#its for her own amusement and ONLY for her own amusement

[missdynamighttt]

okay not an ask but ive been dying to see some filo reader x katsuki 🙏🙏 katsuki would be so mesmerized he would learn to cook every dish there is and ask if it tastes like home UGH MY BABY

i know its NOT an ask but ><

katsuki wasn’t one to ask for help, but for you? he’d do anything.

you had been feeling a little down lately, and he knew that one of the things that always made you feel better was your favorite filipino dish. the only problem? he had no damn clue how to make it.

which is how he found himself pacing in the kitchen, his phone pressed to his ear as it rang.

"hello? sino 'to? (who's this?)" your mom’s voice came through, warm and familiar.

"hey, tita (auntie)," katsuki greeted, a little awkwardly but determined to speak at least a little bit of tagalog. "it's katsuki. i, uh… need your help with something... po."

"oh?" she sounded amused. "what is it, 'nak? (child?)"

he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "i wanna cook her favorite dish for her po, but... i dunno how. thought you could, y’know… teach me."

there was a pause, and then—laughter. "ay, ang sweet mo naman! (oh, you're so sweet!)"

he huffed, his cheeks warming. "tch. just help me out po, tita... please?"

your mom giggled but started giving him the instructions, step by step. katsuki listened intently, taking notes like it was the most important mission of his life. when he messed something up, your mom scolded him like he was her own son.

"no, no, not like that! ay nako (oh my gosh), katsuki, don’t burn it!"

"i’m not burning it!" he retorted, quickly adjusting the heat.

by the end of the call, he had the dish almost perfect—maybe not as good as your mom’s, but damn close.

"thank you po, tita," he muttered, a little embarrassed but genuinely grateful.

"of course, anak," she said fondly. "you take care of my baby, okay?"

he smiled softly. "always."

katsuki wasn’t the type to get nervous. he could take down villains, handle the most intense hero work, and push himself past his limits without hesitation.

but right now?

he had set everything up carefully—your favorite dish, cooked to the best of his ability, plated nicely in front of you. he sat across from you, arms crossed, but you could see the way his fingers tapped restlessly against his bicep.

"i know you’ve been feelin’ kinda down lately," he muttered, not quite meeting your eyes. "figured... maybe this would help."

you blinked at him, surprised, before looking down at the plate. your heart swelled. he did all of this for you?

"katsu..." you whispered, touched beyond words.

"just eat it already," he grumbled, trying to sound impatient, but you could see the way his jaw was tight, the slight furrow of his brows. he cared—he really cared.

so you took a bite.

the moment the flavors hit your tongue, a wave of emotions crashed over you. it wasn’t exactly like your mom’s, but it was damn close. the effort, the heart, the love behind it made it even better.

"this is amazing, kats," you said, looking up at him with genuine admiration. "how the hell did you pull this off? did you use a youtube tutorial? google recipes?"

katsuki scoffed, leaning back in his chair with a smug look. "tch. you think i’d trust some half-assed internet recipe?"

you raised an eyebrow. "then how—"

he huffed, looking away, suddenly seeming a little flustered. "called your mom," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "she walked me through it."

your eyes widened. "you called my mom?"

"yeah, yeah, don’t make a big deal out of it," he grumbled, avoiding your gaze. "figured if i was gonna do it, i’d do it right. so i asked the expert."

you stared at him for a moment, your heart swelling with warmth. "katsuki... that’s so—"

"shut up," he cut in quickly, face slightly pink. "just eat, dammit."

but you couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. he had gone out of his way to talk to your mom, to learn something that would comfort you. it wasn’t just about the food—it was about you.

you took another bite, savoring the taste and the love behind it.

"i love you, y’know that?" you said, smiling at him.

katsuki clicked his tongue, trying to act unaffected, but the way his ears burned gave him away. "yeah, yeah… i love you too. just finish your damn food."

but when you looked down at your plate again, you felt his hand reach for yours under the table, giving it a small, firm squeeze. and that, more than anything, told you exactly how much he cared.

katsuki watched you like a hawk, leaning in just slightly. "does it�� y’know… does it taste like home?"

your chest tightened, warmth blooming in your heart.

"it does," you murmured, squeezing his hand back. "it tastes like home because you feel like home, katsuki."

he stiffened for a second, almost not sure how to process your words.

"tch. sappy little shit," he muttered, but you could hear the smile in his voice, feel the way his grip tightened like he never wanted to let go.

"you're my home too, sweets."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[theonottsbxtch]

ANXIETY | CL16

an: this was a request by @iimplicitt, it's based off of the song by doechii and i had so much fun with this and so did she when i was writing it and she was watching me live.

warning: stalking, (not good for those with schizophrenia or ocd)

wc: 3.8k

SHE FELT IT AGAIN.

That unshakable, skin-crawling sensation creeping up her spine, settling like cold hands at the nape of her neck. The bus was crowded—no shortage of strangers pressed too close, their breaths and whispers mingling in the stagnant air—but this was different. Singular. Specific.

Her fingers clenched the strap of her bag as she forced herself to breathe in slow, deliberate counts.

One. Two. Three.

It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real.

She told her therapist last week—again—that she felt watched. That every room she entered held an extra pair of eyes, just out of sight. Dr. Rodgriguez had smiled gently, her voice syrup-smooth, and suggested grounding techniques. "Anxiety distorts reality," she’d said. "Your mind is crafting threats where there are none."

But what if it wasn’t?

She stepped off the bus into the drizzle, the sky a dull bruise above her. The city’s pulse carried on as normal—traffic groaning, conversations bleeding into one another—but beneath it all, she swore she could hear it. The sound of her own existence being observed.

She was losing her mind.

Charles, her ever charming coworker, was already waiting at the office when she arrived, his usual cup of coffee in hand, his usual easy smile in place. The small acts of kindness never failed to relieve her on those days where she was sure someone was watching her.

“You look tired,” he remarked, eyes flicking over her face with something she couldn’t quite place.

She forced a laugh, her grip tightening on her bag. “Didn’t sleep well.”

She didn’t add why.

She didn’t say that last night, she had woken up to the feeling of breath on her cheek—only to find her bedroom window, which she swore she had locked, standing slightly ajar.

She spent the morning drowning in emails, half-reading sentences that tangled and blurred. The office hummed with its usual monotony—phones ringing, keyboards clattering, conversations low and murmuring. But beneath it all, she could still feel it. That weight. That presence. Like something crouching just outside her field of vision.

Charles worked across from her, as he always did. A steady, unbothered rhythm. He had a way of making himself comfortable in spaces, like he belonged there, like he belonged anywhere.

Unlike her.

She twisted the ring on her finger—an old habit, skin raw from the constant friction. Her breath felt thin in her chest. She was losing it.

At lunch, she stepped outside for air, the city slick with fresh rain, neon signs bleeding colour onto the pavement. She pressed her back against the cold brick of the building and pulled out her phone.

Missed call: Dr RodriguezVoicemail (1:32 minutes)

Her thumb hovered over the play button.

Her reflection in the screen stared back—pale, exhausted, the dark smudges under her eyes betraying the war she was losing with sleep. A shadow shifted in the glass. Behind her.

She spun, pulse lurching—

Nothing.

Just a man lighting a cigarette. A couple laughing as they walked by. A row of windows, half-covered with blinds, office workers moving in faceless silhouettes.

She exhaled sharply, a bitter taste rising in her throat.

The voicemail could wait.

When she returned to her desk, Charles glanced up. His gaze lingered for a second too long.

“You alright?”

Her skin prickled. “Yeah. Fine.”

His lips twitched—something like amusement, or maybe curiosity. “Liar.”

She let out a breathless laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Because later, when she went home and locked the door behind her—checked it twice, three times, pressed her palm flat against the wood just to be sure—she found something strange.

Her bedside lamp was on.

She was sure she’d turned it off that morning. Positive.

And on her pillow, right where her head would rest—

A single red thread.

She stared at it, breath frozen in her throat. It was nothing. Had to be nothing.

But still, she didn’t sleep.

Not even when the exhaustion weighed heavy behind her eyes. Not even when the wind rattled the window, whispering secrets into the night.

Somewhere, in the dark space between awake and dreaming, she thought she heard something.

A breath.

Or maybe—

A laugh.

The night stretched long and thin, stitched together with half-dreams and the restless shifting of sheets. She lay still, spine pressed to the mattress, listening to the house breathe.

The radiator groaned. The pipes whispered. The walls held their silence.

But something else lingered in the quiet. A weight in the air, thick and cloying, curling like smoke around the edges of her perception.

She stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks that bloomed like veins.

Had those always been there?

The red thread still sat on her pillow, untouched. A pinprick of colour in the dim glow of her bedside lamp. A thread, a thread, a thread—what did it mean? Had it fallen from her coat? Had she brought it in with her, unknowingly?

Or had it been left?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to sit up. Her limbs felt like lead. She hadn't eaten. Hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Maybe this was it—maybe this was where the mind unraveled, thread by thread, until nothing was left but loose ends.

By morning, she was still awake.

Still breathing. Still whole.

But something had shifted.

On the way to work, the world felt sharper. The footsteps behind her landed too precisely, too in sync with her own. The reflections in shop windows seemed delayed, moving a fraction of a second too late, as if something was pretending to be her shadow but hadn't quite learned the rhythm.

Inside the office, the air smelled sterile—paper and coffee and something metallic underneath. She took her seat. Logged in. Tried to exist like a normal person.

But Charles was watching her.

Not obviously. Not overtly.

But in the way his fingers hovered too long over his keyboard before he typed. In the way his head tilted, just slightly, when she wasn’t looking.

She wondered what he saw when he looked at her.

Did she look different? Changed?

Did he see the exhaustion pressed deep into the hollows of her face? The way she flinched when someone walked too close?

Or did he see something else entirely?

“Long night?” His voice was smooth, threading into the static hum of the office.

She forced a smile, brittle and thin. “Something like that.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily. “You should sleep more. Bad things happen when you don’t.”

Her heart stammered against her ribs.

It was nothing. Just a comment.

But then he smiled.

And she could have sworn—sworn on everything, on her bones, on her breath—that there was something lurking beneath it.

Something that knew.

She spent the morning in a daze, thoughts tangled like static-wrapped wires, her body running on muscle memory. Click. Type. Scroll. Blink.

She was here, but she wasn’t here.

Her skin felt stretched too tight over her bones, her nerves pulled like violin strings, ready to snap. She couldn’t shake the sensation of movement in her periphery—shapes that flickered and disappeared the second she turned to look.

At some point, she found herself gripping her coffee cup too hard, fingers white-knuckled around the paper rim. She hadn’t even taken a sip.

Then—

A touch.

Light. Fleeting. A simple press of fingers against her shoulder.

But it was wrong.

Too sudden, too unexpected, too much.

She flinched so violently the coffee lurched from her hands, a dark flood spilling down her front, scalding against her skin.

“Shit.” Her breath hitched. The world tilted, heat and embarrassment crawling up her neck like vines.

A chuckle. Low. Smooth.

Charles.

She barely registered him moving before he was already there, grabbing a handful of napkins from her desk, his hands careful as he pressed them against the fabric of her blouse.

“Easy,” he murmured, dabbing at the mess. “You’re jumpy today.”

Jumpy. Jumpy. Like a rabbit caught in the open, trembling under the weight of unseen eyes.

She swallowed, tried to laugh it off. “Didn’t hear you walk up.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His lips curled, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. “Here, let me—”

He shrugged off his suit jacket, offering it to her. She hesitated, but the damp chill of coffee clinging to her skin made the decision for her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, slipping it over her shoulders.

And then—

Something stopped her.

Something small. Insignificant.

Something that shouldn’t have meant anything at all.

The lining of his jacket.

Red.

The exact same shade as the thread on her pillow.

The world shuddered around her, sound fading into a distant hum. Her fingers twitched against the fabric, stomach twisting into something ugly, something sharp.

Coincidence. It was a coincidence.

Wasn’t it?

She forced herself to move, to breathe, to exist like a normal person.

“Better?” Charles asked, tilting his head slightly.

She nodded. Swallowed the unease sticking to the back of her throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”

She turned away too quickly, focusing on her phone as she unlocked it with shaking hands.

Me: Hi, Dr. Rodriguez. Can I book an urgent appointment? Please.

The message sent.

Her pulse thundered beneath her skin.

She wasn’t crazy.

She wasn’t.

But then why did she feel like the walls were closing in?

And why, when she glanced up, was Charles still watching her?

Smiling.

Like he knew something she didn’t.

She was at Dr. Rodriguez’s office by 5. The office smelled like lavender and something sterile underneath. A candle burned low on the desk, its wax pooled like melted bone.

She sat curled in the chair, wringing her hands in her lap. The fabric of Charles’ jacket - wait no, her own jacket - felt heavier than it should.

“I just feel… like I’m falling out of myself,” she said finally, voice fraying at the edges. “Like I’m in my body, but not in my body. Like something else is watching through my eyes.”

Dr Rodriguez hummed, scribbling something down. “You’ve mentioned before that your anxiety manifests as hyper-vigilance. Do you feel unsafe?” 

Yes.

No.

Both.

She liked her lips. “I- I keep finding things.”

Dr. Rodriguez looked up. “Things?”

“Threads,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Red ones. In places they shouldn’t be. My room, my pillow, my clothes.”

She expected Dr. Rodriguez’s expression to shift - concern, curiosity, something - but she only nodded. As if this were expected. As if she were predictable.

“Anxiety has a way of creating patterns where there are none. The brain seeks familiarity, even in chaos. It’s why we see faces in clouds, shapes in shadows.”

A pause. A careful glance.

“I’m going to prescribe you something. A low dose anti-anxiety medication. It should help take the edge off.”

She stared. “That’s it?”

“You’re exhausted,” Dr. Rodriguez said, her voice kind but firm. “Your mind is playing tricks on you. Get some rest. Take the medication. I promise, things will feel clearer soon.”

She wanted to believe her.

She really did.

When she got home, her body moved on autopilot. Kicked off her shoes. Shed her coat. Pressed her fingers against the lock on the door, just to make sure. 

Her bedroom was the same as she had left it. No signs of intrusion- there never was. No misplaced objects - except for the single red thread lying on the floor beside her bed.

She saw it.

She left it.

If she ignored it, it wouldn’t mean anything.

Maybe it would stop existing altogether.

She swallowed the first dose of the medication with a sip of water, barely tasting it. Lay down. Stared at the ceiling until sleep finally dragged her under.

________________________________________________________________________

The following morning the office smelled like paper and burnt coffee, the usual hum of keyboards and distant chatter wrapping around her in something close to normalcy.

Until she reached her desk.

And stopped breathing.

Bundles.

Neat, deliberate bundles of red threads sat in a perfect row across her desk.

Knotted. Tied. Arranged like little offerings.

Her vision blurred. The office warped and swayed around her. The walls stretched, bending toward her like hungry things.

A gasp caught in her throat, sharp and strangled.

“He’s here.”

Her own voice. But distant, warped, broken.

Louder now-

“He’s here.”

She was shaking, hands white-knuckled at her sides. The air felt thick, pressing in, suffocating.

People turned. Stared. The office held its breath.

Then-

Arms wrapped around her.

Too tight. Too sudden.

Charles.

His voice was a low murmur against her ear. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Breathe. You’re safe.”

Her blood turned electric. She thrashed against him.

