#(⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠) others fluffiness

[buckysfaveplum]

starboy

summary: recovering from kryptonite poisoning back home in Kansas leaves your relationship with Clark a bit confused. you’ve always been his rock- his best friend. but now, back on the farm, maybe there was always something more

pairing: clark kent x female reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: spoilers!!! don’t read if you don’t wanna be spoiled you’ve been warned! just a lil hurt/comfort fluffy fic, friends confessing feelings type shit, reader calls clark ‘starboy’. um reader makes the first real move cause Clark is a bashful lil gentleman and too nervous

a/n: guyssss i’ve been gone for a while i’m sorry. i’m in the home stretch with my master’s thesis. but i just saw Superman and i’m a mess so here you go! it's my first time writing for the character so I'm still getting a feel. it's short and quick but i hope you enjoy!

masterlist | send requests

Your hands gripped the rough blue fabric of his suit as firmly as you could manage. Fingers trembled as you struggled to pull him up from the seat in the craft. His body slumped into the cushions, refusing to budge as you shook him gently.

“Clark, hey, wake up.” You tried your best to keep a steady and confident tone, but your voice betrayed you, “Let’s go, hun. We’re here.”

His eyes fluttered open slowly and glanced around, somewhat confused by his surroundings. The daze left when he looked up to be met with your bold eyes. Your hand softly combed through his ink hair, resting at the crook of his neck.

“Hey…” he said, his words slurred and dreary. You looped your arm under his and around his back, tugging as he slowly pushed himself from the seat.

The thud of his boots filled the craft, bouncing off the walls as they revealed the limp and stutter of his steps. His weight was all-consuming, with Clark leaning heavier into your side than he wished to admit. With each laboured breath, each wince and grip from his hand on your hip, your heart clenched. It was too close of a call, too lucky were you that you had pulled him out from the portal. What if you were a second later? What if the kryptonite had finished the job? What if you never saw him again?

You reached the ladder down from the craft. Slowly, you helped him down each step; his normal speed and agility were wiped away as he teetered down the stairs, balancing into your side. The sound of feet crunching thick, tall grass filled your ears. Looking up, an older couple stood at the foot of the ladder. Soft eyes, worn but kind faces, calloused yet gentle hands—the Kents.

The man you assumed to be John rushed up the steps as you reached the bottom. His large hands and strong arms opened to take some of Clark’s weight off you. Martha stood aside, watching with worry creased into her forehead and the wrinkles around her eyes

“He needs to rest, he’ll be okay,” you said as the four of you slowly made your way inside.

“Thank God,” Martha said, clutching a small gold cross strung from her neck. 

“i.. c’n walk…” Clark, the ever self-dependent and strong man, tried his best to shake off the help. His feet attempted to carry his weight. But a small dent in the ground had other plans. His foot caught, causing him to stumble and slip from your grasp.

“Woah, hey!” You slid to his front before he could fall from John’s hold and hit the ground. You gently pushed him back up, your hand tenderly brushing a curl from his forehead. “Don’t scare me like that, starboy.”

Even in his delirious and weakened state, Clark couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face. That damn smile, the one that had somehow found a way to make your knees buckle. You miss the glance exchanged between his parents. 

Once inside, you awkwardly laid him into his bed. The kiddish sheets contrasted with the vibrant blue and red fabrics of his suit. The worn blue headboard popped against the stained wood panels lining the walls. His large frame spilled over the small twin bed, and you found yourself wondering how the Kents ever kept up with his growth as a child.

His hair was slick with sweat, and he was exhausted from the strain of reaching the farmhouse. John’s hand rested on Clark's forehead as he eased him into the pillows. Clark’s mumbling filled the room as he tried to relax, the comfort of his parents overwhelming him.

“ma… they sent me here t’ kill p-people,” his words were broken as he stammered. The sound of Martha gently shushing him sang through the room. 

You stood back, giving the family space. You didn’t want to intrude, he was their son after all; you were just his friend. If that was all you were, then why was your heart still pounding?

Your eyes roamed over the room, taking in the intimate setting you never thought you’d see. Clark was so private with his parents, so protective. No matter how close you were, that side of him always felt closed off to anyone else. Anything to assure their safety. 

The room was scattered with toys, which you guessed were from his early years, just the few that a teenage Clark might have found too much fondness for to toss. Posters from bands you had always given him grief over, old sports trophies, blankets you guessed Martha had made him over the years; it was a room that showed a remarkably humble and mundane childhood that shaped him into the man he was. 

Clark’s mumbling called your attention back over to the bed. His words were slightly panicked and rushed, and his half-lidded eyes began to dart around the room.

“where’s…. where’s y-y/n? y/n…” his hand weakly stretched over the sheets as if trying to feel for you.

“She’s right here, sweetheart,” Martha said. Her kind eyes glanced over to you, giving you a welcoming yet sad smile that beckoned you over. His fragile hand took yours and placed it along Clark’s arm, moving from her spot beside the bed to let you sit.

Now at his side, your hand gently stroked his arm and shoulder, working your way up to the silky curls at the nape of his neck; the ones that he couldn’t smooth out no matter how hard he tried. No matter how much comfort you took in having him there, you couldn’t quite push down the bile rising in your throat at the feeling of his dark raised veins along his neck, the painful reminder of how close he was to leaving you.

“I’m here,” you said softly, as if it was just for him. It was.

That damn smile was back, slightly lopsided and shaky from exhaustion, but just as striking as ever.

“mmm… good,” he said as his eyes finally slipped closed.

You sat there for a good while, your hands gently resting at his side, keeping an eye on him as if you were his sole protector while he was gone to the world. You’d never seen him so small, so vulnerable- as small as a 6’4” alien could be.

John’s hand stayed resting at Clark’s head, pushing back his sweat-soaked curls as he tried to relax from the ordeal.

“Don’t let him fool you, he’s just a softy. Especially when it comes to Clark,” Martha said, patting your back as she walked over to her husband. Her eyes watched intently as your hands continued to tremble around Clark’s, unable to let go. She smirked before ushering John out of the room. You heard the faint mumblings of he’ll be okay, he’s got her as they left.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to leave his side, not after he was almost lost to you forever. An hour or so passed before sleep finally overtook you as well. The peaceful look on Clark's face was the last thing you saw before drifting off, your head resting on his side as your arm stretched across him.

-

A continuous, soft tapping against your thighs stirred you awake. The bright Kansas sun spilled in through the blinds and danced across the room. The angle was different than when you dozed off. Rather than lying perched beside the bed, you found yourself staring up at the ceiling with sheets surrounding you. Clark.

Of course, he moved you to his bed.

The thumping continued, and you finally looked down, taking in the sight of Krypto lying cozy across your body, his face mere inches from yours. The tapping of his wagging tail made you giggle as you slipped from the handknit blanket Clark had wrapped you in to scratch behind his ears.

“Good boy,” you said. 

The old door creaked on its hinges as you slipped out of the room and down the hall. Your feet padded softly across the tile til you reached the kitchen. Martha stood at the stove, gently pouring a cup of coffee and spreading a thick red jam across two biscuits. You tried to be quiet, wishing not to disturb her morning. 

“Morning, dear,” she said before turning to you. You wondered if Clark’s enhanced hearing was something he just learned from his parents because you swore she had it too.

“Morning, Martha,” you said.

“Oh, dear, call me Ma,” you smiled at her words and nodded, walking over as she handed you a cup of coffee. The warm mug filled your hands, and for the first time, they weren’t trembling anymore.

“Thank you for letting me stay the night,” you said.

“Don’t even mention it!” she said before returning a jug of milk to the fridge. While you took a sip from your mug, she stepped over and placed a hand once again on your back. “Thank you for bringing him back to us safely.”

Before you could respond, she nodded her head in the direction of the window out the kitchen door.

“He’s out front,” she said. You gave her a thankful smile before resting your drink on the counter and slipping out the door. 

The fabric of your skirt swirled around your legs, long blades of grass pricked at your calves as you waded through the field to reach him. Clark leaned against the rickety wooden fence, watching horses prance and whinny. Your hand gingerly patted the soft snout of one of the horses standing along the fence before you found your way to his spot. 

You stood beside him, a comfortable silence falling between you. The sound of the horses filled the air, harmonizing with the low buzz of the bees. You could help but notice the worn flannel stretched over Clark’s arms and back, how the faded jeans he wore had heel bites that revealed the dark brown of his leather boots. It always seemed to slip your mind that he was a country boy through and through, except for those times when his Kansas accent would slip out, it always seemed to happen when you took the last dumpling at dinner.

“You really gave me the bed?” you asked, watching the horses trot around the pen.

“What kind of man would I be if I let you sleep on the floor?” he said.

“The kind who needed rest ‘cause he was poisoned…” You said with a giggle, but he knew you were serious. He simply shrugged, a casual smile on his lips.

He moved to stand closer to you, leaning forward on the fence and finally looking over at you. His hands wrung as he looked you over. For a moment, you thought maybe he was nervous, like you made him anxious. 

You leaned on the wood with him, your shoulder nudging slightly into his. Your hands hesitated before a gust of courage helped you take his and stop his fidgeting. A placid sigh slipped from his lips as that damn smile came back. 

“You scared me, starboy,” you said. 

A blush burst across his face. Once, that always seemed to appear at the sound of that nickname. Perhaps yesterday he was too out of it, but today that blush was back in full swing.

He stepped closer to you, leaving little distance between your bodies. His hands gingerly played with yours, turning it over softly and tracing the lines on your palm.

“...I know, I could tell,” he said.

Oh.

Your free hand moved delicately to the soft flesh at the crook of his neck. Slowly, your fingers traced along the thick veins under his skin. The dark, bluish black hue they were only a few hours before had subsided, leaving them to blend in with the flushed pink hues of his skin. You could feel the flutter in his heartbeat and the way his breathing stuttered at your hands. Neither of you said a word; he just let you feel what you needed, letting you reassure yourself that he was there. That he was okay and wasn’t planning on leaving you.

“Clark…” you said, looking down to avoid his gaze.

His hand slid up to your chin, guiding your eyes back to his with a kind smile. A low hey slipped from his lips before his head ducked closer to your height.

“I wanna say something, something that feels crazy… and if it is, tell me… cause I’ve been feeling this for a while now…. and-and if it’s crazy just-” you stopped his rambling.

“Say it,” you said.

He bit his lip, and you tenderly pulled it from his teeth. The blush on his cheeks grew stronger as he let out a thankful huff and tilted his head. He had a bad habit of subconscious lip biting, one that often resulted in a gash along his lower lip from his strength. You tried your best as often as you could to stop the habit, to keep him from harming himself in any way.

“Something feels different with us. You’re my best friend, my favorite person, and… lately I’ve been feeling things I shouldn’t feel. Things a friend shouldn’t feel and I…” your eyes widened as he spoke, his words stammering as her nerves took over. He spoke with a speed that revealed his nervousness, one that was uniquely Clark. “It’s not fair to you, me wanting more, feeling more. But I do. I think I love you, y/n.”

He didn’t break your gaze, but that didn’t hide the fear of rejection that was clear on his face. It was obvious; despite lying helpless in a pocket dimension with kryptonite just a day ago, despite being weakened and exhausted in his childhood bed the night before, he had never felt more vulnerable or exposed than this moment.

You were quiet, probably for too long. He finally broke eye contact, ducking his head away. Your hand caught his face gently, brushing along the soft stubble that grew along his sharp jaw. 

Before he could speak again, you were leaning in. Your lips pressed against his. He moved in tandem with you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he held you close. It was soft and intimate; you had imagined kissing Clark so many times, but you never could’ve predicted just how blissful it would feel.

His grip on you tightened as he leaned further in. Somewhere in the moment, you felt your feet lift from the ground. Your arms wrapped firmly around his neck as you deepened the kiss, nipping softly at his lower lip.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours. His arms held you safe and secure to his chest as the two of you hovered over the fence. Your hands slipped to card through his curls.

“I love you, Clark,” you said. He sighed with relief, giggling tenderly as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Promise me you’re not going anywhere?”

“I promise, sweetheart,” he said. You leaned further into his arms, finally relaxing in his presence. He was here, he was safe, and he was yours.

“Now, could you please put us down, starboy?”

---

this was quick and cute but I hope y'all enjoyed ;)

[baby-alien11]

dog days are not over (clark kent)

Since you and Clark started dating, and after he told you his identity as Superman and explained to you how he ended up on earth, he had one concern about your safety, and it wasn't the enemies he had

It was Krypto

The dog he fostered for his cousin Kara while she was away partying on other planets, he know you'll love the dog, but his main concern was that the white fluffy dog was too energetic and playful at the same time it was loyal, and that it will hurt you while playing

"Clark, I think I will be okay", you laughed during one night before going to sleep, "I work at a dog care, I've seen every type of dog"

"It's just that he is too energetic, and strong", Clark replied, "Sometimes he doesn't control his strenght, and I don't want him to hurt you"

"I will be okay, and you'll be there in case something happens"

A few days after that conversation, both of you went to the Kent farm in Smallville to spent the weekend with his parents, and also let Krypto enjoy the sun and nature in a place where he could run freely (while making sure he didn't kill one of the cows, again)

"Krypto", Clark called him at what the superdog was quick to almost fly towards him knocking him on the ground making you laugh, "Buddy, calm down a bit, someone wants to meet you"

Curious about what those words mean, Krypto turned his head to watch as you crouched down on the floor to be at his height

"Hi Krypto, I'm Y/N", you soflty said, "It's nice to meet you"

In a calm way that Clark never seen in him, Krypto approached you, to smell your streched hand for a few second, before proceding to walk in a circle around you in a way to analize that you weren't a threat, before getting close to you again and start nuzzling into your chest in a delicate way surprising Clark because he expected a more energetic reaction

"He's so cute", you smiled while scratching the dog behind his ears, "And he has a mini cape like yours"

"I guess is common of kryptonians to wear them", Clark joked

"Does he goes to the vet or how does it works?", you asked while the dog layed on his back asking for belly scratches

"He mostly lives on the Fortress in Antarctica, and is watched by robots"

After that meeting that lasted for a few minutes, Krypto followed you during the entire day never leaving your side, even jumping on the couch next to you while watching TV, and during the night, Krypto slept in the middle of the two of you, with you hugging him thightly, and Clark almost getting kicked out of his childhood bed

[deliwrites]

𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕆𝕦𝕣𝕤 // Saja Boys & Huntr/x

// DATE // 11th of July 2025 → 16th of July 2025 // PAIRING // Huntr/x x Fem!Reader x Saja Boys // WARNING // unacceptable spoiling of Y/n, fluffy, domestic, obsession, protectiveness // WORDS // 3.0k+ // SUMMARY // As Y/n bakes alone, unaware of the hidden camera, she sings and dances with a raw, suggestive energy that leaves the eight watching her spellbound. Desire and protectiveness stir deeply, confirming one thing: they’ll do anything to keep her.

// Previous // Part Seven // Next //

a/n: The Seonix brand is made up. Thank you to everyone who helped pick out the song. I decided to stick with the winning option partially because I wanted it to be female sung. I have listened to the others and will keep them in mind because I plan on doing more of these, getting more … naughty as the relationship continues.

While we were out Rumi’s phone kept ringing. So much so that she had to put her phone on do not disturb. As the mere amount of times her phone made the same noise gained more attention than we needed. Well she mostly, she’s the famous one.

“Do you not need to check? It seems urgent,” I wonder, looking up to her. We were in the mall now, a little ways away from Honmoon Tower, in hopes of avoiding fans. Rumi said that they would encounter more the closer to Honmoon Tower they shopped. So they opted for going a little further away since then.

It’s not that they didn’t want to see the fans, but it would occasionally get too much. Especially if all they wanted to do was get their groceries. Sure they could order groceries but sometimes you wanna live normally and have fun by getting them yourself.

“No need, it’s just Zoey and Mira telling me about the new song they’ve been writing today,” that was a half lie. They did also share that with her, but they were mostly spamming about the kiss she gave Y/n.

She hadn’t told them about it, so they most likely decided to look at the feed when they had time to do so. Though she thinks Mira and Zoey were most likely watching the entire time as they were alone in their studio. Let’s just say their obsession went so far that, especially Zoey, got inspired to write a song for and about Y/n.

“Oh, that sounds exciting,” I express, a bright smile on my face in anticipation. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“You’ll be the first,” Rumi grins, pinching my waist, making me squeal in surprise.

