#IT WILL COME TO PASS IT WILL COME TO PASS IT WILL COME TO PASS

[ranahan]

Copadyc pakali jatn’eso be maruse. Be dunare, jate’shya pakalir maruse ori’shya—ke’nu’ori’suumyc, a ke’nu’trattok’o jorcu ast hutyc. Ke’pakali bilane parile b’anay

Ke’kar’tayl atin’morase b’ast’baar bal mirde sha balorya par buyacir bal suumir bic’e. Ke’ven’cuy kyryc verd ba’taabe vaal laanduri’shy’ade ru’gaanade chur’pakalir val maruse.

I think I'm going to remember this phrase every time I cook for the next five years

[fluentmoviequoter]

My Cape

Pairing: Superman x fem!reader (r doesn't learn he's Clark... yet)

Summary: When your corner of Metropolis is attacked by an alien, you put yourself in danger to help your neighbors. Superman finds you holding his cape and develops an interest in you.

Warnings/Word Count: NO SPOILERS for Superman (2025), fluff, r is injured (depiction of bleeding and pain), meet cute?, canon-typical danger. 2.3k+ words

A/N: This isn't necessarily any specific Superman adaptation, but I did watch the new movie today so some of the mannerisms/characteristics may lean a bit more toward that (and his soft look fit this). Pictures from Pinterest. I hope you enjoy!

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“That’s… terrifying,” your roommate - lovingly nicknamed Inny because she loves to get in everyone’s business and rarely bothers to deny it - murmurs, reaching for the remote.

“Wait,” you say, blocking her hand with your arm as you squint, trying to make sense of what you see on the television screen. “Is that Metropolis?”

“A big, creepy, ugly space alien looking for people to serve him isn’t going to move toward Baker Line.”

Rolling your eyes at Inny’s scoff, you lower your arm and turn toward the window when she changes the channel to a Saturday rerun of a sitcom episode you’ve seen countless times since she moved in and declared she wanted television privileges in exchange for paying two-thirds of the rent. It was an easy deal, a no-brainer, but now you’re wishing you knew where the creature attacking Metropolis was heading.

Unfortunately, you get your answer quickly. The building shakes, the television falling from the entertainment center as a studio laugh track plays through the speakers.

“I should’ve moved to Coast City,” Inny whimpers as she clings to the couch cushion beneath her.

“Get up,” you demand, moving carefully toward the door.

“What? Are you crazy!? There’s a- a space giant thing out there!” she sputters, waving as she searches for the right word.

“And the building is going to cave in,” you reply quickly. “Does that sound like a better fate?”

She debates the pros and cons for a second too long, so you leave her behind. By the time you reach the stairwell, Inny is at your side, clutching your arm to her chest tight enough that you’re sure there will be bruises tomorrow.

“You’d think we’d have evacuation plans for this specific scenario by now,” you mutter as you pass a fire exit. “Superman should be in the PSA videos.”

“You just want to look at him in 4K UHD,” Inny accuses.

Her voice isn’t as shaky as before, which you think is a good thing. When you reach the landing on the second floor, a loud crack makes you stop. Your back hits the wall mere seconds before a large chunk of concrete falls down the center of the square-shaped stairwell, crashing to the floor of the lobby with an ear-shattering thud.

“Go!” you exclaim, pushing Inny farther down the stairs and ignoring the ringing in your ears.

“Help me!” one of your neighbors calls, attempting to free a double-stroller from the rubble.

“Superman!” the alien above you bellows, causing the ground to shake when he takes a step. “Come out and face me like a man, since that’s what you claim to be.”

You place your hand on a larger chunk of concrete and jump over it, bending to hook your hands under the front wheels of the stroller.

“It’s okay,” you soothe the children crying under the black cover. “Hold on, this might be a little bumpy, okay?”

Inny takes the mother’s place, shoving the handlebars down as you lift the base of the stroller. The debris that was holding it in place falls to the cracked floor, and you gesture your head up. Inny nods as she adjusts her grip. Together, you raise the stroller to chest height and take awkward side steps to reach level ground.

“Thank you!” the mother sighs, her chest heaving as she takes your hand.

Pain shoots through your wrist, but your adrenaline nullifies its impact in your mind. Dust falls from the ceiling, so you urge Inny and the neighbor you’d never seen before today toward the exit. You follow them outside, sliding to a stop on the sidewalk when you realize that it’s dark in the middle of the day. Looking up, your eyes widen at the sheer size of the creature blocking out the sun. Directly before you, its ankle bears a mark in a language unlike any you've ever seen. It takes swings at Superman that look lazy but are likely taxing it. Or at least that's what you hope is happening.

“My car is parked around the corner,” Inny remembers. “If the roads are clear, we can get away from here for a while.”

“That would be smart," someone agrees.

You turn on your heel, feel your heartbeat everywhere when you see Superman wiping the shoulders of his suit.

“Thank you, Superman,” your neighbor says.

He nods, his eyes wandering to you as he sends a comforting smile toward your small group.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Oh, well…” He glances up at the alien searching the sky and shrugs. “Average Saturday, I guess.”

You smile at that, and he waves before he bends his knees slightly to launch off the sidewalk. Following his flight path, you don’t realize that Inny and your neighbor are waiting for you.

Inny clears her throat to get your attention and reminds you, “Car? Leaving? Let’s go.”

“Right,” you say, blinking to clear your mind of Superman’s smile.

Running around a corner, you slow down when you see a bus lying on its side in the middle of the road.

“Come on!” Inny yells over her shoulder.

“Go without me!” you call. “Get those kids somewhere safe!”

“What about you?” she asks, stopping.

“I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

Inny hesitates, then looks at the stroller and the scared children inside. “Keep that promise or… or I’ll do something really messed up.”

Smiling, you nod, then rush toward the bus. You place your hands on a metal bar and pull yourself up to the wheel well to look in the windows.

“Hi! Hey, we’re in here!” someone shouts inside.

“Is anyone hurt?” you ask, raising your voice as you peer in.

“Not too bad.”

You take a deep breath, then climb onto what is now the top of the bus, though it’s actually the side. “Does the door open?” you inquire. Someone answers that it doesn’t, just as you expected. After instructing the passengers to move back as far as they can, you shift to sit, then bring your heels down against the front window. It caves in slightly, but doesn’t break. Repeating the action, you succeed in causing a few cracks, but you still can’t get in.

“Oh, this is going to hurt,” you mumble to yourself as you turn and sit on your knees. With one hand spread on the side of the bus, you lift your opposite arm, keeping it bent. When your force is concentrated to the point of your elbow, the window shatters, and you can see and hear the people inside much more easily. Your elbow throbs as you lean forward, but it’s the least of your concerns. The alien is moving sideways, its shadow growing longer in your direction.

“Alright, can you guys climb on the seats and help each other up?” you suggest.

The people inside are eager enough to get to safety that they’re strong enough to do anything you ask. As you help pull the first woman up, you see Superman spin as he’s thrown into the side of a nearby building. He can take a hit, you know, but something pangs in your chest. Worry or guilt, or some odd combination of the two.

“How many more?” you ask, attempting to keep your voice light.

“Three,” a man beneath you answers.

The alien is closing in, and the people who are getting off the bus are running, so you’re still alone as you struggle to pull them up through the window.

“You should go,” the last woman says. “I don’t think I can lift myself through.”

“I’m here to help,” you promise her, “I’m not going anywhere unless you go with me.”

Above you, Superman is attempting to keep the alien, Pictaro or something; he made the whole introduction speech, but Kal didn’t care enough to listen, away from you and your heroic efforts. Although if he’s honest with himself, he wants to yell at you for staying in danger for so long.

“There we go,” you grunt, leaning back as you use your entire body to help lift the woman.

“Thank you, thank you,” she cries, tears running down her cheeks as she slides toward the edge of the bus. “Get somewhere safe.”

You nod numbly before you swing your legs over the side and look at the road beneath you. Superman sends up a plume of debris when he crashes into the ground. The alien laughs at the sight of Superman tugging his cape off his face, causing another seismic event with his chuckle. If you’d been watching, you’d have seen that the cape is the only reason Superman is now on the ground.

The bus shakes, and only then do you smell the gas. Quickly, you jump to the sidewalk and get some distance. Despite failing the landing, you keep your eyes on Superman. He rips his cape off his suit before flying up toward the alien’s head with newfound fervor and energy. His fists collide with the underside of its jaw, knocking it off balance before he immediately attacks its chest.

Something moves in the crater caused by Superman’s fall, leading you to move toward it carefully. Peeking inside, you only see a broken waterline and his cape. Your elbow begins stinging again as sirens echo in the distance. After you tap it with your fingers, you hiss in pain and notice your red-stained skin.

“Sorry, Superman,” you whisper as you pull his cape into your hand and press it against your bleeding wound.

Your brows furrow as you kneel. There’s a small device in the crater, a blinking pad of some sort bearing the same mark as the alien’s ankle. It looks almost like… a remote.

“Superman!” you scream, waving your uninjured arm to get his attention.

He doesn’t notice you immediately, focused on another round with the alien. When you yell again, he becomes a blue blur before seeming to materialize before you.

“Wh- ma’am,” he greets, backpedaling on what he was going to say.

You don’t speak but point at the black box beside you. Superman steps into the divot in the sidewalk and lifts the device, turning it over in his hand.

“Thank you,” he says, his blue eyes dropping to your arm before he flies to the roof of your damaged apartment building. “Hey, Pictionary!” he taunts.

With a single press of a button, the alien collapses. Its head falls towards its chest as it goes silent. Clark circles it slowly, moving down its height before he lands beside it. First responders arrive, wait for his signal, then move closer to the surrounding buildings. You watch a news van slide to a stop before a cameraman steps out backward, focused on a newscaster who is already speaking.

“Is that my cape?”

Moving your chin up quickly, you don’t expect Superman to be right beside you. Yet, you don’t move back.

“Sorry,” you say, unable to come up with anything else.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks.

“It- it’s just a scratch,” you insist, still cradling your arm.

Superman tilts his head toward his shoulder, his complete attention on you even as police officers and reporters call out to him.

“Don’t move,” he instructs.

He disappears, using his superspeed to move before you can reply. You don’t even have time to think about how he didn’t ask, just told you what to do, before he returns. He drapes another cape over your shoulders, effectively blocking your face from the cameras behind you.

“Th- thank you,” you stutter softly. “For saving Metropolis and the cape.” You look at him for a moment, then can’t take the silence and add, “It’s a really nice cape. I see why you have two.”

“I have a lot more than two,” he says, his smile dropping as he pretends to be serious in his agreement. “I like them, too.”

“Which is good, considering…”

“Do you have somewhere safe to stay tonight?” he interrupts.

“I do,” you answer. Then you remember you left your phone upstairs in your bedroom. Squinting in the sunlight, you look up at your floor and know you won’t be able to get to it. “I just don’t actually know where I’m supposed to meet my roommate. We don’t have an alien fistfight plan.”

“You should make one of those,” Superman muses.

“That’s what I said!”

Superman chuckles, then steps closer to you, the S on his chest inches from your own chest. Of course, when you finally get to meet Superman, you’re covered in dust and sweat and blood. Inny won’t let you live this down.

“Where can I take you?” he asks.

“Oh, no, you’ve done more than enough,” you argue. “I’ll probably just go to our favorite coffee shop and wait.”

“Let me guess, straight black, none of the fuss.”

“Maybe I like the fruity teas they make with a certain superhero's colors,” you counter.

“Do you?” he challenges.

“Those colors aren’t natural.”

Superman laughs, bending backward as his hand presses to his stomach. His joy is contagious, you learn as you smile.

“Which coffee shop?” he asks.

Assuming he’s asking about the drink, you answer. You certainly don’t expect him to close the space between you and wrap his arm around your waist.

“Feel okay?” he whispers, looking down at you.

“Hmm?” you hum, swallowing thickly as you lift your eyes.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think you could.”

Something in his eyes shifts before you’re lifted off the ground. You cling to him instinctually, but it doesn’t faze him. When he lowers to the roof of the coffee shop, you’re hesitant to let go of him.

“No,” he murmurs when you reach for his cape over your shoulders. “You hold on to that.”

“I can’t take two of your capes,” you insist. “I will be taking the one I covered with biohazard material, though, at least long enough to dry clean it.”

“That wouldn’t get you any weird looks,” he scoffs.

You purse your lips and rub the fabric between your fingers. “How do you clean it?”

Superman shrugs, then takes your hand. “If you need anything,” he begins. “Call out to me again. Okay?”

Breathless, you agree, “Okay.”

Superman leaves before you can thank him again. After you check that your arm isn’t injured too severely, you notice that the cape on your shoulders has a tag on it. A tag that doesn’t contain washing instructions, but a handwritten note complete with a phone number.

[starktonyx]

Sex pollen - Clark Kent x reader

Word count: 3.2k

Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.

Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.

Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂‍↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼

archive / masterlist

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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.

A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.

“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.

He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.

Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.

“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”

He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.

“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”

He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.

“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.

He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.

God, if only you knew.

“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.

“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry��“

He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.

“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”

Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.

“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“

“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.

You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.

But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.

“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.

He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.

“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.

You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.

Because of you.

You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.

You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.

“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”

He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”

You want him. God you always want him.

The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”

It’s over.

The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.

His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.

His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.

“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”

He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.

“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”

He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.

Right now he is just muscle in front of you.

His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.

You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.

“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”

He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.

You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”

He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.

One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.

You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry�� like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.

“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”

His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.

And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.

“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”

You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.

He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.

Still fucking you.

Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.

So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.

And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.

“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“

“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”

Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.

He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.

“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“

“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.

He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.

He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.

Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

“…Are you okay?”

You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.

But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.

You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.

Still needing you.

“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”

“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.

But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?

He melts.

You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.

He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.

He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.

“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”

You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.

None of you cares.

“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”

He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.

You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.

You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.

It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.

Your head starts spinning.

“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”

His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.

You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.

His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.

“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”

His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.

He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.

And you like it, god you love it.

“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”

“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.

He picks up the pace.

“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“

“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”

You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.

And he does.

He fucks you like you’re his last breath.

Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.

You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.

All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”

Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.

Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…

You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.

“Fuck me harder.”

You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.

And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”

You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.

You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.

By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.

Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.

You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.

You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.

Worth it.

Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.

Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.

“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.

“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”

You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3

[dakusan]

How he fucks after a long day | Bang Chan Edition

Bang Chan x Reader | post-schedule, possession-heavy, overstimmed, voice-ruined, filled to the brim, worshipped after

🔞synopsis: Bang Chan comes home at 12:47AM—jaw tight, eyes dark, body stretched thin from hours of forced smiles and endless demands. He doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t have to. You open your arms. He falls into them. And then he takes you—slow at first, then all at once. He fucks like he’s trying to empty himself inside you. Like you’re the only thing keeping him from shattering. Like he’s owed this. You let him use you, fill you, break you. And afterward? He holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world, which you are. Because when Chan’s had a long day, he doesn’t need rest—he needs you.

💌a/n: WOW OKAY HI UM. I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS POSTED LATE WTFFFF 😭😭😭 This was originally gonna be like... an OT8 blurby mini thing??? But then I sat down to write Chan’s part and my brain was like “haha what if he broke your back and your brain and then bathed you tenderly after” and I blacked out. So yeah. This is now a per-boy thing. Because apparently I want to be spiritually rearranged 8 different ways. If you made it to the end... I love you. And I hope you’re hydrated. And sitting down. Or not. Maybe you need to pace the hallway like a Victorian widow. Same tbh. p.s. Reblogs > love & forehead kisses, always. Pls feed the beast. p.p.s. I will be posting more of this series every week, my new filthy friday shit p.p.p.s. If you’re hoarse and can’t say his name anymore… good. That’s canon.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | Dom!Chan | Sub!Reader | PIV sex (unprotected, wrap it up whores) | overstimulation | multiple orgasms + squirting | creampie | manhandling | spanking | hair pulling | choking (light) | dirty talk | possession kink | cock-drunkenness | drool | tears | aftercare | bath scene | Chan is feral then soft

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Let Chan carry you to the bath when you're done sobbing.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » I Need a Girl — Taeyang ft. G-Dragon « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:40 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The door clicks open at 12:47AM.

No keys jangling. No voice calling out your name. Just the low creak of the door and the soft thud of sneakers being toed off in the dark.

You don’t move from the couch, blanket pulled tight around your legs, phone abandoned on the side table. You heard the schedule ran long. Knew the photoshoot got pushed back, the meeting extended, the practice ran into overtime. Knew it from the unread texts he didn’t send. Knew it from the heaviness in the air before he even walked through the door.

Chan appears in the hallway light like something out of a warzone. Hoodie half-zipped, beanie pulled low, jaw tight, and eyes so dark you almost flinch.

He doesn’t look at you right away. He leans forward, hands braced on the entryway wall, head bowed like he's holding himself together through sheer will. A few seconds pass. He breathes in deep—slow, through his nose—and finally lifts his head.

“Hey,” he says, low and raw. “You’re still up.”

You nod. “Was waiting for you.”

And that’s when it breaks.

Not loudly—not with shouting or slammed fists or messy tears. No, Bang Chan unravels quietly, with purpose. He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his hoodie, and moves toward you without hesitation.

The blanket slips from your legs as he sinks to his knees between them, dragging your body forward by the hips until you’re teetering on the edge of the couch, his face pressed into your stomach, breathing you in.

His voice is muffled. “I needed you tonight.”

Your hands find his hair, carding through the sweat-damp roots at the nape of his neck. “You have me,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

He exhales, shaky and long, and it ghosts against your skin like he’s been holding his breath all day. One arm wraps fully around your waist, anchoring himself. The other slides up your back beneath your shirt, palm searing hot and slightly trembling from exhaustion.

You feel it in the way his body leans into yours, not just wanting contact—needing it, like he’ll collapse if he doesn’t touch every inch of you.

“I was so close to losing it today,” he murmurs, voice gravel-low. “Everyone pulling at me, asking for more, expecting me to smile, to lead, to fix everything like I’m not already falling apart.”

He tilts his head up slowly, eyes locking with yours. And that’s when you see it. Not anger. Not frustration. But that quiet, dangerous edge that only surfaces when he’s past the point of tired—when he’s empty, spent, and still expected to give.

“I didn’t even text,” he says. “Didn’t have the energy. Just kept thinking about you. About this. About your mouth. Your skin. The sound you make when I get deep and slow, when I don’t let you cum until I’ve had my fill.”

