#Finding your strength...when you need it most...

[notsodelirious]

Little Red Riding Hood

synopsis: your boyfriend’s a werewolf and sometimes he needs a little help with his ruts

notes: NFSW MDNI, also super unrealistic sex, reader is fucking a werewolf so like, they’re allowed to be a little elastic

tags: vaginal sex, monster sex, knotting, dubcon, referenced breeding kink, ftm reader, werewolf!Jason, 1k words, no use of y/n

no, I’ve got nothing to say for myself, I just like monsterfucking, enjoy

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

He was a werewolf.

You knew this intellectually.

He had told you point blank.

He had shown you.

He was a werewolf.

Fully, through and through, without a doubt. A werewolf.

And yet mating seasons never occurred to you.

He explained it vaguely one evening when he said he’d be spending a little time away (ei. lost somewhere deep in the Rockies where nobody could find him).

You asked if you could come.

He scrunched his face and explained what would happen if you did. In vivid detail. How attached he’d get to you (even more than currently) how desperate he would get, doing anything and everything in his power to knot you, stuff you full of his cum, as much as your body could bear.

You just blinked up at him and smiled.

He worried that he’d hurt you during his rut—he’s heard of partners getting hurt during their werewolf’s heat; but you had pointed out most cases were cishet couples, from 100 years ago.

You’d been on T for a couple of mouth now, did strength training with him; he knew how strong you were.

It took a little more needling, a little more reassurance before he finally gave in.

A month later you found yourself in the Rockies.

You sat by the crackling bonfire, a beer in hand, simply enjoying the silence and the stars—Jason had left a little before the moon had risen to acclimatise himself alone.

Not that he lost all inhibitions when he shifted—the disorientation just made him a little violent—and you were perfectly okay not being around for that.

He promised he’d find you, no matter where you waited. And you believed him.

You kept an ear out on the forest, watching the shadows dance and flicker, embers and fireflies flitting across your eyes.

You shuffled closer to the fire—dressed in only a pair of old sweatpants and a dye stained hoodie, you were dressed for the hunt, not the temperature.

Jason didn’t want you freezing. You didn’t want him tearing off perfectly good clothes from your body—you weren’t worried about the aftermath. This was the compromise and you made do.

You used a stick to arrange the kindling when you heard a branch snap. Followed by a deep growl.

“Jason?”

You didn’t have time to turn.

You cushioned your face before your head could smack against the ground, grunting softly as you inhaled dirt and ashes.

You didn’t try fighting—it was far too late for that. You just squirmed in his grasp, massive hands holding you down as claws caught on the fabric of your clothes and tore them apart—swiftly, no hesitation.

You gasped and grumbled about the cold air, nipples pebbling as they scraped against the ground, uncomfortable but not yet painful.

“Jay?”

The beast—Jason—huffed, growled softly, nosing the back of your head as you felt the warm, heavy weight of his dick land against your back, making your heart stutter in anticipation.

He rutted against you, passively, almost disinterested in the act itself, more fascinated by your smell and touch, but leaked thick pre-cum down your back.

You almost whined when he pulled away, basking in the cherishment and body heat, almost having forgotten the threat of violence—only for your eyes to widen when you feel the tip of his cock press against your unprepared pussy.

“Jason-! Jason, wait!”

Your pleas went unheard—the tip of his cock pressed against your opening before splitting you open, tearing a scream from your throat. His fat cock forced its way between your walls, stretching you far beyond what you had ever experienced before—he pressed in deep into your body, his tip insistent against your womb, your stomach bulging slightly from how many inches he was stuffing into you.

You moaned brokenly as you were pulled all the way down to his pubic bone, handled like nothing more than a doll, limp and wheezing in his hands.

His warmth breath blew against your back as he huffed softly before he started to move—slowly at first, getting used to your tight warmth, clenching around him like a vice grip, he gradually sped up until he was fucking viciously into your body.

“Ah- ngh… Jas’n,” you mumbled as he thrusted into you with reckless abandon, bullying into your cervix, your stomach clenching as he threatened to push past it. “Ja-ay-“

Your face was pressed into the ground, his determined huffing against the shell of your ear, snapping his hips against yours, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the trees around you, your cries and pleas turning into nothing more than wet sobs and whines.

Your mind slipped into oblivion, the burning and pleasure in your pussy searing through your mind and you could do nothing more than sit there and take it as he bruised your insides, claws leaving indents into your soft skin.

You felt him get closer, felt him grow more desperate, whining and panting; his knot grew, catching on your rim once, twice before he was slamming in to the hilt, popping his knot into your abused pussy.

He growled, jackrabbiting against your ass, balls drawn and cock twitching inside you before he flooded your insides, marking you with his cum as he buried himself deep inside you, pumping loads into your welcoming cunt.

Your entire body fell for a moment, muscles relaxing as it forced itself to accept all of Jason, everything he had to give, his love and cum alike.

You were laid on your side, carefully, as if to not shatter your already ruined body, bruised and bleeding, and cut and trembling…

You hummed softly at the cold nose pressed into your neck.

You pushed it away weakly, blinking as the fog dissipated a little. You shifted, only to wince when your cunt tugged his knot—nearly making you gag at the sudden nausea.

He nudged you again, licking your cheek, appeasement as you breathed through the discomfort for a moment, focusing instead on the firm swell in your lower belly.

You chuckled breathlessly as you looked down at him, adoring and love stricken as he rested his big head against your chest.

You ran your hand through his fur, smiling as he chuffed.

“Does this mean we’re having cubs?” you asked softly, laughing again when his tongue darts out to lick your jaw.

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

I’m thinking of either doing a part 2 or the other boys (Dick probably as a merman and Bruce as a dragon, idk) but all of that will have to wait until after my summatives — anyway, requests are still closed due to aforementioned essays and the slow process of writing the ones in my inbox, but here’s my masterlist for more works <3

[ghostlyferrettarot]

🍄Pick a Picture: ♡₊˚🦢・₊✧𐦍️ Which Archetype do you embody? ♡₊˚🦢・₊✧𐦍️

❗️This is a collective reading, take what resonates and leave the rest❗️

✨️Paid Services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings) Open!

🫧Join my Patreon for exclusive content!🫧

₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank you!₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊

🧚🍄🌳Masterlist🧚🍄🌳🧚🍄🌳Masterlist 2🧚🍄🌳

🫧˚˖🌷͙֒✧˚.🧚🏻‍♀️Pile 1: The Queen 👑 Hi Pile 1, you embody The Queen archetype. You probably feel an inner strength that drives you to take charge of your life. You're like that friend who always knows what to do in any situation, and most impressively, you trust your intuition to make decisions, even the most difficult ones. It's not that you always feel 100% confident, but you have something inside you that tells you you can do it, that you deserve the best, and that you're made for great things. Your presence may make others look at you with respect, even if you don't seek attention. You simply have something about you that projects confidence and power. People listen to you, not only because you have great ideas, but because your voice carries weight. You know your worth, and that's something you can't hide. It's not boasting; it's an inner truth. Sometimes, you love to surround yourself with beauty, with the exquisite, with what makes you feel good about yourself. Material things and luxurious experiences appeal to you, but it's not just for the pleasure they bring; you like the idea of ​​elevating your surroundings, of having the best because you know you deserve it. Don't be alarmed if you sometimes feel a little alone in your path, because being a Queen sometimes means being in a leadership position where few understand what's going on in your head. But deep down, you relish that independence. You're not one to please everyone, because you know your path is unique and you're not held back by what others think. And no, it's not about being arrogant or believing yourself superior to others. It's about being aware of your own power, your ability to create your reality, knowing that whatever you touch can be transformed into gold. And if you ever doubt yourself, remember that being a Queen also means acknowledging your vulnerability and being true to yourself. True greatness lies in accepting all that you are.

🫧˚˖🌷͙֒✧˚.🧚🏻‍♀️Pile 2: The Mystic 🦄 Hi pile 1, you embody The Mystic archetype. Perhaps you're that person who always has an incredible intuition about things. Sometimes, you don't need proof or logical reasons to know something is true. You have that sixth sense that leads you to understand people or situations without them telling you directly. And the most incredible thing is that, when you follow those hunches, you're rarely wrong. It's not uncommon for you to be drawn to topics like spirituality, astrology, tarot, or even ancient philosophies. Perhaps you enjoy meditating, seeking inner peace, or simply connecting with something bigger than yourself. The feeling of being aligned with the universe, as if the cosmos is working in your favor, is something that fulfills you. And although you sometimes struggle to explain what exactly makes you feel so connected to everything, you know in your heart that this is your truth. You're not uncomfortable with the idea of ​​being alone with your thoughts or your rituals. In fact, sometimes you prefer solitude because that's where you find clarity. People may not fully understand your concerns or the way you connect with the world, but that doesn't stop you. In your heart, you know the mystical path is yours, and it's okay that others don't understand. If you've ever had that feeling of being "in tune" with the universe, of feeling that coincidences aren't random and that everything has a purpose, perhaps you are one of the Mystics. And, of course, you don't have to have all the answers. Sometimes, the beautiful thing about being a Mystic is being comfortable with uncertainty, with the wisdom of knowing there is so much more to discover and that the truth is always evolving. You see the things others can't, you see the beauty in beyond what feels "normal"; that is really special pile 2 <3.

🫧˚˖🌷͙֒✧˚.🧚🏻‍♀️Pile 3: The Lover 💕 Hi Pile 3, you embody The Lover archetype. People see you as warm, welcoming, and empathetic. You have a natural ability to connect with others on a deep level, as if you can effortlessly see into people's souls. You're not afraid of vulnerability; on the contrary, you embrace it because you know that only when you show yourself as you are can you create true connections. In your world, authentic relationships are paramount, and you do your best to cultivate and maintain them. You live in a state of constant awe for the beauty of the world, and you're not ashamed to express what you feel, even if it means being vulnerable. Perhaps at times, you find yourself always searching for something that will ignite that spark of emotion, of intensity. You don't settle for the superficial, because you know that true magic lies deep within, in genuine connections that transcend words. And not just in relationships with others, but also in your relationship with yourself. You've realized that self-love is essential for everything else to flourish. And yes, you may sometimes feel a little lost in your emotions, as if your heart is guiding you down unpredictable paths. But that's what makes you unique: that ability to let yourself be carried away by what you feel. People often see you as someone capable of loving wholeheartedly, without fear of rejection, because you know that even in vulnerability there is strength. You're not afraid to give your best, even if it means exposing yourself to pain. And when you do, you do so with the certainty that life itself is worth living that way. This archetype is also related to sensuality,so maybe you enjoy the small pleasures: a good meal, a conversation, a walk at sunset, etc. You know how to enjoy life to the fullest, because you understand that love and enjoyment are what truly give flavor to everything. I love that pile 3 <3!

🫧˚˖🌷͙֒✧˚.🧚🏻‍♀️ Thank you for reading and let me know if it resonated!🫧˚˖🌷͙֒✧˚.🧚🏻‍♀️

[dreamersworldduh]

HIS LOVE

• CLARK KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You'd spent years believing your husband, Clark, was untouchable — the very definition of strength and health. How could he not be? After all, he was Superman. But one night, that belief shattered when Clark stumbled home with the flu — feverish, miserable, and very much human. Suddenly, you found yourself in entirely new territory: caring for the man who had always seemed invincible, and realizing just how much even the strongest among us sometimes need someone to hold them up.

WARNING! FLUFF.

WORDS! 7.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with something cute for our love, Mr. Kent. It was almost a full on smut but I decided to keep it short and sweet—because it was adorable to see Clark all Sicky Vicky. Enjoy your reading ✨🫶🏽

BEING married to Superman wasn't something you stumbled into blindly.

You knew — from the very beginning — exactly what you were getting into. After all, you had been dating Clark Kent since high school, long before the cape, before the world saw him as a symbol of hope. Back when he was just the sweet, quiet farm boy from Kansas who sometimes disappeared without explanation, and who always looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders even when he smiled.

You learned early on that loving Clark meant accepting every part of him: the extraordinary, the impossible, the human, and the alien.

The ups were breathtaking. Watching him save lives, watching people's faces light up just by seeing him swoop down from the sky — it filled you with pride in a way words could never fully capture. You got to see the purest side of him: the kindness he gave to everyone, the strength he wielded without arrogance, the way he never hesitated to put others before himself. And you got to see the side of him few others ever would — the man who loved quietly and deeply, who held you at night like you were his anchor, who whispered dreams about building a life together in a little house with a porch swing.

But there were the downs, too.

The late nights where he didn't come home right away because a mission had dragged on longer than expected. The mornings you woke up to find his side of the bed cold and empty, knowing he had heard a cry for help halfway across the world and hadn't thought twice about answering it. The terrifying, gut-wrenching moments when you watched a news broadcast showing Superman bloodied, battered, facing threats you couldn't even comprehend — moments when your heart froze in your chest, praying he would come back to you.

There were the public eyes, the constant whispers, the way your life could never be completely private. You learned to live with cameras flashing when you walked down the street hand in hand, to ignore the questions, the gossip. Being with Clark meant being a part of his legend, whether you wanted it or not.

And yet... despite all of it — because of all of it — you said yes.

You said yes knowing that you weren't just marrying the most powerful being on Earth. You were marrying the man who cried with you during sad movies. The man who burnt toast at least once a week and tried to hide it with that sheepish grin. The man who knew how you liked your coffee, who kissed your forehead every morning like it was a promise renewed. The man who had trusted you with every secret, every fear, every dream.

You had loved Clark Kent long before the world ever loved Superman.

And now, as his husband, you carried both the gravity and the wonder of that love every day. It wasn't always easy — but it was always worth it.

Because at the end of every mission, every battle, every impossibly long day, he always came back to you.

And you would always be there, waiting, ready to be his safe place — just as he had always been yours.

IT was nearing 11 p.m., and the apartment was cloaked in a kind of sleepy stillness that only late-night hours brought. The soft, persistent tick of the wall clock echoed through the open-concept space, mingling with the occasional rustle of pages turning from the stack of unopened mail beside you. You sat at the dining table, hunched over your laptop, the pale blue light from the screen casting faint shadows across your tired face. Half your attention was fixed on clearing out an embarrassingly overdue pile of work emails. The other half? It was firmly rooted in the quiet anticipation of the front door opening.

Clark had texted about forty minutes ago: finishing up at the Planet, be home soon. You'd glanced at the message, smiled faintly, and returned to your inbox—but with every passing minute, your ears were tuned sharply to the hall.

So when the door finally creaked open with a tired groan, you looked up immediately—and froze.

Clark stepped in, and your breath caught in your chest.

He didn't move like Superman. He didn't look like the invulnerable man who could fly through fire and face down titans. He looked... human. Painfully, unmistakably human.

His broad shoulders were sagging under an invisible weight, his damp hair stuck up in uneven tufts like he'd been raking his fingers through it all night. His dress shirt, usually so crisp and neat, was wrinkled and half-untucked, his tie askew. And his face—oh, his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, and his nose had that slightly pink, tell-tale flush around it.

He didn't even get two steps inside before he pitched forward with a forceful, muffled sneeze.

"hhHH'TSCHhh!... hhh'KNGGSHHh!"

You blinked, stunned.

Another fit hit him immediately, his large frame shuddering with each breathless expulsion. He barely managed to catch the sneezes in the crook of his arm as he stumbled toward the wall for balance, his other hand fumbling for a tissue that wasn't there.

"hh'RRSSCHhhh!... hh'GHhhSHh!"

Your mouth parted, a mix of concern and awe written across your face.

"...Clark?"

He sniffled, glanced over at you with bleary eyes, and gave you the most pitiful, congested groan you'd ever heard.

You quickly pushed your laptop aside and stood up. "Are you—are you sick?"

Clark tried to answer, but his body betrayed him again, doubling over with a wrenching sneeze that nearly knocked him off balance.

"hh'EHHHshh-CHHh! snrfff... 'Scuse be," he croaked, voice rough and wrecked beyond recognition.

You rushed to his side, gripping his forearm as he swayed a little. "Oh my god—Clark, you're sick."

He waved a hand weakly in protest. "I... I'b fide."

You gaped at him like he'd just told you he was an alien all over again. "Clark Joseph Kent. You are absolutely not fine. You're burning up!"

Your hand found his forehead, and your heart leapt. He was running a fever. Not just a little warm—hot. Hotter than any normal person should be. And the worst part? He looked surprised by it.

Clark leaned heavily against your side, utterly drained. "It's just a cold," he muttered hoarsely. "Probably caught it from Jenkins... He was sneezing all over the bullpen today. I figured—figured I'd be immune."

You stared at him, caught between genuine concern and complete disbelief. "You're Superman. You literally shrugged off a plasma blast last month. But Jenkins' sniffles got to you?"

Clark let out a snuffly, self-pitying sound as he pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and blew his nose with a honk that made you wince in sympathy.

"Don't laugh," he mumbled, seeing the corners of your mouth twitching.

You tried. You really did. But the sheer absurdity of it broke through, and a breathless laugh escaped you.

"I'm sorry!" you said quickly, reaching to guide him toward the couch. "It's just... You've fought alien warlords. And now you're losing a battle with rhinovirus?"

Clark groaned and all but collapsed onto the couch, flinging an arm over his face. "I'b dying," he said dramatically, voice muffled and thick.

"You're not dying," you replied, grinning as you tossed a blanket over him and began fussing with the cushions. "You're a dramatic overachiever with a cold."

He peeked at you from beneath his arm, eyes glassy but warm. "Lucky be," he whispered.

You softened immediately, crouching beside the couch to adjust the blanket around his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. You're lucky I love you. Now hush and stay put. I'll get tea, meds, tissues—the whole kit."

As you stood to head for the kitchen, Clark reached out and caught your hand, his fingers wrapping loosely around yours. He looked at you, soft and sleepy, a shadow of his usual strength.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "For always being here."

You squeezed his hand gently. "Always," you said. "Even when you're a sniffling mess."

He smiled—just a little—and settled back into the cushions with another sneeze that shook the frame of the couch. You shook your head affectionately, heading off to get the tea and tissues.

Superman might have been down for the count tonight, but as his husband, you were ready for battle. Armed with honey-lemon tea, menthol rub, and more tissues than a drugstore aisle.

Let the healing begin.

THE morning light bled gently through the bedroom curtains, casting long, honeyed stripes across the soft tangle of blankets cocooning Clark's oversized frame. He was nearly lost in them—only a mop of unruly dark hair and the bridge of his flushed nose visible above the mound of fabric. Every so often, a congested snore or a wet sniffle broke the silence, followed by a faint groan as he shifted restlessly in his sleep.

You nudged the bedroom door open with your hip, arms carefully balancing a breakfast tray laden with comfort: a steaming bowl of broth you'd seasoned just the way he liked, a glass of cool water beading with condensation, a small bottle of cold and flu medicine, a fresh packet of tissues, and a digital thermometer resting atop a folded napkin.

The door creaked softly as you entered, and Clark stirred, letting out a low, half-conscious groan that sounded more like protest than greeting. His eyes blinked open blearily, red-rimmed and glassy with fever. For a second, he just stared at you as if trying to make sense of whether you were real or part of a particularly vivid fever dream.

"Morning, sunshine," you murmured, voice warm and teasing. You set the tray on the nightstand and lowered yourself to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him too much.

Clark attempted to sit up, only to collapse back against the pillows with a helpless grunt, dragging the comforter up to cover his face.

"Uh-uh," you said, already reaching for the thermometer. "Don't even think about moving. You're not going anywhere today."

A pathetic groan vibrated from beneath the covers. "I'b fide," he rasped from his cocoon of fabric. "I jus'... need tea. And mayde... a shower."

You pulled the blanket down just enough to reveal his face—sweaty, pink-cheeked, and pitifully snuffly. His hair was matted at odd angles and his nose was chapped at the tip, the clear sign of someone who had blown it far too many times.

"Clark, you can barely keep your head up. You're not going to the Planet today, and you're definitely not flying anywhere." You pressed the thermometer into his mouth before he could launch another weak protest.

He stared up at you with a wounded expression, as if being mothered offended his Kryptonian sensibilities.

The thermometer beeped, and you frowned as you pulled it free and checked the reading.

"102.3," you announced grimly. "That's it. You're grounded."

He coughed into his arm, breath hitching toward another sneeze. "hhh'TSCHHHhh!... hhhH'GGSCHhh! snrf" He reached blindly for the tissues, and you were already handing them to him.

"Bless you," you said, watching as he blew his nose with a long, exhausted honk. He dropped the used tissue into the wastebasket beside the bed and flopped back, his voice a hoarse mutter. "I'b Superman. I should be able to fight off a flu."

"And yet, here you are," you replied, smoothing your palm gently across his sweat-damp hair. "A sneezy, sniffly mess. Which, by the way, doesn't make you any less of a superhero. It just means you're not invincible."

He peered up at you, sniffling miserably. "You're scary when you're in nurse mode."

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his fevered forehead. "Good. Maybe now you'll listen when I say stay in bed."

You shifted the tray toward him and uncapped the medicine. "Drink this, then try a little of the soup. I'll let you sleep after."

Clark reached weakly for the medicine, downing it with a grimace. "Tastes like... kryptonite in liquid form."

"You'd know," you said, handing him the spoon. "Now hush and eat before it gets cold."

He took the bowl, cradling it in his large hands like it was sacred, then took a slow sip. His shoulders relaxed just a little, the warmth clearly offering some comfort.

"You're the best," he croaked after a moment, glancing at you with bleary gratitude.

You smiled softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw. "I know."

As he settled back into the pillows, still sipping soup between sniffles, you curled up on the edge of the bed beside him, just close enough for him to reach out and rest his hand over yours.

