#but there are NOT. instead there are ((checks))

[sixeyesonathiel]

an apple a day (won’t keep you away)

being married to a doctor means learning to share him—with his patients, his charts, his endless emergencies. and tonight? tonight, you're not feeling particularly generous. thankfully, there's a bowl of apples, a well-timed grudge, and just enough spite to make a point.

(aka: in which you attempt to keep gojo satoru away using apples, mild emotional warfare, and maybe a little love.)

wc — 3.7k ✦ tags -> modern au, domestic fluff, established relationship, married life, petty!reader, soft satoru gojo, satoru deserves to suffer a little, affectionate banter, cuddling & snuggling

they say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but apparently it takes seventeen apples to keep one particularly annoying white-haired doctor from hovering around your kitchen island like a lovesick ghost.

you’re on apple number four when satoru finally works up the courage to speak. he’s been lingering by the doorway for the past twenty minutes, those ridiculous reading glasses perched on his nose—the ones with the slightly bent left arm from when he fell asleep reading case files on the couch last month. you’d been the one to gently extract them from his face that night, folding them carefully on the coffee table while he mumbled your name in his sleep. now they’re fogged from his nervous breathing, and you can see him shifting his weight from foot to foot, case files forgotten in his hands as he watches you methodically demolish your way through the fruit bowl with the dedication of someone preparing for war.

“sweetheart,” he starts, voice pitched in that careful, testing-the-waters tone he uses when he knows he’s stepped in it. his fingers tighten around the manila folders, and you catch the slight tremor in his hands. good. let him shake. let him remember what it feels like to be uncertain.

“nope.” you bite into apple number five with perhaps more aggression than necessary, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the way he flinches at the sound. the juice runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand—a gesture that would normally have him reaching for a napkin, fussing over you like you’re made of spun glass. instead, he just stands there, watching you with those impossible eyes that remind you of winter mornings and the way light hits hospital corridors at dawn. “i’m busy.”

“busy... eating apples?” his hair catches the overhead light, and you hate how it makes him look ethereal, like something stepped out of a dream. he’s always been too beautiful for his own good, all sharp angles and soft edges in places that don’t make sense. the way his collarbones peek out from his partially unbuttoned shirt, the slight stubble along his jaw that speaks of a man who’s been too tired to shave properly.

“busy keeping doctors away.” you don’t look at him directly, but you can feel the way he deflates a little, shoulders sagging like a marionette with cut strings. it’s a small cruelty, but you’ve earned it. you’ve earned the right to watch him squirm.

what he’s done, technically speaking, isn’t even that terrible. he’d simply gotten so absorbed in a particularly challenging case that he’d forgotten—completely forgotten—about your dinner reservation. the reservation you’d made three weeks ago, circled on the calendar in red ink, mentioned casually over morning coffee no fewer than six times. the reservation at that tiny italian place you’d been dying to try, the one with the hand-painted tiles and the owner who looked like he’d stepped out of a cooking show. the reservation you’d gotten dressed up for, sitting pretty in the living room in your blue dress—the one with the pearl buttons that he’d fastened for you that morning, his fingers gentle against your spine as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

you’d waited an hour. sixty full minutes of checking your phone, adjusting your jewelry, watching the clock tick past eight, then eight-thirty, then nine. the restaurant had called twice to confirm, their polite concern making your cheeks burn with secondhand embarrassment.

it’s not the missed dinner that has you eating apples like they’ve personally offended your entire bloodline. it’s the way he’d walked through the door at midnight, takeout bag in hand, hospital scrubs wrinkled and hair mussed, and asked if you wanted to share his hospital cafeteria sandwich. as if you were some kind of raccoon who’d be satisfied with his medical facility scraps. as if you hadn’t spent forty minutes perfecting your eyeliner only to wash it off with angry tears.

apple number six meets its demise, and you can feel the way your jaw is starting to ache from the aggressive chewing. there’s something primal about it, something that speaks to the part of you that wants to throw things and scream and make him understand exactly how small he’d made you feel.

“honey,” satoru tries again, and this time he actually steps into the kitchen, his sock-clad feet silent against the tiles. his reading glasses are slightly fogged, probably from the nervous breathing he’s been doing for the past half hour. normally, you’d reach over and clean them for him without thinking, a small gesture so automatic it’s practically muscle memory. you’d learned early in your marriage that he never remembers to do it himself, too focused on whatever medical journal or patient file has captured his attention.

today, you let them stay foggy. let him see the world through the blurry lens of his own poor life choices. there’s a coffee stain on his shirt—right above the pocket where he keeps his favorite pen, the one you bought him for your first anniversary. he probably doesn’t even realize it’s there, too caught up in his own guilt to notice the small details that usually anchor him.

“you’re going to make yourself sick,” he says, which is rich coming from someone who once ate convenience store ramen for six days straight during his residency. you remember that week, how you’d found him passed out over a stack of textbooks, chopsticks still clutched in his hand and his hair falling into his eyes like spilled moonlight.

“i’m building immunity,” you inform him primly, selecting apple number seven with the care of someone choosing a weapon. the fruit is cold against your palm, still slightly damp from when you’d washed the entire bowl earlier in a fit of productive rage. “very important for married life, apparently.”

the married life comment hits him right in the chest, and you can see the way his breath catches. he does that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose—a nervous habit that’s become more pronounced over the years—and looks like a kicked puppy. a very tall, very gorgeous kicked puppy with eyes the color of shallow ocean water and a mouth that’s currently doing something complicated with guilt and longing.

you hate how much you love him. you hate how even when you’re furious, part of you wants to smooth down his ridiculous hair and kiss the worried crease between his eyebrows. you hate how he’s standing there in his wrinkled button-down, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in that way that makes your stomach do stupid things, and your traitorous heart still does little flips. there’s a small scar on his left hand from when he’d tried to fix the garbage disposal last spring, and you can see him flexing his fingers—another nervous tell that he’s probably not even aware of.

“i’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. there’s something raw in his expression, a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten despite your best efforts to stay angry. “i’m really, really sorry. i got caught up in this case and—”

“and forgot you had a wife.” apple number eight doesn’t stand a chance, and you can taste the tartness on your tongue, sharp and unforgiving. “happens to the best of us, i’m sure.”

“that’s not—” he runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in twelve different directions. it’s gotten longer recently, curling slightly at the ends in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. you’d been planning to trim it for him this weekend, the way you always do, sitting him down in the bathroom while he closes his eyes and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “you’re the most important thing in my life. you know that.”

“do i?” you finally look at him properly, and oh, that’s a mistake. because he looks absolutely miserable, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights and too much coffee. his glasses are sliding down his nose again, and you can see the small indentations they leave on the bridge—a mark of the long hours he spends hunched over medical charts. you’re not quite ready to stop being mad yet, but looking at him makes your resolve waver like a candle in the wind. “because your patient charts seem to think otherwise.”

“that’s not fair.” his voice is barely above a whisper, and you can see the way his hands are trembling slightly. there’s something broken in his posture, the way he’s holding himself like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too quickly.

“neither is sitting in a restaurant alone for an hour, but here we are.” you gesture vaguely with apple number nine, and you can feel the sticky residue of juice on your fingers. the kitchen smells like fruit and frustration, and you can see your reflection in the window—hair slightly mussed, eyes bright with unshed tears and righteous anger. “at least these apples showed up when expected.”

satoru’s face crumples a little more, and you can see him struggling with something. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and there’s a flush creeping up his neck that makes the pale column of his throat look almost translucent. he’s always been expressive, wearing his emotions like weather patterns across his features, but this is different. this is the look of a man who’s realized he’s broken something precious.

“i dreamed about you last night,” he says finally, and his voice is so soft you almost miss it. the words hit you like a physical blow, unexpected and devastating in their quiet honesty. “even when i was sleeping at the hospital. i dreamed we were at that restaurant, and you were wearing that blue dress—the one with the little buttons—and you were laughing at something i said. and when i woke up, i realized i’d never actually seen you laugh in that dress because i’m an idiot who can’t manage his own calendar.”

you’re still holding apple number nine, but you’ve stopped eating. your fingers are sticky with juice, and you can feel the way your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. this is new territory—satoru’s usually more of a grand gesture guy, all expensive flowers and dramatic declarations. this quiet honesty is almost worse because it’s sliding right past your defenses like water through a sieve.

“you noticed the dress,” you say, and you hate how soft your voice sounds, how the anger is already starting to leak out of it like air from a punctured balloon.

“i always notice.” he takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. his feet are bare, and you can see the way his toes curl slightly against the cold tiles. “i notice everything about you. how you tap your fingers when you’re thinking.” his eyes drop to your hands, and you realize you’re doing it now—drumming against the counter in a rhythm that matches your heartbeat. “how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating.” you can feel yourself doing it, the unconscious gesture that he’s catalogued like a scientist studying his favorite specimen. “how you always, always clean my glasses for me even when i don’t ask.”

you glance at his fogged lenses and feel your resolve wavering like a house of cards in a strong wind. this is emotional warfare, and he’s not even trying. he’s just standing there, looking at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been carrying his whole life.

“i brought you something,” he says, and pulls a small container from his pocket. his movements are careful, deliberate, like he’s afraid of spooking you. “from that italian place. i went there this morning and explained to the owner what happened. told him my wife was too good for me and i needed to grovel properly.”

despite yourself, you’re curious. there’s something about the way he’s holding the container, like it’s made of glass and dreams. “what did you get?”

“their tiramisu.” he sets it on the counter between you like a peace offering, and you can see the way his hands shake slightly as he releases it. “the owner said his wife threw a shoe at him once for missing their anniversary, and that dessert was the only thing that saved him.”

you stare at the container, and you can feel the way your anger is transforming into something else, something softer and more dangerous. it’s a small thing, really—just takeout tiramisu from a restaurant you’ll probably never get to eat at properly. but it’s something. an acknowledgment. an effort. you can imagine him standing in that little restaurant, probably still in his scrubs, explaining to a stranger how he’d failed you. the mental image makes your throat tight.

“i’m still mad,” you tell him, but you’re already reaching for a spoon, and you can see the way hope flickers across his features like sunlight through leaves.

“i know.” he watches you take a bite, and his whole face lights up when you make a small sound of appreciation. it’s embarrassing how good it is, how the rich sweetness seems to melt some of the hardness you’ve been carrying in your chest. “is it good?”

“it’s...” you take another bite, considering. you can feel the way he’s watching you, cataloguing every micro-expression like he’s studying for the most important test of his life. “it’s pretty good.”

“good enough to maybe consider reducing the apple consumption? i’m starting to worry about the local orchard supply.” there’s a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the edges. it’s the same smile he’d given you on your first date, nervous and hopeful and completely devastating.

that startles a laugh out of you, which you immediately try to cover with a cough. but satoru’s too perceptive, has always been able to read you like his favorite book, and his eyes crinkle with hope.

“was that almost a smile?” he asks, taking another careful step closer. you can smell his cologne now—something clean and expensive that you bought him last christmas. there’s something else too, something that’s purely him. coffee and antiseptic and the faint scent of the lavender detergent you use on his scrubs.

“no,” you lie, but you’re fighting a losing battle now. the tiramisu is really good, and he’s standing there looking rumpled and sorry, and you’re remembering why you married this disaster of a man in the first place. how he’d proposed to you in this very kitchen, getting down on one knee next to the refrigerator because he couldn’t wait another second. how he’d cried when you said yes, happy tears that made his eyes look like sea glass.

“i have an idea,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s pulling his phone out. his fingers are moving quickly across the screen, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips—a nervous habit that’s become endearing over the years. “new rule. from now on, all my important dates go in a shared calendar. you get alerts. i get alerts. my secretary gets alerts. hell, we’ll alert the entire hospital if we have to.”

“satoru—” you start, but he’s already warming to his theme, the way he does when he gets an idea stuck in his head.

“and,” he continues, his voice gaining strength, “i’m taking next weekend off. completely off. no hospital, no emergencies, no nothing. just me and you and whatever restaurant you want to try.”

you want to stay mad. you really do. but he’s looking at you with those stupid eyes that remind you of winter sky and promises, and his glasses are still fogged, and you’re only human. there’s something about the way he’s standing there, all nervous energy and desperate hope, that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

“your glasses are dirty,” you say finally, and you can hear the surrender in your own voice.

his whole face transforms, hope blooming across his features like flowers in spring. “are they?”

“very dirty. you probably can’t see anything.” you’re already reaching for them, and you can feel the way he’s trying not to grin and failing spectacularly.

“now that you mention it, everything is quite blurry.” he’s practically vibrating with joy as you carefully clean his lenses with the hem of your shirt, the same ritual you’ve performed a thousand times before. “if only someone could help me with that.”

“i suppose i could assist. just this once.” your fingers are gentle as you clean the glass, and you can feel the way he’s watching you, like you’re performing some kind of miracle.

“just this once,” he agrees solemnly, but he’s practically bouncing on his toes as you slide them back onto his face. 

when the glasses settle into place, his eyes are bright and clear and so full of love it makes your chest tight. you can see yourself reflected in the lenses, and there’s something intimate about it, like you’re the only thing in his field of vision that matters.

“better?” you ask, and your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“much better.” his hands find your waist, tentative and careful, like he’s afraid you might bolt. “hi.”

“hi yourself.” you glance at the counter, where approximately ten apples remain, and then back at his hopeful face. he’s already bracing himself, probably preparing for apple-induced martyrdom, and there’s something so endearing about his willingness to suffer for you that it makes your heart do that fluttery thing again.

“i think i’ve punished you enough for one night,” you say finally, and you can feel the way the words change everything between you.

satoru, already bracing for apple number ten, blinks in surprise. “really? i mean, i’m prepared to die by fruit if that’s what it takes, but—”

“come here.” you open your arms, and it’s like watching a dam break.

his whole face crumples in the softest way, and then he’s crossing the kitchen in two strides, practically folding himself into your chest like a tired puppy. his reading glasses bump against your collarbone as he burrows closer, and you can feel the tension leaving his shoulders like a physical thing. he’s warm and solid and slightly trembling, and you can feel the way he’s trying to get as close as possible, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

you both sink onto the couch, a tangle of limbs and forgiveness. he drapes himself over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues, his long frame somehow managing to curl around you completely. his head finds its way to your chest, and you can feel the way his breathing starts to even out as you run your fingers through his hair.

