s wanted by Daredevil for the murder of Foggy Nelson.

He’s wanted by Wilson Fisk himself for the murder of Vanessa Fisk.

But most importantly, he’s wanted by you. His North Star, his compass, his angel.

You found him at his lowest and most broken. When you found him, he killed without a conscience, fell asleep at night, unaffected by the horrors he caused.

He believed that his mortal soul was beyond saving. That the only thing waiting for him after death would be eternal damnation. But the moment you entered his life, he knew that he had been delivered. He’d tasted heaven, and every time you chose to stay, he basked in the light of your halo.

━ ◎ ━

Dex leaves the bathroom, steam rolling out after him, and finds you curled up on the bed, reading. His heart almost beats out of his chest at the sight of you in his shirt with fuzzy sock clad feet, unbothered by the world outside of your bedroom.

You set aside your book and beckon him to join you. It’s almost laughable, the speed at which this stone-cold killer falls into your arms, but he must. Dex lives in constant fear that you will one day come to your senses and abandon him.

“You smell like yourself, again,” is the first thing you say when he lets his weight fall onto you.

Dex almost laughs. Your preoccupation with his well-being has always overshadowed

“The scales are almost balanced,” he says, head pressed to your chest as you thread your fingers into his scalp.

“You’re doing good work, baby,” You hum, “Those Task Force goons are scum. They deserve it.”

It should be jarring, hearing those words come from your mouth, but to Dex, it was gospel. He exhales, sinking deeper into your touch and then turns his head so he can kiss your wrist. He could stay here forever, accepting the grace you give him with every breath you breathe.

Dex thinks about all the people he's killed. He can't bring himself to feel remorse. Every sin he has ever committed has been forgiven by you. He no longer feared eternal damnation

God had forgiven him through you.

━ ◎ ━

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast.

━ ◎ ━

You’ve got to get out of there. It was only a one-night stand, you two having finally let the tension between you snap after a Daily Planet office gathering. But the moment has passed, and you feel guilty. 

You sit up, or at least try to. Clark’s arm doesn’t let you budge, and he seems to pull you impossibly closer to his chest the more you struggle. He stirs, and his eyes slowly open. 

“Good morning,” he says, still groggy, but his eyes seem to focus the second they land on you. “Did you sleep well?”

Abandoning your escape attempt, you resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to exchange awkward small talk with the guy who spent a few hours rearranging your insides last night. But then you look at his face and realize that his question is genuine, just like everything else Clark does. 

“Yeah. Really comfortable sheets,” you laugh. 

Clark smiles at that and then props himself up on his elbow so that he’s looking down at you. He pauses for a second as his eyes roam over your face and the bit of your shoulders exposed by the sheets before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your jaw, trailing up to the corner of your mouth. He pulls back with a satisfied smile. The action is so domestic that it stuns you. 

Clark fills in the silence, “I’ll go make us some breakfast,” and then slips out of the bed and into what you assume is his kitchen, leaving you in his bedroom alone. 

You stare up at the ceiling. Should you just leave? Walk right past him? But that feels rude, and you’ll have to see him in the office on Monday anyway. But staying for breakfast was insane, right? That would be overstaying your welcome. But then again, he’d seemed happy to see you when he woke up… and you’d be a fool to pass up free food in this economy. 

So, you throw on your panties from the night before and the first shirt you can find. It was the button-up Clark had been wearing. Clark is a big guy, so the shirt swallowed you whole.

He’s at the stove, the smell of scrambled eggs wafting through the air. He’s slipped on boxers, but his bare back is on display to you. He looks over his shoulder when you enter, smiling slowly as he takes in your attire. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, almost reverently. 

You swallow. You knew that Clark was uniquely gentlemanly, but it was still a surprise. Nervous laughter bubbles up from your chest as you sit down at the dining table. It’s definitely too late to sneak out now, you figure.

Clark is busy plating a considerable breakfast for you: eggs, fruits, and a biscuit, so he doesn’t speak. You do catch him stealing glances at you, though, his lower lip tucked between his teeth as he bites back a smile. When he’s done, he rounds the counter and sets the plates down on the table. He pulls his chair closer to you than necessary, but like a lot of other stuff that’s happened this morning, you let it slide.

“Wow, this is really good,” you decide after taking a bite, “Do you do this for everyone you bring home?”

“No,” his response is clipped, almost offended, “You’re the only one,” he recovers with a chuckle. 

