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connorsui · 5 months ago

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Behind Closed Doors

Prohero Katsuki x reader

Genre/Warnings: Domestic Fluff, soft moments, slight emotional variability for katsuki, katsukis attitude

Synopsis: —his love for you is hidden in the small, everyday acts of affection.

Note: I like to imagine katsuki becoming a completely different person when he's left alone with you 🍒

w.c: 2,211

The difference in Katsuki’s behavior always caught you off guard, no matter how long you’d been together. In public, he stormed through crowds with an intensity that left everyone around him on edge. His voice would rise above the noise, sharp and commanding, as he ordered others around or shut down any attempt at small talk with a single glare. He hated being slowed down and hated when people got in his way. But when his gaze flickered to you, just for a moment, there was something else—something quieter, softer, that only you could see.

It wasn’t that Katsuki toned it down in public—not by a long shot—but there was a certain way he carried himself when you were beside him. As if you were the exception to the rule, the one person he didn’t mind sticking around. Even when surrounded by fans or reporters, his body would instinctively angle toward you, a subtle shield between you and the world. His touch was always firm, but never rough, as though he was unconsciously protecting the one part of his life he wanted to keep safe from the chaos.

One night, after a particularly long day, Katsuki came home more irritable than usual. You heard it the moment the door slammed shut, his heavy boots stomping across the floor. He tossed his keys onto the counter with a sharp clink, his jaw tight, and his scowl deeper than normal.

“—fucking idiots…” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Can’t even do their damn jobs, right”

You watched him from the couch, knowing better than to approach him immediately when he was like this. Katsuki needed time to cool down to let the frustration simmer until it dulled. Still, you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. He was all bark out there, terrifying to anyone who crossed his path, but you knew that in just a few minutes, he’d come over, sit next to you, and let out that sigh—the one that meant he was done being a hero for the day.

And, just as expected, he did. After a few moments of grumbling to himself, Katsuki crossed the room and dropped down beside you with a huff, his head falling back against the couch cushions. You didn’t say anything, just reached out and placed your hand on his thigh, grounding him with a simple touch. His shoulders relaxed almost instantly, the tension melting away as he exhaled deeply.

“Rough day, huh?” you asked quietly, giving his leg a gentle squeeze.

“Tch. Yeah.” He closed his eyes, one hand covering his face. “Just sick of dealin’ with everybody out there all day.”

There was a pause, the room settling into a comfortable silence before he added, his voice quieter, almost sheepish, “Missed you…”

It was in those moments you realized how much he relied on you to recharge. He wasn’t the type to come home and fall apart, but there was a vulnerability in the way he leaned into you, even when he tried to play it off. Katsuki didn’t need grand gestures or declarations; he showed his love in the way he let his guard down when it was just the two of you.

Later that night, after you both settled into bed, Katsuki turned toward you, his movements slower, more deliberate as the day’s tension ebbed away. Without a word, he tugged you into his chest, his strong arm wrapping securely around your waist, pulling you close. The heat of his body seeped into yours, and the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat thudded softly beneath your ear. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breath warm as it brushed against your skin, sending a wave of comfort through you.

His grip was firm, possessive, but tender, as if holding you was the only thing keeping him grounded. For a long moment, he said nothing, just breathed you in, his hand tracing lazy circles on your lower back. Then, with quiet vulnerability, Katsuki’s voice rumbled softly against your neck, thick with the weight of sleep and affection he rarely voiced.

“Can’t stand anyone else… but you,” he mumbled, his lips brushing your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine. “But with you… everything feels right.”

The words were so soft they could’ve easily been lost to the night, but in the quiet of your room, they wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Your heart swelled, warmth spreading through your chest at the rare, intimate admission. Turning in his arms, you pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. Katsuki’s hold tightened instantly, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, as if the simple act of being this close wasn’t enough.

He exhaled deeply, the last of his tension melting away as he pulled you impossibly closer, his forehead resting gently against yours. “You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he murmured, his voice softer now, a whispered promise in the quiet. "Not without me."

In that moment, there was no one else in the world but the two of you—wrapped up in each other, his love woven into every touch, every breath, every heartbeat.

It was in these moments, when the world outside faded away and it was just the two of you tangled in the sheets, that you truly understood how much Katsuki cared. How deeply he loved, even if he didn’t always say it out loud. You saw it in the way he relaxed when you were near, the way his fiery temper cooled into something soft and unguarded, a side of him no one else ever got to see.

Katsuki might hate the world—hell, he made no secret of how unbearable he found most people—but when it came to you, it was different. You were the calm in his storm, the quiet he sought after the chaos of hero work. And in return, he gave you a side of himself no one else would ever know. That alone was enough to show you just how much he cherished you.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Katsuki moving around the kitchen. When you padded out, rubbing sleep from your eyes, you found him already dressed in his hero uniform, his back to you as he flipped something in a pan.

“You’re up early,” you remarked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yeah, well,” he grunted, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. “Figured I’d make you breakfast before I head out. Can’t have you starvin’ while I’m out dealin’ with idiots, can I?”

You laughed, moving over to wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek to his broad back. “I love you, Katsuki.”

“Tch… love you too,” he muttered, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

The warmth of Katsuki’s back against your cheek, combined with the rich smell of breakfast, made you want to stay wrapped around him for the rest of the morning. You lingered there for a moment longer, savoring the rare quiet before he had to face the demands of the day.

He turned off the burner with a sharp flick of his wrist, then nudged you gently with his elbow, his tone playfully gruff. “Go sit down, idiot. I made all this for you, not so you could just stand around and get in the way.”

You smiled at the familiar edge to his words, knowing the affection that lay underneath. “Okay, okay,” you teased, stepping back and heading to the table. As you sat down, Katsuki brought over a plate piled with perfectly golden toast, eggs cooked just the way you liked them, and a small portion of your favorite fruit. The meal was simple, but you could feel the care in every detail.

He placed the plate in front of you, then leaned down, brushing a quick kiss to the top of your head before heading back to the kitchen to grab his own breakfast. “Eat up,” he said over his shoulder, his voice softer than before.

You dug in, and the taste of the food, combined with Katsuki’s quiet gestures of love, made your chest feel full. It wasn’t grand or elaborate, but that was what made it so special—the quiet moments when it was just the two of you, sharing something as simple as breakfast.

As Katsuki sat down across from you, he kept glancing up from his plate, watching you eat with a soft expression that only you ever got to see. He didn’t say much, just occasionally asked if you needed more coffee or wanted another piece of toast. There was a contentment in the air, one that spoke of a love that didn’t need constant words to be understood.

When the meal was finished, you stood to clear the table, but Katsuki stopped you with a firm hand on your wrist. “I got it,” he grumbled, already starting to collect the dishes.

You tilted your head at him, a smile playing at your lips. “You’re spoiling me today, Katsuki.”

“Tch. Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, though there was a teasing glint in his eye. “Just thought I’d do somethin’ nice before I head out and have to deal with all those extras.”

His words made you laugh, and the sound seemed to soften the lines of his face even more. Katsuki wasn’t a man of many words when it came to expressing his feelings, but in moments like these, you didn’t need them. The way he made breakfast, the way he took care of the dishes, and the way he kept checking in on you—it was all Katsuki’s way of showing how much he cared.

When he was done cleaning up, he grabbed his hero jacket from the back of a chair and shrugged it on, his movements fluid and practiced. You walked over to him, your hands naturally finding their place on his chest as you helped him adjust the collar. He looked down at you, eyes soft despite the serious set of his mouth.

“Be careful out there, okay?” you murmured, your fingers lingering on the fabric of his jacket.

Katsuki huffed, but you could hear the affection in his voice. “I’m always careful, idiot. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

You stood on your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips, slow and lingering, and for a moment, Katsuki’s hand came up to cup your cheek, holding you in place just a little longer. When you pulled away, his red eyes were dark with something you couldn’t quite name, but you could feel the weight of his affection in that look.

“Get some rest today,” he said, his voice low and serious now. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You nodded, watching as he stepped back and adjusted his gloves, his usual sharp, determined expression settling back in place. But before he opened the door, he turned back one last time, that softer version of him peeking through once again.

“Love you,” he said, and it was quiet—so quiet you almost missed it. But it was there, and that was enough.

“I love you too, Katsuki,” you whispered, your heart swelling as you watched him leave, already looking forward to the moment when he’d come back and the world would quiet down again, just for the two of you.

The hours passed slowly after Katsuki left. You tried to keep busy, flipping through a book or scrolling absentmindedly through your phone, but your mind kept wandering back to him. It was always like this when he was out on patrol. You trusted him more than anything, knew he was one of the strongest heroes out there, but that didn’t stop the small flutter of worry from creeping in now and then.

It was late in the afternoon when your phone buzzed with a message from him.

"On my way back. Be there in 20. Don’t start dinner without me"

You smiled at the screen, already feeling the familiar warmth in your chest. Katsuki was always direct, even in his texts, but the fact that he let you know he was coming home—that he was thinking of you—made your heart skip a beat.

When he finally walked through the door, there was none of the usual tension from his long day. He dropped his bag by the door and kicked off his boots, heading straight for you without a word. You barely had time to set down the book you’d been reading before his arms were around you, pulling you into a tight hug that left no room for anything but the two of you.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your hair, his voice quiet but full of that raw, unspoken affection you had come to know so well.

“I missed you too,” you replied, your arms wrapping around his neck as you leaned into him, letting the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek wash away the last traces of the day.

And just like that, the world outside faded away, leaving only the quiet warmth of Katsuki’s presence and the simple, steady rhythm of your life together.

Gimmie soft pro bakugo ..I guarantee this man would treat you with respect u deserve

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

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HIS HOME

• CLARK KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — To the world, Clark Kent is Superman—the invincible hero, Earth’s mightiest protector, and a symbol of hope and strength. He’s the one who soars through the skies, battles formidable enemies, and saves countless lives without a second thought. But to you, he’s simply Clark—the shy, kind-hearted farm boy from Smallville you’ve loved since high school.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge.

WORDS! 10k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! - Here's a little fluff for my favorite farm boy, I recently watched the Superman teaser and got a little inspired.

The early morning sun began its slow, graceful ascent over the towering skyline of Metropolis, sending soft, golden rays spilling through the sheer, cream-colored curtains of Clark Kent’s cozy apartment. The delicate fabric diffused the light, casting a warm, ethereal glow across the room. The gentle illumination danced over the simple but thoughtfully chosen furnishings: a well-loved leather armchair tucked into the corner, a sturdy wooden bookshelf overflowing with novels and framed photos, and a vintage record player resting on a low cabinet—small tokens of a life built together.

Beneath a thick, plush comforter in the center of the room’s focal point—a spacious, inviting bed—Clark and his longtime boyfriend, Y/N, lay entwined in peaceful slumber. Their breaths rose and fell in a quiet, harmonious rhythm, filling the serene space with a sense of intimacy only shared by two souls deeply connected. The soft weight of the comforter enveloped them, shielding them from the crisp morning air that lingered just beyond the windowpane.

Though Y/N remained fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady, calming rhythm, Clark was already awake. His piercing blue eyes, usually sharp with focus and responsibility, now gleamed with tenderness as he quietly admired the man sleeping beside him. For a few precious moments, the weight of the world slipped away—no urgent headlines to chase, no distant cries for help demanding Superman’s strength—just the quiet stillness of their shared sanctuary.

Clark’s gaze lingered, tracing every familiar line and curve of Y/N’s face. His fingertips, rough from years of fighting battles no one else could, hovered just above Y/N’s skin, hesitant to disturb the peaceful spell. He followed the delicate slope of his jaw, the curve of his lips—soft and slightly upturned, as though he were dreaming of something sweet—and the dark, feathery lashes that rested gently against his cheeks. How many times had he memorized these details? How many mornings like this had he silently counted himself lucky?

Here, in this stolen moment before the world woke up, Clark was simply Clark—the man who had fallen in love with his best friend back in high school and never stopped. His heart swelled with the same overwhelming emotion he felt every time he realized he got to spend another day with the person who grounded him, made him laugh, and saw past the cape to the man beneath.

As the sun’s rays grew bolder, stretching farther into the room, the stillness was broken by the sudden, jarring beep of the alarm clock on the bedside table. Its sharp sound shattered the tranquility like glass meeting stone.

“Morning,” Clark whispered, his deep voice warm and soothing, rich with a love that couldn’t be contained. His hand gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s forehead, his touch as tender as the sunlight now spilling across the bed.

Y/N blinked slowly, his eyelashes fluttering. He shifted slightly beneath the thick, plush comforter, its weight a soothing barrier against the crisp morning air. He could feel the solid, steady warmth radiating from Clark’s body beside him, grounding him before he even opened his eyes fully. His fingers twitched reflexively, seeking out the comforting presence he knew was there.

When Y/N’s half-lidded gaze finally focused, the first thing he saw was Clark, lying on his side, already awake. His piercing blue eyes gleamed softly, filled with a quiet intensity that made Y/N’s heart ache in the best possible way. Clark’s expression was open, vulnerable, and utterly disarming—like he was seeing something precious he still couldn’t quite believe was real, even after all these years.

A sleepy, instinctive smile tugged at the corners of Y/N’s lips. He stretched slowly, luxuriating in the warmth of the bed and the quiet stillness that lingered in the room, allowing the peaceful moment to settle over him like a familiar melody. His fingers reached up lazily, brushing away a stray lock of hair from his face before his hand drifted down to rest gently on Clark’s chest.

The steady, reassuring thrum of Clark’s heartbeat pulsed beneath Y/N’s fingertips, calm and unwavering, like the rhythm of the earth itself. He let out a contented sigh, his body relaxing further as he nestled closer, resting his head against Clark’s broad shoulder. The fabric of Clark’s soft, well-worn T-shirt felt cool against his cheek, contrasting with the warmth radiating from his skin.

“Good morning,” Y/N murmured, his voice rough with sleep but laced with tenderness. His words were barely above a whisper, soft and warm like the first light of dawn filtering through the window. His hand idly traced slow, lazy patterns across Clark’s chest—small, unconscious shapes made in quiet affection.

Clark smiled, his hand moving with gentle certainty to rest on Y/N’s lower back, his fingertips drawing soothing circles through the thin fabric of his sleep shirt. His touch was familiar yet reverent, a silent promise etched into every small caress.

Y/N’s eyes flickered toward the faint glow spilling through the window, signaling the start of another day. The world outside slowly stirred to life, but inside their shared haven, time seemed suspended—just the two of them in a bubble of warmth and love that felt untouched by the outside world.

“What time is it?” Y/N asked softly, his voice still tinged with sleep and curiosity, though there was no urgency behind the question. His fingers continued their gentle, aimless tracing, not yet ready to break the fragile stillness of the moment.

With a reluctant glance, Clark shifted his eyes toward the worn alarm clock on the nightstand. Its glowing red numbers silently ticked forward, marking the steady march of time. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he registered the hour. “It’s 7:15,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, like a quiet breeze through the still room.

Y/N groaned playfully at the answer, dragging one hand down his face in mock exasperation before propping himself up on one elbow. His hair was delightfully tousled, a few stubborn strands falling across his forehead despite his half-hearted attempt to smooth them down. “We really need to get up,” he said, though the lack of conviction in his voice betrayed him. His fingers brushed lightly against Clark’s arm, lingering there as though reluctant to break the warmth of their embrace.

Before Y/N could move any further, Clark’s strong arms tightened around his waist with effortless ease, pulling him back down into the secure circle of his embrace. His hold was firm yet tender, a perfect blend of strength and comfort, silently promising that he wasn’t ready to let Y/N go just yet.

“Not yet,” Clark whispered, his voice soft but resolute, filled with quiet intensity. His piercing blue eyes met Y/N’s with such tenderness that it made Y/N’s breath hitch for a moment. There was something profound in that gaze, something unspoken yet unmistakably clear—love, deep and unyielding.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking upward in mild amusement despite the way his heart seemed to swell in his chest. “Clark, we really should—”

“Do you know what today is?” Clark interrupted gently, his tone playful but tinged with something deeper—something meaningful. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his expression equal parts teasing and expectant.

Y/N blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden change in conversation, before a quiet laugh bubbled up from his chest. He let his forehead rest gently against Clark’s for a moment, savoring the warmth of their closeness, before pulling back just far enough to meet his eyes again.

“Of course I know,” Y/N replied softly, his voice steady but colored with affection. “It’s our anniversary.”

Clark’s smile widened, his eyes shimmering with something unmistakably radiant, though there was still a spark of playfulness there. He shook his head slightly, brushing his thumb tenderly over Y/N’s cheek, letting his fingers trail gently down to his jawline. His touch was reverent, as if the moment itself were fragile and precious.

“Not just any anniversary,” Clark corrected, his voice dipping lower, resonant with emotion. “It’s our ten-year anniversary.” His expression shifted into something more serious, almost reverent, as though the weight of a decade spent together was something sacred—something he still couldn’t quite believe he was lucky enough to have.

Y/N’s eyes widened briefly, a flicker of surprise softening into something far deeper, warmer. His lips parted as if to respond, but instead, he simply cupped Clark’s face with both hands, his thumbs tracing gentle, familiar lines along his jaw. His touch was slow, deliberate—a silent answer filled with love and devotion.

“Ten years,” Y/N echoed, letting the words hang between them like a whispered vow. His voice was quiet but steady, thick with emotion. “I can’t believe it’s been that long.”

Clark’s expression softened further, his smile turning just a little more playful as he leaned forward, pressing a lingering, feather-light kiss to Y/N’s forehead. His lips lingered there, warm and reassuring, before pulling back just enough to meet Y/N’s gaze again.

“And I’m not letting you out of this bed until we properly celebrate…” Clark whispered, his voice low and teasing but laced with unmistakable sincerity. His arms tightened just a fraction, drawing Y/N even closer. “…Starting right now.”

Y/N laughed softly, his eyes sparkling with both affection and amusement. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice light but affectionate, fingers still tracing slow, loving patterns across Clark’s chest.

Clark only smiled, leaning in to press another kiss—this time soft and lingering—against Y/N’s lips, sealing the promise between them with quiet certainty.

Y/N pulled away, letting out a soft breathy laugh, his lips curving into a playful smirk as he rested his hand gently on Clark’s chest. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the steady, familiar rhythm of Clark’s heartbeat—strong, unyielding, and comforting in a way that felt like home. His fingers absently traced small, lazy circles over the fabric of Clark’s worn T-shirt, savoring the warmth radiating from his skin.

His eyes sparkled with affection, though there was a teasing edge in his voice as he arched an eyebrow. “Clark,” he murmured, his tone light but laced with mock sternness, “if we celebrate right now, neither one of us is going to make it to work on time.”

Clark chuckled, his deep, resonant laugh filling the room like a warm embrace. It was the kind of laugh that made Y/N’s heart swell, as familiar and comforting as the dawn’s first light. His smile widened into that boyish, slightly mischievous grin Y/N had fallen in love with all those years ago—a grin that still made his knees weak even after a decade together.

“You make a compelling point,” Clark admitted with mock seriousness, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed him. His gaze softened as he took in every beloved detail of Y/N’s face—the curve of his cheek, the sparkle in his eyes, the way his lips quirked in that teasing smile that always left Clark feeling utterly captivated.

Before Y/N could fire back with a witty retort, Clark moved with effortless grace, gently shifting his weight as he rolled over, pinning Y/N beneath him in one fluid motion. His strong arms braced on either side of Y/N’s head, caging him in—but his touch was tender, protective, filled with nothing but love. Y/N gasped softly in surprise, though his eyes gleamed with amusement and affection.

Clark leaned down until their faces were mere inches apart, his breath warm against Y/N’s skin. His gaze never wavered, tracing every familiar feature with reverence, as though memorizing them all over again.

“I guess I could try to be responsible…” Clark whispered, his voice dropping into that low, velvety tone that always sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine, “…but where’s the fun in that?”

Before Y/N could respond—or even fully process the words—Clark dipped his head and captured his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. His mouth moved with unhurried purpose, savoring the connection as though time itself had ceased to matter. The kiss was deep but tender, filled with emotion that words could never quite capture.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Clark’s warm lips trailed away from his, leaving a path of feather-light kisses along his jawline. Clark’s mouth lingered just below Y/N’s ear—his most sensitive spot—his breath sending pleasant tingles down his spine. His lips brushed gently against Y/N’s neck, pressing soft, deliberate kisses that ignited a warmth deep within him.

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped Y/N’s lips as he arched into Clark’s touch, threading his fingers through Clark’s thick, dark hair. He tugged gently, earning a soft, pleased hum from Clark that resonated against his skin. “You’re impossible,” Y/N whispered, though his voice trembled with love, his words holding no real bite.

Clark pulled back just enough to meet Y/N’s gaze, his expression soft but still tinged with playful defiance. His piercing blue eyes sparkled with warmth, love, and something far deeper—something timeless. “Ten years,” he murmured, brushing his thumb gently across Y/N’s cheek, his touch reverent and tender. “I think we’ve earned a little celebration… even if we’re a bit late.”

