#even if their relationship is in some ways tragic

[goldrvshs]

against  what  would  be  better  judgement,  if  he  paused  long  enough  to  think  before  he  spoke,  max  would've  thought  better  of  his  coming  words.  "you  sound  a  little  bitter,  babe."  there  was  a  calm  about  him  as  he  stated  so,  not  his  usual  more  frenetic  way  (  he  always  did  have  trouble  being  too  still  ),  more  so  resigned  to  this.  "don't  start  that,"  his  head  shook  and  a  hand  struck  through  the  space,  a  mime  of  trying  to  push  the  topic  and  mood  away.  "what  is  it  you  think  i  love  about  it?  go  on  and  tell  me  ⸺  since  you're  real  fond  of  that  telling  me  what  i  think  and  feel."

in  his  mind,  max's  separations  from  relationships  /  marriages,  they  had  been  amicable.  there  was  no  enjoyment  out  of  being  someone  that  slipped  through  someone's  fingers,  or  being  possible  to  hold  onto.  clearly,  he  wanted  someone.  he  wanted  something  steady  and  lasting,  but  he  was  cognizant  of  the  fact  that  something  within  him  was  broken.

rather  than  stand  idly  while  she  read  into  him,  he  busies  himself  with  something  pointless.  it  meant  nothing,  his  attention  was  actually  still  in  the  right  place  ⸺  it  was  just  the  stillness  he  often  had  a  problem  with.  his  blue  eyes  scanned  until  they'd  met  her  gaze  and  his  brow  flinched  at  being  seen.  "you  mean  tired  and  exhausted  as  fuck?"  there  was  a  feeling  nauseating  his  stomach  that  she  meant  something  much  deeper  than  that,  but  he  wasn't  sure  he  wanted  to  seek  that  answer.

it  always  amused  max  to  hear  how  people  thought  of  him.  tragic  hero  complex  and  a  few  loose  screws.  sure,  he  might  not  be  neat  and  tidy,  but  a  life  like  that  felt  stagnant  and  boring.  too  routined.  "sounds  to  me  if  i  did  stay,"  hadn't  their  divorce  been  mutual?,  "you  would've  criticized  that.  i  would  think  quiet  was  peaceful  for  you  after  you  had  such  a  hard  time  with  me."  it  seemed  he  was  learning  some  long  hidden  truths  and  he  shifted  around,  pushed  a  somewhat  damp  towel  over  the  bare  polished  wood  of  the  inside  counter.  "you  didn't  want  me  to  stay,  iris..."  his  eyes  met  hers,  daring  her  to  tell  him  different.

"ah,  so  you  moved  onto  boring  fucks,"  he  chuckled,  hip  against  the  bar  and  leaning  slightly  into  the  hand  resting  atop  it  with  fingers  still  curled  into  the  towel.  endearment  washed  over  him  though,  hearing  that  one  good  piece  out  of  everything,  and  it  was  something  that  had  always  been  winning  with  women.  make  them  laugh.

"or,  maybe,  i  just  don't  know  how  to  love,  iris."  it  wasn't  about  being  good  at  leaving  or  bad  at  staying.  his  example  of  love  growing  up  was  a  loveless  home,  of  parents  who  should've  been  divorced,  of  a  man  and  a  woman  who  couldn't  sleep  in  the  same  room  and  constantly  nitpicked  at  each  other.  "maybe  i  just  don't  wanna  turn  into  my  dad.  i  see  him  in  me.  would  you  have  wanted  that?  it's  like  you  believed  i  had  the  ability  to  be  something  different,  better...  and  i'm  just  fighting  what's  to  become."