Your breath catches. Heat coils low in your stomach. But you don’t speak. You just nod.

And that’s all he needs.

Chan rises without a word, scoops you into his arms effortlessly, and carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. He sets you down on the mattress gently, but there’s nothing soft in the way he pulls his shirt off—like he’s peeling off the day. The tension in his shoulders, the bite in his jaw—it’s all still there, carved deep.

You reach for him and he’s on you in seconds, slotting his body over yours, mouth finding your collarbone, your neck, your pulse point—sucking, not kissing. Leaving evidence.

“You’re gonna let me fuck the stress out, right?” he murmurs. “No teasing. No bratting. Just you, taking everything I give you.”

You nod, gasping when his hand slips under your shirt and cups your breast. He hums, pleased, and rolls your nipple between his fingers until your back arches.

“Say it,” he growls into your skin. “Say it’s mine tonight.”

“It’s yours,” you whisper, voice already breathy.

“No,” he says, pushing your shirt up and tugging your shorts and panties down in one fluid motion. “I want to hear it begged.”

His palm slides between your legs, fingers barely brushing your folds—and even that light touch has you twitching. You’re already wet. He smiles against your stomach.

“Oh baby,” he whispers, kissing down the inside of your thigh. “You missed me that much?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He drags a single finger up your slit, slow and precise, watching the way your thighs jerk.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you pant. “I’m yours, Chan—please, please just touch me—”

“Oh, I’ll touch you,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your inner thigh, so close it hurts. “I’m gonna ruin you first.”

His mouth replaces his hand without warning, tongue sliding over your clit with practiced pressure. He holds your thighs down with iron grip, not letting you move, not letting you close your legs. It’s brutal. Precise. Ruthless.

And you’re already shaking.

Chan doesn’t moan when he eats you out. He growls. Low, animalistic sounds that rumble against your soaked cunt, the kind that make your head fall back and your fingers claw into the sheets.

He drags the flat of his tongue up and down your folds, slow and fucking thorough, before circling your clit and sucking it into his mouth. His lips seal around it, pressure perfect, tongue flicking rapid-fire. It’s overwhelming.

“C-Chan—fuck—” You arch off the bed and he slams your hips back down, forearm pressing you into the mattress.

“No running,” he mutters against you, lips wet, beard-stubbled chin glistening. “You said you were mine—prove it. Take it.”

He flattens his tongue and licks you open, slow and wide, groaning like he’s addicted to the taste. Then—without warning—his fingers replace his mouth.

Two.

Thick.

They sink in easily, your walls fluttering around the sudden stretch, and he doesn’t ease you into it. He fucks them in deep and curls them instantly, grinding them right against your front wall with unholy precision.

“God—Chan, wait, I’m—!”

“I know you’re close,” he snaps, thrusting his fingers harder. “You think I can’t feel you squeezing me like that? Go ahead, cum. Right on my fingers.”

And you do. With a sharp cry, your back bows off the bed, legs shaking violently as you cum around his hand, his name torn from your throat like a confession.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow.

Your vision’s still going white when he dives back in, mouth and fingers working in tandem now—tongue flicking your overstimulated clit while his fingers piston into your cunt with vicious rhythm, fucking you through the high and straight into another.

You sob, eyes fluttering, chest heaving. “Too much—wait—Chan, I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can,” he says darkly, gaze burning as he lifts his head just enough to speak. “You will. Gonna make this whole bed smell like you. Gonna make sure your body doesn’t forget me tomorrow when you can’t sit right.”

He spits on your cunt, spreads it with his thumb, and licks it all back up again. You're wrecked. Legs trembling, thighs twitching, jaw slack.

Then—a third finger.

You gasp, back arching off the bed as he eases it in with a filthy moan.

“Ohh, baby,” he breathes, curling all three. “Look how good you take me. So fucking tight still. This pussy was made for me.”

His tongue returns to your clit, relentless. His hand thrusts harder now, fingers scissoring, finding every nerve-ending inside you and setting it on fire.

Your second orgasm crashes into you with no warning—louder, messier. You cry out, legs jerking, and this time you try to pull away—

But Chan’s not done.

“Don’t you dare run,” he snarls, gripping your thighs and forcing you open again. “You’re gonna give me one more. Be good and give me one more, and then I’ll fuck you full, yeah? That’s what you want, right?”

You sob, nodding frantically. “Yes—yes, Daddy, please—”

He grins, fucking his fingers in deeper, curling right into that spot that makes your vision split.

“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my good girl. Ruin for me, baby. Just once more.”

And you do. You break for him. Again. Completely.

Your thighs squeeze around his shoulders, your voice shatters, and your cunt gushes around his hand as he fucks you through your third orgasm, slower now, working you through the comedown.

And only then—only then—does he finally pull back.

He drags his soaked fingers from your body, glancing down at the mess with unfiltered hunger, and then sucks them clean, tongue slow, eyes locked on yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You taste like you missed me.”

You try to answer—try to speak—but it’s just a moan. Your hips roll, desperate and aching for him, and he smiles. That slow, smug curl of his lips that only appears when he knows he’s got you undone.

He stands.

Fists the waistband of his sweats. And pulls them down.

His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. Heavy and hard, it slaps up against his lower stomach, veined and angry with need. He fists it immediately, pumping once, twice, with a groan that sounds like he’s been holding back for hours.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls. “All open and messy for me. You want it?”

You nod frantically. “Want it, want you, need you inside—”

“You’re gonna take it,” he says through clenched teeth, lining himself up. “And you’re gonna keep still while I fuck you like I’ve been dying to.”

He doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t drag it out.

He presses the blunt, swollen head to your soaked entrance and sinks in slow, forcing your walls to stretch wide around the thick, burning push of him. Inch by inch, and every second of it feels like you’re being split open in the best possible way.

You moan, legs trembling, eyes fluttering. “So big—fuck, Chan—”

He grits his teeth. “Yeah? Feel me now, baby?”

He bottoms out in one final thrust, hips flush to yours, the base of his cock grinding against your sensitive folds. You gasp at the fullness, at the pressure, at how deep he is—like he’s in your fucking stomach.

And then he starts moving.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

He pulls out halfway and slams back in with a sharp growl, setting a rhythm that’s punishing, relentless, animalistic. His hands lock around your hips, dragging you into every thrust as his cock splits you open again and again.

“S’fucking tight,” he hisses. “Even after all that—you’re still choking me.”

You cry out, your hands scrabbling for purchase, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets as he pounds into you.

“Chan, I’m gonna—can’t—too much—”

“No,” he snarls, eyes wild. “You can take it. You will take it. You’re mine, remember?”

His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to ground you, to own you—and he leans down, fucking you even deeper.

“You think I don’t dream about this?” he growls against your mouth. “You think I don’t fucking ache to come home and bury myself in you? To hear you moan my name while this pussy milks me dry?”

You sob his name. Broken. Desperate.

And he loses it.

Chan switches, pulls out of you and flips you over in one motion, dragging your hips up and plunging back into you from behind. One hand fists in your hair, the other comes down hard on your ass.

“Arch that back. Just like that. Fucking perfect—”

You’re a mess. Drool on the sheets. Tears streaking your cheeks. Your body trembling, slick gushing with every thrust as he ruins you from behind, his cock hitting deeper, harder, brutal in its precision. Chan grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you back into his chest, forcing your spine into a perfect arch. The shift in angle punches a moan from your lungs so loud it startles even him.

“There it is,” he growls, voice vibrating against your neck. “That’s the spot, yeah? Right fucking there—where I split you open just right?”

You sob. There are no words left. Just sounds—guttural, broken, high-pitched gasps every time his cock slams into your sweet spot. You try to speak. Try to say “yes,” try to say “more,” but it comes out slurred, useless. Just wet, incoherent babbling as spit leaks from the corner of your mouth and stains the sheets.

“Can’t even talk,” he chuckles darkly. “Already cock drunk? But I’m not done yet, baby.”

He slams in once, hard, deep���and then smacks your ass again, harder this time, the sound ricocheting off the walls. You jerk forward, whimpering, and he doesn’t let you run.

Another slap. And another. Your ass stings, heat blooming where his palm leaves its mark. Your legs quake.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “Waiting for me, dripping and desperate, just begging to be fucked stupid?”

You moan something—nonsense, vowels, his name maybe—and he grins against your shoulder.

“That’s right. All you can do is moan and take it. My perfect little fucktoy.”

He shoves your head back into the mattress and folds over your back, hips still pistoning in relentless rhythm. You’re choking on the air now, gasping, broken, tears wetting the sheets below you.

“Feel that?” he hisses. “That’s me, right here.” He presses a hand to your stomach, feeling the outline of his cock pushing up through your guts.

You moan so loud and that only spurs him on more. Those pretty sobby moans of yours. He slides his hand back down between your legs, fingers rubbing your swollen clit in cruel, fast circles as he pounds into you harder—so hard you feel the bedframe shake.

“Cum again,” he pants. “Soak my cock, baby. Let go for me.”

You sob, body convulsing, legs giving out as another orgasm crashes into you full-force—violent, pure nerves. You squirt, slick gushing out around his cock, and he groans, hand tightening on your hip.

“Fucking hell—yes, just like that. You’re so messy for me—so good—fuck—”

You collapse face-first into the mattress, body twitching from overstimulation, and Chan finally slows.

But doesn’t stop.

He grinds now, deep and slow, still buried inside your fluttering cunt, letting you feel every thick inch drag against hypersensitive walls.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Cock-drunk little mess. Can’t even lift your head.”

He pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the loss—but then he spreads you with both hands, watches your hole pulse and clench on nothing, leaking everywhere.

“Oh, baby,” he groans. “You can take more. I’ll make it so good—fill you up till you’re leaking for hours, promise.”

Your throat works around a whimper, drool still pooling on the sheets, legs useless, mind white-noise and static. You try to lift your head, try to respond—you can't.

And Chan fucking loves that.

“God, you’re so far gone,” he breathes. “You don’t even know your own name right now, do you?”

You manage a broken, garbled sound—it might be “no,” might be “Chan,” might be nothing at all.

He fists his cock at your entrance, rubbing the head through the slick dripping down your thighs. You jolt. Twitch. Cry out. He shushes you with a gentleness that doesn’t match the way he ruts forward again, cock forcing its way back into your swollen cunt with a slick, filthy sound.

“Shhh, I know,” he coos. “You’re sore, baby, I know. Just let me in. I’ll take care of it.”

You’re shaking. You feel everything. Every vein, every pulse, every drag of his thick length through oversensitive, spasming walls.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groans. “Still so tight. So good. Gonna make me fucking cum—fuck, you feel too good—”

He folds over you again, chest to your back, lips right at your ear. One arm wraps under your body, hand sliding up to cup your throat, the other pulling your hips back into him like he’s anchoring himself inside you.

“You’re mine, yeah?” he whispers, voice cracking. “Say it.”

“I’m—yours,” you sob, voice barely there. “Always—always yours—”

That’s all it takes.

His rhythm breaks. Hips stutter. A strangled noise rips from his chest as his cock jerks deep inside you—and then he’s cumming, hard, deep, spilling hot inside your pulsing cunt as his breath shudders against your neck.

“F-fuck—yes—yes, take it, baby, take all of it—mine—”

You feel it fill you.

Hot. Heavy. Endless.

And he doesn’t pull out.

He stays buried deep, hands trembling now, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides the aftershocks in low, shallow thrusts, grinding his release deeper, forcing it to stay, until he stills. Stills for a second to catch his breath and then finally, slowly—slowly—coming back to himself.

His trembling exhales even out. His lips brush your shoulder once, then twice, softer every time. He presses a kiss to your spine. Then one behind your ear. Then to the crown of your head, murmuring into your hair:

“Breathe with me, baby. Just like that. That’s it.”

You’re limp beneath him. Boneless. A little teary. You feel sticky and sore and full—but also safe. Because Chan never lets go.

He finally pulls out, and you both whimper at the same time—you from the emptiness, him from the sensitivity. He cups between your thighs, tries to catch the cum that’s already starting to drip out.

“Fuck,” he whispers, in awe. “I really stuffed you, didn’t I? It’s still warm inside.”

You make a small, broken noise that could be a laugh—or just the air leaving your lungs. He leans down and kisses your temple again.

“Don’t move, angel. I’ve got you.”

He disappears for only a second, then returns with a clean towel and warm water from the ensuite. You blink blearily as he lifts one of your thighs, murmuring apologies as he wipes between your legs with the gentlest touch, catching every drop of the mess he made with soft, rhythmic circles.

“So good for me,” he says, more to himself than to you. “So, so good.”

He helps you sit up slowly, presses a bottle of water to your lips, and watches as you drink—holding the back of your head like you might fall apart again. When you're done, he slips his hoodie over your head, and it swallows you whole.

You feel tiny inside it. But so warm.

He kisses your nose. “Gonna run a bath, alright? I want you warm and floating. You’ll feel better in the water.”

The lights in the bathroom are dimmed. Steam rises off the tub. He sinks in first, and then pulls you in with him—your back to his chest, thighs folded over his, your head tucked beneath his chin.

There are no words for a long while.

Just his fingertips gliding over your arms, your legs, tracing circles over your hips beneath the water. His lips press to the back of your shoulder, then to your cheek.

Then softly—brokenly—he whispers: “I didn’t mean to go that hard.”

You turn your head slightly, looking up at him. His eyes are filled with something too deep to name—something that looks like guilt and devotion tangled together.

“You needed it,” you rasp. “I wanted it.”

“I was rough,” he says, kissing your wet lashes. “You cried.”

You smile—barely. “You always make me cry.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, nose brushing your hair. “But not like that.”

You twist slightly in his arms, enough to face him now. Your hand cups his cheek. “I felt loved. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.”

His eyes flutter shut, and he nods once—like it cracks something open in him. “You’re my safe place,” he murmurs. “The only thing I want to come home to.”

You nuzzle into his chest. “You can fuck me into the mattress whenever you need to. Just don’t forget to kiss me after.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half relief—and kisses you now, long and slow and soft.

“I’ll never forget to kiss you.”

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog , @girlsymptoms , @bookswillfindyouaway , @jasperlvskz , @geekymommakerry , @dazzlingjade , @alisonyus , @pluto-rose , @crazy4books1 , @b3autyist3rror

[tiefling-queer]

when i was in high school, i worked at our local grocery store. there was a man who'd come in every few days, carl, for a donut and smokes and he'd always indignantly refuse to take any pennies in his change. he was known around town as 'kick the can carl' because he collected aluminum cans to sell back at a plant another town over.

he passed away about 8 or so years ago now. i think about him sometimes when i end up with a handful of pennies.

My favorite grocery store cashier died a few months ago. I know this probably sounds like a bizarre thing to be sad about. Her name was Judith and I only saw her once or twice a week, and only while I was paying for groceries. But even now, months later, I think of her when I'm at the grocery store. She used to save the ends of receipt paper rolls when they only had a foot or two left on them and give them to me, which I never asked her to do, but the first time she did it she held one out to me and said "you look like someone who would make a craft out of this," and I laughed because she was right. I do save them to put in geocaches and letterboxes. Our small talk was about the weather and the weekend and aren't those cookies good? They're so expensive though. But it's worth it.

I'm just saying. If you ever sit around wondering whether you'd be missed if you disappeared off the face of the earth, the answer is probably yes, very much, and probably by more people than you think.

[barnesonfilm]

★ summary: coming home after a long day of work to your boyfriend, clark kent.

★ pairing: clark kent x reporter!reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, fem reader, smut, unprotected p-in-v, oral f-receiving, breeding kink if you squint, praise, use of y/n, cursing, potential superman spoilers, ungodly levels of clark kent being the best boyfriend in the world

★ word count: 3.7k

★ a/n: I saw superman tuesday and I have not been able to get clark out of my head, specifically the scene of them in the apartment. this is based heavily on that. this is also my first published writing, so please be kind to me or else...

The smell of pancakes enveloped your senses the moment you unlocked the door to your apartment. You knew automatically that once you walked into your kitchen, your boyfriend would be standing there still in his work slacks, slaving over the stove, making much more food than necessary for two people. This was beginning to become a pattern, an endearing one, but a pattern nonetheless.

“Honey, I’m home!” You drawled, hanging your coat up and letting your bag fall to the floor. As always, your instincts were correct. Clark was standing by the stove, his white button-up shirt still on, with his sleeves pulled up to his elbows. 

“Hi darlin’,” He said without even turning around. His eyes were laser-focused on flipping the pancakes onto a plate. Soon, the pan was abandoned, and he was rushing towards you, picking you up with ease. Giggles escaped your mouth when he spun you around the dim kitchen, pressing small kisses all over your face. 

“Did you miss me?” A squeal left your lips, kissing him back feverishly. 

“It’s been so long.” He chided, acting as if you two didn’t see each other in passing during your entire work day. Being a reporter alongside him at the Daily Planet had its ups and downs. Keeping your relationship a secret was tiresome, but worth it to avoid all the unnecessary attention. Besides, what's one more secret? There were no Superman photo ops or inside scoops from reporters about your relationship—simply Y/n and Clark. 

“Oh yeah?” You mocked batting your eyes at his giddy face. You’d never get tired of how excited he was to love you. 

“Every second without you is torturous.” His eyes shone from the reflection of the city lights reflecting off the windows. Once you were back on solid ground, you took a step around the kitchen, looking at his impressive spread of various breakfast foods. Notably, the stack of at least a dozen pancakes.

“One day we’ll have breakfast at breakfast time.” The teasing tone laced your voice as you reached to grab plates from the top shelf. He strided over and placed his hands on your hips, sliding underneath your shirt. His large hands engulfed your waist. 

“Oh, I see. I come home after a long day of work and slave over this hot stove for you, yet you’re so cruel to me.” He couldn’t keep a straight face as he said this, helping you grab the plates down. 

“A long day of interviewing yourself, huh? Tell me how that works?” You bite back as you both danced around each other in the dining room, setting the table and making each other's plates. 

“That’s not fair. It’s hard work knowing what to say-” 

“How is it hard work?” He closes his eyes tightly at your question, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“The questions are difficult to answer sometimes-“ 

“You make the questions!” 

“Yeah, well, I’m doing twice the work!” His arms flailed in front of him before he gestured for you to take a seat. The vein in his neck was protruding slightly, as it always did when you worked him up. You placed a gentle kiss on his forearm as he pushed your chair in for you. 

