#the wall mount just made me feel so safe

[algrenion]

in my disabled slumber, i dream of Wall Mounted Fold-Out Shower Seat With Legs……….

[littlelamy]

can you do with rafe and !reader who faints a lot during showers or just gets very lightheaded/has vasovagal episodes and can you just write like the things he does for you?

lamy's notes: i hope you like it!

the first time it happened, rafe didn’t even realize what was going on until he heard the thud. he’d been lying on the bed, scrolling through his phone, when the sound of you hitting the shower floor jolted him upright, his heart slamming in his chest.

he was at the bathroom door in an instant, throwing it open without a second thought. steam billowed out, and there you were, crumpled in the corner of the shower, the water still running over you. his mind went blank with panic for half a second before instinct took over.

“y/n, hey, hey, baby,” he muttered, dropping to his knees beside you, his hands shaking as he reached for you. he turned the water off first, then gently propped you up against the cool tiles. “hey, can you hear me?”

your eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused, and he let out a shaky breath, relief crashing through him. “what the hell happened?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly.

“just got… lightheaded,” you mumbled, your words slurring a little. “i’m okay.”

“okay? you scared the shit out of me,” he said, cradling your face in his hands like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. “jesus, you’re freezing.”

from that day on, he’d made it his mission to make sure it never happened again. if you were going to shower, so was he. it didn’t matter what he was doing; he’d drop everything the second you said you were heading to the bathroom.

“just in case,” he’d say, his tone light but his eyes serious. he’d sit on the counter, cracking jokes and tossing you a towel before you even asked for it, his presence steady and comforting.

some days, when you were especially tired or feeling off, he’d insist on staying right outside the door. “yell if you need me,” he’d call, and you knew he meant it. you could practically picture him sitting there, legs stretched out, scrolling his phone but keeping an ear out for any sign that you needed him.

he started keeping a small stash of things in the bathroom just for you—a bottle of water, a pack of crackers, even a tiny fan he’d mounted to the wall to keep the room from getting too hot. “just in case,” he’d say again, shrugging like it was no big deal, but you could see the way he checked you over every time, his eyes scanning you for any signs of trouble.

on the nights when you’d get that familiar wave of lightheadedness, the kind that made your knees wobble and your vision blur, he’d wrap an arm around you without a word, guiding you to sit down on the cool tiles until it passed. “deep breaths, baby,” he’d murmur, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

it didn’t matter how many times it happened—he never got annoyed, never made you feel like a burden. if anything, it seemed like he’d made it his personal mission to keep you safe, to be your anchor when the world spun too fast.

sometimes, he’d just step into the shower with you, his hands gentle as he helped you wash your hair or rubbed your shoulders when you were too tired to do it yourself. “just lean on me, okay?” he’d say, his voice soft, water dripping off his face as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

on the tougher days, he’d insist on being in there from start to finish, his eyes never leaving you. he’d prop you up against his chest, his arms around your waist, holding you steady as the warm water cascaded over both of you. “it’s okay, i’ve got you,” he’d murmur, his voice steady and grounding.

when you’d protest that he didn’t need to, he’d just shake his head. “you think i’m gonna risk it? no way,” he’d say, his lips quirking into a small smile. “plus, it’s kind of nice. makes me feel useful.”

“not gonna let you hit the floor again,” he’d say with a small, determined smile, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. and you believed him.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs

[tweedlydumbtweedlydoo]

As if you care | Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary: JJ and Rafe crash at the finish line of the Enduro Race. Just because you and Rafe aren't together anymore doesn't mean you weren't worried about his safety.

A/N: Hope you enjoy! I promise I proof read the best I could with a 13 month old running around getting into everything 😅

Tag list is at the end. Let me know if you want to be added xx

Go follow my fic rec blog! ---> @imaginationgonewild0912

**MASTERLIST**

Requests: {OPEN} CLOSED

** Rules for Requesting **

** Who I Write For **

********************************************************************************************NOT MY GIF, CREDIT TO OWNERS

The beach was packed with onlookers, ready to watch the 2024 Enduro race and see who would take champion this year. Your feet dug in the hot sand as you made it through the crowd to the sideline where the rest of the Pogues were. JJ would be racing again this year hoping to turn his luck around and win this year.

You could see across the track the kooks gathering around. One in particular catching your eye dressed like he was ready to race. He was never one to participate in these types of things so seeing him there was a shock.

"Rafe's here racing?" You ask Sarah, watching as Rafe pushes his bike to the starting line, beside the other racers.

She too was confused by his participation, shrugging, "I guess so."

Shielding your eyes from the hot sun, you can see Rafe has noticed you, giving you a brief nod of acknowledgment before swinging his leg over the bike to mount it.

"Shit," Sarah says, "Why the hell is he racing?" She's immediately stomping through the sand toward John B where he too is pushing his bike to the starting line next to JJ.

You followed Sarah, heading for JJ.

"You here to give me a good luck kiss?" JJ teases you with a kissy face, leaning close to you, as Sarah leans over to give John B a kiss.

You shove him in the shoulder, laughing, "You wish, Maybank."

He chuckles mounting his bike, sliding his bandana over his head, "No see I think if you kissed me, I'd win."

You rolled your eyes at his flirting, "Try not to get killed out there." You grab his helmet off the back of his bike, handing it to him. You and JJ had grown close after breaking up with Rafe, but it never crossed a friendship line. He was flirty, but both of you knew there wasn't anything there. He knew you still loved Rafe.

"You see your boy is racing today?"

"Yeah," You reply. Before anything else is said, the announcer gives the racers the minute warning. "Be safe out there."

"Oh I'll be so safe," He drags out with a laugh, hand on his heart.

You can't help but laugh at the memory with Pope, heading back toward the sideline with Sarah.

Rafe slides his helmet over his head, starting his engine and revving it a few times. Even behind helmet you can feel his eyes on you. He felt the anger pulsing through his veins as he saw the interaction between you and JJ. He should have known he would lose you and you'd moved on by now. It only pissed him off more that it was JJ.

You and Rafe had dated for a year before you ended it. He'd started hanging around the wrong crowd, drugs and alcohol making him a changed man. He wasn't the Rafe you fell in love with and you'd tried everything to get him to stop, get help and go to rehab but he'd blown up, destroying your shared apartment in anger; broken furniture, glass littering the floor, holes in the wall. It left you terrified and you gave him the ultimatum. Get help or you were leaving him. Unfortunately, the group had their nails dug deep in him and he wasn't ready to give up his way of life yet. You'd packed up everything you owned from the apartment that night with the help of the Pogues and hadn't looked back.

It didn't mean you didn't care for Rafe. or that you ever stopped loving him. There was no way you could live like that with him and Rafe didn't want the help. You had to admit, you could tell he looked healthier there on the beach, nothing like he did when you left 6 months previous. He'd shaved his hair, his skin was tan and those dark circles under his eyes were gone.

Soon the race began, sand flying through the air. The announcers had people set through the track to see where the racers stood in standings.

At the beginning, Rafe was first, JJ falling behind. As they come around the last curve, JJ jumped the sand dune, putting him in first place. Rafe and JJ went neck and neck, bumping into each other.

They both recovered but Rafe went for him again, bumping his tire and sending both of them flying through the air, landing hard in the sand.

As the race concludes, Topper taking first, everyone stormed the track, you immediately went to JJ with the Pogues.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" JJ starts toward Rafe.

"Get use to it, pogue." He shakes the sand off his arms.

JJ lunges for Rafe and Rafe lunges for JJ, but you quickly jump between them, "Hey! Hey both of you stop it!" pushing them back by their chests,

"You could have killed each other! are you fucking crazy!" You spit out to Rafe of anger and worry for the both of them.

"As if you care." Rafe pushes your hand off his chest, his shoulder bumping into you as he pushes past you before storming through the crowd.

You make sure JJ's ok, before following after Rafe. "Rafe!" Your legs burn as they dig into the sand, his long legs making it hard for you to catch up.

He doesn't acknowledge you, unzipping his suit to his waist as he nears his truck.

"Rafe!" You finally catch up to him at his truck, grabbing his arm to will him to face you, "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

He faces you, his face red with anger, "I know I fucked up alright, but did you really have to go for Maybank?" He lets his trucks tailgate down to throw his suit and boots in the back. He doesn't give you a chance to answer, "Just go back to your boyfriend. I'll apologize later when I'm calm."

The slam of the tailgate makes you jump, but you recover, grabbing his arm, "JJ is not my boyfriend! You don't get to pull this bullshit. Not after all the shit you put me through. You seriously could have killed both of you! That was reckless; a stupid move."

He can see your angry and if he's not mistaken, even a little scared, "Why do you care about my safety anyways? It's not like we're together."

"I didn't stop caring for you Rafe. I just didn't deserve the way you were treating me and I left. You needed help and you wouldn't accept it. What was I suppose to do? Stay with you while you continued to wreck our relationship and your life? You destroyed our apartment; you broke furniture. put holes in the walls. I was terrified."

He lets his back hit the side of his truck, running a hand over his head as he looks down at the ground, embarrassed he let his feelings get the best of him. "You're right, I shouldn't have done what I did. Today or that night. I was in deep with that group and I should have got out sooner. You did the right thing leaving." He finally wills himself to look at you. His eyes are sad, "As much as it broke my heart to see you leave, you did the right thing. I wasn't in a good head space and honestly I don't know what I would have done to you. I'm sorry I even put you through what I did. You didn't deserve it."

"I forgive you," You lay your hand on his arm, "I just wanted my Rafe back." You say, tears threatening to spill over.

Rafe wipes a tear away with his knuckle, "I'm here."

You lean into his touch, eyes closing in the comfort of his touch. You missed him.

Soon, his hands are tugging you into his chest, his arms wrapping around your shoulders and he plants a kiss against your hair. You can feel your entire body relax into his. Your hands move up his back, palms open against his shoulder blades.

"God, I don't deserve you." He says into your hair, giving you a tighter squeeze. He needed this comfort just as much as you did.

He's the first to pull away from you, hands sliding to your cheeks, "I've missed you."

You place your hand over his, bringing his hand to your lips, and kissing his palm, "I've missed you too."

~

The two of you start heading back to the beach, deciding you both needed the extra time together. Everything finally felt right in the world. Your hand in his as your feet dig into the sand, the orange of the sun dancing against the ocean's waves as it sets against the ocean's horizon.

"I can see you still let your emotions get the better of you."

He chuckles softly, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and bringing you toward him, "When it comes to you, I do." He says before kissing the top of your head.

I hope you enjoyed! Likes, comments and reblogs are always welcomed and so appreciated! x

[harrysfolklore]

home hero - charles x reader

gif by @princemick <33

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Monaco is Charles' home. Growing up, he had watched the Grand Prix from the balconies and rooftops, dreaming of the day he would stand atop the podium. Each year, the pressure mounted as he came so close, only to have victory slip through his fingers.

Today felt different. There was a determined glint in his eye this morning as he kissed you goodbye and headed to the track. You could tell he was ready, more focused than ever before. You had to believe this was his year.

"Are you nervous?" you asked, leaning against the kitchen counter asyou watched him get everything he needed before heading out.

"More than usual," he admitted, flashing you a quick smile,"But I feel good. I have a good feeling about today."

"You’ve got this, Charles. I believe in you," you walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you," he hugged you tightly, resting his chin on top of your head.

"You'd still be amazing," you said, looking up at him,"But I'm glad I get to be here with you."

You arrived at the circuit, the familiar roar of engines filling your ears as you made your way to the paddock. You found your usual spot in the Ferrari garage, the team bustling around with last-minute preparations. You exchanged nervous smiles with the crew, all of you hoping for the same outcome.

You watched as Charles went through his pre-race routine, meticulously checking everything himself even though he trusted his team completely. He looked up at you and smiled, his nervous eyes softening the moment they landed on you.

"Hey, come here," he called softly, waving you over.

You walked over, taking his gloved hand in yours. "You’re going to do great, you know that, right?"

"I just," he sighed, "Really want that win, you know? Not just for me, but for my family, my friends, for us," you smiled fondly at his words, "This is my home and everyone believes in me, I don't want to keep letting them down."

"Charles, you've never let anyone down," you squeezed his hand, "You've given everything you have, every time and that's why everyone believes in you. No matter what happens today, you're already a champion in our eyes."

"You're too sweet," he teased with a small smile, pecking your lips quickly, "I need to go. I'll see you after the race."

"Be safe out there," you said, giving him one last lingering kiss.

You watched as he made his way to the car, taking a deep breath before climbing in. The race was about to begin, and the anticipation was palpable. You found your seat in the garage, eyes glued to the screen, heart pounding with every lap.

As the race progressed, it was clear that Charles was driving with everything he had. Lap after lap, he maintained his position and defended his lead against the competition.

With only a few laps to go, the tension in the garage was at an all-time high. You could barely breathe, every fiber of your being focused on Charles and the car.

And then, it happened. Charles crossed the finish line and the checkered flag was waved, securing his first win at the Monaco Grand Prix. The garage erupted in cheers, and you felt tears of joy streaming down your face.

He did it. He actually did it.

Before you even knew what was happening, you ran to the pit wall, heart soaring with pride as you watched Charles climb out of the car, his face a mixture of disbelief and pure elation. He waved to the crowd, taking in the moment before making his way over to the barrier, his eyes searching for you.

You pushed through the crowd, your heart racing as you made your way to him. When he finally saw you, his face lit up with the brightest smile you'd ever seen.

"Charles!" you called out, your voice cracking with emotion.

"We did it!" he shouted, pulling you into his arms and hugging you tightly, his voice full of joy and relief.

"You did it," you corrected, laughing through your tears. "I'm so proud of you!"

"I couldn't have done it without you," he said, pressing his forehead against yours. "Fuck! I can't believe this is real."

You kissed him, a sweet and lingering kiss that held all the words you couldn't say in that moment. When you pulled back, you saw the love and gratitude in his eyes, and it made your heart swell with even more pride.

"Now go stand on top of the podium, you deserve it."

The celebrations were in full swing as it was time for the podium. Charles was greeted with cheers and applause from the team, his family, and the fans who had supported him through thick and thin. The Monegasque flag waving proudly above him.

The national anthem played, and you watched as tears of pride and joy rolled down Charles' cheeks. This was the moment he had dreamed of, the moment he worked so hard for. And now, it was finally here.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

PRINCE!ANAKIN HEADCANONS 👑

TW: at some point it contains sexual content, so if you're sensitive to that or don't feel comfortable with it, please do not read it for your own safety and comfort.

Prince!Anakin who was a ruthless, meticulous, arrogant.. yet somehow with a heart. For others he was simple a wise and intellectual future king

Prince!Anakin whose marriage between him and you was arranged to solidify an alliance between your two kingdoms, a necessity driven by political and military pressures. Anakin, now King after the recent death of his father, was resistant to the idea of marriage, especially one born out of duty rather than love. He had always been wary of love, having seen the toll it took on those around him, particularly his own family.

Prince!Anakin who refused to consumate your marriage at the beginning

Prince!Anakin who, at the beginning, highlighted the true reason of your marriage and put you in the other part of the castle so you two wouldn't see each other

Prince!Anakin who is known as a formidable and stern ruler, deeply dedicated to his kingdom. He built emotional walls around his heart, vowing never to let anyone close enough to hurt him. When you first arrived at court, he treated you with cold politeness, making it clear that this marriage was a political arrangement, not a romantic one. And yet, in contrast, you entered the marriage with hope, a believer in fairytales and the possibility of finding love even in an arranged union. Despite Anakin's cold demeanor, you remained kind and patient, trying to find small ways to connect with him (but after his countless cold responds you grew yourself impatient and sharp in tongue, although he was your king, so..being nice had to be in place..at least in public)

Prince!Anakin who, over time, began to notice your unwavering optimism and the light you brought into his otherwise pragmatic and calculated life. He admired your strength and the way you handled court politics with grace, but he kept his distance emotionally, afraid of what letting you in would mean.

Prince!Anakin who felt somehow attracted to you, even if he didn't plan this marriage, he didn't want to be married to you, yet there was just something about you he found unique, alluring and he couldn't help but be drawn to your presence (which was very frustrating and weird for him)

Prince!Anakin who whenever you asked for something he always came up with 'ask for anything and it'll be given to you. Even the half of my kingdom' thing

Prince!Anakin who, after your relentless asking, took you hunting;

"Your Majesty, with all due respect, are you sure this is an appropriate place for the queen?" one of the men spoke, clearly uneasy.