in  disagreement,  his  head  shook.  "someone  put  that  fire  out,  didn't  they?"  when  he  leaned  in  he  could  see  it  in  her  eyes,  in  the  way  her  body  reacted  to  him  ⸺  max  still  had  an  effect  on  her.  "looks  like  me  picking  you  up  still  works."  there  hadn't  even  been  a  hitch  or  hesitation,  and  for  that,  max  genuinely  offered  her  a  small  smile.  not  something  grossly  victorious.  "i  can't  imagine  what  it  cost  you,"  he  said  a  moment  later,  his  voice  still  low  and  almost  too  quiet  between  them,  "but  don't  assume  that  i've  ever  taken  it  lightly  or  looked  at  you  as  anything  less  than  glorious."

when  the  drink  came  with  a  condition  he  shifted  and  leaned  back  against  the  bar  as  she  waited  with  glasses.  max's  arms  crossed,  it  likely  looked  like  defiance,  but  reality  was  he  just  needed  to  tie  up  his  hands.  "remember  that  gin  we  loved  a  little  too  hard  in  new  orleans?"  a  smirk  began  to  form  and  then  a  hand  was  released  to  point  to  a  bottom  cabinet.  "look  in  there,  all  the  way  in  the  back.  i've  got  a  bottle."

the  thing  was,  max  had  never  been  a  liar,  people  didn't  need  to  ask  him  to  be  honest.  he  always  was.  maybe  that's  why  he  aggravated  people  much  of  the  time.  "i've  told  ya,"  his  head  slightly  shook  as  a  hand  cradled  his  cheek  while  he  thought  back  to  that  moment.  "what  did  i  think?  beyond  the  shock  and  surprise,  aside  of  how  good  you  looked,  and  the  memories  that  flooded  me  at  the  sight  of  you?  i  thought  you  were  here  to  save  me."

“not you quoting sexton at me like you’re not the reason i had to start keeping a dog-eared copy by the bed,” she said, not quite smiling, but close — the kind of look that said she’d been here before. with him. “don’t act like you didn’t love being the watercolor. no one could hold you, so you made it sound like a choice.” she let that land, eyes on him, steady and soft-edged. not cruel. just knowing. she took another sip of her coffee, the kind of slow, deliberate drink people did when they needed their hands to be busy — when the rest of them was already caught somewhere else. “and yeah, you keep me up,” she murmured, setting the mug down with a muted clink. “but not for the reasons your ego’s banking on. it’s not the toes, hoffman — it’s the way your voice sounds at closing time when you think no one’s listening.” her brow arched, lashes lowering just slightly. “but sure. we’ll blame the feet.” his height joke earned him a low, unimpressed hum, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes anyway. “i may be fun-sized, but you’re out here with a tragic hero complex and a few loose screws — so maybe we’re even.” she leaned her weight on her elbows, chin tilting slightly. “giants don’t scare me. never did. but the quiet things? the ones that stay? yeah. those are the ones that bite.” when he asked who she’d been filling her life with, she didn’t answer right away. just looked at him like he was part of some puzzle she wasn’t done solving. or maybe had solved years ago but kept picking at anyway. “no one you’d like,” she said finally. “too neat. too nice. they don’t yell at the moon or name drinks after past lovers. and none of ‘em ever made me laugh the way you do.” she went quiet when he dropped the line about being not-that-smart. just let her gaze trail after him as he moved. “maybe you’re not smart then,” she said at last, voice soft. “but you always knew when to leave. that’s gotta count for something.” a beat. “or maybe you just never knew how to stay.” she didn’t argue with the rest of it — his take on life, tragedy, reaction. that whole bit. she just looked at him with that same unreadable expression she always wore when he got close to saying something true. then, after a moment, she gave a small shrug. “maybe we’re just built too different. you bounce, i burn.” but when he leaned in like that — when he said you came back like it meant more than it should — she didn’t pull away. didn’t hide the flicker of something behind her eyes, the one that still remembered what it was like to wake up next to him on a tuesday morning and believe, for just a second, that they could be more than the messes they carried. “don’t do that,” she said quietly. “don’t pretend like it didn’t cost me something to show up.” then he asked her to have a drink, and her mouth twisted into that half-smile that always came with danger. “what’re we drinking? and please don’t say whiskey, or i’ll start quoting sexton back at you and we’ll both spiral.” she reached beneath the bar, pulled out two glasses. didn’t pour yet. just looked at him, head tilted, something soft and a little sharp in her gaze. “one drink,” she said. “but only if you tell me what you were thinking when i walked through that door again. first night. before you said a word.” a pause. “no lies, max. not even the pretty kind.”