“you smell like apples,” he mumbles against your throat, and you can feel the curve of his smile against your skin. “and spite.”

“you deserve both.” your fingers find the spots he likes best, the places that make him melt like ice cream in summer.

“i do.” his voice is muffled, but you can hear the contentment in it, the way he’s finally starting to relax.

you end up tangled under a throw blanket, legs intertwined like puzzle pieces that have finally found their match. his cold nose is tucked into your neck, and you can feel the way he’s breathing you in like you’re his favorite scent. your fingers card through his hair absently, and you can feel the way he shivers slightly at the touch.

“i missed you,” he whispers against your throat, and his voice is so small it makes your heart ache.

“i know. me too.” the admission feels like stepping into sunlight after a long winter.

he kisses your collarbone, a soft press of lips that makes your skin tingle. then your jaw, your temple, the tip of your ear. each kiss is different, some apologetic, some grateful, some tinged with the promise of more. it’s like he’s apologizing in a language only your skin understands, each press of his lips a small plea for forgiveness.

you murmur something about the tiramisu still sitting on the counter, and he groans dramatically, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“it can wait. i’m too full of regret and love.” his arm tightens around you, and you can feel the way he’s trying to memorize this moment.

“you’re so dramatic.” but there’s fondness in your voice, the kind that comes from years of loving someone’s quirks.

“you married me.” he pulls back slightly to look at you, and his hair is sticking up in odd directions from your fingers. his glasses are slightly askew, and there’s a soft smile playing at his lips.

“unfortunately.” you reach up to fix his glasses, and he leans into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

“you adore me.” it’s not a question, and the confidence in his voice makes you want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

you do. painfully, irrevocably, in ways that terrify and exhilarate you. so you pull the blanket tighter around both of you and let him cling like a vine, whispering stupid nothings into your hair about how he’s going to buy you a whole italian restaurant if that’s what it takes, how he’s going to quit medicine and become a professional dinner-rememberer, how you’re too good for him and he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

his voice is getting sleepier, the words slurring together as exhaustion finally catches up with him. you can feel the way his breathing is starting to even out, how his grip on you is loosening just slightly. there’s something peaceful about it, the way he trusts you enough to let his guard down completely.

because satoru gojo may miss dinner reservations, but he always comes back to you like gravity, like tide to shore, like everything inevitable and right in the world. and tonight, wrapped in his ridiculous apologies and the lingering taste of tiramisu, that’s enough.

[pillbaby]

camboy!choso who's your absolute favorite camboy. you didn't even know it was him, not really. he was always masked, a thing about privacy, which honestly just made him hotter.

camboy!choso who's livestreams you never miss. seriously, you've got notifications on, and your phone's practically glued to your hand just for him. there’s nothing quite like watching him work himself over, those big, calloused hands expertly pumping his thick cock. you live for it.

camboy!choso who you always time your release with. you can tell he’s getting close when his breaths start getting ragged, and that tattoo on his chest rises and falls all unevenly. the moment he cums, ropes of white splattering over his hands and thighs, you follow, leaving you with that familiar sticky mess on your fingers and sheets.

camboy!choso who moves into your apartment a few weeks later. you’d put up a flyer about the empty room, and he just showed up. turns out, he’s a great roommate. never brings over loud people, always cleans up his messes in the kitchen. his room is down the hall, and he mostly keeps to himself, pretty quiet.

camboy!choso who you don’t really talk to much (which is a real shame, honestly), but you totally think he’s cute. he’s always kind when you do interact, and it leaves you with butterflies every single time. somewhere along the way, you just stop getting off to that person on your screen. your thoughts start drifting to your roommate instead, and you just let them.

camboy!choso who you totally run into as he’s stepping out of the shower. he’s just got a towel hanging low on his hips, his v-line perfectly exposed. his hair’s still damp, and you can see a few beads of water trickling down his abs, and you swear you might just drop dead. you blurt out some awkward apology, practically forcing your eyes away.

camboy!choso who has that tattoo near his collarbone, the one you immediately recognize.

camboy!choso who you now know is your camboy. you’re not sure if you should even tell him, if that’s just invading his space. but then, is it really just his space if he’s putting it out there for the whole world to see? it’s a messed up thought, but it’s there.

camboy!choso who's newer videos you’re rewatching, trying to confirm if it’s really him. you keep telling yourself that plenty of people could have that same ink. then you notice the space he’s recording in looks different from a month ago. the lighting and background hide things, but the way he moves, that gentle, calm way he has; that’s what really gives it away.

camboy!choso who startles you by knocking on your doorframe, because you thought he was still out. you frantically try to hide your laptop, but it’s a second too slow, and his gaze locks right onto the screen.

camboy!choso who's chuckling, like this is all just some big joke, and you’re not currently wishing the floor would swallow you whole. you haven’t seen him smile for more than two seconds at a time, and now he’s got this wide grin.

camboy!choso who has you bent in a cruel mating press less than five minutes later. you can’t even remember your own name, let alone how you ended up like this. he’s just so perfect in person, and you knew he was big, but every time he kisses your cervix, it’s a brutal reminder.

camboy!choso who's back you’re digging your nails into, desperate not to clench around him, trying to take all of him in. when you finally do, he praises you, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. his fingers press deep into the soft curve of your hips, his breath hitches, and then his lips crash down onto yours.

camboy!choso who pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you, like it’s his actual job. he completely exhausts you, then lets you fall asleep right on top of him. when you wake up, it’s completely dark outside, and as you open your laptop to check the time, you're hit with his camshow tab. there’s a red circle for new notifications, and you click his profile.

camboy!choso who's latest post was three hours ago: fucked my favorite pretty fan.

[schmergo]

Confession: The letter “t” key on my laptop has been broken since 2024. From what my research tells me, they can’t fix individual keys on that model, and my laptop is no longer under a warranty, but it seems foolish to fork out over $900 for a new computer, so instead I’ve trained my brain to hit ctrl+v every time I want to hit “t.”

But sometimes I have to copy-paste something else besides “t,” which means I need a readily available place to copy the “t” from.

My first thought was to search “tiger” on Google, but if you can’t type the letter “t,” you just get search results about Bob Iger.

I realized words that end with “t” are easier for Google to autocomplete, so the first one I thought of was “crypt.” But wouldn’t you know, googling “cryp” takes to you to cryptocurrency results, and I REALLY don’t want my algorithm thinking I google that multiple times per week.

Then I remembered a cool place I went in London, called Cafe in the Crypt. It’s exactly what it sounds like and located below St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church. When I type in “Cafe in Cryp,” Google does indeed autocomplete it effectively! So I either keep that search result open in a tab or Google it every day.

So, that being said, if anyone works for St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church’s marketing department and has been utterly flummoxed by an IP address from Virginia that has googled their cafe hundreds of times over the past 6 months… that wasn’t a bot, that was me.

I am the Spiders Georg of Cafe in the Crypt.

Anyway, it’s a pretty cool place to check out if you’re ever in London. Just maybe not cool enough to Google it on a daily basis for months straight.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

gold rush | c. kent

a/n: i LOVED Superman 2025 guys it was so good i saw it twice i have been. thinking a lot of thoughts and krypto is the best character in the film so. in a tag full of clark kent smut i knew i had to write some angst. warnings: cursing, clark being the best boyfriend, angst but also fluff so, head injuries, hospitals, autistic clark i mean what who said that, canon typical violence, torture (nothing too crazy), kidnapping, i do NOT know how photography, darkrooms or concussions work, pet names, nightmares, lots of kissing, established relationship, not proof read, probably some other stuff but oh well <3 wordcount: 6.4k summary: your boyfriend's dog gives you a concussion and it's not even the worst part of your week. now playing: gold rush - taylor swift "what must it be like to grow up that beautiful?/with your hair falling into place like dominoes/my mind turns your life into folklore/i can't dare to dream about you anymore."

MINOR SPOILERS FOR SUPERMAN (2025) AHEAD!

Sunday

The dream starts out like any other. The sun is shining—It’s always shining when Clark dreams. This dream is warm, it feels real.

He’s sitting next to you on a porch swing.

The dreams always start out like this.

Your hand is on his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into your touch.

And in an instant, your hand isn’t your hand anymore—Instead, your skin turns a robotic black and feels like sharp metal against his face. Nanites spread from the tips of your fingers into his nose, and into his mouth—

He’s panicking, using both hands to try and claw the nanites out of his mouth, but they’re like sand, he barely shovels a handful out when twice as many show up, now traveling down his throat to his lungs and up his face.

He can’t breathe. He looks to you for help, but you’re no longer there—The sun is no longer shining, and Superman is all alone. He can’t breathe.

The nanites take over his eyes next and he is plunged into darkness—Alone, scared and unable to breathe. He can’t think, he must be dying. He must be.

“Clark,” He hears a voice from far away. He knows that voice. It’s your voice. “Clark, baby, wake up,” And he can’t tell if he’s imagining it, but the darkness starts to shudder like someone’s shaking him. But he follows your voice, stumbling his way through the darkness, attempting to breath until—

He wakes up gasping for air, sitting up in bed, this panicked, frenzied look in his eyes. His hand comes up to his mouth to check for nanites but all he finds is saliva and tears. His heart is racing, but he needs to check if you’re okay. His head turns towards you, and there you are, hair messy from sleeping, in a Smallville Decathlon tee shirt that he outgrew a few months after he got it, and sleep shorts. 

His hands come up to rub his face as he attempts to refocus. Everything is fine, he reasons. But everything isn’t fine. Superman doesn’t have nightmares.

Your voice cuts through the sound of him trying to steady his breath as your hand rests on his back, rubbing gentle circles on it.

“It’s okay, baby, It was just a nightmare.” Your voice is sleepy and far away, but what little energy you can muster at—Clark checks the time—four thirty-two in the morning is focused on him. So much for sleeping in on a Sunday. And after a few minutes he hears you ask, “Wanna talk about it?”

He wonders how much you already know, if he was talking in his sleep. But he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” His throat feels dry, “I didn’t mean to wake you,”

“Don’t be silly, Clark,” You mumble, your hand traveling up now from his back to the ends of his hair, twisting your fingers between curls. You don’t bother saying that it’s fine to wake you if he’s having a nightmare, that he might be Superman, Krypton’s last son, destined to save humankind, but you’d travel to the ends of the earth to help him get a better night’s sleep. You don’t bother saying it because he already knows it.

He just nods before laying back down, trying to focus on deep, soothing breaths. Your brain searches for anything that could be comforting in this moment, but your brain only finds one thing you could do for him in your sleepy state.

“How about I make you some breakfast?” You wonder, because you know that no matter what he says or does, part of him is still in Kansas, always longing for his Pa’s cooking (and conveniently enough, you had been taught by Pa Kent himself how to make French toast just the way Clark likes it the last time you had visited).

Clark smiles just a little.

“Yeah, that would be great.” He says softly, and you move to get up, but he grabs your arm, “Wait, just..” He avoids your gaze as his thumb rubs your skin, “Just.. lay with me a while?”

You smile.

You don’t hesitate to melt back into bed, finding yourself wrapping your arms around him, and he pulls you close like you’re made of feathers. He pulls you up so your head is on his chest, listening to the sound of his now steady heartbeat. Something about the weight of you on top of him, so alive and real, soothes him.

You both fall asleep with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.

Monday

He had only left the room for a minute!

But, for Krypto, a minute was all he needed. He had only agreed to let Krypto visit his apartment after you begged him all day, having an extreme soft spot for his cousin’s awful dog (whom you couldn’t help but fawn over).

Really, Clark couldn’t find it in himself to deny you anything, especially when you asked with the manners of a lady (even though at lunch that day you had eaten tacos with your hands and gotten siracha all over your face).

But he really needed to go take a shower, so—

“Are you sure you’ll be okay with him while I shower?” He wonders, and you just laugh.

“Clark, I know he’s a handful,” He watches as Krypto tugs you around the room by a length of rope you had bought to play tug of war with him. You giggle and stumble around Clark’s living room, “But he’s just a dog, and he likes me! Watch,” You turn to Krypto and say, “Krypto, Sit!” And after raising his ear to listen to you, he sits easily, mouth still latched onto the rope. You grin and begin to pet him, “Good boy, Krypto, who’s my special man?” You coo, and Clark just rolls his eyes.

He looks to Krypto with a defeated sigh, and points to him.

“Hey, dude,” He starts, but Krypto doesn’t stop wagging his tail and staring at you. “Krypto,” He says, and his attention is finally turned to your boyfriend, “Be good, okay?”

Krypto just lets out a bark in response, before beginning to drag you around the living room, and Clark is comforted as he walks out of the room to the sound of your laughter.

Which lasted all of a minute, while he turned on the shower, took off his glasses and loosened his tie—

Bang!

Something had hit the wall next to the bathroom. Clark doesn’t even bother turning off the shower before running back to the living room, met with the sight of you settling onto the couch with Krypto whining by your feet, a fresh head shaped hole in Clark’s wall.  

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” You coo at the dog, barely noticing Clark, “I’m okay,” But your blinking is slow, and all Clark wants to do was panic. He knows Krypto’s strength, but Krypto hadn’t seemed to realize that you aren’t like him or Kara—your head can’t just take blunt force like theirs could.

“Krypto,” Clark’s voice is sharp in a way neither you nor Krypto are used to, and you just frown,

“It’s not his fault! He just didn’t know,” You start, “Please don’t be mad at him, baby,” You beg. Clark bites the inside of his cheek, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to deny you anything. If Kryptonite was Superman’s only weakness, you are Clark’s.

He goes towards you, looking down to Krypto with an unapproving stare, gently tapping the dog with his foot to get him out of the way. To his credit, Krypto does seem guilty, like he really wasn’t aware of his own strength. With Krypto settled next to your feet, Clark kneels down, his hands resting on your knees.

“Sweetheart,” he starts with his soft, Kansas farm boy voice, and you could melt,

“Hi, baby,” You hum, and he can’t help the slight smile he gives.