Y/N laughed again, shaking his head in mock exasperation, though he made no effort to move away—he never could when Clark held him like this, when he looked at him like he was the most precious thing in the world. His heart swelled with overwhelming affection, threatening to burst from the sheer intensity of it all.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Y/N whispered softly, his voice thick with emotion as he tugged Clark down into another kiss—slow, deep, and full of all the love and devotion he couldn’t put into words.

Clark’s grin widened against Y/N’s lips, his expression radiating pure joy. “I know,” he whispered playfully, echoing the familiar words that had been exchanged between them countless times—but now, they held a deeper, more profound meaning.

In that moment, nothing else existed—no alarms, no deadlines, no responsibilities. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of their shared breath, the warmth of their intertwined bodies, and a love that had endured a decade and promised to last a lifetime.

By 8:15 a.m., the quiet intimacy of the early morning had dissolved into the familiar rhythm of Clark and Y/N’s weekday routine. The warmth of their shared bed now felt like a distant memory as they moved through their cozy apartment with practiced ease, the comfortable chaos of a typical workday morning unfolding around them.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the crisp aroma of toasted bread and the faint trace of Clark’s cologne lingering in the hallway. The kitchen was alive with quiet energy—drawers opening, shoes being slipped on, phones buzzing with notifications. The distant hum of Metropolis traffic outside was a constant, blending into the comforting sounds of home.

Clark stood at the kitchen counter, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie still undone around his neck. He poured steaming coffee into two familiar mugs—one emblazoned with the bold “Daily Planet” logo, and the other featuring a playful “World’s Best Partner” design, a sentimental gift from Y/N on their fifth anniversary. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, steady and sure, as though even the smallest tasks carried a quiet significance in their shared life.

“Babe, have you seen my laptop charger?” Y/N’s voice called from the bedroom, tinged with mild urgency. His words were punctuated by the sound of drawers sliding open and the soft rustle of clothes being shifted around.

Clark couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head fondly as he set the coffee mugs on the kitchen table. “Check the shelf by the desk!” he called back, his voice warm and familiar. In one smooth motion, he looped his tie into a perfect Windsor knot, fingers moving with expert precision—years of balancing superhero duties and tight Daily Planet deadlines had honed his multitasking skills to near perfection.

Moments later, Y/N emerged from the bedroom, holding his laptop charger triumphantly like a prize. His collar was only half-buttoned, his sleeves still unrolled, but he already looked every bit the driven professional Clark had admired from the moment they’d worked side by side as young interns. His hair was slightly tousled, still settling after a rushed comb-through, making him impossibly endearing.

“Found it!” Y/N announced with mock triumph, flashing Clark a cheeky grin as he hurried toward the kitchen. He grabbed his “World’s Best Partner” mug from the table and took a long, appreciative sip, savoring the warmth that seeped into his fingertips. A contented sigh escaped his lips. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said with sincere gratitude, the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection.

Clark smirked, leaning casually against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “I try,” he teased lightly, though his gaze softened as he watched Y/N sip his coffee, soaking in the familiar comfort of their shared morning ritual. It was in these small, ordinary moments that Clark felt the fullness of their life together—steady, warm, real.

Y/N gave a quick glance at the microwave clock—8:17 a.m. They were cutting it close but still technically on time if they hustled. He grabbed his well-worn messenger bag from the back of a kitchen chair and slung it over his shoulder with practiced ease. “Let’s roll,” he said with determined resolve, already mentally running through the day’s to-do list.

Just as Y/N reached for the door, Clark’s fingers gently brushed against his wrist, halting him with a soft touch. “Hey,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, edged with something deeper.

Y/N turned, brow raised in curious question. His expression softened as he met Clark’s gaze, recognizing the quiet emotion shimmering in those piercing blue eyes.

Clark’s smile shifted into something far more tender, his earlier playfulness replaced by sincerity. “Happy ten-year anniversary,” he whispered, his voice rich with meaning, as though he still couldn’t quite believe how lucky he was to be standing there, sharing this life with the person he loved.

Y/N’s expression melted instantly, the rush of the morning forgotten. He leaned in, cradling Clark’s face gently in his hands, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. The world outside seemed to pause, leaving only the warmth of their shared breath and the quiet rhythm of their hearts beating in sync.

“Happy anniversary,” Y/N whispered back, his tone filled with unwavering love. His fingers lingered against Clark’s jaw for just a moment longer, as though reluctant to let the moment end.

With one last shared smile—intimate, knowing—they turned toward the door, ready to face whatever challenges the bustling city had in store. Whatever the day might bring, they would face it together—just as they always had, and always would.

Clark stepped through the revolving doors of the bustling Daily Planet building, adjusting his signature glasses out of habit as he took in the familiar symphony of the newsroom’s organized chaos. The air buzzed with the electric energy of a new workday—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and conversations overlapping as reporters exchanged leads and debated headlines. The faint scent of fresh ink and brewed coffee lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the newsroom’s relentless pace.

A small, contented smile tugged at Clark’s lips as he strode across the polished marble floor, his polished shoes clicking softly against the tile. He felt right at home here, even after years of balancing the double life of award-winning journalist and Earth’s greatest protector. Still, even amid the familiar hustle, his mind lingered on the peaceful morning he’d shared with Y/N—the warmth of their shared coffee, the lingering kiss at the door, the whispered “Happy anniversary” that still echoed softly in his heart.

He was halfway to his desk when he found his path blocked—ambushed, really—by two familiar figures: Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, his closest friends and trusted partners in journalistic crime. Lois stood with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised in playful expectation, while Jimmy hovered just behind her, his ever-present camera slung over his shoulder like he was ready to document something groundbreaking.

“Alright, Kent,” Lois announced with a sly smirk, tilting her head in that knowing way she always did when she was on the verge of uncovering something. “What’s the plan?”

Clark blinked, momentarily thrown off by her question. He adjusted his glasses again, a reflex whenever he felt caught off guard. “Plan? What plan?” he asked, brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

Jimmy let out an exaggerated scoff, stepping forward with wide-eyed disbelief. “The plan, Clark!” he urged dramatically. “Don’t tell me you forgot! It’s your ten-year anniversary with Y/N today!”

Clark’s eyes widened ever so slightly, though he quickly schooled his expression into one of practiced calm. “Wait—how do you two know about that?” he asked, his voice tinged with mild suspicion but tempered by curiosity.

Lois rolled her eyes, her smirk widening. “Please,” she said with mock disdain. “I’m a journalist, Clark. It’s literally my job to know things.”

Jimmy nodded enthusiastically, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “And I’m, like, super observant. You’ve had that goofy, ‘I’m-so-in-love’ look plastered all over your face for days.” He gestured dramatically around the newsroom. “It’s practically headline news at this point.”

Clark couldn’t help but chuckle despite himself, shaking his head. “You two are unbelievable.”

Lois stepped closer, her sharp eyes softening just a fraction, though the spark of mischief never left. “Seriously, though,” she said with a bit more warmth, “you do have something special planned, right? Ten years isn’t just any anniversary.”

For a brief moment, Clark’s mind drifted to the small velvet box tucked securely in the inner pocket of his coat—the one he’d been carefully keeping out of sight all morning. The memory of its weight was reassuring, grounding him in the quiet certainty of what the evening would bring.

“Let’s just say…” Clark began slowly, his lips curving into a knowing smile, “…I might have a few surprises up my sleeve.”

Jimmy let out a dramatic gasp, clearly intrigued, while Lois arched an approving eyebrow. “Now this is a story I’m dying to see unfold,” she quipped, already imagining the possibilities.

Clark chuckled, brushing past them toward his desk. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he called over his shoulder. “No spoilers… even for journalists.”

Lois smirked knowingly while Jimmy fist-pumped in silent excitement, already speculating wildly about what Clark’s “surprise” might be. The newsroom’s steady hum continued around them, deadlines and breaking news still demanding attention—but for a brief moment, Clark allowed himself to savor the quiet anticipation bubbling within him.

Tonight would be more than just a milestone—it would be the start of something even greater. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Y/N’s face when he finally revealed what he’d been planning for weeks… and slipped that ring onto his finger.

The day carried on as usual—but for Clark, the countdown to that perfect, long-awaited moment had already begun.

The streets of Metropolis teemed with life far below as Superman soared effortlessly through the crisp morning sky, his iconic red cape billowing behind him like a banner of hope. The sharp edges of the city’s glass-and-steel skyline glinted in the morning sun, casting streaks of light across the bustling streets below. His keen eyes swept across the familiar cityscape, ever watchful, always ready.

The city pulsed with its usual symphony—honking car horns, hurried conversations, the rhythmic clang of construction equipment, and the distant chatter of morning radio shows drifting from open windows. The steady thrum of Metropolis’ indomitable spirit surrounded him, grounding him even as he hovered hundreds of feet above. To anyone else, it might have been overwhelming—chaotic—but to Clark, it was the heartbeat of home.

He had just finished assisting the Metropolis Fire Department with a hazardous warehouse fire down by the docks. The acrid scent of smoke still clung faintly to his uniform, though the crisis was long resolved. He allowed himself a rare moment of pause, suspended in the sky, arms crossed, his cape trailing like a protective shield over the city he’d sworn to protect.

Then something familiar tugged at his senses.

Cutting through the tangled web of urban noise, a voice—distinct, beloved—filtered clearly into his super-sensitive hearing.

Y/N’s voice.

Clark’s breath hitched as he stilled mid-air, hanging weightless against the wind. His sharp focus zeroed in instantly, his hearing filtering out the static of the city until only that familiar voice remained. His heart clenched with longing and quiet relief.

He traced the sound to the upper floors of a gleaming high-rise in the heart of downtown—the unmistakable, foreboding silhouette of LexCorp Tower, its sharp edges and mirrored surface reflecting the cold morning light. The sight alone made his jaw tighten, tension rippling through his frame. No matter how many years passed, Lex Luthor’s presence in Metropolis remained a constant thorn in his side.

But then Y/N spoke again, and Clark’s protective instincts flared.

“Yes, Mr. Luthor… I’ll have that report on your desk by noon,” Y/N said, his voice steady and professional, though Clark detected the faintest trace of exhaustion beneath his practiced tone. “I’ve already confirmed the logistics team’s data… Yes, sir, I’m double-checking it now.”

Clark exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. He could see Y/N in his mind’s eye—sitting at his immaculately organized desk, surrounded by gleaming tech and cool, polished steel decor, the harsh blue glow of holographic displays casting soft light over his face. His back would be straight, his sharp, tailored blazer fitting perfectly across his shoulders—a detail Y/N always insisted was necessary to “look the part.”

Clark’s chest warmed with quiet pride. Despite his unease about LexCorp—a company built on moral ambiguity and dangerous ambition—he knew Y/N. Driven, capable, relentless in his pursuit of success, yet unfailingly kind. He trusted Y/N implicitly.

Lex Luthor, on the other hand…

Clark frowned, his protective instincts prickling. Even now, he couldn’t entirely banish the concern that came with knowing Y/N worked within arm’s reach of one of the world’s most dangerous men. He strained to listen for anything out of place—any shift in Y/N’s voice, any hint of tension—but all he heard was focused professionalism.

Then, suddenly, Y/N’s voice softened—barely above a murmur—as though he believed himself to be completely alone. His tone turned warmer, more personal.

“…And maybe after work, I can figure out how to surprise you for once, Clark…”

Clark’s breath caught.

There was the faint rustling of papers, followed by a quiet, almost wistful chuckle that tugged at his heart.

“Ten years… Can you believe it?” Y/N whispered, almost as though speaking only to himself.

Clark’s expression melted into something achingly tender, a quiet warmth blooming in his chest that even the cold steel of LexCorp couldn’t diminish. For just a moment, he allowed himself this stolen glimpse into Y/N’s day—a reminder of the life they’d built together, of love that had endured through battles, secrets, and the challenges of his double life.

He hovered there, suspended in the stillness of the morning sky, wrapped in the memory of Y/N’s voice and the unspoken promise threaded through those words.

Then, from several blocks away, a sudden wail of police sirens split the air, snapping him back to reality. His gaze hardened instantly, his senses shifting back into sharp focus. The city needed him again.

But before he shot off into the wind, he cast one final, lingering glance toward the gleaming spire of LexCorp Tower, his voice a whispered promise meant only for the wind to carry:

“I love you, too.”

And then, in a streak of red and blue, he vanished into the sky—ready to protect the city he called home, and the man he loved more than anything.

The familiar creak of the front door closing echoed softly through the stillness of the cozy apartment. Clark Kent stepped inside, his broad shoulders relaxing as he shrugged off his thick, charcoal-gray overcoat. He smoothed out its fabric with practiced care before hanging it on the brass hook by the entryway, a small detail Y/N had insisted on installing when they first moved in together. The air smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla from a gently flickering candle on the bookshelf, mixing with the warm, inviting scent of home-cooked meals from memories past.

The apartment was bathed in a soft, golden glow from the dimmed overhead lights and the warm sparkle of fairy lights strung along the window. Framed photographs of shared adventures lined the walls—a snapshot from their first vacation, candid moments from friends’ weddings, and even a picture of Clark holding a grinning Y/N on his shoulders at a summer fair.

But tonight wasn’t just another ordinary evening. It was their ten-year anniversary, a milestone woven with laughter, challenges, and countless moments of quiet, steadfast love. Tonight, Clark intended to mark that journey in a way neither of them would ever forget.

With steady deliberation, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and carefully retrieved a small, velvet-covered box. He set it down gently on the cool marble countertop, as though the magnitude of what it held weighed heavier than any feat he had ever accomplished as Superman. His thumb brushed over the soft fabric of the box, tracing its edges with reverence. Inside rested a simple, timeless ring—delicate yet strong, much like the bond he shared with Y/N. He had spent months searching for the perfect piece, envisioning the way it would look on Y/N’s finger every step of the way.

Drawing a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and gently closed the box. The evening wasn’t going to prepare itself. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, exposing his strong forearms, and turned toward the kitchen. Fresh ingredients were laid out precisely as he had planned—Y/N’s favorite meal, every detail considered down to the garnish.

Moments later, Clark turned his attention to the living room, the heart of their shared memories. It was a space shaped by comfort and familiarity, where countless evenings had been spent wrapped in warmth and laughter. He moved with quiet purpose, selecting a small stack of their favorite movies from the shelf—classic comedies that never failed to make them laugh, heartfelt dramas that always left them holding each other a little tighter, and those feel-good romances they could recite line for line. He placed the DVDs neatly on the rustic wooden coffee table, arranging them just so, knowing Y/N would smile the moment they saw them.

Draped over the back of their well-loved couch was a thick, cozy blanket—soft, worn, and infused with memories of lazy Sundays and late-night cuddles. He smoothed out its folds, making sure it was within easy reach for when the night wound down, when dinner was just a memory, and only the quiet comfort of each other remained. A few plump, overstuffed pillows rested at each end of the couch, inviting and familiar.

The soft glow of the fairy lights strung along the window added a magical warmth to the room, their tiny bulbs twinkling like distant stars. On the coffee table, he placed a wooden tray holding two mugs—one ready for hot cocoa, the other for Y/N’s favorite tea, complete with a small jar of honey. A delicate ceramic bowl filled with chocolate-covered almonds—Y/N’s guilty pleasure—completed the thoughtful setup. Every detail was intentional, a reflection of the countless quiet nights they had shared in this very space.

But even as the living room felt ready, Clark couldn’t shake the sense that something was still missing.

He stepped back into the kitchen, enveloped once more by the inviting aroma of the special meal he’d worked so carefully to prepare. The rich scent of seared steak lingered in the air, mingling with the creamy, garlicky aroma of the mashed potatoes he’d whipped until they were impossibly smooth and buttery. The sautéed vegetables—green beans with a light char, caramelized baby carrots glistening with honey, and earthy mushrooms kissed with rosemary—were arranged in a serving dish, their vibrant colors promising comfort and warmth with every bite.

On the stovetop, the red wine sauce had reduced to perfection, its velvety richness gleaming as Clark gave it one last stir. The deep, complex fragrance of simmering shallots, garlic, and wine filled the room, tempting him to taste—but he resisted. This was for Y/N.

His gaze drifted to the marble countertop, where the decadent chocolate mousse cake he had picked up from their favorite bakery waited like the final act of a perfect evening. Its glossy, dark chocolate surface shimmered under the soft kitchen lights, adorned with delicate curls of bittersweet chocolate and a light dusting of powdered sugar. Plump, jewel-toned raspberries rested artfully around the edges, a splash of vibrant red against the dark richness of the cake.

Satisfied with the meal, Clark moved to the small dining table near the bay window. He tugged at the edges of the crisp white tablecloth, ensuring it lay perfectly smooth. Their best dinnerware gleamed in the soft light, paired with sparkling wine glasses and polished silverware arranged with precision. He folded two linen napkins into elegant triangles, placing them neatly by each plate.

At the center of the table sat a modest yet beautiful bouquet—soft blush roses, delicate white lilies, and fragrant sprigs of eucalyptus bound together with natural twine. Their gentle scent mingled with the meal’s intoxicating aromas, adding a romantic, timeless touch. Clark adjusted the bouquet slightly, ensuring it looked effortlessly perfect.

Finally, he lit three slender ivory candles in sleek, minimalist holders. Their warm, flickering flames cast a soft, golden glow across the table, their light shimmering off the delicate crystal and creating an atmosphere of quiet elegance.

With everything in place, Clark allowed himself a moment to pause. The apartment felt magical, transformed by love and intention. Yet his eyes inevitably returned to the small velvet-covered box still resting on the counter, its deep navy surface catching the candlelight like a secret waiting to be shared.

He stepped closer, brushing his thumb once again over its soft, textured fabric. Inside lay the ring—simple yet exquisitely crafted, timeless yet personal. He could still remember the moment he had found it, knowing instantly it was the one. Strong but delicate. Elegant yet enduring. Just like what they had built together.

He imagined Y/N’s face when he saw it—his wide-eyed surprise, the way his breath might hitch, the unmistakable light that would fill his eyes when he understood what Clark was asking. The thought made Clark usually steady hands tremble just a little.

It wasn’t about the meal, the setting, or even the ring.

It was about the ten years of shared memories, of challenges faced side by side, of whispered promises in the dark, and quiet mornings filled with warmth and love. It was about their story—one already filled with so much life and meaning—but with so much more yet to be written.

And tonight, Clark Kent was ready to ask Y/N to write the rest of that story with him—forever.

With dinner prepared, the apartment glowing with warmth, and every thoughtful detail in place, Clark found himself standing in front of the hallway mirror, tugging at the collar of his white dress shirt for what felt like the tenth time. His fingers smoothed the fabric, adjusting the top button, then pausing as he reconsidered, ultimately leaving it undone for a more relaxed look.

He straightened his tie, only to frown and pull it loose again. His reflection stared back, resolute but edged with vulnerability, a flicker of nerves in his usually steady blue eyes.

With a slow, measured breath, he adjusted his glasses—pointless, really, but the familiar motion gave his restless hands something to do. The thin frames rested perfectly on the bridge of his nose, though he still fiddled with them out of habit. He braced his palms against the edge of the dresser, leaning forward, forehead nearly touching the cool surface of the mirror.

“This is fine,” he murmured, voice low but firm, as though willing himself to believe it. “You’ve faced supervillains, alien invasions… even world-ending threats.” He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “This is just… one question.”

But this question mattered more than anything else he’d ever done.

He exhaled slowly, centering himself, and straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders back as if preparing for battle. His reflection stared back, still strong but undeniably human—vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

“He’s already said yes… a thousand different ways over the past ten years,” Clark whispered, almost as though speaking the words aloud would steady his heart. “This is just… making it official.”

He ran a hand through his dark, slightly tousled hair, pushing it back in a way he knew Y/N liked. His fingers lingered for a moment, brushing against his temple as he let out another breath, more controlled this time. He reached into the pocket of his dress pants and pulled out the small velvet box once again.

Flipping it open, he let his eyes rest on the ring inside—simple but elegant, timeless yet meaningful. He had chosen it with absolute certainty, picturing Y/N’s hand wearing it, imagining how it would feel to place it there himself. The thought made his chest tighten—not with fear, but with overwhelming love.

For a brief moment, the rest of the world faded away. There were no distant cries for help, no looming threats or urgent responsibilities. In this quiet space, there was only the promise of forever, contained in the small, glinting circle of gold resting in the velvet folds.

A soft, affectionate smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, chasing away the last traces of doubt. His voice, low but steady, broke the silence.

“You’ve got this, Kent.”

Just then, the familiar click of the front door unlocking echoed softly through the quiet apartment. His head snapped up, heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and joy.

Y/N was home.

Clark gently closed the ring box, slipping it back into his pocket with practiced care. His pulse quickened, but his hands were steady now. He smoothed his shirt one last time, inhaling deeply, letting the love he felt ground him.

This was the moment. The beginning of something new, built on ten years of shared memories, quiet mornings, and promises unspoken but always understood.

Y/N stepped inside of the apartment, already shrugging off his coat after a long, tiring day at work. He reached out automatically to flip the light switch, expecting the familiar glow of the overhead light—but paused, his fingers hovering in midair.

Something was different.

The apartment was already softly illuminated—not by the usual bright lights, but by the gentle, flickering glow of candles scattered throughout the living room and dining area. A delicate floral fragrance, light and fresh, mingled with the mouthwatering aroma of something savory and richly seasoned wafting from the kitchen. Y/N blinked, his eyes widening as he slowly took in the transformed space before him.