[iamthewanderingbard]

Yup, still going feral over Elissa and Lucy.

[evelynpr]

BNHA x Alien Stage but idk how to make it work???

Despite all of the complex and intertwined forms of love/admiration/obsession in BNHA's characters, I can't seem to form a fitting Alien Stage AU that fits the base dynamics of alnst's own main four.

Why? Because Himiko Toga is Ivan, Till, and Sua coded all at once. Ivan (unrequited-ish, blood, vampire), Till (aggressive, compulsive, gets sedated), Sua (worshipped love of the mc who dies, scarring her for the rest of her life).

Even if tgck were simply Sua and Mizi, idk who in the world would fit Till because no one in the cast worships Ochako like how Till worships Mizi (Izuku does not). I even considered Ochako as Till who admires Izuku and Himiko as Ivan, but Ochako being that compulsive and open about her feelings like...goes against her character so much so no... Himiko as Till, being obsessed with Izuku as Mizi but not Ochako also doesn't work for me either, because Himiko would like them both, not only one at a time, and that's important to me.

Bkdk as Ivantill is also too easy, but doesn't work either, because their love is so requited to me I can't imagine either as Till. Aka, the one who doesn't look back while obsessing over someone else, because they don't obsesses about literally anyone else but each other and All Might (and not in that way).

For the time being, I'm sticking with Ivantill-Togachako and Mizisua-Bakudeku but no exact roles yet. It's very strange at first glance, I know, but this makes the most sense in my brain.

I even considered dragging Shoto, Iida, Kirishima, or Tsu into this but they don't have enough connections for me to work with either, and not as insane. Sigh what a weird conundrum I'm in...

[skunkes]

doing figure drawing studies because i know thats what i should be doing right now but also ive been in a very insane deranged state for the past 2 months that leaves me like this whenever i look at a man for too long

[camgoloud]

you ever just. become overwhelmed by a sudden out-of-nowhere wave of tenderness and affection and longing for reconnection directed towards someone to whom you no longer speak for Very Good Reasons

[fantasmadelaciudad]

i truly despise the way fandoms tend to obsess over any suggestion or hint at child abuse. it's so fucking boring and i'm incapable of ever taking it seriously because it's always so over the top.

[ilovemylawyer]

i love the EVIL part of EVILIVE btw. i find fucked up, unnameable unobtainable obsessive life-ending love extremely romantic and delicious. it’s the way things are in the evilive world! things are messy! and bad! and i love it! i (at least currently!!!) do not plan on writing anything pure fluff happiness because that is not something that i wish to extract from this show.. it isn’t there! i have no interest in erasing these harsh realities of evilive in my fics. happy lalala is not fun for me to write, and i won’t do it without a heavy underlying feeling of uneasiness and uncertainty and dread and despair and inevitable death. i like pain :/ and half of this couple is one of the most greedy selfish motherfuckers i have ever come to know and he’s oh so beautiful. so i am sorry if you finished evilive and wanted some kind of fix-it happy gays but i am NOTTTTTTTT the guy for that.