“Really? I get to hear it first?” She nods and I can’t help but clap really fast with my fingers with excitement. Missing the look of adoration on Rumi’s face.

We start by getting me a new phone. The store is nearly empty when we stroll in, soft music playing overhead. Rumi doesn’t waste a second. “Let’s get you the same one we have,” she says, grabbing my wrist and tugging me straight toward a sleek Seonix display.

Seonix was known as Korea’s most secure smartphone brand. Premium, encrypted, and beautifully engineered. Most idols, CEOs, and government officials carried one. Getting your hands on one felt like joining an elite circle.

I stop short, eyes wide. They’re stunning. The colors shimmer subtly. Moonstone white, galaxy pink, eclipse black, jade green and iridescent pearl. But then I catch the price tag. I gasp softly, my heart sinking.

“Rumi,” I whisper, stepping back from the display like it might burn me. “I can’t afford these.” My voice is small. Embarrassed. I knew Seonix was a premium brand, but I never thought they were this expensive. Being under Luminara Entertainment, I was lucky if I had enough to buy food every week.

Rumi’s smile softens, her eyes catching mine. “Nae byeol,” her voice is soft as she approaches me. “I’m getting you a new phone, this is not coming out of your pocket.”

“But it will be my phone,” I protest, hand on my chest like I’m proving a point. “I should pay for it.”

“But I’m not gonna let you,” there is a smile on her face that says she’s not backing down. “Now pick a color,” she tugs me gently back to the display. I can’t stop the guilt from creeping into my lungs, tightening my chest, making it harder to breathe.

“But it’s so much money,” my voice barely above a whisper now.

“I know it’s hard to accept,” she says gently. Then her arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into her warmth. “But we earn more than enough to spoil you rotten.”

“We?”

“Yes, all eight of us,” My gaze flicks between her eyes, trying to find a catch, but there isn’t one. Just warmth and sincerity. They all want to spoil me? Why?

“But I don’t deserve that,” I state, cause it’s true. What have I done other than be a bother? “I’ve not done anything to deserve that.”

“You’ve done more than you think,” Her words are quiet but firm. The soft smile on her face eases some of the weight pressing on my chest. “Now, can you pick a color for me?”

I glance at the rows of phones again, cheeks still warm. My eyes catch the iridescent pearl colored one. The way it shines like a soft rainbow drawing me in. “This one,” I murmur.

“Good choice,” Rumi grins, squeezing my shoulder before flagging down the nearest employee. While she talks to the employee, I let met fingers linger on the display model. The price still makes my stomach twist a little, but her words echo in my head.

We want to spoil you.

She comes back a few minutes later, phone in a small paper bag which she help up with a bright smile. “All yours! We’ll set it up tonight, Baby can help.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, thanking her for more than just the phone, nodding my head once to add to the sincerity. She doesn’t say anything, just wraps an arm around my shoulders, starting to guide the way back out the store.

“Next stop: groceries,” she says with excitement in her voice. “Do you know what you’ll be baking for me?”

“And the others,” I remind her, playfully bumping my hip against hers. She rolls her eyes teasingly making me giggle. Taking me to the grocery store.

Getting everything we, well Rumi, bought upstairs, was something. While in the grocery store I had asked if they even had baking utensils at home. Rumi had stopped in her tracks, thinking it over. Before saying they probably didn’t.

We ended up leaving the grocery store and going to a home and kitchen essential store. I kept pointing out the cheap options and she just kept casually putting the most expensive options of that item into the cart.

“Ruuumiii,” I whine, dragging out her name. “We don’t need the expensive stuff,” I pout, especially when she dropped a fancy mixing machine into the cart. Click. My pout faltered when I saw her pull out her phone, typing quickly.

“Y/n doesn’t want me to spoil her,” she said aloud, thumbs tapping across the screen. “Send,” instantly her phone starts ringing. She picks up with a smirk on her lips. Turning her phone so we can both see the screen. Abby was holding his phone so the others could all be seen, and Mira had hers propped up so both Zoey and her were in frame.

“What do you mean you don’t want Rumi to spoil you!” Zoey demanded, like I had personally offended her.

“But it’s expensive,” I protest again, my pout returning. “This- this,” lifting the heavy mixer from the cart to show. “This is… 1.85 million won (+/- $1200)!” I whine. “I just wanna bake one! One thing! for you guys, it doesn’t need equipment this expensive.”

“You wanna bake us something?” Romance asked, his voice gentle, eyes widening slightly before softening into something almost adoring.

“I… yeah,” I say quietly. “As a thank you… you know. For all you’ve done for me so far,” they seem to freeze for a moment, their gazes softening, adoring smiles gracing their lips.

“Rumi, spoil the shit out of her,” Baby said flatly, grabbing Abby’s phone and ending the call.

“Agreed,” Mira says, hanging up too. I hadn’t even realized my mouth was open until Rumi reached out and gently tilted my chin to close it. I looked up at her, a bigger smirk now tugging at her lips.

“So,” she said, voice smug. “Let’s put that back in the cart,” she takes the box from me, putting it back. We continued shopping, with me still being a bit reluctant to let her buy the expensive stuff.

At home, we had to keep the elevator open, putting the big box in, before carrying the rest in. Then we had to do the same once we reach the apartment.

Once everything was unpacked and set up on the counter, I start nudging Rumi out of the kitchen.

“Go, go, go,” I say, pushing her in the direction of the stairs.

“What are you doing?” She chuckles.

“You’re not allowed to see! It’s a surprise,” I tell her, continuing to push her even if she works against me.

“But I want to help you.”

“Aniyo,” I said, shaking my head with a mock-stern look. “It’s a surprise.”

“Fine, fine,” she chuckles, turning her body. She pulls me into a hug. My arms wrap around her waist, sighing in content. She squeezes me before cupping my face. My cheeks flush as the close proximity when she tilts my head up. “If you need me, I’ll be downstairs in the studio, okay?” her voice gentle but serious. One hand leaves my face, sliding over my shoulder, down my waist, A soft squeeze at my hip, and then, almost teasingly, ends on my butt, where she pulled my phone from my pocket.

I don’t know how she opened it, but I probably left it unlocked or something. She hadn’t. She typed something in then turned the screen to me. Showing me her contact that she just created.

“You can call me,” she waits, so I nod in acknowledgement. “No hesitation, alright? I’ll be up here before you even finish saying my name.”

“Okay, thank you,” she shakes her head at my thanks. Placing my phone back in my pocket.

“Have fun, nae byeol” she smiles, pecking my cheek before heading to the elevator.

Rumi makes her way down to studio. Feed of their kitchen open on her phone. Y/n moved with ease, gracefully setting out everything they’d bought. The way she arranged the ingredients, how she handled each item with care. A soft smile tugged at her lips, pride and something darker curling in her stomach. She looked like she belonged there. In their space. In their life.

As soon as Rumi entered the studio, she barely had a second to breathe before Zoey shoved her back against the door

“You kissed her without us?” Zoey asked, not angry. Wounded. Left out.

“She just looked so kissable,” Rumi defends herself a slight guilty look in her eyes, hands up in surrender. “I couldn’t help myself. She just - she looked up at me like that and…” shrugs like that explains the pull she felt.

“The next one is mine,” Zoey’s eyes flashing gold for a split second. There was no teasing in her voice. It was a promise. Possessive. Rumi nods vigorously, she knew the others wanted their own opportunity to kiss her. Which is why she hadn’t kissed her again, only going for pecks. She knew how to share, even if it was tough to when it came to Y/n.

“Zoey, calm down,” Mira says from her spot on the couch in the room. Zoey turns to her with a pout, making Rumi chuckle. “Don’t worry. There’s enough of her for all of us. She’s ours,” Rumi pulls the smaller in for a hug, pecking her cheek before joining Mira, flopping dramatically onto the couch beside Mira. Mira didn’t even blink as Rumi practically melted into her side. Wrapping an arm lazily around her waist and let her settle.

“How's the song coming along?” she asks, taking Zoey’s notebook off the table. Reading through the lyrics they had already written down. Her eyes taking note of Mira’s phone propped up against a cup on the table. The kitchens feed displayed. There Y/n was pour something into the mix currently spinning in the mixer.

“It’s getting there,” Mira answers, arm wrapped around Rumi’s waist. “It just misses something deep, to drive the point home that she’s ours,” Rumi nods, eyes flicking from the feed to the lyrics in front of her.

Y/n had grabbed her phone and put up a playlist. Humming softly to it as she busied herself. Reading off the recipe which she also had displayed on her phone.

“She’s really doing this just to thank us,” Zoey murmurs, from her spot on the floor. Arms crossed on the table, head leaning on them as she stares at the domestic view. “She thinks she owes us.”

“She doesn’t. But if this is how she says thank you, we’re never letting her leave,” Mira said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Soon she’ll understand why.”

“Ever,” Rumi adds definitively, eyes dark with intent. Grabbing her phone she texts the guys.

Rumi Y/n is baking for us, but it’s a “surprise”, so our apartment is off limits until she’s done.

It was hard for them to keep working, all of them. Watching Y/n bake with intensity and a happy smile never faltering. It got even harden when she started singing along to the songs that played from her phone. Het voice luring them in like a moth to a flame. That voice was the first to make them obsessed. That meaningful song that first drew them in to the unknown person, finally revealed. Finally theirs.

Most of the songs that were playing were happy, up beat. Unlike her own emotional songs. It was surprising but only fueled their admiration for Y/n. Though the tone seemed to shift, quite suddenly. Surprising them a lot.

I get dirty thoughts about you They get worse when I'm without you Does that mean that I'm going to hell? Or are you thinking them as well, well When I'm lonely All the corners of my mind start racing Things that should be kept in the basement Spend my time trying to erase them

Y/n kept on singing, a soft blush now tinting her cheeks. She looked like the embodiment of innocence, and yet. She sings along with this song like it’s truth.

But when you hold me In the fantasy it's so convincing I shouldn't think the things I'm thinking But now I've gone and let them sink in The more that I push 'em away The more that you're stuck in my brain The more I mentally undress I confess

It doesn’t help that after she puts the tin in the oven, she gets fully into the song. The words hit like a pulse through the room. Y/n’s voice was soft, lips forming every word as her body swayed to the beat. Hips rolling gently, slow and deliberate. She spins a little, half-dancing, half-daydreaming, singing the words with an with an innocent look on her face.

The more that I push 'em away The more that you're stuck in my brain The more I mentally undress I confess I get dirty thoughts about you They get worse when I'm without you Does that mean that I'm going to hell Or are you thinking them as well, oh I get dirty thoughts about you They're so strong that I'm about to Say them all to you out loud God can't save me now, oh

The blush on her cheeks deepened, but she didn’t stop. It made her look even more sinful.

“Holy shit,” Zoey whispered, eyes wide.

“I thought she was innocent,” Mira breathed, “and then this.”

“She doesn’t even know we’re watching,” Rumi said, a little dazed. “This isn’t a show.”

“No,” Mira agreed. “these are her inner thoughts. Only on show when no one can see,” But they do.

Y/n danced, hips moving in perfect time, mouth wrapping around the lyrics like she meant every one. And then she picked up her phone.

Baby, curious, mirrored her screen. It was a photo of the eight of them on a massive Honmoon Entertainment billboard. She was looking at them.

I'm frustrated Do you really look good naked And I know that it ain't that holy But Lord I need this one night only The more that I push 'em away The more that you're stuck in my brain The more I mentally undress I confess I get dirty thoughts about you They get worse when I'm without you Does that mean that I'm going to hell Or are you thinking them as well, oh I get dirty thoughts I get dirty thoughts I get dirty thoughts I get dirty thoughts about you I get dirty thoughts I get dirty thoughts I get dirty thoughts I get dirty thoughts about you

“Fuck,” Baby whispered, showing the rest.

“She’s singing that… while looking at us?” Jinu’s voice ragged. It was a silent, mutual decision to appear in the huntr/x studio. It was a bit tight with all eight of them there, but they had to talk about this.

“She’s thinking about us,” Mystery tells the girls, tone heavy with realization. Baby showing the screen that still held their picture on Y/n’s phone. “Not just one of us. All of us.”

“She wants us,” Romance murmured, eyes wide with disbelief. “She just doesn’t think she’s allowed to.”

When the song ended, Y/n froze like reality had snapped back in place. Drawing the attention away from each other, back to the feed. She swiped the photo away and scolded herself quietly.

“Stop it, Y/n. You can’t have them. Not even one.”

Silence. No more singing. She went back to measuring ingredients like nothing happened. But they all stood frozen.

“She thinks we’re too good for her,” Mystery finally said.

“She’s so, so wrong,” Romance replied, soft and pained.

“She’s mine,” Rumi said, deadly serious.

“Ours,” Baby corrected, arms crossed. “Every damn piece of her.”

“We need to end Jaewon,” Jinu added, the fire in his voice a sharp contrast to the haze of obsession in the room. “She deserves to feel safe. Wanted. Chosen.”

“Then we show her,” Mira said. “We love her in a way no one ever has.”

“And never let her forget it,” Zoey added.

They didn’t speak after that. They just kept watching—possessive, lovesick and completely hers.

// Previous // Part Seven // Next //

Is there anything you would like to see in any of the next parts? Let me know in the replies or by reblogging! I can't guarantee it will be in it, but your input might give me more ideas!!

Taglist

@ghostlyworld @strayharmony943 @zariahthewitch @ateezswonderland @bunnytea10 @levifiance @katzline @justanindiangirl12 @mxvoid26 @m-1mi @raineandcl0uds @mel3484 @apelepikozume @kangsae-byeokfan @j3lsaa @zero-jpg @sylus-h3ll @sy1ock @fancyhawk45 @mazzk1ng @furblrwurblr @ikykwkleeknowwww @ffcfffr @faerie-soirxx @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @osball @uniquecutie-puffs @puppyminnnie @nagithe5th @fangsbunny@prettylittlelavvy @a-redharlequin @2emotionallyunstable @nerdsconquerall @animegamerfox @starmee-lodurrson @hornehlittleweeblet2 @rosapops2666 @pandafuriosa60 @snowy-violet @celesteelysia @myfturn @silver--47 @itsberrydreemurstuff @ellie-x0xo @evemeri @misdollface @bethleeham @sharkers00 @nightdark-dreamdark @estellafake

I hope everyone got tagged correctly! The others will be tagged in the reblog or in the comments!

[amplexadversary]

(x)(x)

One of my favorite Murderbot things is when the enemy is like: "time to be hostile! Security system, take care of that threat!"

And the security system is standing there metaphorically holding hands and making a friendship bracelet with Murderbot like: "Oh shit, there's a threat? Where!?" *turns to murderbot* "Did you see anything?"

[neellscapsule]

a ceo, a wedding . . . a robin?

summary | your brother's wedding was always quite expected by you. not so much like the petition your son has.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic dick grayson x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, reader and bruce kiss so lovely in this it makes my heart explode, dick is the cutest child

word count | 4.3k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 6. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn @jjoppees @yall-imhere @sabrinaoppositee @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood

TWO YEARS PASS AS FAST AS THE FLASH WHITING A BLINK.

You don’t even see it coming. One moment, you’re peeling Dick off the carpet of your office, cradling his puffy face after he declared you “mom” to a screaming supermodel. The next, you’re watching him tie a tie by himself in front of the long mirror in the hallway of Wayne Manor, his hair a little longer and his face a little leaner, like he’s already trying to stretch toward something bigger.

Ten years old now. He’s ten.

Double digits. Growing fast. Almost reaching your chest, which he proudly announced to Alfred last week with a finger pointed directly at your collarbone. And though he still sleeps curled between you and Bruce on the nights the wind howls or the manor creaks just right—those moments are rarer now.

He’s still your baby bird. But he’s also becoming someone. Someone good.

And the three of you live under the same high, gothic roof. The Wayne Manor, timeless and tall, with more windows than your entire hometown and a history that still gives you chills when you walk through the old library. But it’s home. Truly.

Because of them. Because of him. Because of all of you.

You spend most mornings waking at dawn. Bruce rises earlier—he always has—but he stays in bed long enough to kiss your forehead, press his face to your collarbone, murmur something sleep-warm about staying in with you for five more minutes. Dick drags himself out of bed only after Alfred threatens to remove the curtains, and you all manage breakfast together more often than not.

