#fanfiction drabble

[littlebirdygirlywriting]

For a Drabble idea, Tyler having a massive crush on "you" and being shy and bashful and nervous about it while trying to impress you to see if you like him too! :)

Perhaps One Day

Twisters Masterlist

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Fem! Reader

Summary: Tyler goes to… interesting lengths to find out your feelings.

Author’s Note: I realised I sort of forgot the “trying to impress you” part of the request. 💀 If you want me to redo it, just let me know! Otherwise, here’s your request, anon. 💖

Warnings: NONE! I mean… other than Tyler being a communication-phobe. Lol.

Word Count: 265 (Because I reached 100 and went, “Dang! This is supposed to be wrapped up already??” and kept writing. 😂)

———————————————————————————

Perhaps one day, Tyler would be ashamed of the lengths he went to discover your true feelings.

Rubbing his palms together nervously, a dark Oklahoma sky speckled with stars overhead, he waited in the motel parking lot for Lily. The door of Room 10 creaked on its hinges, a form slipping out, slowly closing the door behind. Slipping into the shadows, Tyler waited until the person approached, darkness shielding them both.

He cleared his throat. “What did she say?”

Perhaps one day, Tyler would cringe when he thought about how he’d used Lily to get information on your thoughts about him.

“Was she suspicious? Did she know why you asked?”

Perhaps one day, Tyler would apologize to her—claim insanity over his growing crush—make it up to her with parts for her new drone.

“Please, Lily, I’m dying here. Please tell me what she said.” He stepped closer, the light of a single lamp peeling back the darkness around him.

Perhaps one day, he would regret his actions.

The voice that spoke was not Lily’s, and his heart stopped. Stepping into the light, he was greeted with a shy smile. Blushing cheeks.

Perhaps one day, he would tell you he should’ve chased it from the first day you joined the team.

“She said…” Drawing out the words slowly, teasingly, eyes just as nervous as his own landed on his face. “She’s got eyes for nobody but you, Owens.”

Perhaps one day, Tyler would be ashamed of the lengths he went to discover your true feelings.

But it was not today. And it would not be soon.

[azukanacrown]

"Tʜᴀɴᴋ Yᴏᴜ."

Pᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Bᴜʀɴɪɴɢ Sᴘɪᴄᴇ Cᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ & Gᴏʟᴅᴇɴ Cʜᴇᴇsᴇ Cᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ

Sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Gᴏʟᴅᴇɴ Cʜᴇᴇsᴇ Cᴏᴏᴋɪᴇ ɪs sᴛᴜᴄᴋ ʀᴇᴍɪɴɪsᴄɪɴɢ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀɪᴇs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇɴ'ᴛ ғᴜʟʟʏ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ.

Tᴀɢs: Aɴɢsᴛ, Hᴜʀᴛ ɴᴏ ᴄᴏᴍғᴏʀᴛ, Sᴏᴜʟᴛɪᴇs?

Wᴏʀᴅs: 2860

Lɪɴᴋs: AO3, ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ, ᴄᴀʀʀᴅ

Iɴsᴘᴏ! Cʜᴇᴄᴋ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ! by @the-alpha-doodle-dome

Golden Cheese Cookie grimaced at the memory of frenzied screams and the sound of bones crushing. She rubbed the bright red gem between her fingers, reminding herself of its smoothness, a trait that was a stark contrast to its owner. She sat on her throne, mouth resting against her palm as she focused more on her thoughts than the cheesebirds around her, giving their regular report.

“Your Majesty?” One of the birds tapped her ankle gently, she jumped. “I apologize for startling you, Your Majesty, but you seem distracted. Should we come back another time? This week’s reports are nothing interesting, the soul-cheeses are still stable.”

She sighed before nodding. “Yes, that… yes, that would be good. Thank you for your hard work, Little One.” The image of a small Kulfi child flashed in her mind. “Please don’t take my inattentiveness as offensive.”

The little bird chirped happily, “Never, Your Majesty! But for now, we’ll be excusing ourselves. Let us know if you require our assistance anytime!” She smiled at them, nodding in acknowledgement. The three of them hopped away, and she waited till they exited the room before melting into her hands. The Soul Jam cold against her cheek.

After her final battle with Burning Spice Cookie in Beast Yeast, she thought he had been defeated. He hadn’t shown his face for some time, and his lands seemed to have become more peaceful—as peaceful as a nation obsessed with war and power could be. But one day, a cloaked figure stumbled onto her kingdom’s grounds.

He was mangled, covered in bruises and deep, untreated gashes, his arm clearly broken in several places. There was still jam dripping from his cloak and his poorly wrapped bandages. His Soul Jam was the only thing seemingly untouched.

Golden Cheese Cookie stood up from her throne, leaving to roam her empty kingdom.

“Thank you.” He held her face, smearing warm jam onto her cheek.

She stiffened, clutching the Soul Jam. She shouldn’t feel bad for such a monster; with everything he’d done, it was only what he deserved. But how he looked at her when finally he found her was… conflicting. He had that wild, sinister smile she had known him to have, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They gazed at her with affection, or familiarity, maybe even love; his brows weighed heavily on his countenance, and the dark bags under his eyes only deepened his stare. He seemed desperate to see her.

She stared down at his Soul Jam; it looked as if the light it emitted was swirling, and she found herself unable to look away. The soft sound of children giggling, followed by a deep chuckle, warmed her ears. She couldn’t help but close her eyelids, as, for some reason, tears were burning at her waterline. In that moment of darkness, she saw glimpses of small kulfi children, happily holding up bundles of flowers to her. A rarity in the Land of Spice.

There was another deep chuckle as she… or the eyes of who she watched through, reached down to take the flowers. A large, red hand took a Saffron in hand before tucking it behind one of the children’s ears. Golden Cheese Cookie shook her head and looked back at the gem. It felt warm, and it was pulsing like a heart.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw visions like that. And she knew what they were, who they belonged to. It did nothing to ease her consciousness.

With no words exchanged, they started to fight. Burning Spice Cookie had rushed to attack her almost immediately, throwing his raggedy cloak away from him, which only allowed Golden Cheese Cookie to see more of the damage she had caused in the seconds before he was upon her.

Despite his condition, he was as lively as ever. Swinging his axe wildly, tearing open his partially healed wounds, and unbinding his bandages.

“Stop! Look at yourself, you’ll kill yourself doing this!” She wasn’t sure why she even cared to say that; maybe just seeing someone so desperate to continue fighting like that confused her. Given he didn’t care to absorb her powers when he first had the chance, she knew he had been there for her. Perhaps his vengeance just burned that deeply.

He only laughed manically like before, continuing to provoke and tease her as if they were just playing a game. It wasn’t the state of someone hellbent on revenge.

It wasn’t a difficult battle; she didn’t even have to use her new powers to defeat him. After a few slashes and solid strikes to his old wounds, he slowed down tremendously. She cracked him across the jaw with the flat end of her spear, ending the fight. Pressing her heel into his stomach, she anchored the tip of her spear on his Adam’s apple.

“Why are you here, Destroyer?” He laughed, the motion causing her weapon to dip into his throat.

“I missed you, Birdie. You left with such haste that we didn’t even get to our encore.” She glared at him, eying him with both suspicion and interest. He laid there, still smiling widely, staring at her almost expectantly. His eyes kept wandering over her form, going back and forth between looking her in the eyes and taking in the rest of her glory.

His grin slightly faltered when she pulled the spear away. “What are you playing at, Burning Spice Cookie?”

Golden Cheese Cookie sighed. She didn’t know what came over her in that moment, but she had decided to spare him. He was too weak to be of any real threat, so long as she kept her eye on him, and she couldn’t bring herself to kill anyone in such a pathetic state. No matter how much they deserved it.

She kept him locked up beneath the castle, routinely giving him food and water, which only grew into piles in the corner of his cell. He refused her help in every way, not even letting her close enough to examine his wounds. By now, they would’ve been heavily infected if it weren’t for the Soul Jam still lodged in his chest.

“Why is it there?” Golden Cheese Cookie asked out of nowhere, staring at him through the bars. His eyes glinted in the dark as he looked over his shoulder at her.

“Why is what?” He growled.

She gestured towards her chest, tapping it. “Your Soul Jam. Every one of us, even those other Beasts, has it embedded into something. But yours is baked into your dough.”

“What does it matter?” He grinned at her. “Why? Are you planning on taking it for yourself? Are you trying to figure out how to take it out of me without my death? Sorry to break it to you, but that simply isn’t possible. You’re welcome to take it, though, if you grant me another battle.” She rolled her eyes at his sadistic enthusiasm.

