#if anything is wrong with this please be nice!

[moonlightspencie]

Just a Silly Phase I’m Going Through

Description: Best friends through thick and thin, Clark and reader think they can get through a tangle of complicated feelings without something changing. Loudly wrong.

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Warnings: smut (p in v, oral, fingering)(18+), clark is a whiny little angel

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: horny again had to write about it. i did not edit this so if you see an error no you didnt (also using im not in love for the title cause mr gunn used it in guardians and i thought it was fitting)

Clark Kent. He was a lot of things. An alien, sure. A small-town boy. Kind. Nerdy. Superhuman. Sweet.

Most importantly to you, he was a life-long friend, and a massive loser. In the best way.

“Alright, Superman–” you started, though a hand quickly slapped over your mouth.

“Shh,” he whispered frantically, withdrawing his hand. “Sorry. I just… Don’t be so loud about it!"

"Sorry," you replied through a laugh, not in the least actually apologetic. “It’s just so dorky.”

He frowned; his jaw set in place as he looked away from you. You watched as he took a seat on the couch in your living room, melting into the cushions. Part of you felt bad having made him pout like this, but at the same time… ‘Superman’ was a dorky moniker. You’d been friends too long for him not to get teased about it.

You conceded, sitting next to him. “Okay, okay… Clark. Come on, I was just joking around.”

“Someone could hear you,” he mumbled, fidgeting with his hands in his lap.

“Someone could– Clark, we’re alone in my house,” I gesture at the obviously empty townhome. “Who’s gonna hear us?”

“I don’t know! Someone could, though!”

You sighed, placing a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing softly. He could be such a baby. He leaned into you, still pouting, but enjoying the closeness.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you because of me.”

“It won’t, Clark.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but it can be inferred. Besides, you’d always be there to protect me anyway.”

He was quiet for a moment, but you noticed the tiny tilt of his lips at that. He leaned back to look at you.

“You’re my closest friend. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Hey… I know this is getting bigger. And its… new,” you say softly, referencing his rise to near-stardom as Superman. It had been a quick transition, and you could tell it weighed on him. “But you’re still you, and I’m still me. Nothing is going to change.”

And you were right…

Sort of.

Things did start to change, but not necessarily for the worse. Actually, a lot of it was for the better.

Clark got a job at the Daily Planet: his dream.

You started working at a local non-profit for victims of extraterrestrial mayhem: ironic.

You both moved to downtown Metropolis, only blocks away from one another. It was nice. It was… more of the same. Which, again, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But…

God. Starting to fall for your best friend was embarrassing.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but suddenly his smile was more than comforting. It felt like home. Every time he looked at you, sure you still saw the boy you’d been friends with for ages. But you also saw the man he was now.

And good lord was he gorgeous.

He groans your name, reaching around you. “Please, just cut it out. Give it back!”

“Absolutely not,” you laugh, leaning away from him, trying to get the remote out of his grasp. “No more football, I want to watch something actually entertaining. Your team is miserably losing anyway.”

“What if they come back? It’s never too late!”

“They’re down almost thirty points in the fourth quarter.”

He frowns. “You’re mean. Have some faith.”

You scramble away from him, finally changing the channel to an old sitcom you both love. He grumbles under his breath, pretending he doesn’t think one of the jokes is funny. You sit next to him after putting the remote on the side table, glancing at him with his pouty lips and flushed cheeks. Even irritated he was hot.

“You’re a big baby.”

“I am not. You’re just pessimistic. They could have won, and then we would have gotten to see it and it would have been amazing. But no, you ruined our chances of seeing the greatest comeback in the world.”

“…dramatic, too.”

He cracks a small smile. “You just hate to see me happy.”

“You love this show, and you were getting worked up about them losing. You have a much higher chance of being happy not watching the game.”

He huffs again, plopping his head on your shoulder. He sniffs once. Then twice.

“Hmm…”

“What?” you question, wondering why he’s sniffing you like a dog.

“You’re wearing a new perfume.”

“Uh… yeah?”

He hums once. “It’s nice. I like it.”

“Oh,” you say shortly, swallowing. “Thanks.”

He nods, his messy hair tickling your neck. “Why’d you change it?”

You shrug. “Just trying something new.”

“So… you’re not like… dating someone or anything?”

“What?”

“Just curious,” he says quietly. “That would probably be a reason to change it.”

“I just liked this one, Clark. Wanted to try something new. If I was dating anyone, I would have told you,” you snort, a little curious why he was laying on the third degree.

“Okay. Just wanna make sure I can warn any guy that comes near you how much of a headache you are,” he says, trying very poorly to hide a smile.

“Oh, whatever.”

He pauses, then looks at you with wide eyes. “Wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to actually…”

“I’m not mad, Clark,” you reassure him with a chuckle as he starts to sit up.

“Oh. Okay,” he replied with a nod. “Just making sure.”

You both fall quiet for a while, watching the show. You’re halfway to falling asleep before Clark suddenly sits up straight, shoving his phone in your face, a headline about the miraculous comeback from his favorite football team gracing the screen.

“I told you they’d win!”

“Oh, well color me surpr–”

He groans, slumping down with his head in your lap, trying very hard to be angry. It doesn’t last long as you stroke his hair and offer to order his favorite takeout. He is so easy to please. You take a moment to look at him lying there, attempting to curl his body up onto the couch, but still somehow taking up every millimeter of space.

“When did you get so big?” you ask, voice soft and teasing.

“Always have been.”

“No, I very distinctly remember you being smaller and dorkier at some point. You’re… a man now.”

“That tends to happen in time,” he chuckles lowly. “And I was never dorky.”

“You still are.”

He grumbles. “Still always taller than you.”

“This again? Clark, we were having that argument as 12-year-olds. I think we’re old enough to move past that now.”

“No!” he all but squeaks out. “If you’re bringing up me apparently being small and dorky, I’m bringing up you being short.”

“I’m average height!”

“Yeah, to an earthworm, maybe.”

“Not my fault you’re freakishly tall.”

He laughs, looking up at you from your lap. You look right back at him, neither of you saying anything before he finally turns back over. A gentle smile is set on his face as he watches the show you put on. Your stomach does somersaults. You reason that you’re probably just hungry and finally order the food you promised him.

It’s a common occurrence, going to his place, or him to yours. All to do… practically nothing. Sometimes you might go out, or meet up with friends. You’re particularly fond of his friends from work, Lois and Jimmy. Even if they always tease you about how close you and Clark are.

But most nights, you end up on a couch, either watching a movie or reading. Usually just chatting about anything and everything.

It’s been that way between the two of you since you met him in middle school and he invited you over to meet the cows on his parents’ farm. He was a cute little kid with ears too big for his head and a sweet smile. And you were a little firecracker who his parents always seemed to love despite your knack for getting him into trouble.

Trouble like seeing if edibles would work on him. That was tonight’s experiment.

He yawns deeply, arms stretching above his head, testing the seams of that white t-shirt. And giving you a peek of what you would enthusiastically consider a happy trail.

“I am beat,” he smirks, looking down at you.

“Weed will do that to you.”

“Shouldn’t have let you talk me into that,” he shakes his head, putting his hands on his hips.

“Just wanted to see if it would actually work on you if you took enough. How is it?”

He snorts. “It’s doing something. I still think if we do it again, we should probably shoot for like 15 or 16 of those little gummy things rather than, what, 10?”

“12,” you correct him.

“Ah,” he nods slowly, turning around to face the tv instead of you. “You know, I really am beat. I could probably pass out right here, right now…”

“Clark, no–”

He groans, slowly falling backwards on purpose, right where you sat.

“Stop,” you laugh, pushing him away as he falls on top of you.

He giggles, not moving. “Aw, come on, short stack. I’m not that heavy.”

“You’re like a pile of bricks.”

“No, I am not,” he defends, frowning. “You’re mean to me.”

“You love me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, turning around to face you. Neither of you realize just how close you are until it’s too late and you can feel his breath on your face.

You stare at him, and he stares right back. All would have been well, too, if you didn’t catch him glancing at your lips.

“Maybe you should…” you start, but are cut off by his lips on yours.

Whoa.

You’d always thought it was kind of cheesy when people described any kind of intimacy by saying fireworks went off. But now? Yeah, it made more sense for sure.

Involuntarily, you groan. He mimics your sound, hands on your hips as he settles himself between your legs, pressing your body down into the couch cushions as if he’d planned this. Your arms circle around his broad shoulders, one hand tangling in his messy hair. He practically moans your name into your mouth and you feel yourself soak through your panties immediately. Thank god for thick sweatpants.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice needy and wrecked already.

“Please what?”

“I… I don’t know,” he shakes his head, lips dragging over your jaw, neck, collarbones, practically anywhere he can currently reach. “Still thinking on it.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as he explores you, his hands moving over your chest, down your stomach, and to the waistband of your pants. He pulls back for a moment, looking you in the eye.

“May I?”

“Okay,” you reply simply. He could ask for anything at this point and you’d have agreed.

He smiles, kissing you deeply again. You let your body roll up into his, drawing another pretty sound from the back of his throat. You use the opportunity to slide your tongue against his. He counters, though, by tugging your pants off of you easily.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever been more turned on.

You reach down to try and start the same process on him, but you’re stopped by his hand entirely circling your wrist. You break the kiss, looking up at him in confusion. He merely shakes his head, kissing you softly as he places your hand on his shoulder. You groan, annoyed by the interruption, to which he smiles. The asshole.

“What’s so funny?” you mumble against his lips.

“You pouting. It’s cute.”

“You’re rude.”

“Let me take care of you,” he replies softly, kissing your cheek.

That does it. You shudder as he moves down your body like your whole worldview didn’t just shift from such a small action. The gentle look in his eyes, the way his lips met your cheek like his tongue wasn’t just in your mouth, his hands touching every part of you reverentially… it was too much. You knew you were officially in too deep. But you couldn’t hold back from falling further.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers against your stomach, lips touching your skin from where he’d slightly pulled up your sweatshirt. “Tell me to stop if you don’t want this.”

“I want this,” spills from your lips before you can even think about it. You see him smile again.

It all happens at once. Too much, too fast, but somehow not enough. His lips trail up your legs as he tugs off your panties. Not before making a comment that he thought it was sweet how much of a mess you made for him. You’re squirming and moaning under him as his lips finally find your center, eating you like he’s starving.

“Clark,” you gasp out, a hand in his hair as he pushes your legs up to get a better angle.

He looks gorgeous like this. Hair falling over his forehead, tongue occasionally darting into your view when it’s not actively tearing you apart from the inside out. Worst of all, the louder you are, the more enthusiastic he gets.

“You’re a dick,” you moan, not meaning a word of it as you try to hold off from coming all over his pretty face.

“You love me,” he mocks your earlier words straight into your pussy.

Fuck.

You whine at the vibration, still slightly holding onto your dignity as you refrain from letting yourself finish just yet. But, of course, you just have to look down at him, unable to get enough of the view of his face between your legs. It’s heaven. And it kills you. The second you see that son of a bitch smiling while he devours you, dimples poking into his cheeks, you can’t hold on any longer.

Praises and a vague call of his name fall from your mouth like a waterfall as you gush against his lips. He stays put, cleaning everything you have to give him as you come, having the audacity to moan like he’s the one with the hottest person in the world going down on him. You shake with the force of your orgasm, still holding onto his mop of hair, twitching every time he gently licks at you.

“Clark…”

“Hmm?”

“Enough.”

“M’not done yet,” he replies, eyes still closed, mouth still moving.

“I can’t… can’t handle any more right now.”

He sighs, conceding. He kisses your cunt once more before moving back to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“That was… fun,” he breathes out as he pulls away from your lips.

“Fun?”

He tilts his head slightly. “You don’t think so?”

“I think you just ruined me.”

He smiles again. “I’d never.”

“Too late.”

“You can’t be ruined. Look at you.”

You blinked, looking up at him. “Huh?”

He shook his head, looking down. “Nothing. Just… You can admit you had a good time.”

You chuckle once. “Alright. Alright, fine. It was… definitely a good time.”

He smiles softly again. “Good. Um… I am gonna go get a towel for you. And maybe some mouthwash for me so you don’t have to smell… well… you on me all night.”

“You saying I smell weird?” You snort a laugh in response.

“Not in the slightest. Honestly, I almost finished myself off just tasting your—”

“Okay,” you interject quickly, blushing. It felt almost odd hearing him dirty talk. Even if it was also unbelievably sexy. “Point taken. Maybe I don’t necessarily want to smell myself on you for the rest of the evening.”

He chuckles softly. “Alright. I’ll be back then.”

The next few weeks it’s all you can think about. He doesn’t try anything else past a friendly hug when you’re together, but part of you wishes he would. The image of him fucking smiling while eating you out is imprinted on your brain.

The feelings it gave you other than pure want… that’s another story.

You’re sure he has to notice the fact that you can’t look at him without it turning into a gaze that could only be described as pathetic. Googly eyes could also be a good descriptor. But if he does notice, he certainly doesn’t mention it. And that feels almost worse than the embarrassment that would come with being teased about it.

You were finally able to admit to yourself, fully, that you’d fallen head over heels for him. There was no way you could deny it. Not when every glance sent a shockwave through you, and even the thought of him had you grinning to yourself like an idiot.

You were meeting up with him after work to go get dinner before vegging out at his place. You stood by the front doors of the Daily Planet waiting for him, having got off sooner than he did that day. It was fifteen minutes or so before you saw a giant stalking past you.

“Hey!”

He turned around, confused for a moment before a grin took over his face.

“Hey! I didn’t see you. I thought you worked until six today?”

“Got off early,” you replied, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. You looked at him in those silly fake glasses of his and couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You look like such a nerd in those.”

He frowned. “Come on, that’s a low blow, you know I need these.”

“I know,” you roll your eyes. “Doesn’t make them less ridiculous. It’s a good thing you’re hot.”

He blushed, looking away. Which you absolutely relished in. He didn’t often have such a reaction to you complimenting him.

“Aww. Are you blushing?” you tease.

“No!”

“You totally are!”

“You called me hot, what else am I…” he huffs.

“It’s not like I’m making moves on you. It’s an objective observation.”

“You need to look up the definition of ‘objective’ again.”

You laugh, trying not to let yourself get caught staring at him as he started on about his day at work.

You eat your meal together, go on a brief walk through the city afterward, and finally land on his couch, wearing his shirt and his pants, drinking tea he’d made you in his favorite mug. He always insisted on giving that one to you, despite it clearly being the one he loved the most. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you actually preferred the blue one he always shoved in the back of his cupboard.

“They’re thinking of replacing my boss,” you mention as he sits down with you, handing you a cookie he’d baked the day prior.

“What? Didn’t you say she was, like, the best part of your job.”

You nod slowly. “Yep. I’m thinking about maybe leaving. I mean… I love what we do there, but they’re just trying to change things for the worse at this point.”

He hummed, dissatisfied with the news. “Well… You know, there is an opening for an editor at the Planet.”

You snort a laugh. “You’re trying to get me to work with you, now?”

“It’s a good job. With benefits.”

“You’d get sick of me within a week if we worked together. Plus, I don’t have any media experience.”

“I could never get sick of you,” he rolled his eyes in response. “And I could put in a good word for you with Perry. You help me edit my stuff all the time and you’re great at it.”

“That’s not the same as doing it for a job, Clark.”

“Still counts.”

You sigh, trying to hide your smile as you shake your head at him. He merely shrugs, the suggestion entirely sincere to him.

“Just an idea. Think about it.”

“Alright. Just for you.”

He smiles, leaning a little closer as his gaze trails back to the movie he’d put on. You can tell he’s thinking about something.

“What’s going on in that big old head of yours?”

He snorts. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You watch him as he swallows once, then sets down his mug on the table. He leans back into the cushions.

“You want the honest answer?”

“Well, I don’t want you to lie to me.”

“Fair,” he chuckles softly, then looks at you. “I’m, uh… I’m kind of thinking about, well, last month.”

“What about it.”

“You know what,” he replies quietly, his face flushing a little again. “The thing we haven’t talked about since it happened.”

You chew your lip, nodding. “Right.”

“I just… It was… nice. But maybe we should talk about it at some point.”

Nice. You suppose that’s one way to put it.

“What do we need to talk about?”

He raised a brow at you. “Maybe the whole making out thing. And… the other stuff.”

“I mean… We did it. And it was a one time thing cause it was fun and– I don’t know. What else is there to talk about?” you question, trying to remain at least vaguely nonchalant.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admits softly.

Suddenly you’re hot. It hits like a tidal wave with the way he looks at you, clearly remembering everything in the same way you have been every single damn day since it happened. His wide eyes are darkened in a way you haven’t seen before, and his lips are looking suspiciously delectable in this moment.

