#and i want to talk about every little thing

[bettyvick]

thank you

Clark Kent x Pregnant!Reader

Summary: When you got pregnant at your 20's you thought your life was done. Your boyfriend was gone and your parents kicked you out of their house. But when you met Clark Kent, he helped you during the hardest time of your life.

Warnings: Crying, age gap (reader is 23 and Clark is 30), fluff, reader on a difficult situation, reader is insecure, a bit angsty, clark is an angel, sexual explicit content, riding, mention of fullness, penetration (f receiving), praising, crying during sex of pleasure, orgasms, giving birth.

A/N: Finally some clark! I've written this in two hours, sorry if there are some mistakes <3

You never planned to be a mother, much less at twenty-three. You had your whole life ahead of you. You wanted to get your PhD, travel around the world, and one day marry your now ex-boyfriend, Thomas. But fate wouldn't have it that way. In a careless act, you forgot to use protection, and within weeks, you already had a baby inside you. It all started with morning sickness, then you took a pregnancy test, and within hours, your boyfriend had left. You were devastated. How could you handle this? You simply couldn't; it wasn't for you. Your parents also turned their backs on you, kicking you out of the house and canceling your college tuition. You were an embarrassment to them, who valued appearances above all else.

You slept in other people's homes until your belly swelled so much you could barely walk. Still, you kept working. Someone had to pay the medical bills and give your baby a home. With some savings and the inheritance your grandmother left you, you managed to rent a small apartment, which, however, was more than enough for you.

There you met Clark Kent, a journalist who lived on the same floor as you, in the right apartment. He saw you carrying the boxes with your belongings and immediately jumped in to help you, lifting them as if they were full of feathers. He welcomed you to the building and invited you to his apartment for a drink. For some reason, he knew what you wanted to drink before you could even ask for it it: a cup of hot chocolate for the cold weather.

He asked about your husband, to which you lied, saying he was at your old apartment sorting out some things. He nodded. You didn't want him to see you as a failure as soon as he met you, and to avoid further questions, you simply lied. You didn't care much, you'd gotten used to it.

He knew you were lying by the way your leg jerked, but he didn't say anything.

When you tried to pick up a lamp from the street and carry it up the stairs, he stopped you again. He said you should be resting in bed, but you didn't even have a bed to rest on; you were sleeping on a hard couch that gave you unbearable neck pain.

Little by little, Clark noticed how you lived because of the dark circles under your eyes and how you'd never let him into your apartment. But he also slowly realized how deeply in love he was with you, with the way you laughed, the way you wrinkled your nose when you didn't like something, the way you sipped from your cup of hot chocolate every morning. You were also deeply in love with him, in the embarrassing sense of the word. You were talking about him all the time. Every time you saw Superman on TV in a coffee shop, you thought about him, how he'd love to interview him again. But who wouldn't fall in love with Clark Kent? He was kind, thoughtful, sexy, intelligent... And you were... a mess.

You never thought he'd feel any attraction to you. You were big, sensitive, and your feet were swollen. But you didn't know that you were the trigger for Clark to realize he had a thing for pregnant women. Maybe it was just because it was you, but he didn't care at all, he loved you and wanted to raise your child together, even if it wasn't his.

One day, while you were having dinner at his apartment, he confessed his feelings to you in the most tender way possible.

—I really, really like you. I can't stop thinking about you. I think if I hid it any longer, I'd go crazy.

Then you started crying, profusely and with loud sobs. Not from sadness, but from happiness. But Clark was scared; he thought he'd done something wrong.

—Sorry, it's just the hormones. I like you too,— you said, wiping your tears with a napkin stained with Bolognese sauce.

From then on, life smiled on you. Clark practically moved you into his apartment. He wanted to keep an eye on you and take care of you more closely. Besides, you had everything you needed there. A soft, big bed, a guest room he converted into a nursery, and a bathtub that fit you completely—and it had hot water!

You thought something was rewarding you after the four horrible months you'd been through, but you still felt like you didn't deserve it. Clark was too good to be true. It was only a matter of time before he looked for another girl who was prettier, thinner, and didn't cry because she'd eaten the last pickle and craved more. You looked at him at the breakfast table, wondering how long it would be until that moment arrived.

Then you started hiding some things you thought might push him away, like morning sickness, swallowing them down without thinking, and it didn't matter how much you wanted to throw up. You limited your cravings so he wouldn't have to go downstairs at two in the morning on a Sunday to buy chocolate-coated peppers. You even wore nicer shoes, even though they were terribly uncomfortable, thinking he'd like you more that way.

Clark, being the good boyfriend he is, noticed these things and asked if you were okay. You couldn't hold it in any longer and confessed everything, your cheeks pink and hiccuping from shedding so many tears. Clark's heart sank in his chest.

—Honey, you're already perfect. You don't have to hide anything from me. I love you, with your weird cravings and more— he comforted you, wrapping you in his arms while stroking your back.

The end of the pregnancy was approaching, and although you still felt like a parasite in Clark's life, nothing was hidden from him anymore. He was never tired of telling you that you weren't and that he loved you very much, whatever will happen will happen.

Clark massaged your feet, sending you straight to heaven. He was so good at it, knowing exactly where to press and how hard. He drew loud moans from you that made him blush. But he didn't just massage your feet, he massaged your tits too. They were round and full of milk, so full they ached. Clark kneaded them in his hands, twisting your sensitive nipples so deliciously that sometimes jets of milk spilled onto your breasts. When he finished, Clark brought your hands to his mouth, licking the white liquid that ran from his toes to his elbows. It was such a sexual image that afterward, you needed him to bury his fingers in your pussy and rub your clit until you trembled with pleasure.

Something you found extremely sweet was the way Clark talked to the baby at night. He'd gently place his head on your huge belly and whisper, 'You're going to be amazing, baby, just as amazing as your mommy.'

But there were a few setbacks toward the end of the pregnancy. The baby wasn't coming out; he was a few weeks late, and you were getting stressed out, which wasn't good for it either. You called your doctor, and he gave you some tips to help the baby come out as soon as possible.

—Orgasms are good; they act like contractions and help the baby get moving.

That was all Clark needed to hear to lay you down on the softest pillow he bought you and fuck you until the baby felt ready to come out.

—Come on, baby, you can do it— he encouraged you as he slowly pressed his cock in until you were breathless. You clung to the toned muscles of his back as Clark thrust slowly inside you again and again. A high-pitched moan escaped your lips as he bottomed out inside you again. The fullness was overwhelming.

You felt your orgasm approaching, and an overwhelming pressure settled in your belly.

—Clark— you said, your voice choked.

—I know, I know— he replied, kissing your lips.

He slid out again, but not completely, and buried himself inside you again. It was so slow that it frustrated you, and tears welled up in your eyes.

—...ride— you mewled as you felt your walls contract around his thick cock. Clark moaned.

—Do you want to ride me, honey?

You nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks. He held you tightly and pulled you down on top of him with his inexplicable strength.

Then you started bouncing on him like the world was ending. Clark was going to tell you to slow down, but the words died on his lips when he felt you squeezing him. How could you be hours away from giving birth and still be so tight?

You bobbed up and down hungrily, grinding your clit against his defined abs. Clark moved his hand to your sensitive spot, making you gasp and squeeze harder.

—You're so tight, honey— he said between moans, feeling his own orgasm approaching. He grabbed both sides of your torso and helped you with the movements, practically fucking you in the air. Eventually, you came again beside him with a cry of pleasure and a sob.

A few hours later, you broke waters in the bathroom, and Clark rushed you to the hospital as quickly as he could, almost causing a car accident. He held your hand the entire time and never left your side. Your baby was born safe and sound, and guess what, it was a girl!

Before even holding your daughter, Clark made sure you were okay. He kissed you, hugged you, and then took the little one into his arms with the most radiant smile you'd ever seen. Your parents didn't visit, but it didn't matter; you didn't need them, and you didn't want them there.

At first, parenting was tough, but Clark always made sure to help you through everything. He would get up at night to cradle the baby, and when you did, he made sure you had extra hours to sleep in the morning. Sometimes he would take Aurora to work; everyone in the office would adore her. You started your PhD again with the support of Clark and Louis, whom you had recently become friends with.

One day you and your little girl were out for a walk together in the park when you saw him. Your ex-boyfriend, Thomas, was sitting on a bench with a cup of coffee in his hand. You froze in fear.

—What's wrong, honey?— Clark asked, gently grabbing your hand. You pointed at him, and Clark immediately frowned. His expression was serious, his jaw set; you rarely saw him like that. —Do you want to leave?

You shook your head.

—Let's just enjoy our family walk.

He nodded proudly, and you walked in front of the bench where he was sitting. Thomas looked at you with wide eyes. Clark carried Aurora in his strong right arm while wrapping his other arm around your waist. You were pushing the baby stroller. Your boyfriend made funny faces at your daughter, making her laugh; those sounds made your heart melt.

You didn't even look at him; you weren't going to give him the pleasure.

Now you had a perfect life, with your perfect boyfriend and your perfect daughter.

[emmanation]

what do you do between the affirmation and the outcome?

part one — linked here — not required to read, but heavily recommended by yours truly.

so, you said it.

you affirmed. maybe in your head, maybe out loud, maybe barely whispering it into something such as your pillow.

"i'm in my dr" / "i have what i want" / "it's already done."

however it came out, you did it, you chose. and now.... what? what do you do after? alright, you said it, maybe you even meant it, you felt kind of good about it, maybe even a little proud or relaxed or still, but now you're just sitting there.

blinking. wondering if something's supposed to happen.

maybe wondering if the air is about to shift (ha), or if your bed is going to turn into your own specialised limousine or if someone is going to come knock on the door and hand you your desire wrapped in one big red bow.

and, let's in this case and scenario say that nothing happens, or at least it doesn't look like it does.

let me discuss the space AFTER the assumption, aka the in between aka the what now. because ! maybe people don't talk about it, but everyone did feel it at once:

you said it – why is nothing occurring?

let me be the first one, or maybe even not, god knows, to say it. there is nothing wrong with that little in between space, simply because it's not a test or a delay. what i would call it, is the specific moment where you decide not to switch back to your previous assumption.

you're staying. staying rooted in your assumption.

you already moved the needle when you said it, right? the moment you affirmed, the shift happened, because attention moves fast.

you now, in this in between space, are letting your awareness stay where you already told it to go.

your desire, your desire, wherever, doesn't matter. but you're telling it where to go.

so between the staying and the seeing, what you do is ........ nothing. or at least, in more simplistic, not - overcomplicated terms, you keep acting as if it has happened.

you stop checking, and you stop entertaining the idea that you might NOT be there.

when, maybe, you see the world not shifting around you in a way that's instant or impressive or movie worthy, you do not take that as a sign that it doesn't work, or that you now have to scream at a cloud calling yourself a failure.

what i believe happens between the affirmation and the occurance is that you give yourself no reason to look back, and so......you don't wait, and you don't hunt for proof, and you don't poke at it to make sure that it's alive.

not babysitting your manifestation to maturity as if it's going to wander off and die if you don't keep it in your sightline.

it won't. your subconscious is that powerful.

you, simply, because it is simple like that, assume that it is handled.

you said it, so now it is.

yes, sometimes, perhaps, your brain will flicked and sometimes you'll want to double check, and sometimes your eyes - they will land on something in your physical world and immediately start categorising it, declaring that as real and your assumption as failure.

and you know what? that's fine.

don't fight that thought, and don't crash out into immediately damage control.

just go.

" regardless, i'm already in my dr. " // " regardless, i already have my desire. "

during that space between the affirmation and the shift is not an active zone, and therefore you don't have to do anything there except not contradict what you've already decided. which is actually easier than it sounds, if you simply stop trying to prove something to yourself every other five minutes.

your mind is used to earning, to fixing, to checking. and you can let it be loud if it wants to be loud.

but, remember, your awareness goes only where you dictate it to.

you've already done the one thing that matters, you affirmed, and you chose.

so maybe you make breakfast, dinner, lunch, whatever. maybe you text someone back, maybe you go for a walk, or rewatch a show, or sit on the floor, or do absolutely nothing.

but whatever you're doing, you don't start playing detective again, and you don't search the room for clues, glimpses, to see if it's working.

what you do between the affirmation and the occurrence is exactly what you'd do AFTER the occurrence, if you really assumed it happened.

meaning?

you live and you move and you think whatever you think, and you don't attach meaning to every flicker of doubt or slowness or quiet.

now let me pivot a bit, and go back to what my entire account is focused on anyway. choice.

you get to decide what the in between is like. you could assume i'm doubting, i'm feeling normal, and i'm still there, and that will become the truth.

you don't have to built up enough capital of faith and only then you're allowed to pass through the door.

the moment one decides their destiny, they're on the track. so, if you say i'm there, even if i feel unsure, you're still there, why? simply because you're the one writing, producing, and airing the terms.

because, if you're the operating power, which you are, by the way, then you're also the one who decides whether this part, this middle part, counts or not.

whether this is a build up or a a simple backdrop.

whether you're seated in a waiting room or the actual place.

and you're allowed to pick. always.

if you choose that this is what living there feels like, then that's what it is.

you don't have to keep apologising to yourself every time you slip or wobble or 'get thrown off' your path.

a simple this is what living there looks like today will be the truth. because as awareness goes, it will follow your word.

so if you say, even this counts, then it does.

so actually, maybe even throw this whole post away. what you do between the decision and the manifestation is ..... entirely up to you. you can let it doubt, and you can let it be certainty, and you can let it be whatever. but you can still be there.

you can live with the questions and still be living in the answer.

[succinsaccharine]

lazily eating pussy and edging them does anyone else know what im talking about. having their legs spread open for me, so obedient, cunt twitching from the cold air and the anticipation but im just torturous with it. kneeling down like im about to devour them but instead i just give small gentle licks and blow little puffs of air against their clit. go to tongue their hole but only just barely dipping it in. i latch my lips around their clit and i don't even suck. just feel how they're writhing under me and how their clit is throbbing in my mouth.

best thing is me laying my head against their thigh, mindlessly scrolling on my phone as they're still desperate for me. every so often i reach my hand up and rub their cunt for a bit or i turn over and lap at their clit. keep them needy and edging for me. good girl isn't even tied up, they just have to stay still and resist for me allll on their own <3

"hey baby, look at this cute post i- oh right, let's keep that pussy wet for me. lemme just reach over and yeah, stay still, that's good. aw fuck, you're crying, that's cute. you wanna cum? good girl wants to cum? is your brain broken and foggy and your cunt is aching so bad? just a little longer okay? i promise <3"

[vancexplicit]

⊹ ₊ ⁺‧₊˚ SIGNAL

pairing: abby anderson x fem reader

synopsis: after months flirting with your online gaming partner, the last thing you expected was to unexpectedly meet her at a work meeting.

cw: reader is fem presenting, sugestive talking, eventual smut, not proofread

You had already lost track of how long you'd been trying to complete that mission. The screen glowed in front of you like a cruel reminder of failure, again. It was as if the game had decided to toy with your sanity. You had faced hard bosses before, confusing puzzles, but this? This was pure digital torture. Even with your partner's impressive skills, the two of you seemed stuck in an eternal cycle of trial and error, and error… and error.

You let out a frustrated sigh, sinking deeper into the gaming chair that had already molded to your shape. One hand went to your forehead, rubbing your temples like you could massage the desperation away. You closed your eyes for a second and muttered a few low curses, just enough to ease the tension, or at least try.

But Abby heard everything through the headset, trying to stifle a laugh at the sound of your despair.

“If you’re about to start cursing me out, mute your mic. You know I’m sensitive.” she replied in a theatrical tone, with an obviously fake offended sigh.

You let out a short, dry laugh.

“Shut up.” you snapped back, but there was already a smile forming on your lips. “I’m just too tired. I’m done, seriously. Can we try again tomorrow?”

“I can’t tomorrow.” Abby answered, using that casual tone she always pulled when she wanted to spark your curiosity.

You squinted at the screen, like you could see her on the other side.

“You have a date or something?” you asked, slightly defensive, trying to sound casual but failing miserably to hide your curiosity.

“You know you’re my only girl.” she replied, and even though you couldn’t see her, you could practically picture the smug smile on her face, just from the tone of her voice that gave away how proud of herself she was.

You leaned back into the chair, trying to hide the sudden heat rising to your face. You had known Abby for a while now, and over time, she’d started saying things like that more often. You never took it seriously, assuming it was probably just a joke she made with all her online friends. And thinking that way was what kept your heart at peace every time you turned down Abby’s invitations for the two of you to meet in person.

You two had a good thing going, so why ruin it with a potential meeting? It probably had a lot to do with your terrible breakup with your ex-girlfriend, which had left you a little insecure, but Abby didn’t need to know that.

“Keep talking. Maybe one day I’ll believe you.” you teased, trying to keep a laid-back tone.

“I’m just working late.” she replied, laughing.

“Oh right, your job…” you mocked, just a little. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re not some antisocial weirdo living in your parents’ basement, gaming with strangers online.”

“You only say that because you’ve never seen my basement.” Abby shot back proudly. “It’s fancy, classy, probably too good for you.”

“Is that supposed to make me want to see your basement?”

“Yes, it is. And if you keep being good to me and hold out just a little longer until we finish this hellish mission, I’ll come to your place and drag you there myself.”

You laughed, but your legs were already stretched out, and your body was deep into the “I give up” phase. Then you turned your head to check the time on your phone. It was late, and you definitely didn’t want to spend another hour banging your head against that cursed mission.

“That sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

“It is. A prestigious offer. You should think about it carefully… besides, I have a really comfortable bed here, just so you know.” she added with a smirk, lowering her voice into that seductive whisper she used whenever she was trying to convince you of something.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” you replied, trying to suppress the laugh that slipped out between a yawn and a sigh.

“I just wanted you to know!”

“I’m really tempted to sleep with you right now. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. Thank you very much.” she answered quickly, sharp as ever, with that same charmingly sarcastic air.

You brought a hand up to your eyebrow, scratching lightly while smiling way more than you should have at your screen.

“I’m going to bed, okay?” you said after a few seconds. “I’m seriously exhausted.”

“Okay then. Go rest.” she replied in a softer voice, almost a gentle whisper. “Good night, princess.”

You smiled, closing your eyes for a moment. It was almost pathetic how easily her words got to you, and you silently thanked God she couldn’t see you right now or you’d never hear the end of it.

“Night, babe.”

You took off your headset slowly, almost reluctantly. Even though you were completely drained, a part of you still wanted to spend a few more minutes talking to her.

Still smiling, you turned off the screen, stretched, and let yourself fall onto the bed, Abby’s voice still echoing in your mind like a lingering whisper.

The next day, you were sitting in your office chair, trying with all your might to avoid eye contact with your friend, who had been begging insistently for your help since the exact moment you walked through the building’s door. The coffee had barely started to kick in, and there she was, clinging to you like a custom-made curse.

“I already said no!” you groaned in frustration, burying your face in your hands and pressing your eyes like the gesture could somehow make her persistence disappear. “leave me alone or I'll throw you out the window!”

But of course, she didn’t. She approached with that melodramatic stride only she could pull off, stopping behind your chair and resting her hands on your shoulders like she was pleading with her whole body. Then she started to rock you gently, like a stubborn child trying to get her mom’s attention.

“Please, I’m begging you.” she practically whimpered in despair, loud enough to make a few people nearby glance over, curious about the scene unfolding. “It’s just for today, I swear, just today! Please!”

You slowly lifted your head, glancing around the office with an expression that said you were one step away from screaming. Several coworkers shot amused and judgmental looks your way. Cursing her silently for putting you in that position, you removed her hands from your shoulders and gripped her wrists, stopping the theatrics.

“Fine, okay. I’ll cover for you.” you grumbled through clenched teeth, wearing the defeated expression of someone who had just signed a deal with the devil. “But stop making a scene!”

“Thank you! Thank you!” she practically jumped for joy, letting go of your arms and clapping softly, like she’d just won the lottery.

“You’re buying me lunch today.” you added without hesitation.

“Yes, of course, no problem. I’ll buy your lunch for the rest of the week if you want!” she said quickly, still too euphoric about her win.

She wrapped her arm around yours and rested her head on your shoulder for a moment, smiling like the world was on her side.

“So… This project—”

You shut your brain off the moment she started explaining what that project was. It wasn’t something you’d have to follow forever, so why stress about it when you could just ignore her?

The only thing you actually heard was that it was an online project, so there would be a lot of programmers in the meeting.

“So, it’s going to be a room full of computer nerds? Wonderful.” you muttered, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

She made a face but kept talking.

“You don’t have to like the company. You just need to sit there, pretend you’re paying attention, and write down all the important things they say. You don’t even have to talk, okay?”

You sighed deeply, already bracing yourself for unbearable boredom. She grabbed both your hands, pulling you out of your chair. The two of you started walking through the office, with her practically dragging you toward the meeting room.

“Fine.” you mumbled, knowing there was nothing left to complain about if you’d already agreed to do her the favor.