It’s quiet. Domestic. Real.

Which is why, when the papers start referring to you as the youngest executive director Wayne Enterprises has ever seen, you don’t flinch.

You don’t have time to flinch.

You’re too busy preparing your own morning meetings. Signing contracts. Rerouting wasteful divisions and restructuring outreach initiatives. Because Bruce did what Bruce always does—he saw you, he trusted you, and he handed you more power than anyone expected. Not out of sentiment. Out of truth. You earned it.

You still remember the day he gave you the title.

“CEO,” he said casually, flipping through paperwork in his office. “It fits you better than secretary.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

He looked up. “Of course.”

You sat back. “That’s… that’s huge.”

“You’ve been doing the work for months,” he said. “All I’m doing is making it official.”

You reached for his hand across the table. “I’m still wearing your ring, you know. You don’t need to give me a company to keep me.”

He smirked. “It’s not for you. It’s for the world. So they see what I already know.”

So you stepped into the role, high heels clicking across marble floors, all warmth in the middle of steel. You work harder than ever. But you’re fuller too. Of purpose. Of pride.

Of love.

But not every part of your life is centered on your life. No, no. You spend time on your friends as well: Diana and Selina, both so different yet so important to you. Although they are both very occupied persons, they reserve some time for you.

Well . . . Diana sees you whenever she's not training, or fighting against something terrible dangerous, which is not as much time as you would expect. But when you see her, you share a good tea, with a table full of food — because God knows that your friend has a stomach the volume of your own brother's — and laughing that attracts attention, despite that that may be because of how good the both of you look.

Motherhood sits you nice, what can you say?

Selina has a lot more free time . . . when she is not stealing from rich, old men . . . or being Catwoman. Because, yes, not only your husband, brother and best friend are people of the night, heroes, but your other best friend is a fantastical anti-hero type of vigilante.

But yeah, she spends quite more moments with you: at the office — snatches bites of your lunch, winks at your interns —, at the Manor, even going outside to simply share a coffee. Recently, she brought along a new friend.

A green friend that you very much know, but you prefer to keep quiet about the other identity.

It's not fair that Ivy is so interesting!

And, while you very much know about their whole relationship with Harley Quinn as well, you much keep outside of it, not wanting to get as close with Joker's girlfriend. You wouldn't do that to Bruce, not if she kept by that side.

You know better than to reach for someone who still dances too close to the Joker’s shadow.

Still, life is good.

You have your job. Your home. Your son.

And today, you have a wedding.

You grinned. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Because I am!”

Lois’s hair was pinned in a perfect low bun. You helped her finish it yourself—quietly brushing, wrapping, then fixing a few strands when the hairstylist got a call halfway through. Her dress was classic—off-white satin with a soft curve at the shoulders and a wide, structured skirt that hugged her waist. She looked gorgeous. Radiant. And also a bit like she might leap out the nearest stained-glass window.

“Lois,” you said gently, “it’s Clark.”

“I know it’s Clark!”

“You’ve been together for over five years.”

“Exactly.”

You blinked. “You’re losing me.”

“That’s a long time to be with someone and still not be sure if you’ve properly traumatized them or not.”

You laughed and walked behind her, straightening her veil as it draped over her shoulders.

“Lois, he’s literally Superman.”

She sighed. “Yeah. Exactly. I don’t want to ruin Superman.”

You leaned down, pressing your cheek to hers, voice soft.

“You could never ruin him.”

She blinked quickly. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you said. “And I know because I’ve seen him fly straight into fires, fight aliens, take on the League of Shadows and Lex Luthor all before breakfast—but he gets mushy the second you call.”

Lois sniffed, clearly trying not to cry. “I don’t want mushy. I want stability.”

You handed her a tissue. “Then trust that you’re it.”

She dabbed under her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Okay.”

Then she paused.

“I didn’t forget to write my vows, but I forgot where I put them.”

“Top drawer,” you said without looking.

Lois gasped and opened the drawer. There they were.

You shrugged. “I know how you think.”

“You’re scary.”

You smiled. “I’m a mom.”

She leaned over and hugged you tight, her voice warm and fond against your shoulder. “You’re also my best friend. Thanks for not letting me implode.”

“Anytime,” you said, squeezing her back. “Now sit down and let me make sure your shoes aren’t going to kill you halfway through the aisle.”

The fabric shimmered—nothing showy, just enough to catch the light in delicate folds. The bodice was structured, elegant, sharp in a way only Lois could pull off.

“You look stunning,” you whispered. “Clark’s going to forget how to speak.”

“He already does that around me,” she muttered, gripping your hand tightly. “This time, it’ll be because I’m going to murder him if he bolts.”

“He’s not bolting.”

“You sure?”

“I helped pick the ring. He’s not bolting.”

She blinked, biting her lip.

You softened. “He loves you, Lois.”

“I know.”

 You kissed her cheek, told her you’d be back in five, and slipped out into the corridor.

The groom’s room was quieter, in that unnaturally still way men’s rooms always were before weddings—no nervous laughter or shrieking, just muffled movement, the sound of cufflinks, and Bruce’s deep voice talking softly to someone down the hall.

Clark sat by the window, eyes cast outward, fingers loosely pressed together.

You knocked gently before entering. “Hey.”

He turned instantly, smiling the second he saw you. “Hey yourself.”

You stepped in, shutting the door behind you.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“She’s threatening to flee. I think that’s a good sign.”

He laughed softly. “Classic Lois.”

You walked toward him, careful not to wrinkle your dress—long navy blue, open-backed, soft satin that hugged your figure in a way that had made Bruce audibly grunt when you’d stepped out that morning.

Clark stood as you neared. His suit was hanging by the window. He was shirtless, his hair slightly damp from a nervous shower, and there was a tie discarded on the floor like it had tried to strangle him.

You raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t exactly the image of a Kryptonian groom I had in mind.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Uh huh. Look at me.”

He did.

“Lois loves you. You love her. You’ve already done the impossible together. This is the easy part.”

He swallowed. “What if I screw it up?”

“You already did,” you said with a grin. “And she still wants to marry you.”

He laughed—soft, real. You kissed his cheek. 

“You’re gonna be the best husband.”

Clark pulled you into a hug, arms tight. Familiar. Like home.

“You’re gonna make me cry on my own wedding day,” he murmurs.

“Then we’re even,” you whisper. “I already cried twice this morning.”

Sneaking off with your not-soon- to be husband is easy.

Bruce found you just before the ceremony, in the hallway outside the kitchen pantry. You raised your eyebrow as he pulled you in by the waist.

“This isn’t our wedding,” you whispered as he shut the door behind you.

“Which is why I thought it’d be safe to sneak a minute with my fiancée.”

You laughed as he backed you into the shelves, hands steady against your hips.

“You’re very inappropriate today,” you said, trying not to grin.

His hands slid down your back, catching at your waist, pressing you gently against the shelf. His mouth met yours like he hadn’t seen you all morning. Like two years of shared mornings and shared toothbrushes hadn’t dulled the sharp, desperate need between you.

He kissed your neck softly. “It’s your dress.”

You hummed. “You picked it.”

“Exactly.”

You turned and kissed him, long and slow, one hand curled around his tie. His lips moved lazily against yours, like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t. But Bruce always kissed like that when he was content.

When he pulled back, his thumb grazed your cheek.

“You’re glowing,” he murmured.

“You’re soft,” you teased.

He grinned. “Only for you.”

The old pantry cupboard is small, dusty, barely big enough for two grown adults—especially when one of them is built like a Greek statue and the other refuses to stop clinging.

“I’ve been watching you all day,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You light up every room you walk into.”

Your chest tightens, warm and full. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm. And you’ve somehow become even more beautiful since I last kissed you.”

You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “That was seconds ago.”

“Too long.”

The ceremony was beautiful.

Soft strings played as guests settled in.

Bruce sat with Dick beside him, both dressed in tailored navy. Dick’s jacket had a tiny robin pin you’d bought for him in secret—a quiet nod. He tapped it twice for luck before heading down the aisle with a little velvet box in his palm.

You watch him from your place beside Lois, heart clenching with pride as he focuses on every step, holding the rings like they’re sacred. When he makes it to the altar, Clark gives him a grateful wink, and Dick puffs up like a balloon about to burst.

He grinned wide when he saw you standing by the bride, mouthing, “You look so pretty, mom.”

You blew him a kiss. He pretends to catch it, then slips his hand into Bruce’s.

Lois was radiant. Clark was teary-eyed.

You watched your brother and best friend say their vows in front of friends and family, promising forever with laughter and love. And when they kissed, when the room erupted in cheers, when your father wiped a tear and your mother squeezed your hand—there was a glow in your chest that burned soft and golden.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way Clark looked at Lois when they kissed.

It’s the kind of look you’ve only ever seen once before—on Bruce’s face, the first time he watched you walk barefoot through the Manor’s rose garden, a glass of wine in your hand, laughing at something Alfred said. 

There’s something in it that strips away time, space, history. It’s not awe. It’s not even reverence. It’s something deeper. Something more anchored. It’s knowing. The kind of knowing that doesn’t shake, even when the world around it does.

The ceremony fades into the glow of golden-hour congratulations—tight hugs, kiss-stained cheeks, overexcited relatives taking blurry pictures with disposable cameras they barely know how to use. Someone pulls out a guitar. Someone else is already uncorking the second bottle of champagne. Kids chase each other through the wildflowers. The air smells like clover and frosting, and there’s something deeply sacred about it all, like time decided to stand still just for today.

And then the music starts.

Ma had insisted on hiring a local band. Clark helped with the sound setup early this morning, careful not to scorch the cables with heat vision. You remember watching him work with Dick on his shoulders, both of them laughing as they hung fairy lights around the barn door. Now, that very same barn has been transformed into a dance floor—strings of lights overhead, long folding tables lined with mason jars, centerpieces full of sunflowers and wild daisies. 

It’s not Gotham. It’s not Metropolis. 

It’s better.

It’s home.

The speeches come in between. Some of their colleagues talk first, your parents are next, and, finally, it's your turn. You rise slowly, smoothing your dress as you step onto the little platform. The string lights catch your hair and your smile, and for a second, you see yourself as everyone else does. 

Not just a Kent. Not just a Wayne executive. But a woman standing in her home soil, proud and strong, with her family in the crowd and the man she loves watching her like she’s the sun.

You clear your throat, voice steady.

“When we were kids,” you begin, “Clark used to read to me at night. I’d crawl into his bed with my stuffed bunny, and he’d pull out a book—sometimes fairy tales, sometimes Ma’s old college novels—and he’d do all the voices. He always made sure the hero saved the day. He always made sure the villain had a chance to be redeemed.”

You pause. The crowd leans in.

“I used to think those stories were just stories. But then I grew up. And I realized Clark was never reading them for me. He was reminding himself that the world could still be kind. That love could still win. That happy endings were worth fighting for.”

Lois’s lip wobbles. Clark’s head is down, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.

You smile. “And now, I get to watch my big brother marry the love of his life. Someone who sees his shadows and calls them beautiful. Someone who doesn’t need saving—but lets him save her anyway, because she knows that’s how he loves. Lois, Clark… thank you. For giving us a fairytale. For letting us believe in it.”

You step down to thunderous applause. Bruce is already reaching for you as you return to your seat, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You have a gift,” he whispers.

You smile. “So do you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You motion to the dance floor, which is now being cleared for the first dance. “You’re about to show me whether you can dance without stepping on my toes.”

Bruce smirks, but he stands.

“I accept the challenge.”

The first slow dance feels like honey.

You fit against Bruce like you were made for this—his hand at your lower back, your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in his. The music swells around you, soft and rich, the kind of song you don’t know the name of but never want to end.

“I missed this,” he murmurs against your hair.

“We danced two weeks ago at the Wayne Gala,” you tease.

“That was for investors,” he counters. “This is for us.”

You tilt your head up, just enough to look at him. “So what does this mean, then?”

He smiles. It’s small, but the kind that reaches his eyes.

“It means,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “that I hope one day we’re on a dance floor like this, and it’s you in white.”

Your heart skips.

“I hope it’s you beside me,” you whisper, stunned by how much you mean it. “Always.”

Dick is spinning in circles on the edge of the floor, laughing with two of your younger cousins. He catches your eye and waves, cheeks flushed with joy.

Bruce leans in. “He’s going to sleep all the way home.”

“If he doesn’t pass out in the car,” you chuckle.

The music shifts again. A slow waltz. Ma cuts in to dance with Clark. Jonathan takes Lois’s hands with the gentleness only a father-in-law can muster. Couples rotate, change partners, laugh. The whole yard glows.

After a while, Dick taps your hip. “Can I have this dance, ma'am?”

You gasp, hand to your heart. “Sir! I would be honored.”

You and Dick dance slowly, swaying more than anything. He leads for the first few seconds, proudly trying to mimic what he’s seen grown-ups do. But when he missteps and nearly trips over your foot, he starts giggling uncontrollably, and you both fall into a rhythm of bouncing more than dancing.

His little hands are warm in yours, his smile endless.

“I did good today, didn’t I?” he asks.

“You were perfect,” you reply. “You brought the rings like a pro.”

“I practiced with Alfred,” he grins. “He made me walk up and down the hallway until I got it right.”

“I’ll thank him later.”

He grins, dimples deep. “Dad said I looked like a real gentleman.”

“You are a real gentleman,” you say softly, voice warm. “The best kind.”

Dick looks up at you. “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

He shifts, suddenly a little more serious. “Do you think… do you think someday I’ll be like Uncle Clark? Like… good?”

You stop moving. You crouch down so you’re eye-level.

“Dick,” you say carefully, taking both his hands. “You are already good. You’ve got the strongest heart I’ve ever seen. You care so much about people. You try every day. That’s what makes you a hero.”

He swallows hard. “Even when If I mess up?”

“Especially then,” you whisper. “Because you keep going. And that’s what makes you strong.”

He throws his arms around your neck, hugging you tight. Bruce watches from a distance, expression unreadable—but his eyes are soft.

You scoop Dick into your arms and twirl him once before setting him down.

“Now go get some cake before it’s all gone,” you grin.

He dashes off. Bruce steps beside you.

“He needed to hear that,” he says quietly.

“So do you, sometimes,” you reply.

He chuckles, but there’s something weighty in the way he slides his hand into yours.

And you—

You let the world blur. You danced. You smiled.

You existed, happily, in the moment where your brother had finally married the woman he loved, where your son had carried the rings like a knight, and where your heart—your big, aching heart—was full.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Dick tugged your fingers and asked if he could dance with Aunt Diana.

You nodded. “Be polite, bug . . . And try not to step on her feet.”

He ran off. You turned back to Bruce, who was still watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Ready to make our wedding the next one?” you asked, jokingly.

He smiled. “I already said yes two years ago.”

It started with silence.

The kind of silence that was too careful. Too constructed.

You noticed it when you came down from the upstairs study after three full hours of reviewing Wayne Enterprises expansion contracts. The clock had struck nine. The night air curled in through the windows in lazy waves, bringing the soft scent of pine from the woods, a trace of lavender from the garden.

The manor was still.

Too still.

You paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand brushing the carved railing. Alfred had retired early to sleep. Bruce had gone down to the cave to finish running forensics on a weapons cache recovered near Crime Alley. And Dick?

You hadn’t seen Dick since dinner.

You glanced toward the drawing room. Sure enough, there was a glow behind the partially cracked door. Soft. Sneaky. Suspicious.

You knocked with the same voice you used to ask if someone had broken a lamp.

“Sweetheart?”

A pause. Then the shuffle of socks on hardwood.

“It’s open,” came the voice of your ten-year-old son.

You stepped inside.

Dick was on the floor, lying on his stomach, blueprints and sketches spread around him like a storm of colored paper. There were rulers, string, an old math compass, duct tape, a flashlight, and what looked like Bruce’s grappling gun partially disassembled next to a cereal bowl.

You blinked once. Twice.

“Baby,” you said slowly, “why does this room look like a Gotham PD evidence board?”

Dick sat up cross-legged, cheeks flushed, notebook in his lap.

“I have a proposal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A proposal.”

He nodded firmly. “For you. And Dad.”

You crossed your arms. “Does it involve dismantling stolen Batcave tech?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then, “… not just that.”

“Uh huh.”

He stood up, cleared his throat, and held up a makeshift pamphlet.