“Sweetheart,” he repeats, “We need to get you to the hospital.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“..Why?”

Clark sighs. This is going to be tougher than he thought.

“Because I think Krypto gave you a concussion.”

“…Krypto is here?” You wonder, and that’s when Krypto lets out an ‘arf!’ by your feet, causing you to giggle and go to lean down to him, but Clark’s hand gently comes up to your chin, tilting your head back to look at him.

“Can you focus on me for a second?” His voice is soft, but it demands your attention. “How about we go to the hospital?”

Your face falls into a frown.

“I.. I don’t like hospitals, Clark, you know that.” And he does. Needles frighten you, and it’s often bright and overstimulating in a way he doesn’t know how to fix.

“I know, honey,” He says, “But if you’re hurt, a doctor could help in a way I can’t,” and there’s really no ‘if’ about it, you have all the classic signs of a concussion.

“But you’re superman!” You whine, and Clark nods,

“I am, but Superman doesn’t have a medical license,” He reminds, and you huff. What’s even the point of dating Superman then?

“I’m not going to the hospital,” You grumble, and Clark doesn’t have the heart to tell you he will go put his suit on and fly you over to the hospital if it would make you go.

“C’mon, honey, what can I do that’ll make you go to the hospital?” He wonders, and your hands find his tie, your fingers curl around the silky fabric.

“..Anything?” You wonder, your eyes wandering up to his pretty face. And because Clark is head over heels in love with you, his answer is instantaneous,

“Anything.” Your hands play with his tie as you bite your lip, a mischievous smile on your face. For a second Clark wonders which of your many wild fantasies you’ll pull out, when you say,

“..Will you let me photograph you as Superman?”

Clark is grateful for your concussion because you don’t notice his momentary hesitation. Clark knows that everyone, including you, is jealous of how often Clark is able to ‘interview’ Superman, but it’s different for you than it is for Lois or Jimmy—you have been trying to get a good photo of Superman for years, you couldn’t give less of a fuck about interviewing Superman; but if you could get photos of Superman, you’d be one of a kind. It would do great things for your career.

But you had never asked Clark.  How could you? You didn’t want him to feel like you only started dating him because of his being Superman—It felt wrong. But to be fair, you weren’t exactly in your right mind.

But you hate hospitals.

“Sure.” He says, and it takes you by surprise.

“Really?” And when he nods, you grin and throw your arms around his neck with a giggle. He hugs you tightly, mumbling into your hair,

“I’m going to take you to the hospital now, okay?”

“Okay, baby.”

Tuesday

“Can you tilt your head to the left?”

“Like this?”

“No,” You shake your head with a sigh, stepping towards him and tilting his chin just right in the direction you wanted. He looks ethereal, but real. You snap a few more shots before saying, “Can I get a few shots of your hands?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow, but he holds out his hands for you.

You had decided that the roof was the best place to take Superman’s picture and today was a bright and sunny day in Metropolis. The cool breeze of late spring moves his cape like he’s the main damn character and you can’t help but wonder if he is.

After a doctor had looked at you and your head yesterday, they also did a couple of scans which did in fact confirm that you had a concussion. But they advised your boyfriend that it wasn’t too bad and that with some rest and Tylenol, it would be good to go back to work on Wednesday.

Clark, being the loving and devoted, and a little overprotective, boyfriend he is, decided to spend the day tending to your every need.

Of course, when you woke up this morning all you wanted (after some Tylenol) was to take pictures of Superman (a deal Clark should’ve known you would remember, despite your concussion). He had managed to get you to relax in the morning, but you were persistent.

“Do our readers want pictures of my hands?” He asked, and you shake your head.

“No, but I really like them, and I am the photographer, so..” You shrugged. You had got plenty of good shots, but you knew you wanted to get the shot. In the rest of the photos that most newspapers, including the Daily Planet, published, Superman is a red and blue streak, barely visible. Which meant that you already had the best shots that anyone in your business had, but you were ambitious—

You wanted the shot of Superman, the one that would be used in years to come, the embodiment of the last son of Krypton.

But you must be staring at him, because he blushes and asks,

“What’s that look for?”

You snap a picture of his pink cheeks.

Then, you say,

“Do me a favor, uh, kind of.. float up a few feet?” You ask, and he does, just a couple of feet off the ground. His cape is still floating in the wind, so you curl your hands into fists and place them on your hips, arms slightly bent. “Okay, pose like this,” Your doting boyfriend obliges and mimics your pose. “Okay, and big smiles,” You direct. Clark attempts to smile, and suddenly you put the camera down, letting it hang around your neck. “Seriously?”

“What—What did I do wrong?” He asks, and you just look at him. His smile was, at best, awkward.

“Your smile, it looks very forced.” You tell him, causing him to sigh.

“It’s hard,” He defends, “I don’t really like getting my picture taken,” And you do know that to be true. When you first started working at the Daily Planet, one of your first assignments was to take updated profile photos for the Daily Planet website. It had made you roll your eyes at first, but in hindsight, you were grateful for it. It was a good way to introduce yourself to everybody.

Lois’ picture came out perfect the first time you took it, her skin practically glowing as you photographed her, asking about your career so far, politely answering questions about hers. You had become fast friends over the ten minutes it took you to capture how beautiful she is. Jimmy used his in his Tinder profile, that is how good you are.

And Clark.

You had immediately been smitten by handsome he was, but you wanted to focus on getting these portraits done. It took you ages to get him to smile in a way that didn’t make him look awkward. Finally, something you had said made him genuinely laugh—

“I guess being that pretty doesn’t mean much when you can’t smile for a picture,” Your voice wasn’t mean, it was actually very warm, and even a bit flirty, “I knew there had to be some kind of catch.”

 You two were fast friends, and then you were fast lovers. Why wait when you know something is good?

And after you started dating, you took plenty of pictures of him; Some with your actual camera, some with your phone, and a couple with your polaroid camera. Clark looked good on vintage film.

But he still hadn’t mastered the concept of smiling on command. Maybe it wasn’t really a thing on Krypton, not second nature like it is for you, but you know it’s a weak excuse. You’re pretty sure your handsome boyfriend is just that awkward and humble.

“But you’re so pretty,” You whine, and you see Clark’s lips tug up a bit. “C’mon, think about something you like. Something that makes you happy.” You request, and you watch as Clark’s eyes shut for a moment, as he takes a deep breath, and then opens his eyes.

When his eyes land on you, a natural, handsome smile falls onto his face. You act quickly then, kneeling next to him and taking a few shots of him where he looks.. heavenly. The sunshine of the photo highlights how super he really is, and you can just tell that you got it.

Clark can tell too, because you watch as he releases the pose he was in and rests his feet on the ground.

“Got what you need, Miss?” The Superman voice makes you smile, and you walk over to him.

“Need just one more thing,” You hum, your arms wrapping around his neck just as his wide hands rest on your sides. He is inhumanly warm. When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway, and suddenly you’re kissing Superman, and he is so good at it—like he is with everything else he does. Except smiling for pictures.

You don’t even mind when you feel your feet being lifted off the ground, too caught up in the way he grips you tighter to distract you.

Wednesday

Not much had changed in the day that you and Clark were out.

Lois and Jimmy bicker, Steve makes fun of your boyfriend (you threaten to kill him), and Cat asks how your day off was. You don’t bother to try to hide your smile as you tell her you got some good pictures.

“I can’t believe on the day you’re supposed to be resting after a concussion; you decide to take pictures.” Lois says, and you shrug, leaning against her desk.

“They’re really good pictures.” You smile, “I got lucky.” And you had, in so many ways. Besides, Lois would do the same thing in your shoes. You glance over to Clark’s desk and see him absent, so you check your watch. He’s twenty minutes late.

There’s a shot he got caught up doing hero things, but there’s just as good of a shot that he got distracted or something, and you’re really not sure when he’ll be here.

“Where’s boy wonder?” Lois asks, following your longing gaze. You shrug with an adoring smile.

“Probably washing his cape, or something.” You say affectionately, and Lois shakes her head. Whipped, the both of you. “Anyways, I’m gonna go to the darkroom to get some good physical versions of these pictures. Need anything before I go?”

It’s a habit of yours to ask—Sometimes you feel like all you do is take and process pictures, like your job is easier than everyone else’s but your coworkers know that’s only because you love your job so much.

Lois shakes her head and tells you she’ll let Clark know where you are when she sees him. You thank her and take your leave, setting up camp in the darkroom, knowing you’d have to take your time to process each photo. Sure, you could just send Perry digital copies, but the presentation of these physical prints would be too good to miss out on.

You’d have people begging to buy these photos, and it thrilled you. You’d have to give Krypto a big treat next time you see him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed in the darkroom, but you were about three quarters of the way through your process when there’s a gentle knock on the door. You don’t even look up, you know who it is, and it’s only confirmed when warm, strong arms wrap around your torso from behind as you hang a photo to dry.

“Hi,” he says, watching you as you work.

“Hey,” You hum, leaning against him with a soft smile. “Late again, huh?”

“Had to help a little kid repair his solar system project after he dropped it on the way to school.” Your heart melts.

“Well, no wonder you’re late.” You say softly, but before you can say anything else, he turns you around with his hands on your hips before his lips are on yours. He tastes like mints and coffee, and you think you could die and go to heaven right now. Your hands rest on the back of his neck, the tips of your fingers barely brush against his hair.

His hands lift you with ease and sit you on an empty space next to your equipment. He stands between your legs, his glasses pressed against your face, and in between kisses, you push his glasses up to rest in his hair, not wanting the teasing that would come with the mark that they would leave.

He deepens the kiss a bit, but before he can stop himself, he’s mumbling, “Gosh, you’re so pretty,” as he continues to kiss you, and you find yourself smiling against his lips. He’s a sweetheart, your boy.

Your hands travel up a bit, unable to stop yourself from tangling your fingers within his dark curls. He lets out a content sigh against your mouth and you take the opportunity to slip your tongue through his parted lips, and it seems to egg him on more.

After a moment, you realize you need to breathe, but that doesn’t seem to be a concern of Clark’s. Your hands squeeze his biceps, trying to get his attention, but his hands begin to travel up and down your sides, until you eventually pull away, but his mouth chases yours,

“Clark,” You say breathlessly, “Baby, I gotta breathe,” you say, and he just nods,

“Sorry,” he starts, pressing a kiss to your lips quickly, and then to your cheek, “I’m sorry,” and then a kiss to your forehead, “I’m sorry,” and he means it. He forgets that you can’t hold your breath for an hour like he can.

You just smile and lean your forehead against his as you try to catch your breath.

“I’m okay,” You promise, and Clark nods, his lips plump and pink. He looks pretty. After a moment, Clark’s eyebrows furrow when your stomach growls loudly.

“When was the last time you ate?” He wonders, and all you do is shrug. You have that bad habit of forgetting to eat when you get focused on work, and Clark has noticed. Oh, how Clark has noticed.

“Uh,” You shrug, “I had a cup of coffee this morning,”

“That doesn’t count,” He reminds, and then sighs. “Well, I’m starving. Thai or Chinese?” He wonders, and you shrug in response.

“Indian?”

Clark’s lips catch yours in a long, soft kiss. When he pulls away, he says, “Perfect.” But the way he looks at you, you’re not sure he’s talking about the suggestion.

Thursday

You can’t contain the grin on your face as you bounce from Perry’s office back to Clark’s desk. You hold today’s issue of the newspaper, and Clark’s article sits on the front page, with your photograph printed above it. His name and yours sit next to each other on the page and Clark is seriously considering getting it framed.

“It’s a great photo,” Lois compliments, looking at her own copy. You grin to her,

“Thanks,” And that’s when Jimmy sighs as he sits back in his chair. You lean against Clark’s desk, who cannot stop staring at you.

“Alright, I give up.” Jimmy sighs, “You’re the better photographer. I mean, you were able to get Superman to what? Pose for you? How’d you do it?” He wonders, and all you can do is shrug, the way you’re smiling has Clark whipped.

“I know a guy,” You grin, and you don’t even look at Clark. He’s so in love with you.

Lois and Jimmy go back to their work, and you finally turn your attention to your adoring boyfriend.

“We should celebrate.” He grins, “Dinner tonight?” He wonders. Admittedly, the two of you would have dinner either way, whether there was something to celebrate or not.

“Sure. What did you have in mind?” You ask, and he smiles.

“Sushi?”

“Sushi.”

Friday

Sushi does not wind up going as planned. In fact, you don’t make it to dinner at all—You get stuck at work after someone spilt coffee on half your prints, so you resign to the darkroom while Superman fights off some big alien robot—

Clark promises to make it up to you, and you just smile affectionately and tell him to go save lives.

It’s technically Friday when you make your way home, Superman is still fighting that robot, but you were spent. Your eyelids were heavy, and your bones ache. You daydream about a relaxing weekend with your boyfriend, not knowing that the next few hours would be some of the worst of your life.

You listen to the sounds of Superman punching robots while you walk home and you have this goofy smile on your face. You’ve never been so in love, and it makes it hard to focus on much else—

Including the sound of footsteps approaching.

Later, you would kick yourself for your stupidity, for your carelessness. How could you not hear the heavy footsteps of a man with ill intent?

But you’re knocked out by the butt of a gun before you can hear anything other than the sound of your boyfriend’s laser vision from almost a mile away, marking your second head injury of the week.

When you wake up, your head is killing you, and when you go to rub the sleep out of your eyes you find that your arms are tied to the chair you sit in. You blink away exhaustion and realize you have no idea where you are. This warehouse—You assume it’s a warehouse—is dark and smells like the sea. When you look down, you see dried blood on the floor.

Your heart rate begins to increase, pounding against your chest—but you’re comforted, if only briefly, by the fact that you know as soon as he can, Clark will be here to get you. Then, you remember the robot infestation, and his preoccupation. You might be here for a while, and you have no idea who’s taken you.

Your head hurts.

You begin to wiggle your hands and arms, trying to figure any weak spots in the binds, trying to get out of here before Clark even realizes what has happened.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice pierces through the darkness, and you freeze. You try to remember what Clark said to do in this situation, but your brain is fuzzy and full of fear.

