#and if he asks it will look like he doesn’t know them at all

[reignpage]

In which the men are obsessed with your ass and the different ways they express it

Satoru smashes his face in between your cheeks at random times of the day. Around the corridor, when no one’s looking, he’ll shove you against the wall, kneel, and mumble, 'I'm home.' When questioned, he explains he likes everything about it – how warm you are there, how soft, and most importantly, how much you hate it. If he takes a long and loud inhale, it’s usually just to piss you off. Over time, however, it’s grown to be one of the very few things that calms him down. His stupid family can be overbearing, but if you’re there and arching your ass out for him, then all is well. 

Suguru gropes your ass in front of other people, always just out of sight, always with a pleasant smile and a nod, indicating he’s giving them his full attention. But little do they know, his fingers are digging deep into your flesh, even through jeans, staking his claim. He likes to remind you he’s always thinking about you, he likes the secrecy, the silent ‘fuck you’ to the ass-kissers he runs into, no pun intended. Maybe, just maybe, he also likes the way you get all breathy, all nervous, and skittish, half wanting to tell him off and half leaning into his touch. 

Choso bites. Something about your ass, with the recoil, the ripples, the tiger stripe-like marks, makes his mouth water. He can’t help but eye them from behind or when you’re innocently walking up the stairs. Even at night, half-asleep, he often wakes up with drool pooling on your bare flesh, teeth marks visible on your poor skin. Of course, he apologises, but he never stops. Definitely don’t ask him about the locked album on his phone. It totally doesn’t contain hundreds and hundreds of upskirt pictures. 

Toji slaps and smacks with no care in the world. He does it in the middle of the street, in front of his friends, as a hello, as a goodbye, as a ‘calm down,’ and even as an apology. There’s no shame or decorum in his actions. Especially not when other bastards let their eyes wander too long. He’ll slap your ass whilst staring them down. Might give it a peck too, if it was particularly hard. And he won’t ever admit this, but he also likes to lay a good one on you, just so he has a reason to rub apologetic circles on the warm skin. 

Kento pats your ass as a calming gesture. It helps you sleep. He might tap your ass to let you know he’s behind and needs to get by, or to show you he’s listening to your rants. Though it started as a means to soothe you, eventually, it grows to be a habit, a tic, a reflex. Often, he blinks and realises his hand had a mind of its own and had wandered over to a cheek without his knowing. You never seem to mind, thankfully. Actually, you seem to like it, especially when it means you have a reason to do it back to him, but harder and in more embarrassing situations.

Sukuna punishes with spanks that he makes you count. You think you can just run around his estate, doing as you please? Although he’s given you more liberties and privileges than anyone else has ever had, you should still know your place. No one talks back to him. No one mocks him. No one defies him. They’re lessons you learn, and you learn well, when he has you bent over his lap, ass bare and marked up for everyone to see. It helps that it teaches his repulsive cockroach-like servants that, if he can make you squeal and cry and not bat an eye, he won’t hesitate to smite them where they stand.

[holeforzenin]

Early morning cravings with Husband Kento <3

Tw - stuff with piss. Don’t read if that’s not your thing. And no I don’t condone any of this irl and I know this could end very bad and harmful if it was to be tried irl!

The rustling of the sheets woke you before the sun fully rises. You hear the telltale sound of fabric shifting, a soft grunt and one side of the bed dipping away from you. You don’t open your eyes—you just reach out blindly and grab for the body that’s already getting up.

“Nooo,” you whine, your voice rough with sleep. “Where’re you going??”

“Work, baby,” Kento murmurs softly, already half-dressed in his slacks and a sleeveless undershirt. He leans over and presses a kiss to your hairline, gentle and apologetic. He always gets up early and showers before spending the rest time he has to cuddle with you before he leaves. “Didn’t mean to wake you”.

You latch onto his arm and pull him close. Acting really pathetic and needy and it’s not even 6:30 am yet. “Don’t wanna be alone…”

He chuckles softly. “You say that every morning”.

“I mean it every morning”.

You’re not even fully awake, but your body moves on its own—following him as he pads toward the bathroom. You’re slow—dragging your feet with your oversized shirt slouching off one shoulder, panties crooked under your oversized tee. You look like you got hit by sleep itself.

He doesn’t comment when you trail behind him. You always do this when you’re clingy, especially in the morning when he has to leave.

But this time, instead of perching on the counter like usual, you stay close. You hug his back while he lifts the toilet seat. Your cheek’s pressed and nuzzling against his spine, arms wrapped around his waist, and he just lets it happen like he always does.

“You’re gonna watch me pee?” he asks calmly, already unzipping his pants.

“Mhm”.

“Not exactly glamorous”.

You shrug behind him. “It’s hot”.

That makes him huff. But he doesn’t argue.

You lean your head sideways, cheek pillowed against his hard back as you watch him pull his cock out. There’s something mind-melting about the routine of it—about how casual he is, how easily that thick, golden stream spills into the bowl. He doesn’t aim with two hands. Just one. His other hand rests on your arm while you hug him like a gigantic teddy bear.

And fuck he’s so sexy like this. Big, slow-moving, and warm with lots of patience. You can feel the heat of his piss rising with the steam from the bowl, the sound of it splashing echoing through the quiet bathroom. You watch the heavy head of his cock pulse at the end, even after the stream dies down, still a little damp and drippy.

He shakes it off. Not even looking down, like it’s nothing.

But you’re staring with your thighs rubbing together.

His tip is still glistening—smeared with the last remnants of his piss and your mind’s already sliding into the gutter, your pussy involuntarily flutters just thinking about what it’d feel like, all warm and sticky while pressing up between your folds.

“Kento…”

He hums.

“Can I have it…?”

He pauses. Not because he’s shocked. But because he’s making sure you really mean it. He looks down at you with those patient, attentive eyes—his sweet little wife, clinging to him like a sleepy parasite, with heavy lids and needy eyes and no shame whatsoever.

“I haven’t washed it yet,” he says.

“I know,” you breathe, lips parting with your body leaning forward a little.

He stares for a second longer. Then kisses your temple like he always does.

“Sink,” he murmurs to you.

You turn without hesitation with your chest fluttering. You brace your hands against the edge of the sink, the cool porcelain waking you a bit as you bent over and he moves behind you. You feel him hitch your shirt up—he doesn’t even bother taking your panties off, just tugs them aside with a knuckle, exposing your excited pussy to the air. And then—

Then you felt his cock lay heavy against your slit, damp and heavy, the swollen tip dragging through your folds like it belonged there—parting your messy pussy lips with every slow, sticky pass like he was teasing the hole he already knew was his.

“Oh my—,” you moan softly, instinctively wiggling your ass back at him for more. “Fuck Kento, feels good”.

It’s wet and warm, smeared with more than just your arousal. It’s sooo filthy but that’s why you love it so much. You can feel the residue of it—the faint scent of his morning piss, the heat of it lingering on your folds. Your clit throbs when his tip bumps it, and you swear you feel a droplet smear against you like he’s marking you with it.

He exhales through his nose behind you. Completely calm and unbothered. “You’re something else,” he murmurs, still moving his cock back and forth slowly between your now sticky folds, coating himself in the wetness blooming between your legs. “Getting off on this”.

You nod, your whole body twitching. “It’s dirty…”

“Mm. real dirty,” he agrees, now rubbing your messy clit with the wide head of his cock, letting the piss and your slick mix into a warm mess that makes your thighs shake just by the feeling of it. “You’re such a little perv, darling. You like that I didn’t clean it for you?”

You nod faster, mouth falling open into a low whimper. “Y—Yes, love it s’much Ken”.

He lets a quiet laugh slip out—disbelief and fondness—and presses his palm against your lower back to keep you balanced against the sink as his other hand cups your tit from behind, kneading it lazily through your shirt.

“Can’t believe this is how I’m starting my day,” he mutters with a chuckle. “Grinding my piss-covered cock on my wife’s sweet cunt”.

“Y-Your fault,” you whimper, hips bucking back against him, your clit catching perfectly every time he rocks forward. “You’re too sexy in the morning”.

That earns you another slow drag—more harder and rougher than before. Your pussy’s soaked now, cum sticking against his cockhead as it slides and rubs through your folds again and again. You’re panting, thighs shaking and your clit pulsing every time he nudges it with pressure.

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear.

“Want me to rub it on your little hole too?” he says calmly. “Spread your pussy open and make it messy down there too?”

You nod like you’re drunk. “Uh-huh…please!”

He pulls back just a little then spits into his hand and smears it over his length, already wet, already messy, and then slides the fat head back down—this time letting it kiss your entrance. He doesn’t push in. Just presses and circles it. Smearing more of his warmth and slick over your hole until it’s fluttering open and begging to be stuffed.

“Fuuck,” you whisper, gripping the sink like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You gonna cum just from this?” he asks, rubbing it harder and applying more pressure, spreading everything everywhere. “From daddy’s messy cock on your pussy?”

You moan so loud you’re sure the neighbors heard it. He kisses your temple again. “You’re unreal, baby”.

And he keeps going—rubbing it slow and nasty, letting you rut back against him like a dog in heat. His free hand tweaks your nipple while the other keeps you steady, and your thighs are clenching, your whole body arching for more of your husband.

You cum like that—crying his name while pressing your face into your arm, trembling as he indulgently smears your cream right back on himself.

And when it’s over, when you’re still bent over and panting, he leans down and kisses your lips.

“Happy wife,” he murmurs, tucking himself away with a quiet zip.

“Happy life,” you finish weakly, dizzy with bliss.

He brings you a warm towel after.

Because he’s the best husband in the world even when you’re a freak.

[nanamisweetgirl]

🜼 ⋆ you’re trying to win your game but gamer!choso is only making it hard with every thrust he fucks into you.

you’re trying to focus. really.

your eyes are on the screen, controller firm in your hands, knees braced on either side of choso’s hips where he’s sprawled back on the couch behind you. your headset’s already halfway off one ear, heart pounding with the tension of the match. your team’s shouting something about “left flank, hold the point, where the fuck is support”, but it all filters through like static, background noise.

because he’s still inside you.

choso, warm and heavy and impossibly deep, arms splayed behind your back as he lounges like he’s not currently fucking you slow enough to make your thighs shake. and he’s not even moving, not much. just shifting his hips every now and then, enough to feel the soft suck of you clenching around him, enough to grind the fat head of his cock against your most sensitive spot until your vision blurs at the edges.

you try to adjust your grip on the controller, you even try to focus more.

“you good, baby?” he asks, voice lazy and low, chin tucked over your shoulder like he’s barely even aware of what he’s doing to you. like he’s not the reason your fingers are slipping on the joystick, breath catching every time he presses just a little deeper. “you’re gettin’ real quiet.”

you glare at the screen and not at him. you can’t afford to. not with your character on the brink of getting sniped.

“’m fine,” you mutter, biting your lip hard enough to ground yourself. your voice wavers, barely audible beneath the low whirr of his breath against your neck.

choso hums and then he thrusts up—once, slow and deep and steady. your jaw drops, your whole body jolting forward and you miss your shot.

“…choso.”

he grins, lazy and smug. you don’t have to look to know it.

“just makin’ sure you’re still with me,” he murmurs, one hand curling around your waist, the other resting flat on your thigh where he spreads your legs just a little wider. he’s not even trying to fuck you hard, choso doesn’t need to. the heat’s already pooling low in your belly, breath catching every time he shifts under you, thick cock grinding through the slick heat of your cunt like he owns it. like it’s his personal amusement to see how long he can keep you functioning.

“you’re not gonna lose, are you?” he murmurs, all faux-innocence, dragging the pad of his thumb over your inner thigh in a slow circle. “wouldn’t want your team thinkin’ you can’t multitask.”

you gasp when he bucks his hips again, shallower this time and more of a roll than a thrust but it still punches the breath out of your lungs. the controller slips in your hands for a second. you miss another target. you bite down on a whimper.

“fuck you,” you hiss, cheeks hot.

his voice is right in your ear now, smug as ever.

“you are.”

the worst part is: he’s right. and you don’t want to stop. your body’s on fire, flushed and twitching every time he shifts just right under you, slow enough that it doesn’t feel like fucking, not quite, but enough that your whole focus starts to slide sideways. the wet sound of your slick around him is obscene, especially layered under the high-action game music, and every time he moves, you can feel him throb inside you.

choso reaches up lazily, plucks the headset halfway off your head with one hand and lets it dangle around your neck.

“you’re makin’ real cute sounds,” he murmurs, voice gone low and syrupy. “don’t want them hearin’ how needy you sound, do you?”

you shake your head, slightly frustrated, overstimulated, wanting him so bad your vision’s gone glassy.

“then say it,” he breathes, mouthing at the side of your throat, licking just under your jaw. “say you’ll let me fuck you proper after. you’ll put the game down and let me make you come like you want.”

your fingers go limp on the controller. your hips rock back against him without thinking, and his cock hits a spot so deep you sob, eyes rolling back.

“say it, baby.”

you barely get it out. voice wrecked. “yes. yes—choso, i will—”

the controller drops to the floor with a dull clatter.

he’s already got your hips in both hands, already snapping up into you like he’s been holding back this whole time. filthy, wet, deep—driving up into your soaked pussy like he’s starving for it, like he’s been waiting all day for you to stop pretending you could ignore him.

“knew you’d fold,” he groans, fingers digging into your hips. “always do.”

you do. and when he finally fucks you like he means it, fast and hard and merciless, you can’t even pretend you ever had control to begin with.

[my-beloved-idol]

K-POP DEMON HUNTERS HEADCANONS ✦ JEALOUS

includes: saja boys & huntrix.

✦ JINU

So bad at hiding it. His face gives it all away.

Glares in silence while nervously chewing his lip.

Mumbles things like “I mean, they’re not even that funny...”

Tries to act cool but trips over his own jealousy.

When you confront him, he goes: “I wasn’t jealous! I was just… observing.”

You tease him. He blushes. He pulls you into a hug and mutters: “I just really like you, okay?”

✦ ABBY

Jealousy? BABY he’s petty.

He flirts right back with the person you’re talking to just to confuse everyone.

“So you like attention, huh? Let’s see how much you can handle.”

Kisses your neck right in front of them, eyes never leaving theirs.

Later, pulls you away and whispers, “You’re driving me insane. Say you're mine.”

(Lowkey likes being jealous. It makes the kisses hotter.)

✦ ROMANCE

He doesn’t get angry. He gets sad.

Pouts. Whines. Gets all melodramatic like: “So this is how it ends... you found someone hotter.”

Fakes a tear. You laugh. He’s not kidding.

Starts clinging to you like a lost puppy until you give him full attention again.

Will write you a poem about how “you nearly broke his heart today.”

But also? Will absolutely destroy anyone who flirts with you again. Soft doesn’t mean weak.

✦ MYSTERY

Silent. Brooding. Confused.

His smile disappears, and he just watches, expression unreadable.

Doesn’t say a word... but suddenly he’s always right next to you.

If anyone gets too close, his hand “accidentally” brushes yours or he speaks just loud enough for them to know you’re taken.

If anyone gets too close to you, he would growl low in his throat like a warning.

✦ BABY SAJA

He pretends he doesn’t care.

Spoiler: He cares so much it’s infuriating.

Stares down the poor soul you're laughing with like they just kicked a puppy. Absolutely offended.

“Tsk. Look at you, all giggly for them. Cute.”

Subtly wraps his arm around your waist while keeping eye contact with the “threat.”

Pulls you into his lap later and whispers: “You're mine, remember that.”

✦ ZOEY

Unhinged gremlin mode activated.

Will go straight to the person and say, “Oh hi! Did you know they’re TAKEN?” with the sweetest smile.

Clings to you like a koala for the rest of the day.

Glares over your shoulder while hugging you.

100% makes dramatic lyrics of you two later.

“If they touch you again, I’m going full demon hunter on their ass.”

✦ MIRA

Scary calm.

Won’t say a thing. But suddenly everyone’s scared.

Makes the other person feel stupid just by looking at them.

Will kiss you passionately in front of them, then say: “Sorry, was I interrupting something?”

Later: “You don’t actually want someone like that, right?”

She’ll play it chill... unless you give her a reason not to.

✦ RUMI

She tries so hard to be mature about it.

Smiles. Nods. Supports your socializing... while dying inside.

“They’re funny,” she says, in that tone™.

Won’t say anything until she’s curled up next to you later, quietly asking: “Would you still choose me?”

Gets super clingy after that. But she’s so sweet about it you let her.

“I know I’m not dramatic like the others. But you’re important to me. Please don’t forget.”

[boyfhee]

ㅤ I CRUMBLEㅤ✶ㅤWHEN YOU CRY

爱,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀───⠀⠀⠀𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍.

𝟭𝟬𝟯𝟴─────boyfriend! enhypen x fem! reader ， comfort fluff ✶ crying, petnames, skinship ꕀ 𝑉𝑂𝐺𝑈𝐸 ｡ ㅤREQUESTED

HEESEUNG

his heart drops the moment he sees tears in your eyes— it’s like a nasty punch straight to his gut.

he is quick to embrace you in his arms, trying to stay strong for you, muttering sweet nothings while wiping tears off your cheeks. “talk to me, angel,”

and when you do, when you manage to let out a shaky whisper, a hiccup of his name— his eyes turn glassy.

“oh, baby,” you can hear the tremble in his voice too, the way he holds you a little tighter, closer, burying his face in your hair to hide his own tears. “i’m here for you,”

he hides his tears, even though you feel him trembling. he denies when you ask if he is crying, and he melts when you wipe his tears while he is trying to stop yours.