[hoipeepsimruby]

Imma just list all of my aro and or ace headcanons for Genshin Impact

Diluc: aro/ace

Kaeya: asexual but in denial

Venti: demiromantic-asexual

Fischl: panplatonic

Razor: biplatonic

Bennett: biromantic-asexual

Xiangling: asexual

Chongyun: demiromantic-demisexual

Shenhe: aro/ace

Kokomi: asexual

Ei: panromantic-asexual

Wanderer: panromantic-asexual (not in denial over asexualiy but is in denial over being romantically interested in people)

Collei: aromantic

Alhaitham: demiromantic-demisexual

Layla: demiromantic

Neuvilette: demiromantic-demisexual

Lyney: demiromantic-asexual

Lynette: aro/ace

[coolspacequips]

I gotta give black sails it's flowers for having multiple bisexual poly relationships, mmf AND ffm at that lol

The first was such a delightful and unexpected twist that really puts a new light onto the entire thesis of the show, and then the second was literally one of my fav dynamics in the entire series, they were my favs and all got together??? Usually this only happens in indulgent fic, but not this time!!

(also something high-key funny (in a sad way) that it kinda starts as 'I'm so co-dependant I need you to hold my hand while I hook up with someone else that I was dubiously cheating on u with 🥺' and then they became a power throuple)

[meatriarchived]

me crawling out of bed to type this and disappear back to my cocoon right after but-specifically looking at the hewitts since granted i know more on the remakes than the others but,

the hewitts only got vague, limited police action looking into them in '03 after erin chops thomas' arm off and gets away. and even though theres' coverage of it and everything, that literally ONLY happens after 4-5 straight years of the hewitts doing what they do, from 69-73 in terms of solely the remake timeline.

that's still a shitton of time to be ACTIVELY killing people to y'know. not fucking die yourselves. then combine that with the sawyers - their additional family members, their own trails of ruthlessness added into the mix, and this entire combined family unit likely has kill counts all around in the hundreds if not even way past that.

but even with the police involvement in the remakes?

its all SO SLOPPY, its hardly conducted with any real CARE about their own well-beings. like??? ya'll went into that house while THOMAS was STILL THERE... didnt even SECURE THE HOUSE.....

and even with the found footage? no arrests, presumably. the remaining hewitts are still at large, thomas is still at large. like... all ya'll did was corral them to their fucking confusing ass tunnel system and made luda (if we count the comics) far more involved and ruthless in the actual killings than she was in the movies lol

and yes technically speaking with charlie's death that could sever the stronghold they've got on the police and sheriffs' around them - but at the same time - how bad would it look of them to SUDDENLY flip a switch and try to unpack the years worth of missing persons, cold cases, murders, kidnappings, break-ins, assaults, etc etc that they swept under the rug? that's WAY too much man power, esp for back then. no one is gonna do that shit.

so. i truly dont think they have much to worry about even in the event of charlie dying - because the fear and influence they've instilled stands for law enforcement to continue to do fuck all - to save and cover their own asses.

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

People I keep seeing online: no one writes about women!

Me the other day: I really need to make this lead man character more than just the woman lead’s malewife. What’s his background even like?

[caitsgaptooth]

No, because what do you mean Arcane has completely rewritten the rulebook on queer representation in media, and it did it so effortlessly that it puts so many other shows to shame. Like, how are you going to tell me this animated series—ostensibly a spin-off of a video game—has given us some of the most nuanced, unapologetically powerful sapphic characters ever without reducing them to stereotypes, side plots, or, worse, trauma porn?

Vi and Caitlyn? Their dynamic is ELECTRIC. You’ve got Vi, the rough-edged, fiercely loyal, scrappy brawler with a tender side that could wreck anyone emotionally, and Caitlyn, the sharp, principled, deeply empathetic enforcer with a heart of gold. The way their relationship is built on mutual respect and trust while navigating all the insane, tragic chaos around them? Literal chef's kiss. And not once do we get the tired, lazy "coming out" narrative or the "but what about the gays?" rhetoric. Their queerness isn’t the story—it’s just a beautifully natural part of who they are. And THAT is revolutionary.

And let’s not even stop there. This show handles gender like it’s been waiting for everyone else to catch up. Characters like Sevika, who could give you chills with her sheer badassery and gender-nonconforming energy, exist unapologetically without the narrative ever feeling the need to spoon-feed us explanations. It’s just there, woven seamlessly into the fabric of the world.