You lean in, not hesitating to kiss him again. It feels even better than it did the first time, his lips working against yours in a way that has your head absolutely spinning. He pulls you up on your feet, not pulling away for even a moment.

“I need… I need you,” you mutter against his lips, hands dragging down his chest towards the waistband of his pants. “Don’t say no this time.”

He huffs, lips moving to your jaw. “You need me?”

“Please, Clark,” you gasp.

He kisses down your jaw, sucking a soft mark just under it before moving his lips down.

“Are you sure?” he all but groans against your neck, already pulling your top up. “I need you to be absolutely, one-hundred-percent positive about this, because I don’t know how else I’ll feel okay doing this to you–”

“Clark. Please. I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

He whimpers, whimpers, at that response, tearing at your shirt until its tossed across the room. He kisses down your neck, hands touching anywhere and everywhere they can reach.

“How is this going to affect our friendship?” he asks through kisses.

“I… I don’t know. Let’s not think about that right now, just– fuck.” He bites down on your neck before soothing it over with his tongue. “I just need this. Need you. We can figure out everything else later.”

He pulls back, drawing a frown to your face.

“You know I really care about you. Right?”

“Of course I do, can we just…”

He says your name, probably softer and gentler than you’d ever hear it. You stop talking, looking up at him.

“Please,” he whispers. “Just… I need you to be positive about this. Completely. It’s going to change things with us.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“It will,” he reaffirms.

“Why? Why can’t we just do this and… and be friends? Things don’t have to be different. They weren’t last time.”

“All I did was go down on you last time,” he states plainly, as if him even mentioning the act didn’t have your knees weak all over again. “This is different. I can’t… I can’t have sex with you and not let it change everything. I can’t be inside of you and have you expect that I’ll be able to look at you the same way.”

Your brows knit together. “What do you mean? That’s still sex.”

“It means…” he swallows, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment like he can’t help it. “It means that I am dangerously close to falling in love with my best friend, and I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend like I’m not if we cross that specific line. Gosh, even if I just felt you touching me, it would change everything. I know it’s silly, but it’s just… different to me. And besides, we were high when that happened.”

“Clark,” you interject with a snorted laugh. “I took half a gummy, you took like 12 to barely get an effect.”

“Still counts,” he argues, pouting a little.

“Hardly.”

“You know what I mean though.”

You swallow. You do know. Partially because you haven’t stopped thinking about that night since it happened. He was scared that what happened to you in that moment would happen to him: ignorance would no longer be bliss. You’d know what it felt like to have one another. Fully.

“I know. But… I don’t care. Not if you don’t.”

He scoffs. “I lay my heart on the line and you don’t care?”

“Not… Ugh,” you groan, “not like that. I mean… I don’t care if it changes things. I-I want it to change things.”

His eyes widen as he looks at you, perfect brows raising almost into his hairline.

“You do?”

“You’re fucking oblivious–”

“Hey!”

“I’ve been in love with you for ages,” you blurt out. “Probably the whole entire past year.”

“Just a year?”

“Yeah, I… Just?” you question, pulling back slightly to give him the full effect of your bewildered stare.

He smiles. The bastard. All dimples and teeth and rosy cheeks.

“I win again,” he mentions like you’re supposed to know what he’s talking about.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I win. I’ve been fighting off being in love with you since, like, right after we left Smallville. Maybe before then, too, but definitely after.”

“What?”

He smiles even brighter somehow. “I thought all this time that you’d go run off with some guy or girl and leave me in the dust.”

“You like me?”

His smile slightly drops as he raises a brow, muttering your name. His hand reaches up, stroking your cheek tenderly. “I’ve turned down every girl who ever liked me. I spend at least seventy percent of my free time with you. And, honest, last time I talked to Ma she asked when me and you were coming home.”

“You really should visit them more often.”

“I know,” his smile turns unbelievably soft. “But I want you with me next time. And every time. I don’t ever want to be without you, you know that?”

“Clark…”

“I love you.”

Your mouth goes dry. You knew it was coming, but it still hits you like a freight train. His gaze so sweet and magnetic and sincere and so… Clark. That satin-soft smile doesn’t leave his lips.

“Maybe I should’ve told you forever ago, but I didn’t want to mess things up between us. You’re everything to me,” he whispers, kissing your forehead gently. “I’d give up anything for you, but the best part is that I know I’d never have to. You’re so lovely. So caring, loving… even though you try to hide it with eighty layers of sarcasm. It’s kind of endearing, you know?”

You laugh softly, eyes welling up. “You suck.”

“I love you,” he repeats.

You let a shuddering breath leave you. “I love you, too.”

He wet his lips, and you don’t miss the action. It’s hard to say who leans in first, but all that matters to you is that you’re kissing again, his lips soft and perfect against your own.

Clothes are discarded on the floor as he walks you back to his bedroom, laying you down softly on the bed, lips trailing over your body like he’s worshipping you.

“Golly, you’re… perfection,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He leans down to kiss you, shutting up what he knew would be a teasing remark about the use of ‘golly’ in bed. You chuckle against his lips, and he hopes you don’t notice his matching smile. But you do. Of course you do.

He wipes that smile off your lips quickly, though, as he presses a finger into you. He moans into your mouth, crooking that finger as if he’s somehow already memorized your body.

“Fuck,” you groan, biting down on his shoulder.

He adds another finger, pumping them in and out of you, moaning like its doing something for him to take you apart like this.

“Clark. Please.”

“Shh, baby. Want you nice and ready for me.”

A strangled noise leaves from deep in your throat, and he takes the moment to kiss you again like his life depends on it. It doesn’t take him long to have you coming on his fingers, working you through it with only the kind of care and attention you’d expect from him.

“Attagirl. There you go. Breathe for me, baby,” he mumbles in your ear, kissing just behind it.

“Why do you have to be so fucking sweet and attentive,” you grumble, leaning your head back in his pillow.

“You don’t like me being sweet?”

“It makes me ridiculously horny.”

He laughs, pulling his fingers out of you to stroke himself slowly. You look down at him, quite literally salivating as you see him fully. The fact that his cock still looks that big with his huge-ass hand around it… God.

“You can take it,” he reassures you before you can even mention it. “We’ll make sure.”

You moan, eyes rolling back. “You can’t say shit like that to me.”

“I mean it.”

“That makes it worse.”

He grins. “You’re adorable. Come here.”

He pulls you closer, dragging himself through the slick built up between your folds, his eyes glued to the sight.

“I could finish right here,” he breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Damn it.”

“Naughty.”

“Shut up,” he laughs, though its soft and broken.

The moment he slides into you, everything feels… right. It’s like a puzzle piece slotting perfectly into place. With a little bit of force. You don’t mind.

He pushes in slowly, eyes quickly flitting between your face and lips making those pretty sounds and your cunt swallowing him. The moment he fully sheaths inside of you, he crumples, his body falling on top of yours. Its crushing in the best way.

“You feel so perfect. Like you’re made for me,” he almost growls, pulling back before thrusting into you again.

You feel like a rag doll, his body lurching your forward with every thrust. He’s caring and sweet and kind, but it doesn’t exactly make him gentle in this moment. He holds your hip with one hand, lacing his fingers with yours with the other.

“I love you,” he moans, before whimpering again.

That does it for you immediately.

“I l-love you,” you respond, your voice broken between gasps and moans.

He whines with every thrust as he gets closer and closer to the finish line. It’s a blur of skin and sweat and the smell of something that’s so uniquely him.

“I need you,” he breathes out.

“You have me.”

He whimpers again, straight into your ear, as he falls apart, filling you with everything he has.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he moans, his hips not stopping their motion. “You should’ve… first… oh gosh…”

“I’m… fuck, don’t stop. It’s okay,” you reply, holding onto him for dear life.

It only takes a few more snaps of his hips before it’s your turn to finish. You grip onto his shoulders and back, back arching into his firm chest as you squeeze him hard, drawing another broken sound from him.

“Baby…”

“Shh,” you shake your head in response. “Not yet.”

“Hmm…” he lets out, the sound high pitched and needy.

You breathe heavy, as does he, his face still buried in your neck, planting soft kisses on the damp skin there. You lay there with him for minutes before you finally feel like you’ve calmed down enough to speak.

“Holy shit.”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I’d have to agree.”

You look at him with all the affection in the world as he leans back to look at you. He smiles softly, kissing your forehead.

“Was that… was I okay?”

You snort. “Okay?”

“Yeah, I mean,” he shrugs once. “I’ve only done that like twice. And never with someone I’m in love with.”

You smile a little. “It was perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod easily. “Easily the best I’ve ever had. Like seriously, if I wasn’t already into you I think this would have been my turning point.”

He laughs. “Good. I’m glad you liked it.”

“Loved it.”

“Me too,” he says gently, kissing you once. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, and then I am making you tea. Or cocoa. Or honestly like a five-course meal. Whatever you want as long as you let me do this again some time.”

You laugh, letting him carry you to the bathroom like you’re weightless. There were definitely perks to being in love with Superman.

[andy-in-space]

there is simply not enough subby Lex content on this site so I'm writing it myself

warnings: suggestive , no actual smut , spoilers for Superman

Lex let his head fall back at his office desk, his chair leaning back slightly. He's honestly tired. Eve went and talked to another man behind his back. Sure, he wasn't a great partner, but the money had to be nice... right?

It seemed even billions of dollars weren't enough to make somebody like him. Is he really that insufferable? As Lex finds himself becoming lost on those thoughts, he hears the door to his office open.

"Mr. Luthor?" You call out. He snaps back to reality quickly, turning to look in your direction. Oh, his secretary. Perhaps you've brought good news? He could use some good news at the moment.

"Oh, hello. Did you need something? I'd have thought you had already left for the night." Lex replies, almost an unnatural 'calm' to his tone. You're not used to hearing this. Usually, he's not shy to make demands or yell when he's upset. Something must be wrong.

"I was just coming to tell you I'm heading out. Are you alright, Mr. Luthor?" You ask, slowly walking towards his desk. This isn't something you'd normally do, but maybe... maybe he needs somebody?

"Yes, I'm quite alright. You don't have to worry about that." He reassures, which really only serves to make you more skeptical of his new attitude. The Lex you know wouldn't hide his feelings of upset.

"Lex, please tell me what's wrong. You don't have to deal with whatever it is on your own. It may not be my job to worry about you, but I care about you." You almost wince as the last words leave your mouth. This is certainly unprofessional. Hell, he might fire you right now just for calling him 'Lex'.

Instead, his face crumples into a frown. He looks positively pathetic. You take it a step further, lifting his chin with two fingers to have him look up at you. His eyes are intoxicating, a beautiful shade of smokey blue, and they're beginning to water with tears.

"... Everybody hates me. I know I'm not something special like Superman, but at least I'm actually human. What's so great about a Martian?" Lex huffs, his face contorting yet again as he tries to stop himself from crying.

"That's what's bothering you?" You ask gently, slowly moving closer behind his desk. You place a hand over his back, rubbing slow circles into the muscle there. "Lex, you're the smartest person I know. You shouldn't compare yourself to such an unattainable standard."

"But he's so perfect. I'm just... bitter." Lex sniffles, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face against your stomach. You've never seen him act like this. You certainly don't hate it, though. Anybody with eyes can tell that Lex is attractive physically, even if not emotionally.

"Your worth is not based on who other people like better." You hold him against you, your free hand coming to rest on the back of his head. Your fingers trace over his skin, a comforting and almost reverent touch. It makes Lex shudder.

The feeling of your skin against his has Lex holding back quiet whines against your body. It's not like he's never been touched before. He knows he's handsome. However, he's never had somebody else be so careful with him. He's always in charge. Always telling everybody else what to do.

You tilt his head up again, cupping his face with both hands and gently wiping the tears that have begun to spill onto his cheeks. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. Lex wants this, more than he could possibly express to you. You want this, probably more than you should.

"... Would you like a ride home?" Lex offers, his voice still shaking. It's adorable, really. He's always so powerful. People shrink under his gaze and quake if he's anything less than pleased with them. But with you? All that power, gone in an instant.

"How about we go back to yours?" You offer, stroking Lex's cheek with your thumb.

[nocturnalro]

~♡WHY DOES IT FEEL RIGHT?♡~

Dr. Jack Abbot x reader x Dr. Robby

A/n: Thanks for being my beta @lockeswoodss and my sorta co-author? I'd be list without your guidance. Also, for coming up with the idea that the red string of fate changes colour depending on your emotions 💜

Summary: Your parents always told you about a grand fairytale that you had to trust fate and believe that your crimson string 6 not lead you astray, but things did not go as planned...

Cw: some angst, age gap

Minors DNI

Chapter 1: Heartbreak

You stood in front of a diner you'd never been to before. Finally done with high school for good, you decided to give in to your curiosity and follow that glowing string that connected you to two different people. Here you were just one step through the door, and you would meet whoever it is you were meant to be with. The string started to vibrate with an orange hue as the door to the diner opened, and there he was, handsome just as you imagined him. He smiled warmly at you, his hand caressing your cheek. “Hi.” His voice sends shivers down your spine.

“Uh, hi.” You got shyer by the second as you noticed the string colour slowly changing to red.

“Wanna grab a bite to eat?” He pointed at the diner. You nodded and followed him back inside. He guided you to the booth he was sitting in before. “Order anything you want.”

“What if I order everything?” You said playfully.

“Then you will eat it all. And do dishes to work it off.” Jack deadpanned.

“How come my string connection to you hasn’t been showing until recently?” It always confused you; the other connection was a constant, and it grounded you on bad days.

“Could be because I’m often on tour overseas since I’m in the military.” Jack took a deep breath and waited for you to order your burger, french fries, and milkshake. “How old are you actually? You look so young.” He rubbed the back of his neck, not sure how to approach this topic, especially since he can’t hide that he is attracted to you.

“I’m 18 and you?” You answered hesitantly. Noticing the twitch in his eye, you shrink in on yourself. Your legs were sticking to the seat because you wore shorts. It didn’t improve your uneasiness.

“Baby, I’m 30. You see how this might be a problem?” He sighed, caressing your hand.

“B-but I'm not a minor. S-so what does it matter?” Your voice got quieter. You waited for the waitress to bring your dishes to continue. “My parents always told me that all I have to do is trust fate, the string will glow red one day for me too, and I will find my happiness, so please give me a chance.” The thought of losing your soulmate before you even got to know him tore you up inside.

“It matters, trust me. What about emotional growth? You are eighteen, you still have your whole life ahead of you.” He tilted his head to look deeper into your eyes. “The picture your family painted you is nice, and you deserve all that and more, but reality is that you are too young.” He noticed how defeated your expression looked and how you munched on your fries, taking in what he said. He could see the tears that you were fighting to hold back, and sighed. “I’m not saying this to be cruel, baby. If fate truly wants us to be together, then our paths will cross again eventually, but I want you to live your life, go out, meet people, and fall in love.” He reached over the table to wipe your eye to catch a tear that was threatening to fall.

“But you can’t deny you are attracted to me. I can see it, you can’t deny what’s right in front of me. And I can feel it in your touch, it has so much warmth.” You tried to argue as you took a sip of your milkshake. You couldn't bring yourself to eat more; the knot in your stomach was growing. Not once had you considered that meeting your fated partner would go so wrong; you always believed in the tales people talked about and the fairytale your parents promised you. You felt like someone pulled the rug from under your feet.

Jack noticed you pushing your burger away and thought it was time to pay. You were just about to bring another wave of arguments when the waitress smiled at you both and said, “Can I just say, you have the most darling sister, handsome.” You felt sick and needed air, you tried to get up quickly but got stuck on the seat, which only added to your feelings of shame. You stormed out of the diner, standing in the rain, leaving a speechless Jack behind. After he paid, he caught up with you and took you in his arms, where you sobbed uncontrollably. “It's OK, baby. I'm truly sorry about this, but I believe it's for the best. Come on, let's get you out of the rain, and I'll drive you home.” He led you to his truck and opened the door for you. “Just put your address into the nav.” He handed her the navigation system before shutting the door and walking over to the driver's side, letting out a deep sigh before entering.

The drive was quiet for the most part. Jack wasn't sure if he should talk more or not, because you seemed lost in your thoughts. “What am I supposed to do now?” You asked barely above a whisper and were more saying to yourself than him in frustration, but he heard it and saw you wiping away more tears as you turned your head away.

“Any college plans, or do you not want to go to college? I know you think love is the most important thing, and I’m not trying to argue that, but there’s more to life than that.” He brought you out of your thoughts. You rolled your eyes, only proving his point again, and clicked your tongue.

