pascaloverx

[pascaloverx]

I guess every lonely girl would hope she’s a princess.

[pascaloverx]

Olympo Masterlist

Nothing here is written by us, we're a recommendations blog, these are all pieces written by other creators

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Feat. content about Scooby Gang, Slayers, and Vampires

Reader insert and canon/canon content ahead

✅ - SFW Content

🔞 - NSFW Content

✅ Meanwhile, at some random party in the cabin by @pascaloverx

Sebas/Roque

🔞 Persuasion on AO3 by sebasroque and @lesbiradshaw on Tumblr

Sebas/Roque

[pascaloverx]

FORBIDDEN

Summary: You and Rhaenyra share a past, but she never seems ready to love you. Daemon is the mistake your sister once made, and now Rhaenyra seems entangled with him too. Yet somehow, the three of you are bound to live through a gripping and tangled story.

Author’s note: I’m not sure if this fanfic will be well-received and might delete it eventually. However, my fascination with Rhaenyra and a fleeting love triangle inspired me to give it a shot.

PREVIEW

The world is seldom as we wish it to be. As the daughter of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and Lord Corlys Velaryon, you were raised to desire more — to claim a dragon, perhaps even to secure a noble and advantageous match. Yet somewhere along the way, it seems you were left behind. Your brother wed Rhaenyra, and your sister, Daemon. Both unions which, in your eyes, were destined to fail from the very start.

“Where is she?” you demand as you step into the residence of Daemon and Laena in Pentos.

Prince Daemon turns toward you, a flicker of surprise crossing his features, perhaps due to how long it has been since he last laid eyes upon you.

“It is heartening to see you’ve not abandoned your subtle manner of speech,” he replies, striding toward you. His hair is longer now, noticeably so since the last time you saw him.

“Tell me where my sister is, before I—”

You were but a breath away from threatening him, but something halts you. Something is amiss. He appears less defiant than usual — shaken, even. Troubled. Laena must be struggling in childbirth… bearing their third child — the promised male heir.

“The child is not cooperating,” Daemon murmurs, his voice low as he drinks from a goblet of wine, still visibly unsettled.

“And she?” you ask, adjusting the folds of your gown, disheveled from the hurried journey to Pentos.

“She fights, as she always does,” he replies, before draining another sip.

“Be there for the girls. They will need your strength,” you say, gently taking the goblet from his hand and finishing what wine remained.

“Scarcely arrived and already giving commands — you haven’t changed,” he remarks, a faint smirk touching his lips. He is not wrong. You have ever been one to take the lead — a trait that made you, in the eyes of the realm, the worst candidate for a wife the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen.

“How are you feeling? I know a male heir was to your liking,” you ask, your gaze drifting across the grand halls of the castle your sister has called home alongside her husband.

“I already have heirs,” Daemon replies, his tone sharp — like that of a dragon roused to anger. “But I fear I am about to lose my wife, and that, you may well imagine, is not to my liking.”

“Laena shall do all she can to remain with us, of that you may be certain,” you declare, well acquainted with the strength of your elder sister. She had ever been fiercer than she appeared.

“I believe your presence may bring her comfort,” Daemon murmurs, watching as you make your way toward Laena’s chambers.

From within, you hear her cries — raw, anguished — as she struggles to force the child from her body. You step into the room, taking in the sight: your sister surrounded by handmaids and a man who must be the healer tending to her. “Jorrāeliarza ñuha,” you whisper in High Valyrian as you draw near.

“How did you know this one was waiting for you?” Laena asks with a faint smile, despite the agony etched upon her face. Her steps are unsteady, her body twisted with pain as she moves toward you.

She collapses into your arms, bloodied and trembling. You long to weep, knowing full well what is to come — yet you steel yourself, holding firm as your sister’s strength begins to wane against your chest.

“He must take after his father — ever reckless,” you reply, forcing a smile, if only to grant her a moment’s ease.

Laena is drenched in sweat, her face contorted in agony as she screams, pushing with all the strength left in her. “ Rūs taoba,” she murmurs in High Valyrian.

“Nyke iotāptegon ao,” you whisper softly. At last, your sister manages to deliver the child — a boy, born still and silent.

One of the handmaids reaches for the lifeless infant and places him gently in Laena’s arms. She holds him close for a moment, her body trembling.

“He is beautiful,” Laena whispers, her tears falling freely now. You stroke her hair with trembling fingers… and it is then you notice it — the blood. Endless, unrelenting. She is bleeding, and it will not stop.

“What is it you wish to do?” you ask gently, steadying your sister as you help her rise — summoning all the strength she still possesses to remain on her feet.

“Vhagar,” Laena breathes, cradling the lifeless child in her arms with aching tenderness. You know what it means. No further words are needed.

And so you guide your sister on the path to her dragon, refusing the aid of any servant who dares draw near. Laena had insisted on carrying the lifeless babe herself, cradled tightly against her chest as though he still breathed.

As you approach the beast, Vhagar lets out a low, thunderous growl — a sound of ancient recognition, of mourning perhaps, as if she senses what now unfolds before her.

“Lykirī, Vhagar,” your sister calls out, her voice raised, drawing upon every last thread of strength within her.

“Look after them… they will need you,” Laena says softly, directing her final charge to you as she leans heavily against your side. A deep ache settles in your chest as you begin to feel it — the truth. She is slipping, and there are but moments left.

“Are you truly asking me to care for Daemon Targaryen at a time such as this?” you ask, attempting to hold back your tears as you feel her breath growing shallow, her eyelids fluttering more slowly with each passing second.

“Only you can carry my legacy forward…” she whispers, her voice weakening, “and I need you to help Daemon… with the girls.”

“You should not be leaving me,” you whisper, gently lowering your sister to the ground, cradling her as though you could hold time still.

“There will always be a part of me with you,” Laena breathes, her gaze steady despite the pain. “Now go. Leave this place.”

And so you do. You obey her final command, though every step away tears at your heart. You do not look back—not even as the roar of Vhagar rises behind you, nor as the searing sound of dragonfire claims Laena's body. The scent of smoke clings to the air, but you keep your eyes ahead.

You return to the residence. At first, the murmur of voices near the entrance unsettles you. A strange tension fills the hall, whispers stirring among the servants. Then you see the cause of the unrest: her. Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen stands before you, poised and watchful.

“What are you doing here?” you ask as soon as your eyes meet hers, a sense of unease blooming within you at the sight of her. There is unfinished business between you. Matters left to fester in the silence of passing years.

“I came for Laena. She was with me when I brought Jacaerys and Lucerys into the world. I was there each time she delivered her daughters,” Rhaenyra replies, her gaze fixed upon you, as though attempting to decipher the storm within your soul. You compose yourself, allowing a slight smile to touch your lips.

“I fear that tradition shall no longer continue. Laena has just lost her life,” you state plainly as you walk past her.

Rhaenyra reaches out, her hand closing gently around your arm. “I am sorry for your loss,” she murmurs, pulling you closer.

“Your feelings mean nothing to me. Do not think I am unaware of the true reasons behind your visits every time my sister was with child. You come here as if hoping to claim a dragon that has lost its rider. Only in this case, the dragon is Daemon Targaryen,” you say, turning toward her with a fierce, unrestrained fury.

“You used to know me better than that. I have never sought to take the place your sister held in Daemon's life,” she answers, her voice steady beneath the weight of your accusation.

“Then it is merely a convenient coincidence that the place she once held now stands vacant. I am well aware that I hold no say in what you choose to do next, but bear in mind—you entered this residence still bearing the title of my brother’s wife, and to my knowledge, he yet lives. I would hope there remains some measure of respect in your heart, and in Daemon’s, for the bonds that bind you to my kin.” You say sharply, your voice a blade, and your presence unyielding as you remain close to her.

The weight of your words lands heavy, striking somewhere deep within her, for without hesitation, Rhaenyra lifts her hand and strikes you across the face. The sting is immediate, but it is not the pain that roots you in place—it is the fury now boiling in your chest, and the knowledge that old wounds have never truly healed.

“Even amidst sorrow, such treatment is scarcely justifiable. I bear no responsibility for Laena’s passing, nor for whatever manner in which matters between us may have concluded,” she declares, though you find yourself suppressing the urge to laugh once more.

“There was never aught between us to conclude, Princess. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to my nieces,” you respond, meeting her gaze with composure before turning away entirely. With any fortune, no further encounter with Rhaenyra shall be necessary whilst you remain beneath the same roof.