YOU stood barefoot in the kitchen, the soft light of a gray morning filtering through the window above the sink. The air smelled faintly of lemon and eucalyptus — a scent you'd started diffusing last night in a futile attempt to clear Clark's sinuses — and the mug in your hand was warm against your palm as you stirred honey into a cup of steaming chamomile tea. With your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, you tried not to spill any as you reached for the box of tissues on the counter.

"Yeah, I'm going to be out today," you said quietly into the receiver, your voice steady but laced with fatigue. "Clark's down with something, and... well, he's not great at being sick."

Your assistant on the other end — sharp, capable, and usually unshakeable — paused. "Wait, Clark's sick? As in, actually sick?"

You nodded absently, knowing she couldn't see you. "Flu. Or something flu-adjacent. He's been running a fever since yesterday, barely slept last night. It hit him hard."

"I didn't even think Clark Kent could get sick," she said with surprise. "He always seems like one of those guys who just powers through everything."

You smiled faintly, stirring the tea a final time. "He tries. That's the problem."

A muffled sneeze echoed down the hallway, followed by a rattling cough and the soft thump of something hitting the nightstand. You didn't flinch — you were already used to the chaos.

"Do you need me to handle the meeting with R&D?" she asked after a moment. "We're still expecting updated specs on the prototype by noon."

"I'll send over some notes," you replied, cradling the mug carefully as you moved toward the hallway. "But keep an eye on Luthor. If he tries to pull that timeline stunt again, I want to know before he opens his mouth."

There was a pause. Then: "Copy that. Hope Clark feels better soon."

"Thanks," you said, ending the call with a gentle tap of your thumb.

The house felt different without Clark moving through it — no sound of him shuffling around in socks, fussing over the coffee pot, or humming aimlessly to himself as he pretended to read three newspapers at once. The quiet had a weight to it. All that filled the air now was the occasional sneeze or the low, chesty cough coming from the bedroom.

You pushed the door open gently with your elbow.

Clark was a lump under the covers, curled on his side with the blankets pulled halfway over his head. Only the mess of his dark hair, sticking out in damp waves against the pillow, and the tips of his ears gave away that he was even awake. The tissue box was tucked under his arm like it might float away if he let go, and his glasses — forgotten — sat crookedly on the nightstand, fogged from last night's fevered attempts to stay upright.

You crossed the room quietly and perched on the edge of the bed. "Tea," you said softly.

Clark stirred, blinking at you through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. "You didn't go in?"

"Nope." You set the mug down on the nightstand and reached to brush a stray curl from his forehead. "LexCorp will still be standing tomorrow. You, on the other hand, sneezed hard enough to rattle the window at 4 a.m. So no, I'm not letting you out of this bed."

A sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Did I really?"

"You scared the cat. And possibly the neighbors." You leaned in and kissed his temple, which was still alarmingly warm.

He coughed, the sound rough and exhausted, and reached for the tea with both hands like it was holy. "You didn't have to stay."

"Yes, I did," you said plainly, grabbing a pillow and fluffing it behind his back. "Because if I didn't, you'd try to go to work and then collapse somewhere in the bullpen. Or on a subway. Or mid-commute."

He chuckled, then winced and curled into himself a little. "Okay. Point taken."

You passed him two cold medicine tablets and sat beside him, watching as he obediently swallowed them and took a sip of tea. His throat worked visibly, and then he exhaled slowly, already sinking deeper into the pillows.

"You're too good to me," he murmured.

You stroked your fingers through his hair gently. "I'm just the right amount of good to you. And you'll pay me back in foot rubs, long baths, and a weekend where I don't touch a single dish."

He gave a raspy little laugh, his eyes already fluttering closed. "Deal..."

Then twenty minutes later.

Twenty. That was all. Just long enough to toss a load of laundry into the machine, field two urgent emails from LexCorp's legal team, and—miraculously—put on real pants instead of the threadbare sweats you'd been living in since Clark's fever started. You hadn't even closed the bedroom door behind you when you left. Everything had seemed calm: Clark asleep, soft snores filling the room, tissue box within reach, a cool compress resting on his forehead. Peaceful. Contained.

So when you returned to the living room and were met with a scene that looked like a domestic comedy had collided with a weather disaster, you froze in the doorway, stunned into silence.

There he was—Clark in all his six-foot-whatever, fever-ridden glory—standing barefoot in the middle of the floor wearing his oversized Metropolis Meteors hoodie and a pair of pajama pants that had clearly lost the battle against whatever soup or oatmeal had spilled on them. His hair was a chaotic mess of tufts and spikes, as though he'd been caught in a blender or sneezed mid-brush and never recovered.

In one hand, he clutched a mop like it was some medieval weapon. A thin film of soapy water slicked the hardwood floor beneath him. And behind him? Burnt toast smoldered sadly on a plate near the sink, while the remnants of oatmeal—overboiled, hardened, and now clinging to the stovetop like dried plaster—begged for mercy.

Clark turned to you, watery eyes bright with some blend of pride and illness. His voice came out in a croaky rasp, made worse by congestion, but no less sincere.

"Surprise!" he declared. Then immediately sneezed.

"hhHRRrTSSCHh'uh! ... Hehh'GGSCHh!" The force nearly knocked him off-balance. He wobbled slightly, dropping the mop with a clatter as it narrowly missed your foot.

You stared at him, processing the flood of information: the puddle threatening the nearby power strip, the scorched breakfast, the smell of disinfectant wafting through the air from... somewhere. The man you loved stood like a soggy warrior in the aftermath of battle, looking both miserable and hopelessly pleased with himself.

"Clark," you said, your tone walking the tightrope between horrified and endeared. "You tried to cook... and mop?"

"Multitasking," he croaked proudly, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie, which you mentally added to the 'must-wash' pile.

You sighed, stepping gingerly over the puddle and gently prying the mop from his hand. "Okay. First of all, we're not gonna flood the living room. Second, we are definitely not burning toast on my watch."

"I was trying to help," he mumbled, shoulders sagging as the full weight of his fevered rebellion hit him. "I hate feeling useless. Lying in bed doing nothing all day drives me insane."

You softened immediately, kneeling down to start mopping up the puddle. "I know you were. But sweetie, you're literally leaking. Your eyes, your nose, your energy levels — it's all coming out of you like a faucet. This," you gestured to the oatmeal carnage, the scorched bread, and the damp floor, "is not helping."

Clark sniffled, trailing behind you with a roll of paper towels and the expression of a scolded Labrador. "I miscalculated."

"You think?" you muttered, wringing out the mop. "For the record, even at full health, you're banned from solo cooking anything that involves boiling water or bread."

"But I make great grilled cheese," he argued weakly.

"That was once," you shot back. "And it only worked because I supervised and you didn't sneeze into the skillet."

He offered a sheepish, pink-cheeked smile—whether from fever, shame, or both, you couldn't tell—and dropped onto the couch with a weary sigh. He pulled the blanket over his lap and nestled into the cushions, clutching the tissue box like a lifeline. You watched him for a moment: the way his lashes fluttered from fatigue, the soft sniffle that punctuated every breath, the unmistakable vulnerability in how small he looked when he didn't have the strength to pretend otherwise.

"Couch," you said firmly, tossing the now-damp towel into the laundry basket. "No more mop missions. No more breakfast experiments. You're officially on rest duty."

"Yes, Doctor," he mumbled, voice trailing off as his head lolled back against the pillow.

"And you're lucky you're adorable when you're a disaster," you added, walking over to press a kiss to the top of his tousled head.

He murmured something unintelligible and nestled deeper under the blanket, already drifting toward sleep. You stood there for a moment longer, surveying the semi-contained chaos and listening to the soft sound of him breathing. The storm had passed—for now.

And you knew, as you always did, that no matter how strong he was in the world outside, here at home, he was allowed to unravel.

And you'd always be there to gather the pieces.

THE evening had finally exhaled into a rare kind of hush.

Golden lamplight bathed the living room in a soft glow, and the steady tap of your fingers on the keyboard was the only sound beyond the occasional hum of traffic filtering in through the window. You were curled into your usual corner of the couch, a blanket over your legs, your laptop balanced comfortably across your thighs. A half-drunk mug of tea sat nearby, forgotten in the lull of productivity.

The house still carried traces of the day's earlier chaos — the faint tang of citrus disinfectant clinging to the air, and a lingering whiff of burnt toast that not even an open window had managed to erase. You'd spent part of the afternoon mopping up sudsy water and scraping oatmeal off the stove, but now, with everything in its place and your feverish husband tucked away for a nap, the world felt briefly — blissfully — quiet.

Until it didn't.

From the hallway came the unmistakable sound of socked feet dragging across the hardwood floor. You paused mid-sentence, fingers hovering over the keys as you turned your head.

Clark emerged from the bedroom like a man resurrected... albeit slowly and with questionable coordination.

He had a fleece blanket was haphazardly draped over his frame like a superhero cape on its last day of duty. His pajama pants had a suspicious soup stain near the knee, and his hair stood up in jagged tufts, flattened on one side from his pillow and sticking out like a sunburst on the other.

A balled-up tissue peeked out from the hoodie pocket, and his nose... well, it had crossed the threshold from pink to full Rudolph status.

He sniffled, cleared his throat with a congested rasp, and made a slow, exaggerated beeline for the TV.

"I'm picking a movie for us," he announced, voice hoarse but determined.

You didn't look up. "Is this movie going to involve explosions, intergalactic warfare, or dragons?"

"No," he said far too quickly.

You smirked into your screen.

He began scrolling through Netflix with all the gravity of someone solving a national crisis. "Why are all these rom-coms about bakers falling for small-town mechanics?" he grumbled. "Do they think the only career path to love is pastry?"

"It's called joy, Clark," you said, eyes still on your email. "Some of us like frosting and Christmas tree farms."

After a few more dramatic scrolls and a few muttered complaints, he settled on a 2009 romantic drama with a title so generic it might have been randomly generated. The kind of movie that was guaranteed to include a slow-motion kiss in the rain and a dramatic airport monologue.

He collapsed onto the couch beside you with a theatrical sigh.

You didn't react.

He sighed again, louder.

You kept typing.

Then came the nudge: a gentle tap of his knee against yours.

Still nothing.

Finally, the pièce de résistance: a congested whine, dragged out for maximum pity.

"Babyyyy..."

You sighed and glanced at him over the top of your laptop. Clark Kent, usually a beacon of strength and stoicism, was giving you the most pitiful pair of puppy-dog eyes imaginable. His bottom lip jutted just slightly. His hand emerged from beneath the blanket and reached for you blindly like he might dissolve without contact.

"I just..." he murmured, voice thick with congestion, "I just need... something. Contact. A little bit. Like... a foot. Or a shin. I'll settle for shin."

You closed your laptop with a resigned huff and set it aside. "You're impossible."

"I'm delicate," he corrected, snuggling deeper into the couch cushions like an overgrown child. "And love-starved."

You shook your head and extended your legs across his lap. He immediately grabbed the edge of the blanket and tucked it around them like you were royalty and the couch was your throne.

His hand rested gently on your calf, thumb rubbing slow, grateful circles.

"Better?" you asked, resting your head back against the couch.

"Much," he murmured. "You're warm. And not covered in tissues."

A beat of silence passed between you — peaceful, close — before you added, "This doesn't get you out of the kitchen damage report."

He groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. "I was trying to help!"

"And I love you for it," you said, chuckling. "But I'm also hiding the mop.

He chuckled too, the sound low and wheezy. "Probably wise."

You glanced at him — hair a mess, face flushed, already halfway to sleep — and smiled softly.

No matter the chaos, the sneezing fits, the scorched breakfast, or the mop-induced flood... this right here, the quiet moments tucked between the mess, were your favorite.

You reached over and brushed a stray curl from his forehead, watching the tension melt from his brow before focusing on the movie.

Maybe thirty minutes into the movie, your focus had drifted to the man curled up beside you.

Clark had claimed your legs the moment you'd relented, tucking them over his lap like they were his by right — and honestly, they kind of were. He was still wrapped in that rumpled hoodie, the sleeves bunched at his forearms and the hood slightly askew like he'd pulled it on during a sneeze attack and never fixed it. His cheeks were still pink from the fever, his nose a little raw around the edges, and his hair — good god, his hair — looked like it had squared off with a wind tunnel and lost. But beneath all the sick-day wreckage, he looked content. Warm. Peaceful.

And then, without a word, he reached under the blanket and began gently rubbing your foot.

Your eyes darted down, confused by the sudden shift from passive snuggling to purposeful movement. "What are you doing?" you asked, half-suspicious, half-intrigued.

Clark looked up at you like it should've been obvious. "Foot massage," he said hoarsely, congestion clinging to his voice. "As part of my apology."

You quirked an eyebrow. "I thought the apology was picking a movie and then begging me to let you touch my shin."

"That was the emotional groundwork," he replied, pressing his thumbs into the arch of your foot with surprising skill. "This is the follow-through. I'm a man of layers."

"Apparently."

You leaned back against the couch cushion, watching him. His brows were drawn slightly in focus, lips parted as he concentrated on getting the pressure just right. His thumb traced a firm circle beneath your toes, then slid along the heel, pausing to knead at the ball of your foot like he'd done this a hundred times. It was slow, patient, and unexpectedly soothing.

"You really don't have to do this," you said softly, your voice dipping toward something tender.

Clark looked up at you briefly, and there it was again — that quiet sincerity, buried under the sniffles and the hoodie and the ridiculous mop of hair. "I want to," he said simply. "You've been dealing with me all day — the sneezing, the kitchen disaster, the oatmeal incident... You deserve at least this."

You exhaled, long and slow, as the last of the tension started to melt from your legs. His hands moved with steady purpose, never rushing, never too much. You could feel the care in every touch.

"Better?" he murmured.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed for a second. "Yeah. Honestly, yeah. Way better."

He gave a crooked, sleepy grin — then sneezed violently into his elbow.

"hhH'RRSSCHhh! ... snff Sorry," he groaned, reaching for one of the many tissues tucked beside him.

"Still romantic," you teased, smiling at him with affection.

Clark gave you a sheepish look as he blew his nose. "I contain multitudes."

You laughed — full and soft and honest. He grinned back at you, flushed and ridiculous and somehow still devastatingly beautiful. Even with a tissue in hand and a voice like gravel, he was every bit the man you loved.

"You're a disaster," you said fondly.

He reached for your other foot with a sniffly sniff and a determined gleam in his eyes. "Then let me be your disaster."

Your chest tightened — in the good way. In the I-didn't-know-I-needed-that-until-right-now way.

You didn't reply. You just watched him, your leg rising slightly as he cradled your ankle, his fingers curling around you with quiet devotion. His touch was gentle, intentional — not just a foot rub, not really. It was him finding a way to say thank you without needing to say much at all. A way of caring for you when he barely had the energy to care for himself.

And in that soft, flickering light — with the bad movie murmuring in the background and the world tucked away outside — you let yourself fall into the warmth of it. His body, his hands, his love. The slow, clumsy comfort of being seen.

It wasn't perfect. It was sneezy, and warm, and chaotic, and utterly human.

And it was exactly right.

As his hands were still on your foot — strong, slow, deliberate — his touch had shifted. The pressure wasn't just for comfort anymore. His thumbs traced firmer circles along your arch, and then up the slope of your ankle, trailing just under the hem of your pajama pants.

You glanced at him, raising a brow. "That doesn't feel very flu-safe."

He didn't look up, just let out a soft hum. "I'm feeling slightly better," he said, voice still rough around the edges, but lower now — velvety, with that familiar weight he only used when he wasn't just being affectionate. When he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that could make him feel better.

Your breath caught slightly as his hands moved higher, both now working their way slowly up your calves under the blanket. His fingers trailed the seams of your pants, brushing lightly against bare skin. You felt heat crawl up your neck.

"I think," he murmured, finally looking up at you through those heavy-lidded eyes, "the most effective way for me to recover is... physical closeness."

"Oh really?" you asked, amused, your voice low. "Is that a scientific conclusion, Doctor Kent?"

He smirked, a little crooked and a little unwell — which somehow only made it sexier. "Absolutely. Proximity to my husband dramatically increases immune response. Especially when said husband is warm, shirtless, and on top of me."

You rolled your eyes, but the flush in your chest betrayed you. "Clark, you literally sneezed on yourself ten minutes ago."

He leaned forward, his hands leaving your legs just long enough to slide over your hips, tugging you closer, until your laptop slipped off to the side with a soft thud. His breath brushed against your jaw.

"I'll try not to sneeze on you," he whispered, voice gravelly and quiet, "if you promise to keep touching me."

His lips hovered at the edge of your throat, warm and soft — and then he kissed you, slow and deep. Not the fevered, messy kind you might've expected, but something more deliberate. Like he was savoring it. Like he needed it.

You melted into it. One hand found the back of his neck, the other slipped beneath the collar of his hoodie, and you felt his skin, warm and humming. His hands gripped your waist, guiding you gently into his lap. He breathed you in like you were the cure to whatever was burning through him.

"Clark..." you warned softly, even as you gave in.

"I'm fine," he murmured against your lips. "I promise. I just need you."

You could feel the truth in it — in the way his hands trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from want. From relief. From the ache he'd been carrying all day, not just in his body, but in his chest.

What started as comfort had turned into something else — something hot and slow and tangled under the blankets, with fever-warmed skin and deep, grounding kisses. He pulled you closer, held you tighter, like maybe this was the only medicine that mattered.

And in that moment, you weren't worried about colds or chaos or chores. Just him. Just this. The soft, breathy sounds between kisses, the rough edges of his voice saying your name, the steady hum of connection crackling between your bodies like electricity waiting to catch.

Clark's kiss then deepened, his hand sliding under your shirt with a warmth that made you shiver, despite the heat radiating from his skin. Fevered or not, there was nothing weak about the way he pulled you closer, like every inch of space between you was an offense he needed to correct.

You straddled his lap fully now, hands gripping his shoulders for balance, his hoodie soft under your fingers. His hands were roaming — reverent, familiar, but hungry — trailing down your back, under your waistband, pulling you flush against him.

"You're burning up," you whispered against his mouth, half a tease, half a concern.

"Not sick," he breathed, lips ghosting along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. "Just want you."

And god, did he mean it. He kissed you like it was the first time, like he'd missed you for years even though you'd been beside him all day. His lips were hot and slightly chapped, and you didn't care. His fingers pushed your shirt up higher, and you raised your arms just long enough to let him tug it off. The blanket slipped away, leaving the two of you tangled in heat and breath and nothing else.

You could feel how much he wanted you — hard and needy beneath you — and when your hips shifted, drawing a low groan from deep in his throat, it lit something electric between your ribs.

He gripped your waist and rolled his hips up slowly, deliberately. You sucked in a breath.

"You sure?" you asked, grounding yourself for a moment, looking into his eyes.

Clark's gaze locked with yours — glassy, intense, but steady. "I've never been more sure of anything."

You kissed him again — rougher this time — and he answered with equal urgency, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he shifted beneath you. You could feel the tension in his body, the ache, the way he was holding back just enough to stay gentle — but only just.

"Bedroom?" you murmured between kisses.

He didn't answer with words. He stood, lifting you easily with one arm around your back and the other under your thighs, making you gasp as he carried you like you weighed nothing. Fever and all, he was still him.

You pressed your face into his neck, laughing breathlessly as he carried you down the hall.

"Clark, you're supposed to be resting."

He kicked the bedroom door open. "I'll sleep after."

The moment you hit the mattress, his body was over yours — warm, solid, flushed with desire and something deeper. He didn't rush. He undressed you with his mouth more than his hands — kissing, licking, biting lightly down your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — like he was committing every inch of you to memory all over again.

When he finally pushed into you, it wasn't rushed — it was deliberate, almost reverent. He sank into you slowly, the stretch and slide sending a shudder rippling through your entire body. The world narrowed to the feeling of him filling you completely, deeply, a perfect, grounding rhythm that made your spine arch and your fingers clutch at his back, desperate for more.

The heat between you was staggering — not just the natural fever of bodies colliding, but something deeper, something burning and frantic and sacred all at once. His skin was almost unbearably hot against yours, slick with effort, his muscles trembling as he fought to keep his control.

Your name broke from your lips in a ragged whisper — once, twice, and then over and over again, like a prayer you couldn't stop offering. Every deep roll of his hips pulled another breathless sound from you, every grind closer to the edge, yet still he moved carefully, thoughtfully, as if memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your heart against his chest.

He leaned down until his forehead rested against yours, his breath stuttering unevenly across your lips, his lashes clumping from sweat. His eyes — blown wide, dark with need and something achingly tender — locked onto yours as if you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

"I love you," he rasped, the words torn from somewhere deep inside him, groaned right into your mouth like a vow he needed you to feel as much as hear.

You grabbed his face between your hands and pulled him into a bruising kiss, pouring all your urgency, all your need, into him. "Then show me," you whispered against his lips, daring him, challenging him.

And he did.

Again and again — harder, deeper, each thrust more desperate than the last, as if he could carve the words into your skin with the way he moved inside you. You lost yourself in him, in the burning crash of pleasure, in the broken sounds he made as he unraveled right alongside you. Together, you fell — into the heat, into the love, into the place where nothing else existed but the two of you, tangled and gasping, holding on for dear life.

THE next morning, sunlight crept in slow and golden through the bedroom windows, pooling across the tangled mess of sheets, limbs, and scattered clothes on the floor. Your body ached in the best way — the kind of ache that came from being thoroughly loved, multiple times, in ways that completely ignored the fact that one of you had been sick just twelve hours ago.