“That’s not it.” His smile turned to a scowl, and he turned away from her once again. “Why are you so intent on fighting? Surely, you must be bored with it by now.”

He let out a boisterous laugh. Burning Spice sighed, sitting there silently before groaning, “You understand nothing.”

“No, I don’t. For someone so callous, you speak only in riddles and expect me to be able to decipher them. I’m not an anthologist and you’re no poet, so what is it I don’t understand?”

He huffed a laugh, shooing her away like she was his servant. “I would think you’d know... leave me be.”

“No, you are going to talk.”

He sat there, his back still turned to her. She stood there, quietly waiting for a response or a shift in the thickness of the air. But the uncomfortable awkwardness only seemed to matter to her, as he continued to lie there breathing slowly and steadily.

“Answer me!” She smacked the cell, releasing an unrhythmic tune into the air.

“Don’t get too violent now, else you’ll resemble me too much.” He chuckled.

She gripped the bars, shaking them from the sudden weight of her body. “I am nothing like you! You are a disgusting tyrant and enthusiastically psychopathic! You’ve turned over kingdoms, nations that you made, entire lineages of cookies whose names are only remembered by those who aren’t yet dust! And even the dead have no rest from your wrath, their remains only fuel for your frenzy. So no, what is it that I’m supposed to understand from you?” She screamed at him.

Burning Spice sat up, fully looking her in the eyes. “I remember when I got upset about such menial things.”

Golden Cheese Cookie sat upon her perch overlooking the colosseum. Even the air itself was heavy with emptiness as the smell of the wind, slowly scraping away at the bricks, surrounded her. She wondered if one of Burning Spice Cookie’s kingdoms had an arena, maybe several of them did. She wondered if he sat like she was now, just looking at the memory of what was meant to be a lively place.

“I’m nothing like him.” Abruptly standing from her spot, she quickly exited the building.

She wasn’t sure how long she kept him down there. It might’ve been days or months, even. But time was always something she let slip by, even before all this. After the war, there was no reason to worry about what day or year it was when there were no more cookies left to live it.

His Soul Jam pulsed in her hand, drawing her attention. It was beating rapidly and was on the verge of burning her fingers.

“My Lord, what happened to the Paprika Isle?” A small child’s voice spoke up.

“Hmm?” She… he looked down at them.

“Paprika Isle. I haven’t heard from my friend there in a little while, and when I went to look for them, it was like the whole village up and vanished. Is… my friend okay?” The child squeezed Burning Spice’s hand as they walked through his Saffron reserve.

Flashes of screams and raging fires flashed within her mind, as she saw memories of the village being ravaged. An onslaught brought on by another tribe.

He sighed. “They have moved on, there was no longer any water for their crops, and they’ve been going through some troubling harvests. So, they have moved further out for more fertile lands.” He spoke measuredly.

“Oh.” The child looked down. “Will I see my friend again?”

Burning Spice Cookie squeezed his hand. “I’m sure you will, Little One.”

The child smiled up at him, a face that distorted into a gruesome image as he stood above him, axe in hand.

Abruptly sitting up in bed, Golden Cheese Cookie held her silk sheets, trying to catch her breath. She looked over to their Soul Jams, lying next to one another. Whipping it off her bedside counter, she grabbed Burning Spice’s Jam and held it in the air. She heaved; she could feel the trembling of her arm in her ribs with every breath she stole.

She sighed. Dropping her arm. Golden Cheese stared at it lying in her lap, as it pulsed rapidly.

“Why won’t you answer me!” She shouted, hitting the bars. “You were so eager to speak when we first met, and now here you are, battered and pathetic—and silent! Why aren’t you speaking?” It was driving her crazy. He shows up after how long, seeking her out, trying to kill her, yet he won’t even talk if it isn’t in the heat of battle.

“Does it make you feel better to ignore me?” She snarled. “You can’t beat me in battle, so instead you choose to behave like a child! Your people fear you. Fear for their lives, their people. And yet, you are nothing but an overgrown child throwing tantrums because you’re bored.” Her words did nothing to make him face her.

“They needed you! You were their god; you created everything they knew, everything they could ever need or want. But you couldn’t stand to look your own failure in the eyes. They needed you and you abandoned them!” Golden Cheese Cookie gripped the bars, heaving. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears, it was like an earthquake in her skull.

“As did you.” She looked up at him, expecting some sinister smile that wasn’t there. He was sitting there, staring at her, watching her in this moment of weakness with not a single ounce of joy or sadistic satisfaction. “I was made first, alongside my Soul Jam.”

“What?”

“I am answering your question… from before,” his eyes wandered from hers, “I was made to embody my Soul Jam. At any moment, you or any of the other holders could abandon your power. But I am my Soul Jam, I am nothing without it.”

“You don’t even deserve it.” She pushed herself away from the cell.

“Hmm.” He subconsciously nodded. “I know.”

That was the night before he broke out of his cell. She was in her study, looking over the reports her cheesebirds had gathered from Wizard Cookie, trying to familiarize herself with his extensive notes, when Burning Spice Cookie broke in. Dragging her by the wings, he threw her outside, where they once again fought.

He had the upper hand at first, having taken her by surprise. And of course, he was sure to egg her on. Taunting her with her failures, burning away some of the notes he had swiped from her desk when he pulled her away.

“You think you can bring them back with this? They’re gone! They are dead.” He smiled at her, pulling his axe from thin air, “You should be thankful, though, for if they were still in this crumbling tomb, I would’ve made you watch me tear each and every one of them apart.”

Golden Cheese Cookie snarled, aiming her spear forward. “It’s time for you to stop talking.”

Their battle was gruesome, more so than their first when he disfigured her. She was sure to break every bone she came in contact with, and he tore every inch of flesh he touched. With his axe, his claws, and his teeth. Buildings around them collapsed to the ground as they crashed into them, something that she would have to grieve later.

Once again, they found themselves where it started. Him on the ground and her spear to his throat. But this time she was seizing, his knuckles ghost-white as they gripped the staff of her spear. She thought her eyes might burst out of her skull from the pressure building in her ears.

He was smiling up at her, but it wasn’t the wide, sinister grin he usually carried. It was like he was just happy to see her.

“Nothing to say?” Golden Cheese Cookie growled, pressing the tip into his neck, drawing his jam. “How many times are we going to go back and forth like this?”

“We don’t have to. You know that.” He said.

“You—why?” Her weapon trembled in her hands as she looked him in the eye. Despite having more than enough time to counter her, he did nothing but continue to lie there. “Why can’t I—rrgh, you deserve to die! You’re a plight to this world, you’re worth nothing!” She spat at him.

“I know.” She gasped as he swiped upwards, grabbing her wrist and pulling her forward.

“What are—”

Crrr—the crunch was loud as her blade cut into his throat. Gurling on his own jam, he still laughed. His heavy hand weighed hers down as they fell to his Soul Jam. Slowly; he brought his other hand up to cup her face. An action she was too stunned to reject.

“Thank you.” He held her cheek tenderly, a gesture she couldn’t imagine would come from him despite the warmth smearing her face.

She sat there for a long time. Next to his lifeless body. Her hand still on his Soul Jam. That was when his memories flashed in her mind for the first time. Of him gripping the fiery sands to grab any bit of his crumbled people, to hold them close to him. Her mind flipped between her delicate fingers and his monstrous claws; the crumbs of their treasures were dry in her hands. Of him running to rush children away from floods, and earthquakes, and erupting volcanoes. Images of hordes of monsters spun around in her psyche, rushing in, destroying homes, and tearing apart her people. Of the first time he struck his axe against his own. The jam warm on his hands.

Her screams echoed into the night as the visions tormented her, even after moving away from his body.

Golden Cheese Cookie shuddered, as again she sat in her throne listening to her cheesebirds give their report. She buried him in the garden. He didn’t deserve it, but it seemed like the only appropriate place to put his body. His Soul Jam sat in her palm, as always. Now the memory of him and of all those he carried fell solely onto her to remember.

ᴀ/ɴ. Lᴏᴡᴋᴇʏ, I'ᴍ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴏғ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪs ᴀ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪ-ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ғɪᴄ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ I sᴛɪʟʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜɪs ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ, I ғᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ'ᴠᴇ ᴘᴜᴛ sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪs. Aʟsᴏ I ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɪɴ ʏ'ᴀʟʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ sᴀᴅ ᴀss sʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ :)))

[typingdyslexiaisathing]

Noisy Typhoon (Trigun) fic

content: Vash the Stampede X reader fanfiction. Romance, established relationship, mature subject of sexual intimacy and making love.