“When I was a kid, I always wanted to go to the military, but then my sister joined the military instead. She is 10 years older than I am and somehow always made it her life’s mission to pursue what I wanted most. It’s a stupid thought, I’m fully aware, especially since I’m coming from a military family, my grandparents were in the army too.” You let out an incredulous laugh and ran a hand over your face. “So I decided to study medicine instead. I haven’t told her that, though. Honestly, I have no idea why I’m telling you all of this.”

“Oh, I know why. We still have a special connection, baby. And that said, I won’t judge you no matter what, I hope you know that. But while I don’t know your sister, I’m certain she didn’t do this to spite you, and just because she is in the military doesn’t mean you couldn’t be too. You know? With that said, studying medicine is very admirable. Where are you going to study, if I may ask?” He parked the car in front of your house.

“I’m doing undergrad in public health, but if things go well, then I'll study medicine at the University of Pittsburgh in the future. If not, I’ll go wherever I’m accepted.” You looked outside the window, and it filled you with dread. Once you left the car, you wouldn’t see him again. You couldn’t just let him go like this, you just couldn’t. You turned to him with tears running down your face, your hands reaching for his shirt, and you pulled him close just as your lips were about to connect with his. He pushed you away.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.” That was all he managed to say before you broke down sobbing on his shirt. He held you while you cried and sat in silence; there was nothing more to be said. Eventually, you left the car and went up to your room, shutting yourself away from everyone to cry yourself to sleep while one of your strings changed slowly to blue.

You woke in the middle of the night to a knock on the door, and Abby, your older sister, entered. “Ugh. Not now, Abby. I'm not in the mood for one of your speeches.” You turned away, trying to hide your puffy eyes, but Abby knew you too well.

“Wanna tell me what happened? This morning, you were so excited this morning to meet one of your fated partners. Did he not treat you well?” She put her hand on your shoulder and waited for you to talk to her.

The funny thing with time is that it will pass you by in an instant, and just like that, two years had passed. You never forgot about that evening with Jack and tried to do as he said, date other people, but eventually you opted to focus on your studies. They kept you busy, and you only compared everyone to Jack. You once thought about seeking out the partner that belongs to the second string, but it was such a constant in your life that the thought of losing that scared you more than anything. At the moment you were trying to study, but your big sister Abby returned from her tour to get married. She met the man of her dreams while serving overseas. Good for her, you thought, maybe a touch spiteful.

“I can’t wait for you to meet him. He is also a doctor, maybe he can help you study. I’m certain the two of you will get along.” Abby squealed excitedly. You admired her ability to be all bubbly no matter the circumstances, but you were not in the mood to discuss guys.

“Aha. I’m sure he’s great, Abs. You wouldn’t marry him otherwise.” You said focusing on your paper. “I’m gonna meet him later and we will see how great he is, but I’m happy for you.”

When you arrived at the rehearsal dinner, you waited for Abby to introduce her future husband to you and your family.

“Everyone, this is… “ Abby led her partner into the room, but both he and you stood there with eyes wide open.

“J-Jack…” You finished. Colour leaving your face, this was a nightmare. “Why him, Abby?! “ You shot your head up, your thoughts were spinning, your vision blurred by tears. Then you turned to Jack. “Why? WHY HER?” Your voice broke as you got louder. “You knew of my insecurities. Why are you doing this?” You held your hands over your eyes, balling them into fists.

“I know you don’t want to believe me right now, but neither me or your sister planned this. We just met and fell in love. This is just an unlucky coincidence.” Jack tried to sound reassuring, but it backfired immediately.

“So I’m an unlucky coincidence?” You stared at him, heartbroken, angry.

“Come on, honey, that is not what he meant, and you know it. Why don’t you go and calm down?” Your parents said.

“Calm down?! Oh, I’m sorry. My whole life, you told me to trust fate, to just follow this string and it will turn out fine, and suddenly, when things are not fine the way you have constantly promised me it would be, I’m the burden?” You cried, not understanding why your parents weren’t supporting you. You left, you didn’t bother looking back, you went home, packed your biggest bag, and left.

You’ve never hitchhiked before, and honestly, you were really scared, but you had no other option. You didn’t even know where you wanted to go, but it was winter and ice cold, so sleeping outside was not an option for you. A small yellow car stopped for you. “Hop in, kiddo!” Someone with a warm yet snarky voice said. As you got in, a blonde woman smiled at you. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the road in this weather? And have you been crying? Do I need to kick someone's ass?” She immediately noted. As you were about to answer, she interrupted you. “Seatbelt.”

“I uh, I left my home.” You tried to phrase it delicately that you ran away, “and well, my sister married my fated partner today. He turned me down two years ago and told me to live my life, and then returned to marry my older sister.” Tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Oh, kiddo, fate ain’t all that. Take it from me, my fated partner was a cheating douchebag. My name is Dana, by the way.”

“That’s the problem, my entire life, my parents told me to trust in fate and that everything will fall into place, but suddenly, when I got upset, I was the problem, and they couldn’t understand why?! Like my whole world is upside down.” You explained.

“Not sure if running away will solve your problems, kiddo. Where are you even heading? Your parents shouldn’t have told you all that, though that’s for sure.” Dana shook her head in disbelief.

“I honestly have nowhere to go.” You said in a small voice, because you didn’t think this through. This was a decision made based on anger and hurt.

“Huh, what a mess. You can’t stay at my house, but I have an idea.” Dana took out her phone and called someone named Robby.

“Please don’t tell me I need to go to work tomorrow.” It was the first thing he said, and his voice made your heart flutter.

“Ha! Wouldn’t dream of it. I need a favour from you, boss. Can I let someone crash on your couch tonight?” Dana explained, and silence followed.

“She is a runaway,” Dana added.

“Ah, you picked up another stray. Ok, no problem. See you soon.” Then he hung up.

“So you often pick up runaways?” You looked at Dana a little awestruck.

“Yes, when I can. I used to be one myself when I was a kid, but no one helped me. So I try. You know? Just tell me you aren’t a minor!?” She sighed.

“NO!” You said louder than you meant to. “I’m 20 years old. I’m an undergrad student in public health.” You explained.

Dana smiled and turned on the radio. For the next 10 minutes, you drove in silence until you reached Robby’s apartment building.

As you took the elevator up, you noticed how the string that kept you grounded all these years was suddenly very clear and glowed yellow, which got only sharper as your heart started racing. As Dana was about to ring his doorbell, you stopped her. “I-I can’t go in there.” Your tears flowed freely as you bit your lip, but the door opened regardless, and Robby stared at you in the warmest smile you had ever seen.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” That was all he said before you threw yourself at him.

[tempe-brennans]

walking in the wind

summary: you stumble when your grandfather dies. clark picks you up.

author's note: this was inspired by the fact that my grandpa died and i went to watch superman with my fiance. i haven't written since january though so please be nice <3

Clark misses the funeral.

He doesn’t mean to. The crisis of the day had taken too long, and regret flares deeper in his chest when he sees your hunched shoulders, your glazed over eyes and blank stare.

He’d have done anything to have been able to be the steady presence at your back, the well you could have drawn from to get you through.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” Clark says as he sits on the hard stone wall beside you, feet dragging the ground. “I so wanted to be here.”

Knowing his secret, you simply nod. “I know. It’s okay.”

“How did it go?”

It’s a stupid question, a flat one in the face of the magnitude of your loss, but it’s all he can think of.

“It was nice. Simple. I think he would have liked it.”

He nods. “I’m sure he would have.”

Your gaze is still locked on some unknown point in front of you. Clark wishes you’d look at him, wishes he could fly into your eyes like he flies around the world and brush the sadness away.

“He used my eulogy.”

“Yeah?”

Then, you look at him. Your face looks for all the world like a child’s–lost, looking for something–someone–that can’t be found.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“It was beautiful.”

You had let Clark see it. You shared your other pieces occasionally, but Clark was the only one who got to discuss your writing with you. It was an honor.

“Thank you,” you murmur, offhanded. “It doesn’t seem like it was my place.”

“Why?”

You shrug, look away from him and find that spot again “Who am I to sum up his life?”

Gently, Clark’s fingers curl under your chin, turn you to face him. “You were someone to him. Besides that, you did it wonderfully, with the skill of someone who knew him well.”

“I wanted to do right by him.”

“And you did. I promise.”

Your bottom lip quivers in the way it always does when you want desperately to cry. Clark knows you won’t let yourself fall apart–not here. That’s reserved for later, in the quiet dark, with Clark’s body curled around yours.

Another honor–to catch you when you fall. The honor of his life.

Instead, you simply hum. “I know.” Then, “I’ve been thinking it should feel like something else.” You pause, shake your head. “This unshakable man is gone and it just feels…like nothing. Shouldn’t it be more–I don’t know–dramatic?”

Clark shakes his head. “Not necessarily. Grief can feel differently for everyone.”

“I think I’m doing it wrong.”

“You’re not doing it wrong,” Clark says, voice sure. “It’s just new. Your feet aren’t under you yet. You’ll find your way through it.”

You nod. “He would expect it.”

“More than that,” Clark says, voice soft, “he would know you could do it. He would believe in you.”

He sees something in your eyes crack.

“I’m so sad he’s not in the world anymore,” you whisper. “It seems like he’s just off to the side, and we should all be waiting for him to come back. But, that’s not true. He’s just gone.” Your voice shakes, and it twists something deep inside Clark’s chest.

“I know, baby.”

You shake your head. “It’s this big untouchable thing that I can’t wrap my head around. I feel so silly.”

“Hey.” Clark’s hand squeezes your thigh. “You’re not silly.” He shrugs. “This is brand new, and it’s uncharted territory for you–grief always is. Some people feel it sharply, some feel it crushingly. And, some people, completely valid people, feel it like an emptiness, or an echo. That doesn’t make their grief any less painful–or their love any less real.”

“It doesn’t?”

Clark shakes his head. “He was so big for you–for everyone that knew him. It takes time for your heart to catch up to a loss like that. You don’t have to rush it. You just have to feel it as it comes.”

“I just wish he was here. I wish he hadn’t left.”

Clark nudges your shoulder with his own.

“Someone had to go first.”

“Hm?”

“Someone had to go first,” he repeats. “Your grandfather was the type of man to go ahead. He would have scouted the path and made a way for the rest of you." His hand finds yours, fingers interlocking with your own. “It isn’t much of a comfort, I know. But, knowing he’s out there somewhere? Just up ahead?” Clark shrugs. “I think it makes it a little less scary to keep going.”

Your head falls to his shoulder, rests against the crook of his neck. “It does,” you murmur. “Everything was less scary when he was around.”

“It’ll get easier, honey.” He nods, squeezes your hand. “I promise it will.”

“Thank you, Clark.” You squeeze it hand back. “Really.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” He leans over, presses a kiss to your head. “Any time you need to talk, I’ll always be there for you.”

You smile. He feels it in the slightest movement of your cheek against his shoulder. “I know.”

When he thinks about it, really, however many times he saves the world, the times he saves you are what mean the most to him.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, holds you close to him, and the two of you watch the sun go down.

[goobstars]

loved your toby hcs!! could i request either eyeless jack or BEN drowned dating hcs?

(and request 👾 anon :3)

tysm!! please tyt!!

𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆

summary : what it's like to date ben drowned.

tags : romance, mention of insecurity & murder, and ben is an adult before anyone can jump me.

note : i don't know much about ej, so i decided to choose ben since he was like my favourite creepypasta character growing up. so, enjoy !

— will turn mostly anything you say into a dirty joke, whether it's intended to be or not.

— you say one word, and he's giving you that smug look that already tells you something popped up in his mind.

— you have to constantly remind him to fix his posture. he has the spinal form of a discord moderator.

— the only downside to you telling him what his posture looks like? he'll call you his 'discord kitten' to make you mad.

"ben, fix your posture." "why?" he questioned, but he still did it anyways. his eyes remained on the computer screen in front of him while they narrowed every time someone attempted to shoot him, and you watched him game as you rested on his bed. "because you look like a discord moderator." "i'm only doing it because you asked nicely, my discord kitten—" "SHUT UP!?" your shout made him jolt in his seat before the sight of his character dying sprawled across the screen in front of him, and he let out a snicker as he grasped his temples.

— he knows it's cringy, and he mentally has to take a few seconds to recover from how horrible it is every time he says it, but you both have a good laugh because of it.

— while he's gaming, you're either sitting on his lap watching him, or you're playing with him.

— when you sit on his lap, he always has his arms wrapping around your waist while his hands are either placed on a keyboard or holding a controller. his chin would be on your shoulder, and whenever he gets the chance to, he'll kiss your cheek.

— when you both are playing together, you're either bullying each other or the kids playing in whatever game you're on.

— ben has no chill when it comes to bullying kids, by the way. he does it daily.

"ben, stop taking off roblox's hashtags to tell this kid he's the reason why his parents divorced." "but he is!" ben complained while he shifted on the bed, and he leaned over so he could place his cheek on your shoulder. "he said my avatar looked creepy." his words were slightly muffled given how he was leaning against you, and you opened the chat on roblox to eye what the kid had said. while the sentence itself was heavily misspelled, you noted how ben wasn't wrong. the kid had called his avatar creepy, and proceeded to insult it. ben's avatar wasn't even creepy, for it was far from it. his avatar had a bunch of colours on it while there was a tiny bird on his shoulder, and you were fairly convinced he just bought everything in the store. "while you're at it, tell him that his dad will never be proud of him." "do you really think a kid with the username 'XxximbetterthenyouallfrfrxxX' has a dad?" "fair point."

— as for when it comes to bullying you, sometimes he goes a little too deep, and he automatically feels bad for it.

— probably wouldn't be the best person to use words for comfort, but he will literally buy you anything you want to make it up to you.

— speaking of buying things, he constantly surprises you with things. they're not like expensive things, though. they're things he's heard you say you need or want.

— despite the fact that it's assumed he barely listens because he's so involved in his games, he actually does listen. a lot more than you think, by the way.

— he was once playing a round of a game while you were laying on his bed, and he heard you mumble about wanting to try this certain food.

— and not even an hour later, he presented you with the food you wanted.

— whether it's not made anymore or it's somewhere across the world, whatever you want will be given to you. he'll find a way.

— but he's not the type of person to be like, 'you don't have to thank me', he loves it when you thank him by giving him attention.

— whether it be kisses or hugs, he's taking them.

— when you go out, he's constantly watching you through your phone or through the cameras of the place where you're hanging out.

— he does this to make sure you're safe, but also because he's worried someone's going to flirt with you. well, he knows someone's going to flirt with you because why wouldn't they? every time he looks at you, he questions why you're with him.

— so, he watches you. you're not aware of it, and while he would say he felt bad for not telling you that he watches you, that would be a lie. he doesn't. what's wrong with watching your loved one?

— he's just making sure you're okay.

— but if anyone does flirt with you, he'd figure out who they are in less than a minute. finding people nowadays only takes about two clicks of a mouse, and once he knows who that person is, they're gone the next day.

— no news broadcast or anything. how? because he makes it look like they never existed. all their social media is gone, and if their number was ever searched up, the documents would say that the number hasn't been used in years.

— if you'd ask where that person went, he'd just innocently look at you before asking, "who?"

— he's a sweetheart, but he's still a killer.

— but let's say that person is someone close to you and not a stranger. he couldn't just make them vanish, for it would be too obvious that he had done something. so, he'd just crawl through their tv and warn them to not flirt with you.

— it'd be funny if he met that person a little bit after he did that, though. he'd just be grinning at the person while they looked terrified.

— this is random, but you'd become all of his passwords. they're all different in someway, but they all have your name in them no matter what.

— he'd hack into games and put your initials on stuff, by the way.

[corkinavoid]

Case File: Sam’s Self-Care

"How did you know about my spleen?"

Sam sighs, toothbrush in her mouth and looking at Caroline standing in the doorway through the bathroom mirror. She's holding some folded clothes under her crossed arms, and Sam opens the bottom drawer under the sink with her foot — that's where fresh towels are. Caroline nods her thanks, but then returns to her pointed, silent glare, not about to be distracted.

Sam spits out the toothpaste and rinses her mouth. Turns off the tap, dries her face and hands, hangs the towel back on its designated hook, and reaches for the side shelf, picking out a soothing nighttime moisturizer. Only then does she look at Caroline again, meeting her eyes through the mirror.

"I don't owe you an answer," she starts, unscrewing the lid. "And your sobbing story didn't exactly make me trust you."

Caroline rolls her eyes so hard her eyebrows twitch. "Yeah, you've said that already. A dozen times at least," she snorts.