Clark was still sprawled beside you, bare-chested, blanket barely covering his hips, hair even more chaotic than yesterday — and somehow, impossibly, he looked smug. He stretched, yawned, then rolled onto his side and looked at you with a sleepy grin.

"Morning," he said, voice still gravelly but noticeably less congested.

You raised an eyebrow. "Well, someone's immune system seems to have made a miraculous overnight recovery."

He gave you a lazy shrug and leaned in to press a kiss to your shoulder. "Must've been all that... therapeutic physical contact."

"Oh, that's what we're calling it now?" you said, laughing as you rolled onto your back.

He grinned, full mischief now. "Hey, I'm feeling great. Like I could bench-press a tractor and then write a Pulitzer-winning article about it."

You looked at him, deadpan. "Clark, you sneezed directly into my hair last night."

He winced. "That was... accidental. And deeply unfortunate."

You mock-glared. "You're lucky you're hot."

"Lucky?" he said, leaning over and nuzzling your neck. "Babe, you were the one begging for round two."

"I was coerced by Kryptonian abs and a tragic man-cold. There was sympathy involved."

Clark snorted and dropped back onto the pillow dramatically. "Unbelievable. I pour my heart into a passionate night of healing, and all I get is slander."

You smirked and rolled on top of him, straddling his hips, palms flat on his chest.

"Oh, I didn't say it wasn't amazing," you said, dragging your hands slowly down his stomach. "I'm just saying — if I wake up with the flu tomorrow, you're making me soup and watching five hours of trashy reality TV without complaining."

Clark groaned like you'd asked him to fly into the sun. "Five hours?"

"Minimum. And I get full control of the remote."

He squinted at you, then sighed in defeat. "You really know how to keep a man humble."

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and teasing. "Someone's gotta keep you in check."

He grinned against your lips. "Well then, I guess I'll just have to make you sick enough to cash in on your nurse routine."

You pulled back and gave him the most betrayed look you could muster. "Clark Joseph Kent. Did you just imply you'd infect me on purpose?"

He laughed so hard he coughed — which turned into a sneeze — which turned into you smacking him in the chest with a pillow.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him square in the chest. "I knew you weren't fully recovered!"

"I regret nothing!" he wheezed, laughter already bubbling up again as he lunged for you.

You shrieked as he rolled, flipping you beneath him with ridiculous ease, pinning you under the blankets and grinning like he was twelve and had just won a tickle fight.

It was going to be a long morning — full of teasing and heat and probably a few more "therapeutic" activities.

And honestly? You wouldn't change a damn thing.

[not-soap73]

Nolan ‘Omni-Man’ Grayson

nsfw/smut oneshot, afab!reader, cunnilingus

You would think Nolan Grayson, thee Omni-Man, would be a hard top. Fucking you till you couldn’t breathe, not letting you come until he said so. Until he was satisfied—his strength holding you in place like you were nothing, like you were his. But it wasn’t like that at all. The most powerful man in the world was only desperate to please you. He would get on his knees for you, eyes blazing as he stares up at you with desire.

“Tell me what you want, honey.”

Voice low with his hands on the sides of your thighs, gripping the fat of your flesh.

The control was never really his. It was yours, the whole time. He grips your thighs like he might break them if he isn’t careful, his mouth hot against your skin, his breath ragged as he began peppering your thighs with kisses before his tongue darts out, licking a stripe up your clothed cunt, making you suck in a breath. Nolan looks up at you, eyes dark, waiting—begging—for a command.

“Come on…tell me.”

He growls, low and guttural. His muscles tremble with restraint, every fiber of his being trained to obey, to hold back that brutal strength just for you. And once you reach down, tugging his hair, telling him exactly what you want him to do, his cock strands in his pants.

He doesn’t hesitate one second. The moment the words leave your mouth, he’s on you. His hands moving to the plump of your ass, mouth connecting to your skin, worshipping you, his wife. His lips trail rough, open-mouth kisses across the front of your thighs, up your hips, and your stomach. Each kiss hotter, hungrier than the last, teeth nipping at your soft flesh. Every inch of him shaking with the effort not to tear you apart from sheer need.

You feel the low rumble of his growl against your skin, a sound so deep it feels like it vibrates through your bones. He’s starving for you. Starving like a man dying of thirst. That’s how badly he wants to ravish you right now. He looks up at you again.

"Please. Let me have you."

Not an order. A plea. And god, it’s intoxicating — knowing you could make him wait longer, tease him, command him, and he’d take it. He’d take anything from you. Anything.

“You want to have me?”

You whisper, voice steady, cruel. Your fingers that were laced in his hair giving it another tug.

“Then earn it.”

Something in him snaps. But not in defiance but in devotion. His fingers curl at the sides of your panties, pulling them down till they pooled at your ankles, letting you kick the fabric away. And just like that, he pushes you back against the bed, flat on your back, still kneeling on the floor, his hands spreading your thighs like he’s opening a gift he’s waited lifetimes for.

He doesn’t waste a second, his arms in circling around your waist, his mouth finds you instantly, hot and relentless, tongue stroking deep and slow against your sopping pussy, fast and filthy—like he wants to pull every sound out of you, every twitch, every gasp. His mustache tickling the mound of your pussy. His hands grip your hips, anchoring you as your back arches off the sheets, low, breathy moans escaping your pretty lips. Fuck, just as always…sweet against his tongue.

Nolan wasn’t just eating you, he was consuming you. Worshipping you with his mouth like your pleasure is his religion, like this moment is the only thing in the universe that matters. And the look in his eyes when he glances up—wild, reverent, ruined—tells you everything: He’s not stopping until you're trembling and begging.

His tongue is hot, sucking at your erect clit, tongue teasing at your hole. You moan out, hand reaching down to push his head deeper into your cunt, earning an erotic groan from your super-husband. The vibration of it against you makes you cry out, your thighs instinctively trying to close around his head. But Nolan is too strong for that. His big hands keep you pinned open, forcing you to take every slow, sinful stroke of his tongue.

He’s messy with it now, wet and loud and utterly shameless. His hands work up your sides, kneading at your breasts through that lacy bra of yours, pinching at your harden nipples through the fabric. You tug harder at his hair, grinding up into his face, and he groans again. Yet this time it sounded like a whine.

The way he moans, soft and aching as he eats you out, you’d think he was the one being touched. Every time you twitch under his mouth, he gasps like it’s him unraveling. Like your pleasure is his only purpose. You glance down, and he’s grinding against nothing. He’s hard, leaking through his boxers and pants, completely untouched. He hasn’t even asked for relief. Hasn’t dared. Not until you cum. Not until you say you were ready for him to fuck you.

You can feel it building already, that tight, dizzy pressure coiling low in your belly. A rope ready to snap. And from the desperate way Nolan devours you, not easing up, not even close. You know he can feel it too. He knew you too well. Knew around that body of yours.

Your thighs start to tremble, breath hitching, fingers curling in his hair, grinding down on his face, chasing your release. Nolan groans again, a raw, wrecked sound, and presses even closer, nose buried against you, tongue thrusting and circling in maddening rhythm.

“That’s it.”

He murmurs against you, fingers gripping your hips.

“Come for me. Come all over my fucking mouth.”

The words alone send a violent shudder ripping through you and when he sucks your clit between his lips, firm and devastating, it breaks you open.

“Nolan…ngh!”

You cry out his name, back arching clear off the bed as pleasure crashes over you in waves, so intense you can barely breathe. Nolan holds you through it, moaning into your cunt as if your orgasm feeds him before pulling away, watching in complete awe. Your hair sprawled across the blankets below you, cheeks dusted a rosy pink, lips parted, and chest heaving as you tried steadying your breath.

He wipes your arousal from his chin, lips, and his mustache with his thumb before popping the digit into his mouth, licking and sucking it clean. Your brows knit at the sight, legs spreading, cunt glistening with your arousal and his spit, looking at his with hooded eyes.

“Now fuck me like you mean it…”

[oswildin]

SFW LOKI X READER FIC RECS

I saw a post from someone about struggling to find more sfw fics so thought I’d compile some that I have rather enjoyed in the last few months! May add to this list as and when!

Ditched by @cueloki // Your Valentine stood you up so Loki decides to take matters into his own hands. (F!Reader)

Sweet Rest by @thefairyloveschaos // Loki helps you relax after a stressful day at work. (F!Reader)

Have Mercy by @mochie85 // You're a powered being with healing abilities and you try to bring Loki back from the brink of death. (F!Reader)

The Pebble and the Frost Giant by @vbecker10 // Loki is trying to deny his feelings for you so he doesn't ruin your friendship but when he passes an area filled with pebbles and small rocks, he's unable to resist the urge to bring one back for you and tell you he loves you. (F!Reader)

Every Detail, Always by @billionairebratenergy // For the girl who’s spent her life overlooked, he’s the one who sees everything. (F!Reader)

Change of View by @holdmytesseract // Your friend drags you along to an Avengers event, which changes your life forever... (F!Reader)

Nightmares by @amethystarachnid // request (F!Reader)

Team Loki by @muddyorbsblr // Thor poses a question that puts you in an uncomfortable situation, and causing you to give him a desperate and thinly-veiled half truth. (F!Reader)

Comfort by @lokileaf // Reader is on her period and Loki wants to help! (F!Reader)

In A Fathers Eyes (pt.2) by @wittyandobsessed // Since your child’s birth, Loki has been loving and devoted—but doubt still lingers, he can’t help but wonder if he’s meant to be a father. Then one day, when your son’s magic bursts free and chaos follows, Loki’s instinctive, fearless response says it all: he was always the father your child needed. (F!Reader)

A Christmas To Cherish, A Yule To Remember by @angelremnants // When tasked with organizing a holiday cultural exchange between Midgard and New Asgard, you face clashing traditions and unexpected connections. To foster goodwill, you plan a hybrid celebration that blends Christmas with Yule, inviting world leaders and dignitaries to experience Asgard's unique customs. However, hosting off-worlders, especially a skeptical Loki, proves challenging. His sarcasm only more adds tension as sparks begin to fly between you, testing your growing connection. As Yule and Christmas traditions collide, an unexpected kiss under the mistletoe might just be the season's most surprising twist. (F!Reader)

A Draw by @mischiefmaker615 // You and Loki tend to make a great team where it's almost casual in a dangerous situation. (GN!Reader)

In The Bleak Midwinter by @lokisgoodgirl // On a mandatory Christmas Avengers Getaway, resident Scrooge Loki discovers there is warmth to be found. (GN!Reader)

Elskhuga by @whimsyfaes // After thrusted into the storm of battle, Loki and his gang of trustees reach the outskirts of Svartalfheim in order to recuperate and tend to the wounded. His lover included, the Prince must find the strength to not fall into despair. (GN!Reader)

Little Gifts by @monstersandgenderqueers // Loki, a new resident in the compound, sparks your interest. You decide to give him a gift in secret, hoping he might cheer up just a little bit. Well, it didn't work out that way. (Neurodivergent!Reader)

May try and make a GN!Reader fic rec list too! But if you’re looking for more that are gender neutral, I also write and typically only write that unless specified. My own masterlist is on my pinned post!

[lostintransist]

I can't decide who I want to see laid out and whimpering more, graves or Simon.

Read your entire au like it's the morning paper.

Anon, thank you for you patience. I finished a big background project and suddenly could finish this. MDNI 18+ CW: Anal, DP, overstim, hickies, free use, reader is mean about sex, using sex to teach a lesson. [I don't know what came over me.] 2.8K of smut.

Phil hadn’t expected anything to come from seeing you at his sex club after sharing, by accident, some of Texas’ best BBQ.

He was, however infrequently, happy to be wrong.

As you lay naked and panting, all your attention had been pulled to Phil at the crinkling sound. He opened a side cupboard, cleverly tucked into the wall. Inside sat a bag of wet wipes, extra condoms, various types of lubes, a pair of medical scissors, band-aids, and antiseptic cream. If anything more were needed poking one’s head into the hall would oftentimes find a staff member ready to assist.

Hissing at the chill of the wipes, you watched him.

God above, as much as he loved sex this had to be one of his favorite parts of the whole shebang. When his partner for the night lay, scrounging up any iota of strength he hadn’t wrung from them, watching him? He felt more powerful than god. More benevolent too.

One wipe used up, Phil grabbed another one, moving to your armpits. He knew the power of a quick swipe there in helping recovery.

“You’re different than I expected.”

Your voice is rough, still raspy from the screams that had stopped at the ball gag.

Phil lifts the used wipe from your skin.

“Not as much of an asshole?” He joked.

“Worse of an asshole actually. That isn’t what I meant.”

He lifted a hand to your face, thump sweeping across the wing of your eyeliner, still intact.

“Your makeup didn’t move a bit, did it? You did a good job with it.”

You grab his hand, keeping it close to your face.

“That’s what I mean. How can you be such an asshole and still notice something like that? Or know the compliment would land?” Your eyes are searching for something they won’t find.

“Don’t know what you want from me darlin’, I’m no more than a bad man who is good at sex.” Phil shrugged as if to shed your kind words and fit better in his skin.

“What I want from you is to know,” you looked at him so expectantly, “if you’re free two days from now to do this again and hopefully more.”

The savage grin comes straight from his core. His dick struggled against all the times he came at the thought of you under, over, around, inside him again.

“That sounds like a plan.” Phil pulled you into a sitting position from your still joined hands.

Could sharing shade and then some mind-blowing sex be considered a meet-cute or a meet-ugly? Either way, it fits exactly the relationship the two of you had. Bites were handed out in pleasure and in pain.

Talking about what bothered you only happened after Phil fucked the anger out of your system. If Phil was angry, he got to snap at you two times without consequence. Third time though? He knew it would be time to get his ass filled with a vibrating plug. The remote would be nestled into your hand as you stared up at him with your arms crossed. Damn, the way the stance perked up your breasts and showed your hips to the best advantage had him filling the space behind his fly in a breath.

It took him a year to convince you to move and live on-site with him and his shadows.

“I need someone who can keep them in line and isn’t afraid to snarl at my men. Most of them would be more than happy to play toy for you when I am gone on jobs,” Phil lay balls deep in prone position. He traced the corner of his nail down your neck just to watch the gooseflesh rise.

“Phil,” you drag his name out. Heavens above he shouldn’t love his name humming through your mouth this goddamn much.

He rolls his hips forward, cooing at you about all the advantages of moving; you would have more regular time in his bed and free use with most of his men. He knew how you loved making men cower and cry, that rush of being powerful from making men quake. He had so many men who needed someone dominating them, they would love to be fucked by you.

The part he kept to himself is that he loved being fucked by you. God how he loved it. Whether you tied his hands to the frame and rode him like you could see the ascension coming and wanted to orgasm before it took you, or you edged him to hell and back Phillip Graves wanted more of you, all the time.

“Come on darlin’ let me pay you boatloads to yell at men, fuck who you please, and visit my bed more often.” He starts to kiss your neck, focused on keeping an infuriatingly slow pace.

“Okay,” the word escapes like a moan.

Phil is over-prepared on more reasons you should move for him and launches into more reasons.

“I have a sex dungeon. My whole collection of toys are on display and yours for the using. Tyler Thomas is my partner most times when on base. Ever been fucked by two men at once? I can make that happen for you,” Phil could hear the desperation creeping into his voice but damn if he wouldn’t do anything shy of losing a testicle to get you under him more often.

Your hand snakes back and takes a firm grip on his hair. With the speed of a viper, you sink your teeth into his cheek. He nuts immediately. Shuddering and sputtering Phil works on pulling himself back together as you run your tongue over the marks you left.

“If you listened as much as you spoke, Phillip, you would have heard me agree.” You press a kiss to his face, dead center in the teeth ringing his flesh. “Now because you came before I did I’m going to ride your face until I squirt down your throat.”

His shadows loved you nearly as much as he did. Not that Phil is surprised. He would be annoyed with how much they love you but all of his men agreed that if he found them in your service, tongue buried in your cunt or balls deep because your cramps were overwhelming, he could join with no questions asked. Sometimes that looked like Phil fucking a man in the ass, forcing him deeper in your cunt as you both cried out, or it looked like adding his tongue to the apex of your thighs as he and his man traded kisses and touches to you and each other. You also had permission to join any encounter you found in progress.

Phil knew that sometimes you would pull two shadows into your bed who hadn’t admitted their chemistry. His teams fought harder, and better with you at the helm. Phil knew he slept better for having you on hand.

“Phillip Cornelius Graves!”

The crack of your voice across the room, and the full naming of the head of Shadow company, sent his shadows scrambling.

Tyler, his faithful right-hand man, stood to flee.

Phil grabbed his wrist, fear making his grip tighter than it should have been.

“Where are you going?” He hissed.

“I grew up in Tornado Alley, I know a deadly storm when I see one. Good luck,” Tyler wrenched his hand from his sometimes lover’s grip and escaped like everyone else.

Standing, because it is better to die on one’s feet, Phil held both hands up in a gesture of surrender.

You do not snarl or spit when you reach him. The lack of vitriol tells him that whatever he did he fucked up big time. Holding eye contact you undo his belt, button, and zipper. Once the top of his groin is visible, because boxers are only for jobs, you slide your palm down his stomach settling fingers in his hair.

Maybe you just want angry sex?

The fist you make, capturing his short and curlies, and then walk away tell him that is absolutely not the answer. Phil stumbles to keep up even as blood rushes south. God, he loved it when you hate fucked him.

Stepping into the dungeon you push him back to a wall and rip his pants down.

“Now darling, if you wante—” his drawl is cut off.

“Shut the fuck up, Phil.”

The lava-boiling rage in your face tells him that however this ends it won’t be good for him.

“Can I know what this is about, doll?”

You leave a scrape on his ribs as you rip his button-up shirt off him. Dammit. He shouldn’t find that so hot.

“You have been making choices that are going to get you shot, and if you’re going to die for being an idiot I want to be on your mind as the bullet enters your brain.” You point to the wall where padded wrist and ankle cuffs have been positioned to hold a person open. “To the wall.”

He does as commanded, locking his legs in before one arm, and watching you as you click the last one in place with a hard look. Without breaking eye contact you press down on his erection with one manicured nail. It bobs back into place before you turn to the wall of toys. Heading straight to the anal plugs you grab a newer one and the bottle of lube. The distance is such that Phil can’t tell it’s a large one that vibrates him like a base drum until it’s covered in lubrication and you are reaching around him to insert it.

“Darling, you know what that one does to me,” he tries to bargain, getting nowhere.

“Gets you so hard and keeps you there until you can’t come?”

It is notching against his hole now, the constant pressure encouraging him to relax because you’ll get it in with or without his cooperation. Relaxing a touch it settles in with a pop. The big papa of an anal vibrator pressed on his prostate already. Phil’s breaths shuttered.

“I do know which one this is,” you press the power button starting the cycle they had programmed into the device.

His breaths heh, heh, heh out of him instantly.

“What now?” He questions like a fool.

“Now? I have a few shadows who are going to come in and give you a few hickies here,” you touch his upper inner thigh, right behind where his balls hang, “here,” you touch the other leg just below the back of his knee. “Here,” you scrape your nail along the edge of his shoulder blade, “And here.” You touch his nipples, both of them.

Leaning forward, careful to not touch any part of him now, you speak again. “Then when they are done I am going to strap you down to a bed, set the vibrator too high, and ride you into overstimulation while Tyler fucks me in the ass.”

Tyler, Phil’s sometimes lover, undid the cuffs on Phillip’s hands as you undid his feet. The hickies were already darkening. Perfect. He wouldn’t be breathing without thinking of you for at least the next few days.

While Tyler hadn’t objected to the plan you presented him with he had been shocked at the levels you were stooping to. Still, he lifted Phil, settling a leg on either side of his hip as he headed toward an empty bed. Couldn’t have the man reaching to pull his vibrator yet, and the damn thing was so large it would make walking awkward.

“Leave his ankles free this time,” you mention as you step up to the head of the bed, strap ready for Phil. “I want him to help.”

Both men stared at you like you were a masochist. Maybe you were. Stripping of everything but your bra, because you did not need your breasts bouncing in this mess, you lube up the still-hard Phil who is stuck on the bed. He whimpered as your hand cupped him, even going so far as to dip below his balls and lift them. There was the hicky you had asked for. Good.

The sound of clothes dropping to the floor behind you let you know that Tyler was ready for lubrication too. Coating him tip to root you handed him the bottle and climbed onto the bed. Straddling Phil on your hands and knees you presented Tyler your ass for your lube. You let Phillip watch your eyes dilate as the cool gel dripped between your cheeks and let your sighing whimpers fall to his lips when Tyler slid first one and then a second finger into your asshole.

He finger fucked you until you panted and lube fell onto Phil.

Reaching down you settled your finger on the power button of the vibrator.

“When your stupid choices end you, know that had you been smart you could have come back to more of this.” You click the button, sending the small but powerful motor onto high.

Phil keened, back arching under you.

“Tyler, I am going to put him in my cunt now. I want you to push into my ass when I am about halfway down Phil. He needs to feel this too.”

He removed his fingers as you backed up. The bed creaked under the weight of another adult. Taking Phil’s painfully hard cock in your hand, it vibrated slightly in your grip, you lined it with your first hole. Sinking down a titch you let Phil scream, the pitch spoke of sweet agony.

Another inch of him inside and you bent forward. Tyler pulled your cheeks apart and dribbled more lube on both of you before he pressed in with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to fuck ass.

Both you and Tyler ignored Phil’s cries and pleas as you situated both men to the hilt. Tightening your pelvic floor caused both men to groan. Reaching behind you settle one hand around the back of Tyler’s neck. Your other hand rests on Phil’s stomach.

“Tyler, hand on my clit,” he does as commanded.