“Good girl.” she replied, flashing that cheeky smile that made you want to punch her. “Now get in there before you change your mind.”

You rolled your eyes but obeyed. You crossed the hallway and entered the meeting room, keeping a neutral, polite expression as you greeted a few people already seated around the large rectangular table. Your eyes scanned the space, strategically looking for the seat farthest from the projector. All you wanted was to go unnoticed, do your time, and leave with your soul intact.

Gradually, the room filled up. Most people came from departments you hardly interacted with, so the faces were unfamiliar. You limited yourself to polite smiles, exchanging a few words with a friendly woman who sat beside you. The conversation was light, and for a brief moment, you almost felt comfortable. Until she walked in.

You saw her from the corner of your eye at first, but it only took a second for your full attention to be stolen. She was tall. Really tall. With a confident posture and a body that made it clear weightlifting wasn’t just a hobby but something she did religiously. Her blonde hair was tied into a braid that fell over her shoulder with almost cruel charm, and her eyes… her eyes were such a deep blue that anyone would drop to their knees if she asked.

You quickly looked away, your face burning like you'd been caught doing something illegal. In a nervous gesture, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to act natural while your heart pounded. She nodded to a few people with a restrained smile, then pulled out the chair directly across from yours and sat down with a casual grace that only added to her allure. And just like that, your plan to focus on your notes was ruined.

You found yourself watching her more than you should, your eyes betraying you every time she moved. It was like time slowed down whenever she wet her lips thoughtfully or ran her thick fingers over her notes. The white shirt she wore might as well have been tailored to highlight her muscular arms, and for a moment, you hated yourself for imagining all kinds of very inappropriate things right in the middle of work.

Your legs crossed with involuntary tension, and you bit the inside of your cheek to stay grounded in reality. You gripped your notebook tighter, the blank pages exposing that you’d given up taking notes long ago.

But then she spoke.

Her voice filled the room with a soft, clear tone, distinct and impactful like a perfect hit to the chest. You froze. Your whole body tensed like you’d been electrocuted. Slowly, you raised your eyes, wide and disbelieving, your mouth slightly open. That voice. That tone.

You couldn’t mistake that voice even if you wanted to.

You had spent months talking to Abby nearly every day, hours and hours hearing that voice through your headset while you played, laughed, teased each other in increasingly suggestive ways.

And now… now she was here. Just a few feet away. Sitting right in front of you.

And you had no idea if she knew who you were.

Your heart was beating so loudly you were sure everyone could hear it. The pen slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a soft clack, and you bent down to pick it up, using the moment to hide from the world. You were in shock. Your stomach turned, and your mind spun in circles trying to come up with a logical explanation.

Abby was here. And she was even more beautiful than your imagination, which was almost unfair.

You swallowed hard, your face hidden as you stared at your notebook. How were you supposed to survive this meeting?

But then, an idea.

You were almost certain that woman in front of you was Abby. But a stubborn part of your brain, clinging desperately to the hope that this was just a caffeine-fueled hallucination born of sleep deprivation and loneliness, insisted you could still be wrong.

With your heart pounding and fingers slightly trembling, you discreetly pulled your phone from your pocket, hiding it under the table. You opened the contact saved with a video game controller and skull emoji, and typed as casually as you could:

hey abs

kinda bored rn

wyd

You hit send, pretending to be nonchalant while internally bursting with anticipation. This was your test. Subtle enough to pass as a coincidence if it turned out to be nothing, direct enough to give you confirmation if it was real. And if this was really Abby… well, you didn’t want to miss the chance to find out.

You pretended to go back to paying attention, but you could barely register a word. Every second dragged like time itself was conspiring to keep you in suspense. Your phone didn’t buzz. Abby hadn’t replied.

Maybe you really were going crazy. Maybe she just sounded like Abby. It was possible, right? Just another gorgeous woman you’d never have the courage to talk to.

You were starting to convince yourself. Your mind was crafting internal excuses for your overreaction. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it. She looked down at her lap, subtly checking her phone under the table.

And at that exact moment, yours vibrated.

You swallowed hard and looked at the screen.

in the middle of a super boring meeting.

You froze.

Your body locked up completely, and your head shot up so fast it almost hurt your neck. Your eyes met her face again, just for a second. She looked back at the projector like nothing had happened, with that same stoic, elegant, composed expression. But now you knew.

It was her.

Abby was real. Abby was that woman. And that woman was, without exaggeration, the most attractive person you’d ever seen in real life.

Your mind spun. You wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or run to the bathroom, look in the mirror, and confirm this was actually happening. For months, she’d just been a comforting presence in your headset, with her raspy, playful voice, her silly jokes, her flirty remarks you pretended to ignore. But now she was here. Tangible. Present. And extremely, extremely hot.

You leaned back in your chair, slowly crossing your legs, becoming aware of your body for the first time in minutes. Your fingers gripped your phone more firmly now.

You stayed frozen for a few seconds, wondering what to do. But after replaying every interaction you'd ever had with Abby, everything was starting to feel different. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was a sign that it was finally time to stop running from relationships and try again. And she was so stunning that missing this chance felt almost like a crime.

So, you decided to take it. But first… why not have a little fun?

You grabbed your phone again, holding it on your lap as you typed quickly.

sounds boring asl

any cute girls there

You adjusted your posture, flipping your hair over your shoulder. Across the table, you saw Abby glance discreetly down at her phone, reading your message. You smiled to yourself, tilting your head just enough to show off your best angle, pretending you were completely unaware of Abby’s eyes scanning the room.

The reply came seconds later, and you looked down as your phone buzzed in your lap.

no

Your face heated instantly.

You blinked.

Read it again.

no

You shifted in your chair, stuffing your phone back in your lap with a slightly offended expression. The warmth on your face betrayed your faint embarrassment. You sighed under your breath, crossing your arms with the dramatic flair of someone who just got rejected without even making a move.

No?! Seriously?!

a/n: english isn’t my first language. let me know if you would like a part 2 <33

taglist: @mr-random-man

flower divider: @plutism

sparkle dividers: @bernardsbendystraws

[malfoys-demigod]

Practice Makes Perfect

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ JOHNNY STORM X READER

summary: You’ve been best friends with Johnny Storm for years — the literal embodiment of charm, chaos, and confidence. He flirts with everyone, but lately... something feels different. You're shy, introverted, and secretly harbor a hopeless crush. And you’ve never even been kissed. That is, until one lazy afternoon, Johnny casually offers to fix that.

a/n: got inspo from @djotummy and wanted to try it out!

You’re going to die. Right here, in your own apartment. Because Johnny Storm is sitting next to you, arm slung casually across the back of your couch, grinning like he knows every single thought racing through your head.

And, to be fair, he probably does.

“I still can’t believe it,” Johnny says, voice full of mock horror. “You’ve never been kissed?”

You wince. “Can we not talk about it?”

“C’mon,” he says with a dramatic groan, nudging your knee with his. “That’s not something you just drop and then not expect follow-up questions.”

You try to hide behind your cup of tea, muttering, “It’s not a big deal.”

But to Johnny, everything about you is a big deal.

You’ve been best friends with him for years. You, the shy introvert who reads books at parties, and him, the loud, flirty human torch who could charm the socks off a mannequin. Everyone thinks the dynamic is hilarious — Beauty and the Brain, Fire and Ice. What no one knows is that beneath the calm surface of your quiet little heart is a crush that’s been simmering for ages.

And Johnny? He’s been extra flirty lately. Lingering touches. Calling you “sweetheart” in that low voice. Bringing you coffee just the way you like it, without even asking.

Still, you figured that’s just... Johnny being Johnny.

Until now.

“Alright,” Johnny says suddenly, sitting up straighter. “We’re fixing this.”

Your eyes widen. “Fixing what?”

He leans toward you, eyes twinkling with that dangerous mischief. “You’ve never been kissed. And I’m your best friend. That’s, like, criminal negligence.”

You choke on your tea.

“I—Johnny, I am not kissing you just because I haven’t—”

“I didn’t say that.” He smirks, completely unbothered. “I’m offering to help. Like a public service.”

You glare, cheeks on fire. “That’s not how kisses work!”

“It is when I’m involved,” he says easily, then his voice softens — just a bit. “Hey. I’m kidding. Mostly. I just… I don’t want you to think there’s something wrong with you because of it.”

Your eyes dart away.

It’s hard not to feel that way, sometimes. Like you missed some crucial social milestone everyone else passed in high school. Like your quietness makes you unlovable.

But Johnny sees right through you.

“You know,” he says, quieter now, “I always thought it was kind of... sweet. That you haven’t rushed into that stuff. Like you’re waiting for someone who actually matters.”

You blink. “You really think that?”

He nods, the teasing fading. “Yeah. I do.”

There’s a long pause.

The air feels heavy — not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something’s shifted.

And then, in the gentlest voice you’ve ever heard from him, Johnny says:

“Do you want your first kiss to be with someone you trust?”

You look at him. At his eyes, the soft crease between his brows, the way he’s watching you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Your heart beats like a drum.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He moves slowly — giving you every chance to back out. His hand slides across the couch, fingers brushing yours. His other hand comes up, cradling your cheek like you’re made of glass.

“Okay,” he says softly. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

And you nod, because words are impossible.

His lips meet yours — warm, patient, unhurried. He doesn’t rush it. It’s not some fiery, movie-scene moment. It’s better. It’s safe. Sweet. The kind of kiss that says, I’ve wanted this for a long time, but I didn’t want to scare you.

You melt.

When he pulls back, he’s still close enough for your noses to touch.

“That,” he says, eyes sparkling, “was definitely worth the wait.”

You stare at him, breathless. “You’ve thought about it?”

He grins. “Only every time you look at me with those big eyes and then pretend you’re not blushing.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God—”

“You are so adorable, it’s unfair.”

You peek through your fingers. “So… what now?”

Johnny leans back on the couch, tugging you gently with him until your head rests on his shoulder. He keeps your hand in his.

“Well,” he says, “now I take you on a real date. We make out a lot. And eventually, you fall madly in love with me.”

You scoff, but your smile gives you away. “You’re so confident.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Not confidence, sweetheart. Just a very accurate prediction.”

And somehow, you believe him.

[hatsbuckets]

Some more Monster Hunter 141 AU (bc I can't stop thinking about it and finally wrote something else) context: Soap is a seer! And the team knows. He can sense and see supernatural things, but is not one himself. cw warning for a child ghost/spirit but not horror.

Soap doesn’t talk about it much. Why would he? It’s not exactly mission-critical to tell your CO you’ve seen the same ghost dog guarding the safehouse three nights in a row. Or that the base in Kuwait had a woman in a 1940s uniform who stood in the showers and sobbed when no one else was around.

Might be mission critical though if the ghost is actually interfering with gear though. Or if the slime is seeping through the walls and you're the first one to sense it. Or— you get the point.

He figures it started when he was twelve. Or maybe younger. When his gran passed and he still saw her standing in the hallway for three days after the funeral, humming as she folded nonexistent linens.

And then it just... never stopped, for anything.

He knows what vampires feel like. They're off, like looking at a predator through murky water. Werewolves are worse, heavy in the lungs. Slime is just annoying. Demons are hot and all teeth.

But whatever Ghost is? That’s not a feeling he can name. It sits in the back of his teeth like static. Too old. Too hot. Not alive, but not dead, either. Ghost is human. At least that's what Price told him.

When Soap brought it up to his Captain, Price said, simply "trauma can do a lot to a person, Soap, best to let it rest." But Soap knows what trauma feels. For each person it's different. Cold. Sharp. Maybe humid, if he had to describe it. Whatever's coming off Ghost isn't.

And then there’s the boy.

Johnny sees him maybe a few days after their second op together. A kid, no older than ten. He clings to Ghost’s shadow like it’s safe there. He doesn’t speak or try to get Ghost's attention. He just watches. Sometimes points. Sometimes laughs.

The first time, Johnny thinks he’s hallucinating from sleep deprivation. The second time, he watches the kid try to hold lightly at Ghost’s sleeve, hands passing straight through. Ghost doesn't flinch. Ghost's not a seer like Soap either.

Johnny asks once. Like he does sometimes when he sees friends with ghosts hovering. That won't let go.

“You got any family?” It's casual, during kit check.

Ghost doesn’t even look up. “No.”

And that’s that. So Johnny stops asking. But when Ghost’s not looking, he’ll smile at the boy. A quick glance. A soft wave. The ghost kid smiles back, every time.

Ghost doesn’t see the boy. But he feels him sometimes, he can't not. It's a weight in the air. A coolness behind the ribs. Familiar and comforting in a way he’ll never admit.

And such is the rhythm Soap falls into with Ghost and the boy. Sure he's shy when there's lots of people. Hides in that weird ghost space that Soap doesn't understand during loud and chaotic mission. But he always comes back. Soap starts looking forward to sneaking glances and smiles.

It's politeness he's not technically supposed to give those who haven't moved on. Don't want to "encourage their attachments." Unfortunately, Johnny MacTavish is many things. Brash. Loud. Quick to anger and quicker to a trigger. But rude is not one of them.

...

The recon shack was barely a building, a half-collapsed roof, peeling rusted siding, and a wind that kept whispering through the cracks. But it was a shelter.

Soap leaned against the far wall, rifle across his lap, watching through a slit in the tin paneling. The moon was low. Mission still hours away. Ghost had curled up in the corner with his back to the wall, gear on, mask up, sleeping or close enough to fake it.

And beside him, like always, the boy.

He was sitting cross-legged now, little hands folded neatly in his lap. Watching Ghost like he might disappear. His pale face calm and a little sad.

Johnny kept his voice low.

“You follow him everywhere, huh?”

The boy didn’t react at first. Then, slowly nodded.

Soap tilted his head, careful of the conversation he's never actually gotten to have. “What’s your name, wee man?”

The boy looked thoughtful. Like the question didn’t make sense. Then he shrugged. “Dunno.”

“No? That’s alright,” Soap said gently. “And who's this big guy to ya?”

The boy smiled, small and bashful. “Uncle Simon.”

Soap’s throat closed a little.

“Well,” he murmured, “he’s a good one to follow, if you’re choosin’. Tough as hell. Keeps us safe. Even if he growls like a junkyard dog.”

That earned a quiet laugh from the boy.

Johnny hesitated, then reached into a pouch on his vest and pulled out a wrapped biscuit, standard ration junk. He unwrapped it carefully, held it out.

“Not sure you can eat this, mate.”

The boy reached for it, fingers passing through the foil and chocolate like mist. He frowned, a little disappointed. Soap just smiled.

“Worth a shot.”

The boy shifted, glancing at Ghost, then back at Johnny. “He can’t see me.”

“I know.”

“But I like being near him.”

Soap nodded. “Me too.”

The boy, slow and cautious, lay down beside Ghost, curling in like a cat in the curve of his side. Curling in like he could make Ghost's arm fit around him

Ghost stirred.

Johnny turned his gaze back to the slit in the wall just as Ghost’s voice rasped low and sleep-slow, “Talkin’ to yourself again, Johnny?”

Soap smiled, taking a small bit of the biscuit. “Aye. Somethin’ like that.”

Ghost grunted, already half out again. The wind whistled low.

And Johnny watched the kid’s little ghost face relax into something almost peaceful. His eyes drifted shut. If it could be called sleep, it looked like it.

Johnny stayed awake, watching the wind stir the dust. And if his chest ached a little, well he didn’t mind.

Thanks for reading

[enviedear]

JASON TODD as a father—to a girl. 

he’s not the kind to be a performative girl dad. he’s not the dad who coddles her purely based on gender, hell no. he respects her, because she’s a person. one he helped make. one he’d level the earth for. jason is not the dad who does it for show. what he does do it for—her, and her mom. the people he loves. the girls who matter.

he’s the kind of dad that learns, actually and practically. he does her hair with the practiced precision of a man who uses a gun more than hair ties, but it always comes out perfect. jason todd is not the kind of man that would half-ass his own kids’ hair. he learns how to speak softer, even when he’s mad. even when she ruins his last good pair of gloves with glue and stickers. when she draws on his case files. sticks smiley face stickers on his helmet. uses his body like a jungle gym when he’s sore from patrol. he never stops her. not once.

she makes him softer, but never weak. just…clearer. sharper in the ways that matter. more deliberate with his time. with his words. with his hands.

he doesn’t shout unless something’s on fire. he doesn’t punish emotion, hers or his. when she loses it in the cereal aisle, he doesn’t walk away. he kneels. breathes with her. says, “hey, we’ll figure it out.” until they do. 

he knows how to sit on the floor with her, knees cracking and all, and listen to her talk about things he doesn’t fully understand—schoolyard drama, cartoons about friendship, the difference between mermaids, naiads, and sirens. 

he listens like it’s gospel, because it’s her voice saying it, so it is. because she’s excited to tell him. because he never wants to be the reason she stops sharing.

jason learns how to handle being scared again. not the kind of fear he knows—bullets or shadows or defeat—but the kind that creeps in quietly when she coughs too hard, or when she doesn’t answer right away, or when she starts growing up and away from him.

he learns that fatherhood isn’t about protecting her from everything, it’s just about showing up, over and over, even when he’s tired or guilty or convinced he’ll fail.

he’s not overly sentimental, but he keeps every note she leaves in his nightstand drawer. he lets her doodle in the margins of his favorite books, right beside her mother’s inscriptions and notes. he’s not sappy, but he is loving. always.

jason doesn’t do bedtime stories in the traditional sense. he tells her toned-down versions of fairy tales with his own twists, where the princess saves herself and her best friend is a motorcycle, and there are no love interests aside from a man and woman eerily similar to him and her mother.

he learns how to apologize, too—when he’s too short with her, when his temper flares and her’s does too, when he sees a flash of the old him in her stubborn little frown. he says sorry and he means it, because he never wants her to grow up thinking love comes with sharp edges.

he’s not soft. but for her, he is safe. secure.

and that’s better.

˖ ࣪ ⊹ writer's note | this was a request and i just had to. so here, my thoughts on girl dad!jason. i love him. most of this is based off of how he was as robin (staunch based feminist jaybin save us) !!

if you liked this lmk with a reblog and/or comment <3

[em1i2a3]

Tree Bones

Pairing: The Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: To keep up with the good PR streak the team has been having, Val sets up an autograph signing and meet and greet for civilians. But when some men start to get a little too close for comfort, Jealous Sentry comes out.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Jealous/Territorial/Protective Sentry, Reader and Bob/Sentry/The Void (of course) are in an established relationship, Sentry is a feral boi and is super touchy,

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Oral Sex (female receiving), Fingering, Hair Pulling, Breast/Nipple Play, Dirty Talk, Use of Good Girl, Is there Bratty Reader/Brat Tamer Sentry Vibes in here? Yeah, not super prominent but it’s in a playful way, Spitting, Drooling, Choking (not extreme or anything), Biting, Sucking, Sentry is a praiseful lover, Aftercare to the max

Author’s Note: There were so many requests for Jealous Sentry so here it is, all of y’all are being fed in one go lol. Boy oh boy Jealous Sentry is a fun dude to write. Anyways! I hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count: 10,096

You laid the suit out carefully across your side table, fingertips brushing along the smooth stretch of fabric as though it were something far more delicate than reinforced tactical gear. The material caught in the dim amber light of your bedside lamp–sleek, spandex-like, but threaded with Kevlar in all the right places. A dark, stormy grey formed the base, cool and commanding, but it was the golden-yellow accents that shimmered like wildfire with every shift of the light. They traced along the seams in deliberate, flattering lines–down the ribs, around the waist, along the outer thighs and the underside of the arms–drawing the eye and sculpting your silhouette.

It hugged your body in a way that felt like it had been stitched to your bones. Every curve, every flex of muscle or turn of your hips, were molded in and accounted for. But that was the point. You had not wanted the standard issue, not something baggy or ill-fitting like the first uniform Val had handed to you. You needed something that moved with you–fluid, breathable, built for speed, agility, and presence.

So months ago, you made your requests. Extra flex panels along the knees and lower back to allow for high-impact landings and aerial flips. Reinforced utility belt loops that wouldn’t dig into your waist. An inner lining that wouldn’t stick to your skin when the heat kicked up. A zipper that was functional and secure–because you weren’t about to flash half the world during a press conference again.

And then, the colors.

You remembered standing in front of the mirror when it was first delivered, twisting to the side and letting your eyes trail down the yellow-gold piping along your hips and thighs. It felt like it was made for you–less like armor, more like a second skin. Powerful. Unapologetically you, and it was mixed with a hint of your mission partner in there as well, which made things even more meaningful for you at least. Sentry was head over heels for the little details you put into it, that was for sure.

The public also loved it, and that was one of the main reasons why you were pulling it out for tomorrow’s event.