“Then, I’ll consider myself lucky.”

The rest of breakfast is weirdly normal. Overly domestic, like you two have been together romantically for ages, and not like a hookup that you’d regret the second you saw him in the bullpen on Monday. But this was just a casual thing. 

“I think I should probably head back home, now,” you say after your last bite. 

“Are you sure? It’s so early… we could go back to bed.” 

There’s no innuendo in the way that he says it, like he genuinely just wants to go back to sleep with you next to him. It feels far too intimate for what this is.  You walk your dishes to the sink, trying to place the counter between you two, but Clark follows. 

“Yeah, I’ve got things to do today,” you don’t acknowledge that he’s saddled up behind you, his big hands on your waist. 

He turns you around so that you’re facing him, and he manhandles you up onto the counter, your thighs bracketing his hips. Clark rubs his hands up from your knees to you hips, letting his thumbs graze the fabric of your underwear. It’s an absentminded action that he doesn’t acknowledge, even when your breath hitches. 

“When can I see you again?” He asks. 

“Like this?” Casual. God, you hope he isn’t asking you out.

Clark hesitates, searching your face, “Yeah. Like this.”

All the tension in your body dissipates. Casual sex is a deal you can get behind. No strings attached, no emotions. And if Clark Kent wanted that with you…

“I’m free next weekend,” you reply. 

━ ⎚-⎚ ━

Not much is different when you walk into the Daily Planet on Monday morning. Lois still put too much sugar in her coffee, Jimmy was still collecting numbers like it was his job, Cat regaled you with her weekend exploits, and Steve was… Steve. It seems your out-of-office affairs weren’t going to be a big headline. The only thing that really changed was that Clark seemed to linger around your desk when the work day was over, asking if you wanted him to walk you home. 

Other than that, he was business as usual. Even before you’d spent a night together, he was talkative with you. Always asking how you were doing and about your day. But he was like that with everyone.

The real change is from outside of work. It happened on Wednesday. You’d stayed late at work, trying to finalize an opinion piece so it would be ready for digital. Clark had lingered for as long as you’d allowed him to, but you waved off his offers of walking you home. When he finally did leave, he kept looking over his shoulder, like it would compel you to change your mind and let him accompany you. 

It was late into the night when you’d finished. Metropolis was no Gotham, but you still felt a little uneasy walking home at this hour. Muggers are in every city. You clutch your bag a little bit tighter. 

“Ma’am,” a voice behind you says. 

You whip around, ready to slash your potential assailant with your keys, but you’re met with a sight that is becoming increasingly more common in Metropolis. 

“Superman,” you breathe out. 

He’s hovering slightly above the ground, a few feet away, looking down at you. Upon hearing his moniker, he lowers himself so that his feet touch down and walks towards you. His eyes sparkle when he looks at you.

Up close, he’s strikingly handsome. “You shouldn’t be out alone this time of night. Let me walk you.”

“You really don’t have to,” You say, “There are more important things than me for you to worry about.

At this, Superman frowns. He gets even closer, letting his hands fall gently onto your shoulders.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” He’s stern, “You’re important to a lot of people.”

You really weren’t expecting words of encouragement from Superman. Hearing those words from his mouth makes you feel like you’re in a self-love PSA. You only stare at him. 

“Please, I’d hate it if something I could’ve prevented happened to you because you wouldn’t let me,” He says, maintaining eye contact. 

You shrug off his hands, “Okay.”

What’s the harm?

Superman, you learn, has no concept of personal space, although that could just be on account of him being an alien. He’s just a few inches too close, like he’s trying to breathe in your air. He also herds you to the inner side of the sidewalk, despite there being hardly any cars at this hour. 

“You should take better care of yourself,” he says suddenly, most of your walk having been in silence, “You’re more important than your articles.”

“How do you know I’m a journalist?” You raise your eyebrows.

Superman chuckles, “I read the Daily Planet. You’ve penned some of my favorites.”

The idea of Superman not only reading your articles but liking them enough to know what you look like is ridiculous to you. Your straight-to-digital opinion pieces weren’t the most Pulitzer Prize-winning journalism, and they were really only meant to fill space in between the big, heavy-hitting stories. You can’t help but imagine Superman stretched on a pool chair with a pink tablet and red wine, reading your latest article about the debut of a soap opera that you forecasted failing.

