#it's not surprising that it would suit him

[miseria-fortes-viros]

MY EX’S BROTHER KILLED HIMSELF THREE WEEKS AGO and saying “my ex’s brother” is kind of shitty of me i think. but i also can’t say “my friend” because we weren’t friends, and i can’t say “my friend’s brother” because now that we’re exes we’re not really friends, and also there’s a difference between “friends” and “grew up in the church together” and that’s a lot to say to someone who doesn’t have the whole picture. but it’s better to include “ex” in there somewhere, because when people hear “ex” they like to assign some bitterness to it, and it’s kind of refreshing to hear “do not meet him for coffee who cares if he’s grieving he’s an ex for a reason” instead of the run-of-the-mill scrambling for something polite and respectful to say. and then when i do meet him for coffee and his hair’s grown out again to where i once told him i like it and he tells me about his next tattoo and that he’s saving up for another motorcycle and apologizes for something he barely did two years ago and tells me that he’s single again, i can joke around with my best friend about how he still wants me if his instagram likes have anything to say about it, and i don’t have to think about how tired he looks or that, like me, he hasn’t said a word about God in six years. i don’t have to sit in the church i haven’t sat in since high school and wonder if this is the funeral—sorry, celebration of life for someone who didn’t even want to be here—my ex’s brother would have wanted. i don’t have to watch the back of my ex’s head and wonder how he can stand any of this because nobody here will shut the fuck up about God. i don’t have to sit in the back of the congregation and selfishly think WHEN I DIE I HOPE NOBODY TALKS ABOUT GOD for three hours. and usually my purse is relatively neat but right now it’s stuffed full with tissues and waterproof mascara and packets of wildflower seeds and i wonder if my ex’s brother really did like planting wildflowers or if they just told us that so we’d spread them.

later that week when i spend the night at my sister’s she tells me the exchange student she brought home for thanksgiving a few years ago was in an accident. i want to apologize because ever since i was a child i’ve felt like death follows me around somehow. his instagram says he was doing what he loved and he’s with God now. i hug my sister while she cries and i think WHEN I DIE I HOPE NOBODY TALKS ABOUT GOD. in a few days i will text her at midnight because i had a dream that i don’t necessarily remember but i do remember wishing she was still alive. and i won’t tell her that but i’ll ask her what she’s wearing to the bridal shower and she’ll say the same thing she wore to the funeral because she doesn’t have anything else, and i’ll do that too since we were asked not to wear black and the blue i wore is much more suited to a happy occasion anyway. the brides will make a toast to loved ones lost while i’m wearing the same dress i wore to celebrate the life of a dead boy and my grandmother will pray to bless the union and i’ll arrange flowers and play little games with the women in my family and all i can think is WHEN I DIE I HOPE NOBODY TALKS ABOUT GOD.

whenever i tell people my cousin drowned they always ask if he’s okay and that always surprises me because i feel like the word drowned has a finality to it; it’s an end result, and if he was okay i would have said almost drowned but i didn’t. and sometimes when i talk about someone in the past tense people will say what do you mean was? is he not your uncle anymore? as if the concept of death is so far-fetched and archaic that it only happens to the elderly and the extremely unlucky and people on tv. these are the same people who keep talking about Heaven and eternal life and how death is just the beginning and nobody’s really gone and i smile politely but i want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and say fuck you. MY EX’S BROTHER KILLED HIMSELF THREE WEEKS AGO and i am drawing pictures and watching a trashy reality show when one of the contestants announces his early departure because his sister has died.

why do you write so much about death? what is everyone else writing about if not death? a few years ago i found out people think i’m obsessed with the idea of dying. i am not. i didn’t know there were people out there who have not experienced tragedy at all. i say tragedy and people think it just means loss. i am not talking about old men passing peacefully in their sleep. i am talking about a drowned fourteen year old and a fiancé whose heart suddenly gave out and a new grandfather t-boned by a drunk driver. these are too unrealistic for fiction. you write too much about death. i am not afraid of death and i’m not sure if that’s leftover from teenage suicidal tendencies or the result of years of exposure but i am afraid that i will die unexpectedly and nobody will know who to tell and so none of the right people will find out. and then the only people at my funeral will be family members who keep talking about God and Heaven and eternal life and give out packets of wildflower seeds, and i will watch from inside my casket even though i wanted to be cremated and i’ll scream EVERYONE SHUT UP ABOUT GOD until i can almost feel my throat but nobody will hear me because i am dead and no longer have a throat. my friends will keep texting me and wonder if i’m angry with them.

my ex’s brother killed himself three weeks ago. after the funeral i take a day off of work to sit in my kitchen and think WHEN I DIE I HOPE NOBODY TALKS ABOUT GOD.

[barbieandkento]

₍^. .^₎⟆ synopsis: nanami wakes up in a hospital - confused, dazed, and suddenly kissed by his attractive doctor. who turns out to be his wife that he can't remember. word count: 2.7k

nanami wakes to the sound of persistent beeping.

at first, he thinks it must be his alarm clock. but it can't be, he reasons, because it's not an uninterrupted noise. rather, it's flicking on and off in a consistent rhythm.

the next thing he notices is the smell. harsh disenfectants, a mix of citrus and bleach. it lacks the smell of his laundry detergent - sandalwood and bergamot - and now that he thinks about it, his sheets were never this itchy and dry.

when he forces open his eyes, they're immediately blinded by the flourscent lighting up ahead. his eyes blinking furiously against the white burst of light to adjust to his surroundings.

he realizes his regular suit has been replaced with a hospital gown, white and frumpy with printed blue squares. his feet are bare against the stale white sheets, the same shade of white as the walls enveloping the room. the darkness outside the window tells him that he must've woken up late at night. a quiet ticking clock on the wall confirms his suspicions - 10.28pm.

the beeping, it turns out, was his heart monitor. situated carefully next to a small bedside table with water and an untouched sandwich. there's a small note next to it, in beautiful cursive writing someone has written - 'feed yourself, kento!' - in black sharpie. examining the sandwich up closer, he can see it's turkey and pesto (his favorite).

to his left, there's a single chair with a cardigan draped over it (a cardigan certainly not belonging to him, nanami notes). on the seat, there's a newspaper open to a crossword puzzle and a pen resting carefully on top.

trying to get a closer look at the crossword, he sits up, nearly swearing out loud from the sharp pain shooting up his left side. his heart mointor goes wild, the silence of the room broken, when he instinctively pulls down his blanket to see a nasty gash along his side.

within a few seconds, he hears hurried footsteps down the hallway and the door slams open.

"you're awake." you say, relieved. you almost sound like you're about to cry, which he finds strange, but chalks it up to you being a very attentive doctor.

the next thing he notices is that you're really pretty. the kind of pretty that would have made him blush profusely in his 20s and stoically stare at from a distance in hopes that you'd make a move first. you smell like daisies and fresh rain; you smile at him so dazzingly that his words turn to mush.

you then suddenly rush towards him, tossing your clipboard onto the chair, before grabbing his face and kissing him. his mind short circuits at the sudden contact, face flushing red at the unsolicited kiss. his whole body is buzzing with electricity, your sticky lipgloss staining his lips, and he almost has to surpress his whine when you pull away looking confused.

"...are you alright?" you question him, noticing your husband seems more quiet and stiff than usual.

nanami coughs awkwardly, attempting to calm his beating heart.

"i... i'm not sure how professional it is to kiss your patients, doctor." he says earnestly, but you (to his surprise) laughs him off.

"oh come on, nanami. you're acting like it's the first time." you quip, shaking your head sideways.

he's genuinely confused.

"is it not?"

you open your mouth again, ready to give him a sassy remark, but the words die in your mouth when you see that serious glint in his eyes.

lack of sleep before the mission. blunt force trauma to the head. submersion in freezing water for five minutes before geto could pull him out.

all things, logically speaking, which could result in temporary amnesia.

"you're... you're joking, right?" you trail off, hoping for even a flicker of amusment on his face. "please say you're joking."

his heart breaks at how desparate your tone becomes, but no matter how hard he tries to remember, he can't seem to find you amongst his memories.

"i-i'm sorry. do we... know each other?"

there's a beat of silence as his question hangs heavy in the air. you seem to swallow nervously, eyes shifting down to the floor as if you're lost in thought before you look back up at him with an unreadable look on your face.

"what'd you think?" you mumble quietly, raising your left hand. a diamond ring with rose details shines back at him, and suddenly nanami can feel the weight of a ring on his own left hand.

but before he can respond, a nurse is calling for you.

"I'll be back in a bit. just... eat something and rest, okay?"

nanami has so many questions he wants to ask you, his wife that he can't remember, but you're gone in an instant with an apologetic look.

what lingers is your smell, your perfume haunting the room for hours before he eventually falls back asleep.

his head plagued with questions.

==================

it's been three days since he's woken up.

so far, you've been in his room daily to monitor his vitals, ask him the usual questions (how have you been eating, any odd pain, do you need your sheets changed), and swap out the usual hospital food with his favorite foods. he suppresses the urge to ask how you know what he wants to eat so easily, and it becomes clear that you're putting in an effort to keep your distance from him.

you no longer smile wide and bright as you did the first time he saw you, your lips always pressed in a professional smile and your body never hovering closer than a few inches from him.

he misses you. there's an odd ache in his body when you're near, like he's trying to hold onto a ghost from his past that's too close and too far from him at the same time. he swears he still tastes your lipgloss when he anxiously licks his lips, which drives him even more insane.

he manages to get a few answers out of you during the routine checks. he asks anything, in hopes it'll spark his memories, but also because he can't stand the silence in the room.

the heavy tension as you avoid his gaze, whilst simultaneously staring at him from the corner of your eyes whenever you're in the room.

"where do we live?"

"fifteen minutes from ueno."

"how long till i get discharged?"

"depends on your vitals, but i'd say maybe another 36 hours."

"are you taking care of yourself?" nanami can't help but ask you that one day, when you look particularly tired and drained.

you give him a weary smile, nodding weakly.

"mostly. don't worry, our neighbours are keeping an eye on yuki."

his throat runs dry at that answer, his mind suddenly flashing with imaginations of a young girl the spitting image of you and nanami.

"yuki? is that... our daughter?" he asks carefully, his heart racing.

your eyes become so wide and you nearly choke on your spit.

"oh! uh... no. yuki's our cat. she's a really sweet, white cat we adopted from a shelter a few months back. she's two." you trail off, feeling guilty. "sorry, I forgot that you would've forgotten that yuki is our cat too."

nanami just quietly thanks you and doesn't press the subject further.

but the image of yours and his fictional daughter lingers.

true to your word, nanami gets his clean bill of health confirmed the next day and his belongings are returned to him in a meticulous manner. changing out of his hospital gown, his old clothes feel foreign against his skin.

staring at himself in the mirror, he traces every curve and dip on his face in an attempt to spark a memory. he knows his name. his friends. dreadfully, his work. but the past two years feels like a blank in his memory, ripped out pages of an incomplete sketchbook.

splashing water onto his face, he steps out the bathroom, feeling more on edge than ever. whilst waiting for you in the reception room, he can't help himself from nervously adjusting his cuff links and fiddling with his tie.

because he's going home. with you.

"ready?" you ask, slinging your bag over your shoulder. you've changed out of the uniform he's gotten so used to seeing - now in a loose tank top with a cherry print on it and form fitting jeans. your lipgloss has become more sheer through out the day, and you're wearing less mascara than usual.

"you look beautiful." he comments, without really thinking it through. you seem embarrassed by the compliment, ducking your head to avoid his gaze.

"thank you."

he purses his lips because you're still avoiding his gaze. it doesn't feel right, even if he doesn't know you as well as you know him.

"please don't look away."

it's the first time he's addressed the fact that you've been avoiding looking at him directly, making you freeze in place.

"please." he nearly whispers it, and you can't find it in your heart to refuse him.

you take in a small breath, mustering up the courage to look at him square in the eyes.

"okay."

he wordlessly takes your bag from your shoulder, trailing behind you as you walk towards your car in the parking lot. he also refuses to let you open the car door by yourself, placing his spare hand on the ceiling so you won't bump your head as you sit down.

it's so routine, you almost forget that he doesn't remember anything.

and he stills sits in the seat next to you, not the back seat. and he switches the radio to the station he'd always listen to, without being prompted to.

"are you alright?" nanami questions, noticing how your eyes are becoming watery.

you're barely able to croak out that you're fine before pulling out of the driveway, your thoughts a complete mess on the drive home.

==================

"this is the living room.... we had a bit of an argument over what color to paint the walls but we eventually settled on sage green because it's calming. though-" you chuckle, mostly to yourself. "you always insisted it wasn't an argument because you'd always let me win."

it's strange, for nanami, getting a tour of his own house. but he dutifully follows behind you, nodding along to each of your descriptions, analysing every nook and cranny of the apartment.

the kitchen is sleek but homey. DIY tiles, vintage kitchenware, vase of sunflowers in the middle of the table.

the bathroom is small but clean. his aftershave and razor sits untouched next to your bottles of perfume and makeup brushes. a crinkled book settled by the bath tub tells him that you're a fan of reading in the bath.

the office room is busy but organized, stacked high with books and files belonging to him. there's a few odd artifacts here and there - souvenirs from travels abroad, you say - and he spots a photo frame with you hugging him from behind. the scenery says malaysia, but he can't make out the exact date of the photo.

"and this... is the bedroom." you wait for him to look around the room by himself, standing at the doorway awkwardly as you wait for the right thing to say.

it's nearly 11pm now, and you're so tired that you want nothing more than to curl up next to him and sleep.

but that would be highly inappropriate, you reason, given that he's a stranger now.

"i've already laid out your clothes for the night on the corner of the bed." you explain slowly. "i've already taken out my stuff for the night, so don't worry."

he spins around and stares at you, confused.

"but then where would you be sleeping?"

you shrug, trying to come off nonchalant.

"i figured you'd want to sleep alone on your first night. what with the temporary amnesia and all." even the word amnesia leaves a sour taste on your mouth as you admit it out loud. "i can sleep on the couch in the living room, it's fin-"

nanami shakes his head sideways immediately.

"nonesense. no lady should be sleeping on a sofa. i'll take the couch, you should take the bed."

"are you-"

"yes, i'm completely sure. i will not have you sleep outside in your own home." he replies sternly, the glint in his eyes oh so familiar. a warning sign that it's not up for debate, he's made up his mind.

"it's your home too." you respond quietly. but nanami catches it, and his stern look falls for a short second.

"i... i know, but... please. i couldn't bear the thought of you sleeping on a sofa after a hospital shift."

"okay."

after moving over a few pillows and a blanket for him to the sofa, and an awkward exchange of 'good nights', you shut the bedroom door behind you and crawl into bed.

suddenly, the bed feels too cold and empty. the blankets are overwhelmingly heavy and hot against your skin, and the ceiling fan seems to be louder than usual. the heaviness of the situation begins to set in and before you know it, you're crying.

salty tears streaking down your face, body shivering under the sheets as you grieve what you've lost.

two years of marriage - gone.

he tries to hide it, but whenver he looks at you, you feel it in your guts.

you're a stranger to him.

and now, you fear he may never remember you again.

it might've been twenty minutes. or a full hour, you're not sure.

but in the complete darkness, you can't tell the passage of time before you hear a soft knock on the door.

"it's nanami." he announces himself, as if you wouldn't know that it was him (if you were in a better mood, it'd probably make you laugh). "can i come in?"

wiping the tears from your face as fast as you can, you sit up to face the door.

"y-yes. come in."

even in the pitch darkness, you can imagine nanami's beautiful face scrunching up in worry, his figure slowly moving towards you in the dark.

"i heard you crying." he whispers, and the tenderness in his voice nearly threatens to break you again.

"i'm sorry, i should've been more quiet." you reply, as he sits down on the bed across from you.

"it's fine, i.... fuck, it's not fine."

you blink in surprise, knowing that it was rare to hear nanami swear.

"of course it's not fine, i can't imagine how painful this whole ordeal must be for you. you've been incredibly strong and brave to tolerate me this long. i am just amazed that i would've managed to land someone like you as my wife."

you want to respond, but all you can feel is the wave of sadness rushing over you again, his sweet words piercing your heart like daggers.

"i... i can't sleep." you whisper into the night. it feels easier to admit it when it's dark, and you can't see how intensely he'd be looking into your eyes, as if he's staring into your soul.

"could i stay with you?" nanami asks, before clarifying. "until you fall asleep."

"you can stay for as long as you want."

his weight leaves the mattress for a moment before he settles down next to you, his familiar cologne washing over your senses.

"can i... hug you?" he asks, voice so gentle, as if he's afraid you're going to break at any moment.

"yes please." you manage to get out, before you're full on sobbing again, staining his shirt with your tears. his arms are now around your back as he scoops you onto his chest, his rough fingers drawing soothing circles on your back. his lips find his way to the crown of your head, and he wishes nothing more but to take some of the pain away from you.

but he can't.

"i'm so, so sorry love." he whispers against your head, lips trembling. "i wish i could remember."

you don't respond, rather, you can't. he's hugging you in bed like everything's normal. he's speaking to you as if he's your nanami, your husband, the same nanami who would bring home pastries on his way back from work and take baths with you on nights you couldn't sleep.

eventually, you feel emptied out of your tears, your limbs finally feeling heavy. his steady heartbeat against your ears lulls you to sleep, your fingers naturally grasping his thin shirt, crinkling the fabric.

"don't leave." you whisper, half-asleep.

"i won't." he whispers back, hugging you closer.

that's the last confirmation you need before your breathing evens out and he's sure you're asleep, your chest rising and falling in regular rhythms.

and despite nanami's eyes begging to close, his mind feels wide awake and sleep won't come to him easily. his nerves are on fire as he hugs you closer to his frame.

looking at your face in the dark, the small green glow of the alarm clock carving shadows onto your face, he presses a small kiss to your forehead and swears to himself he'll remember.

he'll die trying if he has to.

a/n: second ever fic on this blog! i was feeling angsty/slow burn today so wanted to give the loss memory trope a try. seriously am a sucker for pining gentleman!nanami. apologies for any medical inaccuracies in this fic btw i'm not a med student/professional so i googled a few things and called it a day lmao. lowkey tempted to write a part 2 to this if this does well :)

ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★

[sc3ptre]

A healing touch

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: Clark Kent fics will be posted Thursday nights/Friday mornings depending on where you live so there will be another fic this week but I really wanted to post this extra sweet lil thing bc I’m having so much fun writing these.

Warning: SMUT +18 (with plot) This is descriptive! Okay? Read at your own risk and keep both hands on the damn phone!!! | safe sex, p-in-v, oral m! receiving and mutual masturbation, mild D/S dynamics, physical restriction kink? and power play, mild mentions of injury and blood (non graphic), nipple play, c*m play?, big dick syndrome (size kink) and use of superhuman abilities during intercourse.

Disclaimer: This fic has no spoilers for the movie! But if you're still wary, feel free to skip this for now and come back later!

Word count: 4.7k (i kept telling myself i would stop soon and then didn't)

The open window barely rustled the curtains. From this high up, the city sounded like a distant ocean, with its sirens, horns, and ultimately the murmuring echo of a city that had just barely survived another disaster.

You were already standing near the floor to ceiling windows, watching the sky like you’d been doing for the last hour. The news played footage on a loop until it cut to analysts and headlines, yet none of it was useful making you turn the sound off after the third segment. You didn’t need the voiceover, you’d seen enough to know how bad it was.

You heard it then. It wasn’t a crash or a thud, just a shift in the air pressure and a flicker in the shadows outside. You turned just in time to see him glide through the open window.

He didn’t land so much as fold, his cape catching on the breeze and dragging softly behind him before falling like a second shadow. Clark stumbled with a groan, catching himself on the wall while his other hand gripped his side.

Your heart dropped when you took in his state, his suit torn across his shoulder and chest, the fabric also blackened from being dragged around by a creature fifty times his size and stained with a mix of dried and fresh blood you hoped wasn’t his.

You didn’t speak, not right away but as always, he felt the need to reassure you. Maybe it was your face, or the sound of your heart shattering at the mere sight of him.

“It looks worse than it feels,” he huffed, walking a few unsteady steps to the edge of the living room and sinking down onto the floor beside the low couch, pressing his back to it like he couldn’t trust himself to stay upright without something behind him. Only then did he actually meet your eyes, flashing you the tiniest of smiles. “It’s not that bad.”

Your mouth parted slightly as you looked at him closer, taking tentative steps toward him. There was exhaustion in his eyes, and it wasn’t the kind that sleep could fix. His jaw was tight and his knuckles were bloody and scraped raw. His perfect hair was tousled and one eye slightly swollen and still, he smiled.

You opened your mouth further to ask, but he shook his head slowly, warning you that telling you exactly what happened wouldn’t make it any better. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded silently, trying to ignore how much your heart ached as you moved quietly to the bag you had brought, unzipping it and pulling out several different bottles, gauze, needle and thread. It looked like you had robbed a pharmacy on the way to his place.

You returned and kneeled beside him, his eyes following every motion. Clark didn’t stop you or object just focused on breathing slowly through his nose, like each inhale took more effort than the last.

When your fingers grazed his skin, just near the edge of a gash along his ribs, he flinched. Not from pain, but from something else…surprise, maybe, and a tenderness he didn’t expect.

You soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic and spoke before you could really think about the words. “This might sting.”

He let out a faint grunt, more breath than sound, but didn't respond.

You worked carefully, wiping away ash and blood. The suit was partially peeled back, exposing more of him than you were used to, but either way, his skin wasn’t flawless tonight. It was streaked with bruises that didn't belong on him—purple, green, and already yellowing around the edges. You couldn’t imagine the force it took to actually hurt him.

You soon realized he was watching you as you worked—your face, not your hands—with that intense, unblinking stare of his.

“What?” you asked, glancing up.

“Your heart’s racing.”

You paused, fingers stilling over the line of a cut and let out a quiet, long breath, something you always did around him to regulate your system. It never worked. “And you’re still bleeding, since we’re…pointing out the obvious,” you said softly.

His lips twitched to just the ghost of a smile, too painful to reach his eyes. “I’ll heal. The sun–”

“Would you rather bleed out until sunrise, Kansas?” you cut in, gentle but firm.

He didn’t argue further. Clark had a feeling you often forgot who he was and what he could do, and he didn’t mind it one bit, especially when you got snarky this close.

You continued swabbing and bandaging with care, letting the heavy silence stretch between you. It was far from uncomfortable since you’d lived in it before. It was where your connection always seemed to grow, in those quiet corners and not with loud confessions.

Once the wound across his lower side was as clean as it would get, you threaded the needle and pressed it to the edge of his skin. You pushed it in with steady hands and watched as it bent before your eyes.

You sighed, lifting it up towards the dim light of the living room. “I always forget about… that.”

The look on your face earned you a small exhale through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but close.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You protested.

He couldn’t help the grin now spreading across his face. “Couldn’t bring myself to. You look the sweetest when you’re focused.”

You sighed, sitting defeatedly on the balls of your feet, a sight he couldn’t bear seeing.

“You’ve done more than anyone has…thank you. The sun will take care of the rest,” he assured quietly, wincing as he lifted his hand to your face, caressing it with dizzying softness.

You looked at him again and this time, he didn't look away. His gaze flickered over your face like he was tracing something he already knew but still didn’t understand—There was a pull between you in that moment, an ache that had had you circling each other for months now, too close and then too far, never quite on the same page, yet always in orbit, always looking.

His fingers went to your chin, thumb tracing your lower lip as the both of you surrendered and leaned toward the other, not stopping until your lips touched tentatively for a stretched second before Clark pulled back just enough to give you time to retreat, but you pushed forward, pressing your lips against his in a loving, long awaited kiss.

