#it's really fun that i get to share this with all of you

[bitterballad]

10 Things you hate about Clark Kent.

━━━ © bitterballad

PLOT! You had just moved to Metropolis from Gotham after quitting the Gotham Gazette. You thought it would be a breeze. But there's 10 things about your coworker that irk you more than you ever thought.

WARNINGS! corenswet!clark. gotham!reader. clark is kinda submissive in this... sorry. overstimulating. oral (fem receiving). unprotected p in v (wrap b4 u tap). kinda service top clark? but he gets submissive.

NOTES! i watched superman with my boyfriend and i need to dick down clark with every bone in my body. i had sm fun writing this. thank you to my baby girls out there, i see u. word count is 7.2k btw!

1. You hate that he’s always late.

Metropolis is cleaner than Gotham, sure. Shinier. The streets sparkle like they’ve never seen a body chalked on the pavement, and people here walk a little faster—like they’re going somewhere they actually want to be. But beneath the polish, it’s the same grind. New City, same newsroom. 

You should’ve known The Daily Planet wouldn’t be much different than The Gotham Gazette. The coffee is just as burnt, the interns just as sweaty, and deadlines still loiter like stormclouds, waiting to downpour. You expected chaos. What you didn’t expect was Clark Kent.

He’s late.

Every. Damn. Day.

You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.

You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”

Clark wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels. 

“Yeah,” he huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”

There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it. 

You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Lois. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”

He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Lois laughs it off. Perry yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Cat calls him “Smallville” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his incompetence. 

But you?

You are not charmed.

You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.

Again!

“You’ve been late every day this week, Kent,” you mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” he says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask. 

Almost.

Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”

He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.

And most of all?

You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.

2. You hate his 'aw shucks' act.

If Clark Kent’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it. 

Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Carol from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.

People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him. 

You do not.

Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Kansas” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.

You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.

So when he chuckles nervously after Lois slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:

“Oh, give me a break!”

Clark turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”

You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”

His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”

You scoff. “Of course he did,” you mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”

“I’m from Smallville,” he says, like that explains everything.

You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Smallville. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”

Clark shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” he offers gently.

You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”

He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.

He is harmless.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Clark? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Clark is very good at it.

You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.

And that makes you want to scream.

3. You hate how he somehow always got the exclusive.

There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman

But somehow, Clark Kent just gets them.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Perry’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.

It’s infuriating.

You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Lois couldn’t get close. And she's Lois!

But the next morning?

There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Clark Kent.

You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.

“He said that?” you asked Clark across the bullpen.

Clark blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”

Clark smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”

You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.

A few times?

Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Clark Kent.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Perry still passes them over in favor of Clark’s Superman exclusives.

You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.

Clark just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”

Trusts him.

Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.

You stare across the bullpen now, watching Clark quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird. 

And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.

You hate it.

You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up. 

No one sees Clark talking to Superman.

And yet Clark knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.

You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Clark Kent is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.

And you don’t believe in luck.

4. You hate that he doesn't talk shit.

Newsrooms run on gossip.

That’s just a fact.

You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.

Except Clark.

Clark doesn’t talk shit.

At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.

Lois stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Clark, ready.

Nothing.

He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”

You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”

Clark smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”

You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed, Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”

He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.

It keeps happening.

Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Clark to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.

When Jimmy blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Clark hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jimmy a coffee the next morning with no explanation.

You don’t get it.

You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.

Clark? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.

It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite. 

You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.

Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.

He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?

Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.

When Perry has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Clark doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Perry to breathe.

When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.

You hate how it makes your chest tighten.

You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.

You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.

You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.

You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.

You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.

You shake yourself.

No.

This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.

It’s not.

You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.

5. You hate how he remembers everything you say.

You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.

You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.

Clark Kent doesn’t see it that way.

You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolise comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.

The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”

You blinked at him

“You remembered that?” you asked, caught off guard.

Clark shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”

You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.

Because the pattern kept happening.

You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”

You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”

You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that one one’s used the word since.

He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.

You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Clark? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.

And maybe that’s what bothers you most.

Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.

Not really.

Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Clark listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of your in his head, one brushstroke at a time.

And you despise it.

You hate that it makes you feel seen. 

You hate that it makes you feel real.

You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.

You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped Kansas mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.

You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.

You remember that his middle name is Joseph, but he doesn’t like it because it was his dad’s.

You remember way too much.

So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.

6. You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.

There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.

Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.

But that’s not how Clark looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.

Just you.

And it drives you batshit crazy.

Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.

And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.

7. You hate how nervous he makes you.

You’re not nervous around people.

You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.

But Clark makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.

Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Clark stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose. 

And lately… you’ve been messing things up.

You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.

You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.

You called him Clark and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.

When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.

You like him.

God, you like him.

You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.

You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.

You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.

Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.

8. You hate how he’s Superman.

You almost died today.

Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.

You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.

But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.

It didn’t.

It was coming right for you.

And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.

He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—

Him. 

Superman.

He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.

He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.

He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.

That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.

You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?

It rattled you.

And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.

The way he looked at you.

Like he knew you. Like he saw you.

And then your fingers stopped moving.

Because you’d seen that look before.

Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar. 

Clark had looked at you like that.

You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.

You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jimmy had taken at Lois’s birthday last month. Clark, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.

Your heart sank.

No.

You looked again. 

You zoomed in.

And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see. 

Clark Kent is Superman.

You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.

Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.

You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Clark. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Clark. Now you’re not sure where Clark ends and Superman begins.

And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.

9. You hate how he touches you.

You told yourself it was for the story.

That inviting Clark over to your apartment — late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual — was journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”

But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.

Clark knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.

He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”

“An article,” you said, breezy. “About Superman.”

And God, you said his name like a test.

Clark blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.

You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there — not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew — knew — it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.

You kept waiting for him to lie.

He didn’t.

So you forced his hand.

You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”

Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t laugh it off.

He just looked at you.

And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.

“You’ve known?” he asked quietly.

“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”

He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something — or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.

“I never meant to lie,” he said. “Not to you.”

“But you did,” you replied. “Every day.”

And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.

Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you — really saw you — even before you ever knew who he was.

And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own — gentle, grounding, warm.

You hated it.

You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“I should be.”

He swallowed. “Are you?”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.

Clark Kent. Superman. Both. All.

And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.

You stood.

He stood too.

You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.

But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours — when he hesitated, like he needed your permission — and when you didn’t stop him—

His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.

You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him — and not just the cape. Not just the secret.

Him.

Clark.

You pulled him closer.

And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable. 

But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” he breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.

Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.

No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.

You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.

You push him toward the bedroom.

He lets you.

You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your helps down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.

You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”

His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.

“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate that you touched me like I mattered, like you meant it.”

“God,” he breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”

“I hate you, Kent.”

And then his hands are everywhere.

He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.

“Tell me where you want me,” he rasps.

You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”

His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.

His mouth is on you in seconds.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.

“Fuck—Clark—”

He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”

He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you.

The thought makes you whine.

It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.

He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.

“You’re close,” he whispers against you. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you pant.

“I’ll die happy.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Clark doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.

You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” you manage.

He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”

And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.

And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.

You blink. “Jesus Christ.”

He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”

You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch. 

You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.

“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”

“You dreamed about this?”

He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”

You’re still trembling from the first wave when Clark pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.

You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone, chest—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.

“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.

You whimper, and the sound sends a shudder right through him. He nips at your inner thigh, then drags his tongue over your clit again, slower, more torturous. You didn’t even notice that he pulled out. Your legs shake uncontrollably, and he groans. A ragged, desperate sound, a whimper escaping past his lips.

“Please,” you breathe, and he smiles like you just handed him the universe.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down.

His fingers slide inside you, circling, pressing that one perfect spot that makes your back arch and your breath catch in your throat. “God,” he pants, his mouth pressing wet kisses along your hipbone.

You’re drowning in pleasure, desperate for release. But Clark pulls back suddenly, his eyes dark and gleaming. “Not yet.”

You glare at him, frustrated and needy.

“You’re going to remember this,” he promises, voice low and intense. “Every damn moment.”

His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin. 

Another wave crashes through you, your body shaking with the force of it. Clark doesn’t miss a beat, he keeps licking, sucking, teasing until your hips buck wildly and you're crying out his name, desperate and undone.

He hums—a deep, satisfied sound—as he pulls you into a long, slow kiss, tongue swirling around yours, possessive and needy.

“Round three,” he whispers against your lips, voice shaky but still full of hunger. “I’m not done with you.”

You shiver, heart pounding as he slides his hands under your shirt again, fingertips tracing fire trails across your ribs. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. Your body still singing from the last orgasm Clark coaxed out of you. But he’s not done. Not even close.

His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.

He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.

His fingers shake as they ghost over your hips, then he trails a slow and reverent path back up his own body, touching himself briefly. You watch, breath hitching, as his hands work, fingertips teasing, tentative.

He looks up, eyes pleading.

You reach for him, your hands bold now, fingers wrapping around the hard length. He whimpers, a soft and needy sound, and his hips jerk forward, pressing into your grip.

You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you tug his jeans down just enough to free him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.

Clark’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.

You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”

His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.

He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.

“Please, don’t stop,” he begs, voice breathy and broken. 

Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.

He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.

Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry. 

You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.

10. You hate that you love him.

You told yourself it wasn’t possible.

Not with Clark Kent—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.

And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.

You hate him.

You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.

You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.

He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.

 You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”

He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” he says. “Superman’s on vacation.”

Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”

He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”

You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”

He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”

He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.

“We should get breakfast,” he says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”

You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”

He scowls in mock horror. “Not real humans dislike cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”

He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”

A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.

But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.

You clear your throat. “But seriously—I hate that I love you.”

He stills beside you. Heartbeat thunders under his palm.

“You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”

Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”

He nods. “In five seconds.”

You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Clark. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.

In that moment, all the hate evaporates.

“We’re a mess,” you laugh softly, looking away.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”

He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.

And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

taglist: @ickbite @halfwayhearted @pedriache @n4wst4r @crs6n

[0celesteisthebest0]

Oh man I love this concept and how there is some hesitance with Din in the beginning. He is living his life good as a sex worker and doesn't need to be running and hunting all the time. Also love the fact that these skills are effortlessly transferred to his new job!

But another thing is transferred with it being the lack of companionship which is a great lens to look at this new life Din has and the consistencies of being alone.

!!!! READERS REAACTION iS SOO ACCURATE CAUSE YEAHH I WOULD BE NERVOUS AS HELLL ABOUT THIS

There interactions together are oh so great as well because it shows a fun different environment Din isn't used to which is ppl asking about himself rather than just satisfying his clients needs off the bat. THat and the transition into the real reason as to why reader is here is soooo GREAT it gives him such a big inner conflict and I just love it oh so much.

GAHHHH AND THEE FACT THAT BOTH OF THEM ARE JUST LOOKING FOR INTIMACY AND THEY FIND IT WITHIN ONE ANOTHER GGGGGGGGAHHHH.

OH MY and the softness of the removal of the armor is just sooooo AAAaa its like readers taking away barriers Din has rightfully put up over the years into such an intimate moment makes my little heart squeal. THAT AND THE CUDDLING BEFORE ANYTHING SERIOUS ALSO HAS MY HEART GOING CRAZY!!!

THEN THE UNDRESSING GODD BROOOOOO! WANTING MORE OF DIN IS A DESIRE I NEED IN MY LIFE FRFR

THEN DIN CHERISHING YOU AS HE'S UNDRESSING YOU HOLY FUCK STOPP I NEED HIM IN MY LIFE RN and the feeling of him against you too as a first time omg kill me he is sooo!!!!!!!!

Also love the fact that Din makes sure to comfort reader that they are doing everything that reader wants and feels good. HIM FEELING TE DESIRE TOO IS GETTING ME TOO!!

The fact that his control is slipping makes me love this fic even more because all Din is about its control. HE WANTS TO MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD BUT IT DOESN'T FEEL LIKE WORK

THE COCKY MFER ALSO SAYING YOURE WET I CANT WITH HIM!!

The imagery you paint with the next scene was absolutely beauitful I loved every moment of Din giving pleasure with his beautiful hands and the desire to kiss you at that moment I CAN'T!!!

OH AND THE FACT THAT HE FREEZESSSSS WHEN YOU SAY YOU WANT TO KISS HIM I CAN'T THEN HE TAKES OFF HIS HELMET THE ONE RULE HE HAD AND HE BREAKS IT FOR YOUUUUU

BUT THE FACT THAT HE'S FROZEN BECAUSE OF IT ADDS TO THE MOMENT MORE HOLY SHIT! How it means so much to him because he has been limiting himself of his desires and the weight of his creed limits connection for him a lot.

Fuck and the desire mixed with the familiarity and the familiarity of being known especially for Din in his position OH I LoVE THE WAY YOU WRITE HIS PERSPECTIVE. Cause he isn't just the armor he has layers to his being. HOW FUCKING TOUCH STARVED HE IS TOO WHEN HE LETS HIMSELF FEEL YOURE TOUCH!! The nerves that he has because this is unfamiliar waters to him and I love that the reader is comforting him in this moment like he did her.

GOD and he wants the feeling of asphyxia with you and I THINK THAT IS SO FUCKING ROMANTIC I NEED HIS ASS IN MY BED SO BADDD

HIS DESIRES REALLY ARE TAKING IN CONTROL OF THIS MOMENT and I LOVE IT IW WANT HIM TO LOSE CONTROL OF HIMSELF!!!

GOD AND THE SCENE OF WANTING MORE OF HIM NEEDING MORE OF HIS COCK GOD

THE FACT HE GOES SLOW MAKING SURE YOU FEEL EVERY MOMENT OF THIS! THE BLISS OF THE ORGASM AND THE SLACK FEELING IS BEAUTIFUL

THen him cleaning you after it's all done and asking if you want food too YESS then getting back to Din and his continuous internal struggle of keeping the helmet on for the rest of his time with you. The intimacy they share the rest of the night with Din releasing control with the joy with being with you is soooo freeing to see. Sleeping together in darkness where the first of many happened and I love it so much.

EEEEEE and the note he left for her to see in the morning when she woke up I CANT WITH THEM I LOVE THEM AND I AM SO HAPPY THE GET TO BE TOGETHER AAAAAAa amazing work truly i love coming back to reread!

Mutual

Pairing: Sex worker!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 7.2k Warnings: smut, sex work, first time p-in-v for reader, first kiss for Mando, fingering, unprotected p-in-v Summary: You pay a visit to the Mandalorian for your first time. Notes: Written for an anon request. The perspective shifts back and forth between Din and the reader.

Thank you so much to @thefact0rygirl and @fisforfulcrum for reading this over for me! xx

perfect gif by@bestintheparsec

DIN

In the beginning, Din is conflicted.

It’s such an appealing idea, though, that he can’t shake it once it occurs to him. There’s no question that he’d make more money and make it faster. He’d even be able to stay in one place—fuck, the absurd luxury of that simple prospect—and that would mean fewer credits spent on overpriced fuel and less time wasted in hyperspace.

Still, he feels hesitant. There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s been to brothels before, with no shame whatsoever. But there is no denying the fact that sex work would be a nontraditional choice for a Mandalorian, and that’s putting it lightly.

I could stop at any time.

Then, he realizes how readily the clients line up—and how much they’re willing to pay—and Din finally appreciates the nuanced effect his armor and mystique have on people. He’d always thought it was pure intimidation. He thought of himself as scary—as too menacing—and he did what he could to mitigate that in friendly company. He kept his hands in everyone’s line of sight. He moved slowly and carefully. He announced his intentions. He unclipped his Amban rifle and propped it against the table. He spoke softly, politely.

But now? He knows that in some cases, there is a healthy dose of attraction mixed into that fear. The staring, the stuttering, the lingering glances that trail down his metal-clad body, the inability to meet the severe gaze of his visor?

It turns out, for many, fear and lust share a blurred edge, and Din can make thousands of credits playing in that murky in-between space.

So he settles into it.

His average client is wealthy and adventurous. They’re senators and merchants and sometimes even royalty. A thousand credits an hour mean nothing to them. They want novelty. They want danger—or, really, the illusion of danger. Some want hunter/bounty role-play, some want restraints, some want gun or knife play. He’s open to it all.

His Creed remains intact: the helmet always stays on. Most clients insist that all of his armor stay on, in fact. They want the full experience. So he pleasures them with his fingers and his cock, and no one ever complains. He knows the reason for that is twofold: how can they be upset when they’ve cum six times? And who’s going to complain to a fully armored Mandalorian?

So now, Din spends his days in high-end hotel rooms on plush feather beds. He’s well-rested and well-fed all the time. He sends an obscene amount of money back to the covert.

It’s ridiculous how much better this life is—there’s no contest between being run ragged from hunting and this. He doesn’t chase credits anymore; clients come to him. And for him because he is excellent at this job. His endurance and attention to detail easily transferred between occupations.

The one disappointing constant though, the one thing about hunting he hasn’t been able to shake, is the loneliness. There’s little companionship in being a companion, he’s found.

*** YOU

This is a great idea.

This is a terrible idea.

You pace back and forth in front of the hotel room door, eyes fixed on the sleek metal floor under your feet, trying to control your frantic breathing.

You can’t believe you’re actually here…about to blow half your savings on a night with a Mandalorian.

You heard about him through your wealthy clients at work. They rave about him—about his attention, his hands, his shoulders… his armor, his cuffs, his voice. His cock. They whisper—loudly, purposefully—about their multiple orgasms.

You’ve been hearing about him for months. Getting hornier by the fucking minute.

Just do it.

You’ve already paid, credits wired over this morning, so you might as well get your money’s worth. I’m ready. You’re completely sure of that.

You stop in front of the silver door and reach out to swipe the key card across the scanner when another wave of embarrassment hits you—not because you’re here but because you’re going to have little to no idea what you’re doing.

And he’ll know.

That’s too much to take. You turn on your heel and stride away, but you’ve only taken two steps when the door slides open behind you.

“Hi.”

Fuck.

You whip around, your face set in a guilty smile. “Hi.”

He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his elbow propped over his head, the other leather-clad hand tucked into his belt…casually, as if he hasn’t just stepped directly out of your filthiest daydream. He’s tall, broad… the black t of his visor fixed on your face, head slightly cocked, his silver armor glinting in the dim light. You can’t decide if you’re more intimidated or more turned on. He trails his gaze down your body, and you decide it’s definitely the latter.

“Are you here to see me?”

Shit, they were right: his voice is fucking sexy.

You take a steadying breath and say, “Yes.”

He steps back, gesturing you inside with a gloved hand. And that’s enough to make up your mind for you.

There was no way you were leaving once you saw him anyways.

*** DIN

The first thing he notices is that you’re just his type. If he met you anywhere else, he’d pursue you. That’s irrelevant though.

The second thing Din realizes is that you’re not his average client.

You look... normal? You’re not some heiress or politician. And you seem nervous in a very different way than he’s used to. Usually, his clients are excited, often a little apprehensive and awkward at first. You, on the other hand, look legitimately worried.

You immediately make your way to the bed and sit on the edge, looking anywhere but at him, your hands fussing together in your lap. He stands, watching you for a moment, his thumbs tucked into his belt.

He hasn’t encountered a you yet, but he knows what to do.

He turns and takes a seat on the couch across from the bed, a low coffee table between you, pointedly giving you plenty of space. He studies you for a moment, and raptorial interest stirs in his chest as he moves his eyes over your body—your parted lips, your gorgeous tits. Din tamps that down and focuses on the job, on getting you comfortable.

“What’s your name?”

You look up quickly and tell him, then ask, “What’s yours? They just called you The Mandalorian—”

“Mando is fine.”

“Right.”

He rests his arm on the back of the couch and lets the silence simmer for a moment. Then he gets the most important thing out of the way: “My helmet always stays on. No exceptions, no touching it.” You nod solemnly, and he continues, his voice low and smooth: “Tell me about you, what you like.”

“What I like?”

“Mhmm.”

“I don’t—uh—I don’t have anything in particular in mind,” you say, still not looking at him. “Just…” you trail off, gesturing vaguely at yourself and then at him as if that will explain. “I’m just—I’m not sure—well, okay so...here’s the thing—”

He can’t help but smile behind his helmet. You’re cute when you’re flustered.

“I meant in general, not just sexually.”

“Oh…right.”

You seem surprised but relieved to start somewhere easy. To his immense satisfaction, Din watches the tension leave your shoulders as you walk him through your job and your hobbies. He asks follow up questions throughout, and soon enough, you’re actually looking at him, eyes trained directly on his visor.

“What about you?”

“Me?” He’s not expecting you to turn it around on him.

“Yeah,” you prod, “tell me about you.”

So he tells you some general things about how he used to be a bounty hunter, and you listen with warm attention, leaning back to brace yourself on your palms. Every time he thinks you’re going to be ready to move on, you prompt him with another question.

You like his voice. He can tell.

That’s not uncommon, but usually clients don’t want to spend their valuable time listening to him make small talk. He indulges you though, enjoying the way you seem to be defrosting, relaxing. Soon, you’ve slipped back to rest on your elbows, your shoes kicked off and feet hanging off the edge of the bed.

Finally, you let the conversation dwindle, and you seem comfortable enough that Din decides to move forward.

“Tell me about why you’re here.”

You sit up a bit, some of the discomfort returning to your posture. You consider his request for a moment then blurt: “I’ve never had sex.”

The words hit Din like cold water, and everything makes sense—everything except why you chose him for this. People come to him to add spice to their sex lives not to begin their sex lives. Who chooses a Mandalorian warrior for that?

“This is your first time,” he states bluntly, trying to process.

“Yeah...it is.” You shift around on the bed and meet his visor again. “I mean, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve been with men, just not…all the way. Is that okay?”

Din isn’t sure how to answer that. He’s never had to make this decision. He doesn’t know if it’s okay, doesn’t know if he wants this responsibility.

What he does know is that every time you look vulnerable, his hands itch to soothe you.

“Are you sure you want it to be with me?”

You look him dead in the eyes, even through the barrier of shadowed glass, and say, “Yes. I’m sure.”

For someone who came into the room so tentatively, with quiet steps and wringing hands, you look completely self-assured now. Your shoulders are squared and eyes clear. Din’s own uncertainty dissipates, and his gaze lingers on your slightly parted lips. Something primal nudges at his hindbrain, and a realization drips down his spine like warm honey: he decides he’s going to like the privilege of being your first time. He’s sure of that.

He nods.

That seems to embolden you because you stand then and cross the small space to sit next to him on the couch. Close. Almost touching.