It had a stick figure with a mask on the cover. It read: Sidekick Sttrategic Plan — Dick Grayson, Age 10 (almost 11).

You blinked again.

“… Okay. Go on.”

He straightened his shoulders, like he was preparing for a shareholder pitch.

“I want to be Dad’s sidekick.”

You stared at him.

He pressed on.

“I’ve done the research. And the training. You know I’ve been in the gym almost every night after homework. I can do fifty pushups. In a row.”

“I’ve seen you,” you said carefully. “They’re very impressive.”

“I read all of Dad’s old case files. The redacted ones. Well, except the ones with too much blood. Alfred said no.”

“Smart man.”

“I already know how to use the comms and the grid,” he continued, flipping pages. “And I’ve been practicing my flips. I’m faster than Bruce was when he was my age. And I can help.”

His voice cracked a little.

You softened.

He set the notebook down.

“Mom,” he said, suddenly quiet, “I don’t want to just watch anymore. I want to be a part of it. I want to protect people.”

You moved closer, kneeling in front of him. Your hands found his, warm and a little sweaty from nerves.

“Honey,” you murmured, “you’re already a part of it. You’re part of this family. You don’t have to throw punches to matter.”

“I know,” he said. “But I want to help. Really help. You and Dad do so much. You save people. You make Gotham safer. I want to do that too.”

Your heart tugged.

There was so much of Bruce in him now. But there was also so much of you. That stubborn conviction. That desperate need to make things right, even when the world didn’t ask it of you.

“You know it’s dangerous,” you said softly.

He nodded.

“And scary.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He looked up at you, blue eyes clear and wide. “But I’m not.”

You exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Does your father know about this?”

He shuffled guiltily. “… No.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was gonna talk to him after you,” he mumbled.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“I’m the warm-up act?”

“You’re the boss,” he said sweetly. “If you say no, there’s no point in asking him.”

You reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Don’t butter me up,” you warned gently.

“I’m not!”

“You totally are.”

He smiled. Then, like it was sacred, he added, “You always tell me I’m brave. And I wanna be brave. Like you. And Dad. But I want to be useful too.”

“Dickie,” you said, cupping his cheek, “you’re the reason we even try.”

He leaned into your palm. You sighed, letting silence fall. And then, quietly, with a dry laugh you couldn’t hold in, you said:

“You look like a little robin when you puff your chest up like that.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Red sweater. Pointy elbows. All full of conviction and fluff.”

He stared at you. Then he lit up.

“Robin.”

You froze.

“No.”

“Robin! That’s it! That’s my name!”

“Oh, no, I was being poetic.”

“Mom,” he said breathlessly, “you named me!”

“That’s not what—”

“I’m gonna be Robin!”

You stood, both amused and horrified. “I’ve made a mistake.”

He tackled you around the middle. “I’m gonna be Robin! I gotta go tell Dad!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” you called after him as he bolted out of the room. “At least fix your spelling on ‘strategic’ first—!”

You found Bruce half an hour later in the Batcave.

He was hunched over a new cowl prototype, but the moment you stepped down the final stairs, he looked up.

“He’s very convincing,” he said dryly, setting his tools down.

You sighed and walked toward the console, arms folded.

“I should’ve known you were listening.”

“You were in the drawing room. The walls aren’t soundproof.”

You slumped into the nearest chair.

“He’s serious, Bruce.”

“I know.”

“He made pamphlets.”

Bruce arched a brow. “So did I. At twelve.”

You blinked. “What.”

“For my first pitch to Alfred.”

“… You made a business case for being a vigilante?”

“Yes.”

You sighed into your hands. “Of course you did.”

He leaned back, watching you.

“Do you want to say no?”

You looked up at him.

“Of course I want to say no. He’s a baby. He’s our baby. The idea of him dodging bullets and jumping off rooftops makes me want to throw up.”

Bruce nodded slowly.

“But?” he asked.

“But,” you exhaled, “I know him. He won’t let it go.”

“No,” Bruce agreed. “He won’t.”

“And if we say no… he might try anyway.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Because that was the truth. Dick Grayson, age ten, almost eleven, was already fearless.

And you couldn’t protect him by shutting him out.

So you stood, walked over to Bruce, and leaned against him with your head on his shoulder.

“If we do this,” you whispered, “we do it our way.”

“Absolutely.”

“No solo missions. No real combat until he’s ready. No special exceptions.”

“Agreed.”

You glanced up at him.

“You’re really okay with this?”

Bruce’s hand found yours.

“I’m terrified,” he said.

Then he smiled.

“But I think our little Robin just took flight.”

Dick insisted on a ceremony. Not a big one—just the four of you.

He had a fairly well-made costume, made of sturdy fabric, sewn by Alfred stitch by stitch.

You held back your laughter with the short pants.

But you still couldn't help but tear up a little, smoothing down the yellow cape that flew behind him with each turn. You caressed the R sewn on his chest—the one you'd put there, sitting cross-legged on the couch while Dick beamed beside you.

You took a photo. He posed like a champion.

And when the sun set, and the moon was high, and Gotham once again stirred in its shadows…

Robin joined the family business.

And your world—already full of love—somehow stretched even wider.

[whisperofaflame]

Mama Choose

WandaNat x Little!Reader ❀

Summary: The morning after some intense intimacy with your girlfriends, you wake up in their bed, feeling soft and small. Natasha and Wanda are there to catch and comfort you, whatever headspace you're in ♡

Word count: 2k ♡

Heads up: This is a SFW age regression one-shot. There is very vague reference to *something* having happened the night before, but otherwise this is just pure fluff ♡

Author's Note: I've never written something specifically about age regression before... this just kind of happened the other day (I think I was in need of comfort so gravitated towards writing something super fluffy). Thank you to everyone who let me know they'd be interested in trying this out from me, I needed that extra push! Anyway, I really hope this is okay 🥺♡

When you wake, your first instinct is to cling. Your body feels tired still, despite all the sleep. There will no doubt be bruises blooming on your skin, but last night feels too far away to contemplate those aches, like it was experienced by another person entirely. This morning your head is cloaked in the marshmallow fog of something beyond your usual subspace, something fluffy and fragile and undeniably small. Right now all you can think of is them, and you need to know that they’re beside you, that they will cushion your fall. 

Today it’s Natasha’s turn to be on the receiving end of your clinginess, since she’s the one in front of you when your eyes open and the fuzzy desperation kicks in. Your fingers find her vest top and wrap around the bottom of the strap, clinging to the triangle of fabric like this will anchor you to her forever. She’s asleep, which surprises you. Natasha is always awake before you, always ready. Seeing her sleeping is strange, and although she looks so pretty and peaceful like this, you need her awake so you can reassure yourself of her love.

One more little tug prompts Natasha’s eyes to flicker open, and her lips curl into a smile when she meets your avid gaze. One glance down at your hand tells her everything she needs to know about your mindset this morning. You’re floating in the hot air balloon which always carries you away after an intense scene. The aftercare they give you inflates the balloon with warmth, and it rises according to the amount they give, the amount you need. This time their sweetness and reassurance has sent you so high into the clouds, there is no sign of returning to land anytime soon. The twitching of your nose and the way your knuckle sits between parted lips are telltale signs of this. Natasha knows you, and she knows that your head always gets more fuzzy as the altitude increases. Softer. Smaller.

Natasha cups your cheek and kisses you on the forehead. You just blink at her with doe-eyes for a while, feeling awestruck and expectant, then you wriggle a little closer and nuzzle into her arm. She is your whole world right now, and it takes a while for your brain to make space for anyone else. When you remember, you turn around to find the bed empty on your other side. 

“Mommy is in the bathroom,” Natasha tells you, gesturing with her eyes towards the ensuite door, which is surrounded by the slight glow which signals its occupied status. Her words reassure you instantly, both from the explanation and her ready use of the right title. It simply clicks together in your brain without need for translation, the puzzle pieces the right size and offering the right connections. You turn back to her, replacing your head against her arm. Once safely nestled, you sigh out your content, your breath warm against her arm — probably tickling the soft blonde hairs which grow there. She strokes the back of your head with the hand of the arm you have claimed, her open palm running down the braid she made last night. Her other arm is wrapped around your waist, her fingers creeping up your vest and dancing lightly up and down the bumps of your spine, which protrude a little in your curled-up state. You always seem smaller, somehow, on mornings like this. Perhaps because your limbs are always tucked in, pulling things close and clinging to your girlfriends, or any other source of comfort you can find in the devastating but rare event of their absence. 

“What do you want for breakfast, little one?” she asks, and you frown, lips pouting against your knuckle. Your brain is too fuzzy to think. Can’t she see that? Mommy would know; Mommy would take over if you were silent for so long. But Natasha is just waiting, expecting an answer you can’t give.

“Mama choose,” you mewl, the words slipping out without planning, without any awareness that this name is new.

There’s a pause, in which she stops stroking your arm and stays motionless and silent for a few moments. Just long enough to make something stir beneath the fog; the slightest niggle of worry twitching in your belly. But before it can awaken, she resumes the soft motions of her fingers on your skin and responds to you with a measured calm. 

“Okay,” Natasha says quietly. “Mama can choose when she is out the bathroom.”

You look up at her then, feeling a little lost. Something isn’t right about her answer. Why the need for waiting? You don’t get it, but you also don’t have the words to question it. So you wait, thoughts too disconnected to contemplate the confusion. 

When Wanda opens the door she immediately breaks into a smile at the sight of you and her wife curled up together. Natasha frees one hand from you to gesture for her to come, and Wanda approaches, sitting on the bed and stroking your thigh. 

“Our little one wants you to choose what we have for breakfast,” Natasha tells her, and you look up at her, your eyes glistening with tears when you process what she’s saying. 

“No!” you whine, clamouring for her to understand, tugging at her top in frustration. “Mama choose.”

She stares down at you, her eyebrows furrowed. There’s no recognition, no understanding in her eyes.

“My love,” Wanda says, huffing with laughter. “She doesn’t mean me. She means you.”

Natasha’s lips part into a small O, and you begin to tremble. She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want you. You turn your head into her arm, because there’s nowhere else to hide. 

“Oh, baby…” Natasha breathes, stroking your back as you sob. “Is that right?” She pauses, finds your chin and tilts it up so you look at her again. There’s an odd expression on her face. She seems nervous, and it scares you. “Am I… am I mama?”

You give the smallest nod, then pull away from her hand to hide again, because you can’t bear to see the disgust on her face. You can’t bear the shame. 

“Oh.” It’s a tiny sound she emits. A sound that wavers and crackles with emotion. You cry into her despite her obvious distaste. You cry over what you’ve said, what you’ve done. But then she moves her arms, putting her hands under your armpits, scooping you up and turning you until you’re sitting side-saddle on her lap and hiding your face in her shoulder. “Baby, I... I’d love to be your mama.” 

Your sobs stutter a moment, as you process her words. But you’re too scared to believe them. Too scared to emerge from your safe place hidden in her shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t understand at first, little one,” she tells you, stroking your hair and then wiping away your tears when you look up at her in hope. She has tears of her own, pooling on her lashes and making her eyes twinkle. “I get it now. I — Mama was just a bit surprised for a moment. Happy surprised. Because you’re mine, and I’m so, so lucky to have you.” 

She rocks you then, hushing your leftover cries of overwhelm and kissing your forehead until you calm down and your breath slows. Her body is warm against yours, her grip steady and sure. She’s holding you so tightly, you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to.

“My girls,” Wanda hums happily, stroking the back of your neck and playing with the baby hairs that didn’t make it into the braid. She leans forward and gives Natasha a kiss on the lips, her hand still gently placed on the back of your neck. You watch, blinking away the tears that still cling to your lashes. Your mamas are so pretty. 

“So what does mama want for breakfast?” Wanda prompts, smiling between you and Natasha, who grins. 

“I am thinking pancakes,” she hums. “What do you think, malen’kaya printsessa?” 

You wrinkle up your nose at the nickname, because it’s new. But new doesn’t mean bad; new just means you’re not sure. But pancakes aren’t new. Pancakes you are very sure about. So you nod. 

“Pancakes it is, then,” she murmurs. “Our princess has spoken.” And she gives you a kiss on the nose, making you giggle. 

“Pancakes sounds wonderful,” Wanda agrees, and she tickles your feet just a little, prompting a pout. 

“Mommyyyy…” you whine, “no tickles!” 

“Sorry baby,” Wanda apologises, stopping at once and giving you a kiss on your cheek, which makes your pout evaporate. “Now, who would you like to make pancakes?”

You consider that for a moment. Mama usually makes the pancakes, and she makes them well. But Mommy is an excellent cook. You’re sure she can manage, and that would mean you could stay right here where it’s comfy, cradled on Mama’s lap. 

“Mommy make them please?” you ask quietly, feeling a wobble in your tummy at the act of choosing, in case you upset her. “And Mama stay?”

“Of course baby,” Wanda tells you, with a smile that soothes your worries. “Such beautiful manners too, my darling girl. You stay here with Mama, and I’ll make the pancakes.”

“Not big ones,” you clarify quickly, heart thudding at the thought. You hate big pancakes. They make your mouth feel fluffy and your tummy feel too full. But Mommy doesn’t seem to understand; she’s wearing that frown which means she’s thinking hard and still doesn’t know what you mean. But you can’t work out how to explain; the words won’t fit together. So you bury your face in your Mama’s neck, upset at your ineptitude and resigning yourself to a yucky breakfast.

“She means she doesn’t want them to be too thick,” Natasha says smoothly. “She wants thin ones — crepes, rather than American pancakes. That’s right, isn’t it, little one?” She guides you to raise your head with a gentle stroke of your cheek, clearly wanting to check your face for confirmation.

You smile at her in relief, and nod. You turn to face Wanda then, giving your Mommy a nod too, just to make sure. She smiles back at you.

“Of course, I forgot how much my baby likes thin pancakes. I’ll make lots and lots, and then you can do the toppings yourself, when they’re ready. Does that sound okay, little one?” 

You nod again, then fall back into Natasha’s hold with a sigh, watching your Mommy leave with a slight sadness, but one which is soothed by your Mama’s steady stroking of your arms. 

You stay quiet for a while, your bodies melting together and heartbeats slowing to a synchronised thud. 

“I love you so much, baby,” she whispers into the crown of your head. “You have no idea how much it means to me, to be your Mama.”

You look up at her, and see her smiling down at you, her cheeks glistening with tears. You reach up, trying to stroke them away, the way she and Mommy do for you.

“Happy?” you nervously check, as your thumb brushes one away.

“Yes, kroshka moya. Happy tears. Very happy tears.”

Even despite her reassurance, your eyes begin to water too. You can’t help it. Seeing anyone cry always sets you off. And you feel so fragile right now, so wobbly. 

“Oh, baby,” she coos, returning the favour and mirroring your actions, wiping away a tear with a gentle stroke of her thumb. “Look at the two of us, hm? Are these happy tears too?”

You nod, your hand lifting to grab at her own, needing something to hold, needing another piece of her, although you have so much already.

“Love you, Mama,” you whisper, and Natasha closes her eyes a moment and takes a deep breath, like she’s feeling something too big to share. Then she opens her eyes, and she leans her head down so her forehead presses against yours, skin touching skin.

“Mama loves you too,” she whispers back, her lips forming the words so close to your face that they become part of the air you breathe. The words settle in your lungs, seep into your blood and are pumped around your body until every fibre of your being is marked by the sentiment and imbued with your Mama’s love. 

“So very much, baby. Forever.”

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, especially if this is something you didn't expect me to post/don't usually read. I don't have any experience of age regression but I found this really comforting to write, so if there are folk who enjoyed it then I might do/share more of this kind of writing in the future. Please let me know what you think -- constructive comments are welcome too (as long as they are kind) ♡

[thatonegrimm]

Saja boys with a reader who always cooks for them. After every performance always makes them an amazing Korean dish for them. Something cute and fluffy

Thank you for the request! This was such a cute idea. Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader — Who Cooks for Them 

-------------------

🧿 Jinu

He tried to beat you home once.

Just once.

After a late rehearsal, he sprinted ahead, half-joking with the others that he’d finally be the one waiting at the table first for once.

But when he opened the door, he was immediately hit with the scent of garlic and sesame oil—soft and homey and already done.

You were plating everything just as he arrived. Soy-braised lotus root. Japchae. Warm rice bowls. Even his favorite side dish: stir-fried anchovies with just enough sugar to make them crunch at the edges.