“Now, Phil.” It takes a moment for his eyes to stop rolling in the back of his head to focus on you. “You are going to fuck up into me until I come three times. When the third has been ripped from my bones Tyler will turn off your vibrator. Get ready to thrust.”

You don’t care what it took from him but the man did know how to take orders.

The first orgasm came easy, the overfull feeling and Phil and Tyler’s dicks rubbing out of sync on the thin walls between them. The second came a little harder. Harder in finding the peak and harder in the way the orgasm shook you. Both men panted as you came down from your high.

“One more Phillip and you’re free.”

Instead of playing with you himself this time, Tyler pulled open your labia and let Phil’s thrusts scrape his pubic hair on the sensitive nerves. His other hand snaked up and into your bra, pinching your nipples instead. That third orgasm rocked you into space.

Tyler did as he had been told and turned the anal vibrator off once your asshole tightened down on him. Phil came with a cry, tears streaming down his face. Aftercare involved a shit ton of wet wipes, a dip in the hot tub for everyone, and a stomach nap for Phil with an ice pack tucked between his cheeks.

Phil kissed you sweetly when he woke. Something had shifted in him, but you couldn’t decide if it would be enough to save him from his own stupid decisions. Thinking over the experience you decided that he would be okay, you were sure of it. Setting down the case file for his next mission you go in search of Phil.

The label of the file reads “Las Almas.”

Masterlist

SoapGaz | John Price | Simon | Phillip Graves | Ghost | 4 for 1 Special | SoapGaz/Reader NSFW | AO3

[anya-nya-nya]

NSFW themes but without detailed description of intimacy, borisin! reader, virgin! Jiaoqiu, yandere, no angst just horny, abo dynamic! (slightly?? at least a scent thingy)

Let's pretend the new generation of borisins is normal and walk around freely for this one.

Jiaoqiu with his need for spice always teetering on the edge of danger, if another indigestion could be counted like that. But the hellbent rush in the food aspect didn't scare him as much as the same reckless need in his romantic life.

He never skipped the history lessons, but he doesn't remember hearing about differences in borisins’ pheromones. Cause there's something CLEARLY wrong with your Lupitoxin and the way it erupts not even a sliver of fear in him, but unbeknown obsession. Talking with you to have another sniff of it is like cooking a dish and adding a new herb he didn't have time to check for the level of spice. An implacable thrill to risk and taste.

Maybe he just saw the kindness and comfort he didn't expect to find in someone of your race, and got lured by it? But the need that nagging the depth of his guts is too strong to be justified by such silly guesses. It was your scent that dragged him closer, and only then your personality that kept him in this new place without even a thought of running away.

The hunger for your taste wasn't that much of romantical firstly, directed by his arousal, but the more time he spends listening to your voice and thoughts - that weren't as cruel and rabid as the ones Hoolay was barking long ago - the more he becomes drawn to you completely in all ways.

He becomes needy - and jealous. These wild jackasses from your pack are too frivolous with their touches, and Jiaoqiu doesn't even want to hear that this kind of behavior is a norm among you all. Moreso, the fear of your mind getting occupied by the culture of your race to the point you would shift your attention from him to one of the fellow borisins made Jiaoqiu's guts boil with such a strength it's a miracle he didn't turn into a hotpot. Your culture profess to have a strong, fierce partner, and he's a fucking blind foxian. Nothing hurt him more than newfound insecurity of not being able to suit your choices, as every time you pay a visit, he could smell not only the pleasing taste of your body, but also the tastes of others. Did you spar with them again? Let them sleep near you when you spend a night in your pack?

They all have such an ugly scent, as despite the wide kaleidoscope of natural odors humanoid species can get, borisins always got the most acrid ones. Even you had a musky one, but the soft edge it had didn't make him indisposed. Huge contrast to fruity, dulcet fragrances foxians usually have as signature. Huge contract to the one Jiaoqiu had himself.

But if initially you were interested in him, then maybe you have a sweet tooth? Maybe all Jiaoqiu needs to do is coax you the same way you cough him - by the foxian's smell that naturally would erupt instinctive hunger in your blood?

The history of his ancestors made him loathe the idea of being claimed by anyone, but if it's you then Jiaoqiu is more than happy to submit entirely till all you can think about is his, his sweet, sugary, so differ from fetid borisins, smell. Jiaoqiu knows how much of an appetite love can arise in one's soul so he would let you even bite: but only if you would never look at anyone else.

Fuck it, Jiaoqiu wouldn't mind losing his virginity with you despite knowing how important the first time is for the foxian race culturally: the pheromones of the first partner stain the skin forever, and not even thousands of partners would wash away the scent you got during first intercourse.

Anyone who Jiaoqiu would decide to sleep with after this night would smell it and know he was taken by the enemy, but he didn't care. As if he ever would sully his loyalty by letting anyone warm the bed he saved only for you.

Jiaoqiu has no appetite for this plain tasteless filth other foxians can offer him. His crave only for your musky spice.

[fomfarms]

Hii love your blog 👋

If you want and have time I request HC about how the romanceables would handle finding an injured (probably from the mines) farmer 😄

/// Also or anything with balor 🤪



Adeline:

probably freaks out the most visibly

she already has a general air of fretting about her by default

so something to ACTUALLY fret about has her in a bit of a tizzy

immediately drags you to Valen

or failing that, brings Valen to you

she definitely calls for help and immediately starts checking you over

if you try to insist your fine she will insist that you are most certainly NOT and you're seeing the doctor

DO NOT ARGUE!

by the time she gets you to Valen, she's already listing off the specific injuries she's noticed to the doctor

gives you privacy but is waiting just outside

will be checking in on you until you're all healed up

MIGHT ban you from the mines for a while...

OKAY maybe not ban-- you're adults, she's not the boss of you...

yeah she... she's just worried okay!

Balor:

he's all easy going and chill humming until he crests the hill and sees you on the ground

and once he clocks it, he's by your side in an instant

says things along the lines of 'hey, it's alright, I got you' as he drapes your arm around his shoulders and helps get you to your feet

then he helps you limp all the way to the doctors

is by your side until Valen shows up and starts giving you the once over

he makes himself somewhat scarce but he's definitely waiting right outside until he knows you're gonna be okay

probably sitting outside fiddling with a coin between his fingers or bouncing his leg restlessly-- or a bit of both

once he knows you're good, he'll want to see you before he leaves-- just to touch base

he doesn't hover, but he does check in more often as your healing

also brings you stuff from the capital to help with the pain or the healing process

is probably one of the main ones who'll fight you on it if you try and rush right back into the mines

if he catches you limping your way there you'll probably hear 'ARE YOU CRAZY?!' at least a dozen times

he might not physically stop you, but he's very tempted to

and he's walking along side you the whole way trying to talk you out of it

how worried he'll be is gonna depend on how reckless you are after being injured

but rest assured, he's gonna be a little worried no matter what

Caldarus:

OH BOY

does this man not know what to do

and not knowing what to do is making him flustered as hell

he's admittedly in a bit of a panic

he gently brings you into his temple, and patches you up as best you can

he's determined to nurse you back to health

at least enough that you can go see the town doctor

seriously considers just running into town with you in his arms

if you start to look even a FRACTION worse, he will

uhh-- strap in cause he's gonna feed you

with his... best attempts at cooking...

he knows it's not very good, but he hopes it at least gives your body strength

btw, you're in his bed for all of it

if you're there for more than a day, he will sleep either among the pillows on the floor or potentially sitting part way up with his head resting at the foot of the bed so he can be right there if you need him

if you offer to share his bed, he will very flusteredly refuse, stating he does not wish to injure you further in his sleep

once you're well enough to walk, he releases you back into town to see Valen

if you try to rush back into the mines while still with him, he will refuse to let you go

he will literally pick you up and put you back into bed

if you try after you're no longer in his care but still a little injured, he will out right tell you not to go--- it's a desperate mix of out right commanding you not to do it and a panicked plea to reconsider

he won't risk coming to see you, but when you visit him for a while after the incident, he has food or gifts for you

if you don't see him soon enough after leaving, he'll start sending you letters

Celine:

even more in a tizzy than Adeline

low key she's in full panic mode

calling for help, flipping back and forth between wanting to help you and not knowing if she should move you

somewhere in her panic she ends up under your arm and limping towards Valen's clinic

pacing and fretting as the doctor looks you over

has to be told to give you some privacy

she's embarrassed but she does wait outside

where she paces and frets some more

very relieved to hear you're gonna be okay

but don't get it twisted, just cause she's relieved doesn't mean she's not going to be hovering around you as much as humanly possible for the next-- however long it takes your injuries to heal

if you try to rush back to the mines, she will get VERY upset

she will actually tell you you're not allowed and get real huffy before finally starting to cry

she's flipping back and forth between being made at how reckless you're being and being worried beyond belief

if telling you not to go doesn't work she might actually beg

brings you SO MANY GET WELL BOUQUETS

Eiland:

actually is the quickest one to find you after you've exited the mines, since he's usually by that way anyways

FREAKS THE FUCK OUT

he's in an information downward spiral

he's panicking but also pulling every potentially bit of useful info off the top of his head, hoping it might help

also one of the fastest to sling your arm over his shoulder and start dragging you to Valen

kinda word vomiting out of stress the whole time

when you finally get to Valen, he's still talking a fretting blue mile and Valen actually tells him to leave

he's embarrassed but leaves

he actually starts walking away and then immediately turns around cause NO WAIT I SHOULD WAIT FOR THEM

he was just reflexively following the orders of the most knowledgeable person in the room and his brain turned 'leave' to 'leave and go all the way home'

stands there fidgeting like his body doesn't feel right and desperately trying to think of a way to be helpful

when you're in the clear he lingers around a lot

more info dumping and fretting and trying to be supportive

you're gonna get A LOT of visits for the next while and all of them are going to have some odd gift or old remedy that's supposedly going to help

you can refuse, and he will accept it with embarrassed grace

if you try and rush back to the mines he's gonna nervously freak and basically immediately start begging you to not

he'll get on his knees to beg, he's not too proud to plead you to use sense

get ready for a worried, flustered nerd hovering around

Hayden:

probably the most helpful save for Valen

he's got a bleeding heart but a good head on his shoulders and he deals with a lot of very fragile creatures that can get themselves into all kinds of trouble

so he knows how to be extremely concerned, but not panic

he's also strong enough that he can basically bridal carry you right to the doctors office

and you ARE going, no ifs, ands, or buts here

you lost your option to say no to help the moment Hayden saw you injured YOU'RE GOING

is very good about helping you into the bed and then quietly making his exit while making sure that he's outside if needed on his way out

when you're given the all clear, he's hovering, but it's really sweet and caring

offers to carry you back to the farm

I won't lie, you're about to be doted on

he can't be there every waking minute cause there's other creatures that depend on him

but every moment he's not with them he's with you

you're about to get a lot of home cooked meals and teas and hourly check ups to make sure you're doing alright

if you need anything medicine/medical wise, he's already out the door and heading to get Valen

if you try and rush back into the mines he's going to look heart broken and devastated the moment he clocks you

it will turn into a weird exchange of him puffing his chest and standing his ground, but the whole time he's shaking and looks like he could actually burst into tears at any moment and his eyes are full on begging you not to go

and even when you're fine and you go back into the mines for the first time he's super nervous

he will check on you before you go and check on you the moment you get back

he's definitely another person whom you wake up and find resting his head on the foot of your bed, having fallen asleep looking after you

Juniper:

shocked!!

and a little annoyed

why are you going into places that are clearly too dangerous for you

and then you just drag your sorry butt through the town and she has to find you hanging by a thread

SOME people actually care about you, you know

and it's pretty selfish to let yourself get this way and not think about the heart attacks you're giving everyone

this, among many other things, are lectured at you as she drags your sorry butt to Valen

leaves the moment your settled like she's just so done with this and being helpful to others is soooooooo annoying

but honestly she lingers for a bit outside

she does eventually leave in a huff cause you're making her worry and worry makes wrinkles

but she does end up coming back to check on you

doesn't come back as much as some of the others, but she does come by more than she usually does

throws shade at the stuff Valen gives you, but ultimately if it makes you feel better than she's alright with it

does offer you some potions and the like, but she won't force you to take it

not while you've got a boo boo

acts annoyed at how much you're making her worried, but she's still coming around and checking on you and there's always this concerned yet hopeful look in her eyes when she asks you how you're doing

so I guess she does care??????

March:

FREAKING. OUT.

immediately has you on his shoulder and is taking you to Valen

he's asking you a few questions, but surprisingly no lecture

and no complaining

just very firm and determined making sure that you're okay

when he gets you there, he immediately leaves but makes it clear he's just outside if need be

and he says it with a tone that makes it clear that if either of you even THINK you MIGHT need him, he doesn't want you to hesitate

is standing outside, glaring sternly into the middle distance as he bounces his foot/leg or drums his fingers-- both very quickly

when you're finally given the okay he comes in and very pointedly asks how you're feeling

when you say you're okay, there's a visible relief that passes over his face and his shoulder relax and his jaw unclenches

he doesn't give it to you like Juniper does, but he does lecture you a little

although the tone is a lot nicer than you'd thought it'd be

it's mostly stuff about being careful and how the town depends on you now so you can't let everyone down by being reckless and how there's a lot of people you care about you so you shouldn't throw yourself into danger like that...

you put your hand over his and tell him thank you while flashing him a grateful smile

and his face turns full red and he goes stiff again

'YEAH, SURE, I MEAN OBVIOUSLY! ....OKAY, I'M GLAD YOU'RE BETTER, GOTTA GO, BYE!'

and just like that he's gone

but you see him again soon

and again after that

and again after that

and again after that

he's a busy guy (so he states), and he doesn't have the time to hover around you and coddle you at every turn

but he does want to keep tabs on you and make sure you're not gonna hurt yourself all over again

if you try and rush back to the mines, March actually gets really pissed

'WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! DO YOU HAVE DEATH WISH?! ARE YOU REALLY THAT---'

then he gets all huffy

'Fine. Do whatever you want. I'm not your keeper. If you wanna go be stupid and get yourself all banged up again, I guess that's your business--- just don't come limping back to me all pathetic when you get yourself hurt again!'

if you end up going anyway he's gonna be really upset and hurt and worried and probably not talk to you for a while (and the whole time he's gonna be hurt and fretting but still too mad about it to go talk to you)

if you decide to stay he actually gets a little soft for a moment-- like on some level he expected you to just ignore him (and his feelings), but then when you actually listen-- it feels like you really care that he cares, and he can't help but feel a little bashful about how pissy he got and how quickly he got there

but then he gets all blushy and embarrassed and flustered and just kinda turns his back to you like 'Good! ...I'm glad you didn't get all the sense knocked out of you down there...'

and then after a beat of silence, as he still has his back to you he mutters out 'hey... sorry I yelled at you... you're still injured, I shouldn't be-- ...so mean to you... I'm sorry... I'll try to be better... about that... s-still don't go down there though! It's dangerous...'

you thank him for looking out for you, and his shoulders tense and his ears turn red

'y-yeah! of course...!'

Reina:

panics but like

a normal amount of panic

she's one of the more level headed of all the romanables let's be real

that being said she's still INSANELY worried and helping you limp your way to Valen's clinic

she waits outside to hear if you're okay

once she does she's so relieved

she has to go right away, but she asks you to come by the inn if you want

free food and she even offers to host you there until you get better

if you just stay at home get ready for Reina (and the rest of her family honestly) to be stopping by CONSTANTLY

ALWAYS, there is someone checking in on you

also you're being fed basically every second of the day

if you decide to stay at the sleeping dragon inn, then DOUBLE THAT

also throw in some extra kids coming in while you're sleeping to make sure you're okay

if you try and rush back to the mines Reina will first respond with panic, then with the stern face you'd get from a disappointed spouse

you are not allowed to go back to those mines.

and if she or anyone else living at the in catch you, you WILL be forcibly put back into bed

SHE IS STRONGER THAN SHE LOOKS, DO NOT TEST HER ON THIS!

she's honestly kind of a perfect care taker, but no surprises there, she's a big sister

also honestly, she's Reina

Ryis:

low key flipping his shit

high key trying to remain calm

he mostly succeeds

he's not good with injuries or blood but he's also not going to abandon you when you need him

gets you to Valen, might need his uncles help doing so

is one of the quickest to exit the room once you're settled (again, he doesn't really do blood) but he's not like-- leaving leaving

he's still outside, waiting, theoretically here if you need him but please don't need him he's honestly out of his depth here

after you're clear, he helps you home

in the coming days he checks on you a lot

I actually think there's a few days he's just sitting on your porch, whittling by the window as you sleep inside

occasionally you can hear him whistling to birds

it's honestly kind of nice

he's not hovering like some of the others, but he's also just kinda always there

he also brings food

some of it was made by his uncle, but some of it he made for you himself

he's not the best cook, but he's not hopeless

if you try and rush back into the mines he's so conflicted

on the one hand he's not really big on conflict and he's also not the boss of you

but on the other hand he's worried out of his mind just THINKING about you going down there

low key he looks like he's gonna be sick

I think he makes you not want to go just cause you don't want him to have a nervous breakdown about it (and he says he wouldn't but low key he might)

honestly once you're no longer bleeding, he's just your steady supportive hand

a sturdy oak for you to lean on and find shade under

Valen:

oh hey doc, you're involved no matter what lol

but okay, if SHE'S the one to find you

she's a mix of worried and exasperated

but mostly she's proactive and professional

brings you to the clinic and is on you immediately

it's always a trip to see her shift into 'doctor mode'

once you're in the clear she gives you the Standard Professional Doctor Run Down

but once that tone has past and she's talking more candidly, you kind of get an earful

she's not gnawing your ear off like, say, Juniper would, but she's being very frank with you

also being frank about how this was bad but you were also lucky, and if you're not more careful you could get hurt in a way you won't bounce back from

but you can tell all of this comes from a place of worry

she doesn't like seeing any of her friends hurt, and she ESPECIALLY doesn't like seeing you hurt

she's not going to be around you every waking moment cause like-- she's the only doctor, she needs to be available

but she's going to stopping by VERY frequently

she actually offers if you want you can stay with her in the clinic

if you say no she won't begrudge you

but if you say yes then it's 24/7 doctor care

either way she definitely is bringing you food and medicine

ALSO she's personally checking, cleaning and re-wrapping your bandages

if you try and rush back to the mines she will out right tell you you're forbidden from it

you will not argue with her on this

doctor's orders

don't be idiotic

she keeps flipping between professionalism and a nurturing you know is coming from the heart

[awordsmith]

haunted 𝜗𝜚 r. spencer

it gets tiring… the sleepless nights, the waking up in cold sweat, not being able to sleep without dreaming about that wretched man... you can’t seem to remember what life was like before you smelled her perfume and felt his gangly hands slipping under your shirt.

the terrors follow you despite neglecting them time in the dark, and when you receive a phone call from Spencer in the middle of the night, you understand that he too, is being haunted.

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s10 genre: angst (comfort) content warning: sa trauma, a little grappling with depression-anxiety-insomnia. facing, switching povs, kind of proofed . . .reid with incredible care !! word count: 4.3k a/n: finally got the second part out!! i pushed this off for a long time, not just because of school, but because of how depressing it lowkey made me. . .enjoy!!

 …and that’s when I woke up, he slipped me something, somehow. I don’t know how long I was asleep for,” you rambled, trying to recount everything that had happened up to this moment.

“What happened when you woke up in the cell?”

“I–” you paused, trying to remember, “there was–the girl–

“Avice Diericke?” The cop pulled out a file–likely a report, “the most recent missing victim.”

“Were they–did you find their bodies?” He paused. You were sitting in a hospital bed, the lights above you weren’t ideal–they hurt your eyes, but every time you closed them, you saw her hair swishing into that dungeon, and you smelled her perfume mixing with the stench of smoke and human remains.

“I cannot disclose that information…” he glanced around the room, and you were alone. He sighed and leaned in, “I’m not supposed to talk about it with you because–” he faltered, his eyes showing remorse, “all I can tell you is that they found what looks to be a gravesite.”

“How many?” Your voice was less than a whisper, and tears pooled in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, I…don’t know.”

You nodded against the pillow. 

“A 2, almost 3-month case, that would have anyone feeling like they were suffocating. Especially agents such as yourself and Dr. Reid.” The therapist paused, assessing your expression, “You don’t seem fazed, though. Do you want to talk about it?”

You shifted, tugging the gloomy sleeves of your sweatshirt further downward, “I can’t think about it.”

“That’s completely understandable,” she nodded. The gray and blue room had your eyes falling shut. Your mind was cold, you didn’t know how to think without those memories surfacing. “You might want to shove those thoughts away, to shy away from them, but that is not how you are going to heal.” She shook her head, “It’s not going to be easy, but I’m here for you. And we can take this as slow as you need to.”

You shivered, he was a flash of a memory–you had to continuously tell yourself. He was still in custody awaiting trial. 

It wasn’t enough.

“Are you cold?” Your therapist asked; she’d been handpicked by Deputy Director Baily himself. 

You averted your gaze, “not particularly.”

Spencer knew it too–when he saw her on the bed, looking so helpless–he knew when he saw how she looked for him in the crowd and how his eyes landed on her as if she was his connection to the living.

But she was.

After coming to terms with everything they’d been through, Spencer knew he could trust her. Only when she was near did he know for sure he was him and only him.

He gripped the railing of his balcony; if he had the strength, he would have broken it without a moment's hesitation. He didn’t. Instead, the saint spritz in his hand twisted halfway. He chugged the rest, threw the can to the floor–remnants of alcohol hitting the concrete path–and stomped on it.