"Then why are you asking me? Go bother Danny, I'm sure he'll spill all his dirty secrets on you as soon as you say 'please' and smile nicely at him," Sam scoffs, applying the faintly scented cream on her cheeks and forehead. Caroline narrows her eyes like she is about to snap, but she doesn't — impressive self-control — instead leaning her back on the closed door.

"Okay, first, he didn't, and that's part of the reason I'm asking you. Second, if he did, he'd try to smooth out the edges, and you won't bother. I appreciate that he cares, but I'd rather know the blatant truth."

The reasoning is solid, Sam will give her that. It still rubs her the wrong way — look at that bitch, she wants the truth while she herself is wrapped in a scent of lies and carefully designed assumptions.

However, there's a difference. So far, Caroline hasn't done anything that straight up violates anyone's personal privacy. Or, well, Dani's medical records could count as such, but cloning isn't exactly illegal all on itself, and they all knew the risks when Tucker started using her dossier as a cheese in a mousetrap.

Vlad, however...

Sam presses her lips together in distaste, but then shrugs, "Vlad ran a scan on you that time you helped him with a kidnapping. He does that to new employees sometimes — likes having an upper hand when it comes to blackmail."

Caroline frowns, watching Sam gently massage the moisturizer into her skin. "What kind of scan would show a missing organ?" She asks, but it sounds more confused that accusatory, and Sam snorts a quiet laugh.

"Darling, you've just walked through the inside out of reality after watching your boyfriend turn into a monster, and that's your concern? I'd say your priorities are real screwed, but," she puts the lid back on and sets the cream back on the shelf before turning to Caroline, "I guess that's why Danny is so smitten with you."

"He's not my-" the girl starts, her ears red much like when she's first met Danny at the Gala, but Sam just groans, cutting her off.

"You both are so dense, Ancients give me strength." She keeps lightly tapping her face with the tips of her fingers, working the cream into her skin, "To answer the question — it's not a test in a literal, scientific way, I guess. He's just got a small battalion of invisible little helpers that he sets loose into a person's body, and they tell him everything he wants to know."

Caroline looks deeply unsettled, clutching her change of clothes to her stomach. Exactly the reaction Sam was going for — she smirks and laughs at the girl's face. "Chill, they don't stay. And they can't even do anything to you since they don't physically exist on this plane."

"He... trained ghosts to make accurate medical scans?" Caroline tries, her face still pinched in discomfort, and Sam raises her eyebrows. Sure, she did realize the girl was smart, but make a conclusion like that through some very vague hints and context clues?

"Yeah, exactly," she nods, and steps away from the sink, heading towards the door. Caroline steps aside, either done with her interrogation for now or not keen on standing in Sam’s way. Good girl.

She turns the knob to leave, but pauses in the doorway, biting the inside of her cheek.

She doesn't like Caroline — her story makes sense, but Sam has a feeling it's not all there is, and her gut feelings are very rarely wrong. Yet, she didn't run or panic and didn't try to pick Danny apart with a million questions she likely had, and she was... almost nice about the whole thing, considering.

Sam turns around, glancing over the girl. She's uncomfortable, that much is obvious, but she's keeping it together. Gives Sam a small smile, even, when she notices her looking.

"Good night?.." She offers, a bit uncertain, and Sam gives her a sigh.

"There's a heavy duty makeup remover in the top shelf, and you can use my moisturizer given you wash your hands before and after. Guest toothbrushes are in the drawer above towels, and feel free to use any shower gel and shampoo you find," she offers as much of an olive branch as she can. Then, she looks up to the ceiling with the most long-suffering expression she can manage, and adds, "Also, with all that said, and please note that I don't want to know anything about your personal life, but Danny is aware of what's in your pants and I wasn't kidding about the soundproofing. So, yeah, good night, Caroline."

She pushes the door closed before the girl can answer.

–○–

This is a part of Crime Scene Do Not Cross fic and takes place right after Chapter 6.

I really, really love Sam’s slow transition from straight up shooing Caroline away to 'please fuck with Danny for Ancients sake I'm tired of your unresolved sexual tension'.

[letteremi]

calling after me

chapter one -> chapter two I series masterlist

pairings: noble!gojo x fem!reader, childhood friend!geto x fem!reader

content/tags: mdni, historical au (victorian era - sorry for any inaccuracies), near kidnapping, creepy man, can you call a child an asshole bcs that’s kinda gojo, hate at first sight, childhood friend!geto is nice, feelings, childhood, lmk if i missed anything !!

wc: 3.6 k

divider creds - @/thecutestgrotto

“Move it, girl!”

If the frenzied whinnying of horses, snorting and wild-eyed, didn’t shake you loose, then the thunder of rattling wooden spokes and groaning timber axles barreling towards you surely wouldn’t.  

You begged your legs to move. Just run. Please, run. But your feet stay rooted — stupid, frozen things — right there in the middle of the road. 

Okay, maybe you should’ve listened to your father, and stayed right by his side. One wagging finger in your face, he decreed that your presence by his post was non negotiable.

Mother wanted you to stay home too, she argued that the weather was too cold, and that you’d get sick, and she’d be stuck nursing you back to health. She had only relented through the sheer force of your puppy-dog eyes, and under the promise you’d wash the dishes tonight, after dinner. 

Now, it seems like you won’t make it home at all. 

All you had wanted was to just grab your handkerchief. The wind was strong, you loosened your grip for just a second, and it fluttered to land in the filth. 

Really, you should’ve just stayed put. 

Well. Technically, now you are. The driver hollers at you to get off the road, arms waving above his head like a mad-man and flecks of spit shooting out of his yellowed mouth. 

You don’t move. You can barely breathe, your heart hammering against your ribs like a frantic drum. The stench of sweat and dirt thickening in your lungs — adrenaline seizing your muscles and holding your body hostage. 

Suddenly, calloused hands grasp at your shoulders — rough, frantic — yanking you away. The air ripples with the force of the passing carriage, tossing dust and gravel like angry spirits in its wake. 

Your chest heaves as your rescuer steadies you. A hat shadows his features. Without a word, he pulls you further from the road, into the narrow alley beside it.

You’re fighting to not stumble, to not plant yourself face first on the mud. The buzzing of the street dulls to a distant roar, replaced by the faint drip, drip, drip of rank rainwater.  

Your legs tremble, barely supporting you, and you clutch the collar of your dress, trying to steady your breath. It’s coming out in short, sharp gasps, your lungs straining, grateful for the air that graces its chambers. 

You turn to thank the kind man who just saved your life, maybe offer him some coupons — surely Father would oblige?

But the relief is short-lived. 

His grip tightens, vice-like on your shoulder. 

“Say, what’s a young child like you doing alone?” His eyes are leering, his lips curved into a gummy smile. 

Ah. 

You know exactly what this man wants. Tattered newspapers with confronting headlines splashed across the front page — ‘Abducted in Plain Daylight: Parents’ Plead for Safe Return’ and ‘Search Continues for Young Girl Taken From Family Home’.

Your aunts tittered and sighed, abruptly folding the papers when you flounced into the room.

But your mother held you closer like if she ever let go, it’d be your ink-soaked name on those pages. 

If you play your cards wrong, you would be. Careful now. 

“Sir, I got lost,” you say, voice small. “Could you escort me back to my family?” 

Your arms stay locked behind your back, posture meek, head tilted just enough to sell the act. You hope he doesn’t notice the way you’ve stopped breathing, the flicker of fear that flashes across your face. 

His grip tightens. You don’t cry out. 

He smells of ale and chimney soot. Smells unwashed, like water itself daren’t cleanse him. Tobacco is heavy in his breath, lingering in the air and curling into your nostrils every time he speaks. 

“Pretty thing like you oughtn’t be wanderin’ alone,” he purrs, like a tiger toying with its prey. It’s obvious — he’s trying to glean your situation. Whether anyone would miss you if you were gone. 

“Where’s your family, then?”

Just as your mother taught you. You blink up at him. “At the fair, sir. Near the baker’s cart. My father is tall, with a hat. He’s a constable.”

He’s not. 

Well, Father does have a hat. Which he dons while shaking pests from the trees. And he is at the fair. Just that he’s selling apples that burst open with sweet juices in your mouth — lathering saccharine syrup on your tongue.

His smile twitches, losing its predatory satisfaction. “That so?” 

You nod solemnly. “Yes, sir.”

He glances ahead. Hesitates. 

Hope, bright and burning, lights itself in your chest. 

The air in your lungs is stale. Just let go, willing him to release you.

He does. 

And then, as he ambles away, eyes furtive and darting. “Get to him quick, yeah?”

Lips curling into a sickening smile. “Yes, sir.” 

The man disappears into a nearby alley. You hold your breath until the sound of his footfalls can no longer be heard. The dress you had so proudly chosen this morning, is now one you want to rip off. Though he didn’t dirty your frock, it feels like a giant handprint has been branded on your shoulder — bold, a burning red. 

Your breath rattles as you inhale, shaking. It’s okay. You got away. It’s okay. 

But you’re still lost. The fair feels too far away, the streets strange and twisting like a maze. Every dead end was filled with shadows that warped into monsters in broad daylight.

Unfamiliar scents and sounds and smells searing themselves in your mind. The smog choking your throat, clouding your judgement, stealing the clarity you’re trying so desperately to hold onto. 

You’re not safe yet. Not until you find Father. Damn it. You thought it’d be quick. Your handkerchief — your first real belonging — plucked along by the gust of wind like nothing. Before your brain could catch up to your legs, you were already halfway down the road. 

But you couldn’t find the cloth. So you took your chances within the meandering lanes and wandering strips. And then when you finally found the napkin — waterlogged and stained with brown — you ran into the horse. Or rather, the horse ran into you. 

Mother was going to be so disappointed. Fat tears collect in your eyes. Your first belonging. The sinking feeling in your chest only grows. And you’d lost it. 

“You handled that well,” a voice interrupts your train of thoughts, languid and loose. 

You whip around. 

He’s leaning against the mouth of the alley, arms folded, half-lidded eyes glinting in the low light. His hair — strange, white as chalk — catches the sun and glows at the edges. A crooked sort of smile plays at his lips, like he’s been watching this whole time.

Which he has. You scowl at the thought. 

His posture is easy. Relaxed. Too relaxed. Crisp linen tucked into hemmed dress pants, blue necktie knotted at his throat.

Some noble’s son. From a well-off family. 

The classic sky-blue was a familiar sight, and as you wrack your brains for why that’s so — it hits you. This boy’s family owns the land your farm is on. 

Try as you might, you can’t remember his name. But that doesn’t matter to you, because all you can think about is his family’s greed. 

Father has complained about the rent in the past, going up every year, with ‘no regard for the hardworking commonfolk’.

You’ve watched it happen, the way the orchard shrinks by year because maintaining seedlings and the rising fee is too much a burden. While you scratched in the mud with a spindly stick, mimicking your beloved chickens, Father’s sighs could be heard all throughout the plot. 

Mother would no longer talk about trips to sandy shores, or even to neighbouring towns, like if she didn’t mention them in your presence, you’d forget that holidays were a thing.

Presents were carved from the wood of the apple trees, because time was less precious than coin in your household. 

And as you gaze at his polished shoes, the lace wrapping itself around his wrists like exorbitant bracelets of wealth, something like envy burrows into your bones. 

“Bit bold, lying about being a constable’s daughter,” he muses, straightening up. “Clever, though. You knew he’d back off as soon as he thought you had backup.” 

He takes a step closer, leather boots quiet on the cobblestones. You want to trip him, watch his smug little face twist. 

“You just watched,” your voice bitter. “Why?”

He kicks a pebble, watches it skitter and roll to a stop. “Would it have helped you, had I intervened?” 

His words ring true. With a noble’s son at your side, the man would’ve taken both of you, just to be sure. Him, for ransom. You, to be sold off to God knows where. 

“So. Better me than you, then,” you retort, arms crossed. It’s not a question. It’s a fact, and something about it makes you want to hit him. Hard. If not for the way his household would immediately ruin you.  

The boy doesn’t reply. Shoves his soft hands in silken pockets. Doesn’t meet your gaze, and something tells you that it’s because he doesn’t care to look upon peasantry like yourself. That’s fine. 

You don’t expect anything less from someone like him. 

A quiet contempt seeps into your heart. Your jaw tightens, fists clench. You wish you could blame him, but it’s just the reality of the world you live in. Mind your own business. Only watch out for yourself. It’s what every child is taught. 

You narrow your eyes. “How old are you, anyway?”

Not curiosity. Accusation, thinly veiled behind sharp words that aim to tear him down from his haughty pedestal. And God, do you want to bring him down from his high horse. 

He looks up, mirroring your hostile gaze. “Ten. Why?” 

You shrug, a dismissive movement, mean. “Thought maybe you were older. Since you’re acting like it.” 

That dig gets his attention. The way his shoulders tense, eyes almost rolling. “You’re not even double digits yet, are you?” You hear what he’s not saying. Runt. 

He’s right, though. 

You bite back the sting, pressing your lips tight. 

“I may be nine,” you say, voice low and steady, “but I’m not scared.”

He arches an eyebrow, amused. “Not scared, huh? Then why’d you let that man go without a fight?”

You swallow, fighting the urge to throttle him. The answer is so obvious, and you can’t tell if he’s blinded by privilege or just plain dumb. You’re leaning towards the latter.

“Because I’m smart enough to not provoke someone who could hurt me,” you scoff. 

The boy only stares back at you, tilting his head like he’s considering you for the first time. “You’re more trouble than you look.” 

You glare back. His speaking in riddles does not make him better than you. “Better than being a rich boy who watches and does nothing.”

He grins, laughter lightening his eyes. “Maybe I watch because I’m waiting for the right moment.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but the clattering of metal and pipes interrupts, abrupt. You flinch — the slightest wince and recoiling of your body away from the sound. 

The boy’s eagle eyes catch it immediately, his grin faltering, replaced by a quick, calculating glance. He’s teasing, not cruel, and he knows terror when he sees it. 

“You alright?” His voice drops. Laced with something — concern? Still wrapped in the guarded tone, hostilities not forgotten. 

You stiffen, trying to shake it off. “I’m fine.” What does it matter to him? His behaviour has switched completely, and which side of him can you really trust? And it’s at this moment that Suguru’s voice rings in your head, his tales of the Roman God, Janus. 

Two-faced. Beginnings, and endings. It feels like he’s flipping a mercurial bronze coin, and that decides his attitude towards you. You don’t trust it. Not one bit. 

He doesn’t look convinced, but doesn’t press further. Instead, he steps forward and gestures down the twisting lane. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the fair.” 

You hesitate, fiddling with your necklace. But the pounding noise — like metal scraping bone — echoes again. It sends shivers down your spine, as if it were your own skeleton being cleaved. 

And the weathered coin in your own head does a flip of its own. 

With a slight nod and bite of your lip, you fall into step beside him. As he steps fully into the light, his eyes are illuminated. A bright sapphire, matching his obnoxious necktie. 

“Don’t think this means I like you,” you mutter under your breath. Or stand you. Or will not hold this grudge forever.  

He doesn’t answer. Only bristles, staring straight ahead like you hadn’t said a thing. 

The fair’s bustle grows louder with every step — vendors barking out their wares, the laughter of children, the clatter of carts. The sound of familiarity and home. 

“Nearly there,” he says, tone clipped. But it lacks the bite of before. 

Neither of you speaks again. 

When the fair finally bursts into view, bright and noisy, you step away without thanks, scurrying away as fast as you can. 

He watches you go, looking down at you through wispy bottom lashes. 

“You — you owe me one,” he sputters out. After all, he did just bring you back to safety. His voice is low — half embarrassed, half-defiant — like he’s surprised the words slipped free, lips slightly parted. 

Pausing mid-step, you turn — catching him in your periphery. A curt nod is exchanged. 

And then you dash towards Father’s stall, and he sweeps you up in arms that smell of cinnamon, and tart fruit, and worry. 

But even as Father’s words, shrouded with concern, wrap you in a stern lecture, you feel it — the pull of his gaze. 

His eyes never leave you, as you fumble your way onto a wooden barrel. He just shoves his hands in his pockets once again. Watching, unreadable. Before — 

“—- Master Gojo! There you are! Come with us this instant.” Cold hands pry him away from the pebbled path, ruffling maid skirts pulling him from the scene.

You watch the servants tug him away and wonder if anyone ever scolds him like your father does. If anyone tells him to wash up for dinner. If anyone hugs him like they mean it. 

They titter, brushing invisible flecks of dust off his shoulders, whisper with a hush, “Come along, young master, before Lord Gojo notices you’ve been gone.” 

“Of course,” he replies, face carefully blank, voice smooth and polite.