“You cooked already?” he asked, out of breath, setting his bag down.

You didn’t look up. “You looked tired earlier. Thought I’d surprise you.”

Jinu blinked.

There was so much in that sentence. The way you always noticed the tiniest things. The way you showed love in rice and soup and the care that most people rushed past.

He sat quietly at the table as you poured broth into his bowl.

When you finally sat next to him, he murmured, “It tastes like you missed me.”

You smiled. “I did.”

-------------------

💪 Abby 

Abby could lift two other members at once and still have energy to run laps, but nothing wiped him out like performing.

That’s why you always kept his bowl the biggest.

Spicy beef stew with extra brisket. Doenjang jjigae thick enough to eat with a fork. Braised tofu with scallions and sesame seeds. And three kinds of banchan just because he liked options.

He walked in sweaty and radiant after their show, still high from the cheers.

Then he saw the table.

He paused mid-step, a sheepish smile blooming on his face.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he said, pretending to collapse into a chair.

You kissed the top of his head. “I already did.”

He snorted, reaching for his chopsticks. “I swear this stew makes my muscles stronger.”

You pretended to flex. “Good. I made it with love and protein.”

He pulled you into his lap before you could return to the kitchen, holding you with his cheek resting against your arm.

“You’re my favorite kind of recovery.”

-------------------

📚 Mystery 

Mystery didn’t like eating with others. At least, not at first.

He didn’t like the noise, or the pressure to make small talk, or the expectation to smile between bites.

But with you, there was no pressure.

Just silence.

Steam curling from a shared hotpot. Soft music playing in the background. Your leg pressed against his under the table.

You remembered he liked his kimchi older, sourer. You kept dried anchovies separate because he didn’t like the texture. You even cooked his egg slightly runny—just like that one time he mentioned it without thinking.

He didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t need to.

Instead, he refilled your rice when it ran low.

You caught him doing it and gave him a soft look.

“You always eat more when you’re around me,” you whispered.

He nodded once, chewing slowly.

Because when you cooked for him, he remembered he had a body.

And when you sat with him like this, he remembered he had a heart.

-------------------

💋 Romance 

He blew kisses to the fans all night. Winked onstage, flirted in interviews, posed like a prince.

But it was different when he came home to you.

His show persona melted off the moment he opened the door and saw the table already set.

Samgyetang. Gyeran-jjim. A tall glass of honey-citron tea.

You looked up from the stove, smiling in that quiet, soft way of yours. The one that always hit him harder than any spotlight.

“You didn’t have to—” he started.

“I wanted to,” you said, already walking over with a dish towel in one hand.

He watched you carefully unwrap his chopsticks, setting them gently by his bowl.

This wasn’t a grand gesture. There were no candles, no stage, no crowd.

But to him?

It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done.

He reached across the table and took your hand.

“Next time I win an award,” he whispered, “I’m thanking your cooking first.”

-------------------

🔥 Baby 

Baby stomped in, still wired from the performance, hair a mess, hoodie halfway off his shoulder.

“I nailed that spin during the bridge,” he said immediately. “Did you see it?”

You turned from the pot on the stove and grinned. “Saw it. You looked cocky.”

“I am cocky,” he declared, plopping onto the barstool with the overconfidence of someone who hadn’t sat down in hours.

You placed a bowl in front of him without a word—kimchi fried rice, the way he liked it: extra egg, too much gochujang, sprinkled seaweed flakes.

He blinked.

“…Is that the heart I made on top with ketchup?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re the one who gets pouty if I forget it.”

He stuffed a spoonful into his mouth before you could say anything else. It was still steaming, and he hissed through the burn, but didn’t stop eating.

And then, between bites, he muttered—

“Feels better than being on stage.”

You blinked. “What?”

He looked up, mouth full. “This. You. The food. It’s… it’s better.”

You didn’t say anything, just leaned over and kissed his cheek.

He’d never admit it, but he savored your cooking like a secret.

Like something no one else got to have.

-------------------

M-List

[thesoupes]

stay — clark kent x fem!reader You always knew there was something about Clark—and one night, the cape gives it away.

warnings: ok i wanted this to be fluffy but my angsty soul just couldn’t help itself. a/n: i mean this trope has been done so many times but i still love it so much

“Did you see the news?”

Clark’s ears perk up, raising his brows at you while he grabs a slice of pizza. “What news?”

“New supervillain in town, apparently—don’t you work for a news station? And specifically about Superman?” You ask him, biting the crust of your own slice.

He shrugs, flipping over a page of his work-in-progress article. “For all I know, you could be talking about the lost puppy news from this morning.”

“You guys cover puppy news??”

“When it’s the mayor’s dog, yeah.”

You frown slightly, the expression gone as quick as it came. “Fair enough.”

Unlike Clark, you don’t work at the Daily Planet—you’re not even a reporter, just a financial analyst at a nearby firm. You met Clark years ago coincidentally on a coffee run, and you’d almost spilled your coffee everywhere if it weren’t for his quick reflexes, catching the cup mid-air, no spillage.

It was damn near impossible, but Clark described it as pure luck.

You started seeing each other at the café more often after that—coffee breaks, early mornings, even after-work walks home. Sometimes he picks you up before work just so you don’t have to take walk alone.

You’ve developed feelings for him—someone you consider your best friend, because he’s seen you at your worst and never once judged you for it. And there’d been close calls—nights you were drunk and almost kissed him—but Clark always pulled away, saying he didn’t want to take advantage of you.

You took it as rejection. Gentle, considerate rejection—but rejection all the same.

Clark laughs at the movie playing, and you stare at him as his eyes crinkle with joy. A small smile forms on your lips before you look away. It stings a little, but you’d rather have him as a friend than not have him at all.

“So,” you say, keeping your voice light, “anything fun at work happen today?”

“Lois got a promotion,” Clark replies, “Well deserved.”

“Oh, that’s great.” You nod. “She’s a damn good journalist.”

He agrees easily. “Couldn’t agree more. And she’s taught me so much. Through her writing, or just her notes, she’s just so—”

Ah. Lois.

It all makes sense to you now. His soft eyes when he talks about her, the way her name always lands like punctuation. Your smile wavers, just for a second, before you swallow it down.

You pick at the crust of your pizza, watching the movie but not really seeing it. Clark doesn’t notice the shift—or maybe he does and pretends not to. He offers you the last slice with a grin, and you shake your head, forcing a smile.

You pick at the crust of your pizza, eyes drifting to the movie. Clark’s still laughing at something on screen, but the sound barely reaches you now. Your chest feels heavier than it should.

When the credits roll, you gather the plates and start stacking them, wiping your hands on a napkin.

Clark gathers the empty pizza boxes and takes them to the trash, moving around your apartment with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. He wipes down the counter without asking, places the coasters back exactly where you like them, and slots his assigned mug—one you got him as a joke, printed with “Yoda-licious”—into his spot in your cabinet. You never told him where that spot was, but he figured it out a long time ago.

“Thanks for the movie.” He says. Usually he’d give you a hug before leaving, but he senses your hesitation tonight, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie, and offer a small smile. “Just tired.”

He nods, but doesn’t quite look convinced. “Alright. I’ll text when I’m back.”

He lingers like he might say something else—but instead, he just gives you that warm half-smile and steps into the hallway.

“Goodnight,” you say, leaning against the doorframe.

“Night.”

You’d texted Clark the next morning that you’re leaving early, and that maybe you’ll just see him at the café. You show up at the café looking a little sullen—mostly because you hadn’t really slept. There’s a tired ache behind your eyes, and you frown as you scan your inbox, trying not to think about anything except work.

“Hey,” comes a familiar voice.

You look up. Clark’s standing there with two drinks and a paper bag.

“I got your usual. Thought I’d save you a trip.”

You blink at him, then at the coffee and the bag. “Clark, you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, and smiles. “But I wanted to.”

You both sit at a table, deciding that you still have time before work starts. Clark eyes you carefully, noticing that you’re avoiding looking at him today and your heartbeat’s slightly elevated.

“Are you okay?”

Your browse raise. “Yeah. I’m okay. Why?”

“Just…” He pauses, “You’ve been a little quiet since last night.”

You chew on your bottom lip. “I need to tell you something.”

You look at him then—really look. You’ve spent months beside this man, coffee dates, late-night walks, stupid inside jokes. You’ve held your feelings in so tightly for so long that it almost hurts to speak.

“I like you,” you say, quiet but sure. “More than a friend.”

He freezes.

You keep going, even though your chest feels like it might cave in. “I don’t know if you feel the same. I just needed you to know.”

A pause. His gaze drops to the coffee in front of him. And for a second, something flickers across his face—something raw, almost pained.

But then he brushes it away.

Clark looks up and says, gently, “I don’t feel the same.”

The silence is sharp.

“I care about you,” he adds quickly, voice calm, almost too calm. “You’re one of my closest friends. But… that’s all it’s ever been for me.”

Your stomach sinks. Heat prickles behind your eyes.

“But last night, and all the times you—” You stop yourself, breath catching. “It felt like something.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. That was never my intention.”

No hesitation. No visible guilt.

Except he is lying. Every word tastes like glass on his tongue, but he says them anyway. Because the truth—that he’s Superman, and that loving you would put you in danger—is something he’s not willing to drag you into.

You nod, trying to process.

“Right,” you say. “Of course.”

Clark opens his mouth like he might say more, but then he just lets out a quiet breath and stands.

“I’ll see you around,” he says.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

You’re the last one in the office. You didn’t mean to stay this late, but between ignoring Clark’s messages and calls, and the piling files on your desk, time flew by fast. You shut your laptop, toss it in your bag, and sling your coat over your shoulders.

The streets are quiet this late, just the occasional cab slicing through the dark. You step out into the cold, hunching against the breeze, head down.

You don’t see the truck barreling toward the intersection.

But you hear the horn.

And everything happens too fast.

Headlights blind you, and you cover yourself, arms up to your head, bracing for impact.

You freeze—and in the same second, you’re not standing anymore.

A strong chest against your palm, arms wrapped tightly around you, your feet off the ground—you open your eyes to see the superhero in red and blue, carrying you after a speeding truck almost hit you.

Superman.

He holds you carefully, cradled like something precious, his expression knit with concern. Kind eyes. A warm smile. And something else in his face that reminds you of someone.

You don’t even register the throb in your ankle until he gently lowers you and you wince, nearly collapsing.

“You’re hurt,” he says quietly.

Before you can object, he lifts you up again, earning a startled yelp.

“I—I can walk,” you stammer. “I think.”

“You sprained your ankle,” he replies, calm but firm. “You shouldn’t walk on it.”

And just like that, he launches into the air.

Wind whips past your face as the city becomes a blur beneath you. Held securely in his arms, you try to focus on anything but the heat rising to your cheeks.

“…How do you know where I live?” you ask, watching as he flies in the right direction.

He doesn’t answer, just motions you to unlock your door when he lands in front of your apartment building, not letting you step on the floor for even a second. Your shaking hands finally manage to unlock the front door, and Superman opts to take the elevator.

He looks at you then, and you look away, feeling shy under his intense gaze. He lets out a small chuckle, his lips curling into a somewhat satisfied grin.

“Did Clark put you up to this?” You ask, trying not to sound flustered.

Superman seems surprised by your question. “I’m Superman, I help people.”

“And that includes becoming a personal chauffeur and nurse every single time someone gets hurt?”

He smiles. “You’re different.”

“What does that mean?”

Superman doesn’t answer again. The elevator dings, and when the doors slide open, he carries you straight to your apartment door like he’s done it a hundred times before. Your hand trembles slightly as you unlock it again.

He steps inside without needing directions. Doesn’t ask where to set you down. Just walks straight to the couch, the exact path someone would take if they already knew it.

You stare at him.

He disappears into your bathroom and returns moments later, already with your first aid kit already in hand. You don’t even remember telling him where you kept it.

He kneels again, carefully lifting your foot into his lap.

“How did you know where that was?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates for half a second. Just half.

Then he murmurs, “Lucky guess.”

You narrow your eyes. He doesn’t meet them.

He wraps your ankle gently, hands practiced. Too practiced. Not just the first aid—you. He knows how to angle the couch cushion behind your back. Knows your sink handle sticks slightly and twists it without struggle. He hands you a glass of water without asking if you want one.

There are so many questions you want to ask.

How does he know where everything is in your apartment? What did he mean by his comment in the elevator? Why does it feel like you know him? Did Clark—

You see the mole on the tip of his ear as he’s gently rubbing your ankles in comfort, and there’s no mistaking it.

“Clark…?”

He stills.

Then slowly, like he’s bracing for impact, he lifts his head and looks at you.

“Clark,” you say again, this time not a question.

He doesn't speak.

But he doesn't deny it either.

And that, more than anything, is your answer.

“Holy shit.” You whisper.

Clark swallows, You watch something shift in him. The mask is slipping, even as the cape still rests on his shoulders.

He starts to rise, like he’s about to walk out the door.

“No—wait,” you say, moving instinctively—and cry out as pain shoots up your leg.

“Don’t stand—” he says quickly, reaching for you.

“So don’t go,” you breathe.

Your fingers grip his arms as you lean into him, your weight shaky and uncertain. “Please. Don’t leave.”

Clark looks away, his jaw tight, fists clenched.

And then, like a wave crashing into you, this morning’s conversation replays in your mind—his rejection, the way he avoided your eyes, the hollowness in his voice when he said he didn’t feel the same.

“…Sorry,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “I… I didn’t mean to make this harder for you.”

You let go.

Hands falling to your sides, chest heavy. You can’t look at him now—not without shattering.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you say, blinking fast to keep the tears at bay. “I promise.”

Clark exhales, low and pained, like your words knocked the air out of him.

“That’s not what this is about.”

You look up.

And he finally meets your eyes.

“I trust you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “More than anyone.”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“I just…” Clark trails off, rubs a hand over his face. “I thought I could protect you. From this. From me. I thought if I could keep my distance, you’d be safe. That you’d be okay.”

You stare at him, heart pounding.

“But I don’t think I can stay away.” He admits, “I couldn’t focus today because you didn’t answer my texts, didn’t call me back, and I… I don’t think I can live without you.”

“…So you pushed me away because I could be in danger?”

Clark nods, his hands reaching for yours and fiddling with it.

“And yet tonight you’re the one who saved me. I could’ve died if you weren’t there.” You squeeze his hand, and he lets you.

Clark exhales, leaning in until his forehead gently rests against yours. His eyes close like it’s the only moment of peace he’s had in days.

A soft smile forms on your lips as you thread your fingers through his, and he doesn’t pull away.

“So…” you murmur, teasingly light but trembling around the edges. “I take it you do like me?”

Clark chuckles, opening his eyes and gazing at you lovingly with his blue eyes.

“Like you?” he repeats, tilting your chin up. “Sweetheart, you’re everything to me.”

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing his jaw, and he leans into the touch like he’s starving for it.

Then he kisses you gently, his hand on your lower back, pulling you close to him, kissing you like you’re his anchor, like he might fall apart without you. You feel him breathe into it, into you, and the low, quiet sound he makes against your mouth sends a spark straight down your spine.

When he pulls away, he keeps his eyes closed, resting his forehead on yours again.

“You know, this is a lot of information in one night.” You let out a small laugh.

“If you let me change, I’ll explain everything.” He says.

You hum, letting your fingers trail down his chest. “I might need help showering. Sprained ankle and all…”

Clark groans, burying his face in your neck. He kisses his way up to your lips again, leaving sweet pecks like he can’t stop.

“Might need to get my mind off the pain.” You murmur against his lips.

“Yeah?” He grins, scooping you into his arms as he makes his way to the bathroom.

“I can think of a few ways to do that.”

[sereia4skz]

congrats on 2k!!

can i request a crack/smut fic for reader checking up on kitsune!jeongin but he lets his animalistic instincts get him and trys humping anything he can and this goes on for days and each time reader scolds him for it tired of his behavior but also amused

2k Followers Event | animal urges

pairing: jeongin x reader

synopsis: the young fox won't stop humping things...

warnings: kitsune!jeongin, smut, dry humping, jeongin keep humping everything, everything, public embarrassment

event masterlist: #2kShootingStars

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

AN: this is the same vibes as pomegranate kisses | jeongin x m!reader in a way

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

You’re not sure what the final straw was, maybe the first time he humped your pillow. Or the third. Or maybe when he went after your leg while you were refilling his water dish like some desperate stray. 