You look up at him with bright eyes and ask, “Can I touch you?”

He chuckles quietly at the unexpected question. “Yes, you can touch me.”

You smile wryly at him, and he ignores the urge to brush his thumb over your bottom lip. Instead, he reaches for one of your hands and places it on his knee in an effort to break the ice, but you don’t leave it there. You bring it up and trace the severe curve at the side of his helmet with a feather-light touch, your eyes fixed on his visor.

It catches him off guard, and Din stops breathing. He feels unnerved by your direct gaze—pinned and laid bare—like you can somehow see his eyes even though he knows it’s impossible through the dark tint of the glass.

His thoughts slow, and he sees in you what he sees in himself: you’re looking for intimacy, for closeness. What surprises him is that the barrier of his beskar doesn’t seem to be preventing you from looking for that—for finding that—with him.

You run your finger back up the arched line of metal, and somewhere vague in the back of his mind, he knows he should reach up and catch your hand in his, like he always does when someone tries to touch his helmet. Instead, he abides. He couldn’t tell you why if you asked. Maybe it’s because he feels sure you’re not going to try to remove it. Your expression is open, curious—reverent, even.

“Oh, fuck,” you curse suddenly, pulling your hand back like you’ve been burned by the cold metal. “I’m not supposed to touch your helmet. That’s your main rule—I’m sorry, I just—I got caught up. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

Oh, right. That is a rule.

He nods, catching your hand and holding it between his. He wants to say it’s okay, to reassure you, but he knows he shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be okay.

He brushes one hand over your cheek, and your guilty expression gives way to a smile. You scoot closer, your knee nudging his thigh. You’re quiet, your face serious, as you run your hands over the lines of his armor. Din watches your face, his helmet cocked as he studies you.

“Can I take this off?” you ask, looking up at his visor as you trail your fingers idly down his chestplate.

“Yeah, I can—” he reaches up to start the long process of undressing himself.

“No,” you say, stopping him with a hand. “Can I do it?”

“Yeah,” he says, “sure,” and shows you the complicated releases for his armor.

In general, if a client wants him naked—and they usually don’t because the armor is a large part of his appeal—they wait expectantly and impatiently for him to undress, knowing their time is ticking away as he removes each piece of beskar. So, undressing is typically a harried process of Din stripping as fast as he can while a client waits, tapping their fingers restlessly.

With you, the process is slow and intimate. You take your time to remove each plate and set them neatly in a row on the coffee table before moving on to his bandolier, his belt, his cape, his cowl. The last things to come off are his gloves, and when you spend a long time admiring his rough hands, he doesn’t know what to do or say. He lets you continue.

When you’ve stripped him down to his duraweave, you surprise him again by climbing directly onto his lap—asking, “Is this okay?” as you go—and settling in with your back against the armrest of the couch, your legs laid over his thighs, when he nods. He reacts on instinct, slipping an arm around your waist to hold you close.

You’re soft, your weight reassuring, and for some weird reason, his throat feels a little tight when you slide your arm around his shoulders and rest your head in the crook of his neck. He sets one hand on your thigh, the other rubbing reassuring lines up and down your back.

You stay like that for a long time, maybe ten minutes, maybe half an hour. Din is not acutely aware of the passage of time like he usually is when he’s with his clients.

“Okay,” you proclaim unexpectedly, extracting yourself from his embrace and getting to your feet to stand in front of him. “I’m ready now.”

To your credit, you do look about a hundred times more relaxed.

But he likes this languid pace; he wants to maintain it. So he reaches out to catch your wrist and guide you back onto his lap, this time facing him on your knees, straddling his thighs.

“We have all night, sweetheart. There’s no rush.”

Din already knows you like his voice, but he watches the word sweetheart wash over you and realizes how much you like it. Your gaze softens, and your pupils dilate: some heady mixture of affection and lust shivers down your spine.

Din feels his own answering interest pulse through his veins. His vision narrows, and all he can focus on is your mouth, the way your tongue darts out to swipe across your lower lip. He’s grateful you’re perched over him, so you can’t see the very immediate effect you’re having on his lap.

It’s partially selfish—this desire he has to take his time with you. Some part of him feels a little guilty because he wants to take care of you because it feels good for him. It’s both, though. He wants it for you, and he wants it for himself too.

He cups your face, and you melt into his touch.

“Will you let me take care of you? Let me take my time with you?”

You close your eyes and nuzzle against his palm like a pleased cat, going supple and yielding in his hands. “Mmmm, yes.”

For the first time, Din thinks he might be in over his head.

*** YOU

The anxiety dissipates. You forget to be nervous. The acute feeling of cortisol singing through your veins is replaced by a pleasant haze, by a low thrum of pleasure, and you’re keyed into every place Mando is touching you. The sensations are overwhelming. They swallow you whole: his large, warm hand sliding up the back of your shirt, his cold helmet leaned against your temple, the pads of his fingers skating down your spine, the press of his muscular thighs against the insides of your legs.

You want more.

“Can you take your shirt off?”

Mando nods and reaches up to undo the short set of buttons at the top of his shirt, then pulls it up and over his helmet, tossing it somewhere on the floor.

Yes, this.

You splay your hands wide over his pecs and scooch backward on his lap to get a better view of the expanse of skin underneath you. He’s so warm and real, so human under all that metal, and all at once, you’re desperate to feel his skin against yours. You reach for the hem of your shirt, but before you can pull it off, his hand stops you. You look up at him, and he quirks his helmet.

“Can I?”

You nod.

You keep expecting to get acclimated to his voice—for it to stop thundering through your nervous system like a cloudburst of warm rain every time he says something in that low, rolling bass—but apparently that’s not going to happen.

He undresses you with careful hands, easing your shirt over your head. He urges you to stand, and he unbuttons your pants and shimmies them down your hips, your hands resting on his bare shoulders.

Something about his concentration and care makes you even more needy—even more ready. When he has you down to your underwear and bra, he pulls you back onto his lap, and you melt against his solid chest, your lips finding his neck. You place a tentative kiss there, and he wraps his long arms around you and holds you close. Emboldened by the quiet hitch in his breathing through the modulator, you work your mouth over his neck while your hands wander, trailing over the thick, corded muscles of his arms, down the dark hair dusting his sternum, across his soft stomach.

The anxiety returns, hitting you like the wide side of a bantha, when your hand pauses between his legs. Shit. You pray that he’s fully hard because if he’s not…there’s no way anything bigger than this is fitting inside you.

The want running through your veins, however, is much louder than the fear.

*** DIN

Din feels it the moment your uncertainty returns, and he covers your hand where it’s sitting in his lap with one of his.

“We’re only going to do what feels good for you,” he reminds you gently. “Whatever you want.”

You nod against his neck then pull away to look into his visor, your fingers tightening around his cock. “I want this.”

He hums deep in his chest, his eyelids drooping closed for a moment, enjoying the feeling of your hand on his aching cock. He can’t help it—he wants you to want his cock. He knows he can make it feel good for you. He gives your hand an encouraging squeeze where it’s wrapped around him.

“I can make it feel good for you. I promise.”

You press your face back into his neck and make a sound of enthusiastic agreement—something between a hum and a whine that makes his cock throb.

Din’s control is slipping, and he knows it: that carefully constructed wall he keeps between himself and his clients seems to be ineffective with you. Or maybe, he’s tearing it down himself.

“Have you cum before?”

You tense a little under his hands. “Yes.”

He hums again, his mind flashing to a vision of you with your hand between your legs, panting and arching. His mouth waters. “Good. Are you ready for me to make you cum now?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He pats your thigh. “Let’s move to the bed.”

*** YOU

You lay out on the big bed, Mando kneeling beside you. He eases off your last layer, blindly tossing your bra and underwear over his shoulder, his helmet glued to your bare body. That black t rakes over you, raising goosebumps in its wake—down and back up—and stops on your face.

He watches your expression to gauge your comfort level as one large hand cups your breast, the other trailing down your body. You gasp—in relief and pleasure—when his palm rides the curve of your mound and he dips his fingers into you with a groan.

“Already wet?” he asks with a cocky little jaunt of his helmet.

You’re gearing up to reply with something sassy when he puts a sudden pressure on your clit—not moving his finger, just keeping it still and steady—to silence you.

The words die on your tongue. You drop your head back on the pillow and close your eyes. He waits a moment then circles his finger firmly, and your eyes snap back open, your mouth falling open in a soundless exhale.

He continues like that until you’re writhing and whining—pleading with gasped words and wide eyes—and he slips one… and then two thick fingers inside your slick cunt.

He takes you apart—once, twice—with expert precision, with care.

You watch his hands as he does. You can’t help but fixate on them when they’re wringing so much pleasure from your body. One works relentlessly between your legs, the other providing a grounding weight over your sprinting heart.

The hand splayed on your sternum rises and falls in tandem with your rapid breaths, the obscene spread displaying the range, the reach of him. His hands are big, wide—you study the meandering blue veins that fork like rivers between the mountains of his knuckles. His fingers are long and thick, his nails blunt and well kept. Utilitarian.

He presses up against something inside you that radiates pure bliss. You arch for him; you keen.

And you’re so caught up in the intimacy that your imagination runs wild: you can envision his hands doing other things—his palm smoothing over your fevered temple, brushing away a bead of sweat with aching care, just as much as you can see his knuckles split and bloody from the pure lust of possession. You want that. You want him to possess you, to leave someone else black and blue for coveting what is undeniably his.

The weight of his warm palm leaves your chest, and he glosses his knuckles over your bottom lip, dragging it slightly, opening your panting mouth a little more so your humid breath fans over his skin. The black void of his visor is fixed there, and you can feel the want in that gesture—the need. And for a moment, you can see past the helmet with perfect clarity.

He wishes he could be touching your lips with more than his hand.

You feel completely sure of that.

He shifts and leans into you, collapsing onto his side to spread out along your body, pressing his cold helmet into the space between your ear and your shoulder. You gasp and flinch back at the initial shock of contact but bring a hand up to keep him in place when he tries to move away.

You want him close—like having him here in your space as you cum around his thick fingers for the second time—but you can’t help but wish—

“Fuck, I want to kiss you,” you breathe against the curve of beskar.

As soon as the words are floating out there, though, you realize that’s a shitty thing to say to him when there’s nothing he can do about it.

He goes completely still and grunts through the modulator, and for the first time, you have no idea where you stand. You realize he’s been keeping you tethered this whole time—with his calm demeanor, his directness—because suddenly you’re adrift.

“Shit—sorry, I didn’t mean that. I know it’s—”

Before the words of your apology are out of your mouth, though, he’s pulling away from you, sliding off the bed and striding to the other side of the room. Panic surges through you. He’s been so good to you, given you everything you need, and still you asked for more.

You scramble to the end of the bed, perched on your knees. “I’m sorry, I won’t say it again, I promise—”

You hesitate when he stops in front of the small, square control panel on the wall by the door, punching several buttons. Before you can wonder what he’s doing, every light is extinguished, and the blackout curtains on the other side of the room close with a swish. You whip your head around at the sound, watching as the last sliver of the blinking city lights is doused.

You look back to where he’s still standing. “What are you—?”

His silhouette is imposing in the dark. The mattress dips when he sits beside you, and he reaches up, slipping his thumb under the lip of his helmet. There’s an unfamiliar hiss, and you watch in astonishment as he eases the black shadow off his head and tosses it carelessly on the bed.

Your heart stops.

You’re shocked into silence, staring at Mando’s dark outline.

You’re not sure who’s more surprised by this turn of events—you or him. You can tell he has stunned himself by the stiff way he’s sitting, completely frozen, all his ease and confidence gone. You feel a surge of affection at how human and vulnerable he suddenly seems. You can see the outline of his tousled helmet-hair, and you’re desperate to soothe him, to hold his hand and guide him through this softly.

Just as he was doing for you.

*** DIN

Suddenly, the roles are reversed. Din’s breath is shallow and shaky, and it feels like the basic control of his body has shifted from autopilot to manual without his permission. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands anymore. They’re sitting uselessly in his lap, and his arms feel unwieldy and long.

He’s lost.

And what’s even worse? He knows that you can tell he’s lost, even in the complete darkness.

Is this how you’ve been feeling all night? He’s struck in that moment by how brave you are for staying because after feeling this way—this untethered and unarmored—for about thirty seconds, he is on the verge of vaporizing.

He’d ripped off his helmet in a fog of overwhelming desire—of reckless, desperate passion. You’d whispered that you wanted to kiss him, and it felt like a sign. He had been fixated—possessed by—the same thing, and the tight space inside his helmet became unbearably thick and suffocating. Years of denying himself suddenly weighed too heavy on his shoulders, so heavy that his resolve splintered…but now reality is crashing down on him.

He’s supposed to be the professional here. You paid him for this, and his job is to know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s supposed to be making sure your first time is good for you, and he just let his own needs—his own wants—take the driver’s seat.

You slide closer to him on the bed, one of your palms settling reassuringly on his chest, and Din is acutely aware of how obviously his heart is pounding.

“It’s okay,” you say, your hand sliding upwards over his pec. “Can I—can I touch your face?”

He should say no. That’s too dangerous, too familiar. It’s not worth the risk. His heart hammers irregularly under your fingertips.

“Yes,” he says, and your soft hand cups his cheek. He shudders, leaning into your touch. It’s overwhelming. It’s electric—the sensation is so good and acute that it burns. He wants you to touch all of him, to kiss every plane of his face, to sear away the pain until all that’s left is pleasure.

Right on cue, you lean forward, and Din remains completely still, paralyzed by this unfamiliar feeling of being totally out of his depth. Some panicked part of him is convinced that if he doesn’t move at all, at least he won’t have done anything wrong.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable,” you whisper against his stubbly cheek. “I’m totally fine with just—”

The only thing he’s sure about is that he wants this.

He covers the hand on his chest with his own, his other large palm cradling the back of your neck, keeping you in place, and he can feel you smile against his cheek. He wants to tell you I want this—please kiss me, but he knows if he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll hate the waver in his voice.

“Let me take care of you,” you say, reflecting his words back to him, and the ice in Din’s chest thaws. You’re sweet and soft, and he knows that even if he fucks this up, you’ll still be kind to him. In a way, he thinks he might be giving you exactly what you want. What’s more intimate than vulnerability?

It feels safe to move again. He pulls back a fraction of an inch, and holding you gently in place, he tilts his head and fits his lips against yours.

He starts slow—gentle and tentative. You’re patient with him: you let him acclimate to the sensation, grounding him with the steady presence of your hand over his stuttering heart, the other framing his jaw. You press a few light kisses to his lips and start to lean away, to give him some air, but he doesn’t want air—he wants this. He wants the vacuum of space, asphyxia.

Din curls his fingers firmly around the nape of your neck to lock you in place. He leans in and kisses you harder, pressing his mouth to yours until your front teeth click together. He huffs out his embarrassment and adjusts, but you’re unfazed. You venture further, parting your lips to deepen the kiss, sliding your tongue against his when he does the same, and Din is immediately addicted to your mouth.

He wants it everywhere.

He wants your tongue teasing his nipples, your spit dripping down the length of his cock, your teeth set against his neck, your lips mouthing over his balls.

He wants.

*** YOU

Mando moans against your lips, and you feel like you’re being given a gift with the raw sound of his unmodulated voice.

The kiss goes from sweet to needy, and you both feel it. All at once, you’re pulling him on top of you while he’s pushing you back on the bed. Awkwardly, without interrupting the kiss, you scramble backward together, feeling your way through the darkness until your head hits the pillow. He’s braced over you, a muscled thigh situated between your legs, his newly bold tongue in your mouth.

He pants against your lips, forcing the words out between kisses and labored breaths: “Are you ready for me, baby?”

Something inside you turns to liquid when he calls you baby.

“Fuck—yes, please—”

You can hear him working at the fastenings on his pants, freeing himself. Despite how wet you are and the fact that you’ve already cum on his fingers twice, you're braced for some amount of pain. You’ve heard it hurts. And his cock is massive—he shucks off his pants, and it’s resting heavy and thick and long against your inner thigh—so you’re convinced it’s going to hurt even more than you anticipated. You’re trying to stay calm, trying to focus on how good it feels when he kisses you, but you’re sure he can feel you tensing beneath him.

You’re desperate for him to fill the empty ache inside you, and you’re also scared.

The pad of his thumb smooths over your furrowed brow, and he pulls away: “Relax,” he purrs. “I promised to take care of you, remember? I’ll make this good for you.”

You nod in the darkness.

He presses his lips to yours again, and your entire body unclenches. Approval rumbles through his chest, and he kisses you deeply as two of his thick fingers sink easily inside you again. He pumps them languidly before easing a third in alongside them.

It’s so good and not enough.

“I think you’re ready for me.”

“Yes,” you breathe against his lips, “I’m ready.”

“I’ll go slow. Tell me if you want me to stop, if it hurts.”

You nod again, and he swipes his cock through your folds before he fits the blunt head against you. You cling to him, one hand around his neck, fingers tangled in his messy hair, the other flat on his back. He eases his hips forward, pushing just the tip inside, and you know he’s going agonizingly slow for your benefit.

Oh yeah, it’s fucking tight.

He murmurs brokenly against your parted lips as he slips inside: “That’s it. Tell me if it’s too much. Ngghh—you’re doing so good for me.”

It doesn’t hurt though. There is no pain. It’s uncomfortable for a minute. The stretch is new, and the pressure feels foreign, and then he’s all the way inside you, his hips flush against yours, and oh fuck—

He lets out a deep, desperate groan, and you whine loudly against his ear, but you’re so overcome with the feeling, with the sheer fullness that you aren’t even embarrassed by how needy you sound, rendered wordless by pleasure.

His voice is strained when he asks, “How does it feel? Are you okay?”

“Yes—you feel so good—so big—please fuck me,” you slur, and you can feel him smile as he huffs against your cheek.

He holds you close to his chest—to his beating heart—while he fucks you slowly, deeply, and the end of each one of his strokes touches something inside you that aches in the best way. He takes his time with you, just like he promised. You pant in the dark together—for minutes? Hours? Days?

“Tell me,” he prompts again, his voice a hoarse whisper, “tell me how it feels.”

You wish you had the right words for him, wish you could string together the requisite poetry. Instead, he gets a mumbled, “Fuck—mmm—Mando it’s so good—yes, like that—”

The way he sets his teeth at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and moans makes you think he gets it anyway.

When the pleasure gets so acute that it requires remedy—when it’s so good it’s almost unbearable—you start to meet each of his thrusts, canting your hips up to chase the sensation, the fullness. He grunts lowly and responds to you: he pulls back to reach between your bodies, trailing a hand down your stomach, to start rubbing attentive circles over your clit.

“Knew you could take me—now you’re gonna cum on my cock.”

He starts to fuck you faster, and you do; he coaxes it out of you.

You pulse and tighten around him, and it’s different than what you know— a widespread pleasure, bone-deep and all-encompassing. You arch your back, nails digging into the skin of his neck, and let the heat roll through your body while he gives you his cock, again and again.

When it starts to fade, you melt into the blissful haze, muscles going warm and slack. You drop your hands over your head, and Mando reaches up to pin your crossed wrists with one huge hand, his elbow braced on the pillow beside your ear, as he follows close behind you.

After a few more punches of his hips, he rips himself away and cums across your stomach—warmth spattering across your skin—pumping himself with a broken groan.

You’re flattened, sweaty and panting, lost in the afterglow of the best orgasm of your life. He disappears into the ensuite refresher and returns with a warm washcloth, carefully cleaning you off as you catch your breath. When he returns again, he braces himself over you to kiss you deeply—and the press of your bodies, of your lips doesn’t feel new anymore. It feels familiar, comforting: like warmth and intimacy cultivated over time.

He rolls onto his back, slumping beside you on the pillow, your breathing a quiet chorus in the darkness.

You hear the muted rustle when he turns his head to look at you, so you do the same, admiring his dark silhouette.

“...are you hungry?”

“Starving,” you breathe.

And you both laugh, a long breathless laugh that has very little to do with the fact that you’re both hungry and everything to do with how easily your hands find each other in the dark.

Before you can ask what you should do about this conundrum, he’s rolling out of bed and sliding his helmet back on. You try to ignore your answering surge of disappointment. Of course it makes sense that he’d put his helmet back on.

He clicks one of the dim lamps on, and for the first time, you’re treated to the full view of him.

Your jaw drops shamelessly.

“What?” he asks, frozen.

The words are out before you can really consider them: “Stars, you’re pretty.”

He scoffs, shaking his head—the warm, golden lamplight skating over the mirrored surface of his helmet—as if you’re kidding. You’re not.

He extracts a datapad from the drawer of the bedside table, and the bed dips when he lays out beside you. He clicks it on and navigates around the interface, asking you what you want. While you decide what to order together—selecting enough food to easily feed four people—you admire the long spread of him, his wide shoulders, the hard lines of his hip bones, and the soft curve of his belly in this slightly hunched position. And all you can think about is how much you want to taste all of him.

When the food is ordered, he clicks the datapad off.

“How long will the food take?” you ask.

“Not long, probably half an hour—”

“Perfect,” you reply, a wicked smile on your lips, as you sit up and throw a leg over him to straddle his thighs. “Plenty of time.”

He tosses the datapad somewhere on the bed and pulls you down on his lap. “Oh yeah?” You can hear the smile in his voice. “For what exactly?”

“I’ll show you,” you purr. You lean forward and suck a hard kiss under his jaw, and he runs his hands up your back.

The long, low sound that emanates from his chest makes you think he likes this just as much as you do.

“Oh, I probably shouldn’t give you a hickey,” you laugh, sitting back on your heels to look into his visor.

“Mmm, I don’t mind,” he says, lazily tipping his helmet to the side and guiding you back in with a hand on the nape of your neck.

“Oh well, in that case…”

*** DIN

He shouldn’t let things go any further, shouldn’t let them spiral. It’s already gotten out of hand. Din knows he should leave his helmet on for the rest of the night and focus on the fact that this is a job.

…but he’s hungry. And he’s already taken it off once in your presence. Would a second time make it worse?

No, he decides, not worse.

And so he lets things bleed a little further into a muddy, unprofessional territory. Control slips a little further out of his hands, unspools.

Even though he should, he doesn’t really mind that feeling anymore. What felt like a loss of control is starting to taste like…joy?

You sit back-to-back on the bed, lights low and his helmet staring blindly next to his thigh, and chat while you eat. An hour passes easily like that, maybe two. He finds himself telling you about his life—his real life—when you ask. And you tell him about yours—about your past relationships, how you’d found companions and potential lovers but no intimacy, so you’d left each one and searched on.