JONGSEONG

your boyfriend freezes when he hears your sniffles as soon as he enters the room. his first instinct is to fix things, to take away whatever was making you cry.

but the sight of your red, puffy eyes and a quiet plea of his name breaks him. he sits next to you, not sure whether to give you some space or hide you in his arms— it was breaking his heart.

his own eyes were burning.

and when you finally lean against him, he quickly collects you in his arms as if to hide you from all the harm. “let it out, darling,”

he whispers soft and quiet affirmations, proud of you for being strong so far. he cups the back of your head with one hand while subtly wiping a tear off his cheek when you’re not looking.

it’s rare, but it’s real. he cries with you, for you.

JAEYUN

it takes him one second before he is falling apart— stumbling and crashing across the living room, making his way to you as you step out of your room in tears.

“what’s wrong?” his own words are shaky, barely audible, and he holds your face like it’s porcelain— he is scared he would hurt you.

and when you look at him through those pretty, wet lashes before crashing in his arms, he feels his heart sink to his stomach.

he listens so intently, nodding and rubbing your back, but when your voice breaks mid-sentence, his bottom lip quivers and he is gone, tears spilling over his waterline.

you both cry together as he holds you close, pressing kisses to your forehead. his sniffles mingle with yours amidst the pile of comfort, kisses and tisses.

SUNGHOON

he is frantic, hands shaking, mind a mess. he hates to see you cry, and he quickly pulls you on his lap, holding you close like you are his entire world.

it’s a shock to both of you— his tears flow automatically, despite his attempts to blink them away. he sniffles, you speak in a broken voice, he breaks down again. “why are you crying?”

“i’m crying because you are crying,” and he doesn’t look any better than you. it draws a shaky chuckle from you and it feels like balm to his wound.

he holds your face with tenderness and care, wiping every single tear, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ears. “you know you always have me, right?”

it’s like he is reassuring himself that you are okay. and when you tear up again, burying your face in his neck, he lets out a sob again. “you’re safe here,”

SUNOO

he drops everything the second he sees your lips quiver, immediately pulling you against his chest, letting out a chocked whine. “no, no, no, sweetheart—”

he’s crying before you can respond, feeling the ache in his chest grow bigger and bigger at every sob that escapes your lips.

he cradles you in his arms, patting your back and swaying you gently with him. he feels your heart beat against his, it’s oddly comforting.

“it doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head when you finally look up, apologising for the wet spot on his t-shirt. “only you do,”

he tries to make you feel better, calling you beautiful even when you look like a mess— he earned a weak punch on his chest for that.

he wipes your tears before his, trying to be strong for you, but he definitely cries harder than you are for a while.

JUNGWON

his heart is in shambles, really. he is trying his best to be your emotional anchor, but every tear that spills from your eyes shatters him into a million pieces.

“talk to me, please,” he is begging, almost, just wanting to take you away from whatever is making you cry.

he stays quiet, letting you talk, offering forehead kisses and his sleeve to wipe your tears. he doesn’t trust himself to speak— there’s a lump in his throat and his vision is blurry.

he listens intently and exhales shakily when you grip onto his arms like he’s your lifeline. when he feels you shaking in his arms, his tears fall on his own.

it doesn’t bother him— his first priority has always been you. he tells you it’s okay when his own tears can’t stop falling. but, jungwon knows he will be fine when you are.

NI-KI

he is angry— both, at the situation and at himself for not noticing anything earlier. he holds you gently with his jaes clench, wanting to know what made you like this.

if it’s someone, he will beat them up. if it’s something, he will keep you miles away from it. but the more you tell, the more he listens and the more be breaks.

you laugh through tears and he hates how broken it sounds— he wants you back. and suddenly, he’s wiping his tears with his shirt. “it’s just dust—”

you laugh again, he pouts, and then kisses your tears away when you lean against his shoulder. he scoffs when you pat his back, holding him closer.

“i am supposed to comfort you,” he whispers but he doesn’t stop you, and you both end up comforting each other with hands clasped tight.

[sweetdarlingfic2]

Yeah right

Cw: smut

You’ve been sleeping with Ghost on and off for a few months now.

No labels. No talks. Just sex, video games, and quiet 2 a.m. hangouts in the dark, nights that start with trash talk over split-screen shooters and end with your legs around his waist, breath caught between your teeth.

It’s casual.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. Say it enough times, maybe it starts to feel true. But the way he touches you, slow, soft, like he’s savoring every inch, makes it hard to believe this is just sex.

He lets you wear his hoodie home, then pretends not to care when you post a mirror selfie in it but he still double taps it within two seconds. His jaw clenches when you take too long to reply. And his eyes always drop to your mouth when you talk, linger like they’re thinking.

You want to ask what this is. Why he acts like this. What you are.

Is it just comfort? Is it just habit? Or something close to love? Maybe too close?

You tried to ask once.

But the words barely left your mouth before he kissed them away, hands sliding up your thighs, breath hot at your throat. The question died in your mouth. Drowned in the way he fucked you like you were his. Like he didn’t need to say it because you already knew.

So you let it go.

You kept pretending it was enough.

Even though it wasn’t.

Was a Thursday night. He was at your place. The city’s asleep outside, but your apartment was lit dim and warm, a mess of tangled sheets, empty beer bottles, and that ghost of something unspoken, thick in the air.

He was quiet after. On his side, one arm slung around your waist like it’s second nature. Your skin still hums from his touch, but you’re cold inside empty in a way he hasn’t even noticed.

You stare at the ceiling.

And then “Do you ever think about me when I’m not here?”

It comes out softer than you meant it to. Too soft. Like you’re afraid of scaring him off.

Silence.

He doesn’t answer he just exhales slowly and pulls you closer, his mouth brushing your shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Wordless.

that was the only answer you got.

You don’t sleep.

You just laid there, his breath at your neck and that emptiness blooming wider in your chest. You’re not comforted by the closeness. It pisses you off, how he can touch you like that, hold you like he means it, and still give you nothing.

You turn away from him before sunrise. His arm slips off your waist. He doesn’t pull you back.

Good.

Let him feel it.

Let him wonder why you’re quiet in the morning. Why you don’t kiss him goodbye. Why you nod and shut the door behind him like it doesn’t take everything in you to do it.

Because if this means nothing to him… then why should it mean anything to you?

A month passes.

You don’t sleep with him. Not once.

Not because you don’t want to. You do. Desperately. Every time his shoulder brushes yours on the couch. Every time he leans back laughing, head thrown, or looks at you like he misses you even though you’re right there.

But you resist.

You keep your distance. Draw careful, invisible lines between your thigh and his. You still hang out because neither of you knows how to stop but you don’t stay. Not anymore. You dodge his touches. Dodge his eyes. Ignore the ache in your chest and pray he doesn’t see through it.

Of course he notices.

He’s restless now, picking at beer labels like they’ve got answers printed on them. Watching you when he thinks you won’t catch it. And when you do, he looks away fast, jaw tight like your silence is choking him.

Maybe it is.

He doesn’t know what he did. That’s the worst part. You asked him a question and he let it float off into the dark. Now all he has are guesses and guilt and that gnawing pit in his stomach that only you used to calm.

He needs you.

And he’s trying. He shows up more. Lingers longer. Drops hints with his hands, his eyes, the way he says your name like a question he’s too afraid to ask.

But you don’t break.

Not this time.

Because until he can look you in the eye and give you something real, you won’t let yourself be touched like you’re his when he’s not willing to say it out loud.

Not again.

He’s the one lying awake, wondering what the silence means.

It all comes to a head in the fifth week.

He shows up quiet. Tense. Like something’s unraveling inside him and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

He doesn’t play cool. Doesn’t make half hearted jokes. Just watches you. And this time, when you catch him, he doesn’t look away.

You feel it building in the silence between you it was thick with all the things unsaid.

You’re on opposite ends of the couch. Some movie’s playing, neither of you are watching. He just looks at you like you’re speaking a language he can’t translate.

Then, finally

“What did I do?” Voice low. Rough. Not defensive. Not cold. Just lost.

“I don’t know what I did,” he says again, eyes locked to yours. “But you’re not staying the night. You’re not looking at me. You won’t even let me touch you. I miss you… and you’re right here.”

You blink, eyes burning a little.

“I asked you,” you whisper. “I asked if you thought about me when I wasn’t there, and you didn’t say a word. Just held me like that was supposed to be enough.”

His brow furrows. That moment lands.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he mutters. “Didn’t wanna say the wrong thing.”

“So you said nothing?” You sit up straighter. “You can’t fuck me like I you love me and then act like I don’t matter.”

He leans closer. Not touching. Just close enough to feel.

“you do matter,” he says, it’s not soft. It’s firm. “You mean so much to me. You always have. I just… fuck I don’t know how to say it without ruining everything.”

You stare at him.

“I love you,” he says, finally. “And I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

This time, when his hand reaches for yours, he waits.

you let him touch you.

You don’t speak. Just lean forward and rest your forehead against his. His breath hitches. His eyes flutter shut.

“Show me,” you whisper “show me you love me,”

He kisses you like a confession. No rush. No greed. Just soft, reverent pressure. Like he’s trying to say I’m sorry with every slow drag of his mouth.

His hands find your thighs, sliding over your skin like he’s remembering how to hold you. “You sure?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Just… be honest this time.”

His jaw flexes. “I promise.”

He lifts you like it hurts to let go, carries you to the bedroom, lays you down with more care than you’ve ever seen in him.

This isn’t just sex. It’s something else.

He undresses you in silence, and when he pushes inside you, slow and aching, your whole body breathes for the first time in weeks.

“I wanted you for so long,” you whisper, fingers threading through his hair. “Even when I pretended I didn’t.”

His eyes close. A breath shudders out of him.

“Me too” he says. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

He fucks you like he’s reclaiming something. Like your body is a home he got locked out of. Every stroke says what his voice can’t, I need you. I miss you. I’m yours. I’m trying.

And when he comes, breath broken in the crook of your neck, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays.

You lie there tangled up. Skin sticky. Sheets a mess. And when he says your name, it’s not a question. It’s an answer.

“Love you.”

You turn to him, heart raw but full.

You both slept that night.

Hands sewn together. The quiet, certain feeling that maybe, just maybe, this is what it means to be loved.

[queen-of-gotham]

Teaching You Self-Defense

(Bat Boys, Hal, Conner, Wally x f!reader)

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request! Thank you so much anon! Enjoy!

Everyone in this writing is of age 🙂

Bruce Wayne

You hadn’t even finished your sentence before Bruce was already setting up mats in the manor’s private gym.

“I just said I might feel better knowing a few moves-“

“And I agree. We should’ve done this sooner.”

He doesn’t coddle. He teaches deliberately, explaining how to break a grip, where to aim on someone larger than you. It’s more intense than you expected, but he pulls back just when he sees the hesitation in your eyes.

“You won’t always have me nearby,” he says quietly, adjusting your stance. “That thought keeps me up at night. So I need you to be able to handle yourself. At least long enough until I get there.”

Dick Grayson

Dick turns it into a date.

“Come on, babe, it’s kinda hot, right? Danger. Grappling. Me on the mat?”

You roll your eyes, but he’s grinning… until he isn’t. The moment he walks you through how to break out of a wrist hold, he goes serious.

“You’ll remember this, right?” he asks after you do it on your own. “Because if someone ever tries something… I need you to know what to do.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, voice low. “You being hurt is my worst nightmare. So I’m gonna teach you everything I can to keep you safe.”

Jason Todd

Jason’s approach is… less delicate.

“Rule number one: don’t fight fair. Ever.”

He has you in the alley behind his safehouse, showing you how to use your elbow, your knee, the heel of your boot. He gets behind you, walks you through how to twist out of a chokehold. His voice is right by your ear.

“Go for the eyes. Throat. Kneecaps. Don’t hesitate. Hesitation gets you hurt.”

You glance up at him, surprised at how fierce he looks, and how shaken.

“I’ve lost too many people,” he mutters. “You’re not gonna be one of them.”

Tim Drake

Tim brings a whole slideshow.

“I’ve compiled the most common attack scenarios and mapped out low effort disarms anyone can learn… wait, are you laughing?”

“Just a little,” you grin. “You made a PowerPoint.”

He blushes but rolls with it. He’s surprisingly patient, gently correcting your movements. He teaches you how to break a grip, use leverage, how to redirect someone’s momentum.

“You don’t have to be strong,” he says. “You just have to be smart. Let me teach you how to think like someone who fights.”

He’s quiet later, after you’re done with training and says, “ I know I can’t be there all the time. But I need to believe you’ll be okay without me.”

Duke Thomas

Duke teaches you on a sunny afternoon on the rooftop, the city warm and quiet around you.

“It’s not about winning,” he says. “It’s about getting away. Staying safe.”

He’s the most encouraging by far, cheering when you get something right, coaching gently when you don’t. He shows you how to block, how to throw someone off your back, how to stay calm under pressure.

“You’ve got this,” he says, offering you his hand after you knock him flat for the first time.

And then, after a beat, “I don’t want to ever wonder if you’d be okay without me. I wanna know you will be.”

Damian Wayne

“You should’ve asked sooner,” Damian says, already tying your hands with soft cotton wraps. “You’re lucky no one has attacked you yet.”

You snort, “Gee, thanks.”

He’s all sharp movements and critical observations at first, but slowly you realize, he’s holding back. He’s making sure your hands don’t get bruised, adjusting your grip like he’s handling something fragile. Precious.

When you finally land a clean throw, he stares at you with quiet pride.

“You’re learning,” he says, then hesitates before adding, “I would destroy anyone who hurt you. But it’s better if they never get the chance.”

Hal Jordan

“Okay, first rule of self-defense: don’t start nothin’, won’t be nothin’.”

“Hal.”

“Kidding. Mostly.”

You’re in a training room Hal conjured with his ring, it looks like the inside of an Air Force gym. He’s shirtless (unnecessarily) and annoyingly confident, walking you through how to duck, weave, and use someone’s momentum against them.

“You ever seen me in a bar fight?”

“No.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’s grinning, cocky as always, but when you catch his wrist and pull off the move he just taught you, he sobers up fast.

“Hey,” he says, catching your eye. “You did good. Look… I joke around a lot, but I’m serious about this. If anything ever happened to you…”

He shakes his head. “I’d move heaven and earth to get to you. But I’d rather you not need saving in the first place.”

Conner Kent

Conner watches you throw a punch at the heavy bag with all the grace of a soggy noodle.

“…Okay. Ow. That was mean.” You say to him

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You looked mean.”

He laughs and gently steps in behind you, adjusting your posture. His hands hover near your waist and shoulders as he shows you how to pivot and punch properly without hurting yourself.

“You don’t need to knock someone out,” he says softly. “You just need to stun them long enough to run.”

Then, more serious, looking you in the eyes, “I know I’m fast and strong and all that, but… I can’t be everywhere. And the thought of something happening to you when I could’ve done something to prevent it… makes me feel sick.”

He places your hand over his heart. “So let’s make sure you never feel helpless.”

Wally West

“Okay so I brought snacks, water, sunscreen, and- ow, hey! I’m here to help!”

You laugh as Wally yelps from where you just jabbed him in the ribs, he’s been messing around for the past ten minutes. But when he finally starts teaching, he flips into serious mode so fast it startles you.

“I can run across the world in under a second,” he says. “But if someone grabs you and I’m not there? I need the peace of mind of knowing you’ve got options.”

Wally teaches you how to break a chokehold using your body weight, how to strike and run. He’s a surprisingly good teacher, patient, direct, focused, and after you get the moves right, he pulls you into a tight hug.

“I don’t want you to feel scared,” he murmurs. “I want you to feel ready. Because the world’s not fair. But you? You’re stronger than it.”

Then he grins and adds, “Also, I may or may not have secretly filmed you taking me down and sent it to Barry. So you’re basically a legend now.”

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[quarterlifekitty]

Werewolf!Soap who’s tried so hard to keep his dog on a leash for you.

Not that he isn’t still nasty. He is. He’s still burying his nose in your pits every time you come back from hiking. You know what he is— but he’s never let you see him turn. He’s terrified of hurting you, or worse, without even knowing— he isn’t himself when he turns, he can never remember the things he does, so it’s best for everyone if he just stays away.

Until one night after a long deployment. Six months he’d been away— six months since he’d seen you, smelled you, touched you. The pair of used panties he’d taken with him had practically been worn to shreds with how often he fisted his cock with them and felt for them in his pocket. He’s so damned excited to see you, his leg thumping the entire ride home, practically sprinting away once Price dismisses him.

He’s too heavy with anticipation and need. He doesn’t keep track of the date. Of his cycle.

He wakes up at dawn with that sore, tingly feeling that follows his transformations. Once it settles in his brain, he shoots straight up. Your side of the bed is empty, save for some stray specks and one larger pool of blood staining the sheets.

Johnny immediately buries his face in his hands, bearing only to look at the evidence through the gaps in his fingers. He sobs. His worst fear in the entire world has been realized, the monster inside him that’d always hungered for you had finally got what it wanted. His stomach lurched and rolled with the possibilities— what might have ultimately become of you. Where the body was— if there was one. Maybe, if he was lucky, you crawled off and lived and would never want to see him again. But he knows his instincts would have never left escape an option— especially not when it came to you. The ring box that’s been sitting in his coat pocket is proof of that.