Anakin shot him an irritated glare, his patience wearing thin. He was acutely aware that the hunting grounds weren't exactly the safest place for the queen, especially given her delicate condition. But there was little he could do about it now. He’d much rather have her safely ensconced in the palace, yet the situation demanded otherwise.

His frustration mounted as more and more people questioned his decisions. He knew what he was doing; he didn’t need anyone else second-guessing him.

"Are you questioning my decision?" he snapped, turning his horse to face the man directly. The intensity in his eyes made it clear he wasn't in the mood for dissent.

The man visibly flinched, his face paling. "I—I’m merely pointing out that, perhaps, hunting isn't a... lady-like activity for the queen," he stuttered, his voice wavering. The courtiers around them shifted uncomfortably, their gazes dropping.

Anakin's hands tightened into fists around the reins of his horse. The growing annoyance was palpable in his stance. He had been patient long enough, but this was the last straw.

"Who's the king here, me or you?" he growled, his voice low and dangerously firm. His eyes narrowed, the simmering anger barely contained. He understood the risks; it was precisely why he hadn't wanted her to join. But her presence here was a necessity, and he wouldn’t tolerate any more questioning of his authority.

Anakin watched with growing concern as you struggled to ride your horse. Despite his efforts to focus on the path ahead, his gaze kept drifting to you. He saw your difficulty and felt a deep, instinctive urge to help you, to lift you onto his own horse and spare you this struggle. His grip on the reins tightened as he forced himself to look away.

"Stop that horse; you’re going to hurt yourself," he muttered, bringing his horse to a halt.

You wrestled with the reins, your legs trembling as you finally managed to bring the horse to a stop. Breathing heavily, you glanced over at him.

Anakin's eyes scanned over you with concern. You were clearly struggling, sweat glistening on your skin, the gorset clinging uncomfortably. Despite your evident distress, you still looked captivating, and it was driving him to distraction.

"Can you get down yourself, or do you need help?" he asked, his voice firm but laced with concern.

"I think I can manage," you mumbled, attempting to dismount. You nearly stumbled as you got down, and Anakin's brow furrowed, expecting you to fall. To his relief, you managed to stay upright, though he couldn't hide his frustration.

He shook his head and approached, knowing it was too risky to let you continue riding alone. Your struggle was wearing him thin, and he couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt.

"You can’t even get off a horse without almost falling," he said with a scoff.

You shot him a defiant glare, walking over to him "Not all of us are as skilled at riding as you are, Your Highness," you retorted with a touch of sarcasm, your voice dripping with mockery.

He helped you onto his horse, his hands steady as he guided you into the saddle. As you settled in, your hip brushed against his, sending a jolt through both of you. Your heart raced, and you had to look away, struggling to steady your breath.

The accidental touch ignited a fierce longing in Anakin. He let out a small, strained laugh, trying to remain composed. He positioned himself before you, his body pressing against your back as he mounted the horse behind you.

"Take the horse back to the castle," he instructed, his voice low and firm.

As he took the reins, his presence pressed against you, the tension between you palpable. Every movement seemed to heighten the charged atmosphere, and both of you were acutely aware of the closeness.

Your hands tightened around his waist, your body pressed firmly against his back. The sweet vanilla scent of yours filled his senses, and he could feel the warmth of your curves against him "Hold tight. This won’t be a slow ride," he said, his voice rough and low.

->

You gasped as he urged the horse into a faster pace. "I thought we were going hunting?" your breath warm against his ear.

The closeness of your voice managed to sent a shiver down his spine. Yet, he pushed those distracting thoughts aside and focused on guiding the horse through the hunting grounds.

"It’ll take a while to reach the animals," he replied curtly, the horse’s speed increasing.

"Slow down for—"

He smirked when he felt your grip tighten around his waist. Your face was buried against him, and he could almost feel your fear. It was both thrilling and maddening, and he could hardly ignore how much he enjoyed your closeness.

"Stop whining," he said, amusement lacing his voice.

Your fingers this time dug into his skin with your voice tinged with panic. "I’m not whining!" you protested, your breath hitching as the horse made another sharp turn.

He felt your fingers leaving an imprint on his muscles. The sensation only heightened his awareness of how tightly they were pressed together. He found himself wishing she would hold on even tighter.

"You’re going to leave marks on my stomach with your fingers," he said in a low, almost teasing tone, not easing the horse’s pace.

With a scoff, you dug your fingernails in a little deeper. "Good. Maybe it’ll teach you to slow down a bit."

As you arrived at the wooden hunting cabin nestled in the forest, Anakin led the way inside, with you following closely. The two courtiers stayed outside, leaving you alone.

"Do you know how to use a bow?" Anakin asked, his gaze fixed on a collection of hunting gear.

"Yes, my father taught me," you mumbled, your attention drawn to the array of stuffed animals lining the walls.

Anakin moved to the shelves, picking up various pieces of hunting equipment. He tried to stay focused, but he couldn't ignore the way your beautiful, the prettiest he had ever seen eyes wandered around the rustic cabin, intrigued by its contents. In some way, he wanted his gaze on him, only on him

"So, I assume you're quite skilled with the bow?"

"The last time I held a bow was ten years ago. We'll see," your tone light but confident.

He walked over to you, extending the bow toward you. His gaze lingered on you, noting how your hair was tousled from the wind and those eyes sparkled with curiosity. As he held out the bow, your hands brushed lightly, sending a subtle jolt through him.

"Let’s see if you haven’t forgotten how to shoot," he said, his voice carrying a playful edge.

you couldn't help but roll your eyes with your lips curling into a teasing smile. "Careful, Your Highness. I might mistake you for a doe."

Anakin’s brow arched in amusement. Your sarcasm was endearing, and he had to suppress a smirk at the thought of you aiming a bow at him. He moved a little closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Would you shoot me in the heart, my little doe?"

"Absolutely, I would."

A slow, teasing smirk spread across his lips at your response. The intensity in your voice stirred something primal within him. He found himself torn between wanting to silence you with a kiss and reveling in your boldness.

"Or would you aim right between the eyes?" he challenged, his tone a mix of amusement and desire.

"I’d not dream of anything better, Your Highness," you whispered with venom "i’d watch as crimson red liquid overwhelms your face while you beg for mercy, choking on your own blood."

Anakin shivered at your words, the mix of irritation and arousal making his control slip. You were infuriatingly charming, and your fierce spirit only made you more tempting. Yet, he wanted to shut you up, but he was equally captivated by your daring. His expression hardened a little due to your boldness

"You’re a little minx, you know that?"

"Oh, Your Highness," you replied with mock sweetness, "I’m your worst nightmare," and with a final glare, you turned and walked away, leaving him in the cabin.

Prince!Anakin who, one night, after a particularly stressful day dealing with court matters, found you in the royal gardens, talking softly to a group of children about a fairytale. Something about the way you spoke, the softness in your voice, and the way the children adored you, made him pause. For the first time, he truly saw you—not just as his queen, but as a woman who brought warmth and light into a cold, stone palace.

Prince!Anakin who slowly began to fall in love with you without even realizing it. He found himself seeking your counsel on matters of state, not just because you were his queen, but because he valued your opinion. Your presence became a comfort to him, a constant in his life that he didn’t want to lose. Yet, he struggled with these feelings, as they contradicted his vow to never love.

Prince!Anakin who, in time, began searching for your presence in every place, your voice in every conversation, your eyes in every crowd

Prince!Anakin who sometimes appeared in your chambers at night;

"Leave us," Anakin commanded, his voice firm, though laced with an undercurrent of urgency.

The maids exchanged quick glances but obeyed, slipping out of the room and leaving them alone in the softly lit quarters. Her room was a sanctuary, filled with warmth and quiet elegance, but the atmosphere now was thick with unspoken emotions and the heat of longing.

The moment the door clicked shut, he moved with a sudden, desperate urgency, closing the distance between them. His lips crashed against hers, the kiss searing with the force of everything he’d been holding back.

You couldn’t help but giggle as you both tumbled onto the bed, his weight pressing into you. "Your Highness—why the rush?" you teased, breathless and amused, though your heart pounded in sync with his.

He didn’t respond with words; instead, his lips trailed down your neck, each kiss more fervent than the last. The feel of your skin under his mouth was intoxicating, each soft gasp from you spurring him on. He had held back for so long, but now, he was overwhelmed by his need for you, by the depth of his desire. It was as if all the weeks and months of pent-up emotions had broken free, and he was helpless to resist.

"Can’t wait," he murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with a raw hunger that sent shivers down your spine. His hands moved to pin you beneath him, his grip firm yet reverent, as though he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

He looked into your eyes, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that took your breath away. The world outside this room ceased to exist; all that mattered was the heat between you, the undeniable pull that had finally won out over duty and decorum.

"Neither can I," you whispered back, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the taut muscles beneath his clothing as he leaned in, capturing your lips once more.

"Doe, what are you doing?" he murmured, his morning voice raspy and thick with sleep.

"You're in my bed and already reading papers," you mumbled, pressing soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he felt your lips on him. Your touch was one of his favorite things, a soothing balm against the constant demands of his royal duties. But then, reality intruded, and a sigh escaped his lips, the weight of his responsibilities settling back onto his shoulders.

"I have meetings all morning," he said, his tone carrying a hint of frustration, the thought of leaving you so soon already souring his mood.

"Just show up a little later," you whispered against his ear, her voice a playful challenge. "Aren't you the king?"

His eyes fluttering shut as he savored the feeling of your breath on his neck. The temptation to stay was overwhelming. All he wanted was to remain here, wrapped in your warmth, to forget the world outside. But the demands of the crown were relentless, and he knew he couldn’t shirk his duties, no matter how much he wanted to.

"Wish I could stay here with you all morning," he mumbled with a sigh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your arm. His voice held a slight edge of grumpiness, the conflict between his desires and his obligations clear.

"We can make it quick," you whispered into his ear

He could practically hear the smirk in your voice, and he knew you had him exactly where you wanted. He was already running late, but with your body pressed so temptingly against his, all thoughts of duty and meetings started to fade.

In one swift motion, he turned, pinning you beneath him on the bed "How quick?" he asked, his voice a husky growl

"Ten minutes?" you grinned

He scoffed, a smirk curving his lips as he leaned in closer, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress, trapping you between his strong arms. You were a temptress, and he knew you could very well be his undoing, but right now, he didn’t care.

"Ten minutes?" he repeated, his hands sliding further up your thighs, fingers brushing against your heated skin. "Now you're just underestimating me," he murmured before capturing your lips with his, sealing his surrender.

Prince!Anakin who moved you back to his bedroom, with no care if in other places the queen has her own bed to sleep in

Prince!Anakin who had his own moment when he realized just how much he cared for you—perhaps during a crisis when you were in danger, and he found himself terrified at the thought of losing you;

Anakin sat in his dimly lit office, his mind consumed by the latest stack of documents that required his attention. The weight of ruling often bore down on him, but he carried it with the strength and resilience expected of a king. Yet, as he heard the soft but urgent footsteps approaching from behind, he felt a strange unease settle in his chest. He looked up, finding his old counselor standing before him, a grim expression etched across his face.

"What is it this time?" Anakin asked, his tone impatient as he set the papers aside.

The counselor hesitated for a moment before speaking, "It’s the queen, your highness..."

Anakin’s eyes narrowed instantly, his heart skipping a beat. The mention of you, his queen, brought an immediate sense of dread. His voice turned sharp, almost cutting. "What about her?"

The counselor’s face paled, his voice almost trembling as he replied, "Her condition has worsened."

Anakin shot up from his chair, the fear and panic he had buried deep within now clawing its way to the surface. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. He fixed his counselor with an intense gaze, the demand in his voice barely masked by his rising desperation. "What do you mean ‘worsened’? What has happened?"

"She’s been battling a high fever for the past two days," one of the maids interjected softly, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "Her wounds... they’re not healing as they should. Her condition is deteriorating, your highness."

Without another word, Anakin stormed out of his office, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He moved with a speed fueled by fear, every step echoing the growing terror that he might lose you. When he reached your chambers, he pushed open the door with a force that sent a gust of air rushing into the room.

There you lay, on the grand bed that now seemed to dwarf your frail figure. Your skin was pale, marred by the angry red wounds that refused to heal, and your breaths were shallow, labored. Every whimper, every groan that escaped your lips felt like a dagger to his heart.

Anakin crossed the room in swift strides, his hand immediately finding its place on your fevered cheek. The heat of your skin burned against his fingers, and the sight of you in such agony nearly brought him to his knees. The fierce king, known for his strength and resolve, felt utterly powerless in the face of your suffering.

"Leave us," he commanded, his voice laced with authority, though his eyes never left you.

"Your highness, but—" one of the maids began to protest.

"I said leave us!" he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. The maids exchanged uneasy glances before hurriedly leaving the room, closing the door behind them.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your shallow breaths and the occasional soft moan of pain. Anakin sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart breaking as he took in your weakened state. You looked so fragile, yet even in your pain, there was a beauty about you that took his breath away.

"It’s so painful..." you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely audible.

Anakin felt his chest tighten, a deep sense of guilt and helplessness washing over him. He gently stroked your fevered face, his thumb tracing the contours of your cheek. "I know, my love," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I’m so sorry... I wish I could take this pain away from you."

He carefully pulled you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if his embrace could shield you from the torment ravaging your body. He held you close, feeling the intense heat radiating from your fevered skin, the trembling of your weakened frame. It was as if holding you tighter could somehow anchor you to him, keep you from slipping away.

"Shh, I’ve got you," he whispered into your ear, his voice a soothing balm against the storm of pain that wracked your body. He gently caressed your hair, his touch tender and full of the love he struggled to express in words.

With a wet cloth in hand, Anakin carefully dabbed it against your wounds, the coolness providing a fleeting relief. He moved with a delicate precision, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked. The sight of your suffering was unbearable, yet he forced himself to remain calm, to be strong for you.

"I’m here," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly as he pressed the cloth against your fevered skin.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as he closed his eyes, silently praying for your recovery. Anakin, the king who had faced countless battles, was now facing his greatest fear—losing you, the one person who had made his life worth living.

And in that moment, he would have given anything, sacrificed anything, to see you smile again.

You closed your eyes, your voice small and strained as you spoke. "You shouldn’t look at me... I’m revolting."

"Revolting?" The word was almost laughable to him. Even now, when you were so weakened by illness, you were still the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. "You’re not revolting. You’re beautiful. You’re always beautiful," he said with a quiet intensity, his fingers brushing tenderly against your cheek.

"Have you seen my arms?" you asked, your voice tinged with bitterness.

He glanced down at your arms, at the wounds that marred your once flawless skin. The sight of them filled him with a deep sorrow, but it didn’t change the way he felt. "Yes," he replied, his tone unwavering. His fingers gently traced the inflamed skin, his touch feather-light as if afraid to cause you more pain.

You flinched slightly, the tenderness of your wounds evident. "Does this look beautiful to you?" you muttered, disbelief coloring your words.

Anakin let out a soft, almost incredulous scoff. How could you not see what he saw? Even with the pain and the sickness, you were still the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman who made him believe in something beyond duty and power. "Yes, it does. You’re beautiful, no matter what. Sick, wounded, healthy—it doesn’t matter. I will always see you as the most beautiful woman in the world," he declared, his voice firm, eyes burning with sincerity.

He saw the doubt flicker in your eyes, and it pained him deeply. How could you be so blind to your own beauty? To the strength and grace that still radiated from you, even now?

He leaned closer, his fingers drifting down to trace the delicate line of your collarbone, his touch reverent, almost worshipful. "You have no idea how stunning you are," he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for your ears. "Even like this, you take my breath away."

Prince!Anakin who's one of few hobbies was making love to you;

he loved to tease you about heirs. he brought it up often, with a playful tone, but deep down, the desire was real and intense. The thought of you carrying his child, your belly round, your breasts swollen ignited a fierce, possessive longing within him. He wanted to see you like this - pregnant and full of new life

"gonna give me heirs, hm?" he whispered with his pace quickening

your sweet, breathless moans only spurred him on. You were so beautiful beneath him, your flushed cheeks and heaving chest making you look even more irresistible, if that's possible

"you'd look so goddamn stunning with my heir inside you, sweetheart" his voice a rough murmur

his cock, all envelopted by your squishy walls, moved deeper to reach his, and yours, edge "you'd be mine, completely. Carrying my child, you'd belong to me in every way"

"am i not yours already?" you panted

his lips connected with yours, making sure to nipp on your bottom lip "you are mine, love..but having you carry my child..it's a whole other kind of mine" he groaned, his large hands moving over to your hips

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17-deactivated2025 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty

(if you want to be removed or added then don't be shy and let me know 💋)

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

yandere!Conner kidnapping reader after she rejects him😔

(I'M HAPPY YOU'RE DOING WELL<3)

Yandere connor Kent x reader

Conner Kent was used to losing things—control, stability, even his sense of self—but he didn’t think he could lose you. Not after everything. You were the only person who didn’t look at him like a walking science experiment or a Superman knockoff. You didn’t ask him what it felt like to have two dads who didn’t care enough to stick around. You didn’t treat him like a weapon in waiting, either.