“Get off me!”

He pulled back immediately, hands raised in surrender. Confusion flickered across his face.

“What?”

She stumbled backward, chest heaving, her heart a live animal clawing at her ribs.

“I-” her throat closed up. Everyone was watching her. Eyes wide. Concerned.

The bundles of thread sat silently on her desk. Mocking her. 

Charles was still staring at her, brows drawn together, lips parted like he was about to say something but had no idea what.

And all she could think was—

What if he didn’t put them there?

Then who did?

The walls loomed closer. The room pulsed like a living thing.

She needed to get out.

Now.

The office was a blur.

A mess of wide eyes and half-formed whispers. The air was thick. Too thick, pressing against her ribs like it was trying to crack it open. 

Charles stood there frozen, hands still raised from when she’d pushed him away.

“What the fuck?” His voice was sharp but confused, eyebrows drawn together like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that didn't make sense. 

Her breath hitched in her throat. She took another step back. “Leave me alone.”

His expression flickered—something like hurt, quickly masked by disbelief. “I am leaving you alone. What’s going on?”

The room swayed. 

“The thread,” she whispered, voice cracking. “It’s the same.” 

Charles blinked, his confusion deepening. “The what? The same as what?!”

“The thread!” She was shouting now, wild, frantic, barely recognising the sound of her own voice. “The red thread—on my pillow, on my floor—on my desk! It’s yours, I know it’s yours!”

Her colleagues shifted uncomfortably, a few exchanging glances.

Charles exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turned toward the others, an almost pleading look on his face. “I don’t know what she’s on about.”

She grabbed at her temples, squeezing her eyes shut against the sudden ache drilling into her skull.

“You’re lying,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You— you have to be. It’s the same colour as your suit jacket!”

Charles hesitated. Then, in one slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the edge of his suit jacket.

“You mean this?”

He lifted it, exposing the lining.

She braced herself. She knew what she’d see.

But—

Navy.

Not red. Not even close.

A deep, unremarkable navy.

“The thread of all my clothes is navy,” Charles said, his voice careful now, like he was speaking to a wild animal. “My family colours. Always has been.”

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

Her knees gave out. The floor slammed into her, cold and merciless. The room stretched, warped, swallowed itself whole.

It wasn’t possible.

She’d seen it. She knew.

Hadn’t she?

Somewhere, distantly, she could hear people talking. Someone kneeling beside her. A hand on her shoulder. But it all blurred into static, white noise flooding her ears.

The threads.

The threads were real.

Weren’t they?

Her lungs stuttered, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

Something was wrong.

Something was watching her.

And now—

Now she had no idea what was real anymore.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her chest heaved, lungs burning, but the air wasn’t getting in. The walls were too close, pressing in, suffocating. The voices around her blurred, merging into an indistinct hum.

Someone said her name.

Her hands curled into fists against the carpet.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

But it was. It had to be.

The thread. The thread was real.

So why—why wasn’t anyone else seeing it? Why was Charles standing there, looking at her like she was unraveling at the seams?

She squeezed her eyes shut, a broken sob tearing from her throat.

And then—

A touch.

Gentle. Careful. A hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

She flinched.

“Hey.”

Charles.

His voice was softer now, cautious, like he was afraid she might shatter if he spoke too loudly.

She blinked up at him, her vision warped with tears. His face hovered above her, blurred and unreadable.

“I—” Her voice failed her. Her entire body trembled, her limbs useless, her breath stuttering between sobs.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he crouched beside her, his hand still resting on her shoulder—warm, grounding, real.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted, voice low, steady. “But I think you need to breathe.”

She shook her head, curling in on herself. “I can’t.”

She felt him shift closer. Felt the warmth of him, steady against the cold creeping under her skin.

“Yeah, you can.” His hand traced slow circles against her back, a careful reassurance. “Just follow me, okay? In—” He inhaled, deep and slow. “And out.”

Her breath hitched.

Charles exhaled, patient.

“In—”

She tried. Gasped. Stumbled.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Again.”

She did. A little steadier this time. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeve, gripping onto something solid.

Somewhere in the fog of her mind, she knew this was wrong.

She shouldn’t be letting him touch her. She shouldn’t be folding into him like this, shouldn’t be shaking against his chest like a wounded thing.

But he was there.

Holding her up when everything else was slipping away.

So she let herself break.

She pressed her forehead into his shoulder, her tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, her body wracked with silent sobs.

Charles stilled.

Then, carefully, he wrapped his arms around her.

Not too tight. Not suffocating. Just… holding.

“It’s okay,” he murmured against her hair. “You’re okay.”

She wasn’t.

She wasn’t.

But right now, with his arms around her, she could almost pretend.

Almost.

The office buzzed around them, a distant, faraway thing. She barely registered the murmurs, the hesitant shuffling of her colleagues. Someone asked if they should call someone. Someone else asked if she needed water.

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

All she could do was cling to Charles, her fingers still fisted in his sleeve, her body betraying her, seeking warmth in the one person she shouldn’t trust. Or could she? He was her coworker - he hasn’t done anything wrong or had he? 

He didn’t push her away.

Didn’t rush her.

Just held her, quiet and patient, his breath steady against her hair.

“You’re okay,” he murmured again, and for one stupid, fleeting moment, she almost believed him.

Then—

A shift. A presence.

Someone—one of her colleagues—was stepping forward, hesitant. “Hey, maybe we should—”

Charles cut them off. “She needs space.” His voice was firm, edged with authority. “Let’s not overwhelm her.”

The others hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances.

“She should go home,” someone muttered.

“She shouldn’t be alone,” another whispered.

Charles exhaled through his nose. “I’ll take her.”

The words barely registered. She was still drowning, still struggling to piece reality back together.

Then his fingers brushed against hers, a silent request.

“Let me take you home,” he said gently. “You need to rest.”

She should have said no.

She should have.

But the world was tilting, her thoughts unraveling at the edges, and Charles was the only solid thing left to hold onto.

So she nodded.

The journey to her flat was slow, every streetlight flickering past like a ghost of normalcy. Her head was a fog, thoughts slipping in and out like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands. She couldn’t keep track of time, couldn’t feel the cold or the warmth—just the distant hum of the car engine and Charles’ quiet presence beside her.

When they arrived, he didn’t immediately leave. He stayed by her side, guiding her up the stairs with gentle hands, his movements smooth, reassuring.

“You should rest,” he murmured, voice soft but insistent, leading her into her flat like a caretaker, like someone who belonged here.

Everything felt too calm.

Too... right.

The flat smelled of tea and the faint scent of lavender, warm and inviting. Charles wasted no time. He pushed her to sit on the couch, draped a blanket over her shoulders.

“Just stay here for a moment,” he said, almost lovingly. “I’ll make you something.”

She nodded, too tired to argue.

The sound of the kettle boiling, the clink of cups, the soft shuffle of his footsteps. He was so attentive, so gentle. The care in his touch felt almost safe—and that was the problem.

She should have known better.

Her eyes fluttered shut, the exhaustion taking over. She barely registered him moving behind her, gathering her hair gently. The soft brush of his hands against her neck.

Then—

A knot.

A pull of fabric.

She blinked, confused. Her heart skipped a beat.

Something was wrong.

She couldn’t quite place it. But the way he was tying her hair—his fingers moving with a precision that felt… too familiar—too careful—

There it was again.

The thread.

The red thread.

She caught a glimpse of it, bright against the dark strands of her hair. Her pulse quickened. Her stomach lurched.

No.

Not again.

Her breath grew shallow. Red. The thread was red.

No.

She stood up, her vision spinning as she backed away, shaking her head. “No, no, no—”

Charles was still standing there, an almost serene expression on his face as he finished securing the knot. “There, all done. You’ll feel better now.”

But her mind was spiraling. She could feel her chest tightening. Her hands were clammy.

“I—I told you, I don’t want this. I don’t—” Her voice cracked. “The thread, Charles. The red thread—it’s the same.”

Charles blinked, his brow furrowing as he took a step closer, his voice soft. “It’s just thread, love. Nothing to worry about.”

But she wasn’t listening anymore. Her heart was racing in her chest, the world narrowing until there was only him—only Charles, standing there with the red thread, with the calm, reassuring look in his eyes.

Her legs buckled beneath her, the room spinning. Her body betrayed her, forcing her to collapse back onto the couch. She gasped for air, clutching her chest as if the pressure was crushing her.

Charles was beside her instantly, lifting her up, his hands warm and gentle as he helped her settle back against the cushions.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice soothing, steady. “You’re safe now.”

The tea. The thread. His presence.

The weight of it all pressed against her, dulling her senses, pulling her under like quicksand.

She blinked up at him, her vision growing hazy. “I— I don’t feel…”

“I know,” Charles said quietly, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. “You’re tired. You need rest. I told you I’d take care of you. Like I always have.”

And before she could protest, before she could make sense of the words or the thoughts crowding her mind, everything went black.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

[pythonmoth]

cw: post-traumatic stress disorder. simon is a veteran. simon has a prosthetic leg. one talking snake. fluff. brief mentions of war. author likes Nickelback, so it will fit here one way or another.

Never Gonna Be Alone

Simon Riley x f!Reader.

Last | Next

The next time Simon sees you, he makes a fool of himself.

Tommy convinced him to buy speakers, because his phone can only do so much. They're supposed to be the best, better quality or something. He wasn't sure he believed that, but he can't connect them so that's already looking grim for him.

Riley's staring at him from the couch in the living room, belly up, and Simon's trying his best to set it all up. Really, its ridiculous. He can shoot guns, blow up in pieces and survive, but he can't set the stupid speakers.

He probably should've checked the instructions, but they're inside the box in the kitchen and he's not going to move, and Riley's nearly falling asleep so he won't disturb his daemon either.

Anyway.

It takes him ten minutes to hear a dinging sound from them.

"Right. Okay, buddy, I think I got it. Let me see if it works..." he mumbles, sitting next to Riley, and finally connecting his phone.

He didn't check the volume, because of course he didn't, so when the song starts it's too late.

Fucking Burn it the Ground by Nickelback blasts through the speakers, at 8am on a bloody Sunday. It makes him flinch so hard he drops his phone.

Riley whines, howling at him to turn it off but Simon is too busy being embarrassed and, instead of taking his phone back like a normal person would, he dives for the speakers.

Ouch, Riley sends through their bond. Simon can feel Riley's pain in his own ears.

Finally, he manages to find the button and turns them off. Face heated, he smacks his forehead with his palm. "If they didn't hate us, they surely do now. Sorry, Riley".

He reaches out to scratch under his daemon's muzzle. Riley's eyes are annoyed, but their bond is filled with fondness.

"Good doggy" Simon teases, flicking Riley's fluffy ears. "Now play dead".

His daemon chomps down on his hand at the teasing.

A knock interrupts their little bonding moment. Instantly, Riley's ears are up, tail swaying, and Simon already has an idea of who might be behind the door.

When he turns the handle, he sees you. He's momentarily stunned by the beautiful snake that's resting on your shoulders, her dark scales glistening with the morning sun, and... there's a big wet spot on your hoodie.

"Hi. You guys are loud" Viper hisses lowly, sliding down your arm until she's hovering over Riley's head, making the dog's tail sway faster. The snake grins, all fangs.

"I apologize, Viper" Simon chuckles, his amusement evident. The way your lips purse when you realize he caught your daemon's name the other day, is just adorable. "Good morning".

"Er... morning. Listen, I enjoy good music as much as everyone, but not at eight in the morning, please?" you grumble, blinking at him. The dark circles under your eyes are much bigger and darker this time. "Also, you owe me a coffee. And another hour of sleep".

Simon can't even feel embarrassed, because Riley's filling their bond with play, pretty, play, pretty. Maybe it's Simon sending the pretty part. Who cares. Simon tries to send a calming tug anyway, but Riley's not paying attention to him, fully focused on you and your daemon.

When you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak, he clears his throat. "I'm so sorry. I was checking these new speakers and I... didn't know how to make them work".

"You don't talk? It's okay if you don't talk" he hears Viper hiss softly towards Riley, now down on your leg and moving closer to his daemon.

"You need help with those? I'm already awake after all" you smile. It's easy to see you're teasing, but Simon's so overwhelmed by Riley's emotions filling their bond that he nearly chokes on them, and he can't think.

"I've... I've already made them work" he manages, waving a dismissive hand at your offer. "It's alright. I'll make sure not to disturb you again".

He sees you falter, but you give him a nod, a small smile on your lips.

Ugh, Riley tugs on their bond, yuck. Or is it Simon? He's not sure.

"I wanna play. Can we stay a bit?" Viper hisses, and Simon's eyes lock with Viper. You're definitely feeling shy, if Viper's tail coiling around your ankle tells him anything.

"Viper, I'm not sure if they—" you start, flustered, but she interrupts you.

"Please?" Viper insists, looking at him. "I won't ask about your leg again, I'm sorry. Please don't be mad".

Viper looks shocked at the sudden affection, but Simon can tell she's pleased. You, however, can't look away from Riley, your lips parted in surprise.

Simon hears you yelp, your eyes wide as you stare at your daemon. Riley whines softly, instantly moving to sniff and nuzzle on Viper's head, trying to sooth her.

Simon suddenly understands the way you keep shifting from foot to foot, why you can't seem to meet his eyes properly.

It takes you a moment, but you manage to turn to Simon. He knows. He definitely know what you're feeling.

"It's okay to be curious. We're not upset at all, truly" Simon reassures you both. Riley growls lowly in agreement, stepping back from Viper. Simon, too, opens the door properly, giving you space. "I don't drink coffee, but... how about tea?"

"She's... we're both sorry about the other day. I don't stop her from asking things, but it wasn't our place to question anything like that, and it was wrong" you mumble, your hand rubbing your left arm. Shy. Shut off.

Gods, he's fucked. He's so fucked.

The soft smile you give him is enough for him to fully admit it is him calling you pretty.

"A bomb?" Viper hisses, currently curled around Riley's middle. She's truly a nosy, clingy thing. "Didn't it hurt?"

Simon can't help but smile when you grunt, clearly embarrassed by her curiosity. "Oh yeah. It hurt a lot. We're fine now".

He's not going to mention it hurts from time to time. He can't worry the pretty snake's head like that. The doctor said it was trauma and not real, anyway. With a low growl, Riley stands up carefully so Viper doesn't fall off of him and takes her outside, no doubt to show her the pond.

That leaves the two of you alone.

"How are you liking the neighborhood, Simon? You're a celebrity around here already" you tease him with a smile, nursing your tea carefully.

He can only scoff. "A celebrity? They're scared of me. But... I like it here. They're not half bad and Riley has space, so that's perfect".

"You know the bad image people have of veterans. It's not right, but it's hard to make them understand you're not gonna kill them in their sleep" you mumble, shaking your head.

Simon nods, fully aware of it. He's also too young to be a veteran in people's eyes, so that's another thing they probably don't understand. He doesn't mind, not really. They haven't bothered him or Riley, so he doesn't truly care.

"You seem okay with having a crazy veteran as your neighbor" Simon mentions, his eyes twinkling.

"Please, if you have turtles in your backyard, how bad can you be?" you say, grinning.

That's all he needed to know.

He guides you to the backyard, showing you what he did with it, tells you how he transported his fish and how he fixed it so the turtles couldn't escape the pond again. He's not even looking at you as he speaks, pointing at his fish, excited to be heard.