GLOSSARY

jorrāeliarza: beloved

ñuha: my

rūs: baby, child

taoba: boy

nyke: I

iotāptegon : respect

ao: you

[pascaloverx]

INTERACTION

So, I wanted to do a little interaction with my readers. If I’ve written a fanfic you like and miss, comment below which one you’re most excited to see updated, and I’ll do my best to work on it. I’m really sorry for the delay and please don’t give up on following my stories.

[pascaloverx]

TAG LIST

@theseerbetweenus

@10iceicebaby

@mnemosiny

ENEMIES

Summary: You are an anti-heroine, forged by corporate experiments and gifted with extraordinary abilities. Living outside the law in Metropolis, you steal from the powerful to serve your own sense of justice. When your path collides with Superman, a complicated bond forms, built on tension, attraction and a secret pact that ties you to the man who should be your greatest enemy.

Author's note: Yes, I just watched the new Superman movie. I don't know if this fanfic will continue, and I’m not sure if anyone will even like it. Reblog or like this fanfic if you want it to go on, and feel free to leave comments.

PREVIEW

ONE

Another day begins the moment the first ray of sunlight touches your face. You shower to the background noise of the police channel you hacked some time ago and get ready to play the part of a reporter. The drive to the Daily Planet is quick—you take your car. On the way, you notice a man drop his briefcase on the sidewalk.

“Mr. Kent, so early in the morning and already losing your balance?” you say as you slowly drive past the street where Clark is crouched down, gathering the papers that spilled from his briefcase. He gives an awkward smile as he finishes picking everything up and glances in your direction.

“Accidents always seem to happen when I miss my morning coffee, apparently,” Clark says, standing upright and adjusting his briefcase. He looks at you like he’s genuinely glad to see you.

You watch him, silently wondering what it must be like to spend part of the day as a clumsy reporter and the other as a near-invincible superhero.

“I have an extra coffee in the car, if you're interested,” you murmur, unsure of how you want to come across—honestly, you're not even sure yourself.

“Is that your way of offering me a ride?” Clark asks as he makes his way toward your car, weaving through the morning crowd filling the street, each person heading somewhere with purpose. He adjusts his glasses, and you stop the car, unlocking the passenger door for him.

“Yes. Would you prefer a formal invitation to accompany me to our shared workplace, or is this satisfactory?” you ask as he slips into the seat and fastens his seatbelt.

Before turning your attention back to the road, you reach for the extra cup of coffee you had resting securely in the holder between the seats and place it in his hands.

“You really shouldn't accept a drink so easily from someone you don’t trust,” you say as you steer the car back onto the road, continuing the drive to the Daily Planet.

“That’s great advice. Do you usually give it to people you claim not to care whether they live or die?” Clark asks, taking a sip of the coffee you handed him. He seems a little too pleased with himself.

“I’m just being practical. If you go around playing the naive one with every villain you meet, you’re going to end up dead. And if you die, who’s going to clear my competition off the streets?” you say calmly, then glance over and smile at him. Clark doesn’t seem entirely convinced.

"I need a favor, since you're being so generous this fine morning," Clark says between sips of coffee.

"Finally going to ask for help with your wardrobe? Because I'm fully available," you reply with a touch of sarcasm as you pull into the Daily Planet's parking lot.

"I need you to interview Superman," he says casually, as if it were just a formality, something trivial.

"Absolutely not. First of all, the right person for that would be Lois. And second, we both know there can’t be any connection between me and Superman. Ever," you respond, your voice rising more than you intended.

The truth is, any connection between you and a superhero could never be safe—neither as a villain nor as a reporter.

"I need someone with personal reasons to question my methods," Clark whispers while the two of you are still inside your car.

"What do you mean by questioning your methods?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face him. He unbuckles his as well, mirroring your movement.

"I mean you don’t see me as the guy who saves everyone. Because deep down, you believe I can’t save you. That’s why you’ve been doing a pretty good job avenging yourself—going after those who wronged you," Clark says, his gaze locked with yours.

It almost feels like a contest, to see who blinks first. And truth be told, he isn’t entirely wrong.

"Feeling guilty about something, aren’t you?" you ask as you glance at him, noticing his tie is completely crooked.

While he’s still trying to figure out how you knew, you reach out and fix it, redoing the knot. He doesn’t resist—just lets you.

"Our conversation last night, about me comparing you to the people who made you who you are... This morning I found out one of the men I helped put away was killed in prison. The theory is he was some kind of test subject and the whole thing was a cover-up," Clark explains, and you can almost see the weight of guilt pressing down on his broad shoulders.

When you finish tying his tie properly, you catch him looking slightly embarrassed. Your theory? Either the closeness between you or the fact that he knows he crossed a line comparing you to other villains is making the man known for being stronger than steel blush while holding your gaze.

"Nice way to warn me about a potential death sentence, by the way," you say, realizing that if some powerful corporation is eliminating its test subjects, you could easily be next.

"I wouldn’t say it so calmly if I didn’t know you’d know how to handle yourself if they ever came after you. And I—" You cover Clark’s mouth before he can finish.

"I dare you to finish that sentence, knowing that if you say you're going to protect me, I’ll shove my hand through your chest and rip your heart out," you threaten, and he laughs—as if he’s actually enjoying this.

"Your eyes light up when you threaten to kill me, you know that?" Clark says, as if trying to make you lower your guard.

You smack his arm and then look ahead, lost in thought about his proposal. It might be something you’ll regret.

"Do you say that to every villain you're trying to convince to do something?" you ask in a playful tone, meeting his gaze—almost like a flirt.

"Only the ones who deserve it," Clark replies with an easy smile, and despite his golden retriever charm, there's a glint in his eye that suggests he’s not entirely immune to the tension between you. He’s enjoying this—more than he probably should.

"You’re going to owe me for this," you murmur, stepping a little closer and grabbing his tie with a firm hand. "And you can be certain I’ll collect." Your fingers tighten the knot at his throat just enough to make a point, your eyes locking with his in a silent challenge.

Before he can say anything in return—something clever or infuriating, most likely—a sharp knock interrupts the moment. You both turn to see Jimmy Olsen peering through the window of your car, looking far too amused.

"Are you two together?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"No!" you and Clark respond in unison, too quickly, too forcefully and far too rehearsed not to sound suspicious.

"I meant arriving at work together," Jimmy added with a grin. "Because if this is some kind of carpool, I want in."

You and Clark exchanged a subtle look of relief before you smiled. "Of course, Olsen. The three of us can totally start commuting together," you said kindly as you adjusted your bag and stepped out of the car.

"I'm just surprised you're here," Jimmy remarked, nodding toward Clark as both of you exited.

"Why's that?" you asked before Clark could respond. They both turned to you, and you gave a slight shrug. "I'm a reporter. Naturally, I'm curious."

Jimmy chuckled. "Apparently there’s an old factory that was filled with secret prisoners. Some rogue scientist was using them for experiments. Sounds like the kind of mess Superman would show up for. And since Clark here always seems to know everything about Superman…”

Your gaze shifted to Clark, fully aware of the excuse he’d have to come up with to slip away. You smirked. “It’s almost like they’ve got some kind of secret affair.”

Jimmy let out a laugh as the three of you walked toward the building’s elevator.

"Even though I’ve never met Superman in person, I don't think Clark’s really his type," Jimmy joked, nudging him lightly.

"People can surprise you, Olsen," you replied with a knowing smirk, stealing a sideways glance at Clark. "Besides, who’s to say Superman doesn’t have a thing for awkward charm and outdated ties?"

"I don’t think it’s fair to talk about Clark like that," Jimmy said with a chuckle. But as he turned to add something in Clark’s direction, he paused, confused. "Wait—where’d he go?"

You glanced around with an innocent shrug. "Probably ran off after his little boyfriend," you said teasingly, then smoothly shifted the subject. "By the way, congrats on that article about LuthorCorp’s shady investments."

Jimmy beamed at the praise. This was usually the part where you managed to act like everything was completely normal.

"Your piece puts mine to shame," he replied as the elevator doors opened on your floor. "That exposé on the secret nighttime activity down at the docks? Pure gold."

You both stepped out into the familiar hum of the bullpen, the sound of ringing phones and fast-typing reporters filling the air once again.

“Does anyone know where Mr. Kent wandered off to?” Perry White asks in his usual authoritative tone, pacing back and forth across the newsroom with visible frustration.

“He went after Superman,” you reply as you and Jimmy make your way to your desks.

