undone, undress.

you’re suddenly past coherency. a trip of words like i’m greedy, i’m a slut and it’s yours, you own it, my ass is yours, my cunt is yours and every other filthy thought that enters your brain promptly falls out your mouth. you babble a string of fucks as she forces the plug further inside you, closer and closer to where it’s as wide as a wine bottle - you could take her whole fucking fist after this, you’re sure of it - but it’s so slow and you want it all, now, you don’t care if it hurts.

you beg her to go faster, to ruin you. you beg and beg and beg and somewhere amongst it please daddy slips out and you are far too gone to notice or take it back. your knees slip wider and you think if she presses any harder on your clit you might cry.

reaching back with both hands, your grab your ass and spread it for her, hoping the visual of putting yourself on such display will encourage her to force it in a little faster. you say it again - please daddy - and choke a moan into the mattress as your hole stretches just that bit more, just that bit past where it was a moment ago.

you practically cry into the sheets, “i can take whatever you want. took two straps before. i want it, please, i can be good –”

she calls you daddy and you’re so caught up in the fog that you forget yourself for a second. you want to grab her, to replace the toy you’re slowly sinking into her with the strap you eyed up in the drawer and fuck her into the mattress until that coiled-tight tension leaves her body with a sharp-breathed sigh and her body melting into the bed. (you want to fuck her hard and fast, and you forget the painstaking gentleness you always try and touch her with, and you shove on the base of the plug to push it further into her.)

           "was that too hard-?”   having sex with lena means learning more about your kryptonian strength. having sex with lena sometimes feels as though you’ve never had sex with someone before in your life- the relearning of how hard she wants it when she says for you to fuck her hard is something you’re still trying to get used to.

“i never knew you were such a slut, baby.”   you have your head in the game - the way she comes out with a slew of profanities makes you want to give her exactly what she’s looking for -- with your thumb drawing tight circles on her clit, you really have to wrack your empty brain for it, but you keep a constant pressure on the base of the toy and push it so it fills her a little more a little faster.     “your cunt looks so empty like this.”

when there’s only a couple of inches left of the completely insane toy, you take pity on her. you give her what she wants. you push until her ass closes around the base and you remove both your hands to marvel at the image. 

your eyes might roll back into your head for a second at the cold press of metal, but you’re very much back in the room when she bites down and murmurs low. your whole body is on fire. you can feel yourself pushing back against the toy, desperate and greedy, a strike of humiliation rocketing through you because you’re lena fucking luthor and a super is fucking your ass like it’s nothing.

( the indifference is a turn on. you like it when she forces you to wait. when she won’t touch you until you’ve begged enough, until you are out of your mind ready for her to fuck you into a coma. you want her hands everywhere, want her inside you, you want to feel every inch of her taking you and making you hers. you want to belong to her, to be owned, to be used. )

she could do more damage, leave darker bruises on your body than any piece of leather you own, but the visual would be remarkable. your fists clench in the sheets again. one of your heels has fallen off, her shirt that you’re still wearing has slipped off on shoulder and is trapping the blood flow to your arm but you don’t give a single fuck.

“please – baby – i want it-”

                “slow.”   you rake your nails over the small of her back and you are acutely aware of the size of this thing - you don’t want to hurt her by pushing too hard, too fast. you want to eke it out, to hear her whimper into her sheets and to watch her thighs tremble when she tries to keep herself up. lena pushes back, but you don’t let the plug breach her for a moment. (you watch her, with a special kind of reverence that you hold only for her - this is a new side to her. something that you - never thought you’d see properly. you love her, and the way that she does things, and the way that she lets you in enough to show you this. you know how much that must’ve taken.)

“you’re so needy.”   you push on the toy with the flat of your hand, curling fingers over the edges of the base so you have a firm grip. it’s long, and it’s wide, and you - are so fucking in love with this woman for trusting you enough to do this. you have to apply a little more pressure, but under your hand, it’s a constant press of fingers against the metal.