The usually simple, everyday dining table was unrecognizable—draped in a pristine white tablecloth that gleamed softly under the warm candlelight. Two polished wine glasses stood side by side, catching the soft light like tiny prisms, while their best silverware lay neatly arranged on elegant dinner plates. In the center of the table sat a beautifully arranged bouquet of fresh flowers—roses, lilies, and eucalyptus sprigs woven together with thoughtful care. Their delicate petals glowed softly in the candlelight, their fragrance blending seamlessly with the warm, inviting smells of home-cooked food.

Y/N’s gaze drifted toward the kitchen, where a small serving tray waited, holding a carefully plated dinner beneath a gleaming silver cover. Steam still gently wafted from beneath the lid, hinting at something savory and delicious inside. The mouthwatering scent of garlic, herbs, and seared meat hung in the air, making his stomach growl despite the emotional tightness building in his chest.

He took a tentative step forward, feeling his breath hitch as he noticed the living room. There, on the rustic coffee table, was a familiar stack of their favorite movies—the ones they always watched on cozy nights in, when they just needed to be close. A thick, cozy blanket was neatly folded over the back of the couch, inviting and familiar, ready for when the night wound down. Everything was arranged with such intention, such thoughtfulness… such love.

Y/N pressed a trembling hand over his mouth, overwhelmed by the sheer care and intimacy behind every detail. His heart thudded against his ribs, pounding with disbelief and something deeper, something warmer. Was this really happening? Did Clark… do all of this?

Before he could fully process the scene, a quiet creak of the kitchen floorboards caught his attention. He turned slowly, his breath still uneven, and his gaze landed on Clark standing just a few steps away.

Clark’s hands rested loosely at his sides, fidgeting slightly—a rare crack in his usually steady composure—but his expression was soft, warm, and impossibly tender. His deep blue eyes held an intensity that stole Y/N’s breath—not the intensity of a hero prepared for battle, but of a man utterly, irrevocably in love.

“Clark… what is all this?” Y/N whispered, voice trembling with emotion.

Clark’s lips curved into a gentle, familiar smile—the kind that had always felt like home. His eyes shimmered with warmth, reflecting ten years of shared memories, quiet mornings, and late-night talks. “Happy anniversary,” he murmured, taking a slow, measured step closer.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, his gaze flickering from the candlelit table to the familiar stack of movies—and finally back to the man who had done all of this. The man he loved with every fiber of his being. “You… you did all this… for me?” His voice cracked, disbelief and affection tangling in his throat.

Clark’s smile widened just a fraction, his eyes softening even further. “For us,” he corrected gently, his voice steady but filled with quiet vulnerability.

Y/N felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, his heart swelling so much it almost hurt. Every detail—the flowers, the meal, the movies, the candles—felt like a physical manifestation of the life they had built together. A life filled with love, warmth, and quiet, shared moments that meant everything.

His hands trembled as he reached for Clark, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. His arms wrapped tightly around Clark’s strong frame, pulling him into an embrace filled with every unspoken word he couldn’t seem to say. Clark held him just as fiercely, his face burying into Y/N’s shoulder, breathing him in like he was the only thing that mattered.

Y/N’s breath hitched against Clark’s neck, a soft, broken sound of love and wonder. Neither of them moved for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, grounded in the familiarity and promise of what they shared.

In that moment, there was no world outside, no responsibilities, no distant cries for help—only them. Two hearts, intertwined and steady, standing at the edge of something new, something even deeper than what had come before.

Surrounded by the gentle glow of candlelight and the quiet warmth of home, Clark held Y/N tighter, silently promising that this—they—would always be his greatest adventure.

And tonight, their forever was just beginning.

The warm glow of candlelight flickered softly across the cozy apartment, casting gentle, golden light over every familiar surface. Y/N and Clark sat comfortably on the well-worn couch, plates balanced carefully on their laps while the familiar sounds of their favorite movie played quietly in the background. The soft crackle of the candles still burning on the dining table blended with the movie’s soundtrack, creating an atmosphere of warmth, intimacy, and quiet joy.

Clark had insisted on serving the meal himself, carrying each perfectly plated dish with the care of someone offering up something precious. The garlic-herb steak, creamy mashed potatoes, and perfectly sautéed vegetables looked like something from a five-star restaurant—but tasted even better. Each bite was rich, savory, and cooked exactly the way Y/N liked it.

“This is so good,” Y/N mumbled around another bite, eyes widening with genuine delight. “Seriously… did you take a secret cooking class or something? How do you always nail this?”

Clark chuckled, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish but clearly pleased. “I might’ve… practiced a little,” he admitted, his voice low and warm. “I just wanted tonight to be perfect.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at the quiet sincerity in Clark’s words. The love behind every carefully considered detail of the evening hit him all at once—the flowers, the candles, the dinner, the movies—all thoughtfully chosen, all crafted with so much care. He set his plate down on the coffee table, suddenly unable to focus on the food when something far more important was sitting right beside him.

Without a word, Y/N reached out and gently placed his hand over Clark’s, his fingertips tracing slow, familiar patterns across the back of Clark’s strong, calloused hand. The warmth of his skin was grounding, comforting, home.

“You are perfect,” Y/N whispered, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. “This whole night… the dinner, the movies, the candles… everything. It’s perfect.”

Clark’s breath caught, his eyes softening as he gently turned his hand to entwine their fingers together. His thumb traced slow, reassuring circles over Y/N’s knuckles, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” Y/N continued, his gaze never leaving Clark’s. “But you did. You always do… You always find a way to make me feel so loved.”

Clark’s breath hitched slightly, his fingers tightening just a little around Y/N’s hand. His voice was low but steady, full of quiet intensity. “You are loved… more than anything… more than I could ever say.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his heart pounding with affection so deep it felt impossible to contain. Slowly, he leaned in, resting his forehead gently against Clark’s, savoring the quiet, shared connection. In that small, still moment, surrounded by the warm glow of flickering candles and the familiar hum of their shared life, nothing else existed—only them.

“Thank you… for all of this,” Y/N whispered, his voice breaking just slightly. “For everything.”

Clark smiled softly, tilting his head just enough to brush his lips gently against Y/N’s in a tender, lingering kiss. It was slow, filled with all the love and devotion words could never fully express. His hand cupped Y/N’s cheek, fingers sliding into his hair as he deepened the kiss just enough to make the world fall away.

When they finally parted, their foreheads still resting together, Clark’s voice was barely above a whisper—but steady and sure.

“There’s still… one more thing.”

Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard, curiosity sparking in his expression. “What do you mean?”

Clark’s hands trembled ever so slightly as he reached for Y/N’s, threading their fingers together with practiced ease, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of that touch. His heart pounded with a mixture of nerves and anticipation, but the feel of Y/N’s hand in his steadied him, like it always had.

“Come with me,” Clark whispered softly, his voice low but sure.

Y/N blinked in surprise but let Clark gently guide him off the couch and into the softly glowing living room. The flickering candlelight cast a warm halo around them, creating a setting that felt timeless, intimate, and entirely their own. Y/N’s expression shifted from curious to something deeper, something tender, as he felt the subtle tension in Clark’s usually steady grip.

Clark exhaled slowly, forcing himself to breathe, to be fully present in this moment he’d imagined countless times. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over Y/N’s knuckles—a silent reassurance for both of them. When he finally met Y/N’s gaze, his deep blue eyes shimmered with emotion—vulnerable but unwavering, filled with love so profound it left no room for doubt.

“Y/N…” Clark began, his voice trembling just enough to reveal how much this meant to him. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say… something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, his lips parting slightly in surprise, but he stayed quiet, his gaze steady, urging Clark to continue.

Clark tightened his hold ever so slightly, his hands enveloping Y/N’s like a protective barrier, keeping them both anchored in this moment. His voice grew steadier, though still thick with emotion.

“From the very first moment I saw you… back in high school… I knew,” Clark said softly, his eyes shining with memory and meaning. “I didn’t know exactly what ‘forever’ looked like back then… but I knew you were going to be someone important. The someone.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, already brimming with unshed tears as the weight of Clark’s words settled over him.

“We’ve built this incredible life together,” Clark continued, his voice deepening with quiet intensity. “Through moves, jobs… everything life’s thrown at us. And through it all… I’ve known one thing with absolute certainty.” He swallowed hard, his lips quirking into the faintest, most affectionate smile. “I want to spend every day, every moment… with you.”

Y/N’s breath shuddered as a tear slipped free, trailing slowly down his cheek.

Clark’s eyes softened even further as he gently wiped the tear away with his thumb. “I thought about this night so many times… about what I’d say… but I kept coming back to something you said once.”

Y/N blinked, his brow furrowing faintly as he tried to recall.

“It was a long time ago… back when we first talked about marriage,” Clark murmured, his deep voice softening into something reverent, as if he were holding a fragile, cherished memory in his hands. His gaze lowered for a brief moment, lost in the weight of what he was about to say. When he looked back up, his eyes gleamed with something raw and unguarded—love, hope, and nostalgia woven together.

“‘Don’t marry me just because we’ve been together forever…’” he repeated, his voice trembling ever so slightly as he spoke the familiar words. “You said that to me.”

The memory hit Y/N like a crashing wave—vivid, intimate, and achingly familiar. It had been during one of those long, late-night talks when the world outside didn’t matter, and the future felt like a distant, untouchable dream. Y/N remembered the quiet stillness of that night, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating Clark’s thoughtful expression as they both lay tangled together, speaking from the heart without hesitation.

Clark’s warm fingers brushed gently over Y/N’s, grounding him in the present even as his words pulled him back to that deeply personal moment. His touch was familiar, steady, and reassuring—the same touch Y/N trusted through every joy, every storm, every uncertain tomorrow.

His voice softened even further, dipping into something more intimate, more earnest, as though he were speaking directly to your soul. “‘Marry me because you want to,’” he continued, his thumbs tracing slow, tender circles over the backs of Y/N’s hands. “‘Because you can’t see yourself with anyone else. Marry me… because you love me.’”

Y/N’s breath hitched as those words echoed through him, every syllable steeped in memory and meaning. They weren’t just words from the past—they were a promise him had once made without realizing how much they would come to define his future.

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes, blurring the sight of Clark’s face, but Y/N could still see the love etched into every line, every tender curve of his expression. His gaze held Y/N’s with such fierce intensity that it felt like nothing else in the world existed—just the two of them, tethered by a shared history and an undeniable, enduring love.

Clark’s hands tightened around Y/N’s just slightly—not possessive, but grounding—anchoring them both in the weight of the present. His breath hitched as he whispered, “I never forgot those words… not for a second.”

His voice cracked, just faintly, but he pressed on, his expression resolute and filled with quiet determination. “I don’t want to marry you because of how long we’ve been together… or because it’s ‘what comes next.’ I want to marry you because there’s no one else I could ever imagine standing beside me. No one else I want to build a future with… grow old with.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes glistening as he whispered, “I want to marry you… because I love you.”

Y/N let out a soft, broken laugh, tears spilling freely now as he clung to Clark’s every word.

Clark’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with emotion. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself onto one knee, his gaze never wavering, his hands still cradling Y/N’s as though letting go was unthinkable. With quiet reverence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box he’d carried close to him all night. His fingers trembled only slightly as he opened it, revealing the simple yet elegant ring—a perfect symbol of the love they had built: enduring, strong, timeless.

“I do, Y/N,” Clark whispered, his voice raw with unguarded emotion. “I love you… endlessly. I see my forever… and it’s you. It’s always been you.”

His gaze softened further, shimmering with hope, love, and absolute certainty. “Will you… will you marry me?”

The room seemed suspended in breathless stillness—time stretching endlessly in the space between the question and the answer. Tears streamed down Y/N’s face as a choked, tearful laugh escaped his lips. He covered his mouth for just a second, overcome, before reaching down and pulling Clark up into his arms with a fierce, unrestrained embrace.

“Yes,” Y/N whispered, voice trembling but resolute. “Yes. A thousand times… yes.”

Clark let out a shaky, relieved laugh, wrapping his arms around Y/N like he never intended to let go. Their foreheads pressed together, tears mingling as they clung to the enormity of the moment—the life they had already built and the future they were now promising.

Time seemed to stop the moment Clark gently slid the ring onto Y/N’s finger. His large, warm hands trembled just enough for you to notice, though his grip remained steady and sure—like he was grounding himself in the reality of this moment. Clark’s ocean-blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, swirling with relief, joy, and an overwhelming depth of love that stole Y/N’s breath away. His expression softened as though the weight of anticipation he’d been carrying for weeks had finally lifted.

For a moment, all Y/N could do was stare at the ring sparkling brilliantly in the soft candlelight. Its elegance and meaning were undeniable, but even its beauty couldn’t compare to the way Clark was looking at Y/N—like he were the most precious, extraordinary person in the world, the very center of his universe.

Emotion swelled in Y/N’s chest, leaving him speechless. Tears blurred his vision, but through the shimmering haze, he could still see Clark—standing there, still holding his hand like he couldn’t bear to let go, his breath uneven as he searched your face for reassurance that this was real.

With every ounce of love, joy, and unspoken promise between them, Y/N closed the distance and pulled Clark into the most heartfelt, soul-deep kiss they had ever shared. It wasn’t rushed or urgent—it was steady, certain, and profound, like the turning of the earth, like something that had always been meant to happen.

Their lips met with a softness that carried ten years of shared history—nights spent laughing until their sides hurt, quiet mornings tangled in sheets as sunlight streamed through the windows, whispered promises exchanged in the dark when the world felt too heavy. This kiss held all of that—and more. It was the culmination of a thousand moments, big and small, that had built the life they shared.

Clark’s hands came up slowly, almost reverently, cradling Y/N’s face with a tenderness that spoke of how deeply he cherished this moment. His fingers brushed against Y/N’s jaw, his touch light but grounding, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. His lips moved against Y/N’s with aching sincerity, pouring his heart into the connection, into the unspoken vow that they would never have to let go.

Y/N’s arms wrapped securely around Clark’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them—only warmth, only love, only them. He felt Clark’s breath hitch ever so slightly against his mouth, felt the way his shoulders relaxed as though the weight of the world had finally fallen away, leaving only this perfect, timeless moment.

The soft glow of the candles flickered gently around them, casting dancing shadows across the familiar walls of their home. The delicate scent of roses and eucalyptus lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the comforting warmth still radiating from the hearth of the kitchen. The world outside seemed to hold its breath, quiet and still, as though honoring something sacred unfolding in that small, candle-lit apartment.

But the only warmth they truly felt was the steady, enduring fire they had always kindled in each other—the kind of warmth built over years of shared dreams, quiet comforts, and unconditional love.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling as they lingered in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Y/N’s fingers gently traced the edge of Clark’s jaw, his touch still trembling from the overwhelming rush of emotion. Clark’s eyes opened slowly, his deep blue gaze shining with love, awe, and absolute certainty.

“I love you,” Clark whispered, voice thick with emotion, as though the words weren’t nearly enough but still everything he needed to say.

Y/N smiled through tears that still shimmered in his eyes, his own voice breaking. “I love you… so much.”

Their fingers entwined again, holding on as though they never intended to let go—and they didn’t. They wouldn’t. This was forever.

Their story—already filled with so much life, so many memories and shared adventures—was only just beginning.

And in the soft, golden glow of their home, surrounded by the quiet beauty they had built together, they stood hand in hand—ready to write the next chapter, together.

#dc x male reader #dc #superman #superman x male reader #clark kent x male reader #henry cavill x male reader #x male reader #fluff #clark kent #henry cavill

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izvmimi · 6 months ago

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ember - izuku x reader

cw: spoilers to the end of the manga. reader with vaguely described quirk. izuku and reader are married. short and sweet. a/n: establishing my own new canon, tyvm.

On an evening out in September, six months after you tie the knot with Izuku Midoriya and three years after Izuku returns to active Pro Hero duty, you find out three crucial things about him.

One, Izuku meant it when he said he loves you possibly more than life itself; two, Izuku might not have lost all of the embers of One for All, after all, and three, Izuku is a fucking idiot.

Your body feels unbelievably rigid as though you were in a car accident, and in a way, you were, and your guts should be strewn all over this sparsely populated street if not for the fact that you’re wrapped up, safe, cocooned in your lover’s protective hold, his back curved over yours, and the truck that should have crushed you both instead is partially crumpled itself at its front end, metal twisting around Izuku’s raised forearm. The two of you are panting heavily, the adrenaline coursing through your veins giving you the sensation of having just run a marathon, and he’s looking at you with frantic eyes, scanning you for safety. That long familiar green spark in the air surges around him like electricity, the glow in his green eyes, fading quickly.

“Are you okay?” he asks, breathlessly, not out of exertion but out of shock.

“I-Izuku, you’re not…”

He still hasn’t realized what has just happened, focusing on the fact that you’re alive and okay and didn’t turn into roadkill right in front of his very eyes. Unwedging his somehow intact forearm from the grille of the truck, he turns his body completely to you, rubbing his hands over your shoulders and down your arms, and helps you rise to your feet. The static feeling emanating from him slips away second by second and your lips wobbles as you’re at a loss for words.

“Are you okay?” he repeats again. He’s patting you over quickly, looking for broken bones, bruised skin, and your mind is still racing, computing what just happened and why you’re still alive.

He shouldn’t have been able to cross that distance so quickly - you were just waving to him from across the street, the road clear when you looked before crossing, and in seconds the vehicle had barreled at full speed out of nowhere; he couldn’t have moved before screaming your name fast enough, maybe years ago when you were both teenagers with impossible superpowers but not now, years later with superhuman gifts dwindled to nothing.

He couldn’t have, but he did.

“I-Izuku, the suit… you’re not wearing your suit,” your voice carries shakily, and as you see his eyebrows unscrunch and raise instead in surprise, he turns, and sees the stopped vehicle, the broken glass and distorted metal, a man hurriedly jumping out of the passenger seat and shakily apologizing, and finally his torn jacket sleeve and it occurs to him.

“Oh, fuck, I’m not.”

—

You watch Mei type on her computer, not bothering to try to decipher her thoughts from her facial expressions, knowing full well that she’s never been readable before. Even years after high school you find that this continues to be true, but the blank but friendly and entranced look on her face is somehow pleasant the more you think about it, and you let yourself let out the breath you’ve been holding.

It’s been just a few weeks since the night Izuku’s Quirk - at least some of it - flickered back into life for the first time, and after you’d berated him for using his literal body to shield you from a danger that could have killed you both, you’d taken the time that evening to use your own Quirk to see if something about his body had gone haywire. To both of your surprises, you’d gotten a flicker of something similar to the old him, but unsure and unwilling to get either of your hopes up, you’d decided to consult with Mei and other experts who worked with Quirk pathophysiology and augmentation (a few of which you’d taken courses with yourself years ago), and now you were back in Mei’s laboratory, trying to see if you could get to the bottom of this.

Since then, the following strange things had happened:

You’d dropped a plate and Izuku had dove for it, the wisp of a Blackwhip tendril just brushing it before it ultimately crashed to the ground, the two of you too stunned to speak.

A group of Izuku’s students heckled him as he leaned in to accept your kiss outside UA, and all of you ended up in a purple haze before you knew it.

Izuku’s midday nap on the couch found him face to face with the ceiling when you finally discovered him, and

A sudden unintentional use of Fa Jin made things very interesting in bed.

“I guess my baby’s doing a better job than I thought it would!” Mei grins. You hunch over her screen, while Izuku’s too hooked up to a tangle of wires to get a good view of the screen himself, and she compares Quirk levels from the beginning of the suit’s conception to now, a previously long-standing flat graph with a steadily rising bump.

“A miracle,” you whisper under your breath.

“I find that personally offensive.” Mei replies, her facial expression lacking the cheek to compare to her statement as she watches Izuku watch you from behind the glass. She presses a button on the intercom; Izuku grins at you while Mei gives him the instructions to try to activate Blackwhip one more time, and you can feel warmed all the way through.

—

Slowly but surely, over time, the Quirk levels start to recover, and you, Izuku and Mei try your best to keep it under wraps.

Of course, Katsuki finds out with direct questioning, the purple haze event showing up on an anonymous internet forum propelling him to show up at your doorstep and demand personally that Izuku tell him if he got his quirks back or not.

“We’re not sure how permanent this is, Kacchan,” he offers. Katsuki might as well spit on the ground before him in protest but you’re seated in the living room, and even Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight has enough decorum to not make a mess in someone else’s home.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Midoriya!”

“It’s not a lie!” Izuku insists, and he turns his gaze to you for backup which you swiftly provide.

“Listen, we’re not sure yet, and they’ll probably never get back to normal, but he’s doing his best.” Katsuki grimaces, which annoys you further.

“You’ll get your damn rematch, be patient.” you add, rolling your eyes. Katsuki leers, and his partner pats him on the shoulder.

“He’s just excited,” she translates for him, and Katsuki mumbles something about not needing her for translation every time which doesn’t waver her smile one bit.

“Excited to get his ass beat,” you murmur, reaching over to pour her some more tea. Izuku and Katsuki both stare at you, Izuku with nervous concern and Katsuki with irritation, and just like old days, you and Katsuki’s arguing match begins anew.