“Whatever it is you think I have,” You force your voice to be stern, unshaken, “You’re wrong.” You say, and the voice laughs. From the darkness comes a small group of people, three or four of them, all dressed in black. On their necks, you see a tattoo—No, not a tattoo. A brand.. A large ‘L’ encased in a circle is branded on each of their necks.

“We’re going to make this very clear for you.” Another one of them talks, “Answer our questions, and we’ll let you go. Give us bullshit, and well..” She gestures to the biggest of them. He’s as tall as Clark, looks as big as him too. “Our friend here has an anger problem. Would be a shame if he had to take it out on you.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

Where is Clark?

“What do you want from me?” You ask, and one holds up Thursday’s Issue of The Daily Planet. The one with your picture of Superman, his heroic smile as bright as the sun behind him.

“You took this picture, right?”

“That’s my name under it, isn’t it?” You ask, your answer dripping with sarcasm—you can’t help it. Under your fear, you’re angry. What right do these assholes have to torture you? But your sarcasm is met with a sharp slap across your face by the big man you were threatened by. Your ears are starting to ring, and your vision unfocuses for a second, but then you nod, “Yes! Yes, I took that picture, Jesus—” You huff.

Of course this is about the picture. No one else in Metropolis has been able to get Superman to pose for pictures.

“How’d you get Superman to pose for you?” One asks, and you shake your head.

“I-I don’t..” Your throat is dry. How could you tell them that his dog gave you a concussion, so he owed you one, on top of the fact that he was the love of your life?

You don’t get the chance to finish, because the big man’s hand comes down in a powerful fist, and hits you in the stomach. You groan in pain, leaning over as you try to catch your breath. Someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back up so he can land another punch to your stomach—and you’re gasping for air, trying to catch your breath after hearing a sharp crack! of your ribs.

This is bad.

Where is Clark?

“How’d you get him to pose for you?” They ask, because of your pain, your vision is blurred, so they all blend together as one—except for this big guy, who stands looming over you.

“He.. He saw me.. taking photos on the roof.. asked me.. if I was okay.” The lie comes out between panted, labored breathes, “I asked.. I swear that’s all..” You say, because you feel tears coming on, and you don’t want them to see you cry.

This goes on for a long time—or maybe it’s not long, you really can’t tell, not between the pain and the fear—the fear of dying, the fear of not being able to see Clark again, the fear of accidentally slipping up and telling them exactly what you know—time becomes a blur.

By the time they ask their last question, you feel like you really might die. You spit blood onto the floor, your vision is unfocused, and your entire body is shaking—from the pain or the fear, you do not know.

But the last question really fucking scares you.

“What’s Superman’s secret identity?” They ask, “Who is he?”

Your face is swollen, bruised, and bloody.

“His name… is Kal-El,” You say, because it’s true, it’s what everyone knows, “He comes from the planet Krypton—” You cry out in pain when you’re hit again, and all you can do is cry, because you just cannot help it. You have nothing left.

Where is Clark?

“He has to be someone in his day-to-day life! Who is he?” They ask again, and you shake your head even if it hurts.

“I don’t know!” You cry out, “I don’t fucking know!” And it’s a lie. Of course you know who he is. You know every detail you can possibly maintain about who Superman is when he’s not saving the world. You know how he loves mandarin oranges and how they look so small in his hands, you know how he ‘doesn’t care for’ pickles because he cannot bring himself to really hate anything, you know how one day, he wants to have two kids, a boy and a girl, you know how eye contact turns him on, and you know how gentle he is despite his size. But you can’t tell them any of that.  

You’re about to pass out. You can’t take much more of this, and they know it. Your chest is heaving, up and down with labored breaths. It hurts to breathe. You can barely make out the image of someone pulling out a gun, probably the same gun that had knocked you out earlier.

And then it all happens in an instant.

To your right, you hear the smashing of glass as something—no, someone, someone flies through the window, and before you can even turn your head, strong, warm arms wrap around you, snapping the ropes around your arms and flying off, out of this warehouse and into the sky, filled with the warm yellows and oranges of dawn.

There he is.

Wind whips through your hair, and you relish the idea that you’re alive. You know your injuries are not life threatening, you’ll be okay.

Through the sounds of the wind and the ringing in your ears, you can hear him talking, gently, as if he’s afraid that speaking louder might hurt you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” and despite how badly you want to reassure him that you’re okay, all you can do is curl into him as your vision fades, and you’re plunged into darkness.

Clark pushes himself to fly faster when he feels you go limp in his arms.

When you wake up, you’re in a hospital.

You hate hospitals.

You’re not strapped down or anything, not hooked up to anything.. but your wounds are cared for, and instead of pain, you feel kind of.. floaty. Whatever they gave you for the pain is working wonders. Maybe hospitals aren’t as bad as you think—

Where is Clark?

As if he can read your thoughts, and in your high on pain killers state, you think maybe he can, he walks back in. He moves quickly to sit by your side, his hands clasping around yours. If he owed you one for Krypto giving you a concussion, he owes you a million for this. He’s sick to his stomach at the sight of you, and all you want to do is pull his stupid glasses off his face.

“Hey,” You smile, and somehow, Clark’s frown only deepens.

“Hi.. How are you feeling?” He asks, and you shrug.

“Mm.. Floaty.” You confess, and it seems to take him off guard.

“Floaty?”

“Yeah, whatever they gave me for the pain is really working.” You confess, and you see him smile just a bit. You think about his awkward forced smile when he’s asked to take a picture, and you begin to giggle, even if it hurts your ribs.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, his chin rests on his hands that encompass yours, and  his voice just a murmur, because nothing about this is funny to him.

You just shake your head, and ask,

“Can we go home?”  His blue eyes stare into yours, and he sighs,

“The doctors say—”

“Clark, I don’t care.” And the slight break in your voice makes him stop, “Please, just.. take me home. I want to shower, and eat something, and—” he nods.

“Okay, yeah. Let’s go home.” He says gently, helping you sit up. He can tell you’re exhausted and even though you’re feeling no pain right now, you’d be much more comfortable at home. Besides, Clark had taken every single word the doctor said to heart, so he knows how to take care of you from here, he could probably recite it in his sleep.

On the way home, Clark fills you in on everything—The people who took and tortured you were Luthorcorp Followers, devoted to find out everything they could about Superman in the name of their old boss. Having taken the only good photos of Superman currently in the press, you had become an immediate target for them. Clark had spent a long time feeling guilty about these facts as he waited for you to wake up.

If your head wasn’t cloudy, you’d notice the longing stare of your boyfriend, who’s fingers twitched to scoop you up and fly you home, keep you there forever, and never give the world the chance to hurt you again. You got hurt because he was Superman, and he’s not sure if he can forgive himself for the position he put you in.

What would have happened if you were more seriously hurt? …What would have happened if he got to you a moment too late?

It’s all Clark can think about as he watches you down the sandwich he made you, hungrier than you had been in ages. And you’re so tired. But you frown when you watch Clark across the table, looking.. sad. But he had saved you, what was there to be sad about?

Wordlessly, you push the plate in front of you with half a sandwich towards him. Immediately, he shakes his head and nudges it back towards you.

“You’re starving,” He reminds, “And besides, I’m not hungry.”

You give him a look.

“You’re always hungry, baby,” You remind, pushing the plate back to him. He shakes his head,

“Not tonight.” He says, and you sigh.

“Denying yourself food won’t change what happened. I’m fine, Clark—”

“But you aren’t.” He says, and his voice is tight like he’s terrified of the reality of it, “You got kidnapped, and.. and really hurt, because I’m Superman, and I can’t.. I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt worse, or..” He trails off, because even saying it is too real for him. He’s looking at you, cut up and bruised, holding half a grilled cheese, and he wishes he could take this entire week back.

“But I’m okay.” You remind. “And I love you. I know what the risks are, okay? But I love you too much to stay away from you, and I love you too much to ask you to stop fulfilling your life’s purpose. This might have happened anyways.” You say, and nudge the plate towards him. “Here. Eat. For me, please?”

And because Clark can’t deny you anything, he reaches forward and takes the second half of the sandwich, and the two of you eat quietly, tears brimming both of your eyes, the day finally catching up to you.

Saturday

You wake up gasping for air. You can’t remember what your nightmare was about, but Clark’s arms are around you before you even turn your head to look at him.

He holds you close, petting your hair.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.. It was just a nightmare, sweetheart. You’re alright.” He says gently, and he listens to the sound of your heartrate slow. Tears are running down your face, and you attempt to mumble out something—an apology or maybe an explanation—but he just shushes you softly. “It’s okay.” He assures, and it is.

Because Superman protects people—It’s what he does. And you’re his favorite person. He’ll always come to find you, to make sure you’re okay, that you’re safe.

The thought alone is enough to drag you both back to sleep, with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.

[littlelamy]

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋆˚࿔ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐟𝐲!𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐞

𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐅𝐘!𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 : golden chains. muscle tees. protein shakes. lifts to cope. cold showers. long silences. obsesses in private. very loud, feral sex. veiny hands and arms. punching walls when she’s mentioned. calls her little mama. scars on his hands. has a playlist named after her. gym rat. smells like mahogany teakwood. rough hands, soft voice (only for her). can't sleep without her pillow. “i’d kill for you ... only you.”

𒋲 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐅𝐘!𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 who hides behind strength because it's the only thing he can actually control. doesn't cry, just bench presses the any hurt. grunts instead of talks. his phone’s dry as hell but still checks it constantly—just in case the love of his life texts. keeps her contact pinned. won’t admit that he rereads her old messages after every fight they have.

𒋲 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐅𝐘!𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 who’s the kind of dangerous that’s quiet. he doesn’t start fights—he ends them. protective as hell, territorial to the core, but all that brute power softens when it comes to her. she says jump, he’s already falling. he keeps a photo of her in his wallet, and enjoys telling people she’s his. and if anyone looks at her too long, he’s seeing red. lots red.

𒋲 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐅𝐘!𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 who would rather die than let another man have her. it’s not about ownership, it’s about the fact that he built himself for her. every rep, every scar, every change—done in her name.

❤︎‬

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @rafesangelita @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @@ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @wintercrows @st8rkey @nemesyaaa @sturns-mermaid @drewswife @kisses4rafey

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

❤︎︎ FATHER FORGIVE ME !

paring : priest mydei x nun fem!reader

tws : nsfw / smut, vaginal (creampie), size kink, religious guilt, virginity loss, brèèding kink, slight dubcon, ownership kink, hair pulling, multiple of rounds, power play, degradation, scarliege kinks, biting, nipple sucking, marking (biting, etc.) and tit fūcking.

sum : You’re a quiet little nun, trying to stay pure—but Father Mydeimos makes it impossible. He’s huge, intense, always watching you like he owns your soul. One night, you find him in the chapel, touching himself at the altar, whispering filthy things to no one. But he sees you watching—and instead of stopping, he drags you down to your knees and fucks your mouth right there. Then he bends you over the pews and ruins you like sin itself. You were supposed to serve God.

note : not proof-read, also this took me so long to write. 😪

They sent you to the northern chapel without warning.

No farewell. No guidance. Just a letter with your assignment and a cold, sleepless train ride into rain-dark mountains.

You’d never heard of Castrum Kremnos before. The name was old, strange. The stone roads were cracked. The townspeople stared when you passed in your habit—some crossed themselves. Others didn’t look at all. Like they were afraid of what would happen if they did.

The chapel was worse.

It sat on a cliffside, crumbling at the edges, stained glass blackened with years of smoke and ash. There were no bells. No color. Just wind and silence.

And him.

Father Mydeimos.

You met him your first night. You’d expected a priest. Instead, you got a soldier.

He opened the door himself—no assistant, no deacon, no one else. Just him.

Tall. Broad. Hands gloved. Hair tied loose down his back, wet with rain. Yellow eyes that didn’t blink when they landed on you. They stayed. Burned. Judged.

He didn’t say hello. Just stepped aside and let you in.

Inside, the chapel was colder. Smelled like old stone and melted wax. You noticed how bare it was—no decoration, no holy warmth. Just strict silence. The air felt heavy.

He led you to your quarters with only one word.

“Here.”

You nodded. “Thank you, Father.”

He looked at you again when you said that. Like something shifted behind his eyes. He didn’t speak—just stared. Then he left.

That night, you lay awake in a narrow cot, candles still flickering behind the curtain. You could hear the storm outside. But beneath it, under the floorboards or through the walls… there was something else. Heavy boots. A voice. Low and quiet.

You listened closer.

It was him.

Not praying. Not speaking scripture.

Just pacing. Breathing. Maybe talking to himself—or something else.

You didn’t sleep much.

The days were quiet.

He gave orders. You followed. That was all.

He’d rise before dawn, already in robes, hair tied back, eyes locked forward like he was preparing for battle. You never saw him rest. Never caught him off guard. He moved with precision—lighting candles, checking scrolls, wiping down relics like he was cleaning a weapon.

He never asked for help. But he always watched you.

When you polished the altar, you felt his gaze crawl up your spine. When you swept the chapel floor, he walked past, silent—but too close. Always just close enough to feel.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t touch. But he looked.

That was worse.

One night, you stayed late. Just to be alone. Or maybe not.

You were cleaning the pulpit when you found something under a stack of old books.

A rosary. Not yours.

The beads were heavy. Gold and black, carved with unfamiliar symbols—none of them holy. You ran your thumb along the cross, felt the sharp edge of it. Not a charm. A weapon.

“Put it down.”

His voice behind you froze your blood.

You turned. He stood at the top of the steps, half-shadowed, arms crossed. No robe. Just a black shirt rolled to the elbows, red tattoo glowing on his forearm like it burned under his skin.

You placed the rosary back. “Forgive me, Father.”

He stared. Then walked down. Each step slow. Controlled.

“I told them not to send anyone,” he said.

You stayed quiet.

“I work alone.”

He stopped in front of you. Close.

“You pray with faith,” he said, eyes flicking down your habit. “But you move like someone waiting to be punished.”

You didn’t look away.

“I’m not here to be saved,” you said.

He paused. Like that answer struck something.

You saw the flicker in his jaw—the tight pull when he’s holding something back.

