greedyhoneyz

[greedyhoneyz]

𝐻𝒪𝒩𝐸𝒴𝒞𝑅𝐼𝒮𝒫!

❤︎ ₊ ˙ ⊹ visiting clark’s farm-home means sticky summer heat, a slipping dress, and tension so palpable it tastes like sin.

CONTAINS ⨾ ⸻ ( 7k+ ) words of ⨾ nsfw / smut, ( farmer!clark kent / superman ) x southern belle fem!reader, established relationship, food play kinda lol, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, lowercase intended, minors shoo!

my love letter! ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ i’ve made superman my muse ever since i walked out the theater, and i can’t seem to get this farmboy out of my mind >.< i wanted clark in his natural habitat, but all in all, this is just a lowdown, dirty roll in the hay lol . please enjoy, reblogs are appreciated, and thank you so much for reading! 🍎

the kent farm is alive. it smells of apple skin and warm earth, hums with the lazy heat of late afternoon— golden and honey-thick. it’s the kind of place that ripens everything it touches. 

your lover’s had a typical day. hauling hay bales, sprinkling fertilizer across fifty acres of rich land, plowing harvesting lines into fields and whatnot. you’ve had quite the time yourself watching him do so. 

the sun’s low enough to gild the outstretched treetops, but its heat still beats down on the crown of your head, your skin all flushed and dewy from roaming around the farm. somewhere above, cicadas whir. somewhere behind you, his footsteps stop. 

clark’s finally returned from the orchard field, his white cotton undershirt clinging to his back and sunlight playing on the rims of his glasses. he watches you from just a few paces back, looking like the very personification of rural americana— faded-red gingham, sleeves rolled, forearms browned and strong. his collar’s askew and open at the throat, chest damp and a button missing. you surely don’t mind.  

there’s a honeycrisp apple in his hand. freshly plucked, still warm from the sun. he tosses it once, then catches it with a lazy smile.

“you ever had one right off the branch?” he asks, voice all slow charm and kansas drawl. he pushes up his glasses to tame the wild ringlets of dark hair falling into his brow. 

you shake your head, watching the way his fingers curl around the fruit. big, careful hands . . . the kind that could tear you apart or cradle you whole. 

he takes a bite. crisp. loud. juice trickles down his wrist, glinting in the sunlight.

your throat goes absolutely dry.

“mm, sweet . . .” he murmurs, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. he holds temptation right there in his very palm. “here,” his offer is gentle, “try it.”

your rosy-tinted smile is light and easy, peering up at him through the soft veil of your lashes. the breeze teases the hem of your ivory milkmaid dress while sunlight pools over your collarbone and shoulders. “you sure make it hard to say no,” you say, half to him and half to the ache curling in your chest. 

he steps closer, slow and certain, until your back grazes the sun-warm siding of the farmhouse— splintered redwood pressing through cotton. he looms at your front, all broad and radiant and impossible to look away from. his entire shadow spills across you, and he smells of rich kansas soil and faint, sugary traces of mcintosh. the fruit lingers in his hands, ripe and flushed with color, but it’s that look in his sky-blue eyes that tempts you most. 

he holds out the bitten apple like something sacred. your dainty fingers brush his calloused ones as you reach for it, and the touch alone is enough to make your stomach twist. your eyes meet. there’s something burning-hot swirling in his gaze; it’s unreadable. heavy. starving. 

the apple sits heavy in your palm; ripe, red, split down one side where his teeth have already broken the skin.

“bet it’s the best thing you’ll taste all day.”

you arch a soft brow, tilting your chin up. “why don’t you feed me, farmboy?”

that gets him. his mouth twitches at the corner, and he brings the fruit to your lips himself, like you knew he would. he spurs you on with a slow command, “open.” 

you lean in without a word, lips brushing the side of the fruit where his fingers cradle it. you sink your teeth in, and the apple gives way with a sharp crack. it floods your mouth with sugar and tang and sun-warm juice, trailing down your lip, all slow and glistening— a bead of gold slipping from the corner of your mouth to curve down your chin. his gaze follows the droplet. it feels forbidden, almost. 

clark’s breath leaves him in a broken sigh. he doesn’t move. “jesus,” he exhales like it’s been ripped out of him. 

when you look up again, clark’s already watching your mouth— entirely smitten, barely restrained. his gaze doesn’t waver. his own lips part ever so slightly. 

“you’ve got juice,” he says softly, touch ghosting towards your jaw, resisting the urge to catch it, “right . . . here.”

he wipes it off with his thumb, then brings it to his mouth. sucks it clean.

it’s a sin— good god, it has to be. the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing sweeter than eden’s first god-given fruit; like he’d pull you into the hayloft, press you to the rustic walls and taste every drop of paradise off your skin. 

you swallow hard. he hears it, you know he does— hears the slow gulp of your own desire, the thud of your heartbeat pounding wildly beneath your breastbone. his thumb doesn’t leave your skin, lingering at the edge of your plushy lips. 

the apple falls into the grass, forgotten. 

“you’re real quiet all of a sudden,” clark says, light and playful. you blink up at him. your chest is rising too fast. he watches how your breasts heave against the fragile confines of your lacy neckline, a tremble of breath beneath satin. “cat got your tongue?” the rasp in his voice is delectably thick and undeniably southern, touched with a bit of something wanton. 

your lips part helplessly, but nothing comes out. just the lucent ghost of his name, a miserable attempt at ‘ clark ’ that unravels him enough to close the space between you. 

his hands, warm and delightfully large, find your waist. he draws you to him—not roughly, no, because clark never isn’t gentle. but with such an assured certainty, like your body belongs right there slotted against his. soft upon solid, heat wafting in the middle. 

“say something . . . anything,” he sounds hushed, hoarse. you don’t usually still like this when he teases; it halts him. his face is ever so close, the straight bridge of his firm nose grazing yours, dark brows knit in a quiet, aching hunger. one hand lifts, his fingers slipping behind your nape, cradling tenderly as though to anchor you. 

your soft hands slide beneath his checkered shirt to meet boiling warmth, solid sinewy muscle, taut tanned skin, faintly dusted fine hairs at his pelvis— the rise and fall of an all-powerful man barely holding it together. 

he’s well over six feet of thick, sculpted brawn, hard to reach even in the custom hand-stitched boots he gifted you. and so, you rise onto your tippy-toes, lips skimming along the shell of his cartilage. the warm scent of cedar and vanilla cling to your skin, and sweet, sinful aroma seeps warmly into him. it makes him throb hard in his boxers. you prompt him with a soft, saccharine whisper makes his ears flush pink: 

“kiss me.” 

his mouth is on yours in the next breath— no hesitation, not a single question. just heat. perhaps a bit of hunger. 

it begins unhurried, with a slow suckle here and a drawn-out lick there, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers and vanish, or you’re made up of dreams that he wouldn’t dare shatter. 

but then you whimper. so soft, broken. just like that, it undoes him like the slip of a ribbon. his lips claim, part, press . . . then his tongue slides in, slow and molten, tasting of you like he’d been dying for it. 

your gasp catches against his mouth, and it’s just about the holiest thing he’s ever heard. his own growls follow; dark, guttural and drawn from somewhere so primal even he’s scared to face it. 

twitching with want, clark’s fingers flex at your waist, drawing you desperately flush against him. hips meeting hips, chest to chest. your very heartbeat pounds in your body and reverberates through his like it's trying to climb into his chest. the other hand cups your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the kiss—deeper, wetter, needier. 

the way clark tongues you down lets you know that his resolve is leaking. his own swirls with yours, coaxing, teasing, then devouring. this kiss must be hunger’s incarnate; open-mouthed and breathless, teeth catching your bottom lip, tugging, then soothing the sting with a velvet lick. 

it’s only when you weakly knack his bicep, gasping for a sliver of air, that he pulls away. it feels wrong to be rid of your lips, even for a second. 

“god help me,” he groans in that intimate way only you’re meant to hear. “m’sorry, baby, i—“ clark pants, involuntarily pressing into you. his hips roll into yours before either of you can stop it, unthinking and helpless like lust is pulling the strings. when you moan in reply, his cock jumps within his coveralls. “didn’t mean to get carried away.” 

“don’t you stop,” you whine, fisting his shirt like he’s the only solid thing left. you lift your knee to graze his crotch, painstakingly stiff and prodding against denim. “i need you. right now.” 

“you don’t know what you’re asking,” he grunts out a feeble warning, but his mouth finds your again anyway. when he sucks on your tongue, slow and filthy, you swear you feel the very earth tilt beneath your feet. 

your man is capable of a great many things. you’re reminded of that when he’s gone in a gust of wind, then back before your next breath with a timeworn blanket from the farmhouse sofa tucked under one arm, all in mere seconds. 

his arm comes under your rear, scoops you up like it’s nothing, and gently lays you down in the grass with dizzying ease. the soft patterned cloth cushions your back as the orchard rustles around you. canopying leaves sway and sunlit-shadows flicker overhead. the golden july sky and towering apple trees are your quiet witnesses; watching, waiting, holding their breath. 

clark’s gaze darts to your lips before dipping lower. the way he drinks you in is bashful; almost boyish, like his homegrown manners hold him back. his pupils dilate, jaw tensing. you’re nearly certain he’s using x-ray vision to take the smallest peek beneath the fabric . . . and from the heat flushing his red cheeks, it’s driving him wild. 

“tryin’ to be a gentleman here, promise. just . . . not doing a great job right now.” 

you look up at him, eyes glinting with a teasing laugh playing on your lips. your arms lift, slow but sure. then your hands find his hair, fingers slipping into the dark fluff of his curls. he bites back a sound when your manicured nails scrape lightly along his nape.  

“oh, i know. you’re usually better behaved, kal.” it just isn’t fair, how you say his given name all soft and sweet like you don’t know what it does to him. but you do. you know exactly what you’re doing. and from the way his hands tighten on your waist, so does he. 

“tell me to stop,” he rasps, “might do somethin’ reckless.” 

“you’re always so careful, clark . . i want to see what reckless looks like on you.” 

“y— you sure, sweetheart?” his smile cracks crooked and dazed, like he’s barely holding himself together. you swear he’s got hearts in his eyes. 

“you heard me,” you run your finger along the sheen of his chest, just above the neckline. “i thought you were the strongest man on earth.” a sly smile, a dripping voice. you’re goading him. “don’t tell me you’re nervous.” 

“oh?” he muses through a breathy laugh. his restraint is cracking. “careful’s what kept me from doing this sooner,” he shifts forwards, settling between your parted thighs and sliding his massive hands up them. body heat rolls off him in waves, and his undeniable hard-on nudges your skin. 

“that dress is hanging on by a prayer, anyhow . .” he mutters, gaze pinned to the soft dip between your collarbone and breasts, the barest curve of them rising with each breath. his hand slinks around your backside, grabbing the rounds of your ass through ivory cotton. you arch into him like a flower toward the light, arms cradling his head closer. his other hand drifts up to feel the slope of your spine, palm dragging along warm skin like he’s memorizing it. 

“so soft,” he mutters, almost to himself. “everywhere.”

clark’s thumb grazes the hem of your skimpy panties, brushing the little ribbon atop it and teasing the scallop-trimmed edge, while his mouth trails slow, damp kisses along your jawline. lazy at first, then firmer. you feel his breath stutter against your cheek when your hips grind back into his palm. 

“you’re killin’ me, baby,” he frees a fragile chuckle, forehead resting on yours. a wild little curl of his skims the subtle angle of your brow. “can barely think, i . . . want you so bad it hurts.”

he grips your ass harder, the thick press of his arousal straining against you. clark’s instinctive grinding pulls gasp from you, but he doesn’t let up; mouth moving to your shoulder, biting just enough to make you flinch and whine. 

“say it’s okay,” he pants. “say i can—”

“take it off, kal.”

then, without breaking eye contact, he hooks his thumb under the hem of your dress and presses up, nudging the fabric higher. his gaze holds you in place, asking silently even though he doesn't need to. you’re already his. you truly wonder if seduction or hypnosis falls under the wide array of his abilities. you give a slow nod; eager, breathless, sure. 

he exhales hard through his nose, hands trembling slightly as they slip beneath the milkmaid straps resting on your shoulders. the lace-trim cloth is already halfway falling; it only takes the faintest tug before it slinks down your arms, like the peel of a ripened apple curling away. you feel as though you'll be eaten alive like the one that was dropped to the floor— not that the thought doesn’t excite you. 

the rest is tugged, peeled, kissed away from your skin. the dress now pools at your shifting hips until he pulls it past your wiggling toes. it’s flung aside, lost in a wide corner of the spread blanket. it lands similar to a fruit dropped from a tree, unnoticed; just like anything else that isn’t you right now. 

clark’s touch hovers at your ribs, thumbs brushing beneath the wiring of your lacy butter-yellow bra. his stare is soaked in awe. your nipples brush linen as he nimbly undoes the clamps and pulls it free, peaked and aching like rosebuds. he audibly groans the moment your boobs spill free. you’re picturesque, bare and bathed in dappled sun and orchard-shadow.

his adam’s apple bobs, lashes lowering. clark cups your breasts gently in both hands, kneading and squeezing like he aims to learn the shape of you by heart. a pretty moan slips out before you can stop it. 