Not even half an hour later, you know it all about his fish, what they eat and their favorite temperature. He tells you the carp was supposed to be food, he tells you about the little alligator gar that didn't make it past two years.

He even tells you their names, not that he expects you to remember them all.

He just couldn't stop talking, not when you kept asking and asking, looking so interested.

"Okay. So the little one I had in my backyard is... Lucy?" you ask him again, sitting cross-legged in front of the pond.

"Yeah. The green one" he nods, pointing at the little troublemaker.

Both of you turn at the same time when there's a small splash on the pond. Riley's jumped in, Viper wrapped around his neck as he swims along with the fish. Her giggles make them both grin.

It's not uncommon for daemons to touch each other, but they're usually reserved about it, even shy at first. It's mostly between family, or very close friends, including partners. Probably not your neighbors.

Humans can feel what their daemon feels: touches, licks, nuzzles, scratching, but it's muffled, as if they were touched over their clothes. But daemon's are very sensitive to their humans' emotions, and are completely unreserved about it.

If they like you, or if they can't stand the sight of you, they will let you know.

Unlike humans, who like pretending and learn to mask their emotions so there's no vulnerability, daemons are true to themselves. That's why there are humans who train their daemons to "behave". Like animals, like pets.

Simon, however, is very pleased to see how shameless Riley and Viper are. It tells him you're not one to control Viper on her emotions, and he likes that, because he's the same.

It's hard, sometimes. He might be embarrassed when he tries to mask his happiness for whatever stupid reason, and Riley is next to him swaying his tail, or even when he tried pretending to be okay in front of his brother, and Riley was a ball of sadness next to him.

Hiding his crushes in high school was not easy, especially not with how chatty Riley used to be.

"He told me your hair is pretty. Did he tell you he made you a playlist? We can go out. Want to go play?"

That hasn't really changed, it seems.

"They seem to get along" you hum, leaning back on your hands as you relax, your smile radiant.

"They do" he says, meeting your eyes for a long moment. You just stare back, your expression calm.

Feeling a tug on their bonds, Riley and Viper turn to see you both, but when they realize you're lost in your little world, they both roll their eyes and keep on swimming. Riley's very careful not to move too harshly, and Viper's careful not to squeeze too much.

Finally, Simon breaks the comfortable silence, keeping his voice low. "Are you hungry? I can cook something, if you'd like".

"I'll help you" you nod, your eyes twinkling so much he has to look away for a moment.

"Very well. Lets leave them—"

And then your phone rings.

"I'm so sorry. It's from work. Just give me a moment" you grunt, looking grim.

Simon listens to you speak quickly in a language he doesn't understand, but then you turn back to him, and he knows you're not staying.

"I have to go" you confirm. He nods, standing up and holding out his hand for you. You give him an apologetic smile as you take it, standing up. "I work from home, but they need me to do it quickly. Next time, I'll tell you what I do for a living".

Next time. He likes that.

"Viper, come on" you call out, getting closer to the two daemons in the pond. He watches as you stick out your hand, very careful not to touch Riley as he gets closer, and Viper slides over your arm.

Riley's eyes are on you, and Simon wants to crawl into the tiniest cave and die, because what the fuck?

You grin at Riley and your hand twitches, as if you were ready to touch him, and Simon's sure he's going to fucking faint. But then you're taking a step back and Riley follows quickly, making sure not to get water on you when he shakes the water off.

Simon pretends his face isn't burning as he guides you to the front door.

"Can we come tomorrow?" Viper hisses, her shiny head on top of yours. "Please?"

Once again, you don't correct her, and Simon wants to eat his fist.

"Of course. Any time" he answers, his smile gentle.

When you two leave, Simon turns to Riley, who's now soaking the couch, his tail swaying softly, clearly content.

"You're fucked, buddy" Simon tells him, and Riley huffs, rolling his eyes.

Simon decides to hide his face in his daemon's fluff for the rest of the morning.

They're both fucked.

WELL, I wasn't sure I liked this update, but I've read it multiple times and I'm satisfied w it so that's fine. I love Riley and I love Viper. and, if you didn't notice, the title is also a Nickelback song.

taglist: @kittygonap @rayrayyio @lostintransist @kalieros @catsfatjoint

[yandere-paramour]

"I want him dead."

"You don't understand, Noelle," Ata's voice hardened, startling Noelle into a barely imperceptible flinch. She had heard Ata's anger many times but had never been on the receiving end of it. As pathetic as it was, she couldn't help but become a little child again, trying to look contrite enough to escape a slap because she had done something as unforgivable as to spill her milk or miss a question on her homework.

"I don't just want him ruined. I want him dead," Atalanta hissed, hands twitching like she was barely restraining them from hitting someone. Had she ever hit someone before? Perhaps in training or a playful punch on the arm between friends, but not real. Never real.

"I-I understand, Ms. Montclair. I will contact him immediately," Noelle hated herself for the momentary tremor in her voice. Pull yourself together. You're not a child.

Noelle left the office without another word, needing to escape Atalanta's oppressive atmosphere. Her eyes momentarily found the small bowl of chocolate truffles on her desk. This week was dark chocolate cappuccino, a particular favorite of hers. She ached to pop one in her mouth, to feel the cloying sweetness and bitter coffee envelop her tongue, but that was for later. She had work to do now.

Noelle pulled out the unmarked cell phone from the locked box under the hidden compartment of her desk. There was only one contact, and unless there was an emergency, he would pick up within the first three rings. Atalanta was a particularly important client; whatever inane business he did whenever Atalanta and Noelle weren't in the room was irrelevant. Atalanta had more than enough money to draw his attention.

"You've reached Zachariah," The smooth, slow voice answered in its mildly amused tone, "How may I help you today?"

Noelle ignored the joking air, "Civilian, living on Maple Street. We need the camera and laptop and we need to make it look like an accident. 5k."

To his credit, Zachariah cut the bullshit, "Send me the information. I can have it done by the end of the week. Do you want them to suffer?"

"Terribly."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Atalanta put her head on her desk, hands on her knees, and tried in vain to calm down. Poor Darling was distraught; multiple security reports over the last hour have reported her having shut herself up in their room, crying audibly behind the locked door. Noelle had graciously allowed her own precious girlfriend to leave the sanctity of her apartment and go to the penthouse, but it wasn't enough. Atalanta needed to be there.

She grit her teeth, furious. Atalanta had been an important subject of the local paparazzi since her birth but this was different. This was Darling. Atalanta had promised that life with her would be comfortable and luxurious, and now your personal information is leaked. And not just your personal information, your body.

Your lovely body. Only Ata was supposed to behold you, and only in the comfort of your marital bed, but that bastard snuck into your changing room and caught you topless, and then had the gall to send threats, promising to release the photos to the world if not for 100k in unmarked bills. Atalanta ground her perfect teeth.

You were hers.

Hers.

Simply sending a goon to smash his camera and laptop wasn't enough. Plucking out his eyes wasn't enough. Even cutting off his filthy dick wasn't enough.

For the crime of making you cry, he needed to die.

Atalanta tried to calm down and breathe. Zachariah could handle it. He would handle it. She had no doubt about that; the man was a professional. The problem was that Atalanta wanted to... assist. Usually, she preferred to keep her hands clean, to distance herself from whatever boundaries of calamity Zachariah allowed from his men, but your purity was compromised here, your personhood.

Atalanta had seen the white, viscous liquid splattered on the photos of the demand letter. Disgusting.

But Ata knows she doesn't have the stomach for torture, and the death needed to look like something common like a car accident or heart attack. As much as she wanted to carve the Montclair name into his revolting flesh, there were things that mattered more than direct revenge.

You mattered more than that.

Atalanta swept her few things into her bag and called you. You picked up on the second ring, her perfect Darling girl. Your melodious voice might not have been sobbing, but she could sense the hitch in your voice, could hear the way you sniffled pitifully.

"It's all taken care of, my love. It's okay," Atalanta put back on her suit jacket and fixed her hair, "I'm coming home right now. I'll run you a bath and we can order in from that Thai place you like. It's okay."

You must have garbled something about feeling scared.

"I know, sweetheart, I know," Ata cooed, "I'm leaving right now. Hold on for ten more minutes. I'll take care of you. Let me take care of you."

Atalanta marched out of her office, calling orders. As soon as Noelle finished her task and called the car around, she could leave. Any important business that couldn't wait until morning could be emailed.

Bodyguards naturally fell into their flanks as Ata hurried from the building. The driver greeted her but she paid him no mind, and he got the picture. As the car began to move, Atalanta bit her lip, willing time to pass faster. An idea brewing, she texted Noelle to stop by the bakery on 5th before it closes. Three caramelized apple tarts with cinnamon vanilla drizzles, and drop them at the penthouse on the way home.

Don't worry, Darling. Ata's coming. She'll fix it. Don't worry.

[goblin-jr]

Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Complete

part 1 . part 2 . part 3 . part 4 . part 5

blurbs masterlist (coming soon)

Summary: the truth comes out (the remix). endings

words: 7.4k

💌 💌 💌 💌

Metropolis was a storm of its own, a far cry from the quiet charm of Smallville. With Y/N’s album launch just days away, life had become a blur of rehearsals, interviews, and last-minute changes. She and Clark barely saw each other, both caught in the relentless pace of their own worlds.

Clark, back at the Daily Planet, had buried himself in work—investigative pieces, city politics, and, of course, the occasional Superman duty that pulled him away at a moment’s notice. Their interactions since returning had been limited to a few exchanged texts, mostly inside jokes from the farm and brief updates about their chaotic schedules.

But Clark had been keeping an eye on her.

Even if Y/N didn’t say it outright, he could see the pressure weighing on her. She carried herself as she always did—effortless, confident, every bit the superstar—but the exhaustion was creeping in at the edges. The late nights, the constant demands on her time, the weight of an entire industry’s expectations pressing down on her shoulders.

And then, the incident happened.

It was late—too late. Y/N had just wrapped up another grueling day, the kind that left her drained beyond words. She hadn’t even had time to eat, barely able to keep track of her own movements as she finally slid into the driver’s seat of her car. Her mind was fogged with exhaustion, so much so that she didn't notice a car run a red light, hitting a pole right next to hers.

She didn’t miss the explosion that followed.

The blast ripped through the night, a deafening boom sending flames surging over the hood. Panic seized her chest. The door—stuck. Smoke filled the cabin, thick and suffocating. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she struggled, knowing she only had seconds before the fire swallowed everything.

Then, suddenly—

The door was gone. No, not gone—ripped clean off its hinges as if it were made of paper.

Cool air rushed in, and before she could react, strong arms lifted her from the wreckage. A blur of red and blue moved through the smoke, holding her close. Then, they were soaring upward, away from the burning remains of her car.

Y/N gasped, clutching onto him. “Well, damn. You really know how to make an entrance.”

Superman smirked, his voice teasing and smooth. “You know, if you wanted my attention, sweetheart, there were easier ways to get it.”

Instead of shying away like last time, Y/N tilted her head, matching his energy. “I realized you didn’t give me your number last time, so it was always up to you to find me.”

His grip shifted slightly, securing her closer, his hold effortlessly steady. “Maybe I was just waiting for the perfect moment.”

Yeah. Y/N was gone.

The way he looked at her, the knowing amusement in his voice—it was a dangerous combination, and she wasn’t about to pretend it didn’t get to her.

Superman’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “What is this now, 0 for 2?”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, her fingers curling slightly against the smooth fabric of his suit. “If you want a thank you kiss, you could just ask.”

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

Before he could push her for more, she leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her lips, solid, real. She felt the subtle tension in him, the way his breath hitched just slightly.

As soon as her feet touched the ground, she exhaled, flipping her hair over her shoulder like she hadn’t just kissed the most powerful being on Earth. “Well, hero, I’d say we’re even now.”

Superman let out a low, amused laugh, shaking his head. “You are trouble.”

Y/N beamed. “I try.”

—

Clark was having the worst morning of his life.

It had started normally enough—he’d gone on patrol as Superman, saved some civilians. Throughout it all, his mind kept going back to last night where he had to rescue Y/N from yet another ridiculous near-death experience. Which, honestly? Fine. He had long since accepted that Y/N had the survival instincts of a potato chip and an alarming talent for attracting danger.

What he hadn’t accounted for was the fact that, before being set safely on the ground, Y/N had flirted with him. Shamelessly.

And then kissed his cheek.

In front of cameras.

And now, not even 12 hours later, he was sitting in the Daily Planet bullpen, watching in slow motion horror as Lois pulled up the front page of the Metropolis Inquisitor with the biggest, boldest, most earth-shattering headline of his life:

SONGBIRD & SUPERMAN?

Metropolis Darling Caught Kissing the Man of Steel!

And there it was. A massive photo of Superman—him—with Y/N’s lips on his cheek.

Clark blacked out for a second.

Lois, on the other hand, was thriving.

“Oh. My God,” she wheezed, slapping the newspaper onto the desk and grinning as she pointed at the picture. “Look at this! This is gold.”

Y/N, to Clark’s absolute horror, was delighted.

“Ohhh,” she breathed, snatching up the paper. “They got my good side.”

Clark felt like dying.

“I—” he croaked, still gripping his coffee cup like it was his last tether to sanity. “You—why would you—why?”

Y/N, still staring at the paper, shrugged. “Dunno, I was feeling flirty.”

Clark nearly choked. “With Superman?”

She smirked. “Can you blame me? He is the hottest guy in Metropolis.”

Lois howled, clapping a hand over her mouth.

Clark, meanwhile, was spiraling.

Secret identity? IN DANGER.

Because sure, he knew that was him in that photo. But how long before someone else started to put the pieces together? How long before some overenthusiastic tabloid reporter started connecting Superman’s suspicious interest in Y/N with Clark’s own?

Meanwhile, Y/N was still having the time of her life.

“Clark,” she sighed dramatically, folding the paper to her chest. “Will you be my maid of honor at the wedding? I know it's usually reserved for women, but I can make an exception.”

Clark malfunctioned. “The what?”

“The wedding, Clark,” she said patiently, like she was explaining basic math. “Me. Superman. Destiny.”

Lois gasped, leaning forward. “Oh my God, Y/N. Are you proposing?”

“Not yet,” Y/N mused. “I gotta lock down the venue first. Can’t have the wedding of the century without the proper ambiance, you know?”

Clark looked between them, stunned. “You cannot be serious.”

Y/N reached over and patted his arm. “Don’t be jealous, Clark. I’ll still love you after I marry Superman.”

Lois lost it.

Clark, seconds away from spontaneous combustion, tried to form literally any words.

“I—you—that’s not—”

Y/N flipped the newspaper open again, humming thoughtfully. “I wonder if he’d let me wear the cape at the wedding.”

“STOP,” Clark begged.

Y/N grinned. “You’re right, I’ll get my veil to be made to look like it instead.”

Lois, gasping for breath: “Please. Please let this happen.”

Clark ran a hand down his face, this was too close. He needed to do something. 

–

Clark started pulling away in small ways at first.

It was subtle, barely noticeable—an extra second before answering her texts, a lingering hesitation before making eye contact, a few too many "I can’t tonight" excuses when Y/N invited him over.

But Y/N noticed.

She always noticed.

It wasn’t just the distance, it was him. Clark, who had never hesitated to walk beside her, who had always been there when she needed him, was recoiling. She’d reach out, and he’d step back. She’d joke, and he’d force a smile, but the warmth wasn’t there. And the worst part? He wouldn’t tell her why.