His entire body shakes with the torment and grief of it all, teeth clenching, his eyes shut as the tears just keep escaping. Love is over, because he killed it.

He’s so caught up in his despair that he doesn’t hear the footfalls on the floor. He doesn’t hear the clink of a glass set onto the nightstand. He doesn’t feel the dip of another weight on the bed.

Soap almost thinks it’s a trick from his deranged mind, a symptom of lupine madness, when he feels the warmth of a hand comfortingly rubbing up and down his back, another hand at his shoulder in a half-embrace.

“Baby, what’s the matter? Was it a nightmare?”

He had them, on occasion. Nature of the job, you knew that when you got involved. But he’d never seen this bad. It takes a minute or two before Johnny can bring himself to pull his trembling hands from his face, eyes puffy and wet with tears.

“B-Bonnie…? Yer… Yer okay?”

Soap was beginning to care less and less if this was a delusion. He would live in whatever reality kept you with him.

“I should be asking you that… Oh, Johnny—“ you sighed before wrapping him in a tight hug, even though his face and neck were wet and a little snotty from all of his crying.

“But, the blood—“

“Oh my god. Please, I’m so embarrassed… my period started while I was sleeping. I was so excited about you coming home that I totally lost track of the days…”

“So ye were gone because—“

“I left to clean myself up and get water… I wanted to change the sheets, but I didn’t want to wake you…” you start connecting the dots, even more embarrassed from all the worry you caused. “Did you think something happened to me?”

“Thought I fockin’ killed ye!” He says with a new wave of tears rushing to him, this time in relief. He pulls you in about as close as he can.

“Well, uhm… you basically did with like the dozen orgasms you gave me when you turned. I didn’t… I didn’t know your cock would do that thing, uhm, where it swelled up and… god, it was so hot,” you murmur, face feeling a bit warm just recalling it. A shiver runs through Johnny’s spine— your confession would have him thumping his tail if he still had it.

“Marry me.”

[suguru-getos]

Here is what I’m thinking about MC turns into a toddler right before the LIs have to leave for work. Zayne and Caleb can’t just call sick like the other three. Zayne? he’d drop her off at the hospital childcare. But Caleb?? Even better if he was about to enter the Deepspace tunnel

Hopefully your day is better than mine

awww this is so cute i love this idea so much my fluffy heart🥹🥹 thank you for sending me this. i hope you feel better soon? did you have a bad day? here let me give you endless hugs come here 🫂

Lads men when you accidentally turn into a toddler:

xavier doesn’t understand what happened honestly, he will be taking to jeremiah and they would together ponder while you are fast asleep in xavier’s lap. “man she looks adorable doesn’t she?” jeremiah smiles, booping your sleeping form.

xavier furrows his brows, “don’t touch her. she is asleep.” xavier has been so protective over you. he brings you the best toys ever and just watches you play with them. “xavie- plushies!” you whine when he takes you to a walk and you come across a plushie store. “hmm.” he smiles, “looks like there’s not much changed about you after all.”

behold — you and xavie are on a plushie hunt, he dedicates himself into buying you the plushie you want the most, and after strenuous labour, he finally gets it for you. man… the joy in your baby eyes and the happy clapping made his day. 🥺

zayne is amused, and he knows this must be one of the anomalies when this happens to you. but he is also giddy; you look so adorable his babyfever is at an all time high. 🙂‍↔️ when the hunter’s association called him as your emergency contact — honestly, he was quite scared. but what welcomed him was an adorable little babygirl. ouch 😩

he immediately takes you in his hold and goes shopping with you, talking to you one sided, “hello little one, you like sweets?” he asks softly, headpatting you. zayne who is oh-so-famous for being stern and cold was melting like a popsicle. you nod eagerly, “wuv~ chocolates!” oh his heart skips a beat. he can’t help but imagine your daughter… which would be equal parts zayne and equal parts you; as he takes you to an ice cream adventure.

rafayel found you playing with his paintbrushes — when he left you for sometime at home. what the actual fuck? “noo no no no no they are not for kids!” he immediately picks you up, confused. “are you a wanderer! tell me!” he hikes your toddler form up in the air. a soft giggle escapes you as you shriek in happiness. “wandewew—“ you giggle again. and rafayel could swear he would kill for you and get himself killed.

“oh cutie— you should have told me you looked this adorable as a baby—“ he immediately carries you in one hand to the kitchen. “let’s see— what we have—“ in a singy-songy way. rafayel immediately gets used to this lmfao. “well, let’s hope whatever happened to you is temporary because i would miss my girlfriend eventually.” he kisses your cheek.

you pout and whine, tummy growling. “aww- let me make something for you.” rafayel gently sets you on the kitchen counter, kissing your cheek again. “man you are so soft and squishy~” he grins, winking at you. you wink back… he is having the time of his life.

sylus is disturbed— when luke and kieran yell out, “BOSS!” followed by a shrieking caw or two by mephisto. “CAW CAW!” he doesn’t understand what could be so intense that all three of them are losing their minds over it. so when he comes and sees his girlfriend in the living room, turned into a toddler and flinching at their screams— he loses it.

“oh—? don’t tell me you scared my little one?” he is acting composed, but really losing his shit. but when your lip quivers and tears glaze on your soft eyes, his hands reflexively reach out for you. he is a little wary, a little scared. he doesn’t want you to be scared of him… you see, sylus doesn’t have a lot of good experience with the kids. and the kids don’t have any good experiences from him either.

but when — when you make grabby hands at him? that’s it. that’s all he needs. a soft smile is plastered in his features as he picks you up. “aww, sweetie, there there. it’s okay. some people don’t know that you shouldn’t yell in front of babies.” he glares and luke and kieran; and… mephisto. :3 you are quick to copy him though, “thewe thewe sweetie!” you chirped, trying to grab his entire face with your two tiny hands and failing miserably.

“don’t tell me i need to toddler-proof the onichynus base, little one.” he smiles softly, nuzzling against you as he carries you with him. you lean in and nip at his cheek, shaking and swaying your legs. “ah—“ a rich chuckle escapes him as he purrs, “and i should also toddler proof sylus, no?”

caleb is fuming, his spaceship was just about to leave but the otto in his house started blazing alarms. “emergency. emergency. emergency.” it yelps out, and caleb is scared for his life. with the ether core in your heart— are you taken and kidnapped by ever? what is happening? why in skyhaven? this entire island is supposed to be in the colonel caleb’s hands. his jet flies to his house in seconds.

when he opens the door, colonel uniform crisp and intimidating, you are playing fetch with the otto. you— barely a two year old, throwing the otto away, and it comes back blazing emergency— emergency— emergency— causing your little form to chuckle & giggle. a deep sigh erupts from him. “fuck—“ he mumbles to himself.

“fuck—“ you repeat, looking at him softly and grinning wide. “oh- no no no—“ he shakes his head, carefully picking you up. “look atcha pipsqueak— you are an actual cupcake now.” he grins wide and you grin back at him. “up.” you smirked, like you already know how to order him around.

he plays the rest of his day with you, using his evol to keep you floating as you giggle happily, while also searching for how to undo it so he can have a daughter like you. 😻

taglist (comment on my pinned post taglist link post to be added): @maidofking123 @kithyyy @dramaticalsachan @sheismaryy @zaynies-wifey @freeprincesslove @litnerdwrites @hunterelyssa @axryl @whmnx @strawberrydragon24 @eve-rockin-blog @bakugoushotwife @scorpion-squadron @foggybasementprince @santaluna @maaic @insidious-innocence @angstyfrog @lucreied

[lailalalesisblog]

Clark Kent Is Dating an Influencer (And Other Lies Lois Refuses to Believe)

Clark kent x influencer reader

In which Jimmy and Lois think Clark is being catfished

If you asked Jimmy Olsen when he first started suspecting Clark Kent was lying to all of them, he’d say, “Wednesday. Around 11:03 a.m., give or take a minute. I’d just microwaved leftover dumplings.”

But even Jimmy knows that’s not true.

It started earlier. Much earlier.

It began the Monday after Clark claimed to have taken a “quiet weekend upstate.” He returned to the bullpen suspiciously well-rested, humming as he typed, smiling at his phone like it was sending him love notes. His texts—normally one-thumbed and typo-ridden—were now quick and fluid, peppered with emojis he used correctly.

That was red flag number one. Clark Kent doesn’t do emojis.

Red flag number two: the man who once referred to Bluetooth as "blue teeth" was now using the term “photo dump” in casual conversation.

Then came the biggest red flag of all.

“I'm seeing someone,” he said during their Monday morning coffee run, voice gentle, like he wasn’t just dropping a conversational nuke.

Jimmy nearly dropped his latte. Lois froze mid-sip.

“You’re… dating?” she asked, tilting her head slowly. “As in, mutual romantic interest dating?”

Clark blinked. “Yes?”

“And this isn’t, like, a metaphysical concept? You’re not writing a feature on intimacy in the digital age? You mean you, Clark Kent, are dating a person who… exists?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “Her name’s [Your Name].”

Lois’s brow arched so high it could’ve brushed the ceiling tiles. “[Your Name] as in… 15.6 million followers, cover of Vogue, skincare line, works with that designer who refuses to dress anyone with fewer than five Ivy League degrees?”

Clark nodded. “That’s her.”

Lois put her coffee down slowly, deliberately. “Okay,” she said. “Bold lie. Respect.”

“I’m not lying.”

Jimmy peered at Clark over his glasses. “You said you met her in real life. Not DMs. Not a dream you had during a NyQuil coma. Real life.”

“We’ve been on three dates,” Clark said, crossing his arms like he was bracing for a hurricane. “Coffee. Bookstore. Pizza in Metropolis Heights. She even paid once.”

Lois squinted at him. “Three dates. With a verified influencer who wears La Perla robes to drink turmeric tea on balconies in Santorini. Who has not posted one blurry elbow shot. No mysterious extra wine glass. Not even a cryptic soft launch?”

“She likes to keep things private.”

Jimmy snorted. “She posted her cuticles last week, Clark.”

Clark looked uncomfortable. “She said she didn’t want to commodify our relationship.”

“Clark,” Lois said, slowly and gently, like she was addressing a patient in a psych ward. “She sells sponsored yoga mats. She commodified breathing.”

Still, Clark held his ground, eyes soft and stubborn behind his glasses. “She said it feels real with me. Normal. That she didn’t want to ruin it by putting it online.”

Which, frankly, was romantic enough to throw both Lois and Jimmy off their game for a full three seconds.

Three seconds only.

Then the real investigation began.

The Inquiry (a.k.a. We’re Not Spying, We’re Fact-Checking)

By Friday, the bullpen had become an amateur intelligence agency. Jimmy had a corkboard with push-pinned printouts of [Your Name]’s recent posts. Lois was triangulating timestamps and flight itineraries like she was breaking a national security scandal.

“She tagged herself at that rooftop brunch spot Sunday,” Jimmy whispered, holding up his phone. “Clark said they were at a used bookstore.”

“She posted a flat white with oat milk,” Lois murmured, scrolling. “Caption: ‘Solo Sundays are sacred.’ With a heart emoji.”

Jimmy nodded solemnly. “Clark is the heart emoji.”

Lois frowned. “Clark is the absence of the heart emoji.”

Clark, meanwhile, was calmly editing copy, sipping coffee like he wasn’t under an active, office-wide surveillance initiative. Which made it worse. The audacity.

So they staged the only intervention journalists know how to do: a coffee break ambush.

The Confrontation

Clark had just stirred two sugars into his coffee when Lois leaned against the counter next to him, too casual to be casual.

“Big weekend plans?” she asked.

Jimmy materialized behind her, voice far too innocent. “Another one of your invisible dates?”

Clark sighed, long-suffering. “This again?”

“She’s not invisible,” Lois said, sipping her coffee. “She’s just suspiciously undocumented.”

“I’m not dating Bigfoot.”

“No,” Jimmy said. “You’re dating someone statistically less likely to exist than Bigfoot.”

Clark turned, exasperated. “She’s real.”

“She’s real,” Lois repeated. “But we’ve never seen her. Never heard from her. She hasn’t even soft-launched you with a blurry shoulder shot.”

“She wants to keep our relationship offline.”

“She filmed a skincare tutorial from a hot air balloon last month, Clark.”

Clark groaned. “Why is this anyone’s business?”

“Because we care,” Jimmy said, nodding sagely.

“Because we’re worried,” Lois added. “About your heart. And your passwords.”

“She’s not scamming me.”

“You wouldn’t know,” Jimmy said. “Have you even video chatted?”

“I have a photo,” Clark muttered.

“Show us,” Lois and Jimmy said in unison.

“No.”

A pause.

Lois narrowed her eyes. “Clark. Are you being catfished in person? Is that a thing now?”

Clark looked genuinely pained. “No! I’m not being catfished. She just… likes that I’m not like everyone else in her life. She says I feel normal. I don’t treat her like a product. She doesn’t have to pose for me. She can just… be.”

Lois stared at him, eyes squinting, but there was a crack of something softer in her gaze now. Not quite belief. But not pure doubt, either.

“She really said that?”

Clark nodded. “She doesn’t care about clicks. She cares about me.”

Jimmy opened his mouth, then paused. “Okay, but… like, if she is real… what’s her skincare routine? Because her skin glows like—”

“Jimmy.”

“Right. Sorry.”

The Resolution (For Now)

Lois didn’t quite drop the issue. But she did back off—for now.

Jimmy kept his corkboard. He called it “The Truth About Clark’s Alleged Love Life,” but he stopped adding to it after he saw Clark smile at his phone during lunch, cheeks flushed the way they only ever got when he talked about her.

And eventually, on a random Tuesday, a blurry photo did appear. Just a pair of glasses and a half-visible smile in a mirror behind [Your Name]—captioned "This one's mine. He likes bookstores and oat milk and asks too many questions. Don’t tell him I said that."

Lois liked it immediately.

Jimmy commented, “You exist!!! 🎉”

And Clark?

Clark just smiled and went back to whistling.

----

@animegamerfox

[sincerelybubbles]

oh, the humanity! || clark kent x reader

you've never been more thrilled than when clark sets you up with an exclusive interview with the superman. little do you know, superman has his own agenda - try to see if you return to work-crush clark's been quietly developing for months. the only problem? he's not nearly as smooth as he thinks he is.

pairing: clark kent x bubbly!reader

warnings: none! some romantic pining, some fluff, mutual pining. more of a cutesy set-up fit for my first superman piece :)

“Hello.” The voice is rich, deep and full of life. 

“Ohmygod,” the words tumble out of you in a rush, startled out in one breath. You barely manage to keep a hold on the laptop resting on your knees. “Oh, hi, hello! Hi Superman!”

Face hot with embarrassment, you set your laptop on the floor beside your chair so you can stand and offer your hand to the metahuman in front of you. With a smile that presents perfectly dimpled cheeks to you, Superman shakes your hand. His grasp is warm but loose. 

“Clark said you would be expecting me?” He asks, a glint of humor in his tone. You nod, retracting your hand and smoothing down the front of your shirt. 

“Yeah, yes, of course he did! Really nice of you to agree to let him set us up, by the way. I totally get wanting to keep your press sources limited so I’m honored to be trusted. He just neglected to text me a time,” you say, attempting to get your rambling on track, the last bit where you actually answer his question rushed and low; tacked on at the end like an apology. You give him your best, toothiest grin and spin to retrieve your laptop. “Where do you want to do this thing?”

“Anywhere is fine with me.” You peer out of the side of your eye as you mull over a secluded spot you can bring him to interview him. He’s in his full regalia – blue suit, red shorts, cape. The whole ordeal. 

“I imagine privacy is the best,” you muse out loud, “but I don’t have an office – we work in a shared space.” Your tone is apologetic as you begin walking. “My apartment is near here, though, if you don’t mind.” You send him another smile, inwardly cringing as you do. You need to get your nerves out of the way. 

“If that’s where you think is best, lead the way,” he says, gesturing forward while leaning down to collect your bag. 

“Oh! You don’t have to do that, I can carry it!” You try to take the overstuffed tote from him but he simply shakes his head, knocking a curl loose onto his forehead. The way it falls, nearly brushing his eyebrow but not quiet, makes something in the back of your mind ring with familiarity. You brush it off, sure you’ve just watched too much footage of him. 

As you walk him the five minutes to your apartment, you start chatting happily, filling the silence as you always tend to do. 

“I actually had to twist Clark’s leg. He’s protective about his interviews with you, you know. I actually asked him where I should meet you, trying to figure out where would be the best to have a quiet conversation, but he wasn’t any help. Anyway, my apartment is small but it should work fine. Plus, nobody would be there to interrupt.”

“He brought up me talking to you a bit ago, actually, saying you write more humanitarian pieces? Less gossip or news, more think-pieces?” He sounds genuinely interested, large hands adjusting where they hold your bag with both hands in front of him. He looks a little silly, holding your frayed bag like that, walking around in his tall boots. The cape honest-to-god flutters behind him as he walks. 

“I do! Well, it’s what I like to do anyway. The Daily Planet doesn’t post them regularly, though, only when I have something really good to present.” You shrug, happy you get the chance to write for a living at all. “We’re turning here. Anyway, I like investigative journalism, of course, but something about writing about people, the human experience, and really just digging into a subject outside of the general norm of the news is always my favorite.”