It’s been four days of this nonsense, at first you thought he was just joking around, but this is getting ridiculous and you’re about to throw him into the pond.

“Jeongin!” you bark, and the kitsune jumps, ears perking up guiltily from where he’s currently rubbing himself against the corner of his bedding. Again.

“Not the furniture,” you deadpan, hands on your hips. “We talked about this.”

He whines. Actually whines, crouching down like a scolded dog with a too-fluffy tail curling over his back. His golden eyes glimmer with pure dramatics.

“It’s not my fault!” he huffs, “You’re always coming in smelling like flowers and moonlight and ugh- I have instincts!”

“Instincts don’t mean you get to violate everything, Jeongin.”

He shifts fully back into his fox form, ears twitching, eyes narrowed, and sulks beneath the stone table, where he promptly humps one of the legs like a beast possessed.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Do I need to call Chan?”

“Don’t bring the naiad into this!” comes his muffled protest. “He tried to bathe me last time!”

You fold your arms. “Maybe he should. You clearly need to cool off.”

“I just- Ugh! It’s the season! My tails get tingly! My soul gets tingly! I can't help it if every soft object looks breedable right now!”

You snort. “That’s not a word we use in this house.”

“Says who?”

“Says the person whose blanket you defiled yesterday.”

Jeongin yips. “You saw that?”

“I stepped in it, Jeongin.”

He goes dead silent.

“…Was it warm?”

“JEONGIN.”

⋆｡°✩

By day five, your eye is twitching.

The Sanctuary’s other residents have started noticing. Minho side-eyes Jeongin whenever the fox starts sniffing around the mossy corners of the common space.

Even Changbin, chaos incarnate, tried to cover Jeongin with a blanket. “He needs to be swaddled,” he said solemnly, like Jeongin was some possessed Victorian child.

You’ve tried giving him space. Extra food. Cold compresses. Nothing’s helped. He’s just too pent-up. And the worst part? He still insists on being sweet and shy when you scold him, like he doesn’t have ten documented humping incidents today alone.

You find him today pressed flat to the floor of his room, panting, one paw twitching in his fox form, a visible blush creeping up his snout. His tails are puffed out in every direction.

“…You good?”

He lifts his head slowly.

“I humped a dream,” he whispers hoarsely. “Thought it was real… but it was just an illusion and-”

“Jeongin!”

“I said I was sorry!”

⋆｡°✩

By the time you enter his quarters again on day seven, you’re armed with a spray bottle.

He tries to mount a throw pillow and gets misted in the face.

He yelps. “What the hell?!”

“You’re not neutered. This is the next best thing.”

“You can’t spray me like I’m a cat!”

“Can’t I?”

He shifts to human form, half-naked and glistening with some kind of self-inflicted sweat, glaring at you with amber-ringed eyes and zero shame.

“This is a hate crime.”

You raise the bottle. “You wanna test me?”

His hands go up. “Okay, okay. I’m trying. Really. Just… there’s too much of you in this room and not enough self-control in my body.”

“That’s your problem.”

“No,” he murmurs, gaze hooded now. “That’s your problem. Because one day you’re gonna walk in here, all soft and pretty like you always are, and I’m just gonna lose it. Right here. Right on the floor. I’ll make you watch.”

You blink. “That was… graphic.”

“I want to be graphic!”

You pause. “…So you’re saying if I lock the door-”

“and sit on my face,” he finishes, hopeful.

You blink again. “I mean… meditate or something.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence. “...But, if you wanted to sit on my face?”

You throw the pillow at him. 

⋆｡°✩

By day eight, you've just about lost it. You've tried letting him work through it on his own, offering a den further apart, he keeps finding his way back somehow. 

You try to be professional. Really. You come in with ointments for his paws, a calm demeanor, and absolutely no intention of letting him mount your leg again. 

But the second you kneel down to check his ankle, something shifts. He makes a soft, breathy sound, almost like a whimper, and then he’s crawling forward, warm, solid, glowing with something not-quite-human behind his eyes.

You stiffen.

“Jeongin,” you warn. “Don’t.”

He growls, low and hungry. “Don’t what?”

His tails brush over your legs, silky-soft and teasing. He’s so close your noses nearly touch. His breath is sweet, like candied herbs and ruined self-control.

“I told you,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t smell this good. It’s dangerous.”

“Then maybe you should stop sniffing me.”

“I’ve tried.” His mouth brushes your jaw. “I even tried humping a tree, you know that? A tree. I thought maybe I’d feel better. I didn’t.”

You lose it, you laugh. You cackle. 

Jeongin looks at you with a wicked smile, all teeth and heat and glowing eyes, and pounces. You don’t have time to scream before he’s on top of you, arms braced on either side, tails curling around your limbs like binding silk.

“You’re gonna let me rut, or I swear to the moon, I’ll start dry-humping the trees again.”

You stare up at him, breath caught in your throat. “…That’s not a real threat.”

“I moaned loud enough last time the dryad heard me.”

“Hyunjin?!”

“He left me a flower crown and said ‘get well soon.’”

You groan. “Fine. You wanna fuck? Then fuck.”

He blinks. “…Wait, really?”

“Yes. But you get one go. And if you hump anything non-living after this, I’m telling Chan.”

“Deal.”

His mouth crashes against yours before you can take it back, hot, hungry, almost grateful, like he’s been holding himself back for days (because he has). His fingers tug clumsily at your shirt, nails catching the fabric, his other hand already buried in the curve of your waist like he needs to anchor himself.

You're flat on your back in his blanket nest before you realize it, pillows scattered, the floor padded with soft pelts and rumpled quilts he’s clearly been making a mess of for days. It smells like him here, spiced honey and heat, and too many hormones for anyone’s good.

“Can I?” he breathes, eyes wild, cheeks flushed. “Can I rut you like I want? Need it,”

You arch a brow. “Define 'need’”

He whimpers. “Clothes off, on all fours, me behind you, I lose my mind halfway through and cry a little.”

You blink. “...You’ve thought about this.”

“So much.”

He makes a desperate sound when you start unbuttoning your pants, and he lunges like you're prey. His mouth leaves open kisses on your belly, your hip, your inner thigh, and then he’s nuzzling between your legs with such reverent intensity it makes you laugh through a moan.

“You’re not even inside me yet, and you’re shaking.”

“I know,” he gasps, nipping at your skin. “I’m gonna blow my load like a virgin if you look at me too much, fuck, you smell so good-”

You barely get the words, “Then do something,” out before he’s sliding into you with a full-body tremble, like he’s been waiting his entire afterlife for it.

He groans, high, sweet, and downright filthy, as his hips snap forward, almost feral, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the otherwise soft, fabric-muffled den. His tails twitch with each thrust, wrapping tighter around your calves and arms like velvet ropes. He kisses you sloppily, constantly, like he’s scared you’ll disappear beneath him.

You reach up, fingers tangling in the soft fur at the base of his tail just to see what happens.

He screeches. Actually yowls. His hips stutter. He bites your shoulder and moans like a banshee.

“Oh my gods, don’t do that unless you want fox kits.”

You snort, biting back your own moan as he speeds up, practically humping you now with little finesse, but a lot of enthusiasm. His rhythm’s all over the place, needy, quick, messy, but it doesn’t matter because he’s so into it, eyes wide and glossy, chanting your name like a spell.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he babbles, face buried in your neck, his illusion magic going haywire as little bursts of foxfire pop and sizzle overhead. One tail knocks over a pile of blankets and reveals a stuffed pillow with a suspicious stain on it.

You stare.

“…Is that the-”

“Don’t look at that,” he huffs, thrusting harder to distract you.

You laugh so hard your legs go weak, and Jeongin nearly sobs into your chest from relief and overstimulation.

He finally finishes, with a trembling whimper, his body curling around yours like he never wants to let go. He’s flushed and panting, still moving his hips lazily, like his need hasn't quite worn off.

You brush the hair from his face, letting him catch his breath.

“I’m still telling Chan.”

He moans. “He’s going to boil me.”

You smile and press a kiss to his sweaty temple. “…Worth it?”

He grins. “…I’m gonna hump that pillow again.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @bangchanspineapple @sunfk88 @sillyseob @rougegenshin @yaorzu-blog @babigriin @tricky-ritz

[neellscapsule]

jon's aunt — dick's mom

summary | the birth of your first nephew brings out new feeling around. in you, a terrible love that will never end — in your fiance, a baby fever — in your son . . . pure jealousy.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic dick grayson x kent!reader, platonic superfam x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, bruce having the highest baby fever ever known to a man, jealousy but it's quickly fixed because dick and reader share COMMUNICATION

word count | 4k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 7. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn @jjoppees @yall-imhere @sabrinaoppositee @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood @omisotolongo @lortheswiftie

YOU'VE NEVER PACKED TUPPERWARE WITH SO MUCH FERVOR IN YOUR LIFE.

It started last night, back at the Manor, with Alfred chopping sweet potatoes and murmuring that “Miss Lois should not be expected to cook for at least two weeks, considering what her body has endured,” and you all but gasped and said, “That’s what I told Bruce! She won’t even be allowed to lift a spoon!”

Now, it’s just after morning on a cloudy Friday, and you’re triple-checking the seal on the chicken casserole with a level of caution Bruce reserves for evidence handling.

“Are we bringing the lasagna and the quiche?” you ask aloud, voice muffled through the open refrigerator. “Or is that too much cheese? You think she’s breastfeeding? What if Jon’s gassy?”

“Baby’s name is Jon, not Bruce,” Dick calls from the kitchen counter where he’s swinging his feet off a stool, peeling stickers off an apple like it personally offended him. “He’ll survive.”

Bruce lets out a soft snort behind his coffee mug. “We’re bringing both. Lois will appreciate the options.”

You glance over your shoulder with a glowing, caffeine-charged grin, arms stacked full of containers. You’re wearing soft jeans, sneakers, and an old Kansas State hoodie that Clark gave you years ago. It still smells faintly of the Kent barn. “This is my first nephew, I am not showing up unprepared.”

“He’s four days old,” Dick mutters, tugging at the sleeves of his navy hoodie, a little sulky. “He can’t even eat.”

“You can,” you say sweetly, pressing a kiss to his cheek and pushing the apple toward him. “So can Clark. So can Lois. And we both know Bruce won’t say no to one of Alfred’s spinach quiches.”

Bruce hums in affirmation, one brow raised as he takes the casserole from you. “You're not wrong.”

And despite the minor sulkiness radiating from Dick like Gotham fog, you know he’s excited too. You can tell by the way he keeps sneaking glances at the hallway mirror, combing his fingers through his hair, pretending not to care as he subtly adjusts the laces on his sneakers. At twelve, he’s straddling that awkward, unsteady line—too old to cling, too young to conceal it.

You see yourself in it. You see Clark in it too. The years spent fidgeting on the Kent front porch before any major occasion, pacing barefoot across the kitchen tile, brushing hay from your hair before prom like it mattered.

You’re practically vibrating with excitement the entire drive to Metropolis. You try to keep it cool—really, you do—but your knee is bouncing, your fingers tapping the side of the Tupperware-laden basket balanced on your lap. You’re a Kent, after all. Raised on decency, patience, manners. Martha always said, “A watched pot never boils, sweetheart. But sometimes, the right kind of love overflows before it even hits the stove.” 

You’re not sure that applied to visiting your nephew for the first time, but you’re running with it.

And Bruce is trying so hard not to smile at you.

From the driver’s seat of the black SUV, he glances at you like you’re the only light worth driving toward. One hand on the wheel, the other resting easy on the gearshift.

Dick has his earbuds in, but you know he’s not really listening to music—he’s sneaking glances at your phone, trying to look uninterested in the photos Clark sent of baby Jon this morning.

You reach into the basket beside you and gently pull out a small foil-wrapped sandwich. You show it over the seat without a word. Dick doesn’t move. 

“Turkey and cheddar,” you offer. “With the spicy mustard you like. I told Alfred not to cut it diagonally.”

Dick sighs. “You don’t have to baby me.”

“I know,” you say, keeping your arm extended. “But I want to.”

A beat passes. Then another. Dick takes the sandwich without a word, unwraps it slowly, and takes a bite.

Bruce murmurs under his breath, “Moody teenagers. I was Alfred’s worst nightmare.”

“I behaved quite good,” you say airily. “Though Clark and I used to give my mama semi-heart attacks jumping off the barn roof with sheets tied around the trees.”

Bruce chuckles low in his throat. “Sounds about right.”

You’re quiet for the last few minutes of the drive. You think about Lois—what she must be feeling, how her body must ache. You think about Clark holding his son. You think about the way your family is growing, and it makes your eyes sting.

The elevator to the apartment feels like a rocket. You’re clutching your basket and a paper bag of extra muffins, heart hammering like you’re about to walk into your own wedding.

Dick shifts beside you. “Are babies really that exciting?”

You glance down at him and smile. “Yes. They are.”

Clark opens the door before Bruce can even knock.

He’s in sweats, barefoot, hair a mess. The kind of mess that looks like it’s been ruffled a thousand times by panicked hands. He’s grinning, eyes red-rimmed but glowing with joy and exhaustion.

“Y/N—” He pulls you into a tight hug before you can say anything. “Oh thank God, I thought you got stuck in traffic.”

“You’re the one with super speed,” you mumble against his chest. “You could’ve flown to get us.”

He pulls back with a soft laugh. “I’m scared of Lois right now. She banned cape activity within a twenty-mile radius.”

You snort, stepping inside, the scent of baby powder and formula and fresh laundry hitting you like a wave of home and something new all at once. You hear a soft coo from down the hall. Your heart just about stops.

Bruce steps in behind you, setting the basket of food down carefully on the kitchen counter. Alfred packed everything in neat compartments, labeled in cursive, but you added the last-minute touch: banana bread and little handwritten notes that said things like “freeze this if you don’t eat it in two days!” and “do NOT microwave in foil, Clark!”

Dick hovers near the door, scuffing his sneakers against the mat.

“Where’s Lois?” you ask, scanning the apartment.

“Bedroom. She’s napping. I finally convinced her to let me hold Jon for longer than five minutes.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Is that so?”

Clark grins. “Come see him.”

You’re moving before you can even stop yourself. Through the narrow hallway, past the baby-blue blanket draped over a door handle, and then into the soft-lit living room where a little bassinet waits beside the couch. Inside it is the tiniest person you’ve ever seen.

You cover your mouth with both hands. “Oh my God.”

Jonathan Samuel Kent is swaddled in a white and blue onesie with a little cartoon rocket on the chest. His fists are tight, his lips parted in a perfect little “o,” and his dark hair is stuck up in all directions. He looks like he belongs in the center of the universe.

You drop to your knees next to the bassinet, instantly crying. “He’s perfect.”

Clark kneels beside you, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. “I know.”

“I mean, how? How is he this small? How is he—he’s breathing, he’s real, and he’s my—” You hiccup around a sob. “He’s my nephew.”

Dick stands behind you, arms still crossed, watching the scene with a strange look on his face. He doesn’t come closer.

Bruce moves beside him, rests a quiet hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Wanna come say hi?” you whisper, looking back at them with tear-bright eyes.

Dick shrugs. “He’s just a baby.”

Bruce leans down and murmurs something in Dick’s ear that you don’t catch, and it seems to ease something in the boy’s posture.

Still, he stays back.

You, on the other hand, are completely captivated. You scoop Jon into your arms carefully, marveling at the weight of him. So light, like holding a cloud. He fusses just a little, lips puckering, and then he settles.

“Oh, you’re gonna be trouble, aren’t you?” you whisper with a watery laugh. “You’re a Kent, that’s for sure.”

Clark laughs. “He’s been throwing little fits every time Lois puts him down. Has lungs like Dad used to complain I had.”

You cradle Jon closer, swaying on your feet. “God, he smells like heaven.”

Bruce watches you in total silence. His eyes follow every movement—how gently your arms adjust under the baby’s weight, how your cheek brushes his soft curls, how your lips part in awe and love and that impossible tenderness that can only come from someone who’s already decided they would die for this tiny creature.

And that’s when it hits him.

Hard.

Because he’s always known he wanted a family again. After everything. After the caves and the scars and the choices. But this? Seeing you hold a baby like that? His arms ache with the want of it.