So she did what any rational person would do—she doubled down.

If Clark Kent thought he could slip away unnoticed, he clearly hadn’t met her.

She was relentless, inserting herself into his life at every opportunity. If he wasn’t answering texts fast enough, she showed up at his desk. If he was too busy for lunch, she brought food to the bullpen and refused to leave. If he claimed he had too much work, she sat there in silence, tapping her nails against his desk until he looked up with that frustrated little sigh he did when she was being impossible.

"Kent," she greeted him one evening, dropping a takeout bag on his desk before plopping into the chair across from him. "Dinner. Eat."

Clark barely glanced up. "I’m busy."

"Wow. No ‘thank you, Y/N, you’re so thoughtful, how do you always know exactly what I like to eat’?" She gasped dramatically. "You wound me, Clark."

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Y/N—"

"Don’t ‘Y/N’ me, mister." She kicked her feet up on the desk, watching him with sharp, knowing eyes. "I’m your best friend, and I have been so patient, but I’m done pretending I don’t notice."

Clark stiffened. "Notice what?"

Her brow lifted. "This. You, being weird."

Clark swallowed, shifting in his chair. "I’m not—"

"Yes, you are," she interrupted, pointing at him with a fry. "You’ve been acting strange ever since I made the front page with Superman. Which, by the way, iconic of me."

Clark groaned, shutting his eyes. "Y/N—"

She wasn’t done. "You’ve been avoiding me, Clark. Pulling back. And before you say it’s my imagination, Lois noticed too."

Clark inhaled sharply. Lois had noticed? Great. That just made everything worse.

Y/N crossed her arms, her expression softer now, real. "Did I do something wrong?"

Clark’s heart clenched. "No," he said immediately, because that much was true.

"Then what?" she pressed. "Talk to me."

Clark clenched his jaw, looking away. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to explain that he was scared, that the idea of someone—anyone—connecting Superman to Clark Kent through her was keeping him up at night. That it wasn’t just about keeping his identity safe anymore—it was about her.

She was too close now. Too familiar.

The way she fit into Smallville like she’d been there forever, the way she wore his flannel like it belonged to her, the way she had stood in the barn, glowing gold, calling yellow safe.

It had wrecked him.

And then she kissed Superman’s cheek, completely unaware that it had also been him, and suddenly, his whole existence felt like a cruel joke.

He was losing his grip on the boundary between Clark, Kal, and Superman, and Y/N was standing right in the middle of it, unknowingly blurring the lines just by being herself.

And if someone else noticed? If someone put the pieces together and figured out that Superman spent too much time watching over one person?

It wasn’t him he was afraid for.

It was her.

But he couldn’t tell her any of that.

So instead, he looked down, pretending to be focused on his work, and muttered, "You’re overthinking it."

Y/N stared at him. Then let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Wow."

Clark glanced up, and the look on her face almost made him break right then and there.

"That’s it?" she said, shaking her head. "That’s all you’ve got for me?"

Clark swallowed, forcing himself to stay still. If he bent even a little, she’d get through, and he couldn’t let that happen.

Y/N studied him for a long moment, searching his face like she could will the truth out of him. When she realized he wasn’t going to budge, something in her expression shifted.

"Okay," she said finally, standing.

Clark exhaled, relief flickering in his chest—until she leaned down, bracing her hands on his desk, her face way too close to his.

"You might be done with me, Kent," she said, her voice deceptively sweet, "but I am not done with you."

Clark’s breath hitched. "Y/N—"

And then she walked away.

Clark sat there, completely still, watching her go.

He should have felt victorious. He had pushed her away, made the distance clear.

Clark sat there for a long time after Y/N left.

The newsroom hummed around him—phones ringing, reporters shouting, the clatter of keyboards filling the air—but he felt like he was somewhere else. Somewhere weightless, untethered.

He stared at his half-eaten takeout, at the one fry she had stolen, at the chair she had been sitting in just moments ago.

He was doing the right thing. He had to. The more distance he put between them, the safer she’d be. The less anyone could connect Superman to her.

Then why did it feel like he had just lost something?

Before he could spiral any further, his phone buzzed.

''''

Y/N: have your tantrum but wrap it up before my launch party tomorrow. Y/N: party’s at 6. i will see you at my apartment at 5.

''''

Clark let out a slow breath, running a hand down his face.

Of course she wasn’t giving up.

Of course she had already decided he would be there, regardless of what he thought about it.

And the worst part?

She was right.

–

Clark showed up at exactly 5:00 PM.

Not a second earlier, not a second later. Because despite the distance he had tried to create, despite the weeks of careful avoidance, despite all the ways he’d tried to push her away—he was still Clark, and Y/N had asked him to be here.

So here he was.

He lifted his hand to knock, but before he could, the door swung open.

And there she was.

Clark’s breath caught.

Y/N stood before him, framed by the warm glow of the apartment lights, looking—God—more beautiful than ever. Her dress was simple but elegant, something that clung just enough to remind him that she had always carried herself like she belonged anywhere. Her makeup was subtle, a touch of color on her lips, a hint of gold around her eyes.

But it wasn’t just how she looked. It was the way she beamed at him like she had won.

"Right on time, Kent," she mused, leaning against the doorframe. "Very off-brand."

Clark swallowed, forcing himself to exhale, to ignore the way the sight of her made something deep inside him ache.

"You invited me for five," he said simply.

Y/N grinned, stepping back to let him in. "Of course I did. Now, are you done with your tantrum?"

Clark huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. "I was not having a tantrum."

She snorted, closing the door behind him. "Right. You just happened to be all broody and distant and emotionally unavailable right after I made the front page kissing Superman." She crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look. "Totally unrelated."

Clark exhaled, shaking his head. "You cannot seriously believe those tabloids."

"Why not?" she teased, nudging him as she walked past. "I think it’s a great look for me. My dating history needed a little razzle-dazzle."

Clark sighed, following her as she led him up to the rooftop.

The evening air was warm, the city skyline stretching out in glowing golden hues, the lights of Metropolis twinkling against the deepening blue sky. The rooftop had been transformed—soft lanterns strung across the open space, sleek cocktail tables dressed in deep blue and gold, flowers arranged in elegant bursts of color. The setup was so Y/N—effortlessly beautiful, but never overdone.

She turned to him, arms wide. "Well? Thoughts?"

Clark glanced around, nodding. "It looks amazing."

She grinned. "Damn right, it does."

Clark let himself smile, just for a second, just before the weight of the past few weeks settled between them again.

Y/N must have felt it too because she softened, stepping closer. "You know," she mused, tilting her head, "for all your brooding, I’m glad you came."

Clark swallowed. "You asked me to."

"I did," she agreed. "And that means you can’t run away again."

Clark stiffened, but Y/N just smirked, nudging him lightly. "C’mon, let’s do a final walkthrough before people start showing up. I need to make sure nothing’s gone to hell in my absence."

Clark let her pull him along, listening as she went on about seating arrangements and drink menus, half-distracted by the way the sunset caught in her hair.

For a moment, it was almost easy. Almost like things hadn’t changed.

And then—

"Shut up, Kal," Y/N muttered lightly, laughing at some joke he barely remembered making.

Clark froze.

His entire body went rigid, his breath catching hard in his chest. The rooftop, the city, the fading warmth of the sun—it all disappeared in an instant.

Y/N didn’t notice at first, still smiling, still teasing.

Then she turned, and her face dropped.

Clark was shaking.

"I hate when you call me that," he said, voice raw, like the words were being ripped from him. "Kal was such a mistake."

Y/N’s lips parted, eyes widening. "Clark—"

"I ruined so much by running away from Smallville like a coward," he went on, his voice rising, filled with something wild and self-loathing. "I was selfish, I—I let you believe I was someone else, and then I left—" He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, breathing unevenly. "Don’t call me that."

Y/N’s throat bobbed, her expression stricken. "Okay," she said softly.

Clark turned away, pressing his hands to his temples. His heart was pounding, a tight, panicked beat against his ribs. He had held it in for so long, buried it beneath every excuse, every careful step backward, every forced distance—

And now it was out.

Now it was all out.

Y/N took a step toward him, but something in Clark’s posture must have stopped her, because she didn’t touch him. Didn’t argue.

She just stood there.

And Clark—Clark had to leave.

Because if he stayed, he might say something else, something worse, something he could never take back.

So he didn’t think. Didn’t look at her.

He just walked away.

Down the stairs, out the building, into the streets of Metropolis.

And for the first time in his life—Superman ran.

–

The party had gone off without a hitch.

Y/N had made sure of it.

Years of PR training, of flashing a superstar smile on command, of perfecting the art of looking unshakable even when she was breaking beneath the surface—it had all paid off tonight. She had laughed, she danced, she answered questions about the album with practiced ease, had toasted with people who barely mattered, had thanked people she didn’t even know.

The one person she had wanted there had left.

And it had taken everything in her to not let that ruin her night.

She had spent an hour before the party in the bathroom, gripping the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror, repeating to herself that it didn’t matter. That Clark leaving didn’t mean anything. That she had spent years building herself up, learning how to be on her own, how to survive in a world that didn’t care if she fell apart.

So she had smoothed out her dress, fixed her makeup, and walked out of the bathroom looking effortless, dazzling, untouchable.

Now, the party was long over.

It was well past midnight, the album had been dropped, and Y/N was alone.

The apartment felt too big, the silence pressing in on her in a way that the noise of the party had kept at bay. She had kicked off her heels an hour ago, abandoning them somewhere in the living room. The dress—once elegant and poised—now felt suffocating, so she had undone the zipper, letting it slip off her shoulders, leaving her in nothing but an oversized shirt as she wandered aimlessly through her space.

She opened another bottle of wine.

She’d lost count of how many she had already had tonight, but it didn’t really matter.

Taking a slow sip, she walked onto the patio, letting the night air cool the heat lingering on her skin. The city stretched out before her, glittering and alive, but she had never felt further from it.

Her fingers drummed idly against the wine glass as she leaned on the railing, her other hand resting against her stomach, pressing against the emptiness there.

He left.

The thought snuck in before she could stop it, curling into her chest, winding tight like a knot in her ribs.

He had just walked away.

And the worst part was that she hadn’t even argued.

Because she had seen it.

She had seen the anger in his face, the way his voice had cracked, the way his entire body had tensed when she had called him Kal. She had thought it was just another nickname, just another way to tease him.

She hadn’t realized it hurt him.

Hadn’t realized it carried weight, that it meant something deeper than she could possibly understand.

And now he was gone.

A bitter laugh bubbled up in her throat as she swirled the wine in her glass. "Classic," she muttered to no one.

Y/N let the wind rush over her, cool against her flushed skin, a welcome contrast to the warmth pooling in her stomach from the wine.

The city stretched out endlessly below her, lights twinkling, cars moving like tiny flickering embers in the streets. From up here, everything looked small, distant—manageable.

She set her wine glass down on the railing, steadying it before she climbed up, her bare feet balancing against the cool metal edge.

The wind whipped past her, tangling in her hair, sending a thrill down her spine.

She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, laughing softly to herself.

The alcohol buzzed pleasantly in her veins, blurring the edges of her thoughts, making her feel light, untethered. She swayed slightly, spreading her arms out, feeling free—

Then the dizziness hit.

The world tilted.

And before she could even register the fall, before the fear could even set in—

Strong arms caught her.

The rush of wind was suddenly gone, replaced by something steady, something solid, something safe.

Her breath hitched, her heart pounding as she opened her eyes, blinking up into the face of Superman.

His expression was devastated.

"What the hell are you doing?" his voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but laced with something frantic.

Y/N blinked, her mind still trying to catch up.

She was no longer on the railing. She was in his arms, against his chest, suspended in the air like she weighed nothing.

"Oh," she breathed, realization settling in.

Superman tightened his grip, his jaw clenched so hard she thought it might break. "You almost—" His voice broke slightly, his arms tensing around her. "What were you thinking?"

Y/N frowned, still a little dazed. "I wasn’t," she admitted, voice softer now. "I—I was just enjoying the wind, and then I…"

She trailed off, staring at him, at the way his chest rose and fell, far too fast, like he had just been through something terrifying.

Like he had been scared.

Her brow furrowed. "You caught me."

Superman let out a shaky breath, his fingers flexing slightly before pulling her closer, like he couldn’t bear to let go yet. "Of course I did."

Y/N exhaled slowly, resting her forehead against his shoulder for just a second, the reality of what could have happened crashing down on her all at once.

She had almost fallen.

And he had saved her.

Again.

Y/N’s breath was still unsteady, her head spinning—not just from the wine, not just from the near fall, but from him.

Superman.

Kal.

Clark.

The alcohol blurred the details of his face, softening the hard angles, causing something to click in her mind, something that had been lurking in the shadows for years, just out of reach. The blurred details matched the fuzzy specifics of Kal in her mind exactly. 

It was him.

It had always been him.

She had spent so long trying to remember Kal’s face, always just a little too hazy, a little too out of focus. But now, held in Superman’s arms, staring at him from this close—she knew.

And something inside her broke.

She shoved at his chest. "Put me down!"

Superman—Clark—Kal—whoever the hell he was—startled, hesitating just long enough before he landed smoothly back on the patio, setting her down on shaking legs.

The second her feet hit the ground, she exploded.

"How dare you!" she yelled, voice thick, raw, furious.

Superman flinched. "Y/N—"

"How dare you," she repeated, jabbing a finger into his chest, stepping forward, forcing him back. "Kal was a mistake? He hurt people? That’s what you said, right?" She laughed, but it wasn’t amused—it was wrecked. "He was selfish? He ran away?"

Superman didn’t answer.

Because he couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Y/N clenched her fists, her voice shaking with something close to betrayal. "Kal is the only reason I was able to keep going back then. Do you know that? Do you? He was reckless, yeah. He was an idiot, sure. But he—you—" She exhaled sharply, pressing her hands to her temples before snapping her gaze back up to him. "How dare you say he was a mistake."

Clark swallowed, his throat tight. "Y/N…"

"I accept every stupid part of you, Clark Kent," she spat, not caring how broken it sounded, not caring that her voice wavered, not caring that she was throwing herself off a cliff with no parachute. "Every single one. And you have the nerve to stand there and tell me that the one I got to know first was just—what? Some awful, shameful version of you?"

Clark’s breath hitched.

She stepped closer, glaring up at him, her eyes burning. "I don’t care if Kal was the darkest part of you. He was still you. And now you stand here—you stand here—and you tell me he was a mistake?" Her voice cracked. "That you were a mistake?"

Clark felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

Because how? How?

How had she put it together?

Has she always known? Was she just saying this because she was drunk? Would she remember in the morning?

Would she still look at him like this if she did?

Y/N let out a sharp breath, tilting her head back, staring at the sky like it had answers she couldn’t find. "God, Clark," she whispered, voice suddenly exhausted. "You are so—so unbelievably stupid."

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he clenched them into fists.

He had to get her inside.

"Come on," he muttered, ignoring the burn in his chest as he reached for her wrist.

Y/N yanked it away. "Don’t touch me."

Something deeply irrational inside him flinched at that, but he swallowed it down, his jaw tight as he turned and walked inside, expecting her to follow.

She did.

But not quietly.