A hand brushes your shoulder as you both cross a street and make a turn, adjusting you to walk closer to the buildings, Superman by the street. The thoughtless gesture makes that same chime of familiarity hums, running down your back to the base of your spine. It’s the sort of thing Clark does all of the time. He’s always pressing a hand to your back or shoulder to guide you along, swapping places to be closer to the road, covering corners as you pass them due to your habit of bumping them, and tugging you away from the fray of people so you don’t get trampled. 

You smile privately to yourself at the thought. Superman and Clark sharing the same simple, thoughtless, and incredibly endearing way of watching out for the people around them makes sense in a way. While Clark is just a lowly civilian like you, only in the fray of danger in the sense of offending some higher-up subject of a scandalous article, he’s always felt good in the same way the heroes do. 

You shake your head once to yourself, aware you’ve stopped talking and Superman is talking. 

“And that’s a really good thing, I think, wanting to know people for who they are beyond what they do. Sometimes the why is more important than the what, in some ways.”

“Oh, I completely agree.” You jump into your favorite article you wrote – a think piece analyzing Metropilis culture, structured by an interview with an older woman who’d lived in the city her entire life, creating a grand scope of how the city has breathed and grown like a living thing as the years passed. 

You lead him up the narrow staircase to your apartment, biting a grin at how he has to run slightly sideways to fit in the cramped hallway, and jiggle your keys in the door. “Sorry, it takes the perfect mix of jiggling the lock and bumping the door to - ah ha! - get it open.”

You talk inside, letting the hero trail behind you, ignoring how adrenaline thrums in your veins. It makes your neck warm and heavy with the pulse of blood from your rapidly beating heart. It doesn’t help whatsoever that you’re incredibly aware that he can hear how nervous you are by your heart rate, so you busy yourself with your kettle. 

“I’m making a pot of tea, if you want some. Please make yourself at home, I’ll be ready in just a minute – promise!”

Superman strolls around your small two-bedroom with an interest that makes you self-concious. You make an effort to not say the cliche it’s not much! comment, instead busing yourself with the kettle and picking a tea. You wonder if he has a preference as you pull down your favorite. 

If he does, bully for him, you need the calming relief of sipping something familiar and safe as you tackle the biggest interview you’ve ever had. 

You also repeat the mantra I love my home decor, I love my home decor over and over as he runs a finger across the books in your shelves and eyes the art on your wall. 

“Okay!” You announce, setting the electric kettle to heat and turning to open your laptop on the counter. You hold up your recording device and give it a small shake. “Make yourself comfy, I’m ready whenever you are!”

The interview goes smoothly, any small hiccups easily overcome as you settle into your favorite version of yourself – fully at ease as you slip into a sense of worn confidence as you ask your prepared questions. This is what you’re good at, what you’ve been doing for coming on ten years, your craft and passion. You love interviewing, talking to people, taking a list of initial questions and deciding on the fly where you need to dig and where you need to breeze past. The story flows easily, you catch the grooves of conversation and follow them to the trail of a story. 

The life Superman paints for you is idyllic – a rural upbringing with parents he adores and adore him, unknown biological parents who sent him to Earth to do good. A sense of responsibility – ‘If I have these powers, this ability, this purpose I was sent to Earth to fufil, and I sit by and do nothing, well, that makes me the worst kind of person, doesn’t it?’

You slowly become endeared to him as the interview progresses, a sort of comfort only gained by spending time with a truly good person. It reminds you of Clark again (a habit you regretfully admit you have, linking life to him in your mind). 

“Okay, I think I have what I need, thank you so much Superman!” You nod at him, wait a second, and turn off the recording. 

The second the formal process of the interview is over, the anxiety of sharing a space with the Superman resurfaces. You pick up your long-cold tea between two hands and send him a small smile. 

“I can find a way to send you the piece before it publishes, if you’d like. I can’t say I’ll edit for you, journalistic integrety and such, but as a thank you for your time and willingness.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

You send him a soft smile, sip your tea, and grimace. You turn to your microwave to warm it, fingers tapping on your countertop. 

You’re trying to think of another way to politely tell him you have what you need, certain there are many other places Superman needs to be other than sitting at a barstool in your kitchen, when he speaks. 

“I am curious, though, if you don’t mind me asking.” His voice is all timber, taking on a quality you can’t quite place. It’s nearly nervous, actually, but you brush off that possibility. What could you know that would make Superman nervous?

“Oh! Of course, what’s up?”

“Are you seeing anyone?” You cough, loudly, face flooding with heat. You’ll kill yourself later for how many times you’ve blushed in front of this man, you’re sure, but you’re so bewildered.

“What?”

“No, no that came out wrong, oh gosh.”

“Sorry, Superman, not that you’re not,” you gesture wildly, “but I don’t – I’m,” you’re lost, bumbling. If Superman asks you to sleep with him, you have to say yes, right?

Isn’t it against some sort of ethics code to sleep with a subject while in process of writing about them?

Why are you second thinking the possibility of sleeping with Superman? Why are you going this way at all with your thoughts? 

“No, no, I’m sorry, that’s not the question I wanted to ask. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, sorry, you stunned me a little.” You return to heating up your tea as you ask, “What question did you want to ask, then?”

“Well, Clark. You know him well?”

“Yeah! Yeah, really good guy.” You spin on your heel to nod empathetically at him. You 100% don’t mind buttering up Clark for Superman, wholly grateful to him for getting him this interview. You’re not sure how his initial question relates to this one, though, sure he’s trying to find a seque into leaving as soon as possible.

You’re wholly and utterly confused and baffled by where this conversation has ended up, blinking rapidly at your microwave.

“You really seem to light up when you talk about him.” Superman’s head tilts, violently blue eyes piercing into you. “I noticed, earlier, anyway. I agree, he’s a good guy.”

You stand, frozen on your feet. The microwave beeps and you ignore it. After a second, your head tilts, in a mimic of his. This is where he was going, you guess. Heat floods through your body now, a full on flush head to toes. “Are you … sorry, I just. Are you trying to set me and Clark up?”

You’re confounded by the situation. Off balance, unsure if you would ever dream of this happening. You decide, no, this is far too ridiculous for you to think of, so it must be reality. More reasonable than Superman trying to sleep with you, you suppose, but still such an odd situation to end up in.

You start to giggle, watching the way Superman fidgets before crossing his arms and leaning back on his stool. The legs creak under his weight and he sends you an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you wave him off, snickering. You retrieve your tea and sip it. “Are you thinking of starting a new career as a matchmaker, or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed at being caught so easily. “I imagined that would come out a little smoother, I’m sorry.”

You shake off his apology again. Your heart is pounding again, under the amusement, as another thought comes to mind. “Did, uh, did Clark ask you to ask?”

“Do you want him to have asked me to ask?”

“This is starting to feel like a really bad riddle,” you say, chewing the inside of your lip. The answer is yes, of course. The thought of Clark asking Superman to try and guage your feelings about him sends a sort of nervous thrill through your body. 

Your handsome, kind, sort-of perfect coworker turned close friend showing interest? Never would ever be a bad thing. 

“I think I have my answer. Thank you,” he says, standing and saying your name as he offers you his hand. You swear you can see a sort of pink tinge to his cheeks. “Please let Clark know when you’re done with your piece, I’m looking forward to reading it.”

“Yes! Yes, of course, thank you so so much,” you say, shaking his hand enthusiastically and bouncing from the awkwardness of the past few moments in an effort to return to trying your best to make a good impression on him. “Please let me know if you ever want to meet up again, I’m always happy to interview you.”

“How’d it go?” Clark asks, voice by your ear. You don’t even jump, used ot his attempts to sneak up on your while you write at work. 

You lift your hand, waiting for him to place something in your palm. He does, of course, and you’re pleased to see a muffin. “Oooh, you woke up earlier to go to the bakery?” You ask, excited. You take a bite and your eyes roll back. “This is perfect, thank you.”

“Yeah, of course. How’d it go with Superman, though?”

“Oh! Really, really well. Thank you for getting me the interview.”

Clark stares at you a moment. You smile, tight lipped and waiting. You raise an eyebrow slightly, prompting him to let you know why he’s staring at you like you’ve suddenly grown a second nose overnight. 

“What, that’s it? No play-by-play? No commentary about his biceps, no rant about how the article is going to go? You icing me out?”

You’re amused and tickled that he cares. “Don’t want to break any trust, you know, he can be secretive.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans, taking a step back and shaking his head. “You’re insufferable!”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you wink, excited to be able to use his words against him. “Serves you right for all of the articles with no inside juice!”

Clark rolls his eyes. As he turns to walk back to his desk, you realize he’s not carrying breakfast for himself. Frowning, you grab a napkin from the stash in your desk, break your muffin apart, then jump up to follow him.

You set the half of the baked good on his desk before leaning up against the divider between his desk and anothers, cheek mushed against your hand. 

“It went really, really well. I think I’m going to center it around his insistence on violence-containment. It’s been ages, forever maybe, since a hero has cared about keeping damages down. Of course, they all care about civilian safety, but he’s taking it a step further. He doesn’t see a situation with any sort of casualty as a win, you know? That’s new, next level thinking, really admirable.”

Clark is watching you as you talk, eyes jumping between yours. When you’re finished with your tirade, he leans forward slightly, brushes a crumb off of your cheek, and leans back into his seat. 

“That’s really good, I’m happy it went well.” He’s so sincere that your heart feels a little swollen. You don’t deserve his friendship. 

“It ended really weird though, I think Superman wants to play matchmaker or something,” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself. 

Clark’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses and he reaches up to ruffle his curls as he laughs, shaking his head. “And now you’re back to teasing. Go, shoo, I have actual work to do.”

“I’m not lying!” You say, unable to keep a serious face as Clark laughs. His guffaw is impossible to ignore and you end up giggling with him. You do meander back to your desk, though.

“Sure thing, sure thing.”

You settle back at your desk, taking another bite of your muffin and sighing happily. You sit for a moment, listening to the chatter of the office and the clicking of keyboards. After a few minutes you scooch your chair back to watch Clark, observing how he bends over his desk, legs too long to fit in his chair and suit jacket just this side of too big. 

Something in you warms, the same warmth you’d felt all night, at the idea of him talking about you to anyone, nonetheless Superman. 

Perhaps it’s time to act on this silly crush. The flirting you send his way is returned, friendly enough in nature but, when paired with the daily treats for breakfast and the way his hand tends to linger on your waist when he passes … maybe somethings there. 

You roll back closer to your desk, pressing a few buttons aimlessly on your laptop as you mull it over. Something in you is scared to act on your feelings, of course, but a bigger part is excited about what could be to really ignore the prompting. Okay, Superman, you think, I’ll give it a shot.

please consider reblogging if you enjoyed!! reblogs keep my work alive :)

also, I don't usually add authors notes, but I am a little nervous about writing for a new character - it's been so long !!! - so feedback is greatly appreciated!! requests for clark, thoughts, ideas, etc., are all welcome!! and hopefully I fall into his voice more naturally the more I read and write. I'm so beyond excited about him, though <3

[matt-murdockk]

HEYYY!! Godspeed on your semester <33!! You got this. 🫶🏼

Fic idea: Reader is Reid’s roommate and is pretty laid-back (easily mistaken for a slacker because they don’t take on rigorous tasks often) and stumbles across a stumped Reid who’s trying to solve a case. Very casually Reader makes an insane prediction, and Reid learns that they’re basically a genius… who doesn’t really know they’re a genius?? (Because when they think “genius” the reader usually thinks of nerdy and scrawny people like Reid)

I hope that makes sense vro 💔💔

Baby you have been in my inbox for a MONTH i am so sorry i hope you like it 🥀

Lazy

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 1.2k warnings: Language summary: You, a chronically underachieving genius accidentally solve an active FBI case over takeout and crime scene photos. Spencer Reid blurts out an "I love you" before sprinting out the door in mismatched socks. a/n: fluffity fluff in the end for a little bit hehe <3

Truth be told, you hated that word. Lazy. You preferred efficient. Your 9-to-5 was soul sucking, much like any other 9-to-5, so you did the only thing you could to make sure this job doesn't eat you alive— the bare fucking minimum.

A report due by 5? Alright, it'll be on the desk at 5, not a minute sooner, and not a minute later. A task needs doing? Oh, it'll be done. Flawlessly, in fact. But that's it. No fanfare, no extras, exactly what is required, nothing more. Meetings? You speak only when necessary. Deadlines? Met to the second. No matter how convoluted the problem or the task, you found the cleanest, simplest way through.

You did just the right amount, never showed your true potential, and it never raised any questions. If you asked your coworkers, they'd say you were a joy to be around. With your social capital? You were never getting fired. It was the perfect ruse.

But when you reached home with takeout, took your shoes off at the end of the day, you left your job along with them at the doorstep of your house. 5-to-9 is your time. And no one was taking that away from you. Alright, maybe one person was taking that away from you. But truth be told, you didn't really complain.

Spencer Reid was an enigma. Living with him was never dull, be it because he was actually, quite literally, the best flatmate a person could ask for in all thinkable ways, or because he challenged you the way you liked best— intellectually. Today was apparently a latter kind of day.

"Reid-o. What's got you all worked up?"

"Reid-o?" he asked, looking up from the papers strewn about his desk.

"Term of endearment. You didn't answer my question."

The first thing you noticed after coming home was the pair of Converse that were clearly taken off in a hurry and left there haphazardly. The living room smelled of the strongest espresso in all of land, like a truck of coffee had decided to explode in your house, of all places. The room was relatively dark, except for the lamp burning over the desk where he was huddled over. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even noticed you come home. Ergo, he was stressed.

A heavy sigh, one hand running through his hair. You made a mental note of his stress level: medium-high. A few more hours of this and he’d either fall asleep at his desk or start quoting obscure philosophers.

"It's this case," he admitted finally, his voice sounding almost defeated. "I have been poring over the case files and the crime scene photos, and the interviews for hours, and I have basically no pattern or connection between any of the victims. So, how was your day?"

"Better than yours," you scoffed, "Can I have a look?"

“I thought you hated this stuff.”

“I hate paperwork and bureaucracy. Big difference.”

He hesitated, then pushed the files toward you, still half sceptical. “They’re all women, different ages, different occupations. Killed two days apart. Same method, no evidence left behind, nothing to tie them together. We’re missing something.”

You skimmed through the reports, flipping through pages with zero urgency. You tapped your finger on the crime scene photos, brows slightly furrowed at the gore; they were crime scene photos, after all. But you kept your focus on just the crime scene. Just the way it was staged. You tapped your finger on the last photo, humming thoughtfully.

“How did he get in?” you asked.

Spencer sighed again. “We don’t know. That’s part of the problem. No signs of forced entry, no tampering, no secondary footprints, nothing on any of the security footage. Just the victims entering their homes alone, like normal.”

“No delivery men, no dates, no door dash?”

“Nothing. Clean. Like no one else was ever there.”

You tilted your head, squinting at the arrangement of one of the living rooms. “Alright. So, let’s say the footage is legit, no one else enters or leaves the premises. The simplest explanation?”

He gave you a look. “Occam’s Razor?”

“Exactly. The simplest explanation is that no one entered because they were already inside.”

He blinked. “You’re saying the unsub was—”

“Already in the house. Yeah.”

“That would mean... he snuck in before the victims got home. Hid. Waited. Killed them. Then left... somehow.”

“Without triggering a single alarm or camera. Meaning either the cameras were looped at just the right time— which you’re saying they weren’t— or he never walked past them to begin with.”

Spencer stood now, pacing a little. “But how? Every entry point was covered.”

You leaned back into the couch, arms crossed. “Then maybe we’re not thinking three-dimensionally enough. You need to look at the architectural plans. House blueprints. Vents, crawlspaces, dumbwaiters, hell, even hollow walls. If he’s getting in and out without being seen, it’s because he’s not using the doors. Or windows.”

Spencer froze mid-step, then slowly turned to you, eyes wide.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Oh my god.”

“What? Did you get something?” you asked, sitting up a little straighter.

Spencer blinked, still stunned, like the gears in his mind had just snapped into overdrive.

“The houses, every single one of the victims’ homes, were renovated within the last year,” he said, more to himself than to you, “That’s why we didn’t consider construction anomalies. We assumed standard layouts, but what if— what if they all used the same contractor?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think the unsub is the person who remodeled their houses?”

“Or someone connected to the company. Maybe he installed hidden access points, crawlspaces, false walls, and vent systems wide enough to move through. Places where someone could hide for days.”

He rushed back to the files, flipping through them like a man possessed. “This would explain everything— the lack of evidence, the absence of footage, the precision in timing...”

He looked up suddenly, eyes shining like the sun just rose inside his skull.

“Did you know you’re a genius?”

You smirked, stretching your arms behind your head. “I have my days.”

“No, no, I’m serious.” He was talking fast now, gathering files, tugging his coat from the back of his chair. “You just cracked the entire case with, like, three questions.”

"Guess I've lived with you long enough for it to rub off on me, huh?"

He laughed at that, face serious for a split second. “You’re incredible.”

That actually made your stomach flip. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“I gotta go,” he muttered suddenly, stuffing folders into his messenger bag hurriedly like he was trying to stop them from escaping, “Hotch needs to see this now. But, oh my god, I love you so much right now.”

And before you could even react, he leaned over, pressed a quick, distracted kiss to your cheek, and bolted out the door, his shoes half on.

You sat there, stunned.

“…Cool,” you mumbled, touching your cheek where his lips had been a moment ago.

