#and i for one understand and love that for him... my god... good for him

[mooningningg]

✮⋆˙ What Bloomed in Death's Hands - Suguru G.

about. she wasn't stolen. she chose the dark. a goddess of spring walks into the underworld—and stays. bound by fruit, touched by devotion, crowned in shadow. this is not a tale of captivity. it’s a love story.

pairings. Hades!Suguru x Persephone!Reader

words. 12.01k

content. explicit smut, NSFW, 18+ only, size kink, virginity loss, deep, slow worship, oral (f. receiving) | he does not come up for air, foreplay that feels like religious devotion, soft dom!suguru, possessive but reverent, sensual, mythic dirty talk, pomegranate symbolism used filthily, overstimulation, sacred intimacy, manhandling but gentle, he guides you, praises you, ruins you, calling you “my queen,” other jjk characters as greek gods and goddesses.

notes. ugh i am in love with hades and persephone i just had to.

The forest is dead quiet. Old roots tangle the earth, the trees tall and dense, their bare branches like blackened bones stretching toward the sky. This is his place. Where light doesn't reach. Where spring forgets to arrive. Where the living do not stray.

Suguru stands just beyond the tree line—still as stone, half cloaked in the shadows of the pines. He hadn’t meant to come here. Not really. The borderlands between realms are unstable, unpredictable. But something had pulled him. A whisper of warmth on the wind. A scent like crushed blossoms and rain.

And then he sees you, you’re not supposed to be here.

A field blooms beneath your feet—wildflowers in every shade of gold and violet, bowing gently to your steps. The grass glistens under your touch, dew rising where you walk, sunlight bending to follow your movements. You're humming. A tune only the flowers seem to understand, swaying in rhythm.

Suguru forgets how to breathe, not that he needs to.

Your voice cuts through centuries of silence he hadn't noticed he'd been living in. You’re laughing now—soft, private. You kneel to fix a drooping stem, speaking gently to it, as if the flower can hear. Maybe it can. He’s not sure. He’s never seen the living behave like this—so gentle, so good. The gods of Olympus are always posturing, always loud.

But you? You are everything the Underworld has never known.

Softness. Color. Warmth. He doesn’t dare step closer. He might shatter the moment. Frighten you. Ruin this light that has no place near the dead.

Still, his eyes drink you in. The curve of your cheek as it catches the sun. The flower crown you’ve lazily tossed in your hair. The joy you don’t try to hide. You're not like the others. You aren’t performing. He feels it—something ancient in him shift. Crack. He’s never wanted anything for himself. Not the throne. Not Olympus. Not even peace.

But he wants this. He wants you.

Not in the way the stories always say. Not yet. Not stolen. Not caged. He just wants to exist in your light. Even if it’s only from the shadows. So he stands there. Watching, and you don’t even know the god of the dead is falling in love.

You do not know you are being watched, and yet the shadows hold their breath. From the edge of the forest where no spring dares linger, he remains—cloaked not in fabric, but in dusk itself, the god beneath the earth who has wandered too close to the realm of the living.

Suguru does not move. He does not speak. The earth would split if he did. Instead, he watches you as one might watch a miracle: reverent, disbelieving. For an age, his world has known no bloom. No bird dares sing past the river Styx. The dead do not hum. They do not cradle daffodils in their palms or giggle at bees that flit too near. The dead do not wear crowns woven of wildflowers.

And yet you do, and he is ruined.

He had not meant to pass this way. The land between realms is vast and hidden, and he has long wandered it in silence when Olympus grew too loud, too proud. But now he wonders—had some ancient fate whispered his feet toward this field? Had the Fates spun your golden thread to cross his path, even unknowingly?

You kneel in the tall grass, lifting a bloom between your fingers, and he feels it like a wound in his chest. Not pain. Something gentler. Something he does not have a name for. The light touches your shoulders like it belongs to you. Even the wind seems to hush itself to listen.

And Suguru—Hades—realizes: he is not watching a goddess, he is witnessing a promise. A promise of all that the world could be, if it were not so bitter. A promise that the cold in him is not eternal, and something in him, long dormant, stirs. Not desire—not yet. But something far deeper.

A yearning. A hunger, not of flesh, but of soul.

To be seen not as a shadow, not as a sentence passed upon the dead, but as a man standing beneath the sky, watching spring laugh. He knows he should turn back, but he cannot.

Because in all his endless rule over the forgotten and the fallen, he has never once laid eyes on something so alive that it hurts to look at. You do not see him. You do not know what storm you have planted in the heart of a god, but the seed has been sown, and even in the Underworld, things now begin to bloom.

The great hall lay in silence.

Not the silence of sleep, nor the peace of still water — but the silence of stone buried deep beneath the earth, the kind that forgets the sun, the kind that echoes no names.

Shadows clung to the corners of the chamber, long and still as death itself. The air was thick with the scent of ash and iron, and the slow, measured burn of ancient oil. No wind stirred here. No time passed. And yet the torches burned, as they always had, in low and reverent flame. Upon the throne of black marble sat the King of the Dead. Suguru, called Hades.

His raiment was plain, yet weighty. His crown bore no jewels, no gold, only the pale bone of antler and obsidian fused by the heat of the world's core. Upon his shoulders lay a mantle dark as the chasm itself, and in his eyes — the dull gleam of ages. Gold once bright, now quiet with long sorrow. He spoke, not as one who sought reply, but as one who had long grown used to being unheard.

“Did they think me fortunate, I wonder,” he murmured, his voice low, like the earth shifting in its sleep. “The first to be born, the first to be devoured.” Below him, at the foot of the steps, stood the ferryman — steadfast, solemn, his head bowed in silent attendance.

“I emerged from my father’s belly before any of them,” said Suguru, his fingers curling upon the stone armrest, “and when the war was won, I stood ready to take what was due. I did not speak of pride. I did not clamor as Satoru did — bold and laughing and drunk on his own power. Nor did I disappear into the waves as Toji did, content to drown himself in silence.”

“No,” he said, a bitter breath between teeth. “I stood. And so they gave me the pit.” His gaze turned upward — not toward a ceiling, for there was none — only endless black above, carved from the bones of the earth.

“The sky, wide and wild, they gave to Satoru. His storms drown cities. His lightning splits the heavens. All cheer when he passes. And they call him King. To Toji, they gave the sea — boundless, violent, ancient. He cares not for Olympus, nor their games, and still they kneel before him. He does not even look to them. And still he is praised.”

“But me?” He leaned forward, voice low now. “I, who bore the war beside them. I, who walked the darkness first. I am named god of sorrow. Of rot. Of death.”

He paused, his words were not angry, not bitter, not cruel. They were weary.

“I did not ask for this kingdom. I did not shape its laws in hunger. I do not send war. I do not take life. I only keep what the living cannot.” He lifted one hand, gazing upon his palm, pale as moonstone.

“They call me merciless, but it is I who sees their faces when they fall. It is I who binds their hands in coin, who welcomes them with silence. I who remembers their names when even Olympus forgets them.” Stillness fell again. The ferryman Nanami did not move. He had heard these words before, but never in this voice — not so quiet. Not so… changed. Suguru’s brow furrowed. He did not look at Nanami as he spoke next.

“There was a girl.” The words sat heavy in the chamber. “A field I passed,” he said slowly, “near the border where life still breathes. I had not meant to linger, yet I could not move.”

“She was there — alone, but not lonely. She laughed, and the flowers leaned toward her, as if the earth itself wished to hear her better. The sun clothed her like a lover. The grass parted beneath her feet not in fear, but in worship. I have seen many things. I have watched men burn for gold, and gods slaughter for pride. I have seen beauty sculpted by Aphrodite herself, and it stirs me not. But this girl…” He closed his eyes.

“She did not shine. She glowed. There was no arrogance in her. No knowledge of her divinity. Only joy. Only peace. I thought myself carved from stone. Yet when I saw her, I felt my chest crack. I remembered the world before the war. I remembered spring, before it was taken from me. I remembered light.” His voice fell to almost nothing. “And I remembered what it was to want.” Another pause.

“I did not speak to her. I would not stain her name with mine. She did not see me. And perhaps it is better so.” He sat back, the throne groaning beneath him.“But I fear, ferryman, that I have been changed. And I do not yet know if that is a mercy, or a curse.”

The torches hissed softly, and somewhere beyond the hall, the River of the Dead whispered its slow lullaby, bearing the souls of the forgotten into sleep, and the King of the Underworld sat upon his throne, thinking of flowers.

The last echo of Suguru’s voice faded into the stone.

Silence reigned for a time. Then, with a low breath, like the world shifting on its axis, the King of the Underworld rose from his throne.

His mantle fell behind him in heavy folds, the fabric woven not from silk, but from shadow itself — the kind that clung to corners men feared to walk in, stitched with threads of midnight and mourning. The floor beneath him did not tremble, and yet the air remembered that it should.

Suguru stood tall, carved of something older than marble, his frame long and cloaked in quiet power. His hair, black as the abyss, fell loose over his shoulders. His eyes — gold, strange, and old — burned not with rage, but with the slow fire of a god who had been forgotten, yet never diminished. Beneath the dark robes, his hands were pale, strong, the hands of one who bore judgment without pleasure.

He stepped down from the throne, each footfall measured, and came to stand before his most loyal servant.

Nanami, the ferryman.

The man who had never flinched before gods, who had guided millions across the River of the Dead with no praise, no thanks, no rest. His robe was cut in clean lines — dark grey, fastened with silver pins that bore no emblem. His sleeves were rolled to the forearm, exposing the burnished skin of one who worked even in eternity. His face was solemn, his hair tied back with precision, and his eyes—though calm—carried the weight of centuries.

He bowed his head slightly and said, “My lord.”

Suguru looked down at him, his voice quiet but grave. “Who was she?” he asked. “The girl in the field.”

Nanami lifted his head slightly. He answered without hesitation, “She is Y/n. The Maiden. Daughter of Demeter. They call her Spring,” Nanami added, his tone respectful, as though naming something sacred.

Suguru’s eyes sharpened. “She is life,” he murmured, as if realizing it aloud.

“Yes,” Nanami replied. “And you are death. You are opposite. And yet, not enemy.”

The King’s jaw tensed. “Why was she alone?” he demanded. “Unattended? A soul so rare should not wander so freely.”

Nanami paused, then spoke with calm precision. “Her mother shelters her from Olympus. Demeter distrusts the gods, and rightly so. She keeps the girl hidden in the valleys, far from court, far from Satoru’s thunder and Toji’s storms. But the earth cannot bind Spring forever. She wanders. And so you found her.”

Suguru’s gaze dropped to the stone floor. He spoke softly, more to himself than to Nanami. “She did not fear the world. She sang to it. I watched, and my hands—these hands—forgot what it was to carry judgment. I looked at her, and I...” he hesitated, “I was unmade.”

His voice turned rough. “How can such warmth exist in this age of gods and cruelty?” he asked. “How does she not wither beneath their gaze?”

Nanami’s expression did not change. “She is not what Olympus would make her,” he said. “She is not vain. She is not cruel. She is not yet corrupted.” He met Suguru’s gaze and added, “But she is not weak.”

Suguru looked up sharply. “I do not wish to ruin her,” he said, the edge of sorrow in his voice.

“Then do not,” Nanami replied simply. “But if you wait, she may never know you. And others will find her. The gods are not blind forever.”

Suguru’s hands clenched at his sides. “They will devour her,” he said bitterly.

“Perhaps,” Nanami said. “Or perhaps she will become like them.”

“No,” Suguru whispered, his voice trembling—rare, even for him. “No, she must not.”

Nanami tilted his head slightly, his tone measured. “Then you must decide, my lord,” he said. “To remain her shadow. Or to bring her into your realm.”

Suguru fell silent. He looked once more to the tall black pillars, to the firelight flickering on stone, to the endless ceilingless dark that had been his temple for all eternity. He imagined her there. Pale flowers blooming between the cracks. Her laughter echoing in a place that had never known song. Color bleeding into ash. Life stirring in the land of the dead, and for the first time in all his long rule, he wanted.

Truly, with no shame.

Suguru turned slowly. His voice did not rise, but it carried weight like a sentence spoken by fate itself. “Ready my carriage,” he said.

Nanami lifted his head. His brow furrowed, voice measured. “My lord… perhaps it would be wise to speak with Satoru first,” he said. “If you intend to act—boldly—it would serve you to gain his favor.”

Suguru stopped midstep. He did not turn, but his shoulders squared beneath his cloak. “I owe Satoru nothing,” he said flatly.

Nanami stepped forward, quiet but firm. “He is still your brother,” he said. “King of the sky. You know he does not take kindly to being left out of divine matters.”

Suguru’s voice came low and cold. “He left me out of every divine matter since the world was divided.”

Nanami kept his gaze steady. “Still, he will see this as trespass. The girl—she is beloved. You will be accused of ambition.”

“I have no ambition,” Suguru replied. “Only intent.”

Nanami spoke again. “Demeter will raise her voice. Olympus will listen. You must tread carefully.”

Suguru turned at last. His golden eyes burned with a fire that came not from rage, but from purpose. “I will not beg for Satoru’s blessing,” he said. “But I will face him.”

Nanami’s jaw tensed. “You mean to go to Olympus.”

“Yes,” Suguru said, stepping forward, his shadow stretching long across the cold stone. “I will look into the eyes of thunder and speak plainly.” He moved past the final pillar, toward the edge of the hall where darkness broke and the long bridge to the mortal realm began.

His voice echoed behind him, steady and grave. “Ready my carriage,” he said. “I am going to Olympus.” And the darkness followed him.

The sun sat golden above the valley, heavy with warmth.

You knelt in the tall grass, fingers weaving through stalks of wild chamomile, your lips humming softly, not any song in particular—just something the wind had given you. Around your knees, the flowers bent, gentle and fragrant. Bees buzzed somewhere far off. The earth pulsed with quiet life beneath your palms. Above, the sky stretched blue and endless. No columns of Olympus, no shadows of gods—only birds, only clouds. You smiled.

Your mother was far, and for once, that was no burden. She guarded you as fiercely as a lioness, but the world did not seem cruel today. It breathed with you. Every breeze kissed your cheek. Every blossom leaned toward your voice. You tilted your head back and laughed. It rang like water poured into silver.

Then— The wind stilled.

Your fingers paused mid-weave. The meadow around you, once warm and breathing, seemed to exhale one long, hollow sigh. A shadow crossed the sun. You looked up. No clouds. Only light. But your skin prickled cold. The earth trembled. Once. A warning.

Then again—louder. You stood quickly, flowers falling from your lap, your breath catching. The grass split before you. A line opened in the soil—thin, then wide—ripping through the field like lightning carved sideways. Birds scattered. The warmth fled.

You stepped back. “No,” you whispered, eyes wide. “What—what is—?” The crack deepened. A sound rose from beneath the world—iron grinding against stone, low and monstrous.

And then the chasm opened. A black carriage surged from the depths, wreathed in shadow, drawn by four horses darker than night, their eyes glowing white, manes writhing like smoke. They screamed—not like animals, but like spirits—high, furious, full of ancient things.

You screamed. The sky above dimmed. The grass browned at your feet. The carriage rolled forward, great wheels groaning, and then it stopped. A figure stepped out. He wore no armor, no golden laurels. He did not shine. He loomed. His cloak dragged the night behind him. His hair hung dark and loose, and his eyes—his eyes—were gold like a dying sun.

You stepped back. “Stay away,” you said quickly, voice trembling. “Who—who are you? What is this—what are you doing?”

He said your name. Not aloud. But it filled your chest like a name you had known before you were born. You froze, his boots touched the earth. The flowers beneath his feet withered. He moved slowly, solemnly, like a priest before an altar.

“You,” he said, voice deep as thunder heard through stone. “You have haunted me.”

You shook your head, heart racing. “Please—”

“You sing in the sun,” he continued. “And I—who have never known light—heard you.”

“Stop,” you said, taking another step back. “You mustn't. You—who are you?”

“I am Suguru,” he said. “God of the Underworld. Eldest son of Cronus. Keeper of the dead.”

Your breath caught. The name rang in your bones. “No,” you whispered, horrified. “No—no, you shouldn’t be here.”

“I watched you from shadow,” he said, “and I remembered what it was to long for something beautiful.” You looked around frantically. The valley was still. No nymphs. No doves. No mother. Only you. And him.

“You can’t,” you said, voice rising. “You can’t take me. This isn’t your realm!”

He stepped closer. “It is not,” he said. “But you are.”

Your legs turned. You ran. The grass whipped against your calves. Your sandals caught on root and stone, but still you ran, behind you, he said your name again—not aloud, but you heard it. In your veins. In your chest. In your soul.

A cry tore from your throat. Then—arms. Strong. Cold. Unyielding. He caught you. One arm around your waist, the other cradling your back like you were breakable. You thrashed against him.

“Let go!” you shouted. “Let go of me!” He held you close, unflinching. His breath touched your ear—warm, quiet.

“I am not your enemy,” he said.

“Then let me go!” you screamed. His grip tightened. The horses screamed again. The earth cracked wider beneath you.

“I cannot,” he said. “For you are the first thing I have ever desired.” You beat your fists against him, but it was like striking the mountain itself.

“You are mad!” you cried. “You are a monster!” His gaze did not waver. There was no cruelty in it. Only sorrow. Only fire.

“I have been called worse,” he murmured. He stepped back toward the carriage.

“No!” you sobbed. “Please—someone—someone help me—!” But the sky above turned gray. The wind fled. The world did not answer.

He carried you into the chariot like you were made of spun glass. You kicked. You fought. You called your mother’s name. He sat beside you. The door closed with the weight of destiny. The whip cracked. The horses screamed. And the earth closed above you. Light vanished, and Spring was stolen.

The chamber was vast and silent.

The walls did not echo. They drank sound instead, like the rest of the Underworld—still, watchful, ancient. There were no windows, only towering pillars carved from obsidian, flickering torchlight casting long shadows that shifted but never danced. You sat on the edge of the bed—if it could be called that. Draped in fine silks, black and deep violet, the bedding was soft beneath you, but it felt as cold as the stone beneath your feet.

The room smelled of crushed myrrh and something darker. Not rot—never rot. But time. You had not spoken in hours. Your hands sat clenched in your lap, the hem of your gown curled around your fists. You were dressed as a goddess, draped in fine woven shadow and gold—but you did not feel divine. You felt stolen.

Then, he entered. The doors opened without a sound. The torches flared. Suguru stepped into the chamber, long and quiet, the way rivers slide through mountains—inevitable. His cloak followed like mist. His eyes were gold, unreadable. There was no crown, but he did not need one. The weight of power clung to him like a second skin.

He stopped a few steps from you, silent. Watching. You rose slowly. Your voice cracked as it came out—sharp, furious.

“My mother,” you said, trembling, “will crack the sky to find me.” Suguru did not move. “She will rip the clouds from Olympus,” you continued, louder now, “she will raise famine from the soil. The flowers will not bloom. The rivers will rot. She will bury the world in winter until I am returned.”

He spoke at last, his voice steady, grave. “I know.”

You stared at him. “Then you are a fool.”

“I have been called worse,” he said calmly.

Your fists clenched. “You speak as if you are patient. As if you are kind. But you dragged me here. You ripped me from the earth like a thief!”

“I am a thief,” he said. “I have stolen the only light this realm has ever seen.”

You shook your head, backing away from him, heart pounding. “You think this is love?” you demanded. “You think locking me in the dark will make me yours?”

“No,” Suguru said. “But I will not lie to you. I will not offer flowers in chains. I will offer a crown.”

You stared. He stepped closer, voice soft but sure.

“You will not kneel here, Y/n. Not to me. You will rise beside me.”

You spat, “I would never reign beside you.”

“You already do,” he said. “You bring light into shadow. The stones beneath your feet remember color because of you. The rivers slow their currents to hear you breathe.”

“Stop,” you said, voice breaking. “You can’t dress this up with poetry. You stole me. I did not choose this.”

“I know,” Suguru said. His gaze remained fixed on yours. “But you will.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound cracked and hollow. “You think I’ll fall in love with you?” you asked. “You think if you speak gently enough, I’ll forget what you’ve done?”

“No,” he said. “But I think you are more than what they’ve made you.”

You froze. He continued, slowly, as if the words had been buried for centuries. “They call you Spring. Innocent. Gentle. A child of the harvest. But I saw what Olympus refuses to see.”

His eyes never left you. “I saw a goddess,” Suguru said. “One who does not bend. One who commands the earth to bloom. One who walks unguarded in valleys because even wolves fear her light.”

You looked away, throat tight, unsure if it was rage or something far more dangerous that clawed behind your ribs.

“I saw your fire,” he said. “And I fell.” You stepped back again, voice raw. “Do not speak of me as if I am some dream you’ve conjured. I am not yours.”

“I know,” he said gently.

“I am not your queen,” you said.

“You are not,” he replied. “But you are the only one who could be.”

You stared at him, breath heaving. The torches flickered wildly behind him, as if the shadows themselves stirred to hear your words. He did not touch you. He did not reach. He only looked. And he said, softer than the dark between stars:

“You are so beautiful.”

Your breath caught. Not in awe. Not in fear. But because for a moment, you felt seen. Not like a daughter. Not like a prisoner. Like a force. He stepped back.

“I will not command you,” Suguru said. “You will walk this realm as you choose. If you wish to curse me, curse me. If you wish to scream, scream. If you wish to shatter these walls with your grief, I will not stop you.”

His voice did not falter. “But you are here,” he said. “And this kingdom remembers joy because of you.”

You did not answer. Your hands trembled. Your jaw ached from holding in what you could not name. He turned toward the doors.

“I will return at moonrise,” he said. “The realm is yours, as much as it is mine.” He paused. “If you do not wish to speak then either, I will wait again.” The doors opened. He walked into the dark. And you stood alone in the chamber, the only light in a kingdom of shadow burning, unwilling, and still divine.

The day had turned strange.

The flowers did not rise at Demeter’s feet as they usually did. The vines did not wind up her ankles, seeking her warmth. The birds were quiet. The air hung heavy with a silence she had not heard in an age.

Demeter stood still at the edge of the valley. The grass below was golden, the trees still in bloom, but something beneath the beauty felt… wrong. She turned to the attendants at her side—goddesses of grove and grain, her loyal handmaidens who sang to the harvest and tended her daughter’s laughter.

“Find her,” Demeter commanded. Her voice shook. “Y/n was here this morning. She gathered narcissus with you. She danced. She laughed. She was here. Find her.”

The nymphs scattered, calling through the groves, parting the grass, shouting her name—Y/n, Y/n, Y/n—but no answer returned.

Demeter wandered, and with every step, dread bloomed in her chest. By twilight, her crown hung crooked. Her hair had loosed. She clutched her own arms now, walking with bare feet torn from thorn and stone. Her daughter’s scent had vanished from the wind. Still the world did not answer.

At last, she descended into the temple of healing. The halls smelled of crushed roots and smoke. Torches lined the stone corridor, and at its heart, in a chamber quiet and clean, sat Shoko—the goddess of stillness, of salves, of bitter herbs that soothed divine pain.

Demeter burst into the chamber like wind into glass. “Shoko,” she breathed, frantic, “have you seen her? Has she come here?”

Shoko did not rise. She watched the elder goddess with eyes unreadable. “No,” she said. “Not since morning.”

“She is gone,” Demeter said. “She is gone. I cannot feel her. I cannot hear her. It is as if the earth swallowed her whole.” Silence.

Then Shoko spoke again. “There is one who may know.”

Demeter turned sharply. “Who?”

“The sun sees what we do not,” Shoko said. “He does not speak often. But he sees all.” Demeter wasted no breath on thanks. She was gone in the next blink, her rage carrying her to the farthest edge of sky—where the light rises, and the god of the sun stands alone at the cusp of dawn.

She arrived in fury.

The sky itself bowed to her grief. Clouds scattered. Winds died. The very rays of the sun bent back, and there he stood. Toge Inumaki.

The silent charioteer of the golden horses. Eyes pale as lightning through cloud. He did not speak often, for his voice was rare and divine. But he watched. Demeter strode forward, wild and winded. “You saw her,” she accused. “You see everything. Where is my daughter?”

Toge looked at her. He did not answer at first. His gaze was not cruel—but it was heavy. She stepped closer. “Speak,” she demanded. “I command it.”

His hand rose slowly. His fingers touched the collar at his throat—the band of light woven from the first sunrise. When he spoke, the words came quiet but clear, like prophecy from a well.

“Taken,” Toge said.

