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chilling-seavey · 6 days ago

Note

I thought of for TWIG, George fucking you so hard and you guys are having intimate and passional sex but have to be quiet when you hear your son and daughter wanting to come into your guys bedroom

This took me ages to get to but thank you for your patience!! I have to keep reminding myself not to search for perfection with these blurbs, but to just write for the sake of writing, for developing this universe together, and just being chill about it

Warnings: 18+, smut, imperfection, silly domestic moments, nipple play fingering, lazy handjobs, grinding, protected sex, getting interrupted.

A comfortable quiet had settled over the house that evening, your son and daughter long since tucked in and asleep and you and George having retired to your own room not long after. You were sitting on your bed and folding some clean laundry by the warm light of your bedside lamps as George showered in the ensuite, leaving a nice calming white noise to help you focus. It was just another quiet night of domestic bliss, the kind where even chores felt a little sweeter with George home. You always felt a little lighter.

Soon, the shower turned off although you didn’t bat an eye, focused on the last of your folding—some of your son’s little underwear and socks mixed in with yours and George’s—unbothered by your husband’s lengthy nighttime routine after six years of marital bliss. However, the routine normally went on thirty minutes was cut short as the door opened barely five minutes after the water had shut off. You glanced over at him.

George stood there in the doorway in only his towel sitting low around his waist and that ridiculous skinny headband of his that kept his hair out of his face on the days he didn’t want to wash it. He looked rather silly, honestly, with his hair stuck up at weird angles from the hairband and his skin still flushed from his shower, but he had this look on his face that meant business.

You smothered back your snort, folding another pair of tiny undies before adding it to the growing pile on the bed, “Hello.”

“Hello, yourself,” George replied smoothly, pushing himself off the doorframe to saunter towards you.

“How was your shower?” you asked casually.

“Invigorating,” was his effortless reply.

You hummed in reply, an amused smile on your lips, your eyes soaking up every inch of him as he drew closer as if he were an animal seeking a mate. Sure, he was bumping up the dramatics just to make you smile but he really didn’t have to, just the sight of his body was enough to have you succumbing to his desires quite easily. You didn’t even shy away as you stared at his abs and the line of hair that reached from his navel down past the fabric of the towel hung low on his hips, barely covering his v-lines.

“And steamy, huh?” you teased, eyes flicking down to the obvious bulge pressing up against the front of his towel before turning back to the laundry. You could tell he wasn’t entirely hard but he was certainly getting there.

He chuckled lowly, “Guess you could say that.”

You stacked the piles of folded undergarments back into the laundry basket to be put away in the morning and you pushed it towards him. He took it and walked it over to the chair in the corner without complaint, setting it aside for later.

When he turned back to you, his fingers moved to toy with the edge of his towel as he pitched smoothly, “You up for a little romp?”

You laughed out loud at his word choice, slumping back against the headboard, amused, “I could be persuaded.”

Teasingly slowly, he untucked the fabric of his towel and let it fall to the floor at his feet, leaving him entirely bare apart from that ridiculous hairband. He stepped over the towel towards you, one slow step and then another, and you shamelessly let your eyes take him all in as he strode closer and closer.

Then, just before he reached you, something sent him doubling over, slamming a hand down against the mattress at the side of the bed with a sharp, “Fuck!”

Normally you would have reminded him to keep quiet given your children were asleep down the hall and his voice had just echoed far too loud through the room, but he was bent over the foot of the bed, seemingly in agony.

“What happened?!” you asked hurriedly.

“Fucking…” he muttered, strained, through his teeth as he bent down to pick something up and toss it onto the bed in front of you. The single yellow Lego brick stood out against the sheets, “Lego fucking everywhere in this house.”

“Oh, geez,” you picked it up from the bed and leaned over to put it safely on your bedside table before setting a hand on his shoulder, “I’m so sorry, love. Laurie was playing in here this morning with me and I thought I had picked all the pieces up.”

“S’okay,” George groaned, flexing his foot to try and lessen the pain with his forearms holding him up on the side of the bed, fists clenched.

“Those hurt like a bitch,” you acknowledged with a soft chuckle, “Want me to rub your foot? Kiss it better?”

George let out a breathy laugh and a shake of his head in disbelief, “Just wanted to seduce my wife.”

“You did,” you assured him with a soft chuckle, “Consider me wooed.”

He groaned and climbed onto the bed with you in all his nakedness, flopping backwards with a sigh. You adjusted yourself to join him laying down, snuggling up at his side with your arm around his chest, and you leaned in to kiss his cheek and along his jawline. His arm wrapped around you like second nature, pulling you closer, and adjusted your position so you were both lying chest to chest. Naturally, his thigh nudged between yours and you lifted a leg up to wrap around his waist, entangling yourself together with practiced ease.

George sighed pleasantly into your hair and left a kiss to the same spot while his hand traveled down your body, mapping out your every curve, before finally grabbing a firm handful of your ass. You arched into him at his touch, sharing breathy giggles as your lips sought his in a dreamy kiss. It was casual and lighthearted, tangled together on your bed and sharing lazy kisses to end your evening, hands roaming over familiar bodies and flushed skin.

Soon, your pyjama pants were off and discarded to the floor and before you could get your shirt to follow, he was leaning down to tongue at your breasts through the thin fabric. His large hands caressed your figure, drawing you impossibly closer, encouraging you to grind against his thigh with just a bit more insistence. Your breath was shallow as he kissed and teased your nipples through your shirt until the fabric was dampening from his spit, helping to harden them up until they peaked the material.

When his thumb and forefinger pinched one of your nipples through your shirt, he let his lips find yours again, licking his way into your mouth in such a way that had you whimpering into his kiss. Your leg tightened around his waist and you rubbed your clothed cunt against his firm thigh and he pushed it harder between your legs to give you more pressure. Groaning into his kiss, your fingers tangled in the back of his hair while your body rocked needily against his. A sensual and warm evening to share.

And then his hand was slipping down the back of your panties and he was shallowly fingering your pussy while you rubbed your clit against his thigh, nothing but the rustle of sheets and the sounds of your shared breaths and sloppy kisses filling your room. When you broke apart to breathe, you fluttered your eyes open to look up at him, nose to nose, cheeks flushed, gazes locked like there was nothing else you wanted to look at for the rest of your lives.

Until your attention was brought to his hairbund still keeping his hair pushed back from his face and you laughed softly and grasped the back of it to pull it off his head. George ruffled a hand through his hair.

“What? The hairband wasn’t doing it for you?” he asked playfully.

“Not quite,” you giggled.

He leaned in to kiss your neck and his hands pulled back long enough to start to push up the bottom of your shirt with a teasing, “Well your shirt isn’t doing it for me either.”

You helped him peel it off of you, quickly followed by your underwear, leaving you just as beautifully naked as he was. George’s lips were all over you like a man starved, kissing and sucking down the column of your neck, over your collarbones, your breasts, anywhere he could reach and shower you in affection. You could feel his erection against your thigh, taunting you with every roll of your bodies against each other.

Finally, you reached down to get your hand on him, blindly stroking him in lazy motions as your eyes fluttered shut with bliss. George groaned against your neck, his fingers finding their way inside you again in shallow nudges just enough to keep you rocking against his thigh. There was no rush or any desire to make the other come faster, it was simply two individuals basking in love and sensuality, making the other feel good, sharing in your closeness.

Eventually, George was rolling you over onto your back, pinning you flat to the mattress as he reached over to yank open your bedside table drawer. You busied yourself with kissing his neck and shoulders, trailing your fingertips up his sides and over the curve of his ass and into the roots of his hair, patient. He smelled so fresh and clean from his shower and you couldn’t help but inhale the scent of his skin deeply with your nose pressed just under his ear.

George sat back on his haunches between your spread legs and ripped open the condom packet with a mumbled, “We gotta book you an appointment to get you back on the IUD.”

It had been three years since you had your daughter but life with two kids and your husband out of town most of the year, it just kept getting pushed back on your list of priorities. You acknowledged his statement with a soft hum, watching him roll the condom on himself before he was shifting to lay beside you. He bent your leg up towards your chest so he could get close enough to angle the head of his protected cock against your cunt, giving it a little nudge.

“Comfy?” he asked as his other arm slid under your neck to cradle you close.

“Mhm…” you adjusted yourself a little so he could reach you better, “Good.”

His lips pressed to yours in a gentle kiss as he pressed into you slowly, giving you a few slow, shallow thrusts to ease deeper until you were both groaning softly into each other’s mouths. Your fingers clutched the back of his hair as he leaned over you a little, propped up on one side while you were splayed out on your back for him, leg kinked up just enough to give him room.

George exhaled lowly between tender kisses, breaking away to mutter a small, “Fuck.”

You reached a hand down to rub at your clit, panting against his cheek in your close proximity, taking every gentle thrust he offered you with quiet grace. Neither of you had to speak—after years together, nights like this often progressed as a simple way to scratch an itch—and, instead, you spoke with your eyes, gazing at each other and breathing as one.

You pulled him down by the back of his neck to get his lips back on yours, moaning sweetly into his mouth as the warmth of pleasure filled your veins. George’s hand tightened on your thigh, keeping your leg bent up to your chest, using it as something to steady himself as he shoved into you a little harder. When you gasped into his kiss, he licked up the sounds of your pleasure with his tongue.

The two of you stayed there, with your lips pressed together, motionless, letting your bodies lead the way. Beneath you, the bed creaked faintly as he set his rhythm a little harder now, his once clean skin starting to feel warm and sweaty against yours as he cradled you close. Your fingers worked faster on your clit as the stretch of him thrusting inside you was drawing you closer.

“Shit,” you huffed, breaking away from his kiss, resting your forehead against his, “I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah?” George replied warmly against your cheek, not letting up for a second, “Yeah, go on then.”

As much as the world fell away when you were with him in moments such as that, it never fell away enough that hindered your maternal instincts and the second you heard the rattle of the doorknob to your bedroom, you were torn from the moment. George didn’t hear it at first and, instead, he ducked his face into your neck and kept going.

You pressed your hand against his waist with a slightly panicked, “Stop.”

“What?” George mumbled, lifting his head up to meet your gaze with concern with his cock still nestled inside you.

“Did you lock the door?”

“Yeah, of course.”

There was another rattle of the doorknob followed by a small muffled call from the hallway, “Mommy?”

George huffed and when he eased out of you, he flopped flat onto his back, pulling the duvet up around him as you scrambled to get up and answer the call of your son. You tugged your robe on and hurried to the door, unlocking it and opening it to reveal your six-year-old on the other side, holding the hand of his three-year-old sister, both little ones in their pyjamas and their hair mussed from sleep.

Motherhood made you an expert at hiding the frustrated disappointment in your voice in moments like this, and you passed as nothing more than soft and casual as you asked, “Hey, you two, what’s going on?”

Lawrence nudged his little sister towards you, “She came into my bed.”

Charlotte, displeased with him pushing her away, stopped her little feet on the hardwood and let out a small cry before slinging her arms possessively around her brother’s waist. Lawrence merely blinked at you, unimpressed, as if to say ‘are you seeing this?’.

You sighed, both with fondness at the sight of how much love your youngest had for her brother as well as exasperation that she was using that love to bother him at all hours of the night, “Sorry, Laurie, did she wake you?”

He nodded.

“Dotty,” you cooed to your youngest as you bent down to scoop her up despite her protests, “you can’t go waking up brother in the middle of the night for a snuggle. He needs to sleep.”

The three-year-old held out her arms to her brother from where she was placed on your hip and she let out a small cry, “Laurie!”

You held her down towards him, “Kiss goodnight. You can have cuddles in the morning.”

Lawrence leaned in to kiss his little sister’s cheek which seemed to pacify her, “Night night, Dot. No more waking me up.”

You rangled your children back to bed in their proper rooms, tucking them both back in again and fetching glasses of water upon their demands, and soon you were back in your own room. George was right where you left him, stretched out in bed, duvet draped over his middle, and now with his phone in his hand. He glanced up when you returned and you joined him under the covers with an exasperated sigh.

“Our kids need to hate each other more, like normal siblings,” you grumbled lightly.

“She snuck into his room again?” George asked with an understanding chuckle.

“Uh huh.”

He shook his head in disbelief and set his phone down on the bedside table, “Jesus…”

“And now I’m not in the mood anymore.”

“It’s alright…me neither,” George sighed and rolled over to snake an arm around your waist, “We’ll pick it up another time.”

“When they’re moved out.”

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reveryfics · 4 days ago

Note

In LOVE with how you write Clark. Like, yeah this is totally the Clark Kent I imagine in my head.

I've got this request. Reader is a journalist at the Planet and he has one sided beef with Clark because he thinks this dude from Smallville looks down on him (literally and figuratively cause hes shorter lol) but the truth is reader is totally down bad for Clark and he's just in denial.

And what angers reader the most is that Clark meets his hostility with patience and kindness, which must be fake and he must be secretly laughing and making fun of him.

(He's not. Clark is also just as down bad for him but reader can't clock that shit because he's emotionally constipated😭)

(This is my first fic request ever, kinda nervous lol)

Not So One-sided

Clark Kent x Male Reader

Summary: Your one-sided rivalry with Clark Kent at The Daily Planet was a constant source of frustration; he just smiled at all your snide remarks. You insisted you hated him, but Clark, on the other hand, was completely and utterly in love with you.

A/N: I'm glad that someone likes how i write Clark, I'm mainly basing him off the more cheerful side that I grew up with comic wise and also James Gunn's version. Hoping this meets expectations, especially since it's your first request.