—

As the two of you brush your teeth and prepare for bed, you do your nightly routine of checking how strong Izuku's reawakened Quirk is with your hand on his chest, and he presses his free hand over yours.

“You know, my favorite part of this is you’ll finally start to worry less.” He chuckles and squeezes your hand gently.

You let the water run and clear spittle from the sink, and gargle before you answer, your hand still captive by his, then look at him.

“To be honest, I’ll never stop worrying about you, Izuku. Even if you become God.”

But you understand what he means. You’ve had many a nightmare about suit malfunction, only a few of these you’ve shared with him, among other things that have to do with being a Pro Hero in the capacity he insists to be in. This is a small help.

A small bit of providence.

He expected this answer, lips pulling into a smile as he takes your hand fully and pulls the fingertips to his lips to kiss them.

“I’m glad that won’t change,” he replies.

Moments later, you’re laid in bed together, and as you both muse on the potentially altering future in quiet, love-flushed cheeks and hands intertwined, he turns to you suddenly.

“There’s one thing I’m still missing,” he says.

Your eyes refocus to him. He’s pensive now, not sad or upset, but thoughtful. You move closer to kiss him on the lips once before nodding for him to continue.

“What are you missing?”

“Danger Sense,” he says.

“But everything else is back,” you reply. He nods, letting his arm drape around your waist.

“Yeah, but I think I liked that one the most.”

You snort lightly. “Not being able to lift a train, or fly, but 'Super Anxiety' was your favorite?”

You’re making light of the issue to keep the mood from getting too heavy, but he frowns, and you frown back, apologetically.

“Well, ‘Super Anxiety’ made it so that I knew when bad things were about to happen, and often these bad things could involve you.”

He has the tiniest scrunch to his eyebrows, one that in another situation would have compelled you to rub out with your fingertips, but now is not the time to be playful.

You twist your mouth to the side and a few more moments pass between you, before you add:

“I don’t think you need it, though.”

He raises an eyebrow, and you press a kiss to his forehead.

“All this came back because you wanted to protect me,” you remind him. “You moved without thinking, for me, as always, like you knew I needed you. That's better than Danger Sense by far.”

His face softens as he cups yours in his hands. You're thankful that you've reached him.

“Always for you,” he says.

Even if this miracle is transient and despite your best efforts, his quirk levels fall back to normal instead of steadily growing, the love he has for you, and the love you have for him, will never, ever burn out.

#izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #pro hero izuku x reader #deku x reader #mimidoriya #daydreams: bnha #mimi's notes

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fatkish · 9 months ago

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hello everything is fine? If requests are still open can I request all might x wife fem!reader? The reader is a professional heroine and a professor at UA, but the relationship between All Might and the reader is a secret for the 1A students and the class ends up discovering by accident that he and the heroine reader are married? Thank you in advance

All Might x Wife Reader Headcannons

(Here’s some bits of what your life is like when you’re married to Toshinori and how you guys got together)

I strongly believe that young All Might would have been more open to relationships Pre Nana’s death

This would mean that you were likely a childhood friend or someone he knew before Nana’s death and in order to keep both himself and you safe, you both would have fled to America

Now you can have whatever quirk you want but I strongly believe that Toshinori would prefer a romantic partner who isn’t as famous as him. So likely an underground hero like Eraserhead or a support hero who helps heroes from behind screens or helps them strategize like Nedzu

During your guy’s time in America, you both met David Shield and became friends with him. David would make you some kind of super computer/information network device that would allow you to support All Might from the shadows or he’d make you a super advanced stealth suit that would help you as an underground hero

While you both are in college in America, your relationship grows and you both grow closer. Of course Toshinori has his doubts and fears about losing you to AFO, so you both decide to make a pact. You both would probably have each other agree/promise that you would live for the other if one of you dies. This would mean that if AFO kills you or you’re fatally injured in the line of duty, then Toshinori would live on and continue as a hero without letting your death prevent him from moving forward and the same would go for you if he died

Due to All Might’s rising fame, after you both graduate from college, you both decide to get married but do it discreetly so that means little to no ceremony and you both would hide your relationship from the world and public. Only Grand Torino, Sir Nighteye, David Shield and Nedzu would know that you’re together

You both wouldn’t wear rings so as to not let people know you’re married

When AFO has his big fight with Toshinori that causes him to lose organs and gives him his scar, you, unlike everyone else, support his decision to continue fighting even if it’ll kill him since you know that it’s what he wants to do

After that, you decide to take up a teaching position at UA, as a close combat/martial art instructor and a second English teacher since you’ve actually been overseas in an English speaking country

With your new job you’re able to come home and care for Toshinori’s wound and make meals for him that are easy for him to eat

The students love you. They love listening to your stories of America and they learn a lot. You had helped Nedzu and Present Mic come up with a voluntary English pen pal program with a hero school in America. The program allows for students to write letters between each other and lets them establish contacts in America and it counts as extra credit in their English classes.

Since no one knows that you’re married, the kids freak out when they learn that you’re married to All Might once he retires

Midoriya is surprised that he didn’t know about you and asks you so much about your life with All Might

The girls are always asking for romantic stories about you and All Might.

The kids love to hear stories of young All Might, much to Toshinori’s embarrassment, and constantly ask questions about the two of you

All in all, after All Might retires, you’re the only person who doesn’t protect him and make him feel like he’s someone who needs to be protected and treated like glass

He’s so thankful and happy that he married you

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #all might x reader #yagi toshinori x reader #toshinori yagi x reader

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youngirlfrom · 15 days ago

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THE WICKED DIE ALONE

ɞ Someone like Y/N Kent has to find her true self, not just with the strength of a hero, but by walking the fine line between the light and darkness within. Because at the end of the day the wicked die alone. And for Y/N to die alone means all of humanity dies with her.

| Richard Grayson x Fem!Reader | chapter 1

Warnings: bl!!d, k!lling, mental health, slightly jason todd x reader, smut, english is not my first language.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 Chapter 3

This night was not a night with bright city lights illuminating the sky as usual. Metropolis was experiencing a night when Toyman attacked the city and chaos spread to every corner. Huge robots flying in the sky, deadly machines roaming the ground and buildings lost in the light of explosions… The screams of people, the sound of concrete collapsing and the metallic growls of machines echoed in the city. This chaos was, as always, time for Superman to take action.

He was the Man of Tomorrow.

He would move faster than a bullet, but he would touch people's hearts more than a hot chocolate.

It was the symbol of truth and justice.

Superman was the hero that all children in the world met in their dreams.

And as always, he defeated his enemy and stood tall on the damaged pavements. He was a ray of hope for people, no matter how difficult their situation was, they believed that everything would be okay when they saw him. Tonight was no different.

“Thank you, Superman!” Mothers crying, fathers hugging their children tightly, people just happy to be alive… Applause and cheers were rising from every corner of the city. The sky was no longer echoing with the sounds of bombs, but with the hopeful voices of people.

But amidst the chaos, Superman heard a faint cry coming from the debris of a collapsed building. He felt his heart tighten. The sound emanating from the rubble was a sign of life beyond the concrete piles. Superman carefully moved through the debris and saw a small light. He noticed that a baby was lying under the piles of concrete, surrounded by an energy shield. The shield was a bright purple color and gave off a calming yet powerful aura around it.

Superman didn't know what to do at first. This energy was of a type unfamiliar to him. He had never encountered such a unique power before. It was as if this force was somehow alive, responding to him. The shield slowly disappeared after a while, and Superman took the baby into his arms, the baby had calmed down. A weak smile appeared on her tiny lips, and this instantly erasing Superman's dark thoughts.

Superman decided to take the baby to safety. The chaos and dangers of Metropolis were no place for such an existence. Looking at the baby sleeping quietly in his arms, he set out towards Smallville, towards his mother, Martha Kent. The fact that she looked so delicate and defenseless strengthened his protective instinct even more. But he needed to understand what this power was. Who or what was it a product of?

When he arrived in Smallville, Martha Kent had a mixture of surprise and affection on her face when she saw the baby. Clark briefly told the story to his mother and talked about the energy shield that protected the baby.

"Look at those eyes," Martha said, admiring the baby's beautiful eyes. "I've never seen such beautiful color in my life. There's something about those eyes, Clark."

"Yes," Clark replied. "There is a secret behind these eyes. What exists within them is very powerful, but I do not know what it is. I cannot leave it. If this power falls into the hands of others, the consequences could be disastrous."

Martha looked at Clark with a loving smile. "This is a big responsibility, Clark. But caring for this child is important not only for her safety, but also to shape who she will become."

Clark took a deep breath as he looked at the baby's tiny face. "I know, mom. This baby is a mystery, but it's also a miracle. I'll keep an eye on her. I'll be with her every step of the her way."

Clark took the baby in his arms and gently rocked her.

"Did you give her a name?" she asked.

Clark thought for a while. He didn't even know about her existence a few hours ago, but now this little being had taken a big place in his life. "Y/N," he said finally. "Y/N Kent."

Martha nodded in agreement. "Y/N… A beautiful name. Strong and elegant."

His smile grew a little bigger as the baby snuggled up to him like a stuffed bear. He would protect her forever. He would be with her as she took her first steps. He would hold her hand when she started school. He would stand behind her when she went on her first date. He would proudly watch her at her graduation. When she started work, he would always keep one hand on her back so that her daughter would never feel insecure. He would make her the happiest daughter in the world.

She would be the hope the world needed after him.

When little Y/N grew up, she would be faster than a flowing river and strong enough to stop a great typhoon.

Even though she was as mysterious as the dark side of the moon with her eyes, Clark Kent would make her grow up with the light inside her.

English is not my first language! So please do not hesitate to politely point out if I make a mistake.

I won't be reporting any physical characteristics for Y/N in the story, it's just as it should be. But just decided to make the color of her power purple, which is one of my favorite colors. But you can imagine any color you want, of course.

This and the next chapter will be about Y/N and her power, and later the story will begin immediately. And I will write the story in first person.

When I was little I saw my own father as Superman, I still do. I hope this story brings some happiness to those who cannot have a father like Clark, like Superman.

I love you all, see you next chapter 🩵🩵🩵

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savi0rr · 15 days ago

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Recklessly Helpful .ᐟ

Levi Ackerman x Fem! Scout! Reader

In which, Levi isn’t very fond of the idea of having you has bait—leaving you injured during the process.

a/n: back in my aot era

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ,✦

The sound of heavy boots striking the hard floor jolted you awake, an urgent rhythm that pulled you from the depths of sleep. The faint, warm scent of a candle flickering nearby swam through the air, swirling around your senses and making your head spin in confusion. A sharp pain radiated through your torso, sharp and unforgiving, while a faint ringing resonated in your ears, almost like an echo of a distant storm.

“Don’t move,” Levi commanded, his voice low and unwavering, cutting through the haze of your disorientation. Instinctively, your body tensed, and you struggled to blink your eyes open, adjusting to the dim light that danced softly around the room thanks to the candle’s glow beside your bed. “What…?” you managed to whisper, your voice barely rising above a rasp.

“That was quite a stunt you pulled today,” he continued, taking deliberate steps toward your bedside, his arms crossing tightly over his chest like a shield. “Leading a group of Titans away from us and recklessly putting yourself in danger just to save your comrades.” He sighed, his piercing gaze roving over your visibly injured form, worry etching faint lines into his usually stoic features. “You saved at least ten today. But you didn’t save yourself,” he said, his tone stern as he locked his eyes onto yours, sharp like daggers.

Silence cloaked the room, your brow furrowing in thought. “You’re lucky I saved you,” Levi stated bluntly, shifting down to the edge of your bed, his elbows resting firmly on his knees as he leaned in closer, his expression a mix of irritation and something softer. “It wouldn’t have been peaceful if you had died.” His words hung in the air between you, heavy with the weight of unspoken concern. “Don’t ever do that again, do you understand?” His eyes pierced into yours, searching for acknowledgment.

“I saved people?” you murmured, disbelief washing over you. Your body twitched slightly in pain, both from the injuries and the unexpected realization. Levi mentally winced, chastising himself for allowing this conversation to bloom. “Ten…” you repeated quietly, the number echoing in your mind. “Don’t get any ideas,” he interrupted your spiraling thoughts with a sharpness in his tone. “You almost lost your life because you wanted to play the hero… and look where you are now.” His voice was harsher than before, his gaze slipping away from your face as he sighed deeply, the weight of his frustration clear.

“But I was helpful,” you insisted, pushing yourself up slightly, desperation creeping into your tone.

Levi looked back at you, his eyes narrowing in thought. “You were, I suppose,” he conceded reluctantly, the grumble in his voice betraying an underlying softness. “But you scared everyone half to death.” For a fleeting moment, his expression softened, lines of worry etched deeply across his brow. “You made me have to calm them down. That’s not my job,” he snapped, though the irritation in his voice lacked true malice. Your heart raced at the realization.

“...Everyone was worried?” you ventured, your spirits lifting as hope flickered in your chest. Levi didn’t like the way your eyes brightened at the thought—it was not the reaction he had expected. He had braced himself for tears or anguish, not this glimmer of happiness.

“They were screaming,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “It gave me a headache.”

Determined, you attempted to sit up, but he quickly pressed you back down against the bedding. “Ow!” you whined, pain shooting through your body in protest. “Don’t move. You’ll just hurt yourself more,” he commanded, pressing his hands firmly but gently on your shoulders, grounding you back into the mattress. “And I don’t need a whining excuse for bait to be moaning and groaning,” he added with a long-suffering sigh, his hand lingering a moment longer than necessary, warmth radiating from his palm.

“But you don’t seem to mind that, though…” you muttered under your breath, a challenging glint in your eye. Levi’s body stiffened at your words, a fierce glare shooting your way, his eyes narrowed with frustration. “...Just get some rest, please,” he exhaled, huffing out a breath as if the very request himself was a monumental task.

#levi aot #aot x reader #attack on titan #levi attack on titan #levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #x you #oneshot #x reader #silly #fluff #reader insert #aot fanfiction #levi x you #aot x female reader

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genderfluid-insomniac · 1 month ago

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Day 3: Leaves Changing

A/N: can you tell I have favorites lol. I adore Naofumi and I hope he wasn’t too OOC

Characters:

Naofumi

When you were first brought here with the other four cardinal heroes as the whip hero you were shocked and a bit scared but everyone seemed to be thinking different thoughts. The spear especially seemed more disgusting than anyone else however no one other than the shield hero seemed to be taking it seriously and on top of that the shield hero was accused of assaulting someone when it was clearly obvious it was a setup by his reaction. Which got you to quickly go after Naofumi and partner up with him after he got pissed off that you wouldn’t stop following him. It took a long time even after the first wave for you both to become close enough for him to trust you as a close friend and slowly but surely as a partner romantically. Of course, both of you were taking it slowly but the small moments where it was just the two of you were special. Like the night stroll, you were taking now.

You and Naofumi were walking through the forest while Filo and Raphtalia had already fallen asleep, hands held tightly as you looked at the trees shaking in the wind and smiling at the moonlight filtering through the leaves. “It’s beautiful out tonight. The sky hasn’t been this clear in a while and I’m going to miss it when winter comes but the leaves dropping are stunning.” you murmured and walked in time with your lover, leaning your head against his shoulder and hearing him hum thoughtfully. “It is. It reminds me of home but I’m glad that I get to have these moments with you. I don’t know what I’d do without you since you’ve been with me through it all,” he said quietly and squeezed your hand, stopping at a cliff’s edge and turning to face you. He picked a colorful leaf off of a nearby tree that shined differently in the moonlight and held it to your tunic, grinning at the matching color, and tipped your chin up with his fingers. “Although I’m more grateful to spend my first winter here with you and our team. Thanks for sticking with me, Name.” he said softly with a rare smile and kissed your cheek quickly, starting to lead you back to camp as the wind picked up and you happily followed along. The leaves were falling and the winter season would be here soon which meant you could try to get some cuddles out of your boyfriend.

Muriel

Muriel had asked you if you wanted to come with him on the walk in the forest to see if the runes told anything about the aftermath of the incident with the devil and Lucio. So there you were passing by the trees with Inanna at your side occasionally nuzzling against your hand and running ahead whenever she saw or sensed something out of the ordinary. Muriel held your hand with a small smile looking around the forest at the colorful leaves that fell around you both and made a crunching noise. “Look at all the beautiful leaves. I think fall is a close favorite of the seasons.” he said softly and looked around, picking a leaf mid-fall before it landed on the ground and handing it to you. You smiled back and leaned up to kiss him, squatting down and picking up good leaves before putting them in your bag. “What are doing, love?” he asked and watched as you stood back up. “I’m collecting them so I can make a fall crown when we get back. It should be easier with them being fresh.” You said and took his hand in yours again.

Alastor

Never would have suspected to be on your way back to the hotel with the Radio Demon happily admiring the leaves changing on a more forested side of the pride ring, occasionally glancing over at you with his trademark smile. “It’s such a lovely day isn’t it, my dear?” he asked and glanced at you, waiting for you to answer and picking a leaf from the air. He spun it between his fingers, it looked like a regular leaf but bright orange with deep crimson veins. “It is a nice day, isn’t it? I never imagined that leaves in hell would be similar to ones in the living world. Some of them even match your color scheme.” You pointed out and picked one off the ground, holding it close to his coat and smiling softly. He hummed in thought and looked down at the comparison, shrugging his shoulders and continuing on. “If you say so, sweetheart. Although,” he said and stopped, turning back to you and taking your hand to kiss the back of it. “I would say that you are lovelier than the leaves around us.” He said and smiled at you.

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #rising of the shield hero #rising of the shield hero x reader #naofumi iwatani x reader #the arcana visual novel #the arcana x reader #muriel x reader

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em-ontv · 5 months ago

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Under his skin.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x fem!supe!reader

Summary: When he met you, who was just like him; tempered, aggressive, he immediately hated you, no, loathed. But maybe that's not all he feels for you.

Warnings: vulgar language/cursing, mentions of violence (barely), no use of y/n, English is not my first language, mistakes should be present, apologies beforehand.

Author’s note: So… I just wanted something where this man isn’t an egoistic maniac. He annoys me so much but I love him <3, this was written just out of spite, enjoy!

Word count: 705

Ben hated you.

You were a supe, a big deal. The leader of a new team of supes who were really just assholes when the cameras were turned off, and each of them possessed powers more messed up than the previous.

You were quick to throw fists and unleash whatever terrifying power you were gifted with. And fuck, did that rub him the wrong way. It was the same recipe, a sweet smile in front of the public and a complete disregard for human life in private. And you were the worst of them all; invulnerable, aggressive, with a temper that made Soldier Boy himself look like a boy scout.

He fucking hated you for that.

It was bad enough that Vought thought it was a good idea to create another superteam in case Payback ever went awry — then it succeeded, way too much for Ben's liking.

He had a hard enough time trying to keep his own idiots in line without worrying about another set of so-called 'heroes' stepping on his turf. But no, they went ahead and made you into their new big thing. And what's worse? You were someone who didn't take shit from anyone — not even him.

From the first day you met, it was like pouring gasoline on a fire. You talked to him like he was nothing, like some relic from a different era. You didn't just talk back; you tore into him, picking apart his ego piece by piece, you got under his skin like a parasite.

But the real kicker? You weren't afraid of him. You stared him down like he was a joke. It got to a point where he couldn't stand the sight of you. Just knowing you were around would set him off, make him want to tear somebody's head off, preferably yours.

"Where's the asshole?" Ben growled at Mindstorm, who swallowed thickly and pointed toward a room. He shot him a glare before nearly kicking the door open.

And there you were, sitting there with a smirk on your face, like you owned the place.

He clenched his fists, feeling his blood pressure rise, and you haven't even said anything yet. "You piece of shit. You think you're hot stuff, huh? Running that joke of a team like a dictator?"

"Don't be mad at me just because your team can't find it in their hearts to respect you." you tilted your head. "Talking about Payback, how is it? Still playing dress-up?"

His jaw twitched, and for a moment, he considered throwing you through the wall.

"You're nothing but a wannabe," he spat. "A cheap rip-off version of me. I don't know how you got this far, but don't think for a second that you're anywhere close to me."

You just grinned, more amused than anything, but there was a hint of anger lingering behind your eyes. "You're a washed-up mascot for Vought. Your team can't handle the dirty work,” you leaned forward. “And you as their leader? You can't even get your own shit together, talk about leading a team."

Ben's face flushed with anger, his fingers twitching toward his shield. But you just watched him, knowing you stuck a nerve.

"You're lucky Vought's got rules," he muttered, barely holding himself back. "Because if it was up to me—"

"You'd do nothing, Ben." you cut him off, your voice dripped with condescension. "Because you can't do anything. Not to me."

And in a split second, he swung his shield at you, but you didn't dodge.

You caught it.

And then it started.

Slowly but surely, Ben would lie awake at night, fists clenched, jaw tight, replaying your arguments in his head. He'd think about you and that infuriating smirk. The anger was still there, seething, but there was something else now, something creeping in at the edges of his thoughts.