It was slow and gentle, careful in a way that made it burn even deeper. It was obvious that both of you were trying to learn where the other’s limits were but that line got pushed further back the more he welcomed you into his life. The kiss deepened, and your tongues danced a heated tango influencing you to straddle his hips. He sucked in a breathy wince, his hands moving to rest on both sides of your face, tilting your head while holding you close.

You accommodated yourself on his lap, letting your full weight fall on him and despite yourself, letting out a quiet moan. 

His lips migrated from your mouth to the corner of your lips, then your cheek, as his hand guided your face to enable his actions. You closed your eyes, letting your shaky fingers trace the emblem of his suit.

Clark’s full lips latched onto your neck then, breathing out against your pulse point before kissing higher, toward your earlobe. You moaned quietly, keeping your body from moving too much over him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you breathed.

Clark’s hands went to both sides of your hips, grabbing you and pressing you down against his hardness, then smiling into your neck when you gasped quietly. “You won’t.”

Your hands steadied on his body as you began moving slowly, seeking relief while allowing his mouth to explore you freely, in the same manner your hands were—both of you acting like this was a common occurrence, with the familiar way his lips wrapped around yours, taking their time in learning what you liked and what made your breathing hitch. 

You kissed in tandem, loving on each other like you were made to do.

“I want you,” you breathed when you pulled apart. “I’ll understand if this isn’t the night for it.”

He shook his head slowly, dismissing your last comment as he gathered your hair in one hand, keeping it off your face so he could see all of you. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

At his nod, you carefully got off his lap and helped him stand the best you could, each groan from his aching body stabbing your heart with a thousand tiny needles.

Once on his feet, he raised a finger to you, signaling for you to wait a second before walking awkwardly—while cursing at the uncomfortable tent in his pants—toward the closest cabinet.

You stood there watching in a daze, your fingers brushing your tingling lips as they stretched into a soft smile, while your pulse rabbitted in your neck. Until the rattle of a chain cut through the quiet, your gaze snapping to him, eyes wide. It was thick and heavy, the kind strong enough to pull a car.

“Clark…what the hell is that?”

His face didn’t change much as he held it up, looking at it like his thought process was the most obvious answer, but his voice was calm. “It’s for me.”

“So we’re flying straight past the handcuffs, huh? D–do I need a safeword or a damn prayer?...Jeez, Clark, warn a girl before you bring out the industrial sized kinks.” you said, cracking a grin.

He laughed with little to no humor. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up…This is serious, okay?” he said. “If I lose control and… I hurt you–”

“You won’t,” you interrupted.

“You don’t know that,” he pointed out.

You stepped close to him again, pressing a hand to his chest, warm beneath your palm. His heart was beating slower than yours, strong, but still at an unusually fast pace.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “I would never be able to forgive myself if–”

You shook your head. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me because you won’t let it. I’ve seen you at your worst, Clark,” you said. “And I’m still here. That should tell you something.”

You were still touching him, waiting for an answer and he was still looking at you like he didn’t know how this was real. He surrendered then, letting the chain fall to the floor with a loud thud.

“Should I even ask why you have that?” you asked quietly.

“Work-life balance clearly isn't my strong suit." he murmured, leaning in to let his lips brush yours once again, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it at all.

Your hand brushed his jaw, thumb resting just below the cut at the corner of his mouth. Clark leaned right into it, eyes closing briefly while anchoring himself in that one quiet point of contact.

He kissed you back with the kind of care that felt earned, tempered by pain, longing and too much time spent pretending not to feel what he clearly did. 

His huge arms snaked around your body, holding you close to his as your feet lost contact with the ground. The air shifted gently around you both with the quietest sound of lift, like a breath held within the walls. He flew you across the room like it was second nature, like carrying you in his arms was the only thing keeping him upright. His body was still heavy with bruises and cuts, but in the air, he was light, weightless.

His bedroom was quiet when you landed, soft light filtering in through the windows, stars visible beyond the glass. He didn’t let you go right away, no, he just stood there, holding you close to his chest and kissing you like letting you go after setting you down might break the spell.

Your lips parted as his hand brushed the neckline of his ruined suit, the torn, ash-smudged fabric stretched beautifully across his chest. He winced, moving his shoulder again to detach his cape and letting it fall to his feet.

You helped him peel his clothes off slowly and as gently as you could, letting your hands graze over his warm skin unabashedly while his hands trembled under your touch, especially while you helped him undress from the waist down, taking over your steady ones as if your touch could make this end far too soon.

You had daydreamed about how big he would be, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw—thick, heavy, quite literally struggling to hold its own weight up and covered in angry veins that led to a swollen, and already leaking tip. Your mouth watered the more you looked at it.

His hands grabbed at the fabric of your shirt mid-daze, steadier now as he undressed you, taking his time to memorize every dip of skin and muscle that made you who you were, weakening him beyond the damage kryptonite could do. 

He carefully hooked his fingers under the straps of your bra and pulled them off your shoulders, letting them dangle there while he reached behind to unhook it, sliding it off your arms and letting it clutter the space between you on the floor. 

The air current flowing through the room made you suck in a breath, yet it wasn’t what made goosebumps spread all over. It was his scrutiny, just how closely he was looking at you. Your nipples hardened under his unrelenting gaze, pupils dilating as his cock grazed your stomach, spreading a bead of precum under your belly button.

Clark lowered himself to the edge of the bed with a groan, his hands tracing the outside of your thighs up until his fingers hooked under your panties, pulling it down and watching a string of slick stretch and shine in the moonlight. His cock throbbed against his thigh from the sight, and the groan that escaped him could’ve been enough to undo you too—He let his forehead fall to your stomach with a sigh, his hands bringing you close as you could be.

“…This isn’t exactly how I imagined it being.”

You tensed at his words while he flushed, pulling back to look up at you, brow furrowing like he didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Not—not like I’ve imagined it a lot,” he added quickly, stumbling. “Because I haven’t. I mean, not a lot. Just... moderately. I thought maybe when this happened, if it ever happened, you know… I’d be whole. Not like this, bruised and broken and... It should’ve been different.”

You reached to brush a piece of hair back from his face, making sure he looked right at you.

“Clark.” The name was quiet but firm. “You’re always taking care of everyone… let me take care of you.”

You whispered, pushing him just enough for him to take the hint and lay down in bed, ribs rising and falling unevenly. He groaned quietly under his breath as he leaned back, head hitting the pillows just as you kneeled on the other side of him, leaning down to press soft kisses to his marked and bruised skin, careful not to press into any of the deeper cuts. You traced a path from his sternum down and spoke between kisses.

“Can you do that for me?” you whispered, glad to see him visibly sink deeper into the mattress.

“…Are you sure the chains aren’t needed?”

You smiled faintly, not in mockery whatsoever. “Let’s not pretend they’d hold you back.”

He studied you for a long, still second, holding eye contact as you neared his heavy cock. Something changed behind his eyes then, the tension melted, just enough for him to give you the tiniest of nods.

Your fingers wrapped around the base, tongue flicking out to lap at its length from the very bottom to the sensitive tip. You felt him shiver, letting out a sigh as his hand went to your side, eyes watchful while you teased the tip’s slit with your tongue, tasting the saltiness of him before taking him fully into your mouth, tongue flat, allowing it to create its own path down your throat.

“Golly, sweet mercy…” he breathed as he watched you.

You took him in until his head blocked the very back of your throat, with more length to take and not enough space to do so. You got to work then, for your own pleasure more than his, from the way your eyes were rolling back. You used your hands to take care of the remaining length as you bobbed your head slowly with hollowed cheeks, massaging the base with just enough pressure to keep him on the edge. 

His moans slowly grew louder and less timid, as did his hands, with fingertips that caressed your wet folds from behind while you worked him. 

From the way he lifted his fingers and looked at them glistening, it was clear he didn’t believe all of that was for him, yet you moaned, pushing your ass back against nothing to incite him for more. He complied by replacing his fingers there, twisting his head in an awkward angle to watch himself dip them in slowly, eyes flickering between that image and your face as he pushed both digits deeper and deeper, your body spreading to grant him access.

He drove them in as far as they could go, then pulled them out slowly, watching your reaction whilst repeating the movement, his body trembling with pride once you moaned around his cock, one hand grabbing at his thigh for support.

His pace quickened accordingly, letting the sounds from the finger-fucking mix with the ones from your sweet mouth. Clark matched the rhythm at which you worked, loving how you backed your body to meet his hand shamelessly, until the pleasure from his fingers clouded your resolve—long forgetting the fact his cock blocked the path out for your moans and whimpers while you let him fuck you senseless.

It was a beautiful sight to him, the way your back arched and your pebbled nipples brushed against his skin while you hesitated between giving him pleasure and surrendering to your own. His fingers, covered in slick, moved in and out of you with such ease he envied them, shamelessly licking his lips every time he was strong enough to tear his eyes off your face.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth with a whimper that almost made him come, so desperate and raw, just like the view from where he laid envying a string of spit linking your plumped lips to his gleaming cock.

“Ugnh!” you whimpered, closing your eyes and letting your forehead fall to his lower abdomen, a hand still absentmindedly pumping him while your body rocked to meet his fingers. You turned your head to find his eyes on you, and the mere sight caused your own to roll with pleasure, granting him a nod.

“F–feels so good,” you said breathlessly, knees spreading further almost like you wanted to rub your clit against his dark blue sheets.

“You like that?” he asked, with a boyish grin that almost didn’t belong.

You nodded rapidly, sucking in a breath. “Mmmmyes…yes…fucking love it.”

You felt your inner thighs getting wetter and that knot tightening gradually in your lower abdomen, just as your body arched into his touch and tensed, your eyes shutting forcefully as you came with a hybrid between a moan and a groan. 

Your walls fluttered around Clark’s digits as he maintained the same pace through your climax, only pulling them out when you inhaled—like you’d been underwater the whole time.

His hands massaged your skin to soothe you, easing you back down to earth, while working up the courage to tell you that you could slow down, except your lips were already reaching for his. 

Succumbing to his own needs, he pulled your body down against him—damned be the pain—and hugged you close while kissing you senseless. His hands grabbed at your hair and everywhere he could reach as you stretched across his bed, legs now limp.

“Bedside table,” he murmured mid-kisses, and immediately your hand went to it, pulling out a brand-new box of condoms that you smashed against the edge of the wood to pop it open and haphazardly pulled one out. 

You straddled his lap, only stopping the messy kissing to carefully roll on the condom, the latex stretching around his girth and marking every single vein on it. Wasting no time, you lifted your body up and lined him to your entrance, tip pushing past your folds and threatening to slip-in in one swift thrust from how wet every surface was.

You watched as his chest rose and fell, holding eye contact while slowly sinking down on his thick cock, walls accommodating his girth beyond capacity and already twitching as if his size alone was enough to make you climax. You eased down inch by inch, thighs trembling as you took him to the hilt, savoring the delicious curve of him already caressing your g-spot while the base promised exciting friction to your clit. 

Clark gasped a low, broken sound at the pressure your body subjected his to. His hands clutched your hips, guiding your descent, while his eyes lit up at the slight bulge in your stomach.

“Take it easy on me, will you?” he groaned, eyes roaming your body reverently as you lifted yourself barely an inch before dropping back down on him. You moaned, your head already falling back in pleasure before you repeated the same movement a few times. As sick as anyone might’ve thought it was, Clark couldn’t help but look deeper, using his x-ray vision to see his tip pressed flush against your cervix.

“You hear me? I said “take it easy”.”

You grinned. “Worrying about hypotheticals, Clark?”

“There’s nothing hypothetical about it, trust me.” His palms smoothed over your thighs and up your waist before cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch.

Your eyes narrowed briefly before catching onto the way he was staring at your stomach. “I feel as though my anatomical privacy is being invaded.”

His eyes snapped up to your face, slightly wide. “What? No. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... well, I did–”

“Joke, Clark. It was a joke,” you chuckled, giving a tentative roll of your hips to savor the stretch of him inside you, feeling fuller than you ever thought possible. “Fuck, you’re big,” you breathed, more to yourself than to him, then leaned forward, ghosting your lips over his as you picked up a rhythm that his hands on your hips eagerly assisted.

"Attagirl," he murmured, voice thick from a side of him you didn’t know had always belonged to you, thumbs brushing over your hips as you moved.

“Like this?” you asked, voice fading into a moan, your breath catching every time he bottomed out.

“Mhm,” he nodded, sucking in a sharp breath. “Exactly like this, beautiful.”

No more words were needed and you both knew it. Language dissolved into moans and the sharp rhythm of skin slapping against skin.

He was big, and every thrust brought that aching kind of pleasure that made your toes curl and your core clench. You arched your back, bracing your hands on his chest and rode him with growing confidence, lifting then dropping, slick and hot and impossibly connected. Your entrance stretched for him, his unforgiving thrusts scraping your walls clean of every drop of slick, only to serve as lubrication for the next. Wetness clung to your bodies, forming clear, glistening strings between you as you fucked.

Clark’s aching body was long forgotten as his sheets took the worst of it, blood and precum baptizing the bed on both ends of the human experience. Your clit pulsed from the friction, every motion sparking fire through your nerves while he groaned beneath you, wounded but desperate, watching every twitch of your hips like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He moaned proudly into your mouth, hands trembling as they kneaded your flesh, squeezing your tender breasts with care.

He knew then that he wouldn’t wait for your moans to grow louder or your pace to grow messier. His hand hovered between your legs, sliding his thumb over your swollen clit and circling in slow, precise motions that made you gasp and clench around him. His touch was reverent, worshipful and skilled, building you up until your thighs quaked with the effort of holding back.

“There you go,” you heard him murmur softly, just before your climax shattered through you. 

You came with a cry, shuddering around him as he whispered more praise that pushed you to keep going. You collapsed forward for a breath, forehead resting on his shoulder, while allowing your hips to still roll as you rode the aftershocks.

Clark stroked your back and kissed your temple, his voice ragged but still so gentle, splitting his focus between your bliss and holding himself back. “I want to make you feel good again.”

You surged up for another kiss, grinding down harder now, chasing your next peak while he looked at you like he could do this ten more times without pause. One hand gripped your hip, firmly, while the other slid up to cradle your breast again, rolling your nipple between two fingers until you were a whimpering mess.

Despite the pain, he began to thrust up to meet your rhythm, careful and still mindful of wounds that would begin healing at sunrise, but you could still feel the effort thrumming under his skin along the tension, the coiled power and the pent-up need trembling through every muscle of his.

The room became a black box of rhythm and ruin—skin colliding, masculine groans, airless moans, and high-pitched whimpers as you took each unforgiving thrust with parted lips and rolling, wet eyes.

Unsurprisingly so, your third orgasm crashed into you suddenly and far more intensely, leaving you wrung out and boneless. Your nails clawed at his skin as your body bowed and clenched. 

Clark was trembling beneath you, sweat gleaming on his brow and chest heaving as he stared at the thundering flesh of your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls like it belonged to him.

Blinking through the blur and focusing on his expression felt like seeing an entirely new man, one who sounded and looked just as mortal as you were. Which was exactly when it dawned on you that he wasn’t.

“Ughhh! Fuck, Clark! Are you–are you c-close?” you whispered, breathless.

He nodded, jaw clenched tight, trying to hold off for a few more seconds with you.

You kissed messily along his jaw, down to his throat, then sat upright, rolling your hips with abandon and meeting each thrust with grace despite the ache in your thighs and your trembling body. From this angle, it felt like he was rearranging your insides.

With a ragged cry, he finally let go, roughly pulling you down and crushing your lips to his as he spilled a heavy load inside the condom, hips jerking up into you with such force that each thrust stole the air from your lungs.

He halted with a groan, staying buried deep inside you for a few shuddering seconds before collapsing onto the mattress, your body limp and slumped over his. Your chests heaved in unison, hearts slowing in tandem, caught in those still, fragile minutes that made you question whether you had ever truly enjoyed sex before this.

One of his hands cradled the back of your head, gentle and rhythmic, while the other traced along the curve of your side so softly it almost felt imagined. You laid there unmoving, your ear over his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heart and the steady rise and fall of his breath as the sun began stretching over the horizon, casting a golden light over your glistening skin.

“So…where exactly were you planning to attach those chains?” you asked quietly, your breathing finally levelled.

It took him a few seconds to reply, his fingertips lazily tracing small, absentminded shapes along the curve of your back. “I didn’t think that far ahead,” he murmured.

You chuckled, your body shaking against his. “Liar.”

You laid there way past sunrise, trapped in your own bubble with no news from the outside world, letting yourselves believe every day could be like this. Maybe you'd work toward it, because when two orbiting bodies drift too close for too long, gravity does what it does best: pulls, tangles and devours…And eventually, combustion isn’t just inevitable... it’s the only possible ending.

----

💌: This is one of the longest pieces i've ever written and it's lead me to ask myself everyday since why tf i didn't chose to write in my own goddamn language. anyway this was great and i want dick :(

[ybklix]

young and beautiful

𐙚 pairing: lee felix x fem!reader

♡ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: The love of your life, and you begin to reflect on your future. ౨ৎ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔: fluff, suggestive smut, established relationship, idol felix implied. ⊹ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 3k

young and beautiful by lana del rey

masterlist ⭒ taglist

wen’s note: hot summer nights, mid july... 🚬 (it's art, i love lana so much and i couldnt miss the chance of another year without writing something around this song at the right timing lol, happy mid july!); it reminded me when hyunjin showed felix this song and he was falling asleep to lana's voice lol

Felix had thought it through enough. He had considered it enough, gone through enough silent crises, but now he knew—he had always known—but this time he was extremely determined. You are the love of his life.

And everyone around him, in his world and close circle, knew that he loved you intensely.

So, with his heart almost in his throat, his skin pale and his mouth dry, he invited you on this trip. He used the excuse that he wanted a vacation with you and had organized everything in secret to surprise you with the news, hoping you wouldn’t question him.

You didn’t. You knew your boyfriend was spontaneous, absent-minded, but when it came to serious things, things he truly took seriously, his expression changed completely; he smiled little and looked at you intensely as he said, “I know your schedule is free these days and we’re supposed to rest here, but since my schedule is also free... but how about going to France with me?”

That time, you examined his face, his serious expression, the way he breathed, and you thought then that it was a trick... Your mind immediately deceived you, and your chest tightened a little, thinking that he was about to tell you that he suddenly had business in France, something to cover with the luxury brand he worked for, and that his invitation was his subtle way of telling you that he would be busy but needed you with him. Just as he had done many times before, and you always adapted to him.

“France?” you replied, “Did something suddenly come up that you have to go?”

At least you were direct that time. But Felix was doing his best not to tremble with nerves right in front of you, as he really didn’t want you to suspect anything at all.

“No. Of course not. I mean, I planned a trip for the two of us.”

And those were the most wonderful days, although Felix had to admit that he was still quite nervous. How was he supposed to know what to do next? Every part of him felt like he was about to faint and lose consciousness.

You… you had no idea, you were having a great time, falling more in love with Felix with every second you spent with him, spending the first two days in Paris and, on the second day, to start the third day of your trip, he suggested you pack again, not believing what he was saying. Another spontaneous trip to another place far from the busy city, a place abundant with nature, beautiful lakes, and all the bright and beautiful things that, to Felix, made you look even more beautiful surrounded by them: flowers, natural landscapes…

He was very specific with you, telling you that he wanted you to wear that pink dress he suggested you pack from the beginning, using the sweet excuse, “Oh, I have a suit with pink details and I want us to match! We can take lots of pictures together, honey!” And then he proceeded to kiss you tenderly, so you packed it, without the slightest suspicion of his true intentions.

However, you were certainly beginning to notice some strange behavior in Felix, as if he seemed paranoid or was very attentive to his surroundings, and you thought it was because you were both taking a dangerous risk by going out in public to enjoy your time together like any normal person. But Felix wasn’t just any normal person, not in the eyes of others, not in the eyes of the public. But the thought was short-lived, because every night he was the same again, the same vulnerable Felix in your arms, the one who has to hug you to sleep well, the one who tells you every one of his jokes and waits to see your smile at every moment. He was your boyfriend again, the love of your life, whose closeness and touch made you swoon and question over and over again how it was possible that you could love someone so much? How could you feel so intensely whenever you were with him?

The two of you moved each other’s worlds in the sweetest, purest, and best way possible.

Upon arriving at the place, you were completely amazed. It was beautiful, and you couldn’t help but have a lot of questions for your boyfriend: “What? Why? Felix, what is this place? How long have you been planning this? Where did you even find it?”

“I just want this trip to be so special and unforgettable.”

You had no idea that he had been planning this beautiful trip for months—and the other and most important thing, and the real purpose of the trip—because someone like Felix couldn’t just leave the city where he worked as often as he pleased. And then, you began to appreciate his effort, and an almost inhuman burden of tenderness filled your soul. He was loving you, spoiling you… but why so suddenly? Why during the middle of a hot July summer? Why did you think your boyfriend was so attached to the idea that this particular trip together, unlike the others, would be particularly perfect?

You could see it and feel it, Felix’s determination and focus. You knew him so well. Something was up, but you couldn’t exactly point your finger at what.

But you began to suspect something when you saw how gorgeous Felix looked in that suit he didn’t show you at first, but just did a moment ago. In addition to doing everything he could to style his hair properly—since he was used to the hard work of his stylists—he asked you for a little help and also nervously asked you, with his big, bright, tender-hearted eyes, if he would look good in the photos looking like that, without makeup.

But of course, there was absolutely nothing to worry about with you. He knew you would look stunning in any photo, wearing anything. You were the most beautiful woman in his eyes, and his heart beat intensely every time he saw you wearing makeup and that dress, taking his breath away and making his mind fantasize about the sweet idea... that in the future, that emotion of his and that image of you that he was treasuring forever in his memory would transform into a warmer and more unforgettable day. A moment forever, once in a lifetime.

You laughed, thinking he was overreacting, that it would just be a couple of photos taken with your cell phones. You kissed the bridge of his nose and appreciated his freckles, telling him that he looked beautiful just the way he was.

And finally, Felix’s plan was set in motion. A romantic and unforgettable dinner, still with the light of day supporting you on what would be, for Felix, his most difficult day so far.

“It’s... very nice, Felix, really, why are you trying so hard to surprise me?”

The scenery was beautiful. A beautiful garden, surrounded by flowers, with a romantically decorated table and chairs, the table set with food, ready for you two lovers to sit down, enjoy, and chat. It was like a fairy tale.

Felix was truly overwhelmed, nervous, not even sure if he could eat a bite, but he had to act like he was fine. Until now, the most genuine of his emotions had been loving you.

“We needed this kind of date... planned, beautiful, not just on special occasions like our anniversary, Valentine’s Day, or our birthdays... I just want to spoil you,” he replied, coming closer to you, taking you by the waist, and looking at you adoringly. “I love you.”

And being with you certainly made everything easier for Felix. You never failed to impress him with how you softened his soul, if that was even possible, and if it was, you were the only one capable of that and much more... of awakening in him something so pure and overwhelming that he never wanted it to stop; the feeling was sweetly addictive. It was you. It was love.

But after finishing eating and chatting, and after drinking a little wine, he felt the pressure again; it was becoming real.

He was going to do it.

“Should we explore the place?” he said suddenly, nervous and swallowing, his Adam’s apple moving in his throat.

“Sure,” you replied, worrying slightly about him.

Felix quickly got up from his chair and took your hand. The beautiful garden impressed you, and the lovely sight of your boyfriend walking through it was simply wonderful, so between giggles, compliments, and gentle caresses, you took pictures of him, without even knowing that you were capturing a before and after for him and for both of you, a special transformation in who you were, in your relationship, and in your love.