[nanamisweetgirl]

🜼 ⋆ clark kent using his x-ray vision whilst he’s fucking himself deep into you.

you can feel him twitching inside you when he says it—his curls damp against your cheek, breath stuttering while your bodies press tight together in the heavy heat of the bedroom.

he’s deep. deeper than usual. your legs are wrapped around his waist, and his hands are shaking just a little as he presses you down into the mattress, keeping you there while he grinds into you slow.

“baby,” he whispers. “wanna try something.”

that voice. all gravel and apology, like he knows he’s about to ruin you.

you blink up at him, dazed. the room is warm, sticky with sex, your skin sticking to his in every possible place. “you’re already trying something,” you mumble, breath catching when he rolls his hips again.

clark grins, curly hair falling into his eyes, the cocky side of his smile showing through just enough to make your stomach flip. “not that,” he murmurs. “just—lemme see.”

you don’t even get to ask what he means. his eyes flicker for half a second, glowing faintly, and you feel the tension bleed out of his body as he groans low and quiet.

then another thrust—slow, devastating, all the way in. and clark chokes on his own breath.

“sweetheart,” he mutters, looking through you now—inside you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his voice goes thin with awe. “you’re taking it—baby, you’re really taking it. all of it. fuuuck.”

your mouth goes dry. you clench around him without meaning to, and he groans like you’ve punched the wind out of him.

“i can see it,” he whispers. “your walls are pulling me in—fuck—you’re so tight, i can barely—”

another thrust. slower this time. deeper. like he’s following something with his eyes.

“clark,” you breathe, already trembling. he’s moving like he’s under a spell. completely absorbed. like what he’s seeing is holy.

“you’re so full,” he murmurs, voice rough now, broken. “baby, i’m all the way in—I’m there—you’re stretched so far I can see the bulge—”

you sob into his shoulder. he kisses you like he’s trying to soothe it, but his cock twitches again and he thrusts just a little harder. he’s watching you take it, his x-ray vision trained on the space between your hips, following how his cock drags through your soaked, aching pussy like he’s mapping you from the inside out.

“gonna memorize this,” he groans. “gonna remember the way your pussy opens up for me forever. the way it sucks me in—fuck, sweetheart, you feel that?”

you do. you feel every vein, every pulse, every slow drag of his thick cock splitting you open. it’s too much. and still, you cling to him like you’ll die if he stops.

he shifts his hips, angling himself just a little different—and when he hits that spot, the one that makes you cry out into his mouth, he moans like he felt it too.

“there. right fucking there—your body shudders every time i hit it. god—i can see your cervix. she’s twitching, baby. she wants it.”

you whimper his name. your legs tighten around him. and clark loses it.

his hands come under your knees, pressing them back toward your chest, folding you open for him like a book. he holds you there, panting, eyes still burning with x-ray light as he pounds into you, each thrust wetter, messier, more frantic than the last.

“you’re gonna come for me like this, sweetheart,” he rasps, “with me balls-deep inside you, watching your body milk my cock—fuck, baby, that’s it—that’s it—”

you unravel with a scream. it’s so deep it feels like it cracks something open inside you. he watches the whole thing. watches your cunt spasm and clench, eyes wide and glowing, mouth slack with awe.

he doesn’t last long after that.

“oh my god, oh my god—fuck, sweetheart, i’m gonna—”

he thrusts hard, hips jerking, and then he stays there—buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, cock throbbing as he fills you to the brim with low, gasping groans.

“look so pretty like this,” he whispers. “so full of me. and then clark speaks again, softer and reverent this time.

“let me stay. just a little longer.”

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 15

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, intense emotional fixation, yearning, emotional manipulation, hurt/comfort, angst, moral dilemmas.

A/N: Hello! Finally got to finish this chapter! I apologize for the wait. This week has been super busy with work. But I have another chapter for you guys. Very plot-heavy and more angst (I'm sorry) but things are really picking up now with the plot. Thank you for all your comments as always! Enjoy!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Names (For those who get confused): Haneul (Abby), Seoha (Romance), Hwimori/Hwi (Mystery), Seungho (Baby)

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 15:

What Remains After Ruin

The apartment was silent… but not peacefully so. 

It was the kind of silence that hummed with sorrow—wet, heavy, and sharp. The kind of silence that made the walls feel too close, like the whole world was holding its breath and didn’t know if it would ever exhale again.

An hour had passed since the door shut behind you. Since the lock clicked. Since your voice, once so warm, so bright—had splintered into cries behind a wall no one could breach. It wasn’t just the sound they heard. It was feeling. Their feelings, mirrored back through the bond with yours amplified tenfold, raw and ragged like blood beneath cracked glass.

And still, no one moved. Not at first.

Hwimori was the closest to your door. He hadn’t left since you locked it. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even lifted his head. He curled himself around your old sweater on the hallway floor like a wounded thing—shivering and quiet, fingers tracing useless wards into the hardwood with the tip of his finger.

He breathed with you. Cried with you. Felt every ache inside your chest like it was his own. His voice, when it came, was nearly soundless. A quiet and broken: “Sorry.” He whispered it again, and again. Until his throat burned.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, stop crying. I’m so sorry…”

Across the room, just past the kitchen threshold, Jinu stood still.

He hadn’t sat down since you left. He hadn’t taken off his coat. His hands were still in his pockets, his shoulders rigid, his jaw locked so tight it looked like he might break his own teeth. His gaze never strayed far from the hallway. From the door you locked. From the shadow of Hwimori curled outside it.

His eyes were bloodshot. Not from crying—he hadn't allowed himself that. He was too busy calculating.

She asked us to stop. She begged me.

And I still said no.

He replayed the moment again, and again, and again. Your voice. The tears. The silence that came after.

She doesn’t understand—no. She does. That’s what makes it worse. She understands, and still, she begged.

But what choice do we have?

He didn’t move. Not even when Haneul finally stepped forward. Not out of strength—but necessity. His hands were trembling. He washed the rice three times and boiled broth in silence, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the pot. He didn’t blink often. His motions were too careful, too perfect—like if he made just one wrong stir, everything else would fall apart too.

When he passed the counter, he paused. Just for a second. Just long enough for his eyes to catch on the tray of unfinished sweets. One of the cupcakes had a heart piped just a little off-center. Like you were rushing. Distracted. 

He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Couldn’t even cover them. The bowl in his hands felt heavy—warm, yes—but nothing like the soft care you’d folded into each shape of mochi. He left the sweets where they were. He didn’t touch them. He couldn’t. He didn’t deserve them.

He made congee with a soft-boiled egg and a drizzle of sesame oil. Scallions too. Just the way you liked it. He stood over the bowl with his hands pressed flat to the counter, chest tight.

She’s hurting. And it’s my fault.

His jaw clenched as he added the toppings into the bowl. Evenly, slowly, with more time than it should have taken.

She won’t eat. She’s crying. I was supposed to be the one who kept her safe from this. I failed.

He slipped the food onto a tray and stared at it for a full minute before moving. The hallway was dim as he crouched beside your door. He heard you shift inside—heard the rustle of blankets, the low, cracking sob that shook your whole body. His heart ached as he glanced at Hwimori clutching your sweater a few paces away.

Haneul sighed. He wrote a note on a folded scrap of paper, hands trembling.

���There’s food outside. We know you don’t want to see us. We just want you to eat. – H.’

He slipped it under the door, set the tray down, and walked away.

Minutes later, the tray disappeared. Not a word. Not a thank you. Just the creak of the door, the food gone, and then the lock clicking shut again.

The sobs didn’t stop. And Jinu… still hadn’t moved.

She’s still crying. I caused this. All of it. Every word she said to me tonight was true.

And still… if I had to do it again, I would.

Even if she never forgives me.

Even if she forgets me.

His hands curled in his coat pockets.

I told her I’d free her. And I will. Even if I have to burn for it.

Seungho stood in the studio, still as a blade just before it cuts. His eyes were fixed on the piano, unmoving. He hadn’t played. He hadn’t spoken. His hands hung by his sides, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do without you.

She said she craved my touch. Then she looked at me like I was filth.

He pressed his palms to the piano keys once. No sound. Just weight.

She’s right. I am. I told myself I’d become anything to keep her… even this.

And then he turned away. Not even music could fix this.

Seoha paced the living room. One hand in his hair, the other clenched at his side, breathing shallow. His steps were too fast, his thoughts spiraling too loudly.

She thinks I romanticized it. Us. That I turned her into a fantasy I could own… 

He stared at the direction of your room wistfully. With so much sorrow marred into his face. Such a contrast to his usual smug expression.

…But how do I prove it was real when I lied to her face just to keep it?

He paused in front of your door, pressing his forehead gently against the wood. His breath fogged on the cold surface.

“I never wanted to lie,” he whispered.

His voice cracked.

“But I was so afraid you’d leave if I told you. And now you’ve sealed yourself away from me.”

Still no response. Not even a shift on the other side. He stood there for a while. Behind him, in the hallway shadows, Jinu’s gaze was still locked on the same spot. Unblinking. Haunted. A strategist standing in the aftermath of his own design.

I built this plan to protect her. And now it’s the reason she’s in there—alone, crying, hating me.

But the alternative? Watching her soul vanish into nothing? No. I can’t… I won’t choose that.

She called it obsession. Maybe it is. But I’ve waited too long. I’ve lost her too many times. If this is madness—then I’m already lost to it.

He whispered your name, barely audible, like he was afraid even the walls might shatter if they heard it. And for the first time, his knees buckled. Just slightly. Just enough to feel like something inside him was beginning to rot.

Dinner was a ritual no one had the appetite for. The table was dimly lit, a single overhead bulb flickering with soft static. The food on their plates steamed faintly, untouched.

No one touched the cupcakes. The tray sat at the center of the table, soft frosting still holding the shape of your careful piping, hearts tilted just slightly where the cream had begun to sag. They looked… sweet. Hopeful. Like something from a different day.

“She made those before everything,” Seungho muttered, eyes fixed on the pink swirls. “Before we ruined it.” He was already seated, arms resting on his thighs, head low, eyes flicking up every time a creak in the floorboards sounded from your room. Hope. Then devastation. Repeat.

Seoha’s fingers twitched from the kitchen doorway, staring at the sweets like it haunted him to go near. Like he might reach for one, but didn’t. “She was so excited,” he mumbled softly, quiet. “She said she wanted Hwi to have something sweet on his birthday.”

No one moved.

Haneul sat closest to the door, but furthest from the table. He leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the bowl of untouched rice in front of him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. There was rice on his sleeve. He hadn’t noticed.

Seoha finally dropped into his chair with a loud exhale. “She’s still crying.”

“She’s not going to stop,” Seungho muttered. “Not after what we said. What we did.”

“She asked us to stop,” Seoha said. “And we’re not going to.”

Haneul’s gaze drifted again. Past the cold congee, past the boys—to the untouched bowl of mochi mix you’d left on the kitchen counter. The cover had been sealed neatly, the whisk rinsed and left to dry. All those careful steps, all that sweetness—abandoned mid-thought.

“She made all of this with love,” he said softly. “Even when she knew we were hiding something from her.”

“We don’t deserve them,” Seoha added, his voice bitter. “Or her.”

The silence that followed was thicker than before. Heavy with things they couldn’t say.

Jinu still hadn’t spoken. He sat at the head of the table like a statue cracked down the middle, staring through his plate like he was somewhere else entirely.

“She asked us to find another way,” Haneul murmured. “We gave her nothing.”

“We don’t have anything,” Seungho snapped. “That’s the damn problem.”

“She deserved to know the truth,” Haneul added, voice sharper now. “I wanted to tell her. When she first started asking.”

“And what?” Seoha barked. “Tell her while she was smiling at us over tea? You think that would’ve softened the blow?”

“She trusted me,” Haneul snapped. “I looked her in the eye and said she was safe here.”

“That wasn’t a lie,” Seungho growled. “She is safe here. It’s the rest of the world that isn’t.”

“We lied to her about the music’s purpose. Our means.” Haneul grit his teeth. “We should have told her ourselves!”

The room tensed.

“I didn’t want to lie,” Jinu said quietly. His voice cracked. “But if I told her—if I showed her what we were… what we’ve done… she would’ve run. And we wouldn’t have had time to fix it.”

He shook his head. “We still don’t.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t go through with it,” Haneul whispered.

That made Jinu look up. Eyes sharp. Wet. “You think I haven’t thought of that?” he asked. “You think I haven’t run every possible outcome through my head, over and over, for weeks?”

He pushed back from the table, standing slow and stiff like his body was suddenly heavier than it had ever been. “If we don’t go through with it, Gwi Ma takes her from the cycle. She’s gone. Not just from this life, but every life after. No more soul. No more rebirth. No more her.”

His eyes drifted one last time to the cupcakes. The piped hearts. The handwritten note on the fridge still stuck with tape—’Don’t touch! Birthday surprise!!’

His chest tightened. She made these for Hwimori. For us. Before any of us deserved them. And now… they’re just leftovers from a life we shattered.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Jinu’s hand gripped the back of the chair, white-knuckled. “She asked me to stop. She begged. And I still said no. Because if I say yes—I lose her. Forever.”

Haneul’s jaw clenched. He looked down. Seungho looked away. Seoha was still. Even Hwimori, still silent in the hallway, let out a quiet, broken breath.

“She said this isn’t the kind of love she wants,” Jinu whispered. “Maybe it’s not. Maybe it never was. But it’s the only kind I have.” He turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Haneul asked.

Jinu’s voice was steel wrapped in fire. “Air.”

“Don’t disappear,” Seungho muttered.

Jinu’s hand hovered over the doorknob. The light above flickered again. Behind them, your soft weeping continued—barely audible, but deafening through the bond.

She’s crying because of me. Because of us. 

And I’d still rather be the reason she lives in hatred than the reason she never breathes again.

The cupcakes still sat untouched on the table. The frosting was starting to sweat. None of them moved to put them away. No one wanted to be the one to erase the last sweet thing you left behind.

Jinu opened the door and left the apartment. He didn’t tell them where he was going.

But in his hoodie pocket, the note from Rumi pressed against his torso like a blade.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The apartment door clicked shut behind them with the weight of a thousand regrets.

No one spoke.

Shoes were kicked off lazily, not from comfort but fatigue. Shoulders slumped under invisible burdens. They trudged across the living room like ghosts, each carrying the sting of battle not in wounds, but in what they witnessed, what they couldn’t stop.

Rumi sank onto the edge of the couch first, lowering herself slowly like her body had only just remembered how to be tired. She didn’t lean back. Just perched there, elbows on her knees, face in her hands.

Zoey dropped beside her with a quiet grunt and an audible exhale as her body hit the cushions. “Oh my god,” she groaned, sinking deep into the softness like she might dissolve into it. But the bliss was short-lived. Her eyes fluttered shut, then cracked open again with a heavy sigh. Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling. “This couch is the best part of the whole freakin’ day.”

Mira stood for a moment longer than the others. Her arms were crossed, her lips drawn in a thin line. Then, without a word—she lowered herself into the armchair opposite them, eyes staring at nothing.

The silence between them stretched. It was uncomfortable. Heavy.

Finally, Mira broke it, her voice low and distant. “She really didn’t know.” Her brows furrowed faintly. “They really did brainwash her then.”

Zoey’s expression fell further, her arms curling around herself like she was trying to hold in her own grief. “They probably just didn’t tell her so they wouldn’t look bad.” Her voice cracked as she added, “She looked… devastated. Hurt.” She swallowed. The memory of your face, your wide, betrayed eyes, your voice trembling with disbelief—stabbed into her chest again. She looked away. “She didn’t deserve that.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Mira said bitterly. “That’s what demons do. They lie. They deceive.” But her voice faltered. Because as much as her brain wanted to cast them as villains… she couldn’t quite shake the memory of their faces when they’d arrived. They hadn’t looked triumphant. They hadn’t looked smug. They looked shattered. Furious. Frightened.

They thought we hurt her, Mira realized, mouth tightening. Idiots.

Still… something about the way Baby had lunged forward with eyes wild, the way Mystery’s hands had trembled like a cornered wolf, the way Abby had looked ready to tear his own skin off… something about it unsettled her. She didn’t say that part out loud.

Rumi hadn’t spoken. She sat perfectly still, but her eyes flickered faintly behind her fingers. Too many thoughts colliding too fast. The bond. The Idol Awards. The Honmoon. Your choice to stay. Your tears. What Jinu would think. The guilt. The threat.

She wasn't supposed to feel this involved. But she did.

It was impossible not to think about her parents. About the ritual, about her father’s letter, her mother’s choice. Was this how it all started? With a bond you didn’t ask for and truths you weren’t ready to face?

What would happen to the soulbond now? Would it break? Would you?

“Do you think she’ll come to the Idol Awards tomorrow?” Zoey asked suddenly, cutting through Rumi’s spiral.

Mira snorted. “Who knows? She chose to stay with them. They’re probably feeding her more lies already.”

“But we need her there,” Zoey insisted. “I mean… if she’s there, they’re less likely to try anything. It would hinder them, right?”

“She was attacked today,” Mira said, leaning back. “And she just found out the people she trusted have been lying to her for god knows how long. You really think they’ll let her out of their sight now?”

Zoey’s lips pressed into a line. “Probably not,” she admitted. Her chest ached. The pain on your face, the raw betrayal in your voice… it hadn’t been fake. That much she knew. “I just—she looked so lost.”

The three of them exhaled as one, the exhaustion catching up to them all at once.