She raged the entire way down the hall, muttering, cursing him under her breath, pacing as he led her toward her bedroom. She shoved at his shoulder more than once—not enough to actually move him, but enough to make a point.

She was still cursing at him as he pulled back the blankets, still ranting as he placed a glass of water on the nightstand.

"I cannot believe you right now," she huffed, crawling into bed, still glaring. "You—of all people—thinking you get to decide which version of yourself is worth loving."

Clark stiffened.

Y/N turned onto her side, grabbing a pillow and chucking it at him.

It hit him square in the chest.

He sighed.

"Sleep," he muttered, moving to step away.

And then—

Her hand wrapped around his wrist.

He froze.

Y/N’s fingers were warm against his skin, trembling just slightly.

"Stay," she murmured, barely above a whisper.

And God—God, he wanted to.

More than anything.

But he couldn’t.

Not after this.

Not after everything she had just torn open.

So, with every ounce of willpower he had left, Superman gently, slowly removed her hand from his wrist.

And he walked away. 

(Y/N threw another pillow at his retreating form.)

–

Clark hadn’t slept.

Not a single second.

He had spent the entire night staring at his ceiling, his mind running itself ragged, trying to process what had happened on Y/N’s rooftop. The way she had put it together. How did she always put things together? The way she had yelled at him, not out of anger for his lies but something deeper, something more real. The way she had grabbed his wrist and whispered stay and—

He squeezed his eyes shut. No.

He left. He made the right call.

Even if it hurt.

A soft click echoed through the apartment, and his entire body went rigid.

Because of course.

Of course she was here.

Clark didn’t even have to use his x-ray vision  to know it was her.

The way she walked, the light tread of her steps, the way she didn’t hesitate for even a second before waltzing right in like she belonged. Which, to be fair, she did. Because Y/N had a key. Because she owned the damn building.

Clark sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, listening as she locked the door behind her.

"Clark?" her voice called from the kitchen, casual, like she hadn’t torn his entire world apart last night.

Clark inhaled sharply, staring at the ceiling. Pretend to be asleep? No, she’d just sit on you until you talked. Fake being sick? She’d call Ma. Run out the window? You’re not that desperate.

He exhaled through his nose. "Bedroom," he called back, resigned.

Seconds later, she appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, grinning.

"Rise and shine, sunshine."

Clark groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Y/N, it’s—" He turned his head to glance at the clock. "Six in the morning."

"Bright and early!" she announced, stepping inside like she owned the place. Which, again, she did.

Clark just sighed, rolling to sit up. "Why are you here?"

Y/N crossed her arms. "Because you left."

Clark clenched his jaw, saying nothing.

"So," she continued, plopping herself onto the edge of the bed, completely unfazed, "are we talking about it? Or do I have to dramatically monologue until you crack?"

Clark exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "You’re not letting this go, are you?"

She gave him an unimpressed look. "Have we met?"

A humorless chuckle escaped him, but it faded fast.

There was no escaping this conversation.

So, finally, finally, he talked.

He told her everything.

About the meteor shower. About how Martha and Jonathan Kent found him, raised him, made him Clark instead of some lost, nameless alien. About the powers, about the way he had spent his entire life trying to control them, trying to fit.

And then—he told her about the red kryptonite.

About the ring. About the choice he made, the way he had willingly put it on, because he had felt like a burden, like he had ruined things in Smallville, like running away was the only option.

How he had left behind everything—his parents, his home, his name.

How he had let himself become Kal.

Y/N listened through all of it, her expression unreadable, never interrupting.

Then, after a long pause, she blinked and said, "So you weren’t on drugs?"

Clark stared at her.

Y/N shrugged. "Sorry, that whole ‘red rock makes me reckless and angry’ thing definitely sounds like you were on some alien crack, Clark."

Despite himself, Clark let out a breath of a laugh.

But it didn’t last.

Because then Y/N reached out, her fingers brushing against the back of his hand, soft, warm, steady.

"I meant what I said yesterday," she murmured.

Clark tensed.

She squeezed his hand. "I don’t care if it was the darkest part of you, Clark," she said softly, looking straight at him, straight through him. "It was still you."

Clark swallowed, his throat tight.

And then—he pulled away.

Y/N’s fingers curled into empty air, and her expression dropped.

Clark exhaled slowly, staring at the sheets, willing himself to not look at her face, because if he did, he’d break.

"It’s too dangerous," he murmured. "I’m too unpredictable."

Y/N shook her head. "Clark—"

"If someone connects the dots," he cut her off, his voice hoarse, "if someone figures it out—" He clenched his fists. "You’ll be in trouble."

Y/N stared at him for a long, long moment.

Then—softly, but firmly—

"I was always going to be in trouble."

Clark finally looked up.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her eyes searching his face. "Because it’s you," she said simply. "And it was always going to be you."

Y/N sat there, staring at him, waiting for something—anything.

A word. A look. A reaction.

But Clark wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

He just sat there, his shoulders tight, his hands clenched into the sheets, staring at the floor like if he ignored her long enough, she’d just go away.

And maybe before—maybe once upon a time—she would have.

But not this time.

This time, she was done.

Her heart sank, settling like lead in her stomach, dragging every part of her down with it.

"Clark," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Look at me."

He didn’t.

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening, her fingers curling into fists against her thighs.

"If I get up and walk out that door right now," she said, slow and deliberate, "this is it."

Clark’s breathing hitched.

"I mean it," she pressed, voice breaking just slightly. "I am so—so tired of chasing after you. Of watching you leave. Of always being the one left standing there, wondering if this time is the last time."

Clark’s eyes squeezed shut.

She inhaled sharply, her nails digging into her palms. "You want to keep pushing me away? Fine." Her voice shook. "But if I walk out of here, Clark? I’m not coming back."

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating.

Clark still wouldn’t look at her.

Y/N felt the final thread snap.

She stood up.

And when she walked away this time—she meant it.

–

Y/N doesn’t say goodbye. Not to him, not to the city, not to the version of herself that waited, hoped, believed. She boarded a plane with nothing but her luggage.

She won’t beg.

She told him. She gave him the choice. If I leave, I’m not coming back. And still, he let her go.

So she does what she does best—she moves forward.

The tour is massive, bigger than anything she’s ever done before. Sold-out arenas, flashing cameras, the deafening sound of thousands of voices screaming her name. Every city is brighter, louder, bigger than the last. She lets herself get lost in it, drowns in the chaos of the road, the high of the stage, the endless cycle of movement that keeps her from thinking too much.

She doesn’t stop. Not once.

Early mornings bleed into late nights. Rehearsals stretch into interviews, meet-and-greets blur into hurried flights. She spends hours in dressing rooms, in hotel suites, in tour buses that never stay parked long enough to feel like home. The lights are blinding, the music is deafening, and for the first time in a long time, she lets them be.

Because in the quiet moments, when the adrenaline fades, she feels it.

The absence.

Not just his, but something deeper. Something she didn’t even realize was there until it was gone.

The feeling of being seen.

Being understood.

Because even before she knew, he knew. Even before she said it, he heard it.

And now?

Now, she’s screaming her soul into a microphone in front of seventy thousand people, and he’s not there to hear it.

She tells herself she’s fine.

She has to be.

But when she’s alone—really alone, with no stage, no flashing lights, no roaring crowd to drown out the silence—all she sees is his face. The way he looked at her as she turned to leave. The way his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists, like he was fighting something inside himself. Like he wanted to stop her, but couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

She dreams of a different time, a different version of them.

Of a penthouse apartment in a part of Metropolis that no longer exists.

Of laughter in a too-warm room, a sturdy couch, a boy with blue eyes who wasn’t afraid to be quiet with her.

Of late nights spent with Kal when the world felt smaller, when she wasn’t famous and he wasn’t a hero, and all that mattered was the sound of their breathing in the dark. Of late night spent with Clark, listening to him breathe while she looked around his childhood room.

She dreams of the way he used to look at her, before she knew who he really was, before she knew who she really was. When things were simpler. When she didn’t have to wonder if she was asking too much just by existing in the same space as him.

She wakes up in a different city every time, in another luxury hotel bed, in another room that isn’t home.

And she tells herself she’s fine.

She has to be.

–

Clark Kent had been miserable. At first, he tried to convince himself it was just an adjustment period. He’d always been able to handle changes, right? But nothing worked.

He threw himself into work, into farm chores, into being Superman—anything to numb the ache that had been festering in his chest. But it didn’t work.

Because Y/N was everywhere.

Every time he turned on the TV, there she was—on a late-night show, laughing like everything was perfect. He walked past a newsstand and saw her face, always smiling, always glowing. Her face was all over billboards, magazines, and TV screens. He couldn’t escape her, no matter how hard he tried.

And the worst part? She looked happy.

At least, that’s what it seemed like.

He watched, of course. Every night. His parents would ask about her, and he’d change the subject quickly, pretending like it didn’t bother him. He’d tell them he was doing fine, but the truth was, at 3 AM, he was under the covers, glued to his laptop, watching her interviews on repeat. He would click on every grainy livestream of her concerts, sometimes watching them until the screen went black, just so he could pretend he was there, part of her world again.

His parents had asked him once, “Clark, why don’t you just call her? She’d love to hear from you.”

But he couldn't even look them in the eye.

He felt like an idiot.

On bad days, he even talked to Moo Moo, as if it could understand. “Do you think she thinks about me too?” he’d mutter to the stuffed cow, his voice cracking like he was confessing to a priest. He would hold it up to his face, as though it might whisper something wise or comforting in return, but of course, it never did. Moo Moo just stared back with those vacant, stitched eyes, silent and unyielding, like the judgmental little plush it was. He could almost hear the judgment now: pathetic.

He hid Moo Moo under the bed after that. 

The moment that broke him came one night when he caught a clip of Y/N on a red carpet interview. She was asked, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Y/N had smiled, effortlessly radiant as always, and replied, “I don’t think about that stuff anymore. I think some people are meant to find each other. But staying? That’s a choice.”

Clark had shut his laptop so quickly, the screen flickering off in the dim light of his room.

Because she had been talking about him.

And she was right. He’d let her slip away. He’d let her go without ever telling her the truth. And now he was left here, a mess of tangled sheets, a stuffed cow clutched in his arms, watching her live her life from the sidelines, wishing he could do something—anything—to make it right.

–

Lois was the one who finally snapped.

One morning, she slammed a flyer down on his desk so hard it made his coffee spill.

Clark blinked. “What—”

“Get your shit together, Smallville.”

Clark picked up the flyer.

Y/N : FINAL TOUR STOP – METROPOLIS – SOLD OUT.

His stomach twisted.

Lois crossed her arms. “This is it. Last show. Last chance. Either go after her, or accept that you’re a coward.”

Clark didn’t hesitate.

–

He went as Clark, not Superman.

No powers, no cape—just a desperate man pulling whatever strings he could to get a backstage pass. The show had been sold out for months, but Clark finally snagged a press pass by telling Perry he will work free overtime for the next 6 years. 

It was terrifying.

Because if this didn’t work—if she really was fine, if she really had moved on—then what was left for him?

But by the time he got there, she was already gone.

“Y/N?” He pushed past crew members. “Did she leave already?”

Someone glanced up. “Yeah. Didn’t say where.”

Clark’s chest squeezed.

No. No, no, no—

And then—

Leaving through a side door, he saw it.

A blonde wig.

The most ridiculous, unhinged, Hollywood-starlet wig he had ever seen.

Clark exhaled sharply. His hands clenched.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

–

She was walking down a quiet side street, head tilted toward the sky, looking lost in thought.

Clark, still slightly breathless, stepped into the alley and said, low and familiar—

“Don’t you know what happens to pretty girls in dark alleys?”

Y/N stopped.

Slowly, she turned.

The wig was crooked. The sunglasses were oversized. And even with half her face covered, he could feel the cold shift in the air.

No teasing. No quippy comeback.

Her lips pressed together. Her jaw was tight.

Clark realized he had never seen her look at him like this.

She let out a slow breath. “Why are you here?”

His throat went dry.

“I was wrong,” he said, voice rough. “About everything.”

Nothing. No reaction.

So he took a step forward.

“I tried to move on,” he admitted. “Told myself I had to let you go. That it was the right thing. But I was miserable. And you—” He let out a shaky breath. “You were everywhere. You were everything”

Y/N stayed still, expression unreadable.

Clark exhaled, hands clenching into fists.

“You were right,” he said softly. “I spent my whole life trying to separate parts of myself. Deciding which version of me was worth keeping.” His throat tightened. “I was terrified that if you saw all of me, you’d leave.”

She inhaled sharply. “Clark—”

“But the truth is, I left you.”

Silence.

Clark swallowed hard.

“I don’t deserve another chance,” he whispered. “But if there’s even a part of you that still—”

Y/N took a step forward.

Clark stopped breathing.

She pulled off the wig, let it drop to the ground, and crossed her arms.

“Oh, you’re gonna grovel for this,” she said.

Clark let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

Then—

“Say it again,” she said.

Clark blinked. “What?”

“Say you were wrong.”

Clark exhaled.

“I was wrong.”

“Louder.”

“I was wrong.”

Y/N’s lips twitched. “Not bad. Keep going.”

Clark ran a hand down his face. “I was an idiot.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And?”

Clark looked at her—really looked at her.

“I never stopped loving you.”

Y/N stilled.

Clark inhaled.

“I love you,” he said, steady now. “I think I loved you when you slept on my couch and were the only thing that stopped the voices in my head. I think I loved you when you got up to feed the damn pigs even though they tackled you. I think I loved you even before you made me realize Kal and Clark were the same person.”

Her eyes glistened.

Clark swallowed.

“But I know I love you now.”

Silence.

Then—

Y/N rolled her eyes.

“God, it took you long enough.”

Clark let out a breathless laugh, his heart pounding.

“You really mean it?” she asked.

Clark nodded. “Yeah.”

Y/N hummed.

Then she grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.

Clark barely had time to react before she pulled back, lips curling into a smile.

“Okay,” she announced. “You’re forgiven.”

Clark, completely wrecked, could only blink.

Y/N patted his chest. “Now come on. You owe me a very expensive dinner.”

Clark let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

She was walking ahead, waiting for him.

And this time?

He chased after her.

–

Bonus

–

As they walked, Clark glanced at the wig still lying on the pavement.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know that thing was so obvious, right?”

Y/N, without missing a beat, said, “You wear glasses as a disguise.”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then—he groaned.

Y/N smirked.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought, Glasses."

--

a/n: that was the end!! i hope you all enjoyed reading

i have so many deleted scenes in my google docs that i will make blurbs out of. let me know if you have any blurb ideas :)

[anakinstwinklebunny]

Bunny I just finished watching Jumper and I'm obsessed??? 😭 I could only find like, 3 fics about David (yours included, i loved it btw ✋🏻😞) so I thought about requesting something from my favorite writer

I don't have any specific idea so I guess I'll take anything. Here's Leia the egg as an offering 🫴🏻🥚

Luv ya - 🦢

STOLEN BY A JUMPER..

PAIRING: david rice x thief!reader

You were stupid for not seeing him coming.

One second, you were standing in the middle of a private vault, fingers skillfully working over the golden lock of a case that held something very expensive—something you had been paid a lot of money to steal, to bring back to the ugly-ass man that made sure to stuff your bank account full of cash.

Well, what happened the next?