That hits him somewhere deep in his chest.

When you’re done eating, you offer to close your eyes so he can turn the lights off again, to keep his helmet off. He should say no, thank you and put his helmet back on. He should leave it there—in its rightful place—for the rest of the night.

But he can’t take back what’s already happened—he doesn’t want to.

So he lets the line go a little more slack. And it feels good.

He agrees and shuts all the lights off, climbing back into bed with you and pulling you to his side. You don’t even have sex again. It doesn’t come up. You just lie together, close, always touching, and talk. You kiss, taking turns initiating long stints of making out, of mapping each other with your lips, but the rest of the night is largely not even sexual. Just… intimate.

His arm slung around your shoulders, your face settled in the crook of his neck. His head resting in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair.

For the first time in a long time, Din doesn’t feel alone.

It’s a night of firsts, apparently, for both of you. In addition to his first kiss, it’s the first time he falls asleep in the presence of a client. It feels natural though: his eyes drift closed late into the night, your head on his chest, your fingers laced through his.

*** YOU

When you wake in the morning, Mando is gone, the bed cold. You knew he would leave when the time you paid for was up, but the hopeful, sensitive part of you—the part that thought maybe, just maybe, he’d also felt something for you—still feels stung.

You stretch, and your body is the tiniest bit sore, but mostly you just feel just fucked-out and relaxed, warm and lazy. Some part of you wonders if it was a bad idea to have him be your first. You’re pretty certain it’s not ever going to be better than that.

Too late now.

You sigh and sit up, looking around for your clothes. You know you left them strewn all over the room, but now, you find that everything is folded in a stack on the dresser.

You slide to the edge of the bed, and that’s when you notice a note written in neat, squared-off letters on the bedside table.

It says what must be his real name, Din, and underneath, the digits of his personal com.

[w0rm3y]

Malevolence In Spring- R. Sukuna

TAGS: Hades!Sukuna x Persephone!Reader, arranged marriage, forced proximity, kidnapping, True Form!Sukuna, Husband!Sukuna

OVERALL WARNINGS: MDNI, DDDNE, extreme violence, graphic depictions of death, blood, body horror, physical torture, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Lima Syndrome, manipulation, toxicity, cannibalism, suicide, blood kink, spit kink, breeding kink, biting kink, size kink, monster-fucking (That man is a monster, like actually), S&M, marking, stomach/belly bulges, a/b/o concepts (i.e. mates & one instance of what one might consider a heat, but that's all) THIS CHAPTER: blood, mentions of death, suicide, and cannibalism, stockholm syndrome, groping, dubcon, suggestive sexual content, but also Sukuna w/baby fluff, and Sukuna x Reader banter (they're so fun to write for istg)

WORD COUNT: 6k

SUMMARY: you were taken from your home and forced to become Sukuna's wife.

“The next time you run from me, run fast and run far. Pray that I never, ever find you. If you get away from me, I swear to you, I will not stop looking for you until you’re beside me again. Mortals and deities fear me for a reason, and I don’t mind showing you why they all share that sentiment. Understand, wife?”

A/N: Hi, loves! In this chapter, you finally get to meet Reader's mother, and just for a little context, we're keeping this story close to Hades & Persephone's myth, so Reader's mother is Demeter, but is named Manami. I hope that made sense, and I also hope that's not weird. I was struggling about who I should make Reader's mother, because Demeter plays a huge role in Hades & Persephone's myth. Also, Yuji and Kenjaku are mentioned. Kenjaku is not Geto in this, and is actually Uraume's counterpart of sorts. You'll see once you get in there. Lastly, there are two Greek terms used here. Moro means baby, and Nona means godmother.

|| MIS M.List || >OPIUM> THORNS; ankáthia; αγκάθια

The day of your departure, you stood in the corridor outside of your chambers, using the wall against your shoulder to steady yourself. With the baby in your hands and the bag of clothes slung over your arm while also blindfolded, it was a bit difficult, but it wouldn’t be much longer until Unoko, the baby, and you were loaded onto the carriage. 

In your arms, the baby cooed, raising his chubby little fingers to grab the air. The sight of it made you giggle, and you couldn’t resist tapping his nose.

“We’re going to the surface to visit my mother soon. And you’ll get to meet her. She’s going to help me name you, too.” You traced your finger over his cheek, feeling as his mouth spread into a gummy grin while you spoke. “She’s going to love you.”

But then you felt a rush of coolness as a chilling shadow fell over you, enveloping you both in that scent you’d become so familiar with. Your heartbeat began to thump just a bit louder–not because you were scared, not because you were excited, but because of your anger.

That night in his chambers, he ripped up that imaginary scroll of civility right in front of your face when he dismissed you, only to carry on with Yorozu. Since then, you had avoided him, and you think he was beginning to notice. 

When the baby felt the shift in the atmosphere, his grin fell, and he began crying. 

“You’re scaring him,” you announced, knowing Sukuna was right behind you, even with your blindfold on.

“Yes, well, I tend to have that effect on most mortals,” he purred, breath brushing across the back of your neck. “One exception to that effect is you, my dear wife. Tell me, have you lost your hearing, or are you just ignoring me?”

“Oh, my almighty king, I could never,” you sneered as you tended to the saddened newborn.

“I sense the disdainful inflection in your voice.”

You made a sound of faux surprise and tugged your blindfold down so you could see again. You raised the infant in front of you, asking, “Can you believe that, moro? Our king of the underworld sensed some disdain. Perhaps if he really thinks about it, he can guess as to why that might be. And he shall have plenty of time to do that while we’re gone–he should feel very grateful. Tell him, moro.”

You lifted the infant in your arms, giving him a clear view of Sukuna over your shoulder. And, of course, he started crying again.

Sukuna, growing aggravated, reached over your shoulder to take the baby into his hands, which only made him cry harder. You were just about to fight to get him back, but when he cradled the baby to his chest, you paused.

“Your nona is a bitter, bitter woman, moro-”

You gasped, “I am not his godmother! That is a term for older women-”

“But you are raising him because his own mother cannot, right?”

“Yes, because you slit her open!”

Sukuna nodded. “Right. And now you have a baby. You should feel very grateful,” he mocked you, but his actions didn’t mirror his tone. He was speaking to you so softly as he relaxed the baby against his chest, and within seconds, his cries began to quiet down until he was fast asleep. “Let’s also not forget that this infant’s mother tried to kill you, and that is why she is not here to take care of him.”

Your eyes widened just a little. “Oh, I didn’t know that. I knew she was angry with you, but… I thought she just wanted to hurt me.”

“What a naive notion. Remember who you are married to, wife. Mortals don’t like me.” You sighed as he continued with his scolding, “She brought a blade to the hearing with every intention of killing you to justify her own husband’s death.”

“But she did not throw that blade hard enough to kill me; it barely grazed my skin. If she wanted to kill the king’s wife, wouldn’t she have practiced to make sure she’d be able to hit her target with enough force to kill?”

He frowned at your question. “Are you insinuating that I don’t know what happened? You were blindfolded, remember? Had I not pulled you back, that blade would have grazed your neck instead of your breast. And had I not used my hand to bear the brunt of the force behind her throw, the blade would have done a lot more than just graze your skin. She wanted you dead, trust me.”

“And you pulled me back to save me?”

His face curled into a glare. “Why are you asking me like that?”

“Well, it just seems odd that you’d save me. I’m just your unwanted pet, after all,” you snapped, crossing your arms tightly. 

His brows furrowed, showing how deeply offended he was. “Do you honestly think I’d let you be killed?” When you shrugged, his eyes widened. “In the midst of your pity party, you died six times, and each time, who do you think it was that retrieved your soul?”

You rolled your eyes, answering him with, “Uraume.”

“Wrong. It was me.” His voice was eerily calm, just enough not to wake the baby in his arms. “Six times I had to go get you from the shores of Acheron and guide you back to your body so Uraume’s associate could raise you from the dead.”

Their associate?

“I’ve seen what your stiff corpse looks like, I know how you smell when you begin to decay, I’ve felt your sunken, cold skin. Six times, woman. That’s plenty for me, I don’t want to make it seven.”

You swallowed thickly and shifted on your feet, growing intimidated and overly guilty. “Sukuna, I-”

“But I will if I have to. I’d kill you with my own hands before I let you die at the hands of someone else. Assume incorrectly again. I dare you.”

Deciphering whether his threats were empty or not was an impossible feat. He could be gentle and neutral, but at the same time, he could be a monster, so fierce and quick to anger. You were still reaping the consequences of going against him the last time. 

How could his demeanor shift so suddenly?

“Where is the civility you spoke of at dinner three nights ago?” you asked through gritted teeth. “Can you blame me for assuming you’d allow me to die when you’ve made threats on my life many times over? You speak of killing me so often, and it comes so naturally to you-”

“Then you should feel blessed that your death is something I fawn over rather than taking part in–even more so to know how many times I’ve saved you, hm?” he spat sharply before mumbling, “Foolish woman.”

“Brainless man.” 

As he gazed down at you with such a look of irritation, his pupils dilated, exuding that domineering air he knew so well, but you wouldn’t allow it to get to you this time. He didn’t take your backbone from you for a reason; he wanted you to use it. 

How long will he let you keep it if you used it to stand against him?

It would end one of two ways: with your death or his compliance.

“Oh, my king!” a grating, nasally voice echoed down the corridor, splitting the eye contact between you and Sukuna. “You haven’t left yet. Thank the gods-”

“I didn’t send for you,” he groused, red eyes following the path of his bed whore as she stepped closer. 

Head bowed, she nodded. “I’m aware–oh, a baby! How cute-”

Just as she reached her hand out, ready to touch the infant, you used your ability to pull dry vines of thorns from the crevices of the cobblestone floor. They wrapped tightly around her ankles, slithering up her calves and sticking to her skin. 

“Ow!” she gasped, dropping her hand to glare at you. “What is wrong with you-”

You curled your hand into a fist, giving the vines more length to coil higher on her legs, making sure to ask them to tighten enough to draw blood. 

“Where are your manners? Approaching me, looking at me? Have you forgotten your place, Yorozu?”

Her eyes widened as she began to pull at the vines. “M-My king, please tell her to stop-”

“Oh, yes. Tell me to stop, my king. Maybe if you beg for your whore, I’ll consider it.” 

You looked back up at him, taking note of the all too humorous glint in his eyes. Gods, he pissed you off, Yorozu pissed you off; you hated them both. 

You curled your fist tighter, making the thorns dig even deeper into her flesh as you said, “Go on. I’m waiting.”

Sukuna clicked his tongue, a playful grin settling on his mouth as he asked, “My queen, are you jealous?”

Yorozu gasped in pain when the vines cinched in deeper. “Ask me if I’m jealous of your whore again, Sukuna. I dare you.”

“My king, please! This… hurts, please!”

He was quiet for a moment, relishing in the tension of the situation. Taking in a deep breath, he said, “Yorozu, I believe it’s in your best interest to beg your queen for help. The thorns around your legs belong to her, not me.”

“O-Of course! My queen,” she began, looking at you with pleading eyes. “Please, let me go!”

She held eye contact with you as she cried. That in itself told you everything you needed to know about her mentality–she assumed you to be equals. 

“Have you truly forgotten your place?” 

A glare formed on her face, no matter how hard she was fighting to keep it contained. No amount of tears could shield the superiority she felt she had over you. 

“You belong on your back or on your knees, because you’re a whore, Yorozu. That’s all you’ll ever be here, do you understand?”

She clenched her teeth, biting back tears as you stepped closer. “Yes, my queen.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re still looking me in the eyes like we’re of the same rank. Do you think we’re equal?” With your face closing the distance between you, you gave her a taste of the intimidation she forced down your throat since the first time you’d met. Her resolve began to waver as you snarled, “Address me. With respect.”

Slowly, very slowly, she lowered her gaze before biting out, “Yes, my queen.”

“Much better.” You uncurled your fist, allowing the thorned vines to unravel from her legs and collapse on the cobblestone floor. “Disrespect me again, and I’ll wrap these thorns around your neck. Approach your king of your own volition again, and I’ll fill your lungs with nettles. And if you ever reach for my infant ever again, I’ll fucking kill you. Do you understand me?”

Once again, she complied, muttering, “Yes, my queen,” under her breath.

“Leave.”

And she didn’t hesitate to storm down the corridor, leaving behind a trail of blood droplets. As soon as she was gone, you felt your anger begin to diminish, replaced then by a fleeting pang of confidence. 

Behind you, Sukuna hummed in satisfaction, “Very impressive, my queen. I am proud of you.”

Your annoyance waned, softening under his praise. Instinctively, you soaked it up like a sponge.

‘My queen,’ you liked when he said that. 

“I don’t need your flattery, nor do I want it.”

“No, of course not.” He stepped up beside you and handed off the infant, taking your bag of clothes from your shoulder to carry in his hand. “Let’s go. Your mother is waiting.”

“You’re coming, too? Unoko is accompanying me.”

“I’d like to gather a few supplies from the surface, and I’m sure your mother has a few things to get off her chest–I know I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are some godly issues I need to discuss with her; I’m sure she expects my presence. Besides, you were going to travel by carriage. That will take you days to get there.”

“So, what? Do you plan on flying us there?”

He shook his head. “We shall travel through a portal.”

The cooling feeling of the portal slipped over your skin as you stepped into the stark white snow of an empty field. You glanced down at the baby in your arms to see if the portal had disturbed his sleep, and were happy to see that it had not. Behind you, Sukuna approached, and over the swirling blue of the portal, he waved his hand, making the warped air disappear.

“You control portals?”

“In a way, yes. They belong to Uraume, but they allow me to use them from time to time.”

“And why didn’t you use the portal when you had me kidnapped?”

“Kidnapped? You speak as if I’m your captor. A captor would not have married his victim, you know.” He glared down at you and continued, “I was told that I would need to romance you using those inane mortal traditions. The way I procured you is more fitting of a god, don’t you agree?”

“Most certainly. Your overwhelming arrogance and crushing ego were very god-like, my king.”

“Thank you, wife.” He raised his hand, clearly not understanding your tone, and pointed to the house that was placed across the field. “Is that where Manami resides?”

“Indeed.”

He trailed beside you silently, and when you neared the familiar house, you felt the residual warmth of your mother’s usual golden rays. It was slight, and not anything like how you remembered it. Her light was always so bright, always so comforting, and now, it all felt so cold. 

“Something isn’t right.”

Panic bubbled in your chest as you handed the infant off to Sukuna and hurried toward your childhood home, stumbling the whole way there. When you clambered inside, you immediately called out to her. 

“Mother?” You slipped rounding the corner to the stairs, but quickly crawled up them, retracing your steps to her bedroom. “Mother, are you here?”

When you pushed the door open, you gasped to find her shriveled body on the bed. You rushed to her, bringing her cold hands between your own to warm them.

“What happened to you?” you asked, tears brimming in your eyes. You dropped her hands to pull the covers over her body. She began to stir slightly, a wince overtaking her face. “Mother?”

She whispered your name and cracked her eyes open, blinking and trying to take in her surroundings. When she realized it was you standing there, her eyes widened as she sat up with a happy cry, pulling you into her arms. 

“It’s you! My daughter has come home!”

Clinging to her body, you felt just how thin and frail she had become. Even her complexion had paled too much for someone like her.

“You are sick.”

“I am fine! I’ve just been worried!” She grabbed onto your biceps and leaned back to look at you. You didn’t miss the way she frowned as her eyes flicked to all of your features. She looked as if she wanted to comment on it, but shook her head and instead asked, “Does that monster know you’re here? Did you escape? Are you hurt?”

Your lips curved into a smile. “I am fine as well, mother. I came to visit, and I’ve brought someone for you to meet–an infant.”

The glee on her face wavered a bit as she asked, “Infant? Sukuna didn’t… force you-”

“Oh, no! No, of course, not! The child is not mine by blood, and he is fully human. His mother and father both… perished. I decided to mother him myself.”

She relaxed at that, letting out a sigh of relief. “Good, that’s good. So, where is this infant you speak of-”

“Woman!” you heard Sukuna call from a distance. 

His voice brought utter silence to you and your mother as she acknowledged his overwhelming output that was permeating the air. That acknowledgment lit a fire underneath her, and within seconds, she was rushing down the steps with you right behind her.

“Mother, please wait! Just-”

“You brought a monster into my home?” she snarled, rounding the corner and making her way to the open front door where Sukuna was still looming outside, though he was turned, looking out at the empty field. “Sukuna…”

He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the sight of your angered mother with a slight smirk, and turned to face her. 

“Manami.”

With the infant still in his hands, he nodded toward the ground in front of the door. Etched deep into the dirt was a sigil, though it had been hidden away by the snow, which he must have uncovered. 

“I see you’ve been mingling with the pantheon’s favorite witch.”

“I have not,” your mother growled as you moved to take the baby from Sukuna. “Associating myself with the underworld’s inhabitants is beneath me.”

Sukuna snorted, “Quite literally, hm?” He bent down to feel the sigil, and just as his finger made contact with it, it burst into flames and melted his flesh, making him draw back with a chuckle. “As expected, Kenjaku and Uraume were more against the rush of our marriage than I thought. Going as far as to keep me from your home. Clever, aren’t they? And how lucky you must feel to have two powerful deities doting on you.”

Your mother gritted her teeth and muttered, “The witch sides with the underworld-”

“The witch sides with himself beside Uraume. Feel blessed to have them both behind you on this one.” His eyes flicked to you behind your mother. “Not that it truly matters. As you can see, the underworld suits your daughter perfectly, don’t you agree?”

“All I can see, Sukuna, is that your corruption has taken root in her far faster than I anticipated.” She turned to you with disappointed tears in her eyes, making you feel so horrible. “How dare you bring him here after what he’s done to me–after what he’s done to you, too? Are his accolades so charming that you fall for him within a year? You look no different than the other mortals of the underworld-”

Sukuna was quick to interject, “She’s stunning-”

“She’s ghastly,” your mother spat, swiftly angling her body toward Sukuna again as your heart dropped. Tears of your own welled in your eyes. “I’ve seen the monstrosities that lie within you, and now she is mirroring you-”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, groaning, “And? She looks a little different. What’s the issue with that? You look different, too, Manami. Tell me, what montrosities lie within you that have you looking so… pathetic-”

“You bastard.”

He brushed her off. “Be that as it may, I’m not the one who is starving the entire world. That’s you.”

“You took my daughter! You made her a monster!”

“No. I made her a queen,” he hissed, leaning in until the sigil prevented him from moving any further. “My mortals are dying. They’re starving and freezing. War is festering amongst the underworld, they’re losing trust in me-”

“Good-”

“I’m content with taking the blame for the time being. Keep starving them, keep killing them, and I won’t keep them from the truth anymore–I’ll tell them who’s really to blame for it. Want to keep underworld scum below the surface? Fix. Your. Mess.” He leaned back then. “Or don’t. It doesn’t really matter to me–I’ll keep your daughter either way.”

“Fuck you-”

He disregarded your mother in favor of looking to you. “I’m going to visit a couple of villages for some supplies. You remember my words, don’t you, wife?”

“...The next time you run from me, run fast and run far. Pray that I never, ever find you. If you get away from me, I swear to you, I will not stop looking for you. Mortals and deities fear me for a reason, and I don’t mind showing you why they all share that sentiment…”

You nodded your head, earning his hum of approval. “Good. I’m trusting you not to be stupid.” With one last glance at your mother, he said quietly, “I’m trusting you not to be stupid, as well. Remember that she is still mortal, and it’s me who decides when she receives her immortality. Without it, whether she lives or dies is a decision I get to make.”

Your mother gasped with disgust, and within seconds, vines shot up from the ground to wrap up his legs, much like you had done with Yorozu not even an hour ago. “You dare threaten me?”

Sukuna gave the vines a nonplussed look, watching as they laced up his entire body, circling tightly around his neck. 

“You women and your thorns,” he grumbled, eyeing your mother as she stepped closer. 

“I am an Olympian.”

“And I don’t give a shit.” Fiery red flames that you’d never seen him use before coated his torso, turning the vines to ash and soot just as quickly as they had appeared. When the fire diminished, he took a step back and turned toward the open field. “Keep my wife safe, Manami. I’ll be back before sundown.”

When the front door closed, your mother turned to look at you, taking in your saddened tears. Her face fell as she rushed to say, “I do not mean that you’re ugly, my daughter. You are so beautiful, but that… beast has his claws in you.”

You sniffled, wiping away some of your tears. “Do I really look so different?”

Her brows drew together as she frowned. “Have you not seen yourself?”

Not with your blindfold on, no. Not to mention, the shrine lacks any sort of reflective surface, so it wouldn’t have mattered if you’d taken your blindfold off or not. Even the mirror at the vanity in your chambers had been removed, but that had happened long ago. 

“Not recently,” you answered, venturing further into your childhood home. “My hair has taken a blushing shade at the ends, I do know that much.”

“And it will keep changing until it’s pinkish, just like his. And the bloody hue will keep seeping into your irises, too, until you look exactly like your husband–no, until you look exactly like that demonic beast that resides inside of him,” she spoke through her sobs. “Making a deal with Kenjaku was a mistake-”

“Sukuna… is cruel, mother,” you began slowly, garnering her utmost attention. Teary eyes widened as she moved in closer. “But he can be neutral as well. Uraume told me themself, and I’ve seen it firsthand. He’s quick to anger, yes, but if you comply, he can sort of be kind.”

Softly, she shook her head. “It’s the compulsion talking-”

“I am not under any haze. Believe me, I want to come home, but to call Sukuna a monster, a beast, a demon, is too much. I’ve been on the worst side of his anger before, but he has not killed me. Sure, he has his threats, but I sometimes find them to be empty-”

“And will you call his bluff on these threats?”

You swallowed thickly. “No. Deciding whether he keeps his promises of torture or not is… a gamble, and the punishments can be severe. He plays terrible mind games, Mother, but that’s all they are. Games. I recall when he was going to let a family freeze to death after I asked for firewood to be delivered to them, and all as one of my punishments.”

There was a part of you, deep inside, that was relieved to have a moment to speak about these things so freely.

“That is awful-”

“But he did deliver the firewood, and he delivered it to the entire village, not just one family. In another case, he forced me to watch an entire group of guards be ripped apart by a petrifying curse-” Your mother gasped as you continued, “But it was for me. He had them killed for me because they failed me. He… he had the back of my ankles sliced open so I could not walk, but when I healed, he was beside me every day for weeks, teaching me how to walk again. He saved me from death and avenged me by having the woman who attempted to kill me put to death, and he allowed me to keep her baby. He claims to hate me, but I don’t think it’s entirely true. He just wants a queen.”