“god, you’re so . . .” he doesn’t finish. just ogles, like language has failed him. all he can muster up is a breathy little ‘ wow. ’ he’s two seconds away from forgetting how composed he meant to be. 

“beautiful,” his knuckles faintly trace beneath the swell of your breast. he revels in how sweetly you whine. “don’t even know how to touch something like you.” 

you guide his hands back to your chest, laying your palms over his like you’re teaching him how to worship. you get him to give you a nice, thorough squeeze, just how you like it. he can only stammer. you smile up at him. “you’re doing it right now, baby.” 

you sit up, and lord forgive him—his gaze drops, slow and helpless, to the delicious sway of your bosom. he’s more than convinced you’re his temptation made flesh. 

“you’ve got too many clothes on for someone who’s touching me like that,” you want to make quick work of his shirt. the fabric between you suddenly feels cruel. “your turn.”

you fingers, intentional and featherlight, trail down the column of his throat. you can see the warm summer flush creeping down. if you were to say a word, he’d only blame the heat. the gingham shirt clings to him, stretched faintly over muscle and modesty. you find the first button and undo it, slow and savoring. 

his chest rising in a shaky breath as you move to the next button. one by one, you pry him open. he’s warm beneath all that fabric; golden, flushed, tight with anticipation. you let your knuckles graze his sternum, the ridge of his defined laterals, the dusting of chest hair that makes you ache in places you shouldn’t. 

“aw, you’re blushing,” you tease, eyes dancing.

he huffs a laugh, breathless.

“hard not to when you’re lookin’ at me like that.”

you peel the clothes from his back and free him of a layer, then he strips the remaining undershirt over his head. his sinewy arms flex instinctively, like he’s suddenly aware of their size. revealed is sun-warmed skin and taut muscle, each movement deliberate and aching. his broad shoulders roll, flexing with ease beneath the sunlight. 

“this okay?” he asks softly, always gentle even when his self-control frays like threadbare cotton. 

you nod, brushing the texture of his frictiony coveralls. “now these,” you whisper, tugging one suspender down one shoulder, then the other, until they’ve fallen off either side. the light-wash straps ripple down like dusk falling over the fields. 

clark obeys without another word. he shuffles down his coveralls and strips the denim away, past rows of sculpted abs, his firm, meaty thighs and corded calves. underneath, his red boxers are hung suggestively low on his hips. the waistband is tugged down just enough for the shadow of his v-line to flex. he’s straining hard against the cotton, thick and barely contained, the shape of him unmistakable. 

“you’re so good like this,  letting me unwrap you,” you giggle, giving the bold imprint a once-over. his erection stored beneath flimsy fabric twitches as you lean in. 

“this is all for you,” his voice is hushed like he’s pleading, “always was.” clark’s strong arms fold around your waistline and pull you flush to him like he intends to merge. his blue eyes drink you in with a need so strong it aches. he’s massive, carved as though he was meant to carry the world. yet somehow, he looks at you like you’re the one to worship. 

“if i start . . . i don’t think i’ll know how to stop.”

you reach up, brushing the curve of his clean-shaven jaw, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss into your palm like a prayer. 

“then don’t,” you whisper, kissing along the impeccable angling of his jawline. “let go with me.” 

he dips his head low and just like that, he’s on you again; more urgent now. more teeth. he plants open kisses down your chest, and then his mouth— hot, open, wet, and closes around your nipple. his tongue swirls so intentionally that you can’t help the sounds you make. 

“can’t believe i have you under me like this,” he unlatches with a vulgar pop, one hand sliding past lace and under your waistband. “hope the ground’s decent enough for you? sorry, i should’ve asked sooner.” a thick finger dips down and finds you soaked. you yelp. 

“i— it’s fine, clark. mm, i promise,” you hadn’t meant for that to materialize into a moan. the pad of his index meets your sticky folds. he stills for a beat.

“. . . christ.”

then he moves. a bit to the left, up the center until he finds the pulse of you. clark starts off with little circles, slow at first, then firmer, with purpose. you emit a stringy gasp, hips rising into him. he anchors you with one imposing hand splayed on your waist, the other rubbing you out, his mouth never once leaving your skin.

he tries working you open and meets resistance, tight heat puckering against the pad of his finger. 

“easy now, baby, easy,” he rumbles out, “open up for me— just like that, fuck.”

clark never swears. it’s just not in his nature. so when he does, rough and low under his breath, you clench rapidly and heat rushes to your core like a reflex. it’s so filthy, so unexpectedly fitting of him, and it turns you on far more than it should. 

with a slow roll of his wrist, he presses past, sliding further in even when your thighs twitch around his hand. the way your body tightens with need has you clutching onto him like a lifeline.

“c-clark, i— ah!” he pumps another into you, both spanned digits drawing out, and in, and out again. the accompanying ‘ shlick ’ is simply obscene. your whine coils in his chest like a sharp tug, dragging him impossibly closer. he watches your face twist with each drag of his fingers. it’s pitiful. precious, even. nothing’s ever made him feel more powerful than having you leak and pulse under his touch, not even beaming golden sun-rays itself. 

his rhythm deepens, curling in with new purpose, and you feel everything. clark kisses your hair when you cry out for him. all of it brings you too close too soon, like he’s studied your body in his sleep. you’re climbing fast, panting through parted lips, muscles locking and fluttering as heat winds up in your belly. you look down, dizzy, met with his soaked hand between your thighs, fingers glistening as they disappear into your body. 

“clark—!” you gasp, voice barely there. he grunts against your ear like he’s barely holding on himself.

“that’s it, sugar. thaaat’s it,” his pace doesn’t dare let up. he kisses your nose, your jaw, your neck, “let go, sweetheart. i’ve got ya.” 

and you do. 

you’re completely come undone beneath him; legs shaking and chest heaving like your world is splitting at the seams. and clark just watches. a heavy palm settled on your hip, jaw slack, eyes blown wide as if he’s witnessing a miracle.

but his hands don't stay still for long. even as you’re catching your breath, he’s already mapping the next place to claim. his ring and middle finger slip free, slick with your tangy sweetness. he savors it with a long, teasing lick;  just as he did after that first bite of fruit. 

“please,” your trembling hand finds his bulge and latches on, soft but insistent, prying a low moan from deep in his throat. “want more of you, kal. ” 

he inches down the last barrier between you with shaky fingers, breath heavy, knuckles pale from restraint. his eyes never leave yours. it’s not about the mechanics—never was. it’s about you. the way you look beneath him; flushed, soft and easily corruptible, textured hair fanned across orchard grass like you bloomed just for him. 

finally, clark frees himself and—good god. you don’t even realize that you’d broken eye contact just to stare. he’s so fucking big. you’ve seen him before, but somehow it always feels new. and even if you hadn't, you’d simply look at the sheer breadth of him and just know. you’d expect the man of steel to be quite endowed anyway; full, girthy and fat, with a soft thatch of curls at his root, dark and damp with heat. he leaks steadily for you, swollen tip glossy with need. 

you’d love to touch him—stroke him slow, savor the heavy heat of him in your palm, but you don’t get the chance. sizeable hands are braced on either side of your hips, trapping you beneath his strong and steady frame. clark’s already leaning in and sizing you up. he drops the full weight of himself against your bare belly and rests it there. thick, flushed, and heavy where it throbs over your pelvis. 

“you gonna let me in, hm?” 

he flicks his hips and grinds the underside of him right over your slit. there’s so much want, so little left between you. you nod, spit-slick lips parted. you blink up at him, dazed, and something in his expression fractures. “please, papa . . want it so bad.” 

that’s all it takes. 

clark pulls back just enough, breath hitching as he aligns himself with your sticky, fluttering hole. his cockhead catches onto your thrumming clit and you whimper. with his typical dopey smile, only half assured, he drags his fat tip through the slick mess he made of you earlier. the pair of you release your own raw noises in tandem when he starts to push in.

the entirety of him is too much at first. it always is. slow and unrelenting with such splitting width, like he’s carving out space inside you. your mouth falls open. he sinks even further and the searing stretch alone steals your voice completely. your fingers dig into his shoulders, rounded milky-pink nails catching on taut muscle. he’s thick. too thick. and yet your body opens for him like it’s been waiting all your life.

clark groans, low, guttural and helpless. “you’re so tight. jesus, baby. i can’t— i jus’ can’t—”

he bottoms out.

you both go still. his forehead, matted with sweat-drenched curls, presses to yours. a long, syrupy whine of his name tumbles out of you, and your parted hips are pressed flush to his, bare and burning. entering you isn’t nearly enough— he pushes in further, grinding in deep and slow; practically buries himself in you. the more he sinks in, impossibly so, the tighter your squeeze the length of him. his breath shakes in his throat. 

“it’s yours, baby,” he moans out like a vow, eyes squeezed shut, “it’s all yours, it’s all yours . .”

now that you’re writhing and full of him, he kisses you again—deeper now, slower, like he needs to taste all of it. all of you. your puffy lips, your jaw, the curve of your throat. you revel in every wet stroke, every sultry flick, every soft lash of muscle. his teeth graze your skin, and the drag of his tongue is so hot it draws shivers. every part of him feels too firm, too solid, too much to take . . . but god, do you want it.

“you doin’ okay, sweetheart?” he rasps, lips brushing your temple. you nod, just barely. “mhm. you just . . feel so deep,” his hips make a deepening tilt forward and you gasp again, already breathless. to that, he smiles against your skin. “that’s ’cause i’m home now, baby— alllll the way in,” he bites down what’d have been a pitiful noise. your slick walls flutter, clenching greedily. 

clark gathers both your wrists in one hand, fastens them over your head, and draws his hips back; just enough for the loss to echo inside you, leaving you to clench desperately around empty summer air. you whimper just in time for him to thrust forward again, splitting you open until your walls spasm around him in soft, rippling pulses. the further in he presses, the more you find yourself unraveling beneath him. 

“y— you feel that?” his hips drag back, slow and torturous, before sliding home again. deep, unhurried. he watches pleasure break open across your pretty face. “please, baby,” he draws out and retreats again, stopping at the peak of his throbbing tip, then snaps back in, sinking into your warmth. his hand crawls down to play with your puffed clit, and you almost scream. he revels in your tight, rhythmic spasms. “tell me you can feel it.” 

you moan, nuzzling your face in the heat of his wide flexing bicep, your legs instinctively curling around him. he catches your thigh in one steady grasp, hikes it higher up his torso, and plunges in hard. the air leaves your lungs in a sharp gasp, practically fucking knocked out of you. he’s stirring you up all over. he’s kissing everywhere. he’s inside everything. 

“oooh— uh-huh,” your head tilts back into the quilted fabric underneath you, and he dives in low to nip at your jugular. all while you take him, the only thing you can muster to do right now anyway. your drooling pussy stretches wide around the shape of him, insatiably sucks in every inch. he splits you open and fills you so wholly, you couldn’t let him go if you tried. “can f-feel you, mmh . . everywhere, clark.”

“oh my god— you’re taking me so good, baby. so, so good.”

clark follows up with long, deep strokes, each thrust drawn-out like he’s savoring every drag. your feet cinch together around his back, breath hiccuping. his pelvis grinds into yours with perfect, aching pressure, brushing somewhere inside that makes your eyes roll back into your skull. each thrust brings about the thick swing of his weighty balls, landing sharp and heavy against the curve of your ass. his hands roam like he wants to crawl inside you and stay for good. 

then he finds it—his thick cockhead grinding into that one devastatingly spongy little spot that has your body seizing around him. you arch and cry, able to make such delirious ruin appear so holy. clark licks a salty rolling tear off your cheek, pins down your waist with both hands, and holds you in place as he bullies his way into it, humping and fucking on the one spot that makes your body lurch. over and over, like he’s engraving his very name in your walls. you sob his name, fingernails sunk into his hair and scratching at his scalp. clark groans like he’s never gonna stop. he’s claimed a place nobody else could ever reach. 

“there?” he asks, grinning now, voice sticky-sweet. he’s clearly pleased. “that’s the spot, right, sweetness?” you can’t even answer, barely conscious, shaking legs treating to give, brained fogged with the heat, with him. he bucks forward, chasing the wet clap of your bodies meeting, the sound that rips from your chest isn’t human. you can’t breathe. can’t think. he’s splitting you wide open like a peach pulled apart by hand— and you continue wanting for more. 

you whine and sputter from every gut-stirring thrust, and the sight of you beneath him; flushed, leaking, so messily beautiful while clinging to him like he’s the very air you breathe, finally snaps the remaining thread of his reserve; clark’s even shocked he still had any left over. he can only thank Rao for the shred of kryptonian restraint still anchoring him. without it, he probably would’ve mauled you by now— snapped completely and fucked you right into the floor. 

it’s gone now, so clark lets go. fucks you harder. he hates losing control, hates how it makes him feel like he could ruin you. but he knows that just as much, you love when he isn’t gentle. and your body shows it; so pliant, so eager, sucking around him with every hungered slam of his sturdy hips. 

“you hear that?” he murmurs low and ragged, tone shaking with need. the resounding squelch of your soaked cunt rings loud between each slam. “that’s you, baby. so wet for me . . . all that just for me.” 