His eyes flit once more towards your fading figure before he’s pulled away. The sounds of the fair — the laughter, the cries of the people — become distant, drifting faintly on the breeze. 

A world apart from the tightening grip of duty and expectation. 

And all he can think about?

He never got your name. 

✧˖*°࿐

After your impromptu adventure, you’ve been forbidden to leave the little stall — per Father’s orders. When that insidious white-haired boy had left — rather, was yanked away — you broke down into tears, a sniffling, blubbering mess. No one could make out your words, so, while Father charmed potential customers, you plopped down into the wooden stool, head in your hands. 

Tears still stain your cheeks when you’re rudely interrupted from the mind stew you’re trudging through. 

“An apple a day keeps the tears away.” You blink towards the voice, dislodging a few more fat droplets of saline sadness. A shiny fruit is bestowed to you — the hand that holds it? One Suguru Geto, gap-toothed grin and all.

He’s wearing a white shirt, and a loose vest today, complete with brown trousers that drag along the muddy earth. A flat cap sits on his slicked back hair — amidst your snivelling, you briefly think that he looks like his father that he oh-so adores. 

When he observes that the frown remains stuck on your face, despite his attempt to replace it with a familiar smile, he crouches to your level — no, below it, until you’re the one looking down at him when he’s the one seeing past your sobs, seeing you. 

And then, with one tentative hand, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to touch you, he pokes your knee. 

What?

It’s so bizarre, it stops your muffled wails. The remaining tears in your eyes coat the world in a crystalline sheen, and in this light, Suguru looks like an angel — the sharp edges of his clothing, his face, sparkling like little, blurry stars. You don’t have any words, except for one, monosyllabic: “Huh?”

Suguru tilts his head, rests his hands on his knees. “Why are you crying?” 

The question brings a fresh wave of tears — the way that the question always does — that collects at your waterline, but this time, they don’t spill over. “Lost my handkerchief.” And encountered a kidnapper. Inadvertently entered a word battle with a pretentious ten year old. 

Suguru’s face drops, eyebrows knitting together in a way that feels like it’s mending your heart too. He doesn’t even know the full extent of what happened, and he’s still able to make you feel whole again.

Everyday, you thank whatever string of fate brought you two together — you’re not one to believe in destiny and past lives, but if they were real, you must’ve saved hundreds of lives to deserve someone like Suguru. 

From the moment you screamed at him when you were both just a few months old, and he just gurgled and clapped his hands, while laughing in your face. To this moment, right now. 

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, with something so sincere in his voice that your chest hurts. It’s not patronising, it’s like he’s holding your heart in his hands, and understanding why it beats the way it does. 

Not like that white haired idiot from before. Hold on. Why were you even thinking about him? He doesn’t deserve any space in your mind. 

“Can I do anything to help you feel better?” Suguru asks, voice quiet, as if to coax you into speaking. 

You shake your head, trying to inconspicuously clear your clogged nose with a sniff. “No, but thank you.” 

Suguru stares at you again, with a look that isn’t mean, but is unconvinced. But that was you, wasn’t it? Someone who didn’t like asking for anything, even if you clearly needed it.

Suguru has gotten used to it throughout the years, has learned to read the slight twitches of your brows, and the almost imperceptible bite of your lower lip. 

Micro-expressions, and some, that are currently on your face like they belong there — which they don’t, and which Suguru wishes to wipe off the face of the Earth. 

Wordlessly, Suguru stands up, and roots in his pockets. He knows it’s in here — he shoved it in the dark recesses of his pants in the morning, at the insistence of his mother. 

You’re watching him curiously, hoping you look braver than you feel. 

“Here.” In the palm of his hand, is Suguru’s own handkerchief. It’s a plain white, unblemished, aside from a looping S.G embroidered at the corner. The thread is dyed a light purple — the colour of royalty, and you recall the day Suguru came over with his fingers stained a hideous shade of lilac. 

Was that what it was for? It must’ve taken a terribly long time to colour, you don’t want to ruin it with snot and everything else that’s ugly. 

“I don’t need it.” You sniff again. You can handle yourself, and it’s sweet that Suguru wants to help you, but how can you ever learn to remain steady on your own two feet, if you don’t do it yourself? 

“Take it.” Forceful, with a gentle undercurrent, because he knows you’ll take it if he insists in this way. 

With a faltering hand, you take the fabric from his, muttering a meek ‘thank you’. You swipe it across your cheek, dab it at the corner of your eyes.

When you’re done, you fold it into a neat, little square, giving it back to Suguru — who’s now shielding his own cheeks with one hand. He wishes that he hadn’t read the etiquette books, littered in the library, that were just begging to be rifled through, because now he’s construing a meaning that you surely didn’t intend to convey. 

Damn it. 

At this moment, Suguru wonders if this is what his parents felt at first sight.

Except, it hasn’t been at first sight with you. It’s been little moments, accumulating into a flurrying fleet of feelings, growing into a full-force blizzard that’s sure to sweep him away. And he thinks that he doesn’t mind that at all. Let him be buried, let him stay here. 

As long as it’s by your side, he doesn’t think he minds. 

“Keep it,” he mutters, coughing into his fist, before looking back at you — pink dusting his cheeks. 

In the dim lighting of the stall, you don’t notice his flustered state — nor do you realise how uncharacteristically tight-lipped he is. And God, is he glad for that. 

“Are you sure?” He always is, when it comes to you. 

“Of course.” 

And he sits there until you feel comfortable enough to talk again, cross legged in the dirt — though his mother will surely scold him for the mess when he gets home — worth it. 

Suguru knows many things, at the ripe age of ten. 

He knows that you cannot plant crops too close together, or they will compete for nutrients and resources, and die, having lived pathetic little lives. 

He knows that on the opposite side of the spectrum, if you overwater plants, they will drown in the same substance meant to give them life. 

He knows that as long as one holds hope — for change, for things to stay the same, for anything — that there’s a fighting chance for something real. 

And he knows that he’s completely, utterly, done for. 

an: if you made it to the end ily, also fun fact - swiping across cheek = i love you . i mean i hope that's what it means bcs it'll be really embarrassing if google failed me

© 2025 letteremi. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost my work to any platforms 

[skeletonh0e]

Can you ever do headcanons of sans Au's as dads or how they treat their S/O when she's pregnant I love your headcanons ❤️‍🩹

And I thought maybe some fluff would be cute 😭

Went with Pregnant Reader for this one, I left the bad sanses out purely due to the fact it'd be more angst than fluff. (Nightmare kinda the exception). Also left Fresh out since like....he can't really get anyone pregnant lmao

AFAB anatomy obvs, they/them for the most part but some feminine terms. No trigger warnings aside obvious pregnancy stuff

Classic Sans:

He is so fucking nervous

I think at first he takes the news well but it doesn't fully click in, not quite like he's being mean more so just hasn't fully registered that he's going to be a dad for a second time (Frisk is the first kid in case you were wondering)

By the time the second trimester rolls around- hoo boy.

Protective instincts have kinda kicked in.

He's not growling at anyone that came too close so to speak, but like suddenly he's hovering around you more. Checking in. Noticeably alert.

Takes preparing for it a bit more seriously, this is still Sans so he slacks off a bit and falls asleep a few times but it gets done. Especially with Papyrus and Toriel around no doubt

The nerves don't go away. He helped raise Papyrus, sure, and while he's basically Frisk's father figure, he is very aware that the two of them didn't start on good terms nor did he raise Frisk from birth.

Both you and everyone else tell him he's being dumb though, also definitely keeping pictures of his the babies sonogram in his wallet. It'll go nicely with the photo of baby Pap and a more recent photo he has of Frisk.

Swap Sans:

Welcome to nine months of constant pampering. I mean you already were but he's going all out, don't even bother trying to stop him. It's gonna happen.

Bro is hyped to he a dad but also understandably nervous but also he's fucking vibrating and loves you so much please understand that.

You really don't have to do a thing, he'll ask for your input of course but really just relax and enjoy yourself. Bro even got doctor appointments covered. He rarely does anything without some preparation. That definitely remains true here.

God he probably tries a lot of baby myths he learned online, like playing classical music because he heard it makes the baby smarter and other similar things, you can tell them they've been disproven all you like it won't work

Touchy. He will back off if asked or directly told but his hand is constantly on your stomach, talking to it constantly, gushing over it.

The kid is not even here yet but he adores it sm

The first time he feels it move it looks like he might cry. He probably does cry.

No words can express how grateful he is that you brought something so wonderful into his life

Underfell Sans:

We're doing this now?

He is with you don't get him wrong but is convinced that he's going to be a shit dad. Even considered bailing because he genuinely thought you'd be better off without him. He doesn't. He stays but it's worth nothing.

As a result, he feels outta place. He goes along with it, he'll rub your feet after a long day, goes shopping for supplies with you, etc. Only thing he draws the line at is a baby shower. But he always seems tense. Feels like he doesn't belong here.

Definitely eases into it, but it won't be until the later stages. Which ya know he finally gets comfortable with the idea of being a dad then only has months to mentally prepare himself for the baby actually being here

Oop

He's trying okay. He does put in an active effort, never smokes with you around in your condition. Cuts back on drinking a lot. Gets his shit together some.

Man is fully of issues and self loathing, didn't really have a good father figure himself. He has no confidence in himself but when he's snuggled up to you while you're asleep and he places a hand on your stomach.

He's gonna try.

Underlust Sans:

Also believes he's not gonna be a good dad, though for different reasons than Red. Like, having famous sex worker and escort as a parent isn't really ideal

That being said, paternal instincts sure kicked in fast

Not only hovers around protectively like Classic does, but actively always keeps an arm around you whenever you two walk anywhere together

Won't force anything but might insist on a idiot due to hearing so many scary stories about malnourishment during pregnancy

Lowkey made a Pinterest board/picked out several outfits for the kid, don't look at him baby clothes are cute alright

Thankfully plenty wealthy so you can just pay people for the nursery and shit, really big on you staying rested in general. You will not overdo it

Also this is a SFW post but again, Lust makes it clear pregnancy sex is on the table if you're willing.

During the later stages might ask if you really want him to be around, pointing out there are better options and what not. Still seeming to process you have his kid, want his kid and want him around. It's strange but it's set in stone on his end that he's staying.

Ink Sans:

He's gonna be a dad!?!?! Holy fuck, holy shit, HOLY FUCK-

He's so hyped.

You too literally created something together, how can he not absolutely adore it?

Listen how good of a dad Ink will be is hard to say, he's not very emotionally intelligent, morally grey, irresponsible and unintentionally or otherwise be extremely cruel. However, it will never come from a lack of care, he adores this kid so much.

That being said, unfamiliar with pregnancy on a greater scale. You'll have to gently remind him that you are pregnant and certain things are off the table

It's not until you're in the later stages that he locks in, being noticeably more protective and understanding of your delicate condition.

Also can he like....draw on your tummy? He'll be gentle he prommys he just wants to show his love and care the main way he knows how

You heard of maternity photos, but he might actually draw you pregnant to capsulate the memory. Ask you to pose for him and all, whether they're shown off to anyone is up to you but he'll happily keep them in his sketch book to make him feel warm and fuzzy

Dream Sans:

Oh boy, the biggest softie just got a reason to be even softer.

You're getting spoiled, but unlike with Swap he's generally calmer and has the budget to really go all out. But trust me, you're on easy street for all of the pregnancy

His ability to sense and manipulate emotions makes him a top-tier partner to begin with, but especially in your delicate state.

He knows your emotional needs before you do, able to help you get some rest, soothe you during emotional mood swings, etc, etc.

Absolutely will gently rest his head on your stomach and sing to the baby 🥺

He cares so much you don't understand

There's some anxiety for sure, last thing he wants is Nightmare having another person he can target to get to him and he doesn't like leaving you alone for too long given you can't exactly defend yourself like this. But that's just trauma

But trust me when I say if anyone tries they'll get the rare terrifying Dream crash out

[ihavenoideaz]

Hello! I saw your request is open and I would like to send one if you don't mind 👁️👁️ It's Kuroo x Fem!Reader (headcanons/anything else is fine) where the reader is kinda.... Really hard to get and oblivious to flirting. And thank you for the opportunity too! Have a nice day!

Notice me, please! ♡

Pairing: Kuroo x Fem!Reader

CW: None!!!

A/N: heheheh kurooooo!!!! Poor guy!!! I love this request, thank you nonnie for plaguing my mind with this dynamic, I think this kinda scenario is perfect for Kuroo like,,, Outwardly flirty guy x oblivious girl,,,, mhm yeah that's the stuff

My Masterlist

⊂⁠(⁠´⁠･⁠◡⁠･⁠⊂⁠ ⁠)⁠∘⁠˚⁠˳⁠°

When Kuroo first saw you, you were sitting beside the window, writing notes.

That was the first day of his third year (⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠)

He had seen you around after that, you were in the same class as him and you often asked him questions about topics you didn't understand about

And that did not help with the growing crush he had on you!!!

Kuroo would stare at you all day, just watching as you rather listen to the teacher than somehow return back the loving gaze (that was growing a hole into your head...)

Or when you ask him questions, he would take a few pauses just to stay with you a little longer (and maybe just joke around with giving you the wrong answers but then telling you the correct one because he doesn't want to see you fail)

He didn't quite understand why you didn't reciprocate any sort of interest with his subtle flirting

So, when he decided that he had to make the first move, he tried everything in the book:

Inviting you over for study sessions

Asking you to hangout with the excuse of exchanging information on the lecture you both had

Asking you those basic get-to-know-you questions

But every single time, you just seemed unfazed

You thought the study sessions were just a way of helping each other during exam season

And that the hangouts as a way of him just wanting to be friends instead of study buddies

You even thought that he was being friendly with the questions cause of course friends would want to get to know you more!

Kuroo thought he had to take it up a notch, but he was too scared he was being forward and you would back away

He complained to Kenma but he didnt bother listening to his hopelessly in love best friend

"I don't get it! I'm doing all this stuff for her and she doesn't get the hint that I like her!" Kuroo threw himself onto Kenma's bed while Kenma was sitting down in front of his gaming pc.

Kuroo buried himself into the covers but took a peek to see if Kenma was listening. Seeing no reaction from his best friend, he snatched a pillow from the headboard and threw it at him.

"Agh! Stop that! Don't go throwing stuff just because the love of your life is too busy not knowing you're flirting with her!" Kenma grumbled.

Seeing there was no use, Kuroo kind of gave up,,,

He accepted that he would just have to admire you from the position you put him in

And sometimes he would get the urge to push you away just to save himself the embarrassment of having a crush, but he didn't want you to feel sad or think that he hated you

But after all that

It didn't stop you from flustering him without meaning too

He would be rewriting notes with you and he would glance at you just to find you lying down on the table, full head turn to face him

Kuroo tried not to freak out over the sudden attention from you but you could sense it from the way his leg accidentally hit the table from bouncing too much (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

He would think: 'How could a girl like this act so natural and calm and still make me blush over her!!!'

He realizes that he is still very love struck and there's nothing he could possibly do to get rid of it

So he knew he had to confess!!!

But how.

He knew that he had to get the timing right, if not, the confession would just go all wrong!!!

He kept thinking of it night and day, trying to master the stupidly specific plan he had made up in his head

But in the end his confession turned out to be a out-of-the-blue thing

Kuroo bumped into you in the convenience store near his house that he would stop but after practice for a light snack

You were shocked that he was there, never seeing him there before

You striked up a conversation, talking about how cool it was that he was the volleyball captain

But Kuroo was kinda not listening,,,

He was in head like "do it now, do it now, do it now"

But he was also like "don't do it now, we literally planned for this!"

But in the end he was like "but isn't this the perfect time to do it, she's here, we are not around anyone we know, getting it done and over with is the best thing to do!!!"

"I like you."

You stop in your tracks, pausing browsing the aisles to turn and stare at him.

Kuroo's heart was thumping against his chest and he could feel the guilt tripping in.

"I love you. I think about you all the time and you just don't see it. I flirt with you everyday and it pains me every time you brush me away. Even if you don't like me, just tell me and I'll back off, it would hurt a lot less that way."

You were a bit shocked to say because you did like him

You didn't know HE LIKED YOU BACK.

"I like you too." "YOU DO? SINCE WHEN?"

How much should I bet that the cashier of that convenience store was definitely eavesdropping on that

Anyways,,,

You get together at that convenience store (⁠￣⁠ヘ⁠￣⁠;⁠)

You find it funny that you didn't get any hint of him liking you the whole time and tease him a little

"I'm sure it was pain and agony for you." "Stop joking about it, it was" (he's just joking)

A/N: EEEE I LOVED WRITING THISSS!!! I love writing headcannons, it much easier that writing fics, it's honestly refreshing to see sm request some!!! But y'all don't be afraid to ask for fics, I'll still do it!!, it will just take longer tho....