You just saw him, the way no one else did.

And for someone like him, who had spent his entire existence clawing for meaning, that sight was everything.

So when you said no, when you told him you didn’t feel the same, it was like a fist to his gut. He played it cool, shrugged, tossed out some half-hearted "No big deal," before walking away. But inside, something cracked open. Something dark.

Because rejection wasn’t just rejection—it was abandonment. And Conner Kent had been abandoned enough for one lifetime.

When you woke up, the room was dimly lit, with the faint smell of leather and motor oil clinging to the air. The bed beneath you was soft, but the weight of an unfamiliar blanket felt suffocating. You blinked against the hazy light, your brain sluggish as it tried to make sense of where you were.

The faint sound of music hummed in the background, something low and grungy that vibrated through the walls. You tugged at your wrists and realized, to your growing panic, that they were tied—not tightly, but enough to keep you from slipping away.

"Morning, sunshine," came a voice from the corner of the room.

Your head snapped toward it, your heart lurching as you spotted Conner leaning against the wall. His leather jacket hung off his broad shoulders, and his arms were crossed over his chest, muscles taut beneath his white t-shirt. His face was unreadable, but there was something dangerous in the way his blue eyes caught the light.

"Conner?" Your voice came out small, shaky. "What the hell is going on?"

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Relax. You’re safe. Isn’t that what everyone wants to hear?"

You struggled against the restraints, your panic mounting. "Safe? Are you kidding me? Let me go!"

He pushed off the wall and sauntered toward you, his boots heavy against the floor. When he stopped beside the bed, he crouched so his face was level with yours.

"Yeah, that’s not happening," he said casually, his tone almost bored.

Your stomach flipped. "Conner, this isn’t funny! You can’t just—"

"I can’t just what? Take care of you? Make sure no one hurts you? Because guess what? I’m already doing a better job at that than anyone else ever could."

"You call this taking care of me?!" you snapped, tears welling in your eyes. "This is insane!"

His jaw twitched, and for a second, you saw the cracks in his cool exterior. "What’s insane," he said quietly, his voice low and sharp, "is thinking you could just walk away. Like I’m nothing. Like I don’t—" He stopped himself, exhaling harshly. "Do you know how many people have walked out on me, [name]? How many times I’ve been left behind like I didn’t matter?"

Your breath caught as you saw the raw, unguarded pain flicker across his face.

"But you?" He continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You were different. You made me feel like I was more than just some half-baked clone. And then you threw it all away like it didn’t mean anything."

"Conner, that’s not—"

"Save it," he cut you off, standing abruptly and running a hand through his messy black hair. "You don’t get it. You don’t see what I see. But you will. I’ll make sure of it."

He turned back to you, his smirk returning, though it was laced with something darker now. "You’ll thank me eventually, you know. Once you realize I’m the only one who gives a damn about you."

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at him, your fear and anger warring with the flicker of pity you couldn’t quite suppress.

"Conner," you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. "This isn’t love. This isn’t how you treat someone you care about."

He froze for a moment, his expression hardening. Then he scoffed, shaking his head. "You don’t know what love is," he muttered. "But don’t worry. I’ll teach you."

And with that, he turned and walked toward the door, his boots echoing in the small room.

"Get some rest," he said over his shoulder. "You’re gonna need it."

The door closed behind him with a resounding click, and you were left alone, the weight of his obsession settling over you like a heavy chain.

(A/n: sorry for the wait! I've been writing all day, my hands are aching there's like 15 asks edited in my drafts 😭 TYSM FOR THE WORRY though you don't need to, im fine😛 but not today.. This is my last post before I go to a short hiatus, maybe for 1 or 2 weeks? Either way, I'm not gonna post for awhile because of mental health issues, exams, and chirstmas. Merry Christmas everyone!!)

[solarmorrigan]

💔 not enough - steve and hopper

This one gave me the chance to resurrect a scene I've had in mind for quite a while!

14. Not Enough - Hopper & Steve

cw: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced domestic violence, referenced canon-typical violence

-

It’s silent as Hopper drives, the air a little awkward and stilted. Steve still isn’t sure what to say, what to do. They’d stopped off at his parents’ house to pick up his stuff (and Steve had tried to tell Hopper that it wasn’t necessary for him to come along, that his parents wouldn’t even be home, but Hopper had just opened the passenger side door of his truck and told Steve to get in; he’s a difficult man to argue with when he refuses to acknowledge he’s being argued with), and they’re on their way to the cabin now. It’s a safe place, an easy place to be, but Steve can’t help the mounting anxiety in his chest as they draw closer.

He hadn’t expected this when he’d turned up at Eddie’s place last night, the bruise around his eye still fresh and swelling, his lip only just beginning to scab over. He hadn’t wanted to cause a fuss, he’d just wanted somewhere to stay the night, to wait out his dad’s temper. But Eddie had more than fussed – he’d gotten Wayne involved, who had gotten Hopper involved, which had somehow led to Steve being given a choice: he could stay at the trailer with Eddie and Wayne, or he could take the spare room at the newly constructed Hopper-Byers cabin (not so much a cabin as a large house at this point, but the name had stuck).

Or – well, he could also have gone home. No one is holding him hostage, but he could imagine Wayne’s resigned sigh and Hopper’s disappointed scowl and the way Eddie and Robin would have worried over him if he’d said no, and he hadn’t wanted any of that. No one is supposed to worry over him.

It isn’t supposed to be like this.

This is Steve’s problem, and he shouldn’t have made it into anyone else’s. But as long as they had been expecting him to make a choice–

He loves it at the trailer with Eddie and Wayne, but they’re pressed for space as it is; Steve hadn’t wanted to intrude any further. And that just left Hopper and Joyce’s spare room.

Steve sighs and shifts his seat. He isn’t doing a great job hiding his mood, he knows he isn’t, but Hopper lets the silence ride until they reach the cabin. Once Steve is out of the truck, though, rounding the front to head up to the house, Hopper stops him with a hand on his shoulder, giving him a searching kind of look that makes Steve’s spine itch.

“If you’ve got something to say, you’d better get it out now, because once Joyce gets you in her clutches, you’re not escaping.”

Steve sighs, running a hand over his face, like maybe he can wipe away whatever it is Hopper’s picking up on. “It’s… not that I’m not grateful, but you shouldn’t have to do this. You shouldn’t be, like– putting yourself out just for me.”

Hopper raises his brows at Steve. “Is that what we’re doing?” he asks, and Steve can’t help but huff.

“Driving me around and helping me get my crap and – and letting me stay in your house, yeah, it sounds like kind of an imposition.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m sure you have other stuff to worry about. You shouldn’t feel like you have to take care of me, or something, I can– I can take it. It’s okay.”

“That’s– whatever you’re thinking, Harrington, that’s not what this is,” Hopper says. “This isn’t pity, or charity, or whatever the fuck else. You say you can take it, but you shouldn’t have to. This is just what we do for each other. What we’re supposed to do – we look out for each other.”

And something about that – it hits Steve in just the wrong spot.

It hits him in the spot he tries to pretend doesn’t exist, the spot filled with anger and doubt, where he wonders why he has to be there for everyone else but no one is there for him, where he shoves all the loneliness and want and tries to wall it away. It hits like a bolt of lightning and illuminates everything.

“Why now?” Steve asks.

“What?” Hopper’s brows draw together.

“Why now? Why does it suddenly matter now?” Steve isn’t really asking anymore. “Why not when I was thirteen, when my dad hit me the first time? Why not when Hargrove beat the shit out of me and no one ever even came by to make sure I wasn’t dead? Or after I got– after the Russians got me and I didn’t have anyone to drive me home from the fucking hospital? Why now?” He should stop, he knows he should stop, he isn’t being fair, there’s always been a good reason, but he just – can’t. “Is it because there’s nothing else going on right now? No other emergencies, so it’s okay to finally fucking– like– what, I survived infected bat bites from another dimension, but my dad gives me a black eye and that’s when everyone decides to pay attention?”

By the time Steve runs out of steam, petering off with his voice half-cracking as he demands to know what the hell is different now, something has changed about Hopper. He looks – small, almost. Tired, and older than Steve really remembers him looking.

“Kid, I–” Hopper starts; he breaks off and runs a hand over his mouth, staring for just a moment at the ground, like he can’t quite meet Steve’s eyes. “We fucked up. I know we did. We let you slip through the cracks because we didn’t have to worry about your parents breathing down our necks and because you… you were just so fucking quiet about it.” he shakes his head. He’s looking up at Steve now, like he can’t stop, his gaze intense. “And that’s not an excuse. You put everything on the line, again and again, and you kept those kids safe, and we dropped the ball on you every goddamn time. We fucked up, we never kept you safe.

“I’m not asking you to – I don’t know, fucking forgive us, or even trust us at this point. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to. If you change your mind and want to stay at the Munson’s, I’ll take you there. But you have a place here. As long as you need it.” Hopper shrugs loosely. “We’ll try to do better, Steve. Maybe that’s not enough, but that’s the best I’ve got.”

Objectively, it probably isn’t much.

Still, it’s more than Steve’s ever been promised, and wavers on the edge, inclined to take it.

“I don’t… I don’t really know what you want from me,” he admits quietly.

Hopper shakes his head. “Nothing. Just come inside.”

Arms crossed tight over his chest, Steve nods slowly. “Okay,” he manages.

Hopper’s hand is on his shoulder again, and Steve expects a pat, or maybe a reassuring squeeze, but he finds himself instead drawn close with one of Hopper’s arms resting heavily across his shoulders with a weight more reassuring than Steve expected it to be. He drops his own arms so they aren’t pinned between him and Hopper; he doesn’t quite hug back, but he lets himself relax a little against Hopper’s chest. He feels solid against Steve. He feels safe.

Maybe what Hopper’s offering him won’t be enough. Maybe it’s too little, too late. But if they’re going to try, then Steve wants to try, too.

He thinks maybe it will be okay.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Killing Time 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, includes violence, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: a job offer could be an escape from your old life, but the new one, may not hold freedom.

Characters: Kraven the Hunter, August Walker, Lloyd Hansen, James Conrad, God the Bounty Hunter, Court Gentry

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

Your frustration mounts as you click the permissions again to allow the camera and microphone access. It’s so annoying! It just keeps running you in circles. Great. This is off to a good start. Late for the interview. That’s always the best first impression. 

When at last your firewall stops blocking the call, you flinch at the sight of yourself in the corner. You’re further jarred by the man staring back at you. Your mouth opens and for a moment, you’re frozen. You were so focused on troubleshooting, you forgot about what was waiting on the other end. 

“Oh, hi,” you squeak. “Sorry, I--” you look around, glancing through the clear walls of the library study room. It’s the first time you’ve been to this branch but you didn’t think the clutter of your apartment would make a good backdrop. “I was having issues with my camera.” 

“Quite alright,” he responds with a grin and a lilted accent. He sounds as professional as he looks. 

He wears a grey jacket over a muted teal shirt that lights up his eyes, even over the screen. His short hair is combed back neatly and there’s not a speck of stubble on his jaw. Under the structure of his attire you can tell he’s well-built. 

You resist the urge to look down at yourself. A white blouse. Boring but professional. It gets the job done. Hopefully. 

You force a smile. 

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he begins through your nervous silence. “I do appreciate your time and I would hate to waste it. So, we can hop right in.” He looks unflinchingly into the camera, “oh, let us not go so far past courtesy. I am James, we’ve been corresponding, yes?” 

“Uh, yeah, I remember. James.” You gulp. 

He says your name with a keen inclination. “This is rather not the position which requires those cliche questions so I won’t trouble you with asking what animal best reflects your personality.” 

You cough out a humouring chuckle and fold your hands on the desk. 

“Forgive if I should seem to the point. You see, it’s a very practical position. I think it’s best we go over what is expected before we go into the finer details; expenses, relocation, dates--” 

“Mm,” you squeak and put a finger up, “s-sorry, um, I thought we were interviewing but it sound like you’ve made a decision?” 

“Well, yes, I’ve reviewed your CV and your submitted profile and your answers to the questionnaire were acceptable. I didn’t think there was much else to consider,” he intones. You shift and try to hide your surprise. 

“No, of course, that makes sense,” you say. “Thanks, I guess I was confused.” 

“Not to worry. I find that written communication can often lack clarity so I thought it best we have a face-to-face in this circumstance,” he looks down as if he has a book or paper before him. “So, did you have any questions before I proceed?” 

“No, no, really, I'm sure you’ll answer them all.” Your cheeks bloom in a half-smile. You were so nervous about getting the job but you’ve already got it. 

“Right then,” he sits back and once more stares down the camera. “It is a very old property but the upkeep has been consistent. There should not be any glaring necessities for maintenance, this more of a custodial position. So, you would be the one to keep the place clean, make sure it is aired out, tend to the lawns but we do employ a grounds keeping service that comes fortnightly to trim.” 

You nod. It’s intriguing. You were sent photos of the property but you’re not quite sure of its purpose. Judging by the clustered pines in the background, you would guess it’s remote. A getaway that could be a goldmine for those wanting a vacation from the urban jungle. 

“You would have a roster, you see, of those you could contact for service so you will not require any specialisations. You are the day-to-day and would be expected to bring in the appropriate support for higher-touch difficulties.” 

“Right,” you try not to show your anxiety. 

“Albeit I should warn you that the reception in that location is not the greatest so if you cannot call out, you would need to keep trying. It will eventually catch but uh, not to mind, as long it is attended is what matters, not when,” he says.  

“Mhm, that makes sense. Um, can I ask what the property is? Is it like a summer home or...” 

“Ah, family inheritance,” he answers primly. “I’ve not much use for it past the sentimental value and I thought of leasing it for traveling parties but I’ve heard horror stories. Right now, I’m merely sitting on it until I figure out exactly what to do with it.” 

“Oh, right. Wow. Quite the inheritance.” 

“Hm, yes, my uncle did rather adore me. I was the only one named in his will but he was a bit of a curmudgeon.” He laughs. “Now, I must ask the most important question--” 

Before he can, the door swings open and you jump in your seat. Your heart sinks. You signed the room out for ninety minutes. You thought it would be more than enough. Surely it hasn’t been that long. 

Shoot. It’s him. How did he find you? You deliberately went out of your way so that he couldn’t. 

“Jake,” you stand and turn to him, trying to block the computer. “What are you doing?” 

“There you are,” he touches his chest as if he should be the one so afraid. “You didn’t come home--” 

You growl and cross your arms. 

“Jake, go away,” you grit out. “Not right now. Please.” 

“I had to make sure you’re okay,” he steps into the room and you push yourself back against the table. “Who else is going to look after you?” 

“I will scream, alright,” you warn. “Now leave me alone. I’m tired of telling you.” 

He sighs and his jaw squares. “I don’t get you. You act like I’m such a bad guy and I haven’t done anything to you. I never hurt you but you hurt me. You just spit in my face--” 

“Pardon,” the voice rises from the speaker at your back. “If I may, she is occupied and you are interrupting. I have a mind to contact emergency service should you persist.” Your mouth falls open and you turn to look at your laptop. James leans forward to glare at the lens, “Not sure who you are, fellow, but the lady has been clear.” 

“Who-- who is he?” Jake sputters. 

“Please, just go,” you plead. “Or I will call the police.” 

Little good they will do, you think, but that doesn’t need to be said aloud. 

He frowns and his eyes glint dangerously. You stare back at him, tense, fingers curling and uncurling nervously. That man on the screen won’t stop him and you don’t know if anyone would hear you from the desk. 

“Fine, guess I’ll see ya around,” he relents and backs out. 

You don’t move until he snaps the door shut. You hurry over and twist the lock on the inside. You don’t know why you didn’t do that before. 

“Are you alright?” James asks, drawing you back to the desk. 

You sit and look at the keyboard, “I’m very sorry. I...” 

“He doesn’t sound like a friend,” James says. You shake your head. “Well, then, it does sound like you’re in need of a fresh start. I do hope this can be that for you.” 

You look up and bat away the glimmer on the brims of your eyes. You’re not just afraid, you’re embarrassed. His kindness is as comforting as it is unexpected. 

“Thanks, um, anyway...” you exhale, “you were going to ask something.” 