“Whatever,” Mira grumbled. “Once we seal the Honmoon tomorrow, she’ll be safe again anyway. She’ll get away. Maybe.”

Rumi’s voice was soft. “But now we know the soulbond is real.”

The room froze.

Zoey looked over, concern deepening. “What happens when we seal the Honmoon and they disappear? Will she be okay?”

Mira's lips parted, but she hesitated. “Not our problem,” she muttered. Except her eyes didn’t match her tone. They flickered with guilt. With doubt.

“No, Mira,” Zoey said. “It is our problem. She’s human. It’s our job to protect humans from demons. That’s our oath.”

“I’m not going to go sacrificing the entirety of humanity for one soulbonded human, Zoey,” Mira snapped, sitting upright. “We’re hunters. If it comes down to it, we’ll have to make a choice.”

Her words rang out like steel against stone. Zoey flinched. Rumi looked away. They all knew she was right. And that truth—made their hearts heavier.

Zoey’s voice was quieter now. “Should we at least message her? See if she’s okay?”

There was silence for a moment. Then Mira gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah… we should.”

But Rumi didn’t move. Her thoughts had turned inward again. Spiraling back to her father’s notes, the glyphs, the notebook under her pillow, the symbols she’d copied by hand. She had to see Jinu. Tonight. She had to show him what she found. She had to convince him that maybe… just maybe… there was another way.

Because if the bond was strong enough… if the ritual was real… then everything could change. She needed answers. And she had to know if he was willing to help her find them.

“…I just remembered something strange,” Zoey said suddenly, furrowing her brow.

Mira looked up, arching an eyebrow. “What?”

Zoey’s gaze shifted toward Rumi, voice tentative. “Earlier… when Y/N held your hand on the train, Rumi… did you see the Honmoon glow? Just for a second?”

Rumi froze. The words hit like a slap to the face. She had nearly forgotten about that. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her heart gave a sickening lurch.

Mira straightened where she sat, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Yeah. I—I thought I imagined it. It was faint but…” She frowned. “That was real?”

Zoey nodded slowly. “It was like… just a flicker. Barely there. But it reacted. And she isn’t a demon...”

Rumi could feel her chest constrict. Her mind reeled—symbols, glyphs, soul marks, the note she’d scrawled in ink. 

Stronger than the Honmoon?

It responded to her touch. Just from a second of contact. Could this really mean the ritual was viable? Could it finally, finally, be the key?

“Rumi?” Zoey asked again, her voice gentle but suspicious now. “Do you… know anything about that?”

Rumi blinked rapidly. Her throat was dry. “No! I mean—” Her voice came out sharper than intended. “I don’t know what it was. Probably just a fluke. A delayed reaction or something. Or maybe it’s because of her soulbond.”

Mira didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed fixed on Rumi, expression unreadable.

Zoey tilted her head. “But it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before. The Honmoon doesn't do that—especially when demons touch us. And she isn’t a demon, so...”

“It’s nothing,” Rumi said too quickly. “I’m sure it’s just residual energy or…” She waved vaguely toward the kitchen. “Whatever. I don’t know.” She sighed. “Look, I was actually gonna go out for a bit. I—I forgot we’re out of miso.”

Mira’s brow twitched. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yeah,” Rumi said, forcing a shrug. “I need the walk. Clear my head.”

She forced herself to stand casually, walking over to the coatrack. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her tote bag. Inside it held the letter and her father’s journal.

“Do you want us to come with?” Zoey offered, eyes soft but probing.

“No, I’m good,” Rumi said quickly, clutching the strap tighter. “You guys look dead on your feet. I’ll be quick.”

There was a beat of silence. Mira and Zoey exchanged a glance. “…Be careful,” Mira said flatly.

Rumi nodded once, not meeting their eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

She slipped out the door. The lock clicked shut behind her, quiet as a whisper. Mira didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, she stood.

Zoey blinked at her. “Where are you going?”

Mira’s gaze flicked down the hallway. “She’s hiding something.”

Zoey frowned. “Come on. Maybe she’s just… stressed. We all are.”

“She’s been weird for days,” Mira said bluntly, already walking. “And she got real weird just now. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

Zoey sighed but followed. “I noticed. I just… don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

They stopped outside Rumi’s door. Mira hesitated just for a second. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she muttered under her breath. “But if she knows something that could mess up the Honmoon tomorrow, I need to know.”

She pushed the door open. The room was still. Neat. Too neat. Zoey stood behind her, silent. Mira scanned the desk. Nothing unusual. She opened a drawer and found just pens and sketchpads. Another drawer–stickers, a crumpled concert ticket, receipts.

She moved toward the closet, rummaging quickly through the shelves. Still nothing. 

“Mira, I don’t think we should be doing this…” Zoey stood unsure by the doorway. As if entering her friend’s room without her knowledge was a serious crime.

Mira didn’t respond. Then, her eyes landed on the bed. Specifically… the pillow. Her brow furrowed. “She stuffed something under there a few days ago,” she murmured. “When I called her for practice.”

Zoey bit her lip. “Mira…”

“I know,” she said softly. “But I have to check.” She reached forward, lifted the pillow—

—and froze.

There it was. A slim, worn notebook. The edges frayed, the pages bent from use. Mira pulled it out carefully, her fingers already flipping through. At first, it was normal. Lyrics. Scribbled doodles. Pages of song notes crossed out and rewritten.

Then… symbols.

Drawn with eerie precision. Glyphs of a language Mira didn’t recognize, arranged in elaborate patterns. And then, a line scrawled boldly across the page:

‘Stronger than the Honmoon?’

Her breath hitched. “Zoey,” she called, sharper now. “Can you come here for a sec?”

Zoey finally entered, alarmed. Her eyes trained on the notebook. “What’s that?”

“It’s hers,” Mira said tightly.

Zoey took a step closer, frown deepening. “Okay but… come on, this isn’t right. You and Rumi are already—”

“Just look.”

Mira turned the notebook so Zoey could see. Zoey stared. Her brow furrowed. The symbols. The line: ‘Stronger than the Honmoon?’ Then:

‘I need Y/N there. For the ritual. For the proof. For everything.’

‘Three voices. One heart.’

Zoey blinked. “What… is this?”

“I don’t know,” Mira admitted. “But it’s weird. She never told us about any of this.”

Zoey took the notebook gently from her hands, flipping the pages slowly. “These aren’t just doodles. These look… planned. Like she’s copying something.”

They paused on the symbol in the center—the glyph for the soul. Zoey’s face went pale. “This is serious. This isn’t just a theory or a song idea. Why would she link Y/N to this?”

Mira crossed her arms. “And what ritual? What proof? What does she mean by ‘three voices, one heart’?”

“I’ve never heard of that during ur training,” Zoey muttered. “Maybe it’s something old? Or something forbidden? Like the soulbond she’s read about?”

The room chilled.

“She’s hiding something,” Mira said again. “And if she’s messing with something that could interfere with the Honmoon…”

Zoey looked down at the book in her hands. “She wouldn’t do something reckless,” she said quietly. “Right? I mean this is Rumi. She’s the most determined to seal the Honmoon out of all of us. She pushed up the Golden release…She– ” Zoey’s thoughts trailed on and on. Was this why Rumi asked her to send that invite to you for the Idol Awards? 

Neither of them could answer that. They stared down at the notebook. And for the first time in years, they realized—

Maybe… they didn’t know Rumi as well as they thought.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You curled tighter into the bundle of blankets on your bed, knees to chest, jaw clenched hard against the ache building behind your eyes. Derpy’s warm weight pressed against your hip, his fur oddly silken despite his unnerving stare, and the Magpie nestled on the headboard above, occasionally fluffing its feathers with a quiet thup-thup. Their presence didn’t erase the pain… but it grounded you. You kept your fingers buried in Derpy’s thick coat like a child clutching a lifeline.

Your heart hurt. In that deep, bone-dragging way. You’d been crying for so long you weren’t even sure when it had started, or when it would stop. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe this was just how your body would feel from now on. Like something inside you had been cracked in half and didn’t quite know how to fuse back together.

Then came the sound. A soft rustle. The near-silent click of ceramic against wood. And then… silence. You felt it before you saw it. A warm pulse beneath your ribs.

Haneul.

Your eyes burned as you sat up and reached for the note slipped beneath the door.

‘There’s food outside. We know you don’t want to see us. We just want you to eat. – H.’

You stared at the handwriting for a long time. He had cooked for you. Even now. Even after you sealed yourself away from them. You stood on trembling legs and opened the door just wide enough to reach out. The tray was still warm. Congee. With a soft-boiled egg, scallions, sesame oil. Everything you loved. The bowl trembled slightly in your hands.

You didn’t deserve it. They didn’t deserve to be here either. You brought it back inside and set it gently on the desk. Then you sat in silence.

The sob that tore from your chest wasn’t loud—but it broke something open. Because outside that door, you felt it again.

Hwimori.

His presence was impossible to miss now. The quiet scrapes, his fingers or claws, you couldn’t tell—moving against the floor just beyond the wood. Sniffling. A muffled whimper. The way he breathed in sync with yours.

It was like his sorrow pressed through the crack beneath the door, heavy and earnest and unrelenting. You didn’t have to see his face to imagine it: eyes red-rimmed, lashes wet, hands balled on the floor as he curled there like something abandoned. A creature who loved too much. Who didn’t know what to do with that kind of pain.

Your throat tightened unbearably. And then… another voice. Softer. Barely audible.

“I never wanted to lie…”

There was a pause and your breath hitched.

“But I was so afraid you’d leave if I told you. And now you’ve sealed yourself away from me.”

You couldn’t be sure, but you knew that voice. Seoha. The words were distant, like a whispered prayer through the fog of the soulbond. But they landed anyway. Like a stone thrown into your ribcage. Your heart twisted. Because it wasn’t a lie—not really. It was fear. Devotion turned desperate. Love tangled in the threads of consequence.

They were all out there. Hurting. Bleeding silently. Crushed under the weight of your grief. And it broke you more than you thought it would.

You wiped at your face, but the tears didn’t stop. Derpy nosed at your side, whimpering low in his throat. The Magpie hopped down onto your pillow and cooed, its feathers brushing your cheek.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered.

Neither of them answered. But they stayed close. And that meant everything. You pulled your phone from beneath your pillow and blinked at the glowing screen.

You had three message notifications.

One was from Zoey: ‘Are you okay? Please tell us if you’re in trouble. We’re here.’

Your heart twisted just a tad more at the message. Even now after you’d left the station, she had still messaged you. 

The next messages came off as quite a shock. It was from Mira. 

‘If you need help, real help, we’ll come. Just say the word.’

It was curt. Direct to the point. Sharp, just like she had seemed earlier today. You weren’t sure why she had even made the effort to message you given how sharp her words had felt. But the message meant something to you regardless. She didn’t have to say this. They all didn’t have to…

The last one was from Rumi. ‘I hope you’re safe. I’m so sorry for how today went. Please rest. Don’t be afraid to reach out.’

You stared at them for a long time, heart thudding like thunder in your throat. They’d saved you. And they looked so genuinely… broken. Rumi’s trembling hand. Zoey’s panicked eyes. Mira’s furious defiance. They weren’t lying… not then. They believed what they were doing was right. And now… you had proof.

The boys hadn’t told you everything. They hadn’t told you about the Idol Awards. They were still harvesting souls. And they were planning a massacre tomorrow. It wasn’t Huntrix’s lies that kept the truth from you. It was theirs.

You clutched Derpy tighter.

But how do I blame them, you thought, when all they’ve ever done is love me like I’m their entire world?

You could feel their love even now. It pulsed through the bond like blood through veins. Warm. Fierce. Terrible. You felt the phantom heat of Seungho’s palm against your cheek. The way Seoha used to read you stories like he already knew your favorite parts. Jinu brushing the hair behind your ear like it was instinct. Haneul holding you steady through your worst panic. Hwimori curling up beside you and crying when you cried.

They loved you.

In ways you never thought possible. In ways that went deeper than words or vows or rings. They belonged to you. And you… to them.

But love isn’t always right. Not when it came wrapped in thousands of bodies they were willing to sacrifice. Not when it meant carving your soul out of the world just so they could hold it in their arms.

You picked up the spoon but couldn’t eat. Not yet. Your hands shook too much.

How did things get so complicated?

You came to Seoul to chase dreams, not dance with devils. And now here you were, in a locked room, soulbonded to five demons, hiding from the rest of the world while they planned to kill thousands in your name.

The tray was heavy on your desk. The scent of the congee turned your stomach now… not because of the food, but because of what it meant. That even in all this, they wanted to care for you. Feed you. Love you.

And it hurt.

What am I supposed to do?

Because the worst part wasn’t the betrayal. It was understanding it. You curled inward again, clutching Derpy, letting the Magpie nest against your collarbone. It was love. Twisted and dark and horrifying… but still love. 

They wanted to save you.

Huntrix wanted to save the world.

And you… you were stuck in between. The bridge. A human that was bonded to five demons. The one heart pulled in five directions.

And still… you remembered Mira’s voice. The steel in it. Zoey’s trembling hands on your shoulders. Rumi’s worried eyes darting over your person to check if you were harmed.

They weren’t your enemies. Maybe they never were. Maybe—just like the boys—they were simply trying to survive the only way they knew how.

You didn’t know what scared you more. The thought that one side had to lose, or the possibility that no one would win.

You breathed slowly, painfully. “There has to be another way,” you whispered. “There has to be.”

But no answer came. Only silence. And the distant sound of claws on hardwood. A broken apology just outside your door.

And the weight of a love that might just destroy everything.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The alley was quiet, carved between two rows of dusky buildings in an older part of Seoul where time seemed to linger. Neon lights blinked faintly from a noodle shop at the far end, their colors reflecting softly in the puddles left behind by the afternoon drizzle. Stone steps led up to a narrow teahouse perched on the second floor, and flower pots lined the stair railings, half-forgotten by their owners. It would’ve felt romantic, almost charming, if not for the weight pressing down on Jinu’s chest.

He stood still in the middle of it all—too still. Arms crossed. Eyes staring at the cracked concrete underfoot. The silence pressed in on him like a vice. Not just the quiet of the alley—but the stillness in his bond with you.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Images flashed uninvited through his mind—your face when the truth had unraveled, when the pieces finally clicked. No scream had hurt more than the way you looked at him in that moment.

Jinu pressed his hand against the wall beside him, steadying himself. He had always known this would break you. He told himself he’d be ready. But he hadn’t been—not when you curled in on yourself. Not when you locked them out.

A soft footfall drew him out of the spiral.

Rumi.

Jinu tensed. He didn’t want to be here right now. His fingers curled tight on the meeting invite Rumi had sent yesterday. He didn’t want to see her. Not after what she and the others had done.

She didn’t announce herself. Just leaned against the wall beside him like she’d been there all along. Her cream jacket was zipped up to her throat, and a few strands of her hair clung to the dampness in the air. She didn’t look at him right away. Just stared down the length of the alley, as if seeing some invisible thread he couldn’t.

Jinu didn’t look at Rumi. Not yet. He stood with his back against the wall of the narrow alley. His voice came low, scraped raw from silence, like he’d been holding something in too long.

“I’m here. Say what you have to say.”

Rumi winced. There was no warmth in his tone. Just the echo of a wound festering under composure.

“How is Y/N?” she asked, carefully.

His eyes snapped to hers, slow and cold. “You don’t get to ask that.”

The words landed like a slap. Rumi stiffened. “What? After we saved her today? You’re really going to pretend like you have the moral high ground when you’re the ones who lied to her?”

Jinu’s jaw clenched. “We would’ve told her the truth in time.”

“When? After someone else died in front of her again? How was I supposed to know you were keeping everything from her?!”

His eyes burned. “She deserved to hear it from us,” he said. “Us. Not cornered on a train platform by hunters she barely knows, half out of her mind.”

“For the record,” Rumi said, voice rising, “there were almost a hundred demons on that train. They were sucking the souls out of everyone. If Mira hadn’t reached Y/N first—if we had been a second too late—she would’ve been gone.”

Jinu faltered. “What?”

Rumi’s hands shook slightly. “There was a demon holding her. A big one. I saw it. I watched Mira drive her blade through its back just before it could crush her. Y/N didn’t even scream—she just stared, frozen and terrified.”

Jinu looked staggered. Stunned. “She didn’t tell us,” he whispered.

“What?” Rumi blinked. “She… she didn’t?”

He shook his head once. Slowly. “No. When we brought her home… she only asked us one thing. To tell her the truth. About the soul harvesting. About everything.” His eyes darkened. “Not a word about that happening to her.”

Rumi’s breath caught. “She found out because she witnessed it, Jinu. She saw what the demons were doing. She saw Mira kill one. I—I tried to stop Mira from saying more after, I swear. But she insisted, and Y/N kept asking what those demons were, and…”

Jinu exhaled, sharp and broken, dragging a hand down his face. His eyes finally met hers—and this time, she saw it. The grief. The guilt.

“...thank you.”

Rumi almost did a double take at his sudden change of tone. 

“Thank you… for saving her. For protecting her when we weren’t there…”

Rumi saw how Jinu’s jaw clenched in frustration. His eyes were pained. An agonizing look she hasn’t seen on him before. 

“Jinu…”

“She looked at us like we weren’t real,” he murmured. “Like she didn’t recognize us anymore. Not as people. Not as the ones who’ve loved her since the start.” His voice cracked on the last word. “She asked if we ever cared, Rumi. If any of it was real.”

