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Still Annoying?

Fred Weasley x FemReader

Fred Weasley has never liked Ginny’s annoying little friend. But maybe she’s not so annoying - or so little - anymore.

———————————————————————

The Burrow in summer was always alive, buzzing with bees around the herb garden, gnomes shrieking as they were flung from the flowerbeds, and laughter echoing across the paddock. But this summer, it was absolutely unbearable.

Fred Weasley stood at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, lips twisted in displeasure as he peered down into the kitchen. It was late morning, sunlight dripping through the crooked windows and pooling golden across the floorboards.

In the centre of the chaos stood Ginny and her new best friend. The one who’d arrived three days ago with a trunk full of mismatched socks, a voice like a wind chime caught in a gale, and an energy level that could rival a Firebolt on a sugar high.

“Do you think,” Fred muttered to George, who was leaning lazily on the railing beside him, “if we threw her out the window, she’d bounce?”

George raised a brow. “Dunno. Only one way to find out.”

“I’m being serious. Y/n’s everywhere. Woke me up this morning singing about Flobberworms.”

George shrugged. “It was sort of catchy.”

Fred gave him a scandalized look. “Traitor.”

Down below, the girl in question darted past the kitchen table, eyes wide and glittering, sunflower-print hat askew on her head. She was giggling uncontrollably, clutching a bottle of exploding bonbons that popped and crackled in rainbow bursts with every step.

“GINNY!” she shrieked, “Catch! It’s gonna blow!”

Ginny, laughing just as hard, turned mid-sprint and caught the bottle, but not before it let off a loud BANG! and showered the room in pink and purple sparks.

Fred flinched as the smell of strawberry and ozone drifted up the stairs. “She’s a menace,” he hissed.

“She’s eleven,” George deadpanned. “You were blowing things up at eight.”

“Yeah, but I was cool about it.”

“Were you?”

Before Fred could argue further, she came charging back across the kitchen, her hat now completely backwards, half her hair in her face, and sticky sugar on her chin. She stopped when she saw him on the stairs, clutching the banister with one hand and panting like a pixie-drunk Puffskein.

“Oh!” she grinned up at him, eyes sparkling wickedly. “Hi Fred!”

Fred blinked at her, expression unreadable. “You’ve got a bit of…explosive sugar…on your nose.”

She crossed her eyes trying to see it and missed entirely.

Fred turned to George. “I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not,” came Mrs. Weasley’s voice from behind them as she walked by with a basket of laundry. “You’re helping your father de-gnome the garden. And be nice, Fred. She’s a guest.”

“She’s a plague,” Fred mumbled under his breath.

“You’re just mad she’s better at practical jokes than you,” George said, grinning as he ducked to avoid a swat from Fred’s elbow.

Below, she turned to Ginny and whispered something that made Ginny burst out laughing. The two of them darted out the door again, trailing giggles and flower petals like confetti.

Fred’s gaze followed them out into the garden, where they promptly tried to vault the garden bench - Ginny cleared it, but her friend caught her foot and went down in a dramatic tumble.

“Idiot,” Fred muttered.

“Did you see that roll, though?” George said. “That was kind of impressive.”

“She’s going to break something one day and it’ll somehow be our fault.”

Fred trudged down the stairs, dodging a floating spoon and stepping over an exploded sugar quill wrapper.

Later that evening Fred was slumped into a worn lawn chair in the backyard, legs stretched out, a butterbeer in hand, and soot smudged across one cheek from a prank gone mildly wrong. The sun was dipping low, casting the sky in ribbons of orange and violet, and for once, the garden was peaceful.

Until he heard her voice. “Fred.”

He groaned. “No.”

Ginny’s friend flopped into the chair beside him, absolutely filthy - grass stains on her knees, streaks of dirt across her arms, her sunflower hat missing entirely. Her hair stuck out in a dozen directions and there was a leaf in it.

She grinned at him like they were best mates. “I heard you tried to prank Percy this morning and blew up the laundry line instead.”

“I don’t remember asking for your commentary.”

“That’s not a denial.”

Fred shot her a look. “You’re the loudest person I’ve ever met.”

“I have strong vocal cords.”

“You ruined four of Mum’s saucepans.”

“Technically, they’re better now. One of them sings opera.”

Fred stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head in disbelief and looked away, muttering, “Mental.”

She kicked her legs up onto the table, mimicking his posture, despite being half his size. “You know, you’re kind of boring when you’re not blowing things up.”

He snapped his head back toward her. “I am not boring.”

“Prove it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

Her smile widened as she leaned back and placed her hands behind her head. “I’m challenging you.”

George passed by a moment later, catching the strange, charged tension between them - the annoyed glares, the reluctant proximity, the smirking.

He raised an eyebrow. “You two look cozy.”

Fred looked horrified. “We are not—”

“I’m just here to admire the sunset,” she interrupted sweetly, smirking as she leaned closer to Fred just to mess with him. “Fred says it brings out the red in his hair.”

George choked on his drink. Fred turned beet red. “You’re going to regret that.”

“Promises, promises.”

———————————————————————-

It started with a scream. Not a horrified one, but one that spiraled upward through the castle like a charm gone wrong - high-pitched, echoing, and followed by the unmistakable sound of rushing footsteps and someone yelling “RUN, GINNY!”

Fred Weasley, halfway down the fourth-floor corridor with a bag of Dungbombs slung over his shoulder, froze. “Oh no,” he muttered. “Not again.”

George popped out from a nearby alcove, wand tucked behind his ear. “Did you hear that?”

“I’ve been trying not to for weeks.”

As if on cue, Ginny and y/n came flying around the corner - robes askew, faces flushed with laughter, and very clearly running from something. Behind them, a stream of slippery green slime was slithering along the stone floor like an eel on a mission.

“MOVE!” Ginny shouted, skidding past Fred.

Her friend barreled after her and nearly collided with him.

Fred caught her by the elbows. “What the hell did you do?”

“Slime charm. Improvised. In the Hufflepuff common room,” she grinned breathlessly, brushing a piece of parchment out of her hair. “You would’ve loved it.”

Fred looked past her at the approaching magical goo. “I don’t think they did.”

With a sigh and a muttered “Finite,” Fred grabbed his wand and flicked it.

The slime fizzled out mid-slither, giving an offended squelch before vanishing into mist.

Ginny flopped dramatically against the corridor wall, panting. “That was close.”

Her best friend turned to Fred with a triumphant smirk. “See? You do care.”

“I care about not having to hear Filch rant about ‘tiny vandals’ for the next month.”

She just smiled wider. “Well, thanks anyway, hero.”

He frowned. “Don’t call me that.”

“Okay, Captain Saviour.”

“Stop.”

“Commander of Slime Control?”

Fred stared at her, deadpan. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet you’re the one who’s still talking to me.”

George, who had been silently enjoying the scene, finally chimed in, nudging Fred’s shoulder. “It’s cute, how she follows you around.”

“I do not!” she shouted, scandalized.

Fred gave her a dry look. “Please. You haunt me.”

She folded her arms. “You’re not worth haunting. You’re barely worth hexing.”

Fred arched a brow. “Oh really?”

“Really!”

Ginny, sensing where this was going, backed up with a grin, but they were already dueling. Wands out, eyes locked, the corridor cleared. Fred cast first - nothing serious, just a harmless jinx to make her shoelaces knot themselves.

She yelped as her feet tangled and nearly fell backward, but twisted mid-air and shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

His wand flew out of his hand and clattered down the corridor.

“Oh, that’s how we’re playing it,” Fred muttered, impressed despite himself.

He dove for his wand as she sent another spell his way - this time a Tickling Charm that missed by inches and hit a tapestry, causing the house-elf in it to start giggling hysterically.

Fred ducked behind a suit of armor, popped up, and hit her with a jelly-legs curse. She staggered, caught the edge of the stairs, and righted herself with a hand on the railing, cheeks flushed, eyes shining.

“You’re better than I thought,” he admitted, a little breathless, eyes tracking the way her hair had fallen out of its braid.

“I practice,” she said, grinning. “Also, I hate losing.”

Their standoff was cut short by Professor Flitwick’s voice in the distance.

“Footsteps!” she hissed.

“Don’t worry,” Fred said, already grabbing her hand and pulling her up the nearest staircase. “You get used to that.”

They reached a higher corridor, laughing as they collapsed against the banister. Her jelly-legs gave out completely and she sat right there on the stone floor, still giggling.

Fred leaned against the railing, arms crossed, breathing hard. “You’re insane.”

She beamed up at him, the afternoon sunlight catching on her lashes. “So are you.”

He looked away quickly. “You’re still annoying.”

“Better than boring.”

That got his attention. He turned back to her, raising one brow. “Did you just call me boring?”

She smirked. “You tell me.”

He stepped closer, casting a shadow over her as he looked down with mock menace. “Keep talking, and I’ll jinx your eyebrows off.”

“I’ll grow them back better.”

“Not a chance.”

There was a silence between them then - brief, charged - and Fred blinked like he was suddenly aware how close he was standing, how she was looking up at him now with her chin tilted defiantly and her eyes too bright for twelve.

He cleared his throat. “You’re lucky you’re Ginny’s friend. Otherwise, I’d have turned you into a toad ages ago.”

She grinned again, slower this time. “What makes you think she didn’t stop me from turning you into one first?”

Fred stared at her for a beat, then turned and started walking away.

“…Where are you going?” she called after him.

He raised a hand in a wave, voice echoing down the corridor. “Anywhere you’re not.”

———————————————————————

The Quidditch World Cup was meant to be the highlight of the summer. Flags waving in the wind, enchanted tents pitched in wide, dew-soaked fields, laughter drifting through the air like campfire smoke. It would’ve been perfect. If she hadn’t come along.

Fred glared across the tent as Ginny’s best friend flopped onto a chair in the dining space, humming obnoxiously and wearing socks that blinked in tune with the Cannons’ team chant.

“Why is she here again?” he muttered to George, who was digging through their snack stash.

“Because Mum likes her. And Ginny threatened to hex your left eyebrow off if you said anything.”

“I could file a formal complaint.”

“Do it,” George said lazily, “and she’ll just talk to you more.”

Fred looked up again just as she raised her sunglasses dramatically and shot him a grin like she knew he was annoyed. He scowled. She winked. Merlin help him.

The field was alive with tents of every color and shape - some magically expanded, others playing team anthems or spewing colored smoke. Children ran by with toy brooms and face paint, and the Weasley family (along with y/n, Hermione, and Harry) was sprawled across their large tent in varying states of excitement.

Fred had been almost relaxed until y/n started trying to light fireworks with some kind of muggle contraption that sparked fire.

“Put that down,” he snapped as she aimed a spark at one of his experimental firecrackers.

She turned to him innocently. “I’m helping.”

“You’re endangering lives. That one hasn’t been tested.”

“Well,” she said, rolling the firecracker between her fingers, “what better time than the present?”

Fred lunged and snatched it from her hand. “Do you want your eyebrows singed off?”

“Better than dying of boredom.”

“Then go read a book. Or knit. Or do whatever it is people like you do.”

“People like me?” she repeated with mock offense, hand on heart. “What, witty? Charming? Unafraid to speak truth to Weasleys?”

George snorted from nearby. “This is better than the match.”

Fred ignored him, eyes narrowing. “You’re infuriating.”

“You’re a cranky git.”

They were inches apart now, both flushed from sun and irritation and the electric current that always surged when they got too close.

“You two need to cool off,” Ginny drawled and before either of them knew it, a bucket of cold water had been dunked over their heads. Left sopping wet, they had no choice but to walk away from the argument, needing to get changed into dry clothes before the game.

Later that night, not even each other’s presence could keep the smiles off their faces. The match had been nothing short of legendary - leaping leprechauns, Veela dazzling the crowd, cheers so loud the ground shook. Everyone was riding the high as they stumbled back to the campsite beneath a sky painted with post-match fireworks.

Fred was still flushed from Ireland’s win, hair tousled, eyes wild with adrenaline. “That was unreal, did you see that last dive—?”

“—When Krum nearly snapped his own spine? Yeah,” she cut in, eyes sparkling. “Best part.”

Fred blinked. “Wait. You actually had fun? Even though your team lost!”

“I’m not a total heathen, Fred. Of course I enjoyed it,” She rolled her eyes.

They were both laughing, slightly breathless, tripping over their words in that post-match buzz. For a moment, the bickering wasn’t biting - it was a language all their own.

And then, the screaming started. At first, it didn’t register. A shout, somewhere distant. A tent collapsing. Then another. Panic, crashing like a wave.

People were running outside, faces twisted in terror, spells flashing in the night. Fires sparked across the field, and high above the trees, the Dark Mark bloomed in a sickly green swirl.

“The Irish are really going hard,” George giggled, confusing the chaos for celebration.

“That’s not the Irish,” Arthur Weasley quickly corrected, his face going pale.

They didn’t have any time to gather their things before they were being ushered out of the tent and into the stampede of evacuating wizards and witches.

Arthur shouted for everyone to get back to the portkey, leaving Ginny and y/n in Fred and George’s hands before he drew his wand and vanished into the crowd. Ginny clutched y/n’s arm, eyes wide with fear. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had already disappeared. The field was flooding with masked figures.

“Come on,” Fred barked, grabbing y/n’s hand with no warning, nearly yanking her off her feet. “Run.”

She didn’t argue. Just followed, fast and stumbling, her fingers tight in his.

George warned, wild-eyed and panting, “Tents are going up in flames - we need to move now.”

Fred shoved the girls between him and his brother, eyes flicking over the chaos, calculating. “Stay close,” he ordered.

“I can handle myself,” y/n protested, breathless.

He shot her a look so sharp it cut through the panic. “Not this time.”

They moved fast. Ducking flying spells, dodging collapsing poles and flaring tents. Someone fired a hex their way and Fred threw up a shield without thinking, keeping her behind him.

Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “Thanks.”

He didn’t answer. Just reached back, found her hand again, and didn’t let go until they found safe ground far from the site. Ginny was asleep against George, and y/n sat beside Fred, hair wild with smoke, cheeks smeared with soot, eyes distant.

“You okay?” He asked her.

She nodded, a bit too fast. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe her.

“You were…kind of amazing back there,” she added, not looking at him.

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say nice things. You’ll ruin your brand.”

She glanced sideways, cheeks pink. “Doesn’t mean you’re not still a cranky git.”

“Good. I was worried I’d lost my touch.”

A quiet beat passed. He looked at her sideways, and for the first time in three years, she didn’t look like a loud-mouthed pest in a sunflower hat.

———————————————————————

The Room of Requirement pulsed with warm, golden light as spell after spell lit the air. Dumbledore’s Army had become more than just a rebellion. It was a movement. A heartbeat. A promise that Hogwarts wouldn’t fall silent under Umbridge’s iron rule.

Fred Weasley stood at the far end of the conjured training room, twirling his wand idly between his fingers, watching her.

Not watching her watching her. Just…observing. Casually. Not intensely.

Okay. A little intensely.

She was laughing with Ginny and Luna near by fireplace, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, the sleeves of her robes rolled to the elbow like she meant business. There was a quiet confidence about her now - less sugar-rush chaos, more wildfire simmering beneath the surface.

Still annoying, obviously. But it was…evolved annoyance.

“Oi,” George nudged him. “You gonna duel her or just eye-stalk her into submission?”

“I’m not—” Fred began, then cut himself off. “Shut up.”

Fred shoved him and made his way across the room. “Oi, Mini Menace,” he called out.

She turned, raising an eyebrow. “Talking to me, you great big git?”

“You up for a duel?”

Her smirk spread slow. “What, no one else wanted to lose today?”

Ginny let out a low whistle and backed up dramatically. “I want no part of this.”

She stepped onto the dueling platform, wand in hand, eyes locked on his like a challenge. “Oh, and Freddie? Try not to cry when I embarrass you.”

“Right back at you,” The twin smirked, already looking too cocky for his own good.

The DA crowd formed a loose circle, muttering bets and nudging each other with knowing grins. They bowed.

“Ready?” Harry called from the side.

Fred grinned. “Ladies first.”

Her wand whipped up so fast he barely ducked the Disarming Charm.

“You little—!” He fired back a Tickling Hex that she blocked easily, laughing as it rebounded off her shield and hit Neville in the shin.

Fred advanced, wand dancing in his grip. She twirled out of the way, hair flying, robes flaring as she dodged and parried. “Protego!”

“Rictusempra!”

“Expelliarmus!”

Fred’s wand skidded across the platform. She pointed hers at his chest, triumphant. “Say it.”

Fred smirked as he reached to retrieve his wand. “You’re cheating somehow.”

“You’re losing as gracefully as always,” she corrected.

“You’re still annoying.”

“You’re still a git.”

They were too close now. Laughing, flushed, breath tangled between them in the heated air of the Room of Requirement. Her eyes sparkled with adrenaline and pride. His chest heaved with the effort of not staring at her mouth.

Harry declared y/n the winner. Everyone clapped.

And Fred? Fred just shook his head in mock defeat and wandered toward the refreshments to lick his wounds and avoid whatever that moment had just been.