“You’re ridiculous.” You scoffed as he sat in front of you, passing the syrup. 

“And you love me.” There was that beaming smile again. A smile that could light up a thousand suns. The only reason you got out of bed some days. 

“Yeah,” You smiled. “I suppose I do.” There were very few things in this world you were sure of, and the biggest one was how much you loved the man sitting in front of you. From the moment he spilled coffee all over your desk and blushed so crimson you thought he was going to pass out. There hasn’t been a moment since you’ve felt unloved or unsafe. 

“One of these days, someone’s going to wonder why Superman likes Clark Kent so much.” You brought up, His eyebrows now in a constant furrow. With a mouthful of pancakes, he mumbled something incoherent. Once he swallowed, he began his arguments again. 

“It’s not hard to believe he’d find a journalist to confide in and only be comfortable with that one.” He rambled, not meeting your eyes. “It makes much more sense than him going on a press tour.”

“Isn't it a little morally wrong to bias yourself so much?” You finally ask. “You’re not gonna ask any questions that are uncomfortable to answer.” 

“Eat your pancakes. That I made. With love. Now.” He was tabling this conversation for now. Not a hint of actual anger in his tone. Your response was angrily stabbing the syrupy mess on your plate. 

“So aggressive.” His voice was barely a whisper as he failed at hiding his amusement behind his drink.

After a little more debating and a whole lot of pancakes later, you both stood side by side at the sink. It was an unspoken rule that if he cooked, you’d wash, but only if he was allowed to dry. He stood beside you, meticulously wiping the plates with a washcloth as if it were his favorite activity in the world. His brows furrowed in concentration, making sure there were no streaks. These were some of his favorite moments with you. Mundane activities like washing dishes, grocery shopping, or doing laundry. It made him feel normal; there were no secrets to be had within these walls. Just love in its purest form. 

The comfortable silence in the kitchen was soon broken by a large splash as the plate slipped from his hand back into the soapy water. It made a comical flop as it splashed water all over you, drenching you. The man's shoulders beside you began to shake silently, failing miserably to contain his amusement. 

“It’s not funny!” You shriek, trying to wipe the soap bubbles off. 

“Oh, it’s kinda funny.”

 You snatched the washcloth from his hand and tried to pat dry your now-soaked shirt. Aggressively patting the fabric while glaring up at him.

“Come on, I'll put it in the wash for you.” 

He did feel bad. Despite all his attributes, he was the clumsiest person alive. It was endearing when it wasn’t ruining your shirts, or your couch cushions, or the rugs. At least this time it was just dishwater. 

Trapping your bottom lip between your teeth, you peered up at the man. “Is this just some elaborate scheme to get me out of my shirt, Mr. Kent?” 

His composure shifted, and his giggles stopped abruptly. 

“No? No! Well, no, but wait-“ He rambled his face turning a pale shade of pink, “ No! But I’m not complaining now.” 

Suddenly, the mood shifted in the room from playful to tense with desire. Taking the teasing even further, you leaned back against the damp sink and grabbed the bottom button of your shirt, popping it open. Clark let out a shaky breath, his eyes never leaving yours. Before your fingers could even reach the second button, his body was colliding with yours. 

Your lips connect feverishly, teeth almost clacking together at how fast he moves. He tasted sickly sweet, still smelling faintly of syrup. A moan escaped the back of your throat, and he swallowed it greedily. His hands knocked yours out of the way, gently resuming your unbuttoning. The shirt was opened and thrown across the room in record time. With your damp shirt out of the way, he lifted you and plopped you down on the counter, his lips never leaving your skin. 

“What happened to putting my shirt in the wash?” No hint of real concern was in your voice as he dragged his lips to your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses on the newly exposed skin. Nipping at the juncture between your neck and shoulder, making you mewl in his grasp. 

“I’ll buy you all the shirts you could ever want.” His words slurred. “I will give you the world.” A promise he intended to keep. 

Your hands instinctively tangled in his unruly curls when he dropped to his knees, leaving a trail of open-mouth kisses over your chest and down to your navel. Pant buttons were fumbled with, and he took his time carefully pulling your bottoms off your legs. It took every ounce of his impulse control not to rip the fabric off your body. 

Your eyes met as he pressed a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. Taking the time to admire the hunger swirling around in his almost black irises. If only the world could see him now, on his knees, looking up at you as if you were a god. Ready to worship at his temple. 

Before you could fully soak in the sight between your legs, he attached his mouth greedily to your cunt, devouring you with fever. Eyes rolling to the back of your head as the pleasure licked up your spine. His fingers gripped your thighs, keeping you spread apart for him.

“Fuck-“ A gasp escaped from your chest, causing him to chuckle into you.

You tugged gently at the ends of his hair as he continued his assault. Nothing could be heard but your panting and the sounds of him lapping greedily at your core like a man starved. It wasn’t long before your legs were tensing around his head tightly. He moaned softly into your wetness, this turning him on as much as it did you. The vibrations caused your hips to jolt in shock, grinding yourself against him.

This spurred him to slip his hand around, guiding a finger into your entrance. His fingers moved in tandem with his mouth as he sucked your folds greedily. The one quickly turned into two, and soon he was curling them up into your sweet spot, making you see stars. His brows furrowed in determination to pry all of the pleasure he could out of you. 

“Oh fuck, Clark, I’m-“ Your head instinctively went to lean back in the haziness of your pleasure, but before it could make impact with the hard cabinet, Clark gripped your legs tight and in the blink of an eye you were transported to the bedroom, your back hitting the pillows gently. Nothing but a gentle whoosh and a change of location. A slight dizziness fell over you at this, your eyes closing to fight it off. All while his mouth and fingers never once stopped. There was no time to process what had just happened before your orgasm hit you.

A desperate moan of his name escaped as you came for him, hips bucking wildly. You had to pry his head away from you to ride out your aftershocks. If it were up to him, he’d live with his head between your legs. His face was glistening with your release, his grin cocky.

“Did you break the sound barrier to make sure I didn’t hit my head?” Disbelief in your voice. Your legs were shaking, your throat dry. 

“Would you rather I let you hit your head?” He hovered above you, his eyes almost black as he devoured you with his eyes. 

The grin that formed on your face was contagious. “God, I love you.”

“And I love you.” A kiss pressed to your neck, traveling down your chest again. 

You leaned up on your elbows to meet his gaze. “If you loved me, you’d take your clothes off. I don’t think it’s fair you’re fully dressed.”

 “Yes, ma'am.” He salutes, that Kansas drawl he denied was slipping through. He ripped his shirt off in one fluid moment, almost surprised he didn’t rip the thing in half dramatically. Taking your own time to admire his chiseled chest and the way his arms flex with each frantic movement.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” A dreamy sigh left your lips as you watched him crawl back in between your legs. 

“I’m the lucky one.” He said, giving you that bright smile before pressing his mouth to yours. You kissed him back feverishly. Your hands immediately went to his chest, feeling the hard ridges and curves of him. It wasn’t long before you were both bare, what little clothes remained long flung across the room. He was everywhere, all over you. His body lying between your hips, his hands roaming every inch of skin, while his hips rutted against yours messily. His hard length brushes against your inner thigh.

“Can I make you feel good again, baby?” He asks, his eyes meeting yours as he looks up from your chest. Nodding feverishly as he takes your hardened nipple into his mouth, circling the bud with his tongue. 

“Use your words, sweetheart.” He demanded, letting your nipple go with a loud, wet pop. 

“Yes, yes, please.” You begged. “Need to feel you.” 

He was never one to deprive you of what you needed. So he eagerly obliged, gripping his length in his hand, stroking himself a few times before lining himself up with your entrance. He slowly pressed himself into you, a whimper escaping his lips. His eyes squinted in pleasure when he bottomed out, your hips flush to his.  He gave you a moment to adjust to his size, as he stretched you in the most delicious way. A subtle shift of his hips into you and your head was thrown back into the pillows. The sheer size of him had you clinging to his shoulders like a lifeline. 

“Oh my god.” The words tore from your throat violently. 

“No god here tonight, baby, just me.” The cockiness exuded from his voice. Nothing made him feel more on top of the world than looking down at you, so full of him, writhing around in pleasure.  

“Need you.” You finally found your voice. You were throbbing around him begging for him to move. 

“I know. I got you.” He assured you snapping his hips into yours in a rhythm that took your breath away. Your nails digging into his shoulder blades so hard he'd be bleeding if he was anyone else. The slap of hips against each other was music to your ears. The wet friction of skin rubbing against each other deliciously. 

“Doing so good, sweet girl.” His voice came out in a broken moan, taken over by how good you were squeezing him. The compliment had you cockdrunk, mumbling broken curses. One of his hands gripped the bed frame, and his other wrapped around your thigh, holding it up to his chest as he entered you even deeper than before. His forehead pressed against yours, both of your panting and moans filling the air around. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t speak. All you could do was enjoy the feeling of him moving so deep inside you. 

“Taking my cock so well.” He praised watching where your wetness formed a ring around his length. He slid in and out with no resistance. The lewd sounds bouncing off the walls. He committed this sight to memory. 

He could feel you clenching around him as his hand slipped down, rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head, your second earth shattering orgasm of the night on its way.

As if he read your mind he rubbed his thumb over your temple. “You’re gonna come again for me, huh?” He grunted, not relenting from his pace.

Words couldn’t form on your lips, just whines of his name over and over as your pleasure hit you in waves. He could feel everything. Every sigh of pleasure you made. He could feel the goosebumps rising beneath your skin, the sound of your blood rushing in your veins, and the subtle twitch of your body when you were about to come. He knew your body like the back of his hand.   

 “Oh yeah, you are. There you go. Let go for me.” 

You were coming around him before you could even warn him. Your brain was so lost in pleasure, you couldn’t even register that you were repeating his name over and over. 

“Good. Girl.” He punctuated with his hips, which were slowly losing their rhythm. Making sure to ride out your high with each deep thrust. 

“You’re gonna make me come.” His grunts came out faster as he gripped the bed frame tightly. The sound of splintering wood comes from behind you. Lost in the haze, you couldn’t care less if he broke yet another bed frame. 

“Please, baby, come for me.” Pressing lazy kisses down the side of his neck as his hips stilled and jolted inside of you. His groans were muffled by your hair as he drowned in his euphoria. His cock twitching inside of you as he came. Heavy breaths against your neck, he kept his thrusts slow, giving you every drop of himself. 

His head lolled gently to your chest, his body crashing onto yours gently. Bodies sweatily intertwined, basking in the afterglow. 

“I love you.” You whispered, rubbing his back gently as you both came down. His thumb was tracing small circles on your hips. 

 “I love you too, my beautiful girl .” He pressed a soft kiss to your lips before slowly pulling himself out of you with a hiss. But not without taking time to admire his messy handiwork. 

“You’re such a boy.” You chided as his hand drifted around the mess between your legs, his fingers trailing gently around your clit. Your hips jolted due to the sensitivity. 

“Can you blame me?” He smiled bashfully. He gave you one last playful pat before he crawled off of you, heading into the ensuite. 

Twirling around in the sheets dreamily, you watched his bare figure stroll into the bathroom. The sound of the bath water starting distantly made your heart swell. 

“Ms. Y/l/n, your bath awaits.” He bowed in the doorway, illuminated by a few candles he had lit on the counter. It wasn’t long before he was swooping you up bridal style. He placed you gently into the water, and as soon as your muscles hit the warm water, you couldn’t help the groan that escaped your lips. 

“I’ll be right back.” Another kiss to your forehead as he went to change the sheets on the bed and gather pajamas for you both. You weren’t sure how you got so lucky for this man to worship you. Placing pink bath salts into your bath and picking out pajama sets for you. You weren’t surprised to see a towel in the warmer either. 

The water sloshed around the edges of the tub when he slid in behind you. You both settled comfortably together. Your weight on top of him, legs tangled together, and his arms wrapped around your shoulders. His hard shoulder was the perfect pillow for you. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You mumbled while his hands smoothed down your hair. His own eyes closed, relishing in the feeling. 

“It’s a good thing you’ll never have to know.’ He reassured you, holding you even tighter in his arms, like at any moment's notice you’d fade away. Idle small talk filled the steamy bathroom. From how ridiculous the new deadlines were at work to how he’d been handling the conflict in foreign nations. 

“You just have too much heart. That’s not a bad thing, Clark. The world just hasn’t caught up yet. Don't let them take any of that kindness away from you.” 

“I’m just doing the best I can. I’m saving so many lives, but I can never save them all, and it kills me.” His voice was thick with emotion. You turned your body around and straddled his hips, careful not to flood the bathroom as you moved around. Grasping his face in your hands, you looked deeply into his icy blue eyes. 

“Exactly that. You are doing your best, my love. You’ve saved thousands of people, and you’ve inspired even more. You are a beacon of hope in dark times, yes, but don’t let that weight crush you.”

He responded by kissing you passionately. Not as hungry and desperate as earlier, but gentle, full of unsaid words of affirmation. Nothing but love flowing between you two. 

“I’m so in love with you. Every day, I find a new reason to love you even more than I do now.” You managed to say between his bashful kisses. 

“I’m gonna love you every single day for the rest of your life.” 

“Pretty sure the saying is “rest of my life.” 

“I meant what I said. There is no me without you. I refuse to exist in a world without you in it.” His eyes were steady. You knew he meant every single word he said. Your brows furrowed, and you leaned forward, attacking your lips together again. His hands grabbed your hips, positioning them over his own. 

Before things could heat up again, your small oasis was soon cut short by the shrill sound of a ringtone you’ve learned to despise. The small flip phone on which you drew the Superman signal on the back of the day he bought it. His body tensed upon hearing it, knowing he’d have to leave. There were always going to be people to save. 

“What terrible timing they have.” His tone is flat, taking one last look to admire your bare figure on his lap.

A disappointed smile graced your mouth. “It’s okay.” You reassured him, his soft, tired eyes meeting your own. “Like you said. We have the rest of our lives.” 

 “I’ll come back as soon as I can.” He promised as he shimmied out of the porcelain tub. A chuckle left your mouth as you heard him whooshing through the apartment, getting dressed, not before answering the phone. You’d bet and then win that it was Guy on the other line giving him a hard time.

He gave you one last goodbye before he stepped out of the open window, flying off to save the world yet again. You settled back into the bath, letting the water engulf you. You knew what you were getting into the day he asked you to be his. The ache of missing him, the worry of something happening, yet you’d take it any day for the honor of being loved by him. So you’d enjoy the bath he drew for you, put on the pajamas he picked out, and curl up in the bed he made for you. Waiting for him to be back by your side. He’d go out and fight tooth and nail to save everyone to make it back to you in one piece. Because no matter what, he’d move the earth to make sure he was back by your side.

[formulafanfics13]

Just Once - LN4 🔥

Masterlist

summary: lando finally convinces you to try anal, and when you take it like a fucking champ, he can't shut up about it in the group chat with max, oscar, and daniel.

warnings: anal, lube, praise kink, filthy bragging, post-sex groupchat chaos, lando being so smug it hurts, very explicit smut, dom!lando energy.

It starts in the shower.

You’re naked, wet, tired from the race weekend, and already giggling from the way Lando keeps kissing your shoulder. He’s been teasing all day. Whispering things in your ear. Touching your back when he passes you. Telling you how good you look in his hoodie. How soft you feel. How fucking badly he wants you.

But this time, he whispers something different.

"Let me fuck your ass."

You freeze. Look over your shoulder. "Lando."

He kisses your neck. "Please. Just once. Just to see how it feels. I swear I’ll go slow. I’ll use lube. I’ll stop if you want. I just—fuck, baby, I want it so bad."

You bite your lip. "You’re obsessed."

"With you? Obviously. With the idea of bending you over and watching my cock disappear into your perfect little ass? Even more."

You roll your eyes, but you’re already caving. The way he talks to you. The way he begs. The way his cock is pressed against your thigh, already hard and leaking.

"Alright," you say, breathless. "Just go slow."

He groans. Deep and low. "Fucking love you."

He gets you out of the shower and onto the bed in record time.

You’re on your knees, head resting on your arms, back arched for him. He kisses your spine, takes his time rubbing lube between your cheeks, fingers careful and slow.

"Let me know if anything hurts, yeah?"

You nod. He starts with one finger. Then two. Preps you gently, praises you the entire time.

"You're doing so good for me. So fucking perfect. Never seen anyone take it like you."

You whimper. Grind back against his hand. He’s panting by the time he lines himself up.

"Tell me you want it."

"I want it," you whisper. "Want your cock in my ass."

He moans like you just won him the championship.

He pushes in slow. Barely the tip. You clench. He strokes your back. "Breathe. Relax, baby."

You exhale. He goes deeper. Inch by inch. His cock is thick, and it burns in the best way.

"Fucking hell," he groans. "You’re so tight. So fucking tight I might lose my mind."

You whimper, shifting back. He grabs your hips. "Stay still. Let me do it."

When he bottoms out, you both freeze. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s holding himself back.

"Holy fuck," he pants. "You took all of it. You took all of me. Jesus Christ."

He doesn’t move right away. Lets you adjust. Kisses your lower back. Keeps whispering how good you are, how perfect you feel.

Then he pulls out an inch and thrusts back in, slow and deep.

You moan. He grins.

"That good, huh?"

You can barely answer.

He fucks you slow. Obsessively slow. Like he wants to memorise every inch. Then harder. Deeper. Until you're crying into the sheets and he's praising you like you're a goddamn miracle.

"So fucking perfect. Taking me like this. Your tight little ass made for me. Gonna come just from this, aren't you?"

You do. Shaking. Screaming. He groans loud and spills inside you, still whispering filth against your skin.

After, you collapse on the bed, twitching. He kisses your shoulder.

"Best sex of my life. No contest."

You laugh. "You're just proud you finally convinced me."

"That," he says, reaching for his phone, "and I can't wait to tell Max."

You jolt. "Lando."

"Too late."

He’s already typing.

GROUPCHAT: DUMBASS TRIO + DANNY

LN4: lads 

LN4: i just fucked her ass 

LN4: like full on 

LN4: she TOOK IT 

LN4: like a fuckin champion

MV1: jesus fucking christ 

OP81: i don’t want to know this 

DR3: tell me everything

LN4: she was so tight 

LN4: like she was shaking 

LN4: thought i was gonna pass out 

LN4: best sex of my life

MV1: blocking this chat 

OP81: she okay?? 