He guided you around the place, telling you a little about how his French friend had suggested the perfect place, that he had been planning it since March to relax with you, and all the little things, telling you only the surface of the truth. Because the truth was that Felix and you had been boyfriend and girlfriend for a long time, you had gone through many ups and downs, sometimes the downs were so strong and destructive that they overshadowed the ups, but you stayed together because you loved each other and couldn’t leave each other, because you knew exactly what you were getting into when you got involved with someone like him, and you both discussed it, knowing that his life was hectic and revolved around perfection... and yet you took the risk, you tried, and you both fought for the connection you had, which is still very strong and lasting to this day.

And even though his life was seemingly perfect, for him, there was nothing better than being with you. So... he thought about it a lot, had many crises, questioned everything, because in the end, you were both still very young and he was at the peak of his career... but the feeling and thought kept him awake at night. He loved you too much, he couldn’t imagine a life without you, you had known each other for years, you had been together for years... was it the right time to take the next step?

Felix thought it over many times, spoke seriously with his sisters, his father, his mother, seeking advice, comfort, and support. He was desperate, but the only thing he was sure of was how much he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, and if that meant an official ceremony to seal your love—in front of the church, which fascinated him more than anything—alongside your closest family and friends, he would do it. He will marry you.

Even though you had already had that kind of conversation, openly and genuinely confessing that one day you would get married, live together, and spend the rest of your lives with each other. At first, it was corny, those confessions you used to make in your most vulnerable moments, when your heart seemed to rule your brain, and it stayed that way for a while. Then it became more serious, confirming that you did want to marry each other, and you talked seriously about it, that in a couple of years... when he turned past 25, when he will be maybe 27, 28, and getting married before 30 was the ideal plan for both of you; that you would love an intimate proposal, without excess, without exaggerated decoration, that it would be a unique, magical moment, just you and him. You were planning your future together, with racing hearts, shining eyes, and words full of hope.

But he couldn’t wait any longer. And he knew you couldn’t either. You were still too young, but it all just felt right. A life together with you.

Felix stopped dead in his tracks. It was the right place. In front of the pond, nature filling the air with its scent and decorating your bodies. It was the perfect shot.

“I have something very important to tell you.”

He said that, nervously. It was time. He stood in front of you, took your hands, looked at the ground, licked his lips, and looked up to stare at you. He was almost trembling.

You nodded, signaling that you were listening attentively. You admired Felix; he looked so handsome today, and you thought about how perfect this trip had been, that there was nothing more Felix than this, his romantic dates, tinged with beautiful flowers and the perfect undertones of a fairy tale. It was typical to think about taking you to Paris, to explore the place popularly known as romantic... but he was still himself, gave it his touch, he made it more magical, beautiful. You felt like a princess right now.

A few seconds of silence passed, and his serious, sparkling gaze and tense body perpetuated everything and made your world spin. Your heart began to race, and you almost trembled beside him. You couldn’t believe it was true, but you knew exactly what it was.

“You know... I love you so, so much,” he almost began to stammer, his pulse betraying him, “and...”

Felix blinked, thinking, right, this is the part where you kneel, Felix; feeling overwhelmed that he was about to give his speech standing in front of you.

You watched him do it, slowly, and your world stopped right there. You opened your eyes in surprise, and suddenly every particle in your body became so sensitive, and you felt your blood flow drop abruptly from your body. It was happening. You looked at Felix, vulnerably kneeling in front of you, struggling to form words, his eyes shining when he saw you.

“I just can’t imagine what my life would be like without you in it. I want you in it—in my life, forever. I want to grow old with you, plan every little move I make... together with you, I want to love you, take care of you until my last breath. I want you to love me like you do forever and be by my side... Y/n, please—”

Felix was about to cry, his voice trembling with a lump in his throat, letting out thoughts he had kept locked away in his mind and heart. He sometimes found it hard to cry, sometimes it was so easy, being vulnerable with you became his favorite thing. He didn’t know how to truly express himself at that moment; he even wrote a speech in the notes on his phone, prepared himself, memorized it, wrote down what he loved most about you, but he completely forgot it when he was standing there in front of you. He knew you understood.

It was a sweet speech... in which he reflected on his strict and hard life and how your arrival was the most sincere proof of love. Felix, in his world of glamour, had seen and felt it all, lived a brilliant world of luxury, experienced love in many areas—the public adoring him... but there was nothing like the different world you made him feel; absolutely nothing compared to you and your warm soul, the way you saw the world, the way you loved him.

He finally took the engagement ring box out of his pocket and showed it to you—the most beautiful and exquisite diamond—his hands trembling, on the verge of the sweetest collapse. But the ring was no more dazzling than the question and the memory that will always live in your mind until the end of your days. From the precious image of the love of your life saying:

“Will you marry me?”

You felt dizzy, then the adrenaline rushed through you. A flood of emotions all at once, only to be summed up in a happy:

“Yes! Felix, yes!”

He stood up, almost staggering from the lack of strength, but he felt a great relief as soon as you leapt at him and felt your warm arms around his body. As soon as your bodies touched and you breathed in each other’s scent, you broke down completely, sweet sobs of happiness, warm tears of love decorating each other’s cheeks.

He held you tight, holding on to that moment.

“I love you so much, Felix,” you confessed, hugging him tightly and in a weak whisper, you were so fragile and vulnerable.

Felix respected your wish. The proposal was intimate, just you, him, and the beautiful memories, and a very private photographer he hired to hide behind a bush and capture the sweetest of moments.

With the ring on your finger, your bodies trembling and your souls vulnerable, you both spent your first night as each other’s fiancés. Felix promised to spend the rest of his life with you.

And as you both got ready for bed, you couldn’t help but blurt out, still stunned by the idea of being with him, walking down the altar... growing up, starting a family, having a home...

“Are you really going to love me even when I’m old? Wow, it’s just that—I’m speechless.”

In the superficial world Felix lived in, with beauty surrounding him wherever he went... all that lost its meaning. What good was that beauty if it made him feel so lonely in his saddest moments? What good was that beauty if what he admired most about you was your soul, and he knew that you would evolve as a person—alongside him—you would grow... but you would always remain the same person he fell in love with.

That night, your bodies became one, your hands on his back with your ring brushing against his skin and naked body. You yielded to each other, whispering and panting each other’s names, writhing in pleasure and love until you fell deeply exhausted.

One of many nights of passion and intense love for the rest of your lives, in the future.

𐙚 general taglist: @rylea08 @hann1bee @iovecb97 @armystay89 @lolareadsimagines @ayyonoona @do-you-remember-summer-127 @wildtokay @korthbum @hyune-sssne @oddracha @choso4u @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @bokkiesluv @thvsuga @myrkhive

[yearninflowers]

Imagine…

You just got back home after a day of work, wanting to immediately plop down on your bed, sleeping the tiredness away—yet you were surprised by the appearance of your boyfriend in the kitchen, who was preparing a meal for you. He laughed innocently, teasing you for having even darker panda eyes as he served the hot meal on the table.

“Tough day at work again, love?” He asked while grabbing a spoon and a fork for you to use.

Phainon—your boyfriend—ushered you to sit on the chair across the table. He grinned amicably, waiting for you to take your seat and eat the meal he had prepared for you. Though a little forced and tired, you let out a heavy sigh and followed his request. 

Sitting down in the chair, you eventually looked at him from across the small table. Technically, the table was small enough for your and Phainon's legs to be touching each other. It wasn't really a table suited for two people, after all. Ignoring the way he seemed to be playful as he kept on touching your foot with his own, you grabbed the fork and stabbed it into the pancakes he had made.

“Why pancakes?” You looked up to Phainon, awaiting an answer to your question. He seemed to ponder for a moment before grinning like a little kid at you.

“You only had noodles here, so I thought making pancakes was better.”

Ah, right. You forgot you only stocked noodles in your house. Because your daily activities were mostly outside (and most of it was for work), excluding weekends, you hadn't really thought of buying any other food.

Phainon knew that and kindly made something else so you wouldn't get appendicitis after all the noodles you ate in one week. Well, two noodles a week wasn't that bad, right?

“Nu uh, I know what you're thinking. Too many noodles are bad, Y/N.”

Phainon looked a little angry. His lips had turned into a pout when you looked up again. He seemed to worry about you more than you thought.

“It's okay. I eat not-noodles at work anyway.”

He sighed at your answer. Goodness, you are just too stubborn for your own good. Couldn't you take his care far more seriously? It wasn't as if what he was talking about was all nonsense. He was really worried about you. What if you get sick enough that you have to stay at the hospital? He can't have that!

Based on the faraway look in Phainon's eyes, you knew he was in his inner worry for you. You simply just ate away the pancakes he had made, ignoring the intense gaze after he finished his inner monologue or something. After a bite or two, you noticed you had already finished all the pancakes he had made. Were you really that hungry?

Perhaps so—you thought as you stood up from the chair, carrying the plate and the utensils to the kitchen sink. You turned the faucet on, watering the plate and everything before leaving it on the sink to soften the crumbs that had hardened on the plate (or, as you liked to call it, procrastinating until someone would do it for you).

And bingo!

Phainon followed you and did the dishes for you.

“You should wash them immediately, love.” He pinched your nose before turning the water on and finishing the work you had left. “Don't procrastinate too much.”

You agreed silently in your mind and hummed as a response—you really should stop procrastinating everything before it all hits you in the head and you need to finish them all at the same time—yet Phainon, who couldn't see your expression to have a small clue of what you were thinking, thought you were just agreeing to him as if he was talking nonsense.

The moment he finished washing and drying his hands, he went to you and grabbed your shoulders, looking you straight in the eyes with an indescribable yet serious face.

“Don't just ‘hmm’ me, Y/N.”

He was pouting again.

“Yes, yes, I know. I'm just too tired right now.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. The grip on your shoulders loosened its strength, and you pushed him away slightly to get away. Phainon looked briefly surprised before following you again. You were just getting water.

Looking at the pouting Phainon beside you, the image of a big, fluffy white dog entered your mind. He really was the embodiment of a cute dog.

“Don't pout like that.” You said in between sips, watching as Phainon stopped pouting immediately after hearing your words. He let his gaze wander away from your figure and grumbled some nonsense like ‘No, I wasn't pouting’ despite the obvious act he did. Other than being an adorable puppy, he was such a big baby.

You let out a laugh, putting the cup down on the counter before cupping Phainon's face.

“Oh, Phai, you're so cute, hm?” With tired eyes, you looked at him like he was the most precious thing on earth—cooing at him with a soft tone similar to one you'd have when talking to a baby.

He groaned away at your blatant act of babying him, yet he didn't let go of the hands on his cheeks. There was no way he never liked your touches on him—it was rare for you to be so affectionate with him. These moments, while rarely happening, would mostly occur when you were tired and couldn't think straight.

Phainon suddenly went closer to your face and planted a quick kiss on your lips.

“Woah—” You muttered in surprise, briefly letting go of your boyfriend's cheeks, yet he quickly forced them back.

“Can I kiss you again?” He asked, eyeing your lips for a moment before meeting your eyes that seemed too tired to care. Phainon knew you were going to agree to this, of course, like any other time he had intruded on your house.

Your eyes narrowed down, wondering if it was alright for him to kiss you more.

“Oh, come on, love; haven't I been good not bothering you at work?”

That was right. Before you told him to not bother you during work hours, Phainon would blow up your phone with messages that were mostly filled with him telling you ‘I miss you’, ‘I love you’, ‘I want to see you’, and more. He was a tad bit overbearing in that part.

Realizing that he did send you fewer messages during work hours, you relented, nodding your head to his whimsical request.

Goodness gracious, he kept on kissing you.

First, your lips again—a little longer than before. Then, he went to your cheeks, smooching them as he deliberately made noises. It went on for a while until he went to your neck, kissing it so many times you almost didn't feel the way he lightly bit a spot.

After that, he kissed you some more on the lips, putting his tongue inside your mouth and letting a string of saliva connect as he let go. Gosh, was he that desperate? His kisses felt like a man who hadn't drunk water while walking in a desert. It wasn't as if you never let him kiss you lots, though; your work had just been a tad bit demanding this week, so you couldn't let him distract you whatsoever.

“Wish I could kiss you like this every day, Y/N.” He mumbled, letting his head rest on your shoulder and his hands on your waist after kissing you so frantically.

You ruffled his hair in response, giggling at the way he whined about you while holding your waist so tightly. He was such a big baby for you, and while you wouldn't admit it outright, you loved it when he did so. Maybe you just had something for men who yearned for you.

“Ah, right, Phainon.”

He hummed, letting you know he heard your words without moving a muscle from his position.

“How did you get in again? Didn't I take your keys?”

“Ah…”

Oh, uh.

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Could you write a story based on red riding hood? :)

Yandere “Wolf” x Reader

The market was loud, as always. Chickens squawked somewhere near the eastern gate, and a pot of stew boiled over beside the smithy’s wife, who was too busy shouting prices at passersby to notice. Woodsmoke hung thick in the air, clinging to your shawl as you picked through the day’s produce.

Your basket was half full when you felt it: a gaze. Not the fleeting sort people give in passing, not curiosity or judgment. No—this one was heavy. You didn’t need to look up to feel it settle on your shoulders.

You did anyway.

He was standing just beyond the barrel of apples. Tall. Broad. Leaning with one arm braced on the edge of a cart. He wore black, mostly—faded from travel and stained with dust—but the way he held himself said it wasn’t just for show. His hood was down, and pale hair stuck to his brow in loose, sweat-damp strands. His eyes were pale too. Not quite gray. Not quite blue. Something colder than either.

“Careful,” he said, nodding at the apple in your hand. “That one looks a bit too sweet. Might give someone ideas.”

You looked down at it. Then back at him. “It’s a fruit,” you said flatly. “I don’t think it’s giving anyone ideas.”

He grinned. “You’d be surprised, little fox.”

You turned away without answering. The basket bumped against your hip as you moved to the next vendor, ignoring the sound of boots crunching behind you.

“I saw you earlier,” he said, sidling up beside you. “Near the well. You were talking to that old woman with the herbs. Is she your grandmother?”

You didn’t answer.

“She’s got kind eyes,” he added. “You do too.”

You stopped to examine a jar of honey, pretending not to hear him. He kept pace, unbothered by the silence.

“You live nearby, then? Must be hard work, running errands like this. All alone.”

Still nothing.

“I like your shawl,” he tried next. “It suits you. Red’s a good color for you.”

You turned your head slightly. “Are you going to keep following me?”

His smile didn’t waver. “Not if you ask me nicely.”

“Fine. Stop following me.”

He chuckled, low and amused. “That wasn’t very nice.”

You started walking again, faster this time. But he was behind you before you could make it to the next stall.

“Mercenary work,” he said, gesturing to the worn sword at his hip. “That’s what I do. Nothing fancy. I don’t kill children or clergy, if that’s your concern. But I am good with my hands.”

You stopped. “That’s disgusting.”

He blinked. Then grinned again. “You misunderstand me, little fox.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why?” He tilted his head. “It suits you. Quick. Sharp-eyed. Always watching. You’re not as quiet as you think, you know.”

You stared at him. “And you’re not nearly as charming as you think.”

He laughed. A full, delighted sound, like you’d said the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard.

“You’ve got a tongue on you,” he said. “I like that.”

You turned from him again, mouth pressed into a tight line, and made your way toward the baker’s stall. The smell of warm bread rose thick in the air—brown crusted loaves and sweet knots of cinnamon on display behind a woven curtain of flies. You hoped it might put a wall between you and him. But he didn’t take the hint.

Of course he didn’t.

He followed like a shadow stitched to your heel, speaking just loud enough for you to hear over the hum of barter and bleating goats.

“I could buy you something,” he offered. “A tart, maybe. Or one of those little hand-pies. Something sweet for a sour face.”

You didn’t answer.

“A smile wouldn’t kill you,” he added after a beat, voice softening, as if coaxing a wild animal closer. “Though I’d be the first to admit, there’s something pretty about your scowl.”

You turned on your heel so fast your shawl flared. “Do you ever shut up?”

His brows lifted, mock-wounded. “I talk when I’m nervous.”

“Why would you be nervous?”

He stepped a little closer. Too close. The crowd buzzed and flowed around you, but in that moment, it was like no one else existed. Just the two of you and the thick, invisible cord of tension wound tighter than twine. His pale eyes flicked down, then slowly back up.

“Because I don’t want to say the wrong thing to the prettiest girl in the square,” he said with a smirk. “Might ruin my chances.”

Your lip curled. “You didn’t have a chance.”

He grinned, leaning in like he was about to whisper some awful secret. “You sure about that?”

That was it.

Without thinking, you reached into your basket, grabbed the nearest apple, and hurled it at him. It wasn’t a perfect throw, but it hit him square in the chest with a satisfying thud.

He froze, blinking in genuine surprise as the apple bounced off his ribs and tumbled into the dirt. A few heads turned. Somewhere, a child gasped.

You didn’t care.

“Get lost,” you snapped, loud enough to cut through the noise around you.

A few people glanced over. A merchant frowned.

But the mercenary didn’t get angry.

He smiled.

Not the cocky smirk he’d been wearing like armor all morning. This one was different. Slower. Thinner. Like a knife slipping into silk.

You hated how calm he looked. Like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

“You’ve got spirit,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “I like that too.”

You didn’t give him a chance to say more. You turned and stormed away, pushing through the crowd, willing your legs not to shake.

But you could still feel it. That awful heat on the back of your neck.

——

Three days passed.

You hadn’t seen him again, not in the market, not on the road. And though you didn’t speak of it aloud, you’d felt it. The strange, coiled sense of absence. Like a storm that had paused just past the ridge. Waiting.

You pushed the thought aside as you walked. Your basket was heavy, full of the bread and herbs your grandmother had requested. Evening crept low over the trees, the light turning from gold to rust as shadows stretched longer and longer between the trunks. The woods were quiet. A little too quiet. No birds. No wind. Not even the creak of branches. Just your boots on damp leaves, and your breathing, and that crawling sensation like something just behind you.

…

The growl came first. Low, guttural. Then the snap of twigs. You turned just in time to see a wolf lunge.

Its weight hit you like a thrown sack of stone, knocking you hard onto your back. The breath tore out of your lungs as teeth snapped inches from your face, reeking of rot and blood. You shoved your arm under its throat, keeping it at bay with both hands while it snarled and twisted, claws raking at your skirts.

Your palm lit up in panic, magic flaring gold against the beast’s ribs. It didn’t throw it back like you’d hoped. The creature jerked, yelped, but it didn’t fall. You grabbed a broken branch from the ground and shoved it between its teeth before it could clamp down again. The branch splintered, but it gave you enough time to twist, roll, and knee the creature hard in the ribs.

It yelped and pulled back. You scrambled to your feet, heart thundering. Your hands were scraped raw. Your shawl had been torn clean down one side.

Another snarl. It came again—faster this time.

You ducked. You kicked. You drove your elbow into the side of its neck. The wolf crashed into a tree and staggered.

You raised your hand again, palm glowing faintly, hoping—praying—that something, anything, would spark strong enough to knock it out.

But the magic fizzled, drained and useless, like striking flint in the rain.

A second growl came from behind.

You turned slowly.

Another wolf. Black-furred, low to the ground, teeth slick. This one was smarter. It didn’t rush.

You were cornered. Your breath hitched. You stepped back toward the tree, pulse thrumming in your ears.

And then—just as the second wolf began to stalk forward—

Steel flashed.
Flesh split.
A roar not from an animal but from a man.

The mercenary collided with the first wolf like a thunderclap—his blade arcing low, catching the beast along the ribs. Blood sprayed. The wolf howled and staggered, but it didn’t drop.

He didn’t hesitate. He followed it, fast and brutal, boots pounding the earth as he brought the blade down again. The second swing sank deep into the creature’s shoulder, cutting through fur and muscle with a wet crunch. It screamed and bucked wildly, knocking him off balance, and in that moment the other wolf sprang.

You screamed. He turned just in time to take the brunt of it—teeth sinking into his forearm as he raised it to block. Blood poured freely down his sleeve.

Still, he held.

With a growl of pain, he slammed his fist into the wolf’s muzzle, staggering it just enough to wrench his arm free and shove the beast back. He was bleeding badly now. You saw it. The wound was deep, jagged.

The first wolf had recovered. It circled again. Two predators, flanking. They weren’t wild—they were coordinated. Intelligent.

You had to move.

You darted in without thinking. Heart hammering. You grabbed a fallen branch from the underbrush—a thick one, splintered at the tip—and rammed it straight into the first wolf’s side as it lunged toward him again.

It shrieked, twisting midair, your makeshift spear dragging a line of blood along its ribs. It didn’t fall, but it hesitated. And that was enough. The mercenary lunged forward, driving his blade clean into its neck. Blood sprayed hot across your skirts. The wolf collapsed, spasming once before going still.

The second wolf growled low. It lunged itself towards you.

You threw yourself forward, hands glowing faintly with the last shimmer of your magic. You slammed your palm against its snout, and the flash of energy surged into its skull like a jolt of white fire. The creature reeled, yelping, momentarily dazed.

The mercenary didn’t waste it. He grabbed its throat with both hands, twisting hard, and slammed it down onto a jagged rock. There was a crunch. A cry. And then silence.

You were both panting. You staggered back against a tree, trembling.

The mercenary straightened slowly, covered in gore. His face was pale, sweat slicking his brow. His arm was bleeding freely, soaking through his coat, and there was a ragged wound across his ribs.

But he was alive. So were you.

He wiped the blade off on his sleeve and looked down at the broken bodies. Then at you.

His voice was hoarse. Rough.

“That wasn’t just a wolf.”

You blinked. “What…?”

He nudged the corpse of the second one with his boot. Its eyes were still open—too many teeth in its mouth, too much muscle beneath the fur. Its limbs were too long. Not natural.

“Monster-wolves,” he said. “Some call them duskbeasts. Wolves who were born of magic. They had probably been tracking you for miles.”

He looked up at you, gaze steady despite the exhaustion bleeding through his limbs.

You stared at the carcasses, heart still thudding in your throat. The wolves—the duskbeasts—lay twisted and broken in the fading light, their bodies too large, too wrong. Joints bent at unnatural angles, mouths stretched too wide, fangs still bared in death. You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“I mean, it makes sense.” His voice was strained, but still tried for smugness. “You're a little irresistible, little fox. Even to monsters.”

You turned to look at him. He was limping slightly, favoring his left side, blood dripping steadily from his arm and soaking through the black of his coat. And yet somehow—somehow—he still managed to smirk at you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“And you’re welcome.” He winced as he walked, though he tried to mask it. “Wouldn’t have lasted another minute without me. Admit it.”

You stepped toward him and reached for the torn fabric near his ribs. He flinched slightly but didn’t stop you.

“I would’ve lasted fine without you,” you said, and jabbed your fingers firmly into the deepest part of the wound.

He let out a sharp gasp through his teeth and immediately folded forward with a groan.

“Gods—! What was that for?”

“Just checking how fine you’re doing.”

“Cruel little thing.” He gritted his teeth, swaying slightly as he glared at you. “And here I came to rescue you.”

“You also stalked me through the market and called me little fox five too many times.”

“Six, actually.”

You rolled your eyes.

But he was turning pale, and the cocky lilt in his voice had begun to fray at the edges.

“We need to get you off your feet.”

“Oh? That sounds—”

“Say another word and I’ll jab your ribs again.”

He shut up.

—-

You half-dragged, half-guided him through the woods until the trees gave way to your grandmother’s farm. Smoke curled from the chimney, but you steered him away from the house and toward the stables, where the air smelled of hay and horses, and no one would ask questions.

He collapsed onto a low bench near the far stall, back slumping against the post, blood dripping down his side in slow rivulets.

“Stay still,” you said, already digging through the old healing pouch you kept hidden in the tack box. The salves were weak, the herbs cheap but your magic was returning, slowly, like warmth seeping back into your limbs after frost.

You knelt before him, fingers steady as you peeled away the shredded fabric of his coat. The wound along his ribs was ugly. Deep, angry, red.

“This is going to sting.”

“I like pain,” he muttered. “Makes me—“

You jabbed your thumb into the edge of the gash again.