Your stomach lurched, vision suddenly blurred as you felt like you were literally floating in sleep, like you just got hit in the head, and before you could even think about screaming, you were somewhere else. With a painful sigh that echoed from your pounding head, you brought yourself to open your eyes, trying to at least adjust them to the situation, trying to use them as your source of information. Because as y/n, you weren't known for being defeated so fast.

A cabin. Remote. Quiet. Four walls. Dim lamps lighting the space. And standing in front of you, looking thoroughly unimpressed, was the man who had just ripped you from your own goddamn reality.

DAVID RICE; tall (for someone who made you see red), broad shoulders framed by that worn leather jacket, dark hair, sharp blue eyes piercing you in half like you were a problem he was debating how to solve.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth, a little mocking. “You must have some serious balls, sweetheart.”

Pulse thundered in your ears, but you tried your expression cool. Calm. You didn’t survive in this business by panicking. You had to think. It's not like you meet a freak for the first time.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” you lied.

David’s jaw only clenched more, before a flash of irritation crossed his face. “Try again,” he said, stepping closer. Too close. “You broke into my vault. My money. My shit.” gaze flickered down to the duffel still clutched in your hand. “And you were gonna walk away with it like I wouldn’t notice?”

You lifted your chin with more confidence and energy this time, fingers tightening its hold over the bag. “Finders keepers.”

How you should know it was a bad move..

David moved fast—faster than any normal man should probably be able to. One second, he was in front of you, the next he was behind you, hand fisting in your jacket before the world tilted again—

You were falling.

The cold air whipped at your skin, your eyes widening at the clouds that passed you by, at the sharp nibbling the wind did to your skin. You barely had a second to process the fact that you were free-falling through the goddamn sky before—

thud

You landed hard on a rooftop, your side slamming into the concrete. Your breath ripped from your lungs, the impact jarring, disorienting, your world twirling..

You're about to throw up. You're about to throw up.

With a wince of a person who's about to lose her life, you moved your hand to where your ribs were, trying to magically smooth the painful, sharpening like a needle, pain.

And David?

He landed like nothing had happened at all.

After taking some steps towards you, he crouched, gaze sharp, smug amusement curling his lips as if your situation was even.. satisfying for him.

“That,” he said, gripping your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up to his, “was a warning.”

Your heart hammered, pulse wild, but you refused to let him see your fear. To let him see how weak you started to get. By one freaking movement of his..right..what was even that? His mind? His hands? His..how did he do that?

“So you’re a show-off,” you bit out, wrenching away from his hold. Too weakly. Too painfully. “Congratulations.”

David chuckled. Actually chuckled. “Oh, you’re fun.”

You lunged for him, intending to—what? Punch him? Tackle him? You weren’t exactly sure but everything seemed to be reasonable when you had to take care of a real piece of shit

But before you could even touch him—

The world shifted again.

You were back in the cabin.

Your knees buckled, body reeling from the constant shifts, ribs screaming at you, making you dizzy, making you choke on your own breath, but David? David just stuffed his hands into his pockets and grinned at you.

“Go ahead,” he said, watching as you steadied yourself against the wall. “Try to run.”

You glared at him, fists clenched. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?”

He laughed, moving towards the fridge like this was just another normal night for him. Like kidnapping you was just another thing on his to-do list for today.

Great. Just freaking great.

“Yeah,” he said, grabbing a beer. “I’ve been told.”

You watched him, mind racing, calculating, pain still flickering through your body, making sure you never forget about it. How the hell were you supposed to escape someone who could teleport?

You had no idea. But you’d be damned if you didn’t find out soon.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @babybell-cheese @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop @cloverina @nikiloveshayden

[chrystalwynd]

From downtown Chrystal Heights:

Emma, Sarah, and Jason walked into Spellbound.

Spellbound was an arcane specialty shop that looked bigger inside than it had seemed from outside. The ambiance, however, was just right for a place with such a name. Shelves and cases were everywhere, but not in orderly rows or even consistent heights. It appeared almost haphazard at first glance. But after the initial look-over, it became obvious there was a subtle organization to the arrangement. Spell ingredients appeared to be confined in one area, functional objects in another and even decorative items had a place. Presumably objects of power were locked in display cases lining the back wall. A filled bookcase took up an entire wall and there was even a clothes section. And interestingly enough, many of the items appeared to be extremely erotic in nature. Odds and ends lined the check-out counter and what appeared to be some sort of stone gargoyle stood sentry by the door. It truly did appear to be a one-stop magic shop.

Emma, Sarah, and Jason drifted through the aisles of Spellbound, the trio sharing a silent understanding. They weren't just browsing. Their hands danced over the forbidden merchandise, palming amulets, slipping books into backpacks, pocketing potions.

Their hearts pounded in unison with the ticking of the cuckoo-clock behind the counter, an oddly-shaped object but fitting the ambiance of the shop perfectly. They exchanged glances, their eyes bright. The moment of truth upon them. With a collective breath, they made a beeline for the exit.

They raced for the door, their chests pounding with the thrill of danger. But before they could reach the threshold, the air grew heavy, charged with an unseen force. The gargoyle by the door, a silent sentinel moments before, had begun to stir. Its stony exterior cracked and crumbled, revealing the scales beneath. Two eyes, glowing with a malevolent light, fixed onto the would-be thieves.

Emma, the nominal leader, recognized the danger a moment before her companions and she hissed, "Run!", but it was too late. The gargoyle was no mere statue; it was a basilisk, its gaze as petrifying as the legends claimed.

Emma, Sarah, and Jason slowed, their movements becoming sluggish, then stopping altogether as they were frozen, caught in the creature's stare. Their bodies stiffened, all motion arrested, and the reality of their situation began to sink in. They were statues, trapped in their own bodies.

The shop's owner, a man known only as Hood, emerged from the back room. His became the dominant presence in the shop. An amused smile appeared as he approached the petrified trio. With a flourish of his hand, he began to speak.

"For your audacity," he said, his voice echoing in the silent shop, "you shall serve as a warning to others."

He turned his attention to Emma first. A few whispered words, a flick of his wrist, and Emma's form began to shift. Her body expanded, skin stretching into bright, rubbery vinyl. Her features blew up into exaggerated, cartoonish proportions, transforming her into an inflatable doll, buoyant and bobbing.

Next was Sarah. Hood's spell wrapped around her, the magic swirling. Ears twitched atop her head, a cotton-tail sprouted from her rear, her fingers curling into adorable paws. She was a bunny-girl, the epitome of playful innocence and unabandoned reproduction. Her belly rounded out, full of eggs.

Jason's transformation was no less dramatic.

Jason's chest ballooned outward, the fabric of his shirt straining against the sudden swell of feminine curves. Blonde locks cascaded down his shoulders, the color stark against his former dark hair. From his tousled tresses sprouted a pair of slender antennae, twitching with newfound sensitivity. His ears elongated into delicate points, a stark contrast to the softness of his features. Translucent wings, veined and patterned like a butterfly's, unfurled from his back, quivering, softly fluttering.

Hood stepped back, admiring his handiwork, his head nodding in approval. "Well, since you were unable to serve as a valuable lesson, you'll have to serve as a horrible warning."

Their transformations complete, Hood now positioned them with care in the display window. Emma, the inflatable doll, bounced gently against the glass. Sarah, the bunny-girl, perched daintily on a velvet cushion, her belly round with unlaid eggs. Jason, the butterfly fae, a testament to the forest's beauty.

The trio was now a spectacle for all of Chrystal Heights to see, a cautionary display. Their expressions, though frozen, hinted at a mix of embarrassment and contrite self-reflection.

Then the bell jingled once more and Hood turned toward the door as the next customer entered Spellbound.

[angelwishess]

If Kyra ever had a UM I think it’d be her just dragging everyone around her into a musical number. Disney princess style, and no one can break out of it until the song ends

Like the spell lasts for around 1-3 mins maybe but she has to be singing and dancing the entire time and everyone just knows the lyrics???? Basically like what happens in Enchanted when she started singing at the park except its against everyone’s will

[stagefoureddiediaz]

As so many of you are filling my inbox asking about salad and why I found the fact they had two types of salad for dinner in the Buck and Tommy dinner scene so funny, I'm guessing you're new to the 911 fandom - Welcome if so! I am going to give you a very brief rundown of salad and Buck and Eddies various relationships, but @clusterbuck is actually the keeper of salad theory and you can find far more detailed analysis over on her blog than you’re getting from me here!!

I can't find gif of the actual salad moments so have pictures!!

Chris smashed salad bowl that he is making a salad in with his dad in season 4 (in Breaking point) - when he finds out about Ana being the person Eddie is dating.

We have Ana turn up at the firehouse with Chris during the black out in 5x02 with 5 - yes 5 - types of salad When Eddie has his second on screen panic about Ana - when Ravi mistakes her for his wife.

Then in 5x03 just before they break up - Eddie, Chris, and Ana are at the dining table in the Diaz house and they are eating fruit salad

Then in 5x05 we have Taylor with her prepackaged fruit salad breakfast the she has 'made' for Buck when he gets home

she is making a bean salad in 5x09 during the most awkward I love you scene in the history of television!

Then we have a caprese salad in front of Natalia during the Dinner Buck cooked for her in 5x17 - when she finds out about various aspects of Bucks past and present - Taylor on the tv and Kameron turns up

Then in 7x07 - when Eddie is daydreaming of a do over with Shannon during his lunch with Marisol they are eating a salad

then we now have Buck and Tommy eating two different types of salad (a pasta salad and a salad salad) on their dinner date

so basically it's become a bit of a running joke that if salad is involved with Buck or Eddie and one of their dates (especially in their own homes) , the relationship is doomed!

[gifti3]

Can we talk about how ichika in collar x malice doesnt know a thing about games and is also technology illiterate

[parab0mb]

Out of all the changes and developments I’ve made to my OCs, I feel like the most standout for me personally has to be Molly Majacqueline, who was originally a shy and naive but ultimately good-natured person (kinda generic and boring too ngl) until in a stroke of sheer genius I was like "okay but what if I did a complete 180 with you and made you rude?"

She also became gay and French.

[your-local-shapeshifter]

oookay so what the fuck is your deal?

[ my deal? you're the one who fucked around with ritual books. i totally didn't make you do that or anything. ]

you're the higher power? where's the knowledge then?

[ knowledge? y'know what. fine. your hitlist needs updating. ]

...?

[ you'll figure it out at somepoint. ]

[missdynamighttt]

HEARRRRR MEEEEE OUTTTT

you and older bf! bakugo katsuki on the beach together. and i mean.. OLDER. (reader at her early 20's, katsuki in his mid-30's)

the sun was high in the sky, casting a golden hue over you as the waves gently met the grainy sand with a salty breeze.

you were at the beach, peacefully sat in front of your boyfriend, katsuki, on a soft blanket as he smothers sunscreen on your back.

he insisted on putting it on for you. not because he wanted to touch your bare skin or anything, but because:

"why so insistent, hm, old man?"

"what, a man can't take care of his girlfriend 'nymore?"

you laugh, leaning back to kiss his cheek. "i suppose he can. such a considerate boyfriend you are."

"tch, damn right," he mutters, reciprocating your kiss by dropping an affectionate peck to your shoulder.

"gotta keep your pretty skin protected, doll. and don't get me started on your whinin' when you do get sunburned."

although he'll never admit, its a damn good excuse to feel your soft, warm skin.

after awhile, he finishes applying the sunscreen on your back and gives your ass a soft pat. "all done."

you turn around to face him with a smile, settling onto your knees in front of him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer as your gaze meets his.

"you're so good to me, katsuki."

katsuki's arms quickly slide around your waist on instinct, raising an eyebrow at your suggestive praise. he doesn't mind, though. he always indulges his pretty little girlfriend.

"i plan to be good to you for a long time, doll. get used to it."

a small, affectionate smile spreads across your face as you feel your heart melt a little. he always had such a way with words, its sickeningly sweet.

you reach behind him and give his ass a playful squeeze, grinning at him. "c'mon, i'll do yours."

katsuki scoffs, a soft huff leaving his lips as you grab his behind. he nods, slowly untangling himself from you, his back facing you. "go ahead. and no messin' around."

you reach for the sunscreen and put some on your hand with a grin, taking your time to map out the contours and curves of his back. his own hands rest on your thighs as yours trail over his muscles, tracing every little dip and scar, admiring what makes him, him.

as your hands start to roam along his muscles, you can't resist the urge to give his muscles a quick, appreciative squeeze, feeling the tightness beneath your fingertips before you settle down to spread the sunscreen evenly again.

his hands grip your thighs slightly as he felt you grope his muscles, a quiet yelp escaping your lips.

"watch it."

"oh, don't worry. that was on purpose."

"tch, brat."

you laugh softly as your eyes rake over his physique, taking in the sight of his muscular back and strong arms.

"can't help it, katsuki. you're just so... hot."

he shakes his head in annoyance, but a blush spreads across his face at your comment.

"hush. we're in public."

"and? theres no one around! besides, i'm only calling you hot. my handsome, grumpy, jacked boyfriend with a huge dic-"

"doll, you're lucky i love you so much or i'd shut your ass up for good."

a soft chuckle escapes your lips as you smile, mumbling a soft "i love you too," as you finish with the sunscreen. "all done."

katsuki turns back to face you, looking around to make sure no one was really there, before he reaches out and grabs your waist, pulling you into his lap.

your eyebrow raises in surprise and amusement, a playful grin spreading across your face as you adjust in your position, straddling him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"i thought you said we were in public."

"don't care. couldn't resist you 'nymore, sweets. sittin' there, teasin' me and lookin' all pretty. i'm only an old man, y'know."

"aww, katsuki," you tilt your head, wearing a soft smile. "think i'm sooo pretty, huh?"

katsuki lets out a soft chuckle, a weak smile on his lips as his eyes roam over your face. he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, his hand cupping your cheek gently.

"baby, you're the most beautiful woman i've ever laid eyes on. of course you're pretty. so goddamn pretty that i wanna take real good care of you as a husband but i also wanna fuck you so hard until the bed breaks."

the grin on his face spreads. "or you. whichever comes first."

you were like a deer in headlights, your heart and pussy melting as you try to process his words. you knew he always kept his word, so...

"a-as a husband..?"

"you heard me. i'm sure i ruined other men for you 'nyway. hell, you think i'm gonna let anyone else have you, sweets? even if you don't have the ring, which you will... you're absolutely, my most drop-dead gorgeous fucking wife."

he looks at your bewildered expression, the grin still on his face as he reaches for your hand, kissing your knuckles.

"you have a problem with that, wife?"

you shake your head, still feeling flustered and a little embarrassed by his declaration. but you knew.. this was the moment you mentally declared you definitely wanted him to make you juno.

but before you can say anything, katsuki leans in and plants a gentle, soft peck on your lips. when he pulls back, his gaze is filled with nothing but love. "good. now, lets go swim."

you nod but before you can even begin to stand up, katsuki tightens his grip on your waist and lifts you up into his arms, adjusting you as you're cradled against his chest in a classic bridal style.

"katsuki!" you yelp, laughing, trying (and failing) to escape.

"what? you think i'm gonna let you walk when i can just carry you?" he grins down at you before he starts walking toward the ocean.