“Seriously? My stuff,” you scoff, “There’s far more talented writers than me. Like Lois Lane, or Clark Kent.”

Superman perks up at that last one, “He talks about you a lot.”

“…Clark?” You raise your eyebrow at him. 

Superman nods, “He always says that you’ve got this light to you. Like the sun.”

You’re not sure how to feel about Clark and Superman giggling about you like two schoolgirls. But you do know Clark is the only reporter Superman lets interview him. Maybe they’ve run out of things to talk about.

“That’s… nice,” you’ve finally reached the door of your apartment building, “Thank you.”

Superman makes no move to leave you. He smiles warmly at you, facing you in front of the door. If an outsider saw you two, it would look like he was about to kiss you. 

“Well, I’m going to go now,” you say, foot already in the door.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you’ve already slammed the door shut on him. After that first interaction, he’d started walking you home every day. 

━ ⎚-⎚ ━

Clark had called you, asking if you wanted to get dinner with him. He’d been doing that more often. He’d wine and dine you, but you’ve convinced yourself that it was just dinner with a friend and not a date. The night always ended the same way. 

Just like tonight. Except he’d been extra tender. He’d insisted on picking you up tonight. He didn’t even give you time to argue because he was already close by, and he lamented about how it would be a waste to go separately. When he got to your door, he handed you a bouquet of flowers before pressing you up against your apartment wall and kissing you like he needed it to breathe. When he pulled back, a string of saliva connected your slightly parted lips, he let out a shaky breath. 

“You’re even more beautiful than usual,” he’d said. 

You’d just smiled nervously and slid out of his hold to put the flowers into a vase. 

Dinner was even more strange. Clark didn’t take you to the usual casual spot. Instead, it was that new place on 5th street that everyone had been raving about. You’d mentioned that you wanted to try it once the hype died down at a luncheon. The place was packed, but you didn’t mind a long wait time. 

But then he said, “Reservation for Kent,” to the hostess, and you were shocked all over again. He planned this? He took time out of his week to call in and make reservations? 

And then when you two sat down, he’d grasped your hand in his and rubbed his thumb over your knuckles until the food, staring at you with an expression you couldn’t place. An uneasy feeling was beginning to settle in your stomach. 

When you guys were finally back at his apartment, Clark took his time with you once again. He lay you out on his bed, taking his sweet time to undress you, getting distracted every time a new part of you was exposed to him. He spent an uncharacteristically long time mouthing at your chest, and then even longer peppering your torso in kisses. 

Even when you’d reached down to free him from his pants, he pinned your hands down next to your head and tutted at you.

“No, baby. Tonight’s all about you,” he said. 

“But Clark-“ You whined. 

But he just pressed a kiss on your neck and hummed into your skin, “Just lie back. Let me take care of you.”

And take care of you, he did. He laps at your pussy, drinking up everything that flowed out of you. Your legs tremble as you cry out, but he keeps going. It wasn’t unusual for him to eat you out, but what was unusual was how long he stayed down with his head between your thighs. He keeps bringing you right to the edge, and then turning his attention to your thighs right before you get to your peak. 

He seems to relish in every broken moan, every twitch. Finally, Clark attaches himself to your clit, pumping his fingers in you and catching that spongy spot within you, ripping an orgasm out of you. You’re left gasping and with your chest heaving. 

He kisses up your stomach, letting the hand that had yours pinned fall away so he can prop himself up while he busies himself with your breasts, again. Clark wraps his lips around one of your nipples, dancing his tongue over it and gently grazing his teeth over it. 

Each new sensation has your hips bucking up against him, allowing you to feel his hardness as it presses against you. He moans against your chest, sending vibrations throughout your body. You cry out when he breaks away, and he smiles down at you, admiring the wreck he’s made of you. 

“Look at you,” he coos as he cups your face so that you look up at him, “So pretty like this. Think you can take me?”

You’re dazed, but have enough awareness to answer, “Please…”

Clark smiles, “As you wish.”

He leans back a little bit so that he can shed his shirt, and then he’s freeing himself from his pants. His cock slaps against his stomach, precum dribbling down the shaft and smattering onto his lower stomach. He pumps himself a few times and then leans over you so he can grind down between your folds, coating himself in you. Every few thrusts, the head of his cock catches on your clit, causing both of you to gasp.

“More. Please more,” you whine.