DR3: i’m gonna cry i’m so proud

LN4: she’s fine she came like a pornstar 

LN4: you should have heard her 

LN4: fuck

MV1: i’m deleting my phone 

OP81: goodnight forever 

DR3: make sure you hydrate king

LN4: tell the paddock 

LN4: tell EVERYONE

[theglassofmiddleearth]

Imagine Being Isekai'ed into KPOP DEMON HUNTERS. (part 9)

I'M BACK! Sorry I took a break! BUTTT we're nearing the end guys!(i think either one more big chapter or 2 chapters, not TOO sure) BUT DON'T FEAR! I DO HAVE EXTRA SCENES/BLOOPERS THAT WILL ALSO BE WRITTEN! Now, This chapter IMO does feel a little rushed but PLEASE ENJOY IT ANYWAYS. As always, my tag list is full. HAVE A GOOD READ! (Also thinking of covering Free as well XD)

Previous

The days following that were gruelling.

The idol awards were fast approaching and Y/N had spent the week buried in work for What It Sounds Like. Takedown was supposed to be released in two days, during the Idol awards along with What It Sounds Like.

The song required much more work than the other tracks she had previously worked on, from creating MIDI tracks to timing vocals and tuning harmonies. Everything was meshing together, creating a splitting pain in her head.

Just as Huntr/x was busy, the Saja Boys were also busy. Their influence spread faster than the black plague in the thirteenth century. Edits were being made, dance covers and even ships between the boys. (Y/N was blissfully unaware of the fact that there were a plethora of them shipping her with each of the boys, due to her permanent working status.)

The sheer complexity of layering, and the realisation that she didn’t have access to a crowd’s cheers, created a intricacy that Y/N was struggling to recreate.

‘Girls, I’m sorry. I don’t think I can get What It Sounds Like out in time with Takedown.’ Y/N said, pressing her palm against her forehead, feeling a dull ache.

‘That’s okay! We’re already winning so many awards with Golden!’ Rumi said cheerfully, voice crackling through the speaker.

‘I’m so sorry Rumi. Zoey and Mira too, I’m sorry to have let you down.’ Y/N closed her eyes, sitting down at her kitchen counter. She slumped over as the phone on the other end was passed to someone else.

‘No, it’s okay Y/N/N! Please don’t overwork yourself!.’ Zoey’s voice filtered through the noise of the dressing rooms. They had just finished taping another awards show where this time, they had taken a win from the Saja Boys.

‘That’s right Y/N. We care about you more than a performance. Do you need us to do anything? Re-record lines? Get you some food?’ Mira’s tone was calm but laced with an almost undetectable hint of concern. The girls were so sweet, she didn’t know how but, it seemed as if they were closer than before Y/N had transmitigated into this world into this character.

‘I’m alright Mira I promise.’ Y/N laughed, somewhat enjoying the girls fussing over her. ‘You guys did everything perfectly, there's just things I don't think I’ve gotten right so far. I just need a little more time.’

‘Alright, if you say so.’ Mira relented, with a soft breath. ‘But call us if you need anything okay?’

‘You got it Mira!’

The girls had said goodbye in union just as the elevator doors opened, revealing a mildly annoyed group of men.

‘Ugh, did you see the look those hunters gave us when they won?’ Beom grouched, taking off his shoes, placing them neatly on the shelf before running over to collapse on the sofa.

‘Welcome back guys.’ Y/N said, sprawling over her own marble counter top, her voice weak. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to eat or drink that day. It was just that she had completely forgotten due to the immense stress she had placed herself under. Unintentionally, work had come before anything else.

‘Did you work all day again Y/N?’ Jinu asked, his voice was similar to a wife’s soft, scolding tone.

‘Uhh…’ Jinu fumbled, walking over to the kitchen with a red neck.

‘I’m sorry honey, I’ll do better next time.’ Y/N mumbled into the crook of her arm sarcastically.

Jinu’s face flushed a bright red, as four glares found their way to his back.

Suddenly a voice from the television filled the comfortable silence, cutting through the entire apartment.

‘Hey, everybody.’ Rae’s voice began.

‘Our fan club just hit fifty million fans!’ Abel continued before Rae took over again.

‘We have to give a shout out to Huntr/x! We couldn’t have done it without their support.’

‘And to our fans?’ Min interjected, voice low and almost menacing, ‘Thank you, we really feed off your energy.

Y/N frowned, lifted her head as the boys hurriedly switched to another channel.

‘In other news, the amount of missing reports have tripled in the last twenty four hours.’ The news lady said, just before the boys shut off the television hurriedly.

‘What?’ Y/N said, tone eerily calm, eyes narrowing.

‘Um…’ Beom winced, looking at Jinu.

‘Abel. You promised me.’ Y/N said in a flat tone, nails digging into her palms hard. Her eyes were fixated on Abel’s face, painted with shame. His orange-brown eyes refused to meet Y/N’s. Abel could feel the sheer intensity of Y/N’s gaze, burning a hole into his side profile.

‘Darlin’ we aren’t the ones-’

‘I don’t wanna hear it. I’m going out. Don’t follow me.’ Y/N grabbed her keys off the table, pulling on her shoes and storming out of her apartment.

Abel was right, he had promised he would try his best. He also did say he himself wouldn’t take any souls, and in that aspect, she knew that was true. Yet, hearing his explanation wouldn’t make her feel better.

But, here she was, hoping that somehow, she would’ve made a difference. That she somehow had made it better, made a change.

A familiar rumble came from Y/N’s side. Derpy had appeared from a portal again, from the elevator floor.

‘I guess you can come with me.’ Y/N sighed, unable to resist the warm hearted nature of the blue tiger.

Derpy gave a happy grumble. Bumping their head against Y/N’s hand, prompting her to give Derpy it’s head pats as they exited the elevator doors. The sun already had begun to dip below the horizon, strangely enough the awards show was filmed during the day.

‘Y/N…’ A voice called from behind her, wary and soft.

‘What do you want, Rae?’ Y/N stood still, her back still turned to the tallest group member. She had only made it about ten meters away from the complex. Derpy circled Y/N, rubbing its tail along her back reassuringly.

‘You left without a jacket again.’ Rae’s voice was closer now, right behind her in fact. A toasty large jacket being placed over her shoulders. It smelt just like him, a warm, sweet, and elegant scent.

‘I don’t want to talk right now.’

‘Okay.’ Rae fell into step beside her, staying silent as he matched Y/N’s stride.

Y/N walked aimlessly, strolling until she found a park, abandoned for the day in the setting sun.

Derpy trotted happily along, pouncing at pigeons along the way.

Entering the ungated park, she made her way towards a swing set, sitting down on the left side, resting her head in her hands. Between her fingers, she could see the tips of white and yellow sneakers in front of her.

‘Rae…’ Y/N sighed, letting her hands fall limply to her sides.

‘Yes Y/N?’ He whispered back, bending a knee, gently lifting Y/N’s chin slowly.

‘I didn’t change your mind at all did I?’

‘No, of course you did. Y/N you’re so much more important than getting souls back to-’ Rae groaned, pain flashing across his face, stumbling backwards quickly. Derpy looked up from the potted plant it was messing with, eyes blinking unevenly.

‘Rae?!’ Y/N stood quickly in alarm. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, ‘m fine Y/N/N, Gwi-ma just didn’t like what I was feeling.’ Rae gave a weak smile, waving off her worries with a shaky hand.

‘Rae…’ Y/N stepped forward, fingers twitching, aching to check on the wincing man in front of her.

‘I’m fine, don’t worry.’ Rae flashed an unconvincing smile, beautiful nonetheless.

‘Is Gwi-ma still…’ Y/N trailed off, her gaze was wavering, filled with tears. She wasn’t one to cry normally, however today proved to be filled with emotions. Derpy gave an unhappy grumble, walking over to lay it’s large head on Y/N’s lap from the side.

Frustration.

Anger.

Disappointment.

Self-doubt.

All the emotions had reached a boiling point, now bubbling over. The entire situation felt like it was slipping out of her hands, like grains of sand trickling through her grasp. Y/N was sure that she had been placed here to fix things.

But if that were true, why did it feel like nothing was changing? As if she had done nothing to change the contents of the movie? Like nothing she did mattered.

‘Y/N.’ Rae’s hands gently cupped the girl’s face, brushing a cautious thumb over her cheeks bringing the girl out of her spiral. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’

‘I just… I wanted to help.’ Y/N whispered, gazing into Rae’s searching, lavender eyes. ‘I thought that somehow I could make it so that you guys could be free.’

A single tear dripped onto Rae’s skin, as he brushed it away with his thumb.

‘Oh sweetheart. You don’t see it do you?’ Rae gently led her by the hand, walking back toward Y/N’s apartment.

Derpy happily followed, remembering the way back home. The tiger disappeared slowly, sinking into a portal. Blinking it’s goodbye, knowing that the two would soon follow.

‘You’ve changed so much. Jinu is cooking, Beom has empathy. Min actually puts up his hair at home and you’ve got Abel, completely wrapped around your finger. None of us have even thought about taking souls ever since meeting you.’

Y/N stared at the back of Rae, as he spoke, watching the way he kept his shoulders more relaxed than they used to be.

'Well, other than yours in the beginning.' Rae gave a quiet laugh.

‘And you?’ Y/N asked, voice almost getting lost in the gentle breeze.

‘Me?’ Rae paused, turning around slowly, Y/N’s wrist still in his hand.

‘You make me believe that there’s hope, that maybe one day, we can be normal again.’ Rae’s eyes flashed gold, his purple patterns glossing over his skin for a moment.

‘Or as normal as a demon can be.’ He smiled ruefully, going to turn back around.

‘Rae listen-’ Y/N reached forward, placing a hand over the man’s hand.

A fluorescence of colours, emitting from her fingertips, dancing across Rae’s skin, turning his patterns a bright white blue for a second before his human visage flashed back into view.

‘What in the world?’ Rae gasped, shakily letting Y/N’s hand go, bringing a hand to cup at his forehead.

His head had been muddled, a polluted sea of shame and resentment. And yet, in an instant, the sea of pollution had been cleared. A rush of clean water, pushing back the murky surroundings, leaving the clearest, pool possible.

‘How am I doing this?’ Y/N blanched, staring at her hands, looking extremely confused.

‘Was this you?’ Rae looked up, his eyes shining with wonder. His hands were shaking as he ran a hand through his hair. ‘I mean… Is this how Beom and Abel managed to be free of Gwi-ma?’

‘I think so. But, I don’t know how I did it? I don’t even control it.’ Y/N frowned, still staring at her splayed palms as if it would reveal all the answers. It hadn’t happened the first time she talked to Rae alone but now, she had changed his patterns. What was the difference?

When she had first touched Abel, all she remembered was feeling concerned for him. Y/N wanted to help him. With Beom, it had been wanting to comfort him. To let him know that mistakes were just that, mistakes. Y/N wanted Beom to see that his talent wasn’t borne from Gwi-ma, but rather, the demon king just helped give Beom a push.

And now Rae?

She wanted Rae to know that normal was subjective. That the norm perceived by society, honestly, wasn’t all that great. That to be who and what he was, was already enough.

Each one of these interactions had been sparked by a strong emotion on Y/N’s end. But was her emotions the only thing that caused this?…

‘Y/N do you know what this means?’ Rae asked, nerves abuzz from adrenaline. ‘This means we wouldn’t have to help Gwi-ma take souls. We could help those hunter things seal the Honmoon! We’d be on this side of the shield, with you.’ Rae was talking a mile a minute still flickering his gaze between Y/N and his own skin.

‘Rae, what if Jinu doesn’t feel that way? What about his memories? I couldn’t ask him to live with reminiscing about the worst parts of his history.’ Y/N shook her head, as her large apartment complex came into view.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. But, while she didn’t approve of Jinu’s deal with Gwi-ma. She understood where he came from, people were, after all, inherently selfish by nature.

‘Y/N, that’s for him to decide. Jinu’s…’ Rae hummed, waiting for Y/N to swipe her key card into the door.

‘He’s changed. He’s softer, even. He was the second last to join our group. For four hundred years, he was distant. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile at anyone but us since we found him.’ Rae continued, as the pair moved into the elevator continuing their conversation as the elevator whirred into motion.

‘I don’t know Rae, but I’ll talk to him. Maybe tomorrow tonight, I’ll speak with him alone?’ Y/N leaned back against the elevator handrails. Looking wistfully at the floor.

‘Sounds good to me!’ Rae gave a patient smile, patting Y/N on the shoulder.

As the doors opened, Y/N was met with not only the smell of barbecued beef. She was also met with all four of the Saja Boys who had not followed her out of the apartment. They all spoke together quickly, words crashing over each other.

‘Y/N I’m sorry. I should have tried harder. I didn’t-’ Abel rushed to say.

‘Y/N we can fix this! We’ll think of something!’ Beom said at the same time, rushing through his words. His usual handsome face was panicked, as if thinking Y/N was about to disintegrate and disappear from before his eyes.

'I should have said something. I'm so sorry-' Min got out, his violet hair tied up.

‘Y/N-’ Jinu also said, trying to explain himself, looking equally as desperate as the rest of the men.

‘Is something burning?’ Y/N raised an eyebrow, craning her neck to look into the kitchen.

‘Oh crap.’

Turns out, the boys had been staring out of the windows, trying to spot when Y/N would walk back. Jinu had begun cooking meat on a barbecue plate stove, one he had bought specifically for today. He had seen that Y/N was working hard for the past week and wanted to surprise her with a meal he knew would perk her right up.

Yet, when they saw Y/N and Rae making their way back home. The boys had abandoned the kitchen, to eagerly await their return. Thus, burning the expensive meat slightly.

Or as Jinu wanted to call it, charring.

As the night drew closer, the moon fully resided in the blanket of night. The stars doing their best to shine amidst the twinkling city lights. Dinner had been finished, leaving all six people feeling renewed and content. The boys had done the dishes while Y/N showereed and finished up her nightly routine.

Beom had whined, whilst being dragged away by Min by the back of his collar. They had to practice for their performance and they only had two nights to do it.

Jinu had insisted that the boys practise away from Y/N’s apartment, so that they were able to let Y/N get a full night of sleep.

While it was different, Y/N didn't see any issue with it. It just meant that they finally would go back to their own apartment and Y/N could rest easy, knowing the boys were in their own area.

However, something was amiss.

Due to the way she had been suddenly thrust into a stress and work filled weak, she had neglected to open her prized notebook. The one where the last few pages were missing.

The words and music sheets of Your Idol had been meticulously torn out of the book. As if they had never existed.

In Jinu’s hands, as Y/N tucked herself into bed, after finishing her night routine. Were a set of papers, familiar with Y/N’s hand writing.

–

‘You took the song from Y/N?’ Min frowned, his hair was still tied up with one of Y/N’s elastics. His perfectly arched brows drawn together in a pinch.

‘Well I took it after we did Soda Pop. But, now I want to use it to surprise her! We can deal with the background music ourselves.’ Jinu explained, looking down, sighing noticing the hesitant look in his friends eyes.

‘In the beginning, I took it because I wanted a guarantee that we would get a good song. But now, I want the world to see how great Y/N’s song writing is! I mean just look at the lyrics. They match us perfectly!’ Jinu’s voice and eyes were void of lies. It was true, he had no ill intentions in his actions.

‘Hm, we’d better explain to her right after the show then. Otherwise it may seem misguided. However, I am for the idea of surprising Y/N by performing her song.’ Abel nodded along, his knuckles propping up his chin.

‘I agree, as long as we specify in the beginning of the performance. Maybe we can make a quick announcement.’ Beom looked thoughtful, staring into the apartment across from their own.

Although he couldn’t see Y/N’s room from here, he could see the jumper he had left there, along with random items the other boys had left there. Y/N’s penthouse had become their home, more than their own apartment. Long had it been, since they spent more than ten minutes in the apartment they had bought. (With fake conjoured cash.)

‘Maybe we can say something along the lines of, “To our song writer and producer, we’d like to dedicate this performance to you. You’ve made us who we are.” Something like that?’ Min suggested, tilting his head, his chin between his thumb and index finger.

‘Yeah, that sounds good.’ Rae nodded, standing up to walk over to Jinu. ‘So, you gonna handle the music?’

‘Ah hah. I may have already finished it…’ Jinu rubbed a hand over his neck nervously, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘She really inspired me.’

‘You and us all.’ Min smiled, ruffling Jinu’s hair. ‘I’m glad you’re finally letting yourself express how you actually feel about Y/N.’

‘Hey… She’s a great friend!’ He whined, protesting against Min’s teasing tone.

‘Yeah right, friend.’ Beom snickered, rolling his eyes.

‘Uh huh?’ Jinu slowly advanced on Beom with raised hands and a playful smirk.

‘No, NO NOT AGAIN. Abel HELP ME.’ Beom screamed, running for his life.

‘Oh, Beomie!’ Jinu called out, racing after the youngest boy his eyes glowing a devious yellow.

‘Can’t help you there. I’m working with Rae to choreograph this number.’ Abel chuckled, listening to the music Jinu had provided on his phone.

‘NOO I’m SORRY I WON’T DO IT AGAIN.’ Beom screeched, flailing his arms as Jinu pounced on the younger man, wrapping his limbs around Beom in familiar stance.

‘Yeah? You gonna tease me again?’ Jinu held Beom’s waist with his legs, his hand tugging on Beom’s ear just enough for it to be uncomfortable.

‘NOOOOO I won’t.’ Beom wailed, writhing.

‘I don’t believe you.’ Jinu laughed, letting Beom go nonetheless, watching the man scramble away to his freedom.

‘JUST ADMIT YOU LIKE HER TOO.’ Beom yelled, escaping to go learn the choreo with Abel and Rae.

‘We’ve shared before. Wouldn’t be anything new.’ Min smirked, looking down at Jinu, extending his hand.

‘Don’t say weird things like that.’ Jinu flushed, grabbing Min’s hand to pull himself up.

‘Oh, you can give orders now?’ He raised an eyebrow, his eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘Don’t forget who's the oldest Jinu.’

‘W- whatever.’ Jinu’s entire face was bright red, steam practically pouring out of his ears. ‘Let’s go practice.’

Min snickered as Jinu walked back to the rest of the group, enjoying the reaction he had received from the younger man.