“Ow!” He hissed. “I take it back. I take it all back.”

“Good.”

You pressed your hand flat over the wound, and light spilled from your palm. Golden, warm, and slow-moving. The bleeding eased almost immediately. The edges of the torn flesh began to knit beneath your touch, muscle rejoining muscle, skin pulling together again.

He watched you the entire time.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just watched, with that pale, patient intensity like he was memorizing the shape of your hand. The furrow of your brow. The sound of your breathing.

The silence stretched.

And just when the magic began to fade, he said, quietly, “You really weren’t going to leave me behind.”

You didn’t look at him.

“No.”

“I like that about you,” he murmured. “Even if you hate me.”

“I do hate you,” you said, smoothing the last edge of bandage over his arm.

He smiled faintly.

“You say that,” he said, voice low, “but you’re still touching me.”

You stood up so fast he nearly fell off the bench.

“Don’t push it.”

He lifted his hands in surrender, though his smirk had returned in full.

“I’m just saying. You’re a very caring little fox.”

You reached for your basket, ready to hurl another apple at his face.

“Try me.”

Your fingers had just closed around the basket's handle when his hand shot out and caught your wrist.

“Hey—”

He tugged, and before you could plant your feet, you stumbled forward. The bench creaked beneath both your weights as you landed—half on it, half on him, knees bumping his and palm braced on the wood beside his thigh.

“Gods,” you muttered, “what are you—”

“I need to check you,” he said, already reaching for the edge of your shawl. “You were thrown to the ground. Bitten at. Scratched. You might be bleeding and not even feel it yet.”

You slapped his hand away. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Oh, really?” He arched a brow, fingers brushing your shoulder again. “Then what’s this?”

“That’s fabric, and I swear—”

But he was already lifting the shawl, pulling it aside like he had any right, gaze scanning your collarbone, your upper arm, the line of your shoulder. His hand was warm, calloused, and annoyingly gentle.

Your face burned hot. “Stop.”

“Just one sec. If there’s a bite I missed, it could go bad.”

“There’s no bite!”

He reached for the tie of your blouse.

And that was it.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked.

Hard.

“Agh—! Ow—gods—!” he wheezed, twisting away as your fingers tangled in the sweat-damp strands near the base of his skull. “Mercy, woman!”

You didn’t let go. “Still feel like checking me now?”

He was laughing before he even got the words out. “Alright—alright—it was a joke!”

You stared at him.

“You were blushing,” he wheezed, grinning up at you like a boy caught with both hands in the pantry. “I couldn’t resist.”

“You nearly got punched in the ribs again.”

“Worth it.”

You shoved him back against the post, not hard enough to reopen the wound, but enough to rattle him. His smirk didn’t falter—if anything, it deepened.

“I liked the hair-pull,” he said. “Very commanding. Should’ve known you were the grabby type.”

You let go of him fast.

“Sleep outside,” you said, brushing off your skirts. “With the horses.”

He tilted his head back against the beam, watching you through narrowed eyes, still smiling.

“Can’t,” he said. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I might be.”

“Then go die quietly. Somewhere far away.”

He slouched down, sighing dramatically. “So cruel. You mend me with magic just to break my heart.”

—-

The next morning, the sun had barely crested the treetops when you slipped into the barn again. It was cooler inside—dust motes floating in the early light, the air thick with the scent of hay, old wood, and horses that hadn’t yet stirred.

You hadn’t brought much. Just a crust of bread, a bit of cheese, and a jar of quince jam your grandmother had insisted on giving him. She didn’t ask who he was. Only raised an eyebrow when you came in with blood on your skirts and left again with clean bandages and a muttered excuse about a “traveler who got into a scrap.”

You found him right where you’d left him—half-sprawled on the bench, coat slung over a post, boots kicked off, hair a mess.

He was asleep.

Or pretending to be.

You approached quietly, footsteps soft in the straw. The basket creaked as you set it down. At the sound, he stirred, one pale eye sliding open beneath a tousled strand of hair.

“You didn’t die,” you said.

He blinked slowly, voice rough with sleep. “Not yet.”

“Shame.”

He groaned as he sat up, one hand pressed to his side. “You say the cruelest things first thing in the morning.”

“I brought food.”

“I take it back.”

You handed him the bread and jam. He studied it like it might explode. Then: “Is this a peace offering?”

“No. It’s breakfast.”

“Still sounds like a peace offering.”

“Eat it before I change my mind.”

He gave you a long, unreadable look then took the bread with a half-smile and broke it in two, handing you back a piece.

You didn’t take it.

“I made it for you.”

He raised a brow. “You made bread?”

“Poorly.”

He bit into it anyway. “Still the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in months.”

You sat down a few feet away on an overturned bucket, watching him pick crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

His movements were slower today. Careful. His side was clearly bothering him, though he tried not to show it.

“How’s the wound?”

He glanced down at it. “Clean. Mostly. Still hurts like hell.”

“You’ll live.”

“Again, debatable.” He leaned back against the post, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “I had a nightmare you tried to stab me with a spoon.”

“Sounds like a dream.”

He cracked an eye. “Cruel.”

You crossed your arms, studying the hay-strewn floor.

A moment passed.

Then, softly, “You’re really not going to ask who I am?”

You looked at him. “I assumed you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

That seemed to surprise him more than any accusation would have. He stared at you for a beat, the usual arrogance stripped from his face.

“I’ve got names,” he said eventually, voice low. “Too many, depending on the town. But you can call me Kesh.”

“Kesh.”

“Short for something unpronounceable,” he added, biting into the bread again. “Or possibly made up. Hard to say.”

You waited.

“And you?” he asked. “What do they call you, little fox?”

You hesitated.

His tone had softened. Not mocking, not prying. Just curious. And in that stillness, with the smell of hay and bread between you, it felt almost safe to answer.

So you did.

Quietly. Simply. Just the name you’d carried since birth, like any other burden.

Kesh blinked, then tilted his head slightly, as if turning the sound of it over in his mind. His lips quirked at the corners.

“I like mine better,” he said.

You frowned. “Your…?”

He gave a faint shrug, the movement slow to avoid tugging at his ribs. “Little fox. It suits you. You’re quick on your feet, bite when cornered, and keep looking at me like you’re wondering if I’ll steal your chickens.”

“I am wondering.”

“I don’t even like chickens.”

You scoffed. “You don’t like anything that behaves better than you.”

He grinned, unabashed. “Exactly.”

You stood. “You can call me by my name.”

“I could,” he said, “but then you might forget how much it annoys you when I don’t.”

You stared at him. He gave you that same look from the day before—the one that cut straight through the humor, the wounds, the mess of it all.

A pause stretched between you.

Then, softer this time, like a secret:
“I’ll say it when it matters.”

You didn’t quite know what to make of that.

But you turned to leave without arguing, hand on the barn door, the morning breeze sneaking in through the slats.

Behind you, Kesh muttered through a mouthful of cheese, “Besides…the way you say Kesh, it kind of sounds like you like me.”

You didn’t respond.

You just let the door swing shut on whatever grin he was wearing.

—-

Kesh stayed for five months.
Not because he asked. Not because you offered.
He just…didn’t leave.

And somehow, the days folded in around him.

—-

Week One:
You found him asleep in the hayloft, a pitchfork clutched like a sword across his chest. When you called his name, he opened one eye and said, “You're sweet when you're worried,” before you could deny it.

You nearly threw the bucket of water you were holding.

Later, you brought him a fresh bandage and told him he smelled like barn cat.

—-

Week Two:
He helped you chop wood.

Well—helped might be generous. You did most of the chopping. He leaned against a stump and gave commentary.

“You’ve got murderous form,” he said, dodging a stray splinter. “Marry me.”

You missed the log entirely and told him to shut up.
He laughed so hard he winced and nearly opened his stitches again.

Afterward, you smeared salve on his wounds.

—

Week Three:
You taught him how to braid twine into rope.

He got it wrong three times, cursed every loop, and tied his own sleeve to the rafter.
You nearly fell off your stool laughing.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, struggling to untangle himself.

“Not enough,” you replied.

But when you took his hand to guide the next knot, your fingers brushed, and neither of you pulled away.

—-

Week Four:
You caught him feeding your grandmother’s half-blind goat a tart from the pantry. She was supposed to be fasting for bloat.

You smacked the tart out of his hand and told him he’d killed her.

She lived. Thrived, actually. She followed him around all afternoon like a lovesick puppy.

He called it destiny.
You called it suspicious.

—

One Month In:
Your grandmother asked him to bring in kindling.

He came back with an entire broken tree branch and three pinecones. Proud.

She looked at the mess, then at him.
“You could’ve gotten away with this if you were at least pretty,” she said.
Kesh looked insulted.
“I’m devastatingly handsome,” he corrected.

She snorted and tossed him a knife.
“Make yourself useful, then.”

He did.

You found them later at the table, peeling apples. She was telling him a story you hadn’t heard in years, smiling.

—

Two Months In:
Rain.

Kesh stayed in the barn, listening to the storm through the rafters while you sat beside him with mending in your lap.
You didn’t speak for an hour. Just the click of your needle and the soft drum of water on the roof.

Then, without looking up, he said,
“You make this place feel less like the end of the world.”

You nearly pricked your thumb.

When you looked over, he was watching the rain.
Like he hadn’t said anything at all.

—

Three Months In:
You found your grandmother muttering in the kitchen.

“I told him to get thyme,” she said, pulling open a drawer. “He came back with a rock. A rock, child. And berries I didn’t ask for.”

You raised a brow. “Where is he now?”

“In the garden,” she said, exasperated. “Asking the scarecrow if it likes jam.”

You stepped outside, and sure enough—there he was.
Jarring jam for a scarecrow.
You didn’t ask.

You just helped him clean the lids.

—

Four Months In:
There was a harvest fair in town. You didn’t want to go, but your grandmother made you.

Kesh went with you.
You bought cinnamon bread and apples.
He won a knife-throwing contest.

That night, you both sat under the porch roof.
He leaned his head back and said, “I’m not good at staying. But this…it’s hard to leave.”

You didn’t answer.
But your hand was close to his on the bench.
You didn’t move it.

—

Five Months In:
You found him at the edge of the woods, eyes fixed on the trees.
The morning was cold. Mist low and clinging.
He looked different—still, somehow. Like a coin balanced on its edge.

“I’ll go soon,” he said, without turning.

You didn’t answer right away. Then,

“Why.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t make it harder,” he said.

You didn’t ask what it was.
You didn’t have to.

You just stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and watched the mist drift through the trees.

—-

Kesh left the next morning.
No note. No goodbye. Just the faint smell of smoke in the barn rafters and the imprint of his weight still pressed into the bench.

You found the twine rope you’d made together, looped neatly and left on the hook beside the stall. The knots were crooked. You didn’t untie them.

—-

Autumn came. Then winter.
The frost crept in slow. First at the corners of windows, then the edges of fields. The leaves turned, then fell, and still—you didn’t hear from him.

Your grandmother asked once. Just once.

“Is that traveler coming back?”

You’d been kneading dough. You didn’t look up. “He wasn’t staying.”

She didn’t press. Only nodded and went back to her knitting. But after that, she always set aside an extra slice of bread when she packed your basket for the barn.

You didn’t mention it.

—-

The days grew short.
Chores filled the quiet. Wood to stack. Stock to feed. A new fence to fix when the goats got too bold. You’d never minded solitude. Not really. But now it sat different, like a room that used to hold music.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, you caught yourself listening for footsteps that weren’t there. That particular rhythm—lazy, and uneven. But there was nothing. Just you and the frost.

And the rope on its hook.

—-

In town, you heard stories.

Monster-wolves, again. A whole den burned in the northeast hills. A caravan attacked at dusk. The survivors said someone had come out of the trees to stop it—just one man, cloaked in black, moving like a storm with a sword.

No one knew his name.

You said nothing.

But that night, you stayed out by the barn a little longer than usual. Let the cold bite into your fingers. Looked toward the woods until your eyes watered.

—-

Spring came late.
The thaw was slow. Mud clung to your boots for weeks. The goats molted horribly. The apple trees budded unevenly.

You started sleeping poorly. Dreams full of teeth and smoke and voices that sounded like his, only never quite said your name.

Until one did.

—-

It was barely dawn.
Mist clung low to the field when the knock came. Three short raps on the side of the house. Not the front door. The side—the barn-facing one.

Your hands moved before your head caught up. Shawl thrown around your shoulders, boots half-tied, you stepped out into the chill and saw—

Him.

Kesh stood at the edge of the porch, one arm braced against the post. His coat was darker now, mended in places, torn in others. He looked tired. Thinner. But still him.

Still Kesh.

His smirk flickered into place the moment your eyes met.

“Hey, little fox.”

He waited.

Waited for you to say something sharp. Or throw something. Or look away.

You didn’t.

You just crossed the few steps to him, grabbed the collar of his coat and hit him once in the chest with your fist.

Then, voice hoarse:

“You’re late.”

He blinked. Then smiled—soft this time. Small and sure, like he’d been carrying it all this time, just for this.

“I got lost.”

“Liar.”

“I missed you.”

That one landed. You hated how easily it cracked something open in your chest.

You didn’t speak again.

You just stepped into him, arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his shoulder. And for once—for once—he didn’t make a joke.

He just held you.

You didn’t know how long you stood there. Long enough for your fingers to go numb against the worn leather of his coat. Long enough to realize his arms had tightened slightly around you, just enough to be sure he wouldn’t disappear if you blinked.

Eventually, you pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to see his face again.

And now that he was this close, really here—you had questions. Dozens of them, crawling up your throat faster than you could speak them.

“Where were you?”
“Are you hurt?”
“What happened?”
“Why didn’t you write?”
“Was it really you they saw near the hills?”
“Did you find more of those monsters?”
“Why now?”
“Why here?”

You stopped short of asking the last one aloud. But Kesh must’ve seen it in your eyes.

He smiled, soft and unapologetic, the corners of his mouth tugging upward like he’d expected the flood. Maybe even missed it.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, voice low. “I’ll tell you everything. Happily. Over tea. Inside. Where there’s a roof. And food.”

You stared at him.

Then stepped back fully, arms folding over your chest. “You think you deserve tea?”

“I always deserve tea.”

“You smell like you haven’t bathed in weeks.”

“I definitely haven’t.”

You sighed and turned toward the house. “Come on, then.”

Kesh followed like he’d never left. Same easy steps, same little limp, same smugness barely reined in behind every word.

But he didn’t speak again. Not right away.

He just looked around. At the porch. The field. The garden fence you’d mended. The goat grazing peacefully by the shed—his goat, technically, if affection meant anything.

And then he looked at you.

Like he’d remembered something, and now he was seeing it again for the first time.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

So you pushed open the door.

Inside, the kettle was already on. You’d lit it earlier, just for the chill, not expecting anything. The fire was crackling low. A pair of boots were drying near the hearth.

Your grandmother was sitting at the table, peeling root vegetables into a chipped bowl.

She looked up when the door opened.

Saw you first.

Then him.

A beat of silence passed.

Then, without missing a stroke of the knife, she said, “Well. Look what the goat dragged back.”

Kesh blinked. “You mean cat, surely.”

“She’s too clean,” your grandmother replied, nodding toward the goat out the window. “That one eats mice. Keeps her fur tidy. You, on the other hand…”

Kesh looked personally wounded.

Your grandmother rose from her chair and stepped closer, wiping her hands on her apron. Then she stood in front of him, arms folded, giving him a long, sharp once-over.

He stood still.

She reached out suddenly, brushing her fingers across his cheek.

Then she clucked her tongue. “Thinner than last time. And still ugly.”

Kesh looked delighted. “Missed you too, old woman.”

“Mm.” She turned to you. “Feed him before he talks himself faint.”

You rolled your eyes, already moving toward the cupboard. “He talks himself faint on purpose.”

Behind you, Kesh groaned as he settled into the nearest chair with the grace of a dropped sack of flour. “That’s slander. I only ever faint when it gets me something.”

“Like pity,” you muttered.

“Or a slice of bread.” He grinned, folding his arms behind his head. “Speaking of, if you had any of that quince jam left from before I was brutally exiled—”

“You left, you idiot,” you said, placing a bowl of stew and a heel of bread in front of him with more force than necessary.

“Semantics,” he said through a mouthful of bread. “I left to make you miss me.”

“She didn’t,” your grandmother said from her seat by the hearth, stirring her tea.

“I felt it, though,” he said, pointing a spoon at her. “Every day. The crushing weight of your mutual longing.”

You nearly smacked him with a wooden ladle.

He chewed dramatically for a few more seconds, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. “You’ll be pleased to know, however, that while you were pining, I was doing heroic things.”

You snorted. “Sleeping in ditches and starting bar fights?”

“And saving entire villages, thank you.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve—ignoring your grimace—and leaned in slightly. “You remember those beasts? The ones from the woods?”

Your hand froze on the ladle.

“Wolves?” your grandmother said, frowning slightly.

“Not wolves,” Kesh said. “Not really. The ones that attacked her weren’t the only ones sniffing around. I heard whispers, saw tracks. Something had stirred them up. Made them bold.”

You said nothing. Just watched him.

“So I followed them,” he went on, quieter now. “Weeks of it. Trail after trail. Whole nests of them—dozens. Buried deep in the hills. Blood-magic in the dirt. Something old and wrong.” He glanced at you. “Whatever they were after before…they’re not after it anymore. I killed them all.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Your grandmother broke the silence first, as she always did. “You brought that stench into my house just to brag?”

“I brought it to warn you,” Kesh said with a grin. “Then I remembered how much I missed being insulted before breakfast.”

You pushed his bowl toward him more firmly. “Eat.”

“Yes, general.” He took another bite, then added around it, “I kept a tally, you know.”

“A tally?”

“One scratch for every wolf I put down. Want to see?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You kept a murder log.”

He tugged his coat open and pulled his undershirt down at the collar, revealing the slope of his shoulder. Just near the collarbone—barely visible under smudged skin—were a series of faint carved lines. Sharp. Careful.

You reached forward before you thought better of it, brushing your thumb over the edge of one.

“How many?” you asked quietly.

“Too many.”

Kesh leaned back again, eyes half-lidded. “I’m thinking of getting one more. A tally for how many times you’ve looked at me like that.”

“Like what?” you snapped, pulling your hand back.

“Like I’m not all bad,” he said. “Like you might’ve missed me too.”

You opened your mouth—but your grandmother clattered her teacup down with a sigh.

“You two are exhausting,” she muttered. “Finish your food before it goes cold. And if either of you start flirting in front of me again, I’ll hex you both bald.”

Kesh looked thrilled.

“See? This is the real reason I came back.”

You rolled your eyes again—but this time, you were smiling. Just a little.

—-

The house had long since gone quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled deep into the walls—warm fire embers gone to ash, your grandmother snoring faintly behind the bedroom door, and outside, nothing but crickets and the creak of tree limbs in the wind.

But you weren’t asleep.

And neither was he.

You found him out in the barn again, sitting on the same bench as the first night you’d patched him up. No lantern, no boots. Just moonlight through the slats and the low rustle of hay as you pushed the door open.

He didn’t look up.

You stepped inside anyway, shawl around your shoulders, the cold biting at your ankles.

He let you come to him. Let you sit beside him without a word. The silence between you was familiar now—not empty, not strained. Just full of things unsaid.

For a while, it stayed that way.

Then—

“I didn’t kill them to be a hero.”

His voice was quiet. Rough at the edges. You glanced at him.

His elbows were on his knees, hands clasped, jaw set hard. No grin. No smugness. Just his face in profile, sharp with moonlight and something unreadable in his eyes.

“I didn’t do it for glory. Or coin. Or heroics. I followed those things across three counties. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat right. I picked fights with anything that smelled like them.”

You waited.

“They don’t feel pain,” he said. “Not like animals do. But I wanted them to. I needed them to. Because when I saw one of them throw you down, when I saw you bleeding—” He broke off. “There was a moment I thought I’d gotten there too late.”

Your breath caught.

“And I’ve been too late before,” he murmured. “Too many times.”

You watched his throat move as he swallowed hard.

“So I hunted every last one I could find. I made it slow. I made it hurt. Because I wanted them to know what it meant to touch you. To try to take you from this world.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

The kind of look that doesn’t ask for forgiveness, or praise—just understanding.

And maybe, somewhere beneath it, fear.

“I don’t know what that makes me,” he said. “But that’s why I did it.”

You sat very still.

The air between you had changed—thicker now, like the moonlight had weight, like the shadows were leaning in to listen. His hands were still clasped, knuckles pale. He didn’t glance away. Didn’t try to charm his way past what he’d just said.

And maybe that was what made it feel so heavy. So real. You studied him a moment longer. The quiet in your chest wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even shock.

It was a question.

So you asked it.

Soft. Careful.

“If I asked you to do something like that again…to anyone. Anything. Would you?”

His expression didn’t change at first.

Then slowly—very slowly—he sat back against the barn wall, his jaw shifting as if weighing the shape of your words. His eyes dropped to the floor, then back to you.

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” you said quickly. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

His gaze flicked to yours.

“You want to know how far I’d go.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “If it was you asking?” he said. “Yes.”

Your heart thudded. Once.

He wasn’t done.

“If you looked me in the eye and said someone deserved pain—I wouldn’t even ask why. I’d just do it.”

There was no heat in his tone. No smugness. Just plain fact, as steady and unflinching as the blade at his hip.

Then his voice dropped lower.

“I wanted to hurt anyone who looked at you.”

You turned to him slowly, but he didn’t look back. His jaw was tight again, eyes on the floorboards like they were safer than your face.

“Every time I saw someone stare at you too long—at the market, at the road, even in town—I imagined snapping their fingers one by one. Just to see how fast they'd stop.”

A pause.

“I didn’t, obviously,” he added with a bitter sort of smirk. “Congratulations to them.”

You said nothing.

Because he wasn’t joking. Not really.

Kesh didn’t say things to shock. Not like this. He said them because they were already boiling too close to the surface. Because saying it aloud was the only way to loosen his grip on it.

“I’m not proud of it,” he said, quieter now. “Didn’t come here planning to turn feral in your barn. But something about this place—about you—it gets under my skin.”

He rubbed at the corner of his mouth like he could wipe the words away. But they stayed there, heavy between you.

“I’ve been around too much,” he went on. “Seen too much. Most days I don’t give a damn about anyone but myself. I thought that was smart. Safer. But then you—”

He cut himself off.

You watched the shadows pool beneath his lashes, the strain in his shoulders, the half-curled fist in his lap.

Then, finally—softly—

“Kesh.”

He looked up.

You didn’t think. Didn’t plan.

You just leaned in.

And kissed him.

His breath hitched against your mouth—surprised, almost startled—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he moved closer. His hand slid up instinctively, fingers threading through your hair, the other curling around your waist. He kissed like he fought—with intensity, with purpose. No half-measures. No hesitation. The kind of kiss that spoke of everything he didn’t know how to say aloud. Fierce. Focused. Messy. You felt it in your spine.

His mouth grazed yours, deepening, tilting with yours like you were made to move this way, like this was inevitable. His fingers slid to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, until your knees bumped his and you braced yourself on his thigh.

That’s when his hand—the other hand—slid a little too low.

You broke the kiss with a sharp gasp and smacked him across the chest.

He froze.

Then—

“Ow,” he wheezed, grinning like an idiot. “That’s not fair.”

You scowled, cheeks burning. “Hands where I can see them.”

“I got excited,” he said, all wounded pride and zero remorse. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

“It was great.”

You shoved him, and he caught himself on the edge of the bench, laughter low and breathless in the dark.

“I’m going to regret that, aren’t I?” you muttered.

He looked up at you through a tousled strand of hair, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“Only if you don’t do it again.”

You groaned and pressed your lips to his.

“Idiot.”