“Yes, uh, yes, I was,” he reconfigures and puts another smile on. “When can you depart? I would of course arrange travel to be sure you get here safe and sound.” 

“Oh, when... whenever is best. Not to be too desperate but as soon as possible,” you say. 

“Wonderful,” he praises, “absolutely wonderful. Is tomorrow too soon? Pardon my own desperation.” 

“Tomorrow?” You utter and shake your head. “Tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow.”  

It's sudden and scary but it’s good. The sooner you go, the less time Jake has to figure out what you’re doing. The less chance he can follow. It’s an escape. Not a perfect one but it’s all you have. 

🩸

You spend all night packing. You parse down what you have to the essentials and put the rest in bags. You don’t care about the furniture. You say as much in your email to your landlord, telling him to use your deposit for the disposal. 

You whittle your life down to three bags. A large suit case, a knapsack, and a single purse. You have it ready to go by the door. 

You feel uneasy about it. You stare at your luggage, the lights off, windows closed. Your phone buzzes and you put it to silent, ignoring the messages from your personal pest. You’ll be done with him too. You wonder if you should just toss your cell. 

You don’t sleep. You can’t. You still can’t believe you’re getting out. You hope you haven’t given the game away. 

There’s a tap on the window. You nearly roll onto the floor. You look over and hear it again, a harder impact. Are you serious? He’s throwing stones. He could break the damn glass. 

You shake your head. You won’t fall for it. Not again. You remember when he came to your door and cried until you opened up. He even smeared ketchup on his face to make you think he was hurt. It’s hard to tell the difference through a peephole. 

Almost there. Almost out. You just need to make it a few more hours. 

As you ignore the incessant tapping and the light of your phone glowing ever few minutes, your thoughts turn bitter. You should message everyone who turned their back on you and tell them exactly what they’ve put you through. Somehow, you think they’d care as much as they did before. 

Sleep eludes you but a foggy daze comes over you as the windows soften with the early morning. There’s no more pebbles bouncing off the pane. Just you and the buzz of the sleeping city. 

Your alarm chimes and you get up as your head pulses. You’re used to the constant fatigue. It will ease up and you’ll just feel a bit heavy. When it’s normal, you don’t notice as much. 

You get ready and have an instant coffee by the door. James messages just before nine. Your car will be there in ten. Oh, early. You don’t mind about that. 

You won’t go out and wait. You’ll stay here, where it’s safe. 

When your phone goes off again, you expect it to be Jake. It’s James. Whew. You’re so close, you can’t believe it. 

You grab your knapsack and purse, and drag your suitcase out behind you. You lock the door and throw the key through the mail slot. You hurry down the hall and take the stairs over the elevator.  

You don’t look back or anyway but forward. You look at your cell. 'Black Jaguar’ followed by a plate number. Jaguar? Holy moly. 

The tinted window rolls down and reveals the same face from the Zoom call. You didn’t know he was coming himself. You assumed he was sending a cab or something. You slow as you come out the door. He smiles and pops open the door. 

Before you can come forward, another figure appears, blocking your way. 

“Hey, I've been calling all night,” Jake says. You stop short and nearly yelp. Of course! 

“Jake, move.” 

“Where are you going?” He looks at your bags desperately. “Wait, you can’t--” 

“Pardon me, sir, is there some issue?” James strides up behind him. 

Jake turns to face him and stiffens, “and who are you—wait, you’re that guy from the computer.” 

“I’m none of your business, as is her life,” James insists. “Now, seems you’re used to picking on those smaller than you but let’s see how you do against me?” 

James steps closer. He’s a few inches taller than Jake. You can’t move as they stare each other down. You wait, expecting chaos. 

“I was only talking,” Jake shows his palms and shrugs. “It’s whatever. She’s a bitch anyways.” 

He turns and snarls over his shoulder at you. You back up. As Jake turns, he’s knocked off kilter as James hurls his fist into his jaw. The shorter man staggers and falls to one knee, catching himself in the grass. 

“Well, that was a lovely chat,” James smirks and beckons to you, “shall we?” 

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Max wanting to have sex on Rocky after the gala is over and before Rocky is put away

The Real Prize - Rocky || MV1

Pre-Gala || The Real Prize || Jealousy || Panties || Captivity || Rocky || Escaping || Thighs || Consequences || A Mile High

The storage containers behind the stage were dimly lit, but the shining moment had and gone for the machines that had made history and now they were being tucked away in the dark. Somehow Max knew where his car was before you could even see it, his sure steps guiding you safely between the rest until his livery appeared.

Max tugged you closer and crushed his lips to yours. “Been needing another taste of you,” he hummed as he drew your dress up higher. “Been wanting to do this all year.”

He guided you onto the body of the race car and you leaned back on the halo as he lifted your legs, settling your heels onto the side pod.

“So beautiful…” he mused as he spread your legs wider. He pushed his trousers down enough to free the erection he had been battling since he stole your panties and watched you bite your lip as he buried himself inside you. “Hmm, fits me perfectly.”

“Me or the car, because I’m getting a little jealous here.” Though you were joking, he took it upon himself to clarify as he fucked you in a way he had only imagined.

“You, schatje, always you,” he promised quietly between the gentle kisses he left along your neck. “This is what you do to me, I can’t think clearly when I see you, so beautiful it hurts. You were made for me, look how perfect we are.”

He pulled back enough to look down and see his cock filling you with each stroke, the sight of your union over the red bull livery was almost enough to tip him over, but he was a gentleman, he wouldn’t come until you did.

“We could go to jail for this,” you whispered as you tried to keep from moaning too loudly. “If we get caught.”

“So we don’t get caught,” he stated, reaching into his pocket and fisting your panties. He ran his thumb over your lips and smirked when they parted for him. “This will keep you quiet.”

The scent and taste drove you wild. You could taste Max’s come on the lace and your body burned to have more from him as you gripped the halo tighter and rocked your hips, meeting him stroke for stroke. Your screams certainly would have given you away if it weren’t for the material Max had stuffed in your mouth, muffling them to muted cries.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he rasped as he tugged at his bow, the clothing suddenly all too constricting and hot. “I just want to stay buried here forever.”

You wiped the sheen of sweat on his forehead, brushing it back into his hair and you tugged the dirty blond strands as your pleasure mounted. One heel slipped and you wrapped your leg around his hip instead, driving him deeper. Your hold on the halo faltered as your pussy clenched and it was only Max’s strength that kept you in place as you rode your orgasm out in his arms.

You gasped a deep breath as the lace was ripped out of your mouth and Max sealed his lips over yours to silence it, his tongue dancing with yours. He held off as long as he could, relishing the feel of your walls coating him in your release before he gave into his.

“Hello, is anyone in there?” A voice came from the dark.

Max moved instantly, placing you on your feet and pulling your dress down before he sorted himself out. He combed a hand through his damp hair and turned to face the security man who heard something inside.

“Oh, sorry Mr Verstappen, I didn’t realise it was you.”

“That’s okay, we were just leaving.” Max’s arm curled around your waist and helped with your unsteady steps, guiding back towards the lights.

“Mr Verstappen, wait, sir,” the man rushed to follow and Max gave him an inpatient look as the speakers returned to life and asked everyone to return to their seats. “You forget this.”

You barely stifled your laugh as he was handed his trophy for a third time that evening.

“There’s one other thing, did you notice the large scratch earlier?” He clicked his torch on and shone it at the side pod. The bull had a jagged cut right through the vinyl and your eyes widened.

“No,” Max said with a squeeze to your hip. “But I wouldn’t worry, they will put a new wrap on before it is displayed.”

“Are you sure?” you whispered as you chewed your lip.

“You know, there’s only one person that can get away with scratching the RB19,” he teased as you left the storage area. “You are lucky I love you, schatje.”

“Technically that is your fault,” you defended.

“Was I wearing stilettos?”

“If you weren’t so sexy in that suit I could have resisted you.”

Max smirked as he looked down at you, his hand coming to rest on your cheek as he slowly dipped his head down. Your lips parted eagerly for the kiss but his lips merely hovered above yours until you whined. His smirk grew and his eyes saw the truth as he chuckled. “No you couldn’t.”

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for 🦄 behind the cut; Billy adopts Conner and it actually goes pretty good! (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Like–they didn’t read to you or let you watch movies and stuff, you mean?” Billy asks with a frown. “Just put the whole things in your head at once?” 

That sounds disorienting, and also kinda mean and lazy on Cadmus’s part. But maybe it wasn’t as bad as it– 

Lynn looks down at Tawky; flips his ear back and forth again and rubs the pad of his thumb across the inside of it. 

Billy . . . frowns, again. 

“No,” Lynn says to Tawky’s ear, as opposed to actually either of them. “I mean they didn’t tell me stories at all.” 

. . . wow, yeah. Billy is definitely committing fifty-two floors’ worth of arson. 

“Oh, okay,” he says, making a few mental notes for himself about, again, arson. Like, just the whole process and everything. “Well, they suck, then. We’ll just have to get you some different types to try, I guess. Like with the food and all, you know? It’s a library, anyway, it’s not like it costs money to borrow stuff or anything.” 

“It’s just stories,” Lynn says to Tawky’s ear, not lifting his eyes at all. “They’re not–important. To . . . I don’t need things like that.” 

“Why do you think that?” Billy asks with a frown, though his inner arsonist is already pretty sure it’s Cadmus's fault. Pretty much positive, in fact. 

Pretty definitely positive. 

Lynn shrugs. Rubs the inside of Tawky’s ear. It’s really soft, Billy knows; Tawky’s fur always feels nice to touch. He wonders, actually, how much stuff Lynn even has touched so far. 

He wonders, again, if anybody’s ever hugged him before. 

He really hates the thought that maybe no one has. He really hates . . . 

He just really hates that that’s even a thing that might be a thing at all. 

“Weapons don't need to know stories,” Lynn says. “They just need to do as they're told.” 

. . . in retrospect, arson might be half-assing what Billy should do to Cadmus. 

“This isn't so you can be a weapon,” he reminds Lynn carefully, resisting the urge to clench his fists in his lap. “Remember?” 

“‘This’,” Lynn echoes. He still doesn't look up. 

“I'm taking care of you,” Billy says. 

“Maintaining me,” Lynn says very, very quietly. “Containing me.” 

“I really hate that somebody made you think that's what that means,” Billy says tightly. Lynn ducks his head lower and looks towards the wall. 

He doesn't say anything back. Billy bites his tongue, trying to figure out what he should–do, or say, or . . . 

The truth, obviously, but how to say it's a lot harder. 

“This isn't, like–a containment thing. That's not why I'm taking care of you,” he tries, because it's the best place to start he can think of. The wisdom of Solomon covers a lot of knowledge, but not necessarily always how to apply that knowledge. “Like, we wanna know where you are so we know you're safe, or at least know you've got your phone just in case, and the curfew thing is–like, normal kids get curfews. So people know where they are, and that they're not in trouble or anything. And like–so people know when to get help for them, if they might be in trouble.” 

Lynn doesn't say anything, still. Billy's not sure if that means he's just thinking, or if it means he hasn't said the right thing yet. 

He really hopes it's the thinking thing, but . . . 

“Honestly the other idea was putting you up in Mount Justice,” he admits. “But it doesn't have any windows or anything, and I don't even know if anyone else was gonna be there most of the time, and–”

“Windows?” Lynn . . . frowns, his eyes flicking back to him. 

“Um, yeah,” Billy says. Lynn stares blankly at him for a moment, then slants his eyes towards the apartment windows and–hesitates, a little. 

“. . . you mean there's no sun,” he realizes slowly.

[goblin-jr]

Tell me, where’s your hiding place?

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: Clark Kent braces himself for another forgettable assignment, expecting nothing more than a routine interview. But when he comes face to face with a ghost from his past, he knows he’s in for trouble.

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

complete

words: 7.2 k

💌 💌 💌 💌

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, the floor numbers ticking higher with every passing second. Clark Kent exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his tie, tugging it loose before tightening it again. He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall—neat, composed, and entirely unbothered. Or at least, that was the goal.

In reality, he was still shaking off the last twenty minutes.

He had barely been two blocks from the Daily Planet when he’d heard it—a sharp, metallic screech followed by the unmistakable blare of a car horn. His head had snapped up just in time to see the taxi slam through the guardrail of the Metropolis Monorail overpass, its front end teetering over the tracks, headlights flickering against the rain-slick steel.

The driver had been unconscious. The passenger, a woman clutching a toddler to her chest, was very much awake, pounding on the back window as the weight of the vehicle threatened to drag them both down.

Clark had moved before he could think. A blur of motion between heartbeats. One second, he was stepping off the curb, and the next, he was beneath the car, hands braced against its undercarriage. He could feel the groan of the metal, the way the rain made everything slick beneath his grip, but the moment his strength took over, physics became an afterthought.

The woman’s wide-eyed shock barely registered as he tore the back door off its hinges, scooping her and the child into his arms before setting them safely on the pavement. The whole thing had taken maybe thirty seconds—long enough for bystanders to gape, for phones to rise, for someone to murmur the word Superman before he was already gone, vanishing into an alley before the inevitable swarm of reporters could descend.

And now, here he was, standing in a penthouse elevator, smoothing down his tie, pretending like none of it had happened.

His hair, still slightly damp from the drizzle outside, was combed back, but a stray curl had already begun to rebel against the order he’d forced upon it. His tie, a respectable shade of blue, sat a little too stiffly against his collar, a reminder of how quickly he’d thrown it back on. And then there were his shoes. He frowned slightly as he caught sight of the faint scuff marks marring the polished leather. If his interviewee was the observant type, they might notice.

Not that it mattered.

This wasn’t a real story. It was a fluff piece—some last-minute assignment Perry had thrown at him because the usual reporter was out sick. Some musician, Y/N something. He hadn’t even skimmed the file beyond the basics.

The elevator slowed. A soft chime rang out as the doors slid open.

Clark exhaled and stepped forward.

Half an hour. That’s all this would take. Ask the questions, get the quotes, and be done with it.

How hard could it be?

The elevator doors slid open with a smooth, soundless motion, revealing the entrance to the penthouse. Clark stepped forward, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet runner that stretched down the hallway. Immediately, he was struck by the sheer extravagance of it all.

Marble. So much marble.

The floors gleamed under the soft glow of recessed lighting, the white-and-gray veining swirling in elaborate patterns. The walls, too, were lined with marble panels, broken up only by large, modern art pieces that looked more like expensive smudges of paint than anything with real meaning. Gold accents caught the light at every turn—door handles, lighting fixtures, the trim of an absurdly oversized mirror mounted at the far end of the hall. It was cold. Impersonal. The kind of wealth that demanded admiration but offered no warmth in return.

Clark resisted the urge to adjust his glasses. He’d been in places like this before—interviews with CEOs, gala events, the occasional press function where billionaires pretended to be relatable over champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres. But standing here, surrounded by so much artificial shine, he couldn’t help but think of the Kent farmhouse back in Smallville.

His mother’s worn wooden floors, the way they creaked underfoot no matter how many times she insisted they weren’t old, just well-loved. The chipped paint on the banister, the scent of warm earth drifting in through open windows on summer nights. Even the old oak table, scratched and scarred from years of family meals, had more character than this entire building combined.

Clark much preferred wood over marble.

Still, he had a job to do.

He stopped in front of the penthouse door, glancing at the polished brass number plate. The weight of the assignment settled in again—just a quick interview, a handful of quotes, and he’d be out of here. Simple.

Lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles against the door. The sound echoed faintly down the hall.

For a moment, nothing.

Then, the click of a lock turning.

The door swung open.

Clark was already prepared with his introduction, but the words stalled for half a second as he took in the woman standing before him.

She was young—probably the same age as him—with sharp, intelligent eyes and a presence that felt effortless, like she belonged in places like this. There was something familiar about her, but not in a way he could immediately place. Maybe it was the shape of her eyes, the way she held herself, or just the faintest pull of recognition in the back of his mind, like he saw her on a billboard somewhere.

She blinked at him, clearly thrown off. “Oh. I was expecting Sasha.”

Clark cleared his throat, recovering quickly. “Sasha’s out sick. Perry White sent me instead. Clark Kent, Daily Planet.”

She hesitated for only a second before smiling, holding the door open wider. “Well, come on in, then.”

Clark stepped inside, the warm glow of the penthouse wrapping around him as the door shut behind him.

Y/N stepped back from the door, letting Clark into the apartment. He walked in, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag as his eyes swept the space. The penthouse was as extravagant as he expected—floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the open-concept living area in golden light, offering a panoramic view of the Metropolis skyline. The furniture was sleek and modern, everything arranged with careful precision. It was the kind of place designed to impress.