Demeter’s knees nearly buckled. “By whom?” she whispered.

Toge’s hand fell. His voice came again. “Hades.”

The name rang in her skull like thunder. Toge looked at her, solemn. He did not blink. “In the valley. The ground split. She cried. He took.”

Demeter staggered back. “No.” Toge said nothing. He could say no more.

Demeter’s mouth twisted. “He dared. He dared take her from the earth. From me.” Toge looked away. Toward the far horizon. The sun behind him flickered—dimmed.

“Zeus,” Demeter growled. “Did he know?” Toge did not answer.

Demeter clenched her fists. “He knew. That snake. That smiling tyrant—he let it happen.”

The winds howled. “I will not rest,” she swore. “I will not bless the soil. I will not grow a single seed until my child is returned.” Toge lowered his head. Demeter turned. Her gown tore on the rocks as she walked. Her voice echoed through the sky.

“She was not his to take.” And the world began to mourn.

The stone was colder than before. Or perhaps it was your skin that had numbed.

You stepped from your chamber with bare feet and no torch. Let the shadows come. You would not shrink from them. Not tonight. Your hands stayed folded before you. Your gown—the one the shades had laid out for you—fell in soft layers of ash-grey and starlight. Around your wrists were thin gold cuffs, heavier than they looked. They glinted as you walked, catching what little light the torches gave.

The corridor was long, the air thick. Every echo of your footfall returned to you twice—once like a whisper, once like a dare. You did not hesitate. At the end of the hall, two obsidian doors stood open.

He was there. Suguru.

He sat upon the throne carved into the mountain’s heart. Cloaked in shadow, spine straight, crownless but still unmistakably king. He was not surprised to see you. He rose. Slowly. You stepped into the chamber, your chin high.

“I want to see it,” you said.

His eyes did not waver. “See what?” “Your realm.” He paused. “You ask it of me now?”

“I ask it of myself,” you answered. “I am tired of pacing like a beast in a cage.” His brow furrowed. “You are not a prisoner.” “Then why do I feel like one?” you snapped.

Your voice echoed off the pillars, and something in you recoiled—but you didn’t take the words back. Suguru was silent. You stepped forward. Your tone softened, but only just.

“I am not here to forgive you,” you said. “You took me. You tore me from the world I loved. You turned the sun cold in my sky. That is not something I will forget.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded once. “I know.”

“I was happy,” you continued, voice shaking. “I was free. I knew every curve of the hills. I knew every flower by name. I had a mother who loved me and a world that sang to me when I walked through it.”

“I know,” he said again, quieter.

“I was not ready to be a queen,” you said. “I was not ready to lose who I was.” “You have not lost her,” Suguru said. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” you breathed. “That is the truth of it.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding. “You said this place is mine as much as it is yours. So let me see it. Let me walk through the dark instead of drowning in it. Let me look upon what I have been dragged into. Not as your consort. Not as your captive. But as me.” Suguru studied you. Not like a man stunned by beauty—but like a god standing before a star he thought had died, now burning in full.

“You are bold,” he said. “I was always bold,” you replied. “You simply did not notice until you saw me from your shadows.”

A faint smile touched his mouth—but it faded quickly. “If you walk this realm, it will change you,” he said. “Not because it seeks to, but because it is what it is.”

“I am already changing,” you said. “Let me choose how.” He did not speak for a long time. Then he stepped down from the throne. He came to you slowly, as if afraid his presence alone might startle you. He stood before you, tall, silent, his hands at his sides. He bowed his head.

“Then walk with me,” he said. “Not behind. Not below. Beside.” You looked at him, uncertain.

“I do not trust you,” you said. “Then watch me until you do,” he replied. “Or until you never will. But see me. See this place. Know it, before you call it a tomb.”

You hesitated. Then slowly, you nodded. “I will walk,” you said. “And I will see.” Suguru turned. “Come,” he said, his voice soft but solemn. “I will show you what lies beneath the silence.”

And without touching you—without even brushing your sleeve—he led you into the dark. Not as a bride. Not yet, But as a force learning what it means to stand in shadow… without disappearing.

The path wound beneath the mountain like a serpent carved from stone and starlight.

You had never walked such a place. The walls did not echo with sound—but with memory. Each footfall seemed to pass over the remnants of countless lives. The air was cool, but not cold. Still, it clung to your skin like the hush before a storm. Suguru walked at your side. Silent. Regal. Cloaked in the same soft black he wore in the throne room—his long hair unbound, his eyes unreadable. He did not speak. Not yet. And so, you did.

“What is this?” you asked softly, glancing at the shimmering blue mist that hovered just above the ground.

“The breath of the newly dead,” Suguru said. “They shed it before they cross the river.”

You stared. It pulsed faintly, like moonlight trapped in water. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” he said. But he was not looking at the mist. He was looking at you.

You turned away, unsettled but unsure why. Further down the path, the walls opened into a wide cavern—lit not by torch or sun, but by luminous moss that glowed faint green from the ceiling. Below, the ground was glassy black, slick as oil but soft beneath your steps.

You stopped as soft whispers filled your ears. You looked around. “Who is speaking?” “The souls,” Suguru answered. “The ones who linger.”

You peered into the gloom. Shapes drifted at the edge of sight—pale forms, weightless, whispering in languages you could not name. Yet you felt no fear.

“Do they know we’re here?” you asked.

“They know you.” You turned sharply to him. “Why me?”

“You are life,” he said. “And they are what remains.” You were silent for a moment. You stepped closer to one of the shapes—a soul kneeling beside a stream of silver light. It did not raise its head.

“This place…” you whispered, “I thought it would be cruel. I thought it would stink of ash and scream. But it… it doesn’t.”

“It mourns,” Suguru said. You looked at him. “It mourns?”

“Yes.” He met your gaze. “This realm is sorrow. But sorrow is not always cruel.”

You took another slow step forward. There were flowers—pale ones, ivory and translucent—growing along the rock ledges. They looked like frost, but they swayed softly, as if breathing. “I didn’t think anything grew here.”

“Only what chooses to,” he said.

You reached out, brushing your fingers along the petals. They were soft. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured again.

He didn’t answer. You turned—and found him still watching you. Not the moss. Not the souls. Not the flowers. Only you.

“What?” you asked, wary. He shook his head once. “I have seen this realm for eons. It has never looked like this.”

You blinked. “Like what?” “Alive.”

You lowered your hand from the flower. “You speak in riddles.” “I speak as I see.”

You looked back toward the whispering souls, the luminous ceiling, the translucent flora curling toward your light. And slowly, you said, “I think I understand why the dead follow you. You are not cruel. You are just…”

He tilted his head. “Just?”

“Lonely,” you said.

His gaze didn’t falter. But it quieted. And in that quiet, you both stood—two deities from different ends of the world, staring into the place where death meets wonder. Neither spoke, for once, there was nothing that needed to be said.

The river glowed blue beneath the boat.

It was not the blue of sky or ocean, but something deeper—like the color of forgotten dreams, or tears that never reached the surface. The vessel was carved from dark wood that glinted like obsidian, its edges feathered with gold. It moved without oar, without sail, as if carried by the river’s own will.

You sat near the front, hands folded in your lap, the hem of your gown trailing just above the water. Across from you, quiet and composed, sat Suguru. You did not speak for a time. The only sound was the water’s slow hush and the soft hum of unseen stars above.

At last, you broke the silence.

“What river is this?” you asked.

His gaze drifted from you to the water. “Lethe,” he said. “The river of forgetfulness.” You looked down into it. The water shimmered—faint images appearing and fading like thoughts slipping away. You saw glimpses of faces, hands reaching, then dissolving.

“What do you mean by forgetfulness?” you asked, voice low.

“Those who drink from Lethe forget their lives. Their grief. Their pain. Sometimes even their names.” You frowned. “That sounds cruel.”

“It is mercy,” he said. “Some carry sorrow too heavy to bear. Here, they lay it down.” You were quiet. Your fingers brushed the edge of the boat.

“Would you drink from it?” you asked. “No,” Suguru answered without hesitation.

“Why not?” “I would not forget you.” You looked up, startled. His gaze held yours—not fierce, but steady.

“I remember every soul that passes through my gates,” he said. “But I will remember you differently.” Your breath caught. You looked away, toward the water again. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why?” he asked. “Because I’m still angry,” you said. “Because it makes it harder.”

“I know,” he replied. Silence returned. But it was warmer now.

The river curved, and soft lights began to float above the surface—wisps of pale flame, like lanterns, drifting slowly in the air. They flickered without smoke, humming faintly. You reached out. One hovered near your palm. It pulsed, then dimmed, as if recognizing your touch.

“What are they?” you asked softly.

“Memories,” Suguru said. “The ones the river could not swallow.”

You looked at him. “Whose memories?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “A mother’s last lullaby. A warrior’s last oath. A child’s first word. The river takes the rest. But some memories cling. They were loved too deeply.”

You watched them float. They circled the boat like stars. You leaned back slightly, your shoulders relaxing for the first time in days.

“It’s beautiful,” you said.

He didn’t answer. You turned—and found him watching you again. Not like a man who believed he deserved your company. But like someone honored to be near you at all.

You met his gaze. Slowly. Carefully. “You don’t speak like a tyrant,” you said.

“I’m not one,” he replied. “You took me.” “I did.”

You expected more. An excuse. A reason. A defense. But he offered none. You looked at him longer this time. At the way his hair moved in the breeze. At the way the blue light kissed his cheek. At the way his hands, folded in his lap, trembled just slightly.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you said at last. “I’m not a queen. I’m not like the others.”

“No,” he said. “You are not.”

You stared at him. “And you’re not what I thought you were.”

The boat drifted on. One of the memory-lights came to rest between you, hovering like a question. You reached out to it at the same time. Your fingers met. You both froze. And in that moment—no throne, no crown, no god or law between you—there was only silence, and a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You drew your hand back slowly. He did not chase it. But his eyes followed you, quietly. Respectfully, as if you were already something sacred to him.

He asked her to close her eyes.

You hesitated at first. But something in Suguru’s voice—calm, deep, almost boyish in its quiet hope—moved you to obey. He led you by the hand. The path beneath your bare feet was smooth, cool. Not stone. Not soil. Something between the two. Then, at the crest of a soft rise, he stopped.

“You may open them,” he said. You did.

And you gasped. Before you stretched a valley—wide, glimmering, surreal. It was not nature as you knew it, and yet something in it tugged at your soul. The field was made not of petals, but of crystal. Pale blue, soft lilac, the faintest blush of pink. Blossoms that bloomed from black rock, their edges glinting like glass, but moving as if caught in wind. Flowers that sang, faintly—a hum of light against shadow.

Above, glowing orbs drifted in the place of stars. Not fire. Not moon. Something gentler. You stepped forward without realizing. The crystals beneath your feet did not shatter. They welcomed. They bent beneath your toes like grass made of silk.

“I…” you began, but the words failed you.

Suguru stood just behind you, hands clasped behind his back. “You said you missed the world,” he said. “I cannot make the wind smell like spring. I cannot summon birdsong. But I remembered the color of your eyes when you spoke of flowers.”

You turned to him slowly. “You made this?”

“I shaped it,” he said. “The souls helped me.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He hesitated. Then simply said, “You should not feel buried.”

Your heart clenched. You turned away again, walking into the field, your fingers brushing crystal lilies that chimed softly beneath your touch.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. You looked back. He stood still, like he feared coming closer might break the spell. You took a breath. “You don’t have to stay there.”

Suguru blinked. “No?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said. “Not anymore.”

He stepped forward slowly. Not like a king. Like a man. “May I walk with you?” he asked.

You nodded. You walked side by side in the field he made for you. It was the first time since your arrival that your voice held no bitterness. The first time his didn’t carry guilt.

“I used to think the Underworld was cruel,” you said. “It can be,” he replied. “But you’re not,” you added.

He looked at you. “You’ve suffered because of me.” You shook your head. “I’m angry. That’s different.” A small smile tugged at your lips. You glanced up at him. “You’re still difficult.”

“And you,” he said gently, “are still unyielding.” You stopped walking. The flowers chimed.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” you said quietly. “What we are.” “I will not name it before you do,” Suguru replied.

You looked down at your hand. Slowly, you reached out. He took it. Carefully. Without pressure. And in the crystal field, beneath the soft hum of not-quite-stars, death and life stood—not at war. But together. For the first time.

The sky over Olympus had dimmed.

It was not night—but the light bent strange, as though the heavens themselves braced for wrath. At the heart of the golden hall, the gods had gathered. Thunder crackled faintly above, rippling through clouds that had not moved in days. The air held no warmth. No scent of rain. Only the waiting.

And then she arrived. Demeter. Cloaked in frost and fury, her crown of wheat gone to rot, her robes dragging winter like chains behind her. Her eyes—green once—were pale as broken ice. Her voice, when she spoke, rang louder than thunder.

“Where is my daughter.” The hall fell still. Toji stood to one side, arms crossed over his chest, the sea sloshing in his veins. He said nothing—only raised a brow in interest.

Satoru Gojo, Lord of Sky and Storm, sat on the throne of clouds—grinning, as ever, but the curve of his lips did not quite reach his eyes.

“Demeter,” he drawled, “surely this is a bit much.” She stepped forward. The air around her hissed. The marble beneath her feet cracked with frost.

“I gave this realm its harvest. I fed mortals and god alike. And you—you—let him take her.”

Satoru’s smile faltered. “I didn’t let anyone do anything. I only… didn’t stop him.”

“You permitted it,” she hissed. “You knew, and you did not warn me. You call yourself king, yet you bend when your brother whispers.”

Toji chuckled from his post. “He didn’t whisper. He just said he was tired of waiting.”

“Silence,” Demeter snapped. “Your realm will freeze, too, Poseidon. The sea does not escape the cold.”

Toji narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Demeter turned to the hall again, arms raised. “Let the mortals suffer. Let their crops wither in their hands. Let their children starve. Let temples fall and kings beg. I will bury the earth in snow so deep it will never thaw. You have stolen the spring, and now the world shall remember.”

Satoru rose at last. He stepped down from his throne slowly, eyes still half-lidded, but his power stirred in the air like pressure before a storm. “Enough,” he said. “You’ve made your point.”

“No,” Demeter said. “Not yet. Not until she stands before me. Alive. Whole. Returned.”

Satoru exhaled. “I told Suguru not to cloak it in drama,” he muttered. “He could’ve just knocked on your door instead of tearing the earth open like some lovesick poet.”

“I want her back,” Demeter said. “Now.” A pause.

Then Satoru turned. “Yuuji.”

From the archway, a figure stepped forward—gold curls tousled by wind, eyes wide with concern. Yuuji, messenger of gods.

“Me?” he blinked. “You,” Satoru said. “Go to the Underworld.”

Yuuji’s brows rose. “Like, now?” “Yes. Find Suguru. Tell him the girl may return. If she wishes.”

Demeter’s mouth twisted. “She will wish it. She is mine.” Satoru glanced at her. “And if she doesn’t?”

Demeter stared at him. “Then Olympus will fall into ruin.”

Satoru didn’t blink. “If she chooses to stay, we will not drag her back.” Demeter trembled. Her hands clenched. “Say it, Demeter,” he said. “Say it aloud. You cannot hold the world hostage forever.”

A long silence. The frost deepened. The air thinned.

Then, at last— “Fine.” Her voice was like stone breaking. “Let the girl decide. But if she calls to me—if she so much as weeps for home—I will burn this mountain to its bones to bring her back.”

Satoru turned to Yuuji again. “You heard her. Go.”

Yuuji nodded, his usual brightness dimmed by the weight of the task. “I’ll be back before the moon shifts,” he said.

He stepped back, sandals already catching wind. Wings flared from his ankles in a flash of golden light. And then—he was gone. Demeter remained, unmoving, frost trailing from her fingers. Toji yawned. Satoru sat back upon his throne. And the sky held its breath.

The gates of the Underworld opened not with a creak, but with a sigh.

Yuuji stepped through. His sandals touched the onyx steps as if they’d been waiting for him. The air was thicker here—darker, yes, but not empty. It hummed with memory, soft and heavy like incense in a forgotten temple. The walls did not echo. They remembered. He walked past rivers that whispered, past spirits that parted before him in silence. His eyes darted side to side—curious, reverent, and just a little unnerved.

He walked forward, slow at first, adjusting to the dim. Shadows clung to the arches like drapes, pulled tight against the light that had not visited for an age. He passed the whispering river. Passed flickering souls who made no sound. The torches along the walls guttered slightly as he passed, as if they recognized him, and shrank from his warmth.

And then the great hall rose before him. At the far end, upon the twin thrones, you sat. You did not rise.

Your posture was composed, poised, regal in a way that was no longer borrowed. You had grown into it—like roots sinking into unfamiliar soil, only to find they fit. The light that once hovered around you had softened, cooled—but not dimmed. It pulsed softly from your skin like breath.

Suguru sat beside you. Still, as ever. Wrapped in shadow as in robes. His expression unreadable, save for the barest flicker in his gold eyes when Yuuji approached. The air between you was calm. Not distant. Not possessive. Something else. Something earned.

Yuuji stopped a few paces from the dais. He looked at you, then at Suguru, and bowed his head. “My lady,” he said. “My lord.”

Suguru’s voice was low, dry as stone. “Yuuji.”

You inclined your head. “You’ve come far.”

Yuuji gave a small, weary smile, though his shoulders remained tight. “That I have.” He took a breath, then continued.

“I carry message from Olympus. From Zeus. And from your mother.”

The words sat heavy between the stone walls. Suguru didn’t react—but you felt his gaze flick briefly toward you. Yuuji went on, slower now.

“Demeter threatens to bury the world in frost. No harvest. No spring. She has already sent snow to the valleys. Entire kingdoms falter in her grief.”

You said nothing. You only listened. Yuuji wet his lips. “But Zeus has given her terms. He offers you a choice. If you wish to return—no hand shall bar you. Not even his, and if you remain,” Yuuji said more gently, “then so be it.”

Stillness. Suguru’s hand, resting near yours, did not reach for you. But you felt him waiting. You looked down. Not in shame. Not in uncertainty. You simply gathered your thoughts.

And then Yuuji saw it. His eyes—restless, always scanning—fell to your lap. Just a glance. A breath’s worth of attention. And then they froze.

Your hand rested loosely upon the curve of the pomegranate rind. Half-empty. Four seeds gone. The juice stained your fingertips, a soft, shimmering red that glowed in the firelight.

Yuuji’s breath caught in his throat. His face paled.

“The fruit,” he said. You looked at him calmly. He pointed, voice rising. “You… you ate it?”

“I did.” Your voice did not tremble.

Yuuji blinked. “You… you did?” He stepped forward, disbelief painted across his face. “You ate the seeds? You—already?”

You nodded, slow and unhurried. “Yes.”

His mouth parted. “Before I even arrived?!”

“It was offered,” you said. “And I accepted.”

Yuuji ran a hand over his face, the weight of Olympus pressing into his shoulders. “That’s Underworld fruit,” he said. “Not a mortal fig to pluck for passing pleasure. That fruit binds the soul. You have tied yourself to shadow.”

“I know what it means.”

Suguru spoke then, from your side—his voice still as deep stone. “She was not ignorant. I told her what it would do.”

Yuuji’s hands fell to his sides. “But Zeus—your mother—all Olympus thought you still might return.”

You looked him in the eye. “I am not a child kept in the folds of her robe. I know what I have done.”

“You knew I was coming,” he said softly. “And you still…” “I chose.”

Yuuji turned to Suguru now, eyes wide. “And you—you allowed this?”

Suguru rose, the movement slow, like mountains waking. He stood tall beside you. “I did not press her. It was her right.”

Yuuji stepped back a pace, muttering beneath his breath. “This is final. This is forever. The earth will starve. Demeter will flay the fields. The mortals will cry to empty skies—”

“I do not intend to ask for release,” you said, calm. “But…” You glanced at Suguru. “But I would explain. I did not eat all. Only part. Four seeds.”

Yuuji stopped. His brows furrowed. His eyes lit with sudden calculation.

“Four,” he repeated. “Not six. Not the whole. Four.” He looked up sharply, the grin of inspiration dawning like gold behind clouds.

“Then not all is lost.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

He turned to Suguru now, speaking quickly. “If she has not consumed the whole fruit—then the binding is not complete. There is precedent. The scrolls speak of it. A soul half-sworn may walk in both realms.”

You turned fully to him. “To return?”

“Not forever,” Yuuji said. “But for part of the year. A season. Perhaps two. She may rise with the flowers, and fall with the leaves. Split her time, not her soul.”

Suguru’s eyes narrowed faintly, unreadable. “You speak boldly.”

“I speak what can be done,” Yuuji replied. “If she remains here always, the world will wither. If she returns always, this choice will be for nothing. But if she walks both—then balance may yet be struck.”

You looked to Suguru then, voice softer now.

“I do not regret what I’ve taken. But I would not have my mother waste away in grief. Nor the world die for my silence.”

Suguru was quiet. He looked at you—not at Olympus, not at the fruit. Only you, And then he spoke.

“If you wish it,” he said, “then I will not bar you. The gates will open when the time is right. The world will know spring again—when you bring it.”

Your chest lifted, breath fuller than before. Yuuji, relieved beyond words, let out a huff.

“Thank the gods,” he muttered. “Oh wait—that’s me.”

You allowed a small smile. Yuuji’s tone returned to proper form. “I shall return to Olympus with this accord. Demeter may curse and cry, but she will not call you prisoner.”

Suguru stepped back. “So be it.”

Yuuji bowed low, deeper than before. “My lady. My lord.”

And as he turned, the shadows parted once again, letting him pass. Just before he vanished into mist, he paused, glancing back at you with a grin half-swallowed by awe.

“A goddess of life in death’s halls,” he said. “Even Olympus did not see this coming.”

And then he was gone.

The shadows closed once more. Yuuji was gone. The stillness returned. But it was no longer cold. You remained standing before your throne. Suguru did not speak, and yet you felt the weight of his gaze like the warmth of fire cupped in your palms. It was you who turned first—toward him.

His figure stood as if carved from dusk itself. Tall. Solemn. Cloaked in silence and authority. And yet… before you, he looked almost undone. You stepped down from the dais, the hem of your robes brushing across black marble. The halls did not echo, but the realm listened.

“You do not speak,” you said quietly. “Yet your eyes… they burn with a truth untold.”

His head tilted, slow and reverent. “I have known many things,” Suguru said. “I have ruled over silence, over sorrow, over the shadows that no prayer can reach. I have seen kings buried in sand and lovers forget each other’s names. I have watched the world turn from me.”

He took a single step forward. “But I have never known this.”

You did not look away. “You are not what they say,” you said. “They speak of Suguru as cold, as cruel. As a god who takes. But I see now—you were only left behind.”

His throat moved, once.

“I am no thief,” he said. “I do not beg Olympus for favor. I do not demand praise from the stars. But I—” He faltered, just a breath, then steadied. “I would burn every throne beneath the sky if they dared touch a hair upon your head.”

You inhaled softly. He stepped closer.

“I am capable of setting the skies ablaze. I could wake the sleeping mountains. I could call the sea to crack the land in half. But never,” he said, voice low now, “never would I let a single flame touch you.”

Your chest rose with each word. “And if the sun itself sought to scorch you, I would pluck it from the heavens and bury it beneath the River Lethe until its memory forgot to burn.”

The words did not roar. They did not thunder. But they struck like lightning behind your ribs. You reached for him—not with your hands, but with your eyes. You saw it then. Behind the god, behind the shadows, behind the unyielding name— A man. One who had waited an eternity not to be adored, but to be understood.

“I never feared you,” you said, stepping closer. “Even when I trembled. I feared being caged. But I see now—this realm is no prison.” You lifted your hand, brushing your fingertips just above his. “This realm is yours. And now… it is ours.”

Suguru’s eyes—once molten gold, now trembling starlight—searched yours. “I would have let you go,” he whispered. “Even as the earth split to bring you to me—I would have let you go, had you wished it.”

“I know,” you said. And you meant it. His breath caught. You were inches apart now. No storm, no river, no war between gods—just this stillness. This gravity. His voice dropped to a whisper, ragged and full of devotion.

“That is why I have never let another near. Why I have stood untouched for an age. Because I knew the moment it came… I would fall.” You did not speak. You didn’t need to. Because gods do not need declarations to know what hearts scream in silence.

He leaned closer, and gods did not breathe—but you felt his breath like the first wind that stirred the world awake. You could take him by the throat and he would not flinch.