‘Y/N/N has no idea what’s coming for her does she?’ Min followed Jinu, as the group began to prepare for their stage against Huntr/x. Hopefully Y/N could deal with five demons men who were finding their way into her heart, slowly but very much surely.

--

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[y4-mama]

Nice Try, Kent

David!Superman X Reader

Summary: You’re the only one in the newsroom who isn’t fooled by Clark Kent’s glasses — and you’re tired of pretending. A late-night confrontation turns into something a lot more complicated when your favorite frenemy stops hiding.

Content: romantic tension, workplace banter, mentions of fire/rescue situations, light peril (off-screen), enemies to lovers.

W/C: 1.09k

A/N: @foreverchangingmind asked for this under the David Corenswet and I’m not sure if anybody did it So I took it upon myself to write one (“Can someone write a one-shot/fanfic of an frenemies to lovers of David corenswets superman x y/n/reader/oc where they both work in the newsroom and y/n knows clark is superman like how in the sense of the glasses ain't fooling no one? (They are but not y/n) like I get the whole thing behind the glasses but every time I think about it im like "COME ON PEOPLE! HOW CAN YOU NOT TELL!?" and its sort of a "I know you are, I cant prove it, but I KNOW IT!")

You know how people say love is blind?

You’re starting to think everyone in this newsroom is willfully blind.

Because Clark Kent walks in every morning looking like he stepped off the cover of GQ: Superhero Edition, and somehow, people just squint at his glasses and decide, “Nope, definitely not Superman.”

As if the glasses are some kind of invisibility cloak.

As if the 6’4”, broad-shouldered, square-jawed farm boy who types like his keyboard owes him money isn’t the same man who literally flies across the skyline on a daily basis.

And it drives you insane.

He walks past your desk exactly three minutes after you arrived, late, again, with that same sheepish smile and the faintest smell of smoke clinging to him like static. His tie is crooked. His shirt looks like it was thrown on in a hurry. And there’s that telltale smudge of ash near his collarbone, just beneath the loosened top button.

You look up from your half-dead laptop and raise your mug. “Morning, Kent.”

He offers you a small wave and a charming grin, as though he didn’t just sprint in from some mid-air rescue mission.

“Morning, Y/N. You’re early.”

“You’re late,” you say flatly. “What happened? Did Metropolis need saving, or did you just oversleep?”

He pauses, just for a second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice.

But you do.

“I had to pick up coffee,” he says, lifting the offending cup as if that explains everything. “You know, for normal human reasons.”

You stare at him. Then at the cup. Then back at him.

“Uh-huh. Because all 6’4 of you totally just blends in at the local café.” That bashful smile again. The one everyone else swoons over. The one you’ve started to associate with deflection.

“You think I’m 6’4?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Kent. You hover.”

He laughs under his breath and keeps walking toward his desk, papers rustling as he passes. You sip your coffee and glare at the back of his head like it personally offended you.

This man. This obvious, frustrating, incredibly infuriating man.

——

You’ve worked with Clark for almost two years.

Two years of "coincidentally" disappearing just before Superman shows up. Two years of returning to the office with smoke in his hair and dirt under his fingernails, shrugging it off like he tripped on the sidewalk. Two years of mysteriously accurate quotes from the Man of Steel and exclusive insight no one else seems to question.

You’ve tried calling him out. Casually, at first. Then directly.

But he never admits it. Never even breaks character. He’s maddeningly good at playing dumb, and the rest of the office seems determined to stay dumb with him.

But not you.

You see the way his whole body tenses when a siren wails outside. How his eyes flick skyward every time a chopper flies overhead. You see the way he knows, before the breaking news alert, before the scanners, even before the cops do, when something’s wrong.

It’s not that you can prove it. But you know.

And you hate that he won’t just say it. Won’t just admit it, especially to you.

——

Tonight, the bullpen is nearly silent.

The storm outside is painting the windows with streaks of silver, the lights inside buzzing faintly overhead. Everyone else cleared out after deadline, but you stayed behind to polish a feature. Clark, of course, is still here too. Typing away like he doesn’t already have three articles queued for morning release.

You glance up from your screen, instinct prickling.

He’s staring out the window. Stock still. Brows slightly furrowed. You know that look. That ‘there’s trouble brewing’ look.

You speak before you think.

“You’re not gonna make it out of here without making it obvious.”

He doesn’t turn.

“What?”

You shut your laptop with a soft click. “There’s a fire in Midtown. Just broke out. I can tell by your face.”

He blinks. “I’m just concerned. As a citizen.”

“Oh my God.” You sit back in your chair, exasperated. “Clark. You are the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not lying,” he insists, glancing at you over his glasses.

“You are literally tucking your tie into your shirt right now like you’re about to rip it off and fly out the window.”

He flushes and quickly straightens the tie. “Coincidence.”

You rise from your seat and cross to his desk, pointing at his collar. “There’s ash on you.”

He pulls back slightly. “I walked past a dumpster fire.”

“You walked in it.”

“Y/N…”

“Do you own normal undershirts?” you ask, stepping in closer. “Or is it always the blue spandex?”

Something in his face changes. He straightens. Not nervously, not defensively. Just stops pretending. His expression shifts into something quiet. Something unreadable.

“Why are you so obsessed with this?” he asks, voice low.

“Because no one else sees it!” you snap. “And it makes me feel like I’m going insane. Like I’m in the middle of reading a loved comic book and everyone else switches up and reads a different issue!”

He watches you carefully. The mask is off now. Not fully, but cracked enough for you to see him underneath. Not Kent. Not Superman.

Clark.

“Maybe they don’t see it because they don’t want to,” he says. “Because if they did… if they really looked… they’d be scared. Or worse, they’d stop seeing me at all.”

His voice is so quiet, it nearly gets lost under the thunder rumbling outside.

You take a step forward. The moment stretches.

“…I see you,” you say, voice softer than before. Honest.

Something flickers in his eyes. Like relief. Like fear.

“Are you scared?” He asks.

“No,” you say, breath catching. “I’m pissed that you think you have to hide it from me.” For a second, neither of you move.

Then he leans in, just slightly, just enough that you feel the air shift. “You gonna write about it?”

“Not unless you piss me off,” you whisper. And then. finally. You kiss him.

It’s not a firestorm or lightning strike. It’s slow. Warm. Familiar. Like something inevitable finally falling into place.

His lips are soft and careful at first, until he realizes you’re not pulling away. Then he kisses you like he means it. Like he’s wanted to for a long time.

You pull back just a bit, breathless. “Still think the glasses are fooling anyone?”

“Just you, apparently.”

You grin.

“Oh, Clark,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his, “you never fooled me.”

A/N: I hope this meets ur expectations, and I don’t know if you watched the movie (not a spoiler don’t worry) but there’s a theory that he has hypnotic glasses. Also did anyone peep the Lo’ak and Tsireya reference I made from Avatar: The way of Water #lovethatmovie

[byfawn]

📁 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟏: EROTIC TRANSFERENCE — an asylum au | 6.0k wc

↳ featuring: sociopath!simon x psychiatrist!reader

ⓘ file preface: he’s a masked sociopath with a filthy mouth and eyes that never stop watching you. you’re the new psychiatrist—young, polished, and far too curious for your own good.

⚠︎ classified triggers: this fic contains explicit and dark themes, including mental instability, psychological manipulation, power imbalances, and dubious consent. sexual content depicted include restraint play, degradation, praise kink, size kink, oral sex, pierced genitals (jacob’s ladder), and intense dom/sub dynamics. additional warnings for asylum settings with disturbing imagery, violence , and heavy psychological tension. the reader engages in self-destructive behavior, shame, and ethical violations (doctor/patient relationship). reader discretion is strongly advised.

event masterlist

the asylum smells like bleach and something older. older than mold, older than rot. something that can't be scrubbed away, no matter how many times the floors are mopped or the walls are wiped down.

it's in the cracks of the tile, the grout between them, the ceiling tiles yellowed with time. not decay, not exactly but close. like the building itself has absorbed every scream, every whispered confession, every last gasp of air from lungs that will never draw breath again.

you have smelled it time and time again. in hospice clinical rotation during medical school, where death comes slow and expected, where the antiseptic tries and fails to mask the stench of dead or dying bodies.

it's even stronger in psych wards, where the air is thick with sweat and fear and the metallic tang of blood flaking off the skulls that have banged into walls one too many times.

the smell clings to your clothes, seeps into the fibers of your white coat, your scrubs, your hair. no amount of detergent or perfume or showers can strip it away. it follows you home, into your apartment, into your bed. it even follows you into your dreams.

but this new job is supposed to be a fresh start. that's what your mentor called it when she pressed the file into your hands three weeks ago. her fingers left faint smudges on the manila folder, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. the weight of it in your palms feels heavier than it should—not just paper and ink, but something more. 

"try not to be scared of the environment," she said with a tired smile. the lines around her eyes deepened as she spoke, the kind that come from too many late nights and too many patients who never get better. her hand lingered on yours for half a second too long. "focus on the patient. that's where you always shine."

but the asylum doesn't feel like a fresh start. it feels like a place where fresh things go to die.

you pass the nurses' station with a nod, already trying to tune out the screaming echoing from the lower level. it isn't the sharp, sudden kind of scream. it's a scream that sounds like a soul being peeled apart layer by layer. your fingers tighten around the clipboard until your knuckles whiten. the pen cap wedges between your fingers like a weapon—small, pathetic, but yours.

a group of patients shuffle through the far hallway under supervision, their slippers scuffing against tile that hasn't been properly cleaned in years. the nurse pushes a metal cart ahead of them, the trays rattling with little paper cups—each holding colorful pills.

most don't look up. their heads stay bowed, their shoulders hunched, as if carrying a weight no one else can see. some twitch—a finger jerking, an eyelid fluttering. others stare at nothing, their eyes fixed on some middle distance between this world and whatever hellscape lives inside their skulls.

"you get used to it," says dr. carver, your new supervisor, without looking back. his keys jangle as he walks, the sound almost mocking in its cheerfulness.

you don't believe him for a second. your past work experiences have been in the frame of psych wards in hospitals and outpatient clinics—never asylums. asylums are where patients go when nowhere else can contain them. where the worst cases, the truly broken, are sent to be studied like specimens under glass. the kind of place where people are forgotten.

the tour is brisk, clinical. the west wing for the non-violent cases, the east for the ones who need restraints. the common area with its bolted-down furniture, the cafeteria with its plastic utensils counted and recounted. everything designed to keep the chaos contained.

you feel it the moment you step into the east wing—the weight of eyes on you. not just watching. studying.

"this is where you'll be assigned," carver says, stopping in front of a reinforced door. the nameplate reads riley, s. in neat block letters. "high-risk patient. former military. court-mandated after an... incident."

he doesn't elaborate. he doesn't need to. you've read up on his file before going for rounds this morning.

age: 37. former military operative with a service record that is heavily redacted, suggesting involvement in classified black ops. dishonorably discharged under sealed circumstances. following his return to civilian life, riley is implicated in a series of violent homicides—deliberate, ritualistic, and performed with a level of precision that rules out impulse or psychosis.

court-mandated psychiatric evaluation deems him fit for long-term containment at blackwall institute due to extreme sociopathic behavior and the high likelihood of reoffense.

diagnostically, riley meets the criteria for antisocial personality disorder, marked by chronic disregard for the rights and boundaries of others, lack of empathy, and calculated manipulation. he exhibits no delusional thinking, no psychotic breaks, and no evidence of hallucinations.

instead, he operates with full cognitive clarity. his violence is not reactive, but strategic—premeditated acts committed without remorse. he displays an eerie emotional flatness, but maintains a high-functioning intellect and strong interpersonal acuity.

he reads people quickly and accurately, often weaponizing their emotional tells against them. while superficially cooperative, all interactions appear designed to extract information, establish control, or destabilize the other party.

he wears a self-constructed skull mask at nearly all times. when forcibly removed, his behavior becomes volatile. the mask appears to serve a psychological function—both as armor and as a performance. he does not hide behind it so much as embody it. attempts to strip it from him have resulted in injury to staff. for the sake of stability, containment policy has allowed him to retain it during sessions, under heavy physical restraints.

clinical recommendation: treat all interactions as adversarial. do not respond to personal inquiries. do not allow sessions to deviate from their intended therapeutic structure. patient is capable of emotional mimicry but does not possess empathy. any rapport built is likely a means to an end. do not mistake his stillness for submission.

do not underestimate him. control is his currency. you'll only get what he wants to give you, and he'll want to watch what you do with it.

the risk assessment didn't bother with pleasantries:

level 5 containment

subject is non-delusional, cognitively stable, and extremely dangerous. violent outbursts are rare, but never reactive—always premeditated. staff injury incidents occur only when restraints are compromised. he waits. he plans. he attacks.

through the small reinforced window, you see him for the first time. the photo that you saw in his file is grainy and taken through the window of a solitary confinement cell.

he wears a black cloth mask stretched into the pattern of a stylized skull. white smears over the sockets. a grin permanently frozen in place. his eyes are the only visible part of his face—shadowed, half-lidded.

the reinforced glass fogs slightly with your quickened breath as you press closer. the air in the hallway suddenly feels too thick, too still, like the entire wing is holding its breath along with you.

he sits perfectly still on the edge of his cot, back straight, hands resting on his knees. the skull mask stares blankly at the opposite wall, that same frozen grin you saw in the photograph. his shoulders strain against the fabric of his jumpsuit, the material stretched obscenely tight across the impossible breadth of him—no wonder they keep him in reinforced restraints. 

even sitting, he dominates the space, his frame so broad, so solid, it makes the flimsy cot beneath him look like a child's toy. your throat goes dry watching the way his arms bulge where the sleeves pull taut, veins standing in stark relief along corded muscle that flexes just once when he shifts his weight.

his hands are massive where they rest on his knees, fingers thick and capable—you imagine them wrapping around your throat and your pulse jumps traitorously.

of course, they would have him under around the clock supervision. no wonder the restraints are heavy-duty, the door reinforced. he's not just big—he's built like a weapon, every inch of him honed and hardened, radiating a dangerous magnetism that makes your skin prickle with something that isn't quite fear. 

his eyes—the only part of him that moves—track slowly across the room before settling on the door.

on you.

his eyes are much lighter than you expected. but there's something about them that oozes darkness—the kind of darkness that creates a dark pit of fear in your abdomen. they were utterly devoid of anything recognizable as warmth or empathy.

you hold your breath without realizing it. your brain sending signals to your lungs reminding you to breathe.

there's something obscenely compelling about his stillness, about the power coiled in his frame, and it terrifies you how badly you want to see it unleashed.

your fingers tighten around the clipboard, nails biting into your palms as you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. the rational part of your brain screams danger while something deeper, something primal thrills at the way his gaze lingers—like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he's already imagined a dozen ways to ruin you. 

one of his fingers twitches—just once—against his knee. if you had blinked you probably would've missed the action. 

then, with deliberate slowness, he tilts his head. just slightly. it unsettles something in your stomach. you didn't get creeped out easily—especially after years of working in psychiatry. but you would be lying if you weren't scared shitless.

his chest rises once, slow and controlled, the only sign that he was even alive beneath that mask. your skin crawls with unease as you swallow the lump in your throat.

dr. carver cleared his throat. "he's got a session with you in twenty. you'll be supervised, of course." he jangled his keys again, the sound suddenly too loud in the quiet hallway. "just... don't turn your back on him."

you nod in acknowledgment, but your eyes don't leave the his. you swear you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit—as of he's smiling under the mask. you don't need to see his face to decipher that he is amused. and if you've learned one thing from the little experience you had in this job—it was never a good think to have a sociopath amused. 

carver shifts beside you, uncomfortable, his keys jangling as he turns. "come on," he mutters, already walking away, his footsteps too loud in the suffocating quiet. "i'll show you the observation room."

you force yourself to step back, your knees slightly bucking as if you've forgotten how to walk. you can feel the shift in the air as you turn to walk away. the heat of his stare doesn't stop. if anything, it burns even stronger now. it settles between your shoulder blades, heavy as a hand pressed flat against your spine. 

it lingers, warm and intrusive, like the ghost of fingers trailing down the knobs of your spine. you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, though you know he hasn't moved from the cot.

he wasn't just watching. he was claiming. 

you follow carver in silence. you take slow and calculted breaths to re-regulate your nervous system. you weren't even in the same room as him but he somehow managed to completely throw your nervous system into overdrive by the simple act of eye contact.

your footsteps are unnaturally loud in the hush of the east wing. each step feels like it's pulling you deeper into something you won't come back from, and not even the heavens and the hells can chase away the fear pooling in your stomach.

your palms sweat by your sides, still feeling the phantom weight of riley's stare like a brand between your shoulder blades. it doesn't fade with distance, if anything, it grows more intense with each step you take away from his cell, as if the distance only makes his presence more palpable.

your skin prickles with the unsettling awareness that he's still watching, even though you know the reinforced, heavy metal doors and dozens if security measures separate the the two of you.

the walk to the observation room feels like it takes forever. the stillness and silence is broken by the occasional scream or bang. but other than that it seems eerily quiet. too quiet. 

carver pause in front of one of the doors, glancing back at you with an expression you can't quite read. his keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves. "almost there," he says, but his voice sounds distant, like it's coming through water.

you nod automatically, your tongue heavy in your mouth. some part of you wants to turn around, to look back down that long hallway, to see if—

no. you keep your eyes forward. keep walking.

but the weight of that stare stays with you, pressing insistently against your spine, a silent reminder that this isn't over. that it's only just begun.

the door to the observation room door creaks when carver pushes it open, the sound only further increasing this looming sense of dread. inside, the air is colder, the hum of machinery louder.

a bank of monitors flickers against one wall, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of observation area. the oneway window next to the monitors overlooks the bland room where a floor-mounted table and chairs sit bolted in place.