He obliges, guiding himself to your entrance and pushing in slowly. Clark seems just as affected by you as you are by him, tears prickling the corner of his eyes as you clench down on him. He’s just as big as ever, but since he’s going in so slowly, you feel every inch. 

When he bottoms out, Clark stays still for a few moments. He lets his head dip down into your neck, sucking a hickey into the skin there. You reach up and ghost your fingers over his back, which makes him shiver.

Still with his lips to your neck, Clark wraps his hand around the underside of one of your thighs and pushes it up so that your knee is as close to your chest as possible. He finally starts moving, setting a fast pace. 

“You’re taking me so well,” his words are still muffled in the junction of your neck. 

“Too much,” you choke out. 

You’re grasping at him, trying to find purchase as he continues rocking into you. He becomes frenzied, kissing your face and neck.

“You can take it. Just a little more,” he says between kisses, “Can you do that for me?”

You answer with a nod, and Clark rewards you with a kiss to your temple.

When you clench around him again, he moans, “I’m not going to last much longer if you keep doing that.”

That’s when one of his hands falls down to your clit to massage it in tight circles. You seize up, but he holds you down as he continues to bring you closer to the edge. You can feel that he’s close, too, his abdomen twitching.

It doesn’t take much longer before the coil in your stomach snaps, and you’re cumming around him. Clark lets out a broken moan as you pulse around him and he’s falling over the edge, too, shooting hot spurts of cum deep inside you. He rides out both of your orgasms, reveling in the feeling of you milking him for all that he’s worth.

“Gosh, I love you. There’s no one else. Can’t believe you’re mine. I love you, I love you, I love you,” he’s started rocking against you in lieu of actually pulling out, “You’re mine. Mine, mine, mine.”

You’re too far gone to hear his babbling, but if you had, you probably wouldn’t have been so content to spend the night tucked against him.

━ ⎚-⎚ ━

Clark wakes up to a familiar warmth pressed against his body. Your head is tucked under his chin, and your hands are trapped between your bodies, bunched up against his chest. He presses his lips to the crown of your head before propping himself up on his forearm to look down at you. 

You’re still asleep, looking much more peaceful than you usually do. He wishes he could wake up next to you every morning. He’d ask you to move in, but you’re just so shy, always flustered in the morning, trying to leave, too nervous to ask him to walk you home. You were even more shy when he appeared to you as Superman, never even being able to look him in the eye. That’s okay, though. It just means he has to work harder to bring you out of your shell.

For now, Clark is content to pretend that he spends every morning like this, resting the heavy yet gentle weight of his arm over your torso.

Most would automatically assume that he is just as pretty in his sleep as he is in his waking, but their image of him would be soft lashes kissing his cheeks, with him tucked neatly into his blankets.

Valarr is no Sleeping Beauty. Even before you wed, he would sprawl in bed, wake up with wild hair, and always have a bit of drool on his cheek. It was rare that he’d wake up in the same position he fell asleep in.

And since he has married you, not much has changed. Only now, he holds you like you might disappear into the night if he doesn't act as an anchor.

He also runs exceptionally warm, to the point where the first few nights you shared together, you were worried he had come down with a fever. But no, it was simply the blood of the dragon seeping through his skin.

The heat of his body seems to make him insatiable, though. You’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve woken up to find Valarr gently rolling his hips against you in his sleep, caught up in what must have been a really good dream. You like to imagine that even before your wedding, he would find unconscious relief in rutting himself against his bed, spread out and whimpering.

At the present moment, you’re lying on your side, facing away from him. Valarr’s arms are wrapped around your midsection, his face is smushed into the crook of your neck, and his legs are tangled with yours. At first, you thought Valarr was also still awake, simply adjusting himself so that he could be more comfortable, but it was when he kept going that you recognized what he was doing.

You turn your head ever so slightly, and your hypothesis is proven true by his furrowed eyebrows and his soft breath that hits your cheek. Although you’re not entirely sure why you sought out the extra confirmation, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass. Perhaps you just like seeing him all worked up.

Normally, you would roll over and let him have at it. His grinding would either stop with the natural passing of the dream, or he’d finish with a moan and then settle back into his deep sleep. Tonight, however, he seems particularly frustrated. He’s flushed from his cheeks to his neck, and you’re sure if you pulled the neckline of his shirt down, he’d be just as red on his chest. His hands fist your sleepwear, fingers flexing against the fabric like he’s trying to grasp at his pleasure.