“I hope he gets us a real scoop. Apparently, some people are trapped underground, surrounded by a rare type of stone or something,” Lois says, eyes fixed on the news playing across the television screen.

If it’s what you're thinking, Superman won’t be able to save the day.

“I heard there’s some kind of stone—an element—that cancels out Superman’s powers,” Jimmy adds casually, as if he were just making small talk.

“In that case, maybe he should call for backup from that justice group... or is it the Justice Club?” you muse, settling into your chair and watching the live footage near the incident area.

“They seem to be dealing with something out of town,” Jimmy replies, eyes still glued to the TV.

“By the way, congratulations to both of you on your articles,” Lois finally tears her gaze from the screen to look at you and Jimmy.

“A compliment from Lois Lane is more valuable than any award,” you say with a half-smile, rising to get coffee from the machine.

“It’s hard to tell if you’re being serious or sarcastic, but seriously—great articl… wait, what is he doing?” Lois begins to reply but cuts herself off, her attention snapping back to the screen.

It must be difficult for her, watching her ex risking his life in a cape.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes with a new message that makes your breath hitch.

“I need you.” It’s signed with an S. You know exactly who it is.

You reply quickly, “I’m not getting involved.” After all, you’re not a hero, and you have no intention of saving the day.

But the message that comes next makes your hand tighten around the phone.

“They’re going through what your family went through.”

Superman’s words strike a nerve. You pause. Maybe this is your chance to find the ones responsible for the experiment done to you. Maybe you can make sure there won’t be others like you—orphans with powers capable of wiping out small civilizations.

You take a breath, glance around, and murmur, “I’ll be right back. Bathroom." Everyone is too distracted to notice.

“Almost looks like he went to call in reinforcements,” Jimmy comments, still watching the screen beside Lois.

“Don’t you think, Y/N?” he asks, but when he and Lois turn to look for you—

You’re already gone.

“What did I tell you?” Perry White says, appearing behind them with a fresh coffee in hand. “The best reporters don’t ask for permission. They just go.”

[pascaloverx]

ENEMIES

Summary: You are an anti-heroine, forged by corporate experiments and gifted with extraordinary abilities. Living outside the law in Metropolis, you steal from the powerful to serve your own sense of justice. When your path collides with Superman, a complicated bond forms, built on tension, attraction and a secret pact that ties you to the man who should be your greatest enemy.

Author's note: Yes, I just watched the new Superman movie. I don't know if this fanfic will continue, and I’m not sure if anyone will even like it. Reblog or like this fanfic if you want it to go on, and feel free to leave comments.

PREVIEW

ONE

Another day begins the moment the first ray of sunlight touches your face. You shower to the background noise of the police channel you hacked some time ago and get ready to play the part of a reporter. The drive to the Daily Planet is quick—you take your car. On the way, you notice a man drop his briefcase on the sidewalk.

“Mr. Kent, so early in the morning and already losing your balance?” you say as you slowly drive past the street where Clark is crouched down, gathering the papers that spilled from his briefcase. He gives an awkward smile as he finishes picking everything up and glances in your direction.

“Accidents always seem to happen when I miss my morning coffee, apparently,” Clark says, standing upright and adjusting his briefcase. He looks at you like he’s genuinely glad to see you.

You watch him, silently wondering what it must be like to spend part of the day as a clumsy reporter and the other as a near-invincible superhero.

“I have an extra coffee in the car, if you're interested,” you murmur, unsure of how you want to come across—honestly, you're not even sure yourself.

“Is that your way of offering me a ride?” Clark asks as he makes his way toward your car, weaving through the morning crowd filling the street, each person heading somewhere with purpose. He adjusts his glasses, and you stop the car, unlocking the passenger door for him.

“Yes. Would you prefer a formal invitation to accompany me to our shared workplace, or is this satisfactory?” you ask as he slips into the seat and fastens his seatbelt.

Before turning your attention back to the road, you reach for the extra cup of coffee you had resting securely in the holder between the seats and place it in his hands.

“You really shouldn't accept a drink so easily from someone you don’t trust,” you say as you steer the car back onto the road, continuing the drive to the Daily Planet.

“That’s great advice. Do you usually give it to people you claim not to care whether they live or die?” Clark asks, taking a sip of the coffee you handed him. He seems a little too pleased with himself.

“I’m just being practical. If you go around playing the naive one with every villain you meet, you’re going to end up dead. And if you die, who’s going to clear my competition off the streets?” you say calmly, then glance over and smile at him. Clark doesn’t seem entirely convinced.

"I need a favor, since you're being so generous this fine morning," Clark says between sips of coffee.

"Finally going to ask for help with your wardrobe? Because I'm fully available," you reply with a touch of sarcasm as you pull into the Daily Planet's parking lot.

"I need you to interview Superman," he says casually, as if it were just a formality, something trivial.

"Absolutely not. First of all, the right person for that would be Lois. And second, we both know there can’t be any connection between me and Superman. Ever," you respond, your voice rising more than you intended.

The truth is, any connection between you and a superhero could never be safe—neither as a villain nor as a reporter.

"I need someone with personal reasons to question my methods," Clark whispers while the two of you are still inside your car.

"What do you mean by questioning your methods?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face him. He unbuckles his as well, mirroring your movement.

"I mean you don’t see me as the guy who saves everyone. Because deep down, you believe I can’t save you. That’s why you’ve been doing a pretty good job avenging yourself—going after those who wronged you," Clark says, his gaze locked with yours.

It almost feels like a contest, to see who blinks first. And truth be told, he isn’t entirely wrong.

"Feeling guilty about something, aren’t you?" you ask as you glance at him, noticing his tie is completely crooked.

While he’s still trying to figure out how you knew, you reach out and fix it, redoing the knot. He doesn’t resist—just lets you.

"Our conversation last night, about me comparing you to the people who made you who you are... This morning I found out one of the men I helped put away was killed in prison. The theory is he was some kind of test subject and the whole thing was a cover-up," Clark explains, and you can almost see the weight of guilt pressing down on his broad shoulders.

When you finish tying his tie properly, you catch him looking slightly embarrassed. Your theory? Either the closeness between you or the fact that he knows he crossed a line comparing you to other villains is making the man known for being stronger than steel blush while holding your gaze.

"Nice way to warn me about a potential death sentence, by the way," you say, realizing that if some powerful corporation is eliminating its test subjects, you could easily be next.

"I wouldn’t say it so calmly if I didn’t know you’d know how to handle yourself if they ever came after you. And I—" You cover Clark’s mouth before he can finish.

"I dare you to finish that sentence, knowing that if you say you're going to protect me, I’ll shove my hand through your chest and rip your heart out," you threaten, and he laughs—as if he’s actually enjoying this.

"Your eyes light up when you threaten to kill me, you know that?" Clark says, as if trying to make you lower your guard.

You smack his arm and then look ahead, lost in thought about his proposal. It might be something you’ll regret.

"Do you say that to every villain you're trying to convince to do something?" you ask in a playful tone, meeting his gaze—almost like a flirt.

"Only the ones who deserve it," Clark replies with an easy smile, and despite his golden retriever charm, there's a glint in his eye that suggests he’s not entirely immune to the tension between you. He’s enjoying this—more than he probably should.

"You’re going to owe me for this," you murmur, stepping a little closer and grabbing his tie with a firm hand. "And you can be certain I’ll collect." Your fingers tighten the knot at his throat just enough to make a point, your eyes locking with his in a silent challenge.

Before he can say anything in return—something clever or infuriating, most likely—a sharp knock interrupts the moment. You both turn to see Jimmy Olsen peering through the window of your car, looking far too amused.

"Are you two together?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"No!" you and Clark respond in unison, too quickly, too forcefully and far too rehearsed not to sound suspicious.

"I meant arriving at work together," Jimmy added with a grin. "Because if this is some kind of carpool, I want in."

You and Clark exchanged a subtle look of relief before you smiled. "Of course, Olsen. The three of us can totally start commuting together," you said kindly as you adjusted your bag and stepped out of the car.

"I'm just surprised you're here," Jimmy remarked, nodding toward Clark as both of you exited.

"Why's that?" you asked before Clark could respond. They both turned to you, and you gave a slight shrug. "I'm a reporter. Naturally, I'm curious."

Jimmy chuckled. "Apparently there’s an old factory that was filled with secret prisoners. Some rogue scientist was using them for experiments. Sounds like the kind of mess Superman would show up for. And since Clark here always seems to know everything about Superman…”

Your gaze shifted to Clark, fully aware of the excuse he’d have to come up with to slip away. You smirked. “It’s almost like they’ve got some kind of secret affair.”