Val had scheduled the meet-and-greet as part of a broader PR push, something to completely solidify the “Humanity of the team.” You had all been able to keep up good fronts with reporters, and with civilians thanks to a bunch of other events Val had created, and the public missions she sent all of you on to show the team off to the world, but she wanted to keep up the streak, so…The meet-and-greet idea was created, and everyone had to be on board, or else there would just be more PR stunts to do. You didn’t mind being able to interact with civilians though, it came with the territory,

You let out a quiet sigh, smoothing your palm over the fabric one last time before stepping back, only to freeze when the soft sound of the ensuite door creaked open behind you.

Steam curled into the bedroom as Sentry stepped out, his light brown hair damp and sticking to his temples. He was wearing nothing but a low-slung towel around his waist, his body glistening with a few stray water drops that trailed down his pale skin, slipping through the hard lines of his abs. He reached up to his mane of hair, fluffing it with one of your spare towels, scrubbing lazily as he crossed the room, making sure all the droplets of water were sopped. You gave him a small smile as he tossed the towel onto your bed and came up behind you, the head of his bare chest radiating against your back. He looked over your shoulder, his golden eyes tracing the uniform on the side table.

”You’re wearing that tomorrow?” Sentry asked, his voice low, his breath sticking to the nape of your neck. You tilted your head back and smirked up at him, catching the way a droplet of water clung to his temple before sliding down the sharp edge of his jaw.

”Yeah? Is there an issue?” Your tone was playful, but his eyes didn’t flicker, they just remained trained on the uniform with an intensity that made your stomach flutter.

“Can’t you wear the one that’s designed for your cold missions?” You blinked at him, eyebrows raising in disbelief.

”Sentry, it’s literally the middle of summer,” You started, dragging the words out with mock patience, “I’ll die of heatstroke…You’re lucky I’m not deciding to dress for the weather, because I’d be wearing those pretty cutoff shorts you like.” That earned you a groan–low, and guttural, one that vibrated through your back. His arms looped around your waist like a vice, pulling you snug against his chest as his hips pressed flush to your lower back.

”Those are for my eyes only,” He muttered. You hummed, tipping your head to the side as his lips found the crook of your neck, pressing a soft, burning hot kiss to the skin there.

“You sure you can’t wear…A Thunderbolts hoodie or something?” He added between his little ministrations, each one trailing up higher and higher, leaving little wet marks in their wake until he reached your earlobe where he gently nipped at it. You let out a soft little laugh, feeling his tongue poke out to wet the sensitive flesh there.

“We all agreed we’d be wearing our uniforms, remember?” You murmured, the smile evident in your voice, “And besides…You don’t see me complaining about the fact that you’re gonna be wearing your suit. You know–the one that literally clings to every muscle you have.” That earned a chuckle against your skin, but it was strained, like he was trying not to be swayed.

He shook his head, slow and stubborn, nuzzling the spot beneath your jaw as he said, “It’s not the same…”

You twisted in his arms, turning to face him fully. His arms loosened just enough to let you pivot, your palms finding their way to his broad, still-damp shoulders. You looked up at him, squinting as though solving a puzzle, the smirk never leaving your lips.

“Oh…I see,” You said slowly, your tone lilting with mock revelation. “You’re jealous that I’m going to be talking to a lot of men tomorrow.” His golden eyes narrowed, and he let out a sharp huff of air that hit your cheeks with just enough force to feel intentional.

“I’m not jealous,” He grumbled.

You arched a brow.

“I just feel like these people don’t respect our relationship well enough to know not to flirt with a God’s girlfriend,” He added, voice thick with restrained frustration, but there was something soft under the bite. Something like insecurity. Your expression softened, just slightly.

“You know I don’t see anyone else when you’re around, right? I only have eyes for you.” His glowing irises ran over you, brows furrowed, like he was scanning for any trace of doubt, which he found none of…Because he knew you truly meant every word of what you said, especially when it came to him.

His voice was quieter when he replied, “Doesn’t mean they won’t try.” You brushed your fingers through the ends of his damp hair, then down the curve of his neck, collecting little droplets of water and tracing them along his skin.

“Let them try,” You whispered, stepping in closer until there was no space left between you. “It just means I get to remind you that I’m yours when we get back home.” His hands tightened on your waist, possessive and reverent all at once, and he let out a long sigh–a sound laced with something deeper than exasperation. Something vulnerable. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, slow and purposeful, like he was trying to press every word he couldn’t say directly into your lips.

There was nothing rushed about it. Just heat, and devotion, and something unmistakably his–the way his mouth slanted over yours with this quiet gentleness, like you were something fragile. His fingers splayed against your lower back, anchoring you to him, as if he was afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t.

You leaned in, melting into the kiss like it was gravity pulling you down–fingers curling into the damp ends of his hair, lips parting just slightly as you chased him when he finally pulled away.

“Fine… Fine…Wear the uniform…” He muttered, golden eyes still half-lidded with longing. You grinned against his mouth, your forehead brushing his as your hands smoothed up over his shoulders.

“I’ll make it worth your while…As long as you behave at the meet-and-greet though.” He immediately rolled his eyes, exaggerating the gesture tenfold.

”I make no promises.” You let out a little laugh, your hands sliding down to his chest–still damp and warm, and unfairly sculpted.

”I know you’ll try though.” You stated, and he nodded, leaning in again for another kiss.

—————————

Val had set up the meet-and-greet at City Hall with military-grade precision and the polished gleam of a publicist’s fever dream. The courtyard had been converted into a PR battleground–massive Thunderbolts banners hung from the stone columns, fluttering in the late afternoon breeze, while a press team buzzed around the perimeter like wasps in black polos and lanyards. Drones hovered discreetly overhead, capturing aerial shots of the event for the inevitable highlight reel that would air on every national news outlet by morning.

The signing table stretched in an imposing arc across the raised platform at the front of the steps. Covered in sleek, matte black cloth stitched with gold threading that shimmered like wire under the sun, it made all of you look like gods presiding over the mortals below. Each place setting had been arranged with meticulous care–team nameplates, thick marker sets, bottled electrolyte water, and individually labeled portfolios of fan art to flip through between signings.

You were seated near the center of the lineup–wedged tightly between Alexei and Yelena, which meant a steady stream of broken pens courtesy of Alexei and dried sarcasm from Yelena when she was called “Black Widow” instead of her actual name.

Sentry, of course, was stationed all the way at the far end of the table. Val had insisted on separating the two of you “to keep visual balance,” whatever that meant, and positioned him as the anchor of the lineup–last to sign, last to photograph, last to be remembered. It was strategic.

But it also meant he had a direct, uninterrupted view of you.

And he took full advantage of that.

From time to time, you’d glance down the line and find him watching–chin rested on his hand, fingers curled near his mouth, golden eyes fixed on you with a sort of calm intensity that felt like being watched by the sun. Other times, he looked away just before you caught him, only to turn back moments later, gaze sharp and unreadable.

Sometimes mothers passed their babies to you for photos, and you could feel the way his attention softened. The edges of his mouth lifted slightly as you cradled tiny hands, cooed at sleepy eyes, and smiled so brightly that he could’ve sworn he needed sunglasses. His expression in those moments was of absolute adoration–tender and affectionate, with something private blooming behind his eyes from how overwhelming it felt to see you in that position for what was less than a minute per interaction.

But then it would be tarnished by the others that brought on that death stare again.

The men who lingered a little too long.

The ones who complimented your smile but looked at your body like it was a piece of meat they were wanting to consume and steal.

You tried not to let it show that you were bothered or uncomfortable with the interactions, or that you were thinking about Sentry and how his patience was clearly being tested. You just kept your posture even, your voice polite, and your hands moving. But even when you did that you still felt the weight of Sentry’s gaze like a second skin each time. He stared hard at them when they reached his end of the table–brows low, jaw flexed, a stillness to his frame that made it feel like he was so close to getting up and snapping. Like one more sideways comment would be the last straw.

And for a while, he held it together. Barely.

Until one guy, tall and cocky with wraparound sunglasses and a paparazzi cap, leaned across the table with a smirk and said just loud enough to carry:

“Damn. That suit’s working overtime with that body of yours. You wear it just for the missions–or to drive the team crazy?” You paused–pen still in hand, smile frozen mid-motion–as the man’s words hung in the air like the aftermath of a bomb. Up until now, most comments had stayed on the safe side of flattery. Nothing you couldn’t brush off with a polite nod or a rehearsed laugh. But this…This was different. Too forward. Too deliberate. The way his eyes traveled down your body, lingering over the curve of your waist and the seams of your suit, made your stomach twist.

You didn’t have to look to know Sentry had heard it.

You felt it.

Like the sun behind you had suddenly sharpened, gone from warm to blistering. Heat prickled at your back–not from the weather, but from the quiet, simmering rage of a god holding himself in check.

Then, calmly–too calmly–he leaned forward in his chair and called, “Yelena.”

She glanced up, midway through signing a poster, and raised a single eyebrow in reply.

“Do you mind switching spots with me, please?” Sentry asked, his tone polite but dangerously low. Controlled, clipped, the kind of voice that sounded like it had to wade through molten fury just to get out. Yelena looked over at you, her eyes narrowing slightly like she was trying to gauge how bad this was about to get. Her expression said Is this going to be a lovers’ spat or a superhuman standoff?

You gave her a small nod and leaned in, whispering just loud enough for her to hear, “He’s not a happy camper with the ogling.”That made her snort, barely containing a laugh.

“No shit,” She muttered under her breath, rising smoothly from her chair. Behind her, Sentry’s jaw ticked when he heard your comment–but he said nothing, golden eyes glowing faintly as he rose and strode toward your side like a man on a mission.

You didn’t even try to hide your smile as he crossed behind the table, swapping places with Yelena in a silent exchange. His cape swept slightly behind him, catching in the breeze, and you caught the faintest glint of gold in the fabric’s threadwork as he dropped into the chair beside you with a subtle but definitive thud.

Bucky didn’t miss a beat.

“Can’t take a break from striking fear into people, can you?” He muttered with a smirk.

Walker, seated just beyond, let out a quiet laugh. “At least he’s consistent with it…” Sentry didn’t even glance at them. He just adjusted the clasp of his navy-blue cape, rested one forearm on the table, and fixed his gaze on the man still lingering in front of you like he hadn’t just made a complete ass of himself.

Your pen resumed its smooth glide across the photo in front of you, but your eyes slid to Sentry’s with a glint of amusement.

“You really are bad at pretending not to care,” You whispered.

He didn’t look at you–still watching the man as he collected his signed photo and finally, awkwardly, moved along.

“Not pretending,” Sentry said flatly. “I don’t care for people treating you like you’re something they get to comment on.” His hand slipped beneath the edge of the tablecloth to rest against your thigh. His palm curved along the muscle, fingers curling possessively as his thumb grazed slow circles against the thin, skintight material of your suit. It wasn’t obscene. It wasn’t even that overt. But it was intentional. A claim made without words. You inhaled a quiet breath through your nose as your thighs pressed together instinctively.

“Sentry,” You murmured from the corner of your mouth, keeping your face angled toward the next fan in line while your hand covered his beneath the table. “It seems like someone’s getting a little territorial.” He leaned in slightly, the scent of clean skin and heat rolling off him in waves, golden eyes flicking to yours just once before dropping to your lips.

“You’re my partner, Y/N,” He said quietly. “Sue me for wanting you all to myself. And for wanting people to treat you with respect.” You gave his hand another squeeze.

”First off,” You murmured, lips barely moving, “You already have me all to yourself.” His golden eyes flicked to yours again–sharp, luminous, and slightly narrowed as though daring you to keep talking. “And second,” You continued, brushing your thumb along his knuckles, “The majority of these people have been fine. A one-off comment shouldn’t make you blow a gasket.” He rolled his eyes, the movement subtle but still laced with exasperation as he tilted his head closer, angling toward you like gravity demanded it.

“It’s been a whole day of you being looked at,” He said under his breath, voice pitched low enough that it vibrated just against your skin. “And it wasn’t just that one comment, you know that.” You turned your head just enough to catch the muscle twitching in his jaw, the steady grip of his hand still firm on your thigh. Protective. Possessive. Warm. You smiled softly.

”Sen…You know I only have eyes for immortal men.” That made his lips twitch, just slightly. But his expression stayed guarded. “These guys?” You nodded your chin toward the dispersing line of civilians. “They’re just having little fantasies in their heads. And that’s all they’ll ever get. You can’t let them get to you. You know they don’t matter.” He stared at you a beat longer, like he needed to drink in the confirmation again for himself–searching your eyes for any trace of doubt. But there wasn’t any. There never was when it came to him.

“I know,” He finally muttered, exhaling slowly. “It’s just… Hard. Watching it all day. Knowing I can’t do anything.”

“You did do something,” You commented with a smile, voice barely above a breath. “You switched seats. Glared. Scared a grown man into silence. Very effective. Very on-brand.” That earned the faintest huff of a laugh from him, his hand relaxing slightly against your thigh as some of the tension bled out of his shoulders.

“Yeah, well…It’s not exactly the image Val’s going for when it comes to me,” He grumbled.

“Maybe not. But it’s the image I like.” You replied with a smirk, he lifted his brow.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm,” You murmured, shifting your knee to press against his beneath the table. “It’s kind of hot.”

His eyes glinted.

And for a second–just a second–you saw it: the pulse of gold flickering faintly along the edge of his pupils, like light filtering through liquid.

“Careful,” He warned, voice low and rough. “You say things like that and I might forget we’re still in public.” You smirked, letting your thumb drag just a little more deliberately across the back of his hand beneath the table, nails grazing the faint raised lines of his knuckles. Then you tilted your head, voice light but laced with provocation.

“Don’t provoke me,” You murmured sweetly. “I may start flirting back with these guys just to get you ramped up a little more.”

His head turned toward you, slowly.

Golden eyes locked onto yours, glowing just faintly in the sun-drenched shadow of the tented booth, and his expression went from smoldering to downright dangerous in a heartbeat.

“You’d be playing a very dangerous game,” He informed, brows rising in a show of mock civility that didn’t quite mask the tightly coiled tension in his jaw.

You shrugged, unbothered. Defiant.

“So?” You questioned, your voice dipped low and syrupy. “You already switched seats like a possessive boyfriend…Might as well make it worth your while.” His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his fingers tensed slightly on your thigh again–no longer just possessive, but practically daring.

“Don’t tempt me, Y/N,” He said, his voice a velvet threat. “Because if you do, I won’t be subtle about reminding everyone who you belong to.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” You whispered, chin tilted up now, smiling like you already knew the answer. Sentry leaned in–closer than before, his mouth barely a breath from your ear, his voice smooth as silk and hot as sunfire.

“It’s both,” He murmured. “And you know I always keep my promises.” You inhaled sharply, the words hitting a nerve that sent a slow burn curling down your spine. The next fan in line stepped forward, blissfully unaware of the searing tension beneath the table, and you plastered on your PR smile like nothing had happened.

But Sentry stayed close.

And his hand…Didn’t move.

Instead, it slid just a touch higher.

“You’re evil,” You said under your breath, biting the inside of your cheek as your hand gripped his wrist lightly to keep him in check. He chuckled low, bumping his temple against yours for the briefest second like he could pretend this wasn’t driving him just as crazy.

“You’re the one who poked the dragon, sweetheart,” he said, lifting your hand and brushing his lips over your knuckles in a gesture that looked chaste to onlookers…But was anything but innocent.

————————

The rest of the meet-and-greet went as well as it could, considering the tension bubbling beneath the surface.

A few more fans flirted–some subtle, others less so. One complimented the color scheme of your suit but clearly didn’t mean the suit. Another asked if they could get a picture “with arms around your waist,” and you had responded with a practiced smile and an evasive pivot, but not before glancing at Sentry just to see the way his jaw locked and his eyes went molten.

You might have leaned into it just a little.

Nothing overt. Nothing that would get you chewed out by Val later. But you let your smile linger longer. Let your laugh ring a touch sweeter. Let your hips stay cocked in that suit he hated and loved so much. Just to watch him seethe in that tightly reined, godly way he did when the rest of the world forgot that you were his.

By the time the event wrapped and the Thunderbolts were herded into the blacked-out SUVs waiting curbside, you could feel Sentry’s patience thinning like glass under a blowtorch.

When the team stepped into the Watchtower’s front atrium, still buzzing with post-event debrief chatter, you didn’t even hesitate.

You took one look at him, saw the rigid way he was holding himself, the faint flush high on his cheekbones, the sheer tension in the lines of his shoulders and arms–and you knew. If you so much as said one more teasing word, he’d snap.

So instead, you turned to the team with a sunny smile and said, “We’re gonna skip dinner. Bit of a headache. Goodnight, everyone!”

“Headache?” Yelena deadpanned, brow arching. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You didn’t even bother to answer. Just flashed her a grin, grabbed Sentry by the wrist, and pulled him down the hall toward your shared quarters. You didn’t look back, but you heard Bucky mutter, “They better reinforce the bed frame,” followed by Alexei’s hearty laugh and Walker’s amused, “Ten bucks says they don’t make it past the door.”

You reached your room with brisk steps, the door whooshing shut behind you like a final seal on your intentions. The moment it clicked into place, you turned–

Only to be pinned.

Sentry was on you before you could blink, hands flat against the wall on either side of your head, golden eyes burning down into yours.

“That was cruel,” He murmured, voice low, raw, and aching with the restraint he’d been holding onto all day. You tilted your chin up innocently, lips parted just slightly.

“What was?” You asked, he stepped in closer–his chest brushing yours, the heat from his body radiating through your uniform. His hand came up slowly, deliberately–fingertips brushing the edge of your jaw before sliding around the column of your throat. Not tight. Not forceful. Just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. To make you feel it. His thumb grazed beneath your ear, his golden eyes locked onto yours with a hunger that looked like it had been gnawing at him since the moment the event began.

“You know exactly what, Y/N…” He murmured, voice a molten thread of restraint and ache. “You were trying to make me jealous…You were trying to make me go crazy.” Your bottom lip slipped slowly between your teeth, biting down just enough to sting as your tongue darted out to wet it. The heat in your belly coiled tighter, rising fast under the weight of his touch, the rumble in his chest, the burning look in his eyes.

“Well…” You whispered, letting the word hang in the air between you like smoke, “judging by this reaction… I’d say I did make you jealous. And I did make you go crazy.” His hand squeezed–not hard, just enough to make your breath stutter, just enough to make your back arch ever so slightly off the wall as your thighs pressed together from the sudden jolt of pleasure that lit down your spine. The air felt thick with the electricity sparking between your bodies.

“You enjoy it,” He growled softly, head tilting as his mouth dipped closer to yours. “You get off on it, don’t you? You like when I get all possessive and jealous–so wound up I’m one second away from tearing your suit off in front of the whole team just to remind them who you belong to. Hmm?” You let out a breathy little giggle, unable to stop the smile curling up your lips. One hand slipped up to cradle the back of his neck, your fingertips threading into the still-damp curls at his nape.

“You already know the answer to that,” You whispered, voice dripping with heat and mischief. His thumb pressed gently against the pulse point beneath your jaw, feeling the fluttering beat that gave you away.

“Oh I do,” He started, dipping his head so that his lips brushed your ear and his hot breath could stick to your skin, “But I wanna hear you say it.” He added. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment as a shiver rippled through you, your heart hammering against your chest at the closeness.

“I love when you get jealous,” You admitted , your voice a breath against his cheek. “I love when you lose control over me. When you look at me like you’re going to devour me. When you remind me–” Your fingers tugged lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck, your tone dropping to a sultry murmur, “–just how much I belong to you.” A low, guttural hum rumbled deep in his ches–ta sound that vibrated against your sternum and sent heat lashing down your spine like a brand. His hand at your throat loosened, fingers dragging down in a slow glide until they settled at the curve of your waist. His other arm looped around behind you, drawing you in until the last sliver of space between you vanished and his mouth crashed into yours.

The kiss wasn’t gentle, or patient, it was all teeth and heat and molten need that was barely held back by the thinnest thread of control. Sentry’s lips slanted over yours with bruising intent, tongue licking into your mouth like he was starving for the taste of you. He kissed like a man who waited years to devour you. Like every repressed thought, every jealous glance, every time he had clenched his fists under the table to keep from grabbing you…Was finally being unleashed.

You moaned into it, hands flying up to the clasps at his shoulders, fumbling only once before you unhooked the first one, then the second. His cape dropped to the floor with a soft thud, and before you could say a word, his hands were at the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. You gasped, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he pinned you tighter to the wall for a breathless second–grinding just enough to make you shiver–before turning and striding across the room.

When he dropped you onto the mattress the bed creaked under the force of it, the squeak of the springs loud in the quiet room, but it was nothing compared to the heat rolling off him as he followed you down–hovering over you like a storm cloud about to burst.

His mouth found yours again in a frenzy–hot, breathless, feral. There was nothing neat about it this time. No restraint. No mercy. Just raw need and open mouths colliding, your lips parting with a gasp as his tongue slid back in, messier now, wetter. He licked into you like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to taste every word you’d moaned under your breath that day, to erase every look those men had thrown your way. His teeth caught your bottom lip–bit down just enough to sting–before sucking it between his own, pulling a groan from deep in your chest.