You’re feeling generous, though, and roll over in his arms so that your hands are free. You can’t help but bite your lip at the whine Valarr lets out at the loss of contact with your ass, especially when it gets choked at the feeling of your fingers sliding under his waistband and wrapping around his length. He freezes, and for a second, you think he’s woken up, but then he begins rocking into your hand even more enthusiasm than his unconscious brain had given your backside, his eyes still closed.

You’re not surprised at how quickly your palm is coated in his arousal, and you use it to begin working your hand up and down the length of him. As you stroke him, Valarr twitches in his sleep. You’re impressed by his ability to stay asleep through almost anything.

Finally, Valarr reaches his climax and spills into your hand with a soft groan. It's a copious amount that coats your entire hand by the time he is done. He settles back against you, although his length continues to pulse in your hand for a few seconds longer, the last bit of his spend weakly leaking out. When you slide out of his arms so you can clean him and yourself off, he lets out one final whine at the loss of contact and then curls into the spot where you once were.

After completing your task, you crawl back into bed, and Valarr immediately wraps himself back around you, cheek now smushed against your shoulder with a soft smile on his face. His hair is in disarray, and he's sporting flushed cheeks.

Maybe he was a Sleeping Beauty after all.

━🔥━

Aerion had burst into your chambers, seeking pleasure from between your legs. Normally, you would have obliged him, if only it meant he would leave you alone faster. You had become quite adept at making him climax in record time. Perhaps that’s why he still tolerated you. However, you were already in bed, and quite frankly, didn't feel like working towards his pleasure with no reward.

He had gotten pretty far. His shirt had been discarded, his pants unfastened, and he had even placed you atop his thighs to straddle him. His hands were bruising your hips as he waited for you to free him and bounce on his length until he was satisfied, so he could leave without attending to you. You knew that if you didn't act now, you'd end up with the same feeling of aching and want that sleeping with him always left you with.

So, you roll your eyes at Aerion. It's subtle, but it leads him to jostling you when he sits up, glaring at you.

"You dare scoff at a dragon," he says, "You have been giving the honor of being bedded by me, and you dare scoff?"

You slide off of him, smiling slyly, "Being bedded by a dragon has been quite an underwhelming experience, I must say."

Aerion stands up, clearly livid. You have to bite back a laugh at the sight of his pants still unfastened, the soft white hairs below his navel peaking out from his waistband. Childishly, he turns his back to you, pacing towards your window and dramatically sulking there. 

You sit up, folding your hands over your lap, “All I do is bounce upon your cock while you sit and do nothing. Where’s my pleasure?”

"You should be grateful that I even grace you with my presence," he sneers, "That I even took a mere human as my wife."

You can't help but laugh out loud at his words.

"A true dragon would never leave his mate wanting," you say, "I guess you're no dragon, after all."

Aerion whips around and glares at you, "Hold your tongue, woman."

You scoff, "Oh shut up. Just admit it. You're a fraud."

He swiftly crosses the room towards you. He plants his hands on either side of your legs.

"I'm no fraud, and you're a fool for-"

"Then prove it," you say.

The thinly veiled lust in his eyes is enough to set a fire ablaze between your legs. Aerion crawls towards you, and you crawl back. You catch your lip between your teeth as he pushes you back onto the plush bedspread. He remains hovering over you. His hand slowly pushes up your skirt, exposing your legs to the cool air of the room. You gasp when he pushes your legs open so he can lie between them.

"Perhaps it will shut you up," he says, dipping down to suck a mark onto your inner thigh.

You moan wantonly. It wasn't a particularly gentle action, but it had been so long since you had had a sexual experience that didn't involve you focusing purely on Aerion's pleasure. So, feeling his lips graze so close to your entrance was like a shock to your system.

"Treat me like a dragon ought to, and maybe I will."

At that, he gives your thigh one final bite, which causes you to yelp. He soothes it with an open-mouthed kiss before turning his attention to the place where he is needed most. When his tongue finally finds your clit, you throw your head back and cry out. You can almost feel him smirk against you.

Your legs bend in ecstasy, and Aerion takes it as an opportunity to maneuver each one over his shoulders without coming up for air. He reaches out for one of your hands, which is occupied with fisting the sheets, and places it in his hair. You get the memo and let your other hand join its twin in his platinum hair. Cruelly, you grind up into his mouth and press his head to you, but the muffled moan he lets out leads you to believe he actually quite enjoyed it.