Jimmy let out a laugh as the three of you walked toward the building’s elevator.

"Even though I’ve never met Superman in person, I don't think Clark’s really his type," Jimmy joked, nudging him lightly.

"People can surprise you, Olsen," you replied with a knowing smirk, stealing a sideways glance at Clark. "Besides, who’s to say Superman doesn’t have a thing for awkward charm and outdated ties?"

"I don’t think it’s fair to talk about Clark like that," Jimmy said with a chuckle. But as he turned to add something in Clark’s direction, he paused, confused. "Wait—where’d he go?"

You glanced around with an innocent shrug. "Probably ran off after his little boyfriend," you said teasingly, then smoothly shifted the subject. "By the way, congrats on that article about LuthorCorp’s shady investments."

Jimmy beamed at the praise. This was usually the part where you managed to act like everything was completely normal.

"Your piece puts mine to shame," he replied as the elevator doors opened on your floor. "That exposé on the secret nighttime activity down at the docks? Pure gold."

You both stepped out into the familiar hum of the bullpen, the sound of ringing phones and fast-typing reporters filling the air once again.

“Does anyone know where Mr. Kent wandered off to?” Perry White asks in his usual authoritative tone, pacing back and forth across the newsroom with visible frustration.

“He went after Superman,” you reply as you and Jimmy make your way to your desks.

“I hope he gets us a real scoop. Apparently, some people are trapped underground, surrounded by a rare type of stone or something,” Lois says, eyes fixed on the news playing across the television screen.

If it’s what you're thinking, Superman won’t be able to save the day.

“I heard there’s some kind of stone—an element—that cancels out Superman’s powers,” Jimmy adds casually, as if he were just making small talk.

“In that case, maybe he should call for backup from that justice group... or is it the Justice Club?” you muse, settling into your chair and watching the live footage near the incident area.

“They seem to be dealing with something out of town,” Jimmy replies, eyes still glued to the TV.

“By the way, congratulations to both of you on your articles,” Lois finally tears her gaze from the screen to look at you and Jimmy.

“A compliment from Lois Lane is more valuable than any award,” you say with a half-smile, rising to get coffee from the machine.

“It’s hard to tell if you’re being serious or sarcastic, but seriously—great articl… wait, what is he doing?” Lois begins to reply but cuts herself off, her attention snapping back to the screen.

It must be difficult for her, watching her ex risking his life in a cape.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes with a new message that makes your breath hitch.

“I need you.” It’s signed with an S. You know exactly who it is.

You reply quickly, “I’m not getting involved.” After all, you’re not a hero, and you have no intention of saving the day.

But the message that comes next makes your hand tighten around the phone.

“They’re going through what your family went through.”

Superman’s words strike a nerve. You pause. Maybe this is your chance to find the ones responsible for the experiment done to you. Maybe you can make sure there won’t be others like you—orphans with powers capable of wiping out small civilizations.

You take a breath, glance around, and murmur, “I’ll be right back. Bathroom." Everyone is too distracted to notice.

“Almost looks like he went to call in reinforcements,” Jimmy comments, still watching the screen beside Lois.

“Don’t you think, Y/N?” he asks, but when he and Lois turn to look for you—

You’re already gone.

“What did I tell you?” Perry White says, appearing behind them with a fresh coffee in hand. “The best reporters don’t ask for permission. They just go.”

[pascaloverx]

Lastly, do you have any ideas on how Krypto would fight the Krypto army?

Personally I think at first he couldn't but with some help they could analyze the krypto to see his weaknesses and distractions and try to apply this in the krypto army to take their attention away

[pascaloverx]

And no one would seriously want to fight with a dog Lex could easily spin it as a big dog adoption fair

You are totally right about this

[pascaloverx]

I mean right. Easy to train, easy to gain loyalty. Quick to raise and just the right level of intelligence to adjust plans and to not think too hard on morals. Lex pulling up with a thousand kryptos would be a menace.

Maybe if he had been a little less distracted thinking about how to torture Superman, he would have thought about it

[pascaloverx]

I'm suprised lex didn't want to clone an army of Kryptos.

Honestly, I am too, stopping to think he would have a very powerful army in his hands if he had cloned Krypto

[pascaloverx]

FRIENDS

Summary: You, Theo, and Guy grew up together. Over time, your feelings for Theo changed, but he only ever saw you as a friend. One night, after some wine, he suggested you should marry — out of pity, not love. Unwilling to accept that, you left England for nearly two years. Now you've returned. Can your friendship with Theo survive? Or will something more finally bloom between you?

Author’s Note: I’m not sure if this fanfic will have multiple chapters, that depends on how readers engage with it. But I truly hope that those who love Theo will read and enjoy this story.

AO3 LINK ONE

TWO

For a moment, you forget how to breathe. It feels as though the very air around you is closing in, pressing against your chest. Theo’s eyes remain fixed on yours, and the closeness between you both carries a weight that borders on impropriety. Yet, before either of you can take the next step, a knock sounds at the door of the room you are sharing.

“Theo, are you in there?” a young lady calls from the other side. You recognize the voice—she is the same woman who had been in Theo’s company earlier.

“Nan, I just need a moment. I shall be out shortly,” Theo replies swiftly, almost before she has finished attempting to enter.

“You ought to take this as a warning and leave through that door. Seek out the young lady who holds your interest and engage her in conversation,” you say, fixing your gaze on Theo as though he had not, mere moments ago, declared that he never proposed out of pity.

A part of you believes he seeks only to lessen the weight of the matter, yet another part cannot help but wonder if his words are, in fact, sincere. And if so, for what purpose would he have asked for your hand?

“I am sorry, but I cannot simply abandon you here and pretend everything is well, when it is quite clear that you might…” Theo trails off, visibly unsettled, as though the mere thought of watching you walk away brings him no comfort.

“I cannot go anywhere,” you murmur. It is the truth—since your father's passing, there remains but one path: to find a husband. A commitment so final, and yet the only salvation left for your family. For what remains of it.

“What are you speaking of?” Theo asks, a note of concern softening his voice. He steps closer, his gaze fixed upon you, as though he longs to lessen the distance between you both.

“My father passed while we were abroad. My mother and I returned because she needs me to marry—someone respectable, promising, willing to assume the obligations he left behind,” you confess, the weight of it settling heavily across your shoulders. To stand before a duke and admit you seek marriage out of necessity rather than love, it is no small humiliation.

“I can…” Theo murmurs, his fingers gently threading through your hair with a tenderness that steals your breath. You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze—the same look he bore the day he asked for your hand.

“No, you cannot,” you reply, giving him a soft push. “Theo, I know your intentions are noble, but you cannot propose marriage every time I find myself in difficulty,” you say, stepping away from him, pacing the length of the library with restless energy, your blood warming with frustration.

“Marry me, and I shall stop proposing each time hardship finds you,” Theo counters, following your path with measured steps.

“Do not dare speak of something so important with such frivolity,” you say, striding toward him with your finger pointed, as though ready to strike.

“You've not changed,” Theo replies, seemingly enraptured, as if your defiance only fuels his resolve. “Still challenging a duke as if it means nothing, refusing me as if you had no need for a husband.”

“Theo, I would not marry you even if it meant I would spend the rest of my life in utter despair,” you declare, voice sharp with emotion. He appears taken aback by your vehemence, but then a slow smile curves his lips, as if some hidden truth has been affirmed.

“You say one thing, but your eyes—they betray you. Your very presence tells me you'd marry me for one reason and one reason only,” he says, gaze locked on yours, as though he sees straight through your defenses. You feel exposed. Uncertain.

“I fear Your Grace is becoming either insolent or unbearably self-assured,” you say, your voice steady despite the fury rising within. “So allow me to be unequivocal—I did not accept your proposal, and I shall not do so now.” You take a step forward, leaving barely a breath between you. “And if Your Grace still requires clarity, I would repeat myself a thousand times over, without hesitation.”

Your gaze locks with his, unflinching, defiant. Neither of you moves, as though some unseen thread binds you in that charged stillness, daring one to speak, the other to break.

“Then what keeps you from accepting my proposal?” Theo asks the moment your lips part, though he presses a brief kiss to yours again before either of you fully catch your breath.

“The fact that you would not see me as a wife, but as a friend who offered aid in a moment of hardship,” you reply, your composure slowly returning. Truth be told, that kiss had meant so much to you—but had it meant the same to Theo?