Soft snoring. That was what filled the little room. Vash was out like a light. Snoring from his position in the bed you two shared. Yet you had no real way of getting upset over the noise. Watching as the very naked blonde lay next to your own bare frame. Completely vulnerable and at peace as he dozed. A stark contrast from how the two of you started out in the bed.

Vash was a very vocal person. You've known that for a while. From his little nervous noises to him shouting and freaking out like an idiot. So it wasn't a surprise at how vocal he was when the two of you made love. His gasps of surprise when you touched him. Deep whimpers when you removed his shirt. A shiver and keening sob when you traced your fingertips over his bare skin and scars as he held himself in place for you. A sorrowful mewl when you kissed his lips with gentle love. Vash always made his emotions heard. A unique and beautiful language you learned to translate over time.

The blonde gave a hard snort to turn and move closer to you. Tears pricking at his eyes as he snuggled as close as he could get to you. Reminding you of how he had tried to flinch away from your touch hours earlier. His fear of rejection etched into his entire body and reflected in those beautiful eyes. So you had assured him of your acceptance. With kisses and touches and sweet words of warm affection. Offering your own body, heart, and soul into his keeping. Vash had followed your lead to soon sweep you into his eager arms. His aching desire and tender want to belong to you melting and mixing as the both of you stripped off your clothes. The bed taking your combined weight as Vash nipped and kissed your now barren skin. Panting and whining in his eagerness to make the two of you into one. He had been so desperate. So afraid that at any moment you would no longer be his to love and treasure with his body and heart.

So Vash had spent several hours giving you and receiving pleasure out of love. Teasing and tasting to let you do so back. The sacred dance of worship on two becoming one out of unconditional love. Vash had cried often during the moments of euphoria. Only for you to wipe those tears away and begin anew. Until the both of you had made love in the bed to then move to the claw foot bathtub and back to the bed once more. The two of you a sated tangled mess to then fall into a restful slumber. Yet you awoke to that familiar sound of snoring. making you smile to watch Vash sleep. Tracing your gaze over his naked and scarred body with blissful joy. But soon Vash gave a sigh to open those gorgeous eyes and look up at you. A blush dusting over his skin as he smiled a sweet and nervous smile at you. His giggle one of mirth and love. "So... I guess we're an official couple now? Does this mean we might do more of that later?"

[ginjointbar]

Bound by Incense

"No one has more protective jealousy than the deity themselves"

The worshipper stood, lifting their robes. The sheer veil allowed them to gaze down at the protective deity, Nezha—youthful, filled with filial piety—who knelt before them with the bakhoor burner below the worshiper's clothes. The air was heavy with incense, curling in delicate spirals, filling the sacred space with a heady scent that grounded the mind and lifted the soul. Cloaked in Bakhoor ridding the scent of another deity, of another man.

"Do not mistake my touch for ownership, for my affection is unlike that of mortal men. It is not possessive in the way you may understand it. Let it serve as a reminder that I am always with you, whether you perceive my presence or not. In every soft breath of wind, in every step you take, let my essence follow you. It is woven into you, and I will never be distant. It is a quiet, steady force that envelops you, as vast and constant as the sky that embraces the earth. You are safe. You are under my protection."

Perhaps, it was the deity's way of possessiveness like all men have written about themselves. Regardless, this is the intimacy that worship brings.

[adelha-mathilde]

Adelha X Asmodeus (Obey Me!) NSFW fic

meant for mature readers only

summary: Adelha is swept away to marry Asmodeus with a very sweet gesture.

Asmodeus had spent days planning this out. Getting advice from the many cousins Adelha had in her clan to also speak with Adelha's adopted father figure. Flying down from above to soon open the second floor window of Adelha's Apothecaries as the Devildom slept. Asmodeus had chosen a night when all of her pets were away in the Human World. The Currier clan having taken all five puppies with them to a hiking trip in Germany. Leaving only a single spoiled kitten for Asmodeus to deal with. The kitten already at the window for him to smile as a mew of question escaped the tiny creature. So Asmodeus scooped Aqua up in one hand to give her face kisses and sweet words. Soon setting the adorable fuzzy feline back down onto the couch to let her lounge.

Asmodeus snuck his way through the living area and right to Adelha's bedroom. But he doesn't get very far before the bedroom door flies open. The dragon maiden charging right for the intruder with broadsword poised as Asmodeus let out a slight squeak of surprise. So it is that the broadsword thunks into the wall right next to Asmo's neck. His hands up and smile coy for him to gaze at the woman before him. Adelha had that thoughtful smirk on her painted lips to be staring right into his eyes. Those striking azure blue eyes so fierce and gorgeous. It made Asmodeus shiver as he chuckled at Adelha. "Surely you didn't intend to do my lovely self harm, Margaret. I do recall you told me that I am welcome whenever I so wished to visit. Unless my sneaking in without calling means I am going to have my head removed from my lovely frame?" Adelha huffed out a laugh to inch closer and just barely nick Asmo's neck with the blade. Her words molten and hinting at amusement. "Possibly. I was warned by all of your kin to never take chances while living here. So I might just strip you bare and tie you up for a torturous interrogation."

Asmodeus gave a hum of heated intentions to look very keen on asking for just that kind of punishment. But he instead places a hand to his heart to bat his eyelashes at the Fae lady with deep intonations. "Letting you have your way with me would be a delightful pain I would gladly savor. But I would instead tempt you to accept my own offerings this eve." Adelha raises an eyebrow to then go wide eyed in realization. Since Asmodeus reaches into his breast pocket to remove a glittering ring covered in rainbow hues. Making Adelha gasp to carefully remove the broadsword and sheathe it. "Asmodeus! You actually went through with the commitment and made a ring for me?!" Asmodeus nods to then giggle as Adelha blushes from nose to toes. His gaze warm and focused entirely on the woman he intends to capture for his own. "Solomon and Eugene gave me a full run down of how to make this. Although Eugene never approved of me doing so. My title as the Avatar of Lust seems to have him think I would not be one for monogamy for centuries. So I will prove my intentions with action."

Adelha shivers to have tears well in her eyes as Asmodeus stepped all the closer to her. A smile of pure abiding love there on his face as he spoke. "My moments with you over these years have been priceless beyond all measure. Making memories and savoring your presence is a joy. One that I would claim for us from here on into the rest of our lives. Margaret. One who of the dragons and the vampires of the Fae lineage. I offer you this ring made with metal and my own heartstrings to bind us together in marriage." Adelha drops the sheathed broadsword as she sniffles and nods her head yes. Her own hand holding up a similar ring adorned with multiple bands of varying colors. Her own words sweet and molten as she cries. "Asmodeus. With this ring made of metal and blood as well as magic. I would make two into one under all existence. As per traditions of the Fae and my family, I wed you in the here and now. Husband and wife are we now for as long as we dwell in this life."

Asmodeus soon had their rings exchanged to sweep Adelha into his arms to kiss her tears away. Soon lifting her up off her feet and into the bathroom suite. His touch to her frame gentle and considerate as he sat her on the rim of the jacuzzi tub to wipe at her eyes with his sleeve. "Oh sweetie. There there. I wasn't expecting you to cry this much, love. Perhaps I waited too long to do this. But enough of waiting for both of us. Would you me the priceless honor and teach me how to make love with you?" Adelha shuddered to be blushing a deep red. Yet she reached up to undo the braided bun for her hair to come undone. Those cascading waves of silver white hair falling around her head for Asmodeus to watch and feel his desire burn through him all the more. So Adelha looked up at him to hold her arms wide in offering. "My groom. My beloved soul. Devour me."

That's all it took for Asmodeus to let his passion roar to life. Yet he was attentive and sweet as he all but ripped Adelha's dress to free her frame for the confines of the material. His own clothes tossed up and away for him to begin the act of making love to his bride. Asmodeus took his time with slow gestures and heated breaths against pale skin and scales. The woman that was now his wife keening in a shy yet aching want. So Asmodeus began the dance of consummation. Teasing with words, touching with care, tasting of sweet breath and lips to feather his breath against his dragon maiden. Asmodeus was a patient lover as he tested and explored what Adelha would enjoy. Savoring her every reaction and sound as he worshipped her body with his own. A few whispered words in Latin escaping his lips as he made them vulnerable in this intimate and intricate way of loving and being loved. So it was that Asmodeus captured his cherished lady to have them tangle around each other in the bathtub. The two of them making love with each other for uncounted amounts of time. A generous exchange of bliss and joy out of the love two souls share between them.