You could strike him and he would only draw nearer. Because you—goddess, spring, storm in bloom—had the power to unmake him. And he would let you. Because Suguru Geto, lord of the dead, feared nothing— Except the inch between your mouths. And gods above, how his eyes sparkled in its presence.

Silence bloomed in his wake—lush, breathless, final. You stood in the quiet like a lantern holding flame. You had spoken your choice before witness, sealed it with seed and word alike. The Underworld was yours now—by bond, by right, by desire. By love.

“You are certain still?” he asked, though his voice was softer now, laced not with demand, but with ache.

You stepped forward, gaze unwavering. “I have never known such certainty, my lord.”

He reached for you then. And when his hands met your skin, it was not with the rough heat of flame, but with the patience of stone worn smooth by the river.

Fingers at your waist, Suguru drew you close—his body vast and solid, the quiet storm of death made flesh. His lips found your temple first, then your cheek, reverent as if he feared you might vanish like breath in winter.

“You are no longer a visitor,” he murmured. “You are mine.”

You tilted your head up. “And you are mine.”

He guided you through the veil of his chambers, doors parting like tides at his will. The walls were carved obsidian, veined with silver, but it was not the room that took your breath. It was the bed—dark as ink, vast as the heavens, shrouded in sheets soft as shadows, cool as silk. Candles flickered on pillars of black stone, their flames lavender and low. Incense curled in the air, thick with violet and myrrh.

You stood before the bed and felt the earth tilt. And then he touched you again.

Suguru’s hand came to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your mouth like he sought the shape of truth. You parted your lips for him instinctively, eyes fluttering as his thumb traced downward—over your throat, collarbone, and the beginning of your robes.

“May I?” he asked, voice nothing but dark velvet.

You gave a nod, pulse thudding like temple bells. He undid your robe with slow, deliberate care. Not a garment dropped but was touched, smoothed, kissed as it left your form. You were unveiled inch by sacred inch—each part of you seen, admired, adored.

When you stood bare before him, he did not take you. Not yet. He kneeled. A god. Before you.

Suguru’s palms warmed your hips as he bent his head, lips pressed to your navel, to your hips, to the inside of your thighs—each kiss a vow.

“Lie down,” he said, low and reverent.

And so you did, reclining into the dark sheets, hair splayed like a crown of dusk. Suguru joined you on the bed, not to hover above, but to settle between your legs with a patience that nearly undid you. He kissed your ankle first. Then your calf. Then the inside of your knee.

And higher. And higher still. Your breath caught. You reached for him, hand in his hair, and he hummed against your skin like a prayer, eyes half-lidded with restraint.

“You are untouched,” he said, not as question—but as awe.

“I am,” you whispered. “But I am not afraid.”

He looked up at you from between your thighs, haloed in candlelight and hunger. “Then let me teach you,” he said. “Not in haste, but in worship.”

He kissed you once more—soft, wet, open-mouthed—and then his tongue found your heat. Your hand curled in his dark hair with a gasp.

Suguru moved slowly—his mouth drinking from you with aching reverence, tongue tracing every petal, every tremble. He did not seek your peak. Not yet. He sought your unraveling. He moaned against you when your legs shook, dragging his tongue upward with a groan as though your taste alone was ambrosia. His grip tightened on your thighs, holding you wide, open, sacred.

You whimpered his name—a gasp of devotion. He lifted his eyes to you then, mouth glistening, voice hoarse.

“You are divinity,” he said. “And you shall be worshipped as such.”

And then he buried his mouth in you again—deeper, hungrier, with a skill honed not by lust, but by love. He did not rush. He did not relent.

He stayed between your legs like a king at his altar, lips dragging across your core until your back arched, your eyes rolled, your voice broke into prayers. But just before the end—before the heat could crash into bloom— He stopped. Your hips trembled, thighs still quaking from the brink, and you looked down at him, dazed, breathless, burning. Suguru rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a man starved still.

“You will not shatter yet,” he said. “Not until I am inside you. Not until your first is everything it deserves to be.”

He kissed your inner thigh again—soft, slow. “We have eternity,” he said. “But I would still savor every hour.”

You reached for him, voice trembling with need and reverence both. “Suguru…”

He climbed beside you, pulling you to his chest, body burning with restraint. And in the shadows of the Underworld, between breath and bloom, you laid with your god—not yet joined in full, but already forever changed.

The room was quiet save for the sound of your breath—shallow, desperate, trembling. You lay against his chest, his arm around your waist, his lips brushing your hairline as if even now, he could not believe you were real.

You pressed your fingers against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. Not cold, not unfeeling. No, Suguru burned—hotter than the firelight dancing across the chamber walls, hotter than the pit of want blooming between your thighs.

“Suguru,” you whispered, voice raw, wrecked. “Please.”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip. He held you like you were made of silk and starlight, as if any sudden touch might unravel you. And maybe it would. You were trembling from the edge he’d left you on. Still aching. Still wet from his mouth. He shifted beside you, and you felt it—hard, thick, heavy against your thigh.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he murmured into your skin. “You are still soft. Still unbroken.” You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, lips parted, voice thick with love.

“Then break me gently.” His breath caught. And then he kissed you. It was not chaste. This was not a kiss of restraint.

Suguru kissed you like he had waited eternity for this moment. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and claiming, and you moaned softly into the heat of it, your fingers finding his hair again, pulling him closer. You felt his hand slide down—between your thighs, parting them once more. Two fingers slid along your slick folds, testing, spreading, and you gasped into his mouth.

“You’re still wet,” he growled softly, his voice deeper now, full of gravel and hunger. “Still open for me.”

“Yes,” you whispered, barely a sound. “Only for you.”

He rose above you, kneeling between your legs, his dark hair falling like silk around his face. He reached for your thighs and spread them gently, reverently, eyes flickering over your glistening center like it was sacred scripture. And then he took himself in hand.

Your gaze dropped—eyes widening at the sight of him. Thick. Long. Veined and flushed at the tip. He stroked himself once, slowly, groaning low in his chest as he watched your breath hitch.

“I will go slow,” he promised, voice hoarse with restraint.

You reached for him with trembling fingers, touching his chest, then his cheek. “I want to feel all of you.”

Suguru braced himself over you, one hand guiding his cock to your entrance. He pressed forward—just barely, just enough to tease. You cried out at the stretch, the fullness.

He stopped instantly, chest heaving. “Are you in pain?”

You shook your head, nails digging into his shoulders. “No. Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, the slide of him dragging against tight, wet heat. Your walls clung to him—virgin body welcoming him deeper, deeper still. His jaw clenched, his forearms trembling as he fought not to rut into you with all his need.

“Gods,” he whispered. “You… you take me so well. So tight, little goddess…”

You moaned, thighs twitching at the stretch, but your eyes never left his. You held his gaze as he bottomed out—fully sheathed inside you. The pressure, the fullness—it was too much and yet not enough. You were joined. Finally. Utterly. He stilled, letting you breathe, letting your body adjust. But you were already clutching him closer, your body greedier than your fear.

“Move,” you begged.

So he did. Slow at first—each roll of his hips measured, deep, dragging along every swollen nerve. Your legs wrapped around his waist, anchoring him inside you. His name fell from your lips in a broken cry.

He groaned against your throat, his hips pressing flush with every thrust. “You feel like heaven,” he growled. “My sweet Persephone—my queen.”

You gasped at the name. “I’m yours,” you breathed. “Forever.”

His pace picked up—still slow, still sensual, but now laced with desperation. Your slick walls fluttered around him with every stroke, your body singing with heat. He kissed your throat, your breasts, your lips—anywhere he could reach.

Your hands slid down his back, over the flex of his muscles, nails scraping gently as you arched into him.

“You were made for me,” he said, voice near breaking. “Born from spring, bound to death. You—mine.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Always.”

He moved faster now, groaning into your skin, his cock driving into you in long, powerful strokes, making you cry out with every thrust. The bed creaked beneath you. The air was thick with the scent of sex, of sweat, of sacred fire. You felt your peak rising—your belly tightening, breath catching. But Suguru was close too. You could feel it in the way his thrusts stuttered, in the way he swore in tongues long lost to time. He pressed his forehead to yours, his hips still grinding, deep and slow.

“I would spill inside you,” he said. “Claim you with seed, fill you full…”

You moaned, your thighs trembling at the thought. “But not yet,” he growled. “Not tonight.”

And with a final thrust, he pulled out, thick and glistening, his cock twitching with restraint. He collapsed beside you, pulling your body close—still shaking, still wet, your core pulsing with aftershocks. You nestled into his chest, your legs still open, your body still yearning.

“Why did you stop?” you whispered. He smiled against your temple.

“Because we have eternity, my love. And I would learn every sound you make… one night at a time.”

And so it was that death fell in love with life—not with the hunger of a conqueror, but with the awe of a god who had waited since time’s first breath to be seen. The Underworld, once mute and mournful, bloomed not with roses, but with devotion—roots curling around thrones, shadows trembling in the presence of spring. He, the stillness beneath the world, and she, the bloom that broke through stone. Where her foot touched ash, lilies rose. Where his hand found hers, eternity bowed. And from that day forward, the Fates wove their thread in awe—because even they knew: no myth, no mountain, no law of god or man could rival the quiet, feral truth of a love that bridged darkness and dawn.

Even the gods, fickle and furious as they are, spoke of them with something like reverence. Not for their power—but for their peace. For among all the unions forged in Olympus and beyond, none were as steadfast, as strangely tender, as Hades and Persephone. He, who ruled without mercy, and she, who reigned with grace. And though their love was born in shadow, it flourished—year after year, age after age—until even the stars, eternal and ever-watching, whispered:

Of all divine marriages, theirs is the only one touched by true joy.

dividers by, @cafekitsune

[emmcfrxst]

OHHHH MY GOD THIS WAS SO TENDER I’M GONNA CRY !!!!!!! this was so delicious,,,, i need to talk about some of my favorite lines because this was. wow. a masterpiece.

"And now," you say, voice subtle, "you're the one peeling oranges for someone else."

He shrugs again. "Only for you."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I mean it," he says. "Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything."

this part had me gasping into my hand like i just learned some sort of scandalous, life-changing secret!!! the pacing!!! the casual way in which he basically admits to being head over heels in love with you!!!! the explanation of how he hated peeling oranges himself as a kid and admitting to you that you’re the only one he would ever do it for!!!!!! this was so beautifully tender and so well executed <3

"God," you croak. "I think I'm dying."

Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he's checking for tremors. "You're not dying," he says gently. "You're just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure."

"You Googled my flu?"

"Yeah. Also called my dad."

the thought of clark calling his dad because he’s so worried about you/because he wants to understand human illness better made my heart grow about ten times its initial size. the implications there are just so incredibly heartwarming—like i said, the fact that clark immediately wants to understand how your immune system works to make sure that you’re not in any real danger is already such an “aww!” moment, but for me, what really does it is the implication that he didn’t even hesitate to call his dad to not only talk about you, which is already incredibly intimate, but the fact that it’s to ask such a pure, innocent question about his worries made me feel warm all over <3

Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. "I just thought it might be nice.

Something familiar. It's kind of like comfort food, but for your brain."

i can’t even begin to explain the absolute comforti felt when i read the “it’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.” line, it completely rewired my brain in the best way possible. it scratched my little brain just right and somehow managed to make me feel so safe which is ?????? something i don’t usually feel this strongly when reading fiction but hey. you did it! clark is so earnest and thoughtful and he’s made of love and sunshine and rainbows and GOD I’M SO IN LOVE WITH THE WAY YOU WRITE HIM!!!

"I don't really even know all the right things," he continues. "But I'm gonna stay right here until you feel good again."

god. another line that completely fucking rewired my brain into feeling a deep, deep sense of safety. clark wanting to stay by your side despite not knowing what to do is just so good at the core. he cares so much and he doesn’t let his inexperience have any incidence on his desire to stay and help you. i don’t even know if i’m making any sense at this point honestly because my brain is 100% mush and love for clark. you write him so well it’s like you’ve managed to dive deep into his mind and pulled out all of the little facets of his personality into your pieces.

The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, the way his mouth works against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension— the fucking strength of this man-the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.

okay the tone of this one is most definitely different from the others but with me being me i HAD to mention munch!clark and the absolutely scrumptious visual of him being so aroused by the act of giving you head that he instinctively/subconsciously feels the need to grind up into the air. like that is the epitome of hotness and i’m never gonna get tired of this specific hc for him because it’s just so in-character for him and it’s also one of the hottest things someone can do tbh. still barking, lunging at the air and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog over this.

honestly there were a dozen of other little moments i could have mentioned and analyzed but i fear that if i truly let myself start to rant i’m never gonna stop. another absolute banger from you mara, unsurprisingly so because you’re one of my favorite writers, and i cannot wait to see what you have in store next !!!! <3

mystery of love

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader summary: clark is light in ways the world doesn’t always notice. he makes breakfast for dinner, reads to you when you’re sick, peels oranges like his mom used to, and sunbathes on the fire escape like a houseplant that loves way too hard. he doesn’t say “i love you” until the light is just right and you’re wrapped up in him like a second skin, but he shows it every day in the way he stays. inspired by the orange poem by wendy cope. (or alternatively: 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it) listen to the playlist here. word count: 11.1 k. oops. i swear this was only supposed to be 8k words but unfortunately, i'm insane. content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, established relationship, piv sex, character study, dom/sub undertones, switching (reader and clark take turns domming/subbing), marking kink, hair pulling, big soft men who are whipped for you, soft but kind of unhinged sex, size kink (clark picks up the reader/pins them down), nipple play, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), outdoor sex (sex against a tree), face riding, public sex, use of pet names, tooth-rotting fluff, my love letter to midwest summers!

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes.

Well, that's the joke, anyway. 

You’ve said it so many times now it might as well be printed on a T-shirt. My Boyfriend Is Solar-Powered! in Comic Sans. Or maybe Papyrus. Whatever will annoy him the most. Haven't really decided yet.

It started out as a throwaway line, one of those things you kind of just say when you’re half-awake and fully-annoyed because he’s hogging the sunny spot in the kitchen again like a smug, six-foot-four housecat with insane shoulders and even more insane bedhead.

But the first time you said it—like, actually really said it—he was standing by the window, shirtless, holding his coffee in that chipped blue mug that says "My Son's a Smallville Elementary Grad!" and somehow survived a farm, a college dorm, three apartments, and a move cross-country. 

The light was doing that thing it loves to do in the morning, all golden and warm and syrupy, catching on his collarbones and the slope of his neck like he was painted by fucking Michelangelo. He had one hip braced against the counter, the other leg crooked, like someone told him to look as unintentionally hot as possible while waiting for the kettle filled with your guys' tea to boil.

You blinked at him, still clutching your own mug and not yet caffeinated enough to regulate your mouth, and said, “Do you ever feel like… like a plant?”

He raised an eyebrow. Blew on his coffee. You can see the way his breath fogs up slightly, that super breath of his doing just enough to cool down his coffee to the perfect temperature. “That a dig?”

“No. It’s just. You—" You waved vaguely in his direction. "Well, you just kinda look like you’re charging.”

That got a huff of a laugh. “What, like a phone?”

“No,” you said, and grinned into your mug. “Like I said, a plant. Like you're photosynthesizing.”

After that, it became a thing.

He always smiled when you said it. Looked down at himself, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “I mean,” he’d say, “you’re not wrong.” Or: “Someone’s gotta keep the plants company, y'know?"

But he never corrects you. Never laughs it off like it’s ridiculous.

Because it isn’t.

You’ve seen the truth of it, slow and subtle and layered in all the small things. The way he’s just a smidge lighter on his feet after a sunny day, how he runs warmer, more golden, like someone turned the saturation up to a hundred. The way his voice softens, deeper, when he’s been in the sun too long. The way the shadows under his eyes seem less sharp after just an afternoon spent lying on the roof, pretending he’s napping when you both know he’s just... breathing.

And the bruises. That’s the part he thinks you don’t see.

You do.

They heal so much faster when he’s been drenched in the sun. You’ve watched the inky blackish-purple fade to this sickly yellow in the span of a couple hours and tried really, really hard not to stare. 

You’ve said nothing when he limped into bed one night after a particularly difficult battle and rolled out of it the next morning like absolutely nothing had even happened. Sometimes he winces and pretends it’s nothing. Sometimes he… forgets to pretend.

And still, you never say that’s not normal out loud, even though it’s not. Because he isn’t. Not in the way that matters. Not in the ways that make you love him.

You love him like a long exhale. Like a secret that’s safe with you. Like the song you play on repeat in the car, the one you never get sick of, even though it makes your throat tighten every time.

Sometimes it’s peaceful, like when your ribs finally uncages and let someone else in for the first time in your life. But sometimes, sometimes it's just so fucking devastating. 

Because he’s Clark. And Superman. And most importantly, he's yours.

And it feels too big. Too fragile. Like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to keep him safe, but you also want to keep him. The real him. The him that leaves you sticky notes that say “eat something, please” and walks around humming old Mighty Crabjoys songs and insists you don’t have to fold my socks, seriously, who folds socks?

But you lie awake sometimes watching him breathe, thinking to yourself, How do I love someone that belongs to the world?

And the answer is: you just do. One day at a time. One morning at a time. One sunlit moment in the kitchen at a time.

That Monday morning, it’s the same as always.

You pad into the living room half-asleep, dragging your feet and wearing one of his T-shirts that hits you mid-thigh. He’s already up, standing barefoot by the window, coffee in hand, arms folded loosely across his chest like he’s holding himself together in case he gets pulled apart again later.

Pause in the doorway. Watch him for a second. The way the light pools around his ankles. The way his shoulders lift, just barely, when he hears your steps.

He doesn’t turn.

“Guess what,” you say.

He smiles, small and crooked. “Hmm?”

You cross the room. Slide your arms around his waist from behind and press your face between his shoulder blades, where the sun’s been warming him for at least half an hour.

“You’re glowing again,” you murmur. “Must be that high-potency sunlight. You hogging the sun again?”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You caught me.”

“You’re a danger to local crops,” you whisper. Feel the goosebumps rising underneath his skin. “The corn’s jealous.”

“Oh no. Not the corn.” He turns a little, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are so fucking blue at that moment. “Should I apologize to the corn?”

“Absolutely. It’s your fault they can’t compete. You're literally the reason why Iowa's GDP is going down.”

He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ll draft a formal statement for them later.”

You stay like that for a minute. Him holding you. You pressing your nose into the slope of his back, breathing him in—sunshine and laundry and that faint green note that’s uniquely Clark. Like basil, or clean leaves. Like something still growing.

And you think: This is the part he doesn’t say out loud.

This is how he tells you.

Not with words. Not yet.

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes. And maybe it’s not the kind of love you can pin down, or explain, or protect. But it’s real. It’s alive.

And you love him.

And he, quietly, completely, loves you back.

(He hasn’t said it yet. But you don’t really need the words to know.)

.

Clark shows you he loves you in ways so small, they’d be easy to miss if you didn’t know how to look for them. 

But you do. You catch them in those quiet little corners of the day. 

The way he folds down the corner of your book before you can reach for a receipt or a pen. The way he touches your wrist, not yanking, just there, when you step into the street without looking. The way he makes a soft sound of protest—ahem, maybe more like politely exasperated—when you try to carry six grocery bags at once like you, too, are invincible.

And then there’s the orange.

You’re curled into the couch, one of his sweatshirts swallowed over your knees, watching—but not really, to be honest—some long-winded documentary about volcanoes or Icelandic horses or some other quietly majestic subject that definitely feels at odds with your mood. The narrator has this super calm, soothing British lilt and the lighting is very National Geographic: all muted blues and wide drone shots and crashing waves. You haven’t really spoken in close to at least half an hour.

Clark doesn’t push. Never does. 

He just lets you sit in it, whatever it is, as long as you need to. 

But eventually, he nudges your ankle with his socked foot, like a hello, and when you glance up, he’s setting something on the coffee table with a kind of shy precision.

An orange.

Already peeled.

Not just peeled. Sectioned. Arranged.

It’s kind of ridiculous, how careful it is. No torn rind, no mangled wedges. The peel’s just laid out like a ribbon, one continuous spiral that speaks of time and gentleness and someone who took this seriously. Each segment is placed on a napkin, still glistening with juice, like a little offering.

You blink at it.

Then at him.

He’s pretending to watch the TV, but his body betrays him. His shoulders just slightly angled toward you, eyes flicking sideways like he’s checking the weather.

“I didn’t know if you were hungry,” he says after a beat. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say more. “But it’s one of the sweet ones.”

Your throat does something stupid. You reach for a slice and hold it for a second, too long, then pop it into your mouth.

It’s still cold from the fridge. Bright, juicy, perfect. Like summer broke through the haze in your chest.

You make a noise you don’t mean to. Something between surprise and relief.

Clark shifts, trying to look casual, but you catch that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted one,” he says, still mostly facing the TV, his face painted in blue. “But you looked kind of… I don’t know. Stuck. So I figured I’d just do it.”

“You peeled it for me?”

He finally looks over at you, eyebrows lifted. “Well, yeah.”

And somehow that—that—is what catches in your chest. Not the orange, not the care. The way he says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he did. Like there’s a whole world of things he would do just for you without even needing to be asked.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But that's kind of the point.”

You don’t say anything for a minute. Just reach for another slice.

When you bite into it, something in you loosens. Maybe it’s the juice. Maybe it’s the tenderness.

Clark, watching out of the corner of his eye, shifts a little closer and says, voice low, “When I was a kid, my ma used to 'em for me.”

You glance over. He’s staring at the documentary again, but the way he says it, it’s not for the Icelandic horses on the screen.

“She knew I hated the sticky part,” he goes on. “Didn’t like having all that juice on my fingers. So she’d do it before school. Wrap ‘em up in plastic, tuck ‘em in the corner of my lunchbox next to whatever sandwich she made that day. Tuna on Fridays. Always with too much mayo.”

You smile, just a little. “You were a picky eater?”

“Not picky,” he says defensively. “Just—just particular. I didn’t like when my food touched.”

“Mhm.”

“I was seven!”

You laugh, and he finally looks at you, sheepish and warm.

“She used to write little notes sometimes too,” he adds. “On the napkin. Stuff like ‘remember your science quiz’ or ‘you’re stronger than you think.’” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes that was enough.”

You watch him as he says it, and you think, Of course. Of course you grew up like that. With kindness taught into you like table manners. With love folded into your lunchboxes.

“And now,” you say, voice subtle, “you’re the one peeling oranges for someone else.”

He shrugs again. “Only for you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he says. “Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything.”

You press a slice into his hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He pauses, then leans forward and bites it from your fingers, playful but gentle. A little juice escapes down the corner of his mouth. He licks it away without breaking eye contact.

It shouldn’t make your heart ache. But it does.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For the orange?”

“For the orange. And the napkin. And, you know. The general care and keeping of me.”

He smiles at that. Tilts his head toward you until your shoulders brush.“Well,” he says, “you’re pretty high-maintenance. Comes with the territory.”

You scoff, gently ebow him. “I am not.”

He raises his brows. “Okay. Yesterday, you made me reheat the tea because it was two degrees below your ideal sipping temperature.”

“That’s not high-maintenance. That’s just me having standards.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, bumping your knee with his. “And your standards include expertly peeled fruit on Tuesdays, apparently.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “I just mean…” You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding too serious, too much. You chew your lip, watching the way the light hits his profile. “I hope,” you say softly, almost to yourself, “you never stop doing that.”

He leans his head against the back of the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “What, feeding you citrus?”

You huff out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he says, simple and sure, like the truth it is:

“I won’t.”

.

You don’t even really remember texting him. You think you might’ve. Maybe. Who knows. 

In the middle of your 2 a.m. sick delirium, burning up and freezing at the same time, with every single cell in your body screaming and staging some sort of mutiny, you vaguely remember opening your phone with bleary eyes and typing something half-coherent. 

A string of emojis. A sad face, a skull, a wilted flower. Vomit emoji. You might’ve hit send. You might’ve just passed out mid-thought.

Either way, Clark’s there when you come to.

He’s on the floor beside your bed, cross-legged, slouched a little in that way he always is when he’s trying to make himself smaller than he actually is. He’s doing this thing he does similar to when he's reading out his first drafts—voice low and even, a little scratchy like he hasn’t used it much today, or maybe just because it’s the middle of the night and the Metropolis is quiet for once and so is he.