“oh my god, c-clark— fuck, papa, i wannittt,” your pussy stretches wide around the heft of him, drooling and desperate, swallowing him inch by aching inch. he’s thick, heavy, unrelenting—and you take it all, the shape of him carving pleasure into you with every vigorous thrust. he leans down to you, so low that your breasts are bouncing against his solid chest. clark splits you open like a gift, perhaps something sacred, and stuffs you so full it’s dizzying. you clamp down so fast it’s obvious—your body won't let him leave. 

“say it again,” his voice rumbles low and rough against the side of your throat he nuzzles into, hips snapping into you with brutal precision, “say you want it.” 

“i, mmm— want your cock, want all of it . .” you break off with a sharp cry, legs trembling from the force of him inside you. “fuck me harder, jus’ fuck me, please—!”

“you beg so pretty, don’t stop,” the expanse of clark’s sweaty palms press down on your coiling belly. his cock drives up so deep it knocks the breath right out of your lungs, stealing sound and sanity alike. “takin’ it so good, sugar,” he coos into your ear, feeling tempted to bite it. your hands scramble for the broad plane of his firm back, desperate for something to anchor you, nails dragging and digging; nothing you do could ever mark him. he drives his feet into the ground to propel him, thrusts again and you nearly sob. juices slide down your slit and pool messily beneath your ass. “too deep, i-i can’t . . i need it, please— keep going, keep going,” 

“i’ll give you everything, baby.” he whispers, awed and undone. you’re soft and spasming around him, bulging where he sinks deep. it drives him half-mad, the way he doubles you in size— thick and imposing enough to leave an outline in your tummy. you’re crying harder now, quaking on his lap, and it only spurs him further. his grip is hot and sure, pistoning in and out of you in a punishing rhythm. you wail for more and he gives it, fingers sweeping your pearly center, making you bounce on him like it’s instinct. his face is pink, ears burning, and he doesn’t even notice—too focused on breaking you apart just right.

something in you begins to crack and splinter. you can’t necessarily recall the very moment when, or which of clark’s actions had even prompted it— maybe the mouthwatering pressure he’s been rubbing onto your nub, or the way he keeps hammering into your pussy, paced so deliciously brutal. but you just know it the moment the world blurs and your limbs don’t listen anymore. 

you lurch forward and feel everything slipping, clawing for something solid; his shoulders, his name, the earth itself. he feels you tighten around him, toppling over the edge. the moment your body pulses around him, his thrusts falter. he can fucking hear it; the stirring of your insides, the obscene squelch your sopping pussy makes, the single snap of a tightly drawn coil deep inside you. 

“c-close,” you squeeze out, “oh, sweetheart. you gonna cum, hm?” his voice is dark satin, frayed with strain. your legs are trembling, thighs slick and twitching around his hips, and your cunt clenches so tight he nearly sees stars himself. your body screams yes for you when your mouth just can’t. 

clark sees it; the flutter in your lashes, the wet, desperate gape of your lips, the starlight blinking out behind your eyes. something in him breaks. he groans along with you, his own noise raw and guttural like it’s being torn from somewhere buried. clark hauls you against the thick grind of him as he drives deeper, harder, messier. his face buries in your neck, lips dragging hot across your skin, drinking in every gasp you can still manage to make. he doesn’t dare stop; not when you’re this tight, this close— not when he’s the one pulling you apart so beautifully. 

“oh yeah— there you go. come on, baby, come for me, i know you can do it. let me feel it, lemme—”

you completely undo. 

your body obliges before you can answer. pleasure bursts wide open and crashes through you, white-hot and all-consuming. you cling to him, jolting with a full-body tremor, hips locking tight. he catches you fast, holding you upright as your cunt spasms ceaselessly around him. it’s too much. it’s not enough. there’s a pleasurable twinge of satisfaction settles low in his gut, what with being able to make you come like this. he holds you steady, murmuring your name like holy prayer. 

“ohhh, that’s it. such a good girl, you’re so f—fucking good,” he grits his teeth and a foreign curse slip out. he feels your own orgasm ripple through him, a vice of heat and slick. “f-fuck, clark—mmnh, can’t—” you choke, words barely forming. they follow into gasps that he swallows up in a wet, devouring kiss, his tongue slotting into your agape mouth as he braces his forearm tight across your spine. 

clark doesn’t stop. he fucks through the heat of you; every convulsion, every aftershock, until you’re sobbing, shaking, slurring broken pleas against his throat. he lets out a needy, bitten-off moan and buries his warm face in your neck.

his own unraveling nears, and it starts with a stutter in his pace, a helpless twitch of his hips. he drools onto your skin, panting with his mouth open and chest heaving, the trembling weight of his body suspended just barely above you, forehead pressed to yours. his thrusts falter, sloppy now, sweat slicking every inch of him as his forearms tremble beneath the strain. the pleasure is immeasurable. it’s breaking him. you must be his very own goddamn kryptonite. 

“mmm, k—kal,” you hiccup, head lolled against the quilt beneath you. you try to say something, anything, but it only comes out in shattered gasps and breathless keens. clark plants a shaky kiss to your cheek. he understands. he always does. 

“o-oh god, baby,” he slurs, moaning your name, voice raw. the sound is wrenched from deep in his ribs. “you feel what you’re doin’ to me? i’m almost—can’t hold it, feels so good, i’m, ah, i’m gonna—” 

he comes. hard. 

it overtakes him; balls tight, cock buried, hips jerking forward, body tensed like a struck chord as clark spills into you hot and deep. he growls into your neck and fucks you through every pulsing stream of inhuman cum, pushing through one final grind. he moans your name so low and reverent, breathing out a shaky prayer onto your collarbone as you milk him of everything— 

— but there’s more. you should know by now; he’s a sun-born alien, of course he isn’t finished with you. “i’m gonna . . hngh, g’nna fill you up, honey,” he moans deep, wild and unrestrained in your ear, when another pump of cum follows. warm, heavy spurts flood you, coating every spongy inch. he practically sobs through it, flushed face buried in your neck, murmuring expletives and your name like a prayer. he keeps fucking you through it as you convulse, lazy now, slow and aching, even as he twitches and groans with every overstimulated drag. 

your legs wrap tight around his waist as he stills; sealing him in, holding him down. he doesn’t try to leave— he can’t pull out. he won’t. clark simply grinds in deeper as if he’s trying to disappear inside, like his sticky-hot skin against you still isn’t close enough. he can never stand a breath of space between you after he comes. 

there’s a wet warmth trickling out of you—his cum easing down the seam of your ass, thick and slow. you mewl, and he groans softly at the feeling. you gaze up at him, eyes glossy, lashes damp, barely breathing. it’s only the resounding thud of your heartbeat within your chest that lets him know you’re still here; that he didn’t take it too far. 

“clark,” is your hoarse whisper. your hands lie beside your head, and he intertwines his own with them, his thumb tenderly grazing your knuckle. “i . . feel so full everywhere.” 

clark cradles your face, letting out the softest laugh, and the sound carries something adoring; breaks halfway into something reverent. he kisses your cheek, your lips, and sweat-slicked temple. his heart thrums when you smile up at him weakly. then, the subtle shift of his hips, softening cock still plunged inside you, makes you twinge. 

“sensitive?” he asks, and you release a breathless ‘ mhm. ’ “didn’t mean to go so hard,” clark murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “you just looked so pretty, begging for it.” 

“don’t be sorry,” you hum, a dazed little sound. you look like you’re still trying to remember your name, where you are, who he is. your hand unravels from his own to stroke up the expanse of his damp back. “it was perfect.”

“you’re perfect,” he breathes out. “can i clean you up, sweetheart?” his voice is low, gentle. “or just . . . hold you like this a little longer?”

you muster to lean upwards and peck the cleft of his chin, bliss-drunk when you air out, “hold me.”

so he does.

you lie tangled together, skin still sticky from sun and sex, limbs loose with the buzz of satisfaction. the blanket sheet is a crumpled mess around your legs, and clark’s fingers are tracing lazy, featherlight shapes along your hip; like he doesn’t want to stop touching, even for a second. he teases at your warm skin with a tickle, and you laugh all soft, delighted, a little shy beneath the heat of everything that went down.

your laughter draws him in, so he nuzzles into the damp crook of your neck, lips brushing your loud, beating pulse. with a weighted hand at your waist and his thumb stroking your cheek, clark kisses you slow and indulgent, like he’s savoring the incomparable taste of you all over again. 

“next time,” his hand slips down to knead at your ass. you moan sweetly into the kiss. “i’m skipping the apple and going straight for you.” 

© 𝒫𝐼𝑁𝐾ℳ𝐼𝑅𝑇𝐻! ⸻ all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. reblogs are highly appreciated! please and thank you! ❤︎

[greedyhoneyz]

Imagine a middle aged Smoke saying something like this https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP8hnvrro/

He’s a family man, got a successful business, calmed down from the streets a bit, but every now and then someone tests his gangsta and he has to remind them that he hasn’t always been Mr. Moore who pulls out his reading glasses while he’s looking over paperwork. 😂

smoke would deffff say some shit like this omg!!! you neverrr said if you were requesting a fic buttt i got inspired so i wrote a little something!!!

Y’all were just out for groceries. Kids with their auntie for the afternoon, sun high and hot, your hand tucked sweetly into Smoke’s big one as you walked through the parking lot toward the local farmer’s market.

You wore a sundress—something light, hugging in the right places—and even though you weren’t trying to do the most, you were glowing. That kind of glow that comes from being loved right, taken care of, kissed every morning before the coffee brews.

You stopped by a stand to ask about the peaches. The man behind the table smiled a little too hard. Told you they were “as sweet as you lookin’ right now.” You gave a polite chuckle, barely thinking about it, asked if he could pick out a few ripe ones. He licked his lips.

“You got a man?” he asked, real low. And you felt it before you heard it.

That shift.

Smoke was already stepping up. You didn’t even get a full second to react. “She got more than that, she got a husband,” he said, voice cold as steel. “The fuck you whisperin’ for?” The man blinked, unsure. “Damn, I ain’t know, my bad—”

Smoke stepped so close, his chest bumped the table. “Don’t ever speak to her like that again. You see a woman like this, you don’t speak. You look at the ground and mind your fuckin’ business.”

You grabbed his arm—tight.

“Smoke. Baby. Please.”

He didn’t budge. “Go head, say somethin’ slick,” he told the man, licking his teeth. “See if I don’t break your jaw in front of all these people.” You pressed into his side, trying to turn him away. “C’mon. Let’s go. He ain’t worth it.” He let you tug him, finally—shoulders tight, that old heat rolling off him like asphalt in July.

Y’all walked in silence back to the car, his jaw still clenched, chest rising like he was steady fighting the urge to double back and finish it. Then you heard it—mumbled just under his breath, not meant for anyone but you and the air around him:

“Niggas keep playin’. My trigger finger itch all the time. I stay ready. Niggas must not know who the fuck I am.” You shook your head and kept walking with him. As much as you’d like to lie, and front — you did like seeing this side of smoke.

@cremeful for the use of dad!bf smoke/olderman!smoke.

@k1ssyoursister for the dividers!

tag list! @thickianaaaa , @vaultkween .

new chapter coming out for either one of my series is coming out soon — not saying which one yet though!!

[greedyhoneyz]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ when you’re too sick to care for your baby, nanami brings her to the office strapped to his chest—calm, efficient, and completely unfazed as he gives presentations with a pacifier on his tie and a baby on board.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this is ridiculous i’m warning you

nanami doesn’t even flinch when you croak from under the covers, voice raw and pitiful: “ken, i can’t—i think i have a fever, and she won’t stop crying unless i’m holding her.”

your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. you look like a ghost of yourself, half-sunken into your nest of tissues and blankets, hair a disaster, eyes glazed and watery. the baby’s red-faced and sniffling too, sprawled across your chest like a little heater, tiny fists grasping your shirt like she knows you might try to hand her off.

nanami, standing in the doorway, calmly adjusts his watch.

“i’ll take her.”

you blink. “you… you have three meetings today.”

“and now i have three meetings with a baby,” he says, already crossing the room like a man with a mission.

you can’t even protest properly before he’s kneeling beside the bed and gently peeling her off you, expertly switching to his papa voice — warm and low, as if he’s de-escalating a tiny, fussy hostage situation.

“there we go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then yours. “we’ll manage. rest. you know what medicine you should take. call me if you need anything.”

ten minutes later, he’s at the front door in his usual tan coat, baby carrier strapped securely to his chest like she’s a very warm, very giggly piece of office equipment. she’s wearing one of those obnoxiously frilly headbands you swore you’d never put on her — but she screamed when he tried to take it off, and he’s not here to pick battles today.

diaper bag over his shoulder. bottle packed. pacifier clipped neatly to his tie. hair combed, shoes polished, baby securely swaddled and babbling.

“don’t let the interns try to hold her,” you wheeze weakly from the hallway.

“i would rather die,” he replies without missing a beat.

as he walks out, you hear him murmur to her, “no loud commentary during the finance report. we must suffer through it in dignified silence.”

cut to: the morning finance meeting, 9:01 a.m., in a fluorescent-lit conference room downtown.

the projector is humming. spreadsheets fill the screen. half the team is slumped in various degrees of caffeine withdrawal.

nanami kento walks in, perfectly on time, baby on his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t apologize. he walks straight to the head of the table, clicks open his laptop, adjusts the projector, and begins speaking with the same calm, measured cadence he always uses—

except this time, there’s a tiny foot sticking out of the carrier, gently bumping his blazer.