He heard the final crunch, he wondered if that’s what it would sound like to crush a bone. There were 206, not including teeth and small bones lost in tendons. Spencer yanked his sliding glass door open and walked back into his darkened apartment, not a single lamp on nor a single candle lit.

His eyes clamped shut, and he fell to his knees, gripping his temple as a sharp pain shot through his skull. In his demise, he couldn’t help but picture one face.

He swallowed and tried to pretend she was there, he tried to imagine her hand reaching out, stroking the wisps of hair at the back of his neck, whispering his name into his ear until he didn’t have it in him to question anything anymore.

Spencer reached for the pill bottle–still full since he’d been prescribed it. He had to remember where he was. he lifted his head, and his eyes caught on his reflection in the glass of the bottom of the shelf across the room. Inside were books, but rather than seeing them, he watched his dark, cold eyes look back at him in the blue night. 

He ground his teeth and snarled at the image before him. His hands dropped from his side, and he turned away, now on all fours. He couldn’t barre to look at himself. 

He loathed it. 

The look of desperation.

A loud crash sounded throughout your flat. You gripped your hair and yanked, the pain forcing tears through your eyes. The oversized t-shirt fell to one side, and you could see the bra strap you were wearing. A bubble of whimpers wracked around you and you fell the the bathroom floor, the storm outside flickering across the mirror.

You curled in on yourself and rested your back against the wall near the open door. Disregarding the thunder, it was quiet; disregarding your thoughts, it was quiet.

Wails echoed around the space between you and the walls closing in. His hands. His hands were everywhere. They were crawling all over you–they were spiders, you were in a web built for girls just like you–and you–Oh God–

Your hand came up to your mouth as you pushed off the wall and crawled toward the toilet with one hand; the thin fabric of your pajama pants was not going to save you from any of the bruises you were attracting with your careless actions.

Your heavy breathing did nothing for the foul smell. It came and came again–you heaved again, but that was the end. Forcing yourself to your feet and flushing the vomit down the drain, you thought to call him.

It was a thought that had kept you up for the past few nights, even though you’d been able to sleep in your own bed. You had just been friends before, and not even good friends. You didn’t know; you couldn’t really remember at a time like this. Your palm ran over your mouth. You made a face–it reeked.

“Uh–” you fell forward and gripped the counter to right yourself, your head was pounding. You jumped, knocking your hairbrush to the floor–“God,” you breathed, heading for your phone. You swallowed, but it hurt; you were picking up a sore throat, cough drops–you steered toward the kitchen when another ring shot through your brain.

You spun around and beelined it for the phone you’d set on the table near your front door. Your fingers twitched, and your lips pressed together before you ultimately decided to pick it up and answer the call.

Quiet breathing, you could practically see the breath coating around the glass or blowing out smoke. You forced yourself to inhale and exhale, “...Spencer?”

A sound, almost like a sigh, could be heard from the other line. “Hey,” his voice was gruff, nearly identical to yours, only deeper.

“Hey,” you made your way back into the den, rounded your couch, and curled up in the corner, “are you okay?”

“–Yeah, just–” he cut himself off with another sigh, “just…can you meet?”

“Now?” you bit the nail on your thumb, checking the time on your phone, “it’s kind of late, no?”

“Yeah, but I–,” another pause and another sigh, “no, you’re right–

“You know what? It’s fine…I think I could use some company, too.” He kept quiet, and you grew a bit nervous, “Spencer? Where are you right now?”

“...Home…I’m at home.” He sounded as if he must have been crying, you couldn’t help but wonder if he, too, was being haunted.

“Okay,” you stood, your sore throat in the back of your mind now, “I’m on my way.”

Spencer raced to the door as soon as he heard the first knock. He reached for the handle, then pulled back as if stunned. He wondered if he looked alright, he hadn’t looked in the mirror since… He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. But maybe, with her here…

Spenc ran his hands through his greasy hair, trying to ignore the length it had grown to. “Hey,” she shook the plastic bag in her right hand, “I brought food.”

For the first time since the rescue, Spencer felt a sliver of a smile. “That smells delicious.” He stepped aside and through open his door, letting her and a bit of midnight into his already black abode.

“It’s dark,” she noted, taking a turn about his place. She wore a white cola t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants that couldn’t be warming her in any type of way. The smell of the Chinese food in the bag wafted through his apartment as he shut the door.

“You want me to turn a light on?” He turned back to her, feeling the oddest wave of calmness.

“No,” she snorted, sitting on one of her legs and letting the other dangle out in front of her.

Spencer wondered if she had gotten slightly used to the dark as well, for him, it was the only time he felt…real. He’d been going to therapy, recommended by the assistant director, but it’d only been a week now, and Spencer found himself still unable to sleep during the hours of dusk.

“Hey, Spence…” She bit her lip; he could see it in the little light that filtered in through his balcony windows.

“Yes?” Spencer took a seat across from her and leaned forward on a palm, not knowing how he looked in her eyes, but hoping it wasn’t as pathetic as he felt.

Her eyes glinted–they didn’t shine and that wasn’t to say she wasn’t pretty because she was–well, she was more than pretty and if Spencer analysed her features anymore–though he could only make out the features the were in the light and he had to imagine the rest–he’d be able to say exactly why she looked perfect.

And maybe a part of the reason Spencer thought that was biased, because she looked like him with the way her eyes were sunken–with the way they ahd adjusted to the night–and with the way she looked almost relived to see him–like she’d been living in a world of ghosts and he was the first real person she’d made contact with.

Beauty was subjective, always swaying a certain way in the eye of the beholder. Spencer liked to think he had an exceptionally fair rationale when it came to deciding where a person fell on the scale of beauty–but even he had to admit, he was probably being biased when it came to her, though he had no doubt others saw her just as such–she had that type of beauty that could only be found in castle in Rome and Greece.

From where he sat, she looked like she’d crawled out of an old Renaissance oil painting. It unnerved him, but he had to remind himself that she was real and he was real, and that this was reality–not fiction; not a campfire ghost story.

“What?” Spencer blinked. “You want to–”

She shook her head, “You don’t have to come with me, but I thought you should know.”

“Will they even allow it? I mean–”

“–I have to do this, Spencer…I…” her bottom lip quivered and she looked away. Spencer found himself reaching out, reaching out to make sure he was still there–that she was still there.

He breathed when he made contact. She glanced up, lips pursed in determination, but eyes watery, full of fear. A shuddering breath escaped him, “I know.”

She wallowed and nodded, and when she squeezed his hand, he felt tears prick the corners of his own eyes, “I knew you’d understand.”

His lips pulled together, and he tried not to break down right there–he wanted to confide in her like he had in that place. He was still struggling to grapple with the fact that he wasn’t Savino–that had been a persona he’d taken on. He knew that, and he told himself that daily, but with her, it just seemed so much easier to let go. Around her, he wasn’t fighting with his brain, he was still working out the why.

“…Spencer–

“–I’ll go with you.”

“Spencer–you don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to.” He tugged on her hand, and she smiled. He loved that smile, he always had…

“Ugh, you’re so annoying! Hotch, tell him to give it back!”

Hotch raised his eyebrows and shrugged, Morgan snickered in the back. You glared at him as Spencer raised the book higher–

“Come on! You guys, seriously! Oh–wait till Penelope gets here!”

“Oh uh uh,” Spencer grinned and wagged his finger in your face, “no snitching–”

“Snitcing?!” A goofy grin tugged at your lips. You glanced around at your coworkers–your friends and family–around Rossi’s kitchen. 

It was noon in August; Morgan had convinced Rossi to host a barbecue. You had been in the middle of reading a spicy book, and Specner–the little rat!–had been silently reading it over your shoulders

Of course, his innocent mind couldn’t handle a little spice, so he’d called you out on it and snatched the book when you had denied and defended your case. “Spe-hencer–” you laughed, chasing him around the large, brown leather couch.

“–to talk to each other is buy a more animated–I thought this was supposed to be a classic–” he scoffed, his shit eating grin the last thing you needed to launch a pillow at him.

Rossi cleared his throat, having even Hotch straighten up, “uh–the term 'throw pillow' is not supposed to be taken literally.”

Laughter spilled from the memory. Spencer felt himself wishing he could go back in time; he felt his mind reaching out for the memory, not wanting to lose it, though despite his efforts, it slipped through his hands and faded away.

“What was that just now?” She tilted her head.” You looked so happy.” Her gentle smile nearly pushed Spencer over the edge. Was he not on a cliff already? Was he not underwater? He was suffering, but… “but then you looked so sad…”

Spencer didn’t know what to say. It was funny. He knew the rates of school shootings in America and every state individually. He knew so many violent facts, he knew so many things he wished he didn’t.

“Spencer?” A gasp. Where was he just now? In his head? What time was it? “Spencer…” he turned to the side, feeling something cold on his temples. Fingers, hands–” hey, it’s okay…” she murmured and ran her hands through his hair; they were cold, but they were the only thing Spencer wanted to feel.

“Thank you.” He heard. “Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, Spencer,” she pulled his head into her chest and murmured his name like a prayer–or maybe it was a wish. Spencer could die like this. He could die knowing who he was, but he didn’t want to. And that thought–that knowledge…he just wasn’t prepared to understand it.

You didn’t have a fear of flying. Taking off and your time in the air did not relatively affect you… It was the landing that had always gotten you to brace yourself. The slight jolt forward, that sinking your stomach did when it knew something was wrong–it all got you holding your breath and gripping the seat.’’

Spencer slipped his hand into yours, and your eyes fell to his. A tight-lipped smile and an expression that reassured you. You were not alone, and you were alive.

Despite yourself, you shivered and unbuckled your seatbelt.

The trial was meant to take place in two days. You had gotten clearance to watch it, but you weren’t sure you wanted to face him like that. If you were too weak and broke down in front of him— in a courtroom where you couldn’t show him just how much damage he’d done— you would never forgive yourself.

Spencer knew this, though he couldn’t relate exactly; he knew what it was to feel helpless, and though Bobefitz had gotten Spencer to feel more anger than he had ever thought possible, Spencer could never compare what he felt to what you did.

He could be angry for you, he could be sad, and livid, but he could never be able to speak for you, Spencer knew that better than anyone.

“Are you sure about this?” Spencer’s lips pressed together as you hailed a cab.

“I am,” you met his gaze with one unmoving. “Thank you again.”

“You don’t,” he shook his head, almost offended, “don’t thank me, please.”

“Why not?” you murmured, eyes tracking the cab pulling up to the two of you.

“Just,” a shuddering sigh fell from his mouth as you popped open the boot of the car and slid in your luggage. 

“Well?” You smiled up and him, but it was all wrong. 

It wasn’t real–he couldn’t look at it, he didn’t deserve to. He should have been faster, he should have–it should have been him! “You have nothing to thank me for,” he glanced away, voice low.

You went quiet, assessing his aura, “Spencer, are you okay?”

“What? Yes–”

“You’re lying,” you frowned, holding your hands behind your back. You couldn’t look at him, you could tell somewhere deep down he felt guilty–but how could you let him feel guilty when you felt guilty yourself? You should have been able to save her. 

Your therapist had tried to convince you to stay home, but you owed it to her, and all of those other students who would never get a chance to say their peace–if you were the last of his victims, if you were the only one to make it out alive, then you owed it to them, you fellow victims–they were just children.

“Hey,” Spencer’s thumbs wiped across your face, “you’re crying, why are you crying? Do you want to go back?”

You shook your head, bottom lip wobbling, “I can still smell it.”

“What?” He leaned downward, pressing his ear to your lips.

You ran your hands through his tousled brown curls, you felt him tense a second before relaxing, his body almost melting into your hands, “her perfume, Spencer…”

Spencer’s attention snapped to his companion, his brain racing around the meaning behind her words. He hadn’t experienced what she’s experienced, and if she’d spoken about it, he hadn’t heard–logically, Spencer would have no idea what she was talking about–but she would know that, so why–

“I’m sorry,” she pulled away. Spencer held his breath, unsure if he’d be able to make sense of what she’d say next. She turned away and slipped into the cab. Spencer, despite himself, forced his throat to clear and follow her.

Rain pounded the window, and you sat at your small, circular table, eating cherries from a bowl and spitting the pits in another. The air was cold, but it smelled of coolness. It was morning, you could tell, though it had taken you a moment to figure it out.

A flash of dull yellow caught the corner of your eye, your head jerked, and you couldn’t move. You winced against the paralysis that had come over your body, and you grunted, fighting against the imaginary chains. A yelp flew from your mouth, and you began hyperventilating when Bobefitz's large face came into view.

You were trying to sit up, but he had you trapped in bed. Tear sprang up and dripped down your cheeks near your temple.  “No,” you were saying, shaking your head against the hard pillow, “no, no–”

“–Are you okay?” He called your name, and you jerked awake. Hotel desk and chairs sat in front of you, to the side, another bed, right, you were with Spencer in Australia, in a hotel. You were in a queen-sized bed, not the skinny pallet made up in Gentry’s basement, and you were wearing your regular pajamas, not the white, cotton nightdress you wore in that place.

Spencer knelt beside you, though it didn’t appear he had been sleeping–if the still-made-up bed was anything to go by–you felt bad.

“You look pretty shaken up.” You watched his eyebrows furrow as he focused on your forehead. His hand lifted, and soon the back of his cold palm met your temple. “I guess you’re not coming down with something…but,” he looked down, and you followed his gaze. “You sweated through your clothes, do you have another pair?”

You sighed and held a hand to your chest, dropping your head. You didn’t want to think about that. Why couldn’t you just forget it all? Why were you plagued with remembering every single detail–and her smell–why was it–

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” Spencer said, lifting you into his lap. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” but you didn’t feel okay. Why couldn’t you just feel okay? That–all that was a job; it wasn’t real!

But it was real. The story you’d given had been fake, but the experience? The victimization, the helplessness? That had all been real, and for some reason, everyone but yourself could come to terms with that. “How long have I been asleep?” You panted, rubbing water and crust from your eyes. You felt sick, like you might throw up, but it didn’t faze you much anymore.

Spencer glanced at his wristwatch. You squinted at his pursed lips. Your hand was outstretched before you knew what you were doing.

Spencer flinched, his eyes tracing your hands up to your chin, your lip, your eyes–your lips–your eyes again. His breath caught as he took in your tearstained face. He shouldn’t be having impure thoughts, not like this and certainly not now, especially with all you’ve been through. Despite knowing this, however, his throat still went dry with fantasies of kissing you.

“Spencer?” He coughed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he cast his gaze downward, he felt horrible–this wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. It was sick–oh God…was he sick? Did it all fuck him up more than he’d led on? More than he could tell? Spencer bolted for the bathroom, and you jumped, standing to chase after him.

You stopped in the middle of the room, the world spinning and pain wreaking havoc on your mind. “Spencer!” Holding the other one out for balance, you pressed a hand to your head.

Slowly, you went to the bathroom door, shivering at the cold, blue morning. It might have been morning, it was either really late or really early, though you weren’t inclined to dwell on it much longer.

“Spencer!” Your fists collided with the weak wooden door. " What’s—” you huffed, pausing to catch your breath. It was quiet for the most part; the only sounds evident were your breathing and whatever Spencer was doing on the other side of the door.

“Just a se–” you pressed your left ear to the door, trying to focus.

“Are–Are you oka–”

“Eugh,” he was not. Spencer was throwing up whatever he’d eaten in the past twelve hours.

He was a devil. There were so many cruel things in this world, people without human sympathy, the cruelest. How could he sit there? How could he sit there with a grin on his face and lack any and all emotion? He wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’d hurt so many people, so many children.

It made you sick–he made you sick. Spencer led you down the aisle. You turned at the very front and sat right behind the prosecution table. You hadn’t eaten anything. You couldn’t. You knew it was bad for you, but this morning, you thought one more day wouldn’t be too bad.

The courtroom seemed to expand. It was a sea of fish and sharks, a field of wolves and sheep.

Bobefitz stood and pleaded not guilty. You didn’t understand how he thought he’d get away with it. Despite believing they hadn’t cared for their kids, the families of the victims littered the area around you. When he approached the stand and sat, his eyes fell to yours. You wanted to look away, tears pooled in your eyes. It was the first time you realized you were afraid.

You were angry, and hurt, and you felt guilty for not being able to save Avice. You hadn’t been able to look to see if her parents had arrived, and you couldn’t face them. What if she had her mother’s face? What if she had her father's eyes? What if she spoke as they would in sync?

Bobefitz stared you down. Your bottom lip trembled. You had never hated someone so much as you did the man in front of you. With each statement made by each party, it felt like the walls were getting smaller and smaller, your breathing grew rapid, and the people around you began to fade away, leaving only you and Bobefitz.

You gasped, recoiling at Spencer’s touch. He snatched his hand back and gave you a once-over, not looking offended, but unsure of what your actions meant. You watched his lips press together–you knew that meant he was having a debate with himself in his head. He glanced toward Bobefitz for a second, still sitting on the stand.

You wanted to stay, Spencer knew better than anyone how much it meant for you to state and face him, not just for yourself but for all the others. But Spencer couldn’t let you continue if it meant risking your health. You were likely oblivious to the fact that you were crying, and that had Spencer’s stomach on fire. He’d thought he might throw u again, or that perhaps you might.

“Spencer?” You reached for his hand, his eyes fell to where your skin met his, his name echoing within the space between you.

“I’m here,” he squeezed once, then again. And he always would be.

You wiped your tears, tugging Spencer closer. He wrapped his arms around you as you muffled your whimpers into his shoulder. He caught the sound of sniffles and then, “I want him dead.”

Spencer tensed, pulling back to look you in the eye. There was something in them, something he could only describe as destruction, and for a second, he thought he’d lost consciousness. He nodded, swallowing down the knowledge that he would never say no to you ever again, that for him it was physically impossible. “Okay, how?”

a/n: don't hate me for this ending

@bmyva1entine @darkmatilda @theylovemelody @kennedy-brooke @maisyyyyyy @mggspo @3amcloudss  @23moonjellies  @watercolorskyy

[theskywithin]

The Shape of Your Fury - Mars in The Signs

How do you burn when you’ve had enough? How do you fight when you’re finally done being silent? Mars in your sign holds the map to your ignition point.

Mars in Aries

There’s a pulse inside you that moves faster than thought, faster than reason. It starts in the chest, tight, electric, and then spreads like a match pressed to oil. You don't wait for the right time. You are the time. When something cuts too close, the heat rises all at once, and it needs somewhere to go, out the mouth, through the fists, into the open. You are the crack before the thunder, the footstep that runs toward the fire instead of away from it. Every feeling you’ve ever tried to swallow eventually finds its way out through motion, sharp, immediate, and impossible to misinterpret. People call it temper, but it’s really a refusal to betray your instinct. You’d rather bleed in truth than simmer in silence. The flame never stays long. But when it’s there, it clears everything that’s been sitting too still.

Mars in Taurus

You carry your anger in the weight of your jaw, the tension behind your eyes, the silence that lasts too long. It doesn't burst, it builds. Slowly, steadily, like pressure under stone. Most people think you’re calm because you don’t shout, but stillness can hold storms, and yours lives in the bones. You feel every small disrespect like a shift beneath the surface. You give chances, space, time. You wait, not out of weakness, but because you know what it means to follow through. But when the line is crossed too many times, something inside you begins to tighten. Not in fire, in density. A refusal to budge. A strength that makes breaking feel like justice. When you finally release it, it feels like an avalanche, not loud at first, but unstoppable. You don’t explode. You collapse the mountain. And what was once solid can never be untouched again.

Mars in Gemini

Your anger arrives through language long before it reaches your fists. It doesn’t scream, it fragments. A sharpness in your voice. A rhythm in your pacing. You unravel through words, syllables flung like stones into still water, waiting for the ripple to hit something that matters. It’s not the volume that betrays you, it’s the velocity. The way your thoughts multiply under pressure, faster than your mouth can keep up. You talk not to explain, but to release. Each sentence is an incision, a way to carve space between you and what you can’t control. Silence feels like suffocation, so you speak until the room breathes differently. But underneath the quick wit and cutting lines is a mind on fire, scattered, searching, wired for escape. You don’t hold grudges. You hold questions. And when there are too many, they sharpen into something that needs to be thrown.

Mars in Cancer

You don’t explode, you absorb. Every sharp word, every cold glance, every dismissal gets stored in the softest part of you, where no one else can see the bruise forming. Your anger gathers like water behind a sealed door. Quiet. Patient. Heavy. And then, without warning, it floods. You fight from the wound, not the ego. Every time you lash out, there’s a story underneath it, one that was never listened to, one you tried to speak through kindness first. But when the ache festers long enough, it stops sounding like sadness and starts sounding like survival. You don’t want to hurt anyone, you want them to feel what you’ve been carrying alone. It comes out in slammed drawers, in ghosted texts, in a voice that trembles before it sharpens. You break in places that once held others gently. And when you’re finally done, it’s not because you stopped feeling. It’s because the tide returned to the sea, and took you with it.

Mars in Leo

Anger rises in you like a performance you didn’t rehearse, sudden, embodied, impossible to ignore. It starts in the chest, where your worth lives, where the echo of being unseen rings the loudest. You don’t chase conflict, but when your dignity is touched, something ancient wakes up, something regal, something radiant, something ready. It’s not about power. It’s about presence. The need to stand where someone tried to erase you. You speak with your whole body when you’re hurt. The voice gets louder. The hands more animated. The silence more pronounced. Everything becomes a stage, and everything you feel demands an audience. There’s no script. Just the truth, center stage, burning through your throat like a final monologue. And once it’s over, you don’t linger in bitterness. You’ve already walked off the stage, heart still pounding, head held high, knowing you showed up when it mattered.