“let me in, baby.”   your free hand drops between her thighs again, rubbing small circles over her clit as you watch the cold metal slowly start to sink inside her.

god, it’s so overwhelming, the way she tells you you’re always good for me and the hard slap of her hand against hot skin, the burn off her touch as she spreads you out on display, her fingers on your clit that skyrocket you to the edge so fast you barely know what’s happened. you love her so much. no one else could do this to you, there is no one else you would trust like this. kara - whatever version of her that fucks you and leaves you a wet, ridden mess - is heaven sent you’re sure of it and the snap of her cape, the brush of her hand between your legs, only certifies the feeling.

the drawer is mostly things you haven’t shown her before, still hesitant to give over your more intimidating fantasies. there are an array of clamps for your tits and clit, some connect by a loop at the centre and some just sit on their own. there are riding crops and a paddle. a selection straps and vibrators, most of them much larger than what sits in your ass right now, one of them wide and ten inches long, equipped with a pump meant to be filled with lube or fake cum (you can picture kara filling you and making you lick up what drips out of your well fucked holes and shiver). there is a collar with a chain that attaches to a hook which ends in a large ball. it’s designed to fit in your ass and force your back into an arch, choking you if you dared let the visual drop.

finally, there is an array of plugs and while the sizes vary, there’s only one you haven’t tried yet. it’s huge and made of metal, wide and longer than any of the others, bordering more on being just a metal dildo than anything else. you haven’t taken that before. you aren’t sure what she’s going to choose (all of it? none of it?) but you tremble with the possibilities all the same.

“anything you want –”

you expect there to be one or two things - a vibrator and a harness that you’d know your way around more, but the blind fumble just reveals a side of lena that you haven’t been privy to before. your hand leaves her cunt, and you shift from kneeling at the edge of her bed to over to the drawer.

anything you want. oh, boy. (there’s a lot in there. you notice the crops - only the finest leather, you’re sure - and the toys that look bigger than anything you ever thought could go inside her. you count the clamps, one, two, three - wait, that third one goes... rao. you’re sure your hand could do more damage than the paddle that you spot, but your mind is on fire with the possibility of what you could do to her if you were allowed in the drawer.)

“you’ve tried all this?”   you glance back over at her - spread like that with her cunt on display - and you make a quick decision. lena says she can take more, so you pick the largest plug and some lube. (it’s heavy in your hand. you compare it to what sits in her ass already, and your teeth snag your lower lip, before reaching for a set of clamps that you may or may not use - you haven’t decided yet - but mostly, you feel too far away from her.)

you’re back over, one hand smoothing over the red print on her ass. you’re slow when you ease the plug out of her ass, leaning down and pressing an open-mouthed bite on one of her cheeks. (you use enough lube that you’re satisfied the new toy isn’t going to hurt, or- at least - you think it’s going to hurt less, because holy god, it’s big, and when you just press it against her, your own breathing hitches in the back of your throat.)

you’ve had sex. a lot of sex, actually; in your office and in her office and on countertops and changing rooms and even once in alex’s bathroom when kara promised they’d look after her plants while she was away for the weekend. but you haven’t done this and it’s never felt so intense, you’ve never felt so on edge when you’re hardly being touched, the slow pace and wrecked voice doing fucking incredible things to your body without even trying. if only national city knew.

( there’s definitely a porno out there somewhere with a badly-costumed supergirl and a discount t.k. maxx version of you getting fucked very similarly. it doesn’t compare to the real thing – how could it? all that power to do anything she wants and instead, she chooses to be here, sliding into you slowly. )

a choked i can be good escapes and because you want to prove it, you push back against her hand once more and lift your ass higher, arching your back tighter, legs spreading just that bit more to put yourself on display.

“in the drawer – i can take more – if you want me to.”

you’d let her do anything she wants to you and it’s only punctuated by the sharp inhale at the first smack, the sting ricocheting up your body with lightning efficiency.

“you're always good for me.”   you offer it because you know what it does to her -- lena would try anything if you asked her to, and god, that’s hot -- you follow the first smack with another, wanting to watch the way the pink, hot handprint blooms on her skin.

you press your hand between her thighs, spreading her cunt with your fingers -- it’s more out of curiosity more than anything. you want to feel her -- how close she is, how wet she is, how much this is doing it for her with your rogue use of expletives that never really escape from your mouth if it’s not in the bedroom.