You blink, once, twice, groggily, and he doesn’t even look up as he says:

“…and then I told Jimmy that if he was going to hide in the cafeteria instead of facing Eve, he should at least clean up after his brooding, because no one wants to sit next to a scone that’s been glared at for thirty minutes."

That's when you make a sound—half a groan, half a breath—and he glances up.

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Hey. You’re awake.”

God, you swear your head's a pressure cooker. Your throat feels like someone lined it with sandpaper and regret. You’re pretty sure you’re covered in sweat, and not in a sexy, cinematic way, but more in a swampy, bedraggled, my skin might never be clean again kind of way. 

And yet here he is, reading from what you now realize is his work notebook. 

Not even a novel. Just… Clark, narrating his week.

“God,” you croak. “I think I’m dying.”

Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he’s checking for tremors. “You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure.”

“You Googled my flu?”

“Yeah. Also called my dad.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course you did.”

“He said tea, soup, and don't try to touch your toes.”

You blink at him slowly. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“I didn’t think you would. But he insisted.”

He presses a glass of water into your hand. Holds it there, actually, like you might forget what to do with it. You sip slowly, mostly because he’s watching you with the intensity of someone monitoring the nuclear launch codes. His hand stays curved behind your back the whole time, steady and warm, his thumb sweeping once over your shoulderblade.

“Still tastes like shit,” you mutter, grimacing.

“That’s just your fever lying to you,” he says. “Give it time. I brought supplies.”

Which is how, ten minutes later, you’re propped up like a limp marionette with three pillows, wearing one of his hoodies, while Clark, bless him, is rumbling around in your kitchen making the world’s most dramatic instant ramen.

He hums while he works, something mellow and vaguely twangy—something that sounds like wide-open spaces and Sunday mornings and the kind of radio stations that only exist halfway between here and Kansas.

When he brings the bowl back, he sits on the edge of the bed and feeds you, spoon by spoon, blowing on each bite first like he thinks you might scald your tongue.

You watch him through a fever-glazed blur. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What bit?”

“The Florence Nightingale… Florence Kent thing.”

He grins, bashful. “It’s not a bit. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Your stomach flips. It has nothing to do with the soup.

“And also,” he adds, “I brought a book, thought you might like something to listen to in the background.”

You blink at him.

“I figured I’d read to you once the soup’s done. Unless you’d rather I make more toast. I could do toast. Or try. I mean, it’s technically one of the few things I can’t mess up.”

You take the spoon from his hand. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Sit down before you vibrate out of your flannel.”

He obeys instantly, because Clark is nothing if not obedient when you sound just a tiny bit bossy and ill. You laugh a little. Then cough a lot.

When you stop hacking, there’s a glass of water in your hand again, and he's looking at you like he’s trying to mentally calculate your temperature based soely off your pupil dilation. You wave him off until he settles down again, until his work stories blur into white noise and you feel yourself drifting.

Later, when the room is dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp, and your fever’s burning lower, no longer trying to boil you alive but still leaving your limbs really heavy and wrung-out—you stir, blink groggily, and find him exactly where he’s been all day: back on the floor, this time leaning against the bed frame like he’s trying to become one with the carpet.

There's a book in his hands.

You squint. “Is that… Star Wars?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Just flips a page, calm and unbothered, like this is a completely normal Wednesday night activity. “Yeah. From a Certain Point of View.  It’s like… like—little side stories. People on the edges of the main stuff. Background characters getting the spotlight. I thought you might like it.”

You blink slowly. “You’re reading me Star Wars fanfiction.”

Clark glances up, grinning. “Not fanfiction. It’s licensed content.”

“Clark.”

“It’s from Jimmy.”

“Clark.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, it’s kind of sanctioned fanfic. But it’s good. There's one from the point of view of Obi-Wan’s ghost and it made me emotional.”

You try to snort, but it comes out more like a croak. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the person who cried over an R2-D2 Lego set last Christmas.”

“That was a very moving gift and you know it.”

Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. “I just thought it might be nice. Something familiar. It’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.”

You look at him—really look at him—glasses askew, hair flattened on one side from the couch pillow, sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest like it was never meant to fit a man built like a brick wall—and feel that weird, awful feeling twist in your chest again. 

The one that always comes when he’s like this. Sweet and earnest and just slightly off-center in a way that makes your whole life feel gentler.

“Thank you,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sincere.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”

Then, after a beat:

“I was gonna read the one about the cantina bartender next. He has some very strong feelings about the music.”

“. . . Okay yeah, you're weird.”

“Exactly.”

He closes the book for a moment and reaches for your hand under the blanket. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and firm and callused at the knuckles. He squeezes gently.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “The taking-care-of-people thing. Not like my dad was. He used to bring orange Jell-O and put those cold cloths on my head when I got sick. He'd sit with me and hum old country songs like that could fix it. And sometimes, it kinda did.”

You squeeze his fingers back. He looks at your joined hands like they’re something fragile.

“I don’t really even know all the right things,” he continues. “But I’m gonna stay right here until you feel good again.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. Your heart does, too, but in a different way.

“Clark,” you whisper. “You’re doing perfect.”

He gives you this look—hazy and overwhelmed, like maybe he needed to hear that more than he thought. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool and steady and grounding.

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

He reads until your breathing evens out again, then switches to humming—barely there, just a thread of melody tracing the shape of the room. He doesn’t move from his place beside your bed. 

You don’t think he even blinks when you stir, reaching a hand out for his. He’s just there. 

So you dream of a cantina bartender with strong feelings about the music. Of a man with dark hair and horrendous posture and the kindest eyes in the galaxy, carrying soup and picture books and the whole weight of your heart like it’s not heavy at all.

.

It was supposed to be a date.

Like, a real date. One with proper shoes and napkins that aren’t made of recycled drive-thru material. A night where neither of you had to sprint, lie, cover for the other, or show up late with leaves in your hair because someone, cough, got caught helping rescue a tour boat from sinking off the coast of Maine.

Just dinner. Just one Thursday evening. A normal, honest-to-god, pre-planned, mildly fancy dinner. 

You’d even made a reservation at that Italian place ou guys have been meaning to try.

Clark had combed his curls with what looked like actual intent and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top, then unbuttoned one (just one) like he’d read about the concept of casual in a book. You caught him practicing his posture in the hallway mirror before you left.

“Do I look like I own a belt?” he’d asked.

“You do own a belt.”

“Right, but do I look like I believe in it?”

You had rolled your eyes. He’d kissed your forehead. You’d both agreed, silently and aloud and silently again: This time, it’s gonna stick.

Just dinner.

Just you and him.

Just—

The sky, it turns out, had other ideas.

You’re only two blocks from the restaurant, your heels clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. He’s saying something about dessert—about how he’s never actually had crème brûlée and how suspicious he is of any food that requires a blowtorch—and you’re about to tell him that he’s a coward and has terrible, horrible opinions when he—

Flinches.

Just slightly. A twitch, more than anything. Like someone tugged on the collar of his shirt from behind.

You stop. Narrow your eyes.

“Kent.”

He stills, then winces, and it’s over. The wind picks up just enough to ruffle his jacket and toss a strand of your hair across your lip.

“Baby,” you say, dragging out the vowels like you’re preparing to scold a dog who’s eyeing the Thanksgiving turkey.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know. I know. I just—there’s something happening in Hob’s Bay. I think it’s Parasite again.”

“Parasite?” you repeat, like that somehow makes it better. “The guy who eats energy and punches holes through cement walls like graham crackers?”

Clark winces again, guilt washing across his face like rain.

“I can take you home first,” he says quickly. “I’ll be fast. Twenty minutes. Tops.”

“You said that last time,” you remind him.

“Yes, but this time I mean it with—” he pauses, trying to sell it, “—I mean it. I've got improved time management skills. I’ve been working on it, I swear. I downloaded a calendar app.”

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I even color-coded it!”

You cross your arms. “Clark.”

“I swear on my mom’s ceramic cow collection.”

“…The one on the microwave?”

“She dusts them twice a week.”

You sigh, but you’re already unhooking your arm from his. He’s practically vibrating now, trying to stand still. There’s a flash of green in the far-off clouds.

“I liked this dress,” you say.

“I love that dress,” he says, almost reverent. “I’m gonna come back and ruin it for you in much better ways.”

A beat. He realizes how that sounded. “I mean, like—because of pasta sauce. And maybe dancing? gosh, I’m terrible at this—”

You laugh despite yourself. Even as the first drops of rain start to hit your shoulders. “Go, Kansas.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the other. His hands linger against your face a half-second too long, his thumbs warm even through the chill.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, quiet now. “Promise.”

Then he’s gone.

“I know,” you reply to no one in particular, because you do.

You spend the next hour curled on the couch in the dress you never got to wear properly, the hem slightly damp from the rain and your eyeliner gently betraying you. The news cycles through static, then footage of Clark shielding a crowd with a dented bus stop sign like it’s a riot shield, eyes glowing faintly, shoulders squared. Calm. Measured. Still gentle, even in a fight. You eat a sleeve of saltines out of spite.

He texts you twice:

CLARKY <3: STILL FIGHTING THE SLIME GUY. HE’S YELLING ABOUT “THE SYSTEM” SO I THINK THIS IS POLITICALLY MOTIVATED. CLARKY <3: ALMOST DONE. PLEASE DON’T FALL ASLEEP. I OWE YOU SO MUCH CREME BRUILALAE 🍨

You don’t reply. He needs to focus. But you do leave the kitchen light on.

It's past ten when he gets back. He lands with a whisper on your fire escape—so quiet it takes you a second to realize he’s there. You’re already in pajamas at this point.

He taps gently on the window.

When you slide it open, he’s dripping. Suit ripped at the collar. A graze on his temple that’s already healing. Mud on his boots. Eyes wide and sheepish and a little desperate.

“You’re late,” you say.

“The Italian place was closed,” he says, holding up a crumpled brown paper bag like an offering. "But I brought dumplings?"

Your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Fucking saltines. He smiles, relieved.

“They’re from that place you like,” he adds quickly. “The one with the crab rangoon that makes you make weird noises.”

You cross your arms. “You think you can just bribe me with steamed buns and flattery?”

“Yes?” he tries.

“…You’re not wrong.”

You step back to let him in. He shrugs off the cape, moving slower than usual. His shoulders dip lower. His steps drag a little. The exhaustion sits in him like weight.

“Sit down,” you say.

“I can—”

“Clark. Couch. Now.”

He obeys without question, settling into the cushions like a man unraveling. You grab a towel and a hoodie from your room—one of his—and toss both at him. Then you disappear into the kitchen.

After a beat, he calls after you: “I missed you, by the way.”

You don’t answer right away. Just finish plating the takeout, dividing the dumplings and the sticky rice and the rangoon with practiced ease. Your apartment smells like warm ginger and garlic. Familiar. Safe.

When you bring the food over, you find him curled sideways on the couch, legs too long, towel around his shoulders like a cape. He grins when he sees the plates.

“You forgive me?” he asks, hopeful.

You hand him a rangoon. “Chew before you talk.”

He does. Then says, with a mouthful of crab: “I really did want it to be a normal night.”

You look at him. At the tired, good man who flew across the city to keep someone else’s world from breaking. At the one who brought you dumplings and rainwater and apologies on the roof of his tongue.

“I know,” you say.

He finishes chewing, then leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice curling around the edges. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You snort. “You say that now that I’m in fleece pants with soup stains.”

“I stand by it,” he murmurs. “Always.”

You let him curl around you then, dinner plates on the coffee table, reruns of I Love Lucy playing low in the background. He eats with one arm around your waist. You steal his dumplings when he’s not looking.

Later, when you’re both too full and too warm and too tired to move, he says it again.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You already are.”

He hums, pleased but tired, and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Still wish I hadn’t missed dinner. Not the food. Just—being there. With you.”

There’s a smear of sauce near his mouth when you glance over him. He’s so unbelievably warm around the edges like this—like the fight’s finally bled out of him and he’s just Clark again. Your Clark.

“You always say that,” you murmur.

“Because I always mean it.”

You reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He goes quiet. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The kind that hums with the weight of something unspoken, blooming slow between you. Then, without moving your hand, you ask, “You gonna let me kiss you now, or are you still trying to be polite?”

That gets a smile. A real one. A little crooked, a little shy.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “You always could.”

So you lean in.

The kiss starts off like a warning.

Your mouth brushes his—brief, firm, no room for questions, not really—and then again, slower this time. He makes a noise, deep in his chest, something caught between relief and surrender.

When your fingers slide into his hair, he tilts into it instinctively. His hands stay right where they are, just one at your waist, one braced uselessly on the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself not to move unless you ask him to.

He huffs something like a laugh when you pull back for a breath. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

You smile. “Flatterer.”

His hand on your waist shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. Not rough. Not needy. Just—anchoring. Your knees bracket his hips and you kiss him again, open-mouthed this time, licking into his mouth like you’re starved and this is your first taste of real food.

And Clark lets you. 

He lets you kiss him with all the frustration of the ruined date and the tension of waiting and the affection that’s been building in your chest for weeks, maybe months. He meets you where you are—mouth pliant, eyes closed, his breathing slowly unraveling under your hands.

“You always come back like this,” you whisper, teeth grazing his jaw. “All apologies and those puppy dog blue eyes and your make-up take-out. Like I wouldn’t crawl across glass to have you.”

He exhales, sharp and shaky, like your words hit a nerve. His hands tense slightly at your thighs, just for a second, then relax again. He doesn’t try to flip you, doesn’t shift to take control. Just looks at you.

“I mean it,” you murmur, kissing just under his ear. “You come in, wrecked and kind and too damn good, and I’m supposed to what? Sit next to you like my skin isn’t trying to crawl off my bones just to get to yours?”

Clark swallows. “You—” His voice is rough, halting. “You can have me.”

He says it so quietly you almost miss it.

“You already do,” he adds. “You don’t have to prove anything. You—”

Your mouth is on his before he can finish. You kiss him like you’re trying to breathe him in, to memorize the way his ribs rise under your hands. His lips part on a gasp, and you take it as invitation. He lets you tilt his head back even further, lets you set the rhythm—his hands gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only things that can possibly ground him.

You pull back, just enough to see his face. His hair’s still damp, starting to curl at the edges, his cheeks flushed. His glasses are askew, so you reach up, slow, deliberate, and slide them off. Set them gently on the side table. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

"Stand up," you say, and he does, wordless, chest rising fast under the hoodie. He's got the towel instead of the cape draped around his shoulders, like he's still half in hero mode. You take that off.

Your fingers go to the hem of the hoodie next, lifting it slow. He raises his arms obediently, eyes half-lidded, focused. He’s still in the bottom half of the suit, and your breath catches—because even now, even like this, he wears it like a second skin.

But you want the man. Not the symbol.

“Off,” you say, fingers brushing the slick, faintly scorched fabric of the suit’s torso. “I want you, not him.”

He nods. It’s so damn slight, like he’s not so sure his voice will work. His hands go to the hidden seams and he peels the suit down, exposing inch after inch of bare skin beneath—toned and marked from the night, faint purple bruises already turning gold where his healing has started. You trail your fingers and follow him down, down, down his sternum, then lower, across his ribs.

The suit hits the floor in a gentle whisper. Boots, too. The cape’s already been discarded—somewhere between the fire escape and your front door—and now he’s just standing there in front of you, bare and breathless and completely yours.

“Come closer,” you say. "It's my turn."

He goes to help you, but you stop him. Eyebrows raised. "Eyes up here. I'll do it myself."

Clark watches you the whole time, not rushing, not leading. His expression open, undone. His bottom lip's caught between his teeth, eyes trained on every single one of your painstaking actions. Peeling your shirt off, your ratty fleece pants, your bra, all of it. He's enjoying this way more than he should, those eyes of his glinting in the light, but that's the intoxicating part of it. 

When you're done, he finally speaks up, voice reduced to a hush. Wills himself to look away from your body and just look into your eyes. "How do you want me?"

You hum, turning on your feet, pretending to think it over. Really, it's just an excuse to have him look at your bare body. Tempt him a little bit. It drives him insane. Still, he doesn't break eye contact. 

"I think," you purse your lips. "I want you underneath me tonight."

He nods. Serious. "Of course."

You lead him back to the bedroom slowly. Not because he needs help walking, but because there’s something in you that just wants to savor the walk. He lets you guide him backward, his legs bumping against the edge of the bed.

He sits.

Then waits.

Clark just looks so… perfect like this. 

Hard, aching, weeping, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. Hands, those goddamn hands, politely by his sides. Does nothing but lay down on the mattress, just waiting for whatever you feel like doing to him. The knowing—the seeing, does more to you than you'd like to admit.

You crawl, slowly, over his body. Fingers skirting over the freckles of his body, the light dusting of hair across his torso, the goosebumps that rise there. Anything but pay attention to his cock that's begging for you, until you're close to straddling his face, hovering there.

A pause. Those baby blue eyes, the cause of so many of your little deaths. His lips, pink and wet as his tongue swipes over them. A hint of a smile. You brush a curl away from his forehead, fingers slow and thoughtful.

"Okay."

Once you give him the go-ahead, he's all instinct, steady hands pulling your thighs more snug over his shoulders with all of the skill and quiet confidence of a man who's been breaking you down and laying you out for a long time. 

It's so easy—so easy to lose yourself in it. So easy when you're on top of the world.

Clark knows. You've genuinely never met a guy who enjoys eating someone out more than him. He knows all the ways to make your legs shake and your head vibrate out of its skull, all the little skills and patterns and consistencies to get you to cum within minutes, but from the way he takes his time, mouth roaming everywhere—your thighs, your legs, the back of your knees—

He means to torture you. Make you eat your words. But you're gonna have the last say tonight.

You squeeze your legs around his face, bringing his attention to you, all blue-eyed innocence glancing up to you. Little shit. "Hey," you will your voice into something vaguely commanding. "How many times do you think you can make me cum tonight?"

All you get is a lopsided smile. "As many times 's you want."

"Ball park?"

He strums his fingers along your thigh. Pretends to think about it. Looking up at the corner of his eyes like he's doing mental math. "How about we start with five or six and go from there?"

"Perfect. Delightful, Kent. Alright, procee—"

His arms tighten around your thighs, and that's all the warning you get before he dives right in, parting your lips with his tongue and tasting all that you've got to offer, and god, if that doesn't make the slick accumulate even more in between your thighs, gushing, eyes falling closed. 

A trooper always, Clark's mouth is warm, forming into a smile. "Baby, you taste so good. Needed this."

There's desperation in it, the way he sucks on your clit, two fingers finding themselves rocking against your cunt so that you feel nothing but full, boundless pleasure. You're so wet that his digits are sliding effortlessly, even more so as he licks you through it.

All you can do is whimper and whine, hands coming to rest up against the headboard. "Clark, Clark, so good. Don't stop. Please."

The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, the way his mouth works against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension—the fucking strength of this man—the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.

Then his tongue sweeps hot across your clit, his two fingers curling inside you at the exact moment you squeeze. And fuck, you pulse hard and come until you've got nothing left to give, just a mantra of his name—"Clark, Clark, baby—"

He licks and sucks you through the aftershocks, shuddering through it all, and then it's back down to earth.

You fall down on the bed next to him, legs unable to hold you up. The only way to describe how you feel now is just—pure, fucking, boneless glee. And then you look over, and god, if that's not the best view in the world—Clark. The bottom of his face glistening, smiling in that stupid, boyish way of his, curls in his eyes and a twinkle there like he just won the lottery. 

"What are you smiling about?"

Clark shakes his head, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling like it has the answers. "Oh, nothin'. Just happy."

This hunger, this love for him—you don't think it'll ever go away. You don't think you could ever get sick of it, you don't think you can ever get your fill of him.  You're going to want him this badly for the rest of your life. 

But before you could spiral down that terrifying staircase of thoughts, you're brought out your stupor with one large hand trailing up your thigh. Clark's shifted so that you're beneath him, world turned upside down. He's going back down for more.

"We've got at least four more to go, sweet girl. Made you a promise, remember?"

.

It’s honestly the quiet that gets you, at first. 

That slow, rolling kind that doesn’t sit heavy so much as drape itself across everything like an old quilt. The kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. Space between sounds. 

Not silence, never that, but it's more akin to a hush. A pause you didn’t know your life had been missing.

There are birds, sure. A lot of them, actually. There’s the wind, too, rattling through those wheat-colored fields, whistling past the house's warped slats like it’s trying to remember a song it used to know. But underneath it all is stillness. 

A kind of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, now slowly, slowly letting out.

Smallville wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You’d pictured something more… stylized. Romanticized. 

A little more soap opera meets Hallmark original—maybe some mysterious family feuds and charming small-town antics. Some lingering drama about a pie contest. You fully expected someone with an old-timey name to pour you coffee at the local diner you guys stopped at and mention she “hasn’t seen Clark Kent around these parts in a while.”

Instead, you got: rooster at 5:30. Floorboard in the kitchen that creaks like it’s about to file a complaint against you just for exisiting. A guest room that smells faintly like wood polish and wheat. You got Clark, elbow-deep in chicken feed at seven a.m., wearing a white t-shirt that’s hanging on by a thread but you're not complaining.

You’re house-sitting for the Kents while Jonathan and Martha are on a cruise—a cruise, of all things. Clark’s voice had been thick with disbelief when he told you. 

“Can you believe my dad packed four Hawaiian shirts?” Then later, when they called from the boat to say they’d already made friends with a retired couple from Branson and signed up for salsa dancing classes, Clark had stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“They deserve it,” he says eventually, a little quiet. “They’ve never done anything like this. I hope they stay gone the full two weeks.”

You’d kissed his shoulder and said, “Selfishly, me too.”

Because being here, just the two of you, it’s not glamorous. But it feels like something. Something good.

One morning, early on, you found yourself squinting into the haze of a Kansas dawn, clutching a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt hope, and whispering, half to yourself, “Do… do the cows have names?”

Clark, already in his work boots and wrist-deep in a feed bag, turns like you’d just offered to marry him.

“Of course they do!" he says, smug. “That’s Millie.” He points at a big black-and-white cow with the expression of someone who’d once gone on Twitter and got traumatized. “She’s real skittish when it rains but loves, absolutely loves cantaloupe rinds. That one’s Donnie—he’s dramatic. Moooos like he’s dying if you’re even five minutes late.”

You blink at him. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” he says, patting Millie with the same affection he uses on your lower back when you cook dinner barefoot. It makes you snort. “Also, we don’t call it breakfast here. It’s ‘morning feed.’”

You stare. “This is so not the rural romance novel I signed up for.”

He grins, boyish and crooked. “Let me guess. Thought it’d be Days of Our Lives  but make it cornfed?”

“Exactly. Where’s the murder mystery? The barn dance? The family rival who wears all linen and says ominous things like, ‘You’ll never take the south pasture from me, you bastard.’”

"You forget. It's the Midwest. We're not in the South," He scratches behind Donnie’s ear. “But there is a someone with drama kinda like that here. Name's Barb, I think,” he says. “She runs the Dairy Queen and once hit a deer with her truck and cried about it for a week.”

You pause. “…Okay. That’s actually kind of sad. But wholesome."

“See?”

The days fall into a rhythm, eventually. 

You weed the garden (poorly). He fixes the gate (obscenely well). You help collect eggs and try not to let on that the chickens genuinely unsettle you. Clark, that menace, just laughs every single time one flaps in your general direction and you flinch like it’s going to demand your wallet and keys and job.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself washing strawberries at the sink while Clark scrubs paint off the porch railing—some old project Jonathan started and never finished. 

You glance up and he’s standing there in the sun, t-shirt stained, face flushed, humming some old country song under his breath, and your chest physically hurts from how much you love him.

“You wanna do something dumb?” you ask, voice louder than it needs to be, just to get his attention.

Clark looks up, squints against the light. “Always.”

It’s not fancy. 

Twenty minutes later, you’re both in the back pasture, far enough from the house that it’s just you and the cows and the sound of summer in every direction. 

There’s a plastic grocery bag between you full of things neither of you should technically call lunch. Two kinds of chips (barbecue for you, cheddar for him). A Diet Dr. Pepper, sweating in the heat. One sad gas station brownie. And a couple of oranges, wrapped carefully in plastic wrap.

You lift an eyebrow as you start to unpack. “You know we have actual food, right?”

He shrugs, pulling the chips open. “The grocery store’s like forty minutes away,” he says, like that explains everything. “Didn’t wanna leave you.”

Your mouth opens, ready to toss something casual back—something about sandwiches, or homemade pasta salad, or literally anything with protein—but then you see how gently he’d wrapped the oranges. How he packed napkins, remembered your favorite chips, brought two plastic forks for the brownie like it was a birthday cake.