“This is quite the place,” Clark commented as they walked further inside.

Y/N glanced at him, an easy smile on her lips. “Yeah, it has its perks.”

She moved ahead of him, leading the way down the short hallway that opened into the living room. A plush ivory couch stretched along the center of the space, positioned in front of a low glass coffee table. Built-in shelves lined the walls, holding a mix of framed awards, books, and decorative pieces that looked like they had been placed there by an interior designer.

Clark took it all in as they walked. “Been here long?”

“A few years.” Y/N motioned toward the couch. “Go ahead, make yourself comfortable.”

Clark gave a polite nod before setting his bag down beside the armrest and easing onto the couch. It was softer than expected, and for a second, he sat a little too stiffly, still adjusting to the unfamiliar setting.

Y/N lingered near the kitchen, glancing toward him. “Do you want something to drink? Water? Coffee?”

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

She nodded and gestured toward the seating area. “I’ll be right there. Just make yourself at home.”

With that, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Clark alone in the living room. He glanced around again, his gaze settling on the details that filled the space. It was modern, polished, expensive—but something about it felt untouched, like it was meant to be lived in but wasn’t.

His eyes drifted to the oversized fireplace and stopped just beside it. Hung on the wall, standing out against the sleek decor, was a battered silver guitar.

Clark stilled.

Something about it nagged at him, an itch in the back of his mind that refused to be ignored. The rest of the apartment was curated to perfection—everything in its place, designed to impress. But this guitar didn’t belong to the aesthetic. It wasn’t some decorative piece picked out by an interior designer. It was worn, real, lived in. The wood was faded in places, the silver finish dulled by years of touch. The edges were scuffed, the pickguard scratched, the strings looked fresh, meaning they had been replaced more times than he could count.

And yet, it wasn’t just its condition that held him in place. It was something else—something deeper.

Clark leaned closer, his breath slow and steady as his eyes traced over every familiar detail. His gaze snagged on a tiny bird decal on the body of the guitar, its edges peeling slightly with age.

His stomach dropped.

Oh.

The memory crashed into him like a tidal wave. The silver guitar, the hands that had played it, the voice that had carried through the dim light of an apartment he hadn’t thought about in years. The name attached to all of it—Y/N.

How had he missed this?

Clark was a journalist. He prided himself on details, on never overlooking the obvious. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of her living room, blindsided by the realization that this wasn’t just some pop star.

It's her.

Before he could think much more about it, Y/N’s voice called from the kitchen.

“Alright, Mr. reporter. Let’s get this over with.”

Clark straightened slightly as she reentered, glass of water in hand, and set it down in front of him.

Gaining control of his expression, Clark snapped his gaze to hers as she settled into the chair across from him. This really is her.

The realization still sat heavy in his chest, but he refused to let it show. He didn’t know if he should feel proud that she had made it—really made it—or guilty that he had never once thought to check in on her after he left. Seven years, and not once had he tried to find out what happened to the girl with the silver guitar and the fire in her voice. Now, she sat in front of him, a household name, a polished version of the same person he had once known.

She looked different. Older, sure, but there was something else—something lighter. She looked happier.

He cleared his throat and reached into his bag, pulling out a small recording device. The soft click of the power button filled the quiet space as he placed it on the coffee table between them. Business. That’s what this was. He needed to focus.

Clark glanced at his notepad. “Alright,” he said, voice steady, professional. “Let’s start with the album. This will be your first release in two years. What inspired it?”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, considering. “Time,” she answered finally. “I needed time away from it all. Music never stopped being important, but I had to figure out who I was when I wasn’t writing for a deadline. I think this album is the closest thing to me that I’ve ever put out.”

Clark nodded, jotting down notes as she spoke. “Did you feel any pressure coming back after so long?”

She tilted her head slightly. “At first. People love to ask if you’re washed up the second you take a step back. But the truth is, I wasn’t interested in coming back just to prove a point. I wanted to wait until I had something to say.”

Clark tapped his pen against the pad. “And what is it you’re trying to say with this album?”

Y/N’s lips twitched, almost amused. “That would be giving too much away, wouldn’t it?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair enough.”

They moved through the next few questions with ease, Y/N answering smoothly, clearly used to this sort of thing. The creative process, favorite tracks, collaborations—Clark kept his focus steady, writing efficiently, keeping his mind from slipping into dangerous territory. But despite his efforts, his eyes kept drifting over her shoulder, drawn back to the guitar mounted behind her.

The silver finish, the well-worn edges, the tiny bird decal near the strings.

The guitar.

His grip tightened on his pen. He hadn’t realized he had been looking at it so often until Y/N followed his gaze, glancing back at the instrument. A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips before she turned her attention back to him.

“You probably thought I wouldn’t have it anymore, huh?”

Clark went still.

His entire body locked up for half a second, but he forced himself not to react. His heart hammered against his ribs, though his expression remained neutral.

Does she recognize me?

No. That was impossible. It had been years. His glasses, his posture, the way he carried himself—Clark Kent wasn’t Kal. He had spent his whole life perfecting that distinction. If she did recognize him, that would mean she knew what he was. That Clark Kent wasn’t all human. That the quiet, mild-mannered reporter sitting in front of her was the same reckless, smirking enigma who had once pulled her out of an alley and into his world.

She couldn’t know.

Before he could decide how to respond, Y/N continued, her voice casual, but with unmistakable mischief. “I didn’t take you for a fan, Mr. Kent.” She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. “Only the hardcore ones know the guitar I recorded my first album on.”

Clark exhaled slowly, just enough to release the tension in his chest. She didn’t know. She wasn’t looking at him like she recognized him—just a reporter showing more interest in an instrument than she expected.

He let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “I do my research.”

Y/N gave him a knowing look, her smirk widening into a full-on grin. “I’ll sign something for you after, but right now we need to finish the interview, yeah?”

Clark felt the tips of his ears heat up but quickly brushed it off, letting out a small chuckle as he flipped to the next page in his notebook.

“Oh my God,” Y/N snickered, watching him carefully. “You are a fan.”

“I’m not—”

“You totally are.”

Clark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before returning to his notes. “Let’s move on.”

Y/N let out a dramatic sigh but gestured for him to continue.

Scanning the remaining questions he realized he had everything he needed—probably more than he expected to get. Still, he asked a few final ones, keeping his tone measured, professional. Y/N answered just as smoothly, leaning back into the couch, arms draped over the arms of the couch like this was just another routine press stop.

“So, what’s next after the album drops?” he asked, capping his pen.

“Tour,” Y/N said easily. “Larger venues this time, I like the small, intimate ones but my team insisted”

Clark nodded. “Sounds like a full schedule.”

“It will be.” She stretched, arching her back dramatically before standing. “But I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t want to.”

Clark closed his notebook and stood as well, slipping it into his bag. “Well,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “I think that covers everything.”

Y/N grinned, hands on her hips. “You sure? This is your last chance to ask the really scandalous questions. My favorite color? My go-to breakfast order? My villain origin story?”

Clark huffed a small laugh. “I think I put you through enough.”

“Eh,” she shrugged, heading toward the door. “You’ve had worse interview subjects, I’m sure.”

He followed, his steps even as she pulled the door open and leaned casually against it. The interview was over, but there was still an odd weight in his chest—one he wasn’t ready to name.

Y/N crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “I’m excited to read the draft.”

Clark gave a polite nod, offering a small, unreadable smile. “I’ll make sure you get it.”

“Good,” she said, smirking. “And don’t forget—I still owe you an autograph.”

Clark shook his head, amused despite himself, before stepping past the threshold. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Looking back at the door, Clark stilled as he caught Y/N staring.

She hadn’t moved yet, still leaning against the frame, but something in her expression had shifted. Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed in quiet contemplation, like she was trying to place something just out of reach.

A flicker of recognition. A question forming before she even voiced it.

Then, she opened her mouth.

“Have we met before?”

Clark felt his entire body tense, a split-second rush of panic surging through his veins.

Her voice wasn’t teasing this time. There was no playfulness in it, no smirk. Just quiet curiosity, a thread of certainty in the way she said it.

Clark forced his shoulders to stay relaxed, his fingers curling slightly at his sides. He could feel her gaze pressing into him, waiting, searching.

His pulse roared in his ears.

“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice even, carefully detached—a weak attempt at deflection.

A beat of silence.

Then, just as quickly as the moment had come, her face shifted back into an easy smile.

“Yeah,” she said lightly, brushing it off. “I think you’re right. I would’ve remembered meeting my biggest fan”

She pulled the door open just a little wider.

“Goodbye, Clark.”

Clark swallowed, nodding once before turning down the hall.

–

It had been weeks since the interview, and Y/N hadn’t stopped thinking about Clark Kent.

It was ridiculous, really. She had given a hundred interviews in her career. Some routine, some personal, some tedious, and some even fun. Clark’s had been professional, straightforward. Nothing about it should have lingered in her mind the way it did.

But something about him nagged at her.

It wasn’t attraction, though she could admit—if only to herself—that he was handsome in a quietly unassuming way. No, it was something else. Something about his presence. The way he had held himself, the way he had studied her, the way he had deflected, just slightly, when she asked if they had met before.

The thing was, Clark reminded her of someone else.

Kal.

The boy who had plucked her out of a dark alley and tossed her into his strange world, the one who had been both reckless and careful, cocky yet distant. The one who had let her in just enough to make her wonder.

Y/N frowned, shifting in her seat as the town car moved through the streets of Metropolis. It was preposterous, really. Clark Kent was a journalist—a calm, mild-mannered, by-the-books kind of guy. He had sat across from her with a steady, unshakable presence, pen in hand, carefully gathering her words like a collector cataloging artifacts.

Kal had been wild. Sharp-edged. Untamed.

And yet…

Y/N sighed, pressing her fingers against her temple. You’re being ridiculous.

The problem was, she could barely recall the specifics of Kal’s face anymore. It had been a hard time in her life, and memories had a way of shifting in the years that followed. She remembered the feeling of him more than anything—the electric unpredictability, the way he had existed in the world like he was always somewhere else in his mind. She remembered the smirks, the sharp wit, the way he had looked at her when she played her guitar, like she was giving him something he didn’t know he needed.

But the details? The timbre of his voice, the exact shade of his eyes?

They were a blur.

It wasn’t like she had a photograph to remember him by.

Still, something gnawed at her. Clark Kent reminds me of Kal.

The idea was absurd, and yet, it had planted itself in her brain, refusing to be dismissed completely.

She let out a slow breath, watching as the familiar streets of Metropolis passed by. Streetlights flickered against the car window, smearing golden streaks across the glass. The hum of the city at night was something she had grown used to, but right now, it barely registered.

She needed to stop thinking about this. It didn’t matter. Kal was long gone. Clark Kent was a journalist who had done his job and moved on. There was no reason for her to still be thinking about him.

And yet—

Her gaze flickered outside, and her breath caught.

The car was passing the Daily Planet.

The illuminated logo shone high above the building, bold and unwavering, a beacon in the city skyline. The sight of it sent a jolt through her, instinctive and irrational.

Y/N hesitated.

And then, before she could think better of it, she leaned forward.

“Stop the car.”

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Miss?”

“Stop the car, please” she repeated, already reaching for the door handle.

Grabbing a random T-shirt from the pile she had been signing, Y/N pulled it along without checking what it was. She barely hesitated before opening the car door and stepping onto the bustling sidewalk outside the Daily Planet.

This was impulsive.

Even for her.

Stepping into the lobby of the Daily Planet, she registered the way conversation screeched to a halt. People turned—some subtly, some not so subtly—as they took in the sight of her, standing there like she walked into national newspapers all the time.

She didn’t let it faze her.

Instead, she walked straight up to the front desk, her usual bright, easygoing smile already in place.

“Hi!” she greeted warmly, leaning slightly onto the counter. “I’m here to see Clark Kent. Is he in?”

The receptionist blinked up at her. Mouth opening. Then closing. Then opening again.

Y/N waited, tilting her head slightly.

The woman visibly gathered herself, then reached for the phone. “One second, Miss—um—”

“Y/N,” she supplied helpfully, still smiling. “But you probably knew that.”

The receptionist let out a soft, slightly dazed laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

As she made the call, Y/N rocked back on her heels, glancing around. The Daily Planet was a lot grander than she’d expected, with its sleek architecture and giant windows that let sunlight spill across the lobby floor. She imagined Clark working here—sitting at a desk, pushing up those glasses of his while he scribbled in that little notepad.

It suited him.

The receptionist set the phone down. “Someone will be here in a second.”

“Awesome, thank you!” Y/N said brightly.

A minute later, a young intern appeared—wide-eyed and visibly trying to keep it together.

“Miss Y/N, uh—I—I can take you to Clark Kent,” he stammered, standing a little too straight, as if afraid his knees might buckle under him.

Y/N softened, offering a gentle smile. “That’d be great. What’s your name?”

The intern blinked, like he couldn’t believe she was actually asking. “Uh—Elliot?”

“Well, Elliot,” Y/N said as they walked toward the elevator, “it’s nice to meet you.”

Elliot made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a gasp.

She continued, hoping to put him at ease. “How long have you been here?”

“A f-few months,” he stammered.

“Enjoying it so far?”

He nodded violently, like if he spoke, he might combust on the spot.

Y/N bit back a laugh. The kid was adorable.

As the elevator doors dinged open, she gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, I bet you’re doing great.”

The moment they stepped out, Elliot practically sprinted away, disappearing into the crowd of desks like his life depended on it.

And that’s when she spotted him.

Clark Kent, sitting at the farthest side of the newsroom, completely engrossed in whatever he was reading. Glasses sliding slightly down his nose, brow furrowed in concentration.

Oblivious.

A wicked grin spread across Y/N’s face.

“CLARK!!! I GOT THE T-SHIRT YOU ASKED FOR!!”

The newsroom came to a screeching halt.

Reporters stopped mid-sentence. Phones continued ringing, unanswered. Someone dropped a stapler. Perry White’s office door swung open slightly as if the sheer force of Y/N’s volume had rattled it loose.

Clark Kent’s entire body stiffened.

He looked up so slowly it was almost painful, his eyes wide with horror.

Y/N beamed, holding up the atrocious neon pink T-shirt she had grabbed at random—which had her own face on it.

Clark blinked. Once. Twice.

One of his coworkers visibly choked.

Y/N waved the T-shirt again, just in case he hadn’t fully absorbed the majesty of the situation.

“IT’S EVEN SIGNED!!” she added gleefully.

Clark inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes for one agonizing second. Then, very carefully, he put his paper down.

“…Miss Y/N,” he said, voice painfully measured. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Y/N skipped over, gently placing the T-shirt onto his desk like a gift. “I came to see the draft! It’s been a while, so I thought I’d stop by”

Y/N made herself very comfortable at Clark’s desk, leaning back in the chair like she worked there, completely ignoring the fact that the entire newsroom was still staring.

Clark could feel it—the weight of dozens of eyes on him, the absolute shock and confusion radiating from his coworkers. He had handled high-profile investigations, corrupt politicians, and last-minute front-page rewrites, but this?

This was a nightmare.

Slowly, he looked down at the pink T-shirt now sitting on his desk.He flipped it over, inspecting the size tag, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

“A women’s extra small?” he deadpanned.

Y/N glanced down at the shirt like she was seeing it for the first time. She blinked. Tilted her head. Then, with zero hesitation, she looked back at him and grinned.

“Well, you’re not my usual demographic, you know,” she said lightly. “But I had to for my biggest fan.”

A choked wheeze came from the far corner of the newsroom.

Clark didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Lois Lane.

His award-winning colleague. His sometimes friend, sometimes menace.

Clark turned his head just enough to confirm his worst fears.

There she was. Leaning against her desk, arms crossed, eyes glinting like she had just won the lottery. Her grin was catastrophic. Clark could feel the gears turning in her head. He had worked with Lois for years. He knew her better than most people. Which meant he knew exactly what was about to happen. She was going to milk this for all it was worth. Clark could already hear the insufferable teasing. The jokes. The headlines she’d make up on the spot. The fact that this would never die, that she would bring it up for the rest of time.

No.

Absolutely not.

Before she could get a word in, before this entire situation spiraled into an irreversible nightmare, Clark abruptly stood.

“Meeting room,” he announced.

Y/N blinked. “Huh?”

Clark grabbed a report off his desk and marched past her. “If you want to see the draft, we’re discussing it somewhere private.”

Y/N, clearly entertained, hopped up and followed him. “Oooo, very professional.”

Clark ignored her. He ignored the stares, ignored the smug delight radiating off Lois, ignored the way half the newsroom was already whispering.