“My daughter, do you even hear what you’re saying?”

You nodded. “I know it sounds crazy, and I do not believe he loves me. But for him to wish for my death, I know he is lying. When I was amidst my sadness, he guided my soul back from the banks of Acheron six times, and he admitted today that he would rather kill me himself than allow me to die by the hands of someone else. It is wrong, it’s not loving at all, I know this. But my circumstance is so very bitter, Mother, that when he treats me like this, it leaves the sweetest taste on my tongue. Sometimes, he calls me his queen to my face, and it makes my chest so warm. Is there something wrong with me?”

Her mouth fell open as a look of shock settled in her eyes. “I… I do not know, my daughter. To me, you seem deluded, but at the same time, you look rather sane. Either way, I cannot allow you to go back with him. You must stay here-”

“He isn’t going to give us a choice. You know this. And it is not so terrible anymore, he allows me to visit you. All I need to do is ask him.” Your lips pulled into a reassuring smile. “I speak the truth when I say that there is something about him that I feel drawn to. He’s horrible, malevolent, but still, I want to go back. Perhaps it’s odd of me to say so, but I’ve grown rather fond of the underworld, and the shrine’s garden is beautiful. Come spring, when the snow melts, I’m going to make it thrive.”

Your mother’s sneer was entirely cynical. “Life thriving in the land of the dead? Don’t make me laugh-”

“It’s true! Already, there is grape hyacinth blooming in the snow. It’s like they can feel that spring is near!”

She seemed rather surprised to hear that. Slowly, she reached forward, resting her hand against your cheek. “That’s you, my dear.” A gentle pat was laid against your skin before she dropped her hand. “I suppose if you’re bringing light to the underworld, even with that beast of a husband, then it must not be too bad.”

But it is bad. Sometimes.

“How was the travel from the underworld to the surface?”

“Easy. We traveled through a portal.”

“And you can do that whenever you want?”

You smiled. “I believe so, yes.” With your answer, she seemed to relax a bit. Just then, the baby stirred in your hands, pulling himself out of his slumber and reminding you that he was there to begin with. 

“Does he have a name?”

You shook your head. “I’ve been calling him moro, but I was hoping you could help me with naming him.”

Finally, there was a familiar twinkle in her eye, and it seemed that residual light of hers started to restore itself. She exhaled a calm breath before pushing herself up from the couch. 

“We shall think of names while we make bread. You need to eat some more, you look so thin.”

She was lying; you had gained weight while living in the underworld, most of it coming back to me during those weeks Sukuna prepared you for that last hearing, but you appreciated her positive attitude nonetheless. 

While you worked, you both discussed name options for Moro, and after the first loaf of bread was finished, she absentmindedly threw out an idea, one you were fond of. “Yuji? That has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Yuji,” you repeated, testing it out on your tongue. “I like it.”

Your mother snorted at your answer. “You’ll still call him Moro, I bet. I can see how naturally it comes from you.”

You shrugged, looking down at the infant. “Maybe, maybe not, but at least he has an official name now. Prince Yuji sounds more prepossessing than Prince Moro.”

“That is true.” She stepped closer with a piece of bread between her fingers and offered it to you when something caught her eye outside. With a frown, she moved toward the front door and gasped. “My daughter,” she whispered, a lively smile on her face. 

“What is it?” you asked, rushing to her side to see what had her so interested.

“The snow,” your mother began, nodding toward the open field. “It’s melting.”

“And so I will be staying on the surface for a few weeks to help guide spring forward.”

After presenting your proposition to Sukuna when he returned, his usual stoic face turned into a deep glare. Sheepishly, you smiled, rocking back and forth on your feet, though that didn’t seem to sway his answer. A few minutes passed before he took a deep, calming breath, and when he breathed out, he said, “Absolutely not.”

Your smile fell then, and you had half a notion to slam the front door in his face and leave him in the cold night. It’s not like he could come inside anyway, thanks to the sigil Uraume and Kenjaku–whoever that was–put in place.

“Perhaps you missed the part where I said I will be staying on the surface. That was a statement, my king, not a request for permission.”

“And I heard you. However, my answer remains the same. You have obligations in the underworld.”

“Like what? Sitting in my chambers or next to you at hearings?”

He pursed his lips, nodding as he said, “Yes, those do seem like the obligations of a queen, if you ask me.”

The inside of your mouth ached from how harshly you were biting down on your inner cheeks. Keeping the festering outburst at bay was proving difficult. 

“Those pressing obligations can wait a few weeks.”

“Maybe they can, but they won’t. You’ll be coming home-”

“This is my home, Sukuna.” His eyes narrowed with those words, instantly making you regret saying them at all, but after reminding yourself a couple of times that he allowed you to keep that backbone of yours for a reason, you held your ground and repeated, “This is my home.”

“Well, you’ll soon find this home of yours to be nothing but a pit of flames. Tell me, wife, do you plan to sleep in the soot and ashes tonight after it's finished burning to the ground? Or will you be coming back to sleep with me?” At his side, you watched a bright orange liquid fire drip from his palms–did he even notice? Or was he just that angry?

“No, I’ll stay. Why do you need me with you? You have Yorozu to warm your bed.”

“This little jealousy problem you have needs to stop. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were desperate to sleep with me. And if despising a whore is how you think you’ll accomplish that, you are stupid.”

“That is most certainly not true,” you scoffed, “How would you feel if I returned the favor? What if I slept with someone else?”

He made a discontented sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl. “Whoever it was, deity or mortal, would be stuffed into the giant mouth on my stomach, and with the residual blood still staining the tongue, I would make you ride it while apologizing to me.”

You brushed off how that comment made you feel, which was a feeling you should not have been having in the first place.

“But you just get to sleep with whoever?” When he gave you a curt nod of confirmation, you huffed, “That’s not fair.”

A tiny grin crept onto his mouth. “I think the origin of your irritation lies elsewhere. What are you really upset about, wife? Be honest.”

At your sides, your hands clenched into tight fists. “You kicked me out the night you were with her! How dare you do that to me? Do you know how humiliating that was? Or how inferior you made me seem to her? That whore already has-”

The rest of your sentence was cut off with a sharp gasp when Sukuna reached out for you, over the threshold the sigil had created, and brought you to him. Within seconds, he pulled you over his shoulder with ease and stepped off the front step.

“Hey! Let me go!” Repeatedly, your hands pounded against his back, though it was useless. Your writhing didn’t seem to deter him. “My mother still has Yuji! What are you doing?!” you raised your head from his back to see that you were moving behind the house toward the old barn rather than toward the portal. “Sukuna! Answer me right now!”

“You know, when Yorozu is left unsatisfied after lying in my bed, she doesn’t grow so irritable in my presence. You saw her this morning, yes? High-spirited and cheerful, and all without a reason to be. But the funny thing is, if she acted anything like you’re acting right now, she’d be skinned alive.”

Anger boiled beneath your skin as he spoke. When he reached the barn doors, he pulled them open and stepped inside. 

“And why are you comparing me to Yorozu?” you asked as he slid you to your feet in front of him. “If you’re so charmed by her, why didn’t you marry-”

“I’m not charmed by Yorozu, woman, I’m charmed by you, and that’s the only reason you’re not dead right now. Turn around.”

Defiantly, you crossed your arms. “No, I won’t.”

“Last chance, or you’re not going to like it.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Oh, another punishment? What will you do this time, my king? Break my ankles instead of slicing in the back of them?”

“You’re lucky I don’t slice off your tongue for being so mouthy. Turn. Around. Now.”

Squaring your shoulders, you shook your head. “No. I. Won’t.”

And before the last word of your declaration even made it past your lips, his hands grabbed onto your waist and lifted you into the air. Of course, you fought against him, even more so when he flipped you upside down, making you face level with his upper stomach. Your cloak and dress slid up your bare legs, exposing your entire lower body. You tried desperately to cover yourself up, but your efforts were in vain.

“Quit being so difficult. Rest your knees on my shoulders.”

“Absolutely not!” When you started using your arms to push against him, he fixed his grip around your waist and pulled your arms into his hold. “I don’t enjoy being manhandled this way!”

“Oh, are you certain?” he asked sarcastically, heightening your seething rage.

“Put me down, you fucking behemoth!”

You heard him click his tongue before his grip on you was gone, and for a few seconds, you were free-falling while thinking this seven-foot drop onto my head is going to hurt.

Except you didn’t fall because Sukuna grabbed onto the back of your knees as you slid down his body, and placed them over his shoulders. For extra support, your arms wrapped securely around his muscular torso to keep yourself from hitting the ground. Before you knew it, you felt his breath graze your inner thigh, making you freeze completely. 

“Do you want to keep being difficult, or can I eat your pussy now?”

|| MIS M.List || >OPIUM >

confused by what you just read? Malevolence In Spring's Guide -will be updating this again soon :)

A/N: extra context about the Uraume and Kenjaku thing. Originally, Uraume was supposed to be the Hecate of this story, but with how I portray Hecate and Hades, it just didn't fit the character relationship between Sukuna and Uraume. Plus, if there's a witchy character who dabbles in making children for their own ulterior motive, it's Kenjaku lol. So, Uraume is a deity like Sukuna, and they have abilities, but any of the witchy stuff they know will have been taught to them by Kenjaku. And don't worry, Kenjaku will be making an appearance soon, and he's not going to be as horrible as he's portrayed to be in the manga. That being said, as it's been stated previously above, Kenjaku and Suguru are two different people in this, and Suguru is actually this story's Dionysus (but that'll all make sense later)

If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask :) I'll be working on another story today and will hopefully get that chapter out soon, so I should be able to respond fairly quickly <3! okay, enough yapping now. I'm sorry.

taglist is open :) @belovedria @whorishminds @kaziis @delliriumn @desmond69sallnite @kouyoumarryme @doobybopbop @kiyomimediocre @jeaniebluee @man1cslut @kawaiioperatormugpony @call-memissbrightside @maddamoiselle @raritysspouse @cutesytwt @sm0lkatz @himbosexual @blueemochii @wobblewobble822 @lilica75 @nanamjai @unknownw0css @p-playboi @plasticsheepponycollector @lazylunarlover @al3monkid @energiepie @washturtletwin @frootloopscos @tojiswifeforlife

[maxinehufflepuffprincess]

More Than Five Minutes

BangChan x fem! reader. 9th member.

(This was requested. I should have waited before writing or even posting this one. Since I have a list of requests that need either finishing it starting. But idk, I'vehad this in my drafts for a hot minute, waiting to but published. Anyway, I hope this is what you had in mind. Please enjoy.)

Words: 4949.

Characters: 25921.

Characters excluding spaces: 21051.

Taglist.

Masterlist.

Progress Update.

MamaBear Collection.

Summary: Chan wants to spend time with you, but the boys keep interrupting.

Today you all had the day off, which was very needed. It meant you could all relax and just do whatever you wanted. You and Chan had planned to stay in bed all day, watching YouTube and being wrapped up in each other’s arms.  You had both agreed not to even think of work. No dances, no making music. Chan wasn’t allowed to touch his laptop. So that’s where you both were. In bed watching Ben Kim on the TV in your room. You were snuggled up until one of your boys popped Chan’s perfect bubble.

A knock came at the door of your bedroom, causing Chan to sigh. “Come in!” He called out.

—----------

The door opened, and a happy face peeked from behind the door. Felix walked into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Good morning.” He said as he made his way to the bed. His phone was in his hand. 

“Good morning, baby.” You said cheerfully. 

Chris couldn’t help but smile. “Morning, Lixie-ah.”

Felix walked to your side of the bed. He still had his pyjamas on. He lifted the covers and crawled into bed beside you. He immediately lay his head on your chest and wrapped his arms around your stomach. 

You and Chris were used to this. To Felix, just coming into your room at all hours to cuddle. Most of the time, he was snuggled on your side. Sometimes he would crawl his way in the middle of you and Chris. There were times when he would get into bed beside Chris. Sometimes he would fall asleep. Sometimes he was there, happy to cuddle before leaving to go about his day. You were both always happy to let Felix snuggle with you both. 

To be fair, you were used to having all the boys in your bed. Sometimes just to chill, sometimes to help them sleep, sometimes you shared a bed with them because of a SKZ Code. But it was something you were both used to. Especially when it came to Felix.

“I thought you might want to watch this TikTok video of you and Channie.” He said, handing you his phone before snuggling into you.

Chan sighed softly. “Lix, we’re watching something.” 

Felix looked up at you both with big, pleading eyes. Your heart melted at the sight. “Please? It won’t take long. It’s really cool. Stay really picked up on some of your small moments, and it’s beautiful.” The blonde was pouting. 

You and Chan looked at each other and then at Felix. You never could say no to your sunshine. 

“Alright.” Chan picked up the remote and paused the YouTube video on the TV. 

You held Felix’s phone so that the three of you could see the screen. Both males held onto you as you lay your head on Chan’s shoulder, your fingers running through Felix’s long hair. The three of you watched the TikTok. You smiled because it was a compilation of little quiet moments between you and Chan. Little finger brushes in interviews. The times you hold hands or sing to each other on stage. The moments where you’d randomly just hug each other or whisper to each other. 

About an hour later, Felix had fallen asleep on your chest whilst you and Chan talked quietly. Felix’s phone was on charge on Chan’s nightstand. A knock came at the door. 

Then you found yourselves watching more TikToks. Some Stray Kids stuff. Minsung moments, or videos of you and Chan acting like parents, or thirst traps. You watched random dance clips and some cute animal videos. The three of you had fun, just cuddling together, watching silly little videos on Felix’s phone.

—----------

Chan raised an eyebrow and looked at you. 

“Come in.” You called out softly, careful not to wake Felix. 

Jeongin opened the door and stepped into the room. “Good morning.” He said happily as he walked over to your side of the bed with a travel cup of your favourite hot beverage. 

“Good morning, Sweetheart.” You spoke softly as you sat up a little. 

“Morning, Innie.” Chan spoke, watching the male for a moment.

Jeongin looked between you and Chan, then at Felix, who was fast asleep. He looked back at you. “Mama Bear. Would it be okay if you came shopping with me, please?” 

You melted seeing him look at you with those big, sweet eyes and that smile on his face. You looked at Chan for a moment, and he gave you a nod. You looked back at your youngest and smiled. “Okay. We can go shopping. Let me get dressed. Then we can go.” You told him with a bright smile.

Jeongin grinned happily. “Thank you. Take all the time you need. I’ll meet you in the living room.” He was practically bouncing with excitement. The Makenae left the room, excited to go shopping with you.

You looked at Chan and smiled. “We'll cuddle later. But whilst I'm out, I think you should get some more sleep, my love.” You told him softly. You pecked his lips.

You gently began to untangle yourself from Felix and got out of bed. Felix looked up, feeling that you were gone. 

“Where are you going?” He spoke, tiredly. 

You grabbed your big Mama Bear plush and placed her in his arms to cuddle with. You gently guided his head to the pillow and stroked his hair. “Go back to sleep, angel. I’m just gonna nip out with In-ah.” Felix quickly fell back asleep and cuddled with your plush.

Chan watched you for a moment. He didn't sleep right away. He watched you enter the bathroom. He watched you leave the bathroom and get changed. He watched you do your hair. He even helped you pick what rings to wear today. You had on your necklace from the boys. At this point, it was your signature piece. You rarely didn't wear it. 

You walked over to Chan and smiled. “I'll see you soon.” You both shared a kiss. 

Chan held your hand and gave you his card. “Go spoil yourself.”

You shook your head. “Chris.” You started.

Chan sat up. “No. Don't even say it. I want you to use my card and go spoil yourself. I know you'll put all of Jeongin's purchases on your card. You'll come home with bags for me and the boys. So take my card and spoil yourself, just this once.” 

You smiled softly and took the card. “I love you.” You kissed him gently and pulled away.

“I love you too,” Chan replied with a bright smile.

You walked over to Felix and kissed his forehead. You walked back to Chris and pecked his lips. You gave him a wave and left the room with your travel cup and your bag that Hyunjin got for you. It had a mini Jiniret keyring plushie on it. You found I.N. at the front door. He was putting his shoes on. You walked over and put your shoes on.

“Ready to go?” You are the male. You smiled at him as you put on your shoes. You then grabbed your car keys from the key hook. 

“Yeah, I'm ready.” I.N. grinned at you. You smiled, and you both left your home and headed to your car. You drove, and Jeongin picked the music. The car ride was filled with laughter and singing. I.N. rambled about this new hoodie he had seen; he was excited to get it. 

So when you parked the car and you both got out, there was the first place you went to. You both went to the store, and you watched as I.N. went around the store, picking out exactly what he wanted. Whilst you paid for his new clothes, I.N. surprised you by getting you a matching hoodie to match him. 

“So, where to next?” You asked him curiously. 

By the time you and I.N. got back to the dorm, it was hours later, and you both were carrying way too many bags. You actually had to call Chan down to help take all the bags in from the car. The three of you grabbed the bags and made your way inside. Everything was set down in the living room so you could organise what belonged to whom. 

I.N. looked around for a moment before grabbing your hand and dragging you to a shoe store like an excited child who saw his favourite toy store. “This one.”

—----------

Jeongin kissed your cheek. “Thank you for taking me shopping.” He said, a bright smile on his face, before taking his bags and heading to his room to put his stuff away.

Chan shook his head and looked at you. “I’m glad you're back.” He said, placing his hands on your hips as you turned to face him.

“Did you sleep all right?” You asked him curiously.

Chan nodded. “I woke up to Felix cuddling me.” He told you with a small shrug.�� 

You smiled as you looked through one of the bags, organising things so each of the guys had their own bag(s) filled with gifts. “Is he still sleeping?” You asked curiously. 

“No, he woke up not too long ago. He and Minho went food shopping. I think Han went with them as well.” You nodded at Chan’s words as he helped you organise some things. 

He pulled out some LEGO and looked at you. “Han?” He asked you.

You nodded and pointed to the bag you were using for Han’s gifts. He chuckled at you and put it into the bag. You picked up a bag and handed it to him. “This is one of your gifts.” 

Chan smiled gratefully and opened the bag. He looked inside and pulled out a box. It was the headphones he had been thinking of getting. That he had been meaning to get, and they were in his favourite colour too. 

“Thank you, baby.” He gently kissed you. “I love them. Tell me you got something for yourself.” 

You nodded. “I did. I got myself a few things. Well I suppose you got them for me since I got them on your card like you wanted me to. I.N. bought me a hoodie. You know, that one he’s been raving about wanting for like a month since he heard about it? Yeah, he got me one so we could match.” 

Chan couldn’t help but smile at your excitement. He was glad that not only had he gotten to spoil you with his money today, but so had their Maknae. 

Once the two of you had the bags sorted, you both took your bags and his bags to your room. You organised some stuff. Chan couldn’t help but peek into one of your bags, noticing a new bra. 

“Please tell me you got this with my money? Tell me I bought this for you. I have great taste.” He said, pulling it out of the bag. You flushed and shook your head. 

“Maybe I can show it off for you later?” You told him with a cheeky wink.

Chan let out a small groan. “Sweetheart, don’t tease me. I’m just a man. Don’t put images in my head.” He shook his head dramatically, causing you to laugh.

Your bedroom door opened, and there stood Changbin. The male looked between you both and then at the bra in Chan’s hands. 

“Wow, Chan, I think that will really bring out your eyes.” He spoke teasingly. Chan picked up a shirt and threw it at Changbin, who just laughed loudly. 

You took the bra and put it into your drawer. “What brings you here, Boo?” You asked curiously.

“I have a new workout routine and I was hoping I could show you, get your thoughts.” He spoke, hopefully. 

Chan sighed. “Bin, can’t you show her tomorrow?”

Changbin shrugged. “Well, I was going to head to work out now, so I thought it would be good to show, Honey, now. You don’t have to work out with me. Just watch and be my cheerleader.”

You let out a small giggle. “I suppose I could. But just for an hour or two, then Channie and I are cuddling for the rest of the day. Okay?” 

Changbin nodded. In his eyes, that was fair. It meant you’d get to see what he wanted to show you, then you and Chan could spend the rest of the day being disgustingly in love. 

Chan nodded. That sounded fair. “Alright. But when you get back, it’s pyjamas on and we’re spending the rest of the day in bed.” 

You nodded happily, and the two of you shared a kiss. You walked into the living room, grabbing your bag as well as Changbin’s and Hyunjin’s gift bags. He took them to his room and thanked you before the two of you left.

Seungmin had been waiting for you patiently to come back from the gym with Changbin. He was outside, watching Changbin’s car pull up. You were driving, though. You got out of the car. 

—----------

“No, seriously, I think it’ll be much better than your left routine. You’re paying attention to the things you need right now.” He heard from Changbin, who beamed at you.

“This is why I wanted to show you. You're always honest with me. And you appreciate my muscles.” Changbin chuckled as the two of you walked away from the car.

Seungmin jogged over to you. “Bye, Changbin. Hi, Mama Bear. Can we play baseball?” He asked you as he held up his bat, ball and catching mitt. 

“I’m supposed to be seeing Chan, baby boy.” You told him softly. 

His smile dropped, and you immediately felt guilty. You hated upsetting and disappointing any of the boys. You bit your bottom lip. 

Changbin looked between the two of you; he could see the guilty look on your face. “I’ll let Chan know that you’re playing with Seungmin. Go, have fun. It’ll give Chan time to run you a bath.” A bath sounded nice. 

You nodded. “Thank you, Binnie.” 

Seungmin grinned and grabbed your hand, dragging you off to an open space where you could play.

You started with playing catch. Just throwing the ball to each other. Then you included the bat. You both had fun running around and letting loose. The best part was the joyful laugh that escaped Seungmin as he had fun. 

You and Seungmin had come back to the dorm together. You opened the door, and Chan immediately stood up, hearing your giggle. 

—----------

“Seriously, thank you for playing with me. I had a lot of fun.” Seugmin spoke with a grateful smile.

You nodded softly. “No need to thank me, Puppy. I had a lot of fun. Now, let’s get you your gifts and then you can go to your room and chill.” 

You looked away from him to see Chan excitedly waving at you from the end of the hallway. “Channie!” You began to make your way to him, only to feel a hand on your biceps. You were suddenly pulled into the kitchen. 

You looked up to see Minho. The male let you go and walked over to the stove. He came back over to you with a soup of soup. “Try this.” He said to you. 

“Hello to you, too, Kitten.” You said in amusement. 

Minho scoffed at you. “We’ve been over this. I’m a cat. Felix is the kitten. Get it right.” He held the spoon to your lips. 