Masterlist

[shangchiswife]

lex luthor- all mine

summary: lex luthor becomes dangerously obsessed with a girl who makes him feel something he can’t control.

lex luthor x fem!reader

warnings: smut

word count: 4016

....

Lex Luthor was transfixed.

The conversation at the dinner table had long since dissolved into static, every word spoken by his colleagues muted beneath the sound of your laughter. 

You sat just across the room with your head thrown back, eyes bright, and lips parted in a smile that knocked the breath out of his chest.

You looked like sunlight in a place that had never known warmth.

“Mr. Luthor?”

Lex blinked, yanked back into the present. The entire table was staring at him now, forks paused midair, eyes expectant.

“What?” he snapped, more harshly than intended.

The man beside him flinched, looking like a chastised child. “We just wanted to know your opinion on the merger,” he said quietly.

Lex didn’t wait for him to finish. He pushed his chair back with a loud scrape, the legs dragging across the polished wooden floor. The sound was jarring enough to turn heads, including yours.

You looked up, eyes meeting his for the first time that evening. 

You offered him a warm smile that sent shivers down his spine.

“I have to go,” he muttered. “There’s something that needs my attention.”

He didn’t look at anyone else. His eyes stayed on you, even as he stepped away from the table, ignoring the confused murmurs behind him.

You returned to your conversation, unaware of the chaos you had just created in the mind of one of the most dangerous men alive. 

You laughed again, animated and carefree, and it echoed in Lex’s ears like a song he couldn’t stop hearing.

He didn’t just want you.

He needed you.

And Lex Luthor always got what he needed.

That night, as the city glowed below, Lex Luthor sat in his penthouse scanning everything about you, your name, your routines, even the coffee shop you stopped at every morning on 8th and Alder.

He told himself it wasn't an obsession, it was just preparation. Information. He always did his homework.

By morning, he had crafted the perfect plan. Subtle, unassuming, harmless enough. A simple walk, a coincidental encounter, just enough to get you to speak to him. Then, he would handle the rest.

So that’s what he did. He dressed down, in a tailored coat with no tie, trading his usual intimidating presence for something warmer, more approachable. He timed it perfectly, arriving just ahead of you, waiting near the flower stall across from your favorite coffee shop.

As you turned the corner, earbuds in, coffee in hand, he began to walk. At just the right moment, he glanced at a passing car and took a deliberately clumsy step sideways, right into you.

Your coffee jostled but didn’t spill, thanks to his quick reflexes as he reached out to steady you.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly, eyes widening with manufactured surprise.

You blinked up at him, your hand still on your coffee cup, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“I know you,” you said after a second. “You were at the restaurant last night.”

Lex offered a faint, sheepish smile. “I was. Small world.”

“No, I mean… I know who you are,” you added, studying him now. “You’re Lex Luthor.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head. “Guilty.”

There was a flicker of something unreadable in your expression, curiosity, maybe a hint of amusement.

“Well,” you said, pulling one earbud out, “you’re a lot more charming in person than I expected.”

Lex smiled, something genuine this time. “Then I suppose I’m off to a good start.”

You took a slow sip of your coffee, still studying him, not quite smiling but clearly intrigued. “So, Mr. Luthor,” you said, voice cool but playful, “do you always take morning strolls along this exact route, or was that just fate giving you an opening?”

Lex didn’t laugh. He simply tilted his head, eyes sharp behind the charm he wore like a tailored suit. “I don’t believe in fate,” he said. “Only opportunity.”

You arched a brow. “Right. And I just happened to be an opportunity?”

He smiled, and there was something dangerous about it. Calm, measured, almost too perfect. “More like a disruption,” he said. “I don’t get distracted easily. You managed it twice.”

There it was, that cold clarity beneath the warmth, the precision of a man who calculated every word before it left his mouth.

“Well, I guess I should be flattered,” you said, shifting slightly, your curiosity piqued now. “Not every day I get knocked into by a billionaire in the middle of my coffee run.”

Lex’s eyes never left yours. “You should be.”

You let out a quiet breath of amusement, unsure if you were unnerved or intrigued. Maybe both. “You’re not exactly subtle, are you?”

“I find subtlety wastes time,” he replied, his tone still smooth but with a razor-thin edge. “And I don’t like wasting time.”

You weren’t sure if he was flirting or threatening. Maybe, again, it was both.

Still, you held his gaze. “Well, Lex Luthor,” you said, deliberately using his full name, “if this was your idea of an introduction, it certainly worked.”

“I was counting on that,” he said simply.

You studied him for a second longer, then pulled one earbud out. “Then maybe I’ll see you again tomorrow. Same time. Same coffee shop.”

Lex nodded once. Not a smile, not a bow, just a quiet acknowledgement, like a man sealing a deal. “I’ll be there.”

You turned and walked off, the weight of his stare lingering between your shoulder blades. He didn’t move, didn’t call after you, didn’t try to follow.

He didn’t need to.

In his mind, the board was already set. He had studied every piece, every move, every outcome.

And now, Lex Luthor had made his first move.

….

The next day, as promised, Lex was there. He stood just outside your favorite coffee shop, his posture relaxed, his coat neatly pressed, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t the kind of man who waited around for anyone, but somehow, waiting for you didn’t feel like a waste of time. It felt like progress.

He saw you approach, earbuds in, a soft breeze catching the edge of your coat. When your eyes met his, you smiled, warm and effortless, and for a moment something in him went quiet.

“Morning,” you said, your voice easy and warm. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“I said I would,” Lex replied, his tone even, though beneath the surface everything was shifting. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

You gave a small laugh, brushing your hair off your shoulder. “I’m starting to see that.”

You fell into step beside him, the conversation picking up like it had never left off. You told him about your morning, how your alarm hadn’t gone off, how you nearly tripped over your neighbor’s cat on your way out, how you had dreamed about a staircase that never ended and woke up laughing. You joked about the awful construction noise outside your building and how you were convinced the workers were intentionally targeting your sleep schedule.

Lex listened, every detail sinking in like a thread stitching him deeper into whatever this was becoming. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It was fixation. The way your voice rose and fell, the way your hands moved when you talked, the way you glanced at him so openly—it pulled him in with every step.

He didn’t want to study you. He wanted to know you. He wanted to be the reason you were late to work, the one you thought of when you smiled at your phone, the person whose absence left you restless.

“You know,” you said as you reached the corner, slowing your pace, “you’re not what I expected.”

Lex turned to you, his gaze steady. “What did you expect?”

You gave a small shrug. “Someone colder. Harsher. Less… human.”

He smiled, not wide, but enough. “Then I’m either better at pretending than I thought, or you’re worse at judging character than you’d like to admit.”

You let out a soft laugh, your eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe a bit of both.”

“I can work with that,” Lex said.

As you crossed the street beside him, your pace slowed, the sound of the city humming around you. Lex stayed close, every movement precise, his attention fixed on you like nothing else around him mattered.

When he said, “Have dinner with me,” you stopped and turned to face him, brows raised.

“As a date?”

“Yes,” he said, his answer immediate and firm.

You gave a quiet laugh, but there was an edge to it. “How do I know this isn’t just some little date where I end up like one of your girls?”

Lex paused, and then, to your surprise, he laughed. It was low and brief, not dismissive, but genuinely amused.

“I suppose that’s fair,” he said, his eyes never leaving yours. “But if that’s what this was, I wouldn’t be here asking. I don’t waste time on what I plan to forget.”

You studied him carefully. You had heard the rumors, the whispers in tabloids, the stories about his short-lived romances with actresses, heiresses, women who vanished from his life as quickly as they appeared in it. Lex Luthor was a billionaire, and billionaires didn’t exactly have reputations for consistency when it came to dating.

“Right,” you said, still watching him, “because billionaire CEOs are so great at commitment.”

Lex smiled, just slightly. “You think this is about money?”

“I think it’s hard to tell when you live in a penthouse and probably have a different watch for every day of the week,” you said. “It’s hard to believe this is anything more than a temporary distraction for you.”

“If I wanted a distraction,” Lex said quietly, “I’d be with someone who didn’t challenge me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how calm and certain he sounded.

“Come to dinner,” he said. “Not because I’m Lex Luthor. Come because I asked you. Because I meant it.”

You were silent for a moment, weighing your options, your doubts. Then you let out a slow breath, shaking your head with a small smile.

“Fine,” you said. “One dinner. But if this turns into some predictable billionaire cliché, I’m walking out before dessert.”

Lex smiled, this time a little more fully. “I don’t plan on being predictable.”

You started walking again, and he fell into step beside you. He didn’t say anything else, but you could feel it, the intensity beneath the surface, the way his mind was already turning, already planning.

There was something about his silence that stayed with you, even as the conversation faded. Something calculated, unfinished.

You reached the corner, gave him one last glance, and kept going.

And when you turned the next street, disappearing into the crowd, it was like none of it had happened. Like this morning had been nothing. 

Lex stood there a moment longer, watching the spot where you’d been, jaw tight, hands still tucked calmly in his coat pockets. On the surface, he looked unbothered, like he had a meeting to get to, like you were just a pleasant footnote in his day.

But underneath the calm, something had already cracked open.

You had said yes. One dinner. That was all he needed.

He didn’t head back to his office. He walked instead, down streets he didn’t normally walk, barely aware of the people passing him. His mind had already shifted into motion. Not with logistics, not with numbers. With you.

By the time he reached the penthouse, the entire evening had already been decided.

Not the menu, not the wine, not the lighting. Those things were handled easily, quietly. They were tools. He wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to study you. Disarm you. Figure out what it would take to make you look at him like you belonged there.

Because he could already feel it. You were under his skin.

He stood in the quiet, the city stretched wide beneath the glass, and he thought of you. The way you had looked at him that morning, unshaken. The way you smiled, slow and real, not forced. The way you challenged him without trying to.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t shrink. And that made him want you more.

It wasn’t about romance. It wasn’t about connection. That wasn’t what this was.

It was curiosity. Fixation. Control.

And when he let himself think about it, when he stopped trying to contain it, the ache hit fast. Deep. Sharp.

His jaw clenched as he exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight. His thoughts didn’t stop. They never did. Not with you.

He imagined you standing in his space, lit by low, warm light. No noise. No crowd. Just you and him. Closer than you had been this morning. Close enough to feel your breath catch when he leaned in. Close enough to hear his name on your lips, quiet and unsure.

He thought about your voice, unguarded, when you finally said it.

I’m yours.

The image was so clear it felt physical. The burn that followed was immediate, settling low in his stomach, tightening hard, unmistakable.

He was already hard. Just from the idea of it. Just from the thought of your hands on his chest, your eyes on his mouth, your voice in his ear saying the words like they belonged to him.

He braced himself against the edge of the marble, fingers tense, every muscle pulled tight like a thread ready to snap.

It wasn’t just attraction. It wasn’t even just need. It was possession.

He wanted you to admit that you were his.

Lex didn’t care how long it took.

He had time. He had power.

And now, he had you.

You just didn’t know it yet.

….

Lex didn’t sit. He stood by the windows, arms crossed loosely, eyes on the city like he was watching for something. He wasn’t.

He was waiting for you.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of jazz playing somewhere in the background. Warm lighting glowed across polished floors and dark wood. Everything was perfect. Not extravagant. Not loud. Just tailored. Measured. Like him.

He didn’t care if you noticed the details. He cared that you walked through the door and didn’t want to leave.

When the elevator finally chimed, he didn’t move. He kept his stance steady, exhale quiet, heart heavy in his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.

The door opened.

And then you stepped inside.

Lex’s jaw tightened instantly.

You wore a soft, fitted dress that wasn’t trying to impress anyone but somehow still did. His eyes moved over you slowly, deliberately, taking in the line of your collarbone, the way the fabric hugged your waist, the way your mouth curved when you saw him watching.

He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t trust himself to.

You walked in like you belonged there. 

“This place is ridiculous,” you said lightly, looking around. “I could get used to the private driver, though.”

Lex smiled faintly, his voice low. “You should.”

You turned to him, your eyes catching his. 

“So this is what Lex Luthor does for casual dinners?” you said with a laugh.

He stepped forward slowly. “Only when they matter.”

You blinked at that, and for a second, he wondered if he’d said too much. 

But then you offered him a smirk.

“Well, I hope the food’s as good as the view.”

Lex didn’t answer. 

He was too focused on the way your dress shifted when you moved, the way your hair framed your face, the way your skin caught the light.

He offered you a drink, poured it himself, watched as your fingers brushed his when you took the glass.

You wandered toward the windows, looking out. “You really can see everything from up here.”

“I know,” he said quietly, still behind you. “But right now, I’m not looking at any of it.”

You turned at that, slowly, your eyes meeting his again. And this time, something shifted.

The silence stretched, heavier now, thicker.

Lex stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of your body in the space between you. His hand brushed lightly along the edge of your hip, just enough to make you inhale softly.

He watched the movement of your chest rise and fall, the slight part of your lips, the flicker of something in your eyes that wasn’t hesitation.

“You knew what this was going to be when you said yes,” he said, voice low, controlled. “Didn’t you?”

You didn’t look away. “I had an idea.”

“Good,” he said, then leaned in, his mouth brushing just barely against your cheek. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

His hand slid around your waist, slow, intentional, drawing you closer until there was no space left to pretend with.

“You walked in wearing this,” he murmured, his mouth now at your ear, “and expected me not to touch you?”

You swallowed hard, your panties becoming wet from his words.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand still firm against your lower back.

“Tell me to stop,” Lex said, voice low and steady, but he already knew you wouldn’t.

Your breath hitched, lips parting like you were about to say something, but instead, you leaned in.

And that was enough.

His mouth found yours with all the restraint he had left, which wasn’t much. It was controlled at first, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. But then your hands slipped into his shirt, your body pressed into him, and control turned into something else entirely.

Lex backed you toward the wall with quiet determination, kissing you like he had waited years instead of hours. His hands moved over your waist, down your sides, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress like he wanted it gone.

You whispered his name once, barely above a breath.

He moaned, low and unrestrained, like it caught him off guard. His head dipped, lips brushing against your jaw.

“Say that again,” he said, his voice rougher now, barely holding onto composure.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked up at him, your eyes locked with his, your breathing uneven as his thumb dragged slowly along your waist.

He waited, not moving, not speaking. Just watching you. Like your mouth held something he needed more than air.

“Lex,” you whispered again, softer this time.

He groaned, deeper now as his mouth crashed into yours before you could say anything else.

You gasped against him, fingers bunching in his shirt as he pressed you harder into the wall. 

His hands moved lower, sliding over your hips, gripping them tight like he needed to remind himself that you were real. Here. Saying his name like you meant it.

You tugged at the fabric of his shirt, slipping your hands beneath it, fingertips grazing his skin, and he hissed against your mouth.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” Lex murmured, forehead pressed against yours now, eyes shut like he needed a second to breathe.

“I think I do,” you whispered in a teasing manner, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

That made him smile, crooked and dark, eyes opening again, sharp and focused only on you.

“Then keep going,” he said, his hands already moving, sliding up your thighs. “Say it again.”

You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear, and said it one more time. Low. Steady.

“Lex.”

This time, he didn’t moan. He growled.

He lifted you in one motion, strong hands steady beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around his waist, your back hitting the wall with a quiet thud. His body pressed into yours, the weight of him forcing the breath from your lungs in the best possible way.

His mouth found your neck, lips trailing slow kisses across your skin like he was tasting something he had already decided belonged to him.

“You’re mine now,” he breathed against you, voice rough and low, each word curling down your spine like heat.

His hand moved beneath the hem of your dress, inching higher until he felt nothing but bare skin. He froze for a beat.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

You met his eyes, your lips parted, and Lex’s jaw clenched hard.

You weren’t wearing anything underneath.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as his gaze dropped briefly, his control unraveling fast. He swore under his breath, a quiet, guttural sound that made your stomach twist.

He moved quickly, fingers working his belt open, then unbuttoning his pants with practiced ease. You watched, dazed, as he freed himself.

His cock was hard and thick, already flushed with need, and the look in his eyes when he saw the way you stared at him made something dark flicker across his face.

He stepped back into you, one hand braced against the wall, the other still gripping himself. His breath hitched slightly as he looked at you, like he was holding on by the thinnest thread.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice low and sharp with need.

You could barely speak. Your nails dug into his shoulders as your head tilted back, your body arching toward him, aching to be filled. The words broke from your lips, soft and trembling.

“I’m yours.”

Lex groaned into your shoulder, like the sound of it shattered everything he had left. He pressed his mouth to your skin, open and hot, as he thrust into you in one long, slow stroke that knocked the air from your lungs.

He held you tight, both hands gripping your thighs now, his rhythm steady, deep enough to make your entire body tremble against him.

You clung to him, your voice lost in the heat, your breath catching every time he moved deeper, harder, more possessively.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, his lips brushing your ear. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Lex, all yours,” you cried out in bliss as he continued to pound into you.

The sound of your voice pushed him further, his grip on your thighs tightening, knuckles pale from how hard he held you. He was already too far gone to slow down, his rhythm brutal, like he wanted to bury himself in you and stay there.

Your head fell back against the wall, fingers twisting into his shirt, your moans soft and desperate as he kept driving into you, every movement claiming you over and over.

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he groaned against your neck, his breath hot, his lips dragging across your skin. “Like you were made to be here, wrapped around me, saying my name like that.”

You whimpered at his words, your body trembling.

Lex kissed you then, rough and messy, swallowing your gasp as his hips snapped harder, deeper, everything in him focused on you.

“You’re mine,” he said again, this time almost a growl, like he needed to remind both of you. “No one else gets this. No one else gets to touch you.”

Your nails dug into his back and you nodded, too far gone to speak, your body already beginning to shake around him.

Lex could feel it, the way you clenched, the way your voice broke with every sound, and it drove him mad.

He slammed into you one more time, deep enough to make your cry echo in his ear, and that was it.

You shattered for him, everything spilling over at once, your limbs trembling, breath stuttering, your voice catching on his name.

Lex followed, groaning into your shoulder, his thrusts turning ragged as he gave in completely, your name the only thing he could think, the only word that left his lips.

He held you there for a long moment, breathing hard against your skin, your bodies still tangled, warm and spent.

Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to.

He had you.

And you had said it.

You were his.

[aringofsalt]

thank you to @birdboybuckley for letting me steal one of her lovely alternate meeting ideas to help get me out of my writing slump today! hope you enjoy 💛

set in some nebulous time, maybe s3-4? put it wherever you want!

"Heeeeey! That's my boyfriend!"

Tommy startled, staring at the smiling man on the bed in confusion before backing out of the room. He double checked the number on the door: 335, exactly what the nurse had told him five minutes ago when he started looking for Howie's room, but that man definitely was not Howie, and definitely was not his boyfriend, considering he didn't even have one.

He stepped back into the room, only to find the man still looking at him, although this time a pout was on his face instead of the wide smile.

"Why'd you run away from me?" He demanded. "That's not very nice."

"Yeah, man, that's not very nice at all," came Chimney's voice, and this time, not distracted by the handsome stranger closer to the door, Tommy noticed him peeking around the IV stand between the beds.

"What's not very nice is sassing the man who's bringing you food that isn't cold, grey mashed potatoes, Han," he said mildly, dropping the bag full of snacks on one of the chairs between the beds before sitting down in the other one. He glanced at the man in the other bed, who was still staring at him, and Howie laughed.

"Oh, this is Evan Buckley, by the way, he started at the 118 a couple weeks after you left. I got a couple bumps and bruises, this guy took a beam to the brain. He's a bit concussed, they've got him on the good drugs. Buck, this is—"

"Of course I know who it is! That's my boyfriend." The pout was back on Evan's face in full force, and Tommy was just about ready to give him anything he wanted.

"He's not your boyfriend, Buck."

"Then why is his picture above my locker?" Evan pointed at Howie accusingly. "That would be a weird place to put his picture if he wasn't my boyfriend."

"That's a 118 group photo from before he left to go to air support," Howie said patiently, "it's been there for five years. But sure, big guy. What's your boyfriend's name, then? Introduce me."

Evan squinted, turning his attention to Tommy, then he snapped his fingers.

"Hot Stuff," he announced. "That's your name. I nearly forgot. But it suits you."

Tommy laughed, surprised. "Well, thank you. But actually, my name's Tommy."

"Tommy! That suits you even better. Maybe it can be your last name. Tommy Hot Stuff."

He reached out, making grabby hands at Tommy until he gave in and reached back, letting the other man play with his fingers. He didn't talk much, just listened to Tommy and Chimney catching up, but he kept holding Tommy's hand. Eventually, Tommy had to leave to get to Harbor for his shift, and Evan very dramatically kissed the back of his hand before he let him go, telling him to be safe.

Tommy was already far too enchanted by Evan; he knew odds were that when he was lucid, he'd laugh at the way he latched on to Tommy, if he even remembered it. But it had been nice to pretend, for a while, and Evan's sunny smile was in the back of his mind for the rest of the day.

The next morning, Tommy woke to his phone vibrating on the nightstand.

Howard Han Hey, Tommy Hot Stuff, I gave Buck your number. He was really insistent, I didn't think you'd mind.

He'd barely finished reading when his phone buzzed again in his hand, a new message hiding Howie's.

Unknown Number so, i hear i have a boyfriend now, and i want to treat him right. wanna get dinner later? my treat :)

[lukyan-chan-blog]

DP x DC Prompt Your children will die young.

Bruce thinks he's cursed, actually he's not, although he might as well be. Biological half-brothers Danny, Damian and surprise, there are three more!

it's my first post, I never learned how to use this but the ideas don't come out of my head and there's no one to talk to about this so I'm sorry for spouting my delusions and English is not my native language (I don't follow the cannon, I don't know, I don't know what it is, I'm going to ignore it, it scares me but I did see DP although I don't think it counts for much, honestly)

Batman is spiraling after a powerful trio of siblings join the Justice League. They attract attention with their bright, exotic and painfully young (terribly powerful) appearance.

Since he has discovered that he is most likely the biological father. He doesn't know how to tell them this, or that maybe all three of them died from a curse he deliberately ignored for years. He wants to obtain DNA samples but since they are now ghosts it is not likely that they will leave DNA that he can take for paternity tests.

Do all three have the same biological mother? They are identical! (Maybe they could be clones?) Should I search and desecrate their graves? Will they notice? Were they even buried? Did anyone cry for them? Did they have a funeral? Were they cremated? Did an illness, an accident or a murder kill them? (How can I not ask all that? I need answers!)

Every time he and his family look at them, they can only cry inside and become distraught.

Your children are dead! He has to break this curse, apologize and bring them home! They are children, so young!

(When Flash asked how Phantom was the oldest of the three if Wraith appears fully grown with his height and large muscles, it ended in some tears from the speedster, causing much of the nearby team to become depressed)

Meanwhile the trio of ghosts:

Phantom (heavy fighter like Superman and Captain Marvel), Wraith (diplomat who spends time with the GL in space), and Shade (infiltration and caos) try to avoid Batman by pretending they don't know anything.

Then Bruce has his moment of crazy nights before leaving university, an "ex-girlfriend" - a woman he dated only twice becomes obsessed with him - Bruce obviously becomes gets rid of her easily

(we just went out for coffee and lunch, I didn't even know it was supposed to be a date.)

When Bruce rejects her, she swears that she comes from a line of witches and will curse him, if he doesn't marry her all his children will die. Bruce still checks it, but what he finds is just a story of three generations of eccentric women, so he ignores it and moves on with his life.

During another one night stand, his anonymous date gets pregnant and since she doesn't really remember much, she doesn't go looking for him either. This woman doesn't want to keep the baby and the doctor treating her actually needed a baby to pass as hers. Sheila takes this baby that she wants to tie Willis up with, but Willis already married Catherine. She leaves this baby "Jason Todd" with Willis as revenge.

Fast forward a few years later, Bruce has another crazy night with a couple.The Fentons have no problem having this baby and forget to call Bruce.