Saliva clung to both your mouths as he pulled back a fraction, his lips pink and swollen, panting against your cheek. And then he was speaking–whispering–but it wasn’t soft.

It was dirty. Rough. Desperate.

“You have no idea what you did to me today,” He growled, dragging the back of his hand down the length of your thigh as his other reached up–slow, deliberate–toward the zipper at the base of your throat. “Sitting there like a fucking goddess. Smiling. Laughing. Letting them stare.”

He tugged the zipper down with a zzzzrrip, slow and precise, his golden eyes locked on the line of skin he was revealing inch by inch. The suit parted down your sternum like a prayer answered in reverse, and he chased the trail with his mouth–pressing open, wet kisses along every patch of bare skin he exposed. His breath hitched at your collarbone. His tongue slid hot between the valley of your breasts. He nipped just beneath one with enough force to make you gasp.

“I should’ve ripped this fucking thing off you in the middle of the event,” he rasped, his lips dragging lower with every word. “Pinned you to that goddamn table. Let everyone see who you really belong to.”

Your back arched into his mouth, trembling, every nerve ending on fire beneath the wet heat of his tongue and the sharp little bites of his teeth.

“I saw the way you looked at me when they flirted. You wanted me to snap.”

“I did want it,” You breathed, your hands fisting in the bedsheets, voice a wrecked little whisper. “I wanted you to lose it. I wanted you to take it out on me.”

“Good,” He snarled against your ribs, the zipper finally stopping at your hips. He sat back on his knees, chest heaving, hands sliding under your shoulders to lift you just enough that he could peel the suit off–slow, punishing almost.

The fabric whispered off your skin as he dragged it down your arms, your waist, over your hips and thighs, baring inch after inch of skin to the fevered gleam in his eyes–until the suit was a puddle at your ankles.

And you were left in nothing but a black, lacy thong.

He froze.

His jaw clenched.

Then he let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head slowly, golden eyes blazing as they flicked from your hips to your chest to your face.

“That’s all you’ve been wearing under this all day?” He asked, voice husky with disbelief. Lust. You nodded, biting your lip–both teasing and breathless–as your hands reached up and around him, finding the zipper of his suit between his shoulder blades. You pulled it down slowly, the tight seams of his uniform parting beneath your fingers like melted wax.

“Of course I did,” You whispered, dragging your nails down the firm curve of his back as the zipper reached its end. “I wore them for you.”

That did something to him. His eyes squeezed shut like he was physically trying to control the heat rushing through him, his chest rising and falling with labored breath as his head dropped forward. A soft, incredulous sound left his throat–a dark, near-broken laugh.

“Such a cunning little thing,” He muttered, shaking his head slowly, golden strands brushing his cheek as he stared down at you with something feral glinting in his gaze. Something worshipful. Wrecked.

You let out a breathy laugh, feigning innocence even as your fingers toyed with the thick belt still cinched around his waist–the one that bore his insignia, solid and gleaming. With slow, deliberate hands, you unbuckled it. The metallic clink echoed in the quiet room as it fell to the floor with a weighty finality.

He didn’t wait.

He shrugged the rest of his suit off in one smooth, practiced motion–fabric peeling from his shoulders, down his waist, past his hips–until it joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. All that remained were th black briefs that hugged his hips, stretched taut around his erection that was straining against the fabric.

Your breath caught, as it always did.

No matter how many times you’d seen him like this–stripped down, golden eyes dark with need, skin still bearing faint traces of starlight and storm–you never quite adjusted. He was unreal. A god through and through. Carved muscle and shimmering tension, pale skin peppered with freckles across his chest, his arms, the dips of his hips like constellations mapped only for you.

You reached up with a gentle hand, fingers trailing down the warm, solid plane of his chest. The ridges of his abs flexed beneath your touch, his body responding like a bowstring drawn tight as your palm splayed flat over his sternum.

“You’re so beautiful,” You murmured, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

He leaned down, climbing back over you with a kind of slow, possessive gravity–his body draping yours, all heat and hunger and that impossible weight that came with him. You spread your thighs to cradle his hips, his warmth seeping into every inch of you.

Sentry pressed a kiss to your lips–quick, but full of tension, like he couldn’t afford to linger there too long. Then his mouth began to trail lower. Down your jaw. Over your neck. His tongue flicked at your pulse point before he sucked gently, leaving a faint mark that made your breath hitch.

And then he reached your chest.

His mouth found your breast like he’d been starving for it. His tongue curled around your nipple before his lips sealed over it, sucking slow and deep while his hand came up to cup the other. Your back arched off the bed, the sound that tore from your throat half gasp, half whimper.

“You’re mine,” He growled against your skin, his voice vibrating through your breast. “No one else gets to look at you like this…No one else gets to have you like this.”

You moaned his name, fingers gripping his hair as he dragged his mouth across your chest to lavish your other breast with the same type of care. Tongue flicking, sucking, biting just enough to make your thighs tense around his waist. You let out a soft whimper, the tension in your belly winding tighter with each second, coiling like a live wire as Sentry’s lips slid wetly down your sternum, over the dip of your stomach. He dragged his tongue deliberately across every scar you bore–each little raised line a testament to past battles, near-misses, and the stubbornness that had kept you breathing. And he worshipped every one of them like they were sacred.

His mouth pressed slow kisses to each mark, his tongue tracing the faded outlines with maddening precision. The slick warmth of it made you tremble, breath shallow, your fingers clutching the sheets beneath you.

When he reached the waistband of your underwear, he didn’t hesitate. He hooked his thumbs beneath the lace and yanked them down your thighs with a roughness that made you gasp. The fabric bunched in his fist, and for a second, he just stared at them–then brought them to his face, inhaling deep with a growl that was all hunger and ache and awe.

“Fuck…” He muttered, his golden eyes flashing molten. “Makes my fucking mouth water.” His voice was hoarse, his fingers flexing around the damp scrap of fabric. “You always smell so fucking good. Your body calls to me every second of the goddamn day. It makes me weak.”

And then he dropped to his knees.

A god–immortal, unstoppable–on his knees at the edge of the bed, arms curling under your thighs as he dragged you to him in one smooth motion. Your legs fell open without resistance, spread wide by the sheer force of him, your breath catching as cool air met heated skin.

He pressed a kiss to your knee first–tender and deceptively soft–before trailing more down your inner thigh, his breath hot, his mouth open. Every kiss got sloppier, more desperate. He bit, sucked, nipped, leaving wet, flushed marks in his wake. And then he looked up at you from between your legs, hair mussed and damp, his mouth shiny with spit, and said in a voice that sounded like sin incarnate:

“You know how much power you have over me?”

You blinked down at him, shaking your head slowly, lips parted, chest rising and falling with every breath you tried to catch.

A sharp smile curled his lips.

“You have brought a god to his knees just by spreading your legs…” His mouth hovered just above the apex of your thighs now, breath washing over you like fire. His eyes never left yours–glowing, starved. “You’re such a powerful fucking mortal…Fucking love it.” Your thighs twitched in his grip, muscles fluttering from how hard your body ached for him. And then finally he ducked his head, his mouth descending like a promise.

The first pass of his tongue over your folds was slow–too slow. A wet, languid drag from bottom to top, thick and deliberate, just to taste you. And fuck, the sound he made. It was guttural. Like he’d been starving for this and didn’t know how to pace himself. His grip on your thighs tightened as he moaned into your core, like the flavor of you was a drug that hit too fast and too hard.

“Goddamn…” He groaned, breath hot against your core. “You always taste like heaven and sin, wrapped in one filthy, perfect body.” His nose pressed into your mound as his tongue lapped at you again, a little faster now, messier, wetter–soaked with spit and slick. His jaw worked with a slow rhythm, but his eyes…His eyes were ravenous.

Only he got to look at you like this. Only he got to spread you wide and bury his face between your thighs like a man possessed.

“Mine,” He muttered against your folds, voice nearly slurred from the way he was devouring you. “Only I get to have this. This pussy…This perfect fucking pussy…Was made for me.” Your head tipped back against the sheets with a choked moan, hips jolting upward instinctively. His tongue circled your clit before flicking it fast, relentless, teasing it with firm little lashes that made your thighs twitch. You could barely catch your breath, not with the way he mouthed at you like a beast–no restraint, no pause, just need.

“Sentry–” Your voice cracked, trembling. Your hand flew to his hair, tangling tight in the still-damp strands as your other clutched at the sheets. He growled when you pulled him closer, the vibration sending a shockwave through your entire body.

“You like that?” He panted between licks. “You like riding my face like this? Grinding up into my tongue like a needy little thing that just wants my fingers?” You whimpered something between yes and more, but he was already giving it to you–already dragging two fingers up through your slick folds before plunging them deep inside with a wet, sinful squelch.

“Fuck–yes,” You gasped, back arching off the mattress as he curled them just right, pressing into that devastating spot that made your thighs shake. He groaned again, low and full, mouth working around your clit like he couldn’t get enough of the way you pulsed against his tongue. Every time you rocked your hips into his mouth, he met the motion with his own–tongue flicking faster, fingers fucking deeper.

“You feel that?” He growled, voice wrecked, hot breath sticky against your core. “Only I know this spot. Only I know how to make your whole fucking body tremble.” He angled his fingers just so, brushing your front wall with devastating precision. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna come all over my face like a good girl?” You were past speech–just panting, whimpering, grinding harder against his mouth, against his hand. Your body was thrumming like a live wire, strung tight, seconds from snapping. He felt it. He knew.

That’s when he brought his free hand up–sliding up your stomach, over the curve of your breast–and grabbed you. Full, possessive, thumb brushing your nipple with just enough pressure to make you cry out.

You slapped your hand over his, pressing it harder to your chest as your hips stuttered beneath him. He squeezed back, groaning into your core like the connection turned him feral.

“Oh fuck…Fuck Sentry…” you gasped, heels digging into the sheets as you tugged his hair with your other hand, dragging him closer, deeper.

“That’s it,” he hissed, mouth soaked with your slick. “Use me, baby. Ride my face. Show me how much this pussy needs me.”

You did. God, you did. Your hips rolled up into his mouth with frantic desperation, thighs trembling around his head as his tongue latched onto your clit again–this time fast, sloppy, flicking and flattening in dizzying rhythm.

The pressure snapped all at once.

You came with a cry, your whole body seizing as your orgasm crashed through you like a fucking freight train. Your hips bucked up into his face, grinding against his mouth as your core spasmed around his fingers, soaking him in waves. It was messy. Loud. Completely unrestrained.

And he took it all.

Groaned like a man starved and drank down every drop.

Your thighs quivered uncontrollably around his head as you whimpered, body twitching beneath the overstimulation. He didn’t stop–not at first. He licked you through it, riding the rhythm of your release like he was chasing his own high from the taste alone. Only when your grip in his hair tugged–shaky, wordless, trembling–did he finally ease up.

He pulled back slowly, panting, lips shiny, chin drenched, eyes wild with something unholy.

You stared down at him, breathless, ruined, still spread wide on the bed with your thighs twitching from the aftershocks.

He licked his lips. Smirked.

Then dragged his mouth up your trembling thigh and whispered “You always quench my thirst so well, my love…”You smiled down at him, dragging your fingers through his hair, smoothing back the damp strands clinging to his temple.

”Well, you do a good job earning it,” You murmured, still breathless, a crooked little smirk tugging at your lips. That pulled another soft chuckle from him–low and warm like thunder rumbling in the distance.

“Damn right I do,” He said pridefully, before leaning in again.

His mouth resumed its path up your body like it couldn’t stay away–kissing along your inner thighs, the dips of your hips, your lower belly. Each press of his lips was followed by a little nip, then a soft suck, just enough to draw the blood to the surface. You could already feel the faint bruises blossoming beneath his mouth like little cosmic marks, proof that you’d been worshipped by a god who couldn’t help but claim you one inch at a time.

By the time he reached your chest again, your hands were in his hair, gripping, urging, your nails grazing lightly over his scalp. He moaned against your skin, hot and heavy, before finally meeting your lips once more.

It was messy and desperate, the taste of yourself still thick and slick on his mouth. You didn’t care. You welcomed it, deepening the kiss until your tongues were sliding against one another, wet and ravenous. He kissed you like he needed it to breathe. Like his whole soul was tangled in the way your mouth moved under his.

You arched up against him, your bare chest flush to his, sweat-slick skin sliding together as his hips rolled down into yours–his cock still trapped inside the tight stretch of his briefs, grinding hard against your slick folds. You gasped against his mouth, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist again.

“Sentry…You’re so fucking hard.” You whimpered, breath catching as your hips bucked up into him. He pulled back with a ragged inhale, pupils blown, golden irises blazing.

“I know…And I can’t take much more.” His hand slid between your bodies, and he pushed the waistband of his briefs down, inch by inch, until they were low enough for his cock to spring free.

You couldn’t help the sound you made.

It was beautiful.

So painfully hard, flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking pre-cum that glistened in the low light as it beaded and dripped along his length. It twitched against his stomach, like it knew how close it was to where it belonged. He looked down at you, wild-eyed and wrecked, then slid both hands under your ass–lifting you in one smooth motion like you weighed nothing to him.

You let out a soft gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as your soaked core came down against the thick heat of his cock, your folds dragging along the underside of it, smearing arousal over every inch.

“Oh my god,” You choked, shivering as the blunt head brushed your clit on the upstroke. He groaned–full-bodied, like he was dying from the contact–and then adjusted you higher, angling his hips, guiding your thighs until they folded wide around his waist. One arm wrapped tight around your lower back to keep you upright.

Your bodies melded together, chest to chest, legs tangled around his hips as his cock pressed between your folds again, rutting slowly, dragging through the slick mess he’d made of you. You could feel the head catching on your entrance with every pass. His forehead dropped to yours, breath panting, fingers splayed along your spine.

“Just like this,” He whispered hoarsely. “Wanna come inside you like this. Wrapped around me…Looking me in the eyes when you take me.”

You whimpered, arms winding around his neck as you ground down on him, rubbing your clit along his length. “Do it. I want you inside me. Please, Sentry–”

He didn’t make you beg again.

His hand slid down between your bodies, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance.

And then, with one slow, devastating thrust…He pushed inside.

Your mouth fell open on a silent gasp as he filled you inch by inch, stretching you with a burn so perfect you thought you might cry. He groaned deep in his throat, his whole body trembling, like the sensation of your heat around him was too much to bear.

“Fuck, baby,” He panted, jaw clenched, golden eyes squeezed shut. “You feel so fucking good…Your pussy is fucking taking me so well…”

You pressed your forehead to his, hips rolling instinctively, breath hitching as you took every inch. Your body welcomed him like it had been made to, your walls fluttering around his cock like you never wanted him to leave.

He bottomed out inside you with a slow grind, the thick length of him seated so deep that your breath caught in your throat. Your walls pulsed around him, overwhelmed by the fullness, the heat, the intimacy of being wrapped around someone who worshipped you like you were made from starlight itself.

His breath hitched–a soft, strained sound–and he dipped his head, lips dragging along your collarbone as your fingers threaded through the soft golden strands of his hair.

You rocked against him slowly, chest pressed to his, your soaked folds squeezing around the root of his cock as you moved. His body trembled beneath your hands, and a few soft whimpers slipped past his lips–fragile things that felt too intimate to witness. Then, with a little pop, he pulled off your skin, panting against your throat before lifting his head.

His hand pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding you to him as he leaned back just enough to look at you–his golden eyes glowing faintly with heat and something deeper.

“Tell me who you belong to,” He murmured, low and husky, the words slipping between his teeth like a command layered in plea. His hips rolled upward, slow but deep, and you gasped as the stretch renewed its burn inside you.

Your back arched instinctively from the pressure, your breasts perking up in the space between your chests as he bent forward, his tongue dragging up the valley between them–hot, slow, possessive. You moaned softly, your nails grazing his scalp.

“I belong to you, Sentry,” You breathed, head tipping back slightly. “Only you… Always.”

A growl rumbled deep in his chest.

He rutted up into you with more force this time, the slow friction driving you higher as his free hand came down to anchor your hip. His fingers curled around your skin with the same reverence he touched holy things–with care, with need, with silent awe.

“Tell me,” He gritted through his teeth, “Who’s the only one that loves you like this?” You whimpered, voice breaking as you felt his teeth graze the underside of your breast. He nipped–just sharp enough to make your whole body jerk, the sting mixing with the pleasure until you were dizzy with it.

“Y-You,” You gasped. “Just you. Nobody else can love me like you do.”

His eyes flicked up at you from beneath dark lashes, glowing and wrecked and so, so full of something you couldn’t name without breaking. He hummed softly against your skin, lips soothing the spot he bit with a slow lick, and the sound he made was pure satisfaction.

“That’s right,” He murmured. “Only me.” His next thrust was deep–so deep you gasped, your hands clenching against his shoulders, nails biting into the warm skin stretched over muscle. His chest heaved against yours, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t bear to look away, couldn’t risk missing the way you unraveled beneath him. You felt the tremble in his arms as he pressed forward again, slow but so firm, grounding you to him like he needed you tethered. And then his voice–ragged, tender, full of reverent filth–spilled over your skin.

“Open your mouth, Y/N…” He whispered, the words almost pleading, almost reverent. “Let me be in the places where I can’t reach.”

Your breath caught.

You nodded–slow, obedient, already pliant beneath him–and parted your lips, eyes still wide and locked to his. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, and a shudder ran through him as he leaned closer, golden eyes half-lidded and blown wide with awe and want. His tongue dipped out just slightly, and then–

He drooled into your mouth.

Warm, slow, deliberate.

It spilled from his tongue and into you, and you drank it without hesitation–swallowed it down like it was something sacred, like it was a gift. The heat of it slid down your throat, thick and claiming, and you whimpered softly at the sensation, your body arching instinctively into his as his hand slid up–his fingers wrapping around the column of your throat, not squeezing, just holding. Just feeling.

“Always so beautiful when you take me like that…” He murmured, voice rasping as his thumb stroked along your jaw. “When you’re so drunk on my love that you’d be willing to do anything to prove to me that you’re mine.”

You let out a broken sound–a breathy, desperate whimper–as your legs tightened around his waist, as your hands curled at the base of his neck, grounding yourself to him with every trembling touch.

“Always want to show you,” You said breathlessly, lips brushing his, your words thick with need, “How much of me you already have.”

His golden eyes softened, almost in disbelief. He let out a sound between a groan and a hum, low and full of something dangerous and divine.

“You’re such a good girl…” He whispered, his voice thick with pride and lust and something more fragile buried underneath. “So fucking perfect for me.”

Then his hips snapped up.

Harder now–deeper. You gasped again, eyes flying wide, mouth falling open as the stretch of him rocked through you with punishing heat. He was still holding your throat gently, keeping your gaze locked to his like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

His thrusts began to speed up, each one grounding into you with a fervent rhythm–steady, consuming, every stroke angled to drive you out of your mind. Skin slapped against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding echoing through the room, and your moans were swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, teeth clacking when the thrusts jolted your bodies too hard.

You could feel it building again, that tidal pull in your core, the swell of him inside you pushing you closer with every stroke–but he was closer. You could feel it in the tension of his body, the way his chest heaved against yours, the guttural, choked sounds leaving his throat.

And then–his hand clutched your hip, the other still at your throat like a brand–and he buried himself to the hilt with a low, wrecked moan.

He came with a shudder, his cock pulsing deep inside you as his release spilled in hot, thick waves. You felt every spurt–felt the heat of it flood your core, filling you so full it made your breath catch, made your head fall back as you gasped through the fullness. He stayed buried there, grinding shallowly as he rode it out, pressing into you like he could force himself deeper, like he wanted to leave nothing untouched.

You were both gasping now–panting against each other’s skin, trembling and drenched in sweat and bliss.

Your arms curled tighter around him as his head dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged in your ear. His cock twitched inside you with the aftershocks, and he groaned again–quiet, reverent, broken.

“…You always undo me,” He whispered, voice frayed at the edges. “Every damn time.”

You kissed his temple, heart still thundering, your voice raw as you replied, “That’s because you’re mine.” He hummed softly at your words, nose brushing your temple as the faintest smile played on his lips.

“Eternally,” He murmured, the word slipping from his mouth like a vow–ancient and indelible. Your smile deepened, slow and soft, as your bodies rocked gently together–no longer with urgency, but in the calming aftershock, the closeness that lingered when everything else had quieted. Your arms were still wrapped around him, your breath syncing with his as your heartbeat gradually slowed beneath your ribs.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of skin against skin and the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek. Then he shifted slightly, his hand stroking over your back before pressing a kiss to your hairline.

“I’m going to quickly step into the ensuite,” He said softly, his voice a little hoarse, a little tender. “Get some damp towels so I can clean you up.”

You nodded, sleepy and content. “I’d really like that.”

He smiled and gave you a gentle kiss–quick and sweet–before easing you off his lap. He helped guide you back against the pillows with infinite care, making sure you were comfortable before he stood. You watched him cross the room in that slow, post-bliss shuffle, his golden form glowing faintly even in the dim light.