Dick is your son. Yours and his. But he doesn't wish to be hugged all the time, and Bruce can understand it perfectly, because he was also young once, angrier most of the time, moody. Not easy to handle: Dick is easier than he was. He can see it, specially when you are in front of the boy. 

It settles deep in his chest like a vow unspoken.

Later. Not yet. But someday.

You look over and catch him staring.

“What?” you inquire softly, eyes shining.

He swallows. “Nothing.”

You smile at him for real this time. “Come here. Hold him.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“Bruce.”

He relents, walking over slowly. You pass Jon carefully into his arms, adjusting his grip.

“There you go,” you say. “Support his head. Look at you.”

Bruce is stiff at first. Not unsure—he never is—but unfamiliar. Until Jon curls one tiny hand around his finger, and Bruce looks like the air’s been knocked out of him.

“He’s so small,” he murmurs.

You nod, resting your hand lightly on his shoulder. “Yeah. And yet he’ll grow up faster than we’re ready for.”

Dick watches the whole exchange in silence, the lines between his brows getting deeper.

You kneel back beside him. “Hey,” you say gently. “Wanna help me clean up the kitchen? Lois is gonna be overwhelmed when she wakes up.”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. You ruffle his hair and lead him toward the kitchen, setting down the diaper bag you brought full of non-baby supplies—sponges, disinfectant, some lavender-scented soap Martha swears by.

While you scrub the sink and organize the fridge, Dick stands beside you drying plates.

After a while, he says, “You’re gonna love him more than me, right?”

You freeze, heart sinking.

“Dick,” you whisper, setting down the sponge. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You kneel beside him again, like you did beside the bassinet, and take his hand.

“You are my son. Nothing will ever change that. Not another baby. Not time. Not anything. Okay? I love you. I will always love you.”

His lower lip trembles. “But you called him perfect.”

“You’re perfect too,” you say immediately. “In a loud, snarky, eat-five-slices-of-pizza kind of way.”

That earns a tiny smile. “I only had four last night.”

“I counted five.”

He sighs. “Fine. Maybe.”

You pull him into a tight hug. “You can love more than one person, honey. And loving Jon doesn’t take anything away from how much I love you.”

“…Promise?”

“Promise.”

He buries his face in your neck and hugs you like a lifeline. You hold him back with the same unshakable love.

“It’s dumb. I know. He’s a baby.”

“It’s not dumb. I'm glad you told me you feel this way, bug. So I can clarify it to you, ok?”

“Ok,” he whispers back. 

From the living room, you hear Bruce’s voice, low and warm.

“I think he smiled at me.”

Clark laughs. “That’s just gas.”

Lois’s sleepy voice adds from the hallway, “It’s still cute.”

You glance at the doorway. There she is—hair in a messy braid, eyes bleary, wearing Clark’s old hoodie. She looks exhausted and entirely at peace.

“Y/N,” she says softly. “Come here. I missed you.”

You walk over and pull her into a hug. “I brought soup, banana bread, lots of good, and child labor.”

She laughs against your shoulder. “You’re a saint.”

“And I cleaned your fridge.”

“I could cry.”

“You probably will.”

Lois pulls back, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Wanna hold your nephew again?”

You beam. “Always. But I think he wants to know his cousin now.”

Both of you glance at Dick, who just blinks, making Lois giggle. Back on the couch, you sit next to Bruce this time, who still is holding the baby, fascinated and in complete awe.

“Dickie,” you call gently, “come meet him.”

Bruce turns, catching it too, and he shifts forward just slightly, silently encouraging. “Come on, son.”

Dick moves toward you, all cautious steps and uncertain limbs. You scoot closer to Bruce and pat the space beside you.

“Here,” you say. “Come hold him.”

His eyes widen. “Me?”

“You’re family,” Clark says simply.

You pass the baby with slow, careful hands, your fingers grazing Dick’s as you help guide him.

Dick sits frozen for a moment with Jon in his lap, wrapped in that sky-blue blanket, his whole expression taut with focus. “He’s so little.”

“He’s strong,” Clark assures. “He won’t break.”

“Feels like he might,” Dick mutters.

Bruce watches him closely. Then, when Dick adjusts his hold slightly and Jon lets out a soft coo — not crying, just a sleepy sound — Bruce smiles.

“Look at you,” you whisper, your voice impossibly tender. “Proud cousin.”

Dick glances up at you, cheeks faintly pink. “Yeah. I guess.”

“You’re gonna be such a good example for him, Dickie.”

The boy’s throat works as he swallows. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” you say softly. “He’s gonna look up to you. You’re the big cousin. The cool cousin.”

That gets a tiny smile out of him. “Obviously.”

You and Lois laugh at that, and even Bruce’s chest shakes.

You take a quick photo with your phone — Dick beaming softly down at baby Jon, cradling him in both arms, knees together, sitting upright and careful and proud. You send it to Alfred. He’ll probably cry over it in the Manor kitchen.

And as you wrap Jon up in the soft blanket you brought from Gotham — one you did with your own hands —you don’t feel tired at all.

You feel full. So full of love, it’s bursting in your chest.

You kiss his forehead and whisper, “Welcome to the world, Jon Kent.”

The Manor is quiet when you return, too quiet for how much love you’re carrying in your chest.

You didn’t even realize you’d missed it—the cool marble beneath your sneakers, the low golden lighting of the front hall, Alfred’s faint presence in the background, humming near the stairway as he prepares for the night. The drive from Metropolis to Gotham had been slow, quiet, sleepy, with Dick passing out against the window halfway through and Bruce wordless behind the wheel, a small, private smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You’d watched him from the passenger seat—watched his hand rest against the gearshift in that casual, practiced way. Watched his fingers twitch when you talked about Jon’s impossibly tiny toes. 

Now it’s nearly ten. Dick has been asleep for almost an hour, curled in the middle of his bed in a tangle of blankets and limbs. You’d kissed his forehead, tucked his arms around the stuffed elephant, and tiptoed out of the room with your heart too full to name.

And Bruce—Bruce is in the bedroom already, barefoot, sleeves rolled, shirt wrinkled from the car ride. He’s sitting on the edge of your side of the bed with his elbows on his knees, thumbing through something on his tablet.

“Hey,” you call softly, padding in.

Bruce looks up. And he smiles. One of those slow, open, rare ones that only comes out when he’s been struck speechless.

“Hey,” he echoes, and sets the tablet down. “You okay?”

You nod, pulling off your sweater, crawling into bed beside him. “Yeah. Just tired. Emotionally. But in the good way.”

“First nephew’ll do that to you,” he murmurs, and without missing a beat, he pulls you straight into his lap.

You yelp softly, then laugh, and curl your arms around his shoulders. “Oh, so this is what we’re doing tonight?”

Bruce’s hands slide up your spine. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Mm,” you hum, brushing your nose against his. “Me too. Mostly Jon. And Lois’s boobs—they’re doing the Lord’s work, honestly. I didn’t know they could get that big.”

He groans against your skin. “Please don’t bring up your sister-in-law’s boobs in bed.”

You giggle. “I’m just saying! I gained a whole new respect for breastfeeding. And if I were Lois, I’d never wear a bra again.”

Bruce mutters, “That’s because you’re a menace.”

You press a soft kiss to his mouth, then his jaw. He smells like clean laundry and something darker—his cologne, musky and warm, something that always reminds you of long nights in the Batcave and silk sheets and the way his voice gets low when he says your name.

“You were really good with Jon,” you whisper, lips brushing his cheek. “Natural, even.”

He huffs softly, ducking his head. “You think so?”

You nod. “He looked safe. Like he knew you.”

“Could barely keep his eyes open.”

“Still,” you murmur. “You looked like a dad.”

That makes him pause. Not with fear. With weight. You feel it settle in his shoulders.

“I’ve been one for four years now,” he says finally, resting his forehead against yours. “At least, I like to think so.”

You nod, smile curling again. “You’re so a dad. Dick thinks the world of you.”

There’s a pause between you. His hands tighten slightly around your waist.

“I want one.”

You snort. “Bruce.”

“I’m serious.”

“You say that like we can order one from the Waynetech catalog.”

He smirks. “It’s in development.”

“Oh my God.”

You laugh until your head tilts back, chest rising and falling from the effort. You can’t remember the last time you laughed like this. He’s not joking, though. Not really. There’s a look in his eyes—one you’ve seen only once or twice before. Once when Dick came into your lives. Once when he told you he loved you for the first time.

“I’m not against it,” you say finally, still breathless. “Not at all. But you and I have never really talked about it.”

His brows furrow. “We haven’t?”

“No, Bruce. Because we’ve been raising a twelve-year-old. And before that, we were sneaking around the office and making out in storage closets.”

He looks smug. “Still a highlight of my day.”

You flick his forehead.

He catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm.

“You’re the mother of my son,” he says softly. “Whether he’s adopted or not, whether we share blood or not, you’re his mother. You’ve been his mother. Watching you with Dick these last four years…” He pauses. “I didn’t think I could love you more. Then today happened.”

And then he says it.

“I’ve been thinking about it more lately.”

You blink. “About . . having another one?”

The silence that follows is soft, gentle—not tense. But you feel it land inside your chest like a stone in water. Slow. Wide ripples. He nods.

Your laugh is small, a little nervous. “That’s new.”

“Is it?” he asks. “You’ve been whispering about baby feet since morning, and I saw you coo, Y/N. I’ve never seen you coo.”

You bite your lip. “Okay, yes. I cooed. But I’m allowed! He’s my nephew!”

He gives you a look—mildly amused, vaguely smug. “I’m not criticizing. Just… observing.”

You tuck your face into his neck, breathing him in, warm and familiar. “It’s not that I don’t want kids. I have one. We’re raising Dick. And he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I just—”

“You’re scared?”

“No,” you admit. “Just… surprised. We never talked about it.”

He nods, thoughtful. “That’s on me.”

“No,” you say again, leaning back a little to meet his eyes. “We’re still figuring this out. You and me. It’s only been, what, four and a half years?”

He grins faintly. “Four years, nine months, and twenty-one days, but who’s counting?”

You snort. “Of course you know the number.”

“You’re the only one I ever counted for.”

Something about the way he says it—the weight behind the words, the quiet reverence—it roots itself deep in your spine.

“I don’t know what I want yet,” you whisper honestly. “But when I picture my future, it’s always… us. Dick. And whatever we make together. Whether that’s another baby, or five dogs, or a greenhouse the size of the Cave.”

Bruce presses a kiss to your temple. “Even if I’m a hot old man by the time we get there?”

You laugh into his chest. “Especially if you’re a hot old man.”

His laugh rumbles under your cheek. “Okay. Good to know.”

You pull back and study his face for a long moment. The softness around his eyes. The lines that have deepened slightly since you met him. The way he holds you now—with quiet devotion, with certainty, with nothing held back.

“You’d be a really good dad to a baby,” you say softly. “One from scratch.”

“You’d be a dangerous mom,” he murmurs, voice low. “Wielding casseroles and flannel blankets like weapons.”

“Hey!” you protest, swatting his chest. “I am incredibly nurturing.”

“You are. That’s what I’m saying. Jon didn’t even cry once in your arms. That’s a superpower.”

You beam at him, flushed with something too tender to name.

There’s another pause. Then:

“If we ever do it,” he says, “I want to do it right.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He shifts slightly, runs a hand through your hair. “I don’t want it to be an accident. Or rushed. I want it to be a decision we make. Together. When we’re ready. When we have space. When we’ve figured out… us.”

You nod, grateful for the clarity. “We’re a good team, though.”

“The best.”

“Like… crime-fighting, kid-raising, casserole-baking partners in crime.”

He grins. “Can I be the casserole?”

“No, I’m the casserole,” you declare, poking his chest. “You’re the hot old man.”

“Hot old man is a step up from emotionally unavailable billionaire.”

You kiss his smile. “You’re the emotionally evolved billionaire now.”

He groans. “That’s worse.”

You settle into his arms again, resting your head on his chest.

“I’m not saying yes. I’m not saying no,” you say. “But… I’ll think about it. A lot. And if one day we decide to go there—I want to do it with you.”

He exhales slowly. And you feel it—how much it means to him.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“For being honest. For being here.”

You close your eyes. “Always.”

The next morning, you wake up in Bruce’s arms, buried beneath two quilts, one of which Alfred definitely didn’t approve of aesthetically but gave in because you begged. Bruce is still half-asleep, hair rumpled, one hand resting heavy on your stomach. When you shift, he mumbles something about “diapers” and “paternity leave” and you realize—he dreamt about it.

You giggle into the pillow.

He pulls you tighter, kissing your neck with open-mouthed kisses.

Ok.

Maybe baby fever isn’t so bad.

[jellykyunnie]

˗ˏˋ Entry : 069 - Lover! Lads Men x Non Mc! Fem! Reader: Their favourite way of kisses... ♡ ˎˊ˗

[ Fluff Hcs ]

[ Li Zayne, Qi Rafayel, Shen Xavier, Qin Sylus, Xia Caleb ]

[ Layout Inspo @/jinusajas who encouraged me to write for lads. Ty unnie ]

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕃𝕚 ℤ𝕒𝕪𝕟𝕖 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Your Forehead

He knows it makes you feel like a child whenever his lips presses against your forehead. He adores the soft sound you would make every time you do.

Always on your tiptoes, always hopping a little bit as you look up at him expectantly to be pampered and adored.

And because it's Zayne?

Oh, he is such a sucker for you.

How can he resist you? He can't even stay mad at you for more than 3 minutes, or a minute. He's whipped and he wouldn't deny it if you ask him.

Why would he ever lie to you whom he loves more than life itself? If he can be the reason why your pretty little face crinkles into a joyous expression every single time; then he begs to be the person always in your mind.

Zayne aims to always keep you happy, to keep you smiling, to keep you protected and cherished. That itself, is more than enough for him.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ ℚ𝕚 ℝ𝕒𝕗𝕒𝕪𝕖𝕝 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Your Cheeks

Rafayel loves to pepper your cheeks with pecks, showering it with constant adoration as soon as you are on sight. He really isn't like this at first.

But something in that fish brain of his clicked the moment he nuzzled his cheek against yours.

How is it so fluffy? So fluffy to the point he thinks there must be marshmallows living inside your puffy cheeks.

He was also the type of lover to complain if he even notices an inkling that your precious face became even just a little bit less chubbier compared to the last time you visited.

Rafayel is overprotective over the weirdest things. But perhaps that is why you adore Rafayel in particular. He lets you be childish around him by being childish himself.

By encouraging you to be carefree; he gets to heal a part of himself that had been broken down on his long life.

But more than that, at least he gets to see you in your most beautiful state.

The you who smiles as brightly as the sun and as brilliant as the ocean when the skies are adorned in pinks and ambers.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕊𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕏𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕖𝕣 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Your knuckles

Like a prince in those fairytales the little you often buried your nose in— Xavier would always have his lips on your delicate knuckles before pulling away and swiping his thumb over the spot he placed a peck on.

Most of the time he would just press his lips on it. Other times when he feels like being a bit more dramatic; you would find him down on one knee in front of you with a hand clasped behind his back like a proper prince.

You really don't know why it feels so natural and regal every time Xavier does it. Even in the way he talks, he sometimes becomes formal out of nowhere and snaps himself back to it.

Whenever you try to ask him about it, he just brushes it off by steering the conversation— Completely dodging it like an expert.

If you bug him enough he'll say he just did it a lot. It is the truth after all.

But Really, he just cant help but treat you the way he actually wants to; to revere you like you were a goddess.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ ℚ𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕪𝕝𝕦𝕤 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Your Temple

The main reason is because you're small. Yeah. That's all there is to it.

Kidding.

That's what the Onychinus says every time he justifies kissing your temple and you ask why. He adores messing with you since you're such a precious doll that he can't help but mess around.

Riling you up, seeing you get frustrated with his antiques— Sylus would bask in the attention you give him no matter what.

He knows which buttons to press, and what lines to never cross over. As much as he liked messing around; Sylus would never want to hurt your feelings.

No, if anything, he wants to shield you or teach you how to fend for yourself until he can make sure that you are more than capable enough to be on your own. Not that you can't, he's just an anxious person who worries a lot despite his detached personality.

Sylus cherishes you more than anything, so whenever he gives your temple a short peck— He reassures himself that you are alright. The precious and beautiful you he can never get enough of.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕏𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕓 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

The top of your head

You understand his habit as him just wanting to remind you you're broke in the height department. He doesn't really correct you whenever you throw a fuss since he loves seeing it and he gets to coddle you out of your little tantrum.