As the rest of the DA disbanded, she stayed behind. She often did now, helping clean up spell residue or talk with Hermione about wand theory. Tonight, Fred lingered too.

He found her alone near the collage of photos on the mirrored wall, tugging on her sleeve absentmindedly as she packed up.

And that’s when he saw thin, red lines along the back of her hand - half-faded, but distinct. Carved in that cruel, precise way. Fred stilled.

“What…is that?” he asked, voice low, rough.

She blinked, confused, then followed his gaze.

“Oh.” She pulled her sleeve down quickly. “Nothing. I mean…it’s just from Umbridge. Detention.”

Fred stepped forward. “She made you write lines? With that cursed quill?”

She hesitated. “…Yeah. How’d you know about the quill?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Fred’s hands clenched at his sides. “She shouldn’t get to do that. It’s disgusting.”

She looked up sharply, surprised by the steel in his voice. “It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not,” he said. “We shouldn’t have to pretend it is.”

And then, without thinking, he reached out and gently took her wrist, pulling her sleeve back. His thumb brushed just below the words.

I must not speak.

The letters were faint now. But they were there. Fred’s jaw ticked.

She swallowed hard, cheeks red. “I didn’t want anyone to see…”

He glanced up at her, eyes softer now. “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t think you cared,” she said, voice small.

Fred let out a breath. “You’re still annoying.”

She smiled faintly. “You already said that.”

“But you’re also brave,” he added quietly. “And smarter than most people I know. Even if you do drive me mental.”

Her breath caught. Just for a second. And then she was smiling. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

They stood there for a moment, too aware of the quiet around them. Her wrist still resting in his hand.

Then she gently pulled it back, tucking her hair behind her ear. She was blushing now, cheeks warm, eyes shining, but Fred didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything.

“We should head back before curfew,” he said. “Or that great big toad’ll have more lines for us to write.”

She nodded, biting back the smile still tugging at her lips. “Night, Fred.”

He paused, just at the door. Then, without turning around, he added, “You’re not as annoying as you used to be.”

She grinned.

———————————————————————

The Burrow had never looked like this. Everything shimmered. From the floating golden lanterns to the enchanted rose petals drifting lazily in the air, to the laughter and clinking glasses and spell-spun silk fluttering across the garden. It was surreal. Beautiful.

Fred Weasley was vaguely aware of it all. But mostly, he was trying to stay away from Aunt Muriel and refill his champagne without getting dragged into more family gossip.

He stood near the punch bowl, adjusting the collar of his dark green dress robes, hair a little messier than it should’ve been, tie slightly askew. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like anyone had caught his attention tonight.

And then she walked in. And for the first time in what might have been his whole life, Fred forgot how to breathe. She was radiant. Her deep wine-colored dress clung gently to her figure, the sleeves sheer and glittering at the wrists. Her hair was pinned half-up, loose curls falling around her shoulders, framing her face in a way that was both graceful and maddening.

And she walked like she knew it. Chin high, posture strong, eyes sweeping the room with quiet confidence. Fred stared openly, mouth parted slightly.

George appeared beside him and muttered, “Well, damn.”

Fred blinked. “Is that…?”

“Yep.”

“…She’s taller.”

“She’s still a few heads shorter than you.”

“She’s might not be annoying anymore.”

George snorted. “Give her five minutes.”

Fred didn’t move. Just watched as she chatted with Ginny and Luna, her laughter a little lower now, her smile slower and more poised. He barely noticed himself walking toward her.

“Look who’s finally out of hiding,” she said as he approached, that old glint of mischief still sparking in her eyes.

Fred’s brain took a moment to reboot. “You clean up.”

She raised a brow. “That was barely a compliment.”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t want to inflate your ego.”

“Too late,” she said, spinning slightly on her heel. “Ginny says I look ethereal.”

“You look—” beautiful nearly slipped out, but Fred swallowed it. “—like someone who’s up to something.”

She grinned. “And yet you still walked over here.”

“You’ve grown,” he said without thinking.

She looked at him, amused. “That’s what happens when time passes.”

“I mean, grown up. Not just in height.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t usually notice things, Weasley. Should I be concerned?”

He chuckled under his breath. “Maybe.”

They stood awkwardly for a beat, the music from the band floating around them.

“Why hasn’t anyone danced with you yet?” Fred blurted.

She blinked. “Maybe they’re scared I’ll hex their feet.”

He stepped forward, offering his hand. “I’m not scared.”

She hesitated only a second before taking it. “Good. Because I do know a foot-freezing jinx.”

They took to the floor together and surprisingly she danced well. Poised but playful, one eyebrow raised as he led their movements with an ease he didn’t even know he had.

“You’ve gotten…less terrible at this,” she teased.

“Dancing?”

“Everything.”

Fred twirled her gently. “You’re still short.”

“I’m (your height)!”

“You say that, but I don’t see it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re glowing.” She blinked. His words had come without thought. He covered quickly. “Could just be the lanterns, though.”

She didn’t call him out. Just smiled, until the moment was punctured by a bright blue light and the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

The wards cracked like thunder. Guests began panicking - robes whipping in the wind, chairs crashing, sparks flying through the air.

Fred pushed her behind him instantly, wand drawn before she’d even grasped what was happening.

“Death Eaters,” he said tightly.

The tent was erupting in chaos. Hexes firing, people screaming, shadows cloaked in smoke. Ginny ran towards them through the crowd.

Y/n grabbed her friend’s hand and shouted, “Where’s everyone?!”

“Dad’s trying to get the guests out. Fred—” Ginny turned, but Fred had already stepped in front of them again, eyes scanning the crowd.

“Stick with me,” he told them. “Don’t argue.”

Someone hurled a hex toward the trio and Fred deflected it with a sharp flick. “Stupefy!”

The Death Eater dropped. Y/n stepped closer to Fred. “We can fight.”

Fred glanced at her - at the hard set of her jaw, the way her wand was already raised, how her hands weren’t shaking.

“…Alright,” he said. “But stay in my eyeline.”

They moved like a unit, dueling through the smoke and wreckage, spells lighting the garden. She stunned a cloaked figure just before he reached Ginny, and Fred looked at her with something like awe.

They found her parents on the edge of the field, huddled near the edge of the anti-Apparition line.

“Go!” Fred barked. “Take her. Take both of them.”

Her mother grabbed her arm, pulling her toward safety. She turned, chest heaving, eyes locking with Fred’s. “Fred—”

“Go!” he shouted. “I’ll find George!”

The last thing she saw before they Disapparated was Fred, smoke swirling around him, a glowing ring of light from a Shield Charm spinning around his silhouette.

———————————————————————

It was like the castle was breathing its last breath. Smoke twisted through shattered stone, every corridor crackling with spells and screams and the metallic tang of fear. The walls trembled with each impact, rubble crashing down like thunder. The battle had fractured time itself. Everything blurred and broke around the edges.

And through it all, y/n ran. She was barely thinking, her wand a blur in her hand, her heart punching through her ribs with every corner she turned. She had lost sight of Ginny ten minutes ago, but she had no time to find her again. Not when death eaters were storming the passageways of Hogwarts, trying to get in through sealed rubble.

Her wand moved as an extension of her, throat dry from the spells rapidly shooting from her mouth as her tired brain tried to keep up.

“Hey! Mini menace!” An all too familiar voice yelled out, and she whirled to see multiple heads of red hair. Fred, George, and Percy were all facing off against death eaters. Some of whom y/n recognised. One especially as he’d escaped from Azkaban - Augustus Rookwood.

“A little help here?” George called out but she was already joining the fray.

Together they managed to dispatch two of the three attackers, and knowing he was next, Rookwood smiled cruelly and aimed his wand at the roof.

“Move!” Y/n warned but Fred was directly beneath the blast.

As a sparking beam of light emerged from Rookwood’s wand, y/n rushed forwards instead of backwards. Grabbing Fred’s hand to pull him down with her, she screamed, “PROTEGO TOTALUM!”

A silvery shield of air erupted just as the ceiling blew apart, stone and dust collapsing down upon them. Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, half expecting the spell to have not been enough. But when she opened her eyes she found she and Fred both still breathing, encapsulated in a protective field, buried beneath the rubble that would otherwise have crushed them.

“Blimey!” Fred cursed loudly. “You saved my life.”

“You’re welcome, you idiot,” she said, breathless, coughing the fine debris from her throat. The pile above them groaned. More rubble teetered, glowing unstable. “I can’t hold it for long!”

“Fred! Y/n!” Fred and Percy’s worried voices sounded from the other side of it all.

“We’re okay!” She yelled back. “Won’t be for much longer if you guys can’t get us out of here though.”

“Hold still, we’ll get you out!” George called back, and he and Percy got to work on clearing the rubble.

Meanwhile Fred was staring at her - like really staring. It hit him all at once, like a Bludger to the gut. She wasn’t just brave. She wasn’t just clever. She wasn’t even annoying anymore. She was…magnificent.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, reaching gently for his face.

Fred caught her wrist. “You’ve got soot all over you. Can’t have you messing up my money maker.”

She huffed. “We’re literally in a warzone, Fred.”

He didn’t let go. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, right where Umbridge’s old scars had once lived. There was a pause. Everything around them screamed and fell and fought, but right here, it was just them.

“…You’ve grown,” he said hoarsely.

Her brows raised faintly. “We’ve been over this.”

He shook his head. “No. I mean really. You’re…not the little girl who used to set off exploding bonbons in the garden.”

She smiled softly. “And you’re not the boy who used to call me a plague.”

Fred chuckled once, low and breathless. “No. You’re worse.”

“Still annoying?”

He looked at her then, eyes dark, intense, devastated by everything they hadn’t said. “…Not even a little.”

Thankfully Percy and George managed to shift the stones enough for them to crawl out of the space before her shield charm gave out.

All three brothers embraced tightly and y/n stood back, watching with a soft smile on her face.

“Come here, you’re practically one of us,” George held out his arm, ushering her forward and she joined them with a warmth growing in her chest.

The castle had gone quiet. The sound of spells and explosions replaced by sobs and cries of mourning. “Is it over?” She asked, hopeful.

———————————————————————

The Burrow hadn’t seen this much life in…well, since the wedding.

Every table in the crooked old house was covered in plates of food and levitating candles. The air buzzed with voices - loud, overlapping, full of stories and bursts of laughter that tried to drown out everything they’d all survived.

The party had spilled out into the garden by sundown. Golden fairy lights tangled in the trees. Paper lanterns floated lazily above dancing couples. Someone had conjured a wireless, and Celestina Warbeck was singing a swing version of Magic Works.

Fred stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, nursing a Butterbeer and ignoring how much his shoulder still hurt when he laughed too hard.

“Oi,” George nudged him. “Stop brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Fred replied.

“You’re absolutely brooding.”

Fred didn’t answer. Because he was already watching the front porch. She had just arrived. And Merlin’s hairy arse, did she look good.

She wore a deep midnight-blue dress, simple but flattering, her hair pulled back loosely with little white flowers woven into it. She wasn’t flashy - never had been - but she walked into the garden like she belonged in it. Like the war hadn’t dulled her fire, only forged her sharper.

She smiled at Mrs. Weasley and hugged Ginny, who squealed about her earrings. George muttered something cheeky about “distracted, aren’t we?” but Fred didn’t even hear it. Because she laughed, eyes bright, and looked right at him. Fred blinked. Then smiled, slow and sure.

She made her way over through the crowd, careful not to step on any gnome holes in her heels.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft but familiar.

“Hey,” he returned, clearing his throat as if that could make his heart stop sprinting.

“You’re still here. Thought you and George might have ducked back to the shop by now.”

“Disappointed?”

She rolled her eyes. “Mildly.”

There was a pause, heavy with what wasn’t being said.

“You clean up,” Fred finally said. “Really well.”

Her cheeks flushed a soft, pretty pink. “You already said that. At the wedding.”

“Yes, well now it’s getting harder to ignore,” he said, stepping a little closer.

She laughed, lower now, more grown, and it hit him square in the ribs.

“You wanna dance?” he asked, holding out his hand like it was nothing, hoping she’d take it.

She looked up at him, brow arched and for a moment he was scared she’d turn him down. Until she took his head and pulled him over to the makeshift dance floor.

They moved slower this time. No twirling, no teasing. Just a sway, her hand resting lightly against his shoulder, his fingers brushing the small of her back.

“You always hated dancing,” she whispered.

“I didn’t hate it,” he said. “I just never had the right person.” Her breath hitched. He tilted his head, studying her. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

“I mean it. You’re…” he trailed off, his voice going quiet. “You’re not so little anymore.”

“Yeah?” she whispered, pulse fluttering under her skin. “What else am I?”

He looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world. “Someone I can’t stop thinking about.”

She stilled. Fred waited. Heart hammering. Joking had always been easy. This wasn’t. And then, her lips curved.

“Well,” she said. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

And they kept dancing. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. But Fred’s hand stayed exactly where it was, her fingers rested exactly where they shouldn’t feel so natural, and everything else melted away in the starlight.

They danced together until the crowd thinned. People began to gather plates, yawns fighting for sleep. Even when everyone else had left she stayed and helped clean up, sleeves rolled, wand in hand, laughing with Ginny and Hermione as they herded gnomes out of the drinks tray.

Fred leaned in the kitchen doorway watching her.

George came up beside him. “You’ve been staring. Again.”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Yes.”

Ginny walked past and muttered, “Finally,” before disappearing with a smug smile.

Fred ran a hand through his hair and tried to keep cool. “I think there’s…something there.”

George clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, mate. We all knew. You were just late to your own story.”

Fred grinned slowly. “Not too late, though.”

———————————————————————

The sun hung low over the trees, casting golden ripples across the lake’s surface. Dragonflies buzzed lazily over reeds, the scent of honeysuckle heavy in the warm summer air. The field was scattered with towels and empty firewhisky bottles, and the Weasleys were loud, half-submerged in water or tossing an old Quaffle.

Fred was pretending to read a book on a blanket near the shore. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

George swam past him and called, “If you squint any harder at her, mate, your face might stay that way.”

Fred didn’t answer. He was too busy watching her.

She was waist-deep in the lake, barefoot, her summer dress hitched up slightly in one hand. The fabric spread around her, floating through the water like a halo. Her hair was damp, curling around her shoulders, and her laughter floated across the water like music. Ginny was splashing her, shrieking with every wave, but Fred only saw her - elegant, radiant, sun-drenched.

When she tossed her head back, laughing with her eyes squeezed shut, Fred actually forgot how to breathe.

“I’m going in,” he muttered.

George smirked. “Don’t drown.”

Fred kicked off his boots and waded through the reeds, shirt unbuttoned halfway down, pants rolled to his knees. She looked up just as he approached, water swirling gently around her thighs.

“Well, well,” she said, eyes glinting. “Fred Weasley, willingly entering a body of water. Am I hallucinating?”

“Just wanted to see what all the shrieking was about,” he replied smoothly.

“Ginny started it.”

Fred nodded solemnly. “That tracks.”

There was a moment where neither of them spoke. The lake lapped softly around them, and the trees rustled like they were listening in.

“You looked happy,” he said finally. “Just now.”

She shrugged lightly, hair sticking to her neck. “I am, I think. For the first time in…what feels like forever.”

Fred swallowed. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head. “Why’d you really come out here? You hate lake water.”

He moved a step closer, hands in his pockets. “I missed your voice.”

Her brow arched. “I’m sure you did.”

“It’s quieter now,” he added, teasing. “Almost pleasant.”

She splashed him. Fred yelped, staggering back and laughing.

“You’re still a menace,” he said, wiping water from his face.

“And you’re still the boy who called me a gremlin.”

“You were a gremlin.”

“And you were a smug git with dumb hair.”

Fred smirked. “It’s iconic, thank you.”

She grinned at him, sunlight dancing across her cheeks. “So go on, then. Why’d you follow me out here?”

He stepped closer again. Close enough now that he could see droplets clinging to her lashes.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About how things used to be.”

She went still. “Yeah?”

“I hated how much you talked. How you always had to be in every joke, every game.” Fred continued. “You were loud. Relentless. Competitive. You never let me win.”

“Builds character. You’re welcome.”

“But you were brave. And clever. And way more fun than I wanted to admit.” He looked at her fully now, serious for once, no mischief in his smile. “And the truth is…” He exhaled. “Maybe I didn’t not like you because you were annoying. Maybe I didn’t like you because I liked you differently, and I didn’t understand it.”

Her lips parted slightly in amusement. “Why did you think I was annoying you all those years?”

Fred blinked at her, not quite understanding.

“Because I liked you,” she said quietly. “Obviously.”

His heart stumbled in his chest.

“I used to go home from the Burrow every summer and swear I’d stop liking you,” she added, eyes flicking to the water. “But then you’d say something stupid or laugh at something I did and I’d be doomed all over again.”

Fred stepped even closer, water lapping at both of them now. “We were really awful to each other.”

“We were,” she whispered. “It was kind of perfect.”