"katsuki bakugo, i swear to god, if you drop me-"

"me? drop you? baby, be serious. i'd never even dare to think about letting go of you."

you roll your eyes at him with a playful grin as his toes dip into the water. he starts to lower you both, settling into a comfortable position.

you straddle him once more, feeling his strong hands shifting you, adjusting your body so that it fits even more snugly against his own.

he looks up at you with a smirk as he plants gentle kisses on your shoulders and neck. his arms wrap around your waist and his bare chest presses against yours.

"katsuki.." you bite your bottom lip, feeling hot and bothered.

"hm?" he hums, as his lips ghost over your skin. "somethin' in that pretty little head of yours, baby?"

"this isn't really.. swimming."

"yeah? how is that my problem?"

"katsuki. we're in public. we can't—"

"baby, we could. no ones around to see anythin'. besides, when have we ever let that stop us?"

"still.." a small huff escapes your lips as your cheeks heat up. the memories flood your mind, feeling your heart rate speeding up and your core painfully clenching down on nothing as you try to keep your composure.

katsuki knew you were contemplating and he was encouraged. one of his hands slowly slid up from your hip along your ribcage, his thumb brushing gently against the side of your right breast.

"c'mon, doll," he coos, slipping his hand inside your bra, fondling you. "no one's gonna know. please, please let me fuck you."

you can't think clearly as he pinches your nipple, your moans echoing in your ears. your mind is fogged with thoughts of the need to feel him, to feel his cock filling you up to the brim. then, you find yourself nodding.

"good girl."

"not.. here though. saltwater feels weird and i'm scared you might step on a sea urchin or something."

katsuki looks up at you with a grin, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of amusement and willingness to do whatever it takes to please you. he nods, giving your lips a peck. "yes, ma'am."

katsuki's lips crash into yours, pressing them together in a sloppy, and intensely needy kiss as he lays you down on the blanket. there's a hunger behind his kiss that takes your breath away, feeling a little light-headed as he messily claims your mouth.

his hand desperately finds your inner thighs, rubbing your throbbing clit through your panties before pulling it to the side.

with his other hand, he takes his cock out, slowly aligning it towards your slit. the both of you gasp softly as the tip of his cock and your clit kiss.

your eyes roll to the back of your head as he slowly thrust his cock into you, holding onto your hips tightly.

"i'm suprised you.." you taunt him, wanting him to go harder on you, rougher. "still have so much energy, old man."

his eyes narrow at you, rolling his hips softly against yours as your chests heave together. "you've got jokes now, sweets?"

"uh-huh," you breathe out. "it's.. adorable you can still keep up with me."

"adorable, huh?"

"yeah.. i mean.. you're doing great for someone who remembers when condoms didn't exist.. thats why you're fucking me raw, right..?"

"call me old one more damn time.."

"what? gonna lecture me about respecting my elders?"

he doesn't bother with a response as he starts pounding into you harder, your moans echoing in his ears like a melody. he holds onto your hips tighter as he watches the girthy base of his cock covered by a ring of your creamy slick, roughly kissing your folds.

katsuki might've been an 'old man' but he never lacked the stamina to rail the shit out of you. he always managed to fuck you silly, dumb you down into a cock-hungry little thing.

"oh, fuck yes," he hisses as he feels your legs wrap around him. "still think i'm too old for you, huh?"

"no, no.. fuck, feels so good katsuki... don't stop, please, don't stop-"

"ain't never gonna stop, sweets," his hands crawl down to your ass, squeezing them hard. "not until you cum all over my cock, yeah?"

katsuki chuckles as you nod, pulling him in for a needy, desperate kiss. his tongue quickly delves into your mouth, his teeth catching your lip as he sucks on it gently.

as the kiss deepens, his hands on your ass pushes you harder on his cock, both of you swallowing each other's moans into the kiss, drowning in each other's taste.

katsuki pulls away, leaving you gasping and desperate for more. your voice is needy and a little pleading as you manage to speak, your words are ragged, breath coming in short, shallow pants.

"katsuki... 'm close, 'm close... please..."

"yeah? you close, baby? gonna cum for me, huh?"

your head nods as you desperately cling to him, your body is trembling with need.

"do it. be a good girl and cum on my cock, baby. cum with me, c'mon."

your body trembles and shudders with him, a wave of pleasure crashing over you as you finally let go, releasing all the tension and control you had been holding onto.

you feel your body growing limper in his arms as you sink into him as his cock fills you raw with his creamy, sticky seed.

"that's a good girl. that's my good girl," he whispers against your skin, peppering your skin in soft kisses, his hand gently rubbing your leg. "i've got you. you did so good, doll, takin' me like that."

he plants a few more kisses on your neck before he pulls back a little, his eyes meeting yours as a soft smile spreads across his face.

"you doing okay, doll?"

you nod weakly, your body feeling spent and weary, too tired for words. you can feel the strain and tension in your muscles, the exertion of sex act practically leaving you boneless.

katsuki grins, reaches for your hand and kissing your knuckles again. "talkin' a whole lot for someone who was spoutin' earlier about bein' able to keep up with you. don't tell me this old man tired you out?"

"katsuki.. shut up."

he laughs outright at your response, gently pinching your hands as he chuckles.

"what? am i not supposed to feel a little proud for makin' my girl so tired, she can't speak?"

you roll your eyes in mock irritation, a fond grin slipping onto your lips. "you're real lucky i love you, old man."

he chuckles, gently tracing along your chin with his thumb.

"oh, i'm most definitely the luckiest guy in the universe to have the most beautiful woman i love to death, love my grumpy ass back."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[d-z20]

Neighbourly Care (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: You come home from college for the weekend but your parents forgot and you are locked out of the house. Luckily your neighbour finds you and they let you stay at theirs

-OR-

You think the neighbours are MILFs and the evening is filled with flirting and then you get to be fucked by each of them and then by both of them.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, top Agatha, top Rio, small mention of Mommy kink, strap-on use, oral, there might be more idk it's very horny

Words: 4.6k of pure horniness

A/N: I think I blacked out while writing this, its so horny. It's inspired by this request and hasn't even been proofread yet so enjoy the horny mess of it

Tagging @aceday because I said I would

AO3 | Part 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | Masterlist

The rain falls in relentless sheets, soaking through your jacket, and the rest of your clothes, for that matter. Each step squelches as you trudge the familiar path from the train station to your parents’ house. By the time you reach the front door, your teeth are chattering, and your clothes cling damply to your skin. A sigh escapes your lips as you grasp the handle and pull—only to find it locked. Your heart sinks.

The memory hits you like a slap: the locks were changed after they had a break-in a few months ago. Of course, you’ve forgotten to get a new key. Fumbling through your bag, you pray for some miracle, some overlooked backdoor key, but your search turns up nothing except your phone. A quick glance at the screen confirms no messages from your parents and no backup plan. Frustration mingles with despair as you stand shivering, wondering what to do next.

Footsteps break through the downpour, and you turn to see Agatha, your parents’ neighbour, crossing her lawn towards you. You’ve exchanged pleasantries with her and her wife, Rio, a few times during your trips home from college. They’re always friendly, but you’ve never spoken beyond casual greetings. That hasn’t stopped you from admiring them, though—two stunning women, each with their own magnetic charm. And yes, you’ve labelled them MILFs in your mind more than once. Their son, Nicholas, is long gone from the nest, leaving the two women to embody a kind of confident, enviable domesticity.

Agatha snaps you out of your spiralling thoughts with a two short words. “Locked out?” Her voice is smooth, with a hint of amusement as she tilts her head and surveys you.

You open your mouth to respond, but your gaze catches on her appearance. She’s wearing tight black leggings that cling to her toned legs and a cropped gym shirt that reveals her navel, where a bead of rainwater trails tantalisingly down her skin. Her wavy brown hair is piled into a loose bun, though a few strands cling to her flushed neck. A sheen of sweat glistens on her skin—evidence of a workout she must have just finished. Your thoughts betray you as your eyes linger on the curve of her waist, imagining what it might feel like to touch her. A sudden heat rising to your cheeks.

Her blue eyes lock onto yours, a curious smile curving her lips. “Hey, you alright?” she asks, a teasing lilt in her tone.

You stammer an explanation about the locked door, your forgotten key, and your parents’ apparent absence. Agatha’s expression softens, and she motions towards her house with a nod. “Come on, you’re soaked to the bone. You’ll catch your death standing out here.”

For a moment, you hesitate. Accepting her offer feels… intimate somehow. But the alternative is staying in the cold rain, and the way her gaze lingers on you makes warmth crawl up your spine. You nod and follow her.

Agatha’s house is welcoming, with a faint scent of flowers mingling with something earthy and grounding. She grabs a towel from a nearby linen closet and tosses it to you with a playful grin. “Guest bathroom’s down here,” she says. “You’ve got two options: strip down and warm up, or stay wet and risk getting sick.”

Your eyes widen, startled by her bluntness. Agatha leans casually against the doorframe, smirking at your reaction. “Relax,” she teases. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.” And with that, she saunters away, not bothering to close the door fully behind her. Her confidence leaves you both flustered and intrigued.

Inside the bathroom, you peel off your soaked clothes, debating how much to remove. In the end, you leave your underwear on, wrapping yourself tightly in the towel. When Agatha returns, she hands you a pair of shorts and a blue plaid shirt. Her sharp eyes sweep over you, noting your wet underclothes with a tut. “All of it,” she says pointedly. “You’re dripping everywhere.” Before you can respond, she adds, “I’m off to shower. Rio should be back soon.” She turns and leaves, her movements fluid and deliberate, leaving the door ajar once more.

Feeling the weight of her words and gaze, you strip completely, your damp underwear joining the rest of your clothes in a soggy pile. You’re still mulling over what to do with them when the door opens suddenly. Rio steps in, her dark eyes widening as they land on you.

“Oh—sorry,” she says, though her gaze lingers a beat too long before she averts her eyes. “Didn’t know we had company. Agatha didn’t mention it.” Her tone is low and smooth, carrying a quiet amusement that makes your skin prickle.

You stammer an apology, clutching the towel back around you. Rio’s lips quirk upward in a faint smirk as she backs out of the bathroom, but not before you catch the way her gaze sweeps over you. Your heart pounds in your chest long after the door closes.

You quickly shower to warm up, but there’s no cleaning the thoughts inside your head. Memories of Rio’s lingering gaze replay in your mind, but they’re quickly overtaken by images of Agatha. You can’t help imagining what she looks like under the water, her skin glistening with steam, her hair sticking to her neck. The thought is startling, and you shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the fantasy.

After calming your racing mind, you dress in the clothes Agatha left and leave the guest bathroom to find the two women.

You find them both in the kitchen; the warmth a welcome contrast to the chill that had soaked through your bones earlier. Agatha moves fluidly between the stove and counter, stirring something fragrant in a pot that smells like tomatoes, garlic, and fresh herbs. Rio, meanwhile, arranges a bouquet of vibrant flowers in a vase with meticulous care, her strong hands working delicately to adjust the stems.

It’s domestic, serene even, but there’s an undeniable electricity in the air—one you can’t ignore under the weight of their lingering glances.

Agatha’s grin spreads when she notices you lingering awkwardly near the door. “Looking good,” she says, her eyes flickering over the borrowed clothes. The oversized plaid shirt hangs slightly off your shoulder, and her gaze lingers on the exposed line of your clavicle.

You fidget, tugging the fabric up, but Agatha only smirks, stirring the pot with a deliberate slowness.

Rio rolls her eyes, though there’s a faint curve to her lips. “Ignore her,” she says, her voice laced with playful exasperation. “She loves making people squirm.”

You manage a sheepish laugh, but it does little to quell the heat climbing up your neck. Agatha recounts your lockout predicament to Rio with the same teasing edge, her tone carrying just enough detail to make your situation sound both pitiful and amusing.

Rio hums in understanding, sliding the last flower into place and stepping back to admire her work. “Stay for dinner,” she offers, her dark eyes soft with genuine warmth. “It’s the least we can do.”

Agatha winks at you over her shoulder. “Yeah, we can’t have you heading back out into the rain getting all wet again—the downpour outside hasn’t let up.”

You nod, accepting their offer, though the way they exchange glances—subtle but charged—makes your stomach twist with something you can’t quite name.

As you sit at the dining table, Rio who is opposite you, starts pouring red wine into three glasses; her movements fluid and confident. Agatha joins you a moment later, setting down plates of steaming pasta and sitting next to her wife. “Hope you like red,” she says, her teasing smile returning.

The conversation flows easily over dinner; their attention split between each other and you. They ask about college life, your plans for the future, and your family; their questions laced with genuine interest and just enough flirtation to keep you on edge

When you have all finished, Rio stands to clear the plates, leaning close as she reaches for yours. The proximity is dizzying, her chest brushing your shoulder, and you catch a faint, earthy scent clinging to her skin.

Agatha doesn’t miss a beat, her eyes flickering between you and Rio, her expression smouldering. She doesn’t say a word, but the intensity in her gaze speaks volumes.

When you offer to help with the dishes, they wave you off with a chorus of “nonsense.” Agatha’s smile turns wicked. “Besides, we were supposed to have a movie date night tonight. You should join us—it’d be a shame to let all this wine go to waste.”

The phrasing makes you pause, but before you can think too much about it, Agatha ushers you into the living room. 

The room is cozy, bathed in the soft glow of lamps. Rio claims the armchair with an almost feline grace, crossing her legs and leaning back with a glass of wine in hand. Agatha sprawls on the couch, her posture open and inviting. She pats the seat beside her with an easy smile.

You hesitate for half a second before sitting on the far end of the couch, hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you.

The movie starts, but it’s impossible to focus. Agatha stretches her arm along the back of the couch, her fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. The touch is casual, almost innocent, but it sends your pulse racing.

She leans over at one point to refill your glass, her chest grazing your arm. The heat of her proximity is overwhelming, and you’re sure Rio notices the way you stiffen. There’s a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes as she takes a sip from her own glass, her lips quirking into a faint smirk.

As the movie progresses, the conversation becomes more pointed. They ask if you’re seeing anyone, and when you choke on your wine at the question, Agatha laughs—a low, throaty sound that makes your stomach flutter.

“No,” you mumble, setting your glass down a little too quickly.

“Well, that’s a shame,” she says, her hand brushing your knee lightly. The weight of her touch lingers, even as she pulls away. “I was sure a pretty little thing like you would get snapped up in a heartbeat.”

Rio arches a brow at her wife. “Don’t scare them off, Aggie.”

“What? I’m just being friendly,” Agatha replies, her tone innocent but her smirk anything but.

The conversation continues, peppered with light touches and teasing remarks that leave your heart racing.

By the time the credits roll, the tension in the room is palpable. Rio sets her glass down and stretches, her movements deliberate as she rises from the chair. “What do you think of married life, Aggie?” she asks, her voice light but carrying an edge. “Think we make a good team?”

Agatha’s gaze flicks to you, her lips curving into a smirk. “The best. But sometimes, it’s nice to mix things up.”

The comment hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Your heart pounds as you glance between them, unsure if you’re imagining the tension or if they’re deliberately baiting you—and each other.

You nervously check your phone, hoping for a message from your parents saying they’re home and wondering where you are. Instead, you find a single text: “Out of town for the weekend, hope you’re doing okay!”

You stare at the screen in disbelief, your stomach sinking.

“Everything alright?” Rio asks, noticing your expression.

"They… forgot I was coming,” you admit, feeling foolish. “They’re away for the weekend.”