By the time Asmodeus is finished enough to be aware of how spent the two of them are, both of them are well and truly sated and exhausted. Both of them soaking in the hot water to hold each other close. Adelha was all but melted to be dozing against Asmo's front. Yet he was just as happy to be humming to the tune of the most recent symphony Lucifer had been playing in his office. The Avatar of Lust not surprised when Aqua sneaks her way into the bathroom suite. The adorable kitten soon nestled right by his head to lick and chew on his hair. So Asmodeus giggled to shake his head a little so his hair would tickle the kitten. "Naughty little kitten. I should scold you. But I think that would take too much effort right now. But be warned. I will be scolding you later."

**********

The House of Lamentation was full of unbridled elation this day. Since Asmodeus and Adelha had come to spend the weekend with the brothers. The Paw Posse currently in the back garden for Beelzebub and Mammon to be tossing balls for all five pups. While Luke and Solomon helped with keeping all five pups in the yard. Satan was in the living room to be cuddling Aqua and giving the feline tons of face kisses. Belphegor and Leviathan were also in the living room to have made a giant tent fort. The two of them currently cuddling a little Fae child to hopefully get them to take a nap soon. Belphegor holding a five year old boy with blue hair and antlers on his head. While Leviathan was holding a three year old girl with pixie wings and purple hair. Both Fae children openly smiling as they waved little toy wands over an empty pot to be 'cooking a magic potion' for everyone' as their uncles watched. Simeon and Lucifer moving the feast they had been making into the living room where tables had been set out. With Asmodeus currently knelt down next to the loveseat to massage Adelha's swollen ankles and feet. Since she was currently very pregnant and unable to do so herself at this point. While Eugene Currier walked in with a toddler in his arm. Lucifer looked pleased to see the head of the Currier clan to point to the fold out crib so Eugene might place the little human baby down. Which Eugene did soon enough to then sit himself next to Adelha. His smile bright as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders to kiss her cheek. "Ah. My darling Margaret. I am sure my cousin and his wife are beaming with joy in eternity. Truly your parents would be so happy for you and your groom at this life you have made."

Adelha chuckled as Simeon walked over to hand Eugene a glass of iced tea. The Fae gentleman nodding in gratitude as Simeon hummed a happy notation before speaking. "We are glad you decided to come and visit with us, Eugene. Adelha has been going over the huge family album to tell us more about her parents and childhood. Your illustrations of them are immaculate." Eugene sighs to then place a hand on Adelha's baby bump and smile. "Elias and Muriel are dearly missed by all who love them. Yet I hope I have done my best to raise there greatest treasure well. I know that Adelha has been my greatest joy to walk beside and love as my own. Yet I am sure she will be an exceptional mother for all four of these blessings." Simeon grins to then move when the baby in the crib begins wailing. So the angel scoops the bundle up to cradle close and give a few soft words. "It's all right, Audrey. We didn't leave you behind." The baby calms down right away to wiggle and yawn. While Leviathan pokes his head out of the tent to then smile at everyone. "Congratulations on the adoption finally going through for you, Eugene. I would also like to say how glad I am that you helped Asmo and Addy adopt these two. Ulysse and Althea are so sweet and adorable that I wish we all lived together." Eugene chuckled as Lucifer walked over to tent to scoop up Althea and cuddle her. Which has the three year old pixie squeak and laugh to give Lucifer sloppy kisses. Asmodeus turning as Ulysse jumped out of the tent to run to him and give him a tackle hug. Which Asmodeus was all to glad to receive as he toppled over to lay on the ground and snuggle his adopted son tight. "Yes. I see we've gotten all the food and drinks set out. So then. Is my darling little scamp hungry enough to have his lunch?"

Ulysse nods to squeak in excitement as Simeon watched the demons herd the children to the table. While Eugene helped Adelha stand to actually lift her up bridal style and hug her close. Asmodeus soon beside Adelha on the other side to join in the hug and place a kiss to her forehead. The Avatar of Lust soon saying to Eugene, "We were hoping you would stay for the birth of the twins. Since we all know it's going to be any day now. Would you be willing to be there to welcome my girls with my bride?" Eugene grins to nod and look elated. His words deep and rich with eloquence. "I wouldn't miss it for any reason."

[luveline]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms. 

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him. 

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short. 

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining. 

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach. 

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.” 

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out. 

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

���Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

[sugugori]

Jason who's favorite position is prone.

Don't get it wrong, he's a complete amateur when it comes to sex. The first time you two fucked, he cried. So this little discovery, it was an accident, truly. He didn't mean to get carried away but you were squeezing him so good, and the pretty sounds you were making had his knees giving out.

At first, he had you face down, feeding you those deep strokes, the kind that leaves you breathless. But then he began to move, pushing at the curves of your hips, then your spine, forcing you down until your tummy presses against the soft sheets. And he can't help it, naturally wherever you go, he follows. So he lays himself right on top of you, he's so big too. Big thighs cage around your ass, grinding real deep and slow. It’s downright sinful. Jason Peter Todd in all his 6'1 glory, smothering you against the mattress and it's like something inside him clicks. His mind won’t shut the hell up because suddenly, you’ve gone all soft and pliant, and he’s whispering real filthy, “just needed some good dick, huh?”

His mind is so fucked out, he hasn’t realized how good he’s been fucking you until he registers your squirming and soft whining beneath him. Sometimes he forgets how big he is, all of him. Because in this position, he basically kisses your cervix. He’s taking his time, it’s torturous, the slow drag of his hips, and the way he bullies his way back in- pushing up against that sweet spot that makes you cream.

He’s got his lips pressed against your ear, cooing and shushing you so sweetly when you say you can’t take anymore. One hand pushing past your hips to pet at your sensitive clit, and you paw at his wrist- a weak attempt at pushing him away. It’s too much, he’s too big and he’s talking so fucking nasty in your ear you just can’t take it.

But every time you try to shut your legs in protest, his thighs flex and his ankles lock around yours, easily pushing them back open. Wordlessly saying, “take it, take it, take it”.

And after fucking you through your third orgasm, this man has the audacity to blush. Shoving his face into your neck but at some point, his mind gets all hazy. He latches his canines onto your throat and you cum. Still fucking you through the mattress, he works you up to your fourth. And when you finally come down, you sob out a half-hearted “mean”, but he doesn’t budge- just hushes you with a sickly sweet “did so good, baby”.

reblogs are appreciated! ⋆˙⟡

[camheaven]

it wasnt easy being choso (╥﹏╥). i mean it’s not his fault he had a big dick! n he definitely didn’t wanna hurt you. that’s why everytime he slid in you he tried his absolute best to go slow! but god, it was so hard, especially when your walls clenched around him like you were holding on for dear life.

his hands gripped your waist so tightly you could see the veins popping out “f-fuck you gotta relax for me” he’d whimper- sounding like he was the one getting his insides turnt out.

and of course, you couldn’t help but wiggling your hips, inching yourself further down onto his cock. his head dropped to the crook of your neck with a whiny moan “wait yn fuck- I’m gonna- stop, I’ll cum just from this-“. but you couldn’t! you needed all of him in you and fast “cho just put it all the way in” you pleaded “‘m gonna take it.”

n so he tried his best, he tried his best just for you! his breath was staggering as he slide in inch by inch, and he thought he was doing good! until you clenched around him again, cum spilling into you “fuckfuck, m’sorry m’so sorry-“ he’s whining while his hips roll deeper, stuffing you full of his cum. you just smiled, bringing his faces to yours “do it again cho.” so yes being choso was so fucking hard.

[innorality]

"f-ffuck... clark!" you moaned out as he slammed your twitching back down with his forearm, his mouth devoring you inside-out ferociously.

clark needed this more than you did. he gave the world his all to save it one more time, and right now, all he wanted was to suck on his girlfriend's clit and watch her squirm.

oh, how he loved the endless strings of "clark! shit–yes, p-please—yes!!" that you mindlessly let out, eyes rolling back and grip tightening in his hair. you tried to tug, to pull him away, to beg for mercy, but he didn't even feel it.

right when his tongue started pressing against your entrance, an unfamiliar scratching noise caught your attention.