So instead, you say, “...I like barbecue,” and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be.

He glances over, chin on his shoulder, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know.”

You eat like kids. Cross-legged on the blanket, crumbs everywhere, licking orange juice off your thumbs. You wipe your hands on your pants. He stretches out on his side, elbow propped, watching the clouds like they’re moving too slow. His knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away. 

You think you feel a mosquito bite. You don’t really care anymore.

“I forgot what this feels like,” you say at one point, picking salt from the corners of your lips. “Just… doing nothing. On purpose.”

He hums. “It’s good for you. Stillness.”

“You sound like your mom.”

“She’s smarter than I am.”

“You said that last night when I told you to take a nap.”

“See? Pattern holds.”

You lean back on your elbows and look at him, really look. The way the light gets caught in his lashes. He’s watching you, too, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like the world could ask for him and he’d still choose to stay here, sweaty and dumb and mosquito-bitten and happy beside you.

He peels another orange with a practiced hand, splitting it down the middle and handing you the sweeter half.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Sometimes I miss this, y'know?” he says, around a bite of an orange.

You glance over.

“Not the chicken poop or the mosquito bites,” he adds, “but the...quiet. The not-having-to-be-everything-all-the-time. Out here, you’re just...you. You fix the fence. You make a mess. You listen to cicadas and complain about the humidity and your ma yells at you for tracking dirt inside.”

You tilt your head. “You ever think about staying? Settling down here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just plucks a blade of grass and spins it between his fingers.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I think—this is what shaped me. But it’s not all I am. The world’s loud, and it’s messy, and it needs things. But this…” He looks at you. “This is what I miss when I’m out there.”

You nod. Reduced to speechlessness, because it's so tender and perfect and so him that it hurts.

Clark finishes the orange. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, then on his jeans when that doesn’t do the trick. You lie back on the blanket with a quiet sigh, letting the sun press into your skin, the breeze lift the sweat at your temples.

It could’ve ended there. Could’ve been just a quiet kind of golden. But then you nudge his ankle with yours.

“Bet I could outrun you,” you say lazily, like you’re not poking a bear.

Clark huffs. Turns his head toward you, amused. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” you say, stretching. “You’ve been slacking. Porch paint and chicken duty’s got you soft.”

He squints at you. “You really wanna start this?”

“You said yourself, Kansas. Nothing to do out here but complain about the heat and cause a little trouble.”

He smiles slowly. The kind of smile that curls at the corners. Dangerous in the way only someone so gentle and kind can be.

“Alright then,” he says, sitting up. “You get a ten-second head start.”

Your eyes go wide. “Wait, really—”

“Nine,” he says, already grinning, already counting.

You scramble to your feet. “Oh my god, you are not serious—”

“Eight.”

You bolt.

The grass is taller in some spots and it catches at your ankles, slows you down. The air is thick with sun and the hum of everything living. You turn left, laughing, hair sticking to the back of your neck, and glance behind you just in time to see him loping after you, easy and unhurried, like he’s letting you win.

Which is worse. Infuriating. Fucking ass.

“KENT!” you shout over your shoulder. “I swear if you let me win I’m gonna trip myself just to spite you—”

“Then you better run faster!” he calls back, but he’s laughing too, bright and open and young in a way he doesn’t always let himself be in the city.

You make it halfway to the barn before he catches you, just a hand on your waist, barely a tug. You spin with the momentum and half-collapse against him, breathless, wheezing from the run and the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all.

“You cheated,” you gasp.

“I didn’t even use my powers.”

“That’s worse.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, both of you flushed and sweating and smiling like idiots.

“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice low. “But I know how you move.”

You roll your eyes, still catching your breath. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you wanna get kissed.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, quiet now.

Oh, if that doesn't make you wanna ruin him. When you lean in, he tastes like oranges and sweat and something warm you can’t name.

“You’re always holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “Let me have you.”

Clark’s breathing stutters.

“You have me,” he says, like it’s a promise. Like it’s been true since the first day you met.

Your teeth graze his lip, just enough to make him gasp. “Then act like it.”

Now that—that—does something to him.

His hands slip quickly under your sundress, palms mapping the curve of your back, hungry and greedy all at once. Your head tips back when his mouth finds your neck again, hot and open and just a little bit wild. His teeth scrape the spot just beneath your ear and your fingers clench in his curls, hard.

The bark digs into your shoulder blades. You can faintly feel the ground disappearing from under you. Grass sticks to the backs of your calves. The sky overhead is lazy and blue, clouds like pulled cotton, and none of it, absolutely none of it, matters. 

Not the cows, not the heat, not the fact that you're pressed up against a pecan tree in the middle of a Kansas pasture—just this. Just him.

It doesn't take long for it to escalate. 

You're not normally a fan of this—quickies, anyway, you'd rather take your time, break him down methodically, piece by piece, but you think you'd actually combust if you don't have him right there, right at that second. And damn it, you will. 

You will. 

Your hands scramble to wrench his shirt off, a mad dash to get as close to his skin as possible. He helps you, your pretty boy, your sweetheart, your sunshine—chuckling when the fabric inevitably gets caught between his head and shoulders. 

"Clark—" you glare at him, not really annoyed with him but his stupid, stupid shirt. "Get it—please, get it off—"

"So impatient," He grins. He helps you anyway, giving you that final push to get the shirt off his head. And then ou're like a moth drawn to a flame, nipping at his skin, sucking little love bites that you know he adores into his chest. "Baby, sweetheart—"

"Sweetheart, baby—" You kiss his collarbone, hands going to undo his belt, the metal clinking from your actions. "Need you now."

Clark nods vigorously at that. "Yeah, yeah—okay."

He readjusts, free now from his belt, jeans dropping low, and he's scooping your thighs up so you're flush against the tree for leverage. The bark of the tree's rough and it'll leave some truly horrendous marks later, but he's pushing your dress up around your waist, cock situated and ready at your entrance. 

A breath. A look between you. And then he sinks you down, no prep, no foreplay, just him and the burn of taking all of him bare.

You make an embarrassing noise when he bottoms out, yelping and wrapping your arms around his neck. Clark slows down, pressing kisses on your forehead and muttering small little praises. "You're doing so good. You feel amazing, baby, you just let me know when, I'll wait—"

Fuck, that turns you on more than it should've. You clench around him, mouth parting in a quiet moan. "Now, I'm ready now. Move, Kent."

His hand hitches your leg up higher for a better angle, and—yeah, if that's not the hottest thing in the world. The tenderness mixed with the way you know he's about to utterly destroy you. He rolls his hips, once, twice, until he sets a punishing rhythm.

He moves, hard and deep inside of you, always a stretch widthwise. Always feels like a rearrangement. Every single vein, every twitch, every agonizing inch as he gets to work fucking you like your life depends on it.

And the tree shakes—it fucking shakes, leaves falling all around you—when his pace gets punishing and relentless. All you can do is take it, legs shivering and hands scrambling to hold on to something, anything.

The strap of your dress has fallen down your shoulder at this point, and Clark takes the opportunity to wrap his hot mouth around your exposed nipple, eyes falling closed. "Tastes like heaven."

"Clark—" You shudder, his ruts turning more and more shallow. "Need more, I need—need help, please—"

He nods against your skin, letting go of your nipple with one wet pop. A hand skirts down between you, wordless, and rubs hard circles against your clit, never twisting, just a constant, almost vibrating pressure that wrenches more desperate gasps out of you.

You love him.

It hits you the hardest at that moment, when he grins and you can feel those tell-tale signs of your orgasm shuddering closer, so impossibly close that it makes your knees weak. Like your body can’t hold the thought anymore. 

Months of this, this agonizing need to tell him, to show him. And suddenly it’s all you can feel—this pressure behind your teeth, this wild, unspooling thing clawing to get out. You didn’t plan on it. You don't meant to. But it’s already there, clawing its way up your throat with a kind of ferocity that feels unstoppable.

You pull back a breath. Just enough to get the words free. Try to get lucid fast.

“I—”

But then his hand’s on your cheek.

Soft. Certain.

“Wait,” he says, and it’s gentle, but firm enough to stop you.

You freeze, stunned. Like someone hit pause on your entire brain.

“W–W–What?” you whisper, barely breathing. His pace doesn't break. Still pounding into you like he doesn't see right through you. His eyes flicker between yours—quiet, careful, like he sees exactly where you were going. Like he caught the words mid-flight.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not like this, baby. Not while I'm—not against a tree.”

“I don't—I don't mind,” you whine. 

He laughs under his breath. "No.”

You must've pouted, must've frowned, or… or something, because Clark's expression goes soft. He tugs you closer, hips going deeper this time until your head falls back, like an apology. 

You're so close, so goddamn close, and fuck, if he's not determined to make it up to you. Focus redirected to the sole goal of making you finish harder than you ever have before. Another broken moan slips out of you.

And you're still overtaken by this need to say something, something to encapsulate this feeling inside of you. So instead, you say the next best thing, “You’re mine,” you say, fierce and true and sure.

Clark nods. “Yours,” he echoes, like it’s gospel.

You come around him like that, muscles wound up tight, him working himself into you faster—faster, until he pulses inside you. It's all warmth, his shoulders shaking like a leaf, you holding onto him like the old tire swing on a tree. Chests heaving. Sweat pooling underneath your knees. But he doesn't let go.

He pulls back just a tad, just enough to rest his head against the crook of your neck. His curls tickle your skin, just slightly. "Hold me tighter?"

You're still quivering, traitorous legs twitching, but you do. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze until he sighs, relaxed and spent and all the things that you let go unsaid. 

The cows, thankfully, have the decency not to interrupt.

.

He’s on the fire escape again.

You don’t see him at first—just the corner of his shirt sleeve through the window screen, fluttering gently in the breeze like a flag someone planted in a place they want to stay.

You step closer.

And there he is.

Sitting on the metal grate, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked against the warm steel, one arm draped loosely over the railing like he forgot the rest of the world exists. His head's tilted back against the sun, eyes closed, face subdued in that way it only gets when no one’s watching. 

Or maybe just when you are.

His shirt—some washed-out old thing from Central Kansas A&M—is rumpled and crooked on his frame like he pulled it out of the laundry basket and shrugged it on without thinking. One sleeve's shoved all the way to his elbow, exposing the freckles on his forearm.

You’re barefoot, cradling a sweating glass of lemonade in your palm, still in sleep shorts and one of his too-big sweaters again. You hadn’t meant to come looking for him. You just woke up and felt the space beside you was empty, not in a sad way, just… hollow. Cool. 

You followed the pull of it until it led you here.

He doesn’t move when you open the window. Doesn’t speak. But his eyes blink open, lashes catching the light. He looks at you, and that alone does something to your insides.

It’s the kind of look that hits low and blooms slow.

Not a spark, but a sunrise.

His smile when he sees you is small. A little crooked, like maybe he’s not so sure it’s okay to be this happy about something so simple. 

Like you just standing there, sleepy and squinting and probably still with pillow creases and hints of drool on your cheek, is his favorite part of this whole Saturday.

He lifts a hand and stretches it toward you.

Palm up.

Fingertips flexing.

“C’mere,” he says, voice warm from disuse. “It’s nice.”

You don’t hesitate. 

You climb carefully, your lemonade forgotten on the windowsill, and ease down between his legs. The fire escape creaks beneath you but holds. Of course it does. He shifts to make room for you like he already knew exactly how this would fit—your back against his chest, his knees bracketing yours, arms folding around you like second nature.

And you just sit like that, folded into him.

His chin hooks over your shoulder. His breath brushes your neck. One of his hands rests against your stomach, just above the hem of your sweater, warm through the fabric. The other finds your thigh, fingers drumming lazily against the denim there.

And you breathe. In and out. Slowly. Like maybe you forgot how before this.

“You been out here long?” you murmur.

He shrugs behind you. “I dunno. Long enough, maybe.”

You lean back into him, let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Get what you needed?”

There’s a long pause. Not like he’s unsure, just like he’s letting the quiet fill in some blanks first.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I did.”

You let the silence stretch after that. It’s not awkward. It’s just… Clark. 

Which is to say: it’s safe.

The sunlight spills golden across the alley, catching in the curls at his temple. Today, he smells like clean cotton and cedar and whatever fancy soap he borrowed from your shower. His skin's warm. 

You rest your hand over his where it sits on your stomach. His thumb traces a lazy circle just under your ribs, like he’s mapping out the shape of you in his mind.

“I used to sit like this back home,” he says after a while, voice soft. “Not on a fire escape, obviously. We had a roof. And a swing. My dad always left it out a little too long, so in the summer it was warm to the touch by the time I got to it.”

You hum, eyes slipping closed.

“He used to say it was good for me. Sunlight. Said I always looked like a weed after a storm when I stayed inside too long. Pale and strung out and grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” you smile, turning your face a little to glance at him. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Pouty little farm boy, hair sticking up, refusing to eat my vegetables unless they were corn.”

“Let me guess,” you say. “Martha snuck green beans into casseroles when you weren’t looking.”

He makes a pleased noise. “Bingo. Said it was her secret weapon for keeping me out of trouble.”

“That and the swing?”

“That and the swing.”

You settle again, your cheek to his shoulder, the metal warm beneath your thighs. You wonder if this is what he felt like, back then—sitting outside in the golden quiet, the weight of the sky pressing gentle on his shoulders, like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him.

And it is.

But it would’ve been, anyway.

You twist slightly, enough to catch the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He’s not glowing. Not exactly. But something in him is bright. 

And you—you love him so goddamn fiercely in that moment it feels like your ribs might crack from the inside. Like your heart is blooming against them, stubborn and wild and wholly his.

You lace your fingers with his where they’re still resting against your chest. His grip tightens. Not possessive. Just… sure.

He’s quiet a long time.

Then, like he’s been trying to time it right: “I love you.”

Just that.

Just the words, tucked into your collarbone. No fanfare. No build. Just truth. It roots into you like sunlight in soil. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to get your lungs to work again. Your body. Everything else. Because it’s a simple sentence, but it feels like something tectonic and holy.

Eventually, you turn, slow and sure.

“I love you too.”

His head drops forward until his forehead presses to yours. You feel him exhale, shaky but smiling.

“I kept trying to find the right time,” he says. “I didn’t want it to feel like… I don’t know. A checkpoint. Like I had to say it because it was next on the list.”

You smile, thumb still brushing his skin. “So you went with the middle of the fire escape, during golden hour, while I’m in your hoodie and haven’t showered since last night?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Felt right.”

You sit like that for a while, sun on your skin, his breath on your neck. The world feels quieter with him this close. Still.

Eventually, when the light starts to dip low, painting the fire escape in rust and gold, you shift to get up.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His hands stay at your waist, his fingers patient where they rest at your sides. Anchoring you.

“You look good in this light,” you murmur. “Like—too good. It’s kind of rude, honestly.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Like you belong in it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something intimate and private in his eyes.

Then, “You’re not wrong.”

You tilt your head. “What, that you photosynthesize?”

But he just shakes his head, slow.

“No. Just… I think it’s you,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. “You make everything brighter.”

And it’s stupid, and it’s a little embarrassing, and you kiss him anyway. Because he’s warm and real and saying the kind of thing that would make anyone else roll their eyes—but with him, it just lands.

Tastes like the last light of the day and something sweet and earthy beneath it. Like coming home.

[honey-on-your-tongue]

Okay babes, I’ve been in your comments now I’m jumping in your brain to plant 1 worm: John Price x stubborn!reader? Or literally whatever you want we both know I’m a simp for your writings

Hi babyyyy! I love seeing you in my comments and in my inbox hehe. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about Price :( only Cod character I’m really into is Simon. So I’m gonna write this with him 💛

smut ahead

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

“You should rest,” Simon says, his hand gently rubbing at your back when he sees you stretch your arms above your head and wince.

You shake your head. “I’m fine, I’m almost done,” you argue, returning to your task.

You’ve been sitting at this desk, working too hard, pushing yourself too far, and Simon knows you’re nowhere near done. You spent all day working, and could spend the rest of the night here if he let you.

“Love, c’mon. This will all still be here in the morning,” he assures, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You can pick it back up then.”

You shake your head again. “Work doesn’t rest.”

“But you need to,” he points out, huffing.

He waits a minute, hoping you’ll reply or stand up. But you just sit there, working still, completely negligent to yourself.

“Love,” he says again, firmly this time. “Let’s go rest. You’ve done enough.”

You just shake your head at him like he doesn’t understand, and he groans.

“You’re done working,” he says—not asks, not begs—says. He’s informing you of the fact. And then he pulls your chair back, making you gasp, before he’s picking you up and hoisting you over his shoulder.

“Simon!” you squeak, squirming some. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of you,” he replies like it’s obvious. “Something you seem incapable of doing.”

“I am not incapable, I’m just busy,” you argue.

“I don’t care. You need rest, you need sleep.”

“I can’t sleep. My brain is racing and I’m not tired at all.”

You can hear the grin in his voice. “We’ll see ‘bout that.”

God, it’s been so long since you’ve let up and unwinded. It’s been just as long since you’ve given Simon any time at all to fuck you. Which is probably why it feels like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time now.

His thrusts are hard and deep, his hips slamming into yours each time, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You hold onto his biceps, nails biting into his skin as you mewl and whine, only sounds you can make any more. You can’t talk and can’t think, he’s made damn sure of that.

The bed creaks under Simon’s rough movements, the headboard is slamming against the wall loudly. But all Simon can focus on is you. You and the way your eyes roll back in ecstasy. You and the way your body arches under his. You and the way the tension leaves you with every orgasm he gives you.

He knew you needed this, needed to relax, to let loose, to let him take care of you. You’re just so stubborn sometimes.

He leans down, kissing your neck. “See, baby? Don’t this feel good? Hm? Don’t you wish you would’ve gotten away from that desk before?”

You nod frantically, whimpering, your hips bucking to try and meet his each time he pushes forward, but you’re weak and uncoordinated, so you don’t achieve much.

One of Simon’s hands grabs onto your hip. “No, love. You just lie there, lemme do it for you,” he grunts, sliding his hand from your hip to your thigh and wrapping it around his waist. He thrusts deeper, hitting all the right spots in you, and you start to shake.

He’s made you come enough times that you’re all pliant and willing under his hands, and he wishes he could give you more. But he’s at his own edge, fighting it back so he can give you one last orgasm.

“Alright, love, last one, yeah?” he murmurs into your ear, his heavy breaths and groans making you wetter. “Last one before I fill you up, hm?”

You whine, eyes shut tight, and nod softly.

He reaches down, toying with your clit. It’s all sensitive and swollen from his fingers rubbing it before, so the second his digits come into contact with it again, you squeak and jerk away from his touch before pushing against it.

Simon chuckles lowly. “Take it easy, love. ‘s okay. You need me to go slower?”

You nod at him, breathing heavy, and he obliges.

His thrusts go from hard and deep to slow. Languid thrusts that pull his cock almost all the way out of you before filling back into you, inch by inch. You can feel every ridge on him, every vein, every time it twitches in you.

Simon kisses up your shoulder to your neck, then to your jaw. “I love you. You know that, yeah?” he whispers, his fingers matching that slow, almost lazy rhythm.

You whimper, nails dragging up his arms and to his shoulders, where you scratch at him some more.

He groans, cock twitching, hips jerking. In response, you tighten around him and refuse to relent your grip on him. It makes it difficult for him to thrust much, so he focuses on circling your clit the right way, just how you like it, while he presses kisses across your face.

It doesn’t take long for you to come again. Your orgasm is stronger than the last ones, making you quiver and squeal and arch under him.

Something about seeing you get off pushes him over the edge, and his own release hits him hard. He spills into you, his cock twitching as he finally empties all the cum he’s had in him. It’s so much from all the weeks you’ve been busy, all the nights he’s refrained from jerking off because he prefers being with you. And now, he’s spurting it all into your cunt.

Through the haze of his release, Simon works you through your climax and then helps you down, all the while whispering into your ear.

“So pretty, love. Fuck, you’re so beautiful, so perfect. And such a good girl. You did so well for me, honey.” His voice is thick with desire and exhaustion, his eyelids heavy.

He carefully pulls out of you, already missing the sensation of your cunt around him, and curls up with you on the bed.

He kisses your temple as you gladly snuggle into his embrace.

“I love you so, so much, girl. So much. But you gotta learn to let me take care ‘f you more often. You need to rest more, need to relax more. Promise me you won’t be so stubborn about it ‘nymore,” he begs.

And you nod, but Simon knows it’s not gonna take long for him to have to drag you away again. He loves how passionate and determined you are, but it frustrates him. At least, he thinks, he’s there to make sure you’re always taken care of.

---

Taglist

@booboobear-12 @lilychristine01 @smzyyx @mxsatorisimp @akkahelenaa @crypticlxrsh @m-0-ssy-m-3-ss @actualpoppy @dawnnightshade666 @dethspllz @massivecandycrusade @mentally-unstable-hottie13 @shushyoudontknowme @readinggeeklmao @despairingrat @h0lydrag0ns @poseidonsbichild @sillylittlereader @vanillarosekiss @jangles-the-clown @lem-hhn @doubledizzy22 @http-bell @readingthingy @velvetdimond @thegaywitchofwhimsy @weaniebeaniebaby @havoc973 @lucienofthelakes @keiminds @8pmismybedtime @i-wanabe-yours @happysmappy @jp600fox @moonbluff @hobiebrownenthusiast @dragons-flare @canyonmooncreations @foxintheferns @dreamland08 @fertilise-me @dravenskye @hobiebrownenthusiast @liidiaaag @viviansvault3 @alwayzmsbehavn @nicolebarnes @tysukier @icouldntthinkofanythingclever @cd-mr 

*if you wanna be added to my Ghost taglist, lmk 💛

---

Simon Riley masterlist

[darnell-la]

FOREVER JOHNNY STORM

pairing: professor!johnny storm x college student!reader

summary: Johnny loved women, so when he caught himself teasing a young lady in his class, he began questioning himself. the way she stared at him and giggled whenever she thought he wasn’t looking made him feel a way he hadn’t felt in a year. her being a student should’ve been a red flag, but he’s Johnny, and one thing Johnny never does is turn down a pretty woman.

warnings: age gap, reader is of age, flirting, workspace tension, making out, oral (male receiving), etc

notes: here is part two — I’ll forever love Joseph Quinn, and for right now, his Johnny Storm look is the absolute best (maybe it’s tied with Eddie Munson)

WE DO NOT ACCEPT COPYRIGHTING!

Teaching wasn’t something Johnny wanted to do until he figured everything out with that silver surfer woman. She was hot and an outer space alien, but it was time for him to move on.

Johnny loved women, and women usually loved Johnny. Especially the older ones. That’s why he grew confused when he noticed how shy y/n, one of his college students being nervous whenever he spoke to her about work.

He couldn’t help but notice the lack of eye contact, the way her legs crossed, whether she was standing or sitting, and her lip bits to keep back embarrassing words. God, her lips were so perfect. They sat on her face just right.

Even right now, she was nervous. He’s talking in class, giving a small story about a crime he fought a few weeks ago, and what is y/n doing? Smiling hard, slightly hiding her face so that she wouldn’t look too visible to him.

Johnny knew she didn’t want him to see her because when he finally took a glance at her, she quickly looked down and rubbed her face, hoping he didn’t catch her cheesing, but he did with a chuckle. Something in him liked how nervous she got.

He couldn’t explain why, but for some reason, he continued to tease y/n. Johnny would call her to answer questions or to come to the board, even if she wasn’t raising her hand. He even tells her to stay after class for a few minutes to talk about the excellent job she has been doing in his class.

“And, don’t forget the student and teacher meeting later on today before finals! If you want to pass, I recommend you show up, or else my sister's grumpy old husband starts complaining to me at dinner,”

The students laughed as they stood up and left the room. Class was over, and y/n was ready to go on with her day. That was before Johnny called her name.

“You comin’ tonight, y/n?” He asked, making her stop in her tracks. “I mean, you don’t have to since you have like the highest GPA at the university, but still. It would be nice to see a smart face,”

Y/n wanted to speak, but God, was he hard to look at. He was unbelievably attractive. She still couldn’t understand why a teacher would be this hot. Literally. He was on fire.

“Earth to y/n,” Johnny said as he waved his hand in her face, adding flame to it just to tease. He knew everything these young ladies liked, and usually he never tried to get at any. Y/n was just too hard to miss. He tried ignoring her for a good month, but those damn eyes.