You shook your head and tried the soup. Your eyes lit up. “That’s so good.” You told him as Chan walked into the room. 

“Seriously, Minho?” He asked, his arms crossed over his chest.

Minho just smirked at the male. “You snooze, you lose, Channie-hyung.” 

Chan rolled his eyes and wrapped his arms around your waist. “I gave Seungmin his bag. He took his and Lix’s with him.”

You nodded with an appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

Minho cleared his throat. “Yah! We’re supposed to be talking about the soup. Mother, pay attention to me.” His voice was slightly whiny. It was something he did playfully whenever he wanted your attention.

You let out a small laugh. “Right, I’m sorry, my darling. It tastes really good. I think maybe add a little more sesame seed oil. I think it’ll add to the overall flavour of it. But other than that, it’s perfect.”

Minho clicked his fingers. “Yes. You're so smart. Thank you for helping, and thank you for the gifts. I already took mine to my room. Han is building his LEGO as we speak.” 

“You’re welcome, Min.” Once you stopped speaking, Chan began to guide you out of the room. “Bye, Minho.” The male called out, causing Minho to roll his eyes.

Chan guided you to the bathroom, where a bubble bath was ready for you. It was the perfect temperature, and he had used your favourite scent. 

“You jump in, relax. I’ll get you a hot chocolate, and you can just relax.” He placed a kiss on the crown of your head.

“I love you, Chris.” The two of you shared a soft kiss.

“I love you too.” As he left the room, you stripped and got into the bath. Chris joined you again, sitting on the floor. The two of you talked as you soaked.

—----------

He was happy. No one would interrupt you in the bath. However, ten minutes later, he had to leave the room to help I.N. fix something in his room.

You were dried and dressed in your pyjamas. You were comfy, wearing shorts and a cute top that had Scooby-Doo on it. You and Chan walked into the living room to see Hyunjin sitting on the couch. 

“Jinnie.” You spoke softly. “What are you doing here, my Prince?” You stroked his hair for a moment. 

Hyunjin looked at you and Chan, a clear excitement on his face. “They came. The new drawing pencils I told you about. They finally came with the charcoal. I was thinking we could draw together.” He looked so excited. 

Chan held back a huff. Seriously? He had barely gotten to spend time with you today. It was getting later and later. All the boys had pulled you away from him today. Sure, he was fine with it at first. But this was getting ridiculous. He should have locked your bedroom door this morning

Hyunjin pulled out his new pencils. The excitement on his face was making Chan feel a little guilty for feeling angry. Chan knew that Hyunjin had been giving you drawing lessons. And whilst you weren’t the best of the best. You were getting better over time. He loved watching you look at Hyunjin’s art like a proud mother. Some of his work hung proudly in the living room, the kitchen and in your and Chan’s room. Hell, he even knew about how you and Hyunjin’s mum often send each other pictures of Hyunjin’s work he had sent you both. Both of you are just praising him to each other. Chan thought it was incredibly sweet and cute. 

Chan shook his head and ran his tongue over his teeth. Why bother? “Have fun. I’m gonna go for a run.” He said, pulling out his phone and texting Changbin.

You looked up at Chan. “Are you sure? Jinnie and I can draw another time.” You said, placing a hand on his bicep. It took everything in you not to squeeze.

Chan nodded. “Yeah. Go ahead. It would be nice to spend more than five more minutes with my girlfriend today,” He let out a sigh and shook his head. “I need to get some fresh air. I won’t be long.” He made his way back to your shared room. 

Hyunjin looked up at you from where he was sitting on the couch. “Should I go? He seems angry.”

You shook your head. “No, he’s just-” You sucked in a breath. “He’s upset. We haven’t gotten to spend much time with each other today. But hopefully, we can just have a quiet night.” You said from your spot.

Hyunjin nodded. “I understand that. We all get a little jealous when we don’t have your attention. Chan feels stronger since you two are dating and you’ve both been a duo longer than we’ve known you both.”

Trust Hyunjin to be the most understanding soul. 

“Really? I didn’t know you all got jealous.” You spoke in surprise at the new information.

Hyujjin shrugged as he pulled out the two sketch books. “I’m not sure if jealous is the right word.” He started as Chan entered the room, now changed. 

Chan walked over to you both. He kissed you deeply before pulling away. “I’ll be back soon. Binnie and I are gonna go on our usual route. When I get back, I wanna see a new picture that I can put on my desk, okay?” He told you as he placed his hands on your hips. He looked at Hyunjin. He placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. It was a small sign to show Hyunjin that he wasn’t mad at him. 

“I’ll see you both later. I love you.” He said before leaving, though he did hear you call out to him that you love him too, and Hyunjin shouting for him to have fun. 

You sighed and sat down on the couch. Hyunjin passed you a sketch book and one of his new pencils. “Oh, I like this. Feels nice in my hand.” You told him. 

Hyunjin smiled. “That’s why I got them. I can’t wait to try them out.” He told you before, leaning back and beginning to draw.

You thought for a moment before deciding to draw a wolf and a bear. “What were you saying before?”

Hyunjin looked at you, then at the paper. “It’s just. You’re a huge part of our lives. We’ve all lived with you. We’ve all created our own bonds with you. You’re a mother and mentor to the four younger ones and me. You're a sister to me, Binnie and Minho. You’re Minho’s best friend. You’ve always given all eight of us your attention, and we don’t make it easy. We pull you in all directions, and you never really say no. If you have to, you always reschedule to a later day or time so as not to disappoint or upset us. Sometimes we just want some one-on-one time with you. But sometimes we don’t think about how we cut into your time with Channie-hyung. Especially some of the younger ones. Felix clings to you like a kitten. Han will sleep on you every chance he gets. I.N. and Seungmin always seem to be trying to stay by your side and show off just to hear you praise them. They ask you to teach them the dances, so it means one-on-one time with you. I know I do it too. I draw your attention to me. I know sometimes I don’t think. But you and Chan need your time together. You deserve your time together. I think you need a day without us all. Just the two of you.”

You nodded your head as you listened to him. “I think you're right.” You spoke softly. “We only have an interview tomorrow, and it’s just in the morning. I think I have an idea. Would you help me?” You looked at the man who gave you a relaxed smile. 

You and Chan were cuddling in bed. The two of you were just talking. It was just the two of you. Until it wasn’t. Jisung walked into your room with a blanket and a grin on his face. 

“I’d help you with anything.” And he meant it. 

—----------

“We’re watching anime. It’s a new one. You two have to watch it with me.” He said as he climbed onto the bed on your side. He grabbed the TV remote and turned on the TV, looking for the anime he wanted. 

“Oh, hi there, my lovely. Nice to see you, please come in. Oh, I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking.” You asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I thought you were helping Minho in the kitchen?” Chan asked.

Jisung shook his head. “I was banished.” He pouted. “He hasn’t even started yet, and he banished me from the kitchen.” He crossed his arms over his chest and got comfortable. “So we’re gonna watch anime.”

“Why were you banished from the kitchen?” You asked in confusion.

Jisung blushed. “I may have been acting a little silly. Minho said I can’t be trusted around knives with how hyper I got. So I was banished.”

“Ji, isn’t there anyone else who can watch with you?” Chan asked curiously. 

Han shook his head. “No. Changbin and Hyunjin are at their place, organising their gifts from you. Felix, I.N. and Seungmin are all playing games. So you two are going to be my emotional support parents whilst I pout.” He told the two of you.

Chan let out a groan. “Fine, but just until food is ready.”

Jisung nodded in agreement as he latched onto you. His head on your shoulder as he turned on the anime. The three of you sat there watching it comfortably.

—----------

You ended up in the kitchen with Minho, helping him finish up the food. He had wanted your opinion on the food. All the guys were back in the dorm, ready for a family dinner. Changbin walked into the kitchen, looking for a drink.

“Hyunjinnie told us about what you talked about with him.” Minho told you softly. 

This got Changbin’s attention. He came to stand at your other side. “We both agree with him. You and Chan deserve a day together.” He told you as he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. 

Minho turned off the stove. “I’m going to occupy Ji tomorrow. Hyunjin-ah said he’s going to spend the day with Felix and I.N., probably go shopping or something.” 

“And I’m going to take Seungmin out to play baseball for a few hours.” Changbin said reassuringly. 

“Plus, I can have I.N. spend the night at mine and Han’s dorm for the night.” Minho bumped your hip with his. You giggled. 

“I’d love that. Thank you.” You teared up a little. “I’ll tell Chan tonight. Seriously, thank you.” 

The two men brought you into a hug. “We just want to see you both smile.”

Somehow, the guys had all ended up in your bed after you had all eaten. You’d been watching YouTube when Felix fell asleep on you. Seungmin was asleep on Chan. The guys were all fast asleep, all snuggled up and looking cute and cosy.

—----------

You couldn’t sleep, nor could Chris. The two of you looked at each other. “Kitchen?” You whispered to him. The male nodded, and the two of you untangled yourselves from the other boys. Both of you quietly slipped out of the room and closed the door behind you. 

You gently took hold of his hand and walked with him to the kitchen. You turned on the kettle, ready to make you both a cup of tea. 

“I was thinking.” You started. 

Chan smirked at you. “That’s dangerous.”

You let out a dramatic gasp. “Rude.” You said lightly, smacking his arm. “Anyway, I’m sorry that we haven’t spent much time together today. But, I wanna make it up to you.” 

Chan shook his head. “Honey, you have nothing to apologise for.”

You shook your head. “No, I do. All day I’ve been giving my attention to the guys. But I didn’t give you the attention you deserve. You deserve all my attention.” You told him as you took both of his hands in yours. You gently squeezed his hands. 

Chan squeezed your hands back. “This isn’t all on you. I could have said no, but I let the guys drag you off to do whatever they wanted with you.”

You shook your head. “I was talking to Jinnie, Min and Binnie. The three wanna give us a day for ourselves. All we have is an interview in the morning. Then we have the rest of the day. It’ll be a us day. Just the two of us. We can stay in bed all day, watching Nigel Baker, or we can watch Ben Kim boasting about how you know who he is.  Or we can watch a movie, or we can just cuddle and do nothing. We can sleep or have a bath together. Whatever you want. Minho even said he’d offer to have Innie spend the night at his and Han’s place.”

Chan smiled softly. You could see how much he liked the idea. “I would love that. My favourite girl in my arms all day. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the day. Thank you.”

You smiled up at him. “You deserve the world, Chris.” 

“You are my world.” He held you in his arms, your head on his chest, hugging each other.

The promise was kept the following day. After the interview, Hyunjin had taken Felix and I.N. out to do something fun. Changbin had kept Seungmin busy all day. Minho and Han had spent the day together. The boys all met up again at some point, happy to give you both the time you needed together. 

You and Chan had spent the day in bed doing nothing. Sure, you cooked together, had a bath and watched YouTube. But you also were wrapped up in each other’s arms. Having the best time. Enjoying the quiet and each other’s company. Sharing kisses and teasing words.

-------------

Requested by: @geekqueensworld

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[flowergirl1243]

Hello, I love your stories so much! I don't know if your doing requests but if so I have an idea.

A lando x gf reader and they have a child together, maybe 3-4. They are all on landos yatch and having a big hangout with their friends, including Max fewtrell, landos bsf. And they start streaming live on twitch. They put the kid to bed and start drinking and having fun on stream. But at some point the kid wakes up. And maybe they try to hide the drinks. And the fans love this!

Thank you! 

wake up call

SUMMARY: A family day on Lando’s yacht turns into a chaotic Twitch stream when your toddler crashes the party.

PAIRING: lando norris x reader

MASTERLIST ✩~✩ REQUESTS

The sunlight glinted off the gentle waves as the yacht bobbed softly in the Mediterranean, the golden hour casting everything in a warm, honeyed glow. You were stretched out on a padded sunbed, your daughter curled against your chest, her still-damp curls clinging to her forehead. She smelled like sunscreen, sea salt, and strawberries, the perfect cocktail of a sun-soaked day.

Lando stood at the helm, shirtless, laughing at something Max Fewtrell shouted from the back of the boat. His curls were messier than usual, salt-crisped and wind-blown, and his cheeks were tinged pink from the sun.

"Tell me again why I don’t have a yacht?" Max called, stretching out like a cat in the last sliver of sun.

"Because you spend all your money on trainers and tequila," you replied, your voice soft so you wouldn't wake the three-year-old breathing steadily against your chest.

Max rolled his eyes. "Not a terrible way to live."

You grinned, brushing a hand over your daughter's back. Lando caught your eye and gave you a wink before turning the wheel slightly, adjusting your course. The yacht cut through the water effortlessly, the hum of the motor low beneath the sound of waves.

"Right," Max said suddenly, sitting up. "We should stream. People need to see this."

Lando laughed. "What, you showing off your sunburn?"

"No, you," Max said, already pulling out his phone. "Domestic daddy mode. It’s too good not to share."

"You’re a menace," you muttered, shaking your head as Max opened Twitch.

"Say that again for the chat."

Within minutes, Max had the stream live. He angled the camera to show you and the little one, who was now nestled deep into sleep. The chat erupted almost instantly.

@f1fanatic93: is that Lando’s kid???

@maxfanclub: she’s gorgeous omg

@lando4ever: THE BABY IS REAL

@vroommum: lando looks like such a dad and i’m not ok

You stifled a laugh. "She’s asleep, so if any of you wake her, I will throw you overboard."

"Y/N is threatening violence again," Max narrated to the stream.

"That’s just her love language," Lando said, grinning as he approached and leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. "Is she really out?"

You nodded. "Hard. Beach day did her in."

He smiled and carefully scooped her up, cradling her against his shoulder. She stirred, mumbled something about sea turtles, and went right back to sleep.

Chat lost it again.

@softlando: LANDO WITH THE BABY I CAN’T

@mummanorris: he’s glowing. actually glowing

@babyinterrupted: the way she mumbled!!

You followed Lando below deck to help get her into pajamas. She murmured sleepy nonsense as you gently wiped her face and pulled a soft t-shirt over her head.

Lando tucked her in, whispering something that made her smile in her sleep. When you both returned to the deck, Max had set up drinks and turned the volume up on the little speaker, some chilled playlist echoing softly over the water.

"Parental duties complete," Max announced. "Time for the adults to misbehave."

You grabbed a cold drink and dropped into the cushions beside Lando, who looped his arm around your shoulders like it was second nature.

"Cheers," Max said, raising his bottle.

The camera caught it all: the three of you lounging in swimsuits and hoodies, the twinkling lights from the coastline in the distance, the warm thrum of music. The chat was going wild.

@cutelando: someone screenshot this for my funeral

@thirdwheelfewtrell: max is actually the fun uncle tho

@norrisdaily: they’re so in love it’s disgusting

Max reached over and dared Lando to do a backflip off the side. "Come on, show them you’re still an athlete."

"No shot," Lando said, laughing. "Not with wine in my system."

"Coward," Max grinned, then immediately attempted a handstand on the deck and collapsed onto a cushion.

You howled with laughter. Lando buried his face in your neck, his body shaking.

@chaoslads: MAX HAS FALLEN

@streamqueen: this is better than Netflix

Then, a pause. A shuffle of small feet. A soft voice.

"Mummy?"

You froze mid-laugh, turning to see her at the top of the stairs, bunny in one hand, rubbing her eye with the other.

Max’s jaw dropped. Lando straightened up instantly.

You moved first, scooping her up. "Hey, baby. What’s wrong?"

She blinked slowly. "You’re drinking juice with Uncle Max."

Lando shoved the wine bottle behind a pillow so fast you almost laughed again.

"Special grown-up juice," he said, trying not to grin. "Very boring."

Chat lost its collective mind.

@parentsoftheyear: I AM CRYING

@lando’sbabygirl: she’s so cute i can’t breathe

@f1fanficirl: protect her at all costs

You settled back onto the cushions, your daughter nestled in your lap now. She looked around suspiciously.

"Uncle Max fell down," she pointed out.

"Yes, he did," you said, kissing the top of her head.

Max laughed. "She’s got my number."

Lando joined you on the cushions, arms sliding around both you and the toddler. You all leaned in close, and for a long moment, everything was quiet. The stars above, the soft music, the gentle slap of waves against the hull.

Chat was still spiraling.

@idobelieveinlove: this is the most wholesome stream of all time

@landodadarc: WE DIDN’T KNOW WE NEEDED THIS

Eventually, her eyes began to close again, lulled by the soft sway of the boat and the warmth of your bodies.

Lando stood carefully and lifted her again, murmuring something sweet as he carried her below deck. You followed to make sure she was tucked in tight.

When you returned, Max was sipping water and had turned the camera to face the sea.

"That was the best stream I’ve ever done," he said.

Lando dropped beside you again, this time pulling you into his chest.

"I think we broke the internet," you said.

"Good. I’m done hiding anyway," Lando replied, voice low.

Max smirked. "Well, that’s my cue to sign off before things get PG-13."

He ended the stream with a wink.

You sat in the silence for a long moment, just Lando’s arms around you and the sea stretching out in all directions.

"She’s gonna be so mad she missed the party," you murmured.

Lando laughed. "We’ll throw her another one. Family yacht tour, round two."

You leaned into him, breathing in the salt and the sunscreen and the feeling of everything being just right.

Chaos. Love. Family.

Exactly your kind of perfect.

YAY, I love requests the most! Please send them in!! Love you all!

[theoldaeroplane]

Hi, I've hated gdocs and MS Word for over a decade. Good alternatives include:

- Scrivener (Windows, Mac, iOS): Best for long form works like novels or thesis projects. Can be synced using Dropbox. Shareware, one time payment with a generous trial version. I've bought this app three times because I like it that much.

- Obsidian (Windows, Mac, Linux, Android): Can be set up to do almost anything you want. I use it exclusively for my writing these days, as well as my TTRPG planning. Cloud sync with Dropbox, or you can pay for Obsidian Sync. Free to use.

- Dabblewriter.com (Browser only): Scrivener but as a web app. Subscription.

- Typora (Windows, Linux, maybe Mac?): Notepad replacement with native Markdown. One time payment.

- A fucking notebook: This sounds like a joke but genuinely any paper notebook or journal you like is worth carrying around. I carry around two graph paper Field Notes in a "Field Notes brand Stuff Sheath" in my back pocket with a mechanical pencil because I really like the Field Notes brand, but anything will work. Having pen and paper on hand at all times has been so useful to me.

Always remember companies don't care about you or your work. ESPECIALLY not Google. Keep a backup. I keep all my work in Dropbox due to its ability to restore old versions of things and that's saved my ass a few times, as well as the fact Dropbox's model is local first. I should still not rely on it as much as I do and this post is a good reminder for me to take more local backups. (Fun fact about Dropbox: if, like me, you've hit the three device limit but don't want to cough up $12-15 a month for more, you can actually get a $5 plan from Lenovo of all places that will bypass the limit for you.)

For sharing writing, I highly recommend blot.im. I can't do a big post on it right now but it's how I host my work and WIPs. I might do a writeup later if there's interest.

Everyone: Please please please don't write your books in Google Docs. Frankly don't use Google Drive for personal stuff.

Their terms of service say they take down stuff like content related to terrorism and trafficking, but this Google Sheet was literally a list of movies I'd watched this year and books I'd read.

[naeirichill]

svt as college boyfriends

requested!

s.coups (seungcheol) scores hella points during games, points to you on the bleachers and makes a heart. he never wants to do anything during breaks except going back to your parents’ house to spend some time with you and your family. he is very serious and open about wanting to spend the rest of his life with you.

jeonghan will only study if you bribe him with kisses. he likes spending lazy days in your bed and will whine and kiss your neck if you remind him he’s got an exam next week. he complains a lot when you make him go to parties but once you get there all he wants to do is kiss you and watch you dance (basically he just majors in kissing you).

joshua caresses your head when you fall asleep during class and takes a pic of the board so you can catch up later. he walks you to your classes even if it’s the opposite direction of where he needs to go. he always tells you you’re the smartest person he knows and tries to get you to laugh when you don’t do so well on a test.

jun always texts you to remind you to eat, but if you do forget, he’ll buy or cook you something himself. he always has the most beautiful smile when he sees you, even if it’s during a boring saturday morning lecture. he lets you sit on his lap while you study, and will fall asleep with his arms around your waist and head resting on your back.

hoshi makes personalized flashcards for you when studying for finals. you can never take him to the library because all he wants to do is make out in the back. he’s the perfect party buddy, there’s never a dull moment with him and he always wants you to have fun.

wonwoo loves going on little study dates at cafés but ends up getting distracted by looking at you over his book. he takes you out for dinner and dessert when you do well on a test. if you drink too much at a party, you wake up in his bed, with your makeup off, medicine, and a glass of water with a little “i love you” note on the bed-stand. he spent the night on the floor so you’d be more comfortable.

woozi is a literature major and the poems that he writes never fails to make you swoon. people have a hard time believing he’s your boyfriend because he treats you more like a friend in public. but behind closed doors, he’s such a softy and loves winding down by snuggling into you chest, feeling the beat of your heart, and listening to your breathing.

dk (dokyeom) helps you with your academics in any way he can. everyday he gifts you drinks/snacks with a hand written note filled with complimenting and encouraging words. he makes you take a pic holding up your aced tests and posts it to social media like “look how smart my baby is!!!!!!!”

mingyu will die if he doesn’t sit by your side during your shared lectures. he has an entire album dedicated to pictures he took of you at various locations around campus. he sneaks into your dorm late at night and nobody says anything because he’s friends with the RA.

the8 (minghao) rarely ever tells you but just ask his friends and they’ll tell you he never shuts up about how proud of you he is. he loves sitting on the grass and just doing nothing, it doesn’t even have to be a picnic. he also likes chilling in the backyard during parties and talking about his future with you once the alcohol kicks in.

seungkwan nags you so you won’t stay up late cramming or overworking yourself but does the exact same thing. you basically own his alternate jersey to whatever sport he plays because he really loves seeing you in the stands wearing his number and cheering him on. he cries when you graduate even though it’s his graduation too.

vernon helps you with your forthcoming exams, breathes a small chuckle and firmly reminds you to keep your eyes on the work, not him. his attention is either on his books or you, there’s no in between. however, he will gladly fuck your stress away when you need a break.

dino pretends to be a college employee to get you out of class when you text him “i’m bored”. he also likes texting you close-ups of mingyu’s face during class. and he never shuts up about how smart you are and doesn’t really trust anybody else to tutor him.