"session protocols are on the desk," carver says, gesturing to a stack of papers. "review them while i get the orderlies prepped for transfer."

as the door closes and carver leaves, your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging half-moons into your palms. 

you were nervous. and you were never nervous. nervous meant mistakes and stupid slip-ups. it meant giving him exactly what he wanted: the upper hand. yet here you were, pulse rabbiting in your throat, breaths coming just a fraction too quick. the file with the protocols felt slick in your grip. 

you forced your hands still. forced your spine straight. you were a professional. you'd handled worse.

the protocols blurred in front of you, words swimming together. maintain distance. avoid physical contact. terminate session at first sign of agitation. as if it were that simple. as if he wouldn't see right through the script, wouldn't relish tearing it apart.

your breath catches as movement flickers across the monitors. the feed shows the orderly team leading him in—three of them, all broad-shouldered but dwarfed by riley's hulking frame. 

the straightjacket strains across his chest, the thick canvas barely containing the width of him. his masked face turns slightly as they guide him forward, those pale eyes scanning the room even as his body moves with eerie compliance.

the chair creaks when he sits, metal protesting under his weight. the orderlies work quickly, securing the restraints—thick leather cuffs around his wrists, already buckled tight behind the chair, another strap crossing his chest. 

one orderly kneels to fasten the ankle restraints, hands moving with practiced efficiency. riley watches them, head tilted just slightly, that grotesque mask hiding whatever expression might lie beneath.

when the last buckle clicks into place, the orderlies step back. one of them wipes his brow—you don't miss the way his hand shakes.

on screen, riley tests the restraints. not violently, not even urgently. just a slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, a flex of his arms. the leather groans but holds. the chair doesn't budge. then, as if sensing your gaze through the camera, his head turns. those dead eyes lock onto the lens causing your stomach drops.

a knock at the door made you flinch. one of the orderlies gruff voices, muffled through the metal: "we're ready."

your breath hitches, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk as you force yourself to look away from the monitor. the cold metal bites into your palms, sharp enough to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever unsettling feeling had taken root in your chest.

you exhale slowly, counting the seconds in your head. four in. seven hold. eight out. the rhythm steadies you, brings the world back into focus.

nervousness was a luxury you couldn't afford. not here. not with him.

when you open your eyes again, your expression is schooled into something neutral, professional. the slight tremor in your hands is gone, tucked away where it can't betray you. you smooth the front of your coat, adjust the clipboard under your arm and brace yourself as you enter the room. 

the scent of antiseptic and metal with a hint of smoke lingers in the stale air of the room. the orderlies file out of the room one-by-one leaving you alone with him. you can feel the hunger of his stare grazing over you leaving goosebumps in it's wake. you swear that your knees buck for a second as you take slow strides towards the chair across from him. 

the chair groans as you lower yourself into it, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. you keep your movements measured, controlled, placing the clipboard on the table with deliberate care.

across from you, he's a study in contained violence. the straightjacket pulls tight across his chest, the thick canvas straining against the sheer bulk of him. even sitting, even restrained, he looms. his thighs spread slightly, taking up space he doesn't need, the chair creaking under his weight.

the mask hides his expression, but his eyes—god, his eyes—never leave yours. dark, piercing, tracking your every breath like a predator savoring its prey.

you clear your own, flipping open the file. "mr. riley," you say, and your voice is steady. professional. you hope to the heavens and the earth that he didn't here the slight tremor in your voice.

his fingers twitch against the armrests, the leather cuffs groaning. a small, almost lazy flex, as if testing the give. as if imagining how easily he could break them. 

the mask tilts slightly, that eerie grin seeming to sharpen. "doctor," he rumbles, your title rolling off his tongue like something illicit. "you're shaking."

you don't look down at your hands. "it's cold in here."

a low hum vibrates through his chest. "liar." the word curls around you, warm and knowing. his knee presses firmer against the table—not an accident this time. the contact burns through the fabric of your slacks.

you exhale sharply through your nose, forcing your fingers to relax around the pen.

"let's focus on your evaluation, mr. riley," you say, clicking your pen with deliberate calm. "how would you describe your current mental state?"

his chuckle is dark, velvety, the sound vibrating through your bones. "frustrated," he purrs, rolling the r like he's savoring it. his knee presses harder against yours beneath the table.

"restrained. pent up." the leather cuffs groan as he flexes his fingers again. "tell me, doctor - does it excite you? seeing me like this?"

your pulse jumps traitorously. "this is a professional setting," you remind him, though your voice wavers slightly. "let's keep it that way."

the mask tilts further, shadows pooling in those hollow eye sockets. "professional," he echoes, mocking. "is that why your cheeks are flushed? why your breathing's gone shallow?" his voice drops to a whisper. "i can see your pulse racing in that pretty neck of yours."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "do you always flirt with your doctors, mr. riley?"

"only the ones who squirm for me," he counters smoothly. his thigh rubs against yours in slow, deliberate circles. "ask me your next question, doc. i know you're dying to."

your fingers tighten around the pen. "do you experience violent urges toward staff members?"

his laugh is dark, delicious. "only the pretty ones who lick their lips when they look at me." your tongue darts out instinctively, and his eyes track the movement hungrily. "there she is," he purrs. "was that so hard, doctor?"

your grip tightens on the clipboard, knuckles going white. "we're getting off topic, mr. riley." you force your voice steady, but it comes out breathier than intended. "let's discuss your sleep patterns."

he leans back slightly, the chair groaning under his weight. "sleep patterns?" his voice is all rough velvet, the kind that slides under your skin. "i prefer to stay awake. more... interesting things happen at night." his knee presses harder between yours, the heat searing through your slacks. "don't you agree, doctor?"

your pen hovers over the paper, ink bleeding where you've pressed too hard. "insomnia is a common symptom in your condition," you say, keeping your tone clinical despite the way your pulse jumps at your throat. "we should explore that further."

his chuckle vibrates through the table between you. "oh, i'd love to explore things with you, doc." the way he says it makes your stomach flip. "but we both know you're not here to talk about my sleep."

you force yourself to meet those pale eyes behind the mask. "then enlighten me, mr. riley. why am i here?"

his fingers flex against the restraints again, the leather creaking ominously. "because you couldn't resist." his voice drops to a whisper. "because you saw my file and thought 'i can fix him'." the mask tilts. "or maybe... you thought 'i want him to ruin me'."

your breath catches. "that's—"

"true?" he finishes for you, triumphant. his thigh rubs slow circles against yours, the friction making your skin burn. "tell me i'm wrong."

the clipboard trembles in your hands. you should stand up. you should call for the orderlies. you should do anything but sit here, letting him unravel you with nothing but words and the press of his knee between yours.

"cat got your tongue, doctor?" he murmurs, leaning forward as far as the restraints allow. his breath is warm through the mask's grin. "or are you just imagining all the things i could do to you if these cuffs weren't here?"

your lips part, but the intercom crackles to life before you can respond. "session time elapsed," a bored voice announces.

neither of you acknowledge it.

his eyes gleam behind the mask. "tick tock, doc. better run along before you do something... unprofessional."

you stand abruptly, your legs unsteady. "we'll continue this next session," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

his low laugh follows you to the door. "counting the minutes, sweetheart."

when the heavy door clicks shut behind you, you realize you're shaking. and worse—you're already counting the minutes too.

the next morning, when you walk into the facility, it's with the weight of heavy guilt on your shoulders. your skin still burns with the memory of last night—the way your fingers slipped between your thighs, the way you bit your lip to muffle his name as it tumbled from your mouth in a broken whisper. 

simon riley. 

his voice, rough and mocking, playing in your head like a taunt. his muscles straining against the restraints, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you'd do the second you were alone. 

it's insane. you've known him for a day. a single day. you've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and here you are, trembling like some desperate thing, already ruined by a man who's done nothing but toy with you.

maybe you're the one who belongs in this place. maybe you should check yourself in, let them strap you down, let them study whatever sickness has taken root in you so fast. but then you think of his laugh, dark and knowing, and your stomach twists. he'd love that, wouldn't he? seeing you unravel. seeing you break. god, you're pathetic. 

the moment you step inside, the head nurse gives you a sharp look.

"riley's in solitary," she says, voice clipped. "attacked an orderly last night. broke the man's nose before they got him down."

your breath catches. "is he—"

"fine? unfortunately." she hands you a file. "session's still on. carver's orders. but you'll be in the black cell. no cameras. no interruptions." her eyes narrow. "you sure you're up for it?"

you don't trust yourself to answer.

the black cell is exactly what it sounds like—a concrete box swallowed by shadows, the only light a dim flicker from the hall. the air is thick, humid, pressing against your skin like a hand. you feel clusterphobic the second you step in. your heels clack against the damp concrete as you in closer. 

it takes your eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness before you see him. you feel your pulse quicken and your breathe hitch as soon as your eyes catch his.

the door clangs shut behind you, the sound final. the air is thick, pressing in from all sides, making your pulse throb in your throat. you force yourself to take a step forward, heels clicking against the damp concrete. "mr. riley," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "care to explain last night's incident?"

in the center, restrained tighter than usual in a straight jacket, is him. even in the darkness of the cell or room or whatever this was, you could feel the depraved darkness in his eyes. they must've sedated him or given him something to calm down because his pupils were the size of saucers.

his head lifts slowly, those blown-out pupils swallowing nearly all the color in his eyes. even in the dim light, you can see the way his gaze drags over you—hungry, possessive. "got bored," he rumbles, voice rough like gravel. "figured solitary was better than staring at the same four walls."

you click your pen, feigning indifference. "so you broke a man's nose for a change of scenery?"

his lips curl, slow and knowing. "worth it."

you swallow hard. "that's not an acceptable answer."

"no?" the straightjacket creaks as he shifts, testing the restraints. "then give me a better one, doc."

you take another step closer, ignoring the way your skin prickles. "try this—you acted out because you struggle with impulse control. because you—"

"because i wanted you alone," he interrupts, voice dropping to a growl. "no cameras. no orderlies. just you. and me."

your breath hitches. "that's—"

"true." his eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. "admit it. you thought about it too."

your fingers tighten around the clipboard. "this isn't appropriate."

"neither was what you did last night," he murmurs, tilting his head. "i know you touched yourself."

your face burns as you attempt to feign innocence and indifference. "we're not discussing that."

"why not?" he leans forward as far as the jacket allows, voice a dark whisper. "scared i'll tell them how you were squirming in your seat like a little whore for a —"

"enough." your voice cracks. "we're here to evaluate your behavior, not—"

"evaluate this, then." his knee brushes yours, the contact deliberate. "i fought my way in here because i knew you'd follow. because i knew you wouldn't be able to resist." his gaze drags down your body. "so tell me, doctor—who's really in control here?"

the clipboard nearly slips from your sweaty palms as his voice wraps around you like smoke, low and dripping with sin. "you wanna know why i really did it, doc?" he leans closer, the straightjacket straining against his shoulders. "because i knew they'd put me in here. no windows. no guards. just you, me, and that pretty little mouth of yours."

you force yourself to take a shaky breath, gripping the clipboard tighter. "let's... let's focus on last night's incident, mr. riley. what triggered the violent outburst?"

his laugh is dark, curling around you like smoke. "oh, doc. still playing pretend?" he shifts in the straightjacket, the material straining against his broad shoulders. "i already told you why i did it. wanted you alone. wanted you...vulnerable."

your throat goes dry. "that's not—"

"not what?" he interrupts, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "not true? then why are your thighs squeezing together like that? why's your breath hitching every time i move?"

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach. "this is inappropriate."

"inappropriate," he echoes mockingly. "like you rubbing your clit last night, thinking about me? imagining my hands on you? my mouth?"

your face burns. "stop it."

"or what?" he challenges, tilting his head. "you'll walk away? we both know you won't." his voice drops even lower, rough and filthy. 

"you wanna know what i'd do to you if these restraints were off, doc? i'd start with those pretty little fingers of yours—pin them behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself. then i'd bend you over and spank that swollen, desperate clit of yours until you were sobbing. just light taps at first, enough to make you squirm. then harder. harder. until you're begging me to let you come."

your knees nearly buckle.

"you'd love that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs, watching your reaction with predatory satisfaction. "being at my mercy? taking whatever i decide to give you?"

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

"that's what i thought," he purrs. "such a good little whore for me."

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you can hear your own pulse roaring in your ears. his gaze burns into you, unrelenting, waiting.

"show me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. "show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

your breath hitches. "i—i can't—"

"you can," he growls. "and you will." his eyes darken further. "unless you want me to rip out of this straight jacket and force you.."

the clipboard clatters to the floor as your fingers tremble at the hem of your skirt. his dark chuckle vibrates through the humid air between you, those blown-out pupils swallowing you whole. "that's it," he purrs, voice thick with approval. "show me how desperate you really are."

your breath comes in shallow gasps as you slide your hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over damp silk. a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

"louder," he growls, straining against the straightjacket. "let me hear what i do to you."

your fingers slip beneath the waistband, finding yourself already embarrassingly wet. the first brush of your fingertips against your clit has your hips jerking forward.

"fuck," he breathes, watching with rapt attention. "just like that. pretend it's my fingers, doc. my thick fucking fingers working that tight little cunt open."

you moan, circling your clit faster as his filthy words wash over you.

"you thought about this, didn't you?" he continues, voice rough. "alone in your bed, fucking yourself on your fingers like some cheap slut? imagining it was me?"

"yes," you gasp, arching into your own touch.

"say it." his command leaves no room for argument. "say you're my little whore."

"i'm—" your breath hitches as you press two fingers inside yourself, "—i'm your whore."

his groan is animalistic. "good girl. now come for me."

your orgasm crashes over you violently, thighs trembling as you ride out the waves against your own fingers. when you finally come down, panting and boneless, his smirk is downright predatory.

you're still trembling from your orgasm when his voice cuts through the haze, rough with command. "come here." 

your legs move before your brain catches up, knees hitting the cold concrete as you shuffle forward. your fingers fumble with the waistband of his pants, breath hitching when you finally free him.

and fuck—

a jacob's ladder. of course he has one. the metal glints even in the dim light, each barbell making your mouth water. you're delirious, mind fogged with lust and shame, but you can't stop.

"that's it," he growls, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. "take what you need."

your tongue darts out, tentative at first, tracing the underside of his cock. the taste of him—salt and musk and something darkly him—has you moaning before you even take him fully into your mouth.

"fuck," he hisses, hips jerking slightly despite the restraints. "just like that, doc. such a pretty fucking mouth."

you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, the metal bars dragging against your tongue in the most delicious way. your fingers dig into his thighs, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"you like that, don't you?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "my little professional doctor, on her knees, gagging for it."

you whimper around him, the vibration making his cock twitch.

"bet you've never had anything like me," he continues, rolling his hips just enough to nudge the back of your throat. "bet you're already thinking about how it'll feel when i finally fuck you raw."

you are. god, you are.

your free hand slips between your own legs again, fingers circling your clit as you suck him off with desperate, sloppy bobs of your head.

"that's it," he praises, voice rough. "get yourself ready for me. gonna ruin you so good, you'll forget your own fucking name."

you're climbing into his lap before you can think better of it, your skirt hiked up around your waist, his cock glistening with your spit. the straightjacket rustles as he strains against it, his eyes black with hunger as you hover over him.

"do it," he growls, voice rough. "use me. take what you fucking need, doctor."

you sink down onto him with a gasp, the stretch burning in the best way. the metal bars of his ladder drag against your walls, sending sparks up your spine. your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders as you start to move, your hips rolling in slow, desperate circles.

"fuck," he hisses, his head falling back against the wall. "look at you. riding me like you were made for it."

you whimper, your nails digging into the thick material of the jacket as you bounce harder, chasing your own pleasure. his cock hits that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, the metal bars adding an unforgiving edge that has you seeing stars.

"that's it," he rasps, watching you with dark, blown-out pupils. "take it. take every fucking inch." his voice drops to a whisper, filthy and rough. "wish you could see yourself right now. fucking yourself on me like a desperate little slut."

you moan, your thighs trembling as you grind down harder, your clit rubbing against the base of him with every movement.

"you're lucky i'm strapped down, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk. "because if i had my hands free?" his hips jerk up, forcing a choked cry from your throat. "i'd have you bent over, screaming my name."

you're close—so, so close—your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you chase your release.

"come on," he goads, voice rough with command. "let me feel it. let me feel that tight little cunt squeezing around me."

you shatter with a sob, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your walls fluttering around him as you ride it out. he groans, low and satisfied, as you collapse against his chest, boneless and spent.

his mask brushes against your ear, his whisper sending a shiver down your spine. "good girl."

you whimper, still trembling, as his smirk grows darker under the mask.

you scramble off him with shaky legs, your skirt falling back into place with a rustle that sounds obscenely loud in the heavy silence. your fingers fumble as you pull his pants back up, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the way his smirk burns into you even through the mask. the straightjacket strains as he shifts, watching you with those dark, knowing eyes. 

your hands tremble as you smooth down your blouse, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. you must look wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, thighs still sticky with the evidence of your shame. thank god for the darkness. thank god no one will see.

your breath hitches as you bend to pick up the clipboard, your knees still weak. the pen rolls away from you, and you flinch when he nudges it back toward you.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. "wouldn't want you to leave anything behind."

you snatch the pen, your face burning. your mind races—what the fuck did you just do? you fucked a patient. a dangerous, unstable, manipulative patient. a fucking killer and sociopath. and worse—you loved it. you came harder than you have in years, and the guilt is already curdling in your stomach like poison.

you straighten, forcing your voice steady. "this—this can't happen again."

his chuckle is low, mocking. "sure it can't."

you turn toward the door, your legs unsteady beneath you.

"great session, doctor," he calls after you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "can't wait for the next one."

[carmenlikeme]

Robby loves you. He really does.

He absolutely fucking hates visiting your apartment.

The first time he came over, it was pristine, clean, almost too clean for a resident. The second time, his visit wasn't planned, you had some dirty dishes in the sink, but that was it.

As time went by and you got more comfortable with each other, your mess did too.

He would come over, only to find some day-old dishes, your towel hanging on the kitchen chair, your coat under it. Your clothes were scattered all over your apartment. Somehow, they seemed to get cleaned but never reached your closet, only a hamper, which you used to find clean clothes. The rest ended up on the floor, and they got picked up on laundry days.

Still, he couldn't blame you. He saw the way your body crumbled the minute you walked into your home. So he never complained.

But oh, boy. It was driving him crazy.

So, when you got back from the night shift, after offering to cover someone and pulling a double, you plopped yourself on the unmade bed and passed out. You kissed him good morning, and that was about it.

It was then he got to work.

It took him no more than four hours to have your apartment looking like a show unit. All the laundry was done, neatly folded in your closet this time. Clean dishes, surfaces wiped and disinfected. He even managed to deep clean your bathroom, your stove and the fridge.

You woke up to the best view ever.