“If the kiss we just shared does not prove to you that I am capable of seeing you as my wife, then how else am I to convince you of the sincerity of my proposal?” Theo says, and only then do you understand. That kiss had been his way of proving he could take you as his wife. Foolish of you to believe it had been born of shared affection.

“That was your intent behind the kiss?” you ask, stepping back from him abruptly, your voice laced with disbelief. The warmth of his lips still lingers on yours, yet it now feels like a cruel trick—an illusion cloaked in tenderness. “You kissed me not out of affection, but as a means to persuade me into marriage?”

But you know you cannot blame him—not truly—not when you’ve never confessed your feelings aloud. So you look at him one final time, just as he steps toward you, as though he might try to stop you from leaving. Before your hand can twist the doorknob, his hand reaches past yours, holding the door firmly shut.

You know you cannot truly blame him, not when you never once voiced your feelings. Still, you glance back at him one last time, just as he begins to move in your direction, as though intending to stop you. Before you can turn the doorknob, his hand reaches past yours and presses the door closed.

He speaks quietly, almost in a whisper against your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “Teach me to be what you need.” You feel him behind you—his presence, his warmth—and though his words sound like a plea, they are not enough to mend what lies unspoken between you.

“Goodbye, Your Grace.” You utter the words without looking back. He steps aside, allowing you to leave. You open the door and slip through without difficulty. Thankfully, no one appears to have seen you. You walk swiftly down the corridors of Tintagel Castle, eager to escape before the weight of everything you've left behind grows too heavy to carry.

“Miss, are you well?” a distinguished gentleman asks as he accidentally bumps into you. You nearly lose your balance, but he catches you in time.

“I… I am well. And you, sir?” you respond nervously, worried you might have caused him harm. He offers a faint, reassuring smile. He is tall, with a well-groomed mustache and captivating eyes.

“I am rather delighted, in fact, to have stumbled upon such a charming young lady,” he says, then gently takes your hand and places a soft kiss upon it. “Hector Robinson, at your service.”

You gaze at him, still recovering from the moment. “A pleasure, Mr. Robinson. My name is Y/N,” you reply, offering your first name before remembering to add your surname. Then it comes to you—you had arrived with your mother, and she is likely too occupied now to leave.

“Are you leaving already?” Mr. Robinson inquires, sensing your distracted state.

“Regrettably, I’ve been taken by a sudden indisposition, and I fear I must excuse myself from the festivities. I do hope you enjoy the evening,” you say politely, as the noble gentleman seems truly kind.

“Do you require assistance getting home?” he offers, clearly noticing your hesitation and apparent discomfort.

“Actually…” you begin to reply, but are abruptly interrupted by the arrival of another gentleman at your side.

“There is no need, Mr. Robinson. I shall ensure the young lady returns home safely,” Theo declares, catching you entirely off guard. You glance at him with clear disapproval, while Mr. Robinson seems equally surprised.

“In that case,” Robinson says with a courteous smile, “I can only hope I shall have the pleasure of your company again soon, Miss Y/N. But I trust our ever-dutiful Duke will see to your safe return.” With that, he offers a respectful nod and takes his leave. Yet all you can focus on is the victorious smile playing on Theo’s lips as he watches Hector disappear into the crowd.

[pascaloverx]

TAG LIST

@hanversace

@xlatinaaxx

@iamavailablesstuff

@kittygojos

@xoxo-ada

@nicholaschavezslut69

@torye

@edb954

HAUNTED

Summary: You awaken from a two-year coma to find that Detective Lois has been eagerly awaiting your recovery, believing you might have witnessed something crucial to catching a serial killer. What you didn’t expect is to learn that she suspects your doctor of being the murderer—and even more shockingly, it appears that you are married to him. Now, you must uncover your lost memories and find out who Charlie Mayhew truly is to you.

Author's Note: Yes, I'm writing another fanfic featuring Nicholas Alexander Chavez’s character from Grotesquerie. The characters belong to the universe created by Ryan Murphy in the series Grotesquerie (2024). This fanfic will include violence, strong language, and adult content. It will portray the character Charlie Mayhew as a doctor. I hope you enjoy the fanfic, but there's nothing certain about its future. If you like this fanfic, please interact, leave comments. This author will be grateful for any interaction.

SIX

© credits for the owners of the pictures used. they don't belong to me. credit is not mine for the pictures.

SEVEN

Dominance in a relationship is a complicated thing to attain—let alone maintain. At this moment, everything about your marriage felt uncertain. But more important than knowing who held the upper hand between you and your husband was deciding who you would have to blame in order to get Detective Tryon off your trail.

Fortunately, it occurred to you that your husband might already have the perfect scapegoat—someone who had been serving him loyally, as if waiting for him to offer her a chance.

“You seem tense, darling,” you murmur as you help him tighten the knot on his tie. Charlie looks at you, as if weighing whether it’s truly worth sacrificing someone who so clearly longs to be close to him.

“Maybe your plan is a bit too bold,” he says, his eyes fixed on yours. Even though your husband is a murderer who essentially leads a cult, it’s clear that Detective Duval has become some sort of weakness for him.

“You’re right. A less bold move would be turning you in to the police and claiming you manipulated me all along—or we could simply kill Detective Tryon,” you reply, tightening the knot just a bit too firmly, making Charlie shift in discomfort. The fact that he cares so much about Megan stirs a sudden and bitter anger within you.

“Charlie, are you in love with Megan?” you ask, your tone sharp, as if the very act of saying her name leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. He looks at you, genuinely offended.

“Because if you’re not,” you continue, voice low and cold, “then I suggest you start acting like you are. There are no other options that get us out of this clean. And I’m not going to prison because you don’t want to play Romeo for the woman who still worships you.”

You smooth out his collar with sharp precision, eyes on him. Now that you know how deeply the two of you are tied—by secrets, by blood, by faith—the tenderness he shows Megan feels like a violation.

Before he can answer, Charlie grabs your waist, pulling you against him. The force of it sends a tremor through your body. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin, “I’m a married man.”

“And I’m a man utterly devoted to his wife,” he adds, kissing your neck with deliberate slowness, the warmth of his breath making you shiver. His hands trail down to your hips and then firmly grasp your ass, making you gasp softly.

“Querido esposo, creo que estás intentando confundirme con tus acciones,” you murmur, voice husky and mocking, as you tilt your head up to meet his dark, wicked smile.

“There’s no one here trying to deceive you, mi amada esposa,” Charlie whispers in Spanish, his lips brushing dangerously close to yours. His hands remain firmly gripping your ass, his breath warms on your face, eyes half-lidded as he clearly begins to lose control of himself.

“If you want me to seduce Detective Duval, I will. If you want me to get rid of her and Detective Tryon, consider it done. If you want to make me your servant, you won’t hear a word of protest from me,” he says, kissing your lips gently. There’s a hint of coffee on his lips—warm and comforting. You pull him closer, deepening the kiss, feeling the shift as he moves his hands from your ass to wrap them tightly around your waist.

“A few minutes ago, you didn’t seem quite so cooperative, mi amor,” you tease as your lips part. His smile is slow, and his eyes drop to your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

“There’s a part of me that still doubts whether we can truly convince them that Megan committed our crimes,” he admits. “But in the last few seconds, I realized I don’t care if the plan works or not. I don’t want to waste another moment making you question me, or my devotion to you, mi hermosa esposa.”

He pulls you against his chest in a tight embrace, and you let yourself lean into him, breathing in the scent of him, the heat of his body calming and arousing all at once.

“When all this is over… voy a devorarte,” you murmur, the words slipping from your lips like a promise soaked in desire.

Charlie chuckles low and deep, then kisses your forehead. “Esa es la esposa de la que me enamoré,” he says in Spanish, voice thick with affection—and something darker just beneath.

“Then let’s begin our plan—you take Megan out,” you start, calmly laying out your carefully crafted scheme to frame Megan.

“Then I’ll make sure Detective Tryon finds out that Megan and I are together,” Charlie adds, still wrapped around you. From a distance, you two might look like any affectionate couple, not like two people conspiring to pin murder on someone else.

“Detective Tryon will come after you both, while I sneak into Megan’s house and plant evidence linking her to the homicides. When you two return, I’ll make a dramatic appearance, stage a confrontation—and if everything goes according to plan, they’ll believe Megan committed the murders to frame us,” you finish, trailing your fingers over your husband’s chest.