“moving into Q3,” he says, clicking to the next slide, “we’re forecasting a moderate increase in asset reallocation—”

the baby lets out a soft, inquisitive coo.

nanami glances down at her, gives a very small nod, and says to the room, “correct. the Q3 projections are, in fact, unfortunate.”

silence.

well—almost silence.

from somewhere near the coffee machine, an intern tries to whisper, “is that a—?”

nanami turns his head fractionally. just enough to shut it down.

“yes. she’s here in lieu of her mother, who is unwell. please direct all questions to me or her, depending on the topic.”

no one questions it.

she doesn’t cry, not even once. in fact, she seems thrilled. she clutches his tie like it’s her personal emotional support ribbon and waves her tiny hand every time someone shifts in their chair. at one point, she lets out a high-pitched giggle, and nanami simply pauses mid-sentence, gently pats her back, and continues like nothing happened.

someone tries to make eye contact and smile at her—

she beams and throws her toy at them.

nanami takes back the toy and sighs, “don’t encourage her. she’ll never stop.”

the entire time, he keeps presenting with his utmost precision, occasionally glancing down at her to tuck the headband back into place or swap her pacifier like he’s been doing this his whole life.

he wraps up right on time.

“any further questions?”

dead silence.

even the regional manager just gives a tight nod. no one wants to risk being shamed by a baby.

—

back home, it’s late afternoon when the door creaks open.

you’re still buried in blankets, half-delirious and clinging to a half-empty box of tissues. you blearily lift your head at the sound of keys in the bowl.

nanami walks in with the same exact expression he had when he left: calm, unreadable… except there’s a little extra softness at the corners of his eyes.

the baby is still strapped to his chest. fast asleep now, one hand gripping his tie, the other curled against his collarbone. she’s drooling slightly. he hasn’t removed the headband.

“she was very well-behaved,” he says quietly. “arguably more professional than half the team.”

you laugh — or try to, but it comes out as a croaky wheeze.

he crouches beside you, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “how are you feeling?”

“like death.” he nods and kisses your cheek.

you glance over at the baby. “how was she, really?”

“chatty,” he says, straight-faced. “opinionated about quarterly earnings. but otherwise excellent.”

he lifts her hand gently, unhooks her fingers from his tie.

“you’re insane,” you whisper.

he leans in to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.

“efficient,” he corrects.

then, after a beat—

“also… she now technically works in accounting.”

you blink. “what?”

he shrugs.

“someone handed her a spreadsheet. she drooled on it. that’s more than my latest intern did today.”

you laugh again, properly this time.

he finally unstraps her, carefully settling her into the bassinet. she doesn’t stir — not even when he tucks her blanket in with military precision.

you lie there watching him move quietly around the apartment, sleeves rolled up, tie chewed, hair slightly out of place, and realize:

papa nanami could take over the world with a baby strapped to his chest and a pacifier in his pocket, and he’d still be home in time to fold the laundry.

[greedyhoneyz]

— A SMALL(VILLE) PROPOSAL ♡

♡ pairing: clark x gf!reader

♡ summary: your boyfriend can't figure out how he wants to propose to you, until jimmy gives him an idea.

♡ warnings / tags: absolute fluff! clark being clueless. wc: 1.4k

♡ author's note: for the person who requested reader getting proposed to by clark! also i hit 6k today which is insaneee

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST ♡

the little black velvet box had been sitting inside the drawer of clark's nightstand for three months now.

you'd been living together for six months now, and every morning when he woke up to the sight of your beautiful, sleeping face, a hint of a smile on your face and soft snores leaving your lips made him all the more sure that you were the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

clark had initially thought that choosing a ring you'd like would be the most difficult part, but no, that was quite easy, really. the moment he walked into the jewelry store and looked down at the display, his blue eyes were drawn to one ring in particular, and it was as if it was screaming your name.

the most difficult part was trying to figure out how he was going to do it.

maybe he'd take you out to a nice restaurant, and ask them to put it in a slice of cake for you. but what if you swallowed it? even more, who wants to put on a ring that's sticky and has bits of cake residue in the space between the prongs and the rock. no. a champagne glass? no, more stickiness. sticky = bad.

asking at home didn't feel special enough. you're both there every day. going away on a trip would be so expensive, especially since he was saving up for your wedding.

at the beach? no, so much sand. what if you wear heels and you have sand inbetween your toes that feels uncomfortable? clark doesn't want you to feel uncomfortable while he's proposing to you.

clark groaned, throwing his head back with an exasperated sigh. catching jimmy's attention. "dude, what are you angsting about over here?" the man rolled his chair closer to clark's.

clark cleared his throat, pushing his glasses as he straightened up, "nothing." "come on. spit it out."

"fine." clark let out a sigh, "i'm... trying to figure out where and how to propose to my girlfriend." "take her to a nice restaurant, maybe take a walk on the beach and pop the question."

clark looked at jimmy as if jimmy could read minds to figure as to what he didn't want to do, cringing. "no, no restaurants, and no beaches." jimmy let out a soft chuckle, rolling back to his own workstation, "whatever. while you're spending the weekend agonizing over how to propose to your girl, i'm gonna be visiting my folks."

it was as if a lightbulb was lit over clark's head when jimmy said the word 'folks'. smallville.

"all done!" you sighed contentedly, stuffing the tests you'd been grading in your bag that you moved into your leg room, turning to clark with a smile on your lips as your boyfriend drove, "are we there yet?" "ten more minutes, sweetheart. did anyone get an A?" he chuckled softly.

"three people did. i'm really happy we get to see your family again." you drummed the lid of your tupperware container, filled with chocolate chip cookies, "i'm determined to get ma to ask me my recipe for these bad boys." "is that the only reason?" your boyfriend looked to you with raised brows before turning his eyes back on the road, "well, i am also excited to go see the flower field we went to when you first brought me home. remember that, clark?"

clark smiled to himself, "of course i do."

it wasn't long until you arrived at the kent farm, martha and jonathan standing at the steps in front of their house, waving at you two with wide smiles on their faces.

as soon as you'd gotten out of the car and walked up to them, martha pulled you into a tight hug, making you let out a soft chuckle. when the woman pulled away, she kept her hands connected to your arms, "have you been eatin' properly? you don't look like you have, sweetheart."

"i have, ma." you chuckled softly, "your son makes sure i do." "he better." martha smiled, turning to her son and pulling him into a hug just as tight as the one she gave you.

you spent the evening playing card games, martha somehow beating all of you like she was vegas-born, then having martha's famous casserole that your boyfriend loved more than anything, maybe even more than you, for dinner, and then with martha showing baby pictures of clark that made his cheeks turn red and try to get the photo book out of her hands.

but when the sun was starting to set, your boyfriend turned to you as you were in the middle of discussing desperate housewives with his mother, squeezing the hand you forgot he'd been holding.

"should we go for a walk?"

"but we were just getting to the part-"

"to the flower field."

when clark said those words, you turned to martha as if asking for permission, the woman letting out a chuckle, the older woman acting as if she didn't know what her son was planning, "go ahead, darling."

"alright, kent." you turned to clark, the two of you getting up off the couch, "let's go."

you let go of clark's hand once you got to the flower field, bending down to sniff the flowers, and when you straightened your back and looked around, it felt like the flowers enveloped you. "god, it's so beautiful."

"it is." clark said, not looking at anything but the back of your head as you walked closer to the flower field. "i'm gonna take a video of this."

clark let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head, and as you pulled out your phone and went to the camera, starting to film the array of flowers, unaware of your boyfriend getting on his knee right behind you.

"sweetheart?" "shush, clark. i want this to be captured." "sweetheart, turn around."

you let out an exasperated sigh as you turned to face clark, "wh-"

your sentence was interrupted by the sight of your boyfriend being down on one knee with a ring box in his hand, your phone falling to the ground without you even realizing.

clark let out a soft chuckle, saying your full name and taking in a deep breath before continuing his speech, "will you marry me?"

you'd never been speechless before. but as you looked between clark and the ring on his hand, it was like every english word in your mind was nonexistent.

all you could do was rush to him, bending down to kiss him, clark holding onto your waist tightly.

it felt as if the entire world around you was spinning, like maybe clark somehow had made it spin even faster than it usually does, his lips warm and inviting, as if telling you to never let him go, as if you two were one and the same.

both of you were out of breath when you pulled away from one another, similar smiles on your faces, "so, will you?" he asked, making you chuckle, "i will. in this life and every other life after this."

what you two didn't realize was that you'd both floated into the air, nearly at the level of the kent farm roof.

BONUS:

as soon as you and clark rushed into the house, martha and jonathan were out of their seats, their eyes on the entrance to the living room where you two walked into with smiles on your face.

"we're getting married." clark announced, his parents rushing to you two, both of them congratulating you, ma telling clark how she knew the moment she saw you that you'd be the one, and in turn telling you how she'd give you the recipe to her casserole as soon as you two were married.

but when the older couple went off to find the champagne they'd bought as soon as clark told them his plan, you turned to your now fiancé with pursed lips, "i love your parents, but i wish we could enjoy our engagement night somewhere we could properly celebrate it later on."

clark chuckled, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head, "what if i told you... that i booked a room at a bed and breakfast ten minutes away just for us?" "you didn't!" "well, it was also in case you said no and wanted to be apart from me." clark's words made you roll your eyes, "in what world would i say no?"

…and neither of you thought about the phone that was now lost on the kent farm flower field still recording.

taglist: @angel06babysworld @raahosh @biancasisstuff

💌 join my taglist!

[greedyhoneyz]

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗠𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗠𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮 𝗠𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗙𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗜𝗻 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲- 𝗖.𝗞.

Pairing- Clark Kent x bombshell!assistant!reader

WC- 3.4k

Summary- You’re the new assistant at the Daily Planet. Your job is to run errands, get coffees, and not fall in love with the handsome man in glasses.

Contains- girly!fem!reader, Clark being the best man on the planet, maneater!reader but is soft for Clark, brief mention of touching someone without consent, reader has bangs/hair that can be tucked behind her ears, reader deals w insecurity

A/N- divider from @thecutestgrotto ! This was supposed to be all fluff but somehow I always end up with a little angst. There’s only a lil

Your heels click down the hallway of the Daily Planet, a rapid pitter pat that mimics the beating of your heart. Your freshly blown out hair falls in your eye, and you attempt to blow it out of the way with your lips, to no avail. You roll your eyes, a hefty sigh escaping your glossy lips as you continue your journey down the expansive hallway.

You think you'd make a pretty good circus act, with the way you juggle multiple trays of coffee for the Daily Planet staff. You have an extra surprise for them today as well- your carry-on cupcake tray dangles from your manicured pinky, hanging on for dear life.

You reach the large glass doors, your heart sinking ever so slightly at the challenge of opening them. As you size them up, debating how you’re going to go about this, (you’re too stubborn to put everything down, so that’s out of the question) your own personal hero pulls through.

A large hand wraps around the door handle, swinging it open. You look over your shoulder to meet a broad, open chest, a large bicep holding the door open for you. You smile brightly.

“My savior!” You croon, batting your lashes at him. You relish in the pink tint of his cheeks, a warm fuzziness settling in your stomach, like it always does when you see Clark. He’s warm, golden, the sun filtering through the window an angelic halo around his nest of curls.

His eyes find the ground, a giddy smile curling his lips. Your heart picks up in speed, rattling against your ribcage as you study the small details in his face. The crinkle by his eyes, the slope of his nose, the lightest dusting of hair decorating his upper lip- this one shocks you, he’s always so clean shaven.

Your eyes meet his for a slow, tantalizing moment before you enter, eyes still on him as you saunter in the office. He’s otherworldly- the shy bespectacled reporter you’ve come to know in your first month at the Daily Planet. A kind, honest, and caring man with the most gorgeous curls you’ve ever seen, sometimes you question whether or not he’s human.

“Let me help you with that,” Clark says, grabbing all three coffee trays in his massive hands. You breathe a sigh of relief, your pinky finally finding some relief as you grip the cupcake case with your free hand, setting it down on your desk.

You pop a hand on your hip, playfully rolling your eyes as Clark makes quick work of dropping a coffee off on everyone’s desks. His movements are frantic, his oversized blazer swallowing his broad frame.

“I can do my job, y’know that, handsome?” The name flows off your tongue, just as it has everyday since you started at the Daily Planet.

He shrugs, avoiding eye contact as his blush deepens, running down his neck. “I just want to help,” he admits, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You let out a soft chuckle at his kindness, his sincerity. He shoots you back a small smile of his own, knowing you’re laughing with him, not at him.

His grin takes you back to your first day, when you stumbled in a solid half an hour early. You were determined to be the first one there, determined to make a good impression. Yet, there was Clark, hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously on a pad of paper.

He looked tired, you remember. Dark circles hanging low under his eyes, his free hand was wrapped in gauze.

“Rough night, handsome?” You had asked him, the first time he’d fallen victim to the nickname. He jumped at the sound of your voice, the spin of his chair almost cartoonish as he turned to face you.