The door to the ensuite clicked open, and you heard the soft splash of running water, the muted wringing of washcloths beneath his strong hands. You exhaled slowly, the sheets warm beneath you, your body humming with the echo of everything he’d given you.

Then he returned–naked, hair still damp, and eyes full of something quiet and tender. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and placed the towels beside him, murmuring a soft “Okay, sweetheart…” as he gently nudged your thighs apart.

You let him open you to him, pliant under his touch. The warm cloth met your skin, and you let out a small breath as he wiped you down—soft, deliberate strokes, reverent and unhurried. He was watching you the whole time, golden eyes fixed between your legs, entranced by the sight of his come slipping from your body in slow, unbidden pulses. He caught every drop, cleaned every inch–never rushing, never faltering, like it was a privilege to take care of you this way.

Once he’d wiped the last of it away, he stood again, crossed to the hamper and dropped the cloths inside. Then he returned, slipping under the covers with you, body warm and solid beside yours.

You immediately curled into him, your head finding its place over his heart, the steady rhythm beneath your ear grounding you in a way nothing else ever could. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, one hand sliding up and down your spine as he breathed you in.

For a few minutes, you both just stayed there, bathed in quiet and closeness, the scent of sex and skin still lingering in the air.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice broke the silence–soft, musing.

“You know what a positive thing was from today?” He asked, his tone thoughtful. You looked up at him, brow raised, a smile tugging at your lips.

“No… What was the positive?” His mouth curved into a grin, wide and boyish and just a little bashful.

“The positive was me getting to see you holding a bunch of babies…” You laughed softly, eyes scrunching with the sound.

“Of course it was…Did it give you ideas?” He hummed, brushing your hair back with a gentle hand.

“Tons…” His eyes darkened a little, the grin turning wicked. “Because once you’re off the pill I think I’m going to have you carrying my child within less than twenty-four hours.” You blinked–then let out a startled, breathless laugh, your hand swatting lightly at his chest.

“Oh my God, Sentry…” He just chuckled, unrepentant, golden eyes gleaming as he pulled you closer.

“What?” He murmured against your hair. “Just being honest…You can’t blame me for wanting that.”

You shook your head, and said “We’ll see…”

[hangmanwrites]

mommy and daddy’s little girl, always ━ clark kent

part three of “daddy doesn’t wear a cape” word count ━ 4.3k words pairing ━ girl dad!clark kent x wife!reader synopsis ━ clark’s little girl turns five tomorrow, but first comes a road trip full of cows, questions, and a lot of love. smallville feels like home even if she’s never lived there, and bedtime still belongs to mommy, daddy, and a very chatty little caroline kent. content warnings ━ fluff, parenthood, emotional vulnerability, mentions of superpowers (child), chaotic child dialogue, light existential questions (from a four-year-old), extreme softness, clark being the best dad alive author's note ━ sorry it’s been a while!! writer’s block has been brutal, but here’s part three at last!! thank you for sticking with caroline kent and her wonderfully chaotic little world. i hope you enjoy this one!! part one part two masterlist

“Mommy, do cows like being cows or do they want to be something else sometimes?”

You love your daughter with every tired, stretched-thin, unbreakable part of yourself. You truly do. There is not a single part of her that doesn’t fill you with something deep and aching and unshakable. 

But sometimes, and you mean very often, she is so much. Not just a handful, but a whole armful, all clinging limbs and endless questions and boundless thought that refuses to stay in one place for longer than a breath. 

She never stops thinking, she never stops wondering, and she certainly never stops talking.

You glance over at your husband, who sits behind the wheel with the kind of deliberate innocence that makes you want to throw something soft at his head. His mouth is twitching at the corner like he’s fighting a smile.

You know that look too well. That little smirk that means he’s entirely to blame and not even a little bit sorry for it. He gives her the bedtime stories that include galactic dilemmas. He gives her the long-winded answers that always end with more questions. 

And he is the reason she is exactly like this.

Clark meets your eyes, briefly and guiltily, as though it is not fully his fault that your four-year-old is having a full-blown identity crisis on behalf of local livestock.

“Maybe they wanna be birds,” Caroline continues thoughtfully, still staring out the open window at the cows dotting the fields like patches of moving cloud.

Her legs bounce idly, knocking the edge of her booster seat, and her hair has been windswept into an impressive mess thanks to the fresh air she insisted on having as soon as you crossed into Kansas. 

“So they can fly away… but then they’d miss the grass, so maybe they’d just fly back, but what if they didn’t come back? What if they became bird-cows? Is that a thing? Daddy, is that a thing?”

Clark exhales in that quiet, steady way that means he is preparing himself to survive the next thirty miles without bursting into laughter.

His eyes stay on the road, calm as anything. “I think cows are pretty happy being cows, sweetheart.”

“But how do you know?” she asks, leaning forward against her seatbelt, arms crossed in stubborn challenge. “You don’t ask them.”

“I don’t speak cow,” Clark replies, deadpan and immediate.

You stifle a laugh behind your hand, because you already know what’s coming next. You can feel it.

“I do,” she declares.

You turn slightly in your seat to look back at her, voice warning. “Caroline Daisy Kent, if you start mooing in the back seat—”

“I’m not mooing, Mommy,” she says, deeply affronted, as though you’ve insulted her entire sense of self. “I’m just thinking about it! What it’s like to be something else. You’ve never wondered if you were supposed to be something else?”

Clark makes a soft humming noise in his throat, one you’ve heard before, always when he’s amused but trying to keep it quiet. You shoot him a look, and he blinks like he’s innocent, but he is not. 

This is entirely his doing, and he knows it.

The road to Smallville stretches endlessly ahead, fields and fences and old white mailboxes rolling past your window like slow, familiar memories. It’s always a long drive from Metropolis, but somehow it feels even longer when Caroline’s had a nap halfway through and woken up with all systems at full capacity. 

She is wound up with anticipation, buzzing with excitement that pours from every word, every fidget, every thought she can’t keep inside. Tomorrow is her birthday, and for the first time ever, she asked if she could spend it in Smallville. 

With Grampa and Gramma Kent. With the chickens and the porch swing and the soft grass that makes her feet dirty before breakfast.

You said yes, of course. There was never a world where you wouldn’t.

She has never lived there, but there is something about Smallville that lights her up from the inside out. Something in the air or the way the wind moves through the fields or the way the sky stays open no matter where you look. 

Something that pulls her in like she remembers it, even though she cannot. You see it in the way she talks about it, in the way she draws the house from memory, in the way she hums when she swings on the old fence gate.

There is something in her that belongs to this place, and it isn’t something you can explain, but you recognise it.

“She’s very excited,” you say quietly, your hand reaching across to rest over Clark’s where it sits relaxed on the gear stick.

“She is,” he says, and his thumb brushes lightly across your fingers in that quiet, constant way that says I know. I see it too.

“She asked if the chickens will remember her.”

He smiles, not with laughter, but with that quiet, helpless affection he always has when she does something so purely hers that it knocks the wind out of him. “They’ll remember her better than they remember me.”

Which is probably true, to be fair. Caroline has a way of embedding herself in people’s memories with the same stubborn brilliance as glitter after a birthday party. Not the harmless kind, either, the kind that clings to the carpet and turns up in your shoes and your hair and your mouth long after you’ve stopped looking for it. 

She sparkles loudly and she occupies space unapologetically. And even when she is silent, which is rare, she never truly disappears. She makes herself unforgettable without even trying. That’s Caroline Daisy Kent for you.

She goes quiet for almost three full minutes, and it feels like a small miracle. You barely have time to glance at the clock before she gasps sharply, like she’s just been hit with an urgent epiphany she physically cannot keep to herself.

“WAIT! Daddy, do cows kiss?”

Clark stiffens for a moment, clearly caught off guard. “Uh—”

“Like people do,” she explains, leaning forward in her booster seat, her face lit with genuine curiosity. “Do they kiss with their mouths? Or is it just like... sniffing but with feelings?”

You choke on your breath and quickly cover your mouth to stop the laugh that bursts out before you can stop it.

Clark clears his throat, trying very hard to stay composed. “I don’t think they—”

“But they lick each other sometimes, right?” she pushes on, absolutely undeterred. “I saw it in that animal documentary, but if a cow licked another cow, is that a cow-kiss or a cow-hello or a cow-fight?”

“I think—”

“OH WAIT!! Mommy, do cows get married?”

You turn in your seat fast enough to feel the seatbelt dig into your collarbone, your eyes narrowing at her in disbelief. “Caroline.”

She blinks innocently back at you, as if she has no idea why you might be reacting this way. “Because if they kiss, and they like grass, maybe they like each other, and then they get married and have baby cows and live in one of those red houses with the triangle roofs—”

“You mean barns?” Clark interrupts gently, trying to help.

“YEAH! Cow houses! And then the baby cows grow up and maybe fall in love too and—”

“Okay,” you interrupt, both hands raised as though you’re physically trying to hold the conversation back. “We’re going to take a small break from cow marriage.”

“But—”

“Just breathe for a second, sweetheart,” Clark says, glancing at her through the rear-view mirror with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Let your brain rest a little.”

“I already did, Daddy,” she insists confidently. “While I was napping. That’s why I’m thinking now!”

And, unfortunately, the logic is hard to argue with.

There’s a brief, blessed silence.

Roughly three minutes later, she starts again.

“Do chickens have best friends?”

Clark barely hesitates. “Yes.”

“Can I be one of them?”

“Only if you cluck.”

She does not even blink before letting out a loud, gleeful cluck from the back seat, complete with hand gestures and a surprisingly accurate head bob.

You let your head fall back against the seat with a groan, but Clark is already grinning. The next twenty minutes are filled with increasingly dramatic chicken noises, sock puppets she invents from the spare pair in her backpack, and a highly involved theory about the moon being a giant egg and the stars being “its sparkles.” 

Apparently, if the egg hatches, the sky might change forever, but only if the chickens are watching because they are the guardians of moon feelings.

Eventually, and quite suddenly, she goes quiet again. Not the calm kind of quiet, either; it’s the kind that hangs in the air like a storm cloud. You glance at Clark, who is already checking the mirror, and together you follow her stillness.

She’s sitting up very straight, her hands neatly folded in her lap, and her face is carved into a look of intense, suspicious concentration. Something is brewing.

“What?” Clark asks cautiously, glancing between the road and the mirror.

Caroline narrows her eyes at him. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t have laser eyes?”

Clark raises both eyebrows. “You ask me this every week.”

She leans forward slightly, as though demanding the truth with her whole body. “Well? Are you sure?”

“Sweetheart,” he says, drawing the word out slowly as if to buy himself time, “if I had laser eyes, don’t you think I would’ve shown you by now?”

She considers this for a moment, then gasps so loudly you nearly jump. “OH NO!! Do I have laser eyes??”

Your laugh bursts out so quickly you can’t stop it, sharp and startled and full of affection.

“Daddy,” she whisper-yells, panic already rising, “what if I sneeze and burn the house down? What if I blink too hard and set my pillow on fire? What if my brain gets too warm and my eyes explode??”

Clark tries to hold it together, but his mouth is twitching again. “I mean… you do look suspiciously like someone who could laser a goat.”

Caroline’s jaw drops. The horror is instant. “I DO NOT!”

“I don’t know,” he says, fighting back a smile, “you’ve got the laser-eye eyebrows. I can see them from here.”

She claps her hands to her forehead like she’s just discovered a terrifying secret. “NOOOOO!”

“Yup! Laser-brow. It’s a thing.”

“Daddy!”

“Might be safer to sleep with sunglasses on, just in case.”

You hit him lightly on the arm, scandalised. “Clark Joseph Kent, you take that back right now!”

He lifts his hands from the wheel in mock surrender. “Ouch! I was joking!”

“She’s four!”

“She’s the one who asked about cow weddings!”

“You’re the one who told her she has laser eyebrows!”

He twists around in his seat just enough to call back to her. “Sweetheart, you don’t. I swear! Your eyebrows are perfect!”

Caroline is now hugging her stuffed dinosaur like it’s a certified emotional support therapist, her pout visible even from where you sit. She looks utterly betrayed.

You turn back to Clark and fold your arms across your chest. “She’s never going to forgive you for this.”

“She once tried to put sunglasses on a chicken,” he mutters.

“She loves goats.”

“She named your dad’s tractor.”

“She’s a child.”

“She’s terrifying.”

“Daddy!” Caroline cries from the back seat, her voice full of righteous fury.

“I’m sorry!” Clark says quickly, flinching. “I'll take it back! Your eyebrows are completely normal and perfect and beautiful like your mom’s—”

You glare at him immediately. He pauses, winces, and backtracks with the speed of a man trying to outrun an earthquake.

“Okay! Not like your mom’s! I mean… yours are beautiful like hers, but also unique! Uniquely Caroline! No lasers! No explosions! No farm animal casualties! I swear!”

You glance over your shoulder. Caroline is still hugging her dinosaur, her expression unreadable.

“She’s not speaking to you,” you say, smiling just slightly. “You’ve got until bedtime to fix this.”

Clark groans under his breath. “That’s not enough time.”

“You’re Superman. You’ll figure it out.”

The car falls into silence again, a gentle kind that hums with motion and wind. The fields blur into streaks of gold and green as the road rolls on ahead.

Then, from the back seat, in a small, cautious voice:

“Daddy…?”

Clark barely suppresses a sigh. “Oh, no.”

“Do worms believe in love?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ ･ ｡ﾟ───

The sun is just beginning to dip by the time you pull into the long gravel drive. The tyres crunch softly beneath you, dust rising in the warm golden air as the familiar silhouette of the Kent farmhouse comes into view, sitting steady and soft beneath the sky. 

Which, judging by the way Caroline talks about them, they absolutely do. Before the car even stops, she’s already wriggling out of her seatbelt.

“Caroline,” you warn, turning to catch her just as she starts trying to unclip herself with all the urgency of a child preparing for battle. “You wait until we park.”

“But Mommy—!”

“No buts.”

Clark lets out a soft laugh under his breath, pulling the car smoothly into place next to the barn. “We’re here, sweetheart. You’ll get there faster with shoes on.”

Caroline makes a sound of deep, impatient betrayal but shoves her sandals back on anyway, muttering something about how chickens don’t wear shoes and they’re just fine.

You step out first, stretching your arms overhead as the breeze rushes to greet you. It’s the kind of air you don’t realise you’ve missed until it’s already in your lungs, full of hay and soil and old wood and something gentle that settles behind your ribs. 

Smallville smells the way it always does as though a peace and memory and sunshine that never fully leaves, even in the dark.

Caroline bolts as soon as her feet hit the ground.

“Wait!” you call, but she’s already sprinting across the grass like her entire life depends on reaching the coop before the chickens go to bed.

Clark doesn’t even pretend to chase her. He just sighs and lifts your bags out of the boot like he’s done this a thousand times, like he’s stopped trying to win against her energy and started focusing on damage control instead. “Ten bucks says she names another one before dinner.”

“She’s four,” you say flatly, shutting the car door behind you.

“She’s got a better naming system than NASA.”

You glance over to where she’s crouched near the fence now, already clucking under her breath, arms stretched wide like she’s welcoming old friends. “Did she just bow to the rooster?”

“She’s establishing dominance,” Clark says with a straight face.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you.

Inside the house, the screen door creaks the way it always has, and the smell of fresh cornbread reaches you before you even cross the porch. Martha appears around the corner of the kitchen, her apron still dusted with flour and her arms already opening wide.

“There’s our birthday girl!”

Caroline lets out a delighted screech, abandoning her poultry diplomacy without hesitation as she barrels toward her grandmother. “Grammaaaa!”

Martha catches her effortlessly, pulling her into a hug so warm and immediate it could melt concrete. “You’ve gotten taller,” she declares, stepping back just enough to take a good look at her. “And louder, I think.”

Caroline nods proudly. “I clucked for thirty minutes straight, Gramma!”

“I bet you did, sweetheart.”

Jon appears next, wiping his hands on an old towel and smiling in that quiet, fond way that always makes your chest ache a little. “You’re early,” he says to Clark, clapping him on the back as they hug. “Is everything alright on the road?”

“Cow marriage, emotional chickens, and laser eyebrows,” Clark says, deadpan.

Jon pauses for a moment. “So… a normal trip, then.”

You slip past them into the kitchen, setting the bags down and already helping Martha with the plates. 

Caroline is talking a mile a minute, listing every plan she’s made for tomorrow like the fate of the universe depends on the exact timing of the pancake breakfast and whether or not the chickens will sit in a circle for story time.

It’s only when the sun dips fully below the horizon that she starts to fade, her energy curling in on itself like smoke. She still fights it, and declares she is not tired no matter how much she yawns, insists that she has to tell the goats goodnight or they’ll miss her too much. 

But eventually, she goes quiet again, leaning heavily against Clark’s side as he sits on the porch swing, the stars beginning to peek through the deep blue above.

You watch them from the doorway, your arms crossed loosely and your smile tucked into the curve of your cheek. She’s got her head on his chest now, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, and he’s tracing slow circles along her back, humming something so soft you almost can’t hear it.

“Daddy?” she mumbles, her voice warm and foggy with sleep.

“Yeah, bug?”

“I think I used all my brain power.”

He laughs quietly. “That’s okay. You can borrow mine.”

There’s a pause after that.

“Do you think chickens know what birthdays are?”

“I think they’ll find out tomorrow.”

“Okay… but if they try to give me grass, I’m not eating it!”

He grins down at her, brushing her wind-tangled hair from her forehead. “Deal.”

You step forward, finally, and hold out your hands. “Alright, birthday girl. Let’s get you to bed before you start negotiating with moon eggs again.”

Caroline groans, but it’s all for show. She lets you scoop her up, small and warm and heavy with sleep, her arms wrapping around your neck. Clark follows you back inside, the porch light humming behind him. 

As he shuts the door, the house quiets around you, full of creaking floorboards and the soft hum of belonging. 

Caroline is already half-asleep in your arms, her breath slow and even, and her stuffed dinosaur dangling loosely from one hand.

You carry her upstairs, tucking her into the little guest room she’s already claimed as her own, and as you smooth the blankets around her, she yawns so wide her eyes water. 

She’s already clutching her dinosaur against her chest like it’s sacred, and like it’s going to ward off bad dreams and meteor showers and the existential horror of not knowing if chickens celebrate birthdays.

Clark leans down next to you, pressing a kiss to her forehead before brushing back a lock of hair that’s still wild from the wind. “You want the song, bug?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, his hand resting gently on her small shoulder.

She nods sleepily, eyes fluttering closed again, and he sits on the edge of the bed without needing to be asked twice.

You stay close, perched beside her on the other side, your fingers stroking her arm through the thin blanket while her legs shift underneath like she’s still buzzing even as sleep starts to pull her down.

Clark hums first, that familiar tune that’s never quite the same every time, like it lives in his chest and only comes out when she needs it most. Then softly, so softly you almost don’t hear the first word, he sings.

“Stars are up, eyes are shut…”

His voice is quiet and unpolished and perfect in the way only fathers are allowed to be.

“Blanket’s warm and baby’s tucked…”

Caroline lets out a tiny breath, the kind that escapes when you stop fighting sleep, and you watch her face relax completely.

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart mine…”

He reaches out with one hand, adjusting the edge of the blanket over her chin with that same instinctive tenderness he always has when touching her. He doesn't even look as he does it. He just knows.

“Daddy’s here, and you’re just fine…”

He trails off gently, his voice settling into the stillness like it’s part of the walls.

She stays quiet for a moment, like she’s letting it soak all the way through.

You smile as you watch them, the two people you love more than anything in the world wrapped in moonlight and quiet. The windows are cracked open just enough for the crickets to hum through, and the faint scent of warm grass drifts in with the breeze. 

It’s a peaceful room, not fancy or decorated in anything other than soft blankets and old quilts and shelves of books Clark’s mother kept for years, but it feels right. It feels like her.

Then, barely above a whisper, her voice emerges again. “I love you, Daddy.”

Clark’s breath catches the way it always does when she says that without being prompted. He gives her a soft smile, the kind that glows more than it moves. “I love you too, baby.”

She turns her face slightly on the pillow, turning her heavy gaze to you now. “And Mommy,” she adds, because she never forgets. “I love you too. I love both of you. More than nuggies.”

You lean down to kiss her cheek, already laughing quietly. “That’s the biggest love I’ve ever heard.”

She hums in agreement, and she’s satisfied. She’s almost asleep now. Her fingers twitch once more around her dinosaur’s paw, and her lashes settle against her cheeks. 

“I love you, my baby…”

You think that’s it, that she’s finally under, fully gone, but then she opens her eyes just once more.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, love?”

She blinks slowly, her voice barely a whisper. “You don’t have laser eyebrows either. Just so you know.”

You press a kiss to her temple, smiling as she drifts off for real this time. “Thanks for the reassurance.”

Behind you, Clark exhales something like a laugh, soft enough not to stir her but full enough that you can hear it catch in his throat a little.