“you’re so pretty.”   your thumb rubs a couple of little circles into her clit when you push the plug in nice and slowly, but you’re determined to stop. lena said she’d cum without it, and you move your fingers so the tip of your index just barely brushes against the hood of her clit.

this should feel shameful, dirty, on display for national city’s homegrown hero except it doesn’t because every time a voice calls out to you to stop this before it goes any further (too late), another voice soothingly reminds you that this is kara of all people. sweet and kind kara who would never hurt you, would never tell you that it’s wrong or stupid or ridiculous. and judging by the way she stares and touches you with a reverence you’re utterly unused to it doesn’t seem as though she wants to stop.

kara drags the toy out and presses in with a single slow thrust and it rockets a thrill up your spine, makes you shiver, heart beating in your clit. with a groan, you force your hands up and above your head to fist into the sheets. you want her to make you come and if this is how she does it, so be it.

slick sounds fill the room, lube and arousal mixing at the crease of your thighs and cunt; you can’t help but push back against the plug as kara fucks you with it.

“– no. not unless i want it to – not the biggest i’ve had –”

“so the question is,”

rhythmically, you ease the plug backwards, cautious of both the size and the shape as you play with it -- you don’t want to hurt her. not like this -- and you push on the base until it’s nestled between her cheeks again. you work up a rhythm, slow and easy, feeling the resistance in the way it’s dragged out and pushed back in. god, she’s hot.

“can you cum from me- fucking you in the ass like a good girl, or do you need me to touch your- cunt too?”    this is all supergirl. you intuitive enough to see what lena needs, all sprawled out waiting for you, but she wants you in the suit and cape. she wants the authority of national city’s hero taking her like this, and- well. under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even imagine saying anything like that, but the way she looks is going straight between your thighs.

shit, shit, shit – it’s so good and you’re so close and she sounds fucking wrecked when she finally, finally steps into your bedroom. “yes, fuck, please,” you stutter out. your fingers slip against hot skin clumsily when a glance tells you she’s still in the suit, cape blood red in the low light and billowing behind her, all deep dark blues, pupils blown wide.

(there is a stark contrast between supergirl and kara and the person stood behind you now, staring at your ass like it’s a goddamn meal, is most definitely supergirl. stoic, windswept, smelling faintly of smoke and rain.)

“kara –?”

it’s only then that you feel the actual weight of the plug. the base is thick, wide, and your hand shifts to it the moment she gives her consent with a bitten lower lip. god, she’s rao-damn hot and the way she grips around the base just makes her  fucking groan when she slowly eases it out of her ass a little.

“this is so big.”   there’s a way her ass grips onto it that even kara doesn’t want to fight against, and while one hand works steadfast, the other splays over one of her cheeks and grabs a handful.

you send a quick fire back yes and in your head it’s desperate, wanton, makes you subconsciously shift your hips up against what you’ve got inside you. you can almost picture the moment she will see you. face down on the bed, ass in the air. the tension in your body is a bow string just waiting to be plucked in all the best ways, thighs shaking with the effort of keeping yourself up, fingers slipping over your clit messily.

(you want to be fucked - no two ways about it - whatever way she chooses, rough or slow or however. it’s why you sent the photo in the first place.)

you don’t think you can stop until you’re told so for now, you wait and moan into the mattress underneath you.

you’re over as soon as she sends it -- it’s quickly checking alex’s phone and then heading straight for lena’s penthouse without a second thought. she has her balcony window ajar as normal, and you slide in and make a beeline for her bedroom.