TW: Fluff - Rivals to Lovers (kinda)

Clark Kent. The name alone was enough to make your teeth clench. You’d crowned him your self-proclaimed work rival, a title he was blissfully, perhaps even infuriatingly, unaware of. In reality, your rivalry was as one-sided as Lex Luthor’s obsessive vendetta against Superman – a fervent, all-consuming focus on your part, met with… well, almost nothing on his. You’d meticulously constructed this elaborate facade of animosity, convincing yourself that your intense dislike stemmed from his supposed condescension, a perpetual sense of him looking down on you. It couldn't possibly be, you rationalized, simply because he physically towered over you, his height a constant, undeniable reminder of his presence.

Every time your byline graced the Daily Planet’s front page, accompanied by your impactful photographs, Clark would inevitably offer what felt like a backhanded compliment. A subtle smile would play on his lips, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, even when you delivered a pointed jab his way, laced with all the thinly veiled hostility you could muster. He met every snide remark, every sarcastic retort, every overt attempt to provoke a reaction, with an almost preternatural kindness and an unwavering patience that drove you absolutely insane. It was enough to make you want to pull your own hair out in sheer frustration, because deep down, in the furthest reaches of your stubbornly guarded heart, the truth was far more complicated: you desperately wanted to hate Clark, but you couldn't. Because you liked him.

You liked that infuriatingly charming, stupid smile that seemed to effortlessly disarm your defenses. You liked those big, blue eyes that held an unsettling depth and seemed to genuinely see you, even when you were at your most prickly. You liked the way his dark curls perpetually fell across his forehead, a constant, endearing disarray. And God, did you like his voice – a low, steady rumble that somehow managed to soothe the jagged edges of your manufactured resentment. You, in your magnificent state of emotional unawareness, were utterly blind to the fact that Clark harbored similar feelings for you. You, the self-proclaimed idiot, were too dense to recognize the way his gaze lingered on you, the quiet admiration in his expression that mirrored your own secret affections.

The late hour had long since passed any reasonable quitting time, yet here you were, still hunched over your desk. The only illumination came from the soft glow of your desk lamp, casting long shadows across the stack of freshly developed photographs of Superman from a few days prior. You’d watched almost everyone else from the newsroom pack up their bags and head out, the clatter of keyboards and the murmur of conversations gradually fading into a profound silence. Except for Clark. Of course, Clark was still here. He claimed to be diligently working on a new article, his head bent over his own desk a few rows away. But your mind, ever the conspirator against your own peace, kept whispering a different narrative: he was still here to watch you. To look down on you. Just like he always did.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. The silence of the newsroom was getting to you, amplifying the frantic whispers of your own mind. You tried to focus on the intricate details of Superman's suit in your photographs, on the way the light caught his cape, but your eyes kept darting to the periphery. And there he was, just as your paranoia had predicted. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Clark Kent. His head was no longer bent over his desk; instead, his gaze was fixed on you.

A knot tightened in your stomach. This was it. He was going to say something, offer another one of his infuriatingly backhanded compliments, or worse, comment on your late hours, implying you weren't efficient enough to finish your work on time. Your jaw tensed. You weren't going to let him get the upper hand. Not tonight.

Before he could even open his mouth, before that perpetually kind, yet somehow infuriating, smile could grace his lips, you snapped, your voice cutting through the quiet. "Still here, Kent? Thought you'd be tucked into bed by now, dreaming of Pulitzer Prizes and farming conventions." You didn't even look up, feigning intense concentration on your photos, but you could feel his eyes on you, unwavering. You waited, a coil of tension in your shoulders, for his inevitable, saccharine response.

A beat of silence hung in the air, a silence so profound it felt louder than any noise. You braced yourself, every fiber of your being preparing for the usual placid response, the easy dismissal, the unwavering kindness that always chafed at your carefully constructed hostility.

Then, a soft chuckle. It wasn't the boisterous laugh you'd sometimes hear from the sports desk, nor the sardonic snort from the hardened investigative reporters. It was a low, warm sound that seemed to hum through the quiet office, raising the fine hairs on your arms.

"Something like that," Clark's voice drifted over, surprisingly close, making you jump slightly. You hadn't heard him move. You risked a quick glance up, and there he was, standing beside your desk, a gentle smile playing on his lips. He wasn't leaning over you, or looking down in the way you always imagined. Instead, he was standing slightly to the side, his posture open, one hand casually tucked into his pocket. Those big blue eyes, the ones you secretly adored, were crinkling at the corners, not with pity or condescension, but with something akin to amusement and… warmth?

He gestured vaguely at your desk, his gaze sweeping over the scattered photographs of Superman. "Still perfecting your art, I see. You really do have a knack for capturing the Man of Steel in action. These shots from the docks are particularly dynamic." His voice was genuine, devoid of any of the passive-aggression you habitually read into his words.

Your prepared retort, sharp and biting, withered on your tongue. You felt a blush creep up your neck, a traitorous heat that threatened to betray your carefully maintained composure. He wasn't taunting you. He was… complimenting you. Sincerely. It was disorienting, like walking into a familiar room only to find the furniture rearranged.

You cleared your throat, trying to regain your footing. "Just doing my job, Kent. Unlike some people who seem to think they're on a perpetual coffee break." The words felt weak, even to your own ears, stripped of their intended venom by his unexpected sincerity.

Clark's smile softened further, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "Well, your 'job' always manages to make the front page, doesn't it?" He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And for the record, I was just finishing up a lead for the Metropolis homelessness piece. It's a bit heavier than a coffee break, I assure you."

He wasn't looking down on you. He was just... Clark. And in that moment, under the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights, the carefully constructed wall you'd built around yourself seemed to wobble, just a little.

"Then why, Clark? Why do you do this every single time?" Your voice rose, cracking slightly as the carefully constructed dam of your irritation finally burst. You stomped a foot, the sound echoing in the suddenly too-quiet newsroom. You were practically vibrating with a mixture of frustration, confusion, and a burgeoning, terrifying realization. You jabbed a finger, hard, at his chest, your index finger thudding against the soft fabric of his shirt, right over his heart.

"Every. Single. Time!" you repeated, your voice climbing higher, a frantic, desperate edge to it. "I make a jab, a remark, something deliberately mean, and you just… smile! You just stand there, with that stupid, infuriatingly kind smile, and you act like I'm not actively trying to be the biggest jerk on the planet to you!" Your arm was still outstretched, your finger still pressing into him, but he didn't flinch. He didn't even stiffen. His big blue eyes remained soft, his smile unwavering, a serene, almost maddeningly patient expression on his face.

You started pacing in a tight circle in front of him, your hands gesticulating wildly. "Do you have any idea how maddening that is, Kent? Do you know what it’s like to try and genuinely despise someone, to work up a good, solid, healthy hatred, and they just… absorb it? Like some kind of emotional sponge? It's not normal! People are supposed to get angry! They're supposed to get defensive! They're supposed to yell back! But not you! Oh no, not Clark Kent!" You threw your hands up in exasperation, then let them fall with a smack against your thighs. "It’s like you want to drive me insane! Is that it? Is this some kind of twisted game? Are you trying to prove you're some kind of saint, a paragon of patience?"

You stopped abruptly, panting slightly, your chest heaving from the unexpected outburst. Your eyes were wide, probably a little wild, and for the first time in your life, you felt completely exposed, utterly stripped bare in front of him. You waited for him to finally snap, to yell, to show any sign of anger.

But he didn't. That infuriatingly gentle smile remained fixed, those kind eyes still twinkling. After a moment of pure silence, a silence filled only with the frantic beating of your own heart, Clark spoke, his voice calm, even, as if you hadn't just had a complete meltdown.

"Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?" he asked, his voice soft, almost conversational.

Your brain, already short-circuiting from the emotional overload, ground to a complete halt. Dinner? Tomorrow? With him? Your mouth opened and closed uselessly, like a fish out of water. "I… uh… what?" you managed, a pathetic stutter escaping your lips. Your cheeks flushed a furious red. How were you even supposed to respond to that? To this? After all that?

Clark seemed to finally register the utter shock on your face, the way your body had stiffened, your eyes wide with disbelief. His smile softened further, if that were even possible, and he quickly added, "Oh! I didn't mean anything other than, you know, as friends? Getting something to eat. To catch up. We rarely get to, with our schedules."

Friends? The word hit you like a physical blow, simultaneously ridiculous and devastating. Friends? After you'd just spent the last five minutes having a public, one-sided argument, after months of snide remarks and thinly veiled antagonism, he thought you were friends? This man, who met every insult with kindness, every jab with patience, every attempt at hostility with unwavering warmth, actually considered you a friend?

It was too much. That smile, so genuine, so open, was too much. His unwavering patience was too much. Everything about Clark Kent, in that moment, was simply too much to handle. Your mind screamed at you to say no, to maintain the facade, to retreat into your usual prickly shell. But the words, unbidden, were already tumbling out.

"Yeah," you blurted, the word escaping before you could even process it, before you could put up any resistance. "Yeah, I'd like that."

The small Italian restaurant Clark had chosen was exactly the kind of place you’d never step foot in normally. Tucked away on a quiet side street in Metropolis, its red-and-white checkered tablecloths and the warm, garlic-infused aroma seemed to hum with an intimate, unpretentious charm. Clark had sworn it had some of the best lasagna in the city, a bold claim you privately scoffed at.

The first twenty minutes were a study in excruciating awkwardness. You’d arrived a few minutes early, then instantly regretted it. Clark was already there, perched at a small, round table in the corner, looking impossibly relaxed in a simple button-down shirt that somehow still managed to emphasize his broad shoulders. He’d smiled that soft, genuine smile as you approached, and you’d barely managed a mumbled greeting before slipping into the opposite seat, clutching the menu like a lifeline.

You avoided his gaze with a fervor that bordered on athletic. Your eyes meticulously scanned the faded print of the menu, then drifted to the chipped paint on the wall, then fixated on a particularly stubborn stain on the tablecloth. Anything to avoid meeting those too-blue eyes. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware from other tables and the distant murmur of conversation. You could feel the warmth of his presence across the small table, a palpable weight that made your palms subtly sweat. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to make a sarcastic remark, to break the tension with a jab, but the memory of your meltdown in the newsroom, and your utterly baffling agreement to this dinner, kept your mouth clamped shut.

It wasn't until the waiter, a cheerful man with a magnificent mustache, finally placed two steaming plates of lasagna in front of you that Clark broke the silence. The rich, savory scent instantly filled the space between you, a welcome distraction. You picked up your fork, determined to focus on the food, when Clark’s voice, quiet but clear, cut through the aroma.

"Do you really hate me?"

Your fork, halfway to your mouth, froze. The simple, direct question hit you like a sucker punch. You slowly lowered the fork, your gaze still fixed on your plate. Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was it. The moment of reckoning. You’d expected some witty banter, some lighthearted chat about work, anything but this blunt, disarming inquiry.

"Or," he continued, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, "is there... something else going on?"

You finally, reluctantly, lifted your head. His big blue eyes were fixed on you, unblinking, serious, devoid of the usual amusement or kindness you usually associated with them. They held a genuine curiosity, a quiet question that demanded an honest answer. The heat in your cheeks flared, and you found yourself completely speechless, trapped in the uncomfortable truth that was suddenly laid bare between you.

You swallowed hard, the lasagna suddenly feeling like a lump in your throat. This was the moment you'd dreaded, the conversation you'd actively avoided for months, years even. To admit the truth, the raw, inconvenient truth, felt like stripping off your skin in the middle of a crowded room.

"What do you mean, 'something else'?" you finally managed to rasp, your voice barely a whisper. You tried to sound indignant, but it came out more like a plea. Your eyes darted around, anywhere but at him, but his unwavering gaze pulled you back like a magnet.

Clark put his fork down, his movements slow and deliberate. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "You go out of your way to be… well, to be difficult. To be mean, even," he said, surprisingly gently. There was no accusation in his tone, just a quiet observation. "But then you show up to this dinner, even after everything you said. And the way you threw your fit the other night… it didn't feel like hate. It felt like… something else. Like you were trying very hard to push me away, but for a reason I don't understand."

He paused, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he was going to articulate the very feelings you were desperately trying to bury. Instead, he simply looked at you, his big blue eyes still incredibly kind, but now tinged with a genuine curiosity that unnerved you more than any anger ever could. "So, is it hate? Or is there something else going on?"

The directness of his question, coupled with his absolute lack of judgment, chipped away at your defenses. You wanted to lie, to deny it all, to retreat into your usual sarcastic shell. But something in his gaze, a profound patience, made it impossible. The words felt foreign on your tongue, clumsy and exposed, but once they started, they tumbled out in a rush.

"It's not hate," you blurted, the admission tearing through the carefully constructed walls you'd maintained for so long. Your voice was barely audible. You felt a hot flush creep up your neck, knowing your face was probably scarlet. You picked at a loose thread on the tablecloth, unable to look at him.

"I... I don't know what it is," you continued, the words a jumbled mess of half-formed thoughts and raw emotion. "I just... you're always so... good. So nice. And I don't understand it. Everyone else, they get annoyed, they get angry. But you just... smile. And it makes me feel like an idiot for even trying to get a reaction out of you. It makes me feel... small. Like I'm just a kid throwing a tantrum and you're the grown-up who just lets it wash over them." You finally dared a quick glance at him. His smile was still there, a soft, understanding curve of his lips, and it somehow made it even harder to confess.

"And," you whispered, the last part of the confession almost swallowed by the ambient restaurant noise, "and it's easier to pretend to hate you than to admit... to admit that I actually..." You trailed off, unable to voice the unspoken word, the true reason for your elaborate charade. It hung in the air between you, a fragile, unspoken truth.