Years later Damian Wayne introduces himself as his only blood son, he becomes Robin.

Damián, now 17 years old, gets along well with a new heroine who is the youngest of a new trio that has joined the Justice League. The trio of siblings leave a bittersweet and painful feeling to the league because they are dead children.

Danny “Phantom”- 14 years old

Dante “Wraith” - 13 years old

Ellie “Shade”- 12 years old

One day they want to go to eat at this new restaurant in Gotham but although Robin can buy food with the suit they would attract a lot of attention with Shade giving off her supernatural glow, Ellie tells him that he can take a normal living human form and thus go out to eat. Once everything is agreed, on a nearby roof, Ellie returns to her human appearance and Damian realizes that they are terribly similar, very similar! He asks her if that's really what she looks like in life and she says yes

(Ellie doesn't really notice)

During the disturbing dinner on the roof, Damian asks him about his other two brothers.

"oh them? Wraith is actually my completely biological brother, our mother was really crazy and we ended up like this, you know? Phantom is our older half-brother, ever since he found out about our existence he has been tormenting our mother even more for what she did to us"

Damian is secretly going crazy but keeps asking.

"Phantom has been dead for longer, he doesn't usually change his living appearance much although sometimes he does, Wraith looks older just because he really felt very bad being so young and I don't have problems with how I look, although in reality I'm a little older than you"

(Ellie is actually lying a little for Danny's peace of mind, she sticks to her false story) Ellie even shows him a photo of her brothers looking alive. Damian is looking at a photo of three people who look a lot like his father, him, and for some reason Todd.

Damian returns to the mansion looking for old photos of Todd (because they look so similar too?!) and spiraling because the three new members could be his dead half-Siblings.

The batfamily finds out about Damian's conspiracy theory and panics. After some analysis they discover that Jason is in fact Bruce's biological son

(Jason feels cheated because Sheila was not his mother either and died in his attempt to meet/save her and because he has Bruce as his father)

Tim "actually they all died young, Shade at 12, Wraith 13, Phantom 14, Jason 15 and Damian died for a while at 16, that means that Bruce's next child has to die at 11 or 17"

Bruce…..

Tim "although if you think about it, most of us here also died at some point, only for a very short time unlike Jason and Damian"

Bruce, in a mental breakdown over his possible children and his dead children.

Phantom, who was floating invisible was about to ask Jason if he wanted to hang out, hears the conspiracy and runs to ask Jazz. (Jazz says yes, his parents had a threesome with some young millionaire they forgot to call and then lost his number)

Danny, who has been escaping for years from being adopted by Vlad, refuses to be adopted by another millionaire guy who also seems like a different kind of vampire.

(it's funny because Batman could pass for a vampire and Vlad also looks like a vampire, they both wear capes, they have a secret basement and they both want to adopt some boy with black hair and blue eyes)

From here on it's nonsense and a lot of misunderstandings because:

Danny and company don't want to be adopted or reveal themselves or explain the issue of clones or because Dan has a 13-year-old human body but is from another timeline.

The Batfamily wants to hunt down these kids to bring them home, find out if the apparent crazy mother is in prison for killing her two children, where is Phantom's mother? Was he also murdered? Because his casual comments about his parents seem to understand that this is the case.

Tim again notices the pattern that all the children have died for their "parents" or relatives.

Bruce has another nervous breakdown.

Dick cries for his poor dead brothers.

Jason blames all of this on Bruce and is still confused.

Damian doesn't know how to feel about not being the only blood child or that apparently he and Todd were lucky enough to get back.

Steph wonders if her dying minutes count her as Bruce's daughter.

Cass is sad ):

Duke doesn't know if he wants to stay in this family.

Alfred has had enough for this week

[petvlss]

Did You Kiss a Chili Pepper or Something? # H.J

🌶️— In which you tried out a new lip plumper and totally forgot, and when Han came home and kissed you, he had a small surprise waiting for him.

word count: 665

pairing: bf!h.j x f.reader

warnings: a bit of language, Han is DRAMATIC (as always)

A/N: idk when i got this idea but i wrote it down likkeeeee 2 days ago and I was bored today and decided to finish it. also bnd will be coming I have ZERO motivation and cant stand looking at words rn. this is not proofread if there is anything you see then please lmk also I hope everyone is doing well.

Han hated being busy. More than that, he hated being away from you. That’s why he decided that when he got home from work, he would take you out on a nice date at the new restaurant that just opened.

About an hour before he got home, you started getting ready. You’d recently bought some new makeup and were excited to try it out. Standing in front of the mirror, you carefully applied everything, admiring your reflection. You looked beautiful. For the final touch, you reached for a new lip plumper—a tinted gloss that promised fuller lips. The sting was intense at first, but faded quickly.

That’s when you heard the familiar sound of the front door closing and keys clinking on the table.

“Baby?” Han’s voice echoed through the house.

“I’m upstairs!” you called back.

You heard his footsteps racing up the stairs, and moments later, he burst into the bathroom.

“Hi!” you greeted him with a bright smile.

“Hi, wow, you’re pretty.” He huffed, slightly out of breath.

“Thanks!” You did a little twirl to show off your outfit.

He grabbed your waist and kissed you. The kiss deepened until he suddenly pulled back and licked his lips, his face twisting in panic.

You saw it immediately: the exact moment he tasted the lip plumper.

He began frantically wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “What’s wrong with you?” you laughed.

“Did you make out with a chili pepper before kissing me or something?!” he shouted, rushing to rinse his mouth out at the sink.

You blinked in confusion, then looked at the little tube sitting on the counter. “It’s a lip plumper, babe.”

“You’re telling me you willingly put that on your mouth?! That’s spicy! Why is it spicy?!” he groaned, splashing more water on his face.

“Han, you’re fine,” you said, trying not to laugh as you rubbed his back.

“No. It burns,” he mumbled dramatically, burying his damp face in your neck.

You laughed, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “It’s supposed to tingle, not feel like you’re being attacked. I think you're being dramatic.”

“Well, my lips feel like they’ve been thrown into a volcano,” he mumbled into your neck, clinging to you as if he’d just survived a war.

You rolled your eyes and gently pulled away. “You’ll live, drama king.”

He gave you a playfully offended look. “Is this how you treat a man who nearly died in your bathroom?”

You grinned. “You kissed me first. That’s on you.”

Han groaned but finally stood up again, his lips slightly redder than before. “You put the fiery salsa on your lips first, though!” He looked in the mirror. "It looks like I have lipstick on!"

You leaned in with a mischievous smile. “Honestly? Kinda suits you.”

He blinked and then smirked. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you.”

You shrugged. “I know.”

“Now come on,” he said, grabbing your hand. “Let’s go on this date before you try to murder me with anything else labeled ‘tingly’.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you teased, grabbing your bag.

The two of you walked out the door, fingers intertwined, his lips still tingling, and your smile growing wider by the second.

TAGLIST : @lixies-favorite-cookie @velvetmoonlght @felixsonlyrealwife @thetoastghost222

[formulafanfics13]

would it be possible to request a lance stroll x lando norris little sister and of course she celebrates her brothers silverstone win but she also has a private surprise for lance because p7 was also super impressive and him being p3 for a long time too?

also another idea 😭 you know when lance broke his wrists and lando asks him if he can wank yet i can just imagine if lance x landos sister pairing existed another driver would make the joke: “your sister does it for him” + maybe just landos sister totally babying him when his wrists are injured?

THANK YOUU

Sweet Reward - LS18 🔥

Masterlist

summary: silverstone goes down in history. lando wins his home race — and his little sister is right there, front row, beaming in the pap shots. she celebrates, hugs him, poses for the cameras. but what no one sees is the way her eyes keep flicking to the aston martin garage. the way her thighs rub together every time lance stroll’s name flashes across the timing screen. because while lando gets his trophy, she’s got a secret plan. and it ends with her on her knees. warnings: ssmut, lance stroll x lando’s little sister, secret relationship, praise kink, blow job, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, sneaking around, paddock tension, possessive!lance, oral fixation, reader worships him, post-race sweat, orgasm denial, reader fully obsessed, filthy reward sex

You don’t stop smiling all day. Front row. Trophy ceremony. Champagne sprayed straight into your hair. You lift your brother’s race-worn cap for the cameras, cheeks glowing with pride. Lando’s first home win. It’s everything.

But while the world thinks you’re just the supportive little sister in head-to-toe McLaren orange, no one notices how your eyes keep drifting.

Past the crowds. Past the pap shots. Past the stage. To the Aston Martin garage. To him. Lance fucking Stroll.

P7 today. But for most of the race? He held P3. Car wide, lines clean, defending like his life depended on it.

You nearly came when he pushed George Russell off the racing line with two wheels on the grass and a smirk on his face. You bit your lip so hard it left a mark when the cameras cut to him pulling off his gloves, fireproofs sticking to sweat, hair flattened, throat flexing.

And now you’re watching him laugh with his engineers while Lando celebrates on the podium.

You pretend you’re not staring. But you are. And when your phone buzzes with a single message from his number, 'room key’s under the mat. use it.', your knees nearly give out.

You last another twenty minutes. Then you disappear. Everyone thinks you’re going to meet Lando at the afterparty. But instead, you’re slipping into Lance’s hotel suite, still wearing your McLaren lanyard and thigh-skimming mini dress.

He’s already there. Showered, hair damp, shirt unbuttoned. And he’s waiting for you. “Well?” he says, leaning back against the desk like a fucking god. “Did I drive good enough for my reward?”

You lock the door. Toss your phone aside. Walk straight toward him. “You were perfect,” you breathe.

He smirks. “Good.”

You drop to your knees. No teasing. No preamble. Just worship. You pull his waistband down and take his cock into your mouth like it’s the first thing you’ve wanted all day. Which it is.

He hisses, hips twitching. "Shit, baby- easy-”

But you don’t want easy. You suck him hard, fast, messy. Drool glistening on your lips, spit soaking your chin, tongue pressing against the underside of his cock like you’ve been trained for it.

He groans. Loud. “Fuck, that mouth- you know what it does to me.”

You moan around him. He grabs your hair, gently at first, then tighter. His abs flex. His eyes flutter. “You want me to come like this?”

You nod.

He pulls you off with a gasp. “Not yet.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, tosses you onto the bed, and strips you bare in seconds. “You were so sweet on camera today,” he murmurs, crawling over you, cock hot and heavy between your thighs. “All innocent. Like you weren’t thinking about riding me the whole time.”

You moan. He kisses your neck. Your tits. Your belly. He bites your hip and drags you to the edge of the bed. Then he slides in with one slow, deep thrust.

Your scream is immediate. He doesn’t stop.

“You liked watching me race, huh?”

You nod. Whimpering. Eyes rolling.

“You like knowing I was thinking about this every lap?”

You cry out. He fucks you hard. Relentless. Focused. Full of hunger and pride.

“You think Lando would kill me if he knew I was fucking his sister like this?”

You gasp. Clench around him.

“Fuck,” Lance growls. “You like that, don’t you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes, yes, please-”

He presses your knees to your chest and pounds. The bed creaks. Your voice breaks. His name is the only word you remember. He bends over you, breath hot against your lips.

“Didn’t matter what place I finished,” he whispers. “You were always gonna come home to me.”

You break. Coming around him, body arching, hands clawing at his back. He finishes seconds later, groaning your name into your throat, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you.

You both collapse. Sweaty. Sore. Breathless. And then he kisses your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw.

“Best reward I’ve ever had.”

You laugh into his neck. “I might let you fuck me on the Aston garage floor next time if you get a podium.”

He groans. “Don’t tempt me.”

You hum. “Then again, Silverstone 2026 is only a year away…”

He bites your earlobe. “Get in the shower,” he growls. “You’re not done thanking me yet.”

[traumadumpwriter]

Nasty Secret - 2

Bf! Rafe Cameron × Kook Reader🍓

Based off this ask: "Do you think you could do an imagine where Rafe finds out that the reader has been SAd in her past and he gets mad about it?"

Trigger warning for: sexual assault, trauma, coercion, alcohol, explicit violence, blood

Part One | Masterlist

Word Count: 5.2k

I really hope you guys like this!! Stay safe and always here to talk if u need it <3

Part Two:

The next morning, you were both slightly hungover, waking up with your hot bodies entangled and sweaty. You slowly arose from bed, shared a shower and had some fun, and then got ready for your days ahead. Rafe had no real plans, drifting between going back to sleep for a little bit or seeing if anyone was at the basketball courts. You on the other hand had unfortunately promised to help your mum with the grocery shopping and some other chores, forgotten about it, and were now running late - which you knew you would get a good nagging at for.

"I'll see you later, don't have too much fun." Rafe teased and gave you a quick kiss before speeding back on his bike, having dropped you home.

A dreamy sigh fell from your lips as you watched him race away, feeling beyond relieved that he seemingly hadn't clocked onto anything being wrong, but a tightness was still present in your chest. It would have to go ignored for a couple hours longer anyway, as your mother appeared in the driveway with a scowl, rushing you into her car.

It was hard to not let your thoughts slide back to Bryce as you wandered down the fluorescent lit aisles, feigning interest in the calorie information that your mother was spewing at you, obsessed with some new diet fad. In a sober headspace, his words felt even more vile, repeating and reminding you that he felt no guilt or shame for what he did. He thought that you'd wanted it, and was offended by the notion that you hadn't. It had you questioning all of the pain that you'd felt last year after the attack. Had you somehow insinuated to him that you wanted to have sex? That you wanted to take whatever he'd given you? It's not like you could remember the night clearly enough to truly dispute it, although the heavy feeling in your gut was telling you to trust your initial instinct.

Even without the dizzying internal discourse you were experiencing in regards to your own responsibility, you would've been walking around in a daze, as there was also your boyfriend to worry about. As Bryce had said; you weren't as innocent as Rafe thought, and the idea of him finding that out made your stomach churn far worse than any of last nights liquor could.

On the flip side, Rafe's morning had been one of clueless bliss. When he got back home he pleasured himself to the memory of fucking you less than an hour beforehand, made himself a bowl of cereal, fell back asleep for another two hours before getting up and showering again, deciding that he would go to the basketball courts.

He'd left his phone charging on the bed as he showered, spending quite a long time in there, and was surprised when he came out to have multiple missed calls from Topper. A light exhale of amusement left his nostrils as he pictured whatever trouble the boy had gotten into, imagining that Georgia had caught him with another girl or that he'd started a fight with someone more suited to Rafe's size.

"What's up bro-" He spoke casually into the phone, but the smile was soon wiped from his face as Topper cut him off with a low voice, sounding uncharacteristically panicked.

"Is Y/N with you?"

Rafe didn't like the way his friend had said your name, scowling as he replied "No. Why?"

"We need to talk."

Toppers voice was serious. Rafe stood up straight, his mind instantly going to bad places.

"What the hell do you mean? You can't just say that. What's happened?" He demanded and Topper was quick to reply, though he stumbled on his words.

"That Bryce dude- me and Georgia have gone around all morning, asking so many people- we wanted to make sure it was true before-before saying anything-"

"Before saying what?" Rafe spoke sharply through gritted teeth, unable to bear Topper's preliminaries any longer.

He had already broken his own heart, drawing from the few words what seemed like the most obvious need for such a call. You had cheated on him, and that was why you'd behaved so strangely the day before. It all made sense.

Then Topper finally sighed and forced it out, and the racing, angry thoughts went suddenly silent.

"He's roofied a few girls. Y/N's one of them."

Rafe paused. His breath caught in his throat and he blinked a few times before he could speak.

"What?"

"I think he was trying to intimidate Y/N or something last night. That's what Georgia thinks anyway. She walked into the pool house and saw them, said that Y/N was too scared to even tell her the truth at first."

The shocking mental silence turned into a piercing, livid ringing as each word came through the phone. Rafe's fists clenched and his jaw went tight, spitting his response.

"So you're telling me that Y/N told Georgia that Bryce raped her."

Topper took a breath.

"Y-Yeah, I guess. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you bro. He's done it to a bunch-"

Rafe ended the call, gripping the phone so tightly he could've cracked it. Then he scrolled through to find your contact and rang it without a second thought.

You had been home for an hour when his name popped up on your phone screen, the silly photo you'd set as his contact making you smile. Since you'd gotten home, you'd helped put away all of the groceries, then ironed and folded the washing for your household, and then just sat down to have a scroll break before continuing your chores.

You didn't hesitate to answer Rafe's call, excited to speak to him despite having done so just a couple of hours ago. The way that his voice came through the phone quickly drained all of that excitement from you though; aggressive, loud and sharp.

"What the fuck is this I'm hearing that Bryce Saunders raped you?" He barked and your stomach immediately plummeted to the ground.

"W-What?" You managed to gasp out before your throat went dry.

"You heard me. He fucking roofied you. And a bunch of other girls. Apparently."

"Rafe- I-"

"Is it true or not?"

You swallowed, the air feeling painfully thick despite him not actually being in the room with you. You felt like he could see the look on your face, feel how caught off guard you were.

"Is it fucking true or not, Y/N!" He repeated louder, making you jump backwards from the phone and finally squeak out your answer, compelled to tell the truth by his fury and your fear.

"Yes."

Then the line clicked and the call was over. Everything was suddenly silent again.

You didn't know whether to expect a loud knock on your door at any minute or for the sound of sirens to echo past your street. What was Rafe going to do? You didn't dare to call him back. Your hands were shaking too much to do so anyway.

Obviously, Georgia had been the one to spread your secret, and you cursed yourself for being drunk enough to tell her before your thoughts raced back to Rafe - how angry he was. How he now knew that you were tainted.

Tears sprang into your eyes and you were about to let yourself collapse onto the bed and sob into your pillows. But then your mother called your name from downstairs, asking for your help with cleaning the kitchen, and so you had to take a deep breath and pull yourself together - knowing that your mother's reaction to what had happened would have even more consequences than Rafe's.

You took a few minutes to calm down and stop shaking, and then you went downstairs, cleaning the house whilst making polite conversation with your mum, expertly pretending to be fine whilst internally feeling like the world could be ending.

As soon as Rafe had gotten the unfortunate confirmation from you, he'd thrown his phone against the wall with a loud smash and paced out of his room, heading straight to his dad's safe - having memorised the code quite some time ago. With no hesitation, he grabbed the black, metal handle of Ward's semiautomatic handgun and tucked it into his waistband before heading downstairs.

There was no one at home to stop him and so he didn't even bother to put his t-shirt over the handle, charging to his car with blind fury. He wouldn't have been able to explain why he was so angry to anyone, not to you or himself. It was so much more than the vile act that had been committed against his girlfriend - it was the fact that he hadn't known. The humiliation that he'd shaken Bryce's hand, invited him into his home and even considered him a friend. The fact that he'd let him be around you.

Then just on time, Topper's truck pulled up into the Tannyhill driveway, speeding in the knowing rush that Rafe was about to do something stupid.

"Woah, dude- what are you doing with that?" Topper noticed the gun immediately, jumping from the drivers seat in a wide eyed rush. Georgia was sat in the passengers seat with a fearful expression.

"What the fuck do you think I'm doing?" Rafe barked at the blonde, shoving past him.

"Well you can't just go kill him, bro! We'll fuck his shit up, but put the gun away!"

Rafe shook his head and continued the pace towards his car, jumping into the drivers seat and speeding off with Topper soon in close pursuit. The drive to the basketball courts was less than five minutes, and sure enough there was Bryce, tall and sweating in the afternoon sun. He looked up at the sound of tires screeching, as did the two other kooks shooting hoops, and at first he grinned, thinking that Rafe was day-drunk and ready to party.

His smile slowly started to drop though as the infamous Cameron exited the car with a determined march and a deep set scowl, the gleaming metal that was tucked into his waistband becoming visible as he got quickly closer. Bryce started to back away, opening his mouth in confused protest, but then Topper's car swerved into the chain link fence, momentarily drawing all focus with the crash it created. That moment of distraction was all that Rafe needed. He launched himself at Bryce with a vicious grunt, ramming the butt of the gun into his head with enough force to crack bone.

The taller lad quickly hit the floor, taking hit after hit from skin and metal, an instant bloody split forming on his forehead. He started punching back, and that's when Rafe pinned him down, straddling him and holding the barrel to his forehead, quickly halting his movements. Topper was shouting, desperately trying to get Rafe's attention but obviously going ignored.

"What did you do to her?" Rafe growled through gritted teeth, eyes boring into Bryce's like a hawk zoning in on its prey.

Bryce was frozen under the metal, his eyes nervously flickering between it and Rafe.

"Me and Y/N? We had sex one time last year. It wasn't anything serious. Come on man-"

Rafe smacked his face hard with the barrel of the gun before pressing the end of it back against his forehead and repeating the question with more volume.

"What did you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything!"

At this, Rafe dragged him up by his collar and demanded for him to get into his car, then shouted at Topper to get into the drivers seat. They both complied without hesitation, terrified by the rage filled gleam in Rafe's eyes and the shimmer of his weapon.

The two Kooks who had been playing basketball with Bryce had stood and watched the confrontation in shocked silence, considering calling the police but then deciding not to mess with the Cameron's - especially after just seeing that. Georgia had too witnessed the entire unfolding of events and felt helpless as she watched her boyfriend speed away, all whilst still waiting in the passenger seat of his car. She decided to drive to Kelce's and tell him what had just happened, hoping that he would be able to help although that seemed unlikely.

Meanwhile, Bryce was cowering in the backseat of Rafe's Range Rover whilst Rafe loomed over him, spitting in his face as he shouted and continued to pistol-whip him, sending a few teeth flying.

"Mary's swamp!" Rafe barked the direction at Topper and then continued his work on Bryce, seething as he demanded to know "What the fuck did you do to her?"

"She wanted it! I didn't do anything!" Bryce repeated desperately, trying to hold up his arms to defend himself against another hit but flinching away pathetically.

"Is that what you've convinced yourself? That all those girls wanted it?" Rafe scoffed. "The others might've. But not Y/N. She's innocent."

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry bro. I made a mistake." Bryce conceded. "Just drop me off here and we can forget this-"

"A mistake? You're a fucking pervert!" Rafe cut him off with an enraged shout, then turned his head to face Topper again for a second. "Faster! We're gonna bury this sick fuck alive!"

Bryce had already lost all the colour in his face, but at this he displayed an expression of abject horror, visible even through the layer of blood that had started to obscure his features.

"I'm not a pervert! You would've done the same thing!" He protested, sinking back even further against the locked door.

Rafe put his hand around Bryce's throat and pulled him up so that their faces were inches apart, spitting as he hissed "You do not fucking know me."

Taking advantage of the gun no longer being pressed to his head, Bryce threw a punch and caught Rafe off guard, hitting him in the jaw and surprising him, causing him to drop the weapon as he flew backwards into the other corner of the seats. Once he'd started Bryce had not planned on stopping, continuing to use his bulky arms and fat fists to deliver skin splitting punches. He reached towards the gun, but then found himself suddenly flying back into the corner as Topper made a violently sharp turn, peaking into the rear view mirror and making a quick decision. It also sent Rafe flying into that direction, putting him back on top of Bryce and giving him the opportunity to grab the gun again.

Rafe was careful not to remove the barrel from Bryce’s head again. The rest of the ride to Mary's Wood was quick but intense, filled with shouting accusations from Rafe and shaking denial from Bryce, even as more of his bones cracked and skin split under Rafe's brutal force.

As soon as the car came to a stop and Topper unlocked the doors with an uncertain look over his shoulder, Rafe shoved Bryce onto the ground outside. They were within the depths of a swampy forest - or at least as deep as they could get in a large vehicle - and the ground was damp and muddy, sticking to Bryce's face.

Rafe leapt out on top of him, kicking him deeper into the mud and delivering a barrage of ring clad punches before aiming the gun again.

"You gonna admit what you did now?"