[samsblades]

✶ stuck on page 93 ── sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, fluff, mentions of school stress and the likes, unedited, 880 words. requested !

summary : you comfort stanford!sam when he’s stressed about a test.

eventually, you fall asleep on sam's bed, laying on top of the covers with your fingers trapped between pages 92 and 93 of the book you're reading for class.

sam doesn't notice, like he normally would. it's not the first time you've spent hours holed up in his dorm room, him studying at his desk and you on his bed. the separation is for the sake of staying focused; when you share the bed, things tend to derail much too quickly to get anything done.

tonight, sam is far too stressed about tomorrow's exam to be distracted by anything at all. pouring over his textbook, he reaches blindly for his water bottle. sam's hands are skilled in many ways, but that doesn't stop him from being clumsy sometimes. knocked in the wrong direction by his inattention, the water bottle topples over the edge of his desk and clangs loudly to the floor.

you wake with a start, sending your book off the bed to join his bottle. it takes less than a moment for your heart rate to calm from the initial surprise of being startled out of sleep by a loud noise, and another moment for you to start laughing about it.

but sam curses under his breath as he turns around in his chair to retrieve the bottle, on edge with stress. you quiet your soft laughter, not wanting him to feel made fun of.

"shit, were you sleeping, baby?" he takes in the sight of your mussed clothes and sleepy eyes and immediately looks very sorry.

you hum a confirmation. "but that's okay. i still need to finish two more chapters for class tomorrow." it's true, so you sit up with a yawn and swoop down to grab your fallen book.

"sorry," sam frowns, "didn't mean to wake you."

"it's okay," you assure with ease, tipping off the bed when you really see the look on his face. he couldn't look more stressed and apologetic and frustrated all at once with that crease between his brows and the downward tilt of his lips. "it's okay." your voice is even softer than before, laced with honey for comfort. it barely takes a step to cross the tiny dorm room and situate yourself by his side. you hover first, not touching him quite yet in case it might put him further on edge.

but he leans closer to you without hesitation, so you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him tight.

"it's alright, sam. you're gonna do just fine on the exam. knowing you, you'll crush it, baby," you murmur, leaning down to push your face into his hair. you give the top of his head a soft nuzzle with the tip of your nose and he lets out a much needed sigh. his long arms wrap around your waist with purpose, seeking out your warmth and closeness.

"i didn't know you were asleep," he grumbles, quite upset by this fact.

"that's okay. you were just focused. i don't mind."

"but i always notice." he's almost whining at this point and you can't help but find it endearing.

"i know," you breathe out, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, "but you're very stressed, and it's okay that you didn't this time. everything's alright."

he just buries his face further into your torso, and stays there for a long while as you play gently with his hair. the minutes are slow as you softly scratch his scalp and carefully ease out any tangles you come across. there aren't many; he seems to always be blessed with such lovely, soft hair.

"d'you have to keep studying?" you finally ask after you swear he might fall asleep right then and there.

he's quiet for a little while longer. "i should," he sighs, not sounding completely convinced himself.

you raise a brow that he can't see, then give his shoulder a sweet pat. "are you sure? you've been at it for hours. and you're basically a genius, sweet boy."

he melts when you call him that, so you use it to your advantage.

"come lay down with me. i'll read to you from my book. have you ever read the bride of lammermoor? i'm only a few chapters in, i can tell you what happens."

he doesn't say no, but can't bring himself to relent quite yet. so, unmoving, he just says, "i've never read it. who's it by again?"

"walter scott. you might like it. i think it's interesting so far. please? i might fall asleep again if i have to read it by myself." maybe it's not a fair move to say please like that and pretend he'd be the one helping you, but it works.

"okay," he finally sighs out, letting you slip away to the bed and bring him with you.

"thank you," you say, pleased with yourself as you have him settle his head on your chest and prop the book up on his strong shoulders. he hums, content at last as you begin to recount the first three chapters. he doesn't even make it to the actual words on the page before he's lightly snoring. the book gets cast aside. you can skim chapters four and five before class in the morning.

[lilyswritings]

faultline — iii.

synopsis: you wake up in a vault with no recollection of how you got there, only flashes of the medical study you'd signed up for in malaysia — and come face to face with four strangers. three of them are trying to kill each other (and possibly you), and the other one is... bob. author’s note: here we go, the last scenes in the vault! having more fun with this the more i write it, so thank you all so much for your kind comments and reblogs, it's really fueling the fire! love hearing your feedback <3 pls enjoy! wordcount: 2,323

part i || part ii || part iii || part iv

Bob Reynolds x Reader

The five of you stand inside the elevator shaft, kudos to John smashing his way through the concrete, and stare up at the gaping vertical column that seems to disappear into a vanishing point far above you – too far. 

You curse, eyes skating over the smooth metal walls as the harrowing realization that you’re all stuck down here dawns on you. You’d escaped the incinerator for nothing. 

“So…” Yelena starts. “None of us fly?”

Everyone in the group shares a glance, realizing how utterly useless you all are in this scenario. 

“What, we all just punch and shoot?” She continues.

“Speak for yourselves.” You mutter, having never punched or shot anyone in your life. Well, not to your recollection. 

John sighs beside you, stepping forward. “Don’t worry, I got this.” He proceeds to jump up into the darkness, disappearing, and for a split second, you feel an ounce of hope that he’s your solution – no matter how horrifying that idea is. 

That all comes crashing down when he does, landing hard on his back with a groan.

Ava cocks her head, eyes narrowed. “You should try that again.” She suggests, obviously enjoying herself. 

“Gah – we’re pretty far down here.” John states, attempting to stand up, ignoring Yelena’s giggling. 

“Hey, okay, why don’t you walk up through the walls, or whatever, and then just throw us a rope down.” He retorts, looking pointedly at Ava. 

“Okay, well, first of all, someone other than you would have to ask me, and second of all, I’d have to know where I’m going–”

You start to tune out their bickering, something that’s becoming a very familiar sound to you by now, and narrow your eyes at the walls. You feel like you can understand the mechanics of the elevator shaft, how there are no doors or openings anywhere near you all – it’s probably a straight shot down to the Vault, buried beneath the earth. 

“I have an idea.” Bob speaks up from beside you, and you all turn to look at him in surprise. 

Despite its imperfect planning, it’s the best you’ve got, which leads to the five of you with your arms linked, stepping up the wall one foot at a time, trying desperately not to slip and fall to your immediate deaths. 

You think this might be a bad time to tell the group how deathly afraid of heights you are, so you keep it to yourself. 

“Ew, which one of you is wet?” Yelena complains from behind you. 

“I… I run hot, sorry.” Bob apologizes, although you’re not entirely certain you’ve not sweated through your scrubs at this point. 

“Someone’s got a weird, hard butt.” John complains, and to your left, Ava scoffs. 

“It’s not my butt, it’s my suit.”

“Well, you need to get a new suit.” Yelena pipes up.

“Pardon me for the inconvenience, I only spent my entire life in labs, hooked up to machines so I could create this physical cage to keep my material body from disintegrating at all times, so yeah, I’m sorry about that.” Ava rants, and you swallow thickly, realizing the understanding in her eyes when you’d shared your memories had been rooted in her own awful past.

Yelena, however, laughs from behind you. “You do not want to start the whole sob story game, I win. Enslaved child assassin over here.” 

You fight the instinct to whip your head around and stare at her, shocked at the thought of what her life must have looked like. 

“Well, you were just a kid, so…” John refutes, and you sense everyone pause at his callousness. 

“Oh, so that’s a good thing now?” Yelena bites back.

“Well, I just think it might be nice to know that you didn’t really know any better.” John continues.

You, meanwhile, are stuck in your own brain, every atom in your body fighting against the paralyzing fear that threatens to overtake you. 

Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

You look down.

“Oh fuck.” The curse escapes you under your breath, more like a strangled yelp than real words, and you feel Bob’s arm tense around yours. 

“You’re doing great.” He mutters to you, voice calm, and you can’t believe that he has the willpower to be reassuring right now. 

“Liar.” You rasp back, breathless, and stare at your feet like your life depends on it – which, well… It might. 

Your legs burn, your lungs burn – scratch that, everything burns. You’re exhausted, both by the physical exertion and by your own mind. Sweat pools in your clenched palms, and you fight and fail to stop your brain from thinking about what would happen if your legs give out now.

And then they do. 

They slip against the wall, and you feel the force of the others push you slightly forwards. Your breath hitches in anticipation of the scream about to burn out of you – then something inside you flares. 

For the barest of seconds, your feet don’t make contact with the wall – but you don’t fall. 

Instead, the air seems to stiffen around you, just barely, a shift in pressure, like gravity blinked for a moment – like the metal walls themselves held onto you. 

Your feet touch the metal again, and the feeling disappears. Your heart races, breath uneven and ragged, and you glance to the side to find Bob watching you intently, and you know that he saw it – whatever it was. 

Ava, from your other side, whispers, just loud enough for only you to hear. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know.” You whisper back, confusion scrambling your brain. You should’ve fallen. Should’ve at least slipped down the smooth wall a few feet, even if the others had caught you. 

Something feels different. There’s a tiny hum under your skin. You’re grateful when Ava doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. Both her and Bob’s grips on your arms tighten, ever so slightly, and you clutch them back.

“Hey, I think I see the door.” John calls out, and you could cry with relief. 

“Okay!” Yelena starts, and then pauses. “Uh… Now what?”

Shit. Now what indeed.

“Um… I guess one of us… Should go… First…” Ava glances around, meeting your eyes, and you understand what she’s silently asking you. Can you do that again?

You furrow your brow, attempting to channel whatever the hell you’d done before, but nothing happens. You shake your head at her. 

“And then the other four immediately fall!” Yelena fills in, curtly.

Everyone groans and curses at the realization that you have no clue what to do now. 

“Sorry, I guess I didn’t… Didn’t really think this far ahead.” Bob apologizes, and you try your best to catch his eye, but he won’t look at you.

“Genius plan, Bobby!” John shouts, and you whip your head around.

“Like you had a better one?” You snap back.

“Oh, these bloody boots – I don’t think I can hold this much longer.” Ava curses, and you slam your eyes shut, trying desperately to connect with whatever Hail Mary had saved you before.

The others are arguing with each other, and you know it’s just a matter of time before one of them decides to save themselves and hang the rest of you out to dry.

There. 

A faint hum, in the back of your brain – you reach for it desperately, but are jolted away from it by the sound of everyone suddenly repeatedly shouting… “Cucumber.”

Your eyes snap open in confusion, just in time to hear John say, “Oh, come on, okay, just give me this, I’ve got it.”

And then you’re falling. 

You don’t think, you just feel, and you halt midair.

“What the hell.” You hear Yelena exclaim from above you, and you glance up to see her hovering as well. Your breathing quickens, glancing around to find Ava and Bob in the same positions, John standing in the doorway of the opening frowning down at you all.

“You could do that the whole time?” He calls down, and you shake your head vigorously. 

“Nope! No! I don’t even know if I can do it now!” You panic, faltering slightly, and hear everyone panic along with you. 

“What is even happening?” Yelena demands, and you would shrug if you weren’t terrified of moving a muscle. 

“I don’t know!” You shout, eyes clenching shut, the hum under your skin intensifying almost painfully. “Just– Try to get out of here! I don’t think I can hold it!”

Your eyes stay clenched, and then something smacks into you. You look to see a fire hose extending down the elevator shaft beyond you.

It takes a while for everyone to grab onto it securely, and by the time you release whatever you just did, your whole body feels like it’s been shocked with painful static. You hear the others cussing out John as they make it through the opening, and you climb through after Yelena, before Bob.

Yelena wheels on you. “What was that?” She demands, and you shake your head fervently at her.

“I don’t know. I don’t– I didn’t know I could–” You sputter, and Ava comes over to you.

“Are you alright?” She asks, eyes narrowed, and you nod, just once. You’re exhausted, and bristling with… something… but overall, you’re alright. 

Bob appears, obviously shaken by the climb, and his eyes meet yours in silent understanding. 

“Walker,” Yelena barks out behind you, and you all turn to find Walker at the edge of the opening to the elevator shaft, staring down into the darkness below. “Uh… What the hell are you doing?” Yelena continues when he turns around. 

“I’m fine.” He says, but he seems unsure, and when you glance over at Bob his eyes are planted firmly on the ground, and you know immediately what just happened between them. 

“Alright, let’s get out of here.” Ava attempts to shift the conversation, finding a button to press, and slowly, the doors begin to slide open. 

Before the sigh of relief makes it out of your mouth, though, you spot the lights coming from the outside, and dread sinks through you as you make sense of what you’re seeing – soldiers. Lots of them. Aiming guns at the door of the vault.

“This Valentina woman must have sent the cavalry.” You speak your thoughts out loud.

Yelena tugs you away from the entrance. “Okay, we need to come up with a plan–”

“–Here’s what we’re gonna do.” John says, simultaneously.

“Oh, you’re the boss now, cute.” Ava comments dryly, and you fold your arms over your torso, trying not to panic. 

“Well yeah, it’s our only chance of getting out of here, so.” John retorts. 

“Okay, I think I might just surrender, probably…” Bob says, and your head snaps up to look at him, shocked by how immediately you hate the idea of that. 

“Okay, fine, every man for himself.” John says, and you shake your head.

“No, we have no idea what they want, they’ll probably just shoot you.” You say, turning to look at Bob, who will not look you in the eye. 

“Why should you be in charge? You almost killed all of us, right there.” Yelena points to the elevator shaft.

“But I didn’t.” John bites back.

“Only because of... Whatever that was!” Ava comments, pointing at you, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole when everyone turns to look at you.

“Good point – what exactly was that, back there?” John seems to return to his previous interrogation mode, and you groan.

“I don’t know. No clue. You can ask me as many questions as you want later,” You run a hand across your face, really hoping he doesn’t take you up on that. “But I am not getting shot to death after surviving an incinerator and a thousand foot climb.”

“Look – I’ve been in the trenches of every war torn country on this planet, rescued God knows how many hostages, and shook the hands of two U.S. Presidents. What else? Uh, oh! High school state football champions, back to back to back. Go bears. I should obviously be in charge.” 

“Oh, wow,” Yelena’s voice drips with sarcasm. “When I was five I was in a peewee soccer team called the Westchester Big Valley Thunderbolts sponsored by Shane’s tire shop, we won zero games and one time this girl Mindy she did a poo at midfield. Anyone else have any pointless childhood stories to tell?”

“Grew up in a lab prison.” Ava offers.

“Won the science fair two years in a row.” You add, immediately cringing at how stupid you sound. 

“Meth addicted sign twirling chicken… Summer job.” Bob says, rendering everyone silent. Well, at least no one will remember your science fair comment.

“Right, okay, here’s the plan,” Yelena goes into action mode, and you’re grateful – not that that wasn’t a fun bonding experience, or anything, but your mind is sort of preoccupied by the army outside, imminently about to come in and shoot you all. “We set off an explosion to bring them in–”

“No no no, too many variables with an explosion.” John interjects, but she plows on, and the two of them bicker back and forth for a while.

“–They turn on their night vision, you handle the first wave, but you wait for me after I’ve blinded the remaining troops.”

“So I’m just gonna wait for you?”

“It will only work if you wait.” Yelena sounds like she's on the verge of snapping at John and strangling him, and to be honest, you wouldn't stop her if she tried.

“Terrible plan.” He retorts, and you roll your eyes.

“Ava, you find an escape vehicle–” Yelena turns to ask her, but she’s already gone. 

“...What about us?” You dare to ask, gesturing between you and Bob. 

“Can you do that thing again?” Yelena asks, and you pause, reaching for it in the back of your mind, but your brain immediately screeches with what feels like audio feedback, and you wince, shaking your head. 

She sighs in return, looking over you and Bob. 

“Then you two stay behind me.”

taglist !

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( if your name is on the list above, but you didn't get a notification, it means you have your tag notifications off or set to private ! )

[ladyhatty]

and it kills me how much this just gets ingrained in you. We're trying so hard to break cycles and respect our kiddo, give them bodily autonomy, teach them respect by showing them respect. But the differences in our upbringings really show. Recently I was saying "With [kiddo] starting kindergarden do you think we should start working on their diction? correcting some of those mispronunciations so they don't get made fun of?" Husband gave me a weird look and said "Why don't we ask them." Of fucking course we should ask them! I remember being forced to change how I talked and how much that sucked but it still needed saying by someone else. Our child is 5, they know what being bullied is like, they know what's important to them, of course they should be part of, if not all of, that conversation! But despite my best intentions that slipped past me. Of course we don't share these conversations with our relatives, I can't imagine how much they'd be furious we're letting our kiddo decide for themselves.

kids deserve so much more respect and it turns out that saying that is a great way to locate the horrible people in any community <3

[3cremepie3]

Look at me!

Synopsis - In which Y/n gets stuck in a skimpy bikini how will the twst boys react? Riddle, Leona, Jamil, Kalim, Trey, Cater! Twst x fem reader

Warnings - cursing, catcalling, objectification, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, not proofread

A/n - Quick little Drabble inbetween some smut fics. Thinking of writing the creamery part 5 as well! PLEASE REBLOG 💋

.

.

.

Really this is it? You wondered as you slipped into the bathing suit that was left out for you. Of course an all boys school would have limited stock of bikinis in the lost and found but this was ridiculous. Everyone else felt like a nun compared to you.

Well atleast you could show off your goods and your bads as you had no other choice. You took a deeep breath hyping yourself up before stepping out of the changing tent.

Many eyes landed on you pratically all activity on the beach pausing for a minute until you said “what?” Everyone quickly snapped their gaze away not wanting to face you except him.

Riddle

“My rose what is the meaning of the string you’re wearing? Is it for cultural purposes or something?” You couldn’t help but laugh as you sat next to Riddle on the beach chair. You stretched your body out in the warmth of the sun. “It’s a bikini baby a swim suit,” you explained. “In the queendom of roses swimsuits have sleeves. And your bottom isn’t out for everyone to see,” Riddle scoffed. He pinched your Bossom earning a yelp from you.

“Aww are you jealous of the others,” you teased. Your breath fanned the side of his face. “What! No I would never be jealous.” He protested with a red blush engulfing his face. You looked Riddle dead in his eyes until he cracked. “Fine,” he huffed. “That guys looking right there,” he pointed to a lowerclassman.

Before he could say anymore you hopped in Riddles lap . While his mouth was open mid yap you stuck your tongue in. Yours tangled with his sharing a drool filled kiss. He couldn’t help but to grip your head to stabilize himself pulling you in even further until your teeth clashed. Although he shook under you weight he couldn't resist your touch.

A mixture of your love poured out the sides of your mouth as you made eye contact with the guy who was once looking at you. To top it all off you even let out a little moan before releasing Riddle. You could still taste the cherry pie Trey made for him earlier. Now the whole beach was looking at you after you claimed the bright red boy.

“What is there a problem,” you smirked. Of course no one responded in fact many refused to look your way. You just giggled turning around on Riddles lap to face him directly. “You should get off of me this is an improper display of affection,” he admitted.

“Hmm I’m not sure I should if I get off then I think you’ll probably buss in those tight little trunks!”

Trey

“Come on let’s go back to our table.” You said walking in front of him. He didn’t protest at all watching the way your ass jiggled with every step. Each dip in the sand meant more velocity. And Trey could hardly see without his glasses abandoning them for the ocean. But still anyone could see that thang from a mile away.

Which is why as you walked heads turned. So did another head that being Treys glaring them back around. He had an especially mean look without his glasses. One that sent shivers up all the boys spines. And one that sent a special wet patch to your panties.

When you finally placed your things down at the table you put on a quick spray of bugs spray at set off to enjoy the beach. Trey took your hand his as another safety precaution. You decided on what to do that being beach volleyball.

Trey knew this was a bad idea for many reasons. One being confirmed almost immediately as everyone and their mother now wanted to play. You let them in thinking it was innocent fun. But of course he knew they just wanted your attention.

“Fine but I’m gonna be on your team then my sweets,” Trey declared. You and him played hard the other team didn’t go easy on you wanting to see you jump and dive to get a peak at your sandy ass and tits. They also wanted to show off their magic skills to impress you. "Back in my universe boys didn't need magic to play volleyball," you teased.

But still with the power of hard work and natural seduction causing distraction you and Trey won. You couldn’t believe it jumping onto him your legs wrapping around his slender waist.

The other boys rolled their eyes as you and Trey shared a frenzied kiss. His hands gripped your ass leaving his mark for all eyes to see. He couldn’t help but to stick his tongue out as you kissed his neck. "You worked hard today baby you deserve a big reward. The one that busses inside you every night!”

Leona

You could feel his eyes even all the way across beach. He didn’t wanna get up earlier choosing to stay on the blanket in the shade under your beach umbrella. The lion claimed it was to hit even for a savanna beast man like him. But that was a big mistake. Boys flocked to you complimenting your new look. “Nice swimsuit y/n!” You’re fine shyt!” Make it clap for us.”

Soon you were surrounded by a bunch of dummies your head spinning with there lust filled words. “Get outta the way before I turn you all to mincemeat,” Leona growled. And the boys scattered liked flies. “Someone’s angry,” you teased.

“Of course no one can have my lionesses accept me.” His hands gripped your waist as he kissed your forehead. You giggled up at him your hands falling around his neck. You could stay cuddled up like this forever.

But you were interrupted as his hands wandered smacking the fat of your ass. “What are you doing?!” You whispered yelled. “Leaving my handprint so these losers can quit bussing in their pants.”

Jamil & Kalim

Beach yoga! You always wanted to do it ever since you seen it on tv. And here you were with your two partners. You sat with your legs spread opened as far as you could. Jamil held your hands pulling your body forward while Kalim held your hips in place.

“Oww how long do I have to hold this,” you groaned. “Oh yeah it has been 2 minutes,” Kalim chirped. “Aren’t I already flexible enough,” you grumbled. “You still don’t have your splits yet my love,” Jamil argued. “Come on keep practicing that’ll make it so much easier for us to fuck you,” Kalim assured.

“Don’t say such kinky things out loud,” you spluttered. Your whole body was hot in more places than one. "Oh yeah-h you can switch now," Jamil said fumbling. Next pose was the cat cow on you constantly did in the gym. So you thought it was no problem to attempt it now. As you breathed in for five and out for five arching and pointing your back others watched in awe.

"Hey you're only supposed to be arching for me like that," Kalim whined sitting on you. "You mean she's only supposed to be arching for us," Jamil argued pulling him off of you. "What's the problem now," you yelled stopping in your tracks.

"Pretty sure the whole beach has a tent in their pants," Jamil said. "Yeah Y/n i think you're a bloodbender because you sure know how to make them buss," Kalim joked.