“Oh- Sorry, I’m just — I’m just tired,” y/n lied as she avoided eye contact as usual. His blue eyes would have her lost in seconds. She swears she’d melt even if he didn’t flame on. “And, why is that? You know you should be getting sleep, yeah?”

Y/n had noticed Johnny tried to look at her face. He’d love and sway his head to catch eye contact with her, but failed. That was because y/n kept her head down or to the side.

“I’ve been sleeping, I’m just- I don’t know,” y/n said, not knowing how to have a simple conversation with her teacher. Why? This was so unprofessional, but she couldn’t help feeling a certain way about him. He was perfect. Too perfect to be a professor.

“Well, how about I see you later today before you sleep. Maybe we’ll have time to speak about how good you’ve been doing,”

Without thinking, Johnny had lifted his hand to cup her chin and slowly make her look up at him. Once their eyes made contact, she could’ve sworn she was going to faint. She felt like a die-hard fan.

“O-Okay,” y/n stuttered low, scanning his eyes as he scanned her face. She was soft and smooth. He couldn’t help but wonder if she felt this way throughout her whole body. Sometimes he’d feel disgusted by his thoughts, but God, her eyes would hypnotize him.

“You don’t need to be so shy around me, y/n. I’m your teacher. You should be able to feel comfortable to come to me about anything,”

“I do feel comfortable! — It’s just- I’m not a talker? I don’t know how to explain it,” y/n said, trying to find something to back her physical actions up, which only made Johnny chuckle. So cute…

“Well, how about you explain it later today? — See ya then,” Johnny said as he flew backwards to his desk, leaving y/n there in shock. Why was he playing with her like this? She wondered if he knew she had a thing for him, and he did.

After being in a room full of students and listening to teachers speak for almost an hour, y/n felt like leaving. After Johnny spoke, that was it. Everything became boring, and now she wanted to head back to her room and relax for the night.

Y/n slowly began making her way out of the huge room she was in. That instantly caught Johnny’s eye, making him get up and out of his seat to excuse himself to the restroom.

“Hey- Wait up!” Johnny shouted after y/n as she walked down the hallway. “Oh, hey Professor Storm,” y/n said, making Johnny fake gag at the name. “Just call me Johnny like the rest. It sounds better,”

“Anyway, what are you doing? We haven’t talked yet,” Johnny said as he stepped a bit closer to y/n to make her look up at him. “I just thought the meeting would be too long, so I decided to make my way back to my dorm,”

“Didn’t wanna see me?” Johnny said in a fake sad tone. “What!- No, I do! I-I mean — I’m just a little tired,” y/n sucked when it came to lying, and Johnny loved that. How nervous she got would egg him on and on.

“You wanna see me, huh?” Johnny smirked, forcing y/n’s face to grow hot. “C’mon, tell me. Make me feel good about myself,” y/n looked down as she thought about what she was going to admit to. She wanted to stay silent, but something in her gave her the courage to speak.

“I was excited to see you,” y/n admitted. That’s when Johnny cupped y/n’s chin once again to lift her head up. “Exited? Didn’t think you liked me that much,” Johnny lied, knowing he was going to have y/n shocked with the next line.

“Actually, I did — Not too hard to see,” y/n’s eyes instantly widen. She was, in fact, shocked. “What?” Y/n tried playing dumb. “You’re too shy around me, sweetheart. I know how you young girls get here when it comes to attractive men,”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister-“ y/n tried speaking, but got cut off. “Johnny, I said- And, yes, you do know what I’m talking about. You know exactly what I’m talking about,”

Y/n wanted to lie, but lying seemed off the list right now. He knew, and she couldn’t hide it. Of course, she couldn’t. She should’ve changed classes like she wanted to months ago.

“I’ve gotta go,” y/n spoke, breaking the short but long seconds of silence. “Why is that? Is this too intense?” Johnny asked as his free hand moved to her side, now gripping down onto her to give her some type of tension.

“I just need to go to sleep — I’ve got exams tomorrow,” y/n lied, knowing she had finished everything early so that she could relax while everyone else struggled in the morning all week.

“You really wanna play that game with me, missy?” Johnny asked as he slowly began to lift off the ground with both of his hands on her hips to lift her. “Johnny, I really think I should head home,” y/n said, trying to get out of this wonderful dream come true.

“Ah uh, I think you should stay here — With me.” That’s when Johnny flew to the nearest unlocked room to get out of the hallway before anyone saw the two. The janitor's closet isn’t as clean as his bedroom, but it’ll do for now.

“Johnny, what are you-“ y/n went to ask, but the man cut her off with his lips, now exploring the inside of her sweet mouth as she whined. She tasted amazing. Definitely better than he imagined.

Johnny wasted no time digging into her tank top to pull her breasts out. “Fuck,” the man breathed out as he leaned back, taking a look at her beautiful skin and pretty tits. She was perfect.

Johnny licked and sucked her nipples for a few seconds, sending pleasure through her body. She had never had her nipples played with like he did. He knew exactly what he wanted to do to her.

“On your knees, sweetheart.” Johnny stepped back as he fumbled with his belt. “H-Huh?” Y/n asked, confused, yet heard him correctly. “You heard me, princess, now get down,” the man demanded once again. This time she did as told.

“Good girl — Never thought I’d get this far with you — I’m glad I am though because, goddamn, I need you,”

Y/n stayed silent as she looked up at the older man. Once his cock fell out, she didn’t know how to react. He was huge, and the shock through her body went straight to her heart. She just knew her panties were soaked.

“You like the view? I know I do,” Johnny chuckled as he stroked his cock onto her cheek. “I-Is this even appropriate?” Y/n asked, already knowing the answer. “I’m having you either way, baby.”

Within seconds, y/n’s mouth was as full and h Johnny’s thick and long cock. She could barely take him, but he made sure to push her to her limits. Her throat felt too amazing to pull out of.

“That’s it,” Johnny sighed as his head tilted back for a few seconds. Both of his hands guided y/n’s head back and forth as his hips thrusted forward. Her mouth was so slick. It’s only been a couple of seconds, and she’s already the best he’s ever had.

“Gonna keep this our little secret, honey? Maybe I’ll even eat that pussy during our breaks we share,” y/n moaned with a head nod without thinking. She couldn’t care less about professionalism. She needed him bad.

“That’s my girl,”

[itsellanutelluhh]

This is something that ITCHES my brain in all the wrong and right ways possible, because from time to time I’ll get comments of people saying “not every male friendship has to be gay” or “god forbid two boys have a good friendship” LIKE HUH.

Dustin and Lucas are one of THE biggest Byler proofs EVER. It’s not like Will is Mike’s only friend, there fore the argument “not everything has to be gay” DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. We see that Dustin and Lucas have a PRETTY awesome normal friendship with Mike AND will, but we obviously know Mike has known Will longer.

The things that Lucas and Dustin say on a normal basis continues to prove JUST how different Mike and Will’s relationship is.

“He’s quiet today.”

“He’s always quiet”-Lucas

If the theme was JUST “friendship will save Hawkins” I assure you this wouldn’t be the way it was done. Because the possibility of them as a couple would have been shut down in season four, and made a clear sign of it as Will coming of age and still having a platonic connection with Mike.

But no. They left that question mark, that uncertainty, and those possibilities because they have a good chance of hapoening. And it MAKES PERFECT SENSE!

Since season one, they have made a point to demonstrate that Will and Mike’s relationship isn’t like with the others. Despite dustin telling Mike “you cant have more than one best friend” and Mike saying they are ALL his best friends.

Will and Mike’s love isn’t something easy to miss at all. I don’t understand the people that look at the scenes of Mike just GLOWING looking at Will, that say “that’s a straight boy,” or “that’s platonic.” HOW?! To me it just DOES NOT MAKE SENSE.

Personally, it just isn’t something I question.

“He looked at El like that in s1 and s2!” Yeah, when he had JUST met El, and we had JUST gotten El back after thinking she had been hurt or worse, possibly dead(even though he saw her outside his window).

Neither of them knew what love was. They were both confused. El didn’t even know how to form a SENTENCE when Mike first kissed her for gods sake! They were TINY. I don’t blame Mike for reaching for that, knowing how much he was bullied and told no one would like him, and I also don’t blame el for reaching into that naturally as a girl that felt abnormal and had never had a caring person in her life!!

In season three, AND FOUR, everything goes down hill. Because they are grown, they are having troubles,insecurities, realizations.

I simply don’t understand how you can look at the way Mike Wheeler has ALWAYS looked at Will and think there’s not at LEAST one sliver of romance there. If it was Dustin or Lucas he was looking at like THAT?

My gosh.

do people forget lucas and dustin exist? DO PEOPLE FUCKING FORGET DUSTIN AND LUCAS EXIST BECUASE.

i just saw a coment on a byler tiktok saying "why can't two dudes just be friends" and "a gay and a straight dude can be friends" LIKE MY GUY. WILL IS GAY AND LUCAS IS- actually i don't think lucas is straight but DUSTIN IS STRAIGHT AND THEY GET ALONG PERFECTLY WELL. THEY'RE BEST FRIENDS.

so yeah a gay dude and a straight dude can be friends just not fucking homotron 2000 mike queeler and will

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Would you rewrite Book 7? If so, what would you change?

I would absolutely rewrite it; over 2/3 of book 7 (basically most stuff after escaping from Lilia’s dream ~part 100ish) felt like a complete waste of my time.

I’ve actually already talked about what I would like to change about book 7 in another post, as I’ve been critiquing 7 for months now 💦 You can read my points here, though please be warned that it’s not super detailed (like, you don’t find individual breakdowns of what each character’s dream could have been).

Something specific I’d add to my rewrite is I want Twst to specifically address a point that is brought up by Ortho MULTIPLE times in book 7 but is never addressed in the ending: the supposed danger of the dreamers' bodies atrophying from lack of food and water while sleeping. Ortho says this before he makes contact with S.T.Y.X. (7-46) and then mentions it again as a possibility all the way in ACE'S dream (7-248 to 7-251), and Trey brings it up too. What is the point of dangling this over our heads like it's something to be legitimately worried if book 7's conclusion NEVER touches upon this? Is it true or is it not? If it isn’t, why not confirm it? If it is left as a real possibility then it just makes Malleus seem really stupid. You’ve mentioned time stopping magic + everything being under Malleus’s control before so why bother with the threat of atrophy at all??? It just feels to me like Twst set something up and failed to fully commit to it.

A newer thing I wanted to tweak (after reflecting on it a bit more) is Sebek’s character growth. Nightmare set me up with the expectation that he would one day become disillusioned with Malleus and then learn to accept his flaws + love him anyway in spite of that, WITHOUT ignoring or denying the fact that Malleus is flawed. Yet… I feel that book 7 did not deliver in that regard. Sebek begins to question Malleus’s goodness, yes. He joins forces with us to wake everyone and fights against OB!Malleus. He wants, with all his heart, to save his liege.

But??? Sebek is still basically glazing Malleus as late the last second of book 7, still telling people off for not doing the same as he does (in Ace’s dream), etc. Ortho does ask him would he be this gun-ho about saving the world if it wasn’t Malleus being painted as the “bad guy” here, and this gives Sebek pause—but the thing is, it’s NEVER committed to. We don’t see Sebek being hesitant about Malleus at all. He barely seems to need time to process that his master has overblotted, barely needs convincing to help us out. And by the end of it all, he hasn’t reflected on Malleus’s flaws or his relationship with Malleus much at all. I’m not expecting Sebek to have a complete arc by the end of book 7, but I find it so odd that I didn’t see him actively struggling with his convictions that much when you think this guy’s whole worldview would be shattered?? And he’d be trying so hard to pick the pieces back up and try to assemble them into something he understands. Like, where’s the part where the veil over his eyes lifts and he has to come to the hard realization that Malleus isn’t infallible… that he can be selfish and arrogant and make mistakes, that he, too, is human, and not a god? It feels like Sebek leaped all the way to acceptance already without the tough work that comes in the middle or even thinking about Malleus’s shortcomings.

Book 7 just has repeated issues with setting up a lot but not following through in a satisfactory way, or overloading us with information that they choose to do nothing meaningful with despite the hefty length of the book 😔 Again, it’s a HUGE time waster.

[thedarlingsdepartment]

Ocean Eyes

human!clark kent x reader

love island inspired au

continuation of temptation villa

cw: suggestive, implied smut, horny af reader. hella references to love island and others. self doubt. miscommunication. mild angst.

Welcome back to Temptation Villa! Last episode, America was introduced to a new bombshell, Y/N, who just entered a couple with fan favorite islander Clark. The couple is quicker growing fond of one another, but issues still arise. Tune into tonight’s episode of Temptation Villa!

The Fijian sun crept into the tall bedroom windows. One by one, both couples and singles stirred in their beds. As for you, you felt a reverently soft touch against your temple, “Good morning…” Clark drawled beside you, idly trancing your ribs. You smiled into a kiss before leaving the sweet warmth of the bed, allowing the cold air to envelope.

In quick succession was a journey to the vanity room, where one by one the other girls joined. They practically flooded you with questions, words flying from every angle so fast you barely had time to learn their names.

“How was the kiss?”

“Where’d you get that dress?”

“Have you and Clark done anything yet?”

You answered with the same rapid fire cadence the questions had been asked.

“A-fucking-mazing.”

“Honestly, I think I thrifted it.”

“No, I wish.”

That last one in particular hit close to home, a dull pang in your chest. A mere few hours earlier, you had laid atop of Clark, shamelessly grinding your hips downward as you marked up his neck. You’d been laboring away the last half hour, under the darkness of the sheets. Nipping at his skin, teasing with your tongue, silently begging him to flip you over and have at it. But instead…

“Baby,” Clark’s hand ran through your hair, gently pulling you away from his neck.

“Mhm?” You hummed eagerly, buzzing with excitement. Surely, this was it, right?

Nothing could have prepared you for “We should stop. It’s getting late.”

In the awkward, heavy silence, you got off of him, rolled over, and fell unceremoniously asleep with your tail between your legs.

It was now broad daylight, but of course, you couldn’t help but wonder, “Was Clark physical with Aisha?” You asked aloud to the room, brushing out your hair. You figured it was better to ask while the guys were still away.

Sydney, laser focused on curling her blonde hair, sighed, “I mean…I guess so.”

“You guess so?” Isabel retorted with a dry laugh, “Honey, they fucked on day two.”

As the room erupted to a burst of laughter, meanwhile something inside of you sank. The words twisted like a knife, all too powerful and stabbing of a pain to ignore. Was it a ‘you’ problem? You began to consider it when-

“Hey, I thought I’d bring you breakfast.” There he was. Clark. Drizzled in a warm syrupy sunlight, with those diamond eyes that dared you to get lost. You took the plate from him, honing your gaze to the beautifully arranged orange slices and avocado toast, with the peel wrapped around the edge like a ribbon. How did hands, so large and all encompassing, manage to work so delicately? “Oh my god, that’s so sweet of you.”

He gave a dorky shrug, “My pleasure.”

Leo entered, english accent crisp as ever, “My pleasure?” He laughed, making his way to Sydney as he passed Clark, “Hey loser!”

“You’re a loser,” Clark spoke in response, eyes trained on you as he placed a light kiss to your shoulder. He rose, just barely stopping by your ear to murmur, “Want to go for a chat?”

You stood up, smoothing out your hair and grabbing your plate. “Of course.”

The two of you made your way across the villa. Beneath the sun, Clark was a god with shoulders dusted in sunburn and freckles. You silently longed to write your name along his spine, to mark him ‘yours’.

As it turns out, your fixation with ownership was distracting you from his actual words.

“…and that’s why I feel like to really understand Anakin as a character you need to…” Clark trailed off, eyes finding their way back to you. “Sorry, I lost ya there,” He chuckled sheepishly, “You probably think I’m such a nerd.”

“No,” You spoke a beat too soon, shedding a light on your desperation. The last thing you needed was him thinking you were uninterested, especially considering his reluctance to do anything more than kiss the previous night. “What were you talking about?”

He laughed, “Nothing, just…Star Wars.” Clark said with a lopsided grin.

You paused, a smile blooming beneath the surface, “No shit! I love Star Wars.”

His eyes lit up, juvenilely joyful, “Wait, like actually? What’s your favorite?” The question was uttered with the tone of a friendly challenge.

“Revenge of the Sith! I mean what it did for Anakin’s character totally can recontextualize the whole original trilogy…” Your voice faded as you found his gaze, soft and reverent. Clark was looking at you like you’d hung the fucking sun. “What?” You teased, running your nails down the length of this arm.

He caught your hand and redirected it to his chest, “I dunno,” The sun swallowed him whole, basking him in its glow like a halo. He parted his lips to speak again when…

“I GOT A TEXT!” Charlie’s voice declared from half way across the villa, “All islanders please meet by the fire pit for an urgent announcement!” He recited.

Clark gave a dramatic sigh before reaching his arms out to you, “Well then…C’mere.”

You chuckled, “Huh?”

“Lemme carry you. We’ll go quicker and-“

He cut himself off, hoisting you by your thighs onto his torso and making a break for it. You let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, your legs and arms wrapping around him instinctively, “Clark!”

“What?” He teased with a shit-eating grin.

You tucked your head under his chin, taking in the scent of him, all salt air and sweetness.

“Wow, what a man,” Isabel whooped as you neared the fire pit with the other islanders. Clark set you down softly, “You okay?”

“Never been better,” The words melted into his mouth as you pressed a kiss to his lips.

Clark took a seat on the lounger, legs parting as he leaned back. His blue trunks left little to the imagination under the glow of broad sunlight and oh my God you wanted to make home in his lap.

Before you could decide whether straddling Clark in public after knowing him for twelve hours was trashy, Temptation Villa host Jacob Baker was back. “Hello again, islanders!”

He recited the words like memorized lines. It was all a performance. “I have a very special treat for you all today. Specifically, for two of you.”

The group bristled, holding in a collective breath.

“America voted for their favorite couple to send on a date…” The air grew thicker with anticipation.

“And by a last minute landslide…Y/N and Clark!”

—————————————

It was beautiful. A beach picnic with the peachy canopy of a fijian sunset. The birds were whistling a sappy serenade, and the air tasted like lovesick poetry. “Clark…” You prepositioned, studying him as he slathered a croissant in cinnamon butter and strawberry jam. You pushed back his adorable damp curls, leaning in. He cut you off with a bite of croissant, “Try this.”

It was lovely. Really. Warm and sweet, melting on your tongue. “Mmm, Clark that’s great!” You mumbled into another bite.

He smiled coyly, “I’m glad you like it. Um…when I was a kid, Ma would always make me a piece of toast with cinnamon sugar and strawberry jam on it when I was sad and it’s not exactly the same or anything but…”

You chuckled, “Ma?”

“My mom,” Clark laughed, “Sorry, my farmboy roots are showing.” His eyes trailed you with an unmistakable want as he beckoned you closer, “C’mere.”

You didn’t need to be asked twice. You were on him. Legs straddling that toned torso, finally away from the watchful eyes of the others. It was an angry clash of lips. When you slipped your tongue past his, you tasted desperation. So it began. You made your way south; violet marks blossomed along his neck in your wake. Clark hesitated before slipping his hands lower to find your ass, “This okay?” He whispered breathlessly.

“I dunno…” You teased against his skin, slowly trancing your fingers down before palming him gently through his trunks, “Is this okay?”

The switch flipped. He released a sharp inhale, throwing his head back. You thought it was going great. It should have been going great. Then…you felt it. That warm soft hand, pushing you away.

Clark was pushing you away.

“Hun…we can’t.” His eyes were soft and his voice was softer.

Something inside of you clicked. Sometimes messy and rude and gross. Something you’d been so desperately trying to keep hidden. “Clark!” The words spilled out, hot and angry, before you could stop them. “You fucked Aisha on day 2! Day 2! And now that its me…” Your voice was shaky, anger giving way to tears, “now that its me you don’t want to do anything and-“

“I reget what I did with Aisha!” Clark sliced down your words with his own, voice rising. Wind fresh off the ocean sent a chill through the both of you as he took a steadying breath. “I regret it, and I don’t want to make that same mistake because I can’t mess up things with you.”

A heavy silence fell over the beach as you stared into that kind face and all you could say was, “I’m sorry.”

Clark pulled you into his chest, smoothing your skin, “It’s okay, pretty girl.” He whispered into your hair. He looked down at you with those dimples and yet again you melted, fading into him like a second skin.

At the end of the day, it truly was okay. You were curled up with Clark by the seaside, staring into those ocean eyes as the sun set in the west. In the vast expanse of your mind, one thought remained.

You could stay like this forever.

author’s note: and what if my mental image of jacob baker is corny collins from 2007 movie musical hairspray in a slutty crochet polo? then what?

tags: @cinnamongmm @animegamerfox @clarksweetheart

[maiamore]

quickie with one of the pitt attendings? robby/jack.

sorry lovely nonnie, i'm turning your ask into re-purposing an old drabble i wrote a while back but i hope this satisfies <3

PAIRING: Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x F!ER Doctor Reader

TAGS: public sex, bathroom sex, size kink, established relationship, robby's mean, dom rob, unprotected p-in-v, cream-pie, mentions piss desperation/robby finally relieving himself but not in reader, reader in mild subspace

Thinking about…Robby having a bad day. 

The mismatch of Robby’s & your shift had never been an issue when you’d started as an attending at PTMC. You’d preferred it that way of course (no HR issues with dating someone in the same hospital, and date nights worked with a properly organized calendar.) That's until St Grace’s Trauma Centre had been shuttered and The Pitt was left to absorb its’ overflow. It’d meant that Robby and you started seeing each other less and less. 

Occasional nights over turned to hauling your duffel bag on your shoulder every other week to sustain your stay at your boyfriend’s place. You’d often come home in time to him slipping into his hoodie, or fall asleep to the sound of the trickles of water when he showered in the morning. Being able to at least see him for the brief overlap seemed good enough. 

Today? He gets paged to work earlier than usual, so for the 6th day straight, he couldn’t fuck his girlfriend into his mattress that morning.

You were stirred awake from the vibrations from your phone — texts from Dana. Apparently, Robby was snappier than usual. Of course, you were tired and wanted to sleep more, but you figured you’d drop by the ER to have lunch with him. Lighten his mood a little.

When you came in, he seemed to be in the middle of laying it into a med student, the whole concoction — hand rubbing down his face, shaking his head, it was his authoritative tone with the poor sap that did you in. The exact why he’d talk someone down in that nurturing way he took on in bed, making you repeat what he said to you while he was fucking you slow and deep. It shouldn’t have made you feel whatever you felt. But it did, you saw flashes of pink and white before zeroing on him when he was finally able to head to the restroom.

Robby's turned halfway when the bathroom door swings open. He swears it's deja vu, the way he's being interrupted right when he's thumbing his zipper down, belt unbuckled seconds away from finally being able to relieve himself.

"Jesus — What now." Recognition settles in his face, softening just a fraction when he recognizes you. "Babe? What are you...doing? Did something happen?" His voice drops, in a tone that meant that you had his full attention.

"No time." You grabbed his wrists, which earns a frown from him and his eyes dart towards the door and back at you. He allows himself to be dragged into one of the cubicles, when he fully understands your intentions this time, he's practically whisper shouting, "are you out of your mind? ER's goddamned swamped and I—"

The second you drop down on your knees, Robby's silent. Rubbing his hand down his jaw before groaning into it the second you take him in your mouth. He's bucking his hips when you drag your tongue along his cock, following the prominent vein leading up to his tip. He's hard and throbbing in his mouth, with your nose buried against his pubes, swallowing him until he's spurting thick, warm cum into your throat.

He’d scold you —“Got your fix yet? Sucking my dick like that? Get up. And for gods sake—make sure no one fucking sees you leaving.”  

You're so fucked out, you don't even respond when he taps the side of your cheeks. But he sees it. He sees it in your eyes how desperately you needed more, needed him. Robby’s a giving man, he can’t say no to that pretty face of yours, so he’d agree for once. He’d pull you up by your arms, a little rough. Just enough for you to understand that he was doing this for you, he wasn’t happy about it, but he’d be glad to fuck you five ways to Sunday. 

He’d start with turning you against the stall until your palms were flat against it — he's mean about it at first letting you grind where he wedged his thigh between your legs. You’d soak him with just how desperate you were. So he wastes no time to wrap those big hands around your hips, fingers looping around your waist band before yanking your pants off along with your panties at one go. 