He looked at her like he never wanted to look away again. Then - softly, like a secret - he said, “Can I kiss you?”

She leaned in. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Their lips met - finally, breathlessly, fully - in the middle of the lake with sunlight filtering through the trees and the world slipping away behind the sound of rippling water and held breath and everything that had ever built between them over years of arguments, nicknames, and almosts.

When they finally pulled apart, Fred was grinning like an idiot.

“So…” she said, flushed and breathless, “Am I still annoying?”

Fred shook his head slowly, brushing a damp curl off her cheek. “No,” he said. “Now you’re just mine.”

From the shore, there was a distant roar of clapping and cheering - Ginny, George, Ron, even Percy, who looked confused but proud.

Fred groaned. “Bloody Weasleys.”

She just laughed and kissed him again.

[randomgurl2326]

Ajax x reader where its winter and his snakes are in brumation (basically hibernation) and he gets super clingy and needy

Ajax in winter

This is gonna be a little short but sweet cos how cute. I have something similar on my page too check my masterlist.

Cw - clingy ajax, slightly submissive Ajax, boob play, quite fluffy little bit of smut towards the end but no p in v.

Your boyfriend hates winter. Gorgons were already particularly idle outcasts but in the winder once their snakes were in hibernation it was a whole other story. You on the other hand loved these winter times when you got to look after your boy.

Ajax was feeling particularly clingy on this day. It was the coldest day of the month thus far and it was hitting him hard. He came stumbling into your dawn early in the morning shaking you awake.

“Y/n” he moaned. “Wake up baby” your slowly regained consciousness startled at first before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into bed next to you.

“Jax your freezing” you breathed out his cold hands wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled into the nape of your neck. The cold top of his nose dragging along your warm neck. Your body heated him up like his own personal hot water bottle.

“How did you get here without being caught” you whispered to the boy. Luckily your roommate was away at a funeral so you had the dorm to yourself.

“‘M sneaky” he mumbled. “Your so warm dove” he nuzzled into your further relaxing under your touch. You slipped your hand under his beanie running your fingers through his snakes and whom sleepily tangled themselves into your warm palm. He loved head scratches and they did too.

The two of you laid their together cuddling for a while as you whispered sweet nothings into his sleepy ears. After an hour passed he seemed to have perked up a bit.

“Hi my love” he smiled up at you

“Hi baby” you returned to smile leaning in to give him butterfly kisses and rubbing your noses together. It was his favourite way to embrace you. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah a bit” he sighed. “It was so cold in the dorm this morning” he shivered at the memory.

His hands began sneaking up your loose pyjama shirt which was actually one of his you had stolen. You sighed as you felt his cold hands reach the small of your back. “No bra?” He giggled.

“Who sleeps in a bra” you groaned.

“I’m not complaining, Easy access”. He teased looking pleadingly into your eyes for approval. You lifted up your shirt and he dove under neath his mouth latching to your soft chest sucking on your nipples.

It wasn’t sexual for the two of you. I mean it turned you on yes but it was also just another way of being close to one another. You ran your fingers over his back lovingly as he continued his assault on your chest his tongue swirling around your sensitive bud as his hands continued to roam. The coldness of his hands mixed with the warmth of your body sent shock waves through your body as the two of you lay there together well and truely tangled in each others love.

[randomgurl2326]

It needs to be said: Ajax deserves a gargoyle gf

Reasons: already stone so he doesn’t have to hide his true self, gargoyles by nature are fiercely loyal and protective, I don’t need more reasons

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk

[randomgurl2326]

pairing : Clark Kent x tipsy!Reader. warnings : sexual content. grinding, pussydrunk!Clarkie, cunnilingus, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, praise kink, cumming untouched. porn with no plot. 18+ only !!

˚⋅౨ৎ x p!link

"But Clarkie, I'm horny !" you pout, stomping your foot— all bratty and defiant— your hands curled into little fists at your sides. "I know. I know, baby. But you're drunk, we shouldn't b—" he placates and you roll your eyes before straddling his lap, determined to crack that infuriatingly responsible exterior and have your way with him.

And knowing how easy Clark is to rile up ? He'd be doing exactly as you say in no time.

"I don't care. I'm like soo wet." you whine, batting your eyelashes up at him, dragging the soaked lace of your underwear against the big, tantalising bulge —already straining against his sweats from your earlier make-out— in a deep grind that makes him gasp, his hands hovering over your hips, hesitant and trembling. "I needed your dick like yesterday, Clarkie. I've literally been thinking 'bout you the entire day... 'bout how you fuck me stupid, how you feel deep inside my pussy. Ugh, I need it s'bad, baby. Please ? " you whisper, your words slurring even more from the way the thick ridge of shaft grinds perfectly against your clit, making you moan. And finally, his hands settle on your waist.

_

Clark's face is buried between your legs, big hands pinning your thighs open to the bed from the way you're writhing uncontrollably, bucking against his mouth, your hands tugging at his hair as you moan— loud and pornographic— from how good he's making you feel.

He laps hungrily at your clit— circling and then sucking with just the right amount of pressure that borders on too much— groaning into your weeping cunt like he's the one getting off just from tasting you. And from the way his hips grind into mattress below with desperate little thrusts— he probably is.

He works you over with his mouth like he's starving and when your first orgasm hits— hot and blinding— your hands clawing at the sheets as your thighs clamp around his head from the way he's moaning into your pussy, the vibrations making your eyes roll back— he doesn't stop. He just pushes your thighs open wider, his eyes flashing with warning as he mumbles, "Keep them there. I'm not done yet."

He doesn’t even fully pull away to speak, just enough for you to make out his words before his mouth is back on you with a stuttered groan — like every second he spends without his mouth on you is killing him. His tongue laves through your soaked folds— deep and desperate— working you up into another frenzy till your whimpers of overstimulation melt into cries of pleasure, once again.

"C-Clark, m'gonna cum again !" you whine and he redoubles his efforts, your body going pliant under the weight of his whorish need to make you cum over and over and over again, until he's satisfied.

Each thick, filthy drag of his tongue against your dripping pussy has your vision starting to blur at the edges when your second orgasm hits, pleasure and overstimulation warring against each other, making you push at his head in desperation. Clark grunts into your oversensitive folds, shaking his head earnestly like he's begging as he pins your wrists your sides.

No one would expect the big, bad Superman to be a slave to pussy, but here Clark Kent was, eating you out like it's goddamn job and he can't even bare to think about stopping.

"I-I can't anymore. Please— it's too much." you sob but he isn't listening, rutting harder against the bed as he pushes your thighs up to your chest with a groaned plea. "I know you can, baby. You're my good girl, yeah ? Just gimme one more. I know this sweet little pussy's got another in her." And his mouth is back on you again, relentless and selfish.

By the time your third climax rips through you— overwhelming and borderline painful— you're actually crying, tears of oversensitivity running hot down your cheeks as you whimper weakly. Clark moans— loud and satisfied— into your pussy, leaving you clinging to the absolute edge of consciousness. He finally pulls away after licking you clean, a dopey, fucking boyish grin of utter delight on his face— like he didn't just make you pass out from his mouth alone. His face is the absolute picture of debauchery— flushed with sticky rivulets of your slick running down his mouth and jaw from how long he spent eating you out, his hair sweaty and sticking all pretty to his forehead.

You smile, slow and lazy at the sight of him above you, your eyes half-lidded. " Don't think you're gonna be able to take my cock after this, baby." he whispers, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to your cheek before pulling you against him.

"But what 'bout you ?" you slur and he smiles sheepishly, blushing harder. "Don't need to worry 'bout me, sweetie." he says and your eyes fall down to his bulge, your jaw dropping in shock when you see the front already soaked through, obscenely, with his cum.

a/n : saw this clip and my pussy brain went "Yup, that's Clark. Now write about it." if anyone would like to be added to the taglist for Clark Kent please don't hesitate to let me know <3 taglist : @y0inked, @castielsonlyangel, @zenoxl, @bowxs.

[randomgurl2326]

୨୧ ── Stream with me!

› Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne x Streamer!Wife!Reader

› Scenario: What more could a wife who streams want other than streaming with her husband? Nothing! Maybe. It depends. But in this universe—best believe that it is all you've ever wanted! What does your husband think about it, though?

› Notes: English is not my first language + Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + almost 6k words that's why it took me days to write TT + Cringe and unhinged alert + big poo and goobert stole the show

Bruce Wayne

Bruce lets out a deep sigh as he watches you set up before starting the stream. A warm smile adorns his face, but he's still reluctant to show up as a guest. Just why did someone suggest a wife and husband bonding time in your streams? You were overjoyed that you ended up calling him in the middle of your stream to ask him about it.

Bruce excused himself and let an executive continue the briefing. His gruff voice sounded soft when he called your name, asking why you suddenly called—not even the slightest bit of annoyance in his voice at the fact you called during a meeting.

"Honey, look at the picture I sent!" He questions what could possibly have his wife over the moon. With the monitor in his lens, the picture popped in front of him. It was a 5 dollar donation from UnkissedBrick that said—in all caps—

"MAKE A STREAM WITH YOUR HUSBAND AND MY LIFE IS YOURS !!!$%5@5@"

It started a spark within the community that they were BEGGING you to make it come true. 

A stream to make money, have fun, and be with your husband at the same time? Of course you'd agree. Best believe that Bruce had no way out of this, you barely asked anything from him—would he have the heart to decline a simple request such as this?

No! And that's why he's here sitting beside you, wearing your adorable, pink headphones. It was something entirely new in his life. Never, and I mean never, has Bruce imagined he'll be wearing this godforsaken headphone for millions to see. The only thing stopping him from taking it off was obviously you—his wife.

"Wow! Thank you all so much for coming to see this stream. There's a lot more of you today."

Bruce snaps his head in your direction, giving him a clear view of how you marveled at the screens in front of you. A thought slips into his mind, whispering thoughts that made him worry about you. 

A lot more today? 

How many more were there than usual?

He'll let anything happen, just not this. Stealing the light from you is a scenario he didn't want to occur in this very video. It's your stream, it's your channel—not his. His blood pressure spikes at the thoughts flooding his head. And yet, you didn't seem to mind, you're just thanking them.

Bruce looked at the rapid comments piling up on the screen, amazed by the speed of people commenting. Nothing's too quick for his eyes, though. Who do you take him for? He reads every single one. Despite his worries, it was drastically different from what he thought. Your fanbase was literally fighting the viewers who only came for him.

BigPoo: Coming here ONLY for the husband is soooo embarrassing

isayholAcomosta: Scram your asses outta here man

IAMBatman: LMAOO IMAGINE WATCHING FOR BRUCE WAYNE

InstantoPreggo: either support her (and him ig) or face the consequences of my 16-inch-thick, fat, JUICY HUMONGOUS D!LD0 UP YOUR ASS.

Bruce had to flinch himself away from the monitor after reading that last comment. 

He looks at you with disbelief. So this is what you were laughing at... To be fair, it is rather amusing, to say the least. The look on his face makes you laugh even more now that you've spared some time to actually look at your husband's worry corner beside you.

The chat stops when you scold them to support both of you, also instructing the mods to delete any negative comments about Bruce. Which is odd since you remember telling them to do so beforehand.

"Don't worry about them, honey. Let's just have fun."

The kiss you give on his cheek eases Bruce, his bigger hands take yours to caress it in a comforting way. But really, we know it was for him. A deep sigh escapes his lips, knowing he has nothing to worry about anymore aside from getting through this stream with you.

You've noticed him being quiet again. He should try focusing on the game you're playing so he could see how fun it is. You told him to have fun, and Bruce is trying, believe me. 

Bruce folds his arms and directs his attention to the monitor where you're playing some kind of simulator game about supermarkets. The store layout is nice, though it looks cramped, the prices are lower than the market price, the other products are understocked, and the bills were due in-game. 

"Honey, are you playing this right?" 

"Am I not?"

He's spent years managing businesses, come on. Bruce is shrewd. And seeing his dear wife fail at this supermarket simulator, no can do. He's just lucky this game is right up his alley. You let go of the keyboard and mouse unattended to listen to his suggestions. 

What was hotter than the fact that there's a hot man explaining business tactics to you? Correct, he's your husband! And a smart husband is a hot husband.

Bruce was so concerned with his strategies that he suddenly went on autopilot and grabbed the controls to show you instead of using words. You stifle a laugh behind your hand. When did he learn all those controls? He wasn't just moping around beside you, and he actually was paying attention? You might just want to request another wedding again.

His only intention was to show you how you were supposed to manage the shop. Bruce demonstrated that perfectly. So why is he still in control? His mind wants to let go. And letting go would mean he'll have to leave playing this game. The escaped chuckles from you reached his ears. With a tentative glance and muted rosy cheeks, it was like he was asking permission to keep playing.

"Go on, dear. I'll just watch you play." You mean it. Watching Bruce play a game was more enjoyable than playing, he understands it more anyways. You don't think your heart will ever feel cold when you look at him. Not ever while you're still breathing and alive to keep on loving him.

Your eyes narrow with every part of Bruce that your eyes land on. A subconscious gulp was made when you took notice of the few strands of hair that hung on top of his forehead, the way veins would pop in his forearms with a few movements when he used the keyboard and mouse, and the musky scent of his cologne that perked your senses up—you'd wonder to yourself why you didn't have at least one child with him already.

The overflowing amount of comments in the corner of your eye catches your attention. You scoot closer to read it.

Tin-a-pie: Miss ma'am is so DOWNBAD

Big Poo: "Eaaasy white chocolate"  AHH TYPE SHIIT

MMONEYY: Bruce Wayne's gonna melt 

Goobert: ON EVERYBODY'S SOUL WE ALL WANT TO BE IN BETWEEN THEM

You snort, hitting Bruce's shoulder repeatedly. The man loses focus on his game, amusement in his eyes as you stood up to sit on his lap. He catches you in his arms, holding your shaking body in amusement. Guess he didn't have to excessively worry, after all—spending time and making you happy is his priority today.

"Are you happy, my love?" Bruce pressed his forehead against yours. His forearms had a grip on your waist that felt so secure and warm that even if you melted, you'd still be in his arms.

"Very. Thank you, Bruce." Oh, how your laughter gets his heart kicking and running.

The chat floods once again with teaseful comments. Too many for you to read without getting blown by another. Not that it matters, your husband is too busy being pampered in your kisses.

Bruce's phone vibrates nonstop in his pocket. You fished it out for him and opened it to see Dick's face with an image attached to it.

I hope Mom doesn't mind the new sticker I added to the chat. Tell her I told the other mods about it. ;]

Bruce was in the middle of questioning what his first son said only to be caught off guard with you abruptly shifting your body weight against him, laughing uncontrollably. The chat was spamming a photo of Bruce from earlier when he was so focused on the supermarket simulator game.

"I didn't look like that, did I?" He stares at you deadpan, making you laugh harder.

Dick Grayson

Is this even your stream at all? How was he acting like close friends to your viewers after a few minutes? You stare at your husband dumbfounded. Although you know that Dick has a charming aura and personality, you didn't expect it to leak through the screen and into their hearts within minutes of knowing him!

When you asked Dick if he wanted to do a stream with you, he basically almost leaped with joy. Just almost—because he suddenly hugged you before he could jump up into space from the ecstasy of his dear, loving wife if he wanted to do a gaming video with you.

Actually, Dick has always wanted to. The thought of having millions see how loved you are in his arms—OH THE SEROTONIN—Dick can't wait to do so. He just waited and waited and waited—until you finally invited him.

You can't actually hide your jealousy well about the fact that he's paying more attention to the chat than you.

Goobert: I suddenly feel like a mistress caught in the act with how the missus is looking from behind you

Big Poo: NAH HE'S OUR HUSBAND NOW

TheAMAZINGpie: She's so jealous LMAOOO tease her more

Good thing Dick was staring intently at the chat, he couldn't see your secretive middle finger you're flashing at the viewers. He laughs and takes a quick glance at you over his shoulder, then back to the chat. A scoff of disbelief leaves your mouth. Those snitches!

"Yes, chat, these are the true colors of my wife. She's more barbaric when it's just us two here." The playful tone has you pinching his sides. Dick laughs and flinches away from your hand.

"See? She keeps on hurting me."

"Quit the baby voice, Dick, oh my God! Eww." 

You gag at your husband, earning yet another heartfelt laugh. It was hard to pretend you were annoyed when everything felt so warm and natural. Dick is lucky he's your husband, or else you would've strangled him out of annoyance by now.

"Horror games are overrated, let's play simple ones." He pouts at you.

"What do you suggest then?"

And that's how you found yourself playing dress-up games at the old girl games website, where you can find all of the low-quality yet nostalgic games for girls in the world. You both competed in a game where the game picks who made the better outfit.

Imagine the look of disbelief in your face when he keeps winning 5 times in a row—5 times! Dick has got to be cheating, because in no way Dick Grayson has more fashion sense than you, right? Fight him, girl!

"You are so cheating, babe! How are you the winner every round?"