“hey.”   god, she’s so fucking hot. she rocks into the plug that you thought you imagined for a split second, and you see the way her fingers work over her clit in the meantime. she was waiting for you. oh, rao.

you sit on the bed next to her, hands practically grabbing at the air but- you have to ask, because you’re so fucking caught up in the fog-

@unwynd

the picture was an accident. a total accident. innocently sent if it weren’t for the content of it all; kara’s shirt, barely held together by a single button, black lace underwear caught halfway down your thighs and just a hint of red bottomed heels at the very corner like a thumb held over a lens. and of course, the focus of utter debauchery: a clear silicone circle snugly set in the cradle of your ass, hinting at where it might be fitted and how deeply, how wide.

you send it and don’t think twice about the outcome except that you see the two blue ticks and get radio silence. for roughly ten minutes you wait, before a text comes through from…alex?

well. it’s nothing if not effective.

It’s a normal evening -- National City is abuzz with life and movement that’s a little too suspicious to let go, and you’re two buildings away from a very-potential-crime-scene when the picture comes through. If anything it’s more incriminating, and you feel your hand slam closed around your phone a few seconds after you realise what sits at the base of her ass. Oh holy--

All that’s left is a shattered screen that blunts itself against the skin of your palm and splinters onto the ground below. Oh heck. That’s... a lot. Lena does a lot. You sweat and she sends you suggestive pictures in the middle of your job.

I’ve got to go, uh - Alex, can I borrow your phone?

It’s into the ear piece and you know they can hear you, because you swoop back around and swipe the phone from her without much conversation:

          TO LENA: it’s Kara i broke my phone can i come over?

you’ve been moping like your first boyfriend just broke up with you all over again. (in reality, you just stuffed your face with ice cream because eliza’d let you, and moved on within the week. this hurts a whole lot worse.) alex keeps trying to talk to you, but you’re more interested in sending unanswered please call me back texts under every premise under the sun. (please call me back, i miss you. hi lena, i left you some pastries, please call me back. i’m sorry this got so messy, please call me back. you sound like a broken record and you feel a little too like a kicked puppy for the sympathy anymore.)

the deo got involved when you stopped being as effective as they want their resident kryptonian to be. they gave you coordinates, you acted like you had a satnav in your brain, and pretty soon, you found yourself out in nevada. (you never liked the desert - it reminded you of waking up in the pod. it reminded you of the way kal held out his hand and left you as soon as you could stand. you fly now through stretches of cloudless sky and all you feel is as alone as that first time. oh, god. but you have to focus. you have to- think. properly. lena might be in trouble- the text ignoring could be... intentional, or it could be because lillian’d managed to get her claws into her one more time and- oh god.)

it’s as unceremonious as it comes, because you come barrelling through the roof and there’s heavy concrete that’s sputtered out beneath your feet. you land the way james has photographed you so many times - knees, arms, total freaking superhero - and you emerge from the plume of concrete dust and see her.

“lena, oh- it’s so good to see you, i-”   she’s not looking at you. not really. you barely hold her attention and when you follow her gaze, you see why. that’s... he... 

you she says, as easy as breathing. you she says in that quiet, intense way she carries in her bones when she waltzes into a room with no expectations about what is going to happen. villanelle lives on an edge you have flirted with for decades, centuries, millennia. villanelle lives the way you wish you could, has an attitude you sometimes fancy trying on like a new coat fished out of a charity shop. villanelle lives at the bottom of a lake covered in scum; a waiting monster beneath the surface that you so badly want to submerge yourself under. 

      you see yourself from the outside: fingertips rising to trace the jut of her bottom lip. tongue nipping at your own, at the corner of your mouth, at the sharp point of an incisor. you feel the scar from a lipstick razor blade. you feel the belt of her arm hold tighter. 