“Who are you?” He asked breathily, his chest heaving up and down. You’d introduced yourself, and held your hand out for him to shake. You’ll never forget the touch of his hand, the callouses that sent sparks straight to your heart, the grip of his fingers around yours.

Most of all, you remember the way he looked up at you, eyes wide, plump, pink lips parted ever so slightly, like you were an angel sent directly to him. You remember your heart battering against your ribcage, your stomach a butterfly habitat.

You smile at the memory now, uncovering the cupcakes you made for the staff. You relish in the gratitude, the playful hoots and hollers as everyone crowds your desk. While you love the rest of your coworkers, you’re missing your favorite one. Clark, who normally takes six cupcakes at a time just to pass them out, is nowhere to be found. You have to stand up on your tip toes to find your favorite ringlets, swiveling left to right in his chair as he focuses on the newspaper on his desk.

You sneak through the crowd, sauntering over to his desk, like a lioness on the prowl. You press both of your manicured hands into his meaty biceps as you peer over his shoulder at the newspaper on his desk. He tenses slightly at the contact, still not quite used to your affection, but then settles into your touch, as always.

There goes your heart again- creating its own drumbeat in your chest at the proximity to this man. You take a shaky breath, a warm, sickly sweet feeling resting in the pit of your stomach, singeing it from the inside out.

“I know you want to help,” you say softly in his ear, “thank you.”

The soft hint of red is now a raging fire, rapidly blazing his cheeks. He nods, a silent acceptance of your gratitude.

Your eyes focus on the paper in front of him, titled “Superman Saves The Day, Again!.” You scan the contents quickly, yet another one of Clark’s articles raving about the hero. Your brow quirks at his ability to consistently score interviews with the elusive paragon. The story is moving all the same, clenching your heart at the acts of bravery shown daily by Superman.

“This is really well written,” you mutter, your voice soft and sweet, chin resting on his shoulder. You’re breathing in time with him, your chest rising against his back as he takes deep breaths of his own. He nods, curtly, uttering a quick, “thank you,” as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes flit towards him to watch the movement. It’s then that your closeness really sinks in. It always takes a moment with Clark, it comes so naturally to you at first, to feel him, be close to him.

There’s always something, though, a beep of the coffee machine, the ringing of the telephone, that takes you right out of it. Today, it’s Perry clearing his throat behind you.

You snap up, smiling sweetly at your boss who’s glaring at you with playful disapproval. He shoots you a telling raise of his brow, one that you know means get back to your desk. You scurry off, your heels clicking playfully now as you glance over your shoulder.

Clark’s looking. It’s brief, the quickest glance before his head snaps back to his desk, cheeks red once more.

You catch it, though, his eyes wide and mouth slightly parted like they were that first day. Your head is swirling as you reach your desk, your eyes focusing on the dark wood so you won’t have to look up at Clark. That’s when it hits you, the rise in heart rate, the warmth in your stomach when you’re around him. Oh. Oh.

The past month flashes through your mind in a blur, the soft smiles, the delicate touches, the lingering eye contact. Your heart thunders in your ears as you realize it’s been more than playful flirting this entire time, that there’s deeper feelings there.

Oh no.

Your heart rate is buzzing as you move through the rest of the day, your head a cacophony of worst-case-scenarios. You’re moving non-stop, desperate to work away the anxiety you feel at your revelation.

The day crawls along at a snail’s pace. As it turns out, dedicating most of your energy towards avoiding Clark at all costs just makes you think about him more. You’re in survival mode, completing any and all tasks and odd jobs just to avoid talking to him.

He notices, because of course he does, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him for long. Persistent gazes have now turned into millisecond glances, playful touches nonexistent.

You know it’s not fair to him, to play this game of cat and mouse, but you can’t help the feeling of dread boiling in your stomach. You can’t remember the last time a man made you feel this way, the last time a man was truly good to you. And that’s just what Clark is, good. Too good. Too good for you.

He catches up to you eventually, finding you by the water cooler. You curse yourself as you see him approach from your peripheral. You could run, and be incredibly obvious, or stay there and attempt a casual conversation with Clark. The latter will be strenuous at best, and you’re already on your last emotional leg as it is.

It’s too late to decide by the time you’ve weighed your options, (how does he move so fast) his inquisitive brow piercing right through you. He stands before you, his hands in his pockets, face laced with concern.

“Hey,” he starts, grabbing his own cup and filling it, even though he keeps a water bottle on his desk at all times. You try to ignore the rapid beat of your heart at realizing that fact.

“Clark-” you start, but he’s quicker. Somehow, he always is.

“Did I do something? Because when I first saw you this morning, you seemed to be in a good mood. I hope I didn’t do anything to change that.”

You close your eyes, a pathetic sigh leaving your lips. God. Why does he have to be so perfect?

You open your eyes, looking into his blue ones. They’re not icy, like most blue eyes. They’re warm and inviting, a pool you’re desperate to dive into. The worry laced in them breaks the last of your resolve, your heart cracking under the pressure of his gaze.

“Clark, it’s fine,” you grit, walking around him into the break room, your heels harshly puncturing the tile.

You feel him on your tail, his presence a force behind you. You walk to the counter opposite the entrance, gripping the edge.

“I said I’m fine,” you breathe, unsure how much longer you can spend being this close to him

You need time and space to process your feelings. Your chaotic office in the middle of Metropolis with imminent proximity to your problem is the worst place to do that.

“I just wanted to-“

“Not everything is about you, Clark, okay?” You snap, your voice harsher than intended.

Guilt pools in your stomach almost immediately, the hurt now glossing his eyes pounding on the remaining bits of your heart. Your heart is pounding, you’re running on pure adrenaline now as you regrettably continue.

“I don’t always have to be around you when we’re at work, y’know? I can want space without there being something wrong, God!” You spin around, your back leaning against the counter.

You plow your fingers through your hair, eyes on the floor, refusing to meet him. Your heart is waging a war your mind can’t win- the butterflies he gives you constantly in combat with the voices swirling in your head- the ones that tell you he deserves better. You let them win this time, and as you watch him walk away, you can’t regret your decision any more.

Your thoughts are a blizzard in your brain as you walk the city streets of Metropolis back to your apartment. Guilt boils in your stomach, bubbling like witch’s brew. The late July sun beats down on you, and you hope it’ll melt the storm raging in your head.

You’d move through your whole life taking what you want from men, never thinking twice and never saying sorry. Ever since you were young, you clocked the way boys would stare in the lunch room, the way they’d cop a feel at school dances. You’d become unapologetic. If they can, why can’t you?

You’re surprised it’s taken you this long to face your reality regarding Clark. You’ve never been impudent with him, always soft, careful, and kind, as he’d been to you. At least, until today. Tears well in your eyes when you recall that fateful moment at the water cooler- the way you spoke to him, the hurt in his eyes when your words pelted him like bullets.

As you reach your complex, you chuckle pitifully at yourself, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks as the tears finally spill. How pathetic must you be that a man showing you genuine kindness and respect garners such a reaction?

You immediately flop on your bed once you’re home, shoving your face deep in your pillow. A muffled shriek escapes your lips as the reality of your situation crushes you. It’s stark in the silence of your apartment, your earlier words hanging heavy in the stale air.

Tears fall at a rapid pace, one replacing the other effortlessly. You’ve officially blown it with Clark Kent.

Another day dawns on Metropolis, your now shaky hands once again balancing cardboard trays that scald your palms. You lift your knee, reminiscent of when you were in this exact spot 24 hours prior. This time, you’ve scorned your hero, scared him away.

You push the door open with your hip, entering yet another day of chaos at the Daily Planet. Yesterday, you’d reveled in it, today, you’re drowning, doggy paddling just to keep your head above water. You set the trays down on your desk, resting the heel of your hands on the dark wood as you take deep, shaky breaths.

You’re woefully unprepared to see Clark, your eyes training on the toes of your white heels. Your heart pounds in your ears, your blood thrumming with anxiety.

The soft click of a paper coffee cup pulls you out of your pity party, your eyes darting towards the sound. It’s that same large hand, only this time wrapped around a cup that was not taken from the tray. You furrow your brow, glancing up to find Clark, a knowing look lacing his features.

“Why are you doing this?” You ask him blankly, still leaning over your desk. It only exaggerates the height difference between you two, which does absolutely horrible things to your beaten and broken heart.

“Why am I doing what?” His tone mirrors yours, flat and lifeless, but there’s the tiniest glint in his eye that tells you he’s already forgiven you.

Before you can answer, he’s off with the coffee trays, skillfully snaking them out from under you. You shoot up, a disbelieving scoff flying from your lips. He finds you from over his shoulder, that same glint now brighter. It nearly blinds you.

He’s back at your desk in record speed, resting his hips against the edge across from you. He slides your untouched coffee towards you when he sees it idle, and you roll your eyes.

“Why are you doing this after what I said yesterday? A coffee is literally the last thing I deserve right now, Clark,” your voice shakes, and you're desperate to quell the burning behind your eyelids. “Unless you spit in it, then I do deserve that,” you mutter quietly.

He catches it, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He picks up the cup, going so far to place it in your hand, wrapping your fingers around it before he lets go. His hand dwarfing yours is electric, sending shockwaves through your veins, electrocuting your heart.

“You’d never deserve that, honey,” he mutters, his eyes going wide at the accidental pet name.

It’s a balm on your aching heart, though, sweet and warm like sunshine on a perfect spring day. Your first genuine smile in 24 hours creeps on your face as you look up at Clark through your thick lashes.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, thick and anxious. His broad chest rises up and down with each deep breath. You could eat him for Thanksgiving dinner.

You chuckle to yourself at the thought, simultaneously breaking the tension between you and Clark. He smiles, his own soft laughter soon joining in. Pink tints his cheeks as his eyes find the ground, a shy smile on his pretty face.

“I just thought you needed a friend, is all,” he mutters meekly, “you never talk to me like that.”

Guilt mixes with the ache that clutches your heart, a bitter battle tearing it clean in two. You look up at him, eyes glistening at his untethered kindness, his desire to be good just because.

His eyes finally meet yours, and it feels like a ship meeting the shore, home. Blue crystalline irises reflect into yours, igniting a sparkling giddiness you haven’t felt in years.

The intensity soon becomes too much, your gaze flitting to your desk as you log in to your computer. Your nails click against the keys, puncturing through the awkward silence.

His eyes burn a hole through you as you send a few of Perry’s files to the printer, pushing away to retrieve them.

He follows you wordlessly, his hands now shoved in his pockets. You tuck your hair behind your ears, a bashful smile on your face as discomfort wiggles its way through you.

“Let me know if I’m bothering you,” he says lowly, “but I want to make sure you’re okay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your heart pounding against your chest with unspoken feelings. A strangled groan wrestles its way from your throat, your hands in fists in front of your face.

“Ugh! Clark!” You grate. “You’re way too nice. I can’t handle it!” Once you start, you can’t stop, word vomit spilling from your lips. “Especially not today, I really don’t deserve it. I’m so sorry for the way I spoke to you yesterday, I just got ahead of myself because I have this big stupid crush on you-“

You stop yourself, thick silence falling over you two like a wet blanket. Your hands fly to cover your lips, your eyes wide and panicked.

To your everlasting dismay, he smiles. The fucker smiles, a smug, nasty grin plasters his lips.

“You have a crush on me?” His voice rises as he speaks, dread pooling in your stomach at his teasing tone.

“Oh, Clark!” You throw your head back, hands flying to your face. “I didn’t mean to say that, I swear! I’m so sorry if you feel uncomfortable, it’s just that I don’t think I’ve ever had feelings like this for anyone else and-oh God I’m making this worse and I-“

You’re stopped by soft shushes, a gentle grip on your forearms. Clark pulls your hands away from your face, his thumb and forefinger tilting your chin to face him. He’s behind the printer now, standing with you cozily in the corner of the office.

“You’re not making it worse,” he says, voice rumbling against your chest. “I think you’re beautiful. I’d be honored to be given even one chance.”

Your heart melts, pooling in your stomach like warm syrup. Your brows furrow in desperation, you feel like you’re floundering, flailing underwater with no hope of breaking the surface.

So, you secede. Your shoulders slump, a sigh escaping your lips as you lean into him.

“I want to give you a chance,” you admit, soft and a bit petulant. “I just got really scared, and I took it out on you. It so wasn’t fair and I so want to go to dinner with you.”

To your surprise, he leans forward ever so slightly, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. You lose your breath in that moment, a gasp getting stuck in your throat at the feeling of his soft lips on your skin.

“I’ll pick you up at 7,” he whispers against your temple. A shiver unzips your spine as he walks back to his desk. You’re frozen at the printer, eyes wide as you watch his tall frame saunter off.

“See you then,” you whisper under your breath, butterflies resuming their symphony in your stomach.

[greedyhoneyz]

AARON PIERRE · black (jamaican, curaçaoan, sierra leonean)

[greedyhoneyz]

probably won’t finish this but watched sinners last night and thought of an older sammie passing down music to his own kin, so here’s a study based off of Henry O. Tanner’s The Banjo Lesson (1893)

[greedyhoneyz]

Every Inch, Every Curve

Whoever x Reader

◌⃘❀1,442 words, sweet & domestic, you're married with a baby, on your side->missionary, light choking, making out, pet names(e.g, sweetie/sweetheart and baby), chubby reader, no condom-> he pulls out and finishes in your mouth, ect◌⃘❀

It had been one of those days.