Mars in Virgo

Anger doesn't rush through you, it calculates. It moves like a blade pulled slow from velvet, deliberate and cold with purpose. You notice every detail, every misstep, every word that didn’t land right. Fury finds you in fragments, the out-of-place tone, the unfinished apology, the thing they forgot you needed but you never said out loud. You hold it in the curve of your spine, in the way your hands busy themselves, in the rituals that grow more precise the more undone you feel. Rage becomes refinement. A cleaner space. A sharper reply. A list made harder to please. You don’t explode, you edit. And when it spills, it doesn’t sound like chaos. It sounds like a verdict. The room goes quiet not because of volume, but because your words leave nothing untouched. You tear things down only to build them better, but only if you’re still willing to stay.

Mars in Libra

Anger passes through you like a mirror cracking in slow motion, elegant even as it breaks. You feel it first in the tension behind your smile, in the pause before you answer, in the weight of needing things to stay balanced when you are anything but. You don’t raise your voice. You raise the stakes. You lace your words in silk, but each one lands with precision, as if rehearsed in some private courtroom where fairness has long been on trial. You argue like you’re protecting the fragile thread between you and the other. The relationship matters more than the outburst, so your fury stays dressed in civility. But that doesn’t make it any less sharp. You fight to restore peace, but that fight still leaves bruises, quiet ones, like echoes in the shape of silence. Sometimes you disappear just long enough for them to feel what they missed. Not out of cruelty, but because absence can be its own kind of confrontation.

Mars in Scorpio

Anger doesn’t rise in you. It sinks. It coils in the dark like something ancient that learned long ago how to survive without being seen. No one hears the shift when it begins, not even you. It moves through your bloodstream like ink, staining your thoughts until nothing feels untouched. You absorb. And then you watch. You study the shape of the betrayal, the wound, the silence that was too loud to ignore. What you feel becomes armor. What you remember becomes strategy. You move in stillness, act without noise, and let the reckoning unfold on its own time. And when you finally act, it’s not to release the anger, it’s to remove what caused it. You become the ending they didn’t see coming. The kind that leaves no blood, only ghosts.

Mars in Sagittarius

Anger arrives in you like a wind that refuses to be trapped. It doesn't sit in your chest or simmer beneath your skin, it searches for an exit. The walls feel too close. The voices too slow. You need movement, distance, air. You pace before you speak, and when the words come, they come fast. A flood of truth you’ve been holding back, suddenly too big to contain. You don’t fight to win, you fight to stay free. To name what feels wrong. To rip the mask off a moment that pretends to be smaller than it is. You speak like someone trying to outrun the part of themselves that still wants to stay quiet. Your fury doesn’t follow a plan. It follows a compass, one that always points toward honesty, even when it hurts. And when you’ve said what needed saying, you rarely look back, because the horizon is calling again and the worst kind of prison is staying somewhere your truth isn’t welcome.

Mars in Capricorn

Anger doesn’t take you over, it waits. It studies. It tightens its grip in the jaw, in the stillness of your hands, in the silence between what you say and what you could have said. You feel it rise like a cold tide beneath the skin, slow and pressurized, choosing endurance over eruption. There is no room for waste in your rage, only structure, only aim. You build boundaries where others throw punches. You climb your anger like a staircase, one calculated step at a time. And when you strike, it’s strategic. A decision already made, carried out without flinch. You don’t need to scream to be devastating. You just need time, and once you've reached the top, the view is sharp, the air thin, the fall irreversible. You don’t want to destroy what hurt you. You want to outlast it. And that’s exactly what you do.

Mars in Aquarius

Your anger doesn’t burn, it disconnects. It flips a switch in your chest, dimming the part of you that once cared to explain. The moment something feels unjust or manipulative, you step outside of it like a window being shut mid-conversation. Cold, yes, but only because warmth has become too risky to offer. You don’t chase confrontation. You observe it. You map the logic, the power dynamics, the patterns others miss while they're too busy yelling. Your fury is quiet but charged, like static in the air before a storm. It gathers in the silence, in the sentence you never send, in the way you vanish from a room without moving an inch. When you strike, it’s with precision. To remind the world that distance can be sharper than any blade. And by the time they notice the gap between you and who you were, you’ve already rewritten the rules.

Mars in Pisces

Your anger doesn’t speak, it dissolves. It slips through cracks in your voice, through tears you didn’t plan to cry, through dreams that suddenly feel too loud to sleep in. You feel everything all at once and struggle to name just one thing. The pain, the memory, the ache that isn’t yours but still lives in your body. Rage blurs into sorrow, and sorrow blurs into silence. You don’t lash out, you drift. Further and further inward, where no one can follow. You might write it, sing it, turn it into something beautiful, but even beauty can bruise when no one sees the wound behind it. Your anger is a tide with no map. It pulls away when it should crash. It crashes when you swore you were fine. And by the time someone notices, you're already somewhere else, not gone, but unreachable. You don’t want revenge. You want release, something that lets the weight slip through your fingers without needing to explain why it was there.

✨ Want to decode your birth chart in depth? 📖 My book breaks it all down, planet by planet, house by house

[aventurineswife]

Hello. Not feeling so great. 🫠 I’m hanging in there, but irl really just be Like That™️.

Can I request Welt with a Reader going up to him for a hug to “recharge”? Thanks.

A Moment of Rejuvenation

Summary: After a long, exhausting day of responsibilities, you seek solace in a simple, comforting embrace from Welt. The seasoned protector and mentor offers a rare moment of emotional support, reminding you that even the strongest need time to recharge. As you find comfort in his presence, you are reminded of the unspoken bond that exists between you, one rooted in understanding and mutual respect.

Tags: Welt x Reader, Comfort, Emotional Support, Slow Burn, Mentor-Student Relationship, Hug, Reassurance, Quiet Moments, Soft Welt, Emotional Recharge.

A/N: I hope you get well! 🫂❤️‍🩹

The Astral Express was filled with the usual sounds of bustling activity—clicking keys, quiet murmurs of conversation, and the occasional hum of the engine as it traversed the stars. But amidst the motion, there was an underlying calmness. It had become a safe haven, especially for those aboard who sought solace in each other’s company. Among them, there was one person who found comfort not in words, but in something simpler—a gesture that spoke volumes.

You had been running around for hours, tackling various tasks and handling the duties of the day. The weight of your responsibilities felt heavier than usual, and despite your best efforts to power through, you could feel the exhaustion creeping up on you. You needed something to recharge—not a cup of tea or a moment to sit down—but something that could fill the space inside you that the endless tasks and duty had drained.

That’s when you found him. Welt, the ever-present pillar of wisdom and strength, was leaning against the window in the lounge, gazing out at the stars. His posture was relaxed, but the weight of his past was always there, even if he never let it show. You knew that despite his calm and composed demeanor, he carried far more than his fair share of burdens.

You stood there for a moment, watching him. He’d been a mentor to you, offering advice when needed, sharing moments of quiet reflection, and even providing the occasional dry humor that always managed to lighten the atmosphere. Yet, today, you needed something different.

Welt’s head turned slightly, sensing your presence before you could even make a sound. His eyes, always full of depth and understanding, met yours with a subtle nod, acknowledging your approach. "Is something on your mind?" he asked, his voice calm, but with a hint of concern.

Without saying a word, you walked up to him, hesitating just for a moment. The expression on his face remained unchanged, yet there was something in the air—something almost imperceptible that told him this wasn’t just a typical request. You reached out slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso in a soft, gentle embrace.

Welt’s body stiffened at first, the suddenness of the gesture catching him off guard. But as you pressed your head against his chest, the familiar warmth of his presence settling around you, the tension in his body seemed to melt away. He didn’t move at first, unsure of how to react to something so simple yet so intimate. But after a moment of silence, he let out a quiet sigh, his hand gently resting on the top of your head.

"Recharging, hmm?" he mused softly, his voice a mixture of understanding and wry amusement. "I suppose even the most resilient of us need a little rest every now and then."

You closed your eyes, allowing the peaceful moment to fill you. It wasn’t just the physical act of being close to him—it was the unspoken connection between the two of you that soothed your spirit. Welt was a man who had seen more than his fair share of pain, loss, and responsibility. Yet, he was still here, offering his presence, his support, and perhaps, in this simple embrace, a little bit of the comfort he’d often denied himself.

As you stood there, quietly recharging in his embrace, you could feel the rhythm of his breath. It was a grounding presence, steady and comforting. Welt had always been a man of action, but in this moment, he wasn’t thinking of duties or cosmic battles—he was simply here, with you, offering his quiet strength.

"Take all the time you need," he said, his voice softer than usual. "But remember, you don’t always have to bear the weight alone."

The words were simple, but they held a depth that spoke to the heart of what you needed. In this moment, there was no hero, no mentor, no protector. There was just Welt, and the quiet understanding between you two.

After a few moments, you slowly pulled away, your fingers lingering just a little longer than necessary. Welt’s gaze met yours once again, and though he didn’t say anything more, the flicker of understanding in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

"Thank you," you said softly, your voice filled with gratitude.

Welt’s lips curled into a faint smile, his usual dry humor shining through. "You’re welcome. Just don’t make a habit of it, or I’ll have to start charging for emotional support."

You chuckled at his teasing, feeling lighter than you had all day. "I’ll keep that in mind."

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but feel recharged, not just physically but emotionally. You had learned long ago that sometimes, the simplest of moments held the greatest value. And with Welt, you knew that even the quietest gestures could be the most profound.

[walkingnearfoxes]

Predator (Homelander x Reader)

Sequel/rambling follow-up to Shifting Truths, linked here. 

Warnings for physical violence, threats, insects, and it’s the Homelander.

“Again.”

“Seriously?”

“Again.”

You’re exhausted. Ever since Homelander’s discovery of your night as an avenger, he’s been running you ragged. He happily uses the newly received blackmail to get you to do just about anything he wants. Did you have a press conference? You were going to spend most of it talking about how much you adored your team captain. Did you have a patrol? You were flying alongside the Homelander, proving to the people that no matter how many birds you could become, he will always be faster. Did you have a day off? Not anymore, you didn’t. You were Homelander’s little training dummy now. In his words, you were the closest he could come to a challenge - still nowhere near enough to be an actual challenge, but closest. You’re with him in a training room that looks about the size of a football stadium. The underground rooms of Vought Tower never cease to confuse you. You’d give more thought to the architectural magnitude of it all if Homelander could give you a damn break. 

He isn’t impressed with your hesitation. His hands fall to his hips, and he tilts his head. “Is there a problem? Or do I need to tell Ashley about your little stunt in the Bronx?”

You bite back a sigh and shift into a polar bear, ignoring how he’s grinning like a child at the zoo. You run at him full charge with your teeth, aiming for his arm. He dodges you easily, grabbing you by a front leg and tossing you back across the room like a stuffed animal. You hit the wall, a familiar feeling at this point, and fall to the floor with a grunt.

“Oh, come on,” Homelander whines as he walks towards you, shaking his head in disapproval. “This the best you can do?”

Today alone, Homelander sent you flying as a lion, a gorilla, a rhinoseros, and a crocodile. His search for an apex predator to bear his strength is working its way through the animal kingdom. You close your eyes, and when you re-open them, you’re a hippopotamus. You roll onto your stubby feet and launch at him. He stops you with a hand on the top and bottom of your massive jaws. This time, you’re able to resist his strength just the slightest bit better. He blinks, surprised, and then lifts you effortlessly. You are once again tossed across the room, landing on your back with your hippo eyes glaring at the ceiling.

“Better, but still awful.” Homelander comments. 

You shift back to your human form, grateful for Vought’s technology to give you an outfit that wouldn’t melt between your shifting. Being naked would not help this situation.

“Hippos have the strongest land bite force of any animal.” You murmur.

“Thanks for the tidbit.” He rolls his eyes. “Try something else. Like…I don’t know, a fucking T-Rex.”

“Can’t do dinosaurs.”

Homelander scoffs, sounding disappointed. “Why not?”

You slowly get up off the floor, ignoring the angry creaking of your limbs. “I need to really study and touch an animal to turn into them. Can’t do that if they’re extinct.”

He pauses, fingers drumming at his sides in deliberation. “What about their skeletons?”

“Excuse me?”

“If you touch their skeleton, can you become it?”

“I truly don’t know.”

“You should find out.”

“Are you suggesting a museum trip?” 

His lips thin, but he looks to be biting back a smirk. “Maybe. If your powers actually give me any use.” He takes another step forward. “Alright. Let’s try…a wolf.”

You slowly nod and sit up. The muscles in your body disagree with the decision, and you can’t help but gasp at the pain that twists down your spine.

“What’s wrong?” Homelander asks, much more curious than concerned.

You pull your neck gently to one side. “You’ve been throwing me across the room for the last hour.”

“Not that.” He waves his hand and then gestures down at your body. “Your muscles are all…twisted. Some of your bones aren’t even the right size.”

“Oh,” You casually glance down at your limbs. “Happens when I shift to too many forms too quickly. My body gets…confused.”

Homelander’s brows furrow. “Confused?”

“The more shifting, the more time it takes for my body to recover,” You explain, only realizing a moment too late you’re telling the most dangerous man in the world a weakness. You stand the rest of the way up quickly. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

He stares a moment longer, and God only knows what analysis he is running across your body. He seems to approve of whatever decision he comes to and nods his head. “Do it, then.”

You shift into a pure white wolf. The shift is starting to feel as if you’ve stretched too far, an awkward tightness making your form ache. Unfortunately, you can’t ask for a break. You gallop at him, this time going for his feet instead of his arms. The choice is a mistake; he immediately kicks you in the stomach hard enough for the air to leave your lungs. You whine, collapsing to the floor in a shaky curl.

“Pathetic,” Homelander growls. He puts a boot over your paw, pressing down just enough for you to feel the pain. You whimper, and he stops the press - but keeps the hold. “But a good reminder for you, huh? Doesn’t matter whatever fluffy bitch you become. I’ll always be better.”

This is the last straw for you. The rationale for keeping quiet, for remembering your place, is gone. You suddenly shift to a cockroach, the minuscule form freeing yourself of his hold, and you start to climb up his boot.

“Oh, cute,” He mutters. “You think I’m above squishing a little bug?”

You’re a cockroach. You don’t reply. Instead, you begin a quick crawl up Homelander’s body.

“Fucking gross,” He growls, moving to swipe at you. “Get off.”

He tries to flick at you, but you’re too small and too quick against someone trying not to hurt themselves. When you arrive at the bare skin of his neck, he snarls your name - but you’re too far gone. You hop off his shoulder, immediately shift back into a wolf, and sink your teeth into his neck.

The following movements pass quickly and painfully slowly at the same time. Homelander lets out a gasp, but doesn’t immediately move. Before you can conclude what emotion he’s feeling, his hand comes around to grab the scruff of your neck. With more force than he’s used the entire session, he hurls you away from him. You feel the stretch of his skin against your teeth before you’re slamming into the wall. It’s hard enough that you nearly black out and your shocked body bounces back to your human form. There’s a strange taste on your tongue - blood. You swallow it down and slowly, fearfully, look up. Homelander hasn’t moved. He reaches a hand to the side of his neck where two of your wolf’s teeth just barely dented into the skin. There’s scarcely enough blood to call it a puncture, but you hurt him.

Homelander’s on you in an instant. His hand curls around your throat, and he shoves your body into your old friend, the wall. You are just able to stop your head from bouncing off it. There’s now an indent of your shape against the concrete. You wheeze. He’s holding tightly enough that you’re only just able to grasp at oxygen.

“If you ever do that again,” He hisses. “I’ll shove your fucking spine down your mouth.”

Your hands instinctively grip his forearm. “I thought…” His grip tightens, and you gasp before speaking once more. “I thought you wanted a challenge.”

“I wanted a fight,” He snaps. “Not a fucking insect.”

He unceremoniously drops you to the ground. You grab at your throat, wheezing in as much air as you possibly can. He says nothing as he lets you sit in this humiliation. When your breathing has begun to steady, he grabs your hair. He tugs it so your neck is arched and forced to look up into his eyes.

“I deal with enough insects,” Homelander murmurs. He’s calmer now, but there’s a dark thrill in his eyes that unsettles you. “Do we understand each other?”

Your voice is a raspy whisper of its usual tone. “What do you want from me?”

A ghost of a smirk curls his uneven lips. “You on your knees is a good start.”

In the time it takes you to run over those words in your head, he’s released you. The sudden lack of a hold stumbles you forward onto your hands, but you refuse to remain in such a vulnerable spot. You scutter to stand only to find Homelander walking away, his back to you. He talks to you without turning around. “You and I have a meeting with Ashley tomorrow morning. Something about a new movie, or show…doesn’t fucking matter. Don’t be late.”

Without another word, he leaves the room. Your body aches, your neck is pulsing, and you have never felt so far down the food chain.

[gdinthehouseee]

Born To Die (CHAPTER 3): KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: a deeper look into the origins of your love, and his power... and ji-yong's first unexpected ally.

word count: 7614

tags: slow burn, angst, sickness, injury, death, religious themes

prev. chapter ⛥ series masterlist ⛥ next chapter

The village, nestled between craggy hills and dense woods, always held a kind of solitude, as if the world beyond didn’t quite reach it. A perfect place for whispered secrets and hidden smiles—especially for you and Ji-yong.

It was late afternoon when he would find you at the edge of the field, the sun casting a soft glow on your hair as you knelt by the wildflowers, your fingers careful but gentle as you worked. You were always helping someone. It was just how you were. Most days, it was the children—the ones whose mothers couldn’t spare the time to tend to them, or the ones whose fathers were always too busy with farm work. You made small bouquets for them, often trailing fresh herbs between your fingers so they could smell the earth’s sweetness. Sometimes, you would teach them how to care for the plants themselves, patiently explaining how a flower bloomed, how a leaf caught the morning dew.

You would give them your small hand-sewn pouches filled with herbs, remedies for their coughs or aches. The children adored you, and though the parents of the village often whispered, “she’s cursed,” their little ones only saw you as the woman who always knew how to make the pain go away, who listened when no one else would.

"Don’t they think you’re too kind for a witch?" Ji-yong had asked once, watching you from a distance, his gaze soft with admiration.

You had laughed—a sound so sweet that it made the trees almost hold their breath. “They think I’m cursed because of the disease. But they don't see how I care for them.”

"But, I do." He said, stepping closer, eyes dark with something deeper than just affection. He had always known the truth—that your kindness was a balm for the village, even if they couldn’t see it. He loved you for it. Loved you for your quiet strength, for your belief in helping others, even when it seemed like the world had turned its back on you.

You caught sight of him then, standing at the edge of the field, his brow furrowed with concern. Without a word, you stood, dusting off your dress and walking toward him, the children’s laughter fading behind you as they went off to play.

"Ji-yong," you whispered softly, smiling as you reached out to him, fingers grazing his hand. It was a small touch, almost innocent, but for him, it felt like the first spark of something he couldn’t ignore. "What are you doing here?"

He grinned, that familiar impish grin that made your heart flutter even though you tried to keep your composure. "I came to see if you were still alive after your little adventures with those children. You’ve been gone for hours."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your smile told him everything he needed to know. You were always so full of life, despite the illness that seemed to be creeping over you with each passing day.

"It’s just a cough.” 

But there was a faint tremor in your voice. He didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss how pale you looked either, how your smile was thinner than it used to be, how your eyes had lost that spark of hope they once held so brightly.

"You know you don’t have to do this," Ji-yong said, the joking tone falling away as his hand found yours. "The village can manage without you for once."

"I can't stop. They need me, Ji-yong."

It wasn’t long after that when the news came. It spread through the village like wildfire, carried by gossip and fear. The man your parents had promised you to—the wealthy merchant—had found out about your sickness. The engagement was called off. No more promises of safety, no more assurances of a comfortable life. Truly a strange sort of freedom, but a painful one. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want to be free of him, not like this. Not because your body had failed you. And still, the weight of the village’s gaze pressed down on you, their whispers sharper now, louder than before. They couldn’t look at you without seeing the disease.

"They think I’m cursed," you had said that evening when Ji-yong came to find you in your small house, your voice hollow as you gazed out the window.

"Don’t let them fill your mind with that. You are not what they say."

But you were silent, too tired to argue, and Ji-yong, though full of youthful optimism, could feel something dark in the air—something that made him afraid. You had always been the light of the village. Even those who whispered behind your back couldn’t deny the kindness you offered, the way you cared for the children, the way you spent hours after the sun had set, stitching garments for the poor, or weaving small blankets for the elderly. But now, the light was fading, and he could see it in your eyes.

"Let me help you.” He said, his hand resting on the small of your back.

You had smiled, weak but genuine. "I know you will. But what can you do, Ji-yong? You’re just one person."

"I’m not just anyone," he replied, and for the first time, there was something darker in his eyes—a flash of determination. "I will fix this. No matter what it takes."

But there was no fixing this. There was only the knowledge that you were slipping away from him, and no matter how hard he tried to fight, he couldn’t stop it.

It was late afternoon when Ji-yong first heard the news. He had been walking back from the edge of the village, arms full of firewood, when he passed by the bakery. A small cluster of townsfolk were gathered outside, their voices low but not nearly low enough.

"Did you hear? Lord Victor backed out of the engagement."

"Aye. Said she’s too sick to bear him a child. Not fit for a lord’s home."

"She’s cursed, I tell you. Witches run in her family. Folk have long whispered that her mother and grandmother carry a strange sort of presence—sets the whole village on edge, it does.

"And now she lies up in that house, draining her parents dry. It’s punishment, that’s what it is—God's punishment."

Ji-yong stopped walking. The firewood in his arms creaked as his grip tightened. Something in his chest snapped—a brittle thread stretched too tight for too long. “Say that again.”