Cater

"Y/n! Body is absolute tea. You know what? Not even tea cause that's not strong enough body is coffee. A cup I'm addicted to having everyday," Cater bragged. You chuckled at his remarks about to walk back to your shared tiki.

"Wait where are you going? You can't not take pictures dressed like that. Come on you'll compliment my feed soooo well. So let walk this way sugar plum!" Cater grabbed your hand dragging you to the water.

Normally most men would be insecure to have a girlfriend as hot as you. But Cater couldn't be anymore smug about it. "Okay now on your knees turn your head at 30 degrees. One hand on hip one on thigh," he instructed.

You smiled while serving face and body. "Yess you look so good now get on all fours and crawl to me. Look like a sexy mermaid." You thought the request was weird but said nothing trusting his judgement.

"Can I see the pictures," you inquired. "NO! We're not done yet. Turn away and look back stay on your knees." You did as you were told sighing in the process. Others watched your mini water photo shoot in awe.

"Hmm okay now spread those legs and arch I'm gonna get closer," he dared. "What the fuck you freaky frog," you cussed. "Cater stop using my pictures to goon. I just want some sunset pics," you insisted. "Now you're gonna listen to what I say before you buss all over your phone," you declared.

[formulafanfics13]

super important post, please read

usual pinned posts and masterlist can be found here

hi loves i wasn’t planning on making this post, but after the past few days… i think i need to.

below are just a few of the messages i’ve received recently. and to clarify: these are the tame ones. i’ve received things far worse that i will not be sharing

i’ve always said i’m good at compartmentalising, that i don’t let hate get to me. and for the most part, that’s true. but this? this has crossed a line. and i’m tired.

i’ve addressed so many of these things already. i’ve said i write for fun. i’ve said i don’t follow every sport or support every person i write about. i’ve said i don’t engage with paddock politics. i’ve said i do not use AI, and that my natural writing style literally used to get flagged at uni for being “too clean.” i’ve said i work 17-hour days writing these fics. i’ve said i’m a real person behind this blog.

but still, the hate continues. and it’s taking the fun out of something that used to bring me so much joy. i dont want to be sharing negativity but this needs addressing, and this is not okay.

so yeah. i’m stepping back for a few days. i need to breathe. i don’t want to stop writing. i don’t want to stop posting. but right now, i need to remind myself why i started and decide if sharing my writing is worth the backlash.

this page has been a home for so many of you, a space for confessions, fantasies, and connection. and i’m so endlessly grateful to the people who message with love, softness, jokes, wild ideas, and pure kindness. i see you.

but for now, i need to choose peace. please be kind. to me. to each other. and to everyone else.

the silverstone situation will be the only thing out here for the next few days (9pm daily until thursday) however everything else will stop whilst i decide on my next steps. i hope you can all understand the decision i have made🧡

lets keep this as a positive place. i really dont want to see any negative comments under this post about the messages i have recieved and the people that have sent them. that defeats the point of this post, so pleast stay positive, respectful and kind.

My inbox will stay open over the next few days, and my messages will also stay open over the next few days. However, I will not actively be checking them. I will not be taking requests for fics, however, if anyone has some suggestions of where to go from here, things you'd possibly like to see change about my page and positive, constructive criticisms, then please feel free to share them🫶🏼

like i said, i am not leaving, im just taking a few days🧡

[moonsaver]

Highschool/college(?) Au and its very corny idk

ALSO gg if you catch the gumball reference ^^

Tags: EVERYONE in amphoreus x you (except hyacine and tribios ofc), uhh theyre all losers pining after you, idk how many words

——

Your classmate – Phainon – who's always a little too popular for his own good. Grew up as the boy next door, fawned over by (almost) all the professors and teachers, popular among his peers for his carefree and playful demeanor, not to mention he's on the sports team.

So it's an obviously frustrating task trying to find the perfect time to talk to you; his friends always dragging him away before he can get much of a word out. It's a little silly – he's sitting right next to you! You two share a few classes, see each other (well, he sees you, at least) almost everyday, and even seem to like the same spot to relax after classes! So why is it that he can't get make a single move on his crush?

Spoiler alert; he's making excuses!

Admittedly, he does become a bit of a fumbling, flustered mess everytime he manages to talk to you; mind jumbling up all the fun facts about the artifacts and ancient relics he'd wanted to amaze you with. The words come out all gibberish and messy – "I did an appraisal last week on a collection i think you'd like!" And "how was your weekend?" Turns into mush and an entirely new sentence (nevermind the fact he accidentally kept messing up the "I"s and "You"s).

All of it doesn't help the fact his particular friend group happens to know his little liking towards you; and is constantly bombarded everytime he tells them "another plan down the drain".

"I saw your live-stream yesterday." You mention, picking at the ice cream cone with your small plastic spoon, "it was really entertaining."

However.. when he realizes in the middle of an appraisal live-stream that you happen to be watching.. he's instantly looking away from the camera and hyper-focusing on the antique in his hands. perhaps nothing is truly a failure?

Phainon splutters a bit, before softly chuckling, "Im glad you liked it! I'll‐ uh, I'm going to be streaming more often since my schedule's clear. You.. you'll be watching, right?"

"Hm?" You tilt your head, almost not hearing the last part, "what was that?"

"Nothing." He chuckles again, nervously, looking away.

"There's.." his head almost snaps, looking up at you. You grin at the immediate response, "you have some on your nose."

Your hand reaches to gently flick away the small dot of soft cream on the tip of his nose with your finger. You notice his wide-puppy like eyes and the faint blush on his face.

Aglaea – the student council president, and no one could question her hold on that position (except one). She's the golden student – head of many clubs, straight A's in all subjects, handles all her work and any complaints or conflicts within the student council or the student body in general, before attending some after-school clubs, and helping her parents manage their boutique. Most people would be jealous if it wasn't for the overwhelming amount of work it would actually take – especially looking as flawless and beautiful as her on top of it.

You'd watch her doze off in the library; pen still held between her lithe fingers as her golden hair would sway. You'd place down a cup of black coffee for her, before gently nudging her awake. It became a little common for a bit, then radio silence, then suddenly before either of you could really comprehend it – Aglaea would sit down with you and start making small talk about work.

Somehow, however.. the most unexpected sort of person had come into her life all of a sudden. For the first time – instead of taking care of the others, she had found herself being taken care of in tiny ways.

Both of you blamed it on exam stress – that was why she dozed off in the first place. The work was a little too much at times, and sleep would become scarce.

She never asked, and you never answered; but she always had that look in her eyes whenever she seemed to be staring at you a little too long – how did you know?

You're a bit squeamish about the topic – you didn't stalk her! But no one would believe you if you claimed that. You just happened to be zoning out and people-watching – or rather, you'd call it 'Practical Observation'. Aglaea would sometimes sit down with a black coffee and a few biscuits when it was a particularly long study session, use cute stickers in the guidelines of her notes, and sketch out designs on empty pages when bored; Honestly? It did surprise you a bit that not many other students seemed to catch onto her preferences.

She hums, in deep thought, looking down intently at the calculations written down on paper. There's a few clinks of the glass tubes as you move around in the empty lab, placing down all the necessary chemicals needed for the experiment.

And as for Aglaea.. poor thing – it seemed to really seal the deal when you visited the boutique on your weekend to ask if she was doing well. Somehow, the atmosphere of the boutique made your conversation livelier than before, and before she knew it, Aglaea had also come to understand why exactly Phainon fell for you.. for she too, had fallen.

"We need this solution, but.." Aglaea trails off, her eyes lingering around the empty place where the solution bottle should have been, but isn't.

Unbeknownst to her, you'd already concocted your own solution, trying to experiment and somehow replicate the one you needed.

Poof!

Her eyes widen, as she turns to look at you. You're standing there with a wide-eyed, almost frenzied look with the tube having an ominous sort of smoke coming off of it.

She quickly urges you to clean it up, and once both of you are done fretting over it, she looks up at you with an unreadable expression. You brace yourself for a stern warning from the council president, but instead find yourself hearing your friend's bubbling laughter.

"You should be wary of the faces you make, sometimes," she covers her mouth with her hand, more laughter bubbling from her, "it's quite a spectacle."

Mydeimos – the star athlete, and Phainon's best friend. He wasn't a dumb jock, however. Surprisingly – he was naturally adept at history and all sorts of social sciences, and if some students were desperate enough, they'd approach him for help.

It was a common sight between their friend group that Mydei would hound Phainon for every ask-out attempt gone wrong– almost routine for them, even.

Although conversation between you and Mydei seemed like the unlikeliest of events (at least, before Phainon could even introduce you two), surprisingly you two would get along well.

It was another game when you happened to be sitting nearby – the ball came flying and hit your head like a goal. Since Mydei was responsible for the throw, he'd take you to the nurse's office instead.

The pain went down by the next day, but you still made a visit to make sure everything was okay. Mydei happened to be passing by and continued to walk you to your class (more or less, out of guilt.. and also to scope out who exactly seemed to be the person Phainon was infatuated with.)

The topics shifted – from your head wraps to historical garments to war strategies, conquests, historically significant temples and buildings, architecture, and more. Strangely so, the conversation between you two would flow like that of between old friends.

He'd occasionally make an excuse to walk you to your classes (mainly that, well, he was responsible for your injury.. 3 weeks ago..), you'd often sit in the stadium while he was at practice, and he'd buy you a drink or a lunch at the cafeteria. Thus, the two of you ended up forming a friendship.

So, when he made eye contact with Phainon as he dropped you off at one of your classes, another unspoken competition had risen between them – winner takes it all.

"Rome wasn't built in a day."

"You say that every day, and you have been for the past few weeks. Are you even studying?"

"Hey!"

He flicks your forehead, making you wince, but doesn't tear your focus from the game on your phone you've been tapping away at for the past few minutes. Students had already started spilling into the cafeteria, the noise increasing steadily as another sound effect resounded from your phone. He sighs, before snatching your phone from your hands,

"Don't make me report you. You've already slacked off on your last test."

"Psh, who'd even remember the second man of anything? I mean, okay, who was the second man who walked on the moon?"

"Buzz aldrin."

That lands you another flick on your forehead from Mydei,

"Touchè, nerd."

"I'll help you, since you clearly need it. You're getting an A+ whether you want it or not."

Anaxagoras – a Teacher's assistant that is heavily involved in controversial debates, and funnily enough, has indirectly formed multiple friend groups with him as their common enemy. A nightmare to deal with to most – often questioning every statement and even the integrity of Aglaea, the student council president. Wasn't it a little strange how chummy she was getting with you? He'd spotted her smiling and talking to you instead of her usual whiling away at her own work, and something in him chipped a little at that.

He felt a strong urge of.. something anytime he saw you. Like you were nothing and the bane of his existence at the same time, a special position in his heart that once Aglaea had held.

Thus, when he had the 'pleasure' of having to tutor you once you failed a class (by a point! – you'd add at the disappointed look in Aglaea's eyes), he was going to wring out every bit of the opportunity.

Except.. he didn't expect you to be so.. ugh.

He'd sprinkle in controversial topics and remarks every now and then to see what ticked you – only a fool would fall for it, nevermind how most of the student body would. But you took it in stride. You'd ask him about it, patiently listening, and return with your own profound observations and insights. It was strange; for some reason.. he felt like he belonged for once. Not a scorned scholar lost in erudition, but rather, embraced for his intuition and welcomed with questions and curiosity.

Study sessions would then have an added "break" to them, 'to refresh the mind', of course. Both of you would eagerly talk philosophies and dilemmas.

Although perhaps he once preferred a head-on and cutthroat opposition (ahem..), he somehow welcomes the peaceful and steady curiosity you bring now.

Cerces makes an acute observation about him, once your name instead of Aglaea's falls from his lips.

Perhaps he's starting to understand that woman's perspective for once.

"I don't understand the meaning of this."

"Oh, cool, you're a meme."

Anaxagoras presents his phone to you, with a post from a social media page. It's him, with a poorly edited filter put on, and various sparkles and effects on the borders of the image, resembling that of 2000's filters.

"I'm a joke?"

His face tightens up more, making you wave your hands,

"Well.."

He taps on his phone as you speak,

"Woah, calm down. It's just harmless fun. They're not making fun of you!"

"Then what does this mean?"

"Okay, maybe we should report it.."

He shows you a post, a picture of you two that was clearly taken on campus by someone else. You cringe slightly at the caption,

"Embarassed to be seen with me, is it?"

"What?! No!"

Castorice – oh, sweet castie. Your childhood friend and the dearest one at that. Always a little alienated, a little othered by the kids and masses for her strange looks and demeanor. You both know each other very well; having spent your time together as little weirdos – hand in gloved hand – spotting ladybugs and caterpillars in the playground and studying butterflies as the other kids rough-housed. Always the quiet sweetheart who was too good at mathematics and helped you through every bad exam. Who knew Castie would grow up to be the Vice-president of the student council?

Your time has inexplicably shortened due to the amount of duties she'd now have to attend – but you knew she loved doing what she did. You'd spot the occasional soft smile on her face with her council members throught the crowds, and on weekends when you two would have picnics in the park, you were glad to hear she'd made more friends than ever before.

She even slipped up and admitted she'd formed a crush! Although, she seemed hesitant to tell you. Perhaps your little Castie still had secrets she wouldn't tell even you.

The loneliness surrounding her had begun to dissipate. You realized then – your best friend had never looked more beautiful than when she was truly accepted.

You sigh deeply, leaning back on your hands, as the gentle wind breezes over your skin, soothing you. Castorice shifts a tiny bit – her head in your lap, facing you now, as you look down. Her purple eyes meet yours, as she smiles gently at you.

"So, who do you like?"

She jolts a bit, turning and covering her face, making you laugh heartily

"It's.."

"Always so shy, Castie.." you say between laughs. She gets up, facing away from you,

She hesitates, her eyes nervously glancing at you like it'll burn her if she stares too long. You tilt your head, still grinning,

"Hm?"

She lays back down on the picnic mat, fidgeting with her fingers,

"..please don't ask.."

"Awh, Castie, did I offend you?"

"No! Not at all. H-How did your math exam go-?"

"Nice subject change. Literally."

Cipher – it was a funny word-play nickname she and the adults came up with. Always the stealthy, snarky kid who outran the others in the playground, stole a few too many caricature-bandaids from the nurse's office, and tricked the other kids into doing her bidding from time to time.

You thought it was good riddance when she moved, so you can imagine the surprise when she showed up to your after-school study sessions with Aglaea to drop off a few files.

She was notorious for being almost a little too much. You still remember when you assumed she was bullying Castorice, until she herself explained it was simple teasing. You were always hot-tempered when it came to her – always clashing heads. It was a fun game to her, but never that humorous to you.

If Castorice was Aglaea's right hand, Cipher was her left. It's no wonder you stopped hearing more about her – she purposefully hid and stayed low, practically working as an intelligence network by herself. Of course; time weathers all things but it's own principles, and Cipher's. You know she works at a price.

You want to trust Aglaea's judgment, but you can't really bring yourself to trust Cipher. Especially when you caught her ransacking the nurse's office again.

As for the price itself.. Aglaea doesn't mention it to you.

It was locked around at the time in the evening, after-school clubs now in full swing with the buzz of students around campus. You'd hoped perhaps Hyacine would be around to ask her for more painkiller; so imagine your surprise when you see no Hyacine in sight and the lock of the infirmary broken and on the floor.

Cipher immediately stiffens, hand stilling when her eyes meet yours filled with scorn and a nasty scowl on your face.

She stutters a bit initially, but manages to explain it to you – it was on Hyacine's orders that Cipher broke in. "Pinkie" (Hyacine's nickname, go figure) gave her the wrong keys. You picture the rest.

Of course, still knowing Cifera, you decided to walk back with her to ensure it reached where it was supposed to.

Conversation had turned easy with her. You realize perhaps long-held grudges aren't always the best way to go about things.

"Hm? Asleep already?"

Tension had started to melt between you and Cifera, even Castorice. The three of you would often share lunch when your schedules aligned, and Cifera would stay back with you when Aglaea would have to leave the library early. If it wasn't Phainon's appraisals you were watching, it was cat video compilations Cifera would make you watch. Somehow always there with you and Anaxagoras during the tutoring sessions. Stealing the little drinks Mydei would get you and promise to buy another one for you – which she did do.

Her finger gently taps your forehead, and when you don't respond, she stays silent. She watches your head laid down over your open books, a sticky note stuck to your chin.

Titans above, were you really that oblivious?

She'd been dropping hints, as much as she could. There was only so much she could ask of Aglaea as a price. Help you two mend your friendship? Sure. Help you two get together? The embarassment makes her hair stand up and her face burn.

"Cifera."

She groans, laying her head down on the table, the cap of her hoodie acting like a turtle shell over her head.

"Agy."

"Was it not enough to mend your friendship?"

Aglaea's fingers pinch the extra fabric of the cap and pull it gently, revealing her face,

"It is! I was– it's.."

"Something troubles you."

She leans back, biting the nail of her thumb,

"Amazing observation, Agy."

"It's.. I don't know.."

Cifera missed you, weirdly enough. The strange push and pull you two kept in balance – you got to her like no one else, and she got to you too. Who else knows each other more intimately than long-term "frenemies"?

It was funny she assumed you still hadn't accepted her as a friend. In actuality, you'd considered even thinking of her as more than that.

Both of them bicker a bit, and it's enough to wake you, but you stay silent.

Perhaps instead of stealing your bandaids and soda cans, she stole something much dearer?

——

[clevergirlsrpg]

Steam Demo release date announcement! Q&A! DINOSAURS REAL!!!

The Clever Girls DEMO will be playable, free on Steam on August 7th! We're theming this demo as a "Dress Rehearsal". It won't have every mechanic the full game will, but it should be enough to find out if you're interested! Here's the link!: https://store.steampowered.com/app/3162300/Clever_Girls_Demo/

Check below for more details! Wishlist the game on Steam, and you’ll get an email when the demo comes out!

What took you so long!?

We previously announced the demo would be released in Fall 2024, and boy were we wrong! Why were we so far off? 

Clever Girls is an entirely self-funded project made by a tiny team of part-time devs. Making games (even just a demo) is really hard! Even if it took a lot longer than expected, we're still all happy with how the demo development went, and can't wait to see what people think.

We're confident we've got something people will really like. This demo has been in the works since our Steam page announcement all the way back in February 2024. Since then we've come a long way in refining the game's controls, systems and art & animation (animation especially!)

We're going to keep working on the demo before and after the launch, but we're finally at a place where we think it shows off what's unique about Clever Girls with a decent amount of polish. 

There are some key differences between in what the DEMO has, versus what the full game will have:

What the Clever Girls Demo HAS:

Talking dinosaurs!

A linear, self-contained, possibly canon VN-style storyline. This is the style of storytelling we'll primarily be using in Clever Girls. The demo is roughly the size of a single planned "chapter" of the full game.

A 3D, third-person "Explore mode" with a unique environment and many interactions to look at. Explore as all four playable characters, and dig through a bunch of interesting garbage!

Three battles of increasing complexity, with more of the cast and abilities unlocking as you progress.

What the Clever Girls Demo DOES NOT HAVE, but we plan to put in the full game:

An introduction to the full game, with compatible saves and progression. When the full game is close to release, we will probably update the demo to include this. But it's not there now!

The RPG progression system. In the full game, your characters will gain experience in a traditional RPG fashion. Also planned are systems we’re calling “Memories” and “Mementos”. These will function similar to equipment in a traditional RPG. And of course, relationship-based unlocks will add to character progression as the cast’s interpersonal interactions develop. The demo doesn't have any of that, though!

The Relationship Graph system, allowing the inter-party relationships to progress and affect gameplay and story. For now, there's some teases of how the relationship system will integrate into battles-- but the demo doesn't have relationships that progress. That's not to say there aren't some fun character interactions, though! Maybe even a couple of small choices…

A bunch more stuff! Abilities, enemy types, NPCs, items, areas, etc

I like this game. How can I help?

Share the demo with your friends! We think Clever Girls will develop the best with a publisher's support, in order to make the project as awesome as we can. In a risky market, what publishers want to see most is engagement and popularity. Send the demo to anyone you think might like it, and hit the wishlist button on Steam! Also, leave a review for the demo to let us know what you think!

Provide testing and feedback! The demo is as much a gameplay preview as it is a technical test of the complex story and gameplay systems. Report bugs and give opinions using the feedback links on the game's pause menu. If you experience a crash, make sure to press the "send" button on the crash reporter so we can get a hold of the useful crash report data.

Can I stream the demo? Can I make video content showing the demo? Make fanart?

Yes! Please stream it, make videos, and/or make fan-art! Go ahead! We think we’ve got something cool, and we’re so excited to find out what other people think of it too. If you’re making content, we want to see it!

If you want to be extra nice, consider linking the Steam page (for the demo, or the full game) when you post things! Every mention helps.

Anything else we should know about the demo?

Depending on reading and gameplay speed, we've seen the demo completed in as short as 40 minutes, or as long as 2.5 hours. Don't worry, you can save and load, though some small sections might need to be repeated after loading.

We're still working on improvements! While we've tested it pretty thoroughly, we're a small team and can't possibly catch every issue, especially the more subtle or inconsistent hardware-related ones. If there's performance issues, crashes, or anything else, it will take time for us to fix them. Though our resources are limited, we'll do our best to make sure as many people can enjoy the demo as possible.

Currently, the demo keeps all your autosaves. This is just out of an abundance of caution, to safeguard against the possibility of softlocks or save corruption (though we've eliminated as much of those as we could!). If you encounter a savegame that doesn't seem to work right, or is stuck, try reloading an earlier autosave. The autosaves are very small, so you shouldn't have to worry about them taking too much disk space-- but you can delete them using the save menu if you want. (Or find them in your local appdata directory, under the folder named "CG_UE/Saved/Savegames" and delete them manually. Maybe make a backup first!)

Where's your Discord? I want to join a Discord!

We're still working on an official public Discord! As a small team, running a community space like that is likely to take a significant amount of time and effort that we'd ideally put towards development. A poorly moderated Discord community can be worse than none, so we're working on a plan to have a place where fans can hang out and share enthusiasm, but that won't impact our development. We want to make sure we know what we're getting into!

What's next for Clever Girls?

It depends on how the demo is received! We'll work on feedback and improve the demo, and also turn our attention to the full game. Funding is definitely something we're still sorting out (publishers, email us at contact@ossifrage.games), but we have all kinds of options ahead of us to consider. If we need to, we'll keep self-funding like we always have. We'll make our little dino game real, one way or another!