You can feel your peak coming, fluttering against his tongue. Aerion seems to notice this and moves his mouth to work your clit while he uses two of his fingers to fill you. His long, dexterous fingers find the sensitive spot inside of you, and you can't help but whine. Aerion lifts his head to look at you.

"Look at me, wife," he purrs.

You do, propping yourself up on your elbows. When your eyes meet his, you can't help but notice the pleased look on his face. The lower half of his face is covered in your arousal, and your eyebrows furrow in pleasure. Aerion is an asshole, that much you couldn't deny, but it is also undeniable that he is attractive. If his personality weren't so terrible, you could see yourself having a much more agreeable marriage with him.

Despite yourself, you reach down and let your hand caress the side of his face. It's minuscule, but Aerion leans into your touch.

Surprisingly, that's what sends you over the edge. You fall back onto the bed as your walls spasm around his fingers. He continues to pump his fingers against your sweet spot reattaches to your sensitive clit. Tears prick your eyes as you continue to writhe against him.

Finally, the waves of pleasure die down, and you're left breathless underneath him. Aerion crawls up the length of your body so that you're face-to-face. He gathers you into a rough kiss, letting you taste his handiwork on his lips.

"I've proven myself, but do not challenge me again," he sneers.

You can't help but let out a dazed laugh, too out of it to form a proper response. You’ve already decided that if it keeps ending in your favor, you'll challenge him until the day you die.

Your back is pushed against the soft sheets on Dex’s bed as he makes himself at home in the warm space between your legs. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, holding you down as you squirm in overstimulation. You can’t see his face, but you know his eyes must be closed in bliss if the grinding of his hips against the mattress is any indication. 

It started when Dex had come home, obviously in need of comfort. He’d been distant, that familiar look in his eye. You let him take a shower before pulling him down into bed with you. 

Your intentions had been completely innocent. You’d pulled his head down to your chest and stroked his hair, letting him melt into you. His breath had been so even and steady that you assumed him to be asleep. That was until he’d clasped your hand in his to kiss your wrist and turned to face you. 

Hazel eyes had met yours, heralding the request you already knew. 

“Please,” It had been barely a whisper, “I just want to take my mind off of everything.”

And you gave him carte blanche in the form of a gentle kiss to his lips. He had been the one to deepen it, only to break away to trail kisses down your jaw, neck, and chest, stopping every once in a while to suck bruises into your skin. 

When he’d gotten to your torso, he had looked up at you through his eyelashes. Seeking your approval, your validation, like he did with everything else. You had let your fingers slide into his hair to guide him down towards your clothed core, where he’d immediately started peppering your core with feather-light kisses, not even bothering to free you from your underwear. 

Still, you had already been sensitive, your hips threatening to jolt him off. Dex had simply splayed his hand across your lower stomach, keeping you in place as he mouthed at your core. It had been you who had gently pushed his head aside so you could shimmy out of your underwear for him. He had wasted no time falling back into you, sucking marks and kisses onto your inner thighs.

When his tongue had made contact with your folds, you had shivered. To keep yourself grounded, you had threaded your fingers through his hair, which he had hummed at in approval. He had pulled your first orgasm from you by focusing on your clit, his fingers having slid to curl inside of you with precision.

But that felt like a lifetime ago.

Now, you were overstimulated beyond belief, while Dex kept himself locked between your legs. Your previous releases were evident by the wetness that painted your thighs and drenched his chin and neck. His nose brushes your clit while he all but makes out with your pussy. You flutter around his tongue, and he groans, causing a vibration to flood you with pleasure.

You’re limp at this point, muscles lax from what feels like hours of flexing and twitching, but your legs spasm weakly as it all comes crashing down. Your eyes squeeze shut, and you let out stuttered moans and breaths as you clamp down on his head, trapping him in place. Dex doesn’t stop, hasn’t stopped since he’s started, laving his tongue against you, despite his own orgasm wracking his body from grinding down into the bed.

He detaches himself, kissing up your body as he lets his hands follow. Dex lands on your mouth, letting you taste yourself on his lips. He pulls away, bringing you closer and drawing patterns onto your back.

He sighs, “Thank you.”

He’s drained you of everything, sleep threatening to take over. But if you could be a distraction, even if just for a moment, you’d gladly give him everything and then some.