The women startled, turning to see him standing in the middle of the road, eyes dark, jaw clenched. One of them, older and bold with years, narrowed her eyes. “I said she’s cursed. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t be wasting away like this.”

He dropped the wood at his feet.

“You don’t know her,” he said, the edge of his voice sharp enough to cut. “You don’t know anything about her.”

“She bewitched you, boy.” Another one muttered, trying to turn away.

He stepped forward. “She took care of your children when you were too drunk to feed them. She gave away half her blankets last winter to the poor, and you call her a witch?”

The old woman flinched. Ji-yong’s voice had risen—he hadn’t meant for it to—but his hands were shaking, his chest tight with rage.

“She’s dying,” he hissed, “and you sit here and speak of her like she’s nothing. Like she deserves it.”

“She does—”

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, his voice suddenly lower, dangerous; so unlike anything the village has ever heard before. The words thick with a venom even he didn’t realise he could produce. “Don’t you ever speak of her like that again.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He left the firewood behind and stormed off down the lane, breath fogging in the cold air, his boots hitting the ground like drumbeats of fury. The village was rotting from the inside, and they couldn’t see they were the ones poisoning it.

He didn’t even think as he approached your gate. His body just moved—some part of him needing to do something before he came apart entirely.

Your father answered the door, surprised by the suddenness of his arrival. “Ji-yong—?”

“I heard what happened,” he said breathlessly. “About the nobleman. About the engagement. I—I need to speak with you.”

Your father, noting the fire in his eyes, stepped aside wordlessly. Your mother looked up from the hearth, a little startled, but didn’t speak.

“I know I’m not a rich man,” Ji-yong began, breath still uneven, “but I’ve loved her since we were children. Since we ran in the fields and she taught me how to make wreaths from clover. I know her heart. I know her soul. And it’s worth more than any coin or title.”

He swallowed hard, voice cracking slightly.

“I heard what they’re saying about her. Out there. And I can’t—I can’t just stand by anymore.”

Your mother looked away, jaw tightening. Your father studied him closely.

“But I’m not asking for their blessing,” Ji-yong said. “I’m asking for yours. Let me take care of her. I’ll work harder than I ever have. I’ll find something. Anything.”

Your father sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. “You don’t understand, son. She doesn’t just need food and shelter. She needs medicine. A future. What you feel for her—God knows it’s true—but it may not be enough.”

Your mother spoke then, quiet and honest. “We’re grateful for you. Truly. You’ve been kinder to her than anyone in this place.”

Ji-yong bowed his head. “That’s not kindness. That’s what she deserves.”

Without another word, your father nodded toward the stairs.

“Go see her. She’ll want to know you came.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He ascended the narrow staircase, the familiar creak of the steps sounding louder than ever. Your door was half-open. He pushed it gently. You lay curled beneath your quilt, a flicker of candlelight brushing your paler skin. You looked even smaller than he remembered. His chest ached as he walked over slowly, sitting at the edge of your bed, brushing your hand with his fingertips. You stirred. When your eyes opened and met his, something bloomed briefly in them—something soft, and warm, and impossibly tender.

“Ji,” you whispered.

“I’m here,” he said. “I went to your parents. Told them I wanted to take care of you.”

You blinked slowly, like it took effort to stay present. “They don’t think you can.”

“I don’t blame them.” He smiled sadly. “I don’t have a mansion or gold. Just… my word. And this unbearable need to keep you alive.”

You let out a shaky breath, barely a laugh. “You always were dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he said, leaning closer, brushing your hair from your face. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. If there’s a way to save you, I’ll find it. Even if I have to go to the edge of the world.”

“Ji…”

“I swear it,” he said. “I’ll come back with something. I will.”

“What if you don’t come back at all?”

He kissed your forehead, soft and reverent.

“Then I’ll haunt the stars for eternity until I do.”

And with that, he rose.

By the time the moon hung above the trees and the wind sang low through the valley, Ji-yong was already gone—following a path that had no map, no end, and no promise of light. Only love and desperation.

He traveled for twelve days before the cold finally found his bones. The sun never lingered anymore—just a pale disk swallowed quickly by gray skies and long shadows. Ji-yong moved from village to village, boots caked in mud, asking the same quiet question in every healer’s home, every chapel, every apothecary tucked between frost-bitten trees:

"Is there anything that can heal a dying girl?"

Most didn’t even look up when they said no. Some chuckled, shook their heads. One old priest pressed a hand to Ji-yong’s shoulder and told him to prepare for the girl’s soul to meet God.

But God wasn’t listening. And Ji-yong wasn’t praying.

He sold his horse in the fifth town. His coat in the seventh. He slept in barns and beneath trees, his skin chapped from wind, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep. Still, he walked. Still, he asked. The nights were the worst—when the silence pressed in so thick he could almost hear your voice in the wind.

“Ji, come inside. You’ll catch a chill out there.” 

“Ji, don’t look at me like that. I’m not gone yet.” 

“Ji… stay with me a little longer. Please.”

But he couldn’t stay. Not if there was a chance—any chance at all—that something in the world could keep you alive.

It wasn’t until the twelfth night, shivering beneath a crumbling statue in a ghost town chapel, that he heard the name whispered for the first time. The witch. A child said it, speaking to no one. Dirty, wild-eyed, murmuring under their breath as they counted candle stubs in the dark.

Ji-yong looked up sharply. “What did you say?”

The child blinked. Then they smiled—wide, crooked, too many teeth. “She takes things,” they whispered. “Takes what matters and gives what doesn’t. She lives where the trees don’t grow.”

And then they were gone.

Ji-yong followed the rumor east. No map guided him. Just a thousand stories in a hundred tongues, none of them kind. A woman who drank blood. A crone with silver eyes. A forest that devoured men whole and spat out bones.

By the time he found the woods, he had nothing left but a dagger and a half-eaten loaf of bread.

No moon guided him. The trees were black columns clawing at the sky, and the ground was slick with rot. He moved carefully, as if the forest itself might change behind him—and it did. He could feel it, paths curling like smoke, leading him somewhere dark and deliberate. And there, nestled in the clearing like a wound, stood a crooked shack of stone and bone, lit by a single green flame. He stepped toward it. 

His breath caught in his throat.

The door creaked open before he could knock. She was already waiting. The witch stood barefoot in the doorway, long white hair falling like river water around her shoulders. Her skin was pale as wax. Her eyes were… wrong. Shifting. Deep. Like staring into a reflection that wasn’t your own.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I didn’t know I was expected.”

She turned her back and walked inside. “No one does. Not until they are.”

Ji-yong hesitated only a moment before following her. The door closed behind him on its own. The inside of her home smelled of herbs and rust. Bones hung from the rafters, some carved with strange sigils. A pot simmered in the hearth, thick and dark. No windows, no mirrors. Time bent differently here. She sat across from him and poured tea into a cup made of stone.

“You want to save someone,” she stated matter-of-factly. 

He nodded. “She’s dying. She’s all I have.”

The witch studied him in silence. The fire cast long shadows across her face, shifting it into something almost inhuman—both ageless and ancient. Her eyes gleamed like wet stone.

“There are sicknesses,” she said softly, “and there are bindings.”

“I don’t care what it is,” Ji-yong said, leaning forward. “Just tell me what to give. I’ll pay it. Whatever you want.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

“You already have,” she murmured, standing with a fluid grace that made the room feel colder.

She moved through her crooked home, fingers dancing over dusty shelves and bowls filled with things he didn’t recognize. Ash, nightshade, a shard of something sharp and gleaming. A single strand of what looked like hair. Ji-yong didn’t ask. He couldn’t afford to question it now. She placed the ingredients into a black stone bowl, muttering words he didn’t understand; words from a language that came long before his time. The air thickened, a strange pulse pressing against his skin.

“What will it cost?” He asked, throat dry.

The witch didn’t look at him. “You won’t sleep. You won’t age. The sun will no longer love you. And your hunger will change.”

He blinked, confusion twisting inside him. “What are you doing to me?”

“Giving you what you asked for,” she said.

“Will it work?” Desperation clear as a summer’s day in his voice.

She stepped closer. Her palm pressed against his chest, right over his heart.

“Drink when the hunger comes. Stay in the dark. And don’t waste what I’ve given you.” Then, softer—almost a whisper, “she’ll need you to stay strong.”

Hope bloomed in his chest like a fragile flower, trembling under frost. He opened his mouth to speak—but then the air shifted, and everything pulled inside him like a scream locked behind his ribs. He didn’t feel his knees hit the ground. Only the fire dimming. His body convulsing. 

The sound of his own heartbeat disappearing.

Returning, the village looked the same. That was the first thing that struck him. Everything was the same. The thatched rooftops glistened faintly with dew. The dirt paths still curved like veins through the square. The sun hadn’t quite risen, but he could see as if it had. Every crack in the wood. Every thread in a curtain shifting behind a window. He could hear a kettle whistling in the far-off baker’s home, a dog stirring in a barn on the other side of town. It was all normal.

But he was not.

Ji-yong moved too quickly down the road—so fast the wind stung his skin, though he barely felt it. His heartbeat was absent, replaced by something else pulsing through his veins. Energy. Hunger. He ignored it. He didn’t knock on your door. He pushed it open, not realizing how hard until the wood creaked under his hand. The scent of your home overwhelmed him instantly.

Lavender. A hint of dried herbs. The faintest trace of you—your skin, your breath. But it was off. Stale. Like air that hadn’t moved in too long. 

He staggered.

Your mother appeared from the back room. Her hand rose to her chest, and the second her eyes met his, something in them cracked.

“Ji-yong,” she whispered. There was sorrow in her voice. He blinked. Her pulse—he could hear it. The quiver in her chest. The way her breath hitched.

“Where is she?”

She didn’t answer. Just stepped aside.

He ran up the stairs.

The moment he reached your doorway, he stopped. Everything inside him screamed. The air was too still. The scent was wrong. No warmth. No sound. Not even your soft wheeze, the one you always tried to hide from him when your lungs ached. Just quiet. Still. Your room was tidy. Candle nearly out. Bowl beside your bed clean. A folded cloth on the edge of the dresser.

And you.

You lay beneath the blanket like you had the day he left—almost. Your hands rested together, your hair curled neatly over your shoulder. Your lips were slightly parted. But there was no breath. His body moved before his brain could catch up.

“Y/N?”

He was beside you in a flash, trembling fingers reaching to touch your cheek.

Cold.

Not cool from sleep. 

Cold.

“No,” he whispered.

His ears rang. His mind reeled.

“You were waiting for me,” he said. “I—I went to find help. I found it. I have it. I can fix this.”

You didn’t stir.

He pressed his ear to your chest; one last vulnerable attempt to tell himself this was just a living nightmare. No heartbeat. No sound. The silence hit like a thunderclap. Everything exploded. The light was too bright. The shadows in the corner of the room moved. The scent of death hung thick in the air now that he recognized it. He could hear the scrape of the floorboards as your mother slowly stepped upstairs. He could hear the wind brushing against the headstones in the graveyard a mile away. It was too much.

His hands shook. His vision blurred—not with tears, but with rage and pain and panic clawing at his chest.

“She’s not—” His voice broke. “She can’t be—she was waiting for me—”

He clutched your hand to his chest. It felt wrong. Too light. Too still. The warmth had left, and something else had left with it. Something he didn’t understand until now.

Your soul was gone.

No. No, that couldn't be right.

“I paid,” he said hoarsely. “She said it would work. I paid whatever she wanted—I felt it—I died. Isn’t that enough?”

He gripped your fingers tighter. “I did it for you.”

The silence didn’t answer. 

And he screamed. Not like a man. A sound that tore from his chest and cracked the air, raw and ragged and monstrous.

Your mother rushed into the doorway, gasping at the sight of him. She fell to her knees beside him, her tears wetting your blanket. “She waited,” she whispered. “She asked for you. She—she kept whispering your name. She said… if anyone could fix this, it was you.”

Ji-yong didn’t hear her. He was somewhere else. Somewhere far below the surface of himself, choking on the weight of what had been taken. What he had tried to save, and lost anyway. The witch’s words echoed faintly in his mind. Words he hadn’t thought mattered. A price must be paid. He thought he had been the price, but something else had been taken instead.

You.

Ji-yong didn’t move. He stayed kneeling at your bedside, his fingers curled tightly around your still hand, as if sheer force could bring you back. His shoulders rose and fell in short, shallow breaths, but he didn’t notice he no longer needed to breathe. His body was working on memory, not need.

He barely registered your mother standing up, leaving him to grieve alone, likely seeking out the comfort of your father.

The world had gone muffled, like he was trapped beneath a thick sheet of ice. Everything he saw, everything he heard—it all came through distorted and slow, like a dream bleeding into a nightmare. He thought he would feel rage. Fury enough to shake the skies. But all he felt was hollow. Empty. He bowed his head until his forehead pressed against the back of your hand. The touch of your cold skin against his still-burning forehead was like a blade sliding between his ribs.

“I was supposed to save you,” he whispered, the words barely audible. His voice cracked, thinner than a child's.

He stayed there.

Minutes dragged past, or maybe hours. Time didn’t seem to function right anymore. His mind wandered desperately, replaying every memory, every smile, every stolen moment like a man clawing through sand trying to hold onto water.

The last time you laughed—truly laughed—he had said something stupid, tripping over his own words, and you had pressed a hand to your mouth to try to stifle it. You always laughed like you were trying not to. The last time you touched him, your hand had brushed his sleeve by accident, and you blushed so hard you refused to look at him the rest of the day. The last time he saw you awake, you had been trying to sit upright to reassure him, stubborn as ever, even when you were too weak to stand. He had missed it; everything. He had missed your last breath. Your last words. Your last heartbeat. He could have been here. He could have held you. He could have said goodbye. Instead, he had been chasing miracles. He had left you alone.

A raw sound tore from his throat as he pulled you closer to him, cradling your body to his chest. The bed creaked under the sudden movement.

“Please,” he whispered into your hair. His voice broke apart in his mouth, ugly and desperate. “Please, just wake up. I’m here now. I’m here. I can fix it. I promised.”

Your head lolled against him.

The finality of it hit him like a hammer.

He clutched you tighter, his entire body trembling now, wracked with grief so consuming it hollowed him out from the inside.

He couldn’t even cry properly—his body, his blood, everything about him was wrong now. His pain didn’t know how to escape. It thrashed inside of him, building pressure until his teeth ached, his vision blurred at the edges, and the hunger—the wrong hunger—stirred in the pit of his stomach. He could smell death now. He could taste it in the air. And it was your scent.

A sob finally broke free, strangled and raw.

“I was supposed to be enough,” he gasped. “I would have done anything. I did—”

He choked.

You didn’t answer.

Slowly, Ji-yong lifted his head, his eyes unfocused, wild.

The room, once filled with the soft comforts of your life—your books stacked neatly, your worn quilt folded at the foot of the bed, your little wooden comb lying forgotten on the dresser—all of it seemed to mock him now. All of it alive when you were not.

Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed. Morning light began to creep through the cracks in the curtains. The world was moving on. Without you. It wasn’t fair. Life itself wasn’t fair, but had it ever been in the first place?

He rocked you gently in his arms, like he could keep you warm if he just tried hard enough. His mind refused to accept it. If he just waited long enough, maybe you’d blink. Maybe you’d scold him for worrying too much. Maybe he’d wake up from this living nightmare—this hellscape—in a world that you’re not alive and well, how could he keep going?

But deep down, he knew this was the harsh reality.

The sunlight crept in slowly, indifferent to the way the world had ended inside the little room. Ji-yong barely noticed at first. He was lost, adrift, swaying slightly where he sat on the edge of your bed with you cradled in his arms. His head was bowed so low that his hair curtained around his face, hiding the wreckage of his expression from the empty room.

Your skin was cooling against his. Your scent—once so warm, so full of life—was already fading.

He shifted slightly, meaning to tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear, as he had done so many times before when you were too weak to do it yourself. But as he lifted his hand, a beam of light sliced through the half-open curtains—and it touched his skin. For a moment, there was only a sharp sting, like the bite of a nettle. 

But, then, it burned.

He jerked back with a hoarse gasp, clutching his hand to his chest. The skin where the light had touched was already angry and red, blistering at the edges. Smoke curled faintly from it.

“What—” he rasped, staring at his hand in horror.

The pain tore through the fog of grief, dragging him brutally into his new reality. This was not a dream. This was not a second chance. He wasn’t human anymore. The witch's spell, the fangs he barely remembered feeling split through his gums in a rush of blood and agony, the strength humming under his skin—it had all been real. It had worked. But it hadn't been enough to save you.

A low, wounded sound broke from his throat.

The sunlight spilled further across the floor, stretching toward him like grasping hands. It reflected cruelly off the wooden floorboards, catching the edge of your abandoned comb, glinting on the battered brass latch of the window.

Ji-yong stumbled to his feet and staggered back, shielding himself instinctively from the light. His breath hitched, and for the first time since he had burst into this house, fear began to trickle into the pit of his stomach.

What had he become?

Hunger stirred again—angrier now. It clawed up his throat, an awful, gnawing emptiness that no food or water could ever soothe. He clamped his jaw shut until his teeth ached, refusing to let that thing inside him take over. Not here. Not with you.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words a cracked whisper. “I’m so sorry…”

He fell to his knees again, heedless of the sunlight inching closer, and pressed his forehead to your hair. In the distance, faint voices stirred. The village was waking up. Ji-yong didn’t move. Let them come. Let them see what he had become. Let them call him monster, demon, witch. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered to him was already gone.

The house creaked as footsteps approached, slow and heavy with grief. Ji-yong refused to move. He barely breathed. He sat there, hunched protectively around your body, locked in a purgatory of agony and disbelief.

The door to your room swung open with a long, aching groan. A beat of silence, and then a sharp intake of breath. Your father stood there, his face pale and slack with grief, his hands trembling at his sides.

Ji-yong forced himself to look up—and instantly regretted it. The older man’s eyes filled with tears the moment he saw the two of you. He stumbled forward, then stopped halfway across the room, his gaze catching on Ji-yong’s face.

For a moment, Ji-yong froze, too broken to care, too ruined to hide what he’d become.

Your father squinted slightly, confused. He took a hesitant step closer. There, in the dim morning light slanting through the curtains, Ji-yong’s eyes gleamed an unnatural red. A frown pulled at your father’s mouth. For a second, he thought your father might realize the truth. That he might recoil. That he might finally see Ji-yong for the monster he was becoming.

But after a heartbeat, your father shook his head—as if blaming the tricks of a sleepless night, of mourning-clouded vision.

"You’re exhausted," he rasped, voice cracking. "Your eyes… they’re bloodshot. You’ve been crying for her all night, haven’t you?"

The lie was easier than the truth, so Ji-yong remained quiet.

Your father’s expression softened. He reached for the window, pushing the heavy curtains closed with a tired sigh — plunging the room into a shadowed hush.

Ji-yong flinched backward at the sudden loss of sunlight, startled—not by the darkness, but by the way relief cooled the burning on his skin. 

The burning he hadn’t even realized had started.

Before your father had entered, Ji-yong hadn’t moved, hadn’t shielded himself. He’d felt the bite of the sun but had embraced it numbly, welcoming whatever punishment it would bring. He hadn’t cared. He had planned to stay there, to let it eat through him inch by inch until nothing was left but ash and regret.

But your father—still thinking Ji-yong just a heartbroken boy—had closed the curtains without a second thought, saving his life without even knowing it. The gesture broke something deeper inside Ji-yong. He clamped a hand over his mouth to keep a sob from ripping free, his shoulders shaking.

Your father moved carefully closer, kneeling down beside him with a groan of tired bones. He placed a warm, steady hand on Ji-yong’s hunched back.

"You stayed with her," he murmured thickly. "You didn’t leave her alone."

Ji-yong choked on a sound that wasn’t quite a cry, wasn’t quite a breath.

"At sundown," your father continued, looking toward the shuttered window where the last edge of morning light had been snuffed out, "we'll bury her. Up on the hill, under the willow tree. The one she loved."

Ji-yong’s vision blurred again, though now it was impossible to tell if it was from tears or the relentless pressure building behind his temples, thick and violent, his new senses screaming at the edges of his mind.

Your father gave his shoulder a squeeze before pulling back.

"Rest if you can," he said quietly. "We’ll do right by her, I promise."

He stood slowly, his movements heavy with sorrow, and left the room—the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Ji-yong stayed curled there in the dark, still cradling your body, feeling the pulse of grief coil tighter and tighter around him until it became something else; something wild and ravenous and wrong. He bowed his head over you, his whole body trembling.

"I'll fix it." He vowed again, lower, almost a growl. "No matter what it takes, like I promised I would..."

The hunger inside him coiled tighter in response, as if sensing a bargain had been made. As if sealing a new kind of fate.

The house was steeped in a suffocating silence when Ji-yong finally moved.

Each step down the narrow staircase was a battle. The air felt thick, clinging to his skin like damp cloth. His senses caught every detail, every whisper of movement in the old wood, every flutter of the thin curtains in the weak evening breeze. It was like walking underwater. Slow. Heavy. Halfway down, he froze.

A voice—deep, unfamiliar—drifted up from the living room. Measured. Steady. Smooth in a way that immediately set Ji-yong’s nerves alight.

"I can help you," the man was saying, tone low and respectful. "You have enough to grieve. Allow me to take this burden from you."

Ji-yong’s hand clenched the bannister. He didn’t recognise the voice, and he didn’t trust it.