Clark didn't say anything immediately, letting your hesitant confession hang in the air between the checkered tablecloths and the scent of marinara. You braced yourself for a patronizing nod, a gentle pat on the hand, anything that would confirm your deepest fear: that he saw you as a fragile, overly emotional mess. But he just watched you, his big blue eyes still incredibly gentle, yet now, a new light seemed to spark within them – recognition, perhaps even understanding.

Then, a soft, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, different from his usual polite or amused one. This one was intimate, a private acknowledgment. "You actually..." he started, his voice a low rumble, completing your unspoken thought. He didn't mock, didn't gloat. He simply... accepted it. And in that acceptance, the immense, crushing weight you hadn't even realized you were carrying began to lift.

"It's funny," Clark continued, his gaze drifting thoughtfully towards the flickering candle on the table. "Because I always wondered why you went to such lengths. Most people, if they dislike someone, they just avoid them. But you... you always seemed to seek me out, just to tell me how much you didn't like me. It was confusing, and honestly, a little charming." He chuckled softly, a warm, genuine sound that resonated deeply within you.

He met your gaze again, and this time, the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable, a direct reflection of the warmth blooming in your own chest. "And for the record," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I always liked that fire. That passion. Even when it was directed at me." A faint blush, the barest hint of pink, dusted his cheeks. "And I... I never thought of you as an idiot. Or small. Just... a little misguided."

You stared at him, your mind reeling. He liked your "fire"? He found your antics "charming"? This was so far beyond anything you had ever anticipated, so completely out of the realm of your meticulously crafted reality, that you could only gape. The words you wanted to say, the questions that flooded your mind, got tangled in your throat.

Clark reached across the table, his fingers gently covering your hand, which was still resting limply on the tablecloth. His touch was warm, reassuring, and sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with surprise and everything to do with a quiet, undeniable longing. His thumb gently stroked the back of your hand.

"So," he said, his smile widening, his eyes twinkling playfully, "now that we've cleared the air... are we still going to pretend you hate me, or can we just enjoy this lasagna?"

You felt a laugh bubble up, surprised and breathless, a genuine laugh that felt entirely new. It wasn't the bitter, sarcastic laugh you usually employed, but a light, unburdened sound. You looked at his hand on yours, then up into his kind, knowing eyes, and for the first time, you felt truly seen, truly understood.

"I think," you managed, your voice still a little shaky but filled with a new lightness, "I think I can manage to enjoy the lasagna, Kent."

The shared smile that followed, unburdened by pretense or rivalry, felt like the real beginning of something.

The rest of the dinner unfolded with a surprising ease that neither of you had anticipated. The initial awkwardness melted away like butter on a hot plate of that delicious lasagna. You talked about work, not with the usual undercurrent of rivalry, but with a genuine exchange of ideas and insights. You learned about Clark's struggles with a particularly stubborn source for his homelessness article, and he listened intently as you animatedly described the challenges of getting the perfect action shot of Superman without getting trampled.

His questions were insightful, his comments genuinely appreciative of your skills, and you found yourself laughing more freely than you had in ages. It wasn't the forced, cynical laugh you often employed, but a genuine, unburdened sound. You even caught yourself marveling at the way his dark curls fell across his forehead when he leaned in to hear you better over the restaurant's gentle hum, or the crinkling at the corners of his big blue eyes when he smiled at something you said.

By the time the dessert arrived – a shared tiramisu that was surprisingly light and creamy – the conversation had drifted from work to more personal anecdotes. He told you about growing up on a farm, a life so different from your own urban upbringing that it fascinated you. You, in turn, found yourself sharing stories about your early days as a photographer, the struggles and the triumphs you rarely spoke of to anyone. There was a comfortable rhythm to your conversation, a natural back-and-forth that felt as effortless as breathing.

A Quiet Walk Home

As you stepped out of the warm restaurant into the cool Metropolis night, the city lights shimmered like scattered diamonds. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of exhaust fumes mixed with something indefinable, uniquely urban. Clark didn't immediately call for a cab; instead, he simply started walking, a silent invitation you surprisingly accepted.

The walk was punctuated by comfortable silences, punctuated by soft murmurs and shared observations about the city around you. You found yourself walking closer to him than you ever would have dared before, your shoulders occasionally brushing. It was a subtle contact, barely there, yet it sent a quiet thrill through you.

When you finally reached your apartment building, the towering structure seemed to loom even larger against the night sky. You stopped at the entrance, turning to face him. The streetlight above cast a soft glow, illuminating the easy smile on his face.

"I... I actually had a really good time, Clark," you admitted, the words feeling foreign yet wonderfully true on your tongue. The residual heat from your blush still lingered on your cheeks.

His smile softened, and he took a small step closer. "Me too," he said, his voice a low, warm tone that wrapped around you like a comforting blanket. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and full of that quiet understanding that had disarmed you at dinner. "More than a good time, actually."

He reached out, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he might touch your face, or perhaps even take your hand again. Instead, his fingers gently brushed against your arm, a light, almost hesitant touch. "Thank you for coming," he murmured.

You found yourself wanting to prolong the moment, to find an excuse to stay there under the streetlight with him just a little longer. But the night was drawing to a close, and a new kind of nervousness, entirely separate from your usual prickly demeanor, began to flutter in your chest.

"Goodnight, Clark," you said softly, your voice a little breathy.

"Goodnight," he replied, his smile still warm. He lingered for another moment, his big blue eyes holding yours in a gaze that seemed to convey so much more than just a simple farewell.

As you turned and walked into the lobby, you resisted the urge to look back. But you could feel his presence, a lingering warmth in the cool night air, long after the heavy glass doors swung shut behind you. The elevator ride up felt too fast, the silence of your apartment too loud. You walked over to the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peek out. Clark was still there, standing on the sidewalk below, looking up at your building. Even from this distance, you could sense his smile, a silent promise hanging in the Metropolis night.

You let the curtain fall, a genuine, unbidden smile gracing your own lips. The rivalry was dead. And something entirely new, something thrilling and terrifying and wonderfully hopeful, had just begun.

#clark kent #clark kent x male reader #superman x male reader #dc superman #superman dc #dc fanfic #dc #dc x male reader #fanfic #fanfiction #mlm #x male reader #xmalereader #james gunn superman #david corenswet #fluff #requested

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ponderingmoonlight · 3 months ago

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one stolen kiss pt. 2

Pairing: Guren x fem!reader; slight Kureto x fem!reader hehehe

Word Count: 2,3k

Synopsis: As if your annoyance didn't already reached its limit when Guren decided to kiss you out of the blue, you find yourself in his office a few days later. But it's not only him who urges to see you again...

Warnings: I never planned to make more than a one shot out of part 1 so the story still didn't fully develop and probably never will lol (all thanks to pookie @shinecrystalmoon). Buuut I have a plot in mind and this story will have around 3-5 chapters. If you wanna get tagged let me know <3

Part One: Click here

-> Part Three: Click here

The days following the battle are absolute hell.

Not because of the injuries, not because of the examinations, not even because of the cleanup efforts that follow every mission.

No.

It’s because of Guren fucking Ichinose.

The bastard has taken up residence in your head, and he isn’t leaving anytime soon.

Every time you close your eyes, you can still feel his lips on yours - firm, demanding, knowing. The way his fingers curled around your wrist, the way his grip burned against the nape of your neck, the way his breath ghosted over your skin like he had all the time in the world to unravel you.

You hate it.

Hate how your heart still jumps when you replay the moment in your head. Hate how your skin burns with phantom touches that aren’t there. Hate that he looked so damn smug after you slapped him, like he had expected it, like he had enjoyed it.

And worst of all, hate that he was right.

This won’t be the last time. This was just the beginning of a journey you didn’t ask for, an open door to a path you so desperately fought against with every fiber of your being.

You simply cannot allow Guren to get under your skin. You can’t afford to catch feeling for a man who turns heads on a regular basis, who only toys with you. The first time you’ve met him, you swore on your life that you won’t let it happen, that you’re immune.

Your frustration builds over the days like a volcano on the brink of eruption. Every moment spent sparring, every meeting, every sideways glance you throw his way - he’s there, radiating that effortless confidence, that irritating charisma, and not once does he acknowledge what happened.

Like it was nothing. Like it hasn’t changed a damn thing.

Well, maybe it hasn’t for him. Maybe it was just another game, another power play, another way to remind you that he’s always one step ahead.

But for you?

It’s a problem. A huge, infuriating, all-consuming problem.

So when you’re summoned to his office one evening for a mission report, you’re already on edge.

You storm down the hall, gripping the stack of reports so tightly your knuckles ache. It’s late, the corridors of the headquarters mostly deserted, save for a few passing officers who barely glance your way. The last thing you need is to be alone in a room with him for the first time after that.

But you have no choice. After all, he is still your superior. And you worked way too hard to get personal feelings in your way at this point.

With a deep breath, you knock once before pushing open the door.

Guren is seated at his desk, one leg crossed over the other, his uniform jacket discarded over the back of his chair. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his fingers lazily spinning a pen between them. When he looks up, his dark eyes gleam with unmistakable amusement.

“You’re late.”

You slam the reports onto his desk with a force that makes the nearby lamp rattle. Don’t let him get under your skin, don’t listen to what that jerk is saying.

“I was busy.”

He hums, unimpressed.

“Busy thinking about me?”

Your breath catches. For a second, your brain short-circuits, and that half-second of silence is all he needs.

His smirk widens.

“You were, weren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“I’m flattered.”

You clench your jaw, barely resisting the urge to launch a stapler at his head.

“I wasn’t thinking about you”, you lie shamelessly.

Guren leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his chin propped on one hand.

“Liar.”

Your nails dig into your palms.

“Can we just get this over with, Sir?”

“Oh? In a hurry?”

His tone is maddeningly casual.

“Got somewhere better to be?”

“Yes. Anywhere that isn’t here.”

He chuckles, that deep, knowing sound that makes your stomach flip.

“You sure? Because I distinctly remember you not wanting to leave the last time we were this close.”

Heat rushes to your face, and you grit your teeth.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Guren tsk-tsks, feigning disappointment.

“Now, now. That’s no way to talk to your superior officer.”

“You are the absolute worst.��

“And yet,” he muses, tapping the pen against his lip, “you haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss.”

Your eye twitches.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Guren stands, rounding the desk in slow, deliberate steps, like a predator sizing up its prey. You force yourself to stand your ground, ignoring the way your pulse spikes as he comes to a stop in front of you, far too close for comfort.

“I wonder,” he murmurs, tilting his head as if considering something, “if I kissed you again, would you slap me again? Or would you just kiss me back?”

Your breath catches. Damn him. Damn him to hell.

You glare up at him, willing yourself to push past the tension, to find the upper hand, to regain control of the situation. But before you can say anything, Guren leans in just slightly, close enough that his breath fans against your cheek.

“Tell me,” he muses, “do you still feel it?”

Your entire body tenses.

“Feel what?”

His lips curve.

“Me.”

Your heart nearly slams out of your chest.

You need to leave. Now. Before you do something reckless. Before you give him another win.

Forcing yourself to take a step back, you straighten, lifting your chin.

“You’re delusional.”

Guren chuckles, but there’s something different in his expression now, something sharper, something that makes you feel like you’re playing right into his hands.

“We’ll see about that,” he murmurs.

“Sooner or later, you’ll admit it.”

You scoff.

“Admit what?”

He smiles, dark and knowing.

“That you want me just as much as I want you.”

Your throat goes dry.

Before you can frame a response, before you can throw some kind of insult his way, he steps back, exuding that same infuriating confidence, and gestures toward the reports on his desk.

“Now,” he continues, all business again, “let’s go over this mission.”

You hate him. Truly, deeply, absolutely hate him.

And yet, as you sit down across from him, struggling to focus on the damn report, you can’t stop the one undeniable truth clawing its way to the surface.

You can still feel him. And it haunts you until this silly little meeting is finally over.

The second you finish the last sentence of your report, he sends you away like the conversation before never really happened. No explanation, no discussion. Just a simple dismissal, as if the past few days, the tension, the kiss, the damn teasing, meant absolutely nothing.

It infuriates you to the core.

By the time you step into the shower, the rage boiling inside you is nearly unbearable. The hot water does nothing to soothe it, not even when your surroundings aren’t recognizable due to the fog. If anything, it only strengthens your frustration, washing away the filth and blood but doing nothing for the storm raging in your chest.

You scrub your skin harder than necessary, jaw clenched so tightly it aches. He didn’t even look at you when he gave the order. Just told you to report back, like you were some soldier to be commanded, not someone he had kissed like he was starving, someone he himself states he has feelings for.

Bastard.

The worst part? A part of you expected it. This is Guren Ichinose, after all - always one step ahead, always keeping you at arm’s length just when you think you’ve caught up. But it doesn’t make it any less irritating.

As the water runs over your shoulders, you replay the moment in his office, the way he leaned in, the way he spoke like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And then he just-

You slam your fist against the shower wall, exhaling sharply. Enough. Thinking about him won’t change anything. If he wants to push you away, fine. You’re not going to sit around waiting for him to decide when you’re worth his attention. No, actually it should be him who aches for you.

You step out, wrapping a towel around yourself, still fuming as you make your way back to your room. You’re too wrapped up in your thoughts to sense the shift in the air, the presence lurking beyond the door.

Until it’s too late.

The moment you push the door open, you freeze.

Someone is sitting on the edge of your bed, one leg crossed over the other, his posture relaxed, almost casual - except for the unmistakable air of authority that clings to him like a second skin.

Kureto Hiragi.

Your blood runs cold, an ice cold shiver runs down your spine.

His dark eyes sweep over you, taking in your damp hair, your barely covered form, and the slight hitch in your breath before his lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Took your time," he muses, voice smooth as silk, dangerous as a blade.

"I was starting to think you wouldn’t show."