"d-did you hea- oh my god!" the reasonable part of your brain completely shut off when his tongue penetrated you, the tip of it toying with the texture of your sticky walls.

he swallowed obnoxiously loud before sighing and pulling up slightly. "ignore it." was all he said in that husky, desperate voice of his, before he dived back into business. his tongue landed back on your clit this time, flicking it while two of his digits slipped inside seamlessly.

clark kent was focused on one thing, one current goal—making you cum. atleast thrice, for good measure.

but that thought, that fantasy, was cut short when a sudden boom echoed throughout the room, the bedroom door shattering. both of you jumped up, looking out for any danger until... another scratching sound... and a bark.

"krypto!" you shouted, your chest heaving. (because of your nearing orgasm or because of the shock ? no one knows...) meanwhile, clark hadn't pulled out but went still inside you before he burst out laughing, making you whip your head and glare.

"I think the-... I think the moaning alerted him.." he was weak with how much he was giggling and you sighed, flopping back down. "alright. sex is over."

"what!?" that was enough to get him serious again. "no, baby ill– I'll it make up to you. let me show you, let me make you feel good." he started thrusting his fingers again, increasing his pace as he shooed krypto away. "b-but the... the door, clark..!" you could barely speak since his fingers were knocking the wind out of you with each push.

"sweetie, who needs a door to feel good?"

bonus : "doors are overrated anyway." you breathed out, panting as he cleaned you up (the creampie was insane). he chuckled, "damn right they are."

[littlebirdygirlywriting]

Beautiful

Twisters Masterlist

Pairing: Tyler Owens x ??? (I literally don’t even know what this is—Reader? OC? I have no idea, but it’s written in third person)

Summary: “Beautiful” didn’t begin to describe her, but by God, he’d spend the rest of his life finding the words if she’d let him.

Author’s Note: I turned on Lana Del Rey and this happened…. No, I have no idea what this is.

Warnings: Fluff. (Again, I struggle labelling, so if I’m wrong, please tell me). References to Picnics. Unfiltered Adoration. Adoring Thoughts.

Word Count: 90 (It’s depressingly short, I’m sorry!)

———————————————————————————

Evening sunlight melted on her face, warm and buttery, dirty flannel camouflaging into the sunset beyond. Wind blew her curls, reckless and wild, and the flannel on her arms looked like it was flying as her fingers reached for the final rays of sunlight disappearing over the horizon.

Tyler watched the display in awe, dirt-caked boots tangled in picnic blankets layered in the bed of his truck. “Beautiful” didn’t begin to describe her, but by God, he’d spend the rest of his life finding the words if she’d let him.

[sunsburns]

imagine trying to keep up with clark 🤯 (18+)

clark kent is an undeniably gentle lover—clumsy at times, almost bashful, his movements hesitant in a way that’s endearing. sometimes, he looks to you for reassurance, those soft blue eyes pleading, asking if he’s making you feel good.

and he always does.

he knows your body so well it’s almost frustrating. his hands, his mouth, the way his voice drops just slightly when he whispers your name—it’s enough to leave you trembling every time.

he always tells you that you do. “perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and uneven as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his voice is wrecked, raw in a way that makes you believe him—for a moment.

but there are things you’ve started to notice.

like the way he lingers for just a second too long, his lips brushing your temple as if hesitating to pull away or draw you closer. or how his hands tremble slightly when they release you, the strength behind them still careful, too careful. then, there are the moments he waits for you to fall asleep—the soft creak of the mattress, the shuffle of his feet as he slips out of bed, barely disturbing the air.

it’s always the same. the quiet click of the bathroom door, the faint rush of water as he turns on the shower.

you know what he’s doing in there.

and it eats at you, imagining him under the stream of hot water, head tilted back, his chest heaving as he works through the need that still claws at him. need that you weren’t able to fully satisfy.

once, you caught him. half-asleep and bleary-eyed, you stirred when the bed dipped, his weight returning as if nothing had happened. his skin was still damp, his hair darker and curling against his forehead.

but you want to be the one to help him blow off that steam.

“just blowing off some extra steam,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

no, you need to be the one.

you want him completely undone—panting, his chest heaving, red staining his cheeks while he’s too wrecked to say anything but your name. you want him shaking with pleasure, the same way he leaves you, winded and unable to think of anything else.

you want him gasping, moaning louder, his voice breaking apart as he tries to keep himself together. you want to see spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his body shuddering uncontrollably. you want him to blow load after load—on you, with you, inside you—until neither of you can take any more.

you just have to make sure you don’t turn the tables on yourself.

“you got another one for me, hun?” clark pleads, his voice soft but ragged.

his curls stick to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his face is flushed deeper than you’ve ever seen. his big hands hold your hips gently, fingers twitching as if he’s trying to resist gripping you tighter.

you’re blubbering, incoherent, your eyes unfocused as your nails scrape at his shoulders. it’s ridiculous trying to leave marks on steel skin, but the feeling of him, the weight of him, makes it impossible to stay still.

you’ve finally managed to corner him. after weeks, nearly a month of easing him into the idea that you could keep up with him, he let you try. and now he’s showing you a side of himself you’ve never seen before.

his body trembles against yours, his movements are frantic, urgent, a stark contrast to the measured pace he usually sets. your legs ache as you struggle to keep up, your body pliant and exhausted, while he bucks up against you, doing most of the work after you had given up on riding him.

he moves you easily, up and down his cock, his strength apparent even in his restraint. his head falls back against the headboard, blue eyes locked on yours, his glasses long discarded.

in all honesty, you don’t know if you have another one in you. you’d lost count three orgasms ago. you must’ve been delusional thinking you could keep up with clark kent, a man who is finally breaking a sweat, his broken moans and soft whimpers starting to turn into ones you’ve never heard from him before. even after cumming countless times, making a mess of your sheets, he still wants more, asks for it, begs for it—he needs more, he can take more, wants to give you more.

the slow drag of his cock, sliding in and out of you, has you mewling, tears staining your cheeks as the pleasure mounts again. his grip is firm but careful, guiding you, ensuring you can take everything he’s giving.

he makes you feel so good. your body trembling in his hands, every nerve alight and melting under his touch. you’ve become putty for him to mould.

it’s a little embarrassing, honestly—that he’s got you like this. you were supposed to be the one pleasing him, breaking him down, undoing him. not the other way around.

but he seems perfectly satisfied with the way things are right now.

you’re fully collapsed onto him now, your strength all but gone. his hips jerk upwards, his movements frantic and desperate, breath puffing hot air against your ear.

“can you… can you look at me?” he pleads, his voice cracking as his hands shift from your hips to cradle your face, tilting your head so you’re staring into his glassy, almost desperate eyes. “look at me while you come—it’ll make me come, too. please.”

you mean to whine, his touch burning against your skin, but the sound catches in your throat when you see him.

he looks utterly wrecked.

his eyes are clouded, unfocused, his lips slick and parted, his brow furrowed with something between pain and pure desire. you imagine you look much the same—spit glistening on your chin, cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, wetness trailing down your thighs.

he holds your gaze for a moment, his thumb brushing your lower lip before slipping into your mouth.

then, both of you move at once—you surge forward to kiss him, capturing those perfect, pink lips, your movements slow and languid while he remains restless. he adjusts to your pace, pulling you impossibly closer.

his blue eyes roll back as he thrusts into you again. one hand traces lines up your spine while his lips devour yours, leaving you trembling and teetering on the edge within minutes.

his kisses turn softer, trailing to your cheek, his teeth catching on your skin as he nips gently. “i’m not hurting you, am i?” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “i know it’s sensitive, baby. tell me if it’s too much, okay? i can stop if—”

“no, please,” you whimper, terrified he might actually stop. “it’s so good.”

you’re drunk with desire, clenching tightly around him.

“you feel so good, baby. so fucking good. you’re taking me so well.” his next thrust is sharp, deep, dragging a cry from your lips as he stills, buried to the hilt. “you’re gonna make me come again,” he groans, his voice breaking.

“fuck, please—”

“i want you to come for me again,” he interrupts, his desperation bleeding through. “you’re so tight and hot when you do. i need it again—please, baby, one more for me. can you give me one more?”

“i—yeah,” you nod, trembling, your body already vibrating on the verge of release.

he hardly gives you a moment to recover before he’s crooning, “one more, just one more, please, please, please—”

clark kent is completely undone.

[typingdyslexiaisathing]

A New Start (Obey Me!) drabble

content: Satan gets to hold his newborn daughter for the first time. Established relationship, fluff, family, pure loving fluff.