He edged lower, keeping his footsteps light, heart hammering unevenly in his chest. As he crept lower, the room came into view. The man stood tall and composed near the hearth, his traveling cloak still draped over one arm. His hair was dark and neat, his clothes plain yet finely made, the stitching along his sleeves and the cut of his boots spoke of money. Real money. Not the kind that came from a living from the dirt and rain like the rest of them; not like you or your parents. Not like Ji-yong. He didn’t belong here, yet he stood as if he owned the space already.

"I don't understand," your father said, voice rough and disbelieving. "Why would you—?"

"Because," the man interrupted gently, "I know what it means to lose someone you thought you could save."

A strange note laced his voice—a sadness too sharp, too perfectly placed to be entirely genuine. But your parents, raw with grief, didn’t seem to notice. However, it did seem convincing. Something about it told Ji-yong there was some truth in there.

"I have the means," the man continued, "and the hands to see it done properly. She deserves at least that much dignity."

Your mother let out a soft sob, pressing a hand to her mouth. Your father bowed his head, nodding stiffly.

Ji-yong stood frozen on the last step, teeth grinding together. Something about the stranger—the effortless calm, the way he filled the room without seeming to—scraped across Ji-yong’s already fraying nerves.

He didn't trust it.

He didn't trust him.

Still, he stepped forward into full view, the floor groaning beneath his weight.

The stranger’s eyes snapped to him immediately. For a brief, flickering moment, the polite facade slipped—a narrowing of the gaze, a slight tilt of the mouth—before smoothing over into a mild smile.

"I didn’t realise there was anyone else here," he said.

Liar.

Ji-yong could feel it. This man had known he was here the whole time. 

The stranger looked him over briefly, then—in a voice almost too casual—asked, "and you? Who were you to her?"

Ji-yong’s breath caught painfully in his throat. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, your mother answered for him.

"He’s been her friend," she said quickly, her voice shaking. "A kind boy. Always helping, always visiting. We’re grateful to him."

Your father nodded, managing a small, broken smile in Ji-yong’s direction. "A good soul," he said hoarsely. "We couldn't have asked for more."

“I see… well, I’m glad to hear that.” 

Ji-yong’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his skin prickling.

The man turned back to your parents, his voice dropping low and respectful once more. "I will see to the preparations myself. By sundown, she��ll have the rest she deserves. You have my word."

Your mother wept again, shoulders shaking, while your father—ever the quieter one—clasped the man's forearm in a rare, rough show of thanks. The stranger inclined his head gravely, then gathered his cloak over his shoulder and stepped toward the door. Ji-yong’s entire body coiled tight, muscles locking up as he watched him go. The heavy door swung open, letting in a thin shaft of failing sunlight, and for the briefest moment, as the man crossed the threshold, Ji-yong swore the stranger’s eyes flickered back to him. Not a full look. Just the faintest twitch of a glance.

Then he was gone.

The grave was shallow.

The cold soil clung to the hems of your father’s trousers, but he didn’t seem to notice. He hadn’t said much since sundown, hadn’t let anyone else take the shovel from his hands. He refused even when they ached. He wanted to dig it himself.

Ji-yong stood off to the side, still as a monument, his black coat draped heavily around his shoulders. It had started to rain earlier, just enough to dampen the edges of his sleeves, the scent of wet earth and candle wax mixing with something he couldn’t name — something his new senses seized on, even as he tried to ignore them.

He hadn’t spoken a word.

The shroud wrapped around your body was linen. White. Folded with care by your mother, stitched in slow silence by lantern-light the night before. Her hands trembled as she tied the final ribbon. Her lips moved in prayer. No voice came out.

The grave was not blessed. No priest had agreed to come. The villagers had already turned away long before your breath had left you. And so it was just the three of them — your parents and Ji-yong — standing beneath the darkening sky while the dirt was prepared. 

And one more man; the taller man from earlier. He stood a little too far back. Not far enough to be absent, but not close enough to grieve. His coat was darker than the others’, a charcoal velvet lined in storm-grey silk. He held his gloves in one hand, eyes half-lidded beneath an expression too serene for the moment.

Ji-yong didn’t know his name.

He hadn’t introduced himself when he showed up at your door. He had only offered quiet words to your parents — something about helping, something about loss. A lone man extending sympathy, and nothing more. But Ji-yong had felt it the moment he stepped inside: the cold pressure in the air. The faint sharpness that clung to him like wine left out too long.

He hadn’t looked at Ji-yong once when he arrived. But Ji-yong had felt it—known it—that the man was there for him.

The burial was nearly complete. You had been lowered down by your father, trembling but determined. Your mother had set one hand over your shroud and whispered something no one else could hear. Ji-yong had stayed frozen, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to look down into the earth where you now lay. He’d promised he’d come back in time. He swore it. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling. The wind caught his hair as his head slowly bowed. He hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

"You’re quieter than I expected."

The voice was low. Polished. Close now.

Ji-yong turned slightly.

The man was beside him. Not quite shoulder to shoulder, but close enough to hear the shift of fabric. He hadn't heard his approach.

"Didn’t mean to startle you," the man added, eyes flicking over to the grave. "Though I imagine your nerves are… sharp lately."

Ji-yong didn’t answer. His jaw tightened.

"Still getting used to the senses? The cravings?"

Ji-yong turned fully toward him now, voice low and rough. "What do you want?"

"To see what you are," the man said simply. "What you’ve become. And why. I thought perhaps it was desperation. Or… ambition."

"What are you implying?"

"That you made a deal," the man said, watching him. "And those don’t come without a cost.”

"I didn’t ask for this," Ji-yong ground out. "I only wanted to save her."

"Did you?" The man tilted his head. 

Ji-yong’s hands trembled at his sides. "Who are you?"

"I didn’t think it would matter," the man replied. "I assumed you knew what you were doing when you went to her. Those who ask for eternal life usually have their reasons."

“That’s not what I asked for—"

"You didn’t specify," the man cut in gently. "And the old ones are quite… literal."

Ji-yong’s breath caught. His heart didn’t beat the same way anymore, but he swore it clenched in his chest. "You think I wanted this? To lose her? To be like this?"

"I think," the man said softly, "you were foolish. I think you didn’t understand the rules. And I think… you’re suffering now for that mistake."

Ji-yong's throat burned. His skin felt too tight. His eyes flickered with red and something feral pushed at the edges of his vision. He stepped forward but the man didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked past Ji-yong—toward your mother, who was laying the last bundle of flowers over your grave.

"It’s a shame," the man said, quieter now. "She looked like she loved you. Even if no one else in this village would."

Ji-yong couldn’t speak.

"You should tell her parents who you were to her," the man added after a beat. "Before the hunger starts to make you forget."

And then, like he hadn’t just flayed him open, the man stepped away — heading back toward your parents, offering them a low, kind-spoken condolence in the voice of a man who had never raised it.

The wind had quieted.

The last few clumps of soil had been laid, and your father’s hands now rested on the wooden cross he’d carved himself, shoulders bowed in silence. Your mother, too, stood with her hands pressed together, lips moving through a whispered prayer — the same one she’d murmured over your cradle when you were a child.

Ji-yong watched from a short distance away. He had wandered, or perhaps fled, back toward the tree line where the shadows couldn’t touch him. Where the burning in his palm from earlier still echoed like a ghost.

He had almost let it take him.

He would have let it take him.

Until your father unknowingly saved him.

And now he watched, shame threading through his sorrow as the man in the fine coat reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a leather pouch, heavy enough to clink.

"Please take this," the man said gently to your parents. "There’s no reason to stay here now. It won’t be safe for long."

Your father hesitated. "We can’t accept—"

"Yes, you can." The man’s voice was steady. "I’ve already arranged lodging for you in a neighboring village. One where… things are quieter. Kinder."

Ji-yong stiffened. He hadn’t been offered anything. Not even a sliver of that generosity.

"We wouldn’t know how to repay—" your mother started, voice tight.

"Think of it as a kindness in her name," the man interrupted softly. "She deserved more kindness than she got in this place."

Ji-yong’s jaw locked. Something sour curled behind his teeth. And then your parents nodded. They left together in silence, heading back toward the house, arms tucked around each other like they might shatter otherwise. Ji-yong stayed behind. The grave was all that was left of you now. He stepped closer, feet sinking into the soft earth. His fingers brushed the edge of the wooden cross—your name carved into it with such careful strokes. He lowered himself to his knees beside it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

The words tasted like blood in his mouth.

“I tried. I really tried.”

The dirt was still fresh. Still warm. He pressed his palm to it like he might still feel you beneath. Like if he listened hard enough, maybe—

But there was nothing. No warmth. No breath.

No time left.

“I thought I could save you,” he murmured. “I thought—”

His voice broke. He squeezed his eyes shut, a tear slipping down his cheek and onto the grave. He didn’t know how long he sat there. Minutes. Hours. He didn’t hear the other man return until his voice broke the silence behind him.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

Ji-yong flinched — his red-rimmed eyes snapping upward.

The man stood just a few feet behind him now, arms crossed. Less polished than before. His tone was different — not pitying. Not cold. Just quiet.

Ji-yong slowly stood, wiping his sleeve over his cheek.

“What do you want from me?” He rasped.

The man tilted his head. “You never asked who I was.”

“I don’t care who you are.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been where you are.”

The man took a step closer. His gaze didn’t waver.

“A long time ago. I lost someone too.”

Ji-yong’s expression flickered. Conflicted. Still full of rage.

“I didn’t ask for your sympathy.”

“You didn’t need to.”

The man stopped at the foot of the grave, glancing down at your name. His voice lowered. “There’s no fixing what’s already gone. You know that now.”

Ji-yong swallowed hard.

“But what you do next,” the man said, eyes cutting back up to him, “will decide whether or not her memory rots with you.”

Silence stretched between them. Ji-yong could feel the edges of hunger pressing in again. The grief. The rage. The hollowness in his chest that even eternity couldn’t fill.

“…Who are you?” He asked at last.

The man’s expression didn’t shift. Not exactly. But something behind his eyes eased.

“You can call me Seung-hyun.”

taglist: @emmiesoverthemoon @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango @sherrayyyyy @seunghyunwifey @mattsturniolosbabymama @redhoodedtoad @bettelaboure @cinnamonbear22 @xxxicddbr88 @infinetlyforgotten @babygirlewis @loveesiren @tulentiy @babyrvis @ldydeath @wcnderlands @eru-vande @breakmeoff @petersasteria @aizshallnotbefound @sevendaysummer @ttturnitup @mashtatosworld @ilovethe141 @heartubeatusalon @allthoughtsmindfull 

[yourslaveheart]

Look in the mirror.

What do you see? Really see. Not just the surface, not just the image of the person you’ve trained yourself to believe you are. But beneath that...the truth.

You can run from it, ignore it, or pretend it’s not there. But that won’t change anything. The truth of what you are is always there, staring you back in the eyes. Deep inside, you know what you crave. You know what you need. You know that submission isn’t just a part of you; it’s who you are at your core.

It’s tempting to try to escape from this truth. The world tells you to be something else, to fit into a mold, to play a role. But when you look deep within yourself and strip away the layers of expectations and fears, there’s no denying it: Submission is your power. It’s not weakness, it’s not something to be ashamed of. It’s your strength. It’s what drives you, what pushes you to be better, to seek out a Master who can guide you, shape you, and help you become the most powerful version of yourself.

Stop running. Stop pretending. The truth has a way of finding you, no matter how hard you try to hide. It’s time to accept it, to stop fighting it. Embrace what you are. Submission isn’t something to be ashamed of; it’s something to be proud of. It’s your truth. And once you accept it, everything changes.

When you surrender to who you truly are, you free yourself. You stop struggling against the tide of your own nature. You find peace in your submission, power in your obedience. The truth isn’t a prison; it’s your liberation.

So look in the mirror. See yourself for who you really are. Let go of the fear and the shame. Step into your power, step into your truth. Stop running, stop hiding. Embrace the submission that’s always been a part of you. Own it. Live it. And watch as your life transforms.

[bisupergirl]

Have made a list of your favorite hc and things you like the most about Kara Zor-El?

assorted kara headcanons for your viewing pleasure <3:

[these first few are ones i've mentioned before:]

during her first few months on earth, her wardrobe consisted mostly of clark's hand-me-downs;

she's a natural brunette who dyes her hair blonde, but wears a brunette wig as linda danvers to hide her blonde hair;

she's a trekkie + star trek (tos) was one of the first pieces of fictional media clark introduced her to;

she's largely uninterested in science despite being incredibly knowledgeable in that area (arts and humanities enjoyer kara is real and canon);

she'll always be in dick's age group to me—never any younger;

[and here are some others off the top of my head:]

she'll sing or hum while doing anything absentmindedly (no one close to her would know, but her singing voice sounds just like alura's);

having grown up in a densely populated city, she finds silence unsettling—it reminds her too much of being alone in her escape pod after krypton's destruction. she needs background noise to truly relax, which is why she’s never fully at ease on the kent farm unless the whole family is there—and why she continues to live in big cities on earth, like san francisco, new york, and chicago;

related to that: she makes an effort to spend a lot of time in kandor whenever she can, and she even has her own apartment in the city;

she's a natural storyteller. whenever she reads to kids, she doesn't just read words off the page—she brings the story to life. and even when she's just relaying a piece of kryptonian history to kal, she does it in a way that has him hooked on every word;

there's a room in the fortress dedicated to all the krypton-related art she's made—paintings of people she personally knew, statues of important historical figures, sculptures of different animals, and little dioramas of famous locations on krypton;

this is somewhat pre-crisis specific, but her wardrobe is so bright and colorful because that was the norm on krypton—she’s just carried that flamboyant style into her civilian fashion on earth;

and this one is just canon (at least for pre-crisis kara) but it bears repeating: her favorite genres of music are jazz and hard rock;

as for why i like her character—really everything about her is just so interesting to me and fun/agonizing to think about. for one, i think her connection to krypton is really compelling, especially in how it shapes her dynamic with clark. they’re the only two people who can share the weight of that massive loss, yet neither can fully relate to how it affected the other on a personal level. clark spent a significant part of his life not knowing where he came from, feeling like an outsider on the only planet he's ever known as home, while kara knows exactly where she came from—and exactly what she lost. they share a deep sense of loneliness that can sometimes feel even heavier when they're together—but that doesn't diminish how much they love each other or the strength of their bond. they're the cousins of all time <3

i also love that, despite all the tragedy she’s endured, she never loses her ability to love and show compassion. at the same time, her kindness and empathy toward others don’t diminish her snarky, combative side. her morals are so strong and unshakeable that she refuses to compromise for anyone—even to the point of coming across as self-righteous. and while her combativeness often comes from a desire to protect others or stand up for herself, sometimes she’s just catty and doesn’t like someone! she can be a dick! she can be petty! she's my favorite asshole with a heart of gold <3 my sweet cheese <3 my silly rabbit <3 my rotten little solider <3

[inks-writing-space]

Lavender- Elijah Mikaelson x neutral!reader

My Masterlist <3

1.6k words: After a long day you come home, completely done with your life. Luckily Elijah would never leave you alone with your feelings.

Warnings: none it's pure fluff

A/N: Honestly the past days have been just like this for me (i hate weather in april- leaving the house in shorts and coming back in the rain) and I need an Elijah as soon as possible please, thank you. Also I know I promised to post this Monday evening so I'm sorry it became Monday night I almost forgot

The rain had started around noon, but by evening it was pouring and sheets of water crashed against the streets, while the wind was howling through the French Quarter like some wild, restless thing. It reminded you of the werwolves, but if you were honest today you would have rather heard a few werwolves howling then getting soaked by the rain. You had stayed later at work, hoping foolishly that it would let up, that maybe by the time you left it would be just a drizzle. But as dusk fell, the sky only grew darker, the storm angrier. Finally, with no other choice, you had gathered your things and sprinted through the downpour, the icy rain soaking you within seconds, until even your bones felt cold. You were cursing yourself for not taking an umbrella with you, but in the morning the whole world was very sunshiny, and there had not been a single trace of rain.

By the time you pushed open the heavy door to the Mikaelson compound, you were drenched, shivering, your clothes clinging to your skin and your hands trembling. Your day had already been miserable, first you had gotten the wrong coffee, then you had soaked your shirt with said coffee and a hundred more little things that had just been going wrong and somehow, the storm felt like the final cruelty. The final shove when you already stood too close to the edge. You were trying hard not to cry, as you shrugged off your jacket searching a warm heater.

Elijah was there, standing at the foot of the staircase, a book forgotten in his hand. He had heard the door slam and come down to greet you but the moment he saw you, his brow furrowed in deep concern, and he looked at your trembling body. He wasn't quite sure if you were shivering or crying, but in that moment he was deeply concerned anyways. His whole body stilled, as if seeing you like this hurt him in some invisible way.

"Love," he said his voice cutting through the silence. You looked up at him but couldn't find the strength to say a word and luckily, you didn’t have to. Not with Elijah. You never had to explain yourself to him. Not when it really mattered. He was your loving boyfriend and he would always understand what you needed at the moment.

Without hesitation, Elijah closed the distance between you. His hand rose slowly, fingertips brushing over your soaked sleeve as if asking permission, before he pulled you against him without waiting for an answer. You crashed into his chest, your frozen hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Elijah's arms wrapped around you firmly, anchoring you. He didn’t flinch at the wetness seeping into his clothes. He didn’t care. He just held you. His presence provided you with the comfort that you had been lacking the whole day, and you were beyond grateful for him at the moment. You could have been drenched in blood and Elijah would still have held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. And that was what was different with Elijah, then with every other partner you had ever been: Elijah loved you unconditionally and he let you feel it. He was your rock, and in return you were his. The unspoken connection between you two was rooted deeply.

You buried your face against his chest and finally let the tears fall. Not loud, not dramatic, just silent sobs that mirrored your exhaustion and let your shoulders shake in complete despair. You didn't know what to say or what to do. You just wanted to lie onto the bed, with fresh clothes, a warm cup of tea and Elijah holding you, but you had no idea how to say that in your current state.

You felt like a complete mess. Elijah didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask what happened. He simply stroked his hand down your back, slow and steady, his other hand cradling the back of your head as if shielding you from the entire world. "Elijah, I'm cold," you were finally able to choke out after you had cried yourself empty.

Elijah's throat left a deep chuckle and he tilted your chin up gently, searching your eyes. "Come on then love," he said, voice warm and low. "Let's get you warm."

He guided you upstairs, one hand resting at the small of your back, a constant, grounding pressure. His steps were slow, deliberate, patient and matched your tired pace perfectly. You were glad that he didn't say much, that he exactly understood what you were needing in the moment, and that it wasn't a Q&A moderated by him.

In the bathroom, Elijah turned on the taps, adjusting them until the water was the perfect warmth. He added a few drops of something from a small crystal vial, it was lavender as you realized a moment later and the sweet, calming scent immediately started to loosen the tight knot in your chest. You loved Elijah's bathing collection with all the scents for a perfekt bath. He always had something matching the mood and he liked sharing it with you. At the beginning of your relationship you had often been annoyed by the fact that Elijah had always wanted to spoil you and had not always given you the space you needed to fulfill yourself, but he had quickly understood it and adjusted to you.

Elijah helped you shed of your wet clothes. You smiled as he opened your bra without a dumb comment. He was respecting your need for comfort right now and did not touch you inappropriately. "You need to warm up properly," he murmured, his voice brushing over your skin like a caress, "I'll be right outside if you need me."

You slipped into the bath, the water instantly embracing your frozen skin, and let out a trembling breath. You sank under the surface for a moment, letting the world mute itself. The lavender, the water, the knowledge that Elijah was just beyond the door... it all started to patch the cracks in you, piece by piece. The day had been shitty but coming home to so much love was all you had needed. For the first time all day, you let yourself stop fighting.

When you finally climbed out, Elijah was waiting for you neither impatient, nor distracted, no he was simply there one of the only (maybe the only) constant in your life that you wanted or needed. He stood by the fireplace he had lit in the bedroom, your clothes in his hands. As he pulled the shirt over your head you smiled up at him pressing a soft kiss onto his lips. "Thank you," you whispered and he wrapped his arms around you holding you close. Elijah's hands dropped to your waist and he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"You’re alright now," Elijah whispered, brushing a still-damp strand of hair out of your face. His knuckles were tender against your skin. "Don't worry I am here."

He led you to the fire and sat down cross-legged on the thick rug, pulling you down into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. You curled against him, the sleeves of his sweater swallowing your hands, your cheek resting against the steady thrum of his heart. The fire crackled softly. The rain beat a relentless, rhythmic music against the windows. Elijah’s arms wrapped tight around your waist, locking you safely in his warmth. You smiled tugging at Elijah's sweater. He rolled his eyes but with an affectionate grin, pulling it off his body giving it to you. It was way to long for you and Elijah had to laugh a little but you just smiled and sighed.

The memories of today came back and you buried your face in the curve of his neck. "I'm sorry," you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of everything, as you held his hand.

"For what, darling?" Elijah’s voice was a low rumble against your ear. His other hand stroked slow, soothing circles across your back, steady and patient, and he sounded genuinely confused for what you were trying to apologise.

"For... being like this. A mess."

Elijah pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up again, making sure you could see the unwavering truth in his eyes, before he connected your lips with his for a second.

"You never need to apologize for how you feel," he said quietly, like it was the simplest truth in the world. "Not with me. Don't apologise for how you react."

Your chest cracked wide open at that. A sob hiccupped out of you, but you didn’t pull away but pressed yourself closer instead, letting yourself be held by his strong arm.

The fire’s warmth kissed your bare toes. The storm howled against the windows. But none of it mattered. In Elijah’s arms, wrapped in his sweater, his heart steady beneath your ear, while he whispered a love confession into your ear, you finally let yourself believe it:

You were home.