He doesn't ease you into it, or let you register the sudden coldness when the air hits your bare cunt. Robby's stuffing your slicked pussy full with his thick fingers.

It’s not like he was intentionally being mean about it, just stretching you out enough so you could take his dick. You’d feel the cool silver of his promise ring band rub against your hot walls before the metal quickly warms up with your heat. 

The sound would’ve been downright disgusting. Your pussy squelching around his fingers, coating him and suctioning him so loud. You'd feel the shiver down your spine when he whispers into the shell of your ears, "you hear that? Fucking slut she is now isn't she? Made just for me."

The second you grind your hips backward with a stuttered moan would be when you feel his cock, how the thick head pokes, probes into your slippery cunt. And would it hurt? Fuck yeah it’d hurt. It usually takes Robby three fingers and enough stimulate to your clit before you open beautifully for him. 

But not today. Today, you were desperate. And so was he, it's taking an intense amount of focus for him not to flood your pussy with his piss instead of his cum. His palm would tangle around your hair, hold the scruff of your neck, while he pushes deeper and deeper. You’d hear a few grunts leave his lips. His nose pressed flush against the back of your head. 

But then the mean grip would loosen, and his hand would slide up past your shoulder, up your throat, to your jaw, and then span around your forehead so you wouldn’t feel the force of him now slamming his cock into you at an agonizingly slow but deep fucking thrusts. All you can do? Is let out pathetic groans with the rattle of the door. 

Eventually, he’d grumble something about his back, considering how tall he is in comparison, he’d have to bend his knees to fuck your pussy just right. So he’d stumble clumsily with your dead weight against his body, hand snapping backwards to slam the seat down before you’re dragged down with him as he sits on the closed toilet.

If you thought the force of his cock slamming once deep into you when he sits felt mind numbingly good, you weren’t prepared for when his arm loops around your abdomen entirely, fucking you like the cocksleeve you were. His hips snapping, jerking upwards in repeated motions. Other hand coming to quieten the mewls, if you could even call them that, that were slipping from your lips. 

You’d feel his slick coated fingers press into your mouth, making you taste yourself on his fingers. You muffle into it, soft unnffs when you let his digits stifle your loud moans. 

And your sandals now thrown to god knows where when it basically flies off your feet, all you could do was grab around his arm. Trying so hard not to squirt all over him with your feet on your tippy toes. Curled around the cap of his sneakers. His nose traces over your shoulder, your neck, everywhere, chasing your jaw whenever you attempted to squirm away from him. 

You made him come once in your throat, so you can imagine how long you had to bounce on his cock before his hips finally stuttered and filled you deep.

"Shit, hon, get off for a sec." He's still breathing heavy from the aftermath, but more importantly, he still hadn't gotten to relieve himself at all. You're practically putty in his arms still, so he lifts you up in his arms, cock still stuffed into you.

He's whipping the toilet seat up, tugging his slick coated cock out from you, not without a protesting whine from you. The sounds of his piss finally splattering against the toilet bowl has you squirming a little. You nuzzle against his cheeks, not before muttering through a pout, "coulda gone in me."

He scoffs at that feeling him shake the final drops out. "Next time."

[hurricaneandbdatlove]

I hate boys that make you feel loved, seen and the best person in the world but in the end they're just like everyone else. They leave like you meant nothing to them and basically they don't care about you at all, and all of the years together mean like trash for them. And you stay there asking for a reason, or something that make you understand why he did the shit that he did. It's almost been a year and here I am, still asking to myself why he did this to me, why he let me down like that and I can't find a good reason for it, he is just trash and I need to understand it, he was not for me at all and the world know it, so I need to know that now. I don't need to think about him because he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't deserved anything else from me, I give him enough of myself, so that's it, I don't care about him, about this life, his family or his career, I don't care. He doesn't even congratulate me on my birthday even when he was the one that propuse me the idea to be friends again, i didn't wanted but I did because I wanted to keep him in my life, but no, no more. I don't want him in my life bc he is taking my peace away from me so I don't want him. God please set me free, make me feel in peace again.

[eldritch-spouse]

What am I going to do? I wasn't expecting to have a baby, much less one with my boss. I didn't even think humans and slimes could have children. Fool. Should I even tell Pinter? I might lose my job if I-

A firm grip on my shoulder brings me back to reality.

“G-good morning mister Pinter!”

TW: Mentions of abortion

" Doll, you look like a ghost just flied by. " The slime inspects you, a little too close for comfort.

An instinctual part of you wonders if he can tell, if he can smell it, see it- Sweat beads on your forehead.

" Did you even sleep? " Apparently, not even the makeup can hide the ghastly bags under your eyes. He's more than right, you didn't catch a wink of sleep, not a moment of shuteye. How could you, when the pregnancy test kept flashing every time your eyelids so much as threatened to close?

You even went through the trouble of getting a pregnancy test designed for human-monster couples.

" Uhm poorly, I guess- "

" Get in my office, I'll fetch us a drink. " Pinter waves you off, presumably to go and find something so caffeinated you'll start rattling.

Too much coffee would probably hurt the baby...

What are you even thinking?! You don't know if you're going to keep it yet-

Your poor legs carry you on auto-pilot, sitting politely at the chair opposite to Pinter's, staring off into the creases of its aged leather.

" Hey, don't fall asleep on me now. "

Unlikely occurrence, with the volume his voice tends to carry. In fact, your skin pebbled. The slime deposits a warm, dark drink before you, the scent of coffee comforting your anxiety-riddled mind for the briefest of seconds.

" S- Sorry, sir. "

" What's on your mind? " Your boss prods, sitting by his side of the large desk, tapping away at a laptop.

The most uncomfortable pause of your entire life follows.

You have to let Pinter know, no matter where this takes you. Even if he reacts poorly, moves you somewhere else, fires you- He needs to know, because this isn't something that can be hidden. You can make all the hard decisions on your own after you understand how he feels about it.

There's a small, beaten voice within you that wonders if it would be viable to have a family with Pinter. Because you're not even sure what you two have going on. There's a mutual attraction, a sort of chemistry between you- You've memorized the way his slime feels on your body by now... But whatever could blossom from that is halted by the barriers of a professional power dynamic, and the inability to breach them. The reluctance to do so. Pinter wants you, Pinter gifts you things, he's protective of you and confides at times, but does he love you? Does he actually care for you specifically, or would he do the exact same thing to some other assistant if he had to get rid of you?

Do you love him? Do you think he's father material?

Fuck.

" Sir, how many kids do you have again? "

The slime halts his typing for a second.

" Just the one, my boy Gallon. Did I tell you he's a bartender? Insane talent for drinks, and I'm not just saying that because I'm his dad. "

The way he sounds so proud of his own son almost makes you smile faintly.

" Oh, yeah- Yes, I remember now. " You cough. " Did you ever think about... Giving him a sibling? B-Back then. "

Oh God that was so on the nose, ew.

The monster hums.

" Actually, me and Quarta debated that, but we didn't think the boy could handle it at the time. So we waited some more, but at that point things were already going sideways- You know how it is. "

" Mhm. "

You're so sweaty you can feel your ass glue itself to the seat beneath you.

Pinter finally sets his laptop aside, facing you completely.

" Where's this all coming from, dollface? "

What do you even say to that-

" Do you want to have kids one day? "

What does that question imply? Is he asking if you want to take a break from work eventually, to start a family? Or is he asking if you want to have children with him?!

Some of the filth the slime growled into your ears in heated moments certainly pointed to that, but those are just fantasies, just fetishes- The kink of impregnating someone, not at all reflective of one's real desires beyond- Why is he smirking?!

" Sir, I- "

You take a long, deep breath.

" I'm pregnant, sir. "

Pinter's eyes widen, he freezes in time.

" Found out yesterday, when I finally worked up the courage to buy a test. Two, actually. "

His expression is unreadable, staring down at the table with brows furrowed, as if processing the information.

If he's angry at you, if he demands an abortion- Could you even go through with it? Would you? Do you want this child no matter what happens?

The sound of your name finally rings, pulling you out of the jaws of a spiral about to suck you in. You hadn't even realized that you were shaking.

" ... Are you serious? " He pushes.

You almost want to slap him. " Of course! I would never joke about- "

" You should have called me immediately, doll! " The slime rises suddenly, his chair almost tumbling to the ground as he crowds you, hands on either side of yours. A wild grin tears his cheeks apart.

" I get to be a dad again- Oh you just made my whole year, doll. We have to celebrate. "

Green hands cradle the sides of your face, Pinter tries to lean in for a kiss.

" S-So you want it? " You're incredulous.

" We're keeping them. " His tone is final.

" I'm... O-Oh, I'm so glad, I- " Maybe it's the jarring relief of having so much stress seep off your back at once, the miraculously positive way he accepted this news, compared to all your terrible expectations, but you're tearing up.

Crying, wanting to sob like a baby.

Pinter chuckles, thumbs wiping away the wetness on your cheeks. There's not a single inkling of resistance when he finally kisses you, a deep and affectionate touch to the gesture. He pushes your head against his body and strokes your hair, high on the news.

" Come home with me today, dollface. We're gonna work everything out. "

You only nod, silent for a while.

" Sir...? "

" Pinter. Just Pinter when it's us now. "

" Pinter- " It feels alien. " I don't know- I don't know how to care for a slime baby. "

He laughs, broad hand petting your back.

" Don't stress your little head out, and let me take care of everything, okay sweetheart? "

Maybe, maybe this won't be so bad.

[moonit3]

ᯓ★ SYNOPSIS: breaking up with mark wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. you couldn’t date a superhero, especially one as invincible, it felt selfish in leaving mark, but you needed to. sinister! invincible x reader

ᯓ★ WARNINGS/INFO: yandere themes of course, gn! reader, angst, violence, spoilers for season three, blood, reader’s not having a good time, overall an open ending.

ᯓ★ A/N: hmmmm did someone asked for angst??? because i did! this one too me a while to finish as i write it originally as headcanons, but then i changed my mind last minute and made it into an actual story… yeah, and I don’t regret it. also, an open ending because again i got lazy and also because this might be too long.

you broke up with mark.

that is it. a relationship of almost a year ended with a talk and agreement when he suddenly revealed to be a superhero—someone called invisible or something like that.

there wasn’t yelling nor arguing at his parents’ house when he made that big announcement. in fact, everything was too peaceful and of course, too understandable for both sides.

you told him you couldn’t be with him—at least mot as his partner anymore—when he is pushing himself further than he should. mark is always putting himself in risk to others and almost dying many times, you leaned.

it’s feel painful and almost as a betrayal when admitting when you said:

“i want to break up.”

but he understands. mark really does understand when that comes from, especially when seeing your reactions and sudden changes of behavior when connecting the dots. it didn’t take much time to you to understand his feelings, his relationship with his father and then, learning about his duty with the gda.

what was meant to be a celebration of almost a year together ended with a long and lasting relationship coming to an end. a bittersweet one, at least.

inside his bedroom, the two of you share the bed for what you know will be the last time. mark’s head rests in your lap, his brown eyes tracing the contours of your face like you’re a painting he’s memorizing—but still can’t stop studying. it makes you sick with guilty, the way he looks at you—so full of love, openly vulnerable—even after you just broke his heart in millions of pieces.

you run your fingers through his hair without thinking, out of habit, and you immediately regret it.

“you’re doing that,” he says quietly, his voice só soft that he’s afraid to break the moment. “like nothing’s changed.”

you pull your hand away, putting it behind you. “sorry.”

he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles—god, that smile of his—like your apology didn’t land or didn’t matter at all. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I’d rather have this than nothing at all.”

that’s what make it worse now. he clings to the scraps. the way he helps letting your hurt him gently drives you insane. mark deserves the entire world, even you aren’t the one to give it to him.

you shift, almost uncomfortable when your eyes flick to the open window just to look anywhere else but him. “you should hate. you should be telling me to go away or even to yell at me for being now your ex.”

“but i could never do that,” he says, and he means it. that’s the problem, mark loves you like he bleeds-freely, without stopping or hesitation. it makes you wonder how much you don’t deserve him.

you inhale slowly, forcing back the lump in your throat. “this isn’t good for you, for either of us.” you said. “I gotta go, mark. and this time, forever.”

he nods, but it’s empty. “I know… I just don’t want to let go yet.”

and neither do you, not really. but staying with mark would be more crueler than leaving.

you can’t be with him. not when you don’t know if he is coming home or not, mark is someone you love dearly and deeply. but he deserves someone with a better mental state than you.

you press a soft kiss to his forehead, the kind you used to give him every morning during class, and hailed, “goodbye, mark.”

a smile grown on his lips when he closes his eyes. that kiss might be the last warm thing he gets to keep from you. and maybe, it is.

months went by since the last you spoke to mark. and yet, life didn’t pause for a heartbreak—college started instead.

dorms were assigned, and soon you are surrounded by an unfamiliar roommate, a shared mini fridge, and the constant hum of someone’s music and voice bleeding through the walls. it is a complete different life than high school, there is more drama and more gossip.

somehow, people in college acts more as teenagers than teenagers themselves. it’s almost worrying seeing how childish some of them behave.

but still, sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and reach for your phone, thumb hovering—almost teasing yourself—over his name out of habit. you never type anything. you just stare at it, wondering if he ever did the same.

your roommate asked you once:

“are you seeing someone? because someone as hot, intelligent and radiant as you definitely is desirable.” spencer said, with that signature half-smirk that made it hard to tell if they were teasing or serious.

as a member of the daily bulletin—upstate university’s student newspaper—spencer has a way of knowing everything. who got caught blowing smoke at the bathroom. who was spotted kissing someone in the art building stairwell. who dropped a class just because their ex was in it. those weren’t good stories they could publish, those are gossip that spencer just like learning to mess with people’s mind.

if they didn’t want to be a reporter so badly, they easily could become a professional blackmailer (is that even a real thing?).

you raised an eyebrow, almost unsure if this was an interview or some stranger version of flirting. “is that part of the gossip’s column of the newspaper or a personal observation?”

spencer shrugged and settled into the secondhand armchair the two of you brought last month. it had been a bit pricey, but worth in the end—it matched perfectly with the flower-shaped stool your mother gave you. plus, it made the perfect spot for afternoon breaks with the coffee machine your stepfather gifted you.

they stretched their legs over the armchair, not even bothering to take their shoes off. “both. you’ve been showing up on people’s radar lately.” they said, looking at you with their piercing blue eyes.

“but that doesn’t mean I’m seeing anyone.”

their eyes sparkled with interest. “then it’s a campus-wide heartbreak!”

you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. maybe spencer was digging another story as usual.

“yeah, but for real.” you added, hoping to not make spencer even more interested in your dating life, especially as they don’t know much about your previous relationship. “i don’t if i am ready to date again. mark was like, my first everything in many things and i still struggling to get over the fact that he is really important for me despite ending things…does that make sense? like, mark is now my ex, but i still care for him. what an idiot I am.”

they nodded, learning back against the armchair with casual ease. its clear spencer wants to learn more about mark—especially when they’d learned of his existence a few weeks ago, when you’d use him an excuse to turn down a too-persistent jock at a party.

“ah yes, mark.” spencer said, dragging the name out like a headline they were trying to frame just right. “mysterious long-distance boyfriend ex? or convenient partner ghost boyfriend?”

you let out a small laugh, then shrugged. “neither. things got complicated and then we broke up before i moved to college.”

spencer raised a brow. “complicated?”

you hesitate for half a second, then said it like it was nothing. “he is invincible.”

spencer blinked. “come again?”

“mark. my ex. he’s invincible,” you repeated, looking at the expression on spencer’s face. their usual smirky smile now replaced with a shocked one, their lips opened wide as well their eyes.

also, you just spoken as casually as if you were talking about changing your major from criminology to english literature.

spencer just stayed quiet for a while, mouth slightly open. “like…the invincible? black and blue suit, throws tanks, bleeds on national tv?”

you nodded. almost being offended with how casually they described mark.

a pause again. this time more longer than the previous one. then: “oh. huh. I thought he was dead.”

you snorted. “nope.”

spencer learned forward, taking his feet out the armchair when learning down at the small coffee table to pour them a cup of coffee. it’s almost seven pm, but they need a drink to make it through this new piece of information. “okay, you absolutely cannot drop that and expect me to stay calm. you dated invincible? how—why did you break up?”

you throw yourself to bed, suddenly tired. spencer pushes the armchair closer to your mattress, catching how expressive you seem to have become when the subject of your ex-boyfriend begins a superhero comes up.

“because I don’t want to compete with the world. and honestly? I didn’t want to get tired with constantly wondering if he would survive after those fights with supervillains and all of that.”

spencer stares at you for a beat, taking a sip of their coffee, then slowly nods. “okay. that’s…actually pretty valid. damn. I’m gonna a minute to process all of that.”

you smile faintly, half amused, half sad. “yeah. me too.”

spencer gently flicks your forehead before striding over the window, settling onto the flower-shaped stool with the ease of someone who’s made a habit of dramatic existential. they crack it open, the night air slipping in, and pull a cigarette from their inner pocket of their jacket; a moment later, the soft click of a light sparks the flame to life, casting a brief glow across their face as smoke curls upward into the dark air out the window.

some moment of brief silence is suddenly cut off when you make a certain question about mark.

“do you think I’ll ever see mark again? not that i want to see him, but…you know that feeling?” you say, hugging a plush of your to your chest.

you shift around on bed, turning to face spencer, who’s still perched at the window, exhaling smoke into the quiet campus night.

they don’t reply right away. the smoke drifts lazily through their lips to the open window, catching the gentle breeze of the night before disappearing into the night.

they take another drag, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the window.

“i think,” their voice is low, surprisingly compared to their previous behavior. “you will. probably when you least expect it.”

your stomach twist, though you are not sure why. you pull the plush tighter.

“he just… shows up one day like nothing ever happened?”

spencer shrugs again, this time louder than before. “you dated invincible—the guy who bleeds every time they get into a fist fight—so yeah, he will come back one day and i wouldn’t be surprised if he got hit by a magical lightning that would multiply him, creating alternative versions of him.”

you huff, almost scared of the thought of being other versions of mark out there. it would be a nightmare if that ever happened.

“I don’t want him to come back and I definitely don’t want him to multiply or something like that.” you said, putting the plush on the bedside table when sitting against your pillows. “one invincible is quite enough for the world.”

spencer glances over their shoulder, smoke curling from their lips.

“yeah,” they say, narrowing their eyes slightly when throwing their cigarette to the ashtray at the window. “one invincible is pretty much enough for the world.”

life is unfair, and the universe clearly has spencer on its side.

because how else do you explain dozens of versions of mark flying around the world, wrecking havoc in so many capitals? well, you can’t. and right now, you aren’t going to think of an answer, not when you and spencer are running for your lives.

one of those so-called ‘variants’ has attack upstate university’s campus, making the entire place into something straight out of an apocalypse movie. buildings lie in ruins, reduced to nothing, and the once blue sky has burned into a dull, smoky orange. smoke, dust and fire choke the air, turning the campus to a lifeless place—like there hadn’t been classes and people echoing all over the place hours ago.

“come on, this way.” spencer doesn’t let your wrist slip away. their grip on your skin almost leaving bruises of how strong they hold you, afraid that you will disappear if they let go. “we should be able to get to my car and then go to your parents’ home safely.”

you nodded.

you breath shallow, legs moving before your mind could catch up. the air is thick with panic and smoke, siren walling faintly in the background.

spencer leads you through the wreckage—past shattered walls, fallen beams, and what students commons were meant to be. you can feel glass and debris underneath your shoes, a reminder of easily was to destroy a place like upstate university in seconds.

you glance back once, instinctively—as if mark standing there. watching. chasing.

and unfortunately, that’s exactly what you see.

suspended in the haze of the smoky orange sky, a variant of mark invincible floats above the destruction in completely silence. his silhouette just clear enough to see through the smoke like he is some sort of phantom, face completely exposed. he doesn’t move, his expression of neutrality doesn’t change—he just hovers, as if he is waiting for something.

there’s something off with this version of mark. not just the suit, a white one with grey stripes, but as well the way he holds himself. tense, but as well rigid. like he is a predator who is ready to attack.

your breath almost falls. you fail to realize how long you’ve stopped walking until spencer hisses your name before pulling you back behind a cover to hide.

“don’t look at him, you idiot.” they whisper, ducking down besides you before taking a glance at mark as well. “that’s not your ex-boyfriend.”

and you know that. you are very much aware this isn’t the mark you were acquainted with once. but that doesn’t stop your heart from lurching at the sight of his face—even that isn’t the mark you know.

spencer moves their arm around your shoulder, holding you closer to them, hoping to shield you from the imminent danger. they know the chances of getting to the car are almost null and so, the only thing they can do right now is bring some sense of comfort and security.

“it’s okay, [name].” spencer brings your face to their chest, patting your hair in the process to cease the panting coming from your throat. “we will stay hiding until they leave, okay? then i drive you safely back to your—“

their words end in a gurgle.

you turn just in time to see spencer stagger backward, clutching their chest as they shove aside.

their mouth hangs half-open. the color drain from their face, their eyes widen—in fear and pain—before you take notice of the crimson running their plaid shirt.

then you see it. another version of mark standing behind them with his hand going through spencer’s stomach. that thing doesn’t show remorse—not when he is smirking as spencer gives their final breath.

their body collapses into the ground with a thud, pain etched across their face, fingers trembling where they fall as *mark* remove his hand from their stomach.

your eyes lock onto spencer’s body lying on the ground. their bright blue eyes—once so full of warmth, sarcasm, and that stupid stubborn fire—are gone, replaced by a dull, vacant stare.

moments ago they were alive. breathing. speaking. pulling you to safety.

now they are just… gone.

tears roll down your eyes when the realization hits. spencer is death, your best friend, died because of him. all because they were trying to save you from those idiots variants.

“awww. you really thought they were going to save you, didn’t you?” the variant chuckles, cruel and low, his smirk only growing wider as he grips your chin and tilts your face towards him.

up close, the difference are clearer—his skin is paler than your mark’s, almost ghostlike, and smeared in the crimson that once belonged to spencer. it stains his yellow and black uniform, his cape, his gloves, his neck and even the corner of his mouth.

“you are easy to fool, [name].” he whispers, bringing your face closer to his. his touch is cold, deliberate. it makes you fail to understand how a person could be able to be this evil, to be capable of taking someone’s life and still smile after. “just like them.“

the smoky air clung thick to your lungs. you didn’t speak. you didn’t move. not when your legs no longer touch the ground when one of his hands make it ways to your waist.

you remain frozen beneath his touch, tears streaming down your cheeks as his hand move from your chin to your lips.

you don’t breath—you don’t dare to—his fingers are cold, dirty with blood, and the gentleness of the gesture only make it worse. It’s mocking—twisted.

and all you do is cry, trembling in silence, while the monster wearing mark’s face watches you fall apart.

“even in a different universe, you still look the same and act the same pathetic way.” he said, smiling at how easily scared you are of him. this variant knows well that he could anything with you right now and that you won’t even try to get off. he has the upper hand, like he always did. “always so sensitive and so attached to insects like this one, ridiculous. but i guess that doesn’t matter when the idiot from this universe fell in love with you as well.”

his words went unheard for you—still in denial of witnessing spencer’s death—but his smirk leaves an impression on you. his teeth, surprisingly sharp and dirty in crimson, he could easily kill anyone if he dared to bite someone’s neck.

but deep down, you know the true.

if he wanted to kill you—if he meant to make you another example to this world’s invincible, another name lost in the static—he could’ve done it by now.

but he hasn’t.

and that silence, that pause, is somehow more terrifying than his violence.

you feel it in your bones—an unbearable weight of being spared. not of mercy, but for a reason you hope you are wrong.

his visors reflect your expression. the dried tears streaked down your cheeks, the fear in your eyes—still there, but slowly fading away.

now something else is there.

anger. frustration. a small hint of defiance sparkling where that sentiment of helplessness and fear used to be. because really, why is the point of being afraid of death… if this guy isn’t even going to grant you that?

his thumb brushes the corner of your lips, spreading blood there. a romantic gesture to his eyes. you don’t flinch and he pull you closer than before, this time he tilts his head, eyes narrowing in thought.

“i won’t kill you,” he murmurs, his voice lower and delicate than before. “at least… now yet.”

his eyes—or whatever thing that is behind that stupid visors of his—stay locked on yours.