Satan had been terrified all day long. Knowing that this moment would change his entire life forever. The past year had felt like a whirlwind of various memories and emotions. His brothers and friends there and along for the ride that was getting ready to welcome a new life into this family. So when Satan realized that his wife had gone into labor, Satan had felt his whole heart and chest twist and clench into a knot. Yet he had stayed calm to take his wife to the waiting nursery.

A highly experienced healer and midwife had been brought to the House of Lamentation as well as Simeon and Luke. The two angels helping to keep the mood manageable as the brothers did their best to stay calm. Which only worked to some degree as Satan sat behind his wife to hold her close. Her huffs of pain and shouts of effort rang through the house. Hours went by as Satan kept his panic and stress tamped down. The blonde demon focused fully on what the midwife did and said to ease the tension.

After hours and hours of waiting, a soft wail soon was heard through the entire house for Satan to feel all his emotions bottom out. The midwife smiling to declare that the newborn is an adorable girl. The midwife getting the newborn all cleaned up for Satan to cradle his wife close for tears to fall from his eyes. His joy and love washing over his entire being as his wife gave him a kiss. Minutes later and at his wife's urging, Satan moved with gleeful expectation to get his first glimpse of his newborn daughter. She had a full head of blonde hair to be a little on the small side. Yet the midwife wrapped the newborn in a soft towel of faded violet before handing the baby over. Satan cradled the newborn as if he held the entire world. Blinking to see that his newborn daughter had a beauty mark next to her left eye. Making him grin as tears slid down his face.

Satan gave a hard intake of air to place a kiss to his daughter's head. Looking both overjoyed and uncertain as he whispered with breathless wonder. "My precious one. You are so perfect. I love you. Papa loves you so much." The door creaked as Satan looked up to see Lucifer there. The eldest brother looking completely stunned before he smiled warmly. Lucifer moved to stand next to Satan and look down at the newborn with shining eyes. His one gloved hand reaching up to ever so gently trace a finger over the baby's cheek. "A golden lady to spoil and adore. Congratulations, brother."

The Avatar of Wrath felt only joy in this moment to nod and give a choked sniffle of noise. Looking from his daughter to his wife who was watching them with a tired yet happy grin. Only for Luke to come to the door and all but fly over to the new mom to look so excited. Holding up a thermos of tea for the tired woman to drink with great care. Luke then turned to squeak in sheer awe when he saw the newborn for Satan to kneel down. The demon getting more on Luke's level so the angel might greet the newest addition to this family better. While Simeon stayed at the door to then turn and wave to the others down the hall. Which had several voices cheer and laugh. Luke noting with so much joy, "She's so small! And look at all that hair! Hello there! What's her name?"

Satan looked to his wife before he spoke. Knowing that the name his wife picked would be perfect for this priceless soul he held. "Oriana. We're going to name this one for the time when people can enjoy sunshine. Her name is Oriana."

[hanasnx]

ᯓ★ “ I WANNA FUCK WITH THE LIGHTS ON ” — clark kent.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: this movie isn’t out yet but i can’t wait that long to take advantage of my superman kick and fuck this man. unfortunately i don’t know much about his characterization other than the trailer content. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ explicit sexual content ノ size difference ノ dick riding ノ objectification ノ p in v ノ praise ノ clark has huge dick syndrome.

“Just… take it slow.” CLARK KENT encourages, but it’s said more so for himself than you. A large, flattened palm emphasizes his instruction, gesturing for you to relax without grabbing you to take over your actions. You stop, his eyes flickering to meet yours questioningly, until he takes a shot in the dark. “Please.” It’s delightfully endearing, and it loosens you up a little.

“It’s not that, Clark, I’m just—you’re just so… you know,” Big. You try to hint at it without blurting it out. Hovering over his lap too long, a tremor builds in your thighs, and you bite down onto your lip as you let it pass through you in a shudder.

His expression adjusts as the realization dawns on him, “Ah,” he exclaims thoughtfully, and he tests the waters, bringing his hands to your body to rest in comfortable places. Your waist seems appropriate, and your fingers fiddle with the muscle in his shoulders as you keep chewing your lip. “Do you want me to take over?” the question is punctuated with a shift of his hips, arranging himself in a better position to begin, but even the marginal movement has you whining with need. It alerts him, tensing up instantly as he freezes while your pretty face twists in pleasured agony. You’re still wrapped around his reddened tip, and it’s a burning kind of stretch that makes you wish you could just shove him in all the way—at the cost of ripping you in half.

Through your heavy lids and thick eyelashes, you manage to meet his gaze with darkened pupils that don’t want to cooperate. You hum a pitiful “uh-huh” while you nod your head, signaling to him that he’s right. His thumbs on your torso stroke at your skin comfortingly, big hands clamped around you as he raises you. The lip of his head catches on the rim of your pussy, and you suck in a breath as an emptiness replaces what used to be filled.

“We’re gonna take it nice and easy,” Clark talks you through it, but even his exhale hitches when cold air hits his slit. Carefully, he lowers you back on, feeding his dick back into your silken walls before taking it away again—all to introduce your hole to his size little by little. The method chips away at your tightness, and you try to follow his movements with yours even if you’re weak in the knees. “Wanna look at me, duchess? Let me see your eyes?” He tilts his head, his curls falling over his forehead as he chases your gaze. You do your best to peel your eyes open one-by-one, granting him his wish as you pant through your open mouth taking his cock one agonizing inch at a time. The sight of you barely holding on when he’s not even halfway in, stretches a smile onto his face, and if you were more coherent, you’d say it’s one of pride as well as endearment.

One hand cautiously releases your side, while the other takes your weight entirely, bobbing you up and down as if you were no heavier than a fleshlight. His other slides between you two to seek out your pretty bud, resting his thick fingers on your thigh while his thumb comes to stroke at that clit. The new sensation slicks you up as quickly as it occurred, and you gasp at how elevated it all feels from a simple action like that. “That’s what you were missing. Right, baby? It’s hard to loosen up without it. You’re so tight…” You know he didn’t say it like it’s a compliment, but it makes your insides jump anyway. Your muscle contracts and suddenly he can fit a lot more in. “Does that feel good?” he asks, his thumb leisurely circling your bud as your pussy drools around him.

Desperately, you nod your head with a couple of “mm-hmm’s!” that lead him to speed up—introducing you to more of his length as he picks up the pace on petting your clit. Your hands abandon gripping his shoulders for stability and instead overlay his. Yours are dwarfed by him, but he takes your guidance, absorbing how you’re putting pressure on his knuckles and replicating it against your poor pearl, getting puffy from the stimulation and the lack of getting railed. It all lights a fire under your ass, and your body moves for you, bouncing in place to try and force more of his cock into you. You can’t overpower the Superman, but he does let you take it all down to the hilt—his strength making a sex toy out of you.

[kruegerspillow]

sleeping with simon riley includes...

a bunch of coughing and groaning in the middle of the night (yeah... he needs to stop smoking)

random muttering and mumbling from him/you

nightmares. he will literally jump out of the bed which causes you to be startled sometimes (he offered to sleep on the couch due to his nightmares....)

his hands roaming around your body as if he wants to memorize every part of you (he does)

cuddles of course !!! it doesnt matter if hes the big or small spoon he just needs to be with you.

either of you falling off of the bed, at least once in a while

the blankets being left aside because simon says its gonna be 'too hot' (no, he just wants to be your personal heater lmao)

laying on top of each other. yeah, you might end up sleeping with your head resting against his chest.

HAIR STROKING. will stroke your hair until you fall asleep soundly

sigh... drooling. he drools a bit sorry to break it to you guys

a lot of admiring. he'll admire you as you sleep, its the only view that helps him doze off

FOREHEAD KISSES. either you or him. if he stirs awake he'll just give you a small forehead kiss before holding you closer to him (if thats even possible) and dozing off once more

nuzzling. he loves to nuzzle into the crook of your neck :(

tangled legs. his legs are gonna be intertwined with yours oooor one of his leg is going to be on top of yours.

kruegerspillow © 2024 — reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[itsoutrageouss]

It’s the first time Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sees you cry that something in him changes profoundly. You had always had your different skill sets out on the field, it was what made you such a powerful duo for the task force. You were sly, agile, a killer in the dark and he was a brute show of force and strength, able to kill with his bare hands. You argued a lot, though. Your differences that made you work so well also made you clash time and time again. He found you annoying. You found him arrogant.

But after a mission, Ghost finds you collapsed on the floor in an empty building— Crying. He’d never seen you do that before, but he knew you were a softer more sensitive soul, you were just good at hiding it.