Rumi’s heart twisted at the rawness in his expression. It wasn’t just anger burning behind his eyes now—it was heartbreak. Regret. The soul-deep kind that rotted from the inside out.

“I didn’t mean to take that from you,” she said quietly.

Jinu looked away. There was a long silence, dense, aching, broken only by the distant hum of a passing scooter and the faint clatter of dishes from a restaurant above.

“She doesn’t want us to go through with it,” he said, finally. “The soul offering. The deal. The Awards. She said… if we love her, we’ll stop.” His shoulders dropped, like the weight had finally become too much. “But we can’t stop, can we?” he added bitterly. “Not without Gwi Ma tearing everything apart. Not without damning her in another way.”

He let out a half-laugh, humorless and hollow. “She begged us to find another way. And I’m standing here with nothing. No plan. No hope. Just a stage and a knife, and the knowledge that no matter what we choose… we lose her.”

Rumi didn’t speak. She was watching him too closely now—reading the twitch of his jaw, the tremble at the edges of his fingers. This wasn’t the Jinu she knew from afar. This wasn’t the leader of the Saja Boys, the cold strategist, the distant puppetmaster with unshakable calm. This was the boy underneath the blood and glamor. The one who looked like he’d just buried the only light he’d ever known. And Rumi’s heart cracked with the weight of it.

Not just for him. Not just for you. But for all of you. All bound together by a love no one had asked for—and none of you knew how to survive.

She had no right to feel sympathy for Jinu. Not after everything he’d done. Not after the silence, the soul-harvesting, the deals he’s made with Gwi Ma. The choices he’s made on his own. He wasn’t hers to care for. And yet—something stirred.

It clawed its way up from the marrow, ancient and aching, threaded into the very bones of her inheritance. A pulse not wholly hers, but not foreign either. The echo of a love older than she could comprehend. Fierce. Reckless. Whole.

Maybe it was her father’s ghost, whispering through her blood like smoke curling from old fire. Maybe it was the memory of her mother’s defiance—how she had clung to love even when the world called it blasphemy. Or maybe it was the quiet, unbearable truth:

She was born of the same kind of madness. Of a bond that defied law and reason.

And in Jinu—torn, proud, breaking in the shadows—she saw her father. That haunted look behind guarded eyes. The hands, calloused by consequence, reaching for something they believed could save them. He stood at the edge of ruin, like Daehyun must have, daring to hold love in one hand and fate in the other—hoping one would outweigh the cost of the other.

How could she not feel drawn to that? She was the result of a love that dared the impossible. A child born not from safety, but from sacrifice. From longing that bent the rules of both heaven and hell.

And perhaps that’s why, despite everything, she couldn’t turn away from him now. Because if her father had lived… would he have made the same choices Jinu had?

Would he too, have chosen love even if it meant becoming a monster? And if so—wasn’t that what made it all human?

She closed her eyes, just for a breath, letting that ache settle deep in her chest like a bruise spreading slow beneath the skin.

She didn’t owe him anything. But something in her soul reached out anyway. Not for the demon. But for the part of him that was still trying to love… the way her father once did.

“Do you think… demons can love the way humans do?”

Jinu turned, brow furrowing. “What?”

She didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, at the narrow mouth of the alley where the streetlamps buzzed like distant thoughts. “I mean real love. Not obsession. Not the kind that takes. But the kind that gives everything. Even when it’s doomed.”

Jinu’s expression flickered… something unreadable behind the amber in his eyes. “Why are you asking me that?”

Rumi exhaled slowly. Her voice, when it came, was almost a confession. “Because… I think I’m the result of that kind of love.”

He stared.

“I’m the result of what happens when a hunter falls in love with a demon.” she continued. 

Jinu’s eyes widen in shock. He hadn’t known that about her. A hunter… and a demon…

“But I was raised by another hunter. My mom’s best friend, Aunt Celine. She was fierce. Proud. She never spoke about my father. Just that he was dead. That he was… a mistake.”

Rumi swallowed, jaw tightening. “When I was little, Celine taught me that demons were monsters. No soul. No heart. Just hunger in a pretty shell. I believed her. I had to. It was safer to believe. To belong.”

Jinu’s eyes didn’t leave her.

“But then I met you,” she said. “And Y/N.”

Her voice softened. “When you said you were soulbonded to her… something inside me shifted. It didn’t feel foreign. It felt like… recognition. Like déjà vu in my own blood. I didn’t know why. Not then.”

She turned to him finally. “My father’s name was Daehyun.”

The name fell between them like a stone dropped into still water. “I found his letter. His journal. And I know now—he wasn’t a mistake. He was a demon. And he loved my mother. He was soulbonded to her.”

Jinu’s breath caught audibly, eyes wide in disbelief. Daehyun. He had left behind a daughter?

“He tried to forge something stronger than the Honmoon. Something older. A ritual born not from blood or power, but belief. He called it something… but it felt like… more than just a bond. A teth–”

Jinu’s lips parted. “A tether.”

Rumi blinked, shocked. “...Yes. You’ve heard of it?”

Jinu nodded slowly, a hand lifting to rake through his hair as if the weight of recognition struck all at once. “The story was a cautionary tale. A demon who tried to make a hunter into a tether. A bridge. They said it killed her.”

“It did,” Rumi said softly. “And him too. He failed. The ritual didn’t hold. But it wasn’t greed. It wasn’t control. He just wanted to stay with the woman he loved. To create something that could protect them. Protect me.”

Silence spilled between them.

Then Rumi asked quietly, “Did you know him? Daehyun?”

Jinu’s face shifted, grief threading through his expression. “No, not personally. I just heard about the story a few years ago. I didn’t know it was real. Or that he was… your father.” He shook his head. “Daehyun was an older demon, almost ancient… I’ve never met him.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded once, her throat tightening. Worth a shot.

And then she straightened, voice firmer. “If there was another way. One that didn’t involve the Idol Awards, or the Honmoon, or Gwi Ma… would you take it?”

Jinu didn’t answer. Not at first.

Because in that moment, he saw you again, exactly as you’d been just hours ago, standing in their living room, broken and brave and begging with tears in your eyes. “You say you did it to stop me from dying. To give us forever. But what’s the point of forever… if I can’t live with myself?”

The way your voice cracked. “If you truly love me… you’ll stop this. You’ll find another way.”

The way you looked at him, like he was already slipping away. “I can’t watch you become something I can’t forgive.”

The way you still loved him, even as your heart was breaking. He felt it like a blade to the chest. Jinu closed his eyes.

“…Yes,” he said.

But the word barely settled before doubt carved through him like ice. His eyes opened again—hardened now, like armor snapping back into place. Like he suddenly understood what Rumi was asking him to do.

“No. No—don’t do this. You’re talking about conducting the same ritual.” His voice rose, sharp and cutting. “I won’t let what happened to them happen to her.”

Rumi flinched. “Jinu—”

But Jinu’s head was hot. The very thought of it failing and losing you forever burned in his mind. No. No way in hell. “It was a foolish dream,” he said bitterly. “She was never meant to survive it.”

Those words—those awful, final words—hung in the air like smoke from a battlefield. Rumi’s breath caught. Her eyes burned. “She was my mother,” she whispered.

Jinu froze. His anger dissolved in an instant, replaced by something close to shame. “I didn’t mean—Rumi, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” she said quietly, shaking her head. It was hard, so hard to understand his candor. But it was the truth. She was asking for a lot. But what choice did she have?

And then, without another word, she reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope and the journal. Her hands didn’t tremble as she offered them.

“I’m not asking you to risk her,” she said. “I’m asking you to read. To see.”

Jinu hesitated. Then he took the letter.

It was smaller than he expected. Worn soft at the edges, the parchment yellowed with time and grief. He opened it slowly. And read.

‘My little star,

If you’re reading this… then maybe the ritual didn’t work.’

The first line made his throat tighten. He blinked. Once. Twice.

‘Or maybe fate intervened, and you’re standing in a future I never got to see.’

A future they never got to live.

‘I loved her, Rumi. So deeply it became my reason for existing.’

Jinu’s breath caught. He didn’t know Daehyun—not personally. The stories of him were half-myth, whispered between demons like cautionary tales. A hunter and a demon. A soulbond that defied bloodlines. It had always sounded like fiction. A tragic love story with no ending.

But this… This letter was real. And it was brimming with such raw, aching love that Jinu felt it beneath his ribs, in the places he hadn’t let himself look since your tears carved holes in him.

‘The soulbond. A link forged by choice. By devotion. By heart.’

He inhaled sharply. His heart beat slower as he reached the last lines—words meant for a daughter born of the impossible.

‘There’s another path, Rumi… not one the gods built, or hunters—but one the heart can open.’

He closed the letter gently. As if anything rough would shatter it. She was never meant to survive it… That was what he had said earlier.

But this letter—this man—had believed in it. In her. In a future built not from sacrifice, but from love. Just like you had begged him to believe. Jinu glanced at Rumi, who sat quiet, hands clenched by her sides. He could see the tension in her jaw, but also something soft beneath it. She hadn’t just found a letter. She had found her origin.

He looked down at the journal next. A thicker, older tome. When he cracked the cover open, the pages rustled with memory. The demonic symbols were arcane, looping and layered. Unlike the letter, they weren’t meant to be read by just anyone. But Jinu had lived four centuries. He could read enough.

He traced a line of text with his thumb, murmuring aloud. “The tether… not just a seal, but a gate. A guardian. A chance for love to rewrite the laws.”

Rumi’s eyes flicked to him. “What does that mean?”

Jinu didn’t look up yet. He kept reading, voice low. “The ritual failed. She wasn’t strong enough. Or maybe I asked too much. There must have been something I failed to see…”

Another line gleamed as he spoke it aloud: “Three voices. One heart. A bond strong enough to breach fate.”

Jinu sat back slightly, blinking at the text. “Three voices…” He looked at Rumi, slowly, thoughts turning over. “A tether isn’t like the Honmoon,” he said softly. “It doesn’t require to be strengthened periodically with voices. It’s created with those voices, but once made… it’s a living seal. A being created from a soulbond so strong, it can anchor others—hold portals shut, link realms, undo curses… even defy Gwi Ma.”

Rumi’s breath hitched. “Like a guardian.”

Jinu nodded. “It’s the soulbond itself, given form. A bond is required because it’s the strongest thing that links the two realms. But it has to be unbreakable. Devoted beyond reason.”

“Is that why it failed?” she asked. “Did he write why?”

Jinu’s brow furrowed as he scanned again. “No… not clearly. But this line—‘Three voices. One heart’—it might be the key. Maybe the bond wasn’t strong enough. Or maybe it wasn’t complete.” He let that thought hang in the air.

Rumi whispered, “But what if the soulbond is strong enough? Say… 400 years old. With more than one demon?”

Jinu stiffened. She didn’t need to say your name. They both thought of you in the same moment. He thought of the crimson threads wrapping around your chest. How the bond affected you much stronger in this lifetime. Of the pain you were in when it had finally sealed and you had remembered. 

His mind drifted to earlier—your voice, pleading in the living room. That image surfaced like a knife in water. Your eyes wet, desperate. Your hands trembling. That moment had etched itself into the marrow of his being.

He hadn’t let himself hope then. But now…

Rumi licked her lips. “Also, earlier today. In the train… Y/N took my hand as I was helping her up. She was shocked, terrified. And then…” She swallowed. “The Honmoon glowed.”

His heart skipped. “What?”

“It pulsed. The minute our skin made contact. It glowed gold and crimson. Just for a second. But it was reacting. To her. To the bond. I think… it reacted to what she was. I’ve never seen the Honmoon do that before…”

A silence settled between them. Charged, fragile, blooming with something dangerous.

Hope.

Together, they turned back to the journal. Slowly, methodically, they translated lines—Daehyun’s inked desperation looping through diagrams of symbols.

Soul. Sacrifice. Choice. None of it was simple. But it was possible. If they could decipher the ritual, if they could prepare it and enact it properly… you wouldn’t have to die. No blood would have to be spilled at the Idol Awards. No more soul-harvesting. No more Gwi Ma.

Jinu felt it rise in his chest like sunlight after years of dark: freedom. Freedom for him. For his brothers. For you.

But it was a risk. If they failed, you could suffer the same fate as Rumi’s mother. Was he willing to risk that? Would him failing to even try mean failing you? But if he didn’t try, that would be the same thing, wouldn’t it?

He closed the journal slowly. The weight of it settled heavy in his hands. Jinu stared down at the faded ink, the ghost of Daehyun’s desperation still pulsing between the lines. His voice came quieter now, but thick with tension. “Even if it’s possible… even if we translated it right… it’s still the same ritual. The one that failed. It killed your mother, Rumi. It killed him.”

She didn’t flinch this time. “Yes. Because something was missing. But what if it isn’t, now?”

Jinu shook his head, jaw clenching. “You don’t understand. A tether isn’t just a seal—it reshapes fate. It asks for everything. If we misstep even once…”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say your name in the same breath as the word risk. “I won’t gamble her life,” he said. “Not again.”

“But you already are,” Rumi said softly. “With the Idol Awards. With the massacre. With Gwi Ma watching every move.”

Her words were calm, but steady. And true. “If we don’t try and either of us wins. The Honmoon turns gold, or it’s destroyed… it would ruin her and you either way, Jinu.”

“If we do it properly this time,” she continued, “If we prepare—just like my father wrote—and if the bond is truly strong enough… then maybe this time, it won’t fail.”

Jinu stared at her. He wanted to believe it. But the past clawed at his thoughts. The echo of the train station. The sound of your voice breaking when you asked him for the truth. The way your body trembled before you collapsed. How your soulbond had flared crimson when you reached for him.

He didn’t deserve another chance. But maybe you did.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, over the place where his heart burned quietly for you. Where the bond pulsed like a bruise. Where hope had started growing again, whether he wanted it to or not.

Was this madness? Or mercy?

He looked up at Rumi, her expression lit by the distant glow of a streetlamp. The shadows couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes… but they also couldn’t hide her hope.

“Help us win the Idol Awards tomorrow,” she said again, gently this time. “We’ll perform the ritual there. I need you to bring her. We can’t do this without her.”

Jinu closed his eyes and let the silence stretch. Could he do this? Could he lead you into the heart of danger again, with nothing but an old legend and a desperate daughter’s faith?

But then… wasn’t this exactly what you’d asked for?

“Just find another way.”

Maybe this was it. Maybe the least he could do, for everything he’d broken—was try.

He opened his eyes and nodded once.

“…okay.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: I apologize for the angst continuation but it had to be done! I'm sowwy. But I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter regardless! In this chapter we explore the aftermath of the blow from chapter 14. I wanted to expound on how all the characters feel. The internal conflicts, moral dilemmas, and possible solutions that could be explored to fix what had happened. Rumi and Jinu are one step closer to the truth and finding out about her parents. Weee! Thank you for staying patient with me as this chapter took longer to write. I appreciate your comments as always!

I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!

Willa x.

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[gloomwitchwrites]

Salutations, my liege

For 141 what if series..

...may i ask something silly— perhaps.. having a steamy flirt texting with them, and when they asked for a scandalous picture, reader send a rickroll-

...im sorry-

Absolutely you can! Yes, it's a bit naughty, but it's mostly silliness, and making the guys stress for no reason. Because, why not?

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Reader (can be read as gn!reader)

Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, dirty talk, sexting, humor, pranks & shenanigans, established relationship

Word Count: 1.1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John is at work. But that doesn’t stop him. The texts come in one after the other.

Do you know how hard I am?

Been thinking about you all day.

Can hardly wait for later.

You take my cock so well.

You reply back with equal steam, describing all the ways you want him to fuck you. No detail is left unsaid. It is a lecherous image you paint for him. But fuck is it fun. The man will come home pent up, pouncing on you the moment he’s through the door.

The next text from John comes a full minute later.

Send me a picture.

Send a picture? You could. The potential of his coworkers seeing it over his shoulder isn’t something you’re particularly interested in though. Then again, telling John how horny you are isn’t enough. He might be on you the second he comes home, but you could do with a little roughness. A bit of punishment. Making John turned on and frustrated is always a sure bet you’ll receive what you want.

Opening YouTube, you find the song you’re looking for. A catchy song from the 80’s that’s now a viral trend.

Get ready, big boy, you reply.

You snap a quick, teasing photo. Sending it off.

I’m fucking ready, replies John instantly.

A swoosh, and the link is sent.

You wait. Laugh into your hand. A full minute passes. Then another. Finally, a text comes in.

Send the real thing or I’m coming home early.

You lock your phone, and set it aside, grinning madly as you wait for John to pull into the drive.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Separation has never stopped you. Simon might be elsewhere, but the two of you find time to indulge in every horny urge.

I’m gonna suck your cock until you look like an empty Capri Sun.

You laugh at yourself for texting him that, but as much as he seems aloof, Simon has a wicked sense of humor.

His response is immediate. You can try.

You snort, fingers poised to type out a return message, but the three little bubbles appear on his side.

Lube up the dildo. Suck it off. Send me a video.

You nearly choke on your own salvia. The idea of that is fucking salacious. And as much as you’d like to, you’re also feeling a bit lazy. You’re cozied up on the sofa, covered by a fluffy blanket. Instead of indulging him, you can be a bit of a shit, poking his buttons because it amuses him as much as it amuses you.

The video you do record is easy enough. It looks like you’re about to do the exact thing Simon wants, but with just a quick edit, the screen fades to black, and a certain 80’s hit appears in its place.