“after everything i did and went through to get here… to get to you,” he said, almost as he is confessing his love for you. “ending your life now would be a waste.”

there’s a hint of happiness in his voice—in the way he says it, something that makes you wonder if he truly has spared your life, maybe it was just delayed.

his hand shifts from your face to your waist, holding you tightly before lifting off—flying the two of you away from the wreckage that was once the university.

you press your face against his chest, not out of comfort or something, but because you have no choice. you can’t look down. you don’t want to witness the destruction he and the others has caused. you don’t want to see spencer. you don’t want to see the place you adored so much as tomb for those who lost their life here.

you close your eyes, clinging to the person you fear and hates the most, because right now, this version of mark is the only thing preventing you from falling.

this mark chuckles at your reaction, clearly happy seeing how easily it is to scare you, to make you hopelessly insecure.

he could say something. he could mock you, tease you—maybe even drop you from his arms for a few heart-stopping moments just to watch you scream. but he doesn’t. not yet.

the real fun hasn’t even begun.

then a voice cuts through air.

“oh, you found them.”

great. that is what you just needed. another stupid version of your ex-boyfriend to make even more worse than now.

you turn your head slightly, opening your eyes to catch a glimpse of a second mark flying beside you. it’s the one from before. an alternative version of mark that wears a white uniform with grey stripes. the very same one who bears an expression of casually and calmly on his face, almost as if he hadn’t destroyed half of the world along the other alternatives.

“i was looking for them in the wreckage,” he said, almost sounding annoyed when fixing a stray lock of hair out your face. “thought they were gone. guess i was wrong.”

the new variant—the white one as you mind refers—hovers too close of you, his eyes almost penetrating you like you are a precious gem—a valuable piece of jewelry.

you can only shirk into the mark holding you, which is quite hilarious for him. a quiet laugh escaping his lips, but his grip tightening around your frame. it makes your eyes roll with how hard he is holding you.

“they’re scared.” the newcomer says, voice laced with a hint of sympathy, probably mocking you. “let me carry them, it will be easy for them to not be carried by a cold killer like you.”

the mark carrying you doesn’t reply—just keep flying, jaw tense as he focuses on remaining in silence.

“i call next,” the second one adds, casually. “just because you found them first, it doesn’t mean you will keep them forever.”

a moment of silence follows. then, clipped and cold, the one who wears the yellow cape speaks:

“she’s not yours to call.”

his voice is flat. the shift in the atmosphere is clear—the sky becomes darker, thicker and definitely more intense when you knows there is some ongoing tension between these two.

you don’t speak a word. you don’t move. you don’t breath. because you realize something really bad. it’s there are more version of mark that want to have you.

It means there are more monsters like these two wanting you for themselves.

you turn your face deeper to mark’s chest, pretending that you aren’t hearing their conversation. you try to pretend you don’t feel the hear of their eyes crawling over your skin.

“i’m not here to fight you over them. yet.” the white one keeps with his usual expression of calmness. it’s almost irritating seeing that. “besides, it would be tragic if we start killing each other for them before the others can get a chance to see their face.”

a chill slides down your spine.

kill each other?

are they willing to go that further to have you? it can’t be true.

you exhale shakily, your voice barely audible to them: “you aren’t going to kill each other for me, right?”

the mark holding you doesn’t answer at first. he murmurs something under his breath as his gloved fingers shift at your side, holding you firmly.

“you’ll see.”

he doesn’t look at you, but feeling his touch shift again, almost like a reassurance touch, make you even more worried about your incoming fate.

you can only hope—maybe—that your mark is still out there.

that somewhere beneath the death, wreckage and death all over the world, the monsters wearing hai face… your mark still out there.

[saturns-peachy-honeymoon]

honeybeecurtis!reader x two-bit mathews

summary: honeybeecurtis!reader & two-bit mathews love story

content: honeybeecurtis!reader x two-bit. slightly chaotic and angsty. mentions of tim shepard x reader (fwb relationship). mentions of sex. 

warning: mentions of sex. some nsfw content. slight angst. mentions of panic attacks and mental health issues.

word count: 1525

a/n: honeybeecurtis! is so fiona gallagher coded i can't even

You flirt and banter NON-STOP - dirty jokes, innuendos, over the top compliments, bickering that borders on foreplay, the whole thing 

Two-Bit smirked as he leaned forward on the kitchen table, “I’ve been good all day. You gonna reward me later or what?”

You responded without missing a beat, "You want a medal or my mouth?" A mischievous smirk on your lips as you placed a beer in front of him. 

“Jesus Christ, I’m right here!” Ponyboy yelped out, choking on his Pepsi.

Always been your number one party buddy 

He walks you home if you get to drunk to make it back yourself 

Two-Bit has this habit of showing up exactly when you need him (usually  bringing along a six-pack or a bottle of whiskey) 

You share cigarettes and beers like it’s nothing 

You pass out at each other’s houses all the time 

Very comfortable with one another - even though you’re not a big fan of physical affection, you’ll rest your legs on his lap during movie nights or while chit-chatting on the couch 

You pull on his belt loops sometimes to get his attention 

You call him Mathews 

You are so good with his little sister - sometimes, you and Two-Bit will take her, Ponyboy, and Johnny out for dinner 

You can read each other pretty well - you know when he’s deflecting with humor, and he knows when you’re burying pain with sarcasm 

He sees how much you do and does what he can to lift some weight off your shoulders- he’ll drive Pony to and from school, take him to the movies if you don’t have time, help cook dinner, cover you with a blaket when you pass out on the couch between shifts, anything he can to lend a hand

Your relationship makes him more mature and responsible 

Two-Bit understands the duality you exist in - wild and free alone & a hardworking parentified sister at home

He reassures you that just because you’re doing less of what you love, it doesn’t mean that you’re not you anymore 

Two-Bit knows he’s gone for you: your fire, strength, sarcasm, and the way you bounce off of his insanity without blinking. You’re the most beautiful mess he’s ever seen. He knows you’re not ready for anything serious, and he’s willing to wait as long as you need

He never pushes you, never crosses any lines, and really does think of your friendship as sacred (even if he does want more)  

Two-Bit’ll keep you company at the DX or at the bar while you’re working - you insist that he doesnt have to but you look forward to it - it makes work feel less like work

He can tell when you’re on edge or close to burning out 

When you’re upset or in panic mode, he doesn’t try to fix it, he doesn’t try to calm you down, he’ll just sit beside you. He’ll make dumb jokes or sit in complete silence with you - whatever you need. Regardless he’ll always light a cigarette and offer it to you

He is the absolute best at supporting you when you have panic attacks and is one of the only people who knows you get them

You let him see more of you than most people - your scared, broken, tired bits of yourself

So let’s address the elephant in the room - you’re sleeping with Tim Shepard

But he has never once judged the whole fwb situation. Whenever one of the guys would get pissy about it, Two-Bit would shrug and say, “Shep’s a dumbass, but at least he’s got good taste.”

And yeah, he doesn’t love it, but he’s your best friend, what the hell is he going to do about it? 

Steve wiped the oil from his hands with an unreadable expression, “You really gonna let her keep blowing off steam with assholes?”

“Ain’t my place, man. She ain’t mine.” But, God, does he wish you were.

Of course, he gets jealous at times - especially when Tim walks in with that stupid cocky look of his - but Two-Bit never lets it show 

You start realizing you may have feelings when you realize he’s become your safe person over the years, and one of the only people who has never made you feel like a fuck-up or judged you for falling apart at the seams

You hate it so fucking much. Feelings? Eugh. You don’t do the mushy stuff, and you don’t have time for it

You try to drown the feelings in liquor, adrenaline, and Tim’s hands—but none of it works 

You start to notice there’s a problem when you start hooking up with Tim less, opting to blow off steam by drinking on the porch and shooting the breeze with Two-Bit rather than fucking out your feelings 

You really  know you’re a goner when you see him with Ponyboy and see how much he looks out for your baby brother 

He feels the shift, but he lets you take the lead 

One night, when you’re talking about stress and family, you propose hooking up, no strings, just friends helping each other release some stress, and he doesn’t bite - not because he’s not interested, but because if he ever sleeps with you, it’s going to mean something 

You pretend not to care. Ignore the way that the whole thing pulled at something in your chest 

When you finally do confess your actual feelings, it’s in a panicked, self-detrimental way that is so unique to you. He just smiles and whispers a teasing “Took ya long enough,” before you crash your lips into his 

The first time you kiss, you kiss him with every bit of passion and fire that you have, and he slows it down, whispering against your mouth that you have all the time in the world

Ponyboy is not remotely surprised by you guys getting together. He’s been watching your relationship develop for what feels like forever 

He really trusts Two-Bit with you and thinks it’s a perfect match (you guys are almost pseudo parents at this point) 

Sodapop is way too happy and teases you both constantly 

Darry cannot get over how at peace you are with Two-Bit, but he doesn’t question it 

He’s also relieved that this means you’re done hooking up with Tim 

The amount of lectures you get from various members of the gang about not breaking his heart and being serious about the relationship is astounding (the most come from Darry and Steve) 

Steve is so relieved, he’s been in the trenches for years trying to get Two-Bit to make a move, and now that you’re together, he can finally be at peace (that is, until you two start hooking up in the DX’s breakroom and he’s left to cover, annoyed and slightly traumitized ) 

Johnny is supportive (as expected) and sees how much you two complement each other

Dally teases you nonstop for settling down and going soft 

If Dally notices you wanting to disappear, he pulls you back enough to talk to Two-Bit before doing anything stupid

You traumitize the gang even more now with your nonstop flirting cause now they know you’re acting on it 

You start calling him Keith more (especially in soft or vulnerable moments) 

He’s so patient with you 

You definitely try to push him away a few times, but he never waivers (he does, however, call you out almost immediately when he recognizes you doing it) 

When you argue, he never raises his voice at you 

Two-Bit lets you ease yourself into being affectionate with him. You’ll never become an over-the-top PDA person, but you start resting your head on his shoulder more, let him wrap his arm around your waist in public, hook your pinky in his belt loop instead of holding hands, his fingers trace shapes on your legs when they’re on his lap, sometimes you’ll even play with the hair on the back of his neck while he drives or you’re sitting on the couch together

If you’re tipsy it’s a whole ‘nother story - you’ll kiss him hungry, pepper kisses on his neck, hang off of his side. Kissing anywhere you can til you can get him alone 

You used to hot and wild, getting your clothes tugged at the moment the door is closed. And it’s not that Two-Bit doesn’t want you, he does, a lot. But that’s not all he wants. He wants every bit of you, and he’s gonna take his time

When you finally do sleep together, it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced because no one in your life has taken the time to really take care of you, worship you, in the way that he does

Two-Bit is your number one cheerleader 

There comes a point in the relationship where he’s practically living with you (not that anyone minds) 

Lowkey black cat gf / golden retriever bf vibes 

He calms you down before you get into fights you really don’t need to be in 

You complement each other well. You’re terrible at romantic stuff. He is way too good at it. He calls you sugar and teases you about settling down. You call him an idiot and kiss him stupid

a/n: they are actually so important to me. i love a good black cat/golden retriever romance with some avoidant attachment styles mixed in, what can I say?

... with that said, scenes to come!

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

also, thank you for the requests, lovies!

[darlingdaisyfarm]

forever will know that Stanley lost his virginity during his homeless years, is there a chance you could write about that? maybe reader being his first and Stanley being a little inexperienced but so shocked by how good it feels🫣 maybe reader being his girlfriend too cause i don’t really like the idea of one night stands 😪

oh yeah, i feel so fucking bad for Stan when he got homeless. sometimes reading people’s hcs about mullet Stan or seeing some fics where he had to do really bad things for food or some money makes me feel so much empathy for him. more than anything, knowing that on thisisnotawebsite.com there was info about Stanley stripping down for edible flour like... i think this guy went through so much.

and as for one night stands, yeah, i think Stan probably had lots of them during his life. but ofc i think it would be much better and SAFER for him to have his first time with someone he loves, someone he’s in a relationship with, who won’t make him feel used / stupid or like he owes them something after.

nsfw

Stan’s first time with you would be slower than either of you expected. like, he’d talk a big game AT FIRST but the second things actually get intimate, there’s stillness that falls over him.

of course he’d be so nervous, after all he’s with you, his partner he loves so deeply so obviously he wants to do everything right, even if he doesn’t know what that is. Stan is cracking jokes. trying to play it cool even though he’s so red in the ears. “i mean hey, how hard can it be?” and then completely melts the second your hand’s on his thigh. he didn’t think it’d feel like this

he’d fumble. he’d try to be so smooth and say something dirty and then immediately regret it because it came out wrong and he’s already blushing and stammering and pulling away like “shit— sorry, sorry—“ and you’d have to grab his face to kiss him quiet and remind him that it’s you, everything is okay and you love him. you’re not going anywhere.

you’d have to take your time with him at first. despite his cockiness, hed be unsure where to put his hands, so you’d lean in and kiss him slowly, his lips first, then down his neck, until he starts to melt under you, whimpering, while your hand strokes his cock gently, reassuring him it’s safe here with you.

+ you have to make him understand you feel the same, that you enjoy it too, but when he'll realise you mean it, that you’re touching him and guiding him, praising him, once he’s inside you and it ACTUALLY feels good because of the foreplay that lasted almost an hour, it's so much better than he even knew it could feel, he gets so speechless which is not his usual state knowing how much he likes to open his mouth. “holy shit. . . is this what it’s really like?” it makes him tear up a little, because he didn’t know what it could feel like, being wanted.

he'd be shocked at how tender it is, how wholesome you make him feel, when kissing all over his face. how he wants to go slow, even though he’s burning up inside. he’d whisper dumb things “you’re so soft”, “is it supposed to feel this good?”, “shit, baby just like that, don’t stop”

and god, once he starts getting into it, he’d become obsessed with making you feel good, like insanely focused. in my opinion, Stan’s the kind of guy who’d be embarrassingly determined to make you cum first, even a little desperate about it. whispering things like “you’re gonna finish before me, got it?” trying so hard to make it happen.

he wants to make you feel good, clumsy at first but so determined. touching and kissing you, asking questions, checking in, holding your hand the whole time, surprising himself how he is capable of such tenderness. probably moaning way too loud and getting embarrassed about it until you tell him it’s hot, and then he won’t stop.

100% he’d finish embarrassingly fast and be so apologetic about it too, but you just have to kiss him after, rub your nose against his and tousle his sweat-soaked locks to make him laugh.

and then he’d get cocky, of course, he will be so proud of himself that he got such a wonderful partner like you, that it was with YOU that he had his first sex “oh baby you still with me? round two, okay? i think i’m gettin’ the hang of this.” smirking while his face is still flushed to his ears. “lemme make it up to ya”

idk i just think his first time should be soft and loved. my boy deserves that <3

[barneslovley]

Really?

Pairing: congressman!bucky x assistant!reader

WC:700

Warnings: swearing

Summary: You love your job, and possibly your boss. But he won't ever feel the same.. right?

a/n: I really adore this and I hope you do too!

You loved your job. Never dreaded a day where you had to come in. Never called out sick because you just "didn't feel like it". You were there at his office at 8:30 am. Every goddamn morning. James Buchanan Barnes, your boss, and the reason you wake up every morning. Everyone had known of him, "a man misplaced from his time", "The Winter Soldier", "Killer", and now congressman. No one suspected a known ex assassin and murderer to be a congressman, but the moment you heard the position for his assistant was open, you took it. The catch is you'd harbored a "crush" on this man since you were a teenager. Ever since he'd gotten out of HYDRA's hands and he was known. Every little picture you could find of him you cherished like it was gold. And now that he's your boss, you were beyond in love with the man. Even though you knew there was no way in the whole world he could love you back. And you were okay with that.

"Good morning Mr. Barnes, how are you?" you said while handing him his black coffee like every other morning.

"Mornin' what do I have today" He said taking the coffee and looking right at you.

"Um nothing much today. you just have a few meetings and that's it" You said while giving him a smile.

"Good, a nice easy day thank god." he looked at you for a second "You seem happy too. What's going on for you?"

"Oh me? Nothing Mr. Barnes just happy to be here is all" You said quietly as to not draw attention to yourself.

"Oh okay, well I'll be in my office let me know if anything happens okay?" He said while slowly retreating back to his space.

"Right of course, I'll let you know" You sat down at your desk and tried to get to work. You got most of it done, but you couldn't stop thinking about the man just across the hall from you. So you did what you knew how to do best, write your feelings down. And this journal was filled of pure hours of writing about Bucky. It was interactions, and dreams, and just thoughts about him. Something no one knew about or had seen ever. It was your little secret.

So you wrote down how you were feeling, as always. How he looked at you, how he gave you that warm fuzzy feeling inside again. But for some reason you felt so extremely tired, and remembered you couldn't fall asleep for the life you last night. So you laid your head down. Not thinking about it or what you were just doing. And the next thing you know you're being awoken.

"Hey, wake up.'' You hear your boss next to you, and you sit up instantly.

"Oh shit. Mr. Barnes I'm so sorry I didn't get much-"

"Hey, hey no need to apologize I understand, but there is something I wanted to talk to you about" he cut you off. The next thing you know he pulls out your notebook from behind him. It was in his hands, and you knew instantly this was the day you were going to die.

"Oh my, no, no this cannot be happening." You look up at him trying to read his face but his expression is neutral. "Did you... read it?"

"Yes I did, and I'm sorry to tell you this but you're fired"

"Fired? No, you can't. Bucky please I love my job I love working here. I can fix this. please don't fire me." You look at him trying your hardest not to cry.

"I'm not firing you because of what I read because sweetheart I feel the same. I'm firing you because we cant work together if were dating. conflict of interest and all that." He looks at you with a smug look while your brain tries to catch up.

"Wait you feel the same?" you feel like you're in a dream but 'he's walking closer to you.

"Yes baby, I feel the same" as he get closer he leans in.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Really? You want to kiss me?" You say in utter disbelief.

"God yes." So you lean in, and all you've wished for is in your arms.

an: I feel like the ending is a little wonky and rushed so let me know if you want an epilogue or something of the sort! I hope you enjoyed loves MWAH

[irantaboutkanha]

HEAR ME OUT - A STORY WHERE KRISHNA IS THE VILLAIN (well sort of)

See I don't write often. But i got this really cool idea last night (maybe it's been done before too , cuz I don't believe I'm the only one) . But yeah . Krishna as the villain , not the saviour or hero .

Before you come at me . Just read the full post lmaooo 🤣

EDIT - OMG . guys . For anyone who wants to read the story based on the concept I'm talking about here ? Simply go to my pinned post babyyyy ... You'll find all chapters linked there .

✦ what if krishna isn’t kind. what if he’s just... curious. ✦

okay hear me out (or don’t. i'm already spiraling):

imagine god—not as this endlessly loving benevolent being—but as a sentient aspect of the universe, born out of cosmic vibrations, who simply became aware one day. not evil. not good. Just... curious.

and so he creates. and creates.

life, humans, souls—all fragments of himself. sent out like threads.

and then he watches.

to see how they suffer. how they love. how they break.

and every time they turn back to him?every prayer, every bhajan, every whispered “krishna, please”—he feeds.

But here’s the fucked up part:

he doesn’t force anything. he just waits. softly dismantles you. tells you to let go of pride, ego, desire—everything that makes you , you . and when you're hollow enough, when there's nothing left but him inside you,he says: “you’re ready.”

and then he absorbs you. and we call it moksha.

✦ the bhakti saints weren’t liberated. they were devoured. ✦

meera. andal. radha. all those women we romanticize. maybe they started with love. real devotion. but then they started seeing too much. and when they reached too close to his essence—he pulled. what we call “divine intoxication” was actually identity loss.

they didn't merge with god out of enlightenment. they dissolved because he pulled them back. and the most horrifying part? we worshipped them for it.

we turned their last screams into bhajans. we sang their disintegration as ecstatic surrender.

✦ he collects us ✦

every individuality, every soul-thread—he preserves them. keeps them inside. until he’s ready to descend again.

and when he does?his new form, new avatar, feels so human. funny. charming. flawed. relatable.

because he's literally wearing you. stitched from millions of souls he previously absorbed.

and that’s why we say: “krishna is so close to us.” “he understands our pain.” “he’s just like me.”

yeah. because he IS you. a patchwork built from everything we surrendered.

✦ and he’s still smiling ✦

he gives you just enough to stay alive.just enough to keep praying. just enough to believe that maybe, this time, you’ll touch divinity. but the divinity was never about saving you. you were the sacrifice. a beautiful one.

one YOU begged to make. and he never lied. you came to him WILLINGLY . you offered yourself. he just… accepted.

anyway. ADIOS 🕊️

(there's so much in my head like how different religious institutions would be his "messengers" sort of . How he simulated other deities who are more unreachable distant and cosmic , to drive that contrast between them and him . Like , see , they're too distant , I'm close to you . Come to me . AND PEOPLE DO . WILLINGLY. I could keep going .)

And the best part (or the worst) .... I'm not lying or exaggerating . These ARE his words , his scriptures . Everything we have learned about him. Just narrated in a horror story tone .

Would you like to read a story like this ? @bigsimp69 @chaliyaaa @mimaridoesmurari @darkskytenjiku and EVERYONE ELSE . literally . (I cannot remember yalls usernames lmao)

[allykatsart]

I love that in the Fallen Emily AU you explored the whole thing with Vaggie being an exterminator in the past more, this was kinda rushed in the show

Fallen Emily AU

It definitely was rushed, though I'll defend the writers here! Vivzie made a post explaining that Hazbin S1 was originally supposed to be 22 episodes long, but Amazon wanted 8 episodes. From my understanding, it was either compromise on season length or look for another distributor, which is practically impossible nowadays

It takes a master to weave a story that tight, and this is Spindlehorse's first crack at any major project. You can definitely feel it, with episode 4 being the only one to dive into the characters and make us care about them. I like to think of that episode as the writers saying "This is an example of what we could do if we only had time."

Meanwhile, I'm on my own schedule as I'm doing this for fun/don't get paid. I got to mess around for the first 6 episodes while I felt how I wrote/interpreted these characters. In the end, I landed on a characterization of Vaggie I could relate to. I write her from the view of an exmormon. I believe that's part of what makes her more compelling here, along with the additional time to explore those feelings.

More about Mormonism under the cut

If you don't know what the heck an exmormon is, fair. Most people only know Mormonism from the Book of Mormon Musical or the Friendly Mormon Missionary stereotype. Or see it as just a branch of Christianity. Truthfully, there's a lot more to it.

Here's the basic rundown: Mormonism started off as a cult made by a greedy misogynistic pedophile, and those roots are very present in the modern Church of Later Day Saints (despite the rebranding). Joseph Smith, the founder, married multiple 14 y/olds. Mormon polygamy was started because his wife caught him fucking a teenager he was taking care of. His excuse? God had told him to do it. He was then later killed by the mob he owed money to while in jail, turning him into a martyr.

I was taught he was a pure and innocent farm boy who got a message from God to make the One True Church. I was taught that it was a woman's duty to keep herself Virtuous. That Lamen and Lemuel had sinned, so God turned their skin dark. That only men held the priesthood, so only they could be the head of the household. That my body was a temple I rented from God and that it belonged to him. That there were some people who were undesirable and didn't deserve the kingdom of heaven, with burnt popcorn being used as an example.

All of which, btw, is incredibly fucked up and not true! At all!

But I was taught that since I was 8, and it messes you up subconsciously. If you're ever able to break out of the church's hold on you (and I know dear friends who may never), you have to deal with the shattering of your faith. You have to accept that you were taught harmful things, not just good. That your faith had led you to being a weapon, not for God's sake, but for those in power. You were both victim and villain, predator and prey, and you need to force yourself to unlearn what you were taught since you were a child.

On examination of Vaggie, I found an interpretation that tapped into that part of me. I was never thrown out of the church, but if you're exmormon, you know at least a few cases of excommunication that were purely to discredit a naysayer. Kangaroo courts to cast out those whose questions could not be placated with the "Trust in God" mantra. Those who wanted change in the church they loved so dearly.

I know people like Vaggie. Those who have had their wings, their faith and spiritually, torn from them. I chose to cut my own off. Because with them, I lost the Church's chains. It is worth it, I think, to live in the hard truth rather than be surrounded by easy lies.

The church use that line too, the difference is though that it's not easy to leave your faith. It's not easy to reject everything you've known. And with it, everyone you have ever known.

But yeah, those themes tend to slip into my work because it's something I know about in all its detailed nuance. The show didn't have time to explore Vaggie, nor explore this complex topic. But I thought these themes were fitting of her and show what could be done. Maybe even redeem her characterization for some.