Development information will be much more forthcoming! We've recently added a team member to focus on sharing things about the project. After the release of the demo, we want to rev up our social media presence and show more people the game. Let us know what kinds of content you want to see! Story teasers? Gameplay and mechanic deep-dives? Romantic dinosaur high-school AUs? (We're not doing that one.) Tell us what interests you!

As always, thanks so much for the time and attention. We're making this project so that people can enjoy it, so hearing feedback and responses from others is what helps keep us going.  To close us out, have some fun development art of Sawyer and Prati goofing around:

Thanks for following! See you later!

[safety-pin-punk]

I genuinely don’t remember the last time I wrote one of my longer, history of punk posts. To be honest, I haven’t had the motivation or energy over the last year or so. But I’m back, at least for now, and we are going to tackle a topic that is not necessarily a fun one, but an extremely important one. A chapter in punk history that is as relevant today as it was when it was written. Fair warning, this one is LONG.

Punk 101: Nazi Punks Fuck Off

Todays topics include: the history of nazis and fascism in punk scenes, the phrase ‘Nazi Punks Fuck Off’, the evolution of punk neo-nazis, and the branches of the skinhead subculture.

The History of Nazis and Fascism in Punk Scenes

Punk music and politics have a long and convoluted history with one another, but it's no secret that in the early days of punk, fascists were all around. Punk music really took off and made a name for itself in the 1970s, and the 60s were full of proto-punk sounds with the garage rock genre. I know, right now you’re thinking “What do the 60s and 70s music genres have to do with Fascists?”. Well. Everything. 

1960 was only 15 years after the end of World War II. And 1970 was only 25 years after it. I’m sure for those of you reading this, that's within your lifetime. Now imagine someone in the year 2000, and that person is a super racist piece of shit. Do you really think that 15 or 25 years is going to make a difference in their world view? Probably not, especially in a world that had less technology and access to information than we do now.

So now we know where our 60’s and 70’s nazis come from. That's great and all, but why were they so interested in punk? Or rather, why was punk so interested in them?

Without getting into the depths too much here, the punk culture was built on anti-conformity. Anti-normalcy if you will. Societal norms went out the windows. The original punks were here for the shock value. And what's more shocking than outwardly proclaiming your love for fascism after World War II? Not much, that's for sure.

Examples of this include: Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols often being seen wearing a t-shirt with a swastika, and Siouxsie Sioux of Siouxsie and the Banshees sometimes wearing a Swastika armband. Few examples of many.

And when you want to be one of the cool kids, it's really easy to join the bandwagon of “If you don't look and act like us, you can’t be a part of us.” Of course, we sit here and go “That sounds antithetical to the part of punk where we don’t let anyone tell us what to do??” But I raise you. We certainly still have a gate keeping problem in this community, especially online. 

The Phrase ‘Nazi Punks Fuck Off’

Well we all know the phrase. We’ve seen it everywhere. But ‘Nazi Punks Fuck Off’ has a history. It didn’t just appear out of thin air one day. It was the title of a song by the Dead Kennedys. Later released as part of an album, it came with an armband that had a crossed out swastika, a symbol that has since become a part of the anti-racist punk movement. Though it’s come with criticism of its own. That's a topic for another day though. 

Jello Biafra (lead singer and song writer) has stated that the song was about violence at punk shows, summarizing it as “You violent people at shows are acting like a bunch of Nazis”. But of course, this became the leading phrase in the fight against the white power punks.

This resulted in a gradual decline of the Nazi culture within the punk movement. Nazi bands struggled to get gigs that weren’t organized by the far right. They got kicked out of shows when they got violent. And often were simply ignored. Other punks wanted no part of them. With the influence of ska and reggae, a lot of times white punks and black reggae bands would share a stage. Of course, far left groups formed during this time as well, but we’ll talk about that in the last section.

The Evolution of Punk Neo-Nazis

No one knows the exact number of neo-nazi bands currently in existence. But it's a definite that Wikipedia’s list of them is far from complete. As recent as the last decade Spotify had gone and removed white supremacist music from the platform (report it if you see it), Micetrap Distribution (a store known for selling white supremacist music) shut down, and a lawyer from Minneapolis lost his job after his hobby of operating a neo-nazi music label came to light. 

My point is, everyone wants to talk about the evolution of neo-nazis in punk. As if the Nazis ever really fully went away. They didn’t! They got quiet, they kept to themselves. But they never fully left. 

So why have they stopped being quiet then? Is that the real question? Why are they so brave now? Well, I think we easily find the answer to that question by looking at our society. Unfortunately, the internet and punk culture are both very USA-centric nowadays. And when you exist in a place that elected a wanna be dictator as their representative. Well. The nazis start coming out of their hiding places. Including the punk ones. They see less consequences from society. 

So what do we do about them? How do we fight the rise of Neo-Nazis? My answer would be to do the same thing that the punks of the old days did. Refuse to platform them, work against them, ignore them, and when they start getting loud? Well, it's never a moral crime to punch a nazi. 

Make them think about their actions. Not in the “we can fix them” way. But in the “will I get hurt if I open my mouth about my opinions” way. Make them scared to be loud again. Make them realize they aren’t welcomed. GIVE THEM SOCIAL CONSEQUENCES. Remember, no stance is the same as a supporting stance. Stand against them or don’t bother standing at all. 

Types of Skinheads and Why They are Associated with Nazis

Okay, okay. Yes I will talk about skinheads now. I suppose you can’t write anything pertaining to nazism in punk without touching on the topic. However, I want to start this with two statements:

Not every bald punk is a skinhead.

Not every skinhead is a nazi and not every nazi is a skinhead

Okay, so what the hell is a skinhead? Skins were a subculture started in the UK in the 60s. They were working class youth, often had shaved heads, and wore working class boots like Dr Martens. (Yes folks, the skins were a MAJOR influence in punk fashion). 

Early skinheads were non-political, but as the 70s progressed, the group saw a lot of racially motivated violence and far right groups saw a rise in white power skinheads in their ranks. Essentially, the early nazi punks found a home in the skinhead culture for one reason or another. By the late 1970s, the terms skinhead, racism, and nazism were virtually inseparable. 

To note, through this time, not every skinhead turned towards nazism. Two notable groups that spoke against it were the Glasgow Spy Kids and the publishers of a zine called Hard As Nails.

By the 1980s, a number of left leaning skinhead groups started to rise up as well. Redskins (Marxist and Anarchist view) and other anarchist skinheads were associated with the RASH organization. During this time was also when the phrase “all cops are bastards” was popularized by leftist skins. Other groups with a significant number of leftist skinheads were Red Action, Anti-Fascist Action, and most notably, the SHARPs.

SHARPs stands for Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice. They opposed white power skinheads, neo-fascism, and claim to have re-claimed the the original identity of the skinhead movement. And while they have no political affiliation beyond an opposition to racism, they have given a name to fascist skinheads (which I find rather funny), ‘boneheads’. 

So while there are certainly left leaning skins, even nowadays, the white supremacists are still out there. Still in punk culture. And still grab hold of the skinhead legacy. So is every skin a nazi? No, of course not. But are skins still heavily associated with the nazism that plagued their group decades ago? Absolutely they are. 

This is the end of my essay. A history lesson that every new, young, or uneducated punk should read before the history is lost.

[disillusioned-phantasma]

The tweed basket hanging from your arm rubs against your skin, as if to remind you of your purpose here. Ruminating can come later, it compels. The last thing you need to do is bump into an unsuspecting citizen while your head is in the clouds… your Cavalry Captain often made a habit of teasing you about this quality of yours. You could imagine the easy banter you’d fall into now with ease that comes from intimately getting to know another.

“There can’t be anything so pressing on your mind that you forget how to walk,” he’d tell you, a grin in place so you know the comment is in good fun.

To which you would reply, feigning haughtiness to keep him on edge, “Well, one of us has to do the thinking in this relationship. I can’t say I trust you with the role.”

Ah… you really do miss your Kaeya. It’s best you get this yearning out of your system before he catches on and uses it as ammunition to fluster you. The sun is high in the sky, making the sincere promise to you that dinner is still a few hours off. By then, you swear you won’t have the obvious countenance of a sighing maiden in love. He’d never let you live it down!

Appraising the freshly harvested vegetables laying on display at the marketplace, you debate what to pick up next. Your goal for tonight’s surprise dinner sounded simple enough in theory — execution was another debacle entirely. While Mondstadt’s cuisine had its charms, you wanted to show your partner the Liyue meals you had grown up with. The probably being, some of the ingredients that make those dishes timeless aren’t available out here in the country. You’d settle for nothing less than perfection when it came to showcasing your home country’s mouthwatering culinary expertise.

The elderly lady running the stall chuckles, breaking you from your thoughts.

“Say, that’s more than you’ve been buying the past few weeks, dearie. What’s the special occasion?”

Your grandmother back in Qingce Village had instilled the value of respecting your elders, and while you never questioned this, it always amazed you just how perceptive the older generation could be.

“My partner is a member of the Knights,” you tell her, a smile blooming on your face despite yourself. “It’s been rather busy there with the Stormterror attacks and such… apparently, they gained a solid lead on the case, enough so that he’ll be able to join me for dinner tonight.”

“Why, that is a special occasion. Eating meals together is a staple for any lasting marriage.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Um, actually, we’re not—”

The elderly lady is too preoccupied in her own world to pay you in mind. She starts grabbing the vegetables you were staring at the longest and placing them into your basket, encouraging you to make a feast fit for a king. You let her do as she pleases since it seems to bring her such exuberant joy. Right when you’re thinking over how to use all these carrots and cabbages before they go bad, she starts to relay some recipes that you rapidly try to remember.

This is my home now, your heart flourishes. And what a lovely home it is.

You set down the main path through Mondstadt’s center. While your basket may be heavy, your head is light, almost to the point of floating away altogether. You hum a song a peculiar bard wearing green once played to an enraptured audience by the fountain ahead, now surrounded by shops teeming with life. Lunch is in full swing, and laborers from all disciplines gather around wooden tables to share meals with strangers, who by the end of said meal, will be viewed as friends. Such is the way in Mondstadt.

Indeed — today is a remarkably unremarkable day.

For a time.

There’s a scream somewhere, shrill in its timbre, enough to give you and the chattering patrons pause. A few screams never felt terribly out of place. Children getting a little too excited or husbands and wives getting in a spat with the window open; you knew that ambiance well. This felt different, somehow. More like a wounded animal caught in a trap, ready to gnaw off its own leg.

The lone scream becomes two, then three, and eventually you lose track; it’s everywhere but nowhere you can see. In a panic, wooden chairs scrape against the ground as meals are abandoned, citizens taking off in all directions to find the source of the discord or run from it. An oppressive atmosphere builds in the air, rife with uncertainty from not knowing what’s going on and the cries of those who do.

Chaos abounds in place of order. Some knights rush past you, mostly greenhorns, as the more seasoned members were not within the city’s cobblestone walls. You manage to stop one for a brief moment, a young lad whose shaking hand remains planted on his sheathe.

“E-Excuse me, do you know what’s going on?”

“An attack,” he huffs, out of breath, “We’re under attack!”

“By Stormterror?” You query, briefly searching the sky overhead to find no signs of the dragon. If a dragon was coming to terrorize the city, you’d most definitely be able to tell, even without sparing a glance upward.

He parts his lips to answer, only for what you assume to be a superior to bark orders. He scampers off, leaving you none the wiser about the predicament at hand. If this is a raid, the attacking party picked the perfect time to conduct it. The most any of you could do was hope word reached the Knights currently out in the country before they had no home to return to.

A great concentration of people run by you, some brushing your arm in the process, causing your basket to fall. You steel yourself to the ground so as not to get trampled by the frightened crowd. Eventually, a clearing in the thicket presents itself. Squinting, you catch the silhouette of whatever creature caused them to take off in the opposite direction.

It’s a bizarre-looking creature, human-like in its proportions if not small, wearing a white mask with an extended nose and two holes for eyes that weren’t there. In its hand is a blue scepter, that it waves as if casting an esoteric spell. Hydro accumulates by its wish and wreaks havoc on those who hadn’t managed to make a successful escape, dousing them in what must’ve been a heavy amount of weight.

You realize it’s floating, gliding without resistance like a specter, toward an individual you were familiar with. Glory. No one had thought to help her — or maybe they were so inundated by their fear they simply forgot she existed — leaving her in a vulnerable position. Without giving it a second thought, you make a beeline straight to her. The bench she normally sits on has freshly been overturned. She uses her hands to get her bearings and then begins to shakily prop herself up.

“Glory! It’s me, [First],” you call out to her. She turns her head in the direction of your voice while you reach out to help lift her up. “It’ll be alright. I think the Knights are leading an evacuation by the gates. Let’s go together, okay?”

You squeeze her hand and she squeezes it back.

In your frenzy to get to her, you failed to keep an eye on the otherworldly creature surrounded by a thick membrane of Hydro. It dances in a freakish display, malice and delight intertwining together to form tangible bloodlust. With no other forms of life in the vicinity, the two of you would make for easy targets; a realization that has you gulping in fear. Your Dendro Vision pulsates by your side, feeling more like a useless ornament than a catalyst of divine power. You had no weapon, no combat prowess to fall back on; why the Archons had seen fit to bestow this upon you was still a wonder to this day.

You block Glory from its line of vision and square your trembling shoulders.

You’re not a fighter — but in this scenario, what choice do you have?

The creature bellows a shrill laugh. It goes from speaking in an archaic tongue to filling the smoky air with warbling, roughly comprehensible sound.

“What a lucky day,” it waves the scepter in its hand, “You smell like him.”

You feel weightless. It’s a surreal sensation, having no solid ground beneath your feet, your limbs useless to fight back in any way that would matter. Your immediate instinct is to gasp or perhaps call out for help. In your horror, you almost do just that, until you realize just what trap you’ve been caught in. A prison of water. The more you struggle, the more your waning energy depletes.

The outside world feels far away.

You think you hear someone calling your name, but it’s distorted, like you were in a state between dreaming and consciousness.

Your lungs plead for liberation. Breathe, the organ implores you, breathe or we’ll die.

I can’t do that, you argue back. If I do, I’ll…

Completing that sentence fills you with enough dread that you try to focus on something else. Anything else.

You wonder about the pot you left boiling on the stove. It was supposed to be a short trip to the marketplace, ten minutes at the most. You knew you should’ve turned it off just to be on the safe side. It’s probably overflowing now, scalding water making a mess of your apartment, seeping into the groaning wooden floors. You hope no one gets hurt.

Breathe. Take a deep breath. What’s the worst that could happen?

Despite sleeping well last night, you’re starting to feel tired. Heavy. On the precipice of giving up.

Just one breath is all. It’ll be over before you know it.

It’s not a good idea. You know it’s not a good idea, your mind knows it too, but your brain is following a tune of its own creation. It will complete the song no matter how hard you fight back. You think you might be crying, though there’s no way to tell. How can you when you’re already swallowed up by water?

Maybe one little breath wouldn’t hurt.

You exhale, earning the tiniest relief in the process.

Then you prepare to inhale for the last time.

You’re just beginning to breathe in—

—When you fall down.

There’s commotion all around. You’re sputtering, coughing up the water that managed to get into your body, chest heaving for air, and head pounding like you were just bludgeoned with a hammer. Faintly, you pick up the sound of metal boots treading across the pavement. You often hear something similar when the Knights are performing drills. Ah, and there it is again; a spoken rendition of your name. The voice sounds different from before. Less high-pitched, more familiar.

“That’s right, keep taking nice deep breaths for me, okay?”

It’s on the tip of your tongue. Just who is that? How frustrating is this… right when you’re about to settle on the answer, it’s as if your mind decides it no longer works for you. A rogue employee you have to keep tracking down to demand answers from.

“Hey? Can you hear me, sweetheart? Let me see those pretty eyes of yours, huh? A little favor for me? You owe me one, don’t you know,” the person chuckles, yet he doesn’t sound happy in the slightest. “You owe me… so you have to. C’mon now. I’ve got you. You’re nice and safe. Now’s not the time to sleep it off. That can come later.”

You want to tell the person you’d love to wake up, but you’re more of a passenger in your body than the uncontested leader. Even trying to open your eyelids is a fruitless endeavor.

There’s more commotion. People are yelling — always yelling — demanding healers and stretchers and first aid kits. What nuisances they are. The voice that’s muttering prayers near your ear, though, that’s a voice you can appreciate. It’s familiar. Soft. Soothing. You feel sorry for them because you don’t think you’ll be staying awake much longer. Something tells you that’ll make them sad.

And for whatever reason, that pains your bleeding heart the most.

—

Many people have often remarked that Kaeya must enjoy the sound of his own voice.

While he’ll often laugh it off as the joke it is, he supposes there is some truth to the statement. Talking is a lovely gift that he’s always been proficient in. Stronger than any weapon and more potent than any salve. It can tear opponents to shreds without having to wet his blade with blood or move constituents to tears if that is what would suit him best. It’s always served him well, no matter the circumstance.

This time, however, he considers to be a special case. And certain allowances must be made for special cases.

For this, talk won’t suffice. Neither will interrogation. Or traditional methods of torture. It must be a blend so perfect, that any mixologist would marvel at the concoction. Luckily, Kaeya is well versed in creating just this, even if it has been a while. What better time than the present to brush up on his specific skill set?

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Kaeya paces in a dank room, hidden behind passages and corridors no man alive is aware of, illuminated by a single dwindling torch. He circles his guest with deliberation. “Ah, apologies. That is if you still possess the faculties to think. Which you should, when this potion gets you all nice and healed up. How fortunate for you.”

He pats his unresponsive guest on the back as if consoling an old friend.

“Back to my original point. Your intel probably spelled out something among the lines of, oh, I don’t know, being a prisoner of the Knights isn’t so bad. You get three meals a day. A buddy to room with, maybe. Eventual legal representation. Even a window to stare out of! What luxury. What a pleasant way to wait out your days for your cause. Doesn’t sound so bad, right? I sure don’t think so.”

His guest’s fingers begin to twitch and Kaeya smiles. He wraps a cloth around the creature’s face, checking to ensure the fabric won’t be moving anytime soon. Once he knows it’s in place, he grabs another pitcher of water, holding it up in anticipation of his new friend regaining consciousness soon.

“Your living situation will be quite different,” Kaeya promises. “Every meal you get will be pushed down your throat with a tube. You can try to legally represent yourself, but just know, I have a low tolerance for nonsense. I’ll remove your tongue and only give it back when I’m certain you’ve learned your lesson. As for a window with a nice view… you could always use your fingernails to dig up, I suppose. If you’re lucky, in a decade or so, maybe you’ll make progress.”

By the Abyss Mage’s erratic breathing, Kaeya surmises his guest to be awake. He repeats the same process from the past few hours. Pouring water on its face over and over again, simulating the nightmare you were forced to experience. So this mage has a penchant for drowning its victims, does it? It will wish Kaeya would let it drown. He has no plans of allowing that though, oh no, not this early on.

“What you did was a great offense to me.”

It writhes and gargles and coughs but he does not relent.

“She’ll live… and remember this as the city where she almost died.”

Kaeya sighs, sets the now empty pitcher down, and reaches for another to restart the process. “Do you know how much work you’ve put on my plate? Just when I got rid of any doubts in that pretty head of hers about returning to her home country, you go and do this. Nuisance doesn’t begin to cover it.”

He pours more.

“When you love someone, you want what’s best for them. I’ve heard that a lot. Sounds nice and cutesy for young kids writing poems to their first crush. Me, however, I have a different opinion. How do you reconcile the difference between wanting what’s best for your lover when they don’t even know what’s best for themselves?”

More.

“I’ll take it your lack of answer indicates you don’t have a solution to this problem either. Perplexing, isn’t it? A paradox of sorts. I suppose I’ll have some time to think it over more while I assist in her recovery. Influencing a ban on travel, causing a mix-up with her citizenship back in Liyue… there are answers to every problem, but it becomes an issue of deciding which solution fits best.”

More.

In his fingers, the pitcher breaks. Loose shards scatter across the moldy floor and make themselves scarce. It’s almost as if inanimate objects wanted nothing to do with him in his current state. He absentmindedly realizes he must’ve been applying too much pressure. Regardless, the timing worked in his favor. The Abyss Mage had gone limp again. There’s no point in playing around if it won’t be conscious to experience anything.

Kaeya checks the ties holding it in place. Starts the delicate process of locking each lock, from top to bottom. Checks his appearance in the mirror and dabs off flecks of crimson with a fresh towel. Then, after maneuvering through dark tunnels, finds his way outside.

A cool breeze and the night sky greet him.

The walk back to Mondstadt is smooth, all things considered. Knights establishing supply lines for the wounded salute him and care little of his appearance outside the city limits in the aftermath of a crisis. Such is the nature of the ever enigmatic Cavalry Captain, they would figure, not thinking much else of it.

He reaches the main gates and waves at the two guards stationed there.

“Sir! We have an urgent message for you,” the guard on the left says. “She’s… she’s awake. At the Favonious Cathedral—”

“I’ll be there immediately. Any Knights related business is to be relayed to the Acting Grand Master, not me. Got it?”

“Yes sir!”

On his walk there, he spots a discarded basket which he immediately recognizes as yours. You twisted the material together yourself while he sulked over the lack of attention. It’s a delicate process, you told him, that if he interrupted, he’d get to sleep on the couch for a week. The warning did little to deter him. He kept finding ways to steal you away from your task, sating his near bottomless desire for your presence.

Scattered vegetables stomped flat and wilting pitifully surround it. Far too much for any one person. You must’ve been preparing a nice, home cooked meal for him. What a sneaky little minx you are, you told him it was going to be tavern food, and he fell for it. He must be losing his touch.

Kaeya frowns, picks it up, then continues his journey to the Cathedral, one main thought pressing on his mind.

He hopes you don’t ever get better at lying.

Equinox. Yan Kaeya x F Reader [COMM]

Warnings: Underlying yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, torture (not on Reader), near-death experience.  Word count: 3.3k. The spiritual successor of Transfixed.

It was a remarkably unremarkable day.

You had fallen into a regular routine that, while not as whimsical and adventurous as the tales told by adventurers downing their third drink at Angel’s Share, brought you contentment. It could be your personal philosophy, but you’d like to think everyone who travels is in search of something. Whether it be material riches or more elusive pursuits such as belonging. In that way, though you don’t have treasure troves aplenty overflowing with gleaming jewels and lustrous gold, you still consider yourself an accomplished adventurer.

You set out looking for a new place to belong — and you found it. Is that not fulfilling the basic tenets adventurers err toward following?

Keep reading