It’s hilarious. Sensational. Gold star to you!

You send it off, locking your phone, deciding that you’ll veg out to some mindless television and go to bed at a decent time for once. Simon doesn’t respond to your text, which is odd, but not unusual.

It’s not until after you’ve made yourself dinner that you find out why.

“You never sent me the video.”

Simon’s voice comes from nowhere. You scream, drop your bowl of pasta, and spin around, wielding the fork like a weapon.

“Where the fuck did you come from?”

Simon shrugs. “I have my ways.”

“Simon,” you warn.

His mouth stretches into the faintest hint of a smirk. “And I thought I’d come for the real thing.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is a dog. Hungry. Wanton. If he could, he’d probably live in your skin. Which is why he’s always texting you, sending dirty messages.

Touch yourself. Show me.

You could show him. Snap a few pictures of you pleasing yourself and send them off in intervals to prolong the teasing. It would work him up. Work you up. But there is a better option. An option that’ll drive Johnny crazy—that’ll make him more desperate for what he’s asking for.

You want a picture, you text out.

Aye. Course I do.

Not like he’s gone without. The two of you have exchanged countless photos, and it’s entirely likely that most of the photos saved to his phone are of you. Naughty ones, specifically. Johnny enjoys having them for when he’s gone for long periods of time. A little treat for him, but more like masturbation material.

It’s easy to manipulate a few files, find a GIF online of what you’re looking for. Via text won’t work. You opt for email. It may confuse him, but knowing Johnny, he’ll just be happy you’re sending a naked photo. Not that it is.

It isn’t. It’s you trolling him because he’s always doing it to you.

The email is sent off with a swoosh. You patiently wait, expecting him to reply back with a snarky response.

But when your phone starts to buzz, the screen showing not a phone call but a video chat, you know Johnny means business.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

My dick is so hard.

You taking it when I come home?

Want to see you bounce on it.

You’re grinning like an idiot as Kyle’s texts come in. Kyle doesn’t usually engage in phone sex or dirty talk over text. This is a bit of a treat, and you’re enjoying it, sending back messages that are just as filthy. Kyle isn’t shy about sex, but sometimes it’s nice to see him squirm.

Send a picture. I wanna see you.

He’s too sweet for his own good. And while you’d oblige him otherwise, you also see an opportunity. Why not poke at him a bit. Have some silly fun. What you send him is not a nude.

And Kyle’s response is not a text but a phone call.

You answer. Put it on speaker.

“Did you just send me a Josh Hutcherson fan cam vid set to a cover of Flo Rida’s ‘Whistle?’”

“Didn’t know you were so hip, Kyle.”

“I’m on social media,” he mumbles. He clears his throat. “I still want that photo.”

“Hm. Yeah. Sure thing,” you reply nonchalantly. Kyle says your name with a sternness that excites you. “Have to go!” you say with a bit too much cheer.

Without waiting for his reply, you end the call, and tucking the phone underneath the pillow as it begins to buzz again.

[mcu-binge]

Unspoken || Clark Kent x Reader ||

Pairing : Clark Kent x Reader Word count : ~2835

Summary : secret situationship clark kent x reader. you flirt back with someone new, clark short-circuits. cue petty office games

Tags/warnings : jealous!Clark, fluff, light smut (?)

A/N : Hellloooo I rewatched Twisters last night and I may or may not have written something inspired by David’s character Scott. Let me know if you would like to read it! Requests are still open feel free to send me one Clark Kent related or not!

=====================================

Daily Planet, 11:44 a.m.

You feel her before you hear her.

The intern. Madison. Or Madeline. Something with lip gloss and a fake laugh.

She floats past your desk again, third time this morning, armed with a stack of files she definitely doesn’t need help carrying.

You keep your eyes on your monitor. You’ve gotten good at pretending. Good at pretending a lot of things.

But you don’t miss the way her heels click to a stop at Clark’s desk.

“Oh my gosh, you’re seriously working through lunch again?” she coos, like it’s an original observation.

You can practically hear Clark smile. “I like to get ahead on edits. Makes Perry slightly less terrifying.”

She laughs way too loudly.

You tap your pen against your notepad. One, two, three. Breathe.

“You know,” she says, “I read that piece you did on the fires last month? The way you described the scene… it was like I was there.”

“Thanks,” Clark replies, gracious as ever. “It was a tough one to write.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. You’re so good with words.”

You look up then. Clark is smiling. Polite. Friendly. Maybe not flirting, but… not shutting it down either.

Your stomach knots not necessarily from insecurity, but from the quiet ache of knowing you don’t get to say anything. Not here. Not where people would ask questions.

Not where you’d have to admit that you snuck into his apartment last weekend and fell asleep wearing his flannel shirt. So you turn back to your screen. Focus. Breathe.

Until you hear her say “I don’t know how anyone expects me to get anything done with you sitting over there being all—” She lowers her voice. “Clark-y.”

You blink. Clark-y? What the hell does that even mean?

And that’s when you hear him laugh. Really laugh.

That’s it. That’s the crack. A fine, hairline fracture in whatever unspoken arrangement the two of you have been delicately well stupidly balancing.

You stand, a little too fast.

“I’m going to grab coffee,” you say, mostly to the air.

Clark looks up. “Want me to come with?”

“Nope.” You’re already walking away.

Behind you, the intern giggles again.

You’re back from the coffee run, to-go cup in hand and pride barely intact, when a voice stops you cold.

“Sorry—hold it right there. Light’s hitting you just right.”

You blink, turning toward the source.

He’s standing by the east-facing window, DSLR slung across his chest, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. Tousled hair, scruff like it’s grown in defiance, and the posture of someone who doesn’t know how not to be confident.

“I’m the new photographer,” he says, as if reading your mind. “Caleb.” He adds extending a polite hand to you

You raise an eyebrow suspiciously before shaking it. “And you just take candids of coworkers without asking?”

“Only when they look that good holding caffeine.”

It should make you roll your eyes. It should. But something inside you, the same something that had to endure Miss Clark-y 20 minutes ago nudges you to tilt your head, just a little and let him snap some photos.

You smirk just a little. It’s harmless. It’s fun. And most importantly, you know exactly who’s watching from the corner of the bullpen, hand halfway to his glasses like he’s pretending to clean them.

Clark.

He’s facing his screen, but his ears are pink. You know that pink.

“Anyway,” Caleb says, stepping back, “if I’m ever assigned to your stories, we should, uh, coordinate. Lunch maybe. Talk shop.”

You nod. “I’ll think about it.”

And just like that, he walks away. No lingering, no pushiness. Just a lingering impression and a very obvious audience.

You don’t even have to look to feel Clark’s gaze. Not just watching. Tracking.

You take one slow sip from your coffee and return to your desk like nothing happened. The rest of the work day drags on with you avoiding Clark's glances and heading straight home after.

--

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to put it on Do Not Disturb.

Clark Kent

You hesitate. One beat. Two. Three. Then answer.

“Didn’t peg you as a night owl Mr. Kent,” you say, voice soft in the dark.

Clark chuckles. You can hear the faint rustle of his sheets. He’s in bed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Thought I’d call my favorite insomniac.”

“Oh? And here I thought I was just your coworker.”

“You know better than that.”

There’s a pause a thick and warm and familiar one.

You let it hang a moment longer. “Hmmm… what’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know,” he says casually. “Just wondering how your day went. You were… smiley.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Am I not allowed to smile?”

“You are. It’s just…” He trails off. “New guy got you grinning like that on day one?”

You smirk, biting your bottom lip. “You mean Caleb?”

“Is that his name? I didn’t know; he didn’t come by and take my picture.”

You laugh. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

“I’m just curious,” he says, too quickly. “Didn’t realize you liked… confident guys with man buns and vintage cameras.”

“He doesn’t wear a man bun, Clark. Is that jealousy I hear?”

“Nope.” He’s quiet for a second too long. “Just trying to figure out what your type is.”

You let that hang in the air.

“I don’t think I have a type,” you murmur. “But I do like when a guy makes an effort.”

He exhales. “I make an effort.”

“Do you?”

“Hey, I brought you soup when you were sick.”

“And I never said thank you properly.” Your voice softens, slow and warm. “You’re sweet, Clark.”

Another silence. Then “I don’t want to just be sweet.”

That does something to you.

You shift under your blankets, suddenly too aware of the sound of his voice through the line.

“So you’re calling me for a bedtime confession?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I just… didn’t like seeing someone else flirt with you.”

“Why?”

“Because…” His voice dips lower. “I prefer being the reason you blush.”

You’re quiet.

Clark clears his throat like he said too much. “Anyway. Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this weird.”

“It’s not weird.”

Another pause.

“You make me act weird, you know that?” he says.

You smile into your pillow. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Clark laughs, soft and wrecked. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

“Sweet dreams.” He adds.

“Dream sweet and of me,” You add with a smile before hanging up.

—

You don’t expect anything when you walk in.

No follow-up to the flirt-heavy, “I don’t want to just be sweet” phone call. Just normal Clark behavior: polished, polite, maybe a little sheepish for opening up the way he did.

You definitely don’t expect your exact coffee order, oat milk, half pump vanilla, cinnamon on top sitting on your desk like it manifested from a dream.

You stop. Stare.

There’s a sticky note stuck to the lid:

Figured I owed you caffeine after that late call. – C

Your stomach flutters.

You barely have time to recover before Kat waltzes past, side-eyeing your cup.

“Oof. Is that from who I think it’s from?”

You shrug, playing dumb. “No idea.”

“Sure,” she snorts.

9:05 a.m.

You’ve just settled back at your desk when Clark appears. Not his usual notebook-in-hand work mode. He strolls in like he owns the place. His sleeves rolled to the elbows. Glasses on dangerously close to heartthrob-who-reads-poetry territory.

And he’s beaming. Like nothing in the world is wrong.

He leans against your desk, tilts his head. “Morning.”

You glance up. “Little late, aren’t you?”

He taps your empty coffee cup. “Thought I’d give you time to enjoy that first.”

You deadpan. “That’s suspiciously thoughtful.”

He lowers his voice. “Just making sure I stay your favorite.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you.

“Anyway,” he adds, dropping a paper bag in front of you, “they were out of your favorite muffin, so I brought you the second favorite. Blueberry and don’t pretend it’s not.”

That makes you smile. “You remembered that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” he says, voice dipping.

Before you can form a snappy comeback, he’s already walked off.

Kat peers around the divider again, mouthing: WHAT IS HAPPENING

You don’t answer. Mostly because you don’t know anymore.

1:12 p.m.

Caleb returns from an assignment and spots you in the copy room.

“Hey, smiley,” he says, stopping just short of the door. “You free for lunch?”

You open your mouth to respond friendly, casual, not flirty when a shadow moves behind you.

Clark appears out of nowhere, holding a takeout bag in one hand and a smug smile in the other.

“Ooof she’s booked. I grabbed lunch for us,” he says, breezy and bold. “Hope you’re still on your wings kick.”

You turn, confused. “You… ordered lunch?”

Clark nods. “Figured I’d beat the rush.”

He sets the bag down and for the first time in office history brushes his hand against the small of your back. Not obviously. Not possessively. Just enough.

“Sorry,” he says to Caleb. “Didn’t mean to step on your plans.”

Caleb blinks. “Oh. No worries. You guys enjoy.”

Clark just smiles and hands you a box of fries like a man very pleased with himself.

At 3:27 p.m. Flowers arrive.

It’s a small bouquet of wildflowers and peonies soft and subtle. There’s no note. Just a tiny card in the bottom of the vase with your initials. But the handwriting? You’d know it anywhere.

Kat is losing her mind.

“Girl. What is going on. Is this your boyfriend or a PR stunt?”

You laugh, half-exasperated, half-flushed. “It’s complicated.”

Clark walks past your desk with a mug of tea, glances at the flowers.

Then, audible enough to be overheard, he mutters, “Wonder who the lucky guy is.”

Kat actually squeals.

End of the day. The office is mostly empty. You go into the copy room to grab some print outs when Clark appears in the doorway. It’s quiet maybe a little too quiet. Like the building is holding its breath.

“I need to talk to you,” he says, low, almost careful.

You don’t look up. “Now’s not great.”

“Tough.” His voice drops. “I’ve been patient. That’s done.”

You freeze.

He walks in, not fast, but with purpose. Like every step is a choice. He doesn’t stop until he’s close.

“You smiled at him like he made your whole damn day.”

You scoff. “You mean the same way I’ve smiled at you for weeks?”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. I’m the one you call when you can’t sleep. I’m the one you wear flannel shirts from like we’re already—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling.

You turn slowly, heart pounding, voice quieter. “Like we’re already what Clark?”

He stares at you. And it hurts. Because his eyes aren’t soft right now they’re hungry. Sharp. Bruised.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know I wanted to tear that camera out of his hands.”

You take a shaky breath. “You didn’t say anything.”

He exhales through his nose. “Because if I said anything, I was gonna say everything.”

You blink. “Then say it.”

He moves. One step. Then another. Until you’re backed up against the copy machine, the hum of it echoing your pulse.

“I want you,” he murmurs. “Not just late at night. Not just when no one’s looking.”

His hand grazes your wrist barely, but it sets your whole body on fire.

“I want to touch you whenever I want,” he says. “I want to sit in meetings and watch you try not to look at me. I want to take you to lunch and not pretend it’s platonic.”

You exhale shakily. “Then why haven’t you?”

His jaw ticks. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up like it physically hurts him to look at you.

“Because…” he starts, voice low, tight, “I won’t be pretending. And if people know—if they connect us—then you’re not just some coworker anymore. You’re a target.”

You blink, a little thrown. “What?”

He swallows hard. “I interview Superman. People already watch me too closely. There’ve been threats before anonymous calls, notes, people trying to leverage my contacts. And if anyone figures out what you are to me—” His voice catches. “I don’t know what I’d do if you got hurt because of me.”

The air between you thickens. Not with fear, but with feeling. Sharp and aching and all-consuming.

“Clark,” you whisper, stepping into him, hand curling around his forearm. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“But I don’t.” You shake your head. “I care about you. I’ve been waiting for you to say something—anything—but all I’ve ever wanted was for you to want me out loud.”

He looks down at your lips then your eyes and suddenly he starts leaning into your like gravity, hands finding your waist, your hips, hauling you into him like he needs to feel every word he can’t say. It’s clumsy, frantic, desperate.

You stumble backwards hitting the copy machine. He palms blindly resting his hands on it, never breaking the kiss, never loosening his grip.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes against your mouth.

“Ditto” you gasp, already tugging at his tie, his shirt, anything to get closer.

He lifts you with a groan, setting you down on the copy machine like you belong there, like he’s dreamed of this a thousand times. His kisses trail down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, like he’s memorizing you with lips and tongue.

“This is reckless,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You curl your fingers into his hair. “You started it.”

He huffs a shaky laugh, then bites back a moan when you tug him in tighter. “I want you.”

“Then take me.”

His lips press against yours tongue begging to be let in, and there’s no more talking. Just moaning. Gasping. Your skirt is hiked up bunched at your thighs. You hastily unbutton his pants desperate to feel him. Desperate friction. You stroke his cock hungrily. His hand comes down moving your panties to the side. His name gasped against his shoulder as he moves inside you, forehead pressed to yours like prayer, like apology, like finally.

There’s nothing gentle about it just months of buried tension erupting into something real and raw and undeniable. His hands move your hips holding you tightly as he relentlessly thrusts into you. You lean back against the copy machine unable to keep yourself up anymore. He takes the chance and lets his hands explore every part of you.

And when it’s over when you’re clinging to him, lips swollen, heartbeat skittering against his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple.

“No more pretending” he whispers against your forehead

You smile, “No more.” You whisper back breathlessly

—

The next morning the morning air is crisp. City traffic hums in the background. You round the corner, distractedly tugging your scarf tighter, and nearly walk past him.

Clark. Leaning casually against the brick column like he’s in a cologne ad. Two coffees in hand. Hair a little windswept. Tie crooked in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

You stop short. He lifts your coffee and gives you that smile. The private one. The I didn’t sleep much thinking about you one.

“Good Morning,” he says, voice soft. “Brought reinforcements.”

You take the cup and stare at him for a beat. “You waited for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Didn’t want to walk in alone.”

You glance at the Planet’s doors, then back at him. “You okay?”

“I’m great.” He bumps your shoulder. “Last night was… clarifying.”

You laugh under your breath, cheeks warm. “You mean wildly overdue?”

He grins. “That too.”

You sip your coffee, then glance sideways at him. “You sure about this?”

Clark’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time.”

He opens the door for you, lets you step inside first, hand gently pressed to your lower back like it’s second nature. It sends a chill up your spine, but not in a bad way.

You walk toward your desk side by side, your steps synced, conversation light. And then, right there, in full view of Kat, Perry, Jimmy, and every nosy intern with a crush, Clark does something unthinkable. He leans in.

Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just casual, confident, and real. He presses a soft, slow kiss to your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” he murmurs, like it’s been your routine for years.

Then he walks off. Calm. Collected. Definitely smirking.

You’re frozen.

The bullpen? Silent.

Kat’s jaw is on the floor. The intern drops her pen. Perry mutters something about “finally.”

You sit down slowly, heart hammering in your chest, still holding your coffee like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

Kat leans in, eyes wide. “What the actual hell just happened.”

You take a breath. Smile.

“Clark Kent just hard-launched me to the entire newsroom.”