“We’re being wildly optimistic with this plan, you do realize that, right?” he says, gently running his fingers through your hair.

“So by that you mean I’m the one being optimistic. There’s nothing in you—not your tone, not your expression—that says you actually want to be part of this plan,” you say, stepping back just enough to look your husband in the eye. You search his brown eyes, and what you find is hesitation. It unsettles you.

“Was this what our marriage has always been?” you ask, moving away from Charlie, wondering if this was how you two always handled conflict. “Because if it was, I’m honestly surprised you didn’t divorce me to go live your happy ending with someone else,” you add, turning your back on him.

But Charlie pulls you into his arms again before you can take another step. He presses your body to his, not to hurt you, but to hold you—tightly, as if anchoring you to him.

“There’s no happy ending without you,” Charlie murmurs, gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly so you face him fully. He stands tall, then presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“How can I trust you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as if you no longer had the strength to demand anything. The truth is, your body feels weakened by his nearness. He has a power over you—one your body responds to even when your mind resists.

“My life is yours to claim, mi hermosa. I’ll do anything you ask, and even if it all goes wrong… you have my permission to blame me,” Charlie says, then closes his eyes and leans his forehead against yours.

Devotion. It seems to have been—perhaps still is—a thread that binds your relationship. You believe him, even in moments when you doubt him. It’s strange, but undeniably what you feel. So you close the distance between you, kissing him like the taste of his lips could bring you back to life.

You push his hair back with firm fingers, then murmur against his lips, “Say you’ll do everything I tell you to,” your voice nearly sensual, but carrying the weight of command.

He lets out a low, muffled growl before biting your lip in a teasing, deliberate way. “I’ll do everything you want, mi amor, everything,” he says, his voice rough and unwavering.

What follows is a desperate entanglement—lips and bodies clashing with urgency. As your mouths meet again, fierce and unrelenting, you convince yourself he’ll obey you until the very end. And he, in turn, clings to the belief that you’ll always know how to get both of you out of whatever trouble comes your way.

TO BE CONTINUED…

[pascaloverx]

HAUNTED

Summary: You awaken from a two-year coma to find that Detective Lois has been eagerly awaiting your recovery, believing you might have witnessed something crucial to catching a serial killer. What you didn’t expect is to learn that she suspects your doctor of being the murderer—and even more shockingly, it appears that you are married to him. Now, you must uncover your lost memories and find out who Charlie Mayhew truly is to you.

Author's Note: Yes, I'm writing another fanfic featuring Nicholas Alexander Chavez’s character from Grotesquerie. The characters belong to the universe created by Ryan Murphy in the series Grotesquerie (2024). This fanfic will include violence, strong language, and adult content. It will portray the character Charlie Mayhew as a doctor. I hope you enjoy the fanfic, but there's nothing certain about its future. If you like this fanfic, please interact, leave comments. This author will be grateful for any interaction.

SIX

© credits for the owners of the pictures used. they don't belong to me. credit is not mine for the pictures.

SEVEN

Dominance in a relationship is a complicated thing to attain—let alone maintain. At this moment, everything about your marriage felt uncertain. But more important than knowing who held the upper hand between you and your husband was deciding who you would have to blame in order to get Detective Tryon off your trail.

Fortunately, it occurred to you that your husband might already have the perfect scapegoat—someone who had been serving him loyally, as if waiting for him to offer her a chance.

“You seem tense, darling,” you murmur as you help him tighten the knot on his tie. Charlie looks at you, as if weighing whether it’s truly worth sacrificing someone who so clearly longs to be close to him.

“Maybe your plan is a bit too bold,” he says, his eyes fixed on yours. Even though your husband is a murderer who essentially leads a cult, it’s clear that Detective Duval has become some sort of weakness for him.

“You’re right. A less bold move would be turning you in to the police and claiming you manipulated me all along—or we could simply kill Detective Tryon,” you reply, tightening the knot just a bit too firmly, making Charlie shift in discomfort. The fact that he cares so much about Megan stirs a sudden and bitter anger within you.

“Charlie, are you in love with Megan?” you ask, your tone sharp, as if the very act of saying her name leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. He looks at you, genuinely offended.

“Because if you’re not,” you continue, voice low and cold, “then I suggest you start acting like you are. There are no other options that get us out of this clean. And I’m not going to prison because you don’t want to play Romeo for the woman who still worships you.”

You smooth out his collar with sharp precision, eyes on him. Now that you know how deeply the two of you are tied—by secrets, by blood, by faith—the tenderness he shows Megan feels like a violation.

Before he can answer, Charlie grabs your waist, pulling you against him. The force of it sends a tremor through your body. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin, “I’m a married man.”

“And I’m a man utterly devoted to his wife,” he adds, kissing your neck with deliberate slowness, the warmth of his breath making you shiver. His hands trail down to your hips and then firmly grasp your ass, making you gasp softly.

“Querido esposo, creo que estás intentando confundirme con tus acciones,” you murmur, voice husky and mocking, as you tilt your head up to meet his dark, wicked smile.

“There’s no one here trying to deceive you, mi amada esposa,” Charlie whispers in Spanish, his lips brushing dangerously close to yours. His hands remain firmly gripping your ass, his breath warms on your face, eyes half-lidded as he clearly begins to lose control of himself.

“If you want me to seduce Detective Duval, I will. If you want me to get rid of her and Detective Tryon, consider it done. If you want to make me your servant, you won’t hear a word of protest from me,” he says, kissing your lips gently. There’s a hint of coffee on his lips—warm and comforting. You pull him closer, deepening the kiss, feeling the shift as he moves his hands from your ass to wrap them tightly around your waist.

“A few minutes ago, you didn’t seem quite so cooperative, mi amor,” you tease as your lips part. His smile is slow, and his eyes drop to your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

“There’s a part of me that still doubts whether we can truly convince them that Megan committed our crimes,” he admits. “But in the last few seconds, I realized I don’t care if the plan works or not. I don’t want to waste another moment making you question me, or my devotion to you, mi hermosa esposa.”

He pulls you against his chest in a tight embrace, and you let yourself lean into him, breathing in the scent of him, the heat of his body calming and arousing all at once.

“When all this is over… voy a devorarte,” you murmur, the words slipping from your lips like a promise soaked in desire.

Charlie chuckles low and deep, then kisses your forehead. “Esa es la esposa de la que me enamoré,” he says in Spanish, voice thick with affection—and something darker just beneath.

“Then let’s begin our plan—you take Megan out,” you start, calmly laying out your carefully crafted scheme to frame Megan.

“Then I’ll make sure Detective Tryon finds out that Megan and I are together,” Charlie adds, still wrapped around you. From a distance, you two might look like any affectionate couple, not like two people conspiring to pin murder on someone else.

“Detective Tryon will come after you both, while I sneak into Megan’s house and plant evidence linking her to the homicides. When you two return, I’ll make a dramatic appearance, stage a confrontation—and if everything goes according to plan, they’ll believe Megan committed the murders to frame us,” you finish, trailing your fingers over your husband’s chest.

“We’re being wildly optimistic with this plan, you do realize that, right?” he says, gently running his fingers through your hair.

“So by that you mean I’m the one being optimistic. There’s nothing in you—not your tone, not your expression—that says you actually want to be part of this plan,” you say, stepping back just enough to look your husband in the eye. You search his brown eyes, and what you find is hesitation. It unsettles you.

“Was this what our marriage has always been?” you ask, moving away from Charlie, wondering if this was how you two always handled conflict. “Because if it was, I’m honestly surprised you didn’t divorce me to go live your happy ending with someone else,” you add, turning your back on him.

But Charlie pulls you into his arms again before you can take another step. He presses your body to his, not to hurt you, but to hold you—tightly, as if anchoring you to him.

“There’s no happy ending without you,” Charlie murmurs, gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly so you face him fully. He stands tall, then presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“How can I trust you?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as if you no longer had the strength to demand anything. The truth is, your body feels weakened by his nearness. He has a power over you—one your body responds to even when your mind resists.

“My life is yours to claim, mi hermosa. I’ll do anything you ask, and even if it all goes wrong… you have my permission to blame me,” Charlie says, then closes his eyes and leans his forehead against yours.

Devotion. It seems to have been—perhaps still is—a thread that binds your relationship. You believe him, even in moments when you doubt him. It’s strange, but undeniably what you feel. So you close the distance between you, kissing him like the taste of his lips could bring you back to life.