The baby had decided naps were worthless and teething was a war. You’d rocked, paced, sang lullabies until your voice cracked, and still—he only calmed when you laid him on your chest, heart to heart. So that’s where you stayed most of the afternoon: curled up on the couch in an oversized tee, your soft body wrapped around his tiny one. Even though your back ached, and your legs were stiff from barely moving, you wouldn’t trade it. Not when he curled his little fingers around your thumb like he never wanted to let go.

You’d managed to cook dinner in stretches—one arm bouncing the baby while the other stirred rice, then rushing to finish before he cried again. But the house was clean, soft music was playing low, and by some miracle, you got the baby down by seven.

Now it was quiet.

You’d changed into a fresh sleep shirt and rubbed some cocoa butter over your hips and belly, your thighs and arms. You liked the way your skin glowed afterward. You liked being soft. He always did, too.

By the time he got home, the food was warm on the stove and the baby hadn’t stirred. You watched him come in, his tired eyes scanning for you first. His shirt clung a little from the shower, sweats slung low. He looked like a walking sigh—home and heat and something to sink into.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, kissing your cheek.

“Hey.” You leaned into it, greedy for more. Your hands stayed on his chest longer than they should’ve, fingers curling in the cotton. “Missed you.”

He smiled, one hand resting on your waist. “Missed you too.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆

He sat down at the table after checking on the baby, nodding in approval when he lifted the lid on the pot and got a whiff of everything you’d made. You watched him from across the table, chin in hand, trying to act normal—but the look in your eyes gave you away.

“Damn, baby. You been cookin’ all this with one hand today?” he asked between bites, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You spoilin’ me.”

You shrugged, pleased. “Figured I’d keep you fed so you stay sweet.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Sweet? That what you think I am?”

“You’re sweet to me,” you said with a smirk, dragging your fork across your plate. “When you not bein’ a pain in my ass.”

“Mhm.” He cut his eyes at you, slow and knowing. “That mouth gon’ get you in trouble.”

You licked your lips on purpose. “Hope so.”

He stilled mid-chew. You could see his jaw tick, just a little. And then he shook his head, grinning low to himself. “You don’t know how to act.”

You shrugged again, pretending to focus on your food. “I’m just sayin’ you sittin’ over there lookin’ fine. Fresh out the shower, all quiet like you don’t know I been waitin’ on you.”

His fork clinked against his plate. He leaned back in his chair, watching you now. “Waitin’, huh?”

“Mhm.” You looked up at him through your lashes, biting your lip. “But I guess you too hungry to care.”

He chuckled, deep and low. “You really tryna start with me over dinner?”

“Maybe.”

He stood and walked around to your side of the table, leaned in to kiss the top of your head—sweet, restrained. “Eat. You need your energy.”

You pouted. But you finished your food.

⋆ ˚｡⋆

Later, in bed, the lights were off and the baby monitor glowed softly in the corner. You lay beside him in your tank top and shorts, body warm from the shower, but you couldn't get comfortable. You kept shifting, adjusting your leg, turning the pillow, rolling away, then back again.

His voice came out quiet, slightly rough from nearly dozing off.

“You alright, baby?”

You hesitated. Then whispered, “I want you.”

His eyes opened, head tilting your way in the dark.

“Thought you were tired,” he murmured.

“I was.” You rolled toward him, reaching under the covers. “But now I’m just... needy.”

He hummed, his voice dropping lower. “That right?”

“Mhm.”

You slid your hand up his chest, gentle and slow, letting your body curve into his. “You look so good tonight. Smell so good. I been thinking about you all day…”

He turned his head toward you, brushing your mouth with his, voice warm and thick.

“Come here then, sweetie.”

His hands settled on your hips, firm but gentle, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. The heat of him pressed into your curves made your breath hitch, and your lips parted just enough for him to dive in.

His mouth was warm and hungry—sloppy kisses that tasted like everything you wanted, tongue slipping past your lips, tangling with yours. You sucked on him, eager and bold, not holding back, and he groaned low in his throat, fingers tightening slightly around your waist.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “You taste so good.”

You whimpered, feeling that familiar heat pooling low in your belly. His hand slid from your hip up the curve of your side, his thumb brushing over your soft skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“Gonna fuck you so good,” he said, voice low and commanding, eyes dark with need. “You ready for me?”

You nodded, breath shaky, and he kissed you again—this time with a little more urgency, hands tangling in your hair as he leaned down.

His weight pressed into you, chest against your soft curves, and when he slid inside, the stretch and fullness made you gasp. He moved slow at first, letting you adjust, his hands framing your face as he kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered between kisses, lips trailing down your neck. “Every inch of you. I love your curves, your softness… everything.”

You melted into him, heart racing. His hand found your throat, fingers gentle but firm, giving just the slightest pressure that made you shiver with a mix of pleasure and trust.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and steady, “I’m all yours.”

You did, eyes wide and full of heat, and he kissed you again—deep, messy, like he couldn’t get enough.

The rhythm picked up, and you clung to him, moaning into his mouth as he fucked you slow and steady, lips never leaving yours. His hands explored your body, squeezing and teasing, one sliding down to cup your breast, the feeling of the band around his finger made you hum.

“Say my name, baby,” he demanded, voice thick.

And you did. Over and over.

“Please,” you whimpered, “please, I want you…”

He bit gently on your lip, then pulled back, reaching for your thighs and lifting them around his waist. With a grunt, he rolled you both over, shifting you onto your back on the bed.

His hands pinned your wrists above your head, giving you no choice but to look up at him, the mix of stern and tender in his gaze making your pulse thunder.

“You like that, don’t you?” he said, voice rough. “Like when I’m in control.”

You nodded, breathless, lips parted and eyes shining.

“Tell me,” he pressed.

“I want you,” you breathed, voice shaky and sweet. “I want you so bad.”

His grin was wicked as he leaned down again, lips crashing on yours with hungry need.

He didn’t waste time—fingers trailing down your sides, over every curve he adored, worshipping your body like a masterpiece. You wriggled under his touch, whining softly as he found just the right spot inside you, making your breath hitch and your body shudder.

“Baby,” he growled low, voice thick with need, “you’re gonna come for me. You better let me hear it.”

You did—moaning, whining, calling out his name as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your body trembling beneath his. He kissed every sound off your lips, holding you tight as you came undone.

Not slowing down, he leaned back down, catching your mouth again, his tongue claiming yours as he fucked into you harder, deeper, each thrust sending sparks through your core.

With a strangled groan, he pulled your mouth open and spilled himself inside—warm and thick. You swallowed every drop, tasting him and feeling that fierce, raw connection that always left you breathless.

He collapsed beside you, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged but eyes soft.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice full of something tender and fierce. “Every inch of you, baby. Don’t ever doubt that.”

You smiled, heart swelling.

“I love you too.”

[greedyhoneyz]

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick Headcanons

now playing: Cashmere Tears by Kojey Radical

Such a quiet soul and he’s been that way his whole life. No, not an introvert (a high functioning omnivert if anything), when he doesn’t have anything to say he simply doesn’t say anything. He’s still polite though, greeting everyone in the room, making small talk with his mates. But if that’s it, thats it. He doesn’t try to fill silence. Deals with his trauma by constantly journaling, even in the midnight hours, it’s habitual for him. The type to quietly cave into themselves unfortunately, thinks a little too much. From a big family. And I mean big. Over 25 first cousins, 8 aunts and uncles all on his mom’s side. His dad’s side is small & from the UK. Mums family is across the diaspora, he’s very family oriented. Always hanging out with his cousins when he’s back in town, from young to the ones who are older than him. It’s a family hangout at his mums once a month. Mama & Papas boy (complementary, never derogatory). Willing to give, always. Especially for a good cause. But to the point it’s a bad habit. Loves to hang out with his best friends (two being his cousin, Soap, and dragging Simon out with Soaps help). Loves a good drink, could get his bartender license if he really wanted to. He’s a bar hopping fanatic, loves going to different places and singing his heart out. He knows at least 60-70% of the people at the party/bar.

The type to randomly invite you to hang out with his assortment of hobbies, “wanna go do pottery?” “Have a football game this weekend, you wanna come?” “My cousins girlfriend is dj’in at this spot, wanna go?” “Think ‘m gonna take a train to Paris, wanna come?” “Goin hikin, wanna come baby?” Sure hes out a bit but he does like staying home sometimes, cooking up rice & beans with plantains or making homemade pasta. Such a romantic babe. Romance movies and action movies from the 90s that include romance are his favorite. The type to fall in love at first sight, but he doesn’t rush anything- no— he’s taking his time to bask in it. Let you fall in love with him too, even if it takes 6 months, 2 years— he’ll wait. The type to play the waiting game (Price taught him well). Just a gentleman, he wants to be soft with you. Flowers even though he may have to take an antihistamine, well thought out dates frequently and/or randomly, well thought out gifts (it may be a necklace to your favorite snack). A chick magnet but the type to clear things up easily. ‘Baby’ ‘sweetie’ ‘lovely’ ‘beautiful’ always falls from his lips all the time. Casually dominate, opening every door, holding your hand and guiding you, asking for consent over small things— he does it all.

listening to: Little Simz, Skepta, A Tribe Called Quest, SWV Rema, Wizkid, Brent Faiyaz, Tems, The Neptunes, Sade, Pink Floyd.

a/n: a request, but I just went all out. These are just my thoughts of him. I know this has been done before 🤷🏾‍♀️

[greedyhoneyz]

[greedyhoneyz]

sidequest final boss

[greedyhoneyz]

Out of Touch

Lost in admiration, he's heads over heels for her. Her love, so patient and warm; he's struck with the faces of the future when he looks at her. She's his four-leaf clover, beautiful and bright. She deserves it all, whether it be his soul or the moon at night.

pairing: Jules Koundé x Black!OC context/warnings: Angst. Harassment. Verbal Harassment. Fluff. Gift Giving. author’s notes: I’ve fallen for the Jules propaganda and wrote this 3.2k one shot in like three days. It’s been a while since I’ve written something I felt somewhat good about and written anything football related. Uni has wounded me so much, I feel like writing skills have literally regressed so much. But take this as an apology and gift. I wrote this on a whim and though this one shot sounds quite juvenile, I’m quite happy with my work so far. What would have been the cherry on topv was if I had written some smut to accompany this- but I'm shit and I can't. If the French is very bad and too formal it’s because I used translate.

Dinner dates were always divine with Jules. 

He loved the routine of calling up a restaurant, booking a table for two and ordering to his heart's desires. Food and the climate of a quiet, warm hotel restaurant was a perfect way to unwind, cool down from the hustle and bustle that controlled his daily routine and wine and dine his girl.

“What are you thinking of getting?” Her question flew over his head. Jules was entrapped, hypnotised by the look of concentration painted across her face. She gnawed on her bottom lip carefully, mindful of her gloss and drummed her nails against the leather spine of the menu. Her eyes traced across the menu diligently as she flipped through each page.

“I don’t know what I want— I’ll probably get something basic…”

“But there’s so much food to try. This is giving me a headache.”

“Baby could you order for me, please?” 

Elikya raised her head and pulled her lips into a pout. She glanced at Jules; she took notice of his hapless look in his eyes. She turned the pages of the menu shut and placed it aside. 

“Jules?” 

Silence filtered through the air as the spell of his girlfriend wore off. He let out a light chuff, stroking the hairs of his chin and licked his lips. “Don’t worry chèrie, I’ll get you something nice.”

“Thank you.” She hummed, a small smile creeping to her lips. She pointed her nose and tilted her head proudly, enamoured by the way Jules quickly took charge. From between her lashes, she watched gleefully as he tilted back in his seat. He reclined his head slightly and smoothly raised his hand, ushering a waiter over with the flick of his hand. 

He inclined upright, puffing out his chest and rolled his shoulders as the waiter approached the table. 

“Bonjour,” He spoke, his voice calm and sonorous. “Nous aimerions commander maintenant.” (We would like to order now.)

The clink and clatter of cutlery was all that sounded as Jules and Elikya ate. Dinner was marvellous, exquisite— so much couldn’t be said. 

Setting down his fork, Jules chewed, before quickly swallowing down his food. He cleared his throat, dabbing around his mouth with a napkin and rose to his feet.

“Cherie,” he called to her, adjusting the hem of his dress shirt. 

She raised her head, the motions of her mouth slowing down. “Hmm?”

“Je vais vite aux toilettes, je reviens, d'accord?” (I’m going to the toilet quickly, I’ll be back, okay?)

She shook her head and smiled. “Okay.”

She watched as Jules walked, weaving and curving around the array of tables until he disappeared into the distance. 

Hurrying into the toilet, Jules padded his pockets for his phone. He pulled it out from the pocket of his pants and unlocked it. He padded for his contacts, pressing through his recents, and held his phone to his ear. 

It rang and rang, twice, before the receiver answered. 

“Ah, bonjour,” He greeted, trailing over to the bathroom sinks. “Où es-tu?” (Where are you?)