The sight of you huffing and puffing instead of being distant is more comforting for Caleb. He'd rather you sulk like a demanding spoiled toddler than seeing you so exhausted and cold.

At least whenever you pout— He can't control the stupid wide grin he makes because you're just unbearably adorable that he cannot help it.

He wants to see this side of you a lot, the side of you that is unguarded and comfortable enough to be petty.

This side of you is what Caleb wishes to nurture and adore. So if even his little kiss that is more of a sign of affection is misunderstood as trivial as being mocked for being short; then it's fine.

The state of you now is more important to the colonel more than anything. Because he swears, in his heart he thinks has frozen over from the nature of his work— That the sight of you whatever emotion you show, this image of yours will be embedded in it as if it were the blood that pumps it.

꒰ 🪼 A/N: officially making my debut as a new lads writer. I mean I wrote for Sylus but they're actually crack fics for a friend xD. Erm... Anyone wanna be moots? Hahah I only actually have one author moot in lads... I'm a good person I promise qwq ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧: ~ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[z0mbbiegvrl]

ON MY MIND

featuring: choi 'thanos' su-bong x fem!reader

warnings: exes to lovers, nsfw (public setting, bathroom stall sex, oral (fem!receiving), protected sex, dirty talk, slight dom!reader, cocky su-bong tones), emotional vulnerability, and soft ending/reconciliation

word count: 1.2k

synopsis: you knew better than to show up at Club Pentagon, but tequila and bad decisions have a way of winning. you didn’t expect to run into Su-bong Choi, who shattered you a year ago, still cocky and gorgeous and loud as ever. you swore you were over him… right up until he whispered that he still loved you.

masterlist link: summer challenge 2025

Tags: @carrotheadedtoast @steponupbabe @breakmeoff (as always, dm me or leave a comment if you’d like to be tagged for the rest of this project)

an: second day of the challenge!! finished this at 2 in the morning...hopefully you guys like this one, tomorrow is a break from the smut and a nice fluffy story!!

You should’ve known better than to come to Club Pentagon.

The bass thudded through the walls of Club Pentagon like a second heartbeat. It wasn’t your scene anymore—too loud, sweaty, and full of people you’d tried to leave behind. But your friends had begged, promised it’d be worth it, and said you needed to “get out of your head.” You’d rolled your eyes, thrown on a dress that hugged a little too tightly, and hoped the tequila would kick in fast enough to make you forget. 

And then you saw him.

Su-bong fucking Choi.

Standing on the VIP balcony like he owned the goddamn place, draped in chains and ego, grinning that familiar shark-toothed grin, surrounded by girls who didn’t even know his name an hour ago. Mic in one hand, drink in the other, sunglasses still on even though it was past midnight.

Same stupid Su-bong. Same overly confident, cocky, too-loud-for-his-own-good bastard that had torn you in half a year ago.

You were halfway through your drink, convincing yourself just to leave, when he saw you. And then he was moving. Down the stairs. Past the girls. Straight for you.

“Oh fuck,” you muttered, but it was too late.

“Damn,” he drawled, voice slick with liquor and something dangerous. “I must be higher than I thought. Or did I just hallucinate the best thing I ever had walkin’ in here?”

You turned your body slightly away from him. “Don’t start with me, Su-bong.”

He smirked. “C’mon, baby. You missed me.”

“I missed peace and quiet.”

“That’s cold. But I get it, you had to go a whole year without me screaming your name at 3 a.m.” 

You gave him a look. “I left you for a reason.”

“And I’ve been regretting it ever since,” he said without hesitation, voice lower now. Sincere, maybe. It caught you off guard.

You blinked. “What the hell do you want?”

“You,” he said simply. “Even if it’s just for tonight.”

You scoffed. “Still charming, huh?”

“Still hard for you, too,” he said with a wink. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Your stomach fluttered, and you hated it. Hated that after everything—after the fights, the late nights, the stupid arguments and broken promises—you still felt the pull of him like gravity. You could smell his cologne now. His skin, warm and familiar. Your body remembered what your mind tried to forget.

“I’m not doing this with you,” you said, stepping back.

But he didn’t touch you. Just leaned in, voice velvet against your ear. “Then why haven’t you walked away?”

Goddamnit.

You grabbed his collar, yanked him close, and hissed, “You’ve got five minutes.”

His grin could’ve split galaxies. “Bet.”

He was already leading you through the crowd, back toward the hallway behind the DJ booth, past the velvet ropes and too-curious glances. You were shoved into the bathroom first, the door banging behind the man. Su-bong had slight decency to check the stalls before pulling you into one, locking it, then Su-bong was on you like a leech.

Lips crashing. Tongues battling. Hands greedy.

“I’ve been dreaming about this mouth,” he groaned, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth before dropping to his knees.

Your heart skipped. “You’re not—”

“Oh, I am.” He looked up at you, hands running up your thighs. “Don’t tell me you forgot how much I loved being down here.”

You shivered. His hands bunched your dress up, slow and teasing, his breath warm against the inside of your thigh.

“Still wet for me?” he muttered, eyes locked with yours as he dragged your panties down your legs. “Fuck… yeah, you are.” He muttered, mostly to himself, as he saw that familiar wet patch.

Then his mouth was on you, devouring.

Su-bong was never gentle when it came to this. He licked like he was starving, moaning into you, his grip on your thighs iron tight as he licked you through every gasp and whimper. You braced against the stall wall, legs trembling.

“God, baby,” he groaned, lips slick. “I miss how sweet you taste. Missed this pussy. Missed you.”

You came with a cry, hand tangled in his stupid purple hair, hips grinding against his face until you couldn’t breathe. And even then, he didn’t stop until you pushed him back, panting.

He stood, licking his lips with a wicked grin, his mouth opened, about to say something, probably something cocky, before you cut him off.

“Shut up,” you breathed.

Then you were kissing him again—tasting yourself on his tongue—while you yanked his belt loose, all heat and muscle and messy breath. You hadn’t kissed him in a year, but it was like your bodies never forgot.

“You still wear this perfume,” he rasped against your throat.

“You still talk too much.”

But your voice cracked, just a little. And he heard it.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You didn’t. Instead, you watched him tear the condom open with his teeth and roll it on with practiced ease.

“Still prepared, huh?”

“Never know when the love of my life is gonna drag me into a bathroom,” he winked.

Then he hiked one of your legs up, gripped your thigh tight, and pushed into you in one deep, punishing stroke—deep, slow, stretching you with that perfect pressure that made your toes curl.

You gasped—half from the stretch, half from how right it still felt. He grunted. One hand slid up to cradle your cheek, the other gripping your thigh to keep you pinned just right.

“Still so fuckin’ tight,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

His hips started moving, rough at first, like he needed to prove a point. But then, slower, more deliberate, deep strokes that made your whole body shiver.

“God, you feel like home,” he breathed.

You whimpered, head falling back against the stall wall as he rocked into you again and again, grinding into that spot that made you clench around him. He fucked you like he needed to drive his words into your head. Hard. Fast. Whispering your name like a prayer. Telling you how much he missed you. How he thought about this every goddamn night. How he swore he’d change if you’d just give him one more shot. 

Your nails clawed at his back, each thrust making the thin stall rattle. You couldn’t think, only feel. His body. His breath. The way he whispered your name like a prayer every time he bottomed out inside you.

“Say you missed me,” he panted.

“I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, slow circles on your sensitive clit that made your head spin.

“You’re still mine,” he whispered.

Your orgasm hit you like a lightning bolt, legs trembling, eyes fluttering shut as he bit down on your shoulder and followed with a low, wrecked groan, warmth filling up the condom.

Then everything stilled.

Your chest heaved. He didn’t move—just held you, one hand cradling your jaw like you were made of something precious.

“I mean it,” he said softly, brushing sweat-matted hair from your face. “I’m still in love with you.”

You looked at him. The real him.

Not the stage persona, not the loudmouth rapper who made girls melt on command. Just Su-bong. Tired eyes. Hands shaking slightly. A man who’d been haunted by something.

“…Then prove it.”

He smiled. Small. Almost shy.

“Breakfast tomorrow?”

You snorted. “Only if you let me pick the place.”

“Deal.”

And just like that, with your dress askew, hair wild, and your heart somehow lighter than it had been in months, you kissed him again. Because maybe he was still the same old Su-bong.

But maybe…that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

[herpsandbirds]

Hello! Can we see your top picks for bugs that ought to be made into plush toys?

I saw a picture of a delightfully compact little spider the other day that made me think of it, and I've had the same thought about a few photos of fuzzy moths.

FLUFFY BABES!!!

Bomber Fly (Heterostylum robustum), family Bombyliidae, Hidalgo County, Texas, USA

This fly is in the Bee Fly family.

photograph by Craig Lipski

Bee Beetle (Trichius gallicus zonatus), family Scarabaeidae, France

photograph by Gabriel Buissart

Fuzzy Bumble Bee Scarab (Pygopleurus vulpes), family Glaphyridae, Lesvos, Greece

photograph by Paul Davis

Cloaked Warty Leaf Beetle (Chlamisus sp.), family Chrysomelidae, Curitiba, PR, Brasil

photograph by Sergio Monteiro

Ball Cockroach (Perisphaerus spp.), family Blaberidae, Singapore

L - exuvia (shed exoskeleton) R - actual cockroach

photograph by Melvin Yeo

Buff-tailed Bumblebee (Bombus terrestris), family Apidae, Belgium

photograph by Céu Filipe

Rusty -patched Bumblebee (Bombus affinis), family Apidae, found in the eastern U.S.

CRITICALLY ENDANGERED.

Massive population declines ar due to overuse of pesticides, habitat degradation and loss, and pathogens.

This large bumblebee requires 3 different habitats for different life stages: nesting, foraging, and hibernation.

Relatively cold tolerant, and sometimes found at higher elevations.

photograph by Larry Reis

Pellucid Hawk Moth aka Coffee Bean Moth (Cephonodes hylas), family Sphingidae, Bhandardara, India

photograph by Nitin Prabhudesai

[formulafanfics13]

hi bestie 🫶🏻 honestly, lately i've become OBSESSED with your work!! i mainly just scroll on the f1xreader tag and every time your username comes, it's a must-read!

if it's possible, could you do a daniel riccardo foodporn one, with reader texting max or some other past teammate of his 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

You're Moaning Over Melted Cheese? - DR3

Masterlist

summary: your boyfriend daniel ricciardo thinks you're sexting someone. and he's right — almost. technically, you're exchanging filth with lando norris. about food. warnings: suggestive language, wildly inappropriate food metaphors, jealousy, comedic chaos, implied dom!daniel at the end, unhinged groupchat energy, text messages, language

Daniel Ricciardo did not normally give a fuck. Genuinely. Across the board. Laid back, easy going, always grinning, he prided himself on letting shit roll off his back.

But this? This was different. Because this was you, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, giggling into your phone while whispering "god, that sauce-fuck me," and "i'd let it choke me" like you weren't in a committed relationship with a man who had, in fact, actuallychoked you last week. Lovingly. Repeatedly.

His jaw twitched. You didn't notice. Too busy tapping back rapid-fire messages with one hand and swiping through your camera roll with the other. Daniel leaned over the back of the couch. "You sending those texts to someone who's currently inside you?"

You blinked up at him, unfazed. "I'm not inside myself, no."

His eyes narrowed. "So you are sexting."

"No."

"Then why did I just see you type 'i want to be split open by that bun'?"

You tried not to laugh. Failed. "It's... food."

He snatched your phone. 

"Dan!"

He held it above your head. "Nope. Lemme see which Michelin-starred whore you're creaming over today-" His eyes scanned the screen.

And then? Silence. Because there it was.

Lando Norris 📸 (1x view only) you: is that truffle cream?? Lando: look how thick it is 📸 you: i'm actually sweating Lando: i'd lick the plate clean you: i'd let it fuck my throat Lando: full tongue. zero shame. 📸 you: i'm gonna cry this is too good Lando: why does it look so wet. did you touch it??

Daniel blinked. Daniel stared. Daniel developed an actual, diagnosable case of rage vertigo. "You're sexting Lando Norris about... ravioli?"

You snorted. "No, that was the porcini risotto. The ravioli was yesterday."

Daniel scrolled back. Found:

you: it's throbbing Lando: bite it. tongue first. you: i want to unhinge my jaw Lando: i'd eat it like a snake

He almost dropped the phone. "What the fuck is this."

"It's foodporn."

"It's... food."

"And porn. Combined. Rated like filth."

Daniel squinted at the next image. "Is that a grilled cheese sandwich?"

"Triple cheese. Garlic buttered sourdough. Lando was losing his mind."

Daniel read:

you: i'd suck the cheese right out of it Lando: i'd marry it. no prenup.

He scrolled up. And up. And up.

There were months of this. Thousands of lines. Photos of steak, lobster, dripping burgers, fluffy soufflés, dripping tiramisu, and more pasta than a Naples grandmother could justify. All captioned like the lost pages of a banned erotic novel.

you: i'd let it rearrange my guts Lando: i'd let it call me baby you: it's glistening. why is it glistening. Lando: it's begging to be ruined you: i want it in me Lando: i'd suck the juices out and say thank you

Daniel's face twitched. He said nothing. He just turned and walked to the kitchen.

You sat there blinking until he came back thirty seconds later with, "What is that?"

"Microwave mac and cheese," he said, deadpan, sitting down beside you.

You blinked. "Dan."

He stabbed the pasta with a plastic spoon. Then turned to you.

"Say it's better than Lando's."

"What?"

"Say my filthy, processed, chemical-flavoured, glow-in-the-dark, American-imported mac and cheese is better than Lando's fine dining degeneracy."

You tried. You really did. But then the spoon slipped. The cheese stretched.

And you whispered, before you could stop yourself, "Fuck me, that's thick-"

He was on you. The bowl went flying.

You squealed, breathless, as he tackled you to the couch, mouth at your ear, voice hot. "You're gonna rate my food like porn now, baby. Hope you're ready for dessert."

[starrydragoness]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥Komano Manato x Reader

Contents: Komano Manato x gn reader. Not proof read, we die like men out here. Just pure horny ramble. I don't even play the game bro but that doesn't matter and I need this man rn. Enjoy y'alls smut.

18+, MDNI, NSFW under the cut

Komano Manato was a tower of a man, sturdy with a chest comparable to a barrel and strong arms to match. One big hand fanned itself on your lower back, keeping you on your knees while the other held your head down into the soft pillows.

Ass up and proper, the slapping sound of skin against skin was a distant rhythm to your buzzing ears as you were made to see stars behind your eyelids.

“That’s it.. you love me taking you like this, hm?” his voice filled with gravel as he leaned toward your ear, only receiving a cry in response that made the edges of his lips twitch in a smirk. He hummed in satisfaction when your walls twitched, squeezing him, fluttering so prettily around him he couldn’t resist the urge to push harder, deeper into you.

“Sing for me, pretty bird” he coos, pressing his hips flush against your ass and lingering like that for a moment too long, letting you feel how deep he was inside you, twitching and eager. “Let me hear you beg for it” His thrust only resumed after hearing your desperate pleas for a release, feeling his own climax nearing. It was too much, you thought through the fog in your mind, feeling the ends of your fingertips and toes go numb with pleasure, your knees about to give out and your lungs begging for that sweet air, but pleasure was more important than a swallow of air as Manato finally pushed you over the edge, fucking you through your orgasm that had you seeing sparks and white all at once. His own orgasm crashed over him quickly after, and he released deep within you, fucking you into the matres till you lay flat on your belly and he was flush against you, his big body caging you underneath him.

He remained still, still sensitive and twitching but not pulling out. His hot breath fanned down your nape in quick successions, his fluffy tail brushing against your calves as it slowly wagged in lazy drags. You felt so full and boneless.

Who knew pulling on his tail could crash the dominos that led to this.

Ⓒ starrydragoness. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[rosemelodyshah]

Hello luv!!!

I was too sick to be on Tumblr most of the day so I missed you by like. The whole day but Ive got lots of angsty (and fluffy) Holmes stuff for when we catch each other!!!

Also. Join the Holmes Brother community. It feels empty without you!

I highly recommend a clingy, lovey-dovey partner. Life’s too short to be with someone who acts like showing love is a chore