His eyes dragged down your throat, then back up to your mouth.

“You’ll stay out of my quarters,” he said.

“Yes, Father.”

He didn’t move.

Neither did you.

The air between you was still. Silent. Heavy with something unspoken. The kind of silence that felt like it might break and swallow you both if one of you stepped forward.

Then he left.

Boots echoing behind him, and doors closing harder than they needed to.

The storm didn’t stop that night.

The wind hit the chapel walls like it wanted in. The candles in your room flickered until they went out. Still, you couldn’t sleep. Not after the way he looked at you.

Mydeimos didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten. But something in the way he stared—unblinking, unreadable—had been worse than anger.

He knew.

He knew you watched him. Knew you touched yourself when he wasn’t looking. Knew you weren’t here for prayer.

And he said nothing. Just walked away like he was done holding back.

Sometime past midnight, you got out of bed.

Your feet hit the cold stone floor. You didn’t even put your shoes on. Just wrapped your veil around your shoulders and slipped into the hall.

You didn’t bring a light.

You told yourself you were going to relight the altar candles. Or check the doors. But really, you knew where your body was leading you.

The chapel was dark. Almost.

There was one candle still burning near the altar. A tall, white prayer candle left over from evening service. That was when you heard it:

Breathing.

Low. Gritted. Like someone trying not to make a sound.

You moved closer. Just a few steps. The big oak chapel doors weren’t fully shut. You could see light through the thin crack between them.

So you looked.

And froze.

There he was.

Father Mydeimos.

Standing at the base of the altar in his half-undone robes, the sash hanging loose from his waist. Shirt off. Hair down. Muscles flexing with every breath. One hand braced against the stone, the other wrapped tight around his cock.

He looked furious.

Not at you. At himself.

His jaw was clenched, brows furrowed, head down like he was forcing himself through something he hated—something he couldn’t stop.

His hand moved slow. Rough. Like he was punishing himself with every stroke. Like this wasn’t about pleasure—it was about need.

And then he said it.

Not a prayer. Not your name. Just—

“Get on your knees.”

Your whole body locked.

You didn’t even realize you were breathing hard until you heard the sound of it echo in your ears.

His eyes opened. Slowly.

They locked on the door.

On you.

You stepped back fast—heart slamming in your chest—but it was too late. The old door creaked under your hand, loud in the silence.

“Stop.”

His voice. That low, commanding tone you’d already learned not to disobey.

You froze in place. One foot back. Hand still on the door.

You didn’t turn to face him until you heard his boots.

Slow. Deliberate. Every step echoing on the chapel floor.

You swallowed hard, eyes on the ground, until he stopped behind you.

“You like watching me?” he asked. “Like seeing your priest stroke his cock like a sinner?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you were scared. But because you did.

He could hear your breath. Feel the heat rolling off you. He didn’t need you to speak.

“I’ve seen how you look at me,” he said. “How your eyes linger.”

You felt the warmth of his body so close. His breath against the back of your neck.

“You kneel in silence like a saint,” he murmured, “but you fuck yourself like a whore.”

You exhaled sharp.

His hand brushed your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel it.

He guided your hand beneath your habit. Over the swell of your thigh. To the spot he already knew would be wet.

“You’ve been dripping for me since the first night,” he said. “Didn’t even try to hide it.”

You bit your lip.

He leaned closer, voice dropping lower.

“Tell me what you think about when you fuck yourself.”

Still, you stayed silent.

He didn’t get angry. He didn’t move away.

He just gave a quiet, amused breath. The kind of sound you couldn’t tell if it meant approval or warning.

Then he took your hand and let it go. Like he was daring you to move.

“Say it,” he said. “Say you wanted to see me. Say you wanted to watch.”

You finally turned your head.

“I did.”

That was the last thread of control he had left.

His hand grabbed your chin, fingers rough, thumb pressing against your lip.

“You came here in God’s name,” he said, “but you only worship me.”

You didn’t flinch.

“You’re right.”

He held your stare for one long, burning second.

Then dropped your jaw and stepped back.

His voice was rougher now.

“You have one chance,” he said. “Leave now and forget what you saw.”

You didn’t move.

He waited.

Then slowly—without breaking eye contact—he turned and walked back toward the altar.

He let the robe fall fully open, not caring if you looked.

“Good girl.”

Your knees hit the chapel floor with a soft thud.

The altar flickered behind you. Candlelight brushed your face as you looked up at him.

Father Mydeimos towered over you—robes undone, shirt gone, hair loose. His cock hung heavy in front of your lips, slick with precum from the way he’d touched himself earlier. Your throat dried. Your thighs clenched.

“You want this?” he asked, voice low, dangerous. “Prove it.”

You opened your mouth.

But he didn’t let you take him in—not yet.

Instead, he crouched down and took your chin in one gloved hand.

“I’m not going to fuck a brat,” he muttered. “I’ll fuck a good girl. The kind that listens.”

You nodded.

He kissed you. Roughly. His teeth scraped your lip again, but this time he licked the blood away. His other hand slid down—over your waist, under your habit. You gasped when his fingers found your inner thigh, spreading you open even though your legs were already shaking.

“Still wet,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Can’t even pretend you’re not.”

He pushed two fingers inside.

You cried out—head falling against his shoulder. It wasn’t just how deep he went—it was how slow. How he curled his fingers exactly right.

“You’re tight,” he growled. “Tighter than you should be.”

Your voice came out breathy. “I’ve never—”

“I know.”

His mouth was at your neck now, biting as he fucked his fingers into you. The wet sound echoed in the quiet chapel. You clutched his robe, moaning as your body rocked against his hand.

“I want you to remember what it feels like,” he whispered. “The first time you came in God’s house.”

You did. Hard. Clenching around his fingers, shaking, gasping his name as your orgasm spilled out of you. He kept going through it. Didn’t stop. Just held your throat and watched your face fall apart.

“On your knees again.”

You slid back down. Shaking. Dazed.

He stood in front of you, hard and leaking. You didn’t wait this time.

You took him into your mouth.

He hissed.

“Good fucking girl.”

You sucked him slow—tongue soft, lips wrapped tight, the taste of him thick on your tongue. He grunted low, hand tangled in your hair.

“Deeper.”

You obeyed. Let your throat stretch around him, let yourself gag, tears sliding down your cheeks. He didn’t pull away. Just groaned, thumb rubbing your jaw.

“Holy fuck—look at you,” he rasped. “On your knees in a ruined chapel, mouth full of cock like it’s your damn purpose.”

You moaned around him.

He pulled out suddenly.

“Lie back.”

You obeyed.

He knelt above you, pushed your habit down, yanked the fabric until your breasts were bare. He stared—hungry, starved—and wrapped his hands around them.

“Virgin tits,” he said low. “But not for long.”

He slid his cock between them, spit dripping from his mouth as he fucked your chest—slow strokes, cock hard and twitching, the head brushing your throat.

“Squeeze them,” he ordered.

You pressed them together tighter.

“Good girl. You take orders well.”

He thrust faster. Precum dripped onto your skin. His groans were rough, guttural.

You looked up at him.

“Cum on me, Father,” you whispered. “Please.”

He growled. Grabbed your jaw. Shoved his cock back into your mouth.

“Earn it.”

You sucked him again—messier this time. Desperate. Worshipful.

He pulled out with a grunt, stroked himself fast—then came across your tits with a snarl, thick spurts painting your skin and habit like sacrilege.

You breathed hard, watching it drip down your chest.

“Still want me to ruin you?” he asked.

“Yes,” you whispered.

That’s when he spread your legs and got between them.

His cock lined up at your entrance. He looked down at your pussy—soaked, stretched, flushed—and didn’t smile.

Just said:

“You were made to carry my seed.”

Then he pushed in.

You gasped.

The stretch was brutal—deep, thick, burning as he split you open around his cock. He bottomed out slow, watching every twitch of your face, every whimper that broke from your throat.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re mine now.”

He fucked you slow. Deep. Each thrust made your legs shake, your back arch, your eyes roll back. You could feel everything. The fullness. The pressure. How he hit something inside you that made your vision blur.

“Gonna fill you,” he whispered. “You’ll leave this altar leaking with my cum. It’ll drip down your thighs and stain the stone.”

You came again—body locking, crying out.

He grabbed your hips and fucked you through it, panting hard now.

“Fucking take it—take all of it—”

He came with a guttural groan, hips slamming deep, cock twitching inside you as his cum filled your womb in thick waves. You felt it. Felt him claim you from the inside out.

He stayed inside you. Breathing hard. Gloved hand still on your throat.

“You’re not done,” he growled. “Open your mouth again.”

You did.

He pulled out—hot cum dripping from your cunt—and shoved his cock back between your lips.

You moaned.

“Swallow,” he ordered. “Good girls don’t waste anything.”

You did.

He watched you swallow every drop.

Then wiped your mouth with his thumb.

“Say thank you, Father.”

“Thank you, Father.”

You couldn’t stand.

He’d fucked you so deep your thighs were still twitching.

You lay back on the altar, bare and ruined, cum leaking down your legs, chest painted with it, the taste of him still on your tongue.

But you didn’t feel holy.

You felt owned.

And God help you—you wanted more.

“Father,” you breathed, lifting your eyes to meet his. “Please… again.”

He stared.

Still shirtless, cock flushed and half-hard again already. His jaw flexed. His hands curled into fists.

You knew that look.

He was losing control.

“Greedy little thing,” he muttered. “You’re shaking, and you’re still begging?”

You nodded, shameless.

“Then get on all fours. On the altar.”

You moved slow, dizzy, aching—but obeyed. You crawled across the altar like a lamb to slaughter, arms braced against the holy stone, legs spread wide, cum still dripping from your used cunt.

You didn’t care.

He came up behind you. Gripped your hips.

And slammed into you.

You cried out—loud and raw—as his cock filled you again, brutally deep, harder than before. There was no teasing now. No build-up. Just the sound of skin slapping, wet and filthy, echoing through God’s house like blasphemy.

“You wanted to be ruined?” he growled. “Then take it. Take every fucking inch.”

“I want it,” you moaned. “I want your cock—want it all.”

He snarled.

“Say it louder.”

“I want your cum in me again—I want to be yours, Father—please, please—”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back, hips still driving into you.

“You are mine,” he growled. “This pussy? Mine. This mouth? Mine. These tits, this throat, this filthy soul—mine.”

You choked on your moan as he pounded you harder, his grip bruising, sweat dripping down his chest, his cock stretching you open again and again until you felt it in your stomach.

He leaned down, mouth at your ear.

“You’re going to walk out of here leaking with my seed,” he whispered. “And every time you kneel in this chapel, you’ll feel it drip out of you.”

“Please, yes—mark me, Father—make me yours—”

He grunted, biting your neck—hard. His teeth left a deep mark, and you cried out as his hand slid up your body, grabbing your breast, squeezing it rough while his mouth latched onto your nipple.

He sucked. Bit. Groaned against you.

“You were made for this,” he said. “Made to take me. To be filled. Bred.”

You clenched around him—tight, soaked, begging for release.

“Cum in me,” you gasped. “Please, fill me up again, make me yours—”

That broke him.

He slammed into you so hard the altar creaked beneath you. His hand wrapped around your throat, pulling your back to his chest as he fucked up into you with punishing force.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Say you belong to me.”

“I belong to you—Father—fuck— I belong to your cock—”

He came with a groan that shook your whole body.

Thick, hot cum flooded your pussy again, spilling deep inside you, leaking out around his cock. He didn’t pull out. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, cock twitching as he filled you like it was his holy duty.

You collapsed forward.

But he wasn’t finished.

He dragged you off the altar, onto your knees again. Cum still dripping down your thighs, your breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.

“Open your mouth.”

You did, tongue out, eyes wide.

“Good girl.”

He grabbed his cock, still slick from your pussy, and shoved it between your tits. He fucked them fast, rough, eyes locked on your dazed expression.

“You want more?”

“Yes, Father—please, I want your cum—I need it—need to be full everywhere—“

He groaned deep in his chest. Grabbed your chin. Slammed into your mouth.

You took him, no resistance. Let him fuck your throat like you were made for it. His balls slapped your chin. Drool spilled down your face.

When he came, it was hard—hot ropes of cum down your throat, across your tongue, leaking from the corners of your lips. You swallowed every drop. Greedy. Desperate. Drenched in him.

He pulled back slowly.

Looked down at you—wrecked, soaked, your veil tangled, your skin covered in marks.

“Say it again.”

“I belong to you.”

He smiled.

“You’ll sleep in the chapel tonight,” he said. “On the altar.”

You nodded.

“Tomorrow,” he added, grabbing your chin again, “we begin confession.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[prettypeeling]

who's calling my phone? ˏˋ°•*⁀➷✆

Clark Kent x receptionist!Reader (gn!!!)

summary: clark has a crush on the daily planet's receptionist.

note: i realized halfway through the daily planet probably does not have several floors but ohhh well.

The shrill ring of the Daily Planet's front desk phone was beginning to irritate Clark's eardrums. His right hand rose to pinch his nose bridge as his other slightly crinkled the papers he was holding. Sure, he could just stop listening so intently - the sound was coming all the way from the first floor, after all - but he didn't want to miss anything. To him, the front desk was the hub of the Daily Planet; of course, most of the action was on the upper floors, where the staff resided. But all of the important things existed at the ground level. It was where information came in, where the latest news went out, and - most important to Clark - where you stayed.

While Clark's eyes had been glued to his computer screen for far longer than could be healthy, his ears had been trained on you. He could stand the piercing peal of the phone because every call meant another chance to listen to your melodic voice answering it. His fingers twitched over his keyboard as the 67th Hello, you've reached the Daily Planet. How can we inform you? of the day reached his ears.

It wasn't the most practical thing, but Clark's activity at work had largely been dictated by you. When he would finally make progress with his tardiness, he'd come a bit late on purpose just so you could greet him instead of the security guard. If he was stuck on the prose of an article, he'd imagine you reading it out to him. It always sounded better that way. The most egregious of them all was when he'd occasionally force his floor's printer to jam. It gave him an excuse to come down - still, strangely, passing other levels on the way - and talk to you while using yours. At first, it was met with confusion; the Daily Planet was almost exclusively digital at this point. But eventually, everyone moved on. Clark was always strange and insisting on a paper format was the least of his quirks.