This was damage control.

And the sooner he got Y/N out of the newsroom, the better.

—

Y/N sat down, her fingers lightly tapping against the cool glass table, her gaze flickering around the pristine meeting room.

“Fancy,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow at the walls of glass surrounding them. “Makes me feel like I’m about to be interrogated.”

She glanced up at Clark, who sat across from her with his usual composed, professional air. He slid the printed draft across the table toward her.

"You wanted to see it,” he said, his voice even, unreadable. “So, here it is.”

Y/N took the pages, flipping the first one dramatically between her fingers before settling into her seat.

Clark watched her closely, pretending to be relaxed, pretending this was just another routine part of his job. But inside, his thoughts were rapid-fire chaos.

She’s just reading the article. She won’t recognize you. She has no reason to.

Y/N, oblivious to his internal spiral, started reading. Her lips pressed together, brows furrowing in concentration. Then—

“Oh, wow,” she muttered, glancing up at him. “This makes me sound so pretentious.”

Clark exhaled sharply through his nose, already tired. “Y/N, that’s a direct quote.”

She gasped, clutching her chest like he had just personally insulted her. “You’re telling me I sound pretentious naturally?”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m telling you that you said—” He leaned forward, reading straight from the page, “‘Art is only as good as the truth behind it. Without vulnerability, creativity is nothing but empty sound.’”

Y/N blinked. Then she snorted. “Yeah, okay, I did say that. That’s on me.”

Clark just nodded, resigned to his fate.

She continued reading, flipping through the pages at a leisurely pace, pausing only to make random commentary.

“Oh, I like this part.”

“Good.”

“Actually, you could’ve made me sound a little cooler here.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “I refuse to fabricate quotes.”

“Boring,” she muttered.

Another pause.

“Oof.”

Clark glanced up. “What?”

“This part.” She pointed at a paragraph. “The way you wrote this makes me sound so deep.”

He crossed his arms, tilting his head. “Are you saying you aren’t?”

Y/N smirked. “Oh, I absolutely am. I just didn’t expect you to capture it so well.”

Clark shook his head, letting out a quiet, amused exhale despite himself.

She was infuriating. But at the same time…

She made this easier.

As long as she was joking, as long as she was comfortable, she wasn’t suspicious.

And Clark?

He needed her not to be suspicious.

As Y/N flipped through the pages, making little comments, Clark tried his best to sit still, to act natural. But his thoughts wouldn’t settle.

The girl he had met all those years ago had been quiet. Thoughtful. She had carried herself with a kind of deliberate caution, as if she was still learning how much space she was allowed to take up in the world. Back then, every word she had spoken had felt measured, intentional. There had been something raw about her, something unguarded—like she was still in the process of figuring herself out.

This woman in front of him was something else entirely.

She was louder now. Bolder. She moved through the world like she belonged in every room she entered. Her energy was effortless, commanding, like she had not only learned how much space she was allowed to take up, but had decided it wasn’t enough and demanded more.

She was chaotic, teasing, almost cocky in the way she tossed words around so easily. Like she knew exactly what kind of reaction she was going to get before she even said anything.

Clark had not been prepared for that.

And, honestly?

He had barely survived the last hour.

Y/N laughed at one of her own comments, shaking her head as she flipped another page. Clark forced himself to keep his expression neutral, even as a single, crushing thought ran through his mind.

Never again.

Never again would he be in this situation.

Because the second she walked out of this meeting room, she would go back to her world, and he would stay in his. This was a one-time thing, a bizarre collision of past and present that would never happen again.

And thank God for that.

Because sitting across from her, pretending to be a stranger, pretending that he hadn’t once known her as someone else—

It was exhausting.

And then, just when he thought he had her figured out—

Y/N set the draft down, exhaling softly. When she looked at him, all the playfulness from before had faded.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said, voice quiet now. “You got me very well.”

Clark blinked.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

The sincerity in her voice caught him off guard. Clark hesitated, gripping his pen just a little tighter. Then, finally, he nodded. “I just wrote what I heard.”

Y/N studied him for a second, then tilted her head slightly. “Still. I read some of your other work. I know this isn’t what you usually do.”

Clark exhaled slowly. “No, it’s not.”

She smiled, small and knowing. “Maybe next time, you can sign something for me.”

Clark blinked. That—he hadn’t expected that.

Then, finally, he let out a quiet, almost relieved laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

Y/N grinned, standing up, gathering the pages as she made her way toward the door. Clark followed, holding it open for her, already mentally preparing to never deal with this again.

But as she stepped out, Y/N turned slightly, giving him one last look. And for just a second—barely even a second— Clark swore she looked like she was still thinking about something. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Then she flashed him one last playful smile, and the moment was gone.

Clark exhaled, watching the door swing shut behind her. And for the first time in weeks, he finally let himself think: It’s over.

—

Y/N exhaled, rolling her shoulders as the final note of the song faded into the quiet hum of the recording booth. She pulled the headphones off, running a hand through her hair as she stepped away from the mic.

Through the glass, she could see her producer giving her a thumbs-up, the rest of the team murmuring to each other while adjusting sound levels. It was late, and the session had stretched longer than planned. Her voice was tired, but she knew they got what they needed.

She should’ve felt good about it.

But as she pushed open the heavy soundproof door, stepping back into the main studio, the feeling didn’t come.

She loved music. She always had. But sometimes, being in a room full of people—even people she trusted—felt lonely. Like she was here, but not really part of anything.

Before she could dwell on it, her manager, Sam, approached, a knowing look already on her face.

Uh-oh.

“I don’t like that expression,” Y/N said immediately, swiping a water bottle off the console.

Sam smirked. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know that look.” She unscrewed the cap, taking a sip before narrowing her eyes. “That’s the ‘I’m about to make you do something you don’t want to do’ look.”

A few of the producers chuckled. Sam didn’t deny it.

“Okay, hear me out,” she started. “The label wants to do a documentary.”

Y/N froze mid-sip. Then, very slowly, she swallowed, recapped the bottle, and set it down.

“No.”

Sam sighed. “Y/N—”

“Nope.” She turned to leave, fully prepared to escape the conversation entirely, but Sam grabbed her wrist, expecting the reaction.

“Okay, at least pretend to consider it before storming out,” Sam said, amused.

Y/N turned back, crossing her arms. “I don’t like cameras in my face all the time. That sounds miserable.”

“I get it,” Sam said. “But this would be different. Not a reality show, not a tour diary— a real documentary. Fans want to see more of you. The real you.”

Y/N scoffed. “The real me? You mean the one who eats cereal straight out of the box at 3 a.m. and impulse-buys weird lamps online?”

Sam ignored that. “Look, the label thinks this is important. Your music means a lot to people, but they don’t really know you. This would be a chance to show them something deeper.”

Y/N pursed her lips, already feeling cornered. “I don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”

“I know that. But you could control this,” Sam said, voice gentler now. “If you agree, you get full creative control. You decide what gets shown. What gets cut. The whole thing would be yours.”

That gave her pause.

“Full?” she repeated.

Sam nodded. “Full.”

Y/N glanced at the floor, shifting on her heels. That changed things. She hated the idea of being put under a microscope, but if she had control… maybe she could shape the narrative on her own terms.

And then, an idea clicked.

Slowly, she looked up, her mind already made up before she even spoke.

“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ll do it.”

Sam blinked, startled by how quickly she agreed. “You will?”

“Yes.” She lifted a finger. “But—there’s a condition.”

Sam exhaled, already bracing herself. “Of course there is.”

Y/N grinned. “I want Clark Kent to be the lead journalist.”

Sam blinked. Then blinked again.

“…Clark Kent?”

“Yep.”

“As in The Daily Planet’s Clark Kent?”

“The one and only.”

Sam stared at her like she had grown a second head. “Y/N, I… that’s not his thing. He doesn’t do celebrity interviews. He writes about corruption and crime.”

“Exactly,” Y/N said, unbothered. “I don’t want an entertainment reporter. I want someone who actually listens.”

Sam still looked bewildered. “I—okay, why Clark Kent?”

Y/N hesitated.

Because he was normal with me.

Because he was nice.

Because he reminds me of the first friend I ever had. 

She didn’t know how to explain it. She had people in her life—team members, industry friends, producers—but no one outside of it. No one who wasn’t tangled up in the fame, the business, the expectations.

Clark wasn’t impressed by her status. He had treated her like a person. And after so many years of feeling like a product, that had been… nice.

Maybe she could be friends with him.

Maybe she wanted to be.

She shrugged, playing it off. “I just think he’d be good at it.”

Sam sighed, rubbing her temples. “This is the weirdest request you’ve ever made.”

“Not true.”

Sam gave her a look. “You once demanded only blue M&Ms backstage.”

“That was one time, and I was testing if anyone actually read the rider.”

Sam shook her head. “Okay, whatever, we’ll reach out to him. No promises, though.”

Y/N smirked. “Oh, he’ll say yes.”

Sam narrowed her eyes. “How do you know?”

Y/N stretched, grabbing her water bottle again. “Because he won’t be able to resist a highly interesting investigative project.”

Sam snorted. “Right. That’s definitely why.”

Y/N ignored her, taking a sip. “Plus, I think Perry White is a secret fan. Some account named Perry_NotWhite has been liking all my instagram pics the second they come out for months”

Sam choked on her drink. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I am. And the best part? He leaves comments like ‘real music’ and ‘finally, some talent’ under my posts.”

Sam covered her face. “Oh my God, at least you get your wish.”

—

Clark Kent sat at his desk, typing up notes for a story when he heard it.

The sound that never led to anything good.

“Kent! My office. Now.”

Clark groaned internally. Not again.

Keeping his expression neutral, he saved his work, straightened his tie, and headed toward Perry’s office. He could already tell, whatever this was, he wasn’t going to like it.

Perry didn’t even glance up as Clark stepped inside, instead tossing a thick folder onto the desk.

“You’re covering a new assignment,” Perry said gruffly.

Clark frowned. Red flag. Perry wasn’t looking at him directly, and that never meant anything good.

Cautiously, Clark picked up the folder and flipped it open.

The words at the top made his stomach drop.

Y/N – Documentary Proposal

Clark froze.

No.

No, absolutely not.

“Perry,” Clark started, already shaking his head. “No.”

“Yes,” Perry said, not even entertaining an argument.

Clark set the file down like it was radioactive. “I already did one story on her. That was more than enough.”

Perry scoffed. “Yeah, well, she specifically requested you.”

Clark’s eye twitched. “She what?”

“You heard me,” Perry said, leaning back in his chair. “Label’s doing a documentary. She has full creative control. She picked you to be the lead journalist.”

Clark stared.

His brain short-circuited for a full three seconds before he managed, “…Why?”

“How the hell should I know?” Perry huffed. “Maybe she likes you. Maybe she thinks you’re good at your job. Maybe she just wants to see you suffer.”

Clark was strongly leaning toward that last option.

Perry sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, Kent, this is a big deal. Exclusive access, behind-the-scenes, high-profile stuff. The kind of thing that would bring in serious readership.”

Clark folded his arms. “I cover real news. This isn’t—”

“This is real news,” Perry cut in. “A story about one of the most influential artists of our time, written by one of my best reporters? I can already hear the Pulitzer people whispering.”

Clark deadpanned. “I can assure you, they’re not.”

Perry ignored him. “Listen, Kent. It’s a few months of work. A couple interviews. A few trips. You do your job, write a damn good story, and then you never have to see her again.”

Clark exhaled slowly.

A few months.

A few months of being around her.

Of hoping she never really looks at him. Never puts the pieces together.

Clark glanced back down at the file. Y/N.

She had been chaos incarnate the last time they saw each other. She had bullied him in front of his entire newsroom. She had grinned as his dignity died a slow, painful death.

And now, she wanted him to work with her for months?

Absolutely not.

Clark closed the file.

“I’m not doing it.”

Perry laughed.

Not a ha-ha funny laugh. A that’s adorable that you think you have a choice laugh.

“Oh, yes, you are.”

Clark gritted his teeth. “Perry—”

“Let me put it this way, Kent,” Perry interrupted, voice dry. “You can either spend the next few months interviewing one of the biggest stars on the planet, or you can spend them covering every city hall budget meeting in a fifty-mile radius.”

Clark stared.

Perry smirked.

“…That’s evil,” Clark muttered.

“Thank you,” Perry said, completely unbothered.

Clark sighed deeply, dragging a hand down his face. He could feel the last of his resistance evaporating.

This was happening.

Y/N was going to be in his life again.

And this time?

He wasn’t sure he was going to survive it.

[southtopaz]

PSYCHO KILLER - SCREAM

Summary: in which Iris Morris has to navigate her personal relationships while surviving a psycho.

Warnings: Fem!reader, angst, mention of violence, swearing, mention of death, Amber freeman x Fem reader, Tara Carpenter x Fem reader, multiple parts.

Word count: +3k

A/n: the story will follow the events of Scream 5 and 6. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical mistake.

Part 1 , Part 2, Part 3

The drive to the hospital was filled with a heavy silence. Each person in the car was lost in their own thoughts, unsure of what to say or how to express their feelings. The air was thick with anxiety as they all braced themselves for the sight of their friend in whatever condition they might find her.

As they arrived to the hospital and made their way towards Tara's room, Iris's nerves began to intensify. Her footsteps slowed involuntarily, each step feeling heavier as they approached. She watched with a mix of apprehension and dread as her friends moved ahead and entered the room.

Meanwhile, Amber lingered beside her, casting a puzzled glance at Iris's hesitation.

"Are you okay babe?" She got closer to her girlfriend, squeezing her hand in a comforting manner.

"Yeah, it's just... I don't know how to feel about all of this". She sighed. "Should i go in there? I don't think Tara would want to see me".

Amber silently eyed the girl as she thought of what to say." We should get in there, she needs it after everything that happened". Iris has always admired Amber's empathy and she knew she was right. Tara might not be her best friend anymore but she was still Amber's.

Sometimes she would find herself lost in thought, pondering how her friendship with Tara might have unfolded if they did things differently.

After all, they had been friends with each other ever since they were six years old. They had shared countless memories, dreams and secrets that felt unbreakable. Yet, the reality was stark; things had changed. She struggled with the uncertainty of how to navigate their friendship now, especially after the events of two years ago that had created a rift between them. It was painful to realize that the deep connection they once shared, seemed almost unreachable now.

Despite the distance that had grown, her concern for Tara lingered, especially after the traumatic attack. She just wanted her to be safe.

As they entered the room, they heard Wes say, "You're up." Tara smiled at him, but her gaze quickly shifted to the door. She appeared taken aback when she saw Iris standing there.

"Hey guys, thank you for coming" she smiled softly at them.

"Of course, Tara," Iris said with a small smile. Tara's heart raced until she noticed Amber take Iris's hand and intertwine their fingers, causing her to look away.

The room had a calming, almost serene atmosphere. Privacy curtains, currently drawn back, framed the window, letting in just a sliver of sunlight that danced gently on the floor. A television mounted on the wall caught her attention, softly playing a nature documentary. Across from her was a side chair, now occupied by Amber who clutched into Tara's hand, worried for her best friend as she asked how she felt.

It hurt Iris to see Tara in a hospital bed looking so wounded up. She had a cast around her leg and a tube helping her with the oxygen. Iris's heart sank at the thought of how alone she must have felt and how she probably thought she was going to die at the hands of some psycho.

Tara must have sensed someone observing her closely, as she suddenly turned her gaze directly toward Iris. The two locked eyes, and for a moment, they just stared at each other, the emotional gap between them growing heavier. Observing the interaction, Amber placed her hand gently on her girlfriend's thigh, her thumb softly tracing circles.

They all keep each other company for a little bit longer when suddenly the door swung open. Iris's eyes widened as she saw Sam walk through the door alongside a brunette guy.

Sam immediately crouched beside her sister, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "How are you feeling?" She asked with genuine concern, her voice filled with worry.

"You came" Tara was just as surprised as everyone else.

"Of course I came" Sam replied, with a gentle smile in her face. She felt guilty that her own sister thought she wouldn't show up after getting stabbed but she didn't show it. "This is my boyfriend Richie".

"It's so nice to meet you. I'm so sorry if I'm intruding." Richie took a step closer to Tara and waved at her.

"Nice to meet you too" Tara smiled unsure, raising a hand.

"Thank you for calling". Sam told softly to Wes once she hugged him. "Look at your hair, I like it" they both shared a laugh, she then went around and hug all of her sister's friends.