You don’t move just yet. You stay right there by the bed, standing together in the faint spill of light from the hallway, your eyes still fixed on the way her chest rises and falls beneath that blanket she insisted on folding herself earlier even though it ended up all lopsided and uneven. 

She’s hugging that dinosaur like it’s a second heart, face turned toward the window with her curls sticking to her forehead, cheeks flushed and pink from all the excitement, as if her body still hasn’t caught up with her brain, as though even asleep she’s working through everything she couldn’t stop saying on the drive over.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. You just breathe it in. That impossible feeling of loving someone so much it makes your ribs ache, like there’s no way a body should be able to carry this much without splitting open. 

You know Clark feels it too.

You can feel it in the way his arm wraps tighter around your waist, in the way he leans into you just the slightest bit more, as if he’s grounding himself or maybe just needing to share the weight of it.

“She’s so little,” he says finally, and it comes out quiet. “She’s so little and I already miss this version of her.”

You glance up at him and his eyes don’t leave her, not even for a second. He’s watching her like she’s the whole sun, like he’s trying to memorise her face before she changes again. Because he thinks that if he blinks, she’ll be taller, older, and somewhere else entirely.

“She’s still only four,” you say gently, though it’s not really an answer, not really something that fixes the knot in your chest. “Just for a few more hours.”

Clark smiles, but there’s something behind it, something quiet and aching. “I keep thinking about how fast it’s going. It feels like yesterday we just brought her home, but now she’s singing to chickens and lecturing me about cow emotions and trying to solve the mystery of the moon’s feelings. She’s growing up, and I don’t want to miss any of it.”

You let out a breath, soft and slow. “You’re not missing anything. You’re here. You’re always here. She’ll always be our little girl.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and then he finally turns to look at you, eyes a little too full. “Thank you, for her, for everything. You gave me everything, my love. I just… thank you. Thank you so much.”

You smile, and it’s helpless in that fond, exhausted, overwhelmed sort of way, the kind that’s wrapped in a hundred sleepless nights and a million bedtime songs and all the moments in between.

“Hey,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his hand, “it takes two to tango, farm boy.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning in to kiss you, slow and soft, like it still floors him sometimes that he gets to do this.

You kiss him back with your whole body, leaning into him like he’s always been the safest place to land, as though there’s nothing in the world more solid than the feel of his arms around you and your little girl just inches away, sleeping like the universe hasn’t started spinning yet.

You pull back only far enough to press your forehead against his, both of you still facing the bed, still watching her as she turns slightly in her sleep and tucks her dinosaur under her chin like it’s something sacred.

She’s turning five tomorrow.

And somehow that’s beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.

You stay like that for a while, just holding each other, watching the small shape of your daughter in the half-light of a farmhouse bedroom that somehow still smells like sunlight and old books and the kind of safety neither of you had growing up. 

And when you finally move, when you finally turn off the light and head for the door, your hand still in his, the silence feels full, not empty.

Because you’re not missing anything. You’re both right here, and so is she.

Caroline Daisy Kent will always be your little girl.

[secretsofafangirll]

thinking about clark and roommate reader...brain go brrrr😵‍💫

word count: 2235

they met in college in metropolis, both journalism majors with a minor in communication studies. they had a lot of the same classes and shared a lot of the same interests, so naturally, they ended up hitting it off really well.

after class they would go to a local coffee shop to study, playfully bantering back and forth. they would end up just staying out late in clark's car, neither of them able to hangout in the other's dorm due to policies.

eventually, y/n would crack a joke about "just moving in together" but clark thinks it's a great idea. he would stutter and flush in the cheeks but he gets the word across. he thinks you two should move in together.

you both start looking for places for rent, or even for sale, and you end up finding a place in the city. a two bedroom, one and a half bath apartment with a full kitchen. within two weeks you're moved in.

every night turns into a three hour dissertation about the whatever the fuck you guys want. "jaden from poli sci makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon and eat them" all the way to "when i was little i was scared of the 'angels watching over me'" were topics you covered on the couch while 'friends' re-runs played lowly on the television.

as time went on, you two got more comfortable. those nights spent on the couch turned more than friendly. before, you would be on separate cushions but now he's laid out on the couch with a head on the headrest and your laying between his legs, head on his chest with his arm around your waist. he gives you 'goodnight' kisses and sneaks a hand under your shirt, tracing shapes into the soft skin of your back.

when you don't feel like cooking, he quick to order take-out, always knowing exactly what you like. he'd find himself feeding you the first bite, guiding the fork into your mouth, and laughing hysterically when food dangled from your mouth or sauce smears onto your face. seeing his face light up is the highlight of your day, so you don't mind.

when you do feel like cooking, it becomes an experience. clark gets home from class or the gym and finds you at the counter, vegetables on the cutting board. "what are you doing?", he would ask as he dropped his bag and hooked the keys on the rack. he would walk up behind you and look over your shoulder, leaning his hands on the counter beside your hips. "i'm building a lego set. what does it look like i'm doing, clark?", would be your sarcastic reply. he's just pinch your hip and blow raspberries into your neck in response. he would join you soon, only making things harder, as he was honestly bigger than the kitchen. "clark, honey, step out," you would point to the couch with a spatula. "wha-," he would complain, his face dropping. "step out," you'd instruct, not backing down. he respects you too much to disobey, so he would walk to the couch glumly. the food ends up being delicious and he makes sure you know.

"you're insane, y/n, i mean, really," he would moan as he scarfed your creation down. "what did i do to deserve you?" is what he's asking as he holds your head in his hands before he plops a kiss on your forehead, then both of your cheeks, and your nose. everywhere but your goddamn lips.

then comes relationship talk. by the time you're out of college, you start dating. or at least wanting to date. college boys aren't worth fighting for but men are, so you hit the town. it comes surprisingly easy for you to get guys; it's the guys that come that are the problem. of course, you would confide in your roommate about this. one night, after another failed date, you're laying in clark's bed beside him, propped up on an elbow, as he played with the t-shirt of his draped over your body.

"he was nice, don't get me wrong, but he was so small. i'm all for body positivity, but what the fuck is going on?" you would rant to him, "why does it feel like we were having an ozempic off the whole time? his waist was legit smaller than mine," clark would laugh, eyes crinkling and teeth gleaming. you would push his shoulder but you were smiling too, "i'm dead serious, he was so small. i just want a big man. like, a manly, big, strong man. is that too much to ask for these days?" you didn't even realize what you were saying but clark did. he always listened to every word you said, and he heard them too.

that night you fell asleep in his bed and woke up to his arm wrapped around your waist and his face in your neck. you didn't move and neither did he.

when you both start working at the planet, you only get closer, if that was even possible. you start staying up even later to piece sources together and get head starts or sprinting finishes on articles. when there's work gossip, you both can't help but indulge in that same cuddly position you always find yourself in. when you're actually at work, the same habits apply. your desks are right across from each other and you always turn around to talk to one another. at 3, like clockwork, he meets you at the coffee machine to make another cup and you guys chat for 15 minutes.

"those two...," jimmy olsen observes with lois, the two staring as you guys laugh at whatever inside joke you're telling. "those two...," lois would echo, shaking her head. "aren't they roommates?" jimmy asks, taking a sip of his own coffee. "yup," lois would affirm, bringing her own mug to her lips too, "it couldn't be written any better." jimmy would agree with a simple hum, "mmm, mmm."

one night, the work crew organized a night out. just a few of the best people are invited to a bar to relax and have some fun after all the hard work they do at the planet. y/n is in the shower, washing the office off, the glass door foggy, when clark barges in. they've both made it a habit of talking to each other when they're in the shower. you can't really see anything but a shape anyway (you can see clark's head over the top of it). "hey, y/n, where did you put my converse shirt? the small one that's black?" he would ask from the doorframe, watching your slender, blurry figure sway as you rinse your body. "small? dude that things, like, a large," you laugh, turning the water off. clark, on autopilot, hands you your towel and you step out carefully, skin damp and hair in a bun atop your head.

"yeah, whatever, it's small on me," he admits sheepishly, "anyway, where is it? i wanna wear it." he taps his foot impatiently, letting you push him against the doorframe with a hand on his chest as you walk past him.

"it's in my closet, hang on," you tell him, leaving wet marks on the ground as you walk to retrieve it.

"oh, so you weren't gonna give it back?" he teases, following you into your room, avoiding your steps. he plops down on your bed as you walk into your closet. you come out with his shirt and your own pair of comfortable clothes to wear while you do your hair and makeup.

"no, idiot," you tease back, throwing the shirt at him, which he catches with one hand. you pull a t-shirt on over your towel and allow it to reach mid-thigh before you drop your towel and pull on a pair of panties. "i was gonna give it back, but it just looks so much better one me," you smile as you pull your panties up your legs. his downward gaze and bitten lip don't go unnoticed by you. when you walk past him to go back into the bathroom, you grab his chin and give it a little squeeze. his eyes follow you all the down the hall.

when he's ready, he lays on your bed waiting for you to be done. "are you almost done?" he would whine, huffing dramatically every time he heard you dig for another product in your bag. when you finally finish your hair and makeup, you just need to get dressed.

"clark, i need your help," you say as you walk out of the closet. "should i wear this top," you point to the one you have on, "or should i wear this top?" you hold a different up and let him choose.

"definitely the one you have on," he says decisively and almost too quickly. what you settle on is a denim mini-skirt, a lace maroon tank top, with one of clark's old leather jackets over it.

clark drives there but he lets you play music. your knees are turned inward as he drives, doing air drums and guitar and singing the lyrics at him. he just smiles and laughs and adores you when you aren't looking. that night, one drink turns into six and, before you know it, you're drunk and feeling good and feeling trusting. lois becomes your first victim.

"I haven't had sex in soooo long," you tell her, and quite loudly as well to be heard over the music. "i think i need to fuck someone bad." she would just pat your back, "sure, honey," and guide you to clark, who typically became responsible for you when you were drunk. "she's talking nonsense, clark. you need to take her home," is what she tells him before running back to jimmy.

"clark!" y/n exclaimed, wrapping her hands around the back of his neck, reaching up on her tip toes, "my favorite person ever," you hum into his chest, feeling his strong arms wrap gently around your waist. he lets you hug for a moment before he peels you away gently. he pinches your chin to make you look at his face.

"you feelin' okay, sweetheart?" he asks, even though he knows the answer. when you only smile drunkenly with your eyes closed, he nods and politely excuses himself from the conversation he was having. he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you tight into his side, keeping you close to him in the crowd. he had to park kind of far away, so when you make it outside and walk half a block, you start to whine. "what's wrong, baby?" he asks, the pet name feeling like second nature.

"my shoes," you whine, pulling on his wrist, "hurts," you huff like a child and stare up at him through your lashes. how can he say no to you? he thinks to himself. he wordlessly, and mindlessly, wraps an arm around your upper back and another under your knees and scoops you up. you don't even really react, it's just become so normal. you only mutter a drunken thank you and nuzzle into his firm chest.

he takes the two of you home, changes you into comfortable clothes (another one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties), takes off your makeup, brushed your teeth, and makes you a glass of water. he carries you to the kitchen while he makes your water and sets you down on the kitchen counter. he hands you water and watches as you take a sip, then set the glass down beside you. you beckon him over with the wiggle of a finger, which he immediately obeys.

"i love you, clark, you know that?" you ask gently, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. he hums as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, pushing the long t-shirt of his that adorns your body higher. "i mean it, like, I really love you. so much," you smile, playing with his hair.

"i love you too, y/n," he agrees, wrapping his arms around his waist and at your lower back, "so much, sweetheart." he tightens his grip on your body and pulls you closer to him. he places a kiss to the top of your head and you wrap your legs around his hips, knowing he wants to pick you up. he hoists you up into his arms, hands holding you up under your ass. he walks with you in his arms, carrying you like you weigh nothing, and gently lays you down on your bed. he makes sure you're comfortable and reaches to turn off your lamp. you grab his wrist before he can.

"stay," you demand softly, giving his wrist a gentle tug. he looks down into your eyes, hunching down slightly, "please." at that soft plea, he obliges and slips into the bed beside you.

that night the two of you fall asleep with your head buried in his chest and his hands wrapped fully around your body. your leg is thrown over his hips and he has an arm wrapped over it with a hand under it. his other arm is under your abdomen, clutching you as close to him as he possibly can.

you're not just roommates anymore.

[vzmariexy]

If the F1 drivers were your perfect boyfriends | Headcanons

⋆｡°✩ pairing: f1 grid x f! reader

⋆｡°✩ wc: 1.2k

⋆｡°✩ summary: what it might be like to be loved by the fastest guys on the track

⋆｡°✩ a/n: ayy! my first posttt! i feel like these arent the best but i tried guys

Lando Norris

1. Always waits in the car until he sees you get inside your house safely.

2. Gets visibly annoyed when you call yourself anything less than perfect.

3. Buys snacks he doesn’t even like because he knows you do.

4. Gets extra soft-spoken when you’re upset — like his voice alone could calm you.

5. Has a playlist titled with your initials that he won’t let you see.

Oscar Piastri

1. Sits next to you during flights even when it’s not his assigned seat.

2. Prefers holding your pinky instead of your hand when you’re in public.

3. Always offers to do the dishes if you’re too tired — no matter the time.

4. Makes you tea exactly how you like it without asking.

5. Occasionally wakes you up by whispering that he’s in love with you.

Charles Leclerc

1. Always looks at you during interviews when your name is mentioned.

2. Will defend your honor over something as small as someone interrupting you.

3. Keeps a photo of you in his helmet bag for every race.

4. Traces your spine when you fall asleep on his chest.

5. Says “mon amour” with a grin when you’re being stubborn.

Lewis Hamilton

1. Buys you books he thinks you’d like and annotates them with sticky notes.

2. Has you saved in his phone as “home.”

3. Texts you poems when he can’t sleep — even if they’re unfinished.

4. Loves watching you get ready and always says “worth the wait.”

5. Puts his hand on your lower back when he walks past you, no matter what.

Max Verstappen

1. Lowkey obsessed with making sure you’re warm — blankets, jackets, always.

2. Lets you win in Mario Kart until you get cocky, then destroys you.

3. Drives a bit slower when you’re in the car, but won’t admit it.

4. Kisses your shoulder instead of your cheek when he’s being soft.

5. Gets a little clingy post-race and never wants to let go.

Liam Lawson

1. Remembers the tiniest things you say and brings them up months later.

2. Hides snacks in his bag for you during long paddock days.

3. Teases you constantly, but softens the second you look upset.

4. Always lets you wear his caps, even the limited editions.

5. Looks like he doesn’t care but literally melts when you compliment him.

George Russell

1. Genuinely thinks your laugh is the best sound he’s ever heard.

2. Reaches for your hand when he’s overwhelmed, even in public.

3. Talks about you to the engineers like you’re royalty.

4. Opens every door for you like he was trained to do it.

5. Hugs you like he hasn’t seen you in years, even if it’s been hours.

Kimi Antonelli

1. Tries to play it cool but gets red-eared whenever you compliment him.

2. Gets nervous before introducing you to anyone — even his teammates.

3. Sends you memes at 2am when he can’t sleep.

4. Always finds a way to bring you up in conversation.

5. Watches you like he’s still surprised you chose him.

Fernando Alonso

1. Calls you “mi vida” when he’s not even thinking about it.

2. Genuinely impressed by everything you do, even the smallest things.

3. Loves brushing your hair out of your face like it’s second nature.

4. Sends you old love songs with cryptic “made me think of you” texts.

5. Buys two of everything just so you’ll have one at his place.

Lance Stroll

1. Doesn’t say “I love you” a lot — but shows it constantly.

2. Always gives you the comfiest hoodie he owns, no questions asked.

3. Watches you from across the room like you’re the only person there.

4. Gets you flowers randomly and says, “they reminded me of you.”

5. Sleeps better when you’re curled into his side.

Alexander Albon

1. Steals your phone just to change your wallpaper to a goofy selfie of him.

2. Brings you your favorite drink before you even ask.

3. Makes playlists with chaotic titles just for you two.

4. Teaches you useless racing terms just to sound cool.

5. Always checks if you’re cold, even in the middle of summer.

Carlos Sainz

1. Insists on cooking for you and gets flustered when you compliment it.

2. Wraps his arm around you instinctively in crowds.

3. Says “I missed you” like he didn’t just see you that morning.

4. Lets you win arguments only when he knows you’re right.

5. Texts “tell me when you’re home” even if you’re five minutes away.

Nico Hülkenberg

1. Teases you constantly but defends you like it’s his job.

2. Sends dry, sarcastic texts that always make you laugh.

3. Loves when you steal his shirts — pretends he’s mad but secretly proud.

4. Always down to drive anywhere with you, no plan needed.

5. Acts tough but melts when you compliment his laugh.

Gabriel Bortoleto

1. Gets super touchy when he’s sleepy — always pulling you closer.

2. Sends selfies when he’s traveling and says “wish you were here.”

3. Writes your name in notebooks without realizing it.

4. Loves when you wear his racing merch, grins every time.

5. Constantly asks “are you okay?” even when nothing’s wrong.

Esteban Ocon

1. Gives the best forehead kisses, always unexpected but needed.

2. Notices when you change something — new earrings, new shoes, always.

3. Wants you at every race even if it’s not realistic.

4. Sends voice notes because “he wants you to hear it from him.”

5. Puts you as his phone background and doesn’t care who sees.

Oliver Bearman

1. Acts all cool until you kiss his cheek — then he short circuits.

2. Secretly brags about you to anyone who’ll listen.

3. Holds your hand in the car even if he’s just using one finger.

4. Tells you his race strategy like it’s a love language.

5. Loves when you steal his paddock passes just to mess with him.

Pierre Gasly

1. Smirks every time someone asks how you two met — never tells the full story.

2. Sends photos of cute things he sees and says “this is you.”

3. Sneaks kisses when no one’s looking like it’s a challenge.

4. Writes his initials on your coffee cups in Sharpie.

5. Gets all possessive when someone flirts with you — zero chill.

Jack Doohan

1. Treats your texts like gold — replies instantly, no matter what.

2. Uses your perfume as air freshener when you’re gone too long.

3. Sends “you’d love this” every time he eats somewhere new.

4. Draws hearts on your arm with his finger when you’re lying next to him.

5. Is absolutely the type to show you off in every photo dump.

Yuki Tsunoda

1. Cooks for you every time you’re upset — food is love.

2. Gets really quiet when he’s missing you but won’t admit it.

3. Surprises you with weird snacks “because it looks like something you’d like.”

4. Gets pouty if you cancel plans but forgives you immediately.

5. Always offers you the last bite, even if he wanted it.

Isack Hadjar

1. Posts pictures of you with no caption — just a little heart in the corner.

2. Makes you laugh until you can’t breathe, then acts like it’s no big deal.

3. Tries to teach you French swear words and gets smug when you say them right.

4. Likes to pretend he’s chill but gets jealous way too fast.

5. Falls asleep during calls but won’t hang up unless you do.

[leriexoxo]

Angel’s SKZ Birthday Bash 🎂

Dont Let Me Love You

Bestfriend! Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: Angst, best friends to lovers, unrequited love, stubbornness, smut, feelings realization, slow burn, drunken confession, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, lots of kissing, sexual tension.

Word count: 6.7k

Summary: You were never supposed to fall for him. Not your best friend, the boy who swore he didn’t believe in love anymore. But he touched you like he forgot, looked at you like he remembered, and held you like he wished he could stay. You told yourself it was nothing. That you’d imagined it. Until one night, the truth slipped past your lips, thick with wine and want. And suddenly, he wasn’t pretending anymore. He begged you not to love him. You did it anyway. Now, there’s no going back.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

🎊: Happy Birthday to an amazing writer @angel-writes-skz-here , I hope you have a good one 🤍

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You couldn’t name the exact moment it started.

Maybe it was the first time he pulled you into his hoodie on a rainy night, both of you soaked and breathless, laughing like fools under the yellow haze of a streetlight. Or maybe it was the way he always looked for you in a crowded room with that quiet glance, like the world only made sense if you were in it.

You’d been friends for years. That kind of closeness that lived in the small things — sharing earbuds in public, finishing each other’s snacks without asking, sleeping back-to-back during long movie marathons. No boundaries. No questions. It was never weird. Never talked about.

You told people you were best friends. They never believed you.

“Are you sure you’re not dating?”

“You two act like an old married couple.”

You’d laugh it off. So would he. Because it wasn’t like that. Not really.

Except, it kind of was. Wasn’t it?

You never flirted — not outright. But he’d rest his head in your lap when he was tired. You’d trace shapes into the fabric of his sleeve when you were bored. He’d call you at 2 a.m. just to ask what you thought happened to the dinosaurs. You’d pick up every time.

You didn’t think anything of it. Until one night, you did.

You were both lying on his floor, backs against the carpet, the ceiling spinning just a little from too much soda and too much sugar. He was telling you about his latest sketch — how he couldn’t get the shading right on this one figure, how the shoulders kept coming out wrong.