Today though, Clark couldn't really afford to pull any tricks to get to see you. He needed to figure out this article or the only face he'd see was Perry's stern scowl. Clark sighed and collapsed backwards into his desk chair, dispelling the hunch he'd been sporting for what felt like hours. As he raised his arms above his head to extend his spine, he let out a dramatic groan. Jimmy took the sound as his cue to spin around in his own chair to face Clark.

"Need a break, buddy?" Jimmy nudged, slightly condescending, but still friendly. Instead of speaking - that would drown out the call you were having about sending a reporter out to some community event - Clark simply groaned again.

"You two can go grab me some coffee if you need enrichment time," Lois hadn't even lifted her head from the copy she was skimming, but the men weren't surprised she was listening. Lois was always listening. Jimmy scrunched up his face at the prospect of being sent on an errand.

"Why would we leave when there's a coffee maker," Jimmy squinted one eye as he gauged the distance, "ten feet away?" Lois sighed and turned in her chair with a look that implied Jimmy was stupid for asking. Clark was largely checked out of the conversation, still too consumed in eavesdropping on yours to care about where Lois' coffee came from.

"Because Perry is being a cheapskate this month and won't buy the kind I like." Lois clicked her pen as though it punctuated her statement. "And you guys love me."

"Is that love reciprocated?" At Lois' playful nod, Jimmy exhaled theatrically. "Okay. Fine. A large from Mocha Mill?"

Before Jimmy even finished or Lois could respond, it was like Clark had returned from the dead. His eyes shot up from burning a hole into the floor to staring Lois down intensely.

"We're going to Mocha Mill?" Jimmy would have laughed at Clark's fervor if it didn't unnerve him.

"Well, you were so out of it I thought it was gonna end up being just me. But, sure, we're going to Mocha Mill."

"It's my favorite coffee spot," Lois raised an eyebrow.

Clark shot up, their words hardly registering in his mind. Forget Lois, it was your favorite coffee spot. Or so you’d told your friend on the phone during a break last week. He adjusted his glasses, primed his curl, and marched towards the elevator, leaving behind a messy desk and an addled Jimmy to scramble after him.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||။‌‌‌‌‌|၊။‌• 3:42 minutes later

You love your job. A lot of people think you're just here because you couldn't make it as a journalist or anything else. But, really, you love it. You love watching the world go by through the ginormous front windows. You love being able to sit back and relax on slow days. You love talking to new people everyday and solving their problems. Your favorite person to solve problems for is that Clark Kent. He's a sweetheart. Even on days when he's running late and surely not having the best time, he makes sure to greet you. It feels like he really means it when he asks how you are, too.

You're not ashamed to admit you have a little crush on him. Your search history would do it for you anyway. Combing through the entire Daily Planet website to find a name to match the face, then clicking on any article with his name on it. You definitely know more about Superman than the average person; he seems to be Clark's favorite subject. Clark writes about the hero with such reverence, it makes you wish he'd write - and think - about you in that way, too.

The sound of shoes squeaking draws your attention, but it's normal for the office, so you opt to ignore it in favor of fantasizing about Clark. You usually don't let yourself fall into these sorts of thoughts, out of respect for him, but today you can't seem to help it. Just look at the man (you do, a lot). His physique is so large - his hands, his muscles - but his heart and mind equally so. He makes it so hard to stay professional when all you really want to do is jump across your desk and take him.

As the squeaking grows faster and closer, you begin to think your imagination is more potent than you thought. The sound of shoes against floor halts as the gorgeous man in front of you comes to a stop. Your mouth hangs open slightly as you zero in on his doing the same, although with more intent.

"We're going to get coffee," Clark states bluntly, with a smile around the words. You compose yourself and dim your computer screen in embarrassment. You still have one of his articles up - something about climate change? - and it's far too old for you to be reading with no reason. Your eyes dart between Clark and Jimmy, who has just appeared, looking disheveled.

"Okay, no worries. You guys have your badges right?" You're prepared to let them back in if they don't, which is probably why Clark decided to let you know. You tense slightly when his brows furrow at you. He goes to speak but is cut off by Jimmy.

"Yup, we'll be back," Jimmy says casually as he slips his badge out of his pocket for proof. He begins walking towards the door, not realizing Clark is still rooted at his spot in front of you.

"Would you like something?" is such a simple courtesy but when Clark says it, you want to melt. He takes your silence as hesitance and tacks on, "We're going to the Mocha Mill." And that's all it takes. He says it with such intention it feels like he looked into your soul and found the way to get there.

"Oh my goodness, yes, please! That's my favorite coffee shop," You worry he thinks you're more excited about the coffee than just talking to him. He doesn't seem to mind, though. His beautiful lips quirk into a smile and all you want to do is kiss it bigger. You glance behind him briefly to see a frustrated Jimmy waving wildly through the windows. He rolls his eyes and stomps off out of view, presumably towards the coffee shop. You focus your attention back on Clark who is beaming down on you.

"I know." You're not sure how he does, and Clark is quick to catch himself. "I'm pretty sure you told me once. I came down here when the printer was, a-uh...broken." He tries to keep his tone nonchalant as to not to spook you, but rethinks it immediately. He wants you to know he cares. Just maybe not so intensely.

"Oh, probably," you say, thinking nothing of it. You like your conversations with Clark; he disarms you. You tell him so. "I really like talking to you. You make it so easy, that's probably why I spill my guts." A coffee shop preference is hardly "your guts," but everything feels bigger with Clark.

"Hey," Clark begins, hesitant. He's stupid for saying that, he thinks, you two were already talking. There's no need to start over. The regret fades immediately when he sees how you perk up at the single word. He continues, "I know you're on the clock, really we both are, but maybe some other time we could grab coffee? Together, I mean." He stumbles through the request. It's endearing

"Ahh, I don't know," you tease, sure you've got him now. You feel a bit bad at the way he deflates and amend your words. "Maybe lunch instead? I'm kind of tired of our talks being so brief. Y'know?" It takes a second for Clark to realize you do want to go out with him, but when he does his grin is dazzling.

"Oh. Yeah. Okay." He doesn't know what to do with himself and, frankly, neither do you. You're trying to find a comfortable way to rest your arms and ultimately settle on splaying them across your keyboard. It's awkward and not at all ideal. Luckily, you don't have to hold it for long. Clark, having long forgotten Lois' coffee, takes it upon himself to circle around to stand behind your desk.

You realize, in this moment, he's never been so close in your space before. Information is relayed and supplies are passed over your desk. You think you would be more nervous if Clark wasn't so...him. His presence is so naturally comforting, it feels like he belongs in your space. You like the feeling.

He leans himself against the desk right next to your computer. You're grateful you darkened the screen when you had. Clark's placement means you have to crane your neck to look at him from your seated position. Your eye line lands right at his sturdy arm that props him up against the table's surface. You want it. You want him. Jeez, you think, take him out to dinner first. Or lunch. Which is what you're doing. With him. On a date. On a date? Are you going on a date with Clark Kent? He said okay. What does okay even mean? Fuck.

Apparently, you voiced your line of thought, or at least part of it. Clark releases a rumbling laugh at whatever you had said, crossing his arms as he does. The act only puts more emphasis on his already bulging biceps. You think you could die right here. You wouldn't mind this being your last sight, Clark smiling and flexing and just being beautiful.

He was talking again. You tried to listen this time. You're successful. You listen so well you don't realize how time is passing. Neither does Clark. Before either of you know it, Jimmy comes back with four coffees - he took the courtesy of grabbing you one - and drags Clark away from you and back to his work.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||။‌‌‌‌‌|၊။‌• 8:39:25 hours later

You let out a gentle sigh as you set the phone handset back onto its base. The clock on its display reads 8:56. You don't have to be here much longer. You're not really sure when you have to be here; you start at 7 AM, but the end time is always a little fuzzy. On days you have nothing better to do, you wait for Clark. You've never left together, but you at least see him when he does. This is one of those days.

Just as you settle into your chair again, the phone blares at you. You huff. Yes, it's your job, but nobody needs to be calling this late. You brace yourself to use your customer service voice before lifting the handset.

"Good evening-" emphasis on the evening, "you've reached the Daily Planet. How can we inform you?" If they need information, you think bitterly, they should just try Google. As soon as you hear the voice on the other end, though, you know you'll tell him anything he wants to know.

"Yes, hello. This is Clark Kent," he declares, feigning professionalism. "Journalist, reporter, champion, hero to the people-" You stop him there with a snort.

"Yea, right. And who have you saved?" He doesn't say anything for a moment, but you can faintly hear him snickering into the phone. After a few seconds, he clears his throat.

"Well, not a who, but I have saved our evening." Clark sounds more nervous now. You think it over and assume he means saving the two of you from boredom by heading home. You're not surprised he knows that you await his departure most evenings.

"Oh, finally," you play up the drama. "My hero has arrived. I'll start packing up." You're ready to hang up the phone when you catch Clark's voice again.

"Okay, perfect. Would you rather have Italian or Chinese?" Huh? You'd said that out loud, you realize, and it sounded very bewildered. You can almost hear the confidence seeping out of Clark's voice. "Well, I just- I thought, since we're both still here, we could move up our lunch date. To tonight. Sorry, I thought we were on the same page there." You immediately feel bad. But also amazing. He wants to go on a date with you, right now. You try to redeem yourself.

"Uhh, surprise me," you can't keep the giddiness out of your voice. Clark lets himself chuckle again at that. To make sure he knows you want to as much as he does, you tell him, "I can't wait."

"You don't have to," is his immediate reply. "I'll be down in a minute. Not even. Bye."

"Bye," you say, and neither of you hang up. You bite the inside of your cheek at how cute it is. Then you realize he's probably on his cell phone and just forgot to end the call. Not that gently, you replace the handset on the base and flutter around your workspace to collect your stuff.

Of course, Clark meant it when he said he'd be down soon and makes it to you before you're ready. Always the gentleman, he helps you finish cleaning and swings your bag over his right shoulder next to his own. He reaches his left hand out to you and beams when you take it. You love his smile. He likes making you smile.

Clark leads you through the glass double doors, using his right hand to hold one open for you. He waves good night to the security guard using his left hand, meaning your right hand comes with. The wave turns into more of a Look at us! and both of you preen at the thought.

You have each other's phone numbers by the end of the night. You tell Clark to promise not to call your cellphone during work hours. He agrees, but the number of calls the Daily Planet gets from a certain wireless number skyrockets.

[jbbuckybarnes]

Drivers React...

...to someone overstepping a line with you

Drivers: LN4, OP81, CS55, AA23, GR63, KA12, CL16, OB87, FC43, MV33/MV1

warnings: swearing, harassment, violence, blood, assault

a/n: some of these are quite hot if I do say so myself, reader is either gn or fem as always. oh to imagine men actually standing up for women (sobs in social worker in the field of violence against women)...

LN4:

Sees someone put something in your drink, doesn't even think a millisecond before grabbing the glass, emptying it into the guys face and grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt pushing him against the next wall, "You fucking cunt will stay right here." Makes someone call the cops and makes sure that man is brought to court for that. After the fact he'd 100% pay for the ruined drink and make sure you get home safe. Doesn't matter if that means you don't trust him and he needs to call a girlfriend of his to get you home safe.

OP81:

He's just sitting there, people-watching, as you do McLaren media work by filming general impressions of the Thursday. He watches a man walk up to you, your body language change and the man's body language becoming uncomfortable even for him. He walks over determined, watches the man try to grab you with fear on your face, before he pushes himself between you two. "If you don't piss off right now." – "Then what?" The man pushes him back and against you, but Osc doesn't lose his balance, instead you hear an uncomfortable sound and a sharp inhale. You peek past Oscar's shoulder in front of you, the mans nose was bloody and he backed off a bit while some workers from Mercedes were coming over to help step in, "And I'll make sure you'll never see a race track again, dumb cunt." He'll quickly led the helpers know to ID him and ban him for assault before turning to you and asking if you're alright in the most non-Oscar level of softness. He'd even help you get the rest of your work done.

CS55:

Fully curses the person out in Spanish like an entire lineage of hispanic moms possessed him the moment they touch you, like with angry Doberman level snarl to it. The only thing holding him back from decking the guy is the fact he's already backing up. He's bringing you home and only leaves after you're inside and he hears the door lock. Checks in with you the next morning as well. Is on edge for the next three days.

AA23:

Hears someone call you a slur and goes the most silently serious you've ever seen him. He pushes himself in front of you with the most calm angry eyes and his arms crossed. "Back off my girlfriend!" – "Oh wow, I'm so scared now." – "Back. Off." He'd stare the man down until he turned away with a disgusting chuckle. "You okay?" He'd gently grab your upper arms leaning forward. You two would be out of there so fast. "Your girlfriend, huh?" – "You know these idiots only respect women when attached to a man." You knew that but you still leaned against his shoulder in the back of the taxi regardless.

GR63:

Would tower over a man so quickly if he doesn't stop with the advances towards you after you politely decline. "They said no thank you, take the hint, mate." When the guy starts arguing he makes himself clearer, "Listen, if you don't leave them alone you're gonna have bigger problems than just me." He'll make the guy back off by walking into his space so the creep would have to walk backwards. Would make sure his personal trainer was around you the rest of that race weekend in case the creep came back.

KA12:

You've ever seen an overprotective Chihuahua? Yeah. Don't make Italian men angry. They're small but they will both yell and get physical really quick. The moment he sees a man get too far into your space, making you take steps backwards before grabbing your neck, he springs into action. Kimi would start a fucking pub brawl over it if he had to. That guy only knows calm or full chaos.

CL16:

Will see a man be too weird with you and see your body language change. Will hover more closely to listen in. Hears the disgusting things you're being told. The moment the guy is touching the side of your neck and starting to dip his head down there might or might not be a sharp punch to the side of his face making him lose balance. "Hands off my partner!" Half the crowd would look at that scene, see Charles check if you were alright and make new partner the talking point instead of the creep scurrying off. "Sorry." He makes a bit of a cringing face realizing what he has just done. Both the making a scene part and the announcement of partnership that was a protective lie. You thank him profusely and ask him to bring you home.