[kajipops]

Hey babes! I was wondering if you can write wbk men (Suo, Kaji, Sakura, and Kiryu) reacting to us (their lovely significant other) having nightmares. Thank you pretty!

°☆ WHEN YOU HAVE A NIGHTMARE

featuring: kiryu mitsuki, suo hayato, kaji ren, and sakura haruka

warnings: description of drowning in sakura's part, crack in kaji's

a/n: hello! thank you for requesting! i hope i did justice to your request <3

MASTERLIST

Kiryu Mitsuki

Kiryu had just finished doing his skincare routine when his phone rang. His brows furrowed. The clock on the mantel read 23:38. Who could be calling him so late?

The call was from an unknown number. He picked up the call, a sense of foreboding building in his chest. “Hello?”

“Kiryu-kun? Hello, I am (Name)’s friend speaking.”

Your friend? You were having a sleepover with your friends tonight, Kiryu knew that. So why was she calling him? Where were you?

“Yes, I am (Name)’s boyfriend.” His grip on the phone tightened. “What’s wrong?”

“(Name) had a nightmare. They woke up hysterical, panting heavily, and tears streaming down their face. We managed to calm them down, but they’re asking for you. Can you please come quickly? I live across the supermarket on the main street—”

Kiryu was out of the door as soon as he heard the word ‘nightmare’. He knew you had trouble falling asleep with nightmares plaguing you every other day. He’d hoped a sleepover with your friends would help you relax and get your mind off things, but he was wrong. And right now, he was very scared and concerned.

Two minutes later, he was standing in front of your friend’s house, hands on his knees, panting. He heard the gate creak open and barely had time to register anything before you flung yourself into the arms of your boyfriend. Immediately wrapping his arms around your trembling frame, he gives a quick nod of thanks to your friends, who nod back and quietly shut the door to provide you with privacy.

Kiryu waited until your sobs had calmed down and then gently disentangled himself from the hug to look at your face. His heart ached when he saw your swollen eyes and tear-streaked face, and, without missing a beat, cradled your face and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Hey,” he said gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you said quietly, eyes still glossy. “Better now that you’re here. I am sorry for calling you so late. The dream was so scary, and I panicked so bad, and I wanted to see you and—”

“Hey,” he interrupted you, rubbing slow circles on your shoulders. “I told you not to worry about it. I always keep my phone near me in case you need me. Please, (Name), don’t think you’re burdening me with your troubles. I love you, and I want you to rely on me. Do you want to sleep at my place tonight? We can look for a new sleep specialist or psychiatrist tomorrow.”

“Okay,” you said, feeling a sense of calm settle over your frazzled nerves as Kiryu held your hand. “I love you.”

He smiled. “I love you too. Let’s go; I’ll make us some hot chocolate too.”

Suo Hayato

Contrary to most Bofurin members, Suo Hayato preferred night patrols over daytime patrols.

Sure, he had to sacrifice a little bit of his sleep, but the pros far outweighed the cons. For starters, he was free to spend his afternoons and evenings with you, ensure that you got home safely from school, visit Pothos or any other cafes with you, and help you with your homework in the evening. It’s a nice routine and one Suo cherishes deeply. And after he’s done with his night patrols, he can take a quick detour to your street and soothe his poor, anxious heart that you’re safely tucked in bed and there’s no one causing trouble and disturbing your sleep.

And so, like all nights, he turns into your street, a little after midnight. Hands clasped behind his back, he does a quick survey of the area and hums in satisfaction when he’s greeted with a silent darkness. There was nobody on the streets, and the only light was coming from your window, and Suo turned, ready to go home, when—

Wait. He blinked. Why were your lights on?

He felt a flicker of worry as he jogged to your house. He knew your parents weren’t home tonight. You had texted him at 10 that you were going to bed and a “good luck on your patrol, hayato!! please rest well, and thank you for always protecting us. ily <3”. (Even the cold wind of the night was no match for the warmth blossoming in his chest as he read your message).

And so he stood in front of your door, wondering if he should ring the bell or not, when he heard a voice softly ask: “Hayato? Is that you?”

He looked up to see your pale face peering down from the window. “Hey, angel. Yes, it’s me. What’s wrong? You look scared. Did something happen?”

“I had a nightmare.” Your voice was small, as if you were trying to calm yourself. “Can you come up? I don’t wanna be alone right now.”

“Of course.” He was already unlocking the door with the spare key you’d given him. “Go back to bed, dear. I’ll bring you some chamomile tea. And I’ll stay for as long as you need me.”

Yes, Suo Hayato was really glad he chose the night patrol today. Even though he had to lie to Sakura that he was allergic to sunlight.

Kaji Ren

Kaji was going to install a water fountain in your room.

To explain the series of events which led to this pragmatic conclusion, we began when the clock in your house struck midnight. With your parents out on an overnight business trip, you had invited your boyfriend for a sleepover. Although you had planned on having a movie marathon (the Shrek franchise, much to Kaji’s chagrin), you had fallen asleep midway through the first movie, leaving a sighing Kaji to clean up after you and carry your knocked-out figure to bed.

Once he had tucked you in, he lay beside you, headphones on, listening to Conan’s newest track, “Vodka Cranberry”, because you’d hyped it up as the Song of the Year (though he liked the song and the beat, he hoped you weren’t planning on breaking up with me, because the lyrics were brutal). Around midnight, he felt thirsty and went downstairs to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. And so things went wrong.

He had only opened the refrigerator door when a loud bang echoed throughout the house. Kaji blinked. That was your door being banged open. Soon, he heard footsteps thundering down the stairs, and, lo and behold, there you stood at the kitchen entrance, your eyes glossy and a pisses expression on your face (Kaji would never admit this out loud, but with your hair sticking out in all directions, you reminded him of a very angry but very tiny porcupine).

“What—” he started, but cut off as you stomped (yes, stomped) forward and grabbed him by the collar. “H-Huh?”

“You asshole.” You were seething. “How dare you leave me all alone when I was in danger?”

In danger? Kaji was clueless. “What…?”

You threw up your hands in frustration. “I was being chased by the Donkey from Shrek in my dreams, and when I woke up, scared and trembling, you weren’t there to comfort me. You didn’t even show up in my dreams to help me! What kind of boyfriend are you?”

“I…what are you…how does that even work?” He was at a loss for words. The refrigerator door was still open, and the cold air was numbing his feet, but he was too afraid to move, lest he trigger you again.

He must have missed the mark with his response because your eyes suddenly filled with tears and your lips started wobbling. “No, no, no, no, please don’t cry, pretty. I…fuck, I am sorry, okay? I promise never to leave you alone again, okay? I love you, (Name), and I promise I will save you from the Donkey the next time he, uh, I don’t know, they attack you.” He gently pulled you into a hug and was glad when you melted in his touch, burying your face in his chest, as he raised his chin on your head. He swayed you back and forth, and you eventually raised your head to look at him with soft, pleading eyes.

“Promise me you’ll never leave me alone again?”

“I promise you,” he replied solemnly. Yeah, he was definitely installing a water fountain in your room.

Sakura Haruka

The water was cold and dark.

You were floating in a cosmos of blackness. Your senses were dulled, and your body was rigid and weighed down by the force of the water. You could see the shoreline, but your tongue rested heavily in your mouth. You were sinking, slowly but steadily. You couldn’t move your body but your mind was terrified. You tried screaming, but nothing came out again. Slowly, the shoreline disappeared, and you screamed and screamed, and screamed, and—

“(Name)!”

You jolted awake with a start. Somebody was shaking you by your shoulders. Their touch was warm, and their voice was laced with concern. Slowly, you blinked out the last remnants of the nightmare, and you saw your boyfriend, his dual-haired tousled and his mismatched eyes wide with worry, as he lifted you into a sitting position.

“Hey, (Name), what’s wrong? Why were you screaming? Did you have a bad dream? Talk to me, please.”

You grasped his hands tightly and bit back a chuckle when you saw his cheeks redden. But as he was laser-focused on your well-being, you figured you would tease him later. “It’s nothing, Haru. It was just a bad dream. I..I had a dream I was drowning, and when I tried to call for help, my voice wouldn’t come out. And the shore was disappearing, and I was so scared, and I-I-I.” You choked back a sob.

“Hey,” he said gently, pulling you towards him as you lay your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around you as you continued to cry. He said nothing but rubbed little circles on your back. When you calmed down, he grasped you by your shoulders and forced you to look him in the eyes. “Listen to me carefully, okay? No matter what happens, I will never leave your side. And you will never find yourself alone in sort of danger. I will always be there to protect you. Okay?”

And you looked at him. You really looked at your boyfriend, with his fierce eyes and the look of determination on his face. And you looked at his room, where traces of you could be found in every corner, a hair tie there, a lipbalm there, the food you brought for the sleepover resting on the windowsill. And the thin mattress adjacent to the futon where you slept, because your boyfriend had insisted you take the futon, as he was more than comfortable sleeping on the floor. And slowly, the rapid thumping of your heart ebbed away, and you felt yourself relax in his arms.

“Okay.” You smiled. “Okay, Haruka.”

That night, your boyfriend slept with an arm around your waist, hesitant at first, blushing and stammering, but fiercely protective nonetheless.

tags: @sashimi020

taglist and requests are open!

[dr-yapper]

Singing in the rain (one shot with Charlie)

summary: how to eat out properly with Charlie Reid during a heavy rain date

yesterday i was caught by rain, i wished i was accompanied by this menace, alas!

warnings + a/n: 18+ MDNI, f!reader, age and race are not specified, though charlie calls reader 'kid' a couple of times; smut, p in v, cursing, a lil bit of voyeurism; english is not my first language, feel free to come to me in dms with critique hehe and if you have literally anything to share with me or be tagged in other possible works – let me know! comment and share if you like it, but do not repost it.

w/c: 2k

It starts with the rain, of course. You always knew that it takes a bit of water - a drop of your tears from the intensity, a wet spot on your panties - to get Charlie Reid going. So what happens when it’s raining so hard that to see each other, you must be pressed body to body? Well, you are about to find out.

Charlie and you sit in the nice diner you insisted on dining in because you wanted something different from your regular restaurants and fancy dresses. This time, you wear a summer dress, so light and comfy that you almost don’t feel it on. This time, he picks you up after work and drives you to this place because you mentioned previously that you were here several years ago before Charlie. You didn’t think back then that when he heard about this, he immediately wanted to insert himself into your memory of this place. In reality, he wanted to corrupt each and every one of your good memories, and that one wasn’t an exception. 

So you spend a sheer amount of time eating fries and catching up on each other’s day before noticing for the first time how rainy it actually is. You turn your head to the window, though Charlie’s eyes trace the line of your neck, the glowing skin of your chest area. That is where his attention is. You. Always.

- Oh my god, - you laugh, looking in the window. Big splashes of water cover everything outside, making you feel like a fish in a fish tank. 

- What’s funny? - Charlie asks, one hand holds a napkin, and another has a firm hold on your hand, his thumb caressing your skin with mindless moves. 

- I just realized once we’re out - I’m gonna get soaking wet in a sec.

- Now I’m just offended, kid. You are supposed to be already wet. - He raises his eyebrow with a feigned outrage. You laugh even more at that and tilt your head. 

- Deputy Chief Reid, it doesn’t always work like that. Or is it a typical thing for men? 

- FYI, men don't get wet, they get hard, - and he adds when you scoff, - you are so mouthy today. I bet I can put it to good use and make you sing instead. How about that? 

- This is just one of the many times I hold your hand to get the angle right. - You sing it slowly with a smirk on your lips. 

- Are you quoting Amy Winehouse to me? - Now he’s genuinely surprised, and you see how pleased he is - he likes that you’re this smart and all his. 

- Better, I'm reshaping it to suit us. So it’s more romantic and true.  - He doesn’t reply to this immediately; instead, he brings your hand to his mouth and leaves a kiss. You shiver. His lips are still cold after the ice cream he just finished, and this feeling does things to your warm skin. 

- You want more romantic? - For a rare moment, Charlie turns his eyes away from you and straight through a rain curtain. He hums as if in agreement with himself. - Get your ass ready then. I’ll pay and we’re off.

Without pushing him to proceed with his idea, because you know it’d never work, you visit a bathroom and are ready to leave. This is how you two find yourselves standing on the doorstep, watching the rain. Charlie parked his car a two minute walk from the diner, so now it seems that you have to run. The man drags you by the hand, and you follow, but there is a nuance. The direction is wrong. His car is in the opposite direction. 

- Where are you going? - You try to scream through the rain, but it’s so much louder than you. 

He doesn’t reply, sure, he yanks your hand and pushes you before him so that your back is pressed to the wall behind the diner building. He’s completely drenched, and yet, he makes a step back to adore you. This sunny dress that you love clings to you, shaping your figure, making you feel exposed but safe at the same time, because there was never a time when you didn’t feel safe with Charlie. Your hair sticks to your face, framing the wonderful features - big eyes and open mouth, inhaling deeply. The raindrops are cold, the difference in temperatures makes you excited. 

Charlie surrenders himself in his inner battle; he can’t wait, so he presses himself to you, foreheads touching and lips finding each other. 

He kisses you with something more than just hunger. You only kissed for real this morning, before heading off to work. A quick peck when you meet doesn't count too. But this — this is what he's been waiting for, kissing your mouth hungrily, diving into you with his tongue, getting to know you again and again. You are all about kissing without restraint. His hands are in complete agreement with him. He grabs your hips and leans even closer as if you don’t feel his arousal enough - but you, in return, welcome it with a wrap of your hands around his middle.

- How about that for romance? - He growls into your mouth, pulling away from you for just a second to catch some air.

You breathe heavily and gasp for air, feeling like a fish again, but not in an aquarium this time, but in the ocean, where a hungry killer whale has decided that you are what it needs. Luckily, you want the same thing.

- I've always liked the film Singin' in the Rain, -  you reply, running your hand through his wet ash-coloured curls. Your other hand wraps around his neck - you can feel his muscles under your fingers.

He laughs and shakes his head. 

- Good thing you remember my promise to you - I'll make you sing, just sooner than I expected, - and he goes back to leaving marks on your skin. His lips aren't cold anymore, the hot air from his mouth burning your jawline, chin, cheeks, and neck. He leans down slightly to take one of your nipples, peeking through your wet dress, between his teeth.   

You whimper and wrap your arms around his head, instinctively pulling him closer. The tip of his tongue brushes your nipple a few agonising times before he begins to suck it. And you grab his curls tighter. And make his favourite sounds again. 

- Tha-at’s it, my favourite song by my favourite girl, - he mumbles, kissing his way up to you. A clink lets you know that he’s unbelting his pants. Your legs spread wider on their own.

- Don’t talk when your mouth is full, - you breathe out back, holding his stubbled jaw to tug him closer and kiss him again because there’s never enough of Charlie Reid. 

- Mouthy little shit, - he smirks and then groans, sliding his length up your pussy, just tasting the waters and probing how wet you are. And oh, you are, very much so. He tugs your panties to the side, and his cock plunges into you with all its power, knocking the breath out of you, but Charlie swallows that sound too.

Your back hits the wall with this move, and you squeeze the wet fabric of his shirt, your breathing mingle, and yes, with the beginning of steady, rhythmic moves of his hips, you begin singing in his mouth. 

His tongue and teeth are relentless in this constant hunger. You fall deeper and deeper into this feeling of being his in this moment and his in its totality. He’s a jerk a lot of time, but you’re not easier, and does it feel good to be a perfect match that gets one another in music references and sexual preferences (as in - needing to fuck each other every day, you’re hungry, you’re in love, Charlie is in love with you and he went his path of acceptance). 

So he drives into you with no mercy, rain covers every single sound, but you hear his breathing, you hear the thumps of his moves, and you hear his heart rate. Your fingers clutch at the curly strands on the nape of his neck, and this feels so euphoric right now. You have this man in your arms and between your legs, fresh air hits your brain with an additional dosage of dopamine, and you feel so good. 

- So fucking good, - you moan in Charlie’s ear just for him to hear it once again. He’s good, he’s perfect. His hands squeeze your thighs more in response as he pushes and pulls, grunting. You wish you were in your bed right now so he could bend you and fuck you so hard that his balls would slap your hips. Mental note for later.

- Oh, kid, you’re killing me here, - he breathes out in your neck, nipping on it, licking your sweat mixed with raindrops. Your pussy is so perfect for him, dripping and tight, just like he loves it. He closes his eyes and embraces the feeling of you. Nose deeply buried in your neck, this sweet scent of sandal and something else that is uniquely yours fills his brain. 