You tighten your grip on the towel, your muscles coiled, your mind racing.

Why the hell is he here?

He sits like he owns the place, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled together as he watches you with the cool detachment of a man who controls everything he touches. His uniform is crisp, not a thread out of place, his presence commanding even in stillness.

Your grip tightens on the towel wrapped around you, water still dripping from your damp hair onto the floor.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?”

Kureto doesn’t answer immediately. His sharp, calculating gaze sweeps over you, evaluating, noting the lack of armor, the vulnerability of your current state, but his expression remains unreadable.

“I was waiting.”

You straighten, forcing your voice into something firm, unaffected.

“For what?”

His lips barely curve into a smirk.

“For you.”

The way he says it makes irritation bristle beneath your skin. Kureto is not the kind of man who waits on anyone. If he’s here, in your private quarters, it’s because he has a purpose. And you’re not going to like it.

“For what reason?” you press, keeping your posture rigid, unyielding.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, tone deceptively light.

“Are you and Guren a couple now?”

Your heart stutters - but only for a second.

“What?”

His dark eyes remain locked onto yours, unwavering.

“It’s a simple question. I’m sure you can handle that much, Major (y/n).”

Your jaw clenches, the way he spits out for title almost making your guts turn.

“That’s none of your business.”

Kureto tilts his head, studying you with that same cool intensity that always makes people squirm.

“So that’s a no?”

“Obviously.”

You don’t know why you feel the need to say it so vehemently, but you do.

For a moment, Kureto says nothing. Then, slowly, he stands.

“You were always stubborn,” he muses, taking a measured step toward you.

“Always so determined to stand on your own.”

Your muscles tense, but you hold your ground as he closes the distance.

“I remember when you refused my help.”

His voice is quieter now, but no less sharp.

“You wanted to achieve your dreams without my influence.”

He stops just shy of invading your space, though the air between you feels suffocating.

“I respected that.”

His gaze sharpens when he meets yours while he towers over you.

“But tell me, is Guren giving you what you want?”

Your stomach twists. Not because of the question itself, but because of the way he asks it. Because of the way it forces you to think about Guren in a way you don’t want to.

Your silence is answer enough.

Kureto exhales a quiet chuckle.

“Good,” he comments your silent answer, tilting his head.

“Because I’d hate to think you rejected me for your career, only to throw yourself at someone else.”

You don’t flinch, but something unsettles in your chest. Fuck, that’s what he’s referring to. When you first joined the Japanese imperial army, Kureto was the first who welcomed you. Did he see your potential, your unwavering urge to change the world, your abilities that already showed in the early stages of your training?

To this day, you have absolutely no idea what it was that draw his attention towards you. Fact is, that things between both of you started to get serious – too serious for your liking.

You dumped him for your career. A grave mistake?

His fingers brush against your arm, light, barely a touch, but enough to send a warning.

“If he ever crosses a line, you come to me. I’ll handle it.”

Your throat tightens. Maybe.

“I don’t need you to handle anything for me. Just like I told you back then”

Kureto’s smirk returns, but this time, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course not.”

He turns, walking toward the door. But before he steps out, he pauses - just enough to let his last words settle like ice in your veins.

“Just don’t play games with me, either.”

And then he’s gone.

You remain standing there, pulse unsteady, the room still carrying the weight of his presence.

As much as you hate to admit it, you know he meant every word.

And worse?

You know he’s watching. That both of them are watching.

-> Part 3

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honeyhenry · 1 year ago

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Apple Pie and You and I: A Very Happy Seresin

Ignore the fact it has been over a year since the last instalment...I would offer my life story but it has been HECTIC. Anyways, I have never ceased to think of Dad-to-be!Jake Seresin and since it is now the summer holidays, my gift to you is this lovely part 4 of the APAYAI series!

In the calm haze of what surely would be a sweet summer, you found rest in the peace held within the mid-June evening. Jake would return shortly from his quick job out by Mav's old place, helping Rooster refurbish the old skyline beauty Maverick hadn't had the time for lately. A whole stack of them had taken their turn, and while Jake remained a reliable friend now in the squad, he had really fought it internally, not wishing to leave your side.

Not when he could be snuggled up to his wife, on the porch or resting on the sofa, smelling the strawberry shampoo from your hair, or your shea butter moisturiser. Nor could he kiss you as and when he liked from 4.30pm, the second he got home from work, all the way to bedtime and then again in the morning before you both headed off - him to base, and you to your kindergarten class.

No, he wasn't going to be home until closer to 9 - almost 30 minutes away yet - and the worst part was, he was missing more than just you these days. The swell that continued to grow once you'd left Texas had become his new obsession - the slice of heaven that he already adored because they were going to be just like you, and make you look like the sweetest, hottest little thing this side of the States.

Resting quietly on the sofa, you await his return, knowing he'll ache and sweat and smell on his return - you can't wait to soak him all in and show him the newest development. You swear this baby grows dramatically overnight, a claim you state often whilst Jake just smirks because it's his big Seresin baby that he personally delivered, that grows and nestles inside you.

Your living area is lit by a chamomile candle and a yellow lamp that envelopes the room into a warm glow. The scattered pillows across the sofa and rug are perfect to relax on, and your most recent book "Parenting 101" swapped out for Cosmo magazine led to an idyllic evening. A small cup of tea and the night had gone perfectly.

Sooner than expected, you hear Jake's truck pull up into the driveway. Instead of standing to check and then unlock the door, you wait. Jake much prefers you to stay safely in the house, always alerting you if he has arrived - that you shouldnt be moving a muscle if you can help it. 8.36pm - he's early.

"Lovebug? It's me, I'm home!" he hollers into the foyer of the house, his deep voice carrying through to the living room. Pressing your soft bunny slippers to the floor, you call back.

"In the living room, honey!"

You hear footsteps and then a moment later, there he is, basking in the glow of the lamp above you. Or is it sweat? You can't decide for sure, taken aback by the mixed smells of oil and sweat.

"Hey baby," he finds your lips, leaning over the sofa to not get it marked, "and hey little baby." You smile as he extends a warm hand down to your stomach, smiling softly as he soaks in the moment.

"How was work? And Mav's?"

"Fine, fine. Got a bunch of stuff fixed in the back, Bradshaw got covered in grease and oil so if you see him with a black moustache, you'll know why."

You giggle as he stretches and then quirks a brow. "More importantly, how are you? How is peanut treating you? Being a good and upstanding citizen?"

"I think they grew again overnight. Or through the day, really since breakfast - although it might just be breakfast and my other meals.

"Yeah? Lemme see" he pulls you up carefully and you stand, moving past the plethora of pillows you had build a comfortable place to sit. He smooths his hand down his own shorts first, hoping it would be clean enough, before undoing a little clasp of your pyjama shirt to gain access to your stomach. His hand, warm and firm, rests atop your belly and you can't quite tell if its just butterflies, or that the baby is starting to move within you.

"Oh yeah, i feel it." he rubs softly still. "They're certainly growin'. Good job peanut" he speaks in high praise "and good job Momma...makin' us a baby..."

You have a quick kiss before you usher him upstairs to shower, and you turn the lights off, blow the candle out, and head upstairs to bed. You have your routine set - facial moisturiser, nightly stretches, a warm cup of tea, and belly rubs with your new balm.

You are finishing up your routine, rubbing small shapes into your belly as the smell of coconut fills the room. Jake adores watching you, from the doorway of the en suite. You sit back a little, scooping the balm onto your palm before ever so carefully applying it in small circles, then larger, deeper strokes while still taking tender care of your body. His favourite part has to be when you start whispering sweet words to your belly, realising you aren't alone in this routine. He's caught you a handle of times with; "We love you so much"; "Have you had a nice day in there, hm?" and tonight is no different.

"You're gonna be nice and relaxed in there hm? Me and daddy love you little baby pie. Could just eat you up..."

Moving from the door, he speaks up, hoping to not jolt or surprise you too much.

"Hey, don't go eating up my legacy now"

You giggle, a sound he knows will only ever be beaten by his child's first cry, before halting your laughter at the mere sight of him.

Leaning against the doorway, dripping wet, with a towel barely clinging around his waist. It would be a lie to say that your husband had never looked so good, because this was his standard. Anything he set his mind to, he would accomplish. It just so happened that having a body to die for was the collateral. And here he was, gazing into your soul, heart soaring while watching you treasure and love upon his biggest achievement yet.

"Don't you worry an inch Lieutenant. But I just know they are the cutest, I mean look!" you gesture to his side of the bed. All that sits there is his watch, his alarm clock, and a framed picture of the sweet blob sonogram. "You agree!"

"Yes honey, they're cute I know. Cause they're half you. The other half? Well they'll be the best Top Gun 2050 graduate if they get anything from their Pops."

"You know what, I want them to be all of you."

"Oh really?" Jake shucks off the towel before grabbing his pyjama shorts, grinning cockily as he stretches and flexes, much to your amusement. "I mean I get it, who wouldn't wanna go for a dip in this gene pool?"

"I'm serious, you goof! I have dreams, and the baby...they have your eyes, and that one little dimple like you have your cheek, and, and I don't know. I feel, when I feel the baby, that they're just like you. They feel like home. And-"

You're halted by his physique pressing up beside you, kissing you as if he'd been on an infinite deployment and that holding you was the only sure sign that he was really back home; alive, safe, loved.

"You make me the happiest man alive. You both do. Now, lemme check the house and I'll be right back to hear more about these dreams you're having about me." He winks and you groan, knowing your confession will fuel his ego that little bit more.

As he heads downstairs, you begin massaging your belly again before crying out;

"Oh, Jake!"

You hear the clatter of the teacup he'd taken downstairs, and 5 loud thumping footsteps before he reappears at the door.

"What?!"

With big doe eyes, you smile sheepishly.

"I forgot to tell you, the baby is the size of an apple today."

Jake's expression shifts from one of panic, to utter relief. His chest visibly drops and he runs a hand through his drying hair.

"Baby....don't do that...y'just scared me to death. I'll be right back and then y'can tell me all about it."

On his return from locking up, checking the lights and ensuring he had his uniform laid out for the next day, Jake quietly moved into the bedroom and clicked the door shut. In one hand, he had a glass of water - one you'd never ask for but he knows you'd need through the night. In the other, is a thick, wooden book covered in a multitude of colours and shapes.

You quirk an eyebrow, curious about whatever Jake was holding.

"No Aviator's Digest or Fatherhood 101 tonight?"

"Actually, Bradley gave me this, wanted us to have it at least for now. Something' bout reading to the baby. Then they know my voice... if I'm away." Jake looks down at the book as he shuffles into bed, doing his best not to disturb how comfortable you have made yourself during your nightly routine.

You know that being away now means a great deal more to Jake than before. The issue is sensitive, of course. He doesn't want to be an absent father in the way deployments and time on base can project. You haven't spoken about it too much, but you know it will bother him. Simultaneously, giving up the job he has worked so hard for to be more present is a big sacrifice. One that would also be financially risky to your growing family.

Instead of diving deeper, you keep it light. Jake has no plans to go anywhere anytime soon, or even for very long. It's best to focus on what you can control.

"Oh? What book is it?"

"Something about a hungry caterpillar. Looks a bit demonic on the front, but Bradshaw swore his cousin's kids loved it."

He rests up against the headboard, curling one arm around your shoulders, intertwining his hand with yours atop your belly. Certain that he has you safe and warm in his arms, he unpops your shirt again at your tummy "so they can hear" which has you rolling your eyes. He holds the book right by your belly, and begins.

"Good evening, baby Seresin. This is your father, your Pops. Now you gotta listen - there's a test at the end of this story and we don't tolerate anything but top marks here."

"Jacob Seresin!"

"All right, all right. Now, are we ready? Then let's begin. In the light of the moon, a little egg lay on a leaf. One Sunday morning..."

By the time he had turned to the middle page after his soft southern drawl had recounted a feast of apples, pears, and plums, you - and baby - were fast asleep. Closing the wooden book, he pops the button back into place carefully, sorts your pillows, and turns off your bedside lamp.

He'd finish the story tomorrow evening.