It was humiliating, that's all it was. He was Soldier Boy, the toughest bastard on the planet. He didn't take shit from anyone, let alone someone like you. But then, one night, after downing half a bottle of whiskey and staring at the ceiling for hours, it hit him like a freight train.

He didn't just want to beat you.

He wanted you.

#soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy the boys #soldier boy imagine #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy fic #the boys #the boys fanfic #the boys imagine #the boys amazon #the boys tv #the boys fandom #the boys au #the boys x you #the boys x y/n #the boys x reader

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brrahbrrahcharacterimagines · 6 months ago

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Mission Gone Right (Clint Barton/Hawkeye x Reader)

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Clint Barton/Hawkeye Reader

Word Count: 6482

Warnings: SMUT 18+ Minors DNI!, Sexual themes, one bed trope, brief weapon mention, dirty talk, masturbation (fem), oral (fem and male receiving), nipple talk, kissing, pining, cum, p in v (wrap it before you tap it!)... let me know if I missed something :)

Request: Hello there! :) I really enjoy and love your writing, it's really good! I like the Steve Rogers: not so pure, and I was wondering if you could write something like that, but with Clint Barton/Hawkeye x reader? Thank you kindly and have a wonderful day! :) - Anon

Summary: You and Clint had been partners, and somewhat friends, for a long time. When you have to pretend to be a wedded couple in love to escape a tense mission, what could happen when the hotel room ends up with only one bed?

A/N: I decided to place this request in the OG Avengers era, I hope that's alright! Also, he's single in this universe because I don't want to write in cheating or give him a sad end to his marriage :(

As a hero without true "superpowers," you oftentimes got paired on missions with Hawkeye. This never bothered you, but it did seem odd that they would place you both together instead of having you each team up with a powered hero.

Not to say that you weren't strong in your own right; your skill with shuriken was near unmatched. Between your use of shuriken and your partner's use of bow and arrow, you were a fearsome duo.

"(L/n), Barton." Greeted Fury as you entered the briefing room. "Thank you for coming quickly."

"With all due respect sir," you said, "what else would we be doing?"

Fury sighed at your sarcasm, ignoring it as he continued.

"I have a mission for the two of you."

"What do you need, sir?" Asked Clint. Fury seemed to pause for a moment, as if he didn't want to reveal the details of the mission. Nevertheless, he began speaking again.

"We have a high profile target who we need some more information on."

"Uh, why the need for the pause then?" You asked. Fury would have rolled his eye had he not been so used to your bratty antics.

"Maybe, you should let me finish," he stated slowly. "We received intel alerting us that said target will be at a gala this evening, which is where the two of you will find him."

Reading between the lines, paired with your knowledge of the different types of missions offered by SHIELD, your eyes narrowed at Fury.

"You're sending us, who may I remind you are Avengers, on an undercover mission?" You asked incredulously. You knew that the two of you, along with maybe Nat, were the least recognizable of the group. Steve or Tony tended to get recognized the most, at least when Bruce wasn't in Hulk-mode. But still, it was like a slap in the face to assume nobody would recognize you at said event.

"The target may be at a gala, but he is incredibly dangerous. I don't trust our typical undercover agents with this mission."

You thought on Fury's words for a moment, mulling them over. Deciding that your ego was enough appeased, you nodded.

"So what do we need to know?"

Another agent spent time briefing you and Clint on the target; what he looked like along with any other pertinent information. The agent also explained to you that while you would be able to hide a few shuriken on yourself, Clint would have to go in bow-and-arrow-less. It's a pretty difficult weapon to conceal. Even with your shuriken being small, you knew you wouldn't be able to hide too many under whatever outfit SHIELD provided. You were beginning to understand why the mission was considered as dangerous as it was.

"There's one more thing you should know," said the agent. "To help conceal your identities, you are to pose as partners."

Clint coughed, seeming to choke on his own saliva. You just looked blankly at the agent.

"Are we not already?"

"I think they mean-" said Clint, rising his eyebrows as he motioned his head, trying to indicate to you his meaning without putting words to it. Suddenly understanding what he meant, you let out a small 'oh,' feeling your face heat. You have to admit the thought has crossed your mind before. Clint was an attractive man, and your line of work did tend to involve getting to look at him in a sleeveless outfit flexing his muscles all day. You never let it go further than that though, just thoughts.

Once all of the information had been provided, you and Clint were released back to each of your quarters to prepare for that evening.

"You know, Fury didn't mean it as an insult." Said Clint as the two of you walked together. You sighed.

"I know, it's just that I'm tired of being passed over."

At your words, Clint looked at you with something you couldn't quite place. Knowing your time to get ready was limited, you decided it wasn't worth thinking too much about it.

"Well, see you soon, hubby," you said with a fake salute, entering your room. Closing the door behind you, you missed the look on Clint's face at his new nickname.

Now alone in your room, you noticed the outfit SHIELD had arranged for you.

"You've got to be kidding me." You muttered as you grabbed the, admittedly little amount of, clothing. It was a dress, deep purple in color with just the right amount of shine to it. Even before putting it on, you knew it would leave little to the imagination. They were right when they said I wouldn't be able to bring many shuriken.

With hair done and makeup (if preferred) finished, it finally came time to put the dress on. It slipped on easier than you expected, and for as tight as it looked on the hanger it was rather flattering now that it was on you. It hugged your curves in a way that made just standing there look sensual. You were thankful to have been able to hide a few shuriken in a holster on one of your upper thighs, but a high slit up your other leg made hiding any others impossible.

You had to admit, you felt sexy. This was outside of your usual wardrobe, but whoever picks the undercover mission outfits should get a bonus.

A knock on your door tore you from your thoughts. You opened it, revealing a, rather attractive-looking, Clint Barton. Although he didn't have his arms exposed as usual, something about his change in attire was enticing. Again, whoever picks the outfits should get a bonus. The suit was fitted to Clint perfectly, somehow showing off his muscular physique while keeping him entirely covered.

Unbeknownst to you, Clint couldn't help but check you out as you did the same to him. The gentle curve of your hips, your exposed leg to your thigh, and your cleavage looking as it could spill right over the cups of the dress. Hell, he almost wanted them to.

"You look good," you tell your partner, trying to hide the fact that you had just ogled all over him. Thankfully, he was a bit too busy to notice.

"You too," he said, suddenly cocking a smile, "Wifey." You gave him a puzzled look. "What? You called me Hubby."

Forgot about that, you thought. I need to keep my head on straight if this mission is going to go well.

"Well," you said, jokingly looping your arm with his. "You lead the way."

Clint chuckled at your antics, but he did as you asked. He led you outside to the limousine SHIELD had prepared for the both of you. You got in, careful not to expose more than you wanted as you arranged your body into the vehicle. Clint followed, and despite the amount of room inside, he slid onto the bench seat next to you.

"I'm a method actor," he said with a wink. "And you're going to be my wife in about 30 minutes."

Rolling your eyes at your partner, you knew in your mind he was just being an ass. Yet, your mind began to wander against your will. You realize the night will not just mean looking good and standing in the same vicinity as each other. You had to convince a room of dangerous people that Clint and yourself were married. That meant physical contact, and plenty of it.

It wasn't an entirely unpleasant thought, leaning against his muscular chest or feeling his strong arm around your lower back. The thought made your body heat, and as pleasant as it was it also made you incredibly nervous. You had never had trouble working with Clint, but something about the way your mind kept wandering worried you that you weren't at the top of your game. You needed to stay focused.

The 30 min ride began to feel much longer. A bit on edge, you began rhythmically drumming your fingers on your thigh as you waited. Suddenly the drumming stopped, as you felt Clint's hand grab your own.

"You're driving me crazy," he said, irritation lacing his tone. "It's like clicking a pen."

Despite the anger in his tone, he didn't let go of your hand. He simply adjusted so he was holding more than grabbing. You didn't mind, you had to get into character too.

Finally arriving, Clint got out of the limo first before extending his hand back towards you to help you get out gracefully. Instead of letting go once you were standing, he instead interlocked your fingers.

"Let's go get this guy," he said with a raise of his eyebrows, "Babe."

Although you knew he was teasing because of the mission, you couldn't help the smile that rose to your face. Is this really all it took for you to lose your mind? Your colleague, and friend for that matter, just had to wear a suit and you lost it? Maybe you'd just been single too long, but that was something to deal with after this mission was over.

You and Clint made your way into the gala, staying close to each other. Not seeing the target yet, you decided to grab a drink and mingle.

"So, how did the two of you meet?" Asked the women who had struck up a conversation with the two of you.

"At work," replied Clint, taking the moment to smile down at you. You tried to suppress the flutter of your heart at his soft expression. "She just caught my eye." He was smart, using the truth as a way to embellish your cover. Clint wrapped his arm around your waist, gently pulling you closer to him. You smiled back at him, batting your eyelashes.

"He's being modest, he's the one who caught my eye." You were laying it on thick, but you didn't really care. You had just spotted the target heading your way. You placed a hand on Clint's chest. This time, you didn't miss the way his expression faltered for a moment as his eyes flicked down to your movements. You pulled away, worried you had gone too far and made him uncomfortable. "I mean, just look at him."

As you finished your act, you noticed the target walk just past the two of you.

"Could you excuse us?" Asked Clint, politely exiting the conversation so the two of you could tail the man. You followed him from afar until he went through a doorway, disappearing behind it.

"Damn it." You whispered. Turning around, you found an unusual amount of eyes on you. Guards stationed around the room looked at the pair of you, and you noticed a few begin walking your way. "Clint, we've got trouble."

The two of you began making your way back through the crowd, trying to blend in. Regardless of your efforts, guards continued to slink your way.

"We've got to go," said Clint lowly. His hand made it's way to your waist, helping guide you through the crowd of people and towards the front door. Thankfully, your limo returned quickly so you could make your exit.

Clint helped you in, moving to join you. Before he could, a large, gloved hand grasped his arm.

"Where are you two off to?" Asked a gruff voice.

Shit.

Thinking quickly, you decided to use your given roles to your advantage.

"Excuse me?" You squealed. "Unhand my husband." The man's grip loosened, but he didn't fully let go. "What's going on?"

"Ma'am, what's go you both leaving in such as rush?" His eyes narrowed, not fully believing either of you. You did the only thing you could think of to get him off your back.

"What are you, a pervert?" You asked, playing up the bratty whininess in your voice. You used his moment of surprise to pull Clint towards you while the man's grip was weakened. "We're going somewhere more, private." You purred seductively, lathering it on thick as you gave Clint your best bedroom eyes. You ran a hand up his thigh as he took a seat next to you. "Right, Baby?"

Clint's voice was noticeably lower as he responded, "uh, yeah." Smooth, Barton.

You leaned in towards Clint, nuzzling your nose into the crook of his neck. Damn he smelled good. Almost instinctively, his hands made their way to your hips. You couldn't deny it felt good. You peppered soft, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, hoping the guard would get the message and fall for the ploy.

"What, are you going to watch?" You asked sarcastically, the momentary pause of your actions allowing you to realize how tight Clint was gripping you, and how heavy his breaths were. Your words had the intended effect, with the guard seeming embarrassed as he let the door close. As soon as it did, the driver hit the gas.

You pulled back from Clint, the embarrassment hitting you. You felt your face heat up.

"Sorry," you said awkwardly, trying to chuckle to ease the tension. "It's all I could think of."

"It's okay." He replied, his words short. "It worked."

Great, you thought, now he's uncomfortable. No wonder, after all that.

The two of you sat in uncomfortable silence, still seated close. You did your best to give him the space you could, but your exposed leg still sat touching his. You may not have paid it much mind, but if you had dared to look his way you would have seen Clint's eyes glued.

A sudden ring stunned you both, and Clint answered the phone.

"Detective Fury?" He asked. He listened for a moment to whatever Fury was telling him, nodding slowly. "Well, uh," his eyes flipped to you then quickly away. "We had to play into our cover. Y/n may have told them we were..." He coughed. "Headed somewhere 'more private'."

Your embarrassment only heightened. Not only did you make Clint uncomfortable, but now your boss knows.

"Yes sir, I understand." Said Clint. Hanging up, he looked back to you. "We're being followed."

"Shit!" You exclaimed. One guard may have fallen for your trick, but the target must have sent someone after you to be sure.

"So," said Clint slowly. "Fury has booked us a hotel room. We're headed there now."

Your mouth fell open, eyes wide.

"What do you-"

"Not to do that!" Exclaimed Clint, his own eyes going wide. "Just so when they follow our car, it looks like we were telling the truth."

Your suddenly racing heartrate slows again.

"Oh, okay." Your breathing slows as well, calming back down. You rode the rest of the way to the hotel in continued silence, thankful Fury had found one nearby.

Arriving and getting out of the vehicle yet again, you were surprised when Clint pulled you to him.

"We've got to be believable," he whispered, hands on your hips pulling them dangerously close to his own. One hand trailed further down, resting on your ass. "Is that alright?"

Of course, even in a dire situation Clint would ask a question like that. You nod, tilting your head to give him access to your neck. You bit your lip as his own lips made contact with your neck, holding back a moan that threatened to come out. While you may have been pretending, it didn't mean his lips didn't feel excruciatingly good.

Too quickly for your liking, he pulled back. There was a darkness in his eyes looking down at you. He must be a great actor. You let him lead you along, grabbing the room key from the front desk. The group of men entering the building after you did not go unnoticed. You grabbed ahold of Clint's tie, using it to pull his face close enough to yours that you could whisper without being hear. Close enough too that if you wanted, you could put your lips on his.

"They're staking out the lobby," you whispered. "I think we'll really have to stay here."

You made your way up to the room, footsteps following the two of you. As you reached for the door handle, you felt strong hands grab you and press you next to the door instead. Clint's body was pressed close to your own, making your breaths shallow and your body heat up.

"Clint-" You whispered.

"Do you trust me?" He said lowly so that only you could hear. You nodded. Before you knew it, you felt soft lips press to yours. You let your hands wander, making their way to his hair. You let yourself kiss him back, with a feverishness that nearly shocked you. He may have been your friend, but all your mind flooded with now was the need to be close to him. Feel his body pressed to yours, lips staying locked together.

You barely registered the sound of footsteps trailing to the other side of you, passing convinced that you were really there for the reason you claimed. Once they finally passed, Clint reached behind you, unlocking and opening the door without letting his lips leave your mouth. He didn't pull away until the door shut behind you both, hearing the latch click.

When he did pull away, both breathing hard, you felt as if your lips became cold. You wanted him back on you.

"Sorry," he muttered huskily, doing little to quell the heat in your body. "I thought that might get them off our backs a little." You nodded in response, taking into account the hotel room. There was a moderate-sized bathroom, a small closet and a dresser complete with TV on top. And, there was one queen bed facing it.

"You can take the bed." Said Clint. "I don't mind sleeping on the floor, as long at you let me have a pillow."

You rolled your eyes, pushing down the sexual tension you felt. Clearly he must not be feeling it too, as he switched back to humor quickly.

"Don't be silly. We're both adults, and it's hardly a crime to sleep in the same bed. It doesn't mean we have to do more than that."

Though your words didn't come across quite as you hoped, worried it sounded like there was an option of doing more than sleeping, Clint did take a seat on the bed. You did the same on the opposite side. After a moment of comfortable silence, Clint stood back up.

"Is it okay with you if I hop in the shower?"

You gave him a puzzled look, "am I okay if you practice good hygiene? Let me think." You pretended to think really hard, making him chuckle.

"Point made."

As you heard the water turn on, you laid back on the bed. Your mind began to wander again, full of both want and worry. After one evening, and one mission gone slightly awry, your usually tame thoughts about your partner were running wild. What had you gotten yourself into? Hearing the shower run, you couldn't stop yourself from imagining what could be on the other side of the wall. Your partner, your friend, taking off that beautiful suit to reveal what was underneath. The water running over his body, his muscles...

The water suddenly stopping jolted you from your thoughts. You tried to minimize the blush that was sure to be present on your face, grateful that he seemed to take his time drying off.

Opening the bathroom door, you stared as Clint walked out in just the suit's dress pants. Despite his best efforts to dry off, water droplets remained in his hair as they seemed to make him sparkle. Your eyes didn't remain at his hair, trailing lower to his exposed chest. The soft curves of his pecs, down to his abs, the beginning of a 'V' shape that dared you to follow it...

"So," he said. "We don't have luggage."

Shit, I hadn't even thought about that yet.

"As you know, I'm such a gentleman." He said playfully. "I don't want you to sleep in that dress, there's no way it would be comfortable." Your mind raced with a million thoughts of all the other options. "I propose you get my t-shirt from under the suit, and I sleep in the dress pants."

You nod at him, trying not to think about what he was suggesting. He wanted to sleep shirtless, and let you wear his clothes. Was it too late to tell him to sleep on the floor?

Not able to come up with a better option, you took the shirt he was offering and made your way to the bathroom to shower. Peeling the dress off your body, you decided to ignore the situation you were in and simply let yourself relax. Stepping into the warm water of the shower, you let it run down your head and shoulders. Closing your eyes to try and relax, it had the opposite effect.

Every time you shut your eyes, all you could think about was Clint. His hands, his lips, his body. How all three of those things would feel on you. To make matters worse, as you got more hot and bothered you pictured him even with your eyes open. Turning the water cooler, you hoped a cold shower would fix the problem.

It didn't.

Huffing, you washed your body and figured your thoughts weren't going away any time soon. The more you tried to stop them, the more they invaded your senses. As you scrubbed the soap across your body, you couldn't help but imagine someone else's hand.

Visions of Clint's hands running down your body played through your mind as your own hands trailed the same path. Ghosting lightly across your nipples, you bit your lip to stop the gasp in your throat. You imagined how his fingertips, calloused from years of notching arrows, would feel in place of your own.

Keeping one hand firmly at your breast, your other traveled lower and lower. A soft whimper escaped your throat before you could do anything to suppress it as your fingers made contact with your clit. Hearing nothing from the other side of the wall, you assumed Clint couldn't hear you over the sound of the shower water.

Your fingers continued circular motions at your entrance, feeling just how wet you had become. Soft moans fell from your lips, thinking the noise would be covered by the running water and bathroom fan that had been turned on to help ventilate humidity.

Besides, everyone knew hotel walls were never described as thin... right?

-Clint's POV-

He dropped to the bed with a deep sigh as soon as the door shut to the bathroom with you inside. He rubbed a hand over his face. What the Hell had he gotten himself into?

Sure, he had always found you rather attractive. And sure, that may have developed into something a bit deeper over the time he had gotten to know you. And maybe, he had been a little too excited when he heard about the details of the mission.

He thought he would be able to handle himself. Yet, here he was; grown man acting like a teenage boy unable to control his hormones and keep his hands to himself.

Listening to the shower water run, he tried to relax. Instead of remembering the way your hands grasped at his chest when he had kissed your neck. Not thinking about the way your lips moved against his in the hallway, how sweet they tasted. Pretending he didn't know what it was like to have your body pinned to his, having you whisper his name.

It had become the ghost of a mantra in is head. Your whisper from the hallway repeating again and again in his head.

Clint, Clint, Clint...

He couldn't help but imagine how else you could say his name. His mind bombarded him with a cacophony of sound. Could he make you moan his name? Scream it?

Feeling his dick twitch in his pants, he was playing a dangerous game. When you got out of the shower and exited the bathroom, he knew he couldn't be thinking this way. Just seeing you, twinkling with water droplets in your hair, his shirt adorning your body, would be enough to get him going again. He needed to calm back down.

He focused in to the sound of running water, trying to zone out. It had even begun to work. That was, until he heard it.

It was faint, and at first he thought it was his imagination again. But the noise persisted, to the point he stood and began slowly slinking towards the bathroom wall. As he got closer, there was no ignoring what he heard. You were moaning, and it was the most delectable sound he had ever heard. So much for calming down.

He staggered back to the bed, laying on his back and focusing in on your sounds instead of the water. There was no way to relax, that was sure. What could you be doing in there? He could only come up with one answer, and it drove him crazy. How he wanted to be with you, his hands feeling you up, his mouth capturing all of those beautiful noises.

Too soon for his liking, he heard the knob twist to and the water shut off. Adjusting himself in his pants, he hoped covering with the blanket would hide his arousal.

-Your POV-

You were frustrated, sexually and otherwise. Despite how you felt as if you were more turned on than you've ever been, you were left chasing your high. Realizing you had been in the shower for much too long, you had to get out. You didn't want Clint to worry and think something was wrong.

Getting out of the shower, you toweled off best you could. Pulling Clint's shirt over your head, you were glad you had worn nicer underwear under your dress that evening. His shirt may have laid big on you, but it still left the bottom halves of your butt cheeks exposed. You did the best you could to make yourself as presentable as possible.

With your best efforts, it still left the tops of your thighs and the gentle curve of your butt exposed. You had not needed to wear a bra with your earlier dress thanks to built-in cups, which you now regretted as your nipples lay pebbled under the t-shirt's material.

You crossed your arms in front of you as casually as you could as you twisted the doorknob and left the bathroom.

Thankfully, Clint had already laid in bed. He didn't turn to look at you which you were grateful for. You walked around the room preparing it for sleep, turning the AC to a comfortable temperature and making sure the door was secure.