Dick raised his arms in a smug way, shrugging you off to annoy you. "Ah, the loser is barking. Face it, babe. I'm better." He blows you a kiss that you playfully shooed away, pinching your nose after. Dick gasps at your action, fighting the urge to laugh and just play along.

"Still can't beat me, honey."

"Pick another game. You'll taste defeat, Grayson."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Grayson."

That's a blow to your pride. Imagine getting flustered in the middle of your bickering. Now you let a smug grin slip on your husband's face. Girl, you better stand on business cause you are losing FACE to your viewers right now.

5 girl go games later and you're still somehow losing to Dick. It feels like your sex has been reversed because what the hell? Maybe you are a man... at heart. How are you losing to a full grown man who—mind you—suggested that you play these games! Dick might be playing these at night when you're asleep.

It was a cooking game this time. You both need to beat each other with higher scores and more satisfied customers, obviously. It was just a mystery how he still wins when you both clearly see the big, colorful letters in bold saying that the dish you prepared was perfect—and he still wins!?

"That's it! I'm convinced you are cheating." You point a finger at him.

"It's just a matter of skill, hun." He smirks at you.

The last resort—your faithful, loyal, loving chat will support you on your accusations, right? Oh no, that smile on your face was wiped when you saw an ongoing poll on the stream. Scratch what you used to describe your chat, they are being the total opposite right now.

Overthrow the queen and appoint Dickie as the new ruler!

It's worst enough that it was 99% over 1%. You look at the camera with a death stare, in disbelief that your dear fans would overthrow you like this. Is it because Dick was more charming and had a larger ass than you? Okay, maybe keep that last thought to yourself because they cannot see the down half of your bodies.

And an annoying donation comes in the heat of the moment...

Daywalk donated 5$  

I'm looking at the most breathtaking, marvelous, amazing, pretty, kind, majestic, beautiful, attractive, sexy, hot, and gorjus (idk how to spell) right now and oh—I didn't realize you were here, sweetheart

Dick was giggling uncontrollably beside you with his phone in his hands. You saw the stream on his screen split seconds before he hid it beside him where you can't reach it. Did he really think you wouldn't notice it was him with this shitty ass username?

"Really, Dick? Daywalk? That's the best you could come up with?" You bury your face in your hand, imitating a facepalm to hide your laughter. You hate how he can easily make you laugh with the stupidest things.

"I am a fan of Nightwing, Babe. He has such good hair, good facial features, and that goddamn juicy ass of his. Have you seen his—"

"Dick."

"Okay, okay, sheesh, God forbid a man uplift his fellow man." He raised his hands in mock defeat. Backing away from that look of yours.

Dick Grayson is audacious. Partly one of the reasons why you married this man. 

You gave up, rolled your eyes, and just gave him a kiss to shut him up.

Jason Todd

"Oh come on, baby, you know you're happy to be here." 

You snicker at the scowl on his face. Jason looked like he wanted to drop a smoke bomb to escape the stream, but of course he wouldn't! What you said is true—he is ecstatic to be here. He refused your offer several times before caving in... and just a little secret, he just wanted to see how bad you want him to be in one.

In fact, he had the stream planned out already. In the span of the 3 days where you begged him to stream with you, Jason used it as a time to search for games to play, imagine scenarios, and other cute stuff that he wants to make happen today.

First things first, seem tough enough to place boundaries through his stare and seem friendly enough to joke around with him. Check. The chat was respectful to Jason and some joked around that this looked like Doomguy and Isabelle looking relationship.

"Oh please, it's more switched. This guy's a baby." Jason's eyes widen when you pull his chair to ruffle on his hair like a little kid. He glares up at you. Okay—maybe, this is tolerable, it has a loving effect to the viewers. Yes, this is fine. 

"Jason, don't bob your head like that onto my boob." You snort and push his head away. Ah, he thought he was nodding inside his head.

Big Poo: He's kinda weird... I like him

Goobert: We accept weird big guy and queen dynamics

Ignoring that small weird display of his, it's time for phase 2—urge you to play horror games of his choice. He didn't binge watch couples playing horror games last night just for you to play other games. A mischievous grin is fighting it's way to make itself appear on his lips. Jason expects you to get scared, cling to him, and show off the muscles he spent the few days toning. 

And as if he wasn't toned enough, Jason plans to show that this muscles of his won't be just for show if they decided to mug you in the streets while he's around. Anyone who's watching this stream would be a warning for parasocial freaks who'll try something with you.

"How about we play this one, babe?" He points at the game he searched up.

With a look of disbelief, you could only sigh at your husband's antics. He couldn't have been more obvious than this. The longer reps of his biceps workouts? Yeah, he's definitely planning something to show it off.

You sigh, and start the game up. The chat snitches on him smiling widely behind you as the game starts. It quickly disappears when you turn around, then reappears when you don't look. He gives the chat a playful motion of slicing his neck then points at the camera with a finger placed on his lips.

With a discreet glance behind you, there, you saw your husband doing a face that could kill that's accompanied by creepy giggles. In all of the years you've been together, not once could a sight like this ever cross your mind. Why is he having internet beef with your viewers?

Does he also think you can't see him through your stream view at your other monitor? You also stare at the gummy smile on your face, still having no resistance in finding everything he does as cute.

Heck, even if he snapped someone's neck in front of you with a sassy remark after, you'll still find it cute. Fucked up, yes, but hey, it's not like you haven't had body counts of your own in your other line of work.

Jason lets out an amused scoff at your unwavering focus to navigate through the dark cellar. There hasn't been a single jumpscare since you started. But because of his horror game video marathon, he's got every single one memorized. 

It'll take some time before the first one. In the meanwhile, he knows what to do to get you to warm up for the big scare.

His hands snakes itself downward, right past his own chair. You were focused on getting out of the sealed room that the chat's warnings fell to deaf ears... or eyes. Jason inches his chair closer to yours, carefully, so that his chair won't bump into yours.

An annoying habit of his that once made his teeth bleed from your punch. He waits until you're about to turn around a corner to strike—Jason bolts your body with an abrupt push on your shoulder. "Boo!"

The most he got from you was a loud curse and your middle finger in the middle of his face.

"Jason—We agreed on never doing that again. Fuck you, honestly." You glare at him through the monitor, not wasting another second to look back at the game. Your ears perk at the loud laugh that seeps through your headphones. 

"Oh please, you're not too much of a pussy to get scared from that, aren't you?" 

"Is that a challenge?" 

Jason waits for suspense, waiting until he knows you're almost near the first jumpscare of the game to throw you off. His hands once again find the liberty to make you jolt, making you lose focus and lightly smack your husband beside you.

Once you get back to the game, a horrifying figure appears on the screen, taking almost all of the pixels it offers. You flinch back and shield your eyes away the moment Jason tries to cover you from the screen.

It all happened suddenly. But it was if time moved slower for Jason.

One minute he was about to hug you.

The next, your fist connects with his face.

Jason didn't budge but hell—your punch still hurts as when you first met!

"You promised to never punch me again!" Jason whines.

Another promise was broken. As if Jason didn't break his earlier? He's sure his jaw also is. With a grimace and a guilty heart, you caressed his face softly. It was your way of apologizing. Oh well, it's both of your faults so let's just get back to gaming.

Big Poo: Leave Doomguy and Isabelle, bro. They're Mr. and Mrs. Smith at this point

Goobert: They're both tryna survive from each other

So what if Jason's plans failed? His jaw is aching—that's fine! He still has other ways... A plan B if you will. As long as his biceps will have a spotlight. He asks you, sweetly, if he could play instead. Jason smirks triumphantly as he knows you can't resist his weirdly adorable, beaten-up face.

He was actually doing so well for someone who's allegedly never saw or played this game before. Jason passed through each trial with flying colors.

When another jumpscare had shown itself, you were suprised to see your husband inch his shoulder closer to the monitor.

"Not flexin! But look at these chills man." He's definitely flexing.

The chat goes crazy! Comments pile up regarding your 'done-with-the-bullshit-face' at the back and mostly about Jason's muscles. He yaps about the non existent chills on his biceps that the chat eats up.

Big Poo: HOLY MOTHER OF GOD—PLEASE HEADLOCK ME

Goobert: I was unfamiliar with your game, Jason. Forgive me (pls flex more)

TheCrowbar: The crowbar approves of this marriage.

"We already are married, bud. If you wanted to say no, you could've done so 4 years ago." Jason rolls his eyes at the comment.

Yeah, he's definitely not warning everyone with that sass.

Tim Drake

"How is everyone mistaking me as your brother?"

Tim glares the chat through the screen. Evidently pissed at the teasing comments towards him. They knew who he was. How could they not? You always mention him and even introduced him at the start of the stream.

He gently grabs your left hand, raising it to show your matching rings.

Big Poo: AWWW! Such a cute sibling promise rings

Goobert: He loves his sister so much. ackk its so cute!!1!!

You try your best not to laugh. It might set Tim off and make him leave without creating any content. Despite wanting to see him get teased and pissed, you had to stop the chat with a few words.

"That's enough teasing my husband, guys. He doesn't like it." But you do. Your viewers seem to caught on your interest from the way you smile and stare at him earlier. Thankfully, they play along at the moment.

"What game do you guys want to see us play?"

Ah, you shouldn't have asked them. Your husband is a geek for video games! He's better than you at every game you guys play. He was more a tower defense, strategic, and board games type of guy. Doesn't make him any less of a weak player when it comes to games like Nekket, Super Smash Sis, though.

You drag Tim along with you to read some comments. He's impressed at the rapid comment speed your viewers have. Can you read a lot from this on a daily basis? There's a lot of unhinged comments slipping through his eyes too.

"Horror games? That sounds good."

What!

Tim snaps his eyes beside you, wide with surprise.

Before you could even ask for his opinion, your husband was already shaking his head sideways. He even had his arms crossed to match with his disagreement towards the suggestion. Tim does not want horror games this late at night. Absolutely not. Not inside this household when he's around.

He knows you're questioning him. But Tim can't tell you he watched the new horror movie you've been getting him to watch with you—alone. In his defense, he didn't want you to waste money on another shitty movie like last time, so, he scavenged alone to determine if it is as good as they say.

This is the result of his little secret mission from you. It's not his fault he hasn't recovered! You didn't see how terrifying it was for yourself... and not that he plans on letting you know.

Your viewers feed on his terror, already laughing to themselves behind their screens. Tim is just unlucky that you have wealthy viewers ready to make an offer you both can't resist. Like what do you mean two people named Big Poo and Goobert paid $10,000 each just for Tim to play?

And that's how the unlucky Timothy Drake found himself hiding behind your frame, occasionally peeking behind your hair to see how his wife is doing.

Everytime you turn into a corner, flashes of that horrible face appear in front of him. God, why are the lights turned off in your room? He doesn't even want to stand up to turn it on. He's aware he's a grown man, but God forbid a man like him can't get scared.

He takes a peek at the comments at the side.

HoelessRomantic: You shouldn't go there if I were you...

Tin-a-pie: GIRL DON'T

Goobert: You're purposely going there to scare baby bro

Baby bro?! This Goobert did not just say that. It felt like all his fear went away. He pushed himself away from your back. You weren't kidding that saying anymore brother jokes will tick him off.

"You may have beaten me at suggestions, but you won't defeat me in terms of winning over my wife!" He scowls at the monitor, taking you and your viewers aback. "I'm looking at you, Goobert... This is a threat." He smiles maniacally.

Tim sweetly smiles at you. One of the things you can't resist.

"Okay... okay.. calm down, Baby. What game do you want?"

"Oh trust me, you'll love it, honey." Tim presses a kiss on your forehead as he takes control.

You love Tim.

You know him well enough considering he's your husband for 4 years now.

But you guess you didn't know him well enough to expect him to suddenly exit the game and pull out a whole ass board game between you guys. Was it sitting there unnoticed the whole time? No matter, you recognized it to be one of his favorite board games.

He excitedly sets it up on the desk for the chat to see. A smug grin on his face to show off his pre-ordered game with freebies. Tim's so excited to share a game he's mastered.

"I bet you kids don't know this. Back in my days, this was the bomb." He proudly boasts.

Big Poo: Bro pulled out his last resort

Goobert: He had to gain back some aura obv

MMONEYY: Are you sure he gained some?

Ignoring their comments, Tim starts on the basics on how to play the game. Here comes the hardest part in being his wife—listening to his long, heartfelt explanation of Dungeons and Reptiles for the second time.

Nonetheless, you were blessed to hear his voice chip at every detail of the game. To see how the love of your life's eyes gleam to share facts to the viewers you tell about Tim everyday. They knew he was a nerd from your stories—but to see and hear it real time is something else.

Tim looked like a grandparent telling stories of his youth. The stories that seemed boring, but you can't help but listen in to. Although the comments complained that it was boring, and he's like an old man, the viewer count didn't decrease. 

They all listened intently with you. Do they see the vision on why you fell in love with Tim? Definitely.

Big Poo: All in vote of Tim being promoted to Husband, say aye.

Goobert: AYEEE

HoelessRomantic: Aye.

Tin-a-pie: Aye!!!

and a million others more.

"Oh so now I'm officially seen as the husband?" Tim laughs, stopping his yap about the game. He gives you a warm look and pulls you towards him. "I guess it's better than being the little brother, babe." He kisses you passionately while covering your eyes to raise his ring finger alone to the chat.

Tim must have the last laugh after all that teasing.

Damian Wayne

Damian has never been this clingy before. Is it because he's finally out in the open with you for millions to watch behind the safety of their screens? He doesn't know—only that he needs to make sure you're his only.

You can see how red his ears are on the monitor, his body boiling at the simple, cute gesture of having you in his lap while you introduced yourself and him to your viewers. This isn't PDA, he knows you're both technically alone in your shared room. 

Still, he isn't used to it. He's been in the spotlight several times, sure—he's Damian Wayne, hello! Son of Bruce Wayne? You get my point, but, he hasn't really been out with you to the media except the time you got married. Damian's more of a private, but not secret type of guy, you know? 

It wasn't difficult to make him agree. With a simple kiss, doe eyes, and a sweet smile, Damian would say yes without a thought!

Oh, but your chat was the mischievous type. One look at Damian and they all knew he was a guy who'd go boom for his lady. And what type of Boom you may ask? Well...

Big Poo: She is NOT going anywhere blud, calm dowwwnnnnn

Goobert: Acting like a damn dog who doesn't want to share the tree he peed on in 2025 is crazy

HoelessRomantic: Let OUR wife go you madman

"Our wife?" He growls, glaring at the camera. Damian would've stood up from his seat if you weren't on his lap. 

He had ignored the first two comments above that, choosing to focus on a comment about his wife. Like—that's his wife! Not hard to understand. He had everything to prove it. Pictures of your wedding day, legal certificates, your wedding rings, and a lot more!

Instead, he snaps his head to the side, acting like he was looking at a physical body to scan up and down with a warning glare. Possessive and explosive... The chat likes that. They'll have the night of their lives dedicated to set Damian off.

"They're normally like that. Don't mind them, Honey." 

He would've let it pass, and listened to your coo. And yet you let him hear you use the word, normally. Normally—as in, you listen to these goofs call you their wife? He doesn't want that. He'll create online beef for you.

And so it began, the chat and Damian's cold war.

The purpose of gaming is gone. Only Damian's sassy remarks and the viewers saying flirty stuff to get on his nerves becomes the content and entertainment. So much for the games you thought you were gonna play today.

But this? You'd pay to watch the whole day. Judging by that smug smirk on your husband's lips, he's aware that they were just teasing him. What can you say... after being with a wife who ragebaits for fun can train you into tolerating bullshit.

And what's a good way to tolerate bullshit? Fight it with your own bullshit, of course. And laughs—to show that he and you are joking. We're trying not to get banned here. So much for the millions of followers if it all ended because of his unhinged comments.

Big Poo: Pull up on roblox right now old geezer or lose husband rights to the whole chat

Goobert: OOOOOH SHITS GOING DOWN

HoelessRomantic: Millions of games and you choose roblox

Tin-a-pie: Imagine losing husband rights to a roblox game...

As soon as you read the chat's algorithm, you shake your head no at Damian. He shouldn't pick a fight over a game he doesn't know. 

It was too late though.

"Challenge accepted." Damian points at the camera. 

Hold on—his smugness falters. You raise a brow over the abrupt change of mood.

"Babe, do you have a roblox account?" He was so adamant in that petty challenge, it was hard to say no at this point. "You better win, loser."

"Do I look like one?" If he has the energy to roll his eyes at you, he might have the energy to kick butt on a game.

You're still appalled that it's roblox of all games. How old was this Big Poo viewer of yours to pick this one specifically? You sure hope it's not a 15 year old... or worse, they could be in the single digits! Oh God, where are this kid's parents?

"In what game will we settle this, Big Poo?" 

Big Poo: Tower of hell :>

Goobert: I honestly thought you'd pick murder mystery 

Big Poo: Let the old man get a taste of the... OBBY MASTERRR

Hey, hey—is this even your stream anymore or Big Poo and Goobert's private chats?