You push his hair back with firm fingers, then murmur against his lips, “Say you’ll do everything I tell you to,” your voice nearly sensual, but carrying the weight of command.

He lets out a low, muffled growl before biting your lip in a teasing, deliberate way. “I’ll do everything you want, mi amor, everything,” he says, his voice rough and unwavering.

What follows is a desperate entanglement—lips and bodies clashing with urgency. As your mouths meet again, fierce and unrelenting, you convince yourself he’ll obey you until the very end. And he, in turn, clings to the belief that you’ll always know how to get both of you out of whatever trouble comes your way.

TO BE CONTINUED…

[pascaloverx]

ENEMIES

Summary: You are an anti-heroine, forged by corporate experiments and gifted with extraordinary abilities. Living outside the law in Metropolis, you steal from the powerful to serve your own sense of justice. When your path collides with Superman, a complicated bond forms, built on tension, attraction and a secret pact that ties you to the man who should be your greatest enemy.

Author's note: Yes, I just watched the new Superman movie. I don't know if this fanfic will continue, and I’m not sure if anyone will even like it. Reblog or like this fanfic if you want it to go on, and feel free to leave comments.

AO3 LINK ONE

PREVIEW

It's not enough that damned hero came after you—he also managed to tear your suit. Your parents let a billion-dollar company experiment on you, turning you into a weapon. Super strength, agility beyond anyone else’s, a remarkable intellect that allows you to break into places with little effort, and most of your body is resistant to pain.

You can still get hurt, and you have to design your own gear, but you use the gifts you have in service of what you believe is right. And that means breaking into the homes and corporations of the ultra-wealthy and stealing from them—to share the wealth with yourself and those in need.

“Son of a bitch!” you shout as you try to recover from yet another clash with the so-called savior of the world—Superman. You had been breaking into the company of some millionaire, far from where Superman usually patrols, and the idiot came after you like a damn bloodhound.

“Is that the mouth you kiss your mother with?” You hear the voice of the man you see almost every day. When he’s not playing the hot nerd at the Daily Planet or pretending to be the nation’s caped savior, he’s out here disturbing your peace.

“Good to know you don’t know everything about me, since you’re suggesting I kiss a corpse,” you say as you finish climbing the stairs to your apartment. And there he is—Clark Kent, with his nerdy glasses and an awkward expression on his face.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Clark says softly, with a tone of regret that almost sounds sincere. Even behind the glasses, that sentimental look of his is impossible to miss.

“If you’re really that sorry, stop making me work at the Daily Planet and let me go back to being just the villain you pretend to defeat,” you murmur, stepping closer to him as you catch your breath and inhale the scent of his sweat. For some reason, his scent has become your weakness. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes, and it’s as if you can sense every place Clark has been, every feeling he’s ever had.

“You’re doing it again,” Clark whispers, standing still, allowing you to get far too close. You take a step back and nearly stumble on the stair, but Clark catches you by the waist in a flash.

“And you’re doing that thing again—trying to play the hero with me,” you say, steadying yourself, though you’re still far too close to him, his arms around you and your fingers resting against his chest.

“Someone’s coming our way,” Clark warns, but you’re too distracted by his lips for a moment—until your senses snap back. You quickly fake a kiss, brushing your lips near his and pushing him gently against your door.

Your neighbor comes down the stairs and lets out a disapproving grunt at what he assumes is just two adults getting handsy in the hallway.

“You didn’t really have to do that,” Clark murmurs, the two of you still tangled together. His warm breath brushes against your face as he stares at you, and his scent floods your senses, revealing more than he realizes. Just before your fight about an hour ago, he’d had pizza—probably not alone. Most likely with Miss Lane and that awkward Olsen kid.

“And let someone suspect that the polite reporter Clark Kent is standing outside the apartment of a co-worker who isn’t his girlfriend?” you reply, preparing to use your powers.

A harmless detail: you can phase through structures. You glance around to make sure no one’s watching, then grip Kent tightly—and phase the two of you straight through the door into your apartment.

“How did you…? Shit, you walk through walls and doors? Holy hell!” Clark exclaims, stepping back and running his hands over himself in disbelief.

“And Lois and I aren’t dating—at least, not anymore,” he finishes, and you can see how much that stings. You glance at him, and for a moment, he looks like a lost puppy left behind after the move.

“I can’t believe you’re swearing in front of me,” you say, feigning shock—though part of you is still reeling from the realization that Metropolis’s number one boy scout is single. Not that it’s your business, but still… interesting.

“I’m sorry about you and Lois. You two were such an obnoxiously perfect couple, it actually made me nauseous,” you add, placing your hand on his head and giving him a little pat like he’s some overgrown golden retriever.

“Thanks for the sympathy,” Clark replies, catching your hand. “But if you really feel that bad, stop committing crimes and become a full-time reporter. I promise I’ll try not to make you sick.” He notices the cut on your hand and gently pulls it closer to examine. But you pull back, hiding your hand behind your back.

“You know I can’t stop. Not while people like Lex Luthor walk free. Not while the one responsible for my parents’ death—and for what I’ve become—still hasn’t paid,” you say, taking a step back. Clark’s expression shifts. He looks genuinely concerned.

“You want to stop them by becoming just like them?” Clark asks, looking you in the eyes—not with anger, but with something between pity and quiet judgment. You smile bitterly. For a second, you actually thought Mr. Perfect might understand.

“If you really think I’m like them, don’t waste any more time and arrest me,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. There’s a sharp edge of hatred in your gaze, and Clark feels it.

“That’s not what I meant, Y/N,” he says softly, using every ounce of empathy that exists in that Kryptonian heart of his.

“Do us both a favor and get out, Kent,” you mutter, pointing toward the door. “And don’t worry. Our deal still stands. I’ll keep working at the Daily Planet, feeding intel on the bad guys I dig up, and you won’t throw me in a cell. And yes, your little secret’s safe with me.”

You hold his gaze. His impossibly blue eyes—if you stare long enough—start to look like something between the ocean and the sky on a quiet, cloudless day.

“Even so, you’re here. Letting me into your home. Not telling your bandit friends that you know exactly who Superman is. You even agreed to work in the same place as me and live this double life,” Clark says calmly, his tone full of quiet conviction. “From where I stand, it looks like you’re trying to convince yourself that there’s only darkness in you. But that’s not what I see.”

You try not to take his words seriously. He always sees the good in things, and that relentless optimism of his drives you mad.

“Might want to see an eye doctor and get those glasses adjusted. Don’t make me say it again. Leave.” You give him a final warning, your voice sharp.

At the same time, you finally feel one of your ribs beginning to mend. Your body takes its time healing, especially when the damage is from Clark. You still don’t understand why that is, but you hope to one day.

“I'm not your enemy,” Clark says as he steps even closer, his presence heavy and unshakable. You're pressed against the door now, the space between you growing dangerously small.

Your eyes trace the lines of his face, studying him like a map to someplace unfamiliar. The way he looks at you—it’s disarming. There’s something in his gaze that makes you feel seen, maybe even understood. But you remind yourself, he probably looks at every so-called villain that way. Always searching for redemption in places where it doesn’t belong.

“Then know this, Mr. Kent,” you whisper, your voice calm, deliberate. “I am your enemy.” The words hang in the air like a challenge. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his hand lifts, almost as if he means to touch your face. Perhaps to soften the moment. Perhaps to stop you. But you move faster.

Gripping his shirt, you twist your body with precision and force, throwing him clean through the open window behind him. The wind rushes in, sharp and sudden, swallowing the sound of his body cutting through the air. You stay there, breathing hard, your heart steady despite the adrenaline. The curtains settle slowly behind you, swaying with the breeze. You don’t watch him fall. You don’t need to. Not only that, but you know he’ll catch himself. He always does.

[pascaloverx]

x

[pascaloverx]

AGUSTÍN DELLA CORTE as Roque Pérez Olympo 1.04 "It's Best If You Stop Now"

[pascaloverx]

ENCHANTED

Summary: You have no desire to marry, yet your family insists otherwise, pressuring you to believe that you should. Amidst it all, you find yourself drawn to Guy Thwarte, who proves to be rather good company.

Author's Note: My slight fixation on Matthew Broome led me to create this fanfic, but I can’t guarantee it will be good. So, dear reader, if you enjoy it, please interact and comment.

THREE

FOUR

The taste of Guy’s lips is all you can think about. If it were within your power, you would preserve that moment — his hands gripping your waist with just enough strength to make you feel claimed. The warmth of his body nearly pressing over yours, your fingers tangled in his curls, and the maddening friction of his damp garments beneath you brushing against your most sensitive place.