( there’s that sickly little demon again. that spiteful, intrepid, relentless screaming demon that wants to pull itself out of your skin. go on, eve, let it go, let it all go. temptation was eden’s greatest enemy and the ultimate original sin. 

       that’s what villanelle is. sin. and woman’s greatest sin is has always been hunger: hunger for anything, food and sex and love. maybe your mother named you eve for a reason. ) 

    “so have me.” 

and you kiss her. you bite the apple. 

so have me. she kisses you and you feel like the world’s fucking stopped. (not in a cringey, heart-aflutter way that you see on tv and try and peel back the layers and figure out, but in a way that makes you realise that she’s all that matters. you take what you want, then you don’t want it anymore. you eat and eat and eat until something new comes along and then you don’t care about what you’ve left behind. you’re fucking hungry.)

you’re hungry and she lets you eat. she kisses you, and it’s all warm and hot and it takes you by surprise for a moment (because she’s giving herself to you. because she’ll give you everything you want. because you pin her down like a kid burning ants with a magnifying glass and she refuses to shrivel and die under the light.) 

you came into this house expecting to watch her die, but now, she kisses you and you hold her tight in your arms like you don’t have a two-inch scar across your abdomen from the last time you were this close.

     in your vows to niko, you had them take out the bit about having and obeying: you didn’t like the possessiveness around it or the way his mouth moved around the word mine. you didn’t like the hefty weight of belonging to someone, of being had. 

and yet. and yet, and yet, and yet.

villanelle looks at you in a way no one ever has in your life. no, not the cheesy she really sees me bullshit romance novel cliches – it goes far deeper, far more illicit and sinister, far more like you are a thing to be desired, a thing to be possessed and shown off, a thing she wants to consume. you can picture her looking up at you from between your legs and the image cements itself in your brain so thoroughly, you almost forget to breathe. 

she’s looking at you now in that same way. less than an inch away from you. 

      “what –” 

you force yourself to inhale smoothly and drag your gaze from her mouth to her nose, to her where you are pressed together, back to her eyes. 

      “– is it you want?” 

when you are asked what is it you want? in various aspects of your life, your answer very rarely changes. a cool apartment. a fun job. someone to watch movies with. (there’s the niggling in the back of your brain that reminds you that when you get it, you don’t want it. when you get the clothes, you spend five minutes running your fingers over the satin before placing them back down on your bed and staring at them until there’s something else. but when you pin eve against her kitchen counter and you can almost fucking taste it, it is all you want.)

               “you, eve.”   you. in every fucking way, you. none of that bullshit romantic fairytale shit that you grew up on with love letters and dreams of paris and rome. none of the faraway sweet nothings that you remember in your ear all those years ago. none of the big, flashy displays of this is how much i love you, eve, just... her. you want to take her here, if she’d let you, and you want her to be yours for now and tomorrow. and the day after. and the day after. you don’t want things to change because you know how she feels around your fingers.

you don’t care about the husband. you don’t care about the london life, or how long you’ve spent sifting through eve’s wardrobe and separating it from the horribly dull to the horrendously drab. you can smell her perfume and you want her to want you as much as you want her, and you want her to melt under your hands and forget about the waste of skin of the husband she has.

she shows up dressed like a widow and your first thought is i’m still alive. that should scare you, right? it should set you reeling backwards from her and out of her intoxicating orbit; you saw on the tv once somebody talking about the inherent evil of black holes. sucks you in, even light, and crushes you into pieces smaller than atoms. that should be evil but the only thing you could think of when you heard it was sounds nice. 

     you just don’t anticipate her. you can’t predict her, even when you can. you know she’ll show up but you don’t when or where or in what manner. you don’t expect her to show up dressed to kill (literally, dressed for it, even when she laughs at you and your readiness to swallow whatever she gives you). 

you do not expect her to crowd you. you do not expect her to fit against you like the last missing piece in the box. you do not expect her to be warm in all the places she’s touching you, her arm around your waist burning a keen line into your skin even through your shirt. you do not expect the white-hot thrill of arousal to ricochet from where her tits press into your chest all the way down to your hips, sharply keening inward in a swoop. fuck me you think hard enough that a vein in your forehead starts to pulse. 

     “yes.”

the yes pulls the corners of your lips into a smirk, and your eyes dart from hers, to her lips, to the space between you both, then back. you bite down on your lip, hard, and there’s another sharp tug on her hip.

