#jon osterman smut

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: f!reader | sexual content | objectification (f receiving) | penetration | pregnancy descriptions but no actual pregnancy or impregnation | mild breeding kink | size difference.

Seemingly cold and uncaring, you’d never think someone like DR. MANHATTAN could experience attraction. Unapproachable in nature, his glowing blue appearance does not scream invitation and yet you smile at him anyway. Polite at first, but at the sight of how his eyes soften so marginally, a real grin is drawn out of you.

She smiled at me. He thinks, endeared.

It endears him all the way to the rooftops, following you out into the night air as you watch the city below. As if he could still experience trickery without foreseeing the possible consequences of it in all forms, he’s lured to your side. You’re not put off, but you’re nervous, he can feel it emanate off you with each breath of your cells. It’s what dogs can smell. Without logical reason, he seeks to sooth your worries. Your self-doubts, your trepidations regarding being part of a team. Especially part of a team he’s a piece of, you can’t help but be intimidated by the big names you stand aside. He responds to your sharing with vague advice, anything to keep you talking, so he can listen to your voice, so he has an excuse to observe you from close range. He can count every hair follicle on your face, every bat of your long lashes at him while you look up at his towering figure. He knows to the millisecond exactly how long it took you to scan his form head to toe and back up again. Your hormones take a noticeable shift.

Ah, you’ve registered me as a sexual being. He thinks. A potential suitor, a mate, a lover. You want me.

So when the conversation takes a flirtatious turn, he allows it.

You’re young. The perfect age for fertilization if I was capable of procreation. Perhaps that is the basis of your appeal, your ability to carry children. He thinks. For a brief period, he attempts to visualize what that would be like. How your appearance would change, how your body would react, in what ways it’d never be the same after you’ve been with child. He ponders what abomination he’d create with his impossible physiology welded with the soft interiors of humanity. If he had any chromosomes, any flesh to bestow, there’s no way pregnancy would carry to term. There’s an entire war of disgusting politics that go on in a body when it grows an entire separate being inside it, a war that would be lost time and time again.

Yet his nethers stir, as if they’ve forgotten he’s unlike his former self. Those moments happen, even if they’re few and far in between. You are still attractive. You are still young. And you sit with him, and let him kiss you. Long, passionate kisses. He cups your face and slides his tongue against yours as you wriggle like an impatient pup against his bare chest. You want more, and he will grant it to you. So you take him home, you offer him tea which he accepts out of good manners but it goes cold untouched on the table while you bring him upstairs.

“Won’t you take off my clothes?” you ask, a lilt of innocence to your tone that conveys your lack of experience with someone like him. He moves to oblige you.

Ah, yes. Clothes. He thinks.

Fingers deftly graze your skin, seeking out zippers or strings or hemlines, things he remembers are tools to help remove clothes. He hasn’t had a need to wear anything for some time.

You open yourself to him. The human body is fascinating when it seeks to be bred. Legs spread, vaginal canal loosened, secreting fluid he would’ve called nectar back before he could walk on the surface of the sun. An entire internal process conducted step by step in order to ready to take him is a captivating ordeal indeed, one he chooses to observe through your sacrifice. He positions you onto your back, and manhandles you like he’s sure you’d like, laying your legs straight up against his chest and abdomen. Large hands wrap around your thighs to lift your tailbone from the mattress, entering you from this angle that has you yelling with need. With each hard thrust, his skin smacks against yours, rippling your tissue in a most artistic way, he watches your face contort with pleasure, fluids seeping out from your plugged up hole.

Surely you’re the best humanity has to offer. He’s no god, but if he was, he wouldn’t mind you as a tribute.

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