#apayai #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun maverick fic #jake seresin #dad!jake in my feels

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deepinthegroves · 4 months ago

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shifting exercise (pt. 2) ✧˖°

answering for my spiderverse reality (when i shift in).

i prefer an in between to heavy and soft makeup. part of my everyday look is black in my waterline with mascara and (slightly smudged) eyeshadow, my favourite blush and lip gloss.

an artist i'd love to watch play live is probably Chase Atlantic. I know they're a band, but they count right? If not them, I'd say Childish Gambino.

is my life dangerous? well... yes. kinda. being Spiderman obviously puts me in danger but i like to think i'm well equipped to deal with all that with my powers and all. it's enough to worry my loved ones if they knew, at least. other than that, the regular amount of danger that comes with being famous.

if I were to change an aspect of my life, I'd change the canon events. i know things will get messy and miguel yaps a lot about how canon events NEED to happen but if i could change it with no consequence, i'd prevent the deaths. we can keep the happy ones, like falling in love. only question is, how am i going to deal with liking hobie if i'm with peter??

how do i dress? i don't have a specific style, and it changes a lot from day to day. i don't like fitting in boxes, so no specific aesthetic for me! i just wear whatever i like and whatever i feel like wearing, of course, i make sure i look good first <3

am i popular? i like to think so! (and the millions of people following me on social media platforms should answer your question). i have a fanbase that has been built up over the years from my acting projects to my fashion magazine. they're really sweet too, and are willing to consume any project i put out there, no matter how experimental it is.

my mbti is either INTJ or INFJ. i think i swing between thinking and feeling a lot, and they are both important to me so yeah!

my favourite season is autumn. i like that it's cooler at that point, with pretty reds and oranges decorating the environment. halloween also happens in the fall, so there's that to look forward to.

am i an organised person? i'd say i'm in the middle. if everything is too messy, i'll lose my mind (and procrastinate forever). it overwhelms me when there are piles of stuff everywhere, and i hate it when they crash over – i respect those who survive in such mess but personally, i'd crash out. if things are too neat, however, it's going to end up in me not doing anything too. i'd be too caught up in trying to maintain the neatness that i wouldn't really dare to touch anything, and everything also wouldn't feel personal. i stay in the comfortable middle, where things have some order to them, but you'll also see a random stack of magazines hanging out on my nightstand next to a pile of necklaces hanging off of a lamp (i wear them everyday and it's just easier like that).

my occupation is that of a student and uh a celebrity? i guess? i'm not sure how to put my role into words but i act, sing, and run a fashion magazine while i'm in uni, studying writing and literature. it's a lot (especially on top of my Spiderman duties) but i love it. acting and singing has been on the back burner lately though, since i've put it on pause to focus on the other stuff.

an attractive aspect i admire is either creativity or smarts. i think they're both really important, and i love creative people. they are amazing, and are constantly cooking up ideas in their heads that are sometimes genius, and sometimes... not so genius. either ways, being creative is a trait i love in people. smarts-wise, i admire smart people so much. the way their brains churn, the way they catch onto things swiftly, it's just really amazing to me, especially when they see things from a pov i cannot.

i know how to play the piano and guitar. i've learnt the piano since i was around 3, since my parents sent all of my siblings to learn it because it was supposed to help with cognitive development, etc. etc. they never forced me to take any exams i don't want to (exams stress me out), so i never really ditched piano. i have grown too busy for lessons however, and my piano sits back in the family home where my siblings can play. mostly inspired by hobie and the want to play it since forever, i'm currently learning how to play the guitar. i pick up instruments really easily though (thanks to me scripting that), so it's really helping.

do i have a partner? a crush? it's obvious lol, but i've got a crush on hobie. i have a suspicion (and am terrified) that he is aware of it, but i don't know. i'm chill with being his friend for now though, and we're really close. i'm in love with him.

biggest ick? when someone tries to act all superior and traditionally masculine... it makes me throw up in my mouth a little. in my spiderverse reality, most people don't act that way, but there is a small demographic that still thinks this way and these weirdos randomly crawl into my dms or fangreets and it makes me wanna puke. oh and when they recognise me in public and are convinced i'd fall in love with them because they're amazing or something?? i have to resist the urge to get a restraining order each time.

what is a song that describes you? no idea. i have absolutely no idea. i have no kins and no song that describe me. i haven't found things that i relate to 100% so far.

something i carry 24/7 would be my lipgloss and keychains. the lipgloss is for when i need to top up, obviously, but i have very specific keychains i carry about. i have one that is basically hobie's guitar but as a keychain hooked up to my wallet, alongside a four-leaf clover keychain gifted by my parents. i also have little keychains of fictional characters i love on my purses, whether bought or handmade.

look into your bag/purse, whats in there? is it messy? organised? what bag is it? my purse is lowkey messy... i know what is in there, with my wet tissues to wallet and other necessities, but i have to dig around to find stuff sometimes. other things in my bag are: lipgloss, phone, notebook (with pen), perfume samples (i throw them in and never take them out), sweets, and sometimes a book.. i have no idea what kind of bag it is so i'm ignoring that question lol.

where do i spend most of my time at? either my apartment or my university? i mean, i go to school on weekdays and go home on the weekends, and i rarely visit my actual office because most work can be done remotely. other than that, maybe hobie's houseboat/ dimension and the spider society? idk, i hang out at a lot of places.

a person i feel safe(st) with would be hobie. not to make everything about him (which is hard because he consumes my thoughts...), but i really do feel safe around him. i know that he's got my back if need be and truly wants the best for me. he also lets me just vent to him sometimes and he is amazing at helping me work past problems so there's that. i hope i return that favour back. if not hobie, probably my family members – like with hobie, i know they've got my back.

a person i dislike would be miguel. i know, i know, i've said that every single time someone asks who i dislike but i stand by it. i understand where he is coming from. i do. i understand the fear and the need to keep things safe. but he is so stubborn and so insistent on his own views that it is infuriating a lot of the time. i only stick around to save people, i just tolerate him.

who is my closest friend? + description.. harry osborn is my best friend. i've known him since childhood, since our parents were business partners and casual friends, and i've grown up with him. i can never tell if he's blonde or brunette, and if you ask him, he just shrugs and tell you it's the lighting, the asshole. according to him, there's no "correct" lighting which is annoying because i'd be laughing and joking that he had a blonde moment and he'd say he's brunette so it doesn't apply, and yet when i ask him why he's doing some stupid shit, he shrugs and says he's blonde. we have a very interesting history lol – he's someone i'd throw my couch pillows at but he was also my first kiss so idk. harry osborn's my best friend.

my favourite time of the day would definitely be night. it's when i'm the most creative, and it's so peaceful. there's this sense of home? comfort? belonging? when i'm just chilling out in the dark, with just enough lighting that my eyes don't die, and doing my own thing. it's as if night keeps me company. i also used to talk to the night sky when i was younger.

if my friends described me in 5 words, they'd say.. passionate, creative, lowkey crazy, weird, and loving.

if i were to describe myself in 5 words, i'd say.. passionate, weird, loyal, creative and loving. scripted that my friends have accurate perceptions of me so we don't have this weird misunderstanding of who each other are and expect things that we can't fulfill.

someone i admire would be my mom. she's gone through a lot, and i get so infuriated at how the paparazzi treated her in the past, acting as if she doesn't deserve privacy just because she was pursuing her dreams of being a model and actress. she deserves every good thing that happens to her, and i honestly really look up to her because of how hard she worked to get to where she was.

what am i known for? i'd say my projects + being my mom and dad's child.

if i could broadcast a sentence to everyone in the world, i'd say to just love each other. while i believe that humans are made to love and hate and that both are important, love just really unites us all and allows us to extend empathy and grace and kindness to other human beings.

if you have an s/o, how'd you meet them? i met hobie at the spider society. he had spikes on top of his mask and i was intrigued by him. seeing how he was, talking back to miguel and stuff, i got curious (and built up some courage) and approached him. we hit it off then and became friends <3

a fond memory i have is family night with well, my family. its a compulsory event where one of my family members have to host and we'd all spend time together doing whatever and chatting. it makes sure that we don't drift apart and we can bring whoever we want (it'd be a serious thing though).

my biggest pet peeve are people who chew with their mouths open and when i can hear them smacking their lips. it just icks me out and i really hate it. it's why i can't watch asmr videos, i am simply overcome by disgust by the sounds and visuals.

the favourite item that i own would maybe be my journal maybe? it's gorg and has everything i want. or any of the luxury items and other stuff that i bought for myself that i really like idk.

for my pets, i actually have 5. i have four cats (damian, ebony, maddie and charlie) and a doberman (rocco). damian and rocco are currently staying with me because they are the ones who need the most personalised care that i know how to deal with, and the other three are staying with my siblings because without peter, i can't take care of them all fully with all the shit i'm juggling (mostly spiderman duties...).

i don't really have a favourite piece of clothing.. i just make sure i love my whole wardrobe and i'm not wasting my money buying things i can't wear and have to throw out after.

my favourite animal would be a fox, especially corsac or sechuran foxes. they're so cute!! and i love when they bark (?).

notes: wow this ended up really long.. if you read all the way to the end, i love you (/hj). and yes, i did skip over the fame questions because i think it's too long and i've yapped too much about that alr (it'd just end up being repetitive).

this is the shifting exercise by @zaddizu

div. credits: @jiyascepter

#row's grove #spiderverse reality #spiderverse shifting #spiderverse dr #shiftblr #reality shifter #shifting #shifting community #reality shift #reality shifting #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #desired reality #shifters #shifting consciousness #shifting realities #shifting reality #shifting motivation

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braininventoryusa · 25 days ago

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hinge · 27 days ago

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Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

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with-my-calamitous-love · 9 months ago

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AND I WONT CONFESS THAT I WAITED…

ryunnosuke akutagawa x reader

you watch as your lamp burns by the window, waiting for your lover to return.

celebrating his return to the manga <3

inspired by peter

normally, ryunnosuke wouldn’t have anyone to return to.

sure, his sister would be there, but that was a given. or maybe stacks of paperwork or copious pent up coughs would greet him. but for the most part, he was used to returning home alone.

and he liked it that way. or so he told himself.

when you come home alone, theres never the pain of realizing your house is empty. he was the only entity within his walls, the only soul that wandered the place. he was the only person who could break his own heart, the only one who could enter his home and take parts away from him. when you shut everything out, the only person who can you is you.

but he’s learned to build his heart up from steal. if his lungs continuously failed him, he’d shield his heart and freeze it with ice no one could penetrate. was he safe or was he broken?

he finds himself face to face with that question when he meets you.

so after 2 long years of melting that ice with sunlight, you found yourself waiting by the window.

he said at most, a few days. he was on some port mafia mission, involving the were-tiger with chopped up hair. that he’d be facing off some old man with a particularly powerful sword and a particularly powerful team. a strange generalization, you thought.

days developed into weeks. then, inevitably, months.

was it something you did?

the cool night air greets you as you thrust your windows open, then same ones that akutagawa loved to look out onto the world through. he’d stumble into your apartment, a cup of tea already brewing for him. he never spoke much, not even to you, but he showed his affection through actions more.

he’d greet you in the bedroom, offering a peck to your forehead. he’d scold you about keeping your windows open, especially in autumn. he complains its only worsening his lungs, but he can’t help but love the way the moon reflects off of your irises.

and he tells you about his life, underneath those stars. about his past, his sister, and all the darkness he kept within like a locket. he tells you that falling in love was not for someone like him.

“..love.” he mutters under his breath, almost scoffing when you bring up the subject. he’s standing behind you, arms encasing you between him and the window. though he’d never tell you, he’s trying to keep you warm. the night are was often not very forgiving to kind folk like you.

your brows furrow, but you understand where he comes from. “yes, ryu. love.” you reaffirm. “i’m in love with you.”

he blinks for a moment. first, he thinks what terrible taste in men you have. and how lucky he is to be that man.

he sighs, his throat running dry. though he does prompt to press his lips to your forehead once more, staring at you with a light in his eyes you’ve never quite seen before. no one in the mafia would know that the demon ryunnosuke akutagawa was also a gentleman, one who gently ushers you to bed and puts you to sleep with a kiss to your knuckles.

he waits for you to fall asleep before he leaves a letter, and bids you farewell.

[y/n],

you’re kindness will be the death of both of us. i don’t know why you’ve decided to show me kindness, or any semblance of love for that matter, but you have.

a spot in my heart is reserved for you. and my heart, that i knew to be cold and unwelcoming, beats for you. thank you for showing me what it means to love.

…i’ll come home soon.

and when i do, i’ll tell you all about it. about that damn were-tiger i swore i’d beat down, or that former mentor whose approval only comes second to yours. you’ve changed so much for me. you’ve given me something i want to live for.

thank you.

i’d write that i love you, but i’d rather you hear it from me.

yours,

ryunnosuke

the goddess of timing, unfortunately, has a cruel heart. and so the moment akutagawa admitted his feelings for you, he was pulled away from the one thing that made the air around him breathable.

you read his letter everyday. at first, you cried to it, and clutched it to your chest. then, after the first few weeks, you wondered if he had been lying. your ribs get the feeling he did.

how poetic is it, that both of you thought it was just goodbye for now.

while he’s away, he swears he’ll grow up. that he’ll change and be better. that, for what little time his lungs give him, he’ll love you more. he’ll let you teach him what love is, and love you back tenfold. and once he’s done that, he swears he’ll come find you. promises oceans deep, but never quite to keep.

and though he’d never admit it, he thinks about you every damn day. he wonders if you’re still a mind reader, able to steal the scene of every room you’re in. he’s heard great things from whispers and rumours, and he’s glad that life was easier on you than it was on him. you deserved it, after all.

and as weeks develop into months, selfishly, he hopes you wait.

and you do.

you let that lamp burn every night while your life dances around you. you hope, deep in your heart that he’ll return. that he’ll drink your shitty tea and scoff at your shitty jokes. that he’ll put you to bed and linger around in the morning, planting a kiss to your forehead like always. you hope that he’ll return with his feet on the ground and with stories to tell, because you never lost a single ounce of love for him.

you tried to hold onto it. and its true. you never lost any love, even after you draw the curtains, and turn down the lights.

you hope he forgives you.

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tuxedoe · 19 days ago

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༻ A New Kind of Lost (2)༺

Part one here!

WC - Around 3k

Synopsis - Dean finds himself curious about Morgan, and as days continue, he learns more about her.

Author's Note - Requested by @gingercatenergy!! Hope you enjoy this one as much as you did the last! Please do give feedback or reqs if there's anything haha

The cold silence of the bunker was a familiar blanket, but this morning, it felt different. Thicker. Weighted. Dean woke with a jolt, not from a nightmare, but from the sudden, sharp memory of pale blue eyes in his headlights, a whisper of a voice in the suffocating darkness of Highway 65. Morgan.

He swung his legs out of bed, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. The phantom chill from last night clung to him, a sensation far deeper than physical cold. He could still feel the unsettling grace of her movements, the pure, unadulterated bewilderment radiating from her like a pulse. A nephilim. Sitting in one of their spare rooms, utterly lost, utterly powerful. It was a headache in a whole new category.

He pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, forgoing the usual flannel. The bunker still felt like a crypt, even with the faint glow of the emergency lights seeping in from the main hall. He walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing too loudly in the quiet, his hand brushing instinctively against the cold concrete walls. He passed Morgan’s door, pausing for a moment, listening. Nothing. No sounds. Just the low thrum of the bunker’s ancient machinery. It was unnerving. Was she even sleeping? Did nephilim even sleep?

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He found Sam in the library, already hunched over books, a half-eaten bowl of cereal forgotten beside him. The faint light of the reading lamp illuminated the tired lines around Sam’s eyes. He looked up as Dean entered, a weary resignation settling on his face.

"She awake?" Sam asked, his voice low.

"Don't know. Didn't hear anything." Dean grabbed a coffee from the pot. "You pull anything new?"

Sam gestured vaguely at the stack of tomes. "Just confirmation. Human and angel. Immense power. Unpredictable development. Targets of Heaven and Hell, for both control and elimination." He ran a hand through his hair. "It’s all the same, Dean. Just another powerful kid we have no business having here."

Dean took a long sip of coffee, the bitter warmth a small comfort against the cold knot in his stomach. "She's not just 'another powerful kid,' Sammy. She's… different. Lost." He thought of her pale eyes, the strange, detached curiosity. "Like Jack, but… I don't know. Less… structured, maybe. Like she was just made and dropped here."

As if on cue, a soft creak echoed from the hallway. Morgan appeared at the entrance to the library, clad in the slightly-too-big grey sweats Dean had found for her. Her dark hair was still tangled, falling around her shoulders, and her pale blue eyes, even in the dim light, seemed to absorb the minimal illumination. She looked around the cavernous room, taking in the towering shelves, the dusty tomes, her gaze lingering on Sam before settling on Dean.

"The internal resting period has concluded," Morgan stated, her voice soft, but clear. "The processing of information… it is complex. Many new sensations." She took a slow, deliberate step into the room. The air around her seemed to shimmer, almost imperceptibly, as she moved. Dean felt a subtle shift, a barely-there hum in the ancient stones of the bunker, as if the very structure was acknowledging her presence. It was unsettling, yet also strangely… captivating. He found himself studying the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her hair fell around her shoulders, a strange warmth prickling beneath his skin that had nothing to do with the coffee.

Sam, however, tensed visibly. His gaze narrowed, searching for any sign of malice, any flicker of darkness that might betray her. "Morgan," he said, his voice cautious. "Did you… sleep?"

Morgan tilted her head. "I experienced a cessation of external input. Internal processes continued. I perceive this as your 'sleep.'" She walked further into the library, her steps silent, her pale eyes scanning the spines of the books. She stopped before a shelf filled with ancient texts, reaching out a hesitant finger to trace the faded gilt lettering on a heavy tome.

Dean felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to keep her safe, to shield her from the harsh realities that Sam's words represented. "We got some food for you, Morgan," he interjected, his voice gruffer than intended. "Come on. You gotta eat."

She turned, her gaze meeting his, and for a fleeting moment, Dean felt completely seen, as if she was peering directly into the messy, complicated depths of his soul. It was unnerving. He flushed slightly, a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee. He quickly cleared his throat and gestured towards the kitchen.

They settled at the kitchen table, the half-eaten pizza rolls from last night now cold, but Morgan didn't seem to notice. Dean pulled out a fresh box of cereal and a carton of milk. "This is cereal," he explained, pouring a mound of sugary O's into a bowl. "You put milk in it." He demonstrated, a splash of white liquid coating the dry circles.

Morgan watched with rapt attention, her pale eyes fixed on the simple act. She took the spoon Dean offered her, holding it delicately, as if it were a fragile artifact. She scooped up a spoonful, mimicking his movements, then brought it to her lips. She chewed slowly, her expression unreadable at first, then a faint flicker of something akin to surprise, then… something that might have been enjoyment.

"It is… sweet," she murmured, a faint line appearing between her brows as she processed the taste. "And the liquid… it is cold. The contrast is… interesting." She took another bite, her gaze never leaving the bowl.

Sam, who had joined them, leaned back in his chair, watching Morgan with a mixture of apprehension and reluctant fascination. "Morgan," he began, his voice calm, measured. "Do you have any memories at all before the light? Anything about your mother, her name, where she lived?"

Morgan paused, the spoon half-way to her mouth. Her pale eyes flickered, a faint golden light seeming to pulse just beneath the surface, then vanished. "Her name was… Sarah. She spoke with… kindness. And she was… afraid. Very afraid." A tremor, so subtle it might have been imagined, passed through her. "The light… it was coming for her. She pushed me."

Dean slammed his fist lightly on the table, the small thud echoing in the quiet kitchen. "Damn it. She was being hunted." The familiar rage, cold and sharp, ignited in him.

Sam nodded, his expression grim. "It makes sense. A Nephilim's birth is a cosmic alarm bell. Heaven, Hell… everyone wants one, or wants it gone." He looked at Morgan, a flicker of something close to pity in his eyes. "Do you know who your father is, Morgan?"

Morgan frowned, her gaze drifting. "He was… vast. Like the sky. But… distant. I felt… his presence. Powerful. But not… here. Like a whisper on the edge of a great storm."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. "An Archangel," Dean mouthed, his voice barely audible. Another Archangel Nephilim. Just what they needed. The parallels to Jack were unnerving, but also, surprisingly, a source of a strange, burgeoning empathy in Dean. He had seen this kind of lostness before. This kind of raw, innocent power. He’d learned to care for it, to protect it.

Just then, the familiar whoosh of displaced air filled the bunker, accompanied by the faint, almost imperceptible scent of ozone and grace. Castiel appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his trench coat a familiar silhouette against the dimness of the hall. His blue eyes, usually calm, were wide and intensely focused on Morgan.

"Dean. Sam. I came as quickly as I could." Castiel's gaze never left Morgan. His head tilted, a familiar gesture of angelic contemplation. "She is indeed… a Nephilim. And her grace… it is unique. Ancient. Powerful."

Morgan, startled by Castiel’s sudden appearance, dropped her spoon with a clatter. She stared at him, her pale blue eyes widening, a profound recognition blooming within them. "You are… like him," she whispered, her voice filled with an unexpected awe. "The distant one. The light."

Castiel took a step forward, his own expression unreadable. "I am an angel, Morgan. Castiel."

Dean stood up, placing a hand on Morgan's shoulder, a silent shield. "Alright, Cas, no need to get your wings in a twist. She's new to this. We're trying to figure things out."

Sam stood as well, pulling a chair out for Castiel. "We just learned her mother was human, named Sarah, and she pushed Morgan through some kind of 'light' before she was taken or killed."

Castiel listened, his gaze still fixed on Morgan, a complex mix of curiosity, ancient knowledge, and a hint of wariness in his eyes. "Her grace emanates from a high order. An Archangel. A primordial power." He then turned his full attention to Morgan. "What do you know of your celestial parent, Morgan?"

Morgan looked from Castiel to Dean, then back to Castiel, her small frown deepening. "Only that… his presence was vast. Like the sky. And I was meant to… understand."

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The rest of the day was a slow, agonizing process of revelation and interpretation. Sam, with Castiel’s help, pored over obscure lore, trying to find any mention of a newly manifesting Nephilim, any celestial presence that might fit the description of Morgan’s father. Dean, meanwhile, tried to acclimate Morgan to the mundane realities of human existence. He showed her how to use a television remote, how to make a sandwich (which she dissected with clinical precision before deeming it "acceptable sustenance"), and how to distinguish between a casual conversation and a hunter debrief.

Morgan proved to be a startlingly fast learner, absorbing information like a sponge. Her pale eyes missed nothing, her observations always strangely direct, yet incredibly insightful. "The moving images on the screen," she remarked during a commercial break for a car dealership. "They are designed to create a desire for acquisition. A rudimentary form of behavioral modification." Dean just grunted, grabbing another beer. She wasn't wrong.

As the day bled into another oppressive night, the exhaustion settled heavily in the bunker. Castiel had decided to stay, sensing the immense power radiating from Morgan and the precariousness of her existence. He sat with Sam in the library, the low murmur of their voices, punctuated by the rustle of ancient pages, filling the space.

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Dean found Morgan in the common room, sitting perfectly still on the worn leather couch, her pale eyes fixed on the flickering blue light of a dusty old video game console he'd tried to show her. It was Pac-Man, a relic of simpler times.

"The small yellow entity consumes the white circles," she stated, her voice soft. "And avoids the colored spectral forms. The objective is… survival. A fundamental drive."

Dean slumped onto the couch beside her, cracking open a fresh beer. "Yeah, that's pretty much it, kid. A lot like life, actually. Eat and run." He took a long swig. He glanced at her, truly looked at her, in the dim, otherworldly glow of the screen. Her profile was delicate, almost fragile, yet there was a deep well of something ancient and powerful in her stillness. The subtle tension between the immense cosmic power she held and the innocent, lost human girl she appeared to be was unsettlingly captivating. He felt a strange pull, a sense of responsibility that went beyond mere protection, a silent promise to teach her, to guide her through the brutal reality of their world. He didn't know why, but with her here, the bunker felt less like a tomb and more like… a home, however precarious.

Morgan slowly turned her head, her pale eyes meeting his. For a long moment, she simply looked at him, her gaze unwavering, as if she were seeing past the gruff exterior, past the sarcasm, to something deeper within him. Dean felt a strange warmth spread through his chest, a flicker of discomfort mixed with an undeniable, unfamiliar sense of calm. It was unsettling, yet he found he couldn't look away.

"You are… the protector," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, echoing the profound stillness of the bunker. "Your energy… it is for safeguarding."

Dean swallowed, the beer suddenly tasting flat. "Yeah, kid. That's… that's what I do." He shifted uncomfortably, feeling exposed, seen in a way he wasn't used to.

She held his gaze for another beat, then slowly turned back to the screen, her focus returning to the pixelated yellow entity gobbling dots. The tension in the air remained, a subtle current, but it was different now. Not just fear, but something else. Something undefined, yet undeniably present.

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Later, Dean walked Morgan to her room. The bunker’s silence was absolute, save for the low hum of its ancient heart. He showed her the light switch, the door lock. "Alright, kid. Get some sleep. If you need anything, just… yell. Or buzz me on that intercom."

She nodded, her expression unreadable. "I understand. I will attempt to process the day's information during this 'sleep' period."

Dean hesitated at the door. "Morgan," he said, her name a low rumble in the quiet. "You… you okay?"

She looked at him, her pale eyes seeming to glow faintly in the gloom. "I am… learning. Thank you, Dean. For the… safety." A faint, almost imperceptible warmth spread through Dean’s chest as he met her gaze. He had a feeling this "safety" wasn't just physical. It was emotional, too. And in the depths of the bunker, surrounded by darkness and ancient lore, that feeling resonated more profoundly than any hunt ever could.

He managed a small, tired smile. "Anytime, kid." He backed out, closing the door softly behind him.

The bunker settled into a tense, expectant silence. Dean headed to his own room, the familiar scent of old leather and dust a faint comfort. He stripped down, tossing his clothes into a pile, then collapsed onto his bed. The day's events replayed in his mind: the subtle shift in Morgan's gaze, her uncanny observations, the growing weight of her presence in their lives. He thought of her vulnerability, her immense power, and the terrifying unknown that she represented. He thought of Jack, and the fierce protectiveness that had grown for him. And now, for Morgan. The comparison was less about fear now, and more about a profound, unexpected connection.

It was going to be a long night. And a much longer journey ahead. Dean drifted off, the quiet hum of the bunker the last thing he heard, the faint, persistent whisper of Morgan echoing in his mind, and with it, a strange, creeping certainty that their lives had just changed, irrevocably.

#fanfiction #supernatural #fic #fanfic #dean winchester #dean winchester fic #supernatural fic #spn #spn fandom #nephilim #lou's fics 𝄞

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mobiloitteinc02 · 2 years ago

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laughroditee · 6 months ago

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🟡 "Hither, Hither / Do Not Come Near"

Hither, hither, love! Let us feed and feed! –John Keats, “Hither, Hither, Love”

Characters: cryptid!König, gender neutral!reader Location: a (fictional) mountain with forest and caves in Austria. Inspired by the "lamp eyes" in this (second) image by toxooz CW: you are being hunted, pissing (non-kinky) as intimidation, luring, fear, anxiety, dread, inaccurate battery drainage, inaccurate forestry regulations (don’t leave your fire burning while you sleep), inaccurate camping regulations for Austria (basically don't do anything Reader does), profanity Word Count: 2276 AO3 link Mood Music:

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The sunlight filters through the trees as you hike the trail up the mountain, taking in all the natural beauty that Austria has to offer. The rich, woodsy scents of earth, spruce, and pine surround you, the evergreen needles muffling your footfalls as you walk. Green carpets of rolling grass are dotted with blue and purple, yellow and white, and even little trumpets lining the trail to herald your arrival.

It’s like The Sound of Fucking Music over here, the sheer splendor of your surroundings making you feel like you made the best decision of your life to do this hike. You'd researched what trail to pick and what to take with you. You’d planned on this for months, and honestly, you couldn't have picked a better day for it: three days, two nights, just you and Mother Nature. Everything was perfect.

Pulling out your instant film camera, you take a selfie to remember this perfect day by. Maybe you'll even take selfies all the way up the mountain just to document your journey. You had enough film packs for it, and this felt like the kind of thing that needed documentation, so why not?

You pose and aim the camera at yourself, looking in the little mirror attachment you'd bought for this purpose, and take your picture, the flash going off in your face. The camera's motor whirs as it spits out your first instant exposure, and after collecting it, you continue on your hike.

You repeat this pattern every half hour or so or any time you find something particularly interesting or lovely, stopping to take pictures and/or selfies and reloading your camera's film pack every ten exposures. Soon enough, you notice the sky changing colors and decide you’d be wise to find a good place to make camp for the night.