So many shows claim to want to "normalize" queer relationships or push the envelope, but Arcane has quietly dominated the space by just writing characters who feel authentic. Their struggles are about class, power, loyalty, trauma, not token representation or forced diversity. This show said, “We’re just going to make some of the most layered, compelling characters you’ve ever seen—and oh yeah, some of them are gay. Keep up.”

Like, the bar wasn’t just raised—it was launched into the stratosphere. What do you mean this level of representation isn’t the norm yet? Arcane said, “We’re not asking for permission to exist. We’re just existing.” And that? That is art.

[luna-azzurra]

Write Characters with Deep Emotional Wounds

(Without Making Them Walking Tragedies)

╰ Start with the scar, not the stabbing. Everyone talks about what happened to your character (The Big Trauma) but honestly? It’s the aftermath that matters. Show me the limp, not the bullet wound. Show me the way they flinch at kindness or double-check locks three times. The wound shapes them more than the event ever did.

╰ Don't make them "Sad All The Time" People with deep hurts aren’t just dramatic sob machines. They make bad jokes. They find weird hobbies. They have good days and then get wrecked by a song in a grocery store. Layers, my friend. Pain is complex and it sure as hell isn’t aesthetic.

╰ Let them almost heal and then backslide. Real healing isn’t linear. One good conversation doesn’t erase ten years of bottled-up grief. Your character might think they’re over it, and then one tiny thing, a smell, a phrase, a look, knocks them right back into the hole. Make them earn their healing. Make us ache for them.

╰ Give them armor and show the cracks. Maybe it’s sarcasm. Maybe it’s perfectionism. Maybe it’s taking care of everyone else so no one notices they're broken. Whatever mask they wear, show us the hairline fractures. Let us catch the moments where they almost drop the act.

╰ Don’t turn their trauma into their only personality trait. Yes, they’ve been through hell. But they also love spicy chips and bad reality TV. They have dumb crushes and secret dreams. A tragic backstory isn’t a substitute for a full human being. Let them be more than the worst thing that ever happened to them.

╰ Let their wound warp their decisions. People protect their wounds. Even badly. Especially badly. They might sabotage good relationships. Or push away help. Or cling too tightly. Make their past live in their choices, not just their flashbacks.

╰ Don’t make the world validate them for existing. Not everyone is going to understand your wounded character. Some people will misunderstand them. Blame them. Get frustrated. And honestly? That’s real. Let your character find their people, after facing the ones who don’t get it. It’s so much sweeter that way.

╰ Wounds can make them kinder—or crueler. Pain changes people. Some become protectors. Some become destroyers. Some do both, depending on the day. Let your character’s hurt make them complicated. Unpredictable. Human.

╰ Don’t heal them just to tie a neat bow on your story Sometimes the best ending is messy. Sometimes the healing is just starting. Sometimes it’s just hope, not a full recovery montage. That’s okay. Healing is a lifelong, terrifying, brave process—and readers feel it when you respect that.

[ultimatebottom69]

Yeah frankly if I learn Sasha is in the project i love Mimi but I am not playing this story out of DR...If i am playing it at all.

I don't see how one can make an actually likeable sequel to this pesudo-edgy creepypasta 2010's worthy of fuckfest.

I am sad it took Sasha ruining the two main li's plot, characterization (the little they had) and relationship with the MC (Lane) for everyone to see it. I feel like watching Remy rise and fall of fame all over again.

HSR man… enough has been said, but I still need to say my piece. The train has been derailing for a while now, so it’s something we’ve seen coming, but that still doesn’t make the aftermath any easier to process. I’m absolutely gutted because the potential of what Dmitry and Lane could have been in the hands of a less bigoted and hateful writer... that’s really what I’m mourning now at this point (and what Anna & Greg romancers have been mourning for a while now).