Unbeknownst to you, Clint was following your every move as you turned around. He didn't know if he were lucky to get to see you, or unlucky as he was sure to picture you like this for the rest of his life. To be so close and not be with you was like torture. Your thighs teased him, t-shirt barely covering them and leaving your underwear-clad bottom within view. Your breasts were not constrained under the thin material, leaving little to his imagination as your nipples seemed to call to him. Everything about you looked to soft, and it took all of his self-restraint to stop himself from reaching out to touch you.

Laying beside Clint, you were oblivious to the show you had just put on for him. His breathing was strained, which you attributed to the uncomfortably close quarters. You were not touching, but the bed forced you close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body. You knew that snuggling close to him would be like heaven, his warmth and his strong arms engulfing you.

Closing your eyes, you were glad for the stress of the evening. That stress left your mind tired, able to ignore your arousal for just long enough to lull yourself to sleep.

Clint was not so lucky. He laid awake, dress pants uncomfortably tight against his lower half. Noticing your sleeping state, he made a decision he hoped he would not regret. Moving slowly as not to disturb you, he inched the uncomfortable garment off his legs. Left in just his boxers, he was only moderately more comfortable. His length still remained uncomfortably contained.

Clint did his best to ignore you beside him, but you were making that incredibly difficult. In your sleep you had turned away from him, but moved ever closer. There was nothing he could think to do, and before he could come up with an idea he felt the plush of your ass up against his bare thigh. Of course, this did nothing to help his situation.

He tried to think of anything else he could. A previous mission, perhaps with dangerous details to remember as a way to lesson his mood. No matter the nature of the old missions, his memories always ended the same. You, smiling up at him with sparkling eyes as you completed the objective.

Another noise pulled Clint from his thoughts. It came from your direction. He felt your leg twitch against him, and he realized you must be dreaming.

A noise came from you again, and Clint was intrigued. The sound was muffled, and he couldn't tell if it was positive or negative. He had a preference, sure, but you could have been having a nightmare for all he knew.

Feeling your hips press you backside further into his leg as you made another sound, this time clearly a small moan, it was clearly no nightmare.

Clint's body was tense. His cock felt as if it grew impossibly harder as a result of your movements. There was nothing he could do, waking you up would only reveal that he had removed his dress pants and make him look like a perv. Instead, he took in the moment as he knew he may never get to hear your noises again.

Soft moans and whimpers fell from your lips, hips grinding back towards his body. He wanted to reach out and touch you, but he restrained. At least, until he heard something that made him snap.

"Clint," you moaned with voice tantalizingly soft and sweet. He couldn't help the groan that escaped him in response. Last ounce of restraint now gone, he reached toward you. His hand found your hip, soft under his callouses. The two of you were practically spooning, and he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His lips moved to kiss up your nape, and he relished in how your moans followed his actions.

Looking up at your face, he was startled to see your wide eyes meeting his. Your pupils were blown wide with lust.

"Please don't stop."

Your whisper only urged him further, allowing his hand to slip higher under your shirt, his shirt, to grab your breast. Your moans only continued to spur him on, grinding his bulge into your backside. It both offered relief, and made him want even more.

You felt his hands across your body, even better than you had imagined. You pushed your ass backwards into him, matching his motions and feeling just how hard he was.

His strong hands suddenly flipped you to your back, Clint hovering above you. His lips found yours feverishly. You kissed him back as if you were starved, taking as much as he would give you. Moan after moan fell from your lips to his as he pressed his hardness against your cunt.

"Can feel how fucking wet you are," he groaned. "You been thinking about me?"

You nodded in return, but that wasn't enough for Clint. He wanted to hear you.

"What was that sweetheart?"

"Fuck, Clint," you sighed. "You're all I could think about all night."

His pride, and other things, swelled. His mouth trailed down to your chest, tongue finding a nipple as he swirled his tongue around it. His motions were rough, but his pace was slow. He pulled away as an involuntary whimper left your throat.

You felt his lips trail downward, oh too slowly. He pressed soft kisses across your inner thighs, making you curl your hips towards him in hopes he would quell the burning in the pit of your stomach.

He yanked your panties down only to replace them with his warm mouth. The initial contact almost made your scream as his hot breath fanned across the slick that had gathered between your legs. Cockily, Clint looked up to catch your eyes. With a wink, he held high contact while licking a slow stripe up where you were most sensitive. You moaned loudly, throwing your head back as he began picking up the pace. Every flick of his tongue sent shivers down your spine and moans to fall from your lips. He ate at you greedily. It's as if he was a man starved, but that was of no complaint to you. You don't think there was any way he could touch you that would make you complain.

Heat continued pooling in your core, building with every motion Clint made. Even so, your orgasm caught you by surprise when he moved his hands to your breasts, lightly pinching your nipples with his tongue continuing to swirl around your clit.

"Fuck, oh fuck, oh Clint," you moaned as you came, thighs squeezing on his head and hands in his hair. If this is how he died, he would be a happy man. As you came down from your high, Clint slowed and pulled away. He crawled back up to face you, kissing you harshly. You could feel your own juices on his tongue and along his stubble.

"On your knees," he muttered. His look was dark, and you obeyed. As you kneeled, you looped your fingers around the waistband of his boxers to pull them down with you. He groaned, grabbing a fistful of your hair in his hand.

You couldn't keep your eyes off his cock as it sprung free. Precum glistened the tip.

Tentatively, you leaned forward to lick the underside. Clint's groan emboldened you, taking the head into your mouth and swirling your head across the tip. Clint bucked his hips into your mouth, guiding you with his hand on the back of your head yet careful not to push you too far. You fell into a rhythm, bobbing your head on his cock as he groaned. Moaning around his cock, you felt his legs tense and dick twitch as the vibrations rang through him.

"Look at me," he demanded. "Want to see your eyes while I fuck your pretty little mouth."

You did as he asked, not knowing Clint had those words in him.

"There you go," he said quietly, "good girl." The words made you moan again around his cock.

That's new, you thought.

"Gonna fucking ruin you." He pulled out of your mouth, leaving your mouth open following his action. "Love the way you suck my cock baby. Your mouth feels so fucking good honey but now you're gonna give me your dripping pussy, alright?"

He flipped you over to your stomach, grabbing your hips to pull them into the air. You arched your back for him, and he paused to take in the sight.

"Damn baby, you're fucking soaked for me." You shivered as a finger ran along your folds. You pushed your hips back towards the feeling, needing more. "You like this baby? Want me to touch you like this?"

"Want, more," you whimpered.

"What do you want?" He asked sensually, lazily pushing a finger in and out of your entrance. "Tell me what you want me to do baby."

"Want you to fuck me, Clint." You whined. "Please fuck me. Want to feel you so fucking far inside me." Something about the usually mild-mannered, sweet Clint talking so dirty to you had something waking in yourself as well.

He wasted no time at your words, lining up with your entrance and slowly pressing into you. Your gummy walls welcomed him, tight and warm and clenching as he eased in.

"Fuck," he mumbled, feeling how tight you were just halfway in. "You feel so fucking good around my cock baby. Almost there." Giving you time to adjust to his size, he waited until he felt you squirming to move further again.

Whimpering as you pressed back against him, your mind felt like exploding. His dick stretched you so deliciously. You knew what was about to happen would ruin you for any other man, not wanting to ever feel anything but the man you had now.

Clint's pace picked up, leaving you a mess underneath him. You could barely think straight, only able to focus on the sliding of his cock in and out of your squelching cunt. You were thankful for his hands gripping your hips, legs turning to jelly.

You murmured a string of something resembling words, unable to do much more than moan and enjoy what Clint was doing to him. Grunts fell from his mouth, beautiful sounds as they layered with the wet slapping sounds echoing throughout the room.

"Take my cock so well," he grunted. Suddenly pulling out, you whimpered at the rapid lack of contact. Before you could react more, he flipped you over and pressed back in. Filling you up again made you scream at the overwhelming pleasure. "Who knew he had this in him? "Want to see your pretty face when I cum inside your pussy, hm?"

Just the thought made your head fall back with another moan as he continued to fuck you. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, mesmerizing to Clint unable to take his eyes off of you.

" 'M so close baby," he groaned. You wrapped your legs around his torso, pulling him close and looking up into his eyes.

That was the last push he needed, thrusts faltering as his seed shot into you. His grunts turned to moans, needy as he continued to thrust deep into you as he came. Staying inside, he leaned down to kiss you deeply.

"Fuck," he whispered, resting his forehead against your own.

"Yea," you replied breathlessly. He pulled back, dazed smile matching your own.

After cleaning you both up, he laid back in bed to allow you to snuggle close to him.

"I think that's the most I've heard you swear," you giggled, "maybe ever."

He chuckled in response, squeezing him closer to you.

"It's not my fault you feel so fucking good then."

Drifting off to sleep again, you wouldn't think about how the mission debrief would go until morning. After all, you're sure this is far from the last time you and Clint would end up like this.

#clint barton #clint barton x reader #clint barton smut #hawkeye smut #hawkeye x reader #hawkeye #avengers x reader #avengers smut #avengers endgame #marvel x reader headcanons #marvel smut

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tori111777 · 2 months ago

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FRIGHT AND FURY 7

Part 6, Part 8

Summary: Death and Lust have a meeting with conflict

Warnings: Violence, Mentions of loss, Spoilers

Parings: Caracalla x wife!reader

As you walked through the shadowed corridors of the Colosseum, the weight of your past pressed heavily against you. It was the same grand structure, but everything felt different now. The air, thick with the scent of dust and blood, seemed to hold the echoes of your choices—the choices you had made, the betrayals you had committed. The empire was now your home and Caracalla, your husband.

You glanced at the stands, where the dust from the crowd seemed to hang in the air, like the weight of your own guilt. The bloodshed in the arena had always been a spectacle for the people, but now it felt like a reflection of your soul—messy, violent, and far too far gone to repair.

You didn’t dare to look next to you as Lucilla was sitting in a chair. Cuffed in chains, pleading to let her husband live and be let out of the arena. The chains clinked with each movement, a constant reminder of her fall from grace.

You had once called her a mother of sorts, someone who had guided you, shown you the ropes of this brutal court. Now, you had traded that affection for a place at Caracalla’s side. The one you to whom love.

“For his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the Roman state… An enemy of the people.” The master of Ceremonies called out, signaling the start of the game today.

You saw the gladiator, Lucius step out into the sun bleached sand, the crowed loved him. His towering figure cast a long shadow across the arena as he stood tall, his broad chest rising and falling with each breath. He did indeed look like his mother, you saw it in him.

“From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum — the barbarian Hanno!” That is what they called him. They could never know the truth of it all.

On the other side another man was brought out. “Will challenge General Justus Acacius for his treasons against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the state.” Lucllia son would have to fight her husband. All because of you.

Lucilla’s pleading voice echoed in your ears, “whatever birth right I have it is yours-“ “Too late.” Emperor Geta had cut her off and quick. He was ready to see the game unfold and not listen to a pleading mother’s voice.

“—the Roman traitor, or the barbarian hero? Let the gods decide who will survive this contest.” The master of ceremonies finally finished his speech, letting the bloody battle that was about to begin unfold. But today, it was different. This was no longer just a game. It was personal.

Lucius raised his sword, charging at Acacius. He also hefts his sword and charged onwards as well. The clash of steel against steel rang out across the arena, drowning out the roar of the crowd.

“Acacius is a bull of a man. He may yet send that barbarian to the underworld.” Geta spoke out, he leaned against his chair.

You couldn't tear your eyes away from the combatants, even though every part of you screamed to look away, to turn your gaze elsewhere. But where else could you go? Your love always seemed to pull you back to place no matter what.

In the arena blow, Lucius and Acacius clashed with a ferocity. The general splits Lucius wooden shield, sending him back a bit and off balance. He charges forward anyways towards Acacius, unprotected this time trying to aim for his head.

The flat end of his sword, Lucius was able to catch Acacius broadside of his head. It sends him down a bit, catching him off guard as his helmet comes off and he drops his sword. The crowd's roar grew louder, a chaotic symphony of excitement and bloodlust.

Lucius stood over the fallen general, his chest heaving with exertion. Across the sand, Acacius stirred, shaking off the shock of the blow, his hand grasping for the sword he had dropped. He was a seasoned warrior, but he couldn’t stand for a man trying to survive. Instead the general raises his hand in surrender.

“Acacius has raised his hand! He surrenders!” You hear the announcement be called overhead. Though, the crowd goes silent. So do you, only hearing the pounding heartbeat inside your chest. You looked up and saw both Caracalla and Geta rise to address the people.

“Romans what do you say?” Geta shouts. You could hear the faint murmur of the crowd, their mixed emotions swirling in the dust-filled air. Lucius stood like a towering figure above Acacius, sword still raised but his body taut with uncertainty. The question had been posed, but the answer was unclear.

Some people chanted “Mercy!” Others shouted in a cry out, “Kill him!” You looked to Caracalla. His gaze met yours, cold and calculating. He was watching to see what you would do, he knew you better than anyone else.

Geta stood beside him, raising his fist. He holds it out in midair. There is silence as he waits for the ‘gods justice’ from high above. “The gods have rendered their judgment.”

He turns it over and gives a ‘thumbs down.’

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, their voices a twisted chorus of approval and bloodlust. Lucius's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, his expression unreadable as he stared down at Acacius, the man who was now, in essence, a condemned soul. The sun seemed to burn hotter.

“Lucius!” You hear Lucilla yell out, but it was helpless. Yet, her son looked up and tossed his sword to the side.

The crowd, stunned by the unexpected turn, fell into a tense silence. Geta’s face darkened, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. Caracalla was no making a thumb’s down as well, “Kill him! Kill him!” He yelled.

You felt Lucllia gaze watch over you. She knew you had the power to stop all of this but you did not. She knew. She always knew, and yet, her faith in you had crumbled long ago, like everything else in your life.

“You were once a mother too.” She whispered. You turned to her at that, you had vowed to yourself to never bring up that moment again. “How dare you bring that into this.” You snapped back at her. The venom in your words seemed to hang in the air like poison, but it didn’t deter her.

You turned away, your heart beating loudly in your chest, drowning her out.

“Is this how Rome treats its people?” The gladiator cried out from below. “If this life has no value, what are yours worth.” You could see the two emperors getting more upset every second.

“The gods have spoken!” Geta called out in reply. It was a standoff and a ripple of excitement ran through everyone in the stands. One of the brothers closest allies whispered something in Geta’s ear that you could not hear.

“Kill him!”

The archers that surrounded everyone drew their arrows. Though the Centurions hesitate for a moment before Geta says something again. “In the name of Jupiter— kill him!” They release the arrows… striking Acacius right in the chest.

Time seemed to stop right there and then. What did you just do?

More and move arrows flew to his body. One after another. Lucius sunk down to his knees, most likely waiting for an arrow that would kill him. None did come for him though. The crowd’s roar had turned into an eerie hush, their bloodlust suddenly soured by the realization of what had just happened.

The arena was too quiet. Geta and Caracalla look at each other uncomfortably, you just starred at the floor in front of you. Hearing Lucllia’s tears break through her voice. “Damn you to the fire, forever.”

Your husband turned around quickly, “first you’ll get your turn in the pit!” He shouted at her. You could tell he was frightened, the crowd was still lingering in its silence. No one moved for a couple of seconds but the Praetorian started to lead everybody out of the Emperors box before fights started to break out.

———

“We’ve should’nt had killed him.” You said, back in the palace. You clutched your fingers close to your mouth, as you view over the city of Rome in the afternoon.

Caracalla’s voice cut through your reverie. He was standing behind you, the sound of his shoes on the marble floor making your pulse quicken. His tone was low, dangerous. "You're regretting it, aren't you? You’ve tasted your own betrayal now."

“No I’m not I just—“ You had no idea what you were going to say. You did this all for him. Turning slowly, you finally faced him and took his hand into yours and sighed.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly calm. “I’ve seen it in your eyes. I’ve seen that moment of hesitation, that flicker of doubt. I know you better than anyone.”

“I did it for you,” you finally whispered, as though the words could somehow absolve the ache that was twisting in your chest. “I thought I could do it for us—for Rome.”

He moved his hand from your hand to your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, yet the weight of it felt like a silent accusation. You closed your eyes, the bitter taste of regret still lingering on your tongue. "I don't know anymore," you whispered, barely audible, the truth slipping out despite yourself. "I don't know what I’m doing anymore."

"You're not the only one, you know," he murmured, his fingers still resting against your skin. You could feel his hot breath against your lips as he leaned in and kissed you.

You flinched at the kiss, though you didn’t pull away. After a second you leaned into him more passionately. The familiar taste of his mouth, warm and urgent, stirred something inside you. He needed more of you and you needed more of him.

You could feel Caracalla's hands grip you tighter, pulling you closer as though he could erase all doubts with his touch. You could feel the pulse of his heartbeat against yours, a reminder that despite the violence, the treachery, and the choices you had made, you were still bound to him, body and soul.

The kiss deepened, and for a fleeting moment, his hands trailing down your body and feeling all your curves when you pulled away. Caracalla's grip on you had not loosened, as he held onto your waist. You could not read him in this very moment nor tell what he was thinking.

“I do know that I love you.” You said to him. Caracalla's eyes softened for just a moment, "Do you?" His voice was quiet, almost tender, yet the question seemed to carry the weight of the entire empire. His hands, still resting on your waist, tightened just a fraction as if testing whether you truly meant those words.

You searched his eyes, trying to find the man you once knew—the one who whispered sweet promises into your ear before the bloodshed began and that moment, the one who held you in public, as if you were a goddess to him. “How could I not?”

And yet, as Caracalla’s hand lingered on your body, you still felt the pull toward him. The love you had for him wasn’t gone, but it was changing. It was suffocating. You didn’t know if you could survive in this world he was crafting, in this empire of blood and ash.

“You were always mine,” he said softly, his voice low and almost dangerous. “And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

You backed up, his hands softly leaving your body as you turned to look over the railing to see all of Rome in its glory. It was at your feet, what would your father have said? You remembered your wedding day and how he opposed it… yet he wanted you to be happy most of all.

The wind carried the distant hum of Rome, the faint echo of a city still alive. “You look so distant,” Caracalla’s tone was soft but sharp, like the edge of a blade. He was watching you closely, sensing the unraveling of something within you.

Were you happy?

Yes you had to be. Yes you are. The sound of Caracalla footsteps had faded away when he left the balcony, leaving you alone with your thoughts that attacked your mind. It seemed like everyday you were becoming more like him, but you turned him into what he is now. You still blame yourself for what had happened.

You breathed deeply, watching as the birds flew past in the sky, the way the bells rung and children laughing in the street. It was almost like you were young again as your mother read you a story about the gods or the great Achilles. You did not miss it.

You turned away and headed back inside, your fingers grazing over the stone as you left as well.

#ancient rome #caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla #emperor carcalla x reader #fred hechinger #gladiator 2 #gladiator ll #rome #lucilla #emperor geta

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mooishbeam · 1 year ago

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『♡』 Treasures of the Fraud

♡ featuring: pantalone x f!reader

♡ summary: it's been forever since you've seen your friend, and as the hero of liyue, a new interruption has arisen. you pursue it, only to find memories awaiting you. wc: 9.1k+ (D:)

♡ cw/tw: long lonnggg fic, obsession, mentions of murder, mention of suicide, mentions of blood, manipulation, toxic pantalone, mean pantalone, possessive, spanking, degradation, mild praise, fingering, thigh riding, missionary, overstim, begging, edging, comeshot, pet names (darling, slut)

notes: helloooo!! ive been slow to get stuff out college is kicking my ass rn so sorry. not proofread so i apologize for any mistakes. I can't wait to have more time :) art by yion_yi on ig! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

12 years ago

“Come get me!”

The boy with inky curls spiraling down his back dips through trees, ducking under low hanging branches embellished with vibrant autumn foliage. Messy blends of pink and purple melt across the slowly bleeding sun carried into the night. His silhouette resembles that of a malevolent spirit peeking behind the boughs, leaping over tangled twigs and shallow ditches. His excited screeches signal you to chase after the leading direction. You’re both screaming and laughing down the undoubtedly dangerous shortcuts. If your mother knew about the adventurous risks you were taking at 13, you’d never leave the house again. Tag is a troubling game—despite the thousands of times you’ve played with him, you regularly end up being “it��. You don’t care about losing, though; having someone to call a friend is enough.

You turn into a clearing with columns of trees overseeing your small presence, hundreds of them. The colder night is rising, not a celestial body to shield. In this deep blue void, the leaves seem to be aggrieved at your interruption of some secret meeting, angry and smiling faces crumpling in the whispering wind. You spin around frantically, looking for signs or laughter, but neither reveal themself. It’s quiet besides the downy linger of grass. Your shoulders are snatched back and shaken to a rattling shock. You scream, and he laughs.

“Rahhh! Did I get you?” he jests. Your eyebrows narrow, and you push him lightly to a stumble.

“You scared me!”

“Hah, that’s the point. C’mon, it’s late. Let’s go.” He's scared too, swiftly grabbing your hand as you both brave the darkness back to the village.

“We should’ve been home a while ago” you say quietly. You feel the chill in your bones and press yourself closer to him.

“Yea.” He holds your hand tighter at the sound of a small rock bouncing down a steep hill.