OB87:

He'd watch some dickhead get a little too angry and close to you during a football game a bunch of people just randomly came together for during the heatwave in the city park. He'd get up, grab a football, aim and just ace the shot at the dudes head who falls over. He walks up next to you, looking down at the dude while sipping from his waterbottle, "I can make it proper brain injury if I see you act like that with anyone again." Most innocent looking neutral face, stays next to you till the dude has walked out of sight. Looks at you and just goes "You handled that well." Nonchalant protective king.

FC43:

Would commit a crime for you honestly? Like would legit deck someone for groping you and beat them up to need a LOT of stitches and three weeks of bedrest. He'd profusely apologize to you after too because even he himself didn't know he could be that angry. He could be glad everyone around was willing to claim to police that the dude had messed with him first and he defended for two.

MV1:

This man has the willpower to control his anger. He is a dad after all. But seeing a man get handsy with you at a celebration and seeing your face in correlation to that was all he needed as context to grab that man off you and essentially throw him the opposite direction. "She's clearly not into it man, fuck off!" Is willing to get into an altercation because he'd do the same for his daughters, mates and sisters. What's a black eye compared to sexual violence? Nothing. He'd proudly present that to his kids to teach them what good men do to protect others from bad men.

Interact with fanfic writers, even if it's a cute tag, that's how you keep people motivated to keep writing.

Masterlist linked in bio <3

[cia-offical]

.

@the-irs-offical @profain-offical @shangdi-offical @faa-offical @fbi--offical + anyone else who wants to join

If You Were a Fictional Character

I've seen a few moots doing this and it looked fun!

* Make this picrew of yourself

* Take this uquiz (How Fandom Would See You If You Were A Fictional Character)

...yeah that seems about right 😅🫠

Not sure who's done this already so tagging the besties @thetumblingmoron @redheadsramblings @woundedsoul12 @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @aurorabiggs @thepalehorsevictoria @kiir-do-faal-rahhe and anyone else who would like to play!

[tojisteddy]

reading your meanie!simon and meanie!gaz makes me realize there’s a hole in my heart where meanie!price would be </3

i feel like he would be mean but with good intentions and not as rough as simon is. he would have that authoritative tone he uses on 141 but with a more paternal twist? if that makes sense?

and honestly the ickier the better because you’re a genius to me

untitled unmastered | cw: 18+ mdni, smut with plot, price! being toxic, daddy kink (icky (to hell)), age gap (reader mid 20s, Price late 30s), soft Dom!price (how? Just walk with me), no use of y/n.

Meanie!Price is the ex that just won’t leave you alone.

Good intentions? Yes, but he’s a little- let’s say cynical. (In a fun way!)

And his true intentions are never revealed to you, not even in death, because he’s just so tactical in his efforts to have you, so you just see when he comes around as kind gestures. He doesn’t come over too often, gives you proper space but he’ll pop by once or twice every 3 weeks. Making sure you’re still logged into his Netflix, fixing up whatever may have been broken this past month, checking if you’re eating properly.

Is it true the sink he promised he properly fixed mysteriously burst after two months? Yes.

Should you have called a licensed plumber to come fix it instead of Price so he doesn’t have to keep popping up? To the point you have to hurry your new boyfriend out before John comes in even though he already saw him driving off while spying on your place? Yes. But John is free, and free is always in the budget.

“Don’t worry sweetie, gonna have this fixed up for you,” he says, actually fixing it this time because if he put in the same leaking pipe in one more time, your place would flood. Can’t have you crying more than you need to, can he?

You scuff, rummaging through the cabinets, and slamming it shut when you can’t find what you wanted, “You said that the last time and now look at this shit.”

“And I’m meaning it this time.” He gruffs out, coming out from under the sink, and he raised an eyebrow at you. Your face is screwed up, your ticked off. Well so is he. He can still smell the cheap cologne from your boyfriend, it irks him to no end—

“And when did you start talking to me like that? Huh? I taught you manners didn’t I?”

You’re silent, eyes lazily looking towards the floor. He’s thankful you had sense to not roll your eyes. Maybe you’d forgotten what your place was, how you talk to your Daddy.

“[+].” And it’s one word, your name— a clear warning. His voice deep and stern. Authoritative, like he owns the place. But it makes you straighten, eyes slowly meeting his, playing with your fingers— good. Cute.

“Sorry Price.” Your voice is much softer than what it was before, but it’s genuine. He knows you are, the way you bite the inside of your lip like you’ve always done when you’d done wrong and had to confess.

Oh how the man missed how you used to call him Daddy at times like this. But he’ll accept it, this time.

“Better be.”

Now getting rid of your soon-to-be-ex’s?

No hard feat.

John knows they simply can’t handle you, no matter how kind or sweet they maybe, no matter how fake strong they may present themselves as— they’re no match for him.

It’s almost too easy seeing how the men you date fold over women the women he sent to them, almost painful became who would want to cheat on you? Who would want to give up on you so easily?

It’s almost sickening.

But John is there to comfort you, trust he is the first to see you when it’s official your relationship is over. Cigar on his lips when he sees the young guy take off in his car, he can’t help the smirk the grows on his pink lips as he gets out the car, each step to your place all the more merrier as he goes to clean up the mess and set things back in place.

He’s puts on his Emmy winning performance as you furiously wipe away your tears, avoiding his gaze whilst telling him the truth. But he comes behind you, gently rubbing your waist in his hands, almost crushing you when he squeezes you so tight. He kisses your temple,

“Don’t worry, ‘M here sweet girl, Dad’s here.”

Freak. Idiot. But you melt in his arms, it’s nice to have him hold you, properly tell you you’re going to be okay. Nothing holding you back.

Price is gentle with you, as ways have been always will be. His fingers slowly glide upward, Right inbetween your chest, then around your neck, then lifting your head in his hands. The older man leaves kisses on your collar bone, slow, sensual. And he knows your eyes are trapped looking at him through the glass of the kitchen window.

“Gonna let me treat you like you need,” his own breath is ragged against your skin, his member pressing into you. “Or should I back off. Give me the word and I’ll go.”

“Price, please,” your breath hitches, gripping onto the kitchen counter.

He shakes his head, lifting your chin further, staring right into your eyes through the glass, “You know those aren’t the words to use with me.”

A shiver shoots up your spine, words falling off your lips like theve been dormant this whole time. Like nothing has changed since you’ve been apart— exactly how Price likes it.

“Please Daddy, please make me feel good.”

That’s all it takes for the man to take you in his arms and to your bedroom. And oh, this isn’t a rebound. Some one time occasion to get your mind off your new ex. This is you having at it like you two were always meant to. Slow and passionate, Johns hands touch everywhere like he’s

His two fingers shoved into your mouth while he sinks deep inside your squelching cunt. Your back arching off the bed, John holds you still by your hip.

“That’s a good girl, luvie, always take me so perfect.” He coos, working his girthy cock into you so he reaches the hilt.

He’s always lifting your head as he fucks you, hissing as you squeeze around him, reminding you how pretty you are keening around his dick while taking his pre-cum, how sweet you taste on his lips after kissing him. You’re soaking him completely, slick damping his pubic hair. You hold onto his hairy back like your life depends on it. Taking very slam of his dick into your gummy walls he gives you,

“Cumming- angh- Daddy I’m cumming!” You moan beautifully, clawing at his arms.

“I know sweetheart, show me how good you feel. How much you missed me.” He grunts, picking up the pace of his thrusts. He spits down on your clit, taking the pads of his fingers and circling them on your swollen bud.

Your orgasm washes over you, sobbing while your eyes screwed shut. Your walls flutter around him and sucking at him for dear life. Blabbering a mix of ‘Daddy’ and ‘Dad’ as you fall apart.

He groans as he cums in you, holding you close so every drop is inside you, “Fuck dovie, Daddy’s missed you so much.”

a/n: parental twist is crazy. ��� Are you flirting with me? I think I wanna get into John being more strict in another drabble tho. lol someone play daddy’s home.

most recent masterlist

[serenity-loves-red]

IT STARTED WITH THE CAT DISTRIBUTION SYSTEM

Part 12. Masterlist

It had been a week since you had the 3 little hamsters. At first, you didn’t want to leave them alone with Blue and Princess, worried that maybe somehow those two would accidentally hurt them while playing.

Fortunately, they didn’t but rather, it turns out that the Girls– a nickname addressed to the three– are the one stirring up trouble.

Three little troublemakers they are, looking at you cutely with those beaded eyes as if done nothing wrong.

But even so, they are actually nice to be around and easy to take care of– albeit if you forget that they are very active and adventurous bunch that makes your heart leap in worry.

You like to pick them up and lay them on your hands, squishing their tiny little cheeks together. They are so squishy and somehow resilient that makes you forget how vulnerable they could be but you never did anything that actually hurts them.

They like you too, you supposed. When out of their pen, they like to climb on top of Blue and Princess’ head to look for you, which is better than let them scamper on their own.

At first, you planned to let them just stay coped in their pen, bringing them out only when you are not occupied and can look after them. That was the plan.

But what you didn’t foresee was the length of one’s ability. Actually, Tribios– Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon– didn’t mind. They feel quite contented with the arrangement and simply basked comfortably.

That was it, until Trianne felt bored and wanted to explore– even with Dei and Snowy keeping them company. Tribbie wanted to object but ultimately got swayed, followed by Trinnon who didn’t want to be left out and wanted to play with them.

“Don’t worry Tribbie, Trinnon– Trianne will lead us the way!” Trianne said confidently with bits of convincing that made them accept her plan.

Later, when you called Phainon and Mydei for dinner, led by Trianne– Tribbie and Trinnon found themselves standing on the edge of the walls of the pen. “Are you sure this is safe, Trianne?” Tribbie couldn’t help but ask nervously.

Trianne smiled and enthusiastically replied, “Of course Tribbie! We just have to jump and use that rope to get down safely. No worries!”

Trianne didn’t even wait for Tribbie or Trinnon to voice out their concern and immediately jumped, dangling on to the said rope with her tiny little hands before letting go.

She landed with a little squeak before laying flat and still. “Trianne!” Both Tribbie and Trinnon squeaked in shock.

Tribbie wanted to immediately check on Trianne but was hesitant and scared to move. Together, they could only voice their worries and hope she was fine.

“That was fun!” They saw Trianne suddenly jolt and stood up. From bellow, Trianne did few little jump. “Hehehe Trianne wants to do that again!“

“…Trianne,” Trinnon sighed softly. “You shouldn’t worry us like that.”

Trianne simply giggled. “Hehehe hurry up and jump Trinnon. Trianne wants to explore now.”

So that’s how you found them; Bubbles standing on her little feet outside the pen, Buttercup dangling on your phone charger few inches away from their pen and Blossom clutching the edge of the wall of the pen.

You immediately scooped the three of them, holding them close to your face to check for any injuries. “I only left you three for few minutes to get your food…”

They squeaked simultaneously.

One of your initial worries that they might get lost or stuck somewhere looking at how small they are, but now you saw how they can and how they will try to do their escape plan when coped for long periods of time, it’s better to leave them to Blue and Princess.

So from then on, instead of coping them in their pen, you let them out and watch them scamper to Blue and Princess excitedly. You can’t help but laugh whenever you see the 3 hamsters run so fast with those tiny legs of theirs.

When you think about it, they really act like 3 excited children that will do things for fun.

Now, you just silently hoped that with this decision, it will prevent them from doing any more stunt that may cause them potential harm.

Heh. Unfortunately, your hopes were not enough.

There was this instance where you suddenly woke up in the middle of the night to drink water. So when you opened the lights, you found yourself wide eyes and staring at the corner of your room.

There they are, hamsters climbing in your wall in the middle of the night. Imagine how your heart skipped a beat thinking what if they suddenly fall.

So first thing in the morning, you immediately bough the cheapest toys you can find, lest they try to climb walls again. What’s next? They will drive a rocket to the moon?

Please don’t.

Mydei and Phainon could only watch you fuse over Tribios and couldn’t help but feel amused and grateful.

Contrary to their initial belief, they really thought you would not take them in and rather would return them to that place. They knew that you have no obligations to them– or any of them but you did. You took care of them and accepted them even though you’re financially struggling.

Phainon knew how you juggle your allowance enough to last and with them in the equation, you really have it tough. He hope he could help to alleviate at least a little but until he still a cat, he can’t help you with the finances.

He knew Mydei would too. He knows how the Kremnoan Prince looks at you. Mydei might deny of the supposed accusation, but deep inside the Prince likes you, a lot.

Guess even in this world, they are bound to be rivals one way or another.

Taglist: @speedycoffeedelight @kiransalt @sunsethw4 @wispfish @syntaxandpi @hoo-hoo @aerisevx @wixsvem @reminiscingthesea @hquntinghunter @n8mareee @larettajudith @vashyuu @superbfuryfest @shio225 @line-viper @hiqhkey @fuji-sen @takeyomikamakura @raaawwwr @hoshinosama @shonwithnohope @naOyak1 @whatamoodhoney @violetisreadinghush @shio225 @blushho @bloodrrose @kazudare @monoclesnapple @elymint

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru thinks voice messages are romantic. they’re intimate. they’re sincere. they’re a sacred art form of communication far superior to texting. that’s what he tells you, anyway. really, he just likes hearing himself talk—and more importantly, likes imagining you listening. anytime. anywhere. especially when he’s out on missions and you’re home without him, wearing one of his shirts and watering the plants like it’s not killing him to be away.

he never just types "miss you." that would be too simple. too silent. no emotional nuance. instead, he sends you a flood of chaotic 30-second voice notes, one after another, each more dramatic than the last:

“baby, did you eat? are you drinking water? i miss you. also, where’s the remote. also, you looked hot this morning. that’s all. okay wait—no, also i stepped on your slipper and it was very emotionally traumatic for me.”

“you didn’t reply yet so i’m assuming you’re dead. or worse, ignoring me. which is fine. i’ll just lie down in this hotel bed. alone. freezing. and unloved.”