"Hi Ris" she whispered softly into her hair after she pulled her into a tight hug. "I can't believe how tall you are right now"

Sam and Iris had always been close because of her friendship with Tara. The three of them would spend many hours together, watching movies and playing games, with Sam always making sure both of them were well taken care of. Sam was also the first person Iris confided in when she realized she was bisexual, stepping into the role of the big sister she never had. This relationship had been so important in Iris's life until everything shifted out of nowhere when Sam decided to leave without a word to anyone.

Seeing Sam now, Iris felt a surge of emotion and instinctively pulled her into a tight hug. "It's so good to see you, Sam," she said, her voice trembling with longing. The embrace was more than just a gesture; it was a deep need for comfort and connection that Iris had been missing.

Sam walked back to her boyfriend and introduced him to everyone. "These are Chad and Mindy, the twins, Wes and Iris. I used to babysit them all". They all sent a wave towards him.

"Which is always how I like to be introduced". Wes joked lightly.

"And Amber, hey". Sam akwardly greeted her, they never had much of a bond. Amber always seemed to dislike her for some reason.

"Hi nice to see you" Amber told her but everyone knew she didn't mean it. Sam glanced at her, then her eyes fell to the sight of her hand clasped with Iris's. She was taken aback by the sight and quickly took a glance at her sister. When she thought about what would happen when she saw this people again, she never thought Amber would be the one to date Iris.

"H-hi, I'm Richie" he smiled nervously. That alone made Iris raise her eyebrows, she put a hand around Amber's shoulder and pulled her close to her, bringing a smile to the girl.

"Where's mom?" Sam asked her sister, finally noticing the absence of their parent.

"She's stuck at a conference in London. She called me earlier". Tara explained and Amber scoffed in disbelief. "Yeah for all 10 minutes". No one knew what to say, Tara's and Sam's mom was certainly not winning mother of the year award.

"Look guys, Tara's really tired. Maybe we should just give her some space".

"Not you Sam, I want you to stay". Tara called out to her sister when she noticed her trying to leave the room too.

Chad, Mindy and Wes all said their goodbyes and turned to leave the room. Richie stood by the door waiting for Amber and Iris to leave too.

"If it's okay with you, I could sleep here tonight" Sam suggested unsure of her sister reaction, she knew they had a lot of things to talk about.

"I'd really like that". Tara smiled weakly at her and Sam reciprocated it. Iris felt herself smiling too watching both girls having a moment of peace.

Amber asked Tara if she had her extra inhaler and once she said yes, Amber tugged Iris along as she tried to walk through the door, but Iris held back and crouched down beside Tara to squeeze her hand hesitantly. She could feel Tara sharp intake of breath as she squeezed harder. She didn't know what came into her but she couldn't leave the room without showing some kind of support to Tara.

"I'm glad you're okay, I got really scared for you". Iris couldn't meet her eye but as she felt Tara's intense gaze on her, she found herself wanting to take a glimpse.

"Don't worry, I'm basically inmmortal at this point". They both laughed weakly at Tara's attempt of joking. "I didn't know if you were going to come and visit".

"You think I wouldn't have?" She was a little hurt Tara would think that, though she couldn't really blame her, the last time they a have had a real conversation that lasted more than 10 minutes was 2 years ago when they were still friends.

Tara ignored the question and gave her hand a tiny squeeze. "I'm glad you did, thank you". They stared at each other for a few more seconds before they felt Amber clearing her throat. "Baby let's leave so they can talk"

Iris gave Tara a final smile and then left the room with her girlfriend. "You okay love?"

"Are you?" Amber asked her in a serious tone, it threw Iris off guard.

"I think so?"

"Okay, let's go, the other just texted, they are heading to the bar". They walked through the hallway together and left the hospital, leaving Iris feeling confused. She couldn't quite grasp why Amber appeared so upset, but she chose to brush it off. Amber had always reacted this way whenever she saw them talking, so Iris decided not to dwell on it, assuming it was probably nothing important.

—————————————

"So, what's she like, the sister?" Liv asked as she leaned against the pool table, her eyes fixed on the game between Chad and Iris. The latter subtly moved the position of a ball that would make her have an advantage over Chad when he wasn't looking and shot Liv a wink, gesturing for her to keep quiet.

Liv gave her a playful smile and turned to pay attention to her boyfriend.

"Sam? She's so cool". Chad happily answered.

"You only say that beacuse she let you and Iris wear Pokemon onesies to bed for a year" Mindy replied making everyone laugh.

Iris exaggeratedly placed a hand over her chest in mock offense, playing up the moment as if she were deeply hurt. Now Chad's turn to play, he glanced at the table with a puzzled expression, his gaze darting around as he tried to locate the red ball. He was slightly bewildered, as he could have sworn that the ball had been in plain view just moments ago.

"Pokemon onesies? Me? I would never" Mindy gave her a knowing look, while Amber shook her head with laughter.

"Ambs, baby, don't listen to them alright? They are trying to ruin my reputation"

"What reputation bro? That disappeared the moment you fell off the school benches because you were watching Amber do acrobatics in a skirt". Mindy couldn't pass up the opportunity to make fun of her best friend, sue her.

"Omg baby that's so embarrassing, I thought you said you got dizzy" Amber playfully told her with a cute glint in her eyes.

"I got dizzy by your hotness cutie" she jokily winked at her, making everyone at the table groan with disgust.

"Don't call me cutie" Amber pretended to be mad as Iris planted a kiss in her head.

"You're right babe, you're a bad bitch". Iris put a hand around her waist and turned to look at her friends. "Me and the baddie I pulled by being a virgin, look at me Wes it's still possible for you".

They all laughed except for Wes who flipped a finger at her, calling her a bitch.

"Going back to Sam, trust me she is not cool" Amber brought back the conversation to Sam, explaining why she was a terrible sister. "Her dad left her mom, right? Walks right out when Tara's eight and Sam's thirteen. So Sam started acting out, getting in trouble with cops and then, on Sam's eighteenth birthday, she leaves".

Iris flickered her eyes towards her girlfriend, they both knew this but for some reason, Amber sounded more hateful. She knew what Sam did was wrong but she couldn't hate on the woman without actually knowing the reason she disappeared. She knew Sam, and if she left, it was because she thought it was better for Tara. She had a lot of things to say but she didn't want Sam to be the reason she fought with her girlfriend, so she shut up and continued focusing on the stripped blue ball she had been trying to put in the hole for the past 5 minutes.

"Ghosts them all". Amber shares a little bit of Vodka with her friends. No one was supposed to drink alcohol as they were just 18 but they always managed to hide some in a flask.

"Maybe Sam has changed but I just don't want to see Tara hurt again."

"So what, you're protecting Tara from her own sister?" Wes questioned her.

"She's not saying that Wes, but what if Sam leaves again? I don't think she will but if it happens then Tara is going to be hurt and we don't want that". Iris interjected trying to calm the waters between those two, with everything that had been going she didn't need her friends to fight each other.

"You don't want that? That's rich coming from you". Wes muttered in response.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Forget it, so no guys are good enough for her, and now her family's off limits too?" Wes turned his attention back to Amber, scoffing at the girl.

"Mmm, motive!" Mindy spoke up, causing everyone to look at her. She leaned on her pool stick as she glanced at the boy. "If I can't have her, no one can"

"What?"

"We all know you have a crush on Tara," Mindy announced, and as everyone around them nodded in agreement, Iris was taken aback. She had been completely unaware of this detail. It seemed that in her attempts to avoid any direct interaction with Tara, she had missed out on some crucial information. What else did she not know?

"Alright, come on, Mindy," the boy retorted with irritation. "So what, am I suspect now because you think I have a crush on her? Does that make Iris a suspect too?" The mention of Iris's name, along with the words "crush" and "Tara," made her stiffen. Amber's gaze turned fiercely toward Wes, her expression so intense it was as if she were plotting something drastic. Her grip on her flask tightened, causing her knuckles to turn white with the force.

"Don't bring me into the conversation Hicks, I have nothing to do with that". she said, her irritation evident. She was frustrated with the boy, upset with her friends for not speaking up, and angry at herself for letting the comment get under her skin.

"Well you had a crush on her before"

"Shut up dude that was a million years ago".

"Know your place Wes, that's my girlfriend you're talking about". Amber angrily scoffed at the boy, enough to make him shut up.

"But we're all suspects," Mindy pointed out, prompting everyone to exchange glances as if they were only now considering this possibility. Chad lift his glass in a casual salute towards his sister. The air was thick with contemplation as everyone weighed the implications of Mindy's observation.

"Except maybe Liv".

"Thank you" Liv smiled as she thought it was a compliment.

"You're way too boring to be a psycho" Mindy finished her thoughts and Iris snorted on her drink. Liv looked at them both and flipped her finger at them.

"Hey don't look at me, she's the bitch" Iris said, pointing her stick at Mindy, who playfully nudged her in the side. In moments like these, when they were joking around and laughing with her friends, it was hard for Iris to believe that one of them could be involved in the attacks, targeting people. Her thoughts drifted back to her sister. She couldn't recall much about her, except for those times when she would have a nightmare and Olivia would come to her room, curling up beside her and singing soothing songs until Iris fell asleep peacefully in her sister's arms. Olivia never knew her two friends were behind all the attacks, she also never knew she was murdered in her own room by one of them. Iris likes to think it's better that way, to just not know, she couldn't imagine what she would do if one of her friends was behind it all. She would go insane.

Suddenly someone called out to them. "Yo Liv, want a real drink?" Vince shouted from a few meters away. "Or are you happy sitting at this kid's table?" The creep chuckled as he kept getting closer to them.

"Listen up, Uglier Michael Myers, it was a summer fling. It meant nothing". Chad went to him trying to defend his girlfriend.

"Was I talking to you?" Vince asked clenching his hand. "I don't fucking care who you're talking to" Chad shouted in his face.

Vince tried talking to Liv one more time before Chad got in his face. "Don't you fucking talk to her".

"Shut the fuck up" Vince pulled out a pocket knife out of nowhere and moved menacingly towards Chad. Iris quickly shoved Vince away from her friend causing his grip on the knife to falter.

"Get the fuck out of here dude" Vince attempted to advance toward her as well, but when he took a closer look at her, his demeanor changed. "Well, sweetheart, you can join me if you want," he said, trying to sound flirty. "There's no need for us to fight."

"Call me sweetheart one more time and I'll kill you" she muttered defiantly as she moved closer to Vince, undeterred by the knife he held. Just as Vince was about to respond, Chad quickly stepped in, grabbing her firmly and positioning himself between her and Vince. He shielded her from any potential threat, making sure that Vince couldn't reach her or cause any harm.

"Hey!" A bartender yells. "Get out of here before I call the cops"

Iris felt a firm grip on her arm and turned to see Amber's face contorted with anger. They quickly followed their friends as they exited the bar, coming to a halt once they were outside, letting the rest of the group walk without them.

"What the fuck were you thinking huh?" Amber demanded, her voice rising in frustration. "That fucker could have seriously hurt you, and for what?"

"He was threatening Chad," Iris tried to explain, but before she could say more, Amber moved closer, grasping both of Iris's arms tightly. Her eyes were fierce with rage. "I don't give a shit about Chad right now," Amber said urgently. "I don't want you putting yourself in unnecessary danger, do you understand? He could have really hurt you, and that's all I care about".

Amber was right. Iris hadn't intended to upset her, but her anger had clouded her judgment. "You're right, I'm sorry," she admitted, her voice tinged with remorse. Amber gradually loosened her grip and pulled Iris into a tight embrace.

"I just don't want to see you hurt," Amber said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. "You're all that matters to me." She gently tucked a strand of hair behind Iris's ear and pressed a tender kiss to her temple. Then, leaning down, she placed a gentle kiss on Iris's lips. Iris sighed softly into the kiss, her hands cradling Amber's face while Amber's arms wrapped around her waist. The kiss lingered until they both needed to break away for air. They parted, their foreheads resting against each other, sharing a quiet, intimate moment.

"Don't worry, he wasn't going to hurt me."

"But if he did I would've destroyed him"

"Hot but it won't be necessary". Iris gently intertwined their hands and they started to walk together to the car.

"Amber baby, aren't you forgetting something?" She playfully asked her as she got into the passenger seat, they loved to play that game.

"I love you"

"I love you too" she happily sighed into her girlfriend's space. "Now kiss me again".

[gothamite-rambler]

Ra's Al Ghul: Behold, my new man cave!

Ra's stepped aside, revealing a space that gave off an ominous vibe, more reminiscent of a dark cavern than a relaxed hangout spot. Skulls of animals and humans adorned the walls, bookshelves filled with spell books towered in the corners, couches still wrapped in plastic beckoned untouchably, and a flat-screen TV was mounted among a collection of other macabre items.

Duke (unnerved to his soul): Oh hell nah!

Duke tried to escape the unsettling ambiance, but Tim grabbed him, pulling him back. Duke pouted, grumbling about the demon cave.

Ra's (slightly offended): What? You people always talk about caves and hangout spots. This is that. I wanted you to have that place when you visit... here. I say with massive reluctance.

Damian walked further into the cave and looked around, then nodded to approve the cave.

Damian: Huh... This is nice. I like it.

Ra's (appreciative): Th—thank you, grandchild. I wasn’t expecting positive input from you.

Damian (nonchalantly): Nah, it’s cool, it fits you. Is that a cryptid resting in the corner?

Ra's: Yeah, it’s a half-cat, half-fox creature I found. You can pet him if you want.

Damian eagerly ran over to pet the cat-fox, with Duke reluctantly following, keeping his distance from Ra's, who he still viewed as "satan."

Ra's: Why does he keep treating me like I'm the devil?

Jason (walking past): You kind of are.

Dick: Um, this is nic—That'd be a lie. This is interesting to be in and I'm impressed you put this much effort into the set up. We can hang out for a minute and then leave.

Tim: You're not going to poison us or trade us to the Court of Owls, are you?

Ra's: I won't! Because Talia will kill me again if I do. Everything is safe to drink and touch. Pl—ple—please just try the place out... I'm being nice! Let me do this.

Dick and Tim exchanged unsure glances but shrugged it off, stepping into the man cave. Ra's sighed, shaking his head as he closed the door to the unconventional hangout. He had promised Talia and Bruce he’d do one nice thing for his grandson and his brothers before the end of the year, and although it slightly pained him to do so, he couldn’t deny that seeing his grandson happy made him feel a little better.

[lale-txt]

𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀 (𝐀𝐤𝐚𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫) ❦ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎𝟏: 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤

♫ Soap&Skin - Safe With Me

No love can be safe with me No love can be safe with me No love can be safe with me No love can be safe with me

✰ 𝐜𝐰: slightly suggestive themes in both SMAU & written portions

⭅ back to m.list

He kissed you once.

You’re sure he remembers it. You wish he wouldn’t.

Sometimes, when Akaashi is deeply focused on capturing every shape of you in coal and ink, he’d get this expression that makes you want to cry; a deep loneliness that’s hidden so deep down you’d scrape your fingertips trying to dig it up. It’s too familiar, like looking down the bottomless pond of his soul, dead water luring you in. 

Sitting model for a bunch of spoiled rich art students has been by far the easiest job you ever had. You didn’t mind getting undressed for them; a body is just that–a body, a temporary home for your soul, a shield you carry with grace and the air of a silent threat. A few hours, three times a week, getting on the pedestal in the classroom like a fallen goddess climbing up the stairs to Mount Olympus to claim her rightful throne. Sitting, standing, lying down, it’s you who dictates how you want to be perceived that day, how you’ll allow them to lay their eyes on you, like an offering. They’re not chipping away from you, some of them don’t even see you. 

But Akaashi does. 

Love drunk. Longing. Lonely. 

At times he feels like a cat, pawing at the window of your soul, begging to be let in. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Every now and then you think about letting him catch a glimpse, just enough to scare him away, so he’d stop looking at you with those sad eyes of his. To prove him that you’re nothing like the version of yourself that he sculpted in his mind. 

You’re not sure why you keep agreeing when he asks you to sit for him in the evening hours. It’s for the money, you tell yourself. Everyone who goes to this university must be well off, so you don’t feel too bad taking whatever absurd sum they’re offering to you to pose for a few more hours after regular classes. 

It’s always the same, like a dance you memorize each and every step to. You know your way around this campus, having been here countless times and at different departments, but even after three years Akaashi would wait for you by the huge iron gate, leaning against the red brick wall and mindlessly fidgeting with his fingers, almost as if they’re itching to create something to calm his nervous system. He’s there, no matter the season or weather. It’s a ten minute walk from the gate to the east wing where his private atelier is at, and every time he already has a lighter in the pocket of shirt and a perfectly rolled cigarette behind his ear prepared for you. Sometimes, when you lean in to light it, his hands would tremble slightly when he cups the small flame to shield it from the wind for you.