Robby, sitting on your living room floor, loose t-shirt and sweatpants, surrounded by your piles of unorganized books you kept buying but never actually giving them a place on your bookshelf. He had a chinese takeout box next to him while he was focused, reading the back of one of your books.

"I'm so gonna give you head tonight," you whispered, leaning in to kiss him.

"If I deep clean the oven, will I get more than that?" he asked, biting your lip right as you were about to pull away.

"I'll even give you a child if you do."

"Then it's a deal.

© CARMENLIKEME 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, modify or claim as yours. dividers by @/strangergraphics

[makeyoumine69]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: One day, you casually voiced your dirty fantasy about Clark knocking you up—and now you’re dealing with the consequences. 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: NSFW, smut, breeding kink, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, fingering, overstimulation, vague size diff, cum eating (kinda), praise kink, manhandling, established relationships, dirty talk, pet names, Clark is a pervert but in a romantic way. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: Less than 1k 𝐀/𝐍: This smutty drabble was requested by @meta-over-malice, who seems to have fallen for the new Superman! The GIF I used was made by the amazing @linusbenjamin!

Sounds of flesh meeting flesh. Quivering limbs. The musky sizzle of sex. All of this mixed into a wicked cocktail of depravity.

You couldn’t remember how many times Clark had filled you—not that it mattered. He could keep going until you passed out cold. Until you were completely ruined—reduced to the smallest, most helpless thing in the world.

Clark’s body was nothing but a heavy wall of muscle. The force of his thrusts made the bed creak pitifully beneath you. You could only hope the neighbors wouldn’t call the police. He was relentless in his mission to get you pregnant—haunted by the fantasy ever since you'd moaned it into his ear:

"I want you to fill me with your cum until my belly swells with your baby."

That phrase alone kept him hard for days. And now that he finally had you, he was going to fuck you until you forgot your own name.

"Clark–mmhm–Clark, please," you gasped, your voice faltering with each deep stroke. His dense cum worked as a slick, perfect lubricant, easing the raw power of his rhythm. "I can’t–I can’t–it’s too much!"

He groaned, gripping your trembling body with both arms, curling protectively around your neck as he hovered above your open mouth. Tears streamed down your face, but he didn’t hesitate—his tongue flicked out to catch them.

"You can give me one more, princess," he breathed into your ear, voice dark and coaxing. His pace never faltered, even as your nails raked his back, carving deep, angry lines. "Come on, I want to feel you clamp around me again. Just one more time, honey. You’ve got it in you."

To match his words, he shifted your hips slightly, angling his thrusts to strike that spot deep inside. When he did, your body caught fire again—sparks of pleasure blooming from your core like a thousand tiny detonations.

"I'm–I'm–cumming!" you stuttered in a silent scream as your inner walls clenched around his thick, veiny cock. "Don't–don’t stop!"

And he didn’t.

Instead, he set an even more punishing rhythm. Kneeling upright, the bed dipped beneath his weight every time he impaled you on his rock-hard, muscular length. His heavy balls slapped rhythmically against your ass, ready to flood you with cum again.

"You’ll be so beautiful when you’re pregnant," he rasped, eyes locked on your swollen pussy greedily sucking him in. "I can’t wait to see it."

With that, Clark grabbed you by the waist and lifted you, making you wrap your legs around his lower back. You whimpered, clinging to his neck, your vision blurring as the edges of your consciousness began to fade. The sheets beneath you were soaked in your fluids, and both your bodies glistened with sweat, haloed in the daylight slicing through the blinds.

You wanted to tell him how much you loved him, but the words caught in your throat—so you kissed him hard instead. He groaned into your mouth without missing a beat.

Slap, slap, slap.

Your bodies crashed together with savage intensity—until he suddenly pulled out and flipped you onto your back. Before you could process the movement, his long fingers plunged into your soaked cunt, thrusting in and out with purpose, curling and scissoring to tease the spongy spot that always made you lose control.

"Too much," you whimpered, slurred and breathless. "Clark–Clark–ahhhh!"

When his thumb found your clit, you combusted, gushing around his palm with a strangled cry.

"That’s it. Such a good girl," he whispered, leaning in to trace your cheek with one finger. "So good for me."

At some point, you lost your grip on reality—everything felt too surreal, too blissful, too overwhelming. But when Clark withdrew his fingers and licked them clean, savoring the taste of both of you, you knew that even if none of this was real, you never wanted to leave this dream.

Thank you for the reading!🖤 Please follow my writing community or my side-blog to know when I update!

[thesmithseatmealive]

Yandere Saja Boys x Manager Reader / Headcannons

Warnings: F reader, Yandere, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, demon, feral type shit, animilastic behavior, fated mates, sexual jokes and indications, biting, murder, etc

A/n: Ahh! Im so in love with all of them!! Asks are open, or if you just wanna chat! Lmk if you want more</3

w/c: 1.9k

Yandere Saja Boys who are obsessed with their pretty little human manager. You’re just too adorable, you know? And they swear up and down you were meant for them! They waited 400 years for their fated mate and here you are, and they are NOT letting you leave.

Yandere Saja Boys who first met you at an interview to be their manager. You had been an assistant manager for Huntr/x, working with Bobby before and he recommended you for this role. It would pay more and be a good chance to get yourself more out there! You definitely weren’t the hugest fan of them but so what? The pay was great and it was an amazing opportunity.

Yandere Saja Boys who couldn’t control themselves when you entered the interview room. You. Their precious mate- the one they had mourned over not meeting yet and waited for ,and for centuries. Standing in front of them in a white blouse and tiny jean skirt, smelling like heaven incarnate.

Yandere Saja Boys who’s skin were flickering in and out of purple, marks branding them as demons and claws sharpening. Instincts howling to mark you and fuck on the floor for anyone to see.

Jinu who tried to stay calm and in control but his eyes were practically glowing neon orange.

Baby who barely let you fully observe the room before pouncing- teeth bared and grabbing at you. His arms were stiff around you as he inspected you, seemingly ignorant to your yelps and confusion at the strange idol groping and sniffing you. You who cursed, kicked and slapped in desperate attempts to get him off but it became increasingly clear he wasn’t human.

Yandere Saja Boys who gathered close, instincts pulled taut at your noises of distress. You were human so you obvisouly didn’t feel the insane possessiveness to mark and posses. You who pulled and clawed at Baby’s head hoping to get him off of you only for him to growl and teeth at your neck, causing you to look for help from the others. Only to see the same purple marks, fangs, glowing eyes, and claws. None of them were human were they?

Jinu who grabbed baby by his neck and jerked him away giving him a warning stare. Before you could sprint away, Abby blocked you forcing you to face Jinu.

Jinu who grabbed at your face with his claws, softly wiping your tears. He looked like sin incarnate. You felt a deep tug in your heart as if you were connected to all of them in some deeper spiritual sense. You couldn’t help but relax at the beautiful nonhuman man in front of you, carressing your face. Something was calling you to him.

Jinu who apologized for Baby’s actions, and explained that because you knew they were demons, you HAD to work for them, but don’t worry your pretty little head, they would make sure you taken care of financially (physically too but you weren’t ready for that).

You who passed out due to all the stress you were put under. Long story short you woke up in a crazy huge penthouse in a guest bed with 5 demons surrounding it. You didn’t take it too well. But who would? But after some yelling and screaming at them (who only looked at you like confused puppies) you realized they seemed pretty harmless. They just wanted a manager. Right? So you succumbed to being their manager, I mean the pay was too good.

Yandere Saja Boys who let a personal driver take you home. Jinu had to hold three of them back from chasing you down. They didn’t want to let you leave their home, but they need to court you properly. They didn’t want to break your little human mind down in fear and trauma, you would come willingly eventually. The bond would ensure it. Or they would.

You, their pretty manager who start planning their rehearsals, shows, and tours. Always ensuring their on track, and getting enough breaks. it was hard at first relaxing around them and acting normal. You never did get use to it, but you at least stopped shaking around them.

Their staff who quickly realize not to go near you, with what happened to one of the backstage staff who tried asking you out for coffee. And you were completely oblivious to it. But the staff knew. It was hard not to see the crazy glare in the Saja Boy’s eyes when they get to close to you.

Yandere Saja Boys who are constantly grabbing and draping themselves across you despite your many protests. It will look weird to the fans! but they don't care. They want to be seen touching you. They want their claim on you to be clear to everyone- humans and demons included. You don’t even know they’re your fated mates. And they’re happy to play the role of not understanding that constant cuddling, coddling, hugging, groping, and biting aren’t normal for humans. (They know it isn't normal, 100%)

Yandere Jinu who plays the role of the controlled leader. He may look or pretend to be protecting you from the other saja boy’s constant affection, but in reality he is encouraging it. If you think he will save you from Mystery licking your face or Abby not letting you go, you’re completely wrong. He will only save you if he gets something out of it. This is his favorite manipulation method. Oh you want him to tell Romance to stop groping your ass as he walks by? Hmm.. only if he gets a kiss from you! (Romance only stopped for about a day.) In conclusion, Jinu will only play the savior role if he gets something from it. He has accepted he isn't a good guy, but he’s happy to play innocent for you.

Yandere Mystery who can be the most feral. He’s smarter then most realize and will gladly act like a dumb puppy if it means he can get away with licking your face randomly and nuzzling you. No! He doesn’t understand that what he is doing is not normal to humans! Friends in the demon world do this constantly! (Only to their mates) Mystery will be the first to growl and bark at people for getting to close to you. He is one of the biggest pulling you in their lap abusers. Just sit there all pretty! No this isn’t weird. Don’t worry about what the fans think.

Yandere Abby is the headlock final boss. Oh his cute little manager is walking by? All of a sudden his beefy arm is wrapped around your neck pulling you back into him, a purr in his throat. Unless you’re crazy tall, he’s definiteley taller. And he will abuse it everyday. His head is on top of yours, his arm on your head like an arm rest, and he uses his hand to measure your stomach. To see how much you can eat of course! (He wants to know how big his dick would be inside your stomach). Abby is definitely the tank of group per say, he’s the first to step in front of you when people are near or bothering you, often carrying you away from situations he doesn’t approve of. Oh someone is asking you out, or flirting with you? Abby is throwing you up on his shoulder and walking away with you. You’re always to busy scolding him and banging your fist on his back to notice the other boys closing in on the person who dared try to romance you. Don’t worry there wont be any remains left of his body for anyone to find.

Yandere Romance who always has his mouth on you. Kissing your hand, your forehead, your neck when you aren’t suspecting it- he just can’t get enough. You try hitting and dragging him off but he only laughs and nips you in return. He is always bringing you gifts. From flowers, to necklaces that cost more then your apartment. He sneakily tries to guilt you into letting him have his way and smacking your ass when you walk by. He buys you so much stuff doesn’t he? They all do. This is normal for demons, you’re the youngest of the pack per se, this is normal. Don’t expect him to care about you scolding him. He will only stop when Jinu tells him too, which is rare. And Jinu’s command only lasts for a few hours. Maybe a day if you’re lucky or you give him something really good in return.

Yandere Baby who is the most aggressive. At first you think he really hates you. Why has he been glaring at you for the past 30 minutes? And when you make eye contact he only creepily smirks. He must want to tear you apart, or at least that’s what you assume. (Your clothes. he’s fantasizing about tearing all your clothes to shreds so your forced to be naked and using them as a nest to fuck you on.) When I say he’s the most aggressive, its not in a hateful way. It’s in a way where he finds you too fucking cute, and gets cuteness aggression. He just can’t help but sneak up on you and bite your neck. And not in a gentle way. He doesn’t mean to hurt you- he just needs his teeth in you. He needs to be in you in whatever way you’ll let him without having a panic attack and dying of a heart attack. So he’ll stick to biting you. Consented or not his claws are ALWAYS clutching onto you. You’re walking them to a meet and greet? His claws are on your hip, digging in when you try to move away. He’s one of the biggest growlers of the group, growling to show affection, to warn others away, growling when you try to push him away. Or in pleasure when you pull his hair. FIRM believer in he has an oral fixation. Fight me on it. You quickly learned not to have a lolipop or gum in your mouth, because he will pry your mouth open with his hands to steal it. On camera nontheless.

Yandere Saja Boys who are all obsessed with ensuring their scent is on you. Having you walk around smelling like them? Pure mindgasm for them. You’re they’re little manager. The youngest, the baby, the runt of the pack. Of course they’re all babying you. Once they get on their long tours, Jinu requests (forces) you stay in the same hotel with them. More like they rent a penthouse for each city they’re in. It does NOT get easier to live with them over time. The tours are just so long so its months into moving around for shows and living with them. And it isnt easier. They only get more bolder. Sneaking into your bed, forcefully group cuddling you. No you aren’t allowed to move off their laps when they pull you in.

Saja Boys fans who start shipping you with them. You start blowing up with the boys too, and you think maybe someone will smoke them for how gropey, touchy, and forceful they are. But no. The fans eat it up. They love any interaction with you and them, videos and pictures of you and them blowing up everywhere.

Yandere Saja Boys who insist on giving the fans what they want. Cmon’ just a kiss for the TV? Won’t you be a good manager? Don’t you care what the fans want?

Yandere Saja Boys who will never let their little sweet manager go. Its only a matter of time before you submit to the bond and let them fuck you into oblivion, its only a waiting game for them. they waited 400 years for you, what’s a little longer?

[xoxojisu]

DISTANT!

synopsis: you don't know when it started or why, but katsuki is distant, and your relationship is growing cold.

notes: hurt and comfort im not a monster. ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP ?!?! IN A JISU FIC ?!?!?! crazy. "jisu youve written a million bajillion things that are the EXACT same." god forbid a girl has a preference?? n e wayss why is he distant? why didn't y/n communicate? "i never would've-" well that sucks it's my fic. #mywayorthehighway

it starts small.

a slower reply here, a stiff shoulder there. your arms around his waist met with silence instead of that soft, familiar sigh.

you tell yourself he's just tired. exams, training, pressure and stress. but weeks pass and it only gets worse. you start to count the number of times he’s pulled away when you reached for him. it’s higher than you want to admit.

he used to let you curl into him after a long day, used to press absent kisses to your hair, fingers tracing lazy shapes on your back. now? he shuts his door early, says “go get some rest” like you’re a guest instead of the person who used to fall asleep in his arms every night.

and he still says “love you” sometimes, at the end of a conversation. but it’s distant. flat. it feels like it's just a habit.

your heart feels like it's holding its breath.

you sit in your room one night, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, phone clutched in your lap as you stare at a half-typed message you can’t bring yourself to send. your chest aches, deep and quiet and constant. you can’t remember the last time he looked at you the way he used to. like he was so lucky to have you. like he couldn’t believe you were real. like you were precious. like he loved you.

so when you knock on his door, when you ask if he has a second, when you step inside and he doesn’t even glance up from his desk, it all hits you all at once.

you don’t even know when it started.

but it mightve been that day, when you reached for katsuki and he didn’t reach back.

little by little, the things that used to come so naturally between you like soft touches, sleepy cuddles, forehead kisses, and lingering glances started slipping away.

and you feel it.

god, you feel it in your bones.

you try not to ask too much. you try to be patient. you tell yourself it’s just a phase, that he’ll come back to you soon, that this quiet doesn’t mean anything.

but it gets harder, especially on nights like this. curled up in your own bed, shivering even though you're under the covers, trying to remember what it felt like to be wanted without question. to be held like you were something precious.

your phone lights up with a message.

kats <3: night.

that’s it. no heart. no nickname. no goodnight kiss over the phone like he used to send when you weren’t together. no "where are you?" or "come to my dorm."

you stare at it until the screen goes dark again.

he's literally just in his dorm. he's not away on a mission or an internship. you could walk to him in just a couple minutes.

so why does he feel so far?

you still sleep in his hoodie. it doesn’t smell like him anymore. you wrap your arms around your own waist and pretend it’s his. it’s not the same.

you try to joke about it, once. say something like, “hey, don’t forget you have a girlfriend, y’know,” with a soft laugh to hide the bruise in your chest.

he just blinks, shrugs, mutters, “don’t be dramatic,” without looking up from his phone.

and you wanted to say,

i’m not. i just miss you. i miss the way you used to love me.

but you swallowed it down. again.

because you’re tired of sounding needy. tired of trying to ask for something he doesn't want to give.

tired of being touch-starved and desperate and so, so lonely in a relationship that used to feel so full.

you lie awake long after midnight. staring at the ceiling. not crying, not really, but your throat’s tight, and your chest won’t loosen. you miss him more than you know how to say.

when did you start sleeping in your own dorms again? when did you stop falling asleep to the lull of his heartbeat?

you just want him to hold you.

you just want to be held.

-

he doesn’t mean to do it.

not really. it just sort of… happens.

your face looks tired when he opens his dorm door and sees you there. hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, your body curled in on itself like you’re bracing for something.

and something about that.. about the way you’re shrinking, holding back like he might tell you to leave, makes his chest twist hard.

so before either of you can say a word, he just pulls you in.

arms around your waist, one hand sliding up your back to curl around your neck, pressing your face into his chest like it’s instinct. like he’s been starving for it. like he missed you.

and you go soft in his arms immediately. melt. cling. fists clutching at the back of his hoodie like if you let go, he’ll disappear again.

but then your shoulders start to tremble.

and he hears it. a tiny sound, barely there, the kind of thing that splits a heart open if you're paying attention.

“are you..” he leans back to look at you, palms cupping your face, and you’re crying.

not loud. not messy. just tears spilling down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting. like they’ve had to wait.

“baby..” he breathes, stunned. “what.. why are you crying?”

you shake your head, lip trembling. “i dunno,” you whisper, voice tight, eyes darting away. “i just… it felt nice. being held. i missed it. and you.”

and katsuki’s heart breaks.

because fuck. fuck, the bar shouldn’t be this low.

you shouldn’t be crying because you’re finally being touched gently again. you shouldn’t look surprised to be wanted.

and it hits him all at once:

how cold he’s been. how much he shut you out. how many nights you went to sleep wondering if he even cared.