“J'y suis presque, monsieur. Je suis coincé dans les embouteillages, donnez-moi trente minutes, s'il vous plaît.” (I’m almost there sir. Just stuck in traffic, just give me thirty minutes, please.)

“D'accord. Euh, appelez-moi... non, envoyez-moi un message quand vous serez là.” (Okay. Um, just call me— no text me when you get here.)

“D’accord.”  

The phone hung up. 

Back at the table, Elikya wined and dined. She took a sip from her glass and panned her gaze across the room to people-watch. She twirled her foot on the weight of her heel and picked up her knife and fork. She prodded her meal, staking her knife into her steak and pinned the tines of her fork into it. She raised her fork to her mouth and slowly took a bite of her meal, inhaling the meat into her mouth. 

“Excuse me?” A voice called out from behind her. 

With her fork in hand, she turned. She peered up at the stranger, giving him a careful once over and offered a hesitant smile. She raised her brows at the man and shuffled back in her seat ever so slightly. 

“Yes?” She replied. 

“Hi.”

Elikya frowned and flapped her hand meekly. “Hi?”

She examined the stranger more closely, taking notice of his slanted posture and the faded look in his eyes. He gawked down at her, his mouth curling into an arrogant grin and traced his eyes over her physique. 

Elikya could almost feel herself viscerally churn. She squinted at the man, her mouth hanging open slightly and quickly snipped at him. “I’m sorry but do I know you?”

The man shook his head. He laughed, his voice bouncing off his tongue like nails on a chalkboard. “No, you don’t. But I would like to get to know you.”

“I saw you over here alone and honestly God, you’re beautiful to be eating here by yourself—”

“I’m not by myself, my boyfriend is just in the toilet.” Elikya interjected sharply, snarling her teeth like a venomous snake.

“Hey, no need to get so sharp with me,” He laughed, holding his hands up in defense. “There’s nothing wrong with two people getting to know each other. I just wanted to talk to you.”

Elikya let out a loud huff and hung her head. She shut her eyes, pressing her hand to her temple and waved her pursuiter off with the other. “Listen, please, I’m really not interested in talking to you right now. I’m here with my boyfriend and I don’t think he’d be happy seeing you here talking to me.”

Despite her protests, the man dismissed her. He continued to stand, towering over Elikya and rested his hand on the back of her chair. “We’ll deal with that later— But could I have your number?”

“No.” Elikya hissed, shaking her head. 

“Come on, if you’re worried about your man finding out, I’ll give you mine.”

“Listen, I don’t want your number, I’m not interested. Now, could you leave me alone and go.” Elikya scoffed, rolling her eyes. 

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart. Why won’t you let a real man like me take you out, ‘cause if I was there’s no chance I’m letting you sit here alone.” 

Had they been in any other setting, Elikya would have loaded the clip into this man. She carried a venomous mouth and wasn’t afraid to wield it against trouble and prying pursuitors. However, it seemed as if the universe had chosen this restaurant for this game of cat and mouse— needless to say, she wasn’t going to play along. 

“…Good for you.” She turned her head, pivoting her attention back onto her plate and sighed dismissively. 

“You’re so cute when you’re mad.” The man gushed, prancing over Elikya as if she were a child. 

Unmoved, Elikya remained silent. 

“Oh, so you don’t want to talk to me anymore, huh? You definitely have an attitude problem.” He laughed as if he had made an astounding observation. 

“But you know, that isn’t a problem for me, ‘cause I can train you—”

“Hello!” Jules hailed sharply, nodding his head. He approached the table slowly and narrowed his eyes, furrowing his brows. “Can I help you?” 

He turned to look at Elikya and was quick to notice the irritated look smeared across her features. He pursed his lips, raised up a single brow and darted his eyes to the strange man beside her. 

He was like a fish out of water, mouth rooting for water, hollowing and widening as he stared at Jules, star struck. “Uh….”

“Do you need something— chérie do you know him?” 

Elikya shook her head, remaining silent. She glanced up at the man beside her and read the shock mirrored across the face. She smiled bitterly at the sight. She twisted her face and kissed her teeth loudly, veering her head away as she crossed her arms over her chest. 

Jules frowned. His eyebrows drew together and a line appeared above. He licked his lips, in an attempt to defuse his dismay and scratched at his chin. 

“Hey bro,” He huffed, slapping his hands together. “You need to leave.”

“Uh,” The man began, apologising profusely. “Koundé, I’m a huge fan—”

Jules grumbled, shaking his head dismissively. He raised his hand and dragged his pointer from the stranger to the distant seats aside. “Listen bro, it’s obvious that you’ve made my girlfriend very upset so you need to leave.”

“Hey man, could I get a picture with you, first?”

“No, just please leave—” Jules sucked his teeth sharply. He squeezed his eyes shut, gnashing his teeth together and began to bounce on the heels of his feet. “Move!”

“Okay, okay, okay.” The man spluttered, melting into the seams of his clothes. He snatched his hand from Elikya’s chair and turned, fumbling away with his tail tucked between his legs. 

The couple watched both bemused and irked as the man disappeared into the wash of guests before Jules settled back in his seat. 

“You okay?” He asked. He moved his hand across the table and placed it atop of Elikya’s hand. He looked at her softly, examining the way her shoulders reclined downwards from its tense position. 

“No.” Elikya was honest, never one to hide her emotions from her boyfriend. She couldn’t, even if she tried. 

“Did he touch you—-”

“No,” Elikya shook her head profusely. “And even if he dared to, I would have caused a scene.”

“What did he say?” Jules prodded, stroking his thumb across her hand. 

Elikya let out a heavy breath. “He wanted to get to know me, asked for my number, told me I was cute, said that I have an attitude problem and that he would train me.”

“What?!” Jules exclaimed, fumed. He shot up from his set, his sudden outbursts shaking the table and began to make way in the direction of his girlfriend’s harasser. 

He stormed forward, beginning to roll the sleeves of his dress shirt before Elikya stopped him. She grabbed onto him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and pulled him towards her. She shook her head, pressing her lips into a hard line and glowered. 

“Don’t,” she said, plopping down into her chair. “Just leave it.”

“I’m not going to leave it, he’s a fucking mad man!” Jules seethed. 

“Stop it, you’re making a scene. Sit.” Elikya whispered sharply. She bore her eyes into his eyes, her eyes still whilst his eyes trembled. 

“Sit down.”

And when she blinked, she turned, returning to her lukewarm plate and picking up her cutlery mechanically.

Like a raging bull, Jules stood seething with a cardinal rage that could smear the walls. He heaved and huffed, his chest expanding and retracting in stuttered breaths. He grinded his jaw, swiping a hand against his cheek and begrudgingly returned to his seat— Elikya’s words were final. 

The clip-clop of Elikya’s heels against the marble floor of the hotel lobby, sounded loudly and echoed sharply. Arm in arm with Jules, she walked, the spoils of tonight’s dinner weighed heavy on her spirit. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the time spent with her man. And bless him, he did his best to salvage the rest of dinner, he had ordered a huge slice of cake in hopes of cheering her up. But no treat could heal the pit in her stomach. 

The two trudged slowly, along the long stretch, a complacent silence sat between them. Elikya looked heavenward, glaring up at the foliage adorned across the hotel ceiling. Her head rested against Jules’ shoulder; she gripped his bicep tightly.  

They continued up the stretch, past the front desk with Jules passing around goodbyes to the staff and stood in wait by the revolving doors as valet brought out his car. 

Elikya kept quiet, unwinding and rewinding the clasp of her bag. 

And when the glaring lights of Urus shone through the lobby windows, spreading hues of shiny silvers and golds, Elikya looked up.

Quick on her feet, she took notice of the strange stallion pulling up by the entrance. “That’s not your car.” 

Unraveling Elikya’s arm from around his, Jules pulled her hand to his. He grasped it solidly, intertwining their fingers together and tugged her on behind him. “Come on.” 

He slipped through the entrance, pushing through the hotel’s doors and helped Elikya down the stairs, one step after the other. 

At the final step, Elikya stopped, her left hovering above the floor. She examined the car carefully with furrowed brows and a wrinkled nose. She gawked at it, admiring the stature of the beast. 

It was a metallic ice grey Porsche Panamera, sleek and gallant, powerful and untamed. Its windows were black with tinted windows and sat low on dark silver wheels that were splendid and grey. 

Elikya took a step and gravity centred her back to Jules. She stood, watching quietly and carefully as the valet driver climbed out of the car. He wore a boyish grin, his cheeks flush as he rounded around the front of the car. He stopped in front of the couples, holding out a key from his finger.

“Take it.” Jules' voice was pleasant, lilting and firm as was the bright expression painted across his face. The corners of his eyes crinkled and his eyebrows rose. He wore a lopsided grin, his face bright with joy as he stared down at Elikya. 

Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated and her mouth fell open— her heart dropped. 

Like a prudent owl, Elikya reared her head. She gawked up at Jules, dumbfounded, and jeered it around again, to squint at the keys dangling from the valet driver’s hand. 

Slowly and carefully, Elikya raised her hand. She extended it towards the valet driver and watched as he slipped the key from his finger and let it drop into her hand. 

“Oh god,” She sighed, letting out a heavy breath. 

She turned to Jules once again, boring her eyes into his and pleaded softly. “……This is for me?” 

Jules only nodded. 

“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!” She shouted, throwing her arms into the air. She bounced and hopped like a doe eyed rabbit, and clung onto Jules. She wrapped her arms around him and snaked her leg around his own, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then to his other and then to his lips. She left lip prints all over his cheeks and lips. 

She scampered off, stumbling in her heels and peeled around the car whilst her hands brushed across its surface. 

She opened the driver’s seat door, oohing and awing at the smoothness in the release of the handle, and slid in. 

The car interior was two toned leather, bramble and chalk beige, that wrapped around the central console. It was sleek, fresh and drenched in that new car smell. 

Elikyashrieked, swatting her hands against the steering wheel and kicked her feet gleefully, grinning from ear to ear. No longer did the spoils of dinner plague her mind; her hearty spirit had finally bloomed once again. 

“Do you like it?” Jules peeked his head through the passenger door and found himself enraptured by Elikya, the brightness in her eyes and the joy that shone out from her smile.

“I love it!” 

Jules hummed proudly. 

He slipped into the passenger seat beside Elikyaand leaned in, his side pressing against the glove compartment. He rested his arm atop of it, his hand propped up to his cheek as he stared up at her. 

Elikya's eyes were wide like flying saucers as her hands locked around the steering wheel and feathered her fingers around it. She stroked it softly, moving her fingers across its seams and cuttings. “This is nice.”

She then turned to the dashboard, skimming her hand along its smooth leather finish. She moved her attention downwards, fixing her focus on the dark console below and leisurely swiped through the screen.

She then turned around, rearing her upper body towards the back seats and flew her eyes across the space. They scoured along the ceilings and windows, traced the line along fabric of the seats and glinted down at the floor. 

“Did you get the back windows tinted?” Elikya asked. 

Jules nodded, his locks tousled and bounced as he shook. He cleared his throat, sitting up in his seat and quickly licked his lips. “Yeah, I paid a little extra for privacy glass and the sunroof. They fitted it in-shop for me.”

“Wow…” Elikya breathed, enamoured by the belly of her beast. 

She settled in her seat quietly, immersing herself into her thoughts as both Jules, the valet and the hotel security outside watched in wake. She gnawed on her bottom in thought, holding back a boastful smile and trailed her fingers along the dashboard once again. She leaned forward, pressing her cheek against the steering wheel horn and slowly flicked her gaze to Jules. 

She looked at him, her eyes light as he stared. She batted her lashes, a half-smile growing from her lips and admired his deep, brown eyes, the bump in his button nose and the way his locks draped against the side of his face. Her hand had slipped down from the steering wheel and slithered it across the console to plant on his thigh. 

She squeezed it, her fingers moulding into the fabric of his pants and cooed so sweetly. “Thank you baby,”

“C’est bon, c'est bon. Juste un petit quelque chose pour ma fille.” (It’s okay, it’s okay. Just something small for my girl.) Jules shrugged his shoulders, briefly resigning to a performance of nonchalance. He sank back down into his seat, popped the collar of his shirt and cocked out his legs. He crossed his arms and tucked his head into his chest as if he were posing for Instagram. 

Elikya laughed. “Babe, this isn’t small. It’s huge!”

“That doesn’t matter,” Jules shook his head. He leaned forward and slapped his hand against the dashboard. “Don’t you want to drive this thing around?”

“Yes!” Elikya answered, her eyes growing wide. 

She fixed her feet into position and placed a hand on the steering wheel. Her other hand held her key as she pushed it into the ignition and pressed on the engine. The car juddered on with life, reviving and screeching. 

“Ahh!” screamed Elikya . She tugged off her purse and flung it over to Joules. He caught it, haphazardly, his hands stumbling over its straps. 

With both hands on the wheel, Elikya pressed her foot on the pedal and pulled the car forward slowly. 

“Put your seatbelt on.” She said, tugging on her own. 

Jules listened. He reached overhead, for his belt and pulled it along his front. He clipped the strap into the buckle and tugged the belt behind him. 

He looked on from the passenger window to the valet and hotel security guards outside, and gave a subtle wave. He nodded his head in thanks and rested his arm against the armrest as Elikya eased the car out of the driveway. 