Under a small copse of trees, you set up your tent on a bed of pine needles, driving the tent spikes into the ground with a stone you find at the site. After building a small fire a safe distance from your tent and any trees, you start cooking your dinner, taking out your instant camera and the stack of photos from your hike.

You take one more selfie before you lose the light completely, snapping the picture with a blinding flash that leaves you blinking. You take your newest photo and lay it on your knee, leaning over to stir your dinner in the pot as it's heating, waiting for the shot to develop.

After collecting your dinner, you look at the developing selfie and notice something strange in the background: two bright dots to the right of your head set in a swath of darkness. You squint, rubbing the exposure with your thumb despite knowing you’re not supposed to touch it. Maybe something was wrong with it, something on the exposure itself that kept the light from hitting the paper in those spots, resulting in blank areas.

As the photo develops further and the image takes form, you look closer at those two bright dots — a yellow-green now — and your first thought is that they are very much like eyes, staring at you from the shadows of the forest.

A chill runs through you. You turn, sweeping the trail with your flashlight, but you see nothing, just bushes and trees; hear nothing but crickets and other small creatures. Your flashlight flickers slightly, and you turn back to your dinner and your warm, cozy fire, unable to get quite as cozy as you were a moment ago.

How absurd. It was probably nothing; just a weird fluke. You continue your meal and look through the stack of photos from the day, carding through pictures of beautiful landscapes and flowers, stopping when you come to your next-most-recent selfie. You’d found a few edible berries on the trail and decided to take a picture of yourself, your mouth stained red by their juices.

You’re about to move on to the next photo when you see them: those two dots — those eyes — in the shadows again, further away than in your most recent selfie.

Your heart stutters. What is this?

As you arrange your pictures chronologically, you are struck by a chilling discovery. In each selfie, two bright lights — two glowing eyes — can be seen somewhere in the background behind you, hidden in a large, dark shape or the shadows of the trees. You card through the photos, heart beating hard, thumb sliding over each one frantically, and they're there in each one, down to your first at the base of the mountain, watching. Following. Getting closer and closer to you each time you take a selfie.

It's probably just an animal. A bear or something, judging by how tall it seems as it peeks around trees and through the thick brush. Its form is never clear, just a silhouette with those bright eyes looming in the darkness, staring at you.

You shiver.

Well, if it is an animal, you should probably keep the fire going to drive it away tonight. Granted, you know you shouldn't leave the fire burning all night unattended, but the idea of being left in the dark makes your skin crawl, and everyone knows animals hate light, right? Remember our ancestors, the cavemen? Yeah. Just an animal. It'll be fine.

So you throw some more logs on the fire, wash your dishes, and bury the water in a hole you dug to cover the smell of food. Then you get into your tent, zipping it up all the way. So much for a fresh breeze, but at least in this shelter, you feel some sort of safety, some separation between you and the unknown.

Your flashlight still flickers, and you decide to change the batteries now instead of later because you intend to leave it on all night. Not that you're scared or anything; it's just that extra light means extra animal deterrent, right? That's how that works, right?

Sleep does not come easily, and you toss and turn in your sleeping bag, eyes jolting open at the slightest sound of nature outside (which, surprisingly, is everywhere — why did you think this was a good idea?).

It isn't until just after midnight that you hear it: a whistle. You try to convince yourself that it's only something that sounds like a whistle, like the wind or a bird, and you nearly make your case until the next one sounds with a little bend in it. A little wheee-oooo in the pitch black of the forest, as if someone were pursing their lips, beckoning, just for you.

You hate it. Instantly, your heart pounds, your ears straining for voices or footsteps; maybe it's another camper hiking this trail, too, and needs shelter. But if that were the case, did they have to be so fucking creepy about it? You try to control your breathing, listening for anything other than the creak of the trees above you, but still, you hear nothing. It isn't until the sky starts to turn grey that you feel safe enough to sleep; dawn is on its way.

When morning arrives – too quickly – you're more than happy to get up and break down your camp despite your lack of sleep, deciding that you'll eat your breakfast on the trail instead of at a leisurely pace like you'd planned. No. The time for leisure has gone. Judging by the map, you are now closer to the exit of the trail than you are to the entrance, so you decide, uneasily, to keep going forward.

As you hike, you don't dare waste time with selfies; you're too scared you’ll find more of those glowing yellow-green eyes in the background. Or worse, find the owner of said eyes. Thinking back to your childhood cat, you know a lot of animals have eyeshine, which helps them to see better in the dark. They reflect light and make it look like the eyes glow or some shit, especially in photos, making them look like little demons. You recall that many predators seem to have them and then quickly wipe that little factoid from your mind.

You busy yourself with nature facts for a while, reciting aloud the names of the plants and forageable berries you see along the way. By the time you find your next spot for camp, you are completely exhausted, not only from the hike or your poor sleep the night before but from the anxiety of constantly looking over your shoulder.

Instead of pitching your tent right away, you spend most of the time before sunset looking for firewood and building an even bigger fire than the night before. No whistling bears or campers or whatever the fuck were going to come near your tent tonight.

The fire blazes hot and high as you sit before it, huddled in a blanket with your flashlight and cup of dried food — no smells of cooking tonight to lure hungry animals or hikers, for that matter.

Immediately, your mind goes back to the whistle, its testing, beckoning nature making the inside of your skull itch with unease. Maybe it was one of those birds that mimic human sounds that happened to be around at night. Surely, there were birds like that, right? It's probably a bunch of things together and not just one thing. Just a coincidence. That's the only conclusion you can come to. Because the alternative — the one that claws at the inside of your head and tells you that something, or someone, is out there — that just can't be.

After dinner, you stoke the fire, load it up with a couple more logs, and retreat to your tent, burrowing into the sleeping bag with your flashlight propped up in the center to illuminate your sleeping area. Exhausted from the lack of sleep the night before, you drift off thankfully quickly, only to be awakened sometime later.

The night seems hauntingly quiet, as if nature itself senses something is wrong. Leaves rustle from a distance away, and you hear the movement of a creature outside, the fire and your flimsy fabric shelter the only things between it and you. Your flashlight, stalwart watchman of the tent, starts to flicker, the set of batteries you'd put in it reaching the end of their lifespan, and that's when you hear it.

Wheee-oooo.

Your heart stops at the sound of the whistle, and you hold your breath, hoping that if you’re just quiet enough, just pretend that you’re sleeping, that whatever — whoever it is will just go away and leave you alone.

Thud, thud, thud, thud….

Are those footsteps?

The sound comes closer, twigs snapping under the weight of this person, this creature, and you scramble for your flashlight, slapping it, begging the light to stay on, to stay steady. A third thwack, and it's clear that your attempts at resuscitation are failing, and the batteries finally die, leaving you and your tent protected only by the dancing light of the fire outside. You curse under your breath, diving for your old set of batteries that you’d removed yesterday. Screwing off the top of your flashlight, you fling the dead batteries out and, with shaky hands, slide the old batteries in as, in the background, you hear the sound of water pouring and a sudden hissing.

This gives you enough pause to look at the silhouettes projected on the fabric of your tent: at how the flames of your fire — your precious sentinel — quiver, cower, and die.

The smell hits you then, the stench alerting you to the fact that this was not water putting out your fire, but in fact, someone was pissing on it to put it out. The heavy, acrid smell of boiling urine invades your nostrils, making you gag.

You refocus your efforts on threading the cap of your flashlight back on the barrel, your shaking, frantic hands making the threads skip until marvelously, mercifully, you screw the cap on, and the flashlight flickers to life just as your fire dies.

The growl that sounds from outside and the heavy thud-thud of footfalls that draw closer to your tent sound much closer to something human than animal, and you have to wonder who in the world you managed to piss off to make them stalk you so far up a mountain and into the woods at this hour of the night.

Suddenly, the tent lurches, and you scream as whoever is outside rips the stakes from the ground and yanks the entire thing toward them. You are engulfed in a polyester death shroud, scrambling for your pack and waving your flashlight around blindly.

You need your knife — anything to protect yourself at this point, but as the creature rips the tent open like it was made of paper, all you can grab is your camera. You point it at him and press the button, the flash lighting up the night like an atom bomb, and he snarls, stumbling back, blinded.

A split second is all you get to see him. The man is bigger than any person you've ever seen in your life, dressed in black and wearing a black cloth over his head.

You run. You don't have time to look for shoes. You don't have time to look for your knife. You just clutch your camera and run, hoping that you can find a place to hide.

They don't tell you that the forest floor is not good for running barefoot on. They don't tell you how modern human feet just aren't made for it anymore. But you know from all the twigs and branches cutting into the soles of your feet that you are fighting a losing battle. That you are prey and your hunter is going to get you.

You can hear him running after you, those heavy footfalls sounding like the thunder of ten thousand angry gods, and despite your head start, you know he'll catch up to you on those long legs of his.

When you spot a cave, your prehistoric animal brain cries, "safe!", "home!" and like a fool, you listen, running inside, losing all light as you slip into the pitch black of Mother Earth.

Feeling blindly for the wall, you move slowly and hear him enter the cave, a low growl sounding out like echolocation.

You know he hates the light. Your camera has nine exposures left. A sound to your left has you pointing the camera in that direction and pressing the button. Light floods the cave, burning its landscape into your retinas, his dark shape a retreating blur.

Eight.

You have to find the way back out. Coming in here was a bad idea. He clearly has an advantage over you, being able to see in the dark. You’ll have to burn through your exposures to get back out. Gravel grates to your right, and you take another picture, blinding both him and yourself, the exposure falling uselessly to the cave floor. Absently, you wonder if people will ever find them.

Seven.

Will people even find your body?

Light blazes through the cave again, and you can move toward the exit, cursing as pain lances into your sole from stepping on a sharp rock.

Six.

You can tell you're bleeding from how the dirt sticks to your foot and from the snarl you hear behind you: the predator scenting his prey. The next flash exposes his dark shape behind a stalagmite, and you rush in the opposite direction.

Five.

The click of the shutter echoes in the cave as the camera flashes again, your brain trying to memorize the location of obstacles.

Four.

His roar reverberates in the cave, shaking the very air around you and has you screaming, snapping your camera beside you.

Three.

You hear him stumble in frustration and are convinced you actually got him good that time, and you snap again for good measure.

Two.

You move faster toward the exit. You can actually see the outside world now, so close, but still so far. You blow an exposure behind you to stall him further.

One.

A breeze from outside blows across the cave mouth, and you can almost taste it if not for the wall you just ran into.

Zero.

Only it’s not a wall.

His reflective eyes blaze as he looks down at you. The hood-like structure on his face parts down the middle like a pair of bat wings, the exposed red maw lined with dozens of razor-sharp teeth. His jaw opens far wider than anything you've ever seen or ever will, and then your light goes out.

author's note- this was on loop as I was writing:

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kekaki-cupcakes · 1 year ago

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Heyyy can you please write something for Nico x male reader where Nico has seen reader around camp and reader is friendly and always laughing and talking with everyone. And Nico develops a crush on reader and eventually he decides to confess to reader when he sees them in the woods. Fluffy mainly but like a little spicey at the end if u do that stuff? :)

hey there bestie, let's pretend it hasn't been two months. this fic is also for @golden-boy-muda 's request for nico x transmasc reader <3

I couldn't find an idea in my empty ol head for this request but then I was looking for old oil painting wallpapers for my phone and now you have this incredibly sappy 3.2k of art references [I advise you keep another tab open for cross-referencing if you want the fUlL eXpErIeNcE]

Oil on Canvas--- Nico di Angelo x transmasc reader [3.2k] »»————-　★　————-««

Nico definitely isn’t a stalker, he understands boundaries [once Jason explains them to him, of course], but he might have a bit of a staring problem.

Sometimes he’s just eating gluten free waffles with Hazel in the dining pavilion and ends up watching you shove your siblings around and plait your little sister's hair so it doesn’t get in her face when she goes Pegasus riding.

He spooned some blueberries onto his plate.

It’s not his fault.

It’s yours, if anything. What is he supposed to do apart from feel like there’s moths beneath his ribcage when you pose, your nose scrunched, up for photos with Drew’s polaroid camera that’s covered with inappropriate stickers?

Hazel elbowed him meaningfully in the side when he couldn’t help but grin because Holy Hades, a single person shouldn’t be able to look that much like the painting Ophelia [by friedrich heyser, to be specific], just because they wore a green camp shirt and a pearl necklace.

Maybe it was his fault that he was comparing you to beautiful paintings.

He scooped the blueberries onto his half eaten waffle and reached for the maple syrup Hazel had finished drowning her breakfast in.

The Stoll brother’s mortal mum had sent a stack of paintings from art galleries all over the world last Christmas, and they’d let him pick out a few of the older more poetic ones that didn’t have enough blood and guts for their taste.

Now the oil paintings of lakes and birds and crying angels and… mainly cats, actually, hung around the dark walled Cabin he slept in.

Your laugh when you threw strawberries at Kayla and Austin while they worked in the infirmary reminded him of Angel [carl von marr, of course] and he felt like Chat a difficult catch [charles van den eycken] when you walked right past him without even glancing back.

So he’d made peace with watching from afar how you would forget daily to put sunscreen on but somehow always remembered to wear this pair of white crocheted gloves that looked like cat paws.

On a completely irrelevant note, Nico was learning to crochet.

Hazel made eye contact with him again when he looked from you to her, and he plugged his ears and glared before she started kicking him in the shins and begging him to pluck up the courage to walk over and even just make eye contact.

Not that he didn’t want to.

He may have lined up in his catalog of daydreams, this scenario where you both went down to the beach. Any beach, really. You’d collect shells and eat popcorn and grapes and lemonade and squish sand between your toes and pick up crabs with him.