“I should just scrap the whole thing,” he murmured, one hand behind his head, the other gesturing vaguely. “Start over.”

You looked over at him. His hair was sticking out at different angles from him running his fingers through it repeatedly. His voice was low, softer than usual. You noticed the curve of his mouth when he was lost in thought.

And for some reason, your chest ached.

It came fast, like a breath you weren’t ready to take. Like something you’d been holding back for a long time without realizing.

You didn’t say anything. Just turned your head away and stared at the ceiling again, willing the feeling to pass. It didn’t.

That was the moment.

That was when everything shifted — quietly, almost cruelly. No fireworks. No drama. Just a slow, unbearable awareness that you wanted more than he was willing to give. That you’d fallen in love with the one person who would never love you back.

Because Hyunjin didn’t believe in love. Not anymore.

“Love’s a mess,” he’d told you once. “It makes people selfish. Desperate. I don’t want that again.”

You’d nodded. Agreed. Back then, it was easy. Back then, you believed him.

But now? Now you were lying awake at night, wondering if the way he held your wrist a little too long meant anything. If the way he leaned his head on your shoulder when he was tired was just a habit, or something more. If you were imagining it all.

Because the truth was, he still looked at you like you were his favorite person in the world. He just didn’t look at you like someone he could fall in love with.

And that hurt more than anything.

You told yourself it was still the same. That the late-night phone calls didn’t mean more. That the way he let his head fall against your shoulder when he was tired was just muscle memory. That the things he said, “No one gets me like you do”, “You’re the only person I can be like this with”, weren’t confessions. Just friendship.

You lied to yourself a lot these days. Because Hyunjin was still Hyunjin. Thoughtless in the way he touched, soft in the way he lingered. He didn’t think twice before pulling you into a hug that lasted too long. Didn’t hesitate to rest his chin on your shoulder while brushing his teeth beside you in the mirror. You were just his person. The one who knew his favorite ramen flavor, the only one he let read his notebooks when he got too deep in his head. The one he curled around like a cat on cold mornings, blanket tangled between your legs.

It was never meant to be anything else.

Except now, every time his fingers brushed your skin, it felt like a match struck against your nerves.

You’d flinch — not outwardly, but inside, something always jumped. And he never noticed. Never looked twice.

You got good at pretending. That was your new talent. Smiling through the heat that bloomed in your chest. Holding your breath when he leaned in too close. Laughing like you weren’t falling in love with every little thing he didn’t realize he was doing.

Like now.

You were in the passenger seat of his car, driving home from some late-night errand getting snacks and candles and that moisturizer he liked but could never find. The sky outside was ink-black, the city glowing in fragments through the windshield. Music played low, something dreamy, ambient. A D4VD song you didn’t know the name of.

He was humming under his breath, his voice soft, almost boyish in the quiet.

You had your legs crossed loosely, skirt riding a little high on your thighs, but you didn’t think much of it. Not until Hyunjin’s hand left the gear shift, moved lazily to rest on your leg — light, like it always was. Familiar. Careless.

Except this time, it was your bare thigh.

Warm skin against warm skin. His fingertips just resting there, unconscious and unbothered. A touch he’d done a hundred times before.

But never like this.

You froze.

Not visibly. You kept your face turned toward the window, your mouth pulling into a soft smile at something he said, something you didn’t even hear.

The movement of the car made it worse. Every bump in the road sent a subtle shift through your body, the light drag of his hand against your skin, knuckles grazing higher, then settling again. Not intentionally. He wasn’t even aware.

But it lit something low in your stomach. That terrible, quiet ache.

You stared out the window like it was the most fascinating view in the world. Said nothing. Didn’t breathe too deeply.

Because the moment you acknowledged it, you knew the spell would break. Or worse — you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

And Hyunjin? He just kept driving, humming softly. Like his touch didn’t burn you alive.

He didn’t move his hand from your thigh until his phone buzzed in the console.

He shifted just enough to check it, eyes flicking down, the glow of the screen lighting up his face in the dark. His hand left your skin. You exhaled silently.

“Jisung’s throwing a party tomorrow night,” he said, like nothing strange had happened. “Wants us to come.”

You blinked, still trying to breathe like a normal person. “Yeah,” you said quickly. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

But it stayed with you long after you went home. Long after you’d changed into pajamas and buried yourself beneath your sheets and stared up at the ceiling, your skin still tingling where his hand had been. You tried not to read into it. Failed spectacularly.

Because no matter how many times you told yourself it was meaningless — just Hyunjin being Hyunjin — it never felt that way to you.

—

The next night, you dressed slowly.

You didn’t mean to try so hard. You didn’t. But your hands lingered over the soft hem of your dress, your eyes scanning your reflection for anything he might notice. Anything that might make him look twice. Foolish, you told yourself. You knew better. But the hope was a quiet thing, and it didn’t ask permission to bloom.

Hyunjin picked you up just past nine. Same lazy smile. “You look nice,” he said, like it was routine.

You tried not to die inside.

Jisung’s place was already full when you arrived, warm lights, loud music, the living room packed with bodies and laughter. Familiar faces from old parties, new people you didn’t care to know. You stuck close to Hyunjin at first, the way you always did. It wasn’t even a choice anymore, he was your orbit.

There were games going on. Stupid things. Seven minutes in heaven, truth or dare, couples kissing in the middle of dares they barely flinched at. It was messy and loud and full of things you tried not to want.

Hyunjin settled next to you on the couch, thigh pressed to yours. His arm draped along the back, fingers grazing your shoulder every now and then. He smelled like cedarwood and clean laundry. You tried not to lean in.

“Couples are so annoying,” Jisung said from across the room, groaning theatrically as two people fawned all over each other. “Get a room, Jesus.”

Hyunjin snorted beside you. “Seriously. They look insane.”

The words stabbed a little harder than they should’ve.

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your chest felt tight. Maybe it was the noise, or the room, or just him — sitting there beside you like he wasn’t everything you wanted. Like he hadn’t just reminded you, again, that you’d never be it for him.

Because Hyunjin didn’t do love. He didn’t want it. Not from anyone.

And especially not from you.

You looked away. Reached for a cup you hadn’t planned on drinking from.

The first shot burned your throat.

The second made you laugh too loud at something that wasn’t funny.

The third — well, you didn’t remember pouring it.

By the time the music blurred into static and the room tipped slightly when you stood, your head was full of him. His hand on your leg. His voice saying “They look insane.” The way he smiled like nothing between you had ever been dangerous.

You drank because it was easier than feeling.

Hyunjin had stopped drinking long ago. You saw him watching you. Concern flickered in his eyes every time you reached for another glass. You ignored him. You were good at that, too.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said finally, coming over and gently prying the cup from your fingers. “Let’s go home.”

You blinked up at him, a little dazed. “What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

His hand slipped around your wrist firmly. His touch was always gentle when it came to you. It hurt more that way.

You didn’t protest when he guided you out, his hand never leaving yours. Not until you stepped into the night and the air bit at your skin and your head started to clear just enough to feel everything again.

The ache. The longing. The quiet devastation of wanting someone who would never want you back.

—

You sat slumped against the passenger window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, trying not to think about the way his hand brushed yours when he helped you into the car. How it had lingered — warm, steady, a little too close to deliberate. Like he’d meant to pull you in and then remembered who you were.

Almost.

Outside, the city passed in slow, sleepy streaks. Warm golds. Faded greys. The world felt quieter than it should’ve, your heartbeat too loud against the hush of his playlist humming in the background. Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t trust your voice not to crack if you did.

When he pulled up outside your building, the engine ticked into silence, and for a beat too long, neither of you moved.

You shifted. “You don’t have to walk me up.”

“I know.” But he came anyway.

The elevator was a closed box of silence. Your floor blinked past in soft dings, but you barely registered them. You were too aware of him, the heat of his body beside you, the clean scent of his cologne, the way his hand brushed the small of your back when you stepped out, so light you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

Your fingers fumbled with the keys. Wine still in your blood. Nerves screaming under your skin. The key missed the lock once — twice — before Hyunjin reached forward, curling his hand around your wrist.

“Hey,” he murmured. “I got it.”

It wasn’t the touch that undid you. It was how long he held it. How gentle. How it felt like he wanted to stay close.

Like maybe he didn’t hate how your skin felt, even if he didn’t want to need it.

The door clicked open. You stepped inside. He followed without asking. Like always.

And maybe it was the way the light fell soft against his jaw, or the fact that your mouth still tasted like longing, or the weight of his hand still echoing against your wrist — but suddenly you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Do you really think love is a mistake?”

He turned toward you. Brow faintly drawn. “What?”

You swallowed. Closed the door behind you. “At the party. When Jisung was making fun of couples. You said they looked stupid. You meant it, didn’t you?”

He stared at you for a long moment. Long enough to make the air feel heavy.

Then he crossed the room, leaned against your kitchen counter, arms folding across his chest like armor. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I meant it.”

You waited. He didn’t elaborate.

“Why?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. He rubbed the back of his neck — a nervous habit — like he was trying to chase something out of his own skin. “Because love ruins things,” he said, low and bitter. “Because people say forever and leave the second it gets hard. Because I’ve already been that idiot once and it fucking broke me.”

The words were sharp. Not at you but still, they cut.

“I’m not people, Hyunjin.”

That made him pause.

His gaze lifted. Locked on yours. And for the first time that night, he looked at you. Not past you. Not through you. At you — like he was seeing something he hadn’t let himself see before.

His voice came out rough. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you make it sound like you could be different.”

“Maybe I could be.”

His shoulders tensed. You took a step closer.

“I’ve been here,” you said softly. “Every time. No matter what mood you’re in. No matter how much you push.”

“Because you’re my best friend.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked a little. “But still, you let me in. You always do.”

He didn’t speak.

You took another step.

“You touch me like it means something,” you whispered. “And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’m just reading into things I shouldn’t. But I wish—”

You stopped. Bit back the words.

“I wish you didn’t make it so easy to love you.”

That hit.

You saw it. The way his eyes flickered. The way his lips parted like he was about to say something he’d regret.

The space between you throbbed.

He stepped toward you — slow, hesitant — until he was close enough to reach. Close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath. His gaze dropped, lingered on your mouth.

He didn’t kiss you. But he didn’t walk away either.

Your name left his lips, soft and broken. A whisper edged in something dangerous.

You blinked, swallowed hard, then stepped back. Too fast.

“Forget it,” you murmured. “I’m tired.”

“Wait—”

But you were already turning, already walking toward your bedroom, away from the crash you almost let happen.

And Hyunjin stood in your kitchen hands clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he’d just realized something he wasn’t ready to admit. Still he didn’t follow.

—

You woke up with the taste of regret clinging to your tongue.

Your head pounded, the dull throb blooming behind your eyes as sunlight bled through your curtains too brightly. Your throat was dry, your limbs a little heavy, like your body was punishing you for last night’s stupidity.

And then it hit you.

Not the headache. Not the dehydration.

The memory.

Your breath stalled. You shot upright, the sheets tangling around your legs like they were trying to drag you back under. You’d said it. You actually said it. Out loud. To him. In your kitchen. With your hair a mess and wine swimming in your veins.

“I wish you didn’t make it so easy to love you.”

You groaned — loud and pathetic — and shoved your face into your hands. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Your chest tightened. Your stomach churned. You pulled at your hair like it might jolt the moment out of your skull, erase the words, roll back the clock. But they were still there, echoing through your skull like a song you couldn’t shut off.

You checked your phone. Nothing from him. Not a single text. No call. Not even a stupid meme, which he always sent after parties, something about how hard he’d regretted leaving the house, or how gross drunk people were.

But this time? Radio silence.

You paced. You spiraled. You considered deleting your entire existence and moving to another continent. Maybe start a new life with a new name. Somewhere snowy. Somewhere far from boys with lazy grins and hands that rest too casually on your thigh.

God, his hand.

You let out a strangled sound, turned on your heel, and marched toward the kitchen. You needed water. Or coffee. Or a time machine.

You rounded the corner—and screamed.

Hyunjin was standing by your counter.

Barefoot. Hair a mess. Same hoodie from last night slouched off one shoulder, like he’d never left.

Because he hadn’t.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

He didn’t flinch. “I couldn’t leave.”

You blinked. Words stuttering behind your lips. “You—? What?”

“I tried. I got as far as the door.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, jaw tight. “But I couldn’t go.”

You stared at him, throat closing around a dozen questions you were too afraid to ask.

His voice was quieter now. “We need to talk.”

And just like that, the hangover didn’t matter anymore.

You swallowed. The air between you shifted, dense and sharp like a wire pulled too tight. “Right. Um. Okay.”

You backed toward the fridge like the moment might forget you existed if you just kept moving. Pulled open the door. Grabbed the water bottle. Avoided his eyes.

He didn’t speak. Just watched you — heavy, unmoving, arms folded across his chest like a barricade.

You unscrewed the cap. Took a long drink. Cleared your throat. “About last night…”

His gaze didn’t waver.

You smiled shaky and rehearsed. “I was so drunk. I barely remember anything.”

A beat passed.

He blinked once. Slowly. “You don’t remember.”

“Not really, no.”

“Nothing at all?”

You gave a small, helpless laugh. “I mean, bits and pieces. I was clearly talking nonsense—”

“Right,” he cut in. “Nonsense.”

He turned his head then, jaw flexing. Something sharp flashed through his expression, not hurt or disbelief but something closer to anger.

Your stomach dipped and you shifted on your feet. “I just didn’t want to make things weird between us.”

“Well, too late for that,” he said, voice tight.

You blinked. “Hyunjin—”

He took a step toward you.

Your breath caught.

He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing. “So let me get this straight. You weren’t confessing anything. You didn’t mean any of it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you said you don’t remember.” He moved again. Another step. “You’re saying I made it up?”

“That’s not—”

“You’re saying I imagined the way your voice shook when you said you loved me?”

You froze.

He kept going. Low. Dangerous. Closer.

“You’re saying my touch doesn’t affect you?”

You flinched.

“Doesn’t make you forget what you’re saying, what you’re doing, who you’re trying so hard to be?”

His hand lifted slowly and deliberately brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Just the pads of his fingers, soft and reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to touch you or punish you with it.

You didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.

His voice was barely a whisper now. “Tell me I made it up.”

You couldn’t. Because you didn’t.

And he knew that. Every inch of him — from the tight line of his shoulders to the way his mouth hovered just shy of yours — was daring you to keep lying.

And you couldn’t do it. Not when your whole body was already leaning into the gravity of him.

Not when every second of silence stretched the ache between you like a fuse begging to be lit.

You didn’t mean to touch him. Your hand just moved on its own — curled gently over his chest like it could quiet the tremble beneath your skin. He was so close now, heat radiating off him like a fever, like fire, and you were drowning in it.

And then he pulled you in.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat as his hands slid around your waist. His grip wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t soft either, it was firm. Steady. Like he wasn’t letting go, even if he should.

He stared down at you, the weight of his gaze unbearable. Like he could read every word you hadn’t said. Like your silence was loud.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at you.

You didn’t know what to do with the way your body ached to close the last inch.

His mouth was right there, full and parted, breath fanning across your cheek like a dare. You felt the heat blooming in your chest, your stomach, the place between your thighs. You weren’t breathing. Couldn’t.

“Are you ready to talk now?” he asked, voice thick, jaw tight.

The spell shattered like glass between you.

You pulled back. Just barely. Not enough to escape, only to feel the sudden absence of the moment you were about to break into.

Your throat burned. “Do we have to?”

He didn’t smile. “Yes.”

You stepped back, just enough for air, for distance, even if it felt like a wound. He let you go. Slowly. Like it hurt him too.

You moved to the couch, legs folding under you like your bones forgot how to hold your weight. Hyunjin stayed standing for a moment, then sat beside you but far enough to be polite and close enough to make your chest ache.

He spoke first.

“I don’t do love,” he said, low and flat. “Not anymore.”

You stared at your hands. “I know.”

“I’m not built for it. I ruin people. I ruin things that matter.”

“You don’t ruin—”

He cut you off. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then — really looked. Like he was begging you to understand the truth behind the cruelty. “If we cross that line and it goes wrong, we don’t come back from it. And I’d rather die than lose what we have.”

You swallowed hard. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious.” Your voice cracked. “That’s the problem.”

He went quiet.

You stared at the floor, eyes glassy, throat burning. “Do you think I wanted this?”

He flinched.

“I didn’t plan to fall for you. I wasn’t sitting around plotting the day I’d mess up our friendship and destroy every ounce of peace I have with you.”

He looked at you then, expression unreadable.

“If I hadn’t been drunk last night, you would’ve never even known. I would’ve buried it like I’ve been doing for months. I would’ve pretended I was fine.”

He said nothing.

“And now I wish I had. I wish I could take it back. Not the feelings—” your voice broke, “but the part where you know.”

Silence pressed down like a weight.

You thought maybe, maybe he’d soften now. Maybe he’d say it was okay, that he understood.

But his jaw clenched. His fists tightened.

“Right,” he said, voice sharp. “So the part you regret is that I know. That’s what’s unbearable.”

You blinked. “That’s not what I meant—”

He stood suddenly, pacing now. Anger clinging to every movement. “You think I wanted to know that last night? You think I haven’t spent months trying to unsee the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

You went still.

He continued, voice low, rough with something too bitter to name. “Do you think I haven’t wanted you?”

Silence. Heavy. Deadly.

“Because I have,” he whispered. “And it scared the shit out of me.”

Hyunjin didn’t look at you when he had started talking. He stood in the center of your living room, hands restless at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like if he looked at you, really looked, the whole damn thing would collapse.

“I didn’t want it to get this far,” he said quietly. “Not because I didn’t feel it. God, that’s the problem. I did.”

You froze.

“I thought I could control it,” he went on, still not meeting your eyes. “That if I ignored it long enough, if I kept the lines blurry but just on the edge, I could trick myself out of wanting more.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I used to tell myself you didn’t feel it back. That it was just me being stupid. Needy. Fucking reckless.” He exhaled like the words had been clawing at his throat. “But it was easier when I could lie to myself. When I thought you didn’t want me.”

Your heart cracked open.

“I’ve ruined things before,” he said. “I’ve crossed lines and lost people and ended up with nothing but memories I can’t even look at without feeling sick. And this—” His voice caught. “You’re not just anyone. You’re you. If I lose you—”

He broke off. Finally looked at you.

“And now I know you feel it too,” he said, softer this time. “And that makes it worse. Because now I don’t have an excuse. Now it’s not just me risking everything, it’s you, and if this goes sideways, I don’t know if I can survive it.”

You didn’t speak. You just watched him, the slope of his shoulders, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes gave him away even when his mouth tried to bury the truth.

He still thought he was protecting you.

But it was too late for that. You were already in it, knee-deep in the ache of wanting him, the mess of loving him when you weren’t supposed to. And now you knew he’d been there too, quietly drowning beside you.

You stepped toward him.

His breath hitched.

Another step.

He went quiet, eyes tracking your every move like he couldn’t believe it was happening.

“I just—” he started, but the words faltered. His gaze dropped to your mouth. “I’m trying to explain—”

You didn’t let him. You reached for him, hands slipping up his chest and then, without giving him time to overthink it, you leaned in and pressed your mouth to his.

Softly.

His whole body went still.

Then, slowly, like gravity was always going to win, his hands found your waist and pulled you in.

The moment your lips touched his again, something broke. Not like a door creaking open — no, it splintered, cracked wide with the force of everything you both had kept buried. All the pretending. All the tension. All the times his hand lingered too long or his eyes dropped to your lips before he looked away. All of it, gone.

Hyunjin kissed you back like he’d been starving for it. His hands gripped your waist like they didn’t trust you to stay. His mouth slanted over yours, greedy, all tongue and heat and breath. He backed you into the wall without thinking, your spine pressing into it as he kissed you harder, deeper, like you were something he’d gone too long without and wasn’t sure he’d ever get again.

You moaned into his mouth and felt him shudder.

It wasn’t gentle. Nothing about it was. His hands moved — down, around, up again — like he couldn’t figure out where he needed to touch you first. Like he wanted to touch all of you at once. And when you tugged at his shirt, he gasped against your lips, forehead dropping to yours for just a second before he dragged you right back in.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered, the words barely making it out between kisses. “Fuck— I shouldn’t be doing this.”

But his mouth didn’t stop. Neither did yours.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugged — and he groaned, low and wrecked, and kissed you like the world was ending. Like this was the last chance he’d ever get and he had to make it count. Your thigh brushed his hip, and his hand dropped low, pulling you closer, flush against him. You felt all of it. The tension, the heat, the way his body trembled like he was about to fall apart.

And maybe he was.

Because this wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t safe or careful or quiet.

This was everything.

You didn’t care. You didn’t want safe. You wanted him. Wanted every part of him he tried to hide, every buried glance and stolen moment and terrified truth. And now that you had it — had him — there was no pretending anymore.