“…shit,” he mutters, pulling you in tighter. his voice is thick, shaky at the edges. “i’m sorry. i didn’t.. i didn’t mean to make you feel like this.”

you bury your face in his neck. “i love you so much,” you whisper, like it’s a secret. “and i think.. i dunno.. i know it's stupid, but i started thinking that maybe you didn’t love me back.”

his throat tightens. he breathes in deep, kisses the top of your head, holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“you’re it for me,” he murmurs into your hair. “i’m so fucking sorry i made you doubt that.”

and this time, when you cry, he holds you through all of it.

masterlist reblogs + comments super duper appreciated! <3

[hanimanny]

WIKIHOW: HOW TO GET YOUR GIRLFRIEND BACK (FROM YOUR FAMILY)

a.k.a Tim needs his girlfriend back

tags: Tim drake x reader (established relationship), batfam x platonic!reader, crack, no mention of ‘y/n’

word count: 2.7k , likes + comments + reblogs appreciated

Tim loves that you're close to his family, he adores it. He couldn't have asked for anything better. To know that the love of their life so easily integrates themselves into their partner’s already slightly dysfunctional- adopted family. 

Tim loves it, because you love it. His family, I mean. But if you were to ask him how he feels about how close his girlfriend is to his brothers, sisters, pseudo-father?

He’d say he hates it.

The first few months were great! He would bring you over and you'd greet every member of the family you pass, awkwardly bowing (even to Damian who had the biggest ego trip known to man) as you scurry off, glued to Tim’s side. 

He misses those days. You were like a little bird, too shy to leave the nest, finding comfort in each other’s presence. He had you all to himself; and he would not call himself selfish in a way, but gods, does he want to take you and hide you from the world (his family).

Like all baby birds, they have to leave home eventually, and you did just that. 

It started off small. Girls night with Cassandra, Barbara and Stephanie, who'd want to drill as much gossip and secrets out of you about himself. Innocent at first, Tim trusted you, after all, and doubted you'd say anything incriminating about him to the girls. 

Then, the rubber duckies began to appear. He first assumed it was you and one of your weird pranks. Finding the yellow toys perched on his PC, bed stand, his closet, the usual places he would find you around. Then it got progressively stranger. The batcave, his utility belt, his secret stash of stalkerish pictures of you before you guys dated. No way would you find this stash, the only person sneaky enough to get past his secured hiding spaces was… Cassandra. 

That was when it all started. 

The ducks were okay. Eventually, you took a huge liking to them and told him to give them all to you and you would start a mini-army of rubber duckies, in his name of course. Though, he couldn't miss the devious glances the girls would send him, like he owed them something. 

What ticked Tim off was when you started to come over to the manor. Not that you weren't allowed to, he loves it when you spontaneously visit. But the reason you gave, irked him to no end. 

“Hey Duckie, sorry can't hang, Damian wanted to test those new katanas I’ve been working on.” You gave him a quick peck on the lips and a little hug before dashing towards the batcave, clunky bag full of prototypes jingling beside you. Before Tim could even ask to help carry your bag, you were gone. 

Okay, yeah, this is fine. You help his family come up with new innovative weapons, it's literally part of your job description. 

And then it happened several more times. 

Sometimes needing to cut well needed cuddle time short because “Damian wants to test out all your new gear for himself to deem it useful or not” or “Damian said he’d teach you how to paint after his training session”. 

And with demon spawn at that! his replacement! his arch nemesis. All your inventions were useful! And brilliant! That little demon spawn is just digging his claws into your soft kind back to drain you of all your brilliance. 

And He could teach you how to paint! If Bob Ross taught him anything, it's how to paint using what little skills he had. Though, the large canvas you painted of Tim, yourself and the large army of rubber duckies you gifted him was certainly… something (he had it framed and hung it above his bed). 

Whatever… you're still with him 80% of the time, and if not at the manor, then at Wayne Enterprises!

He thanked the gods that he ended up in an office romance type-thing, even though he is sorta kinda your boss and you work in the STEM department.  He would show up at your lab unannounced and the two of you would have spontaneous lunch breaks, talking about anything and everything. About the silly nerdy geeky stuff his family would horrendously bully him for, because you are as equally silly nerdy and geeky as he is. 

But something always had to ruin his fun. 

That something, being Bruce. 

The first time he showed up was during an actual lunch break. You and Tim sitting on one of the tables in your Lab, devouring a bat-burger you had begged him to order because, in your words: 

“It's literally your dad! No way you gotta pay.”

He had to pay. Not that he minded, never minds when it comes to you.

You were mid rant about some ship that kept breaking your heart, with a smudge of ketchup on your chin and your mouth disgustingly stuffed full of fries. 

“Like what do you mean you guys were just ‘best friends’, you literally faked your death, gave up the only career you ever knew and loved, just to get ride off in the sunset with him.” You scoff as you comically swallow your food. “Coming from a guy, that seems pretty platonic to me” Tim humoured as he sipped on his drink, amused with the way your face contorts with disbelief. 

“I can’t believe you had a boyfriend and still have the worst gaydar known to man.”

“Hey!”

“Bernard would totally get me.” You frown dramatically and Tim rolls his eyes at that, tossing a fry at you. 

“Why aren't you eating in the cafeteria?” A deep authoritative voice shatters your little world, pulling your attention away from him and onto the voice. 

Bruce stands at the doorway to your lab, signature scowl on his face. You lean to the side, to get a better view of him and wave with enthusiasm. 

“Food’s Trash today,” you boldly claim, chewing sideways on a fry. “Is that why you're in my lab? Because you want to have lunch with us?” you ask innocently. 

Which is how Bruce started attending both impromptu and promptu’ lunches. You obviously welcome him with your big loving heart, and definitely not because he’s your terrifyingly, stupidly scary boss and possible future father-in-law. 

To no one’s surprise, Tim is less than… let’s say excited… to have his pseudo father crash his work dates. Now lunch is filled with you explaining to his poorly out of date father the difference of “being cooked” and “cooking.”

and don’t get him started with his god forsaken, golden child of a brother, Dick Grayson, who unknowingly cockblocks. With his brotherly hugs and how he somehow always manages to incite family movie night. or game night. or whatever night. 

And even worse, you slowly grow the habit of inviting Dick to your hangouts. like some b-grade pavlovian experiment.

“Hey, wanna finish watching Lost?” innocent enough, and if Tim played the right cards, you’ll even decide to stay over (you’d still do it even if he played the wrong cards). 

“Sure! let me text Dick” and at first he’s confused, dick? Why? bros in bludhaven doing bludhaven activities. He has his own life, own job, own responsponsibilities, probably too busy to hang out with his younger brother and pretty birdie.

“he’d throw a fit if we continue without him” you absentmindedly add in, typing away on your phone. No one's worse than a brother dick grayson who looks like a sick kicked puppy once you tell him you continued the show you started together without him. 

After this incident, Tim slowly started to notice the lack of reality show binging time with you (at least without Dick) because somehow, Dick is always there once you start a new reality tv show. Even worse, he Pavlova’d himself, catching himself thinking of Dick when it came to reality tv. 

And Jason Todd who cockblocks purposely. The taste of freedom was so close, during the time of confusion where Jsson had no clue Tim was even in a relationship. How he'd eye the two of you skeptically, watching how you seamlessly integrated yourself into their family. His siblings, father, even Alfred, left unblinking at your interactions. 

But now that he knows, that fuckass zombie does everything in his power to ragebait. 

Tim seriously thought he grew accustomed to Jason Todd and his offhanded remarks about him, but now? now he really might dox someone (jason todd). 

TIm can tell he’s doing it on purpose, that smug (and stupid) look in his eyes when Jason asks you about old literature and introspective texts, and god knows how much you love to talk about things you’re interested in (which we all love). 

“I just think that he really captured girlhood, like I don't even understand how he did— I felt so connected with him” you drone on and on about a new book you were reading, something that Jaosn read back in his old robin days. While Tim loves to listen to you talk, literature is something Jason has him beat at (unfortunately…)

Tim just sits there, arm wrapped around you as you face Jason politely, chatting the room up. Jason occasionally sends Tim the knowing glance of smugness and in turn, Tim stares at Jason like he’s the blame for the economic state of the world. 

Tim zones out, plotting on the best opportunity to shit in Jason’s food. He smiles quietly to himself as he envisions his plans taking place, the reaction and satisfaction he’d feel, only snapping out when you suddenly gasp. 

“Oh shit, I totally forgot, I need to give him his meds” and the smile fades from his face instantly. You turn to him with a crazed look, your arm already in motion as you stick your hand in a hidden compartment under the couch. 

“Come on, Duckie, it’s nap time” you say almost ominously, despite your sweet smile and beautiful face, it does nothing to hide your menacing aura. “Yeah, nap time, Duckie” Jason taunts, and his pet name coming from Jason’s mouth tastes sour to Tim.

“Hold him down, will you, JT?” you ask sweetly, as you pop open the pill bottle.

In a swift motion, Tim snatches the bottle from your hand, “No need, i’ll take them willingly” Tim interjects, rather anything other than to give Jason Todd the satisfaction of holding him down. 

Worse of all, by the time Tim wakes up, you’re gone, and the aroma and food reaches his senses. 

He’d wake up, unceremoniously groggy, drool trailing down his face and the pillow within his arm he uses as a substitute for your flat to all extent. Tim feels like the start and end of the universe, all at the same time. He feels his hands tingle and theirs a blanket imprint stained on his forearms and face. Not to mention, what time is it? 

Unable to recollect his own dreary thoughts, Tim drags himself to the kitchen for his obligatory concoction of coffee and energy drink, ready to immediately shave off the 5 extra years off his life he gained from sleeping. 

TIm instinctively floats towards the sound of your giggle, along with the soothing scent of food that roams the air.

When he enters the kitchen, looking like he forgot his name and knows the entire history of you, you and Alfred don't even flinch at the site. 

“Hey Duckie! You slept longer this time, a whole 8 hours” you chirp as you pull out a tray of cookies, cooking the oven door closed. “Congrautlations, Master Tim, that's 5 more than last time” Aldred adds, stirring the pot of delicious smelling food. 

“Thanks…” Tim mumbles, still dazed. 

“I’ll be right with you, i just need ice the sugar cookies” You hum as you vigorously mix the icing while somehow simultaneously piping another batch in a bag. 

Tim can't help but smile gently out the domestic site, heart fluttering and not because of the residual caffeine that circulates through his veins. 

Just as Tim was about to sneak up behind you, and suggest he helps, Stephanie, Cassandra and Barbara burst in like they're about to rob a bank. 

“WE’RE HERE! BARBIE BAKER! Now the icing decorating competition can commence! Alfred, you're the judge” the girls push Tim aside, him knocking against the wall like a discarded ornament, ignoring him. 

“By the way, Tim, Bruce needs you” Barbara adds, as she wheels herself near the table as you carry the trays of cookies while Cassandra balances the various bags of icing. 

Tim stares blankly, his soul threatening to leave tired bones. 

Dear Lord, please give me patience. 

Tim’s at his wits end, he's barely seen you this week (aside from the fact you sleep in his bed every night tucked securely in his hold), stolen by one of his many family members.

Which brings him to now, calling a family meeting as if a world ending war is approaching. With all the family lounging on the couch, with the exception of Alfred who stands at the doorway and Jason who thinks he’s too cool to lounge with his loving family. 

“What do you want, Replacement? You know some of us have lives” Jason quips, leaning against the wall like 2000s grunge emo delinquent. 

“I am a full time CEO and hero who solves all your cases, you run a gang of D-list vigilantes and still come to me for help, we are not the same” Tim spits, the bags under his eyes seem much heavier, darker, like he hadn't slept for days (which might actually be true). At. his. Wits. End. Jason grumbles a retort, licking his teeth and sending Tim a glare that’s somehow more glare than his usual one. 

Then, Tim releases a forbidden command. 

“You’re all on Birdie Ban”

In that moment, the whole room bursts into cries, and an instant influx of complaining rips through the air. 

“WHAT? you have no right to ban us!”

“YOU CANNOT DICTATE WHO SHE CAN AND CANNOT SEE”

“Dick’s right! let Birdie see who she wants”

“You’re just a jealous loser”

“Dictator!”

“Worse than Joker”

“Woah, Steph, that’s a bit much”

“Nah, I was killed by him, Replacement is definitely worse”

“Now, let’s not make any rash decisions, Master Tim”

“I’m going to make a rash decision.”

“No innuendos, Cain. I'm going to gut Drake and use his insides as a scarf”

“Holy shit, Damian, Do we need to talk to a therapist again?”

“Yes, if that therapist is Birdie”

Tim stands there taking the brunt of the comments without flinching, his face passive as if he mastered the art of the Tibetan monks. 

And then: “If I catch you stealing Pretty Bird from me, I’m going to stop helping you with any of your cases…and ill dox you” 

“empty threats, Drake”

“says the guy lost a twitter war to a Brony”

Instantly, Damian shuts up, though his eyes burn with something akin to psychopathy. 

With one look, Tim scans the room seeing that everyone has fallen silent.

“By the way, no one tells her about this or I'll hack into all the tech in the house and block them off, out of spite”

With that, everyone reluctantly agrees and Tim can’t help but smile in satisfaction to himself. 

“Anyways, Pretty bird told me to let you guys know that she’s throwing a Gregory House theme party, everyone has to dress as a version of him” 

Tim may hate the fact that his family steals his girlfriend, but he’s more than grateful that his family loves you so much— enough to show up with a cane and stubble at least. 

epilogue

“Wait, why aren’t you dressed as House?” Dick, slack jawed, asks as he leans on his cane, dressed as convict season 8 house. 

“seems like you can’t even stick to your own girlfriends theme” Cassandra quips, in her rehab house attire, holding an ipod which blasts radiohead at a soft volume. 

“I'm Amber, a.k.a. female house— know your lore” Tim retorts, brushing his faux blonde hair to the side. 

Then you burst into the room, brown wig galore, and your certified doctors coat

“I, too, am at this party— omg bruce! i love cheerleader house, you look so authentic” 

The adventures of Pretty bird (shenanigans revolving you and Tim's family)

[thatonegrimm]

🌙  Saja Boys —They Fought Your Pets… and Lost

Each of them. In their own way. In completely avoidable circumstances.

-----------------------

🧿 Jinu vs. Your Cat (Momo)

It started with eye contact.

Momo, perched on the back of the couch like a tiny, furry gargoyle, narrowed her eyes. Jinu, holding his teacup, narrowed his back.

You knew that look. That was pre-battle tension.

“Don’t engage,” you warned softly, as Momo began slowly kneading the fabric beside her.

“She started it,” Jinu muttered.

“No, she exists. That’s not the same.”

But he was already lost to the silent war. Jinu inched forward and reached out one finger in peace. “Let’s be civil—”

Momo swatted him before contact, a blur of claws and betrayal.

Jinu jerked back, blinking at the tiny scratch on his knuckle. “She’s possessed.”

You shrugged. “Maybe she thinks you’re a threat.”

“I fed her.”

“She doesn’t remember that. She remembers weakness.”

Momo yawned. Victorious. Unapologetic.

-----------------------

💪 Abby vs. Your Tortoise (Captain Pancake)

Abby didn’t expect to lose.

How could he? He bench-pressed concrete and yeeted demons into buildings.

And yet, here he was, sitting frozen in your hallway, both shoes held hostage beneath a surprisingly determined tortoise.

“Why is he doing this?” Abby whispered.

Captain Pancake blinked slowly from atop the sneaker. Unmoving. Regal. An immovable god.

“He likes elevation,” you said, peeking around the corner.

“But he climbed on them after I put them on.”

“Exactly. You made the mistake of moving.”

Abby sighed and sat fully on the floor. “I guess I live here now.”

You snorted. “Try offering him kale. It’s tribute.”

Abby offered a leaf like a nervous villager. The tortoise didn’t blink.

He’d be here for a while.

-----------------------

📚 Mystery vs. Your Ferret (Beans)

Beans moved like chaos incarnate.

And Mystery—stoic, composed Mystery—had clearly underestimated that.

You found them in the hallway. Mystery crouched low. Beans darting in and out of his oversized sleeve like a furry missile.

“She got in,” he said flatly, arm lifted in eternal surrender.

You blinked. “Did you... try taking her out?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“She went deeper.”

Mystery stood carefully, Beans now a mysterious bulge wriggling across his shoulder.

You tried not to laugh. “Want help?”

He hesitated. “No.”

A moment passed. The ferret poked her head out of his collar, blinked, then disappeared again.

“...Maybe.”

You retrieved her with practiced ease.

Mystery looked down at his rumpled hoodie, expression unreadable.

“She wins,” he said.

She always does.

-----------------------

💋 Romance vs. Your Parrot (Sundae)

“Hi handsome,” Sundae chirped.

Romance lit up. “See? She gets me.”

You rolled your eyes. “She says that to everyone.”

“Still.” He wiggled his fingers at the perch. “Come on, gorgeous. Let’s be friends.”

Sundae fluttered once. Landed gracefully on his arm.

Then bit his ear.

“AHHH— betrayal!!” Romance cried, staggering in slow, dramatic horror. “My own muse!”

“She warned you. Three times.”

“She flirted with me!”

“She mimicked me flirting with you.”

He clutched his ear like a wounded soldier. Sundae, now perched smugly on the curtain rod, squawked, “Flirt with me again!”

Romance narrowed his eyes. “I will win her love.”

You handed him a cracker. “You’ll need this.”

-----------------------

🔥 Baby vs. Your Dog (Milo)

It was supposed to be simple.

Throw the ball. Get the dog to like him. Easy.

But Milo had other plans.

Baby had thrown the ball three times. And three times, Milo brought it back and dropped it in the water bowl. Then stared. Expectantly.

Baby stared back. “...No.”

Milo barked once.

“No,” Baby said again.

Milo huffed. Walked over. Sat directly on Baby’s lap—nearly knocking him flat—and stared at him nose-to-nose.

You poked your head out. “He likes you.”

“I think he’s asserting dominance.”

You shrugged. “Let him. He’s the alpha now.”

Baby grumbled something under his breath, trapped under seventy pounds of fluff and one drool-soaked tennis ball.

Milo licked his cheek.

Baby didn’t fight it.

He’d already lost.

-----------------------

Your pets were curled up, victorious, in various corners of the room.

Jinu kept a respectful five-foot radius from Momo. Abby was still waiting for Captain Pancake to move. Mystery was lint-rolling his hoodie. Romance offered Sundae another cracker (“for peace”). Baby had given up entirely and was now Milo’s designated mattress.

You sipped your tea, amused.

“You could’ve warned us,” Abby said.

You shrugged. “You said you were tougher most demons. I wanted to see.”

Jinu muttered, “Next time, I choose the battlefield.”

Momo blinked at him. He looked away first.

The war was over.

The pets had won.

And honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.

-----------------------

M-List