For a moment, it felt as though you might truly move atop him. And if there had been more time, you know you would have. Oh heavens, you would have.

But as the carriage sped on toward your residence, reality returned with cruel weight. There would be no reckless acts tonight. No sneaking him past your chamber door. No whispered prayers tangled in his name. Not yet.

So you remained in his lap, lips locked with his in breathless urgency. It was the only indulgence either of you dared, and it would have to be enough. By morning, your lips still tingled from memory.

“Darling, you look quite spirited this morning. I do hope it’s due to promising news from a potential suitor,” your mother says as she watches you take your seat at the breakfast table.

You feel the warmth bloom in your cheeks, a flush brought not by tea nor sunshine, but by secrets pressed into skin in the back of a carriage. You say nothing, but a small smile tugs at your lips.

“It was simply pleasant to socialize, but don’t get too hopeful. I don’t expect marriage proposals walking through the door this early,” you say lightly while sipping your milk. But your words are promptly betrayed by the sound of the front door opening.

“Good morning, Lady Y/L/N,” Theo calls out, his voice warm and composed as he steps inside, carrying an elegant arrangement of fresh flowers. Your mother positively glows, her expression radiant as she looks your way — as if to say I told you so, without uttering a single word.

“Your Grace, what brings you here so early?” you ask, startled by his unexpected visit at such an hour.

“You, calling me Your Grace?” Theo asks with a small laugh, clearly amused by your formal choice of address. You do your best not to show how flustered you are by his teasing.

“Does my daughter not address you with proper decorum?” your mother asks, her tone laced with curiosity, already beginning to speculate about the nature of your relationship with the Duke.

If only she knew Theo was the man with whom you had lost your virginity. She would first be furious, and then most certainly demand he make a formal offer of marriage.

“Mother, I assure you, I employ every bit of my upbringing when it comes to addressing the gentlemen I interact with,” you reply, rising gracefully from your seat to make yourself more presentable for Theo’s visit.

“I can confirm that your daughter has always treated me with the utmost respect,” Theo adds smoothly, his answer leaving your mother thoroughly pleased.

“I shall leave you two alone to settle any unfinished matters,” your mother announces, offering no further comment. But her intent is plain — she hopes some rumor of impropriety might arise, one that would make a union between you and Theo not only plausible, but inevitable. With a final glance, she disappears upstairs.

“Your Grace, would you care to join me for breakfast?” you ask, gesturing toward the generous spread laid out on the table.

Theo steps closer and hands you the bouquet. “These are for you. I remembered you used to like them when we were younger.”

“They’re beautiful, Theo,” you reply softly, placing the flowers on the table with care. Later, you will find them a proper place, but for now, you simply allow their presence to soften the space between you.

Theo takes a seat across from you, the quiet between you thick with memory and unspoken words.

“What brings you here?” you ask softly, watching as Theo’s gaze lingers on you with an intensity that is both flattering and disarming. There’s a certain tension in the air, a quiet pull — like the trace of desire that neither of you dares to name aloud.

“Before I explain my visit,” Theo says, his voice low and deliberate, “may I take a small liberty?”

You meet his eyes and nod, granting silent permission. He lifts his hand, and with a gentle touch, runs the tip of his finger along the corner of your mouth, brushing your lips in a gesture so intimate it stills your breath.

"Your lips were marked with milk," he says, and you offer a gentle smile.

"Thank you for sparing me such embarrassment, Your Grace," you reply with a soft laugh, amused by your own foolishness — mistaking a simple touch for a sign of longing. How silly of you.

"I wish to regain your trust, and your friendship, Y/N," Theo murmurs as he helps himself to the breakfast before him.

"I’m pleased to know you hold our former friendship in such esteem that you’d wish to restore it," you answer kindly, keeping your tone composed, even as your heart stirs with uncertainty.

"I’ve come to realize, only quite recently, just how much I miss having you in my life," Theo says, gently taking your hand and caressing it with surprising tenderness.

"I’ve missed your presence too," you reply, meeting his gaze with softness. "We used to be such dear friends, after all."

"I also wish for you to meet my future wife — properly, this time," he adds, a touch of excitement in his voice, bright and sincere. He is happy. And oddly enough, so are you. This feels like the beginning of something new between you and Theo, a renewed closeness, perhaps even support for whatever it is that’s growing between you and Guy.

"Then let us not waste a moment. Take me to meet your beloved," you say, rising and extending your hand to him. He takes it without hesitation, your fingers lacing easily with his.

"Shouldn’t we inform your mother that we’re leaving?" Theo asks as you begin leading him toward the door.

"Don’t trouble yourself. My mother will be in utter delight, imagining we’ve run off like two star-crossed lovers," you reply with a teasing smile. He laughs softly, convinced enough by your confidence, and together you step outside, bound for his residence — and for whatever awaits on the other side.

With Theo’s carriage, the journey to his residence passes swiftly. Along the way, he speaks fondly of Nan — how utterly enchanted he is by her presence. He confesses his intent to make her a duchess, describing with admiration how she sees him not as a title, but as a man. You are sincerely pleased that Theo has found someone who makes him feel truly seen.

But nothing could have prepared you for what you both encounter on the road leading to his estate. Near a tree not far from the Duke’s property, a young lady and a gentleman are engaged in what appears to be a heated, passionate exchange. Their gestures, their closeness, their voices just above whispers — it is the kind of charged scene only lovers can create.

You and Theo watch from the carriage, quietly observing as though witnessing the flow of a river finding its natural course. You even ask the coachman to pause and rest the horses, so you might better take in the unfolding tableau. At one point, the tension between the pair builds so tangibly that it seems they are about to kiss.

“Let us leave them be,” you murmur to Theo, believing that what passes between two lovers is not yours to intrude upon.

But then a voice rises — familiar and unmistakable.

“Nan!”

Your eyes snap toward the sound, and recognition floods your chest. The gentleman’s voice is Guy’s. At the very same moment, Theo stiffens beside you, now clearly able to see the woman’s face. It is Nan. He wastes no time. With a face shadowed in fury, Theo steps down from the carriage, his movements sharp and purposeful.

You rush after Theo, trying to catch his arm, to slow him, to reason with him. But he’s already moving with purpose, his fury boiling just beneath his skin.

When Nan and Guy notice your approach, it’s as if they accept their fate — bracing themselves for the storm that follows.

“How could you?” Theo growls, grabbing Guy by the collar with a force that makes your breath catch.

“It’s not what you think,” Guy says quickly, struggling to keep his footing, his hands half-raised in surrender.

“For a moment, Theo, just let us explain!” Nan pleads, her voice trembling with urgency — whether for Guy or for Theo, you’re not entirely sure. And in truth, it hardly matters.

“Explain what, exactly?” Theo snaps, turning his furious gaze on Nan while still clutching Guy's collar.

“It doesn’t matter what they have to explain,” you cut in, stepping between them with all the composure you can muster. “If you don’t release Guy now, terrible rumors will take root before this day is done. I suggest you settle this in private — behind walls that keep such matters between those involved.” Theo lets out a frustrated, guttural sound, his jaw tense. But after a pause, he releases Guy, the tension in his hand finally easing.

“Now that we are all quite aware of who we are and what this is,” you say calmly, though your voice carries the sharp edge of restraint, “I believe it would be wise—for the sake of appearances—that we all return to the carriage and proceed to Theo’s residence. There, you may fight or explain yourselves to your hearts’ content.”

The silence that follows is thick with tension. Each of them exchanges glances—shame, confusion, or resentment flickering behind their eyes like shadows trying to hide from daylight. Guy casts a glance in your direction, though you avoid meeting his gaze.

The man you were kissing just a night before could not possibly have been the same man standing so intimately with Nan now. You had no claim over him. No promises were made. And yet, seeing him with her stirs something sharp and unwelcome in your chest.

"Very well," Theo mutters, clearly displeased but reining in his frustration for the sake of civility. Nan and Guy nod in silent agreement, and the four of you begin the short walk back toward the carriage. As Theo offers his hand to help you climb in once more, he leans in and murmurs, “I ask you, for the sake of the friendship we once shared—stand with me in this.”

Perhaps he needs a friend. Perhaps he simply wishes you not to take Guy’s side. Whatever his true motive, you meet his gaze and give a small nod. "You may count on me, Theo."

TO BE CONTINUED...