He was moving before he realised it, crouching down in front of you, eyes narrowed as he tried to find your gaze that was lost in a heap of warm tears. His hands got clammy and his throat dry because how could he make it stop? It was like the sight had reached in and seized a part of him long gone, maybe one he’d never found before now.

“Stop crying.” He said foolishly, but his tone had lost its usual edge, and the very rare lilt of pleading had laced into his voice. Why did he suddenly grab your shoulders and press your trembling body into his? He had no clue but he wanted to shield you from whatever had made you look so vulnerable before him.

A part of him didn’t like seeing this, didn’t recognise the garbled sound of soft sobs, the way your body’s strength seemed to evaporate into a fragile, soft one that he wanted to pick up and put back together. Another part of him was sucking in this moment, afraid it would get lost and maybe feeling a bit guilty about it. But this feeling of… was it protection? Protection, yes. He’d never had it like this before. Usually, protecting means killing and hurting. Right now it meant nurturing as your small hands reached around his neck and you curled into him. He reacted immediately, sitting down and scooping you into his lap.

He closed his eyes, his chin resting on your head with a sigh. He had no idea what came next. This had to change your dynamic in some way because he couldn’t ever look at you the same. He saw your softness and maybe he fell in love with it right there, and wanted to be the one you showed it to. Only him.

“Im sorry” You whispered into his chest. His hands flexed around you, fighting the urge to smother you even more against him.

“Dont say that. Just keep holding onto me.” His voice was more hoarse than usual as his fingers unconsciously combed through your hair.

Whatever had happened, he was sure you felt it too, or you would’ve never let him this close. And he wished for everything you would let him again one day.

series masterlist

[luveline]

𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫-𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭

Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.) 3k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Good morning.” 

A stress ball goes careening off the edge of your desk as your body catches up. “Fuck,” you breathe, twisting in your seat to find the Daily Planet’s most puppy-eyed journalist towering over your desk. “Clark! You scared me.” 

Your whisper-shouting amuses him. He smiles, creasing a small wrinkle in the corners of his eyes, pretty pink mouth too much to deal with. If he notices you looking and then looking away, he doesn’t show it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding too sorry. 

“Are you?” 

“I’m so sorry. Really. What’s got you so, ah, immersed?”

You click the minimise button on your open window, clearing your desktop before he can spot your shoddy workmanship. “Nothing.” 

“Sure. I believe you. Do you want a cup of coffee?” 

“No, thank you.” 

He lingers. Your office skews toward casual dress but Clark’s hardly the first to wear a proper suit, skinny black tie against a solid backdrop. You’d quite like to grab it, hoisting him downward, and you know you’d never do it, but the thought is nice. Your face and neck warm with it. 

Clark’s smile is soft and yet endlessly indulgent, like you’ve given him what he’d sorely wanted. “I can help, you know. I’d love to help you with whatever it is that’s making you all… cagey,” he says. 

“You’re always helping me.” 

“That’s not true. I couldn’t help you move.” 

You wave a hand at his wincing. You hadn’t asked him to, and you hadn’t minded when he cancelled at the last minute. “I’m just happy your ma was okay.” 

“I’d still like to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

His smile is crazy. Magnetic and tempting and sickening, too, nausea a pit in your stomach that blooms the longer you stare at him. Sometimes, sometimes, Clark smiles at you in this quasi-specific way and you think —you. I know you. 

And then a headache comes like a knife between your eyes. 

Clark startles at your hard flinch. “Migraine again?” 

“Not a migraine.” 

“Then what would you call it?” 

“A shooting pain? They don’t last long enough to qualify. Jimmy says so.” 

“What does Jimmy know about headaches?” Clark asks, voice taking on a silky quality that threatens to send shivers down your back. He hesitates in front of you, taller and taller as the moment stretches, before he bends at the waist to touch your forehead. “Sorry, can I just– is this okay?” 

“Sure, but, what are you–”

His hands are warm. “You don’t feel hot. What did the doctor say?” 

“I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t go?” His softness turns stiff. “Why wouldn’t you go? Sharp pains like this aren’t normal. Why wouldn’t you go and get that looked at? You already made the appointment.” 

You shift away from his hand. It would be easy to meet him where he is right now. You could tell him that it isn’t his problem nor his business. That you didn’t wanna get looked at and ignored, again. You woke up this morning and couldn’t hack it. 

“I didn’t feel like it,” you say, not without care. 

“You didn’t feel like it.” His eyebrows rise. His thumb strokes over the curve of your eyebrow as he pulls his hand away to straighten his glasses. 

“That’s what I said, yeah.” You laugh at his parroting. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad when I’m at home. I figure maybe it’s the computer screen.” You let him stare at you in his sternness until you start to feel too much like a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I send you this bit on one-pan carbonara, could you just– read it for clarity? And cross out whatever sounds ridiculous?” 

“I doubt anything sounds ridiculous, but I’m happy to read it.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He takes a seat at his desk across the way, forcing you to turn your chair away from your computer to see him. You pretend to watch the TV, eyes flicking carefully to his back, waiting for a sign that he’s found a mistake in your article that needs changing. You’re caught on the dark curl of hair kissing his jacket when he tips his head back to meet your eyes, like he’d known you were staring the whole time. “This is great,” he says. “It’s nice, I love the anecdote at the end, you aren’t overwhelming the reader but there’s a clear set of directions and you explain it well.”

“Oh. Thank you. It’s not like there’s much to explain, really.” 

“Sure,” he says, always sure, so easy for him. “But for somebody who’s never cooked alone before, I think this is a nice starting point. I might try it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you can judge me on it. We can put your instructions to the test.” 

You laugh through a smile. “You can’t make carbonara?” 

“That tone you’re using wasn’t one I picked up on in the article.” 

At the end of the workday, when you’ve exhausted yourself mapping out your next week of online columns and the sun has turned Metropolis into a baking puddle, Clark catches you on the way out and walks with you to the end of the block. “So,” he says, knocking his glasses up his nose with a rushed hand, “are you free tonight?” 

“Why?” 

“To help me with this carbonara.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, please. I could use your guidance. I don’t think I even know what to put in a carbonara.” 

“You do. You’re lying.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m lying. Come help me anyways?” 

Grocery shopping with Clark is weirdly nice. He makes you laugh; he smells amazing when you stand beside him picking out fresh herbs, a cologne that lingers but you can’t place; he carries both bags from the store to his apartment, and makes it look like easy work. 

—

“Okay?” 

Things with Clark are so new they’re barely anything at all, but there’s an exclusive sort of sweetness to him as he slides a coffee onto your desk. You raise your chin to meet his eyes, dark behind darker glasses. Blue eyes, you know, but less piercing than you’d imagine them to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“How’s your head?” 

It actually really hurts, now he’s mentioned it. “Fine.”

“Well, it’s decaf.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“But it’s just the way you like it, otherwise.” 

You raise your brows and take a showy sip, visibly judging his performance. The flavour hits the back of your throat, but after a rough swallow, you realise it’s probably the nicest cup of joe you’ve ever had. “That’s perfect,” you tell him, voice all scratched up and awed as he peers down at you. 

He really looks like someone else, sometimes. The more you think about it, the worse your head hurts, so you push the thought from your mind. “Thank you, Clark. This is really good. Do you– is this, like, a hobby?” 

“What, making coffee?” He deliberates with a shrug. “Not really.” 

“You’re just naturally good at everything, then.” 

“Of course not, I’m… I practised. I wanted to make it how you like it.” 

You lift your shoulder before his hand comes down to squeeze it. He handles you so easily, and so kindly, that a little brashness like this makes all the difference. His thumb works into the bone of your shoulder and it nearly-not-quite aches as it brushes its way up to the side of your neck.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. 

You tell him you are. The workday goes like any other, you send him what you’re working on, Clark sends you back a sweet comment. He asks you if you’re busy on the way out, and you agree to go grocery shopping with him so he can attempt your recipe for honey-roasted peanuts under the watchful eye of a professional. 

“It’s not complicated, Clark, you just blanche your peanuts–”

“Raw ones?” 

“Yeah, well. You can use the pre-cooked ones, but they’re not as nice. Then you make your glaze, honey and butter and a little bit of sugar, you read the recipe–”

“Yeah, I read it, I just know you can make it better than I can, and I need the excuse to spend time with you. Which you know,” he says, holding the door for you as you go. 

It’s sitting on his kitchen counter with the smell of honey-sugar thick in the air that Clark kisses you for the first time. You’re wondering if this is real, if the handsomest man you’ve ever met genuinely wants you, and he’s sliding a hand up your thigh with a gentleness that tickles. “Hey,” he says simply. 