“i finished my mission. i was so cool. i punched a curse in the face. no one clapped. it was very upsetting. i’m relying on you to tell me i’m amazing when i get home.”

it’s endless. your notification tone has become synonymous with breathless wheezing laughter and soft, fond sighs. and even when he’s supposedly being a menace—whining about forgetting his charger or that you didn’t pack him snacks—you can hear it. the smile behind his words. the homesick curl of his voice.

because satoru may talk big, act cocky, yammer on about how everyone worships the ground he walks on—but he only really wants praise from one person. you.

the moment he lands back home, he’s already nudging his nose into your neck, arms slung around your waist like he’s magnetized.

“missed me?” he mumbles, even though your hands are already buried in his hair. and when you say, “so much,” he lights up like a fool. smug. soft. sickeningly happy.

(he still sends a voice note the next day. from two rooms away. “babe. the rice cooker’s making noises. come check if it’s possessed.”)

[everythingstoofleeting]

facts don't care about your feelings: fear is just information.

suffering is just information. i read this in a tumblr post a while ago, and it's come back to me once or twice since then. most recently, i thought of it today while hiding from my mom in the harsh white hotel shower, too afraid to be scared out loud, and letting the showerhead cry for me, instead.

    in preparation for my new student conference, i spent countless hours over the past few weeks scampering between various portals and checklists --- and, it paid off. this morning, when checking in, i was graciously greeted by exactly zero holds. i had done it! but after only a moment of rightful satisfaction, a few hours of repetitive programming, and a few hundred "howdy's," i find myself back at the beginning, overwhelmed all over again. my course requirements are in direct conflict with each other, i have no idea what to do with what remains of my tuition fees or childhood, my meal plan outlook is serving hungercore, and above all, i'm scared. i'm scared i've made the wrong choices, i'm scared i won't be able to keep up (or that i'm already behind), and i'm especially terrified cstat will be a petri dish for relapse.

    but just as suffering and hunger are just information, so is fear. just like there's nothing noble about suffering and there's nothing virtuous about hunger, there's nothing tragic about fear. fear is just an emotion, just my body's way of processing the input i feed her. and since my body and i are just average, any emotional reasoning on our part is only cognitive distortion, not some feat of clairvoyance. i have the capacity to simultaneously acknowledge my anxieties, and to recognize that they're about as representative of reality's beauty, as my phone's camera is of the sky's vibrancy.

    i have survived grief, the aftermath of love, because i trusted myself to love beautifully again. i will survive terror, the counterpart of courage, because i trust myself to live courageously again.

cant stop thinking about this this was sooo crazyyyyy

[the-fyre-flie]

De aged Captain Marvel except CM is now Billys age and Billy is... gone. What follows is CM trying so hard to NOT reveal that his crucial other half is maybe sorta removed from existence, and he looks suspiciously like a homeless kid the League ran into ages ago.

-

When the evil wizard casted a de-aging spell, the rest of the Justice League were all prepared to babysit the rest of their team, each member planning how they would take care of a bunch of super powered and traumatized kids just in case they were (un)lucky enough to be the oldest. What they did not expect was for Captain Marvel to shield them all from the blast. When they finally regained their composure, a few members double-checking that they weren't a teen, or worse, a toddler, they were instead faced with a... tiny version of Captain Marvel. A little baby faced boy, barely 10, in Captain Marvels now very ill-fitting costume. The boy was just as confused as they were, but for very different reasons. He didn't seem at all bothered that he was missing multiple feet of height or a hundred pounds of muscle. Rather, he was holding his head, mumbling something about 'where are you, kid? kid? can you hear me?' He looks like he might cry and the League has no clue how to fix it. Due to the newfound issue of Magical Child Being, Captain gets quarantined until they can figure out a way to reverse the spell. This leaves Captain with plenty of time to grapple with the fact that he's alone and Billy is gone. Its lonely, its horrific, and the gods have no idea how to help and get their champion back. He's the personification of magic, of Billy's ideals and hopes and dreams, of the responsibility tied to magic, and without Billy, there isn't actually anything tying him to reality. When the spell eventually wears off and Billy is back, Captain immediately takes a long break from hero-ing. The League thinks it's because being a kid again was just too much for Captain, in reality Captain and Billy spend like a month bonding again and repairing the relationship and anxiety of not having one another to balance the other.

[coralbae]

Locking the door behind you as you step into yours and Satoru's shared home, you chuck your purse onto the couch before interlocking your fingers and stretching your arms above your head. After a gruelling day to wrap up a week that never seemed like it would end, the only thing on your mind right now was steaming hot shower.

Sensing your return, Satoru practically bounded over to where you stood, tackling you in a hug and greeting you with a sweet kiss which you gladly returned.

Smiling at him, you greet your overenthusiatic boyfriend with a smile, 'Hi Toru, I missed you so much and I thank the gods that we both have the whole weekend off, but what I really need before we do anything else is a nice, long shower,' you coo as you let go of his face and untangle yourself from him. And of course, Satoru being Satoru, he grins.

'So, can I join you?' he asks, eyes wide. But you were determined to have some me time in the shower without the distraction of wandering hands. 'I meant alone.'

Pout

'But I promise that we can cuddle for as long as you want once I'm done. I'm just so exhausted from this past week and I've been craving this all day, is that okay?'

Like the drama queen that he is, he huffs and pouts but nods anyway. 'I'll see you later,' he tells you as he saunters off and you catch the tiniest hint of a smirk on his face.

That man is always up to something.

Once you gather your silk pyjamas (which of course matches his) from your bedroom, you open the door to the ensuite bathroom just to see that Satoru had dragged an armchair in front of the shower.

'Seriously?' you call out, loud enough for him to hear you from wherever he was in the house as you begin to undress. Just as you're only left in your underwear, a muffled voice resounds from the doorway behind you, 'What? You didn't say I couldn't watch!'.

Rolling your eyes and against your better judgement, you fold and allow him to stay. 'Is the popcorn and ramune necessary?' you question, to which he gives you a weak 'mhm' as he plops himself into the chair, all giddy, crossing his legs with the bowl of popcorn in his lap as if he were about to watch his favourite movie.

Deciding to leave him be, you discard the rest of your clothing in the laundry hamper and slip into the shower, turning it on and practically moaning when the hot water washes over your skin.

About five minutes into your shower, one that you never want to get out of, you check on your boyfriend and realise that his food and drink are all gone, leaving him watching you with a dopey smile while leaned back in his chair with a growing tent in his pants. 'Can you wipe away the condensation? It's getting a bit hard to see.' In response, you say nothing, instead grabbing the showerhead and spraying the glass separating the two of you, clearing the fog while also making him flinch in his seat before he settles down and you return the showerhead to its holder.

After a couple more minutes of being watched intensely, you sigh and open the door to the shower, body soapy and water dripping from your hair onto the cool tiles as you stick your head out. He blinks back at you, 'Yes?'

'Are you coming in or not?'.

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru has appointed himself as your personal weather app and takes this responsibility very seriously.

like seriously seriously. we're talking obsessive refresh rates on three different weather apps, color-coded charts he's made in his notes app, and a literal spreadsheet tracking precipitation patterns in your area. you didn't ask for this. you didn't sign up for this. but here you are, getting updates every three hours like you're launching a space mission instead of walking to the grocery store.

“baby, it's gonna be cloudy at 2 pm, bring a jacket.”

“satoru, it's 85 degrees outside.”

“but what if the clouds make you cold? what if you get a chill? what if the sun disappears and you're left shivering and jacketless and i'm not there to warm you up?”

this man can see through buildings, can teleport across dimensions, can level city blocks with a flick of his wrist—but cannot trust you to dress yourself appropriately for the weather. the same person who will casually stroll into a category-5 cursed spirit domain wearing nothing but a smirk and overconfidence thinks you need a weather briefing to walk to the mailbox.

your phone buzzes at 6 am. “good morning beautiful! it's currently 72 degrees with a gentle breeze from the southwest. humidity is at 64%. uv index is moderate. wear sunscreen. i love you. also there's a 12% chance of scattered showers around 4 pm so maybe bring an umbrella? or don't go out. actually just stay inside. i miss you.”

you're still in bed. you haven't even opened your eyes. but satoru has already consulted four meteorologists and nasa's satellite imagery just to make sure you don't get slightly damp on your way to work.

he's got weather widgets covering his entire phone screen. animated radar maps bookmarked on his laptop. he follows local meteorologists on social media and has notifications turned on for weather emergencies within a 50-mile radius of your location. there's a barometric pressure app that sends him alerts when storms are brewing three days out.

“why don't you just check the weather yourself?” you ask, watching him frantically scroll through hourly forecasts like he's reading scripture. his hair is doing that thing where it sticks up in seventeen different directions, like he's been running his fingers through it while cross-referencing doppler radar.

“because i'm better at it,” he says, dead serious. his eyes do this weird shift thing when he's being particularly stubborn—like looking at ice through clear water, all refracted and impossible to pin down. “i cross-reference multiple sources. i analyze patterns. i care about accuracy. what if your weather app is wrong? what if it says sunny but there's actually a rogue cloud hovering over your exact coordinates? what if—”

“satoru.”

“what if you get caught in a surprise drizzle and your hair gets frizzy and you're sad about it? i can't let that happen. that's bad husband behavior.”

the dedication is honestly impressive. and slightly concerning. he's got backup plans for your backup plans. if there's a 20% chance of rain, he's already ordered you three different umbrellas and a waterproof jacket. if it's going to be windy, he's sending you hair ties and a gentle reminder to “please don't let the breeze bully you, baby.”

he's started leaving jackets in your car. in your office. in your gym bag. strategically placed hoodies throughout your life like little fabric safety nets. your friends have started calling him “weather dad” because he's somehow managed to text them about bringing jackets when you're all going out together.

“it's going to drop five degrees after sunset,” he announces, appearing in your doorway with a sweater draped over his arm like he's presenting royal robes. his mouth is doing that thing where it looks like he's trying not to smile but failing spectacularly. “i know you think you're fine but your body temperature runs low and i won't have you catching pneumonia on my watch.”

“it's july.”

“pneumonia doesn't follow a calendar, sweetheart.”

the worst part? he's usually right. that random tuesday when he insisted you bring a jacket even though it was 80 degrees and sunny? sudden thunderstorm at 3 pm. the day he made you pack an umbrella for your “quick coffee run”? surprise shower that lasted exactly seventeen minutes. he's got some kind of supernatural meteorological intuition that would be impressive if it weren't so much.

your weather app has become obsolete. why check when you've got your own personal early warning system who texts you things like “baby the barometric pressure is dropping can you feel it in your bones? are you experiencing any joint discomfort? should i come home early and make you soup?”

he's got your zip code memorized. your work address. your gym. your favorite coffee shop. he's got weather alerts set for every single location you visit regularly because what if there's a microclimate situation? what if it's sunny at home but somehow snowing at target?

“you know i survived twenty-plus years without a personal meteorologist,” you tell him, watching him check his phone for the fifteenth time during dinner. his thumb moves in these quick, anxious little taps across the screen, and the weather radar reflects in those ridiculous lashes that are somehow longer than yours.

“barely,” he says, not looking up from the extended ten-day forecast. when he concentrates like this, his hair falls forward in these soft, uneven pieces that catch the light like fresh snow in sunbeams. “look at this. 40% chance of rain on thursday. we need to start planning.”

“planning for what?”

“your outfit. your mood. your hair routine. your route to work. your—”

“satoru.”

“your happiness and general wellbeing which is directly tied to weather-related preparedness.”

you stare at him. he stares back with the most serious expression you've ever seen on his face, jaw set like he's about to negotiate world peace instead of discussing thursday's precipitation probability. there's this little crease between his eyebrows that only shows up when he's being particularly ridiculous about something he considers life-or-death important.

“thursday is five days away.”

“exactly. we're already behind schedule.”

the thing is, underneath all the meteorological madness, it's actually the sweetest thing in the world. he's not just checking the weather—he's checking on you. making sure you're comfortable, prepared, safe. he's weaponizing forecasts as an excuse to take care of you, and honestly? it's working.

so when thursday rolls around and you're perfectly dry under the umbrella he made you bring, when you're cozy in the jacket he insisted you grab, when you're prepared for the day because someone loves you enough to obsess over cloud formations—you can't even be mad about it.

“told you so,” he says smugly, wrapping his arms around you while rain patters against the window. his chin hooks over your shoulder, and you can feel his satisfied little hum vibrate through his chest.

“you're insane,” you mutter, but you're leaning back into him anyway, letting his warmth seep through your perfectly weather-appropriate layers. your head finds that spot where his collarbone meets his shoulder, where he always smells like whatever expensive soap he uses and something that's just purely him.

“and accurate,” he says, already checking friday's forecast over your shoulder. the screen casts this weird glow across his face, turns his hair into something that looks like it was spun from winter mornings and impossible things. “oh, look at that. 73 degrees and sunny. perfect hoodie weather. i should probably put one in your car just in case.”

“satoru—”

“and maybe some sunscreen. and a backup hair tie. and—”

you kiss him quiet. because he’s ridiculous and obsessive and treats weather patterns like military intelligence.

his phone clatters to the floor immediately—because of course it does, satoru has never met a phone he couldn’t drop the second your lips touch his. his hands find your face instead, fingers threading through your hair like he's been waiting all day for this exact moment. which, knowing him, he probably has.

“mmph—baby—” he tries to talk between kisses, which is so typical of him, can't even shut up when you’re literally kissing him. “the forecast though—”

“shut up about the forecast,” you laugh against his mouth, and he grins that stupid grin that makes your stomach flip.

“but what if it—”

you kiss him harder. his laugh rumbles through his chest, vibrates against your lips, and suddenly he's backing you against the counter, all long limbs and enthusiastic hands and zero concern for his poor phone that’s probably face-down on the kitchen tiles showing tomorrow’s temperature.

“okay, okay,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you with those impossible eyes, pupils blown wide and hair even messier than before. “weather can wait.”

“weather can wait,” you agree, already pulling him back down.

(his phone buzzes from the floor. severe weather alert. neither of you care enough to hear it.)