With how you cling to each other, there’s a high chance of becoming one. You grind your hips back to match his pace, desperate to get a release. He shifts on his feet, throwing your leg on his hip and changing angle to get to that place that makes you see stars. You let out a whiny sound, and you can swear he’s smiling when he nuzzles in your neck. 

While one hand is holding onto you, his other one sneaks down and begins playing with your clit. All-knowing, skillful fingers are circling your bud with precision. 

- Oh, Charlie, fuck… - you whimper in his wet temple, you lick the raindrop from his skin too, finding some kind of ambrosia in it. 

- I’ve got you, baby, let it go, yeah? - He responds with a voice rough with pleasure, his own pace falters, and you know he’s just as close as you are. The very thought of it pushes you further. Your body tenses up, palms become fists, as you press your whole being into Charlie’s. 

Your pussy begins clenching around him periodically, and you finally convulse with a loud moan, arching and gripping your man. 

- That’s it, sugar, so sweet on me, come on, - he encourages you while keeping to fuck you at what you think is a godlike speed. 

- Charlie, baby, I can’t, - you mewl something and don’t really control what you’re voicing so far. You shrug and arch, and he fucks you through your orgasm till the clenching of your pussy does it to him, and he cums inside. 

You stay frozen in each other’s arms like a statue of lovers for some time before he tries to unstick from you. And you laugh and kiss his nose, which makes him kiss you again. 

- We should return home and take a proper bath, i don't want you to catch a cold and get sick, - you murmur against his lips. He snorts, fixes your panties and pulls back your dress before taking care of himself. Charlie nods and takes your hand. 

- Proper bath as in fucking you there too? 

You laugh.

- This one too. Okay. 

To return to his car, you need to pass the main doors of the diner once again. On your way, next to the door, the waiter is smoking. He follows you with his gaze and throws casually, 

- You do know we have cameras all around the diner, right? 

You bite your lip and follow Charlie, who doesn’t give a fuck and doesn't stop in his determination to get home sooner and fuck you in the bathroom. 

Some time later, Deputy Chief Charlie Raid visits this diner and makes a worker who wasn’t working on that shift extract the video of that day in full for ‘investigation’. ‘Classified information,’ he says with a smirk.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

hi to my favorite fic writer! I hope life is treating you well lately. I have a bit of a specific request that I thought of after reading your recent hunter fic <3 i’d love to request something with an autistic reader who is misunderstood by the other clones but gets paired with the batch. If it’s not too specific maybe she does stuff like swaying/rocking and occasionally too much eye contact and is awkward and blunt with conversations. Even though she is an outcast the batch can relate to her and she is adopted by them and also maybe has the start of a relationship with either tech or echo? thank you so much and if this is too specific or not in your zone please scrap this ask! 🫶🏻

I really hope this is what you were after! It was such a lovely idea to explore—thank you for trusting me with it

“Pattern Recognition”

Tech x Reader

You didn’t mean to make people uncomfortable.

Your posture was strange—at least that’s what others said. You swayed when you stood still. You didn’t always remember what volume to use. And when you tried to keep your eyes on someone like you’d been taught, they flinched or looked away too fast.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been passed off to another squad. You didn’t cry when it happened this time. You didn’t argue, either. The commander said it would be a “better fit.” That’s what they always said.

So now you sat on the edge of a crate at a remote Republic base, knees bouncing, arms wrapped tight around your middle, watching the hangar.

Waiting.

People passed by and gave you that look—trying not to stare, but still…staring. A few clones muttered as they walked past.

“She’s the one they sent to the 99s?”

“Good luck to them.”

You pressed your hands over your ears.

⸻

Clone Force 99 arrived hours later—off-schedule, loud, muddy, and not at all like what you expected.

Wrecker waved at you enthusiastically the moment he spotted you. “Hey, is that the new one?”

Tech didn’t look up from his datapad, but he said, “I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘new.’ Chronologically speaking—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hunter interrupted. “We’ll get introductions in the ship. C’mon.”

You followed. No one said anything about how you walked or rocked or avoided brushing against anyone’s shoulder. No one gave you that weird look. Even when you didn’t meet their eyes, they just…kept talking.

It was strange.

Nice. But strange.

⸻

“You were assigned as mission support?” Tech asked later, when you were alone with him and his datapad.

You nodded. “I’m very good with data interpretation. Pattern recognition. Even when it’s obscured or partial. I can extrapolate. Some say it’s odd. I say it’s useful.”

He looked up at you fully, this time. “It is extremely useful.”

You blinked. “Yes. I know.”

Tech smiled—not mockingly. Not even kindly, like you were a child. Just…genuinely. “Most clones aren’t taught to appreciate those skills.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Are you always this direct?” he asked.

You frowned, unsure if it was criticism.

“Yes,” you said. “I was told that’s wrong. But it’s just how I talk.”

Tech’s brow creased. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I appreciate clarity.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

⸻

The rest of the Batch were… different.

Hunter seemed to notice things about you without asking. He never commented when you left the mess hall early to eat alone. He’d just nod slightly, like he understood, and make sure you had what you needed.

Crosshair… you weren’t sure about him. He said almost nothing to you. But when other clones stared too long, he’d flick something off his toothpick and they’d stop looking.

Wrecker tried to give you a high-five once. When you flinched at the touch, he immediately apologized, then brought you a little carved Tooka figure he’d made. You kept it in your bunk now.

They were all different. But somehow, they didn’t act like you were too different.

⸻

Tech brought you a sensory stim one day without asking.

“I noticed you often rub your fingers together when stressed,” he said. “This rubber stim ring is tactically useful—keeps your hands busy without hindering dexterity.”

You stared at the ring in your palm, blinking rapidly.

“…No one has ever done that for me before.”

Tech hesitated. “Done what?”

“Noticed. And done something helpful instead of… saying I’m weird.”

“You’re not weird,” he said, like it was obvious.

Your throat felt tight. “You’re very nice to me.”

“I don’t think I’m being nice,” Tech said slowly, as if testing the word. “I think I’m being appropriate.”

“…Well,” you said quietly. “It feels like kindness.”

⸻

You weren’t sure what this feeling was, around Tech.

Sometimes, it was anxiety—like when he sat too close and your brain couldn’t decide if it wanted to run or stay still forever. Sometimes it was joy—when he listened to you info-dump without interruption. Sometimes it was curiosity. Sometimes it was everything at once.

You didn’t know what to call it.

But your hands always stilled when he looked at you.

⸻

Mission debriefings were your comfort zone. You had your data, your systems, your logic. You knew what made sense.

But the day one of the generals ignored your report and blamed the mission delay on your “behavior,” everything crumbled.

You hadn’t rocked that much. You’d spoken clearly. You’d remembered to look at him, even though it made your eyes sting.

It hadn’t been enough.

“You’re lucky Clone Force 99 takes charity cases,” the officer muttered, not realizing Tech had just walked into the room.

He heard.

You didn’t know what was said. Only that Tech stepped in front of you protectively, shoulders tense, and the general turned an ugly shade of pale and backed off.

⸻

“Why did you do that?” you asked Tech later, while you both sat in the Marauder.

“Do what?”

“Protect me.”

Tech blinked. “Isn’t that what comrades do?”

You were silent for a moment, then blurted, “Do you like me?”

He froze.

“I mean— I like you. I don’t know if it’s friendship or affection or romantic impulse but when you’re around my body feels different. Calmer. Not always. But often.”

You were rocking slightly now. Not because you were upset. But because you needed to. You’d held it in too long.

Tech’s eyes softened.

“I don’t fully understand my own feelings yet,” he said gently. “But I enjoy your presence more than most people’s. I think about you when you’re not nearby. And I find your thoughts and honesty refreshing.”

“Oh.”

“Would you be comfortable with further conversation on this subject? Perhaps a gradual exploration of what this means for both of us?”

Your lips parted.

“…Yes.”

He offered his hand.

You didn’t take it. He didn’t mind.

So you both just sat there. Quietly. Rocking in sync.

Together.

[pennzance]

Corporal Cecil Wormsborough St. John "Nobby" Nobbs and Sergeant Frederick "Fred" Colon are literature's most triumphant example of the 'Those Two Guys' trope.

In the watch books, they are wonderful supporting characters. Nobby has a rich inner life, usually made richer by everything his little kleptomaniac heart can get its grubby little mitts on. He's also uncannily sharp, able to spot a flaw in any logic from a mile away without a telescope. Occasionally, he'll even use these talents for the benefit of others.

Fred, for his part, is the Sergeant's Sergeant. If everyone rises to their level of incompetence, Fred discovered his and then took one big step backward. He's slow to adapt to new ideas, he's a little racist, and he can get overwhelmed. He is, through hard work, the least enlightened man on the Disc. He has a tendency to be confidently wrong to such a degree it might almost fool the average onlooker into thinking he's very smart.

When separated, they tend to spiral and be their worst selves. Nobbs is a slimy little tit no one is quite certain is actually human. Fred is a fat idiot set in his ways. And yes, they ARE those things, but they are also other things. They can be 'Brave'* and 'Loyal'** and 'Good Coppers'***.

As a duo, they are bewildering to deal with. Many are the times when Vimes has dispatched the pair of them to a crime scene where they miraculously stumble upon some Clue that wraps up the whole affair quite nicely. They are often very pleased with themselves when this happens. They even remain pleased when Carrot or Angua or Vimes then solve some other unrelated but remarkably similar crime with a much more complicated plot that looks an awful lot like the one they just solved if you tilt your head just right and squint. The City's a big place. Not every criminal can be so original, of course.

But Sgt. Colon and Cpl. Nobbs shine the most when the spotlight is NOT upon the Watch. Hardly anything happens in Ankh-Morpork without at least a passing observational comment by the Greek chorus of Colon and Nobbs. In stories that pass through the city, they are often its representatives passing a comment upon the plot. They don't approach it, of course, but they are remarkably observant of events in stories they aren't directly involved in.

They've seen the new Postmaster General take on the Clacks (and taken bets on who'd win). They know those funny bald-headed monks that are always sweeping up the streets. They've seen a man return from the Dungeon Dimensions and make the most instantly regrettable culinary decisions a life can make. They've avoided a war, they've avoided a tremendous amount of crime, and most importantly they've avoided an awful lot of paperwork.

They have even seen, and they both swear this is true, the anthropomorphic personification of Death riding the Unseen University Librarian's motorcycle as it blazed a trail of fire out of the city. They claim it was the night of that big rocks concert in the park and nobody else seems to know what they're talking about. Or if they do, they aren't telling.

And they were both there. They wore the lilac. If you're supposed to know, you'd know.

But otherwise, Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs are just... 'Those Two Guys'. And they are literature's most perfect pairing in a universe so full of stories that you require reminding that somewhere out there, you are seen. Even if it is by a pair of lazy Coppers making dry witticisms of your situation.

(*When totally convinced that the only other option is certain death)

(** As long as Nobby doesn't get a better offer)

(*** If the job requires holding up a statue by leaning on it to get out of the rain)

[livedtough]

He doesn't know, wouldn't know, if asked, what he would do if it turned out that everything he thought he knew about his--he'll say one of his closest friends, but he knows that she's more like his only friend--was not only wrong, but a lie. What would he do if he found out that she was lying to him? He would be hurt, yes, but would he be angry? Would he break off all contact between them? Or would he forgive her? Probably. He doesn't think he would be surprised at all if he did. After all, what's the alternative? Losing her? He doesn't want to do that. He really doesn't want to do that.

But right now, he doesn't know. He doesn't know, and while can't entirely say that it isn't the sort of thing he thinks about, he can say that it's without reason, without cause. At least as far as he knows. He trusts her, and he likes her, and he really doesn't want to lose her. So maybe that's as easy as it is. If and when it comes to it, he'll have to really see, really decide what to do, but right how he lives in the bliss of ignorance.

Except, of course, for all of the things that he's choosing to ignore.

Which is everything, right now. Right now he's here with her, and he's having a nice time. There's a documentary going in the back, and a very exciting meal before him.

He really does want to try the pie. So he takes his fork, and he does the same as her, bringing it to his mouth. Her opinion might be more informed, as it's been a while since he's had anything that's not vegan, but as he tastes it, he's pleased. He's really pleased.

He swallows.

"That's good."

Gods above and below, when did she become so domestic? Perhaps the question's exaggerated, hung up on old habits, old hooks that don't want to let go. That she won't allow to let go, in deference to ... how much is self-knowledge and how much is belief? She thinks all of it's the first, long-learned and deep ingrained. The part of her that's fooling itself in moments like this, the side that Steven ... hopefully ... will never get to see.

The real her. Ruthless and bloody-knuckled.

And more ancient than he'd ever imagine, but somehow she thinks it's the other that would horrify him more. None of it makes this any less real, any less natural - cooking them a meal, conversation, some laughs with someone she likes. Someone she cares for, which is part of why he mustn't see that other side. He's a friend, and though he's not 'under her wing' Thera's more than prepared to pull him there if ever need be.

This is as real as the other, and simply putting together some food doesn't make her 'domestic'; but for a moment, a scornful inner voice that knows too much snorts at her just the same.

The DVD goes into the player, a small distraction, and she sits down next to Steven as the intro screen appears - The World's Pyramids, a Study Across Cultures. "Dig in," She says, just in case he needs to full invitation, and hits the play button.

And then very quickly, because nerves and curiosity are killing her, makes a small, hurried taste-test of the pie ...

[rileys-battlecats]

Hi Riley! First of all I want to say that I love your work an that you’re doing an amazing job! You really inspired me to draw battle kitties myself, haha.

I also have a question! How does Mudpaw feel about being a medicine cat apprentice? Does he like it or did he rather be a warriors apprentice? And what does he think about his mentor Owlpounce?

Love youuu :3

WAHH THANK YOUUU <3 And I'm so glad you've been feeling inspired, literally one of the best feelings in the world <3 <3

As for your question, i started out answering it normally and then it turned into an almost-prose-thing about Mudpaw's relationship with Owlpounce. whoops! under a cut, cause it got Long

Mudpaw's initial reaction to being chosen by Owlpounce as an apprentice was confusion, then Incredible Anxiety.

The thing about Mudpaw is that he's dealt with feeling kinda wrong-footed his whole life. Each day, he's never quite sure what the right course of action is, the right answer to the silent questions that seem like they're always being asked. That is, in almost every context aside from combat. Despite not knowing how to bond with his clanmates, now knowing how to please his mentor or how to make friends with his fellow apprentices, Mudpaw's always had good instincts in a fight. If there was ever anything Mudpaw knew Wrentail appreciated about him, it was his ferocity, his willingness to hurt, the blind fury that takes him during combat. So Mudpaw knows that, if he isn't good at anything else, he's at least a somewhat passable fighter.

This skill is not particularly conducive to healing, if you can believe it.

From Mudpaw's perspective, he's barely been able to keep up in standard warrior training, ostensibly the one area of clan life he's not too terrible at, and now he has to shift gears entirely and learn how to practice medicine. There is no way that this is going to go well. He doesn't know the first thing about healing, or herbs, or—or omens, Owlpounce said an omen from Starclan told her to make him her apprentice...

Basically, Mudpaw assumes he's doomed to fail. Maybe even assumes this is some kind of punishment from Starclan for his actions. But Owlpounce had looked so hopeful when she'd asked him to be her apprentice, and. well. it's not as if he was ever going to be a great warrior anyway. Mudpaw decides to give it his best shot, all while bracing for the crash-and-burn he knows is coming. He's going to end up disappointing her, he just doesn't know how long it will take.

Owlpounce is... nice. To the point where he isn't sure if it's genuine. She's pleasant and friendly with everyone, though, so maybe that's just how she is. He doesn't know her too well, despite his somewhat frequent visits to her den for small injuries. He has fuzzy memories from his kithood of being in and out of the medicine den, dealing with a weak constitution made weaker from exposure to cold at too young an age. He thinks she'd been nice, then, too.

Wrentail had been perfectly pleasant with their clanmates as well. Mudpaw knows to stay cautious.

So, Mudpaw tries. In the beginning, he tries because he doesn't know what else to do. It's not as if he can just quit. And he knows what happens when he gets things wrong; out of all of Wrentail's lessons, that one stuck the most. So he pays attention, tries to keep it straight in his mind when Owlpounce shows him two identical-looking plants and tells him how vastly different they are in their applications, tries to remember the exact angle he needs to hold his claws to effectively peel the bark from this specific wood, tries to memorize the exact pressure needed to staunch the bleeding of a wound. He knows he's not doing most of it right. But no matter how many times he fumbles, how many times he mixes up one herb with another, forgets the symptoms of an illness, Owlpounce just... corrects him. Corrects him, shows him the right way, the right answer, and lets him try again.