(you want to bruise her. you want her to walk out back to her little mi5 mickey mouse clubhouse with a line of bruises up and down her throat that you left to remind them. you want to drag your hands through her hair and pull, just to see what she gives you in return - because that’s how you two are. you push and she pulls, and you feel like she’s the missing puzzle piece that you didn’t know you didn’t have.)

you wonder what she’d do if you did. you wonder if she’d cover the marks, if the evidence is just for herself, or if she’d pull her hair into a ponytail and ignore the stares from across the office. you’d want to be there, if she did. god, she’s so fucking hot, and that’s- all you think about. (you wonder what would happen if you kissed her now. you stake your claim, you make her yours, because she is, and she should know it.)

you are in mourning. you drink fine champagne and sit while the room service body strokes the side of your cheek with his fat fucking thumbs and try and pretend that it’s someone else and a little less clubby than it is, but you’ve been prepared all day for the moment that doesn’t come.

(because you see her and you’ll bend to whatever the fuck she wants - she wants you to take your shoes off, so you’ll do it. she wants you to help her... well, you’ll think about it. she wants you to not kill her... you play with her first, but in the end, you do it, and you figure she’s grown wise enough now to not reach for the kitchen knife, but you grab her by her waist nonetheless and draw in close.)

pyke is a different kind of unyielding. you accept any kind of gift that presents itself in heavy fur and warm wool, but for the most part, a dragon’s fingers aren’t used to this kind of chill. (you walk across the harbour with the stench of fish guts strewn across the dock and salt spraying onto your cheeks, but you don’t loathe it the way you thought you would.)

asha’s been away for a while, and while she didn’t bat an eye at the thought of leaving you here, your stomach’s been in knots and you- gods, you were worried for a second when euron raised his ugly head before dipping once more.

you wait for her by the docks with a welcoming party - there’s a feast already prepared in the grand hall and you’re still nervous to watch your wife return. (and she does, with the sound of a horn and the boisterous chanting of men you’d rather not be alone with.)

“asha.”   she’s intact. no wounds that you can see. her hair’s a little longer than you remember, but you smile and she already picks you up as if you weigh nothing.

you like it when she gets possessive, calls you honey, hands wandering and attention laser focused - it’s a very specific thrill that comes with knowing what those hands can do and how hard they can be or how lightly they can caress. your neck throbs painfully for a moment. (your counterpart had asked about it, though not from you of course, and you eavesdropped on the girl scout sputter through a she wasn’t very nice to you response that made you snort.)

“your fascination with screwing virgins is lost on me, but i suppose i can see the appeal of untouchable.”

the code glares like it’s mocking and goading and telling of nothing but failure, look at what lena luthor can’t figure out, your fingernails rattling over the metal bench. you’re annoyed. it’s been less than twenty four hours but you’re annoyed you can’t crack it, annoyed that despite knowing how it all works - parallel universes and timelines and reality breaks - it just won’t click. every gear in your brain is turning, teeth clicking.

your eyes glance over to the dry marker boards that are covered in complicated physics; our handwriting is the same you notice idly.

her fingertips brush over the tattoo on your thigh. ( small, hidden, illicit. it had hurt and she made sure to press against it at every given opportunity while it healed. it’s kryptonian and she won’t tell you what it means, though you suspect it’s her name. )

“ultimately unhelpful.” the harder you stare, the more annoyed you get. you nod at the sweater. “she studied nuclear physics, not theoretical.”

“mm, wasn’t lost with you though. reckon the lena here’s waiting for the right one too? i’m sure we could show her a thing or two.”  or more, really. you know the superbitch could hear you from half way across the city, but it’s no fun for everything to be so one-sided... lena should get a stark reminder of who she belongs to in any timeline... whether she realises it or not.

“supergirl is a walking advert for teenage abstinence.”    teenage, because you can’t see anyone over the age of fifteen wanting anything to do with a girl with a uniform with a skirt... like that. where are the pigtails to complete the picture?

“-- but lena looks as fresh as you did the day we met. except without the sweater. and the boardroom confidence.”  and by that, you mean bruise-free. she looks a while off coming up with your strangers on a train plot, but then again... lex isn’t the boot-licking philanthropist he seems to be back in your world. you glance over the tablet before rolling your eyes and lolling your head back.