"You've got the wrong guy-"

Rafe pulled the trigger.

The bullet bounded into ground next to Bryce's head, sinking itself into the mud with a deafening bang. Topper jumped back and shouted "What the fuck, dude?" whist Bryce cowered further in on himself, his eyes wide with a fear he'd never before felt.

"You wanna try again?" Rafe growled and Bryce quickly confessed this time.

"Alright, alright! I put some stuff in her drink! I-I thought that she would like it!"

Rafe pulled back the barrel, preparing it to fire another round.

"And then what?" He hissed.

"And then I- I had sex with her. I- I know I shouldn't have. I'm sorry!"

"You're sorry?" Rafe scoffed, leaning in close, spitting as he spoke. "You’re a rapist. A fucking serial one. I should kill you right now. Or maybe cut off your nuts, that would make you sorry, wouldn’t it?”

"We should get out of here. Someone might've called the cops." Topper spoke and caught Rafe's attention for a second before he turned back to the man on the ground, repeating himself until Bryce conceded.

“Should I cut off your nuts?”

“No. Please don’t! I'm sorry!" He cried, closing his eyes as Rafe pressed the barrel of the gun to his forehead again.

"Sorry for what?" Rafe shouted.

"S-Sorry for taking advantage of Y/N!”

“You’re not being clear enough. What exactly are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry for- for raping her. S-Sorry for scaring her! She's a-a great girl! I shouldn't have done it."

"Yeah. You're right. You shouldn't have.” Rafe scoffed, then screamed “Now strip!" earning another alarmed look from the two other men.

"T-Take off my clothes?" Bryce stammered.

Rafe quickly shot the gun again, this time the bullet landing even closer to him, before placing the barrel against his forehead, the heat of the metal burning Bryce's clammy skin. His hands shook as he undid the buttons of his shirt and slowly peeled it off before moving to his trousers, tears dropping from his eyes as he unbuckled his belt.

"Take his shoes!" Rafe barked at Topper, who hesitated for a moment before complying. "Take everything he has. Put it in the back."

And so there Bryce Saunders was, naked other than the blood and mud caking his body, cowering and shaking under the gleam of Rafe Cameron's gun, wondering if he was going to be raped in the woods of a town he barely knew, or if he was going to die. The sight brought Rafe a deep satisfaction and he stepped backwards, letting his arm drop and his body relax for a moment, relishing in the scene he'd created - the justice he'd brought. The power that he held in the metal weight of his hand.

He threw a few more kicks just for good measure and then spat on him, cementing Bryce as part of the dirt before deciding that he'd had enough.

"Alright, let's go." Rafe mumbled to Topper, casually heading to the drivers side of the car and ignoring Bryce's cries.

"You can't leave me here with nothing! I can't get back home like this!"

The car door slammed and Topper took a second to look down at Bryce, disturbed by what had just happened but not particularly disagreeing with it.

"Looks like you're gonna have to." He muttered, thinking of how horrified you would have been by the whole scene and then shaking it from his head, not liking how much he cared about his best mate's girlfriend.

Topper then jumped into Rafe's passenger seat and the car was moving before he even had time to close the door, racing past marshes and trees until they eventually made it back onto paved road. Rafe's knuckles would've been white from how hard he was gripping the wheel if not for the blood that coated them, some of it his own, most of it Bryce's.

"Dude... that was fucked up." Topper let out a deep breath.

"What and what he did to Y/N wasn't? To those other girls?" Rafe sharply returned.

"Yeah it was... but that was-" Topper cut himself off and started again. "No, you're right. He deserved that."

"Yeah. He fucking did." Rafe muttered, eyes fixed on the road.

His mind kept on flickering back and forth between the image of you and the image of Bryce, his body tensing as he pictured the hurt that you'd hidden from him, and then relaxing again slightly at the memory of the revenge he'd just served.

"What exactly did Georgia tell you?" He questioned.

Topper swallowed, hesitating before he answered.

"Just that she walked into the pool house last night and Bryce was leaning over Y/N and she was like, freaked out and shaking or something. She drew the dots together herself, Elle had heard some rumours about him but they'd all thought it was some kind of fuckin’ joke, I don't know. But I don't think Y/N actually told her anything. At least not explicitly."

Rafe nodded, silently taking in the information, the speed of the car increasing slightly. Your strange behaviour made sense to him, though still not entirely as he just couldn't understand why you hadn't told him the truth. Why had you claimed that the reason you were crying was just drunken sickness when it had really been something so much more? And why hadn't he pushed you further for answers? Why had he settled for the easy option despite the initial distrust that he'd felt in his gut? Part of him wanted to turn the car around, race back to Mary's Wood and finish the job on Bryce - though he was fairly certain that after the impromptu kidnapping he'd just enacted the millionaire nepo-baby wouldn't be touching any women any time soon. Still - was it enough?

"Where are we going now?" Topper's question temporarily broke the aggressive stream of thoughts and Rafe answered like it was obvious.

"Y/N's house."

"Looking like that? Dude you need a shower. Or to wash your hands and face at least. She's going to freak out."

"My face?" Rafe mumbled, quickly snapping down the sun visor and looking at his reflection in the smudged mirror.

He hadn't realised how well Bryce's hits must've landed against his face until he saw the dried trickle of blood running from his forehead down to his chin, accompanied by an almost identical trickle from his cheekbone. Topper was right, he couldn't arrive at yours looking like this - especially with your mother at home.

"Okay, we're going to mine. I'll be quick." He decided, more to himself than to Topper.

The rest of the drive to Tannyhill was quick and silent, the two lads stewing in the thick scent that had built up inside of the car; metallic and sweaty. Topper waited outside whilst Rafe ran in, put the gun away and then rushed to his room, having a quick shower and changing his clothes. One of the punches that Bryce had managed to land had created a cut on Rafe's cheekbone that wouldn't stop bleeding, much to his annoyance, and so he stuck some tissue onto it and then rushed back to his car, his heart still racing with adrenaline.

"How do I look? Better?"

"You still look pretty rough dude. Mrs Y/L/N isn't going to be impressed. You sure you don't want to wait a little while? Georgia just called me, they're all at Kelce's-"

"I don't care where Georgia is." Rafe cut him off sharply which Topper scoffed at.

"If it wasn't for Georgia you wouldn't even know about what Bryce did. Don't be a dick."

Rafe took a breath, closing his eyes and mentally counting to ten before he replied. It was a self soothing trick that you'd taught him, though usually you would be there to stroke his hand or his hair as he did it.

"You're right, sorry bro. I'll drop you at Kelce's." He spoke quietly before starting the car, another heavy silence engulfing the pair.

All that Topper said when the car came to a stop outside their friend's house was "Good luck" before he skulked inside, quickly met by a terrified Georgia.

Meanwhile, you had just been able to shake your mother from your back, heading down to the end of your driveway to smoke a rare cigarette - something you only did when you were stressed. She would be angry if she caught you, but the wrath of that reaction seemed worth it for the temporary relief. Rafe's angry voice had been bouncing around your head since he'd called you over an hour beforehand, the shame of the truth that he'd uncovered making your gut spin and ache. The thought of his disapproving glare sent a shiver down your spine, but even more so the thought of disapproval turning into distaste turned that shiver into an earthquake. If he left you over this you would never forgive yourself. For lying to him, for then telling him the truth, but most of all for ever being at that party in the first place, for meeting Bryce Saunders.

The sound of a Range Rover coming down your road was loud, almost obnoxiously so, and you knew that it was Rafe's somewhat instinctively, though the speed that it was going at was also a slight clue. You spotted him through the tinted windscreen and could see the deep set scowl on his marble face before he even parked, and you quickly shot your gaze to the ground, feeling anxious and small like a child in big trouble.

The car door slammed shut and your eyes stayed trained onto the ground, your cigarette coming to its end in your fingers.

Then, suddenly, Rafe's arms were wrapped around you, desperate and tight in a hug that you hadn't expected nor realised that you needed. You sank into it and felt your body disappear into his warmth. You hadn't even realised that you were crying until Rafe's voice broke the silence.

"I've got you, baby. I've got you." He spoke softly, rubbing circles into your back. "No one is ever gonna hurt you again. Never again. I promise."

He hadn't planned on being so gentle. He hadn't even known he had it in him. But when he saw you, so crumpled and delicate, the burning rage melted away and was instead replaced by stinging guilt.

"Why didn't you tell me? I never would've let him be around you- I- I would've dealt with it sooner." He whispered.

"I didn't want you to think I'm- that I'm dirty. That I- I was a slut-" You sniffled, a sob rising in your throat. "I just wanted to forget it ever happened."

"I could never think that of you. Never. What he did-” He had to cut himself off and take a breath, feeling his voice harden. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Your crying didn’t stop though. You were barely able to choke out the words “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t need to be sorry.” Rafe pulled an arm away to lift up your face with one of his fingers, finally making eye contact and feeling surprised by just how wet your face was. He'd never seen you sob like this before.

You were also surprised, not having spotted the injuries he'd gained with your glance through the dark car windscreen. There was tissue stuck to a cut on his cheek, dotted with fresh blood, a dried gash on his forehead and bruising forming around one of his eyes. Then you realised that his hands were bruised too, more specifically his knuckles, which were split open.

"Rafe- what happened? W-What did you do?" You gasped, reaching up to gently stroke the injuries, blurry through your eyes.

"Nothing you need to worry about. Don't stress baby, I'm fine." He said softly, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

"But your- your face. You're bleeding."

“It’s just a scratch. It’s fine baby, I promise.” He repeated with a coo, trying to wipe away your tears but being defeated by the seemingly never ending stream.

“W-Was it Bryce? Did y-you get hurt b-because of him? B-Because of me?” You choked.

“Stop blaming yourself.” He spoke slightly firmer now, starting to feel that rage bubble up again. “Seriously, Y/N. He fucking confessed to putting something in your drink. Okay? And he didn’t just do it to you. Do you understand how illegal that is? It’s fucking rape. He should be in prison.”

You nodded weakly, your eyes shooting to the ground again, thick tears cascading down your cheeks. Rafe wasn’t going to allow that though.

“Look at me, Y/N.” He ordered softly and you complied despite how exposed it made you feel, your face red and your nose filling with snot.

“I want to hear you say it. Tell me that you know it’s not your fault. I need to know that you know that.”

You swallowed and nodded, saying as clearly as you could “It’s not my fault” though you were quickly reduced to tears again straight afterwards, unable to hold back a sob.

You weren’t even sure why you were so upset. Rafe wasn’t mad at you, he wasn’t going to break up with you - and that had brought you a profound sense of relief. Yet you still felt even more deeply, a profound sense of despair, as despite everything “being okay”, it suddenly became abundantly clear to you that it actually wasn’t okay. Not at all. You’d done so well at making yourself forget what happened, that now being fully confronted with it - you remembered a lot more than you’d thought.

It was breaking Rafe’s heart to see you so defeated, collapsing into his arms as your legs could no longer fully support the weight of all that you felt. Your sobs vibrated against his chest and it made Rafe feel entirely helpless in a way that he had never felt before. He couldn’t comprehend what it would feel like to have someone violently take advantage of him.

Sure he knew that it would feel bad, horrible in fact, hence why he had been so enraged that it had been done to you, but what he saw in your hunched body was so much more than that. It was devastation.

What exactly had Bryce done to you? Did he even want to know?

He held you tightly, wishing that he could take your pain away with his touch - even if it was just a little bit.

“Let’s go back to mine. Come on, we can get all cosy.” He swallowed a lump in his throat and then whispered, gently guiding you towards the car.

You followed without any thought, climbing into the passenger seat and then curling up into your knees. Rafe buckled your seat belt for you and then cast you one more long, painful look before starting to drive, going slower than he usually would as the fragility of the human body felt suddenly clear to him for the first time.

When he got to Tannyhill, he lifted you from your seat and carried you to his room, and though you felt pathetic for it, you didn’t have the energy to stop him. You didn’t even know if you could’ve walked up all of those stairs anyway, your body feeling as if it was caving in on itself and your breaths escaping you.

Rafe’s warm, protective arms and his fluffy, grey bedsheets eventually calmed you down though, along with the comforting, deep thrum of his voice, gentle shushes followed by gentler words. It wasn’t until you eventually fell asleep, so entirely exhausted, that Rafe felt his body able to relax, unaware of how tense he had been keeping his body - in a state of borderline panic over seeing you so distraught. He was finally able to take a breath and mull over everything that had happened that day, though it hardly made him feel any better.

The only thing that did bring a slight smile to his face was how beautiful you looked cuddled up against him. Even with your tear stained cheeks and red, puffy eyes, you were an angel - his angel - and he would make sure that no harm ever came to you again. He was even considering tracking Bryce down and finishing the job on him, but that would be a decision for another day.

Really hope you guys enjoyed this part! Let me know if you want a part three I might write one. Stay safe love y’all <3

[redrose10]

Mafia Boss Yoongi x Female Reader

Summary: When your father can't repay a debt to The Min Family, you’re forced to marry Yoongi, the cold, feared son of Min Haneul. But behind his hard exterior, you discover a gentle, protective side—one that just might take you and everyone by surprise.

Warnings: Violence, guns, swearing, arranged marriage, gangs, gambling, smoking, drinking, murder

Word Count For This Chapter: 2,388

Chapter 1

You had been seeing the black SUV parked outside of the restaurant for the last few days. Tinted windows so dark that you couldn’t see inside even with the brightest of lights. But you already knew who was inside.

You knew that it was the most powerful and feared mafia boss in the city if not the entire country.

You also knew why he was there, why he had his men scoping out the place for the last several weeks before he himself decided to make an appearance.

It all had to do with your father. The man who took out a loan from The Min Family three years ago in order to buy the restaurant you were currently working in. The man who took any profit you made from that same restaurant to the casino and gambled it away instead of paying off the debt like he was supposed to do. The same man who disappeared like a coward once he realized he was being watched and left you alone to run the restaurant you never wanted all while you waited for the inevitable end.

It was just before closing time when the door opened for what you hoped would be your last customer for the day.

“Table for two?”, you asked the men who nodded as they followed after you. As you started walking them towards a table in the back you began to feel uneasy. They were way too dressed up in three piece suits to simply be dropping in for some tteokbokki especially in this part of town.

When they reached for the menus in your hands your worst fears were confirmed. Both of their wrists marked with crest of the Min Family, a familiar symbol you’d seen around town for most of your life. The Min’s owned 85% of the businesses including the police force so they had no reason to hide and showed no intention to do so. You did your best to keep your cool as you took the men’s orders and went back to the kitchen to prepare the items.

They were at least very polite to you during their meal with always saying please and thank you and complimenting the food many times. Maybe you had misjudged the situation you secretly hoped as you finally placed the bill down in front of them.

They gave you cash to pay for it and as you were completing the transaction with your back turned you could sense a presence walk up behind you. Seconds later there was a cold metal being pushed against the back of your skull, “Don’t make sound.”, they hissed. The sound of the gun being cocked into place sounded like a bomb going off to you.

“Where is he?”, the man asked.

When you didn’t answer he spun you around to face him, the gun now pushing into your forehead, “The boss wants his money…or a body. Which one do you want it to be?”

“I…I…I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in months. I swear.”, you cried.

“Not good enough.”, the second guy spoke also taking his own gun out of his back pocket and pointing it at you as well.

In desperation you dropped down to your knees and begged, “Please please believe me. I don’t know where he is. He took any money we had and disappeared. I’ve been trying to find him too. You have to believe me.”

“I guess we’re going with a body then.”, the first man laughed. You squeezed your eyes shut knowing there was no use in begging any more. All you could do is hope that it was quick and painless.

Just as the man stepped in front of you to take the shot the chimes on the front door signaled someone else had entered the building.

“What are you two idiots doing?”, an unfamiliar male voice said.

“Um well what you asked us to do boss.”, one of the men said after clearing his throat.

Your eyes were still squeezed shut, but you could hear footsteps getting closer. Your body began to shiver in fear.

“Open your eyes little one.”, he said when the footsteps finally stopped.

Slowly you cracked them open adjusting to the light. The tears that had been building up were now feeling falling down your cheeks.

Min Haneul, the leader of the Min Family, squatted down in front of you curiously looking you over.

“Are you okay?”, he asked, “They didn’t hurt you did they? I’m sorry about them. They’re still…they still in their training phase.”

You shook your head as the two men began to protest, “Boss you said to get the money or kill them. You can’t be upset with us. We just did what you asked.”, they frantically explained worried for their own safety.

“I said…”, he began in a booming deep voice, “I said to get the money or bring me the body of Ji-Woo. In this family we don’t kill women or children.”, he spat helping you off of the ground.

“S-Sir I promise I don’t know where my

father is. I haven’t heard from him in

months.”, you sniffled, “Please don’t kill me. Take the restaurant. All of the money in the register is your. Just please don’t kill me.”

“Shhh Y/N, just breathe. I’m not going to kill you.”, he said pulling you into an uncomfortable hug, “I already know where your father is anyways.”

You stepped back in shock as he continued, “This was just a test. Well mostly…”, he glared at the two men for their mix up, “I just wanted to see how submissive you would be. I need a woman like that to marry my son. Someone who will please him at his command. Feed his ego let’s say. I think you will be perfect and we will go through with it after all.”

“I’m sorry what?”, you coughed. First you came within seconds of being killed then he says he knows where your father is and now you are supposedly getting married.

Min Haneul continued, “I’ve made a deal with your father. In exchange for not taking his life he agreed to give your hand in marriage over to my son Min Yoongi.”

“But…but…but.”, you tried to say unable to form a thought. You had heard of the heir to Min empire, but thankfully you had never met. Yoongi was known to be devilishly handsome, but with a cold heart and ruthless demeanor. He was just and if not more feared than his own father.

“It’s time he grows up. I need to make sure that he has an heir before I allow him to fully take over the family business. Since he won’t find a wife for himself I found one for him.”, he said walking away finally giving you space.

“Sorry for giving you such a scare.”, Haneul said grabbing a few bottles of soju from the refrigerator behind the bar, “My people will be in contact with you over the next couple of weeks with more information.”, his men followed him to the front door before he turned and gave you a light nod, “Oh and don’t worry about coming to work tomorrow. I own this restaurant now and no daughter in law of mine will be sweating next to a stove cooking food for strangers. Good night Y/N.”

Haneul was true to his word. Over the next couple of months a lavish wedding was planned. Money was of no concern. You thought it was ridiculous spending that much on things that didn’t mean anything to you, but you didn’t have a choice anyways. You just went along with it and occasionally selected a color or small detail when you were given the choice.

The day of the wedding was the first time that you saw Yoongi in person. According to his father he had been very non compliant about the whole arrangement and refused to participate up until this point.

You had hoped your father would be in attendance especially since you were only doing this because of him, but as you finally got to the alter you accepted that he had once again disappointed you.

Yoongi greeted you stone faced, but took your hand and lead you up to the officiant. It was the first time you saw the deep scar that ran through his right eye. Immediately you wondered what had happened. You saw pictures of him as a child and it wasn’t there, but it didn’t look fresh either. It could have been due to a surgery you thought at first, but then remembered who you were marrying. He was a gangster so there was no telling what had cause it and you feared for what the other person looked like if that was how he walked away.

The ceremony was long and drawn out and unnecessarily dramatic. You couldn’t wait for it to be over with. When it finally came time for the kiss you were shocked when Yoongi actually went through with it. His lips were softer than expected. He tasted like whiskey and he smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, a dangerous combination.

The reception was even more obscene being held on the top floor of the most elite hotel in the country. Armed guards were posted at all entrances and there was even a no fly zone over the area. Haneul had gone all out to ensure the safety of the event and also make a statement at the same time.

You were pranced around the room by him like the trophy wife you agreed to be to his son. You were introduced to celebrities and athletes, politicians, and even a Queen. Women came up to you trying to be your new best friend. Men flirted with you until they saw Yoongi looking their direction making them run off in fear.

You still couldn’t help, but notice that your father was nowhere to be found and every time you tried to question your new father in law he would change the subject. After a while you were so overwhelmed by everything that you stepped out onto the balcony to get some air. Yoongi seemed to have had the same idea as he was already out there lighting up a cigarette.

He looked at you with a cold stare making you turn to go back inside.

“You can come over here.”, he grumbled, “I won’t bite.”

“You sure about that? What about putting a gun to my head? That seems to be how your family shows affection.”, you scoffed.

You knew that you should technically be more scared of Yoongi than anyone else. He had the reputation for it. You knew what he was capable of yet you barely knew him as a person. You never would have spoken in any kind of way like that to his father, but there was just something about Yoongi, something different. Something familiar and almost comforting.

“Depends…don’t piss me off.”, he replied to your earlier question making you nod in agreement, “Noted. Don’t piss off the husband.” For the first time that day you saw the tiniest hint of a smile begin to form on his face.

Yoongi sipped on a glass of whiskey as the two of you silently looked down over the city that his family pretty owned.

“Do you know where my father is?”, you decided to ask the less scary (to you at least) Min, “I know he’s not a great person, but he wouldn’t miss my wedding.”

“Just let it go Y/N.”, Yoongi replied taking a hit of the cigarette, “For your own good.”

“He’s already dead isn’t he?”, you asked trying to keep your voice strong.

Yoongi being not one for beating around the bush nodded to your question, “He was killed as soon as he signed the contract to agree to this marriage.”

“So I was forced to marry you to save my father’s life and he was killed anyways?”, you asked out loud more to yourself than anyone, “What a fucking joke.”

“Yeah tell me about it. I only agreed to this marriage because I was told your father would be spared if I did. Then I was the one sent in there to kill him.”, he scoffed, “Like a sick fucking joke.”

Your stomach turned at his confession. You stared at the man you just married. You knew he didn’t have the best of morals, but hearing him confess to a murder, to the murder of your own father nonetheless, sent a shiver through your body. He said with such ease like it like it was just another day on the job for him. And somehow that still did not fully scare you away.

“Sir, your father wants some photos together.”, the photographer came out and said to the two of you. Yoongi sighed and put out his cigarette against the concrete railing.

“Let’s get it over with.”, he mumbled walking after the man. You tried to follow close behind, but tripped over your dress losing your shoe in the process making you stumble forward slightly.

Yoongi turned around to see what all the commotion was and noticed you struggling to get your shoe back on thanks to the volume of your dress.

“Here let me do it.”, he said kneeling down and helping to slide your shoe on making sure the strap was properly secured around your ankle this time.

You couldn’t help but softly giggle at the situation. He looked up at you still on one knee and with a raised eyebrow, “Is there something funny about this?”

“No no.”, you shook your head, “It’s just that it’s kind of like Cinderella.”

You could tell he wasn’t quite understanding what you were getting at so you explained further, “You know like how she looses her shoe and then the shoe fits and she’s wearing a pretty ball gown and the she marries Prince Charming. We are a little backwards, but you’re kind of like the Prince Charming to my Cinderella.”

Finally understanding your explanation Yoongi stood up with a smile. “Y/N…I’m no Prince Charming.”, he huffed while straightening out his tuxedo, “I’m quite the opposite actually. And the sooner you accept that…the easier this marriage will be for the both of us.”