Tower of hell isn't hard. You've played it before. It was just a matter of skill to climb the tower. Damian listens intently to your instructions while waiting for the game to load where Big Poo's avatar was waiting.

"Listen, Dami, just jump over the glowing blocks and shiftlock when needed, okay? You got this, dear!" 

Damian pats on his lips repeatedly until you figure out his motions. With a sigh and a chuckle, you move closer to give him a peck—just a peck! But your beloved had other plans. He pulls you by your hand and smashes his lips against yours. Your quick reflexes immediately covered the camera.

"I can't fathom how I'm in need of a kiss over a lego game."

"Me too. I feel so stupid."

You both laugh, parting away from each other when Big Poo starts to countdown in game.

It was going so well! Damian was in the lead. He's actually pretty good with obbies even if he's a noob. Mind you, he had no practice before the match. Did his training in life transfer to your roblox avatar right now? How is he moving and advancing so fast.

The chat goes crazy with a notable presence—Goobert. The poor guy was screaming their bestfriend's name so bad. They almost looked like a desperate wife wishing their soldier husband to come back home safely.

The whole chat was amazed to see Damian—a noob—winning. And he knows he is.

Goobert: USE THE SECRET WEAPON HERMANO

Damian arrives at the last platform. You marvel at the close gap between him and Big Poo. He's actually gonna win this stupid roblox bet? But what—why did Damian suddenly stop? Don't tell me he's about to—

He types fast in-game, a smug smirk on his face as he watches Big Poo's avatar inch closer to his. In just a few thumbs away, Damian sends his message.

Husband rights defended! ;p

And it was silent—the time went slow. The crowd was astounded when Big Poo suddenly had a stick with a hand at the end. It happened in slow motion. Especially for Damian who worked his way up to the top. 

No matter how fast his reflexes are... it wasn't the same with the wifi.

As your roblox character fell, Damian looked dead in the camera.

"Big Poo..." 

Uh oh

"I BETTER NOT SEE YOU HERE IN GOTHAM OR ELSE I WILL—"

The stream has ended.

extra scene!

In another universe...

In the timeline of Young Justice...

Jaime and Bart were laughing their asses off. Each had their own unique device that hasn't been seen by humankind other than them. It's a mystery how they even got it. Well, it was just on the table... so, it won't hurt to touch, right?

They've both been at it all day long. Lucky for them to have the day off, honestly. Or else they would've missed this multidimensional device that shows different universes. Never in their life would they see 5 of the batfamily like that.

Although 1 of them is unfamilliar, and the second Robin has changed so much.

In a span of 18 hours, all they did was watch the streams.

"How'd you even come up with Big Poo, Ese?"

"You don't wanna know what happened yesterday." Bart snickers. "Well, how about you, Goobert?"

"Don't ask me, it was Scarab's idea."

They both went silent—reminiscing the streams they just watched.

"Do you think M'gann will notice the missing $20,000 from the funds?"

"Don't worry about M'gann, worry about—"

"What $20,000?" Tim's voice springs behind them.

Great.

It just had to be the Robin who the $20,000 went to in another universe.

They better explain well or else they'll be in an interrogation room with the whole Bat Family listening in.

[randomgurl2326]

'TIL DEATH DO US APART

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Wife! Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 2.4k synopsis: Bruce knows his wife is trying to kill him but the problem is, he just can't prove it. a/n: I’m not full sure what this is but this idea hit me at 5 in the morning, which probably explains why it’s so weird—but it made me laugh, so here we are. Enjoy! 

Bruce Wayne had been electrocuted, nearly impaled, and almost poisoned—all in the span of six weeks. That wasn’t even counting the four separate stabbing incidents over the past three months. Each time, the blade was unique. One had even been laced with a neurotoxin so obscure, Bruce had to dig through Cold War archives just to identify it.

The common denominator? You. His wife.

You never admitted it. You didn’t have to. You never left a fingerprint, never stepped out of character. To the world—and even to Alfred—you were perfect. The devoted spouse. Gotham’s sweetheart. And as far as Bruce could tell, you hadn’t tried to kill anyone else. Just him.

Take last Thursday.

Bruce had walked into the Batcave only to find a pressure-triggered stake embedded in the driver’s seat of the Batmobile. His seat. The one no one else ever touched. The trigger had been subtle—clever, really—buried just beneath the custom leather cushioning. If he hadn’t scanned the seat before sitting (as he now routinely did), he’d be pinned to the interior like a kebab.

He’d climbed back upstairs, singed, sore, and furious, only to find you in the kitchen like a scene out of a vintage ad. Apron tied neatly around your waist, hair pulled back in a messy bun, humming a familiar tune as you piped icing onto cupcakes.

“Chocolate with raspberry filling,” you chirped brightly when you saw him. “Your favourite.”

Bruce had only stared. The cupcakes were pristine, beautiful… and decorated with a pattern that made his eye twitch.

Each one was a tiny bat. Skewered.

Alfred passed by with a pleased hum, lifting one from the tray. “She’s so attentive, sir. You’re lucky.”

Attentive. Yes. That was one word for it.

Then there was this morning.

Bruce sat at the breakfast table, eyes flicking from the half-finished crossword in front of him to the steaming cup of coffee you’d just set down beside it, punctuated by the warm press of a kiss to his cheek. It was your usual gesture—affectionate, domestic. So was the faint trace of something… foreign in the aroma.

“Colombian roast?” he asked casually, not looking up.

You smiled, soft and sweet, as you settled across from him in a silk robe the exact colour of dried blood. “Costa Rican,” you replied. “I know you’ve been cutting back on caffeine.”

“Thoughtful,” he murmured.

You hummed in response, already scrolling through your phone with a content, peaceful expression. One that did not belong to someone who had definitely tried to suffocate him in his sleep just a few hours earlier.

There had been no prints. No witnesses. No cameras. Just Bruce, waking with a sharp gasp at 3:07 a.m., a silk pillow pressed against his face—firmly and definitely deliberately—and the slight, unmistakable dip of the mattress as you slid back beneath the covers beside him with a whisper soft enough to be sickeningly concerned.

“Nightmare again, love?”

He hadn’t answered. You hadn’t pressed.

You never slipped. Not once. Not in public. Not at home. Not even in the bedroom—which, maddeningly, remained incredible. Your touch was always warm. Your affection, believable. Your moans, real. And it was that balance—between the loving wife and the likely assassin—that was driving him slowly, methodically insane.

He’d triple-checked the Batcave’s systems. Gone line by line through the security feeds. Rerun every log for the toxin releases, the mechanical malfunctions, the pressure-sensitive traps woven into the vents and walkways of his own home. Each incident, without fail, pointed back to one inevitable truth.

It wasn’t a stranger. It wasn’t an intruder. It was someone with access. Intimate, unfiltered access. Someone who knew the layouts. The passwords. Him.

Someone who brought him homemade soup when he returned battered and stitched together. Someone who watched him sleep with the serene calm of a lover… and the silent patience of a predator.

You wanted him dead. Only him. Not Alfred. Not Gotham. Not even his enemies. Just Bruce.

And the lengths you’d gone to?

Frankly—impressive. Terrifying. But undeniably impressive.

The problem was—no one believed him.

You were perfect. Too perfect. Gotham’s golden girl. The city adored you. You did charity work with orphans, hosted elegant galas for the Wayne Foundation, and once, personally, pulled a kitten out of a sewer while wearing four-inch heels. You’d handed the soggy creature to Damian with a smile, and now it lived like a prince in the manor, nestled in his bed most nights. Even he adored you.

Meanwhile, Bruce was starting to look… unhinged. Paranoid. And if he was being honest, maybe just a little insane.

“Bruce,” Clark had said gently over comms last week, “you’ve been muttering ‘she’s trying to kill me again’ during Justice League meetings. Barry and Hal think you’re losing it.”

“I’ve told you, Clark. She is,” Bruce insisted.

There was a pause. Then a sigh. “She brought you dinner.”

“In a bento box,” Bruce snapped. “Hand-delivered. To the Watchtower.”

Clark made a soft, confused sound. “Isn’t that… thoughtful? Lois and I do that all the time. It’s romantic. A way to show we care.”

Bruce stared at the comm. He could practically hear the smile in Clark’s voice, like he was just waiting for Bruce to admit how lucky he was. As if that bento box wasn’t laced with enough trace chemicals to warrant a full Bat-lab analysis.

It was hopeless. No one took him seriously.

Even Jason, of all people, had the audacity to laugh. “Look on the bright side, B,” he’d said with a wide grin, clapping Bruce on the back. “You always said you’d go out alone in the dark. Just didn’t think it’d be at the hands of someone who irons your shirts.”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because it was starting to feel true.

He even tried to test you one evening. He slipped into the kitchen quietly, just as you were finishing up dinner. The scent of rosemary chicken filled the air—warm, familiar, homey. And then… something else. Subtle, but unmistakable. A hint of bitterness beneath the herbs. Arsenic, maybe.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Need a hand?”

You didn’t flinch. Not even a pause in your slicing. “You’ll ruin the plating,” you teased, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “Go sit. I want this one to be perfect.”

Of course you did.

Dinner was served shortly after. Alfred complimented the tenderness of the chicken. Damian—traitor—asked for seconds. You poured Bruce a glass of wine yourself, smiled as you set it beside his plate, and took your seat as if you hadn’t laced his entrée with slow-acting poison.

He took one cautious bite.

Nothing happened.

Then another.

Still nothing.

But midway through dinner, as the conversation rolled on and laughter echoed faintly through the dining room, Bruce began to cough. Not a small, casual cough—no, this one clawed at his throat, chest tightening as the burning sensation took root.

And before anyone else could react, you were already at his side.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you cooed, slipping an arm around his shoulders, your voice full of concern. “Did it go down the wrong pipe?”

You rubbed his back, pressed a glass of water to his lips, wiped at his mouth with a napkin. The doting wife, playing your role to perfection.

Everyone watched the scene with passive interest, no one truly alarmed.

Because this was just how things were now.

Even as Bruce sat there, coughing and glaring holes through you, no one questioned a thing. Deep down, he knew the rest of his family must have suspected something. Tim had hesitated before biting into his own piece of chicken. Dick had watched Bruce too closely. Even Damian’s gaze had lingered a moment too long on the water glass.

But no one said a word.

Because compared to Bruce’s previous love interests—cat burglars, assassins, thieves—you were considered the best of the bunch.

So they let it go.

Believing, perhaps foolishly, that Bruce could handle it.

And somehow… he knew. Even if he boxed the remains of the chicken and sent it to three different labs across Gotham, the test results would come back clean.

Just like they always did.

And he’d look even more paranoid than before.

And so, silently, Bruce accepted the water. Without complaint. Without accusation. He waved you off with a tight smile, reaching under the table the moment your back was turned. Slipped the capsule from the inner pocket of his jacket—a fast-dissolving antidote he now kept on him at all times—and swallowed it with a swig of wine.

Then, politely, he excused himself from dinner.

Later that night, you found him in his office.

He sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, fingers steepled over a file he wasn’t reading. You drifted in without a sound, but he felt you coming—could always sense when it was you.

“How are you feeling?” you purred, your voice like warm honey. Your hands slid over his shoulders from behind, graceful fingers working into the tension in his neck. His eyes fluttered—damn you—and for a moment, he let himself lean into your touch.

But then you were gone again, floating across the room toward the bar. You poured amber liquid into a crystal glass, humming softly, and returned with a smile that was all teeth and silk.

“Nightcap?”

Bruce took the glass. Paused. Lifted it to his nose and sniffed.

You sighed, utterly unbothered. “Too paranoid,” you chided gently, tsking under your breath. “It’s just whiskey.”

“With an aftertaste of cyanide.”

You held his gaze—and took a sip yourself. Smiled. “Only a drop.”

He stared.

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against his jaw, breath warm against his skin. “It builds immunity,” you whispered.

And just like that, you pulled away.

Bruce remained still, watching your retreating figure as you sauntered out of the room. The silk of your dress shimmered with every step, clinging perfectly to your curves, your hips swaying just enough to make him forget—briefly—that you’d tried to kill him again tonight.

You glanced over your shoulder with a smile that could’ve fooled the gods. “Don’t stay up too late, love.”

The door closed softly behind you, and Bruce let out a long, slow exhale. He stared at the untouched drink in his hand, then set the glass down with a quiet clink. His fingers lingered on the rim for a moment before he finally rose, dragging a hand down his face as he left the office and followed after you.

When he entered the bedroom, the lights were already dimmed and you were curled beneath the covers, the picture of elegance and ease. As he moved around to his side of the bed, you shifted, stretching like a satisfied cat before curling against his side with a contented sigh.

“Did I tell you Alfred loved the lemon tart I made?” you murmured, your voice warm and sleepy.

Bruce didn’t move. “You replaced the sugar with ammonium nitrate.”

“Only half,” you replied breezily. “He has a strong constitution.”

Silence stretched between you.

You hummed lightly, as if this were just playful banter between newlyweds. “You’re fun to play with,” you said, tracing a finger along the line of his ribs.

“You could just divorce me,” Bruce muttered, dry as ever.

You gasped, genuinely offended. “And break my vows?”

He turned his head to look at the ceiling, expression blank. “You said ‘in sickness and in health,’ not ‘in mortal peril.’”

You giggled, snuggling closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder like the conversation hadn’t just included a detailed breakdown of chemical agents. Your voice was soft, almost teasing. “You’re being dramatic,” you said sweetly. “I haven’t technically killed you yet.”

Bruce let out another sigh, eyes closing. “Yet.”

“I mean,” you murmured, nuzzling into his chest, “if you insist on surviving, that’s kind of on you.”

He huffed through his nose. “I have contingency plans for everything.”

“I know,” you replied, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. You yawned, your breath warm against his skin. “I’ve been disabling them one by one.”

He turned his head slightly to glance down at you. “…You’re insane.”

You smiled, serene and unbothered. “You married me,” you whispered, tracing lazy circles along his ribs. “You also know the contract I’m under.”

And he had.

After the twentieth attempt on his life, Bruce had finally done what he should’ve done from the beginning—he investigated you. Dug into sealed files, chased whispers through black markets, and pieced together a name no one dared speak aloud in full. The Black Widow assassin. 

Someone had put a contract on Bruce Wayne’s head. And you—his wife, the beloved darling of Gotham—had taken the job.

And for some reason—some maddening, utterly ridiculous reason—he still hadn’t stopped loving you.

Maybe it was because, deep down, he knew you’d never actually intended to kill him. Not really. You were far too skilled for the constant failures to be anything but deliberate. Every “attempt” had been just close enough to say you tried, but somehow failed.

He’d begun to slowly accept his new reality, even if you had tried to push him down the stairs last Tuesday.

He could still hear your voice, feigning shock as he clutched the railing.

“Oh no, love! You must’ve slipped.”

Now, as you drifted in and out of sleep beside him, you spoke again—so softly, he almost missed it.

“You’ll also never be able to prove it’s me.”

His eyes opened

You didn’t look at him. But you smiled—that same serene, public smile. The one you wore at galas, arm wrapped around his. The one you gave reporters when praising your husband’s philanthropy. The one you wore while sharpening knives in the kitchen—knives that always seemed to go missing right before each new “accident.”

“I don’t need to,” Bruce said quietly. “You’ll slip eventually.”

At that, you turned, propping your chin on his chest, gaze playful and unreadable in the dark. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But until then… wouldn’t it be a shame to ruin our marriage over some silly little suspicion?”

He stared at you, unmoving.

She only smiled before leaning in to kiss him. Long and deceptively sweet. 

And damn it… he kissed you back.

His hands slipped around your waist, guiding you atop him as the kiss deepened. His hands wandering along your body.

Because the truth was—he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop you.

Because beneath all the perfection, all the poison, all the blades hidden in soft glances and honeyed words… there was a terrifying truth he could never say aloud:

He’d rather be killed by you than live without you.

And you knew it.

[randomgurl2326]

VIKTOR TWT LINKS

INCLUDES— fingering, clit play, cunnilingus, making out, groping, blowjob/throat fucking (?), hand job, body worship, grinding, breast/nipple play.

WARNINGS— 21 links, all of these videos are for afab readers/viewers, don't like don't read/watch, make sure to be logged into twt/x beforehand, if some of the links stop working please lmk !

when making out and groping turns into fingering with viktor

riding viktor after he gets home from the lab

he loves being able to suck on your boobies

you asked him to be a little bit rougher with you

he said he was tired so you did the work for him

sub!vik has never had such a foul mouth before

squirming on his fingers

viktor loves your lips wrapped around his cock

he can't leave his pretty girl unsatisfied

asking for his cum inside of you

feeling each others arousal

vik likes to spend a good amount of time on foreplay

rutting against his face like this

more of him loving your tits

keeping warm together

he knows if he takes his head out of the pillow he'll be a moaning mess

eating you out is always one of his favourite past times

he's embarrassed to show his red face

you're always so sexy whenever you get a new set

he knows it's a little pathetic jerking his cock while you grind against his fingers

you're already sticky with his pre

ffiolette

[randomgurl2326]

Jason Todd Domesticity Blurb

“Jason, honey, remember we have dinner with your family tonight. And I don’t want you wearing that hoodie again, you’re putting on something presentable.” The strict yet saccharine voice of Jason’s girlfriend rang through the apartment.