He kissed you like he finally understood that. And still, it wasn’t enough

His lips dragged down your jaw, bruising kisses pressed beneath your ear, and you felt the words before you heard them — breathless and shaken.

“Tell me to stop.”

His voice cracked as he said it. Like it cost him everything just to get the words out.

“Tell me to walk away right now, and I will.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I’m serious,” he said again, softer now, forehead pressed to your neck like he couldn’t bear to look at you. His hands trembled where they gripped your waist. “Just say the word. Please. Before we—before I ruin everything.”

And maybe in another life, you would’ve. Maybe if his touch didn’t feel like home and every kiss didn’t feel like a promise he’d been aching to keep, you would’ve saved him. Saved yourself.

But you didn’t want saving.

You wanted him.

So you reached for his face, made him look at you — really look at you — and you said it like a vow.

“I want you, Hyunjin.”

He flinched like it hurt to hear.

You stepped closer anyway, your voice a whisper against his lips.

“We won’t ruin anything,” you promised, fingers threading into his hair. “Not if you just let me love you. Not if you just let it happen.”

Something snapped in him and then he was on you. Mouth claiming yours, teeth catching your bottom lip before he groaned deep in his throat and kissed you like he’d been waiting. Like this was a secret he’d never meant to let slip, and now that he had, he needed every part of you to make sense of it.

You didn’t stand a chance. His hands were under your shirt before you could blink, fingers mapping your skin like he was desperate to learn it by heart. Clothes tugged off, your top discarded, his shirt thrown to the floor. Every inch of newly bared skin ignited under his touch. Your skirt bunched at your hips, and the moment his hand slid between your thighs, you nearly sobbed.

“Fuck—” he hissed, mouth dragging down your neck. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You did. You felt it. Pressed up against you, hard and pulsing through the thin fabric of his sweats. He rocked into you once, and your knees buckled. His arms caught you before you fell.

He carried you like you weighed nothing.

You didn’t remember how you got to the couch. Just his mouth, hot and everywhere, and the way he settled you beneath him, eyes dark with something between reverence and hunger. You weren’t trembling — you were shaking.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hovering above you, voice wrecked. “Tell me now, and I’ll stop. I swear.”

You cupped his cheek. Pulled him down until your lips were brushing his.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You felt the way that shattered him.

A ragged breath left his lips, and something raw crossed his face — awe, hunger, need. And then he kissed you. Deep and dizzying. No more hesitation. No more holding back. Just Hyunjin tasting your mouth like he’d starved for it, like he was finally allowed to be greedy.

His hands were everywhere, cradling your jaw, skimming down your ribs, tugging your skirt up your thighs until it bunched around your waist. When his fingers slipped beneath your panties, finding you slick and already throbbing, he moaned like it physically hurt him to touch you.

“Fuck… you’re already so wet,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Did I do that?”

You nodded, barely able to form words.

“Hyun…”

“Say it again,” he murmured, fingers parting your folds, dragging over your clit in slow, teasing circles. “Say my name like that.”

You gasped, hips arching into his touch. “Hyunjin—”

He groaned. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”

Then he was trailing down your body, kissing a path from your chest to your stomach, his hands anchoring your thighs as he sank to his knees on the floor. You propped yourself up on your elbows, breath caught in your throat.

He hooked your panties to the side and just… looked. Like you were art. Like he’d dreamed of this exact moment and couldn’t believe it was real.

And then his mouth was on you. Hot. Wet. Relentless. His tongue lapped through your folds, slow and sinful, before wrapping around your clit and sucking hard. Your head fell back with a cry, fingers flying to his hair, but he just groaned against you, the vibration making you choke on a moan.

“Shit—Hyunjin, oh my god—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he got hungrier. Dipping his tongue into your entrance, fucking you with it, then dragging it back up to flick over your clit until your thighs were shaking.

When your hips bucked up too hard, he gripped your thighs tighter and held you down, his shoulders braced against your legs to keep you from moving.

“You’re gonna cum for me,” he muttered against you, voice thick and dark. “On my tongue. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long—”

You were already there.

Your back arched, mouth falling open in a silent scream as the orgasm hit you like a wave crashing down. He kept licking through it, eyes locked on your face like he needed to see you fall apart.

When you finally collapsed back against the couch, breathless and wrecked, he crawled back up your body and kissed you, slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You good?” he asked, voice a rasp in your ear.

You blinked at him. “Are you?”

He gave a breathless laugh and looked down between you. “Not even close.”

You hadn’t even realized he’d stripped out of his sweats. His cock was flushed, thick, and straining with need — and he was still trying to hold back.

That wouldn’t do.

You reached for him, but he caught your hand and kissed your fingers before pushing them away. Then he grabbed your thighs, spreading you wider, and hooked your legs over his shoulders. The position left you bare and open and trembling.

His eyes burned into yours.

“I need you to look at me when I fuck you.”

Then he pressed forward. The first inch made your breath catch , too much, too deep, but you didn’t look away. Neither did he.

“Fuck—” he gritted out, his hips pushing forward in slow, agonizing inches until he was fully inside, stretching you open, filling you to the hilt. “You feel like heaven. Like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just him, inside you, looking at you like this was his last wish granted.

And then he moved. He pulled out and sank back in, hard and deep, your legs folded up on his shoulders, the angle hitting something devastating. Your moan broke halfway out as he picked up a rhythm, hips snapping forward, each thrust driving the air from your lungs.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice tight. “Tell me this isn’t just in my head.”

“I want you,” you gasped. “As real as it can get—always.”

That undid him. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again as he fucked you deeper, harder. The couch creaked under you, the heat between your bodies suffocating. You could barely hold on, could barely keep your eyes open.

And then you came again, harder this time. Shaking, crying out his name, nails raking down his back as you clung to him. He followed seconds later, hips jerking, his face buried in your neck as he came with a broken groan, body tense and shuddering above you.

For a long time, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the soft, desperate way he kissed your shoulder.

Then his voice, hoarse in your ear.

“We’re so fucked.”

And you smiled, wrecked and radiant.

“I know.”

—

You didn’t know how long you stayed tangled like that. Your legs still draped over his hips, his chest rising and falling against yours, sweat cooling between your bodies. The air was heavy with the scent of sex and everything unspoken.

Hyunjin’s fingers trailed gently over your hip, then your stomach, then the side of your throat like he was relearning every inch of you now that he didn’t have to pretend he hadn’t imagined this a thousand times before.

Then he kissed you, not with hunger this time, but like he’d been waiting years to kiss you soft.

“You okay?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, brushing your nose against his.

“More than okay.”

His eyes searched your face, like he was trying to commit you to memory all over again.

“We should get you cleaned up,” he whispered. “You’re all sticky.”

You let him carry you to the bathroom.

He set you on the counter first and helped you undress fully, stealing kisses as he did, his hands so gentle now, like he didn’t want to miss a moment of touching you like this. He peeled your underwear down slowly, kissed your thighs. His eyes flicked down between your legs — red, sensitive, swollen from what they’d done.

A blush climbed your neck.

But he just smiled, warm and a little dazed.

“I like seeing you like this,” he said quietly. “All wrecked from me.”

The shower was hot and full of steam. He let you step in first, then wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as the water ran over both of you.

Neither of you talked much. Just small sounds. Little laughs. The soft lather of his hands running over your arms, your back, your chest.

When you turned to face him, water dripping down your hair and cheeks, he stared at you like you were made of gold.

“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” he said. “I’ve wanted this for so long, I don’t know how to believe it’s real.”

You touched his face. “It’s real.”

He leaned into your palm.

“Then say it again.”

You blinked. “Say what?”

“Those three words.” His voice cracked a little. “Just once more. Please.”

Your heart stuttered.

You stood on your toes and kissed him, slow and tender, water slipping between your mouths. When you pulled back, you looked him straight in the eyes.

“I love you.”

Hyunjin exhaled like you’d knocked the wind out of him. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, like if he didn’t hold you closer he might fall apart.

“I love you too,” he whispered. “God, I love you so much it fucking hurts.”

And then he was kissing you again. Not frantic — not this time. Just deep, adoring, like he finally knew what home tasted like.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Everyone please say happy birthday to Angel @angel-writes-skz-here ! Thanks for organizing this fun event, I need you guys to check the Event Masterlist for the other stories! Mine was based on the song DLMLU, i hope i captured it well 🥹❤️

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8

[wolfboy-tobi]

I went a bit darker with this just a little :D--

Now Danny doesn't hate Batman, oh no. He's never even met the fucking Batman.

Just Bruce Wayne. Brucie Wayne. His ever growing dislike for the man started with a random charity gala he was attending with his best friend Sam at 15 year old. He didn’t necessarily want to attend but Sam being the persistence person she always is and him caring about her, He had reluctantly agreed.

His first mistake.

During the night Bruce's eyes never left Danny almost as if he was staring through him right to his very core, almost like he saw a Ghost.

His quick attempts to talk to Danny were blocked by him quickly disappearing in a blink of an eye, or a random rich person/news reporter appearing out of the blue.

Finally losing Brucie Wayne when he attempted to talk to Sam or her parents. "A smart trap" he would say to himself after finally getting a moment to breathe in patio.

Danny was extremely tired by the end of the night the only redeemable thing that happened was when he "accidently" tripped a rich guy who managed to spilled champagne onto Brucie Wayne. This was the beginning of a very long down hill journey, Bruce Wayne was by definition a insane billionaire fruit loop in Danny’s mind.

Bruce's evening was him consistently seeing the haunting dead eyes of his recently dead son across the room when looked over in any direction. Him feeling sick every time he got close just to see him disappear then appear even further away from him. As a constant reminder he couldn't save him, he couldn't make it in time.

He. Couldn't. Save. Him.

(Oops sorry guys got carried away :D-- if this inspires you to make a full story TAG ME FOOLS I WISH TO READ!) Okay byeeee :3

Danny keeps on meeting Brucie Wayne at Galas when he goes to keep Sam company. He hates the man. There is no adoption, no adoption jokes, he never meets Batman. Give me Danny Fenton and his unending beef with Brucie Wayne. Bruce finds this absolutely hilarious. This feisty 14 year old is incredibly fun to antagonize.

[ms-demeanor]

Fwiw i recently learned about cluttering speech and realized OH. Oh. Oh yeah that's probably part of what people were seeing when they identified me as a weird little freak who couldn't act right.

It was also the source of my most recent massive mortification at work when a coworker interrupted me with a question during a brief planned presentation and I lost my place in the talk and couldn't get back into it and just started ramping up speed like a jet taking off until the CEO stopped me and asked me a yes or no question then moved on to the next presentation; at the end of that i looked at zoom and one of my coworkers had messaged me "relax" "take a breath" "are you okay?" during my little meltdown.

Also makes me more annoyed at my dad for saying "mumbler!" At me like the Johnny Depp Willy Wonka whenever I got hard to understand.

And, like, yes. Yes, I can see why people notice that and find it off-putting and how it hinders understanding and might make other people feel steam-rolled. I know I talk faster and go on more tangents when I'm engaged and excited about something, and I know if it's something I know a lot about I will want to say a lot about it and as an adult I know to check in with listeners and offer other people a chance to talk and how to redirect from side stories (mostly) and to ask "did that make any sense?" Every few minutes but as a kid i just knew that people made fun of me when I acted like I liked things because as a kid I didn't realize how fast I was talking or how annoying people find meandering tangents.

[cameronsbabydoll]

omg, what about a fic inspired by the song ‘it’s my party and i’ll cry if i want to’ by lesley gore?

— 🐰

“it’s my party and i’ll cry if i want to”

rafe cameron x babydoll!reader

warnings: ex!boyfriend rafe, heartbreak, jealousy, public humiliation, bittersweet ending, vintage 1960s setting, emotional babydoll!reader, yearning, implied mutual feelings

a/n: this has been sitting in my requests since may i’m sorry so so 🐰 anon!!!

the string lights sway in the warm summer air, casting gold halos over the pastel-draped tables.

bunting hangs between the willow trees. delicate glass bowls of jordan almonds and pastel mints glint in the late sun.

your mother’s prized phonograph sits on the patio, spinning the ronettes at just the right volume — background enough for conversation, but steady enough that you can hum along when the chatter lulls.

you’ve been smiling for hours.

smiling at family friends you barely know. smiling at your father’s business partners. smiling at girls from the club who are really only here to see if the rumors about you are true.

smiling because it’s your birthday.

you’re in your best dress — powder pink chiffon with a satin bow at the waist, puffed sleeves, and a hem that swishes just above your knees. your gloves are pearl white, your mary janes buffed to a shine. your hair is curled to perfection. your lipstick hasn’t bled once.

and then you hear it — a ripple in the air, the subtle shift in tone that means something has happened.

“is that… rafe cameron?”

“oh my god, and is that—?”

“—with her?”

your hand stills on the cake knife.

you turn your head slowly.

there he is.

walking across your lawn in a cream sport coat and pressed trousers, hair slicked just so, one hand in his pocket. the other arm is looped with hers — tall, tan, brunette, in a fitted floral dress with a neckline that makes you blush just looking at it.

he hasn’t been on this property since the day you ended it.

since the night in the driveway when voices cracked and something soft between you broke in half.

you force your gaze back to the cake, sawing the slice a little too sharply.

for the next hour, you do everything right.

you refill drinks, pass lemon cupcakes, nod along to conversation.

but your eyes keep straying across the lawn.

he’s not even doing much — just standing near the drinks table, talking to people he knows, smiling occasionally, leaning down to say something to her.

and every time his hand rests against her back, your chest tightens until you can hardly breathe.

you mess up small things — forgetting names, pouring the wrong drink, zoning out while someone asks you a question.

you excuse yourself to “get some air” and slip away to the shaded side porch, where the party hum fades to a soft buzz behind you.

you grip the white railing until your gloves go damp.

“you’re really gonna cry at your own birthday party?”

your heart jumps at the voice.

you turn, and there he is, leaning in the open doorway with a glass in hand.

“you brought her here,” you say, voice already wobbling.

he raises a brow. “you invited half the island, babydoll. did you think i’d just stay home?”

you flinch at the name.

“you knew it would hurt me.”

he takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“didn’t think you’d care this much. guess i was wrong.”

you swallow. “you are wrong.”

“sure,” he says lightly, but there’s an edge under it. “then why are you hiding on the porch instead of playing hostess?”

you turn away, blinking fast.

he steps closer, enough to catch your chin with his free hand, tilting your face toward his. his thumb brushes under your eye, catching the corner of a tear before it falls.

“don’t pout,” he murmurs. “people are looking at you.”

“it’s my party, rafe.”

his mouth curves, the faintest smirk. “and you’ll cry if you want to, huh?”

you pull back from his touch. “go back to her.”

he studies you for a beat, then shrugs and retreats, leaving the faint scent of his cologne in the air.

you wait until your lipstick is fixed before stepping back into the sunlight.

he’s across the lawn again, arm around her waist now. she’s laughing at something he said, head tipped back, white teeth gleaming.

you pretend to listen to someone talk about their new ruby red cadillac.

the sun dips low. someone suggests gifts. you perch in the chair by the cake table, smiling politely as people bring them over one by one — scarves, perfume, trinkets wrapped in glossy paper.

and then you see it.

a small white box, no frills, with handwriting you know instantly on the tag.

no “from rafe &” — just his name.

your fingers hesitate on the ribbon.

inside, nestled in satin, is a pearl bracelet. delicate, vintage, exactly the kind you used to point out in shop windows.

beneath the padding, you find a folded letter.

babydoll,

i saw these in a shop window last month. made me think of the way you used to stop in front of every display and press your nose to the glass like a kid.

you probably don’t remember, but once you told me pearls looked like “little moons you could wear.” i never forgot that. figured you’d find a way to spill cake on them, but i got them anyway.

i don’t know why i’m writing this. maybe because it’s easier to say here than it would be if you looked at me.

i know you hate me right now. maybe you should. but i hope you’re happy today. i hope the music’s good, and the cake’s the kind you like, and that you laugh enough to forget i was even here.

i shouldn’t say this. i don’t have the right anymore. but—

i miss you.

— r

you slip the bracelet onto your wrist with trembling hands.

the chatter around you blurs into a hum.

rafe is nowhere in sight. the party is still spinning, still glittering, still golden.

but all you can hear is that last line, looping in your head like a record stuck on the same lyric.

it’s my party, and i’ll cry if i want to — and tonight, you do.

[evilminji]

It WOULD give you a chance to have in world nuanced takes? And different people having different opinions on the whole thing? Cause on one hand? If it's an ancient curse? Then it's probably one of, if not THE, cultural shift moments of Before and After in curse creations?

Because NO curse had EVER spiraled so wildly out of control like that before. NO BODY could contain it. Nobody.

Emergency workers. Crack teams of mages. Violent quarantine forces. All for nothing. Just food for the every churning machine. It took the curse mutating to it's now "stable" state and EXTREME measures to to stop a full on Zombie type apocalypse.

So now... you don't DO that. No One does that. Cultural trauma! Haunting old ruins can be found in some places, maybe! And curse creation? *instant ethics panel breathing down your neck* Why Do You Want To Study That, Huh? Up To Something??

Meanwhile VAMPIRES? Some of the eldest remember getting abandoned to their "Fate". Left to DIE. While OTHERS were those self same rescue workers. Good people, trying to help. And younger generations? Are CURSE victims.

They have, culturally, essentially a stable zombie virus. It can SPREAD.

YOU could get infected!! Scary!

But.... is it THEIR fault? They never asked for this. Never asked to lose EVERYTHING. Cause they did. They basically DID lose everything.

Fueled by Nature, Fueled by the Sun, it still now completely flipped to something entirely NEW. Something that is "wrong" (not really, just different. But it would FEEL wrong for a long, long time. Because their minds would insist their birth mana was Correct and THIS mana is Incorrect. Foreign. Body horror).

They'd LOSE basicly? ALL of their years worth of practice and study in their first Mana. Poof! All that hard work. Gone. Were you a master before? A respected scholar or battle mage? Tough shit. You're a baby who can't control the FLOW OF YOUR OWN BODY AGAIN. Like a CHILD.

And you can't even die. Not easily. It would HURT. A lot. And take hours and hours of pain, to escape this new hell you've found yourself in. So... lot of anger. Lot of grief. The kids are generally not all right. AND it's usually because of DELIBERATE spread..

Cause if stable? They figured out a way around the whole "I bite to feed-> oops you're bitten-> new vampire-> two people need to eat now-> WE bite to feed" thing. So there are probabaly two camps of new vampires. Those that wanted to stay with those they care about and knowingly signed on. And those that were victims of Bastard Mcgee, the "want to watch the world burn because I'm angry" criminal, who all the other vampires fuckin haaaaate and have been trying to VIOLENTLY locate to... talk.

Because every group has Those Assholes™

Also! Gives you a chance to dive into Mana a bit? Cause they, being natural Mana-sinks, need it to live/be healthy. And blood is just... kinda the richest, safest, and most digestible source available. But! Since you could say a LOT of researchers got hit in that first wave?

They've been working ever since! Trying to figure out how to infuse mana into food. Into water or wine. Hey, (name)! How've you been! How's that salt experiment going? Any progress? :D

Like... the image of sitting in the bright, cozy home. Filled with research and odd little experiments on cheeses or fruit. Deep underground where the sun can't hurt them. The air filled with soft laughter and chatter. Everyone trying to find Non-Experiment food for their guests and "does anyone still remember how to cook?" "Ooh! Ooh! I think so!"

Especially after being told by someone to be careful of Them. That THEY were dangerous. THEY might try to bite you! They have unnatural mana, kid! Preconceived notions etc.

So many ways to go with this! Especially if you nail down the actual Original Event that caused the spread to begin? If it was an accident. A spell gone HORRIFICALLY wrong. Or a Curse etc. What was it SUPPOSED to do, that it created "Vampires"? Somehow tapped into a previously UNTAPPED energy?

Because Anti-mana would always have been there. Nothing new under the sun etc etc. It just? Wasn't something LIVING beings had. It was a part of decay. Maybe the cycle of Mana itself. Like Filtering+-> Mana-> Filtering- -> Antimana-> Filtering+-> etc?

It would render Antimana? Blank! If there are multiple types in nature? A way to break down energy, wash it up as it were, and put it back in a new place? Clean again. Refreshed.

WHICH? Actually? Would leave Vampires able to eat? Some truely RANK and God awful mana? Curses too. Mmmm, spicy. Crunchy munchy. Their curse eats smaller curses for breakfast. Cause Anti-mana is the cleaning element. A blackhole that spits out light, once it's done chewing on it. After it's stripped all the Nature markers from it. WHICH? Is probably how they live so long!

Maybe!

My vampires CAN walk into the sunlight but doing so would reveal what they would look like if they aged normally

Younger vampires don’t have much to worry about but older vamps have reason to avoid sunlight as they age. They are still immortal, but their aged, sunlit selves are significantly weaker than their non-sunlit forms. Vamps over 100 years old run the risk of crumpling over, fully immobile, but still conscious