I’ve seen people say “well Lane was always supposed to be like this, she was never supposed to be a good person.” Then what was the point of establishing the Voice of God and Whisper of the Devil paths? What was the point of branching routes where she is either aligned with the squad or out for herself? What was the point of any of it if, when it comes down to the most rudimentary choices and the most crucial moments, Lane can ultimately never be redeemed? If she can never grow? Even if she is like Audrey, and it’s all designed for her to ultimately end up as a sacrificial lamb, where is your accountability as an author for your main character’s lack of development? There is a way to write flawed/complex/traumatized characters navigating a dystopian world WITHOUT disillusioning your entire audience in the process. An audience who have not only invested resources like time and money, but also grown emotionally attached to the characters you’ve developed.

I used to lose sleep in the beginning updates of this story because I was genuinely excited by the possibilities. I was excited about the idea of expanding the HS universe that has held a special place in my heart since I first started playing RC at the peak of my depression in 2021. And Sasha has repeatedly disrespected and perverted that world. Suffice to say, I’m completely done with HSR and strapped the hell in for HS3. Sasha better have NOTHING to do with that project. Like I don’t even want her pinky toe to be within a 30 mile radius of it. She can’t sit with us.

[louisaskywalkerani]

✷ · THE INTERVIEW NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW ABOUT || CLARK KENT

(yes, that one. the countertop one.)

MINI NOTE: i haven’t been normal since i saw that damn kitchen scene in theaters. the way clark looked in that white shirt?? the sleeves rolled up??? the fact that he cooked like it was his apartment?? it rewired something in me permanently. i haven’t stopped thinking about this scenario since. anyway. here u go. i am unwell <3

CW: 18+, smut! minors DNI. p in v, unprotected sex secret relationship, fake interview gone very unprofessional, kissing during the questions, no y/n.

It was nearly ten-thirty when your key turned in the lock.

You didn’t expect anything except silence, maybe the hum of the fridge, maybe your own reflection in the darkened kitchen window. But instead, you were hit with something entirely different: warmth, music, and the scent of garlic and tomato wafting from your kitchen like a love letter you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

Your heels clicked softly as you stepped inside, kicking them off by the door.

Your bag hit the floor next. Your coat followed, draped lazily on the back of a chair. Every part of you ached, your feet, your head, your shoulders…but then you turned the corner into the kitchen and saw him.

Clark.

Barefoot. Sleeves rolled up. Glasses slipping a little on the bridge of his nose. He was stirring something on the stove, and humming, actually humming, like some sort of domestic dream. His hair was slightly mussed, his expression relaxed, like this was his place too.

Because secretly, it was.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and said nothing.

He felt you before he saw you, like he always did. He turned slightly and looked at you with the kind of expression that pulled something deep and warm straight through your chest.

“There you are,” he said softly, like he hadn’t been checking for your heartbeat in the hallway two minutes earlier. “Long day?”

You gave a tired laugh. “You have no idea.”

He set the spoon down, turned off the burner, and crossed the kitchen in three steps. His arms wrapped around you instantly, warm and sure, and your forehead fell against his chest like you were exhaling for the first time all day.

“You cooked,” you murmured, muffled against him.

“I missed you.”

You looked up at him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

“I saw you on TV, you know. Saving a monorail full of kids in Berlin.”

He smiled. “Still missed you.”

God, that smile.

He leaned down and kissed you, soft and slow at first, like his lips were tasting the stress on yours and trying to replace it with something better. But there was something deeper beneath it, something familiar and lingering and dangerous, and the longer it lasted, the more you forgot the world outside your apartment even existed.

When he pulled back, his voice had dropped a little. “Come sit. Food’s almost ready.”

But you didn’t let go.

You leaned in, grinning against his throat. “Or you could lift me onto the counter like you always do.”

He laughed under his breath, that low, easy sound that made your stomach twist in the best way, and in the next second, you were in the air.

Strong hands under your thighs, your back settling against cool stone. His body slid between your knees, warm and solid, and the kiss that followed was hungrier, deeper.

You groaned, resting your head against the cabinet behind you.