She received a groan in response. The type of groan she knew wasn’t meant in an aggressive way, but in a begrudging agreement.

“You can’t make me!” He knew he didn’t have a choice, but he wanted to be difficult.

He shrieked when the eyes of his girlfriend ended up right in front of him. The surprise forced him to sit up.

“Jason Peter Todd, if you do not put in the effort for your family I swear to all that is Holy I’ll tell Alfred not to send you home with his chocolate chip cookies.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he says, eyes slitted.

She tilted her head to the right, “Do you really want to test that with me, Todd?”

“No, ma’am.”

She smiles sweetly, “Good, we leave at 5. Be ready’”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I love domestic Jason

Taglist:

[randomgurl2326]

This is so stupid I’m so sorry

[randomgurl2326]

Wildflower Wedding - Clark Kent

Dreamweaver's Note: This is a Constellation post which means it's new and I haven't published it before I got hacked. I had this idea to write the weddings of all the characters I write for. Please enjoy! -Ultralight

⚠️Fae-Bound Triggers: Bad writing.

⏳Length of the Spell: 6.9k+ words.

✨What the Stars Foretell: A Kent wedding.

✨Starlit Archive ✨ Stardust Inbox ✨

Enjoy!

It starts with a wave of pure panic, the kind that launches you out of bed like it’s on fire and your entire career depends on it. You slap the nightstand in a blind search for your phone, the adrenaline spiking as your fingers fumble, nearly knocking over a glass of water left for you.  It’s too bright outside for 7 a.m. Something’s wrong. You overslept. You definitely missed your alarm and you’re going to be late for work.

The imaginary lecture from your boss is already echoing in your head, accompanied by your coworkers’ snide commentary. You’re already planning your desperate commute, imagining how packed the sidewalks were going to be and how little time you had to get ready. Maybe you should  just throw on a hoodie over your pajamas and sprint. And that was the plan in mind when you launched to do so. 

And that’s when you trip over something warm and fuzzy.

You hit the soft rug with a loud thud, and Krypto, the traitorous dog that he is, barks excitedly, wagging his tail like this is the best morning of his life. He immediately flops on top of you, licking your face like he’s done you a favor. 

The door flies open. Clark blurs in with the kryptonian speed, all concerned eyes and worried hands as he crouches over you. “What happened?” he pants, eyes roaming over you in search of an injury. 

“I’m late for work!” you groan, using him to lift yourself up, pushing to find your shoes. Clark exhales in clear relief behind you, his tense shoulders sagging. He chuckles, low and warm, as the panic ebbs and reality clicks into place.

You go still, realization dawning over you as you realize you’re not in the apartment you share, but rather in his old room back on the farm. . “Wait.”

He just smiles at you, seated now at the edge of the bed with an insufferably smug grin.

“I’m not late for work,” you say flatly.

“I hoped you took the day off,” he replies, laughter lacing his voice.

“Because we’re getting married today.” You pad across the room, stepping between his legs. His hands find your waist, grounding and easy, before he lifts you effortlessly into his lap.

“If you really need to go in,” he murmurs against your neck, tone laced with teasing “we could reschedule…”

You swat his arm, laughing. “Easy now. I just lost my mind for a second.”

“Oh, you lost your mind?” he grins. “I heard your heart rate spike and then your body hit the floor. Imagine how I felt.”

You squint at him playfully. “And why, exactly, were you up so early on our wedding day? I was lost. Abandoned. Emotionally damaged.”

Clark leans back, eyes twinkling. “Wanna see? I’ve been very excited to show you.”

What were you supposed to say but yes?

And when you practically shout the word at him, he laughs, loud and delighted, before helping you to your feet. He’s barely guiding you toward the bedroom door when a blur of white fur darts between you. Krypto barrels past both of you, skidding to a dramatic halt in front of the door like a canine bouncer. He lets out a bark so loud it echoes off the walls, making you flinch.

“No. Krypto. No more watch,” Clark says, exasperated, trying to wave him off. “You did good, buddy. But I’m here now.”

“Oh, so  you’re the reason Krypto bodied me this morning?” you huff, throwing Clark a mock glare as you rub your hip, he winces, sheepish, a flush of red blooming up his neck. “I told him to keep watch,” he admits. “I wanted to surprise you.”

You squint at him, trying not to smile. “So instead of surprising me with breakfast or flowers… you sicced the dog on me?”

Clark raises his hands. “It was supposed to be romantic.”

You cross your arms. “You weaponized Krypto.”

He steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist again and leaning in with a grin that’s all apology and mischief. “I gave him a simple order, he took it in a aggressive manner.”

You sigh dramatically. “It’s what he does best.”

Krypto barks again, tail wagging, clearly feeling very proud of himself, taking your words as a compliment. 

“Alright, come on Krypto. Clark is trying to show me his surprise.” You laugh, tapping your hip for the dog to follow as Clark keeps ahold of your hand and leads you through the farm through the farm, which looks like a Pinterest board collided with a tornado: folding chairs stacked high, a banner tangled in a tree, and a goat chewing on what you're hoping isn't the tablecloth. Nothing but chaos in the Kent house today. 

John Kent, otherwise known as Pa, is the first to lay eyes on you both. He smiles from ear to ear as Krypto wags his tail for some of the bacon that the older man was currently cooking, and without much hesitation he manages to toss a couple pieces that the dog snatches with a snap of his jaw before the man is rushing across the kitchen to get to you.  

“There she is! The bride!” he bellows, wiping his hands on a dish towel before wrapping you in a hug that smells like coffee and woodsmoke. You hug back, squeezing a bit as he laughs out, before pulling back to pat your shoulders as Clark moves to make sure the bacon doesn’t burn, always the hero. 

“I’m making ya some breakfast, I don’t want my daughter in law getting hungry today.” He explains, turning back to the stove where Clark is now grinning with excitement, ready to hand the job back to his Pa, but not before stealing a pancake for the road. 

“I’m gonna show her the surprise,” he mumbles around a bite, watching his father turn back to him with a fake glare. 

“Use a fork like a human,” Pa mutters.

“I’m not human,” Clark grins, and bolts out of spatula hitting range, making sure to extend the pancake to you so you can snatch a bite of your own, which you do, fighting off a laugh as he rushes to kiss your cheek. 

You make sure to complement Pa on his cooking, hearing him yell out a thank you as Clark leads you through the rest of the house. He trips over a box of flowers while cutting through the living room, opening the screen door just in time for Krypto to dash out to chase one of the cows with excited barks. In the rush of trying to get Krypto to stop he nearly trips over a ladder laying there, then like an overprotective weirdo he makes sure you don’t trip over it as well by picking you up and lifting you over it. “That was a step. I could’ve done it.” 

“Why risk it?” He laughs, trying to wink but mostly just blinking. His cheeks are pink, like he’s still half the boy who first asked you out with a bouquet of dandelions and a stutter.

It’s easy to figure out where he was leading you, the one place you had been talking about for weeks now. 

The day after Clark proposed, your best friend Louis had been straight to the point about helping you…. Which meant she enlisted Jimmy for wedding planning help….. which actually meant Jimmy was doing most of it. Venue after venue had been brought up, but there was already something you had in mind. 

“Clark always said he wanted to get married on his parents farm.” And the second those words had come out of your mouth Louis had looked at you as if you were insane. But you always stood by it. Clark’s parents had been married on this farm, and their parents, so forth and so on. You wanted to follow that. 

There was a river close to their home, with a gorgeous tree and the perfect little shady clearing spot, it was something you found on one of your first trips out here with Clark and when he found out you wanted to get married at the farm he offered your reading spot. You had been confused since you never thought you had a spot and he explained that whenever he was done with something he could always find you there reading. 

And today he led you down there, to where you both would be getting married, to where his mother currently stood, setting up decorations around the prettiest set up you had ever seen. 

“Oh….” You manage to gasp out, letting go of his hand to step closer and admire it all. 

“Oh as in this is amazing or oh as in you hate it and are processing adrenaline?” He questions, his voice tight with anxiety. “Your heartbeat is going so fast and I can’t tell.” 

“This is…. Absolutely stunning.” You mumble out, tracing a finger along one of the benches they laid out as you follow the path to the alter. 

It was handmade, that was obvious, but not because it looked bad by any means. It just screamed Clark, from the precision of the cuts and the detail of the designs carved in, suddenly all the late nights in the barn made sense. He had built the alter you would be getting married under. 

“I made a swing for it.” He explains, coming to stand beside you as you marvel at it. “So that once we are married, whenever we come back here, you’d have a comfortable spot where you always read.I just have to hang it once we are done today.” 

It’s easy, the feeling you get when you turn back to him, the way you pull him in and press your lips to his. And yet, it hurts. Because sometimes it feels like you have so much love bottled up inside, he’ll never quite understand just how much you need him. How deeply you breathe for him. And then he does things like this, quiet, thoughtful gestures, and the love only grows.

Maybe that’s the real magic of Clark Kent. Not the flying, not the powers, not even the cape. But the way he sees every part of you and still wants to give you the world. He’ll never know how impeccable he is. But you’re about to get a lifetime to try and show him.

He gets lost in your kiss, his arms pulling you close, the sound of the river behind you, your hands tangling in his hair and the back of his neck. Morning sunlight spills over your skin as you move in perfect rhythm with him, the warmth of the kiss beginning to match the warmth of the day. 

“You’re supposed to kiss her after the ceremony, dingus.” Martha Kent’s voice breaks through the moment, and you both laugh, breathless as you pull away and try to fix your lips before turning to face her.

She’s wiping dirt off her pants, but you rush over to help her anyway, even though you know she’ll just wave you off. She does, of course. But she catches your hands instead, guiding you to see the flowers she’s arranged.

Colorful wildflower bushels sit at the end of each oak bench, lining the aisle in bursts of color. There are still boxes left to be unpacked, and guilt nips at you when you realize they’ve been setting all this up while you slept in.

“You did all this? Why didn’t you wake me up? You didn’t have to—”

“You needed sleep,” she interrupts, her smile warm as she kisses your cheek. “Besides, I was just getting these in place before the florist gets here.”

A yell cuts through the trees.

“Oh boy,” Martha sighs, glancing toward the sound. “Someone get that kid on stress meds.”

George Hansu, your wedding planner, barrels toward you, arms around a dangerously tilting box. 

“Guys! We need to move! Florist’s here, the food’s almost here, and don’t even get me started on-” He skids to a stop, eyes flicking between you and Clark. “Why… why are you both standing here and not getting ready?!”

“Well, I-” you start, just as Clark stammers, “I just-”

“I do not care.” Geoge cuts in sharply, holding one hand in the air like a traffic cop and squeezing his eyes shut like your lack of urgency physically hurts him. “Let’s get a move on, people. I need you both in your rooms getting dressed. Immediately.”

Martha snorts behind you, and you whirl around to shoot her a betrayed look, only to see her full-on laughing, hands on her hips like the two of you being lectured is the best entertainment she’s had all week. But then George turns on her with terrifying precision, enough flare behind his eyes that you both take a step back. “Mother of the groom,” he says, voice suddenly sharp as glass, “mind telling me why you’re not dressed?”

She blinks, startled by his tone, and you instinctively grab her arm like she’s a fellow soldier under fire.

“Yes, sir,” you nod solemnly, tugging her toward the house.

“That boy is scary as all heck when we go off schedule,” Martha mutters under her breath, a bit winded as you hustle away.

“A schedule demon, really,” you huff, sparing one last glance over your shoulder. Clark’s still standing by the altar, looking somewhere between amused and helpless as George barks orders into a headset that you're pretty sure isn’t connected to anything.

You don’t stop running until you and Martha are safely inside with the doors closed, laughter spilling between you as the chaos rages on outside. John is there with a couple plates of food, shuffling closer as you grab the plates to help him out so he could kiss his wife. 

“Alright Kents,” Martha orders, clapping her hands. “We gonna have a nice breakfast together, then little miss bride to be is gonna go shower and start getting ready.”

“Sounds like a plan.” John smiles, and they both guide you to the dining table where Clark soons joins.  Even in the pure chaos the Kent family finds a way to root things down, and you couldn’t be any happier. 

- 

Clark proposed after a picnic, the spring breeze cutting across your skin as he stuttered through his words and you tried not to cry. It had been a perfect day—one of those gentle, golden ones—and you try to think back to it now, while Lois Lane jabs bobby pins into your scalp in a panicked, fix-it frenzy.

“Ow!” you yelp, jerking your head forward to escape her hands. “Oh my god, stop moving, you’re making it worse.” “You’re making me bleed,” you hiss, swatting her away. “Can I please do it myself?”

She practically leaps at the offer, dropping every hair product in her arsenal with a dramatic sigh and plopping onto the edge of the tub. She watches as you undo everything she just did. Lois Lane is nothing if not practical, and always on the move for her next story—she's a get-your-hair-done-on-the-subway kind of woman. Wedding hair? Not her specialty.

...Not yours either.

“Is it embarrassing to ask Jimmy for help?” she blurts after a moment, just as a soft knock sounds at the door. Martha steps in, looking nervous in the pearl-colored dress you picked for her.

“Well, I just don’t know about this…” she murmurs, tugging at the skirt as her cheeks turn pink. “It’s your day, sweetheart.”

“No!” you grin, rushing to hug her. “I want you to wear it—we chose it together.”

It was meant to be a sweet gesture. You’d been so nervous to meet the Kents, and yet she welcomed you in with the warmest hug and open arms, like you’d always belonged. You wanted her to feel special.

“But it’s white,” she whispers, clearly still uncertain.

“It’s off-white,” Lois argues from the tub, already smoothing the hem. “A pearl color,” you say, helping her with her necklace, “for a pearl.” You kiss her cheek gently.

“You girls are far too much,” she giggles, her accent thickening with affection. “Don’t you both look so jolly.”

Lois beams, proudly flaunting her bridesmaid dress—a deep purple you paired with a smaller wildflower bouquet. She even let you tuck a flower into her updo. You were going to be surrounded by gorgeous flowers all day, friends and family included in that. 

“Let me help with your hair now, sit back down.” Martha orders, helping you sit before beginning to work on your hair, humming softly as she goes. Soon enough she has it styled with a couple flowers placed in for color, tracing your cheek motherly before patting you to go get on your dress.  

They help you get into it,  and soon enough you are all dressed up in white. The lace, the veil, the dream….. The nerves. 

That moment, the hush that falls over the room, the way you see yourself in the mirror, is all at once real and completely dreamlike. The dress fits like it was sewn from the threads of your own hopes. Louis steps back to admire you, wiping under her eyes with an uncharacteristically delicate touch. Martha clasps her hands together in front of her chest, breath catching like she’s seeing her own daughter off to something sacred.

“You look…” Louis starts, then clears her throat. “God, Clark’s going to faint.”

“You think?” you whisper, heart fluttering.

“I know.” She smirks. “He looked like he might cry just seeing the menu yesterday.”

Martha laughs, her voice soft and proud. “You’re everything he ever dreamed of. I know that for sure.”

There’s a knock, two quick raps that make all three of you jump, followed by George’s  voice: “Five minutes!”

The air thickens. Time collapses into that tight squeeze in your chest. You glance down at your hands, perfectly manicured and slightly trembling, then at the bouquet made of wildflowers, fresh from Smallville, wrapped in twine and love.

“You ready?” Louis asks, nudging your side.

“No,” you breathe, “but I want to do it anyway.”

And that was love, wasn’t it? Not always certainty, not always ease. But the wanting. The aching to step forward even when it’s terrifying. So you do, veil down and flowers in hand, heart on your sleeve not that you had to worry about it because you knew Clark would have his just the same. 

You’re about to walk toward forever.

“Kara is here.” Jimmy explains when you come out of the room, smiling from ear to ear while you lean forward to give him a hug. “And we are all set for the photos.”

And so photos ensue, everyone smiling and having fun. Bridesmaids and groomsmen. But both you and Clark have yet to see each other. Jimmy makes sure of that like his life depends on it. At one point, when you step out of the barn for a quick breath of air, he practically jumps  from behind a tractor like a wedding ninja. “Nope! Nope nope nope! Back inside, bride! Groom perimeter still active!”

You hold your hands up, laughing. “Alright, alright! You’re terrifying.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Jimmy mutters, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye as George tries getting Krypto to run over. And you can only stare at the dog who has now been put in his own puppy version of a tux without the cape, trying to blend in like a normal dog in front of George. 

Inside the barn, Kara spins in her bridesmaid dress, giving you a wink. “You look like you stepped out of a storybook. Clark’s going to short-circuit.”

“I feel like I already have,” you admit, brushing your fingers nervously over your skirt.

“Wait until he sees you,” she grins. “He’ll be a goner. Straight-up puddle. Oh, as much as I miss home I have to admit this earth wedding style is soooo much better.”