“It’s nice isn’t it?” Jules asked boastfully, smiling like a proud parent. 

“It’s beautiful, babe.” Elikya replied, stroking the horn with a finger. 

She giggled excitedly, her eyes widening once again and hugged the wheel like a spoiled child, squeezing it tight as if it would somehow disappear and beamed from ear to ear. “And now it’s all mine!”

[greedyhoneyz]

RIP Adriana Smith, and fuck the people who forced her on life support, and fuck Georgia lawmakers while we’re at it

[greedyhoneyz]

Writing Intimacy

i often see writers sharing a sentiment of struggling with writing kiss scenes which honestly bleeds into other portrayals of physical intimacy. i see it a lot in modernized styles of writing popularized by the recent trend in publishing to encourage short, choppy sentences and few adverbs, even less descriptive language. this makes intimacy come across awkward, like someone writing a script or clumsy recounting of events rather than a beautiful paragraph of human connection.

or just plane horniness. but hey, horny doesn't have to be mutually exclusive with poetic or sensual.

shallow example: they kissed desperately, tongues swirling and she moaned. it made her feel warm inside.

in depth example: she reached for the other woman slowly and with a small measure of uncertainty. the moment her fingers brushed the sharp, soft jaw of her companion, eliza's hesitance slid away. the first kiss was gentle when she finally closed the distance between them. she pressed her lips lightly to gabriella's in silent exploration. a tender question. gabriella answered by meeting her kiss with a firmer one of her own. eliza felt the woman's fingers curling into her umber hair, fingernails scraping along her scalp. everything inside eliza relaxed and the nervousness uncoiled from her gut. a warm buzz of energy sunk through her flesh down to the very core of her soul. this was right. this was always where she needed to be.

the first complaint i see regards discomfort in writing a kiss, feeling like one is intruding on the characters. the only way to get around this is to practice. anything that makes you uncomfortable in writing is something you should explore. writing is at its best when we are pushing the envelope of our own comfort zones. if it feels cringy, if it feels too intimate, too weird, too intrusive, good. do it anyway! try different styles, practice it, think about which parts of it make you balk the most and then explore that, dissect it and dive into getting comfortable with the portrayal of human connection.

of course the biggest part comes to not knowing what to say other than "they kissed" or, of course, the tried and true "their lips crashed and their tongues battled for dominance" 😐. so this is my best advice: think beyond the mouth. okay, we know their mouths are mashing. but what are their hands doing? are they touching one another's hair? are they scratching or gripping desperately at one another? are they gliding their hands along each other's body or are they wrapping their arms tightly to hold each other close? do they sigh? do they groan? do they relax? do they tense? are they comfortable with each other or giddy and uncertain? is it a relief, or is it bringing more questions? is it building tension or finally breaking it?

get descriptive with the emotions. how is it making the main character/pov holder feel? how are they carrying those emotions in their body? how do they feel the desire in their body? desire is not just felt below the belt. it's in the gut, it's in the chest, it's in the flushing of cheeks, the chills beneath the skin, the goosebumps over the surface of the flesh. everyone has different pleasure zones. a kiss might not always lead desire for overtly sexual touches. a kiss might lead to the desire for an embrace. a kiss might lead to the impulse to bite or lick at other areas. a kiss could awaken desire to be caressed or caress the neck, the shoulder, the back, the arms etc. describe that desire, show those impulses of pleasure and affection.

of course there is the tactile. what does the love interest taste like? what do they smell like? how do they kiss? rough and greedy? slow and sensual? explorative and hesitant? expertly or clumsily? how does it feel to be kissed by them? how does it feel to kiss them?

i.e. examine who these individuals are, what their motives and feelings are within that moment, who they are together, what it looks like when these two individuals come together. a kiss is not about the mouth. it's about opening the door to vulnerability and desire in one's entire body and soul.

[greedyhoneyz]

Helpful Websites & Apps for Writers

A list of helpful websites, apps, and other resources for writers and writing.

Websites for Writers A list of different writing resources, such as online writing communities, research help, free online writing courses, and free writing worksheets.

NaNoWriMo Alternatives A list of different online writing communities and word tracking tools.

Online Writing Communities A tumblr thread with a short list of online writing communities. Includes a writing website for fantasy and science fiction writers, and a website for offering and receiving critique on writing.

Helpful Sites for Writers A short list of helpful resources for writers. Includes websites for character names, an online age calculator, an online height comparison tool, a slang dictionary, and a website to check the weather anywhere in the world.

53 Best Tools for Writers A detailed list of online tools, websites, and apps for writers. Includes both free and paid apps and programs. Note: Please do your research, as a few of the listed websites/apps appear to use generative AI.

Creative Writing Tools A lengthy, detailed list of several resources for writers, including writing apps and programs, online dictionaries, online writing courses, ambient noise websites, image websites, and online PDF tools. Note: Please do your research. There is an entire section of generative AI websites/apps.

The 23 Best Writing Tools of 2025: A Guide for Writers A lengthy, detailed list of different writing programs and apps, online organization and productivity tools, and online editing tools. Includes both free and paid apps and programs. Note: Please do your research, as a few of the listed websites/apps appear to use generative AI.

The Best Book Writing Software A list of different writing programs and apps. Includes both free and paid apps and programs. Each review includes the software’s pros and cons.

For more helpful websites for writers, check out some others I’ve shared: Dictionary & Thesaurus Names for Your Characters Detailed Character Profiles

+

I’m a writer, poet, and editor. I share writing resources that I’ve collected over the years and found helpful for my own writing. If you like my blog, follow me for more resources! ♡

[greedyhoneyz]

Batkids finding out that batmom was a model, a famous one

FASHION FASHION ( bruce wayne!)

summary: Your kids are bored and discover your secret past, and a somewhat strange secret from their father.

pairing: Bruce wayne x fem! model reader

note: the characters don't really stick to the personality they have, but I liked how it turned out so, sorry I'm not sorry

open request - dc masterlist

It all started as a harmless search.

The kids were bored. A night with no missions, no emergencies, no chaos. Just the rain pounding against the windows of Wayne Manor and an awkward silence that none of them wanted to fill with real questions. So when Dick suggested going up to the attic, they all agreed with childish enthusiasm.

"Alfred said not to go up," Tim muttered, holding the flashlight.

“Alfred says that about everything funny,” Jason replied, already perched on some crates.

"What are you looking for, exactly?" Damian asked, arms crossed. "Dirt?"

"Something interesting," Dick replied, with a mischievous smile as he opened a dusty old trunk. "And probably some of Bruce's dark secrets."

The others gravitated toward it like magnets. The boxes had no labels, but were sealed with a leather strap cracked by age. Tim carefully opened one, as if it were a fragile relic, and inside they found… papers, envelopes, folders, and something even more striking: old magazines.

"What the...?" Steph muttered, taking one of them.

It was a Vogue Paris cover. The issue featured a striking young woman with familiar eyes, shining with a power that pierced the page. She wore a dark dress, her hair pulled back, and her expression was one of absolute elegance.

Damian silently flipped through an album until he stopped on a particular page. His eyebrows furrowed. "What is this?" causing everyone to stop what they were doing.

It was from a different box. More personal, there were letters, printed articles, old photos. The most striking one was one of Bruce and Batman's wedding, both young, you younger than him, but he looked at you almost dazzled. And beneath the photo was a note in Alfred's handwriting: "You always had a soft spot for her, even before you met her. It was only a matter of time."

Everyone fell silent. Even Jason, who muttered, "What the hell?"

Tim cleared his throat, smoothing out the crumpled paper before beginning to read. The page had yellowed edges, as if it had been stored away for years. The title at the top was from an old celebrity magazine, one of those tabloids Bruce would now despise but had clearly, once upon a time, collected.

—“The tastes of Gotham’s heir: who is the model stealing young Wayne’s attention?” Tim read aloud.

The boys looked at each other, confused.

"Model?" Damian asked. "Who are they talking about?"

Tim looked down. His eyes widened at a photo. It was Batmom, young, walking down a runway in a scarlet evening gown, elegant, unstoppable. Beside her, another photo of Bruce, even younger, smiling as he got out of a car, with that rich boy smile that bore no resemblance to the man they knew now.

—“Sources claim that the Wayne heir has a fixation with the model of the moment. He's been seen on more than one occasion with magazines where she appears on the cover, and some insiders claim he has a photo of her in his office. Obsession or admiration? Time will tell if Gotham's most eligible bachelor will dare to approach the icon who has him fascinated.”

Jason let out an incredulous laugh. “Mom was Bruce’s celebrity crush!?”

"For God's sake, Mom was a model" Dick said, still surprised.

And there it was: a photo of Batmom walking the red carpet at Cannes. And another of Bruce, maybe twentyfour years old, leaving the company with a fashion magazine folded under his arm, and the magazine showed a close up of the cover showing your face.

“Oh. My. God,” Steph said.

—This is like... when someone marries their celebrity crush... Only he did it —said Tim

“Bruce was in love with Mom… before he met her,” Dick said, as if that reshaped his entire family history.

"That's cute…" Steph murmured as she looked through all the magazines.

"He seems more like a freak to me" Jason added, though he seemed secretly impressed.

Just then, the sound of soft, steady footsteps interrupted the silence. Alfred appeared in the attic entrance, his calm, unmistakable demeanor.

And as if fate had known it, Alfred's firm footsteps were heard ascending the attic stairs. "I knew curiosity would win" he said, without raising his voice too much. "Although I expected it to be a few years ago, all detectives were quite slow to see..."

"So you knew? That Mom was Bruce's teenage fantasy?"

Alfred raised an eyebrow, picking up a magazine from the floor with two fingers as if it were a crystal goblet. "I prefer the term 'admiration.' Although... yes, I knew it. I knew it from the first day he walked in with a copy of Harper's Bazaar under his arm, feigning interest in an article about Swiss watches."

"That's beyond pathetic," Damian said, a little disappointed in his father.

Then Bruce's firm, heavy footsteps were heard on the wood of the staircase.

Everyone froze.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low but firm, seeing the chaos of magazines, clippings, and letters.

"So you had an obsession with Mom?" Tim shot back, not missing a beat.

"A whole collection of magazines?" Steph continued, holding one up. "Bruce, this is teen crush level."

"How did we not know this before?" Dick looked somewhere between fascinated and disappointed in himself.

Damian, still in his sour tone, crossed his arms. "I thought you were pathetic in other ways. This is new."

Bruce sighed, closing his eyes for a second. "Why were you rummaging through private things?"

"We were bored. It's Dick's fault," Jason said quickly.

"Alfred knew it," Steph accused, pointing to the butler, who had just calmly brought up a tray of teacups as if it were all part of the service.

Alfred didn't even flinch. "Of course I knew. Master Bruce had a poster of her hidden away. I discovered it once when I went to get the laundry."

"Alfred!" Bruce growled in disbelief.

"im sorry master Bruce"

"A poster?" Jason asked, raising his eyebrows with a mischievous grin. "I don't want to know what you were doing with that."

"Jason!" several people shouted at the same time, between laughs and groans.

"It was a different time" Bruce tried to defend himself, though he knew it was useless. "i didn't do anything. I had it because i admired her work. End of story."

"Sure, sure," Tim murmured. "The art. The talent. The... four foot ten legs."

"TIM!" they all shouted at once.

"So Mom was your celebrity crush?" Tim said, amused. "And you married her? That's legendary."

"It wasn't exactly like that," Bruce began, but broke off when your silhouette appeared in the doorway.

"What are you doing with my magazines?" you asked, a mixture of amusement and resignation.

The kids turned around as if they had been caught stealing.

“Investigating your hidden past” Jason said, waving a magazine like it was classified evidence.

"Confirming theories," Tim added, still holding a photo. "Like, Dad was completely in love with you before he even met you."

"And that he had a hidden poster," Damian added, his voice dry. "Disgusting."

"I didn't want to know that, by the way," Steph continued, raising a hand. "But now it's etched in my mind forever."

Bruce put a hand to his forehead, muttering something unintelligible.

"And you found this, Alfred?" you asked with a smile, looking at the butler, who was still holding an untouched cup of tea.

"I was just providing some historical context," Alfred replied, unperturbed. "And perhaps I remembered certain... details."

Bruce looked at you with a silent intensity. The same as always. As if he still couldn't believe that that woman from the magazines was standing in front of him, every day, in a bathrobe, drinking coffee and scolding her children for not setting the table.

"Come on. I'll show you something better than magazine clippings."

You led them downstairs to the main room. You opened a small, decorative-looking wooden box. From it, you took out an old flash drive. "I thought this would get lost over time," you said, plugging it into the TV.

You led them into the living room. You connected an old external hard drive to the TV screen. You didn't explain anything. You just pressed "play."

And there you were.

A young you. Walking down a runway in Milan. The camera followed you as if you were the only person in the world. Fashion shows, interviews, covers. The music, the flashes, the unstoppable aura. A version of you your kids had never seen.

Not as a mother, not as Bruce Wayne's wife. But as yourself. Strong, brilliant, and unforgettable.

[greedyhoneyz]

The internet is back in gaza!!

Help Layali here and here and here . Its night right now in palestine, lets have her wake up to donations ❤️