“Hey.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For helping. For not laughing when I burned the butter.” His hand coasts to your hip, opening and then pressing into softness unabashedly. “For… letting me be a coward, for this long.” 

There’s a headache brewing square between your brows that you fight to ignore. They’re awful lately, shooting pains that don’t end unless you close your eyes. 

“This isn’t cowardice,” you say, because it’s unbelievable that he wants this, and if he doesn’t kiss you soon your heart’s gonna fall into your stomach. “Just the run up.” 

“Yeah.” He grins. “I like that. The run up to a good kiss?” he asks. His voice has gone small and weak. You don’t mistake it for nerves. This is something else entirely.

You close your eyes. It’s all the answer he needs. Your mouth falls open slowly against his as he tilts his head, as his body tries uselessly to slot between your thighs. You sigh a half-protest and he murmurs sorry into your open mouth. 

You don’t get another headache for days. 

They come back to bite you, though. Superman spent the morning playing on TV, fighting a water monster that threatened to drown an elementary school with gelatinous gloop. Clark texted you an apology of all things a few hours ago when he realised the water monster had flooded 110th street, stranding him in a bakery. Your pastries are dry! he’d promised. 

He rolls into work halfway through the day, when Superman and the Justice Gang have successfully boiled the water monster off in another shocking display of heroism. They’d blocked him into a glowing green box with Superman and a triangulation of Mister Terrific’s flying robots, amplifying his heat division and filling the box with boiling steam. Superman had been unaffected, as usual. 

Clark looks red in the face, ridiculously sorry as he presses a kiss to your cheek and a brown paper bag against your chest from behind. “Hi,” he says, “how are you?” 

You preen into his kiss. His nose lingers against your cheek. “I’m fine.” 

He smells weirder than he usually does. You sniff him curiously, promoting a warm huff of a laugh and another kiss to your cheek. “What’s up?” 

“You smell different.” 

“I do?” 

“You’re not wearing any cologne.” 

“I guess I’m not. I was in a rush. Did you eat?” 

“Yeah, we had sandwiches.” 

“Did Jimmy pay again?” 

“He did not. He offered.” 

He pulls you back to his chest. “He did.” 

“You’re not actually jealous.” 

“It’s polite of him,” he says, falling into that little voice that makes you wanna ask him to take you home. What is his problem? He’s 6’4, he’s wide, he has no business baby-voicing you and you’re eating it up ‘cos you know it isn’t put on. He gets sweet when he’s comfortable. You make him happy. 

“You’re smiling,” he accuses. 

“Nope.” 

The headaches persist. Clark is this shining bright spot of goodness in your life, even if he kisses you rather impolitely when the office clears at hometime, even when he disappears at strange times. He always texts, so. There’s a hundred different reasons as to why he’s late for work, or cancelling a date last minute, and he makes it up with flowers and apologies out of the ears. 

Superman gets busy on the news. You feel a bridge there, something about something about Clark Kent. A migraine hits before you can figure it out. 

It’s a few weeks after your first kiss, and you spend the morning flicking through photos of you and Clark. He likes taking them, holding your phone out in front of you both. “Smile!” he says, kissing you fondly when you oblige. You’re thinking about getting a couple of them printed for your photo album, though that might doom the whole thing, really, an early jinx, so for now you settle for thumbing through them with a big smile. Your head’s been hurting some since you woke up. You blame Clark for surprising you with a too-early FaceTime, sheets pulled up to your nose. 

To make up for waking you, he promises to bring groceries. You’d written a recipe for creamy mushroom eggs a few days ago that he swears he can make so long as you’re watching. 

You struggle out of bed when you hear him knocking. He’s grinning at the door, three paper bags hoisted in arms that have no business being as shapely as they are, his hair wet with rain and curling against his forehead. 

“Oh, no, it’s raining?” 

He leans in to peck you, paper bags crinkling sadly between your chests. “Not much.” 

His obvious lie makes you laugh, which has him stealing another kiss from the apple of your cheek. 

“You okay? How’s the head, today?” 

“It’s fine.” It’s protesting, actually, angered by your movement. 

“Why don’t we go sit you down, huh?”

“I don’t know why…” 

Clark guides you to the kitchen, shelving the paper bags on your small table and shepherding you into a chair at the head of it. “Why what?” 

You chew your lip. 

“What?” he asks patiently. 

“It’s like they get worse when you ask me about them. Maybe it’s psychosomatic? I’m sorry, I don’t mean– you don’t make them worse, Clark–”

But doesn’t he? He’s looking down at you and your headache is blistering, that single black curl against his forehead as his glasses slip down a damp nose. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and light wash jeans and it’s stirring and it hurts your head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not you, Clark.” 

“It might be.” 

“What?” 

He bends slightly to see you. Your eyes throb in their sockets as he watches you, clearly thinking, the cogs behind pretty eyes turning slow. 

Clark brings his fingertips to your cheek. “You’ve always been very observant.” 

“Have I?” 

“Of course. You’re so smart, you have an eye for detail, the small things, all the most important parts. That’s why you’re good at what you do, right?”

“I don’t follow, Clark.” 

“Your headaches are the worst at work, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And since we’ve been dating, they follow you home, too.” You’re worrying that this is the breakup when he raises both hands to his glasses. “It’s my fault. Or, it’s down to these.”

You stare at him wordlessly. 

“It’s– Four. Made me these, they all did, to obscure my identity. So I could have a normal life.” 

You’re feeling pretty nauseous, as things go. Maybe you’re having a stroke? That’s how these happen, sudden, strange feelings in your hands and garbled speech. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be speaking in riddles? 

Clark strokes your cheek again quickly, fingers going back to the arms of his glasses before you can savour the touch, and he works the black body of them down his nose and off. 

You squint at your almost-boyfriend. He looks different without the glasses. Paler. 

Then he straightens up and the pieces click firmly into place. 

Your lips part. He folds his glasses into the front of his hoodie, crossing his arms over his chest to follow. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“How are you… Your glasses– and they– the headaches?” 

“I don’t know. They never told me there’d be side effects.” 

“Who’s they?” 

He smiles rather boyishly, considering. “The bots, at the Fortress of Solitude. Four never mentioned that it could hurt you. I’m sorry about that.” 

Superman is looking down at you with big blue eyes and Clark Kent’s pretty mouth. That you’ve kissed. You’ve kissed superman. 

“Can you stop frowning? You have a nicer smile,” you say finally. 

He wants to do as you’ve asked, but his expression stutters. “You’re not mad?” 

“About what?” 

“About– about what? About my secret.” 

You’re not sure you can say ‘Superman’ out loud. “Either I’m having an aneurysm, or you have, like, the world's biggest burden on your shoulders. How could I be mad about that?” 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Clark-man (wow!) grins sudden and sweet as he loses his straight-backed posture, bending down again, looking for your hands where they live waiting at the ends of your arms for his touch. “I’m a metahuman. Hell, I’m not even human. I’m from space. You’re being unbelievably cool about this.” 

You settle into your chair with a tired smile. “My headache’s gone for the first time in months.” 

He pulls your hand to his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, completely. Who knew it was you the whole time? Should’ve stayed away. Just, I couldn’t manage it.” 

He kneels at your feet. “Is it really all better?” he asks.

The relief is nothing you’ve felt before. The first absence of pain after weeks of pinching agony. 

Clark pulls the glasses off of his hoodie and throws them over his shoulder. They land with a crack in the kitchen sink. 

“Don’t you need those?” you ask. 

He takes your face into a big, big hand, smiley and shy as he pulls you down to meet his mouth. “Not for this,” he promises, breath warm on your lips and your tongue as he takes the lead. The kiss goes hot and heavy as honey under summer sun, blistering, and searchingly slow. He kisses better without his glasses. You shuttle the thought away for a later date and let yourself sink into the heat of his chest. 

—

“I thought Superman didn’t have time for selfies?” you croon sometime later, sated and steady with a warm body behind your back. 

Clark hums into your hair tiredly. “Huh?” 

“You always make us take photos together.” 

“Well, that’s different. With you, I’m usually Clark.” 

“Usually?” 

He kisses the top of your ear. “Yeah. Guy you just met? That was Superman. But otherwise, I’m just Clark.” 

You groan as he laughs, giving it your best attempt at wiggling out of his reach to punish him for the cheesy line. Strong forearms cross over your stomach to pull you right back in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! hope you enjoyed!! and thank you becs for proofreading quick before I posted !!