It’s those words that remind you of the surprise you had in store for Clark later, twisting to look at Kara with a knowing look. “Did you bring it?”

“Oh! Of course.” She laughs, pulling you to where she had it hidden. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the property, Clark is going through it.

“You’d think I’d be calm,” he mutters as Bruce adjusts his tie.

“You’d think,” Bruce deadpans. “But you’re sweating like you flew through a thunderstorm.”

Clark shoots him a glare. “I just, what if I trip? Or cry? Or float?”

“You’ll definitely cry. Try not to float. And don’t worry,she’ll say I do since she already said yes.” Bruce claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve already done the hard part. You found each other.”

Back by the barn, George pokes his head in one more time. “Alright, places everyone. It’s almost time.”

And that’s when the butterflies return. Not the bad kind. The good kind. The he’s-waiting-for-you kind.

Because the next time you see Clark… it’ll be at the end of the aisle.

You are confident in your decision, there was no question about that, yet when you stand off to the side waiting for the processional to begin all the nerves begin eating at you. Suddenly you can hear everything. 

The sound of the lake running, the buzz of flies nearby and the sounds of the music preparing for your entrance. It was all brashing against your ears, beginning to stress you out even more. You hear Martha call John a big ol  softie and Louis complaining about Jimmy wearing pants. 

Krypto leads with a bark, a basket hanging from his mouth so that he would drop the petals along the path which Kara follows with a small bouquet in her hands. Louis is next, doing her best smile as she moves to stand alongside the others towards the front. You catch Jimmy sending Louis a smug smile, Bruce elbowing him softly to stand straight before Martha kisses your cheek and heads to walk down the aisle herself. 

The loud brashing in your ears is louder now, practically ringing as John lets you loop your arm through his and with uneven breaths and a buzzing under your skin he begins to lead you down the aisle. You don’t remember the first few steps.

The trees blur past, sunlight breaking through the canopy in fractured beams that dapple the path ahead. The air is warm and damp, thick with summer, and the hum inside your chest feels like it might burst free and take you with it. Your heart pounds harder with each step,like it's trying to keep pace with something you can't quite see.

Then your eyes find him. Clark.

He stands at the end of the aisle, hands clasped tight in front of him, shoulders stiff like he’s trying not to float an inch off the ground. The nerves in your stomach coil tighter when you realize he's smiling, not the small polite one he wears for crowds or headlines, but the one he only ever reserves for you. That soft, reverent one, like he still can’t quite believe you’re real.

And suddenly the ringing quiets.

You barely hear the breeze anymore or the music trailing behind you. All the chaos fades into the distance. Suddenly it’s like it’s just the two of you. Krypto’s basket is now overturned by someone's feet, Jimmy is trying to whisper something to Bruce who was blatantly ignoring him to watch his friend, Martha wiping her eyes with John's handkerchief. None of it mattered, because Clark was looking at you. 

John squeezes your arm just once before letting go, his face unreadable but his eyes kind. You step forward alone now, drawn toward Clark like the gravity was never in the earth beneath your feet, but in him.

He mouths something when you’re close, and it takes a moment for your brain to process it. “Hi.”

It breaks the tightness in your chest with something warm and bright. You can’t help but smile back. “Hi.”

He takes your hand like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and the world settles.

Even if you never remember the vows exactly, or which side the flowers were on, or what Krypto ended up chewing in the background, this moment, the quiet between you and him, burns itself into your bones.

You're home.

You know you’re home. Home is Clark’s big blue eyes, with his bulky glasses he uses in front of strangers. Home is in his smile, ever so endearing, always there even in the worse of times. Home is in his family, the Kent’s, who managed to do the bravest thing by raising him and never once regretted it. Home is in all the heroes sitting behind you, all of which came to celebrate their friend getting married, all of which have had both your backs on numerous occasions. 

Home was Clark, and he was looking at you like you were his. Like no matter what the rest of the world saw or wanted from him he could depend on coming home to you. And that was more than enough for him. 

You can feel the tears prick at your eyes, but you don’t dare look away, not now, not ever. You want to remember the way he stands, tall and strong and somehow still nervous. You want to bottle the way his thumb traces the edge of your hand like he can’t believe you’re real. Like touching you makes it true.

There’s a hush in the crowd as the officiant speaks, but all you can hear is your heartbeat, and maybe his too, steady and sure and so very alive, thrumming under your skin as adrenaline begins to ease you into this all. 

“You made it,” Clark whispers, just for you.

You nod. “We both did.”

Then you squeeze his hand, and together, you turn to face forever.

The officiant makes quick work of it all, quoting scriptures and drawing chuckles from the crowd. By the time the vows come up everyone is silent, waiting to hear what you both have to say. And neither disappoint of course. 

When it’s his turn his hands keep ahold of yours, his voice steady and sure, sending a thrill down your spine. “You have seen me in every version of myself. As the farm boy, the reporter, the hero. You’ve seen the man beneath it all and somehow you stayed. You believed in me even when I doubted myself. You are my greatest grounding force. My quiet when the world is too loud. My courage when I’m unsure. My laughter when the weight of everything feels like too much.  I vow to show up for you every single day. To never let this world, or any other, dim what we’ve built. I will protect your heart with all the strength I have and not because I’m Superman, but because I’m yours.I promise to love you when we’re strong and when we’re stumbling. When the sky is clear and when the storms come. I promise to choose you in every version of this life. Always. Without question.”

There is a deep gasp from the crowd as he finishes, before it’s your turn. 

“Before you, I thought strength meant standing alone. Holding everything in. But you taught me that love is not a weakness. That letting someone in can be the bravest thing a person does.  Clark Kent… you are the safest place I’ve ever known. Not because of what you can do, but because of who you are. The man who fixes tractors with his bare hands and still calls his mom to check in. The man who carries the weight of the world and still holds room for mine. I vow to love you fiercely, tenderly, and without condition. I will be your partner, your shield, your home, just as you are mine.  I promise to never take this for granted. Not your heart, not your kindness, not your quiet strength. I will stand beside you, in cape or flannel, for every chapter we write together.”

The I Do’s are firm, no question and no nervousness. And the two of you are already leaning in for a kiss by the time the officiant is announcing you to do so, your lips pressing into each other as claps break out all around you. 

Your lips meet with the kind of urgency that only comes from years of knowing and choosing each other again and again. It’s not rushed, but it’s hungry, reverent. Clark’s hands cradle your face like you’re the most sacred thing he’s ever held, and in his arms, you feel both cherished and utterly claimed. His lips are soft, but the way he kisses you is anything but timid, it’s full of the quiet fire that’s burned between you for so long.

You kiss like no one’s watching, even though the world is.

There’s a moment, just one, where you both smile against each other’s lips, laughter bubbling up between the kisses. And then he leans back in, pulling you closer, one arm firm around your waist, the other threading gently into your hair. His kiss deepens, slower this time, like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment.

When you finally pull away, breathless and glowing, Clark rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, as if grounding himself in the feel of you, his wife. And the crowd cheers louder. Kara whistles. Bruce definitely clears his throat.

But Clark doesn’t hear any of it, neither do you. All you need right now is each other. 

They play you a song to walk out, and Clark keeps a hand on yours as he guides you through them throwing petals over the two of you, laughter and warmth surrounding you both.  You switch to take the lead, pulling him into the kitchen of the farmhouse where the sunstone Kara brought home currently sat on the table. 

It had been rough, trying to find ways to marry Kal El and Clark in the same go. They were the same person, sure, but in truth there were traditions and ways on Krypton that he would never get to experience, and that is where you enlisted Kara’s help. 

Weeks of the both of you plotting ways you could make this work, weeks of you learning the traditions and courting ways. Weeks leading up to this. 

“How… did you?” He starts, eyes blinking slowly at the sunstone as his hand stays gripped in your own. 

“Well Kara… took me through some traditions.” You begin explaining, pulling him closer to the two necklaces. “They combined sigils… but it’s not like I had a family sigil. They wore cloaks with silver lining but by the time I heard about that one we had already-”

You cut off your ramble when he kisses your cheek softly, easing you before reaching around you and grabbing one of the necklaces. 

“Sunstones are shared between couples,” You explain. “You already know that, but I figured it would be my gift to you.” 

You're a ball of nerves when he holds it up, letting it catch in the light before turning to you with a smile. “I put your families sigil-”

You can’t finish the sentence, because he is whirling around to pull you into a fast kiss. It steals the breath right from your lungs. One moment, you’re nervously stumbling through your explanation, trying to express the weeks of effort, of hope, of wanting this part of him to be honored and the next, he’s kissing you like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. Like the weight of everything, Earth, Krypton, all of it, has fallen away and only you remain.

His hand cradles the back of your neck as he deepens the kiss, the sunstone necklace still hanging from his other fingers, momentarily forgotten. There’s something reverent in the way he holds you, but also something desperate, like this kiss is where he finally lets himself feel the full scope of what today meant, not just the vows, not just the celebration, but that you saw him. All of him. Kal-El and Clark. And you chose to marry every piece.

When he pulls back just slightly, his forehead presses to yours, and his voice comes low and unsteady. “You did this for me.”

“I wanted you to have it,” you whisper. “I wanted you to feel like… like all of you got married today. Not just the part that grew up in Kansas.”

He smiles, wide and warm and so full of love it nearly undoes you. His thumb brushes against your cheek as he lifts the sunstone again, this time draping the necklace gently around your neck first, like a vow all its own. Then he takes the second one, the one with both your sigils side by side, and fastens it around his own neck.

“Alright, you two,” George calls, already pushing the door open as he knocks. His eyebrows wiggle as he grins. “We’ve got a few private couple photos to get through, and your party’s out enjoying drinks for cocktail hour. Dinner’s still set for five….everything’s running right on schedule.”

“Brilliant. Thank you so much, George,” Clark replies warmly, leaning around you to shake his hand. “You’re doing an amazing job.”

The compliment has George visibly relaxing, his shoulders dropping as a proud smile spreads across his face. You can’t help but smile too, of course Clark would be the one to soothe even the most tightly wound wedding planner.

“Ready for photos?” George asks.

“Absolutely!” Clark calls back, already tugging you along with a boyish grin.

The photo session flows effortlessly. Clark makes it his mission to keep you laughing between each pose, whispering sweet nothings and the occasional joke that has you doubling over. By the time the photographer gets everything he needs, you’re breathless and glowing, full of warmth and joy.

You’re finally released to the dinner hall, and as you step through the entrance, your wedding party is already there waiting, cheering, smiling, arms outstretched. It’s all laughter, hugs, and celebration as you walk in hand in hand, ready to begin the next part of your day.

"Love Will Keep Us Together" blares over the speakers as your wedding party begins their entrance, the crowd already clapping along. Kara and Krypto lead the way, Krypto bounding in with a bark, a ribbon around his neck. At the last second, he leaps over Kara, earning a cheer loud enough to shake the rafters.

Jimmy follows, adjusting his suit collar before doing a suave little spin, plucking a flower from his pocket and handing it to a guest who dramatically pretends to faint. Laughter erupts. Then comes Bruce, doing the world’s most awkward wave, which sends his sons at the table into howling fits of laughter. Louis enters next, mock-filming the crowd with her phone and nearly doubling over from giggling.

Ma and Pa Kent are next, dance-walking to the head table in step, their joy radiating. You feel it in your chest.

As the chorus swells, Clark turns to you, hand tight around yours, eyes sparkling. “Ready, Wife?” he whispers. “Show me what you’ve got,” you grin.

With that, he scoops you up in his arms and spins you through the entry, bridal style. The cheers are deafening. Napkins twirl high in the air, champagne, dusty rose, sage, lilac, all the joyful colors you chose for the day.

The reception space is magic. Wildflowers burst from every table. Fairy lights loop across the ceiling beams like constellations, mingling with flickering candles and mismatched china, every piece thrifted, just like the teacups, just like the gold stands holding table numbers beside old photos of you and Clark from years past.

At Table 8, your aunts table, a snapshot of Clark fishing with John, and one of you as a child on a swing. Table 20 features a blurry selfie of Clark with his glasses, caught mid-sentence, your phone still moving when you snapped it.

Dinner is a laid-back barbecue from one of John’s favorite joints in Smallville. And every few minutes, Clark leans in to whisper, “Hello, wife,” like he’s still surprised. Like he’ll never stop saying it.

Martha gives the first toast, her voice cracking as she talks about her little boy growing into the man of steel, and the man of love.  John follows, choking up almost instantly, but manages through tears to tell you: “You are the perfect daughter.”

Jimmy has the whole room laughing with stories of Clark debriefing after your early dates. And then Louis stands and roasts you, recalling in detail every voicemail you left the night you thought Clark was ghosting you. (You hadn’t known he was Superman, in your complete defense.)

Cake cutting comes next. Simple, sweet, chaotic with flashing cameras. You lean into Clark to hide, feeding each other carefully through the blur.

The dessert table is a spread of homemade goodness, but the pride of it is Martha’s pies, each named after the two of you. “The Clark” is the classic apple pie with a cinnamon glaze. Yours is a cherry pie, tart and sweet, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, just how you like it.

But it’s the dance floor that sets the night on fire.

Your first dance is to “Heroes” by David Bowie, and near the end, you and Clark break off to pull your parents in, opening the floor to everyone.

The barn glows with string lights draped from beam to beam, lanterns swaying gently, flowers tucked into every corner. The DJ plays the hits, and Bruce is immediately dragged to the floor by his sons, much to Selina’s amusement.

A chalkboard by the floor reads: “Dance Like No One���s Watching” and it’s signed by both you and Clark, only you got to sign Kent on this one. And that’s exactly what happens.

Clark and Jimmy lose their ties. Somehow, Dick ends up with one around his forehead as the entire group screams off-key to “You Can Call Me Al.”  Louis loses her mind when “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” starts. The two of you bust out choreography you haven’t done in years.

Then Martha Kent outdances everyone to “Signed, Sealed, Delivered,” with John valiantly trying (and failing) to keep up.

“You Get What You Give” by the New Radicals plays next, and Clark pulls you into the middle of the floor. The two of you scream-sing every lyric. “DON’T GIVE UP! YOU’VE GOT A REASON TO LIVE!” Clark can’t dance. Not really. But he throws his entire heart into it, limbs everywhere, grinning like a fool. You pull him closer by the collar and spin wildly, dizzy with love.

Louis surprises everyone with “Kryptonite.” You and Clark laugh until you cry.

Then Martha claps loudly and kicks everyone out for the final song. Just you and Clark remain.

“Starman” by Bowie begins to play.

Clark wraps his arms around you, cheek to your temple, swaying gently, and then… you begin to float. Just a few inches. Then a foot. Then more. He doesn’t even realize until you both start laughing softly, suspended in the air, alone in a glowing barn.

When the doors finally open, your guests are waiting outside, forming a tunnel lit with lanterns and fairylights. As you walk through, petals fall all around you, laughter and cheers echoing as you make your way to the car, hand in hand, breathless.

You had just married the man of your dreams.

Your guests all leave with jars of homemade jam labeled The Kents, each paired with a small packet of wildflower seeds and a cheesy handwritten note about “letting love grow.” Lois scoffs at the sentiment—but still tries to snag the recipe from Martha, who just shoos her off with a knowing smile.

And when the night settles and the two of you are finally alone—shoes kicked off, shoulders touching, hearts still full, there’s nothing left but quiet, steady love.

“You ready for our next journey?” He whispers, and you can’t help but laugh. 

“With you? Always.” You answer back, placing your forehead on his. 

“Good, cause I have some plans for our honeymoon.”

- 

One year later. 

The apartment is quiet except for the soft static hum of an old record player warming up. The air smells faintly of sugar and wildflowers, your mother in law Martha insisted on sending a fresh bouquet, and Lois dropped off leftover jam “for the symbolism,” she claimed. Mostly you wer sure she just wanted to rub in that she managed to get the recipe…. And Clark suspected that Jimmy helped her make it. 

You come down the hall in your wedding dress, the hem slightly frayed from the outdoor ceremony but still just as perfect. Clark’s already waiting in his suit, jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened just enough to make him look like a very handsome daydream.

“I can’t believe it still fits,” you tease, smoothing the fabric.

Clark grins. “I definitely had to re-stitch a button.”

You both laugh as he holds out his hand to you.

There’s leftover cake in the kitchen, just one slice each, defrosted from the back of the freezer. The jam is slathered between the layers. It’s sweeter now, somehow.

Then Bowie’s Starman starts to play, the familiar guitar riff floating through the old wooden beams.

And there in your little kitchen, barefoot and still glowing from the inside out, the two of you dance like it’s the first time. No guests. No photographer. Just the two of you in your own bubble. 

Clark spins you once, holds you close, and murmurs, “Same time next year?”

You smile against his chest. “Always.”

✨Starlit Archive ✨ Stardust Inbox ✨

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˚✧₊⁺˳ Farmboy Flush ˳ ₊⁺˳✧

Clark Kent x Wayne!Reader

(18+, suggestive, mild nsfw) The aftermath of Little Miss Wayne giving Clark the night of his life.