“I had to spend two hours sitting across from Stern today while he chewed with his mouth open. Two hours, Clark.”

He chuckled, brushing his lips over your jaw. “Tragic.”

“And then my editor cut three paragraphs from my piece without telling me. I swear I’m going to—”

His mouth landed on your throat.

You gasped, words dissolving.

“Clark.”

“Mhm?”

“That’s not helping.”

“Yes it is,” he said, kissing lower. “It’s helping me.”

You let him distract you for a few more seconds before pulling back, reluctantly.

“Okay, but seriously?” you said, dragging your fingers lightly up the back of his neck. “You’re going to get caught.”

He blinked. “Caught doing what?”

“You’re always the one interviewing Superman,” you pointed out. “And it’s not subtle anymore. People are starting to talk.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re people?”

“I’m just saying,” you teased. “If I were Lois, I’d be suspicious.”

“Well,” he said, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, “maybe it’s time you interviewed him instead.”

You laughed. “What, now?”

“Why not?”

“You want me to interview Superman in my kitchen?”

He stepped back slightly, and you saw the shift happen right before your eyes, the slight straightening of his shoulders, the confidence that came into his stance, the subtle intensity in his eyes as he slowly took off his glasses.

And just like that — there he was.

Superman.

You sat straighter on the counter, eyebrows raised.

“Okay then,” you said, grabbing your phone and opening the voice recorder. “Superman, thank you for joining me on such short notice.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Always happy to speak with the press.”

You tried to keep a straight face as you cleared your throat. “First question. How do you manage to maintain your secret identity when you’re photographed almost every day?”

He gave a small smile. “People don’t see what they’re not looking for.”

“Mhm. And how do you explain your ongoing exclusive relationship with reporter Clark Kent?”

He stepped closer. “Let’s just say… I trust him.”

You bit your lip. “Seems awfully convenient.”

He tilted his head. “Are you accusing me of favoritism?”

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, as he stepped even closer, “if I didn’t know better…”

You were going to say more. You had your next question ready, something about accountability and transparency.

But he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek, and said, “Ask me question four.”

You opened your mouth, then paused as his hands came to rest on your thighs again slow, warm, certain.

“Question four,” you managed, “what—”

His mouth touched your neck.

You blinked. “What are your—Clark—”

“Not Clark right now,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.

“Superman,” you corrected, trying to stay in character even as he kissed that sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. “What are your core values when it comes to—oh my god—international diplomacy…”

He grinned against your throat.

“You’re not playing fair,” you whispered.

He kissed your collarbone. “Neither are you.”

And then suddenly, he dropped to his knees.

Your breath caught.

His hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent, pushing your skirt up as his eyes flicked to yours.

“Still recording?” he asked.

You reached behind you blindly, slamming your phone onto the counter and shutting it off.

“Good,” he said, and pulled you forward.

You gasped as his mouth pressed between your thighs hot, steady, unrelenting.

Your hands scrambled for balance, grasping the edge of the counter, then his hair.

“Clark—”

When he stood suddenly, your breathing was ragged, your thighs still twitching.

He kissed you, softly now, like an apology and a promise at once and then rested his forehead against yours.

“Still think my exclusives are suspicious?”

You couldn’t even glare. You just laughed breathlessly, pulled him closer, and whispered, “Shut up.”

His mouth crashed into yours. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound, one hand gripping your jaw, the other sliding up under your shirt.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

You wanted this.

You always did.

You tugged at his shirt, yanked it over his head — palms running over the solid heat of his chest.

His eyes flicked toward the bedroom.

You shook your head.

“Right here,” you whispered.

He growled softly. Kissed you again, teeth grazing your lower lip, hands dragging your shirt off, fingers skimming over your skin like he needed to feel every inch of you just to stay sane.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he said, voice low, gravelly.

You moaned.

He pulled your underwear down slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“I come home to this,” he murmured, dragging his knuckles up your inner thigh. “And you expect me to take it slow?”