PROMENADE ON THE BEACH [Charles Atamian, obviously].

There was another scenario where he’d take you to the farmers market. It had the biggest bouquets of flowers, and rows upon rows of fruits and vegetables and incense and beaded jewelry.

When he was laying in bed underneath the fluffy zebra patterned duvets that Piper forced him to use, mainly because they matched the dark reds of the cushions and browns of the bookshelves and antique lamps in the cabin so well, you were walking down the rows of little stores with him.

You were holding his hand with those soft cat paw gloves and you liked the feel of his rings [he’d read that people liked rings in a book, somewhere] and you’d filled the Studio Ghibli tote bag you had with berries.

He’d watched most of the movies after he saw your bag. He liked Arriety the best.

Clarisse stomped past the Hades table, leaving bloody footprints no one asked about, and smacked him in the back of his head. Nico went back to eating his waffles and daydreaming about your smile.

In the farmers market you would sniff candles and never buy them because Hazel had far too many for all of her spells and the such that he would never run out. And what was Hazel’s was his and what was his was hers, meaning that what was Hazel’s was yours.

Because Nico would give everything he owned, even his favorite jacket, for you to look his way.

And he would buy you flowers, whichever were your favorite.

Maybe the ones from the painting Hazel forced him to take because ‘you can’t just not hang a painting that literally is you, Neeks’.

Italian Girl with Flowers. Joaquin Sorolla. 1886.

He didn’t see the resemblance.

But it didn’t really matter, because he’d get to watch you looking at all the cool things for sale and then he’d take you to the best gelato he’d found so far [he was making a list] or just use the shadows, and take you to a proper gelato shop. Whatever you wanted to do, really.

Nico blinked. He huffed, mainly at himself, and stabbed his waffle. It fell apart on the fork.

“Why’re you angry?”

He looked up from his plate, to Hazel. She was sitting opposite him with a mustache made of orange juice. “...I’m not.”

“You’re not supposed to be pushing down your emotions, remember?” she said sternly, and started picking the green bits off a strawberry. She was eating as many berries as she could, since she wasn’t allowed lollies anymore. The perks of braces.

Nico looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re thinking about the cat glove girl, aren’t you?” she asked with a smirk.

“Cat glove boy, remember?” he muttered, and took a bite of his waffle, wiping squished blueberries off his chin.

Hazel’s golden eyes widened, “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he said, and was grateful for the excuse to peek your way. You were eating toast. Very pretty-ily. He felt his face heat up.

Hazel perked up, a mischievous grin he didn’t appreciate on her face. “Okay! I’ll go apologize to your boyfriend then-”

Nico stared at her. Why was she like this? She actually went to stand up, and then he yanked her sleeve, pulling her back down to the table. “No! Don’t just… you can’t… stop!”

“You didn’t deny that he’s your boyfriend,” Jason chuckled, sitting down next to Hazel.

“I hate you all,” Nico said.

It was torture.

He felt like Sleepy time potion [Vanessa Stockhard], stuck in the middle of your loveliness, unable to do anything except stare and hope that his face wasn’t too as red as the mushroom he was sitting on.

In the painting.

Not in real life.

Obviously.

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico stared down at the hat in his lap.

He’d done it. He’d actually finished one of the hundreds of projects he’d started in Piper’s efforts to find him a hobby that wasn’t sitting on the fences of cemeteries or standing in line at Mcdonalds.

He had lots of other hobbies, he just… couldn’t come up with them when she was arguing with him.

So they’d gone through writing, painting, records, sleeping, which he excelled in, and then crocheting. None had lasted very long, but he may have had an idea half way through trying to stab Piper with the crocheting stick.

And now he had a white bucket hat with cat ears.

He threw it to the end of his bed, and hid underneath his duvet. Fuck.

Repose. Malcolm Liepke. 1953.

What on Olympus was he supposed to do about the way he wanted to hold you so badly he felt like throwing up and tearing his hair out?

He lay underneath in the pocket of stuffy darkness for a moment, before sitting up, untangling his blankets and teddies from him, and then standing. He may have just had the greatest idea anyone had ever thought of before.

Hazel was still in the shower, singing, most likely, so he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack that was actually just a skeleton, and then stomped out of his cabin, the stupid hat in his fist.

His heart was beating wildly. Stupid heart.

The Wedding Dress. Fred Ellwell. 1911.

He rubbed his face and groaned at the sky. The stars were just peeking out, but it was still pink and yellow, and the sun hadn’t dipped yet. It was hidden by the trees he was trudging through, though.

Fuck.

His chest was hurting.

Nico scrunched up the stupid perfect crocheted hat that just had to stupidly perfectly match your stupid perfect cat gloves because Nico was stupidly perfectly obsessed with you.

You, who was stupidly perfect.

Fuck.

Psyche Weeping. Kinuko Y Craft. 1995.

He trod on twigs that broke underneath his boots and weaved through the tree’s that slowly became more and more laden with hanging pendants and wind chimes and ruins carved into the bark.

He stepped over a thin stream. A frog croaked at him like it was dying. As if it could ever feel like it was dying. As if it could ever fall in love.

Nico groaned at the sky again.

“Just let it all out.”

He turned, and glared. “Do you mind?”

“Yes, actually,” Lou Ellen said, raising a purple eyebrow. It matched the undersides of her curly hair. She pointed to the cabin concealed in shadows and moss and stones behind her. “This is my house. And you are yelling very loudly.”

“I’m not yelling,” Nico argued. “I’m groaning.”

She stared at him for a second. She rolled her eyes. “Just come in, what do you need?”

“I need a spell. Or a charm. Or hex,” Nico said, following her through the wooden double doors. A wind chime tinkled even though the air was still. There were a few bunks lined up against the wall to one side. “Or a magic thing. I don’t care which one.”

The rest of the cabin was filled with small coffin shaped pet beds and empty pink soda cans and voodoo dolls hanging from the roof and rugs with cats wearing strawberry hats on the fluffy material and misty crystal balls.

Lou Ellen lent back on a desk stacked high with papers and paperweights that were actually jars filled with things. “Okay. I have three rules. I don’t kill people, and I don’t make people fall in love.”

“...And?”

“I’ll break both if it’ll be fun?”

Nico frowned. “No. Aren’t you supposed to say you won’t bring people back from the dead? That’s always the third rule.”

She squinted at him. “Uh…no. I send those people to you.”

Nico squinted back at her, sticking his tongue out. He fiddled with the stupid perfect hat and looked around. There was just more creepy things and stuffed animals. “Whatever. I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I need you to… like,” Nico started. He sighed. He looked away.

This was awful.

He was not about to admit that he might be in love, even if it was to reverse the feelings in the first place with whatever heart ripping out brain altering magic was necessary.

The Apollo cabin would find out through the witch in less than thirty seconds. He would never live it down.

Nico groaned again. “Oh for fucks sake, do you need me to fic your voicebox or something?” Lou Ellen hissed.

Nico glared at her. He groaned again, and then whirled around and stomped out of the weird mossy mushroom cabin. “Nevermind!”

“Fine! Have it your way!...weird little emo.”

Nico glared at the frog croaking at him, and kept walking through the forest.

He followed the little stream through the woods until he could hear wind chimes or Taylor Swift’s latest album anymore.

The little stream widened into a proper stream, filled with a lot more frogs. Why were there so many frogs? He nearly stood on a green one leaping across the path. Stupid frog.

Nico stuffed his hands into his pockets, along with the hat. He was tempted to just toss it into the river. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with all of the silly feelings that felt like the biggest things in the world to him and his silly head full of thoughts about your lips.

Maybe the frogs could use the hat as a home.

“Here froggie… Come here… I said, come here... No I am not taking a tone with you!”

Nico froze.

Fuck. He took a deep breath, probably too loudly. He glanced to the side.

Of course you were catching frogs, knee deep in a river.

You looked over, making eye contact, and Nico realized the moths underneath his ribcage were turning into bats. You squinted at him, hands on your hips, while water swirled around and leaves drifted from the trees above. A bucket was wedged between two rocks next to you.

A frog jumped out of it and landed near your leg, on a lillypad.

“Look Albert,” you said, turning to the frog. “It’s a little Victorian ghost.”

“...I’m Italian,” Nico said quietly. He stared at you. He couldn’t help it. Wow. Fuck. Leo was right. He really was pathetic. “And I’m not a ghost.”

“Okay, Victorian ghost.”

Nico stared at you. Fuck.

After that exchange, he should be able to hate you. Right? Right. He now resented you, and the moths turned bats would stop clawing at his chest and he would go back to having a normal life.

Right?

Wrong.

You squinted at Nico, and then slowly turned to Albert. “I think the cute Victorian ghost is having a stroke.”

Nico blinked once, gulped, and then marched forward through the cold water and frogs, his shoes squelching loudly. Gods. This was so embarrassing. But you thought he was cute, even if you also thought he was a dead english boy, so he would be content with dying from embarrassment.

He shoved the stupid perfect hat into your stupid perfect hands.

And then left in about 0.3 seconds.

»»————-　★　————-««

You stared down at your pancakes. Why were they so gray looking? Had someone poisoned them? You figured that it would be a pretty good way to die, and tipped extra maple syrup onto them before you dug in.

To counterbalance the poison, of course.

You scratched at the mosquito bite underneath the strap of your binder. It had flowers embroidered into it. Your binder. Not the mosquito bite.

One of your siblings across from you kicked at your shin, probably on purpose, but you continued to eat your odd tasting pancakes and picked blueberry grit off your white cat paw gloves. They were your favorite gloves.

They also matched your new hat. The new hat that the cute Victorian but actually Italian ghost boy had given you before he teleported away with whatever dark magic he had stored in all that goth-ness.

You tossed a blueberry at Clarisse when she walked past and tried to bash you over the head.

She wasn’t allowed to ruin your new hat.

You turned to see her flicking the blueberry over at someone else, and your eyes flicked past that too. Now way. You stood up, but you’d lost sight of the mess of dark hair when the Hermes cabin barrelled past.

You clambered onto your seat and stood up there. “Oi! Victorian ghost hat boy!”

The dining pavilion went quiet pretty quickly, and everyone turned to the cute guy with a skeleton hoodie and wide eyes. He pointed at himself when you pointed at him, and then went pink.

Clarisse stuck her arm out so you didn’t faceplant when you jumped down from your seat, and you held onto your new hat as you traipsed across the cracked floor.

You’d never figured out how that crack had got there. But there were bigger mysteries.

Like this cute goth.

His face just pinker when you grabbed his sleeve and tried to tug him out of the entire camp’s curious eyes. A dark skinned girl with a lot of butterfly clips and a Steven Universe t-shirt sent a thumbs up in your direction.

It was only when you were standing by the low burning fire pit in a patch of daisies did you realize you hadn’t really planned far enough ahead.

You took off the cat-ear hat and looked down at it. “...Uhm…”

“Sorry,” the goth said quickly, and when you made eye contact he looked away even quicker. “It’s creepy. Boundaries and stuff, I just… saw your gloves.”

“It’s not creepy,” you argued, putting the hat back on with a grin. He was really cute when he blushed. “I mean, I don’t even know your name, and I have no idea who you are but your eyeliner is really really great and… Holy Hades if you smile like that again can I… please kiss you?”

The goth with no name stared at you, and then nodded about ten times too many. “Yes please. But, uh.. If you’re gonna kiss me, please, maybe don’t get my dad involved.”

“...Wut?”

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico could feel his cheeks growing hotter.

Not because of the sun, specifically, but it was hot and bright in the woods. He’d worn sunscreen though. And forced you to put it on too, once he’d found watermelon scented sunscreen, because you refused to smell gross no matter how sunburnt you would get anyways.

His face was hot and red because of you.

You, who was stupidly perfect and also possibly kind of Nico’s stupidly perfect boyfriend.

“Psst, Victorian ghost boy,” you said with a sing-song voice, quietly, and waved your hand in front of his eyes with your pink, blue, and white painted nails. He blinked. You smiled. “You zoned out again.”

“Sorry,” Nico said, and pulled a daisy out of the ground. He handed it over. “I was thinking about you.”

He hadn’t realized the effect that saying that would have on you, but it was worth it when you opened and closed your mouth like one of the frogs you kept as pets.

“I.. well, what were you thinking about?”

Nico had played his cards right. He smirked, and you shuffled forwards on the checked picnic blanket Piper had stolen from Drew, who’d probably nicked it from poor unsuspecting Demeter or Iris kid. You knocked over the basket of strawberries too, and then took your bucket hat off and stuffed it in your lap with a grin.

He tilted his head down. You were both following a very well rehearsed script. “...Kissing you?”

You launched yourself forwards then with a laugh, your cat-paw gloved hands landing on either side of his waist and probably squishing some of those strawberries at the same time.

The sun reflected in your eyes and Nico held the sides of your face as he pressed his lips to yours.

You kissed back, and once you both stopped smiling widely, you could kiss back.

Properly.

He scratched his fingernails, the ones you’d painted rainbow that afternoon after catching more frogs and complaining about sunscreen, along your jaw when you bit down on his bottom lip.

Not as a complaint, certainly not, and you knew that too because you just sat back on your knees between Nico’s lap and tilted your head to fit deeper against Nico’s bruised lips.

The ones that hadn’t had a single day off since you jumped up in the middle of breakfast with your gluten free waffles you hadn’t realized were gluten free until he had explained it to you later.

It was intensely crazily unbearably romantic but it also meant whatever cold one of you managed to catch, the other would come down with only minutes later.

And Nico felt like that smug little cat from Julie Manet’s Auguste Renoir.

»»————-　★　————-««

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