Most of the time you do the talking–about new releases you got at the record store, any upcoming live shows you managed to get a guest list entry for, or whatever movie you watched the other day. Akaashi listens intently, his eyes always pinned on the path in front of you, only occasionally stealing a side glance at you, almost as if he’s saving those up for when the door of his atelier closes behind you two. 

You still remember what his lips tasted like. A sweet oblivion, paired with the gentle caress of his palms against your face, so soft it made you want to cry more than you already did that night. Like a forbidden fruit offered to you on a silver platter. 

The east wing of the uni building feels pretty abandoned and eerie quiet at times. You learned that all students were granted their own ateliers and the sculpting department had the bad luck of being assigned to what they call the catacombs, even though the rooms were on the second floor and not below surface. It’s probably thanks to the ancient hallways with the dark bricks and broken stained glass windows–once magnificent, today barely a shadow of what they once were. No matter the season, it was always cold here, too.

Akaashi’s atelier is a stark contrast to this. The high ceilings are plastered with sketches and notes, some polaroids of his friends, too. Blocks of clay and marble are scattered across the floor, some wooden blocks too, as if he needed every single material of the world to convey the story he wants to tell with his art. There’s an omamori from when they all visited the shrine for New Year’s together next to some dried flowers that you recognize from one of Yukie’s projects a few semesters ago. A dozen blankets are draped over the chaise lounge by the big window, the one where you usually take your position. In one corner stands a decorative paper screen that he put up for you to get changed behind, as if he didn’t spend hours studying every dip and curve of your body once you step out from behind it.

It feels homey and cozy. You hate to admit that.

Sometimes you’d stay here till past midnight. Akaashi lets you play your music over the small portable speaker while his pen scratches over the paper, his eyes darting back and forth between the sketchbook in his lap and your bare figure standing still for him. He never touches you when he asks you to shift your pose, his slender hands only ghosting over your skin, like a puppeteer pulling your strings. It feels almost reverent. He also never comments on the blemishes of your skin, the love bites and scratches and hickeys, but you can tell that he notices them, his eyes darkening for a split second before he’s back to his usual, calm composure.

At times you’d study his hands–his flawless, tender hands which look as if they never had to do dirty work even once–and you wonder how they’d feel wrapped around your throat, a quiet “Please” on the tip of your tongue.

“Have you thought about the theme of your final assignment yet?”, you ask, a cigarette dangling from your lips as you smoke by the open window. The blanket draped around your shoulders is warm and heavy, the material feels expensive. The ornamental carpet you’re standing on is one Akaashi got for you when he noticed how you shivered and shifted from one foot to the other during your cigarette breaks. You blow out a mouthful of smoke towards the night sky and look over to him. For someone as put together as him, with his dark green linen pants and the black button up shirt, his hair was always a bit unkempt, barely contained by his glasses pushed up into it. 

“Phantom pain.”

His voice is quiet, almost not audible, but his gaze feels like it could spark a thousand small fires inside of you if you let him.

He kissed you once. 

Your heart still aches from it. 

•┈••✦ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬

Problem Child Records has an attached rehearsal room which local bands can use for free (or in exchange for tickets to their upcoming shows)

the sofa in there has seen to many things (Issei and y/n are the biggest culprits)

Kunimi already has some practice in taking y/n's makeup off, she lets him do it whenever he sleeps over at the Ukai-Takeda househould and they do sheet masks together afterwards

Ukai & Takeda are high school volleyball coaches in this universe too and whenever they're off for training camps or tournaments, the remaining four are in charge of the store (usually Kiyoko is handling things best)

Akaashi doesn't smoke but he knows how to roll a mean cigarette (Kuroo taught him)

we bless Yukie for her service (putting pretty men in lingerie)

i haven't decided who the Semi's drummer in question is yet and i'm taking suggestions in the comments

•┈••✦ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

@wyrcan @spacekedi @kentocalls @hhoneyhan @walllflowerrrsss

@rory-cakes @jaynawayna @zq13

taglist open! dm/ask/comment to be added (or removed, no hard feelings ♡)! minors DNI!

[peachshadows]

With lmk s5 finally released i promised ya'll that i would post a chapter of scum villain rip off so here it is! Just a bit of context this is basically where Wukong gets trapped under the mountain leaving Macaque to rule alone in FFM with an appearance of Erlang Shen.

---

“Y’know, monkey, your very existence annoys me.” He leans against the cavern wall, nonchalantly looking at his nails as if that was more interesting than being choked by hot coal.

Wukong spits out the burning coal. He honestly lost count how many times his throat and tongue practically melted and regenerated. Over and over and over again. It was torture. But not as torturous as talking with Erlang Shen. “Tell me something I don't know.”

Erlang Shen lets out a serene smile as if he remembered something fond and that alone makes him want to spit the coal at his stupid face. “Well then, would you like to hear about how our dear Macaque is faring?”

Hearing Macaque’s name made all the noises in his head go quiet. Just hearing his moonlight name was enough to soothe him like a calming balm on his soul but what frankly canceled it out was Macaque’s name coming out of the shameless god’s mouth. 

“…Macaque?” He whispered brokenly, his throat reforming itself.

“Yes, yes. He’s been so stressed lately.” Erlang Shen turns to finally face him, a cruel smirk dancing on his face. “Taking over a kingdom can be quite taxing but don’t worry he’s in safe hands, better hands than your bloodied demonic claws-”

“Do NOT touch him,” he snarls at the god because how dare he? How dare he touch someone that was his to take care of, his to love and devote his entire being to. How dare this second rate being have the audacity to even mess what’s his. 

Erlang Shen laughs, high and mighty; cruel and cold. “And what are you gonna do? Defeat me? If anything, this great one is doing you a favor.” 

If he could, he would’ve already punched the living shit out of the god. Alas, he’s stuck under a mountain where he doesn’t even get the luxury of seeing the sun. But, he does get the unfortunate luxury of talking with Erlang Shen. So he tries to even his breathing. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do you really need this great one to spell out for you, Great Sage?” The god spits his title like it was something disgusting. “He’s happy, joyous now that you’re gone.”

“You lie-”

“And why would this great one lie? You’ve been nothing but a nuisance, a hindrance to him.” Erlang Shen gets closer, slamming both of his hands above Wukong, baring his teeth as if he’s some demon and not a powerful deity. “Your greed, your lust for power drove Macaque into a corner where he was left with a decision of either sacrificing his idiotic friend or have the rest of your people be slaughtered. And he chose smartly.”

His first instinct was disbelief, a cruel joke that the god is telling him. But the more that Erlang Shen spoke, the more he’s painted a picture of Macaque, smiling freely and unboundedly, with all the citizens of Mount Huaguo at his side, and the worst part, he can clearly see Erlang Shen beside Macaque as the two make a powerful beautiful duo. A match made in heaven. Who else can deserve Macaque but a powerful high ranking god?  

“…He chose you.” 

The god smirks at his defeated figure before summoning his spear. “Goodbye, Sun Wukong. I have more important matters to deal with.”

And finally leaves the False Sage Equal to Nothing in a burst of light. 

And if the earth could hear him, they would’ve heard his screams of anguish and anger practically shake the mountain. 

—

It’s been 502 years since Wukong’s imprisonment, or rather his supposed “death,” and Macaque knows by now that his king is already on his journey, gathering as much power and maidens in his grasp as he can before he reaches back to Mount Huaguo. He can’t help but feel a pang of dread at the thought of Wukong returning. 

There was no turning back. No amount of kindness and servitude can save him from his inevitable death by Wukong’s hands. 

He kneels for however long right before where the staff–his king’s rightful staff–used to lay as he mulls over his options now. Could he escape? No, that would just lead to death as well. Maybe, he can beg for mercy? No, that wouldn’t make sense with Macaque’s character. Maybe, he could-

“Mihou-shixiong, there you are.” He turns to see Rin Rin in all her soft glory, gripping her hands in a nervous manner. The absence of Wukong must’ve really gotten to her if he could practically see the worry affecting her usually cheerful face. 

“Rin Rin,” he says softly, standing from his kneeled position as he approaches her. “How are you? I know Wukong’s absence has been affecting us all but-”

She shakes her head. “Not as much as it's affecting you, Shixiong. We’re all worried for you.”

Affecting him? Of course it has been affecting him, he will soon die a painful death, Rin Rin!

“You barely draw anymore. You go outside only to visit Wukong’s shrine. And you only accept visitors when it's the Generals or Erlang Shen. At least let Qi Xiaotian accompany you. I know you two have gotten close over the past centuries and he understands the pain you’re going through.”

That stuns him quite a bit. She’s not exactly wrong…He has stopped drawing ever since Wukong’s imprisonment but who can honestly blame him? Seeing the protagonist draw was an inspiring thing and without that, it just felt silly to continue on without him. He does only visit Wukong’s shrine but only because it was the only quiet place where no one would disturb him. Ever since Macaque was crowned as regent king, beings of Mount Huaguo always sought him out for solutions of problems or even just so they could stare at him and whisper behind his back. It was humiliating being the center of attention. It’s quite frankly the first time Macaque ever got nervous in front of people. So he hid. Only ever allowing General Liu, Erlang Shen, the General, Rin Rin, and MK to visit him. 

But he doesn’t voice those thoughts out, instead he returns to kneel in front of the empty shrine and continue on as if Rin Rin isn’t there. 

He hears Rin Rin let out a sigh filled with frustration, but instead of leaving, she kneels along with him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Hopefully, Wukong doesn’t find out about Rin Rin needing a shoulder to cry on or else…he shudders thinking about the many ways Macaque gets tortured. 

“Your sworn brothers are asking for you,” she mumbles.

“...What do they want?” he eventually asks.

“You’re needed at their kingdom.”

“Can’t I just ignore them?”

She snorts quietly. A small smile formed on her face. “It’s urgent, Macaque.”

It must be really serious if she’s calling him by his name and not by his title. So with a great sigh, he reluctantly says, “Fine. Gather some disciples and get General Liu to accompany me.”

[puer-aurea]

i got some incorrect quotes to showcase the crews dynamics and give insight into what arabellas personality will be like without flat out saying it

Jimmy, Swansea, Curly, Anya, Arabella, Daisuke (also what happened to the yellow color?? curly was supposed to be yellow but its gone???)

Swansea: Shut it Daisuke, I only shook your hand because I had to. We will NEVER be friends. Daisuke: Lets survive this together! Swansea: I HOPE YOU DIE.

Curly: *out cold on the ground* Daisuke: Oh my god, do you think they’re okay?! Swansea, holding a bucket of ice water: Who cares?! *dumps all of the water on Curly’s face*

Curly, in the groupchat: So you guys robbed Jimmy? Jimmy: Yeah, all of them. Anya: Lies. Swansea: Slander. Arabella: That’s bullshit. Daisuke: And we’d do it again.

Jimmy: State your name, rank, and intention. Arabella: Arabella, Arabella, fun.

Jimmy: Maybe the real monster was the friends we both literally and figuratively murdered along the way.

Arabella, grinning: Before you were what? Jimmy: Before I was- Arabella: What? Jimmy: Before I was inter- Arabella: Before you were interrupted? Jimmy: Cut me off one more time and I swear I'll- Arabella: What? Jimmy: *makes frustrated sound* Anya, nervously: Stop that. Before they hurt you.

Anya: Daisuke just insisted Swansea and I remember a code word in case we’re ever confronted by their clone or a cyborg doppelgänger and we’re not sure which is the real them and which is the imposter. Anya: Some families have a fire escape plan, but not us.

Anya: That’s why we needed to get an expert. Arabella: Oh, really? Who did you get? Anya: *stares* Arabella: Oh! Right, that’s me… Yes.

Arabella, making a cup of tea: Yeah, get into that leaf juice, you sexy, sexy bee sauce. Anya: Hey, do you take constructive criticism? Arabella: I absolutely fucking do not.

Anya: A-are you sure this is safe?! Jimmy: Oh, quit being such a baby. It’s perfectly safe! …For me!

Jimmy: Sometimes I drink milk straight from the container. Arabella: The cow?? Jimmy: What? Anya: Arabella, W H Y?

Arabella: Jimmy, we tried things your way. Jimmy: No, we didn't. Arabella: I did it in my head and it didn't work.

Arabella: GET BACK HERE YOU DUMB FUCK! Jimmy: LET ME RUN FROM THE CONSEQUENCES OF MY ACTIONS!

Anya, gesturing to Arabella: Curly, look what you did! You made Mom upset! Daisuke: Mom, please don’t cry, we’re sorry! Curly: I’m sorry Mom... :( Arabella, near tears: I DON’T REMEMBER GIVING BIRTH TO ANY OF YOU!

Anya: You read my diary? Curly: At first I did not know it was your diary. I thought it was a very sad handwritten book.

Arabella: I prevented a murder today. Daisuke: Really? That’s amazing! How did you do that? Arabella: Self-control.

Arabella: What makes you all smile? Curly: Friends and Family. Daisuke: Snacks. Jimmy: Victory and success. Anya: Face muscles.

Bailiff: Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Arabella/Jimmy: No.

Jimmy: I feel like I have died and gone to heaven. Anya: I have that dream, too, but you go in the other direction.

Jimmy: Might I make a suggestion you possibly won’t like? Arabella: Do you make any other kind?

Anya: Question. When they shot Bambi's mother, did you find that a sad moment...at all? Jimmy: I'm sure she's mounted on a nice wall in a fine home somewhere.

Arabella: Two truths and a lie, I’ll start! Arabella: I’ve killed a man, I will kill again, and it burns when I pee. Jimmy, visibly nervous: I don’t- I don’t like this game.

Curly: I was voted “friendliest classmate” in high school. Daisuke: I was voted “most likely to become a clown”… Jimmy: You think that’s bad? HA! I was voted “most likely to get rabies”!

Anya: I'm bored. Arabella: Wanna commit first degree murder? Anya: Sure! Curly, hearing them: No- Stop, don't do that! Put that knife down! Put Jimmy down!!

*out grocery shopping* Anya: *takes a free sample twice* Anya: Robbery and Fraud. I am a Rebel.

Arabella: Ladies, gentlemen and Curly, I want to show you the greatest thing your eyes have ever beheld! Daisuke: A llama? Arabella: No. Daisuke: A baby llama? Arabella: No! Daisuke: A baby llama with a little hat on? Arabella: NO!

Arabella, at Starbucks: Can I get a venti vanilla latte with um, seven espresso shots. Swansea, in line behind them: Jesus Christ, just do cocaine.

Swansea: Big day today, Daisuke. *holds up two shirts* Mustard stain or ketchup stain? Daisuke: Mustard– looks less like blood.

Curly: I can’t tell if you’re a genius or just incredibly arrogant. Arabella: Well, on a good day, I’m both.

Arabella: Everything will be ok. You can not stop it. Arabella: Everything will be fine. You have no choice. Curly: What the fuck kind of pep talk is that? Arabella: Ominous positivity.

Daisuke: Hey Jimmy, do you have any hobbies? Jimmy: Swimming.. Daisuke: Really? That’s cool. I never expected you to- Jimmy: In a pool of self hatred and regret.

Anya: Can we talk about that mass email you sent? Arabella: Why? It was important. Anya: All it says is, "I'm back on my shit". Daisuke, shrugging: The people need to know.

Arabella: My toxic trait is that I truly believe I could win a fight against anybody if I was mad enough. You might have the strength and size, but I have the pure, unfiltered rage.

Daisuke: Don’t mansplain this to me! Anya: Wh- I’m a woman! I can't mansplain anything to you! Daisuke: …Well, I’m a feminist, and I believe a woman can do anything a man does!

Arabella: Which country has the most birds? Arabella: Portu-geese! Swansea: That's a language. Arabella: Portu-gull? Swansea: Good recovery. Anya: I think you mean good re-dovery. Daisuke: TURKEY. HOW DID WE MISS TURKEY?

Curly: Norwegia. Is. Not. A. COUNTRY! Daisuke: Then where are Norwegian people from!? Anya: NORWAY!!

these next ones js made me laugh (i dont ship curly and jimmy these just genuinely had me bent over cackling) Curly, about Jimmy: I see the red flags, I acknowledge that they're there, and then I completely ignore them.

Jimmy: *sucking on a popsicle* Arabella: Pfft, you practicing for when Curly gets here? Jimmy: *takes a huge ass bite out of the popsicle* Arabella: *Concern*

Curly: Wow, they really hate us. Jimmy: Yes, perhaps they’re homophobic. Curly: But we’re not gay, Jimmy. Jimmy: Curly: Jimmy: We’re not?