“Clark—”

“No,” he whispered, gripping your hips. “No more waiting.”

He didn’t.

He pressed into you with one smooth, deep thrust and your head fell back, a gasp tearing from your throat.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

Just held you there — full, stretched, his.

Then his mouth found your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone.

“Tell me you missed me,” he murmured.

“I missed you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“I—God, Clark, I need you.”

That broke him.

He began to move.

Hard, slow thrusts. Deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs. His grip tight, your back arching off the counter with every roll of his hips.

Every time he pulled out, it was only to push back in harder — deeper — his breath hot against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

You could barely nod.

His hand slid to your throat, gentle but firm — just enough to hold you still, to make you feel claimed.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He kissed you again, messy and hot, tongue sliding against yours, his hips grinding into you with a rhythm that made your whole body shudder.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned. “I could stay inside you all night.”

You clenched around him, and he growled — thrust harder.

“You like that?” he breathed. “You like when I say shit like that?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Yes—Clark—”

His name became a chant. A prayer. A scream muffled by his mouth.

He came first ��� deep inside you, pulsing, gasping against your neck.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept moving — slower now, hips still rolling — his fingers slipping between your legs until you came with a cry, body shaking in his arms.

You collapsed against him.

Both of you breathless. Sweating. Bruised in the best ways.

He didn’t pull out right away.

He stayed inside, kissing your cheek, your neck, your shoulder.

Then, gently — so gently — he lifted you off the counter and carried you to the bathroom.

Ran warm water.

Held you in the tub, his hands massaging your thighs, his lips soft against your temple.

You curled into him.

And for the first time all day — for the first time all week — he let himself relax.

Not Superman.

Not Clark Kent, reporter.

Just your man.

[o-wild-west-wind]

While I’m still a bit bummed that they didn’t go with a more book-aligned POC Fiyero for the Wicked movie, I’ve been thinking (heheh) about how his being white highlights the really interesting foil relationship between him and Glinda (and, in many ways, the audience yourself).

At its core, Wicked is a cautionary tale about propaganda, (literal) scapegoating, and what it means to uphold the status quo. The audience is watching through Glinda’s eyes—it is through her, arguably the most beautifully tragic character of the show, that we learn how lonely life becomes when you forfeit your values in favor of systemic power and likability (“No One Mourns the Wicked” is, in many ways, about HER).

Now, this is where Fiyero’s whiteness can get interesting—if you consider him and Glinda to share roughly equal footing at the beginning in terms of privilege/how much they have to lose (applying our real-world lens of race and power here, where whiteness is the apex), his storyline essentially represents what could have happened if Glinda had made the brave (and arguably wise and loving, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down 👀) choice to go with Elphaba and fight the good fight (this is also why I feel like a queer reading of G&E’s relationship is almost implicit to the story, but I digress).

As the POC/marginalized allegory, Elphaba has much less of a real choice in her curtain-pulled-back turning point. But Fiyero and Glinda—both representing privilege—get to choose. So in Act II, we see the consequences of both the choice to stay (Glinda) and to go (Fiyero). In Fiyero’s case, his ultimate rejection of his own power, privilege, and even beauty leads to immense physical loss—including his own body—but that is then compared to the loss of love, community, and identity that we see Glinda left with by the end. And this brings us to the question that the audience is left grappling with: in an unjust system where loss is inevitable (a.k.a. our own world, as the Wizard himself represents), which of these things are YOU more willing to give up?

It’s important that Glinda is an empathetic character because, in reality, most people are going to be Glindas (obvi this is nuanced among us Elphabas of marginalized identities, but I’d still argue that there’s some level of Glinda in us all)—and it’s important to be rattled by the end of the show when you realize that she is the one who has the sad ending. But it’s also so important that Fiyero is empathetic (which I’m SO glad this movie leaned into)—because he’s ultimately who Glinda—and thus we, as the audience—should have been.

And especially given the state of US politics right now…this is just all more relevant than ever.