Dsmp x reader smut

About You and That Mysterious Job of Yours

Credit to 1nk_samaaa

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You inhaled deeply in a feeble attempt to calm your nerves. Your lovely boyfriend of several years had called you out of nowhere, sounding like he'd been beaten half to death, asking you to come to his flat because he had something to tell you, all while desperately begging you to not call emergency services. You tried not to think about the fact that one of the most infamous supervillains in the world had just decided to attack your city as you sat in the parking lot, trying to get yourself together. If you dared to let your mind connect the dots, you'd probably pass out right there in your car. You'd spent a good 10 minutes avoiding the inevitable, trying your hardest not to think of your beloved coughing up his own blood, struggling to keep himself alive for you while he waited for your pathetic self to get over your emotions so you could drag yourself up the stairs and into his place.

You know, getting yourself into his apartment would be a good idea, actually.

Get it over with.

You collected yourself, as best as you could, and began the trek through the parking lot. The sound of the metal steps hitting your shoes rang in your ears, and you felt heavy dragging yourself closer and closer to his door. The ugly carpet laid throughout the halls of the apartment complex did nothing to relieve the weight on your body. Though, noticeably, there had been a distinct lack of any signs of a struggle in the halls. You wanted to feel at ease, but your mind nipped at your heels with the idea that the villain had broken into his apartment. Or, had even tailed him home and cornered him once he was inside. You approached his door, it lacking any signs of it being busted down or worse. In fact, it still had that ugly wreath he bought in a desperate attempt to make himself seem like less of a mess the first time you came over. Speaking of his mess, you could smell hints of iron in the air as you put in your spare set of keys and gently opened the door. The kind of iron scent that meant blood was spilt. You held your breath as you walked into his living room.

It was dark, though you could navigate easily. The same ramen cup you'd been telling him to pick up laid by the entrance to the kitchen, kicked off to the side close enough to the trash can that you had a feeling he was doing this on purpose just to annoy you. Ignoring that for the moment, your nerves flared up again when the scent hit your nose. It drew you to the sink, which, thankfully, did not have the bloody scene you'd expected. Still, the paper towels hastily tossed onto the counter to try and preserve what little of the apartment deposit remained was not a good sign. You tore yourself away from the sight, making your way through the hall as it felt like the walls threatened to close in on you. The scent grew stronger as you passed the bathroom, drawing you in as you carefully pushed open the door.

"Wilbur. . ?"

Your voice was barely above a whisper, your fears of possibly being in the vicinity of a known international threat taking over as you stepped inside. You swallowed a gasp, rushing to grab the first aid kit you were very aware of under his sink. Your boyfriend had been lying half undressed in his bathtub, seemingly trying to wash the blood off the alarmingly deep cuts all over his body in the crudest way possible. You knew he was pathetic and could barely take care of himself, but this was a new low. You kneeled next to the tub after opening the box, checking his pulse on his wrist first, then his neck to reassure yourself, getting a soft grunt from him as you moved his head as more proof he was at least alive.

For now, anyway.

The little bits and pieces you remembered from your high school's half assed first aid lesson in health class carried you through the procedure as you carefully plucked his clothes off, noting to yourself that you'd never seen him wear this before. While you were somewhat aware of his closet, and the lack of clothes that weren't t-shirts and cheap button ups, you never found yourself looking through it, nor did you have the time to commit it to memory. Still, he had nicer clothes he'd bring out on dates where he actually tried to plan something more than "hanging out" with a stupid analog winking face tacked on. And these weren't those nicer clothes. You only noticed after you tossed his unfamiliar turtleneck to the side that he had a coat to go along with it, though didn't give it a second thought as you got to work cleaning his wounds. You'd seen him shirtless, hell, seen him fully naked before, plenty of times in fact, but you knew which cuts were new and which ones were re-opened. You never questioned his scars, he was a private man and you respected that, knowing he'd open up when he felt ready to, but seeing freshly added cuts littered across his body made you ask yourself what the hell this man got himself into so often that this occurred. Even more worrying, you began to wonder how he's lived this long if his way of dealing with new injuries was to stagger around his apartment and possibly pass out in his tub until he was strong enough to patch himself up. You shook your head, deciding you'd bring this up to him later as you helped him sit up with a pained groan. From his messy curls dropped a piece of cloth you swore you'd seen before, but, having just put down any questions you wanted to ask, you tossed your thoughts aside as you did the cloth.