He doesn't know what to do with that. Wrentail had never let him fail without some sort of repercussion. Mudpaw assumes that this must mean that Owlpounce just... has a longer fuse. More patience. But "more patience" doesn't mean "infinite patience", and Mudpaw still struggles to keep up. Owlpounce is... she's nice. He likes Owlpounce. He doesn't want to see what she's like when her patience runs out. So he stays up late, studying the minute differences in leaves, in their scents, quizzes himself on their uses, long after Owlpounce has retreated to her nest to sleep for the night. He runs himself ragged, trying to keep up, to have the right answers, to do better, be better.

Of course, high levels of anxiety + low levels of sleep for an extended period of time are a recipe for disaster. Mudpaw gets more irritable, oscillating wildly between snapping at Owlpounce and not speaking at all. The entire time Mudpaw has learned under Owlpounce, she's never once gotten upset with him, and that, more than anything, is what scares him. He has no idea where Owlpounce's line in the sand is, has no idea what will push her over the edge, or what she'll do once he does. Eventually, his goal shifts from avoid running Owlpounce's patience thin to figure out what her tipping point is.

This all culminates with Mudpaw saying something terrible to Owlpounce. He doesn't mean a word of it, but it comes out of his mouth all the same, accusatory and venomous. And, finally, finally, Owlpounce's composure breaks. And Mudpaw doesn't even feel fear when he sees it, just relief. Because now he knows what her boundary is, knows what will push her over the edge. Whatever punishment he's earned himself, it will be worth it, because now he knows.

But she doesn't react in the way Mudpaw thought she would.

She doesn't meet him with her own harsh words, doesn't use her claws to teach him a lesson, doesn't even hiss. She takes a step back, takes a deep breath, turns around, and leaves. She doesn't get far enough away to be out earshot before she starts crying.

And for the first time, Mudpaw feels sick not from fear or anxiety, but from guilt. It sits in his stomach like a stone.

When Owlpounce comes back, hours later, she smiles just the same, but it seems more fragile. Mudpaw can't bring himself to even look at her. The guilt roils in his gut. For days, he can't look her in the eye, can't open his mouth without feeling like he'll throw up. He sits in silence, doing what she asks of him, and never looking at her face.

After days of this, Owlpounce apologizes to him. Something about what he'd said, about trying to be a better mentor, he doesn't know because he cuts her off as soon as he realizes what she's doing. He explodes into apologies, saying he didn't mean it, didn't mean any of it, he doesn't know why he did that, why he said that, she's a great mentor and he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry.

They hug it out, their first hug, and Owlpounce tells him she forgives him. She knows he's going through a lot, but appreciates the apology. She promises to try to be a better mentor to him. Mudpaw promises Owlpounce it won't happen again, and promises himself to never try to find her boundary again. It would be cruel to do so. Owlpounce won't hurt him. He knows that now.

With this new understanding between them and trust slowly forming, Owlpounce continues teaching Mudpaw, and Mudpaw tries his best. And, now that he isn't blinded by fear of what will happen if he fails, he realizes that he quite likes learning to heal. It's hard, but Owlpounce is a patient teacher. It feels good to get something right, to have a mentor who will congratulate him on each and every little victory. It feels good to be able to help his clanmates, even with things as small as scrapes or bruises or upset stomachs.

He doesn't have any natural inclination toward healing. He doesn't have a fantastic memory for herbs and their uses, doesn't have any preternatural ability to detect illness or injury, he doesn't even really have good bedside manner. But he keeps trying. And he learns. Maybe not as quickly as some other cats might learn—certainly not as quickly as Owlpounce must have learned, back when she was an apprentice—but he does learn. As it turns out, not worrying about threats of physical violence for every misstep does wonders for a young cat's ability to pay attention and take lessons to heart. Where he'd felt like he was always a step behind in warrior training, now he feels like he's found a place to do some real good in the clan. It was a rocky start, certainly, but he vastly prefers medicine cat training over warrior training.

[blainesebastian]

win some (lose some)

word count: 2,652 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: PG-13 (for violence) summary: (anon request, patching nick up after a losing fight) Carter Ashen really is a shit person. And maybe that’s why it’s even worse when Nick loses to him in the ring. notes: thanks for reading! i'm still slowly taking requests 🥰 notes2: gifs from here, original masterlist here, requests here.

Carter Ashen has never been a truly nice person. He’s got one of those smiles that’s bright and wide and it should make him even more handsome, except his ugly personality kind of ruins that for him. He’s been in similar circles since you moved to London a few years ago, always at the same parties, the same underground races, the same fights. He’s got a boisterous personality and even louder mouth. He reminds you of Ronnie in a lot of ways, except he’s not violent for the sake of it. But he does like to talk—far too much. 

You’ve been on the wrong foot with him ever since you’ve met. 

“I’ve seen you on the sidelines at some of the fights at Lion’s gym. You’re with Nick Leister, aren’t you?” 

You can already tell where this conversation is going before you turn to face Carter. He’s tall, blonde, handsome in a traditional sense, but there’s something about his eyes. He’s too full of himself. Too cocky, even for your standards. 

“Yes.” You reply, one word, trying to have the conversation die there. 

When you attempt to walk past him, he blocks you with his body. “C’mon, you’re way out of his league,” He grins, “I’m sure he knows that.” 

You run your tongue along the side of your cheek, “If you don’t get out of my face, I’m going to ruin your nose with my fist. A move my ‘out of league’ boyfriend taught me, by the way.” 

In the background, you can see Nick lingering, watching. He knows you can handle yourself, but his instincts are still sharpened like talons. Just in case. He goes for nonchalance, leaning against the doorframe of the room, drink in his hand. But you know him. Know the muscle fluttering in his jaw and the dark shadow of his gaze that he’s ready to jump in if you need him. 

Carter smirks, licking his lips. He doesn’t say anything but he nods, taking a step back, allowing you to pass. You roll your eyes, moving towards Nick. Your boyfriend stretches an arm out to gather you to his side in a way that’s definitely possessive, pressing a kiss to your temple. His eyes do not leave Carter for a long moment before he looks down at you, gaze instantly softening. 

“Don’t let him bother you.” You mumble, pressing yourself up on your toes to kiss his cheek. 

He hums, the rumble of it felt along your arm as you lean against him. “He’d bother me a lot less if he stopped talking to you like that.” 

You chew on your lower lip, “How could you even hear what he was saying from over here?” 

“I don’t need to hear him, it’s all over his face.” Nick squeezes your hip, rubbing his thumb back and forth. 

You’re not about to diminish how he feels even though you both know that Carter is not a concern. Nick didn’t do that when you eventually told him how it aggravates you that Anna always has to touch him in some way when she speaks to him. Hand on his shoulder, his back, his hand. It really drives you crazy when her fingers mess with his curls. Anna isn’t a concern either, but Nick didn’t playfully roll his eyes and tell you that. He listened. And now he makes sure to put a thoughtful space between himself and her when they talk. 

So you nod your head when he speaks about Carter, running your hand along his arm and giving him another kiss to his jawline. “Lion put you in the ring with him on Saturday, right?” 

Nick has a sip from the drink in his hand, nodding. He doesn’t say much and you know that’s because he’s not altogether pleased with that notion, either. He’s been trying to take steps away from fighting but Lion keeps pulling him back in. You know how difficult it can be saying no to a friend, especially when money is involved. 

You let out a long sigh, cupping his cheek and tipping his chin until your noses brush in a bunny kiss. It encourages a small smile out of him, “Well, regardless of what happens—you got me, so you’re already coming out ahead.” Your voice is warm, teasing, hopefully a small distraction. 

He huffs out a small laugh. “No arguments from me.” 

He wraps an arm around your shoulder, keeping you close, brushing a long kiss along your temple. Closing your eyes for a moment, you breathe him in, only turning away when you feel eyes on your back. Tilting his head, Carter smirks at you, making your mouth pull into a grimace. 

He really is a shit person. 

And maybe that’s why it’s even worse when Nick loses to him in the ring. 

You’ve been watching your boyfriend in ring fights for a long while, you know how talented he is. How each of his fists move in an extension of his whole body, fluid, quick on his feet and measured through his punches. You know that these bare knuckle fights can get fucking brutal, even when managed by a ref. So it really pisses you off when some of Carter’s punches aren’t flagged. It’s not official boxing, you know that but…hits below the belt, hitting when someone is down, striking at the back of the head? 

These are things that could seriously injure Nick. And no one is doing anything to intervene. 

Nick’s been holding his own, but he’s bloody, bruised. Your heart aches in your chest, your panic spiking at seeing him go down again. Your shoes scuffle against the pavement, wanting to move forward and yet knowing you can’t. But when Carter lifts his leg a certain way, you know he’s going to kick him and your throat is raw from yelling for Lion all night, to get him to straighten out the refs. The refs who aren’t fucking saying anything—

“Stop!” You yell, stepping out of the circle that the crowd has made and into the space where the ring is. The ref blows his fucking whistle at that, which just pisses you off more. “Didn’t know you guys knew how to use that whistle, you haven’t blown it all night. He was going to kick him—again.” 

Nick is struggling on the ground, you can see him gather his strength just to lean up, to get himself up off the pavement. The crowd is cheering around you, some boasting about money, others cheering for the fight to continue, some insisting it’s over. You’re not sure and you definitely don’t care. Then someone tries to come up behind you and wrap a hand around your arm to pull you out of the fighting space. 

“Put a leash on your cat.” Carter tosses offhandedly to Nick when he’s standing, spitting blood onto the ground. 

Wrenching your arm free, you take two, quick, patient steps forward, just the way Nick’s taught you. Your fist goes flying (thumb on the outside)—right into Carter's nose. His head snaps back, not so much from the force of it, you think, but moreso from the surprise. The crowd fucking erupts in cheers and laughter and you don’t even care that someone different comes up behind you to wrap their arms around your waist to yank you back. 

“Let her go,” That seems to encourage Nick into action, “take your hands off her,” He snaps, reaching for you, replacing the arm that’s settled along your stomach. 

You lean back against his chest, allowing him to shift you to the one side as whistles are blown. Nick lost. Your hand is throbbing. You’re sure that your boyfriend has either bruised or fractured his ribs. You’re hoping he doesn’t need a trip to the hospital, that his mom doesn’t find out, that Maddie isn’t disappointed when he shows up next weekend looking like a personified bruise. 

And yet you can’t stop a satisfied smile from pulling at the corners of your mouth. 

Because Carter is wailing that his nose is fucking broken—and honestly? Music to your ears. 

—

You drive Nick back to his house in your Jeep, which is usually not a problem? Except that you can tell he’s biting his tongue on saying anything about all the bumps. You wince at a particularly bad jostle and you can hear the sharp hiss escaping between his teeth. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry. The swaying is usually part of the charm.” You turn into his driveway and another breath leaves Nick’s nose, this time in humor. 

“Please, don’t make me laugh.” 

You smile a little, parking the Jeep inside the garage with Nick’s very expensive cars and help him inside (despite his protests that he does not need any assistance). Sure. He’s walking just fine but he’s bleeding from spots on his face and favoring his left side. Worry swirls inside of you like a washing machine stuck on a rinse cycle, sloshing back and forth in your chest as you get him to his bedroom and into his bathroom. 

“Bath or shower?” 

“Y/N.” He sighs, leaning against the counter. “Don’t fuss.” 

You frown, your eyebrows drawing together. “I’m taking care of you whether you like it or not. We can do this the easy or the hard way.” 

He raises his eyebrows, “What’s the hard way involve?” 

You wander closer to him, bracketing his body with your arms as you press your palms into the counter. “It’s a lot like the easy way—with less kisses and far more manhandling.” 

A small smile pulls at the corners of Nick’s mouth, amusement warm in his brown eyes. He then shakes his head, lifting his hand to cup your cheek, “I just need first-aid.” 

You swallow, tipping your face into his touch, pressing a kiss under his thumb. “You’re lucky I didn’t drive you to the A&E against your will.” 

Nick hums, carefully tugging his white t-shirt over his head. You can help him get his pants off if need be, unsure if he can bend properly. “Nothing is broken. I have a few shallow cuts on my face.” 

“Your right side—”

“Yeah, it’s sore.” He agrees, “An ice pack—”

“You know, Lion is on my list,” You interrupt with a scowl, stepping back just a little to look at him. “I was calling to him all night when those fucking refs wouldn’t use their whistles.” Nick opens his mouth to say something, maybe to give Lion the benefit of the doubt or…somehow explain his reasoning but—no. You can’t listen to that. 

“The only reason Carter won was because he kept using illegal hits, some that could have seriously hurt you.” 

By the time you’re done talking, your voice is trembling, something that does not escape Nick’s notice. And despite the fact that he’s sore and bruised and bloody, he gently wraps an arm around your shoulders, drawing you to his chest. You swallow over a sudden lump in your throat, folding into him, pressing your face into his bare shoulder. You close your eyes, breathing him in, a twinge of dried sweat mingling with laundry detergent and something that’s purely Nick. 

“I’m okay,” He promises, lips lingering on your neck. 

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, not trusting yourself to talk for a few moments in case you do something embarrassing like cry. Nick’s right, he’s okay. Even though you’re not thrilled about how this fight went down, that’s the most important part. You nod softly at his words and he presses a kiss to your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry you lost.” You whisper, unsure of what else to say. You pull back, sniffling, running a hand over the side of your face. 

Nick tips your chin with his fingers, his thumb brushing over your lips. “I dunno,” He says, another small smile. “Think I won anyway. Got you, don’t I?” 

It’s…it’s cheesy, just like what you told him the other night at that party just to distract him, to make him smile. And that’s what it does now, a laugh slipping out of your lips before you shake your head. 

“C’mon,” You motion over your shoulder, tugging on the waistband of his sweatpants. “Shower.” 

“Definitely not the worst way you’ve asked me to get naked.” 

You smile, moving to turn the shower on and test the water before closing the glass door. Nick doesn’t need very much help in the shower (despite what ideas you might have for a washcloth and using it on his body), so you head downstairs while he cleans up to grab an ice pack and some lemonade from the fridge. Your knuckles are sore, but you can worry about your own hand once you have him taken care of. You kind of like the ache anyways, knowing you wiped that smirk off of Carter’s face. 

Carrying everything back up to his bedroom, he exits the bathroom with a cloud of steam following, in a fresh pair of sweats and a white t-shirt. 

You lay the first-aid kit along with the ice pack on his mattress, patting the bed next to you. He sits slowly, leaning towards the left with a sharp breath out of his nose. 

“I should have grabbed more than one ice pack,” You mutter under your breath, wrapping it in a tea-towel and gently encouraging him to hold it against his side. “You need something for your face.” 

“S’okay,” He replies, sounding tired. 

You guide your hand along his back, stroking for a few moments before tipping his chin in your direction. Your eyes skitter along his handsome face, noting the cut under his one eye, a bruise forming on his cheek and a split in his lip. Chewing on your lower one, you reach into the first-aid to put some antiseptic on a cotton ball, dabbing it under his eye. 

“You’re gonna swell up like a balloon.” 

Nick crinkles his nose, “Hope that’s not an instant break-up moment for you.” 

A small sound of amusement slips out, making a smile tug at his mouth. “Maybe.” 

His lips then form an affronted O, his hand sliding over to wriggle his fingers into a spot he knows you’re ticklish. You huff but continue to take care of him, adding a bit of antiseptic to where his lip looks the worst. Overall? Not too bad. You’re going to get the other ice pack though, as soon as you get him into bed. 

“Okay, all set, I think.” You put the cotton ball into the trash, set the first-aid kit on the desk and hand him some aspirin with the glass of lemonade. He smiles, his fingers brushing yours as he takes it, putting the lemonade back on the nightstand when he’s finished. 

You don’t help him crawl into bed but you do prop some of the pillows up. Before you can run back downstairs, Nick reaches out and catches your wrist between his fingers. When you look over your shoulder at him, there’s no words, just a silent question in his eyes. You nod, crawling into bed, mapping yourself along the left side where you know he isn’t as sore. 

His hand rests along your back and you tuck yourself under his arm, your nose and lips brushing the fabric of his t-shirt along his pec. He smells clean, can feel the warmth of his skin through his clothes, your arm gently stretching along his waist. He encourages you closer until your one leg slips between his and when his mouth brushes a kiss to your hairline, you allow your eyes to close. 

“You do, you know.” Comes out as a mumble from your lips, “Have me.” Completely, utterly. 

Nick doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the unspoken words in how he squeezes you, one more kiss planted to your temple where his lips linger in a smile.