“I had fun today. Let’s do this again tomorrow.”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m moving in the morning” he states. It was nonchalant, but your stomach turns a churning sickness. One you can’t understand yet, it makes you uneasy.

“Oh. Okay, then.” It isn't okay, not in the slightest. But it had to be. Your best friend of 8 years looks at you, aiming to register the gravity of the situation. You both say nothing, but tears start to brim in your eyes in the silence. You wipe them with your arm.

“Will you miss me?” he asks.

“A lot.”

“I’ll miss you too. Lots and lots.” He sways your interlocking hands. You pass by vacant homes tattered and aged by abandonment, overgrown with invading ivy. Homeless reside, caring each other to warmth from the freezing draft. You were lucky to have a home in this little forgotten sector of Liyue. It's a small, unfortunate room, with holes in the roof that drips when it rains and bags over the windows to keep the heat in. The stove never works, and you share a bed with your mother, but every birthday she makes sure to save just enough for a slice of cake with one candle. There isn’t more you could ask for. Everyone in the village suffered from poverty but they made it work, sharing crops and dairy to persevere until the next year. That’s how you met him, sitting on a rock as your mother collected rations. You perform two pebbles in your hands, mumbling sea shanties while imagining voyage on a grueling journey—he sat next to you.

“Those aren’t dolls. They’re rocks.”

“You’re a rock” you retorted.

“No, I’m not.”

“Do you want to be a rock?”

“...That’d be kinda cool.” You gave him a pile of pebbles, and he joined the trip.

You’re getting closer to the village, still processing who you’ll play with once he’s gone. You glance at him, he’s spaced out in a faraway stare. You crave the power to read minds.

“Can we talk about something? I’m getting sad” you sniffle.

“What should be talk about?”

“What are you going to do after you move?”

“I’m gonna be super rich” he assures, looking up at the starless sky as if a meteor would shoot across and grant his wish. “What about you?”

“I’m going to save the world” you proclaim.

“Cool. I hope you do.”

“Me too.”

You arrive at your makeshift door drawn together with scraps of wood and twisted rope for hinges. A dim candle glimmers inside, most likely your vexed mother waiting for your tardily return. He makes space for your entry, and you undo your hands for the last time. Before you go, he snatches your wrist. His eyes are foggy, cheeks an anxious tinge of pink. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling, but the strings in his heart are tense. His mouth shapes to say something, but nothing returns.

“Yeah?”

“...I... I’ll really miss you a lot” he whispers with a lump in his throat.

“Then don’t forget me, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?” you say and raise your pinky towards him. He curls around it. “I promise.”

“Good. By the way, you’re it now.”

“I’ll get you back when I see you again!” he chuckles. You bid your goodbyes, unaware that it would mark the unforeseen conclusion.

Leaves crunch under your feet as you make your leisurely traverse to Liyue Harbor. It’s just before sunrise and you finished helping the elderly in Qingce Village carry copious amounts of heavy produce to their homes. The thankful candies from seniors' jingle in your pocket as you stretch your weary arms. Your mom offered to cook, but you're determined to locate the best commissions Katheryne had before afternoon. “Maybe I’ll pick up some rice buns” you think out loud at the rumble of your growing appetite. You still had a long way to go before you got to the harbor.

This was your new normal. After your thundering battle with Ningguang and Keqing against Osial, you became an example of Liyue’s triumph. You also became more aware of Fatui tactics, wiping out their swarms with the raging fury of your pneuma and swinging vision. Days of grueling bloodshed resulted in your victory, cementing you as the lionheart of Liyue. Beat up and bruised, the only request you made after your fight was a hot meal and a place for your mom to retire. They delivered both, and you used your recent hero status to provide help to the villagers where needed, be it casual favors or ruthless assault on Fatui agents. You were neither rich nor poor, and lived off the land and kindness of the Liyue Qixing. They often suggested you focus on less mundane tasks, but to you, the most vulnerable age groups warranted priority. There was something about the lighthearted innocent squeals of children and mellow grandparents rocking in their wooden chairs that made you protective to an almost volatile extent.

Bustling interactions of trade and commerce carry through the wind as you enter the harbor—a sound that’s brought you peace for years. The smell of food vendors has you drooling instantly. As you devour the complimentary rice bun, you feel the yank of a little hand on your skirt. You look down and a boy with brown hair searches for familiarity in your face. You recognize him, babysitting him numerous times. You kneel and pat his head, but he doesn’t react or move.

“Hey, what’s up? Where are your parents?” you question, briefly scanning your immediate area for his family. He’s hesitant to speak, as if he can’t find the panicked words, and rushes into your arms. You hug him instinctively and let him sniffle into your shoulder. You pick him up in your grasp and raise his head with your other hand so that he’ll hopefully be open to your compassion.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” The boy wipes his chubby tomato-red face. “Grandma is on the floor, what do I do?” You quell your rising nerves to suppress his alarm and speak calmly.

“Where is she?”

Speed walking towards the destination, the commotion of a small crowd surrounds a kneeling woman in the distance. She’s on her sun-spotted hands and knees, wailing for some bygone Archon. “Grandma!” he yells and jumps out of your arms. You run after him, relieved that the worst case scenario hadn’t occurred. You push through the group and get eye level with her, forehead pressed to the ground spouting religious scripture.

“Are you okay? Do you need medical assistance?” Wise sunken eyes wrinkled with age and torn by tragedy stick to your heart. Her feeble hands encapsulate yours, and tears stream down her cheeks. “They took my baby!” she rasps, rocking back and forth. “Who did?” you ask, and she weeps harder. “They took her memory...my baby, my daughter!” You support her weight and lift her hunched figure off the pavement. “What did they look like, ma’am?”

“A black hood...red mask” she recalls shakily. Instantly miscellaneous chatter ensues. They whisper nervously in each other's ears, he who shall not be named steals their voices. “Fatui probably got ‘er” you hear the mumble of one. Fatui. Your blood boils at the word, and you direct your view to the shrinking man with hands in his pockets. “‘He’ got all of us” he scoffs. “Did they hurt you guys, too?” you ask, and they stare. They’re pained but accepting.

“500,000 mora.”

“194,000 for me.”

They list off their debt one by one, and you’re horrified at the accumulating number. They seem to endure, however; no longer phased by the incurable tally haunting their lives. “H-how are you paying any of this?”

“We can’t. It adds up. Interest, late payments, it always does. So, we give everything, and ‘he’ takes everything, until we have nothing left. We die poor without a possession to our name” a woman sighs. As a child, you heard of the loan sharks that purposely fed false promises to the poor, and once they were reeled in, charged insurmountable payments to blackmail—it was the origin story of most people in your birthplace. Your soul aches for them, but is there anything you can do?

“...I’ll help you, all of you. I’m sure I can-”

Ningguang arrives. She's a nurturing figure to you, the kind that asks if you’ve been eating well and politely scolds you. “What happened?” You lead the tired elder to the Jade Chamber, and she tells her story through choked sobs. You didn’t expect Keqing to already be there, arms folded and turned away from the situation. Ningguang can barely glance at the woman.

“They stormed my home and took my jewelry and belongings. They took the pendant my daughter gave me; it had her face in it. Archons give me strength, my baby! I can’t afford it; I have nothing!” she quakes. You rub her back and Ningguang nods, listening—you can’t help but notice the anxiety blooming on her abstracted face. They take her through the process and once she leaves, Ningguang and Keqing look at each other with a silent understanding. The room is eerily quiet, and Ningguang paces back and forth in front of the intel wall contemplating an uncertain danger. You fumble with your thumbs.

“What are we going to do about this?” you wonder. Keqing clears her throat loudly, attracting the attention of Ningguang. She looks at you, and sighs deeply. “We already know about this issue.”

Your ears perk up. “Great, so how can I help?”

“By doing nothing, (Y/N)” Keqing says.

“...What?”

“I have eyes everywhere; I’ve known for a long time. The Fatui are not people to be taken lightly, especially the harbingers. A few of their skirmishers were caught trading exotic goods and taxing medicine at high prices, on top of extorting the impoverished regions.” Ningguang points to one of the many Fatui exclusive headquarters on the wall. “Pantalone is the richest man in Teyvat, he has more political influence than anyone can imagine, and they answer to him. We can’t risk getting involved with this. They’ve brought this upon themselves, and unfortunately, they must deal with the consequences.”

You can’t accept this response. How can they just desert them? It doesn’t comprehend in your naïvity—you scold yourself for not spotting the signs sooner, furrowing your brows and looking at them with distaste. “I expected this. You shouldn’t have said anything” Keqing chides. “...Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped before-”

“You’re the last person I wanted to know about this” Ningguang interrupts. Your anger feels misplaced, and you bite your lip in restraint. She sits next to you and offers fleeting comfort with a graceful hand on yours. “You’re quite the reactionary type. In due time, this will be sorted. But right now, I need you to calm down, and trust me.” It sounds desperate, you know you shouldn’t go looking for answers, but a snagging thread pulls at the back of your consciousness, all too convincing. You bounce your leg. “You should want revenge just as much as me. Where we came from, where they end up, it isn’t fair.”

“You know I do, more than anything. But we must handle this with care, before too many people get hurt. I’m doing this for the betterment of Liyue as a whole. It’s not easy to make these decisions.”

“We can’t just go around serving justice, there’s laws we have to act with” Keqing adds. You don’t reply and stand up abruptly to leave. The worried Tianquan grabs your wrist one last time. “Promise me you won’t make a mistake, (Y/N). I’m trying to protect you” she pleads.

“I promise. Thank you.” You flash a half genuine smile, already planning to rebel against her wishes.

Who exactly is ‘he’—Pantalone. You don’t even know where to start looking. Too many headquarters, infinite possibilities. The best way you have to find him is through Fatui agents.

You start taking up odd jobs late in the evening, scouring for the possibility that a fatui agent might fall into your hands. Though you considered playing the part of an impoverished villager taking out a loan at Northland Bank, it didn’t guarantee that you’d meet Pantalone in the flesh—it’s more likely that would raise unnecessary suspicion in the process. It’s awkward at first, seeing the hero of Liyue fish on the dock for petty change throughout the night. As you do, the malicious fire in your eyes burns bright at the occasional voice in chill silence. Your vision glows as you toss the hunting knife between your nimble digits. Listening closely to conversations, hoping that one might be unguarded enough to slip up, but nothing of the sort appears—not even the boldness of Fatui skirmishers enables them to divulge secrets under the baleful existence of Celestia.

The moon illuminates sweetly on the tranquil waters lulling you to drowse. You hadn’t heard much since the start of your escapade. A fishing pole is weak in your resistless hold, and you’ve evidently given up on the idea of portraying the hardworking fisherman tonight. You vowed to help the people of Liyue, but justice was seemingly unfeasible. Maybe a direct approach? Should I ambush their headquarters? More so a suicide mission, you’d have no luck achieving that. Just as you’re about to leave, the crunch of withering grass straightens your posture. You make yourself hidden with a burst of energy and slouch behind the bushes as a Fatui pyro agent charges along the route. Through the glutted leaves obstructing your vision, you can just make out the heavy bag on his shoulder and jagged blade waiting restlessly on the other. His stride points towards Qingce Village. You hold your breath disguising yourself with the scenery and allow him to take a few feet between you before you begin following him. He’s rather shifty, those veiled eyes darting back and forth at the lightest noise. You’re careful to glide behind trees, moving with the heartbeat of the wind and taking advantage of the various melody's nature offers. You suck in a breath and duck behind a boulder a few inches too close, and his head snaps in your direction. The feeling of being watched besets him, but with no way to prove it and time running out, he secures his knife for the hypothetical ambush, and makes haste towards the target. Turning a tree, you watch as the pyro wielder knocks on the house of a small worn cottage. A short stocky man appears, shading half his body behind the door.

“H-hello...” you hear faintly. The Fatui keeps his hand firm on the door, one boot propped under the hinge. He presents the flaming knife loosely as he towers over the man. “We’ve given you time.” You were sure now that he's working for Pantalone.

“I don’t have it. P-please, if you could just give me some more-” He slams his fist against the wood, a resounding thump shakes the home. The man cowers. “Give me everything you have. The Regrator won’t wait any long-”

A small rock flies past his mask, skidding on the ground until it comes to a stop. He glares in the direction of the tree you’re hiding behind. You have no plan, nothing but the distracting impulse to stop the assailant from attacking. “Stay here” he commands, and stalks towards you. His slow footsteps get increasingly louder, playful stomps toying with your obvious whereabouts. He twirls the razor-sharp knife, and as he sharply peeks around the corner, you’re nowhere to be found. “Here, kitty kitty” he taunts, spinning towards the lake, then the village grounds for footprints. He severs the air aimlessly in mirth, believing some amateur fighter came to challenge him. As he monitors the tracks under you, you drop down from the wiry branches. Legs wrap tight around his neck, and you catch hold of his hood trying to pull his mask off. He gags but he’s too quick, throwing off your steadiness as he slams your spine on the grass. He whips around to take a stab at your chest, but you roll away guarding the vital arteries. You kick him in the crotch, and he recoils giving you ample time to stand.

You can’t feel the wet laceration dripping down your abdomen as you take a slash at his throat with your weapon, infused with elemental energy. He leans back and meets your strike. You trade blows, the strength of your smite bursting sparks of light above the scratches and bruises. Your wrist burns with the unmoving knives stumbling you. He begins to manifest blazing knives circling his figure, and you jump back from the singing cut melting the cloth. You wipe the dried blood from your mouth, and in the blink of an eye, he disappears. Suddenly, red auras similar to the pyro agent surround you. One by one, the clones charge at you, and you parry their overhead onslaught. Something is different about the last clone, your vision revealing a brighter outline than the others. When the next clone attacks, as you counter you pretend to fall for his trick. With your eyes on the other, he immediately passes through the black fog to deal the killing blow. You’re quicker this time and heave a heavy tear into his chest. Crimson splatters the grass, it shatters his element and rips open the robe. You tackle him on the dirt and wrestle until you kick his weapon away. Your knee digs into his back, and he can barely breathe with his arm locked behind him and knife rigid against his neck. He ttempts to swing at you, but you wrench his arm tighter and slice into his skin just enough to draw blood.

“Fuck. Okay!” he wheezes. “Where is Pantalone?”

“I don’t know what you’re- shit!” You’ve lost patience long ago and twist his arm to dislocate the shoulder. He lets out a blood curdling scream thrashing in pain—you tug hard and focus him. “Shut up and answer my question. Where is Pantalone?” you demand. He hisses in pain and coughs up phlegm mixing with reddening soil. “Kill me.”

“Just tell me and I’ll let you go.”

“I’m a dead man, either way.” he rasps and hangs his head waiting for the execution. You grit your teeth; a drop of guilt leaves a bad taste as you thwack the pressure point on his neck that forces him unconscious. You glance at the bag he left and limp over to rummage through the contents. Useless papers crumple under stolen items, but one note catches your eye. Presumably a to-do list, you read to the bottom. A list of homes, goods on standby exchanges—at the bottom of those, a rendezvous point:

Report back- Yilong Bank, Liyue

You rest in a plot of prickly bushes and leave in the morning after patching yourself up. You couldn’t stop now, not when you were this close to facing him. You soothe your body from the twigs prodding you all night, and check the wound suppressed by gauze. It’s a light scar now, apparent after bathing in the warm water on the outskirts of Qingce. You contemplated telling Ningguang about what occurred, but imagining the look on her face once she knew kept you moving.

Tucking your vision where it can’t be viewed, you take a waverider to Yilong Port into the afternoon. You concoct a half-baked scheme, one that relies on every scenario being perfect to a tee. Unreliable, but probably your only chance. The plan amounts to scaling the building and breaking in through the office window, snatching everything owned by the villagers and breaking out before anyone notices. Easy in your capabilities, but you have no idea what the building looks like, nor do you know where the office is. The man driving wears all black, an outfit that stands out from the rest of the region. He stares at you blankly, and once you’re aware, you meet eyes. His smile is uncanny, stretching across his face with an abnormal friendliness.

“Is this your first time at the port?” he asks, finger tapping the wheel. Be it sleep deprivation or ignorance; you don’t recognize red flags in his behavior. You smile at the courteous face. “Yeah, the weather’s beautiful out here.”

“Mhm, hot weather up here. On vacation?”

“Nah, I have business here.” The minuscule edge of your vision catches in the light. He homes in on the passing twinkle. You wonder why his eyes widen momentarily, and his finger starts to tap methodically, as if memorizing a coded pattern.

“Business...what kind?”

“Oh...I have some items to trade.” You close off your answers feeling that you’ve said too much. He subsides with a stale expression. “If you’re looking to trade, you might find luck at Yilong Bank” he utters monotonously.

“And where is that?” You feign disinterest, but victory is too loud on your tongue.

“Up the mountain.” The waverider halts at the harbor, and he turns his head away from you unusually cold, akin to a mechanical bot shutting down. “Welcome to Yilong Port.”

You make yourself invisible in the crowd and wait for nightfall. People still roam the port along with Fatui monitoring the front of the bank, which gives you leeway to blend in as you find passage around the back of the mountain. It’s a steep, dark incline jutted with irregular jagged stones. The imposing size of the climb tangles knots in your stomach, and you wipe the persistent sweat on your top. In one huge leap, you latch onto a craggy indent, and begin your ascension.

Your legs feel like jelly with each contact of the unforgiving breeze. You sway alongside the spirit of anemo and swallow your anxiety before leaping to the next rock. Shoes plant into rock and nails excavate fresh cobble on the next jump. By the time you’ve realized, you’re already up most of the mountain. You tug yourself even with the land as a barreling gust of wind goads your glance to the ground, kilometers beneath you. Your breath stills, and for a second dizziness overtakes your nerves at the thought of slipping. I could die, one mistake and I’m dead. You focus, and spring to the next piece. Without warning, rock gives way into pebbles at the weight of your foot. You nearly plunge, but anchor onto the small bump out with one hand. You’re dangling off the edge, playing with death while you fortify your body. Hyperventilation makes your heartbeat thrum incessantly and stress palpitates tired muscles; If you didn't have your vision, you would’ve fainted to your demise. You bite the bullet, push your heels in and persevere through the hurdles. The next thing you clutch is malleable in your palm. You vault over the cliff, the smell of dew is overwhelming. The back of the bank—the end goal—is visible.

One Fatui member remains in the front. You scale up the building effortlessly, nothing compared to the hell you just went through. Shifting window to window, your eyes land on the pitch-black darkness of the room at the top of the building. An ideal glow casts on the fraction of precious gold resting on a coffee table. This has to be it. You slink through the window soundlessly, and land on the balls of your feet. Analyzing the dish, you don’t discern the pendant. You can faintly identify some bookshelves near the dish, and tiptoe further inside. You creep around luxury sofas, and squint at the embellished glass case next to the door, containing all manner of jewelry and valuable possessions. You won; this was it. You scurry to it, moving with abrupt carelessness. One more step.

Click

The fireplace you didn’t heed is set aflame. It flickers sneering shadows on the opposite wall and brightens the case. You pause and hope. There’s a confining silence stirring in the room, like someone is with you. The case is visible now, and so is the key to opening it.

You fell into a trap.

“Looks like I have a little thief on my hands.”

A bittersweet voice in the sable, reminiscent of rich dark chocolate, rolls off the room. He steps out obscurity behind his desk and your eyes adjust, revealing the tight black turtleneck compressing his willowy torso and gloves adorned with silver rings. You can’t see the upper part of his face, but the chains of his glasses hang in front of that duping smile. You expected the Fatui harbinger to be on the stronger side, physically intimidating. It’s not physical, but you feel a certain fear boiling in your body. He’s not terrifying, but you tremble. His presence makes your hair stand and sends waves of goosebumps up your arms. You can’t find the will to move your wobbly legs. His charmed laugh rings in your ears and causes you to hold your breath. He has no vision; you shouldn’t be afraid. You could take him on easily, why can’t you fight?

“Hello, honored hero of Liyue” the headless man taunts. It makes it worse that he knows who you are. How long had he known you were coming? Was your plan doomed from the beginning? Your feet are stuck in molasses as your fight or flight shuts down at the man before you.

“Now, tell me. What is the little thief doing, barging into my office to take the possessions I worked so hard for? Not very heroic of you, If I may say.” There’s power in his stature—you forget how to speak. He holds his palm out to you. Tangled between his fingers, is the ornate golden pendant you’d been searching for, a woman’s face in the frame. Your eyes widen, and the sweet familiar curve of his lips stretches in amusement.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” The plod of low-heeled boots accompanies unveiled darkness, and you can observe his entirety. Amethyst eyes drunk with an orchid hue pool into your being. Lazy curls brush against his glasses and kiss his porcelain skin. He’s beautiful, a calm enticing rip current that sweeps you with immeasurable pressure before you can pull yourself out. He leans on the desk, observing the chain halfheartedly. If you weren’t careful, you’d mistake the look on his face for genuine kindness; you’d drown, just like he craved. Nonetheless, you can’t shake the emotion his smile grants.

“Yes. That’s all I need, and I won’t bother you again” you whisper meekly, hoping that he’d let you go with the pendant in a spur of forgiveness. The jest in his eyes says something different.

“Come get it.”