Agatha clicks her tongue, feigning shock. “Terrible parenting, really. Lucky for you, we’re not going anywhere.”

Rio nods, her tone reassuring. “You can stay here. We’ll take good care of you.”

There’s something about the way she says it—gentle but with a sharp edge—that makes your breath hitch. You thank them profusely, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks as they show you to the guest room.

They leave you alone for a bit, both going to change. You sit on the bed, your thoughts racing. Their lingering glances replay in your mind, stirring something restless and uncertain. Without thinking, you pick up your phone and start searching their names on social media. Your heart beats faster as you hope for a bikini picture or something—anything—that might help you satisfy the growing ache of desire.

A knock at the door startles you, and you quickly set the phone aside. Rio steps in, holding a phone charger. “Thought you might need this,” she says, her voice soft and her gaze steady.

“Thanks,” you manage, taking it from her. Her fingers brush yours for a fleeting moment, and she lingers by the door before slipping away.

Did she know what you were about to do?

A short while later, there’s another knock. This time, it’s Agatha, holding a glass of water. “Thought you might be thirsty,” she says, her tone lighter, almost teasing.

Surely she hears how that sounds, right?

Her fingers graze yours as she hands it to you, and the warmth of her touch lingers long after she leaves. You sit on the edge of the bed, clutching the glass, your mind spinning with questions you can’t answer.

"Okay, it’s totally normal to be offered a glass of water before bed, and it does not mean they can read your mind,” you whisper to yourself, trying to curb your horniness.

—

Later that night, as you lie in bed, unable to sleep, the events of the evening are still playing over in your mind, especially the lingering touches and smirks. Suddenly, you remember the spare key your parents used to keep hidden under the plant pot by the front door. Without even thinking about how weird it was to up and leave in the middle of the night, you hop out of bed and tiptoe down the hallway, careful not to make a sound. But just as you reach the stairs, a voice stops you cold.

“Exactly where do you think you’re sneaking off to?”

Turning slowly, you see Agatha leaning against a doorway, her silhouette illuminated by the faint light from her bedroom. She is wearing a floral robe, and her hair is slightly mussed; her expression is both amused and predatory.

“I—I wasn’t sneaking,” you stammer, holding up your hands defensively. “I just remembered my parents used to keep a spare key under the plant pot. I thought I’d grab it and let myself in—”

“Without saying goodbye?” she interrupts, stepping closer. Her tone is teasing, but there’s a sharpness to her gaze that makes your pulse quicken.

Before you can respond, another figure appears behind her. It’s Rio, wearing nothing but her underwear and a top that reads: BOHNER FAMILY REUNION. PITCH A TENT. Her dark hair is messy, and you notice a small, mouth-shaped bruise blooming on her neck that definitely wasn’t there earlier.

“You were being so good for us before now,” Rio says softly, her voice carrying an edge that makes your knees weak. “We said we’d take care of you, didn’t we?”

The heat in your cheeks is unbearable now, and there is a familiar wetness pooling between your thighs. You stammer out an apology, but their combined presence is overwhelming.

“Relax,” Agatha purrs, her fingers grazing your arm. “We’re not upset, just disappointed you wouldn’t come see us before saying goodbye.”

Before you can process her words, Rio steps forward, her hand gently tilting your chin up to meet her gaze. “Where were you going to sleep after grabbing that key, hmm? Your parents’ dark, empty house? Sounds pretty lonely to me,” she murmurs, her lips curving into a faint smirk as Agatha’s hands slide around your waist.

Rio’s touch is featherlight yet commanding, her fingers tilting your chin just enough to keep your wide-eyed gaze locked with hers. Her dark eyes glimmer with something unreadable—intensity, curiosity, desire, maybe all three. 

You’re painfully aware of Agatha’s hands on your waist, her touch firm but teasing, fingers curling just slightly as if testing your reaction. “And what would you do when you found out that they no longer keep one there? They stopped doing it since the break-in, don’t you know? Would you come back over here and beg for us to take you back in and keep you warm?” Agatha says softly, her breath brushing against the back of your neck. 

You try to answer, but your words stick in your throat as Rio steps closer, her thumb brushing along your jawline.

“She’s right,” Rio adds softly, her voice low and velvety. “Why sneak off when you’re already here?”

Your heart is racing, your pulse pounding in your ears as you look between them. You want to say something—anything—but the weight of their combined attention renders you speechless.

Agatha chuckles, the sound rich and almost predatory. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” She presses closer, her front brushing against your back now, her lips grazing the shell of your ear.

Before you fully realise what’s happening, Agatha and Rio are guiding you away from the stairs. You’re caught between them, their touches subtle yet deliberate. They lead you down the hall, past the guest room, and into the master bedroom.

The room is large but intimate, the air carrying the faint scent of cedarwood. A soft glow from a bedside lamp casts warm shadows across the space. Agatha releases your waist to close the door behind you; the click of the lock is startlingly loud in the quiet.

Rio takes the lead now, her hands resting lightly on your arms as she guides you towards the bed. Her touch is warm and grounding, yet there’s a deliberate slowness to her movements, like she’s savouring the moment.

“You’ve had a long day,” she says, her voice soothing but laced with something deeper. “Let us take care of you.”

Agatha steps into view, her smirk as confident as ever. “Or, we can stop. If that’s what you want?” She asks, tilting her head as she studies you.

Your heart pounds as you shake your head, unable to trust your voice. 

Agatha’s smile widens, satisfaction gleaming in her bright blue eyes. “Be good and use your words for us, hun.”

“Please don’t stop,” you whimper.

At that, Agatha moves swiftly to your other side, her presence as bold as ever. Her fingers brush against your jaw, turning your head slightly so you’re looking directly at her. “You’re so tense,” she murmurs, her thumb grazing your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and intimate. “We’ll fix that.”

You barely have time to process her words before Rio steps closer, her body heat radiating against yours. Her hand trails down your arm, her touch featherlight but deliberate, as if she’s memorising every inch of you.

The room seems to shrink as the weight of their attention consumes you. 

Agatha’s thumb brushes against your bottom lip, and you feel a thrill shoot through you as her lips quirk into that teasing, predatory smile.

“See something you like?” she murmurs, her voice a low purr. “You weren’t careful enough not to like some of our pictures online, darling.”

Shit. So their coming into your room was not a coincidence.

Before you can stammer out an excuse, her lips capture yours—soft but demanding, her confidence evident in the way she takes control. Her hands slide up to cradle your face, her touch firm yet tender, while the kiss is a paradox of teasing and intensity.

Rio’s hands suddenly slide to your hips, pulling your attention. Agatha leans back just slightly, her breath fanning your face as her lips curve into a smirk.

“Your turn, my love,” she says, glancing at Rio with a playful challenge in her eyes.

Rio doesn’t hesitate. Her movements are firm as she tilts your chin towards her, her lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slower, softer, but no less consuming. Where Agatha is fire and fervour, Rio is water, her touch calm yet undeniably intoxicating. Her hand presses gently against the small of your back, holding you steady as she deepens the kiss.

When she finally pulls away, her lips linger close to yours, her breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the room. “You taste as good as I thought you would,” she murmurs, her voice low and laced with something that makes your knees weak.

Agatha laughs softly, stepping even closer so that you’re cocooned between them. Her fingers trail down your arm, igniting sparks along your skin. “I think they’re enjoying this, don’t you darling?” she teases, her gaze flicking between you and Rio.

Rio smirks, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “I’d say so.”

They exchange a knowing glance before Agatha’s hands firmly grip your shoulders, and with a playful yet commanding push, they guide you onto the bed, the softness of the sheets contrasting with the harsh intensity of their movements.

Agatha walks into what you presume is her closet, but you don’t think on it for long as Rio is straddling you in a matter of moments. She is kissing you with a deep need; meanwhile, her hand makes its way under the waistband of your shorts; she swipes two of her fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness, letting out a groan of pleasure at the feel of it and brings her fingers to your lips.

Just as you’re about to take her digits in your mouth, you hear Agatha’s voice full of desire call, "Off."

But Rio doesn’t move; instead, she pushes her fingers into your mouth, groaning at the feeling.

Agatha grabs the woman by the scruff of the neck and yanks her off of you.

“But Aggie, they’re so wet already,” Rio whines.

If your lips weren’t already parted from having sucked on Rio’s fingers, your mouth would have dropped open at the sight of Agatha; she had removed her robe, revealing the purple lace lingerie underneath.

She places something you can’t see at the foot of the bed and comes to stand next to you. “It seems like everything you wear ends up soaked,” she says, mock concern coating every word. 

Rio looks longingly at Agatha, a silent request on her face. With a single nod from Agatha, Rio starts undressing you hungrily. And as soon as you're bare, her mouth is on you again, exploring every inch of newly exposed skin.

“You know,” Agatha drawls, “Before your little stunt back there, my wife and I were finishing off our date with a wonderful night in bed.” She continued. “Both of us talked—or rather tried to talk between our moans—about how we’d get you to join us.” You feel Rio smirk against your skin at this last sentence.

You shudder under Rio’s relentless kisses and Agatha’s firm gaze. Your legs are forced apart with strong hands, and you feel the cool air hit your heat.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” Agatha states for the second time that evening. “Now let us take care of you.” Her voice is sure, leaving no room for arguments.

Rio’s makes her way down your body, nipping and sucking at your skin. When she reaches your thighs, her touch becomes lighter, stopping short of where you want her mouth most.

“Please.” You beg, back arching up into her.

The feeling of her lips on your clit is pure ecstasy. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation of Rio starting to suck lightly. Moaning, you grab a fistful of her hair and grind up into her face, seeking more. 

She hums in satisfaction, happy to fulfil your request. She nips gently and begins to tease your entrance with her tongue, dipping it in ever so slightly. It doesn’t take long before you’re cumming all over her face, her name falling repeatedly from your lips. It’s only when you start to come back down that you remember Agatha is still in the room. She is looking at you with sheer lust, clearly struggling to keep herself from interrupting Rio’s fun. 

As if they could read each other’s minds, Rio withdraws from between your legs and comes to sit behind you, pulling you up so your back is against her chest. She pinches one of your nipples, causing your head to drop back on to her shoulder. A firm hand grips your chin, forcing it back up, and you open your eyes to see Agatha kneeling between your legs, her hands rubbing up and down your thighs.

“You need to look at Mommy when she fucks you,” Rio whispers in your ear before playfully nibbling your earlobe.

Agatha’s arms snake under your legs, pulling your hips up and into her. It’s then that you feel something hard poke you, making your eyes go wide. At some point when Rio was fucking you, Agatha had slipped into a harness, a purple dildo secured firmly in the centre.

“Are you sure you want this?” She asks, bringing the tip to your entrance. “I’ll only continue with your enthusiastic consent.”

The fact that she cares enough to make sure you were definitely okay with this, only turns you on more. “Yes. Please, Agatha—" Rio's grip on your jaw tightens. “Mommy,” you correct yourself. “Please fuck me, Mommy.”

And with that, she slides into you, facing very little resistance with how wet you are. As she bottoms out, her hips pressing into yours, you can’t help the whimper that escapes your lips.

“Kiss me,” you demand.

You hear Agatha chuckle when she leans into you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss while still continuing her thrusts. 

The sex is messy and loud, and you cum at least two more times before the couple shows any kind of stopping. You are left gasping, your body shaking; Rio’s firm hold on you is the only thing keeping you upright.

“Think you can go for one more round, sweetheart?” Agatha teases as Rio climbs out from behind you.

With the strap still inside you, Agatha rolls you over so she is lying on the bed and you are straddling her hips. The other woman settles her thighs on either side of Agatha’s head, facing you.

“Honey, you really have enjoyed having our guest round, haven’t you?”

Rio doesn’t reply, only winking at you before lowering herself onto Agatha’s face.

You start to grind your hips at the sight, the strap hitting the perfect spot inside you, Agatha begins to flick her tongue over Rio’s clit, and Rio pulls your face in to start making out with you. This change in position has the harness rubbing against Agatha’s clit, pulling the most gorgeous moans from her. All of you are lost in waves of pleasure; the sounds of grunting, moaning, and whining filling the room. 

You all cum at different times, but it doesn’t matter because nobody stops until the last of you is coaxed through the final aftershocks of your orgasms.

Untangling yourself from one another, you and Rio flop down beside Agatha, dumb smiles plastered across all of your faces. It’s a few minutes before they get up, but Agatha takes off the harness, giving it to her wife before coming back and drawing you into her arms. Rio wanders off to their bathroom to clean it off and returns with a wet cloth to clean you up as well.

She rejoins you after she's done and presses a soft kiss to your head, coming to lay down behind you, draping her arm across your body. With the three of you like that, it is not long before you fall into a deep sleep, a small smile still visible on your lips. 

You were going to ache in the morning, but right this second you couldn’t find a single fuck to give.

——

Please like&reblog if you enjoyed, I thrive off external validation and it motivates me to write more stuff like this 👀

read part 2 here :)

[devondespresso]

every now and then one just gets completely enamoured with karen pov prologue chapter and convinces themselves they can totally post it before the whole fic is done

[gothamcitycentral]

Dr. Phosphorus is almost contradictory to himself in a way I find notable.

Assuring Nina with, “I know you can do this, kid.” A term of endearment slipping in, fitting an interaction between a once-father and a young woman who’s spent the overwhelming majority of her adult life locked away and isolated in prison.

Perhaps too endearing, as he quickly undercuts it with “Did it sound like I gave a shit?”

When Weasel jeopardizes the mission, he grabs him in anger, yelling, “You stupid rat!”

But he doesn’t actually try to hurt Weasel. He only got burned once he sunk his teeth too deep into Phosphorus.

Then there’s this scene, where this obviously just him joking around, right? Just him being his sardonic self.

But then later, he seems genuinely offended that Flag is angry with him. That Flag should have taken his actions as a favor between ‘friends’. As if he’s actually a little desperate to be liked by the man he was fighting with not that long ago.

(I mean, as a smaller example, his interactions with Nosferata jump from him insulting her to playing freaking ping pong with her)

Then there’s his recurring dynamic with Bride. Despite the ‘I’m a killer who doesn’t care about anything’ idea of himself he pushes, Phosphorus continuously tries to interact with her. Making remarks for her to find amusing, remaking on their bleak situation for her to join in on. It’s like he saw the first person in so long to really acknowledge him in anything close to a meaningful way (“Are you smiling?” “Yes!” “Sarcastically?” “Mm-hm.”) and decided he wasn’t going to let that high just go away.

Even after the mission failed, he tries to push himself as the annoyed, angered man. Angered at Weasel, angered at Nina’s death, angered at their efforts all being for nothing.

But then he’s the only person to comfort Bride in her mourning.

I think these conflicting traits, the outward expression versus the sincerity that slips through, are most well shown during Wonderlust King. Still in the wake of his family’s death (not that it ever ended for him), during his era as a crime boss, he tries to satiate the sadness in himself.

He dances in the Ice Lounge, a display of his power and his wealth for all its attendees to bear.

But then misses dancing with his wife at their wedding, a display of their love for all gathered to behold.

He tries to gain satisfaction through inflicting violence onto others.

But then only misses the love he shared with Parvin.

He tries to fill the hole in his heart with riches.

But it’s meaningless in comparison.

Dr. Phosphorus thought Alex Sartorius died the night he was born, I feel, but despite his own best wishes, he’s still there, the loving man who only wanted to help people he once was.