[kyokeiii]

keigo in his thirties being a little insecure about his body now that he's got an office job and is not as physically active but his partner has never been more attracted to him ☺️

♡𝅼⠀⠀what’s cookin’, good lookin’

contains  ‎  fluff. gn!reader. timeskip!keigo. keigo in his early 30s feeling insecure. hurt/comfort (sort of). themes of body dysmorphia if you squint.

keigo stares at himself in the mirror and hardly recognizes who he sees.

he looks tired. he looks...older. his hair is tigered with gray, as is his goatee. there are lines on the corners of his eyes, lines around his mouth, wrinkles embedded in his forehead. the tailored suit that was once sculpted to his body now bulges around his tummy.

his skin has faded from a smooth honey tan to a wan shade, much paler now that he spends so much time inside instead of out under the sun. and the scars that mar his face and body just add to the effect, as if he’s spent eons weathering the world instead of just thirty-two years.

behind him, shuffling around your shared bedroom and getting yourself ready for work, you hum idly, peering around him in the mirror to adjust your neatly tucked in shirt. the sight of you, looking as gorgeous as ever, utterly flawless in keigo’s eyes—it makes his throat close over.

your head snaps up without warning, and keigo quickly averts his gaze on instinct, and immediately curses himself for his mistake. nobody else in the world would think twice of it, but you know your husband, all his quirks and idiosyncrasies and the subtlest changes in his body language, and instantly, you can detect that something’s wrong.

he stares blankly at his face in the mirror, taking in the crinkled sheaf of skin at the edges of his eyes, until he feels your arms curl around him from behind.

“hey, handsome.”

handsome. will you ever, keigo wonders, understand the weight of the gift you gave him in that moment? anything else—what’s wrong, are you okay—would have shattered his already scant courage in a moment, and what choice would he have but to plaster on a fake smile and insist that he was perfectly fine?

instead, you said, “hey, handsome,” in a gentle, teasing tone. oh, how keigo loves you.

“handsome?” he replies, fixing his gaze on yours in the image of the reflective glass. “i think you got the wrong guy.”

you blink at him, crinkling your nose and squinting at him. “what? no.”

“aw, shucks. you don’t have to butter me up, sweetheart.”

“i’m not buttering you up. i’m being honest,” you counter.

it’s the simplest of reassurances, a barebones compliment, but keigo’s heart warms anyway. he squeezes his tummy chub, remembering ruefully how wiry he’d been in his heyday. “even with this?” he makes sure his tone is light, not genuine.

your grin creeps up toward your ears. “especially with that.”

“what, my potbelly?”

“you look sexy, kei’. you look...well built, and...” your cheeks are warm and you’re struggling for words, and keigo realizes that you’re being serious. the thought sends heat coursing through his veins.

he turns to face you, cupping your face in calloused palms. “yeah? you think i’m sexy? i don’t exactly look the way i did in my twenties, ya know.”

“i like the way you look,” you say breathlessly.

“well, thanks, babe.”

“no, i mean it!” your insistence surprises him. “i think...i think you’re just as attractive as you were however long ago. maybe even more. but...but even if you weren’t, it wouldn’t change anything.”

keigo studies you carefully. he’s very good at ascertaining when other people are lying, especially you, whom he knows so well. but he can’t pick up any of your usual tells. as far as he can see, you’re being completely genuine.

he blows out a long breath, raising his bushy eyebrows. “wow. even if i was ugly, huh?”

“seriously, keigo? you thought i’m that shallow?”

“well, you kind of are. considering that you’re drooling over how hot i am right now.” you scowl at him, and he can’t help but laugh. “i’m joking!”

you roll your eyes, but your annoyance fades as you step closer to him and rise on tiptoe to give him a kiss. “i think you’re handsome, keigo,” you say. “are you worried that you aren’t?”

“i try to look good for you, ya know?” he offers a smile that is much sweeter than before. it’s the grin he reserves only for you.

you blink at him, perplexed.

“but you don’t have to try. you just are.”

[ikamigami]

With these two posts from Twitter I came up with a theory about what happened on that fateful day when Spamton got that last phone call.

So I think that both of these are true.

Before Spamton responded the last phone call Tenna started an argument. He was fed up with Spamton caring more about the sponsor than him.

Ofc it's from Tenna's perspective cause Spamton actually loved Tenna cause he wouldn't want to share the secret with him and he wouldn't want to try to get Neo suit for him so Tenna could go into Cyber World (I really believe that this theory is true and go watch that long Spamtenna video please it's awesome).

But it's understandable that Tenna thought that Spamton cares more about sponsor than him cause phone calls were important for Spamton. It's understandable why Tenna felt betrayed when Spamton left cause from his p.o.v. it looked like Spamton chose sponsor over him.

And this is why I think that Tenna said not again (the line when Tenna had mental breakdown during fight with Fan Gang which people thought was about Dreemurrs fighting but it could be about his fight with Spamton about sponsor). He was tired of Spamton focusing on sponsor and not on him. Hence why he wanted constant confirmations about Spamton's love hence why Tenna during his boss battle wanted everyone to repeat over and over again that they love TV (again watch that video guys please).

And if phone rang after Spamton signed the contract (or during the signing) with Tenna ofc Tenna would get mad that Spamton still focuses more on sponsor than their relationship.

But let's get to Spamton's p.o.v.

I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that Spamton at this point felt compelled to always answer phone calls cause sponsor gave him everything. Thanks to sponsor Spamton became a Big Shot. And thanks to that he met Tenna who wanted to get a Big Shot just like him. And I'm pretty sure that Spamton also thinks that him meeting Tenna is a gift from sponsor cause if he wasn't a Big Shot he wouldn't meet someone like Tenna. Sponsor gave him literally everything. So how and why Spamton wouldn't answer the phone call? And he most likely felt compelled due to losing his mind from the words phone caller told him. The words that Blue Addison only heard as garbage noise.

And here comes the second post I linked.

I 100% agree with this take.

And let's not forget that Spamton lost everything on the same day cause this what we get from perspective of Addisons. He had everything and one day he lost all of this.

I think that sponsor told Spamton on that last phone call that he will get deleted from existence.

It fits so well cause this explains why Spamton turned so pale.

And it explains why he ran away during the phone call. He had to get back quickly to his home. I bet that Spamton desparately tried to do anything to stop the process.

But you can't stop getting deleted from existence. Not when this is what happened in light world. And if Gaster is the one who is behind it then I wouldn't be surprised that he allows that not only because he didn't want Spamton to share the secret with Tenna when Tenna was supposed to die because of the prophecy but because he knew that Spamton would survive in the trash. I wouldn't be surprised that it was a part of his plan whatever that is ofc.

This theory also explains why Spamton looks like a walking and living corpse of Addison and why he's glitching and why he lost his mind. I bet that he was slowly losing his mind from all the shit sponsor told him and from what Spamton saw in shadow glass (iirc). But being deleted from existence would definitely speed up the process.

And after experiencing something so horrific it's not surprising why Spamton blames Tenna for this. Because it happened after he agreed to live with Tenna. After he agreed to share his secret and everything with Tenna. He wasn't supposed to do that.

And I think that remembering their last interaction (they were fighting) it made Spamton feel like Tenna never cared and only wanted his secret and fame. He probably felt that Tenna was only manipulating him.

Hence why when they met in studio and Spamton saw that Tenna still has Pippis it confirmed to him that Tenna actually still cares. It was all Spamton needed.

I'm genuinely heartbroken over all of this QwQ

[buckets-and-trees]

Currents Sweeping Through [I'm Your Man]

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark mafia Andy Barber x curvy Millennial female!reader Word Count: 3.8k Summary: You receive a surprising phone call while things progress with your impending nuptials.

Content/Warnings: forced engagement; use of pet name (sweetheart); smut (unprotected vaginal intercourse, sex in a public place)

Author Note: Happy SINday, hoes! A shorter installment, but hopefully just as aggravating satisfying!

Previous Part | Full Collection

You’re showered, dressed, feeling reasonably normal at the table with Andy, eating breakfast together, but as you stretch your arm to reach for an orange, you feel the soreness in your body from being well and thoroughly fucked the night before.

You try to keep your face nonchalant as you peel the orange.

The sun slants in through the kitchen’s east windows, gilding the marble island and picking out golden threads in Andy’s hair. He’s already dressed for work—crisp white shirt, blue tie, dark grey suit jacket today. You admire how he manages to look freshly pressed and casual at the same time.

"Are you planning to avoid eye contact with me all morning, or just until you finish the fruit?" he prompts, laying down his phone.

You reach for your coffee and take a sip to avoid answering immediately, and eye him over the rim of your cup, feeling the bruise of his hands on your hips like a dare. It would be nice, you think, to be capable of ordinary domesticity. Nice to just eat breakfast and laugh about wedding colors or guest lists, not weigh every moment for its undertone of strategy and surrender.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks.

“Mmm, very well after you had me fully spent, boneless, and drove every lingering thought from my head.”

He smirks. “Exactly what you asked for last night.”

You give him a look—playful, but edged—and pop a slice of orange between your lips. The memory of last night flashes hot beneath your skin. Maybe this is the way you’ll survive him: surrender to the moment, pick your battles, and let your body have the pleasures it craves while your mind keeps a running tally. Even now, you’re cataloging the moments of weakness and control like beads on a string.

Andy leans back, stretching with feline grace, and lets his eyes rest on you. You want to believe it’s affection, but you know yourself too well to surrender to that fantasy—his affection is another form of possession, and you are acutely aware which parts of you belong to him and which remain your own.

“What’s on today’s agenda?” you ask, tossing the last bit of orange into your mouth, tasting its acid sweetness.

Andy lifts a brow, considering you for a moment before answering. “The details of my day are better left a mystery to you.”

You snort, but something in his tone catches. “Is it a dangerous day, or just one of those endless meetings where you stare down a boardroom full of terrified men until someone soils themselves?”

“Why not both.” He takes a slow sip of coffee, gaze never leaving your face. “I have a call with a contact in London, a meeting downtown, a private lunch, and—if all goes well—a few hours to myself before dinner.” The different tone when he mentions the private lunch is just noticeable enough to register. You file it away alongside your other suspicions.

You peel off another orange segment for yourself. “And tonight?”

He sets his mug down, the sound precise. “Tonight my calendar is clear. For you.”

It’s said kindly, but you hear the other side: he expects you here with him.

You are about to retort, when Andy’s phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at the caller ID, then at you, and silences it with one flick of his finger. Yours buzzes half a second later, as if the universe demands symmetry, and it’s also a call, not a text, which is rare. You glance at the screen and almost drop the device: Uncle Robert. You’ve texted a few times, but haven’t seen or heard from your uncle in almost two years.

You look at Andy, whose eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, but you press accept and raise the phone to your ear.

“Uncle Rob?” you say, curious but wary.

On the other end, your uncle’s voice is bright and faintly incredulous. “I’m looking at a wedding invitation with your name on it. And I just called your mother, and she sounded like she’d won the lottery. Is it real?”

You step out onto the back terrace before you answer. “Yes, it’s real.”

There is a tangle of silence, as if Robert is parsing not just what you said, but how you said it. "Well, Christ, kid. In three weeks?”

“Yeah, it’s all happening really fast,” you say.

He is your mother’s younger brother, the one who used to sneak you candy before dinner, who’d take you to baseball games and let you sit in the good seats while he drank beer and explained the stats in a way that made sense, who had you and your sister over for summer adventures in New York City after he relocated there.

He lets a beat of silence fester, but then he laughs. “Your mother cried on the phone, you know that? Happy tears, like she can’t wait for this to happen.”

“If you already called Mom, why are you asking me if it’s real?” you laugh.

He sighs. “Look, I know I’ve been off the grid for a while. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, even though he can’t see it on the other end of the line. “No, we’re all busy these days.” And you genuinely meant it. You know your uncle traveled a lot for work, and you didn’t hold it against him. He’d always cared, and he always made up for his absence.

“Is he good to you?” Robert asks, his voice lowering into that cautionary register only overly protective lifelong bachelor uncles possess.

The question lands a little hard, a little sincere, and it draws more out of you than you meant to show. “He’s… really something. He takes care of me. He’s good in his way.”

Your uncle hums low. “He must be something, to get your parents on board. I’ll be keeping a close eye on him though.”

You smile, letting the warmth of the morning sun settle into your skin. “I’d like that. I want you there, Uncle Rob.”

“I’d come even if you didn’t want me,” he says.

Your heart swells and aches.

He seems to swallow hard, voice gentling. “You happy, kid?”

It isn’t the kind of question you expected, and you find yourself fumbling for the answer. You imagine Andy in the kitchen, probably able to overhear every word, his attention on you even now. You think of the endless house, the rush of the last month, the way your life has transitioned into something new and alarming. “I don’t know,” you say finally, honest as you can be. “As happy as I can be. It’s all just happened really fast.”

There’s another silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. “That’s the thing about the big changes,” your uncle says. “A little time, and you’ll know either way if you made the right call.” His tone has a rueful edge, a kind of melancholy you remember from one too many late-night conversations when you were both younger and more raw. “Just let me know if you need anything at all, okay. Day or night, I don’t care if you think I’m busy, one word, and I’m there.”

You close your eyes, feeling a young version of yourself—the one who idolized her uncle for every little kindness—flutter in your chest.

He sighs loudly, but it’s a happy sound. He says something about hotels and black suits and promises to get in early for the rehearsal dinner, and you hang up feeling a little more solid than before.

When you come back inside, Andy is still at the island, swirling the dregs of his coffee, eyes on the middle distance. His phone is turned over, screen black. You sense something cautious about the way he waits for you to speak first.

“Well,” you say, “I think you may have your work cut out to try and win over my uncle, and if you don’t, he’s likely to try to punch you out at the rehearsal dinner.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Andy says with a smirk, and the glint in his blue eyes is delight rather than intimidation. “Family loyalty is an admirable trait. Perhaps I’ll spar with him myself and see how I fare.”

You roll your eyes, but his smile—genuine for once, not a weapon—leaches some of your wariness. “He’ll eat you alive if you let him,” you warn.

“Good. I could use the exercise,” Andy counters.

You snort, pouring yourself more coffee. “God help us all.”

It feels strange, to joke together, uncoiled from the tension and power games that usually script your time with him. Your uncle’s question—are you happy, kid?—lingers in the back of your mind. What could have been is so tangled in good and bad with what is and what might be. But moments like this… if you can have enough of them, maybe they start to erase the moments you don’t want.

The next day your stomach is full of nerves and excitement all morning.

It’s wedding dress day.

With such little time before the wedding—and the circumstances of your totally unconventional engagement—this is the first thing you’re doing to celebrate and commemorate with those closest to you. Two of your three bridesmaids will be there along with your mom, and you’ll be texting pics and videos to Thea since it obviously didn’t make sense to try and get her to Boston twice in three weeks.

Mark and Shep drive you into town, butterflies in your stomach, and an odd and dizzying nostalgia for all the romcom cliches you’d grown up on swimming in your head. You wonder if it will feel completely performative, or if maybe the right dress can conjure up the euphoria you’re supposed to have when you try on the white dress and see yourself as a bride.

Your mom meets you downstairs at the bridal shop, already in tears, and your two local bridesmaids—"the Boston contingent," as you refer to them in your head—are both over-caffeinated and high on gossip. The shop staff welcome you warmly and usher you through a door into a private suite, which is decked out in white flowers and mirrored walls and there’s ample plush seating, and, impossibly, in the middle of it all:

“Thea!” you shriek, and the two of you rush each other, crying and laughing.

You nearly knock her over, unable to believe it, but yes, your best friend is here, in the flesh, wearing a floral dress you swear you’ve seen in photos as far back as 2016.

“You idiot,” she hisses, eyes sparkling with emotion. “Did you think I was going to miss this? Not when you have a husband with more money than god,” she whispers the last part so only you can hear.

There are tears and full-bodied laughter and a champagne glasses in everyone’s hands within seconds.

Your mother is bemused, radiant, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in years. The staff manage it all with gentle efficiency, and you savor the first minutes as you shed your jacket, take a real breath, and realize this, at least, is about you and the people you love.

It helps, you suppose, that your soon-to-be-husband has pre-paid for the entire experience, stocked the dressing room with your favorite pastries, and made sure you had carte blanche in the accessories department. There’s a small voice in you that wants to resent the extravagance, but why? Especially when one of those extravagances was your best friend being flown in from across the Atlantic.

There’s a scramble as everyone coos over Thea and demands travel stories as she claims a seat at the end of the velvet bench. Shep and Mark, ever the silent sentries, hang by the door in unassuming suits. You catch Shep’s eye, and he gives you a warm, complicit smile, as if to say, Look, it’s all coming together.

Back in the dressing room, you slip into the first dress the attendant brings, a complicated mesh-up of tulle and boning and improbable structure designed, you are certain, for someone with a completely different body than yours. There is a long zipper you can’t quite reach, and a row of covered buttons that seem like they’ll take a team of five to close. But when they do close it, and you step onto the little riser in front of the triple mirror, the room hushes.

“Holy—” one of your friends murmurs.

Your mother’s face scrunches up like she’s trying to stop a sneeze, but the tears are already streaming and she’s laughing at her own predictability. Thea grins at you, wolfish and bright.

“You look like the bride in a Fellini movie,” she says, and you’re not sure if that’s a compliment, but it feels like one.

It’s not the dress, but it makes you feel truly bridal, and it immerses you fully into wedding dress mode.

In the second dress, you feel more yourself. The sleeves are poetic and the skirt drapes nicely. The third dress has more elements that you like.

The fourth dress is almost absurdly beautiful, all silk and restrained elegance, as if designed for someone who gives nothing away. Your mother clasps her hands to her mouth, one of your friends starts to cry for real, and Thea, never one to be sentimental about clothes, simply nods her approval and says, “I could see you running an empire in that.”

Yet in the dressing room, you catch your own gaze in the mirror and see that you’re still searching.

You’re unzipping the back of the sample gown, struggling with the tiny teeth, when you hear a click and the door opens an inch. You’re about to call for help, but instead you freeze, suddenly aware of a familiar presence behind you.

Andy closes the dressing room door behind him.

You gasp, spinning to clutch the half-zipped dress to your chest. “Andy, you can’t be in here! It’s—” you search for the right word, your mind scrambling for a rule to hold against him, “it’s bad luck to see the bride in her gown before the wedding.”

He leans against the closed door, his expression somewhere between amused and proprietary. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says in a low voice, “we both know this isn’t going to be your dress.”

You want to snap something back, but you can’t move for a second, stunned by his audacity and by the way the dressing room seems to shrink around him. He steps closer, and in the reflection of the triple mirror you see his eyes flick over your exposed shoulders, the bare curve of your back, the precarious drape of the gown. He looks at you as though he can undress you with a glance, which, you realize, is probably not far from the truth.

You press your hands into the thick silk at your ribs, fighting to keep your voice level. “You can’t just—”

“That one’s nice, but it isn’t you.”

You stare, caught somewhere between outrage and a wild urge to laugh. “How would you know what’s me?”

He cocks his head, a slow smile spreading across his face—a look you’ve learned means he is already halfway down the path to getting what he wants, has in fact already mapped your capitulation and is just savoring the formalities.

“I thought we were past you underestimating how much I know and notice about you,” he says, stepping close enough that you feel his breath on your ear, his reflection in the mirrors swallowing the rest of the world. “Even now,” he adds, “with my ring on your finger, you’re still looking for a dress that feels like a rebellion.”

You shiver, because he’s not exactly wrong, but also not entirely right. You hold the silk tighter, suddenly aware of how little it covers and how much it reveals. You want to tell him to get out, that you need space, but the words evaporate when you meet his gaze. The look on his face isn’t just hunger—it’s admiration, and something else you can’t name. Maybe pride. Maybe awe.

He slides his hands to your shoulders, thumbs brushing the edge where fabric meets skin. His touch is electric, and you feel the charge run down your spine. “You’re trembling,” he observes, so softly you’re not sure if it’s a taunt or a promise.

You try to muster outrage but your body sings for more. You want to say something clever, call him out for being a cliché or a menace, but you can’t summon wit when his hands are already mapping your arms, your waist, the silk bodice. The mirrors multiply the spectacle: you and Andy, alone in this cathedral of bridal performance, the dress a white flag you never meant to raise.

“Andy,” you try again, but it’s more of a gasp than a protest.

He ushers you forward, closer to the mirrors. The zipper at your back is still half-stuck, but he tugs it down in a single, practiced motion. The gown nearly slides off your hips, but his hands are there, holding it in place. Your skin flushes everywhere he touches.

“I have two minutes before your mother gets suspicious,” he murmurs, and his hand is already under the skirt, finding the backs of your thighs. “Put your hands up on the glass.”

Without hesitation, you do as he asks, palms braced flat against the mirrored glass. Your reflection fragments around you, multiplying this forbidden tableau: you, half-draped in white silk, flushed and wide-eyed; Andy behind, suit immaculate, gaze unwavering, jaw set in a line that tells you no part of this is a joke to him.

You know what he wants the moment his hands climb your thighs, fingers deft and unrelenting, gathering the silk above your waist. In the mirror, you watch your own mouth part in expectation, cheeks flushing pink as he tugs your panties aside and runs the blunt heat of his cock along your seam, once, twice, before notching himself inside you.

"Keep your eyes open," Andy whispers, his breath hot over your neck as he presses at the base of your spine to get you to arch your back, to take him at a better angle. "Watch me fuck you."

You do. You watch: the white dress pooled at your hips, Andy’s suit so dark in contrast, the way your face gives everything away. He pushes into you slow, his eyes never leaving yours in the glass. Your fingers spread on the mirror, bracing, desperate for something to anchor you. Each slow thrust is obscene in its deliberateness, calculated for maximum effect—on your body, on your mind, on whatever part of you still thinks it could ever belong to anyone but him.

From the main room you hear the muffled laughter of your mother, Thea, and your friends. You picture them, just on the other side of a thin wall; the forbidden, obscene thrill of it ratchets the pressure inside you even higher. Your knees buckle, slightly, but Andy’s hand clamps your hip and holds you there, obliging you to take him, to see every moment of your own unmaking.

“You look perfect like this,” he says, the words vibrating through your ribcage. “Like you were made for it, sweetheart. For me.”

The display is humiliating and exhilarating; you wonder if this, too, is part of his calculations, but as he quickens, losing a little control, you suspect for once he might just want you that badly. His voice turns raspy as he loses the ability to keep the mask in place, and you see, in every glassy angle, how he watches your every reaction, as if your pleasure is both the point and the evidence of his dominance and devotion.

The friction, the risk, the inhibition, it’s all too much. You come embarrassingly fast, a wave of pleasure so sharp you nearly cry out. Andy’s hand covers your mouth just in time, eyes burning into yours in the mirror. He follows you half a second later, grip bruising at your hip as his own control slips and he chokes back a groan.

You both go still, breath ragged and uneven, his suit jacket a dark shroud behind your bare back, your palms still flat against the glass.

In the mirror, your eyes meet his. He looks nearly as undone as you, cheeks flushed, tie now slightly askew, a wildness in his face that both thrills and unsettles you. For once, you think, he isn’t in charge of the moment. For once, maybe, you’ve mastered him as surely as he has mastered you.

You both move at the same time—him reaching to right his tie, you hastily tucking the dress back up over your chest. Andy stoops, and you wonder what for, but then feel the coolness of a tissue wiping the mess away from your cunt, efficiently cleaning up the evidence of your mutual pleasure. He stands and kisses you, quick and rough, then sets his jaw and fixes his cuffs like nothing in the world is out of order as he steps past you to the door.

"Wait three minutes," he murmurs, "then come out in the next one." Then he’s gone, shutting the door with a soft click. It’s as though nothing happened, but your body buzzes with aftershock, the echo of his hands and the high-wire memory of your own ruin in front of the mirror.

In the quiet that follows, you try to school your face back to something bridal, not just debauched. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, and fix the slip of silk and the zipper as best you can, hands trembling with adrenaline and the sudden, illicit sweetness of having been claimed and seen at the same time. It leaves you hungering for more, which is both terrifying and, in its own way, a relief: at least the wanting is honest, even if nothing else is.

You gather yourself, and three minutes later run your hands over the front of the next dress, and step out. The small audience in the lounge—your mother, bridesmaids, and Thea—look up, their faces already primed for tears or squealing. No one suspects a thing. Maybe your hair is a little tousled, maybe your eyes a little dazed, but if anyone draws a conclusion from this, it’s that dress shopping is, as promised, emotionally overwhelming.

A wild Thea appearance!

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