The room was quiet.

Not silent— never. That might’ve been virtually impossible with Clark’s nerdy ramblings and your incessant yapping.

Your breathing still was still shaky, much like your leg which refused to stop trembling— to your embarrassment.

The thick wetness dripping down your thighs— distinctly him, quickly bringing you back to the intimately awkward reality.

His heart was still racing— in fact, you weren’t even sure that alien brain of his was presently on Earth, but everything felt softer…slower.

The adrenaline had faded, and all that was left was pure tenderness. One so intimate your body felt numb— suspended in some lovey-dovey nebulousness that was all Clark.

The man in question lay beside you, half-propped on one elbow, so he could still see your face (the lovesick fool) his other hand resting gently on your waist like he would completely disappear if not one part of him was touching you.

His cheeks were still pink.

His hair was a mess.

Looking at you like you had just personally saved the entire Universe— he had, on many occasion. All you had done is— well. Show him just how much he really meant to you.

You nuzzled into his bicep and he could feel your grin despite thinking his soul might just burst from the confines of the skin your rosebud lips were currently smushed against. “You okay, Farmboy?”

His voice cracked. “I… yeah. I-I’m great. I’m m-more than great actually— gosh.”

You snorted softly. “You look like you just got your ass handed to you by Luthor and you’re still speaking all Kansas?”

Clark rolled his eyes, covering his face with his hand, embarrassed. “Honeyyyy….” It came out muffled…gravelly.

He didn’t have to know you secretly found it sexy.

You scooted closer, nudging your nose against his jaw. “Was that your ‘I just lost my virginity’ voice?”

He groaned into his hand. “You promised you wouldn’t tease me anymore about that!”

“Nuh uh,” you continued, voice as sickly sweet as the look he was unable to hide whist facing you, “I absolutely have to. You’re blushing like a schoolboy!”

“I am a schoolboy— Emotionally…”

“Baby. You’re literally Superman.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “N-Not right now I’m not.”

You rolled onto his chest then, feeling him stiffen as your breasts pressed against him, kissing the corner of his mouth in delight.

“No. Right now you’re just mine.”

That got him.

His hands found themselves at your waist, dwarfing your form as his expression completely melted— if that was even more possible. Fingers curling gently into your hip like he was grounding himself with you (as you resisted the urge to ground yourself back on him).

“I-I never…” His eyelashes fluttered against his rosy cheeks as he struggled to maintain eye contact. “I…I didn’t know it would feel like that,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “M-More than just physical. I feel…”

“Take your time Sweet Boy,” you cuddled into his chest, pressing your ear against his heart and finding solace in the rhythm. There was nothing you wanted more than him— ever.

“It…It felt like being seen. Completely.”

You smiled, one void of all taunt, your digits ghosting the muscled plains of his abdomen.

“That’s what love feels like, Smallville.”

Clark let his forehead drop against your hair then, surrendering, wrapping his body around you entirely— encasing you in those strong, gentle arms of his like you were his whole world.

Because, really…you were.

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‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤtoo busy bein’ yours to fall for somebody new!

— notes 𖹭 j. todd x wife!reader. agents of gotham au. married life shenanigans!!

JASON TODD was kneeled down before you, on his knee, working ever so gently to slip the black leather heel onto your foot, adjusting the ankle strap perfectly.

once he was done, he lifted your leg and pressed a kiss against your thigh, lingering for a quiet moment before standing up right, his hands immediately settling onto your waist.

in response, your own hands trailed over his chest before arranging his suit, fixing his tie just to tug it once more, pulling him close so you could kiss his cheek. lipstick remained where you did not, and you chuckled delicately, running your thumb over it.

“something funny to you, mrs. todd?”

“a little. you, actually.”

“oh, really now.” he whispered, his lips a mere inch away from yours.

“mhmm.”

he chuckled himself, the sound reverberating around your insides, shooting shockwaves up your spine, and sewing itself into the walls of your heart.

a million little words, so many promises, scattered across his eyes. how many could you count in a second? and how many could you translate before he blinked?

“you’re breathtaking.” he murmured, skillfully leaning down to steal a proper kiss, fulfilling every dream you possibly could have dreamed. he was a sanctuary, you could rest your entire soul in his arms.

“and you’re sweet.” you inched away, pressing a hand against his chest. “but we still have work to do.”

“you’re no fun.”

“i’m plenty fun, and you know that.” you tut, taking a handkerchief and wiping away the red mark on his cheek.

“my wife... married to the job before me.”

“oh, hush. ceo of the sassy man apocalypse.”

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Jason Todd is lucky enough to have a s/o who gets the vigilante thing, you have since he was Robin. Of course you’ll worry and fuss and absolutely rip him a new one while patching him up when he comes home hurt, but you let him do his thing, let him go out on patrol, because you understand it’s important - to him and the city.

And then one day he comes home to find his gear haphazardly hidden throughout the apartment. It’s not particularly well done; his helmet comes tumbling out from the cupboard under the sink when he opens it, his guns peek out from behind the plates and part of his armor almost trips him up from its’ new place under the couch. Meanwhile you’re nowhere to be found and he’s desperately trying to figure out if he’s walked into some half cooked, ridiculous prank or if he should actually be worried. And then the front door opens to you, balancing several containers from your favorite takeout place in your arms, and greeting him with a smile like always.

It takes Jason all of ten minutes to understand that, despite your best efforts to keep up appearances, something’s wrong.

It’s in the way you don’t let him out of your sight for more than five seconds at a time. In the way your eyes will find your wristwatch every other minute, like you’re waiting for something and time can’t seem to pass fast enough. In the way you’re constantly touching him one way or another: an arm around his waist, a hand on the small of his back or your shoulder against his when you both finally end up on the couch, takeout containers in hand and some silly, brightly colored game show on the TV in the background.

After you get up for the third time to convince yourself that the door and all windows are definitely locked, he almost asks what’s going on, but then you trudge back over and all but collapse on his splayed out form on the couch with a heavy sigh, body coiled tight like a spring and an absolute death grip on his shirt. And he decides against prying right then and there, because… because he’s had days like this.

Days when everything feels wrong and he’s hurting. Days when he doesn’t want to talk about that drug lord that got away or the kid he wasn’t fast enough to save or his last fight with Bruce. Days when he just wants to exist in the same space as his favorite person for a while without having to explain himself - and you don’t push or prod in those moments, you just let him be. He knows he can talk to you if he wants, but that’s not always what he needs. Not extending the same courtesy to you right now would make him nothing more than a cruel hypocrite.

So he simply wraps his arms around you a little bit tighter and gently, teasingly reminds you that, “You can always ask me to ditch patrol and stay with you. No need to turn my gear into a tripping hazard.” He receives a quiet, affirmative hum in response and that’s good enough for now. Eventually, even though he tries to fight it for a bit, he dozes off with you still tucked safely against him, his nose buried in your hair; god knows when he last allowed himself a proper nights’ rest. Any other day this would be enough to calm you; having him right here, letting his strong, steady heartbeat lull you to sleep - not today.

No, today you will not find rest for another hour and forty two minutes at least, if experience is anything to go by. Experience that says that the tension keeping your body wound tight and your brain abuzz with anxiety will not subside until you can watch the hands of the clock on the wall crawl over the twelve, signaling the beginning of a new day.

You’re not sure if he’s realized what today is; if he’s figured out the pattern. That you use different methods to virtually trap him inside the apartment on the same damn day every year. If he has, he’s playing along for your sake, if he hasn’t… just as well, you don’t want him to know. Rationally speaking, you’re aware that this is utterly ridiculous. It was a random day back then, it could be any random day now. And yet… you can’t help it.

He can go be a hero and risk his life any other day of the year, but April 27th? April 27th he stays right here with you, where you can keep him safe and sound and make sure history doesn’t repeat itself.

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going to your best friends house just to fuck his brother ?!?!

Jason is 18 and reader is 19 :3

You woke up with a message from your best friend, Dick. "Wanna come over?" you loved going to Dick's house, you liked his dad, he was really nice, the house was big and comfy. But what you loved the most was his brother Jason.

You arrived at lunch time, Dick went to open the door excited. His little brother Damian ran towards you and hugged you. "Hey little man" you messed up his hair playfully.

Dick made you sit on the table next to him, with his dad on the other side and Damian, there was a place where no one was sitting at. "Where's Jason?" Bruce asked. "Upstairs" Dick mumbled as he ate his food. "Do you want me to go get him, Mr Wayne?" you asked, he allowed it and you ran upstairs to go get Jason.

You knocked his door. "Fuck off!" he shouted, but you opened the door anyways.

"Hi Jay" you greeted him as you looked around his room. he blushes instantly and move from his bed, leaving space for you to sit. "you missed me?" your hands played with his hair.

"yeah" he pulls you on for a kiss, and after a couple of kisses he's on top of you, covering you with his big body, kisses came and go and his hand was already playing with your pussy through your panties. "did she miss me as well?" you nodded as you grip at his shoulders. he takes his shirt off, allowing you to see his toned body.

you pulled his sweatpants down, making his hard cock slap against your tummy, he slowly entered it into your hole, and you almost let out a moan, but his hand covered your mouth. "shh, you don't want anyone to hear us, do you?" you shaked your head, he tried to keep it quiet, but the pounding made the bed squeak. and without realizing, everyone downstairs knew what you were doing.

suddenly the door opens. "Jason" he turns around and Bruce is standing on the frame "where's Richard's friend?" your head appears on his sight, your makeup was ruined and Jason's hand was on your mouth. "get dressed, Jason."

requests and reposts are appreciated !!

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🜼 ⋆ clark kent using his super strength to fuck you mid-air.

clark knows it’s over if you’re both caught doing this.

yet here he is, his tie shoved up over his shoulder and your panties dangling from your feet somewhere around his ankle. the office door is locked—maybe, you’re both far from going a slight fuck—and the blinds are half-closed, and your desk chair squeaks in protest every time he thrusts up into you with too much force.

but clark’s kissing you like he’s been waiting all day to get his mouth on yours, and fucking you like he can’t afford to wait anymore.

you’re straddling his lap, knees barely clinging to the edge of the seat, your body rocking with every desperate grind of his hips. his cock’s buried so deep inside you it’s dizzying—too deep, thick and stretching, every roll of his hips punching little gasps out of you that he swallows whole.

“you feel—fuck—you feel so good,” he pants, voice ragged in your ear. “can’t believe we waited this long—fuck—”

and then, it’s subtle at first, you clamping on him.

you shift just right, tighten around him without meaning to, and his hands flex where they’re gripping your thighs. too tight. not painful, but like his restraint is cracking.

“clark—” you start, but don’t finish, because suddenly the chair tips back a little and then— nothing.

your breath catches.

you’re not sitting anymore, matter of fact, you’re off the floor and clark motherfucking kent is holding you mid-air, hands gripped under your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing, like you’re just something to keep in place while he fucks up into you from below—harder now, sharper, angling deeper with each thrust like gravity doesn’t even apply anymore.

“clark—what—”

“shhh,” he leans in. muttering words, his forehead pressed to yours, hair falling over his brow, eyes dark behind his glasses. “can’t hold back—need you, baby—need to use you—”

and he does.

he fucks you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, like you’re just the perfect fit to keep his cock warm, to fuck into and stay buried in. his grip never slips, never falters, never even shakes—he just holds you mid-air like you’re weightless, bouncing you on his cock like your body was made to take it.

you’re gasping, half-senseless, clinging to his shoulders like it’ll stop the way he’s fucking the soul out of you. you don’t even think to question how strong he is.

he’s clark.

your sweet, soft-spoken, infuriatingly humble clark and right now he’s rutting into you like a goddamn machine, leaving you breathless and spasming on his girth-y cock.

[randomgurl2326]

My Name is Brutus (And My Name Means Heavy)

Alpha! Lando Norris/Omega! Lauda! Reader

The legacy of your grandfather comes with a heavy crown, one partially melted and reformed in flames that should have killed him. Akin to the fire that should have killed you but took your mother instead, leaving you with the same scars that Niki Lauda wouldn’t wish on another, least of all his own grandchild. Yet here you stand, drawing the ire of McLaren’s golden boy, with a twisted crown of his own to wear as you throw everything he was used to to the flames. You force him to adapt overnight when you join the team suddenly after an unknown incident that sends you sprawling as you try to cope with the sudden change in team. You terrify him. And he terrifies you. And somewhere, James Hunt is cackling that Niki Lauda’s child is frighteningly similar to him.

masterlist | ask about the series | A/B/O Stuff

I. ive been watching him for my entire life II. I hate the air he breathes his foolish decrees III. his words so contrived IV. and I hate the way the townspeople gather outside V. they hang on every breath VI. cling to his chest VII. home to his heart full of pride VIII. the oracle told him to beware the ides

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Incorrect Quotes (Telemachus x Fem! reader)

Note: Most of these are within the context from my work "Noctuary" so i recommend you to check it out if u haven't :D

Some quotes are a little intimate but overall it is just crack dkdbdi

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Odysseus : So you're the one my son keeps writing poems about?

Reader : ....He writes poems about me?

Telemachus : FATHER!

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Reader : *Sighs* I have no friends...

Telemachus (Visibly Offended) : AHEM? Woman? What am I? a Roach??

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Telemachus : Oh god you're bleeding!Quick! What's your type??

Reader (hissing in pain) : Ah... Tall.. Dark curls... Sweet.....Adorable....Looks good covered in blood...

Telemachus (blushing) : W-what?!

-------------

" WHO'S THAT MACHUS? (Pokémon) "

Reader : It's Telemachus!

" It's Eurymachus ! "

Reader : FUUUCCCKKK.

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Antinous : Aren't you a little too young to be a handmaiden?

Reader : Aren't you a little too young to be courting the queen?

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Telemachus : I punched Eurymachus in the face today.

Reader : What!? Are you crazy?!

Telemachus : No..? My mother had me tested.

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Nurse Eurycleia : You are bleeding, unarmed, and barefoot in the royal halls!

Odysseus/Telemachus : You can't arrest me, I'm in love!

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Telemachus : Can I try to flirt with you?

Reader : Sure..?

Telamachus : PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

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Reader : You look good in your chiton

Telemachus : Thank You! You know where else I'd look good on? :3

Reader : On top of me.

Telemachus : By your side— what?

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Reader : I'm not ready to go outside.

Telemachus : That's okay. I'll stay inside with you forever if that's what you want.

" YOU'RE THE CROWN PRINCE YOU CAN'T JUST- "

Telemachus : SHHHHHΗΗΗΗΗ

Reader : 🧍

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Telemachus : I missed you so much.

Reader : I just went to the bathroom.

Telemachus (dramatically) : You don't know pain.

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Reader : Did you lie to the Queen.

Telemachus : ..Define lie?

Reader : Telemachus.

Telemachus : Okay but in my defense.....okay, i don’t have one.

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Telemachus : You're not allowed to say I’m dramatic when YOU are the one who threw a fig at Antinous for looking at me

Reader : Telemachus. He insulted your hair and said you looked like a girl. I was defending your honor.

Telemachus : ..You're so perfect for me.

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Telemachus : Truth or Dare

Reader : hmm truth

Telemachus : How many hours have you slept this week?

Reader : ..I choose dare..

Telemachus : I dare you to go to sleep.

Reader : I don't like this game.

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Reader : Telemachus, you do remember when we agreed we were better off as friends, right?

Telemachus (half naked in bed) : No, I absolutely do not.

Reader (already taking off their clothes) : Damn... Me neither.

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Reader : I don't need to go to bed. I'm not tired, I'll be fine.

Telemachus : But, darling, I'll be so lonely without youu. Come curl up in my arms so I can feel whole again.

Reader : Are you trying to seduce me into healthy sleeping patterns??

Telemachus : Is it working?

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Thirteen year old Reader (trying to flirt) : So... you come around here often?

Thirteen year old Telemachus (confused) : I mean, this is my house, so yeah.

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Reader : I still have no idea how I’m attracted to you...

Telemachus : Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me, and no take backs, honey.

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Reader : Stop doing that.

Telemachus : Stop doing what?

Reader : Saying things that make me wanna kiss the hell out of you.

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Odysseus (talking to Reader and Telemachus) : You two look good together. I'd put you guys in a boat.

Telemachus : You'd put us in a boat?

Odysseus : Yes, a boat. Isn't that what young people say when they think two people would make a good couple?

Reader : You mean you ship us?

Odysseus : Yes. I "ship" you two.

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Reader : Do you ever just see something that changes your life and you're just like, huh.

Telemachus : I saw you.

Reader : Honestly that's so nice and sweet and it makes this really awkward because I was just gonna show you this drawing I made of antinous as an antidepressant pill

I KNOW I SAID THAT WAS MY LAST TELEMACHUS FIC BUT I COULDN'T HELP BUT MOVE ON FROM EPIC AAAAAAA, some of these I got from Tumblr, vines and even some just made up, BEKDBDKD just wanna say thank you for everyone support and love!!! Mwa mwaaa