Come get it. Your mind begins to piece the man into a stage of your life you’d forgotten. It can’t be him. Memory tells intrusive truth in short flashes. Inky curls spiraling in front of you as you chase. He was consistently miles ahead of you. It was irrelevant how far apart you were; he’d always find you. That big, curving smile for every match he won. Purple eyes glancing back at yours; the same ones that withheld tears when you said goodbye.

“Come get me!”

Tears stream down your eyes for the friend you thought you’d never see again. Childhood laughter bleeds into his current cat-like conniving snicker, and you gaze at his face.

“I... remember you” you choke. He looks up without a smile, perceiving an unexpected thought, and meets your eyes. There’s a hint of affection in the warm smile beaming on his face. “My my, (Y/N). You have quite the memory.”

You’re motionless, full of something that catches in your lungs. This isn’t the triumph you wanted, and now that you’re face to face you feel powerless. He must’ve known the entire time. Watching you fight and work alone, sending Fatui to roam in Liyue, all done to toy with you. Your lip quivers, swelling in your already deafening heartbeat.

“How long...” you utter. He inquires with the tilt of his head.

“How long have you been messing with me?” Your eyes adhere to the floor, pride that won’t permit you to shed misery for Pantalone. He drinks in your resistant frame, the kind he desires to break; perhaps this game of cat and mouse isn’t done, after all.

“This hurts me too, (Y/N). I wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t so…persistent.” Your confusion spills over in shaky, weak huffs. You can’t maintain your composure, and make yourself first to oppose the authoritative man on his own territory.

“How could you do this to anyone? We grew up poor!” You shout with balling fists.

“It’s inefficient to dwell on the past” he replies with gentle cadence and languid grace unrepresentative of his cruel tactics. You nearly regret raising your voice.

“These people are at their wits end and you’re taking advantage of them” you chide. He slowly paces towards you. Pantalone looks down on you from height disparity, but the royal glower pities you, judges worth you can’t see.

“Driven by emotions, are you that simple? You presumed that if you stormed in here, and professed a touching story, that I would suddenly see the error in my methods?” You’re not sure what you’re here for anymore or why you haven’t left yet. Subconscious urges can't determine if they should slap or hug the man inching towards you. “I simply enforce contracts and exchanges. No one can be swindled by a debt accreted on their own.”

“No one asks to be poor either” you interject. Pantalone’s a foot away from you now, analyzing your reactions to his personal entertainment. He recalls the blurry past—the pranks you pulled together that ultimately failed from your loud hurried sneakiness tripping to alert the farmers, helping out for loose change so that you’d split a snack between each other that wasn’t big enough to share, gazing at the twinkling night imagining a distant future—you changed and stayed the same, but he keeps wanting more.

“Weigh the odds. They either die impoverished or live by passage of loans. I merely provide a service. Does that make me so cruel?” You can’t find an answer.

“You’ll always be my friend, but I need it back. It can’t be much to forgive someone’s debt” you plead.

“You still consider me a friend?”

“I think…you’re hurt. And you’re trying to heal. We all are. I know I’ve dealt with a lot as I’ve gotten older and I think you have, too. Power corrupts even the best people in this world, so maybe you’re not a bad person. But you’re doing bad things, and this isn’t the right way to get better.”

Pantalone is quiet for a few long moments. His hands web his face, but you can clearly see the pearly fangs in his open-mouthed smirk. Then he laughs—dulcet and mocking, it lingers for too long as he throws his head back and relishes the obtuse notion. He gazes with insulting compassion and stalks towards you.

“Incredibly…. gullible. Mora is the pathway to all endeavors. Devoid of gnosis or divine knowledge, wealth has rendered me impervious to control. Suffering and destitution only manifest if I will it. I am the guise of a false god, an emblem of achievement.” It’s borderline delusional the way he regards himself, arms moving in theatric grandeur, the star of his own opera.

“Does that make you feel good? Stepping on the backs of the community that raised you, and abandoning them because they chose not to be influenced by greed?” Pantalone towers over you. His fingers brush light against your sensitive ears, trail to your clenched jaw, and finally cup your frustrated cheeks with the cradle of a long-lost lover.

“It does, in fact. I’m not easily swayed by ridiculous optimism, that’s why I’m at the top. You’ve devoted your blood and tears to a region that will succumb to adversity in your absence. Is that not a pointless feat?”

“So what? That doesn’t mean we just don’t help people. You have nothing without the Fatui, you’re a pawn just like the others” you retort. He brings his lips close to the shell of your ear, and his breath hot on the untouched skin drags a tingle up your spine.

“And what do you know about the Fatui?” he whispers.

“I know enough. You’re all disgusting.” He huffs out his nose.

“Disgusting isn’t the right word. I’d say...opportunists.” Pantalone backs up, sliding his hand up your chin and tilting your attention to the intense glint. “But you’re clever, I’ll give you that. If only you were clever enough to know your place.” You'd forgotten you were acting out of line. You refocus your mindset to negotiation.

“I’ll do anything you ask for the debt. Please, just give it back.” The word “anything” evokes a malicious yearning—so forthcoming without understanding the implications of “anything”, of eternity. He caresses your cheek.

“Anything, hm? Even if I said to give up being a hero for good? Would you still call yourself a heroic traveler if you weren’t allowed to travel or adventure as you please?” he teases. Your mouth opens to refute, but you bite your bottom lip instead. Pantalone walks back to his desk and leans while dangling the golden chain. Now that he’s far, the invading space between you two shows how insignificant you are in this luxury palace.

“Your resolve moves me. Consider this; make an exchange with me, and I’ll guarantee not only her debt, but the debt of all residents in Liyue forgiven” Your face instantly lights up, ready to accept it without thinking.

“What is it?” you ask.

“In exchange for regional loan forgiveness, I want you.”

“...What?”

“I want everything you have. It’s the fairest exchange I can make. Your obedience, your loyalty, and your body.”

The choice turns in your frontal lobe. You can’t fathom giving yourself to a man, let alone a Fatui harbinger. It’s unbecoming of a hero to lie with the enemy.

“Absolutely not” you assure.

“Alright. Then allow their village to be reduced to nothing.” No, wait. “You may leave. However, if you do, you’ll cause great misfortune to that woman and her struggling family” You play into his covet so smoothly as you stand in the center of the room, reluctant to leave.

“I’m not a complete monster, so I’ll give you 5 seconds to make a choice.” He sways the pendant in his hand like the transient time of an hourglass. 5 seconds, all you have to sign your life away.

“4.”

What if no one ever sees you again? What’s the point of sacrificing your happiness and freedom, are the people of Liyue truly worth it?

“3.”

You could threaten him, take him hostage so that a harbinger might bow to your demands. That, or they kill you, and the village suffers anyway.

“2.”

You think of your graying mom, the sweet boy with his chubby red face who cries over the smallest things, the grateful elders that give you candy after every good deed, Ningguang and Keqing stressing over the next financial impact.

“1.”

“I’ll do it.”

Pantalone swings the chain into his palm, an undefeated smug overbearing as he sets it on the desk. There was never a point in resisting; he always got what he wanted, no matter how long it took to achieve it. He waited months—no, years—to get you in this exact moment. There’s a daunting beguiling charm in the way he closes the gap between you two. You glare at him; a temper common people would dread shooting. He assesses the pending punishment and lowers himself eye-level. He grins, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I can see the defiance in your eyes. Do you want to talk back? Go ahead, challenge me.” You don’t test this scenario and turn your head. “Don’t patronize me. Get it over with, ‘Pantalone’.”

He quirks an eyebrow, and pliable flesh strains your teeth as your face is gripped rough by satiny leather. You’re twisted sharply to the calm expression—it humbles you.

“That’s not how you address your superior. What should you call me?” You don’t answer promptly to his liking, and he tightens his grip. “Answer me properly, darling.”

“...Sir.” Pantalone plants a sickly sugary kiss on your forehead, the kind that makes you forget how petrifying he can be, and lets you go.

“Good.” He walks back to the desk and sits in the onyx chair embellished with silver jewels fit for a king. His chin rests on bridging hands. “Strip.”

You don’t move, your heart hammers in your chest at the request and you stir uncomfortably. You have no experience with sexual gratification, let alone exposing yourself to an old friend.

“(Y/N). Don’t make me say it again.” Keen agitation in his voice serves as a final warning. He eats you with his eyes, homed in on your hands clumsily snaking the top over your head. A glimpse of the scar you received during your fight with the Fatui captures him. He takes a mental entry, for an explanation that might justify why the agent suddenly goes missing. You were generally too busy to look in the mirror or analyze your assets, and pleasure was a removed afterthought—so the hungry fervor warming your skin and permeating the room clamped your thighs shut. You’re visibly flustered and nervous fumbling with the clasps on your bra while stabilizing your anxiety, and he delights in every second of the accidental strip tease. It feels like fresh meat introduced to a savage animal, and the instant your bra omes off, a new vulnerability coils in your gut. You move to your bottoms; the sheen of sweat polishes your plush thighs to wiggle out of them. You’re left in nothing but tantalizing panties hugging you in the right places. His eyes undress and redress you, tracing up and down the perk of your nipples, tempting fullness of your thighs, each unseen curve and perfect imperfect mark on your glistening body. He lets out a deep breath to stop himself from jumping over the table and taking you right there.

“The underwear. Take it off” he says, an undertone of lust. You shimmy the fabric off and fully expose yourself. You impulsively cover your intimate parts and avert your eyes, but you can still feel Pantalone on you, ravaging you. He doesn’t bother telling you to put your arms at your sides, your bashfulness combined with an attempt at stoicism is comical.

“Ah, the little thief is trying to act tough. That's cute” Pantalone teases and leans back in the chair. Manspreading, he pats his thigh. “Crawl.”

He’s hellbent on shaming the defiance out of you. It’s a vile command, but you begrudgingly drop to your hands and knees. You drag your chaffed knees on wood, balancing like a newborn fawn adjusting to its legs. It’s humiliating and downright degrading; the cold floor fails at cooling your burning fever. You’re on the verge of tears, but Pantalone can’t help but smile. You get around the desk and look up at him, waiting for the next horrible thing he’ll have you do. “Unfortunately, the stunt you pulled impeded my paperwork. Be a good thing and sit on my lap until I’m done.” A “thing”—that’s all you were now, a shiny trophy meant to be ogled at but never taken seriously, used and thrown away. You stand off your scraped raw knees and straddle his thigh, hands balancing the leg so you don’t fall.

And Pantalone starts to work. Working as if you’re not there, filling in the spaces on his documents. For some reason, it’s more demeaning this way, you truly are just a prize. One hand dances beautiful penmanship in masterful motions on embossed paper, the other fondles and explores your being. The gloves brush down your delicate spine, nonsensical shapes drawn on your lower back that make you shiver and pool heat in places you’ve never thought of. You’ve never been touched like this, it’s needles light on your skin. They move to your stomach, pleasant circles above the pelvis that threaten to go lower. He’s careful to trail his hand up your cleavage and behind your neck, neglect your hardening nipples and repeat the process over and over. He’s painstakingly slow, savoring the dazed arch of your back, massaging your inner thighs and dragging the sleek material over your rear.

Middle and index sweep across your lips, pulling your bottom lip to reveal teeth, and prods your mouth. Pantalone’s fingers are invasive, they exploit your gums and twirl around the squishy tongue molding to his appetite. He plays with the pink mass, and it fills you like a kiss. He’s everywhere and he hasn’t looked at you once. You hate it, the kind elegance and refinement of his technique that makes every calculated word and action reek of opulence. Yet, arousal pools on the surface, sticking to your labia and clouding your drowsy mind. It’s an extreme ache that doesn’t go away from cold showers or shrugging off like you usually would. You can’t remember what you did today, yesterday, or the day before that. The sensation of him consumes you and persists in spots he left. He smells of expensive cologne, hints of heady wood and sage. You’re lucky his fingers are in your mouth, or piteous moans would spill out of you. Flat on his thigh, the subtle jolts of his leg rub against your hypersensitive clit and set your nerves on fire. Throbbing swells in your core, and you struggle to stay stiff as your hips stutter.

Pantalone knows exactly what he’s doing. Your labored pants sound like saintly melody while you writhe on his lap. The fabric goads your pulsing pussy, and you hang your head in embarrassment of the juices soaking your thighs and his. He’s surprised you have strength left to withstand the itch. You do your best to hover above it, trailing thick strings of slick. “There’s no need to pretend you don’t like this. Just give yourself to me” he whispers. And it’s so enticing, an invitation that might let you come if you ask. However, remnants of pride cling to your melting resolve, you can’t give in yet. He takes the fingers out and presses on your nipple, flicking the bud. You can’t hold the mewl, and he snickers.

“So indignant for the hero of Liyue, to be on a harbingers lap, reduced to a pretty pet.” Your ears tune out the insults. The damp gloves pull and pinch your puffy nipples, then knead to soothe the pain. He does the same to the other, switching between both as he feels you squirm.

He works on the last few pages. Piles upon piles of reports and records—they detail the deaths, or “suicides”, of clients who’d disappeared mysteriously after extended absence of payments for millions of mora, people who dared go against the Regrator. Unruly, uncooperative clients that take advantage of fair exchange, and pay the price for it.

Your arms get tired, and you settle on him again. Pantalone starts to softly bounce his leg, enough for you to notice the friction on your clit. It’s too much, you can’t take it anymore, and start to rut your hips on his thigh. You look messy, smearing your essence on those overpriced slacks and biting back your moans. Pleasure flows in your veins, and you give up. His cock throbs nonstop, print stealing space in his pants. “Did you believe I wouldn’t catch you? You’re not sneaky enough. You’re not good enough," he taunts from the corner of his eye. You hump his leg like a desperate bunny, chasing the addictive high.

“Nasty slut, fucking your hips on a man you barely remember.” He moves his hands to your clit and replaces the slacks with slippery leather. You grind on it harder and hold your moans. More, more, more. He coats it in the mess and finally diverts his attention to you. He teases your entrance gliding vertically on your vulva before pushing one finger in. It hurts at first, but your walls hug him eagerly, pulling it deeper. He coaxes it to take another and starts scissoring your gushy walls.

“I’ll devour you. I’ll inscribe my name upon every surface of your physique until it adorns your lips, and I’m the only thing that remains.” Pantalone starts pumping rhythmically, tormenting, poking everywhere but your g-spot. Gloss drips down his knuckles and glazes his rings.

“S-sir please, s’too much” you whimper, mustering up an ineffective stable voice. “Hmm? Can you hear the lewd sounds you’re making?” Loud squelches sing from him fucking your insides. Each time you try to speak, he elicits another moan.

“M-my sto-mach hurtss” you whine. He holds your waist in place with the other hand and continues the assault. “I know, it hurts? Would you like me to alleviate the pain?” he coos. You nod fast.

“Hold it in. You ask for permission every time you’re close, do you understand?” You don’t reply and try to angle your body to get more contact. You make the mistake of guiding yourself to your clit and earn a harsh stinging slap on your hand. “Don’t touch what’s mine” he orders. You’re frustrated and he’s doing it on purpose, it’s entirely too hot where pleasure and pain blur. “N-not yours” you stammer, and he stops. He pulls out your warmth and you whine from loss of pressure. Looking at him, there's no smile, and the irritation on his face makes your heart drop. You're really in for it.

Without delay, your stomach flies over one of the chair arms, and you hold onto it for dear life. It presses firm on your ribs, and he slants your ass to the air. “You have courage, speaking back to me” he says. He pulls his gloves off and hurls them. They’re lovely, the silken soft hands of a man who hadn't lifted a finger through combat a day in his life. They sink into your sex, and you moan out for him. The other winds back, and you feel the palm hit brutally on your unsuspecting backside. Crack. It echoes in the room, and you almost fly forward.

“Disrespectful.” Crack. He keeps pumping through it, and tears collect in your lashes.

“Disobedient.” Crack. There’s blood rushing to your head, and violent smacks make your pussy flutter and ass ripple; his control won’t give you adequate touch.

“Little.” Crack. Every time he feels you getting there, he pauses. A masochistic pleasure whirls innermost.

“Brat.” Crack. Both cheeks are a sore fiery color and beginning to welt, but he resumes. You’re drenching his palm, sobbing from prolonged edging and Pantalone laughs. “Pfft, you’re crying? Too embarrassed to beg? Perhaps I’ll give you what you want, if you grovel hard enough, darling.” An incoherent orchestra of please’s mesh with broken moans. “Sir m’sorry. Wan’ it so bad, p-please!” you mumble. There’s no dignity on your lips, no residue of the hero you once were. Drunken ardor floods your short-circuiting brain.

“Oh, what do you say? You want it? Is that it? I'll let you have it... but only if you say it loud and clear for me” he croons. He winds his fingers in a come-hither gesture that licks your core.

“Please...I won’t misbehave again!” He spreads your ass apart and watches your hole pucker from lining the brink.

“I’m not sure I want to give it to you now. It's a lot more enjoyable watching you squirm and beg.”

“’M yours, sir. Please give it to me. I’ll be s’good, promise!” you mewl. You’re so pathetic, it’s endearing. He simpers and maneuvers impossibly fast while gyrating your clit. “How humiliating. You’ve satisfied me.” Your eyes roll back, and you dissolve in pure euphoria. There’s black dots in your vision, and it doesn’t stop as he starts torturing your overstimulated clit with the pad of his thumb. Your tears only encourage him. You jerk and spasm, but he moves where you move with insistent skill. “T-too m-”

“Aww, what’s wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted, where are your manners?” Pantalone pulls out and delivers staggering mean swats to your pussy, and you recoil. “Say thank you” he demands.

“Thank you, sir.” He hums and picks you up in his arms. Before color can return to your numb cells, he lays you on the desk. You watch him pull his shirt up to his pecs with haste and uncover the lean skinny midsection. Unzipping his pants, he unsheathes his leaking thumping erection. Even his dick is pretty, it curves upwards and shades a starving dusty pink past the thin strip of tissue on the underside of his bulbous tip. Composure thinning, a bead of pre come runs down his tip at the sight of provocation sluicing your ass and thighs. His glasses plunge down his neck, body blushed wildly, but he doesn’t care. Pantalone slides between your labia and groans at the sound. Engulfing the tip in awaiting velvet warmth, “You’re so good for me, hm?” he sighs. You embrace him, delicious searing stretch of your walls forming to his cock. Your orgasm builds just from your body accommodating the size. He places your hands on your calves and holds them at your sides. He slips out, and in one swoop, drives into you. His heavy balls smack against your ass as he thrusts frenetically in the gooey grip he’d been waiting for, stalking and spying for. He digs crescent shapes in your waist and uses you to his abundance. The desk base creaks and grinds on abrading wood and obituaries float to the floor with overturned calligraphy ink from the unrelenting momentum. You throw your head back and indulge the carnal lust washing over you both.

“You’ll never see anyone ever again. Fuck- you’re mine, and mine alone. You’re nothing but a come dump, your purpose is to please me, hah, until I say it’s over” his voice is unexpectedly deprived and weighty with vulgar whimpers. Pantalone eyes your neck and encapsulates it in his slender hand. He clenches tight and releases in sporadic bursts that have you seizing around him. For a split second there’s the image of you—exorbitant pearled collar wrapped around your throat, with “Pantalone” inscribed in bedazzled letters—and he loses it. He swipes your clit rapidly and feeds you deep strokes; you’ll definitely die. You speak, but it’s unintelligible rambling.

“Use your words” he lilts, squeezing your airflow taut. “C-can I, sir, please?”

“You’ll do it on my command.” Pantalone thrusts frenetically, you can feel him bucking, twitching and quickly approaching his climax. His hips sputter, chanting some mixture of your name and curses under his breath. “You’re so obedient for me, aren’t you? F-fuck, darling, go ahead. Come on my cock.” You permit yourself to surrender, white noise streams in and time slows as you come down his shaft. A creamy ring forms at the hilt of his slaps. You recite “thank you” through wails with the semblance of a follower at the altar of their savior. Then he grabs your face and goes in for a kiss.

It’s sloppy and misses half your lip, but its doughy attachment mellows your blissed out head. His lips taste like the bitter excess of green tea, and you crane for a better sample. His tongue does things his fingers couldn’t, and swirls around yours in a passionate bruising waltz. Pantalone breaks away, a string of saliva when he frees himself. “Mm, coming. Gonna claim you everywhere” he whimpers. Sweat on his lustered abdomen, he pumps his tender cock before spurting thick hot ropes across your tits and stomach. He paints your vulva with the rest and plunges the tip in your entry so as to not waste the endless globs of white. He tremors inside you until soft, and when some dribbles out he fingers it back inside.

Afterwards, Pantalone opens one of the drawers on the desk and takes out an embossed loan dismissal form. You can’t read the finer details through hazy eyesight. “It’s already signed, so don’t worry. I won’t deceive you.” He caresses your face in his normal sing-song attitude. “We depart in the morning.” You don’t have a clue where you’re going or how you’ll get there as you drift unconscious. Once you’re asleep, Pantalone shuffles in a different locked drawer. He twiddles the stunning purple geode in his hand, a crystal lined mineral you gave to him years prior. He looks at you, then the druse, and cackles.

“Mine. Always.”

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