#if it looks like two people who have suddenly zeroed in on each other in a way that makes others go 'oh that doesn't seem good'

[veliseraptor]

have realized that while i am not a fan necessarily of "people meet and immediately fall in love" i am a fan of "people meet and are immediately obsessed with each other." the love can come later but the absolute fixation should be immediate

[wheresarizona]

Creed

summary: Upon meeting Bo-Katan Kryze and discovering there are other Mandalorians out in the galaxy who remove their helmets, Din Djarin is suddenly questioning his beliefs and unable to stop from wondering what you, his wife, look like under your own helm.

rating: E (18+!! No y/n, Soft Din Djarin, established relationship, age gap (10 years), alternating pov, unprotected p in v, creampie, BREEDING KINK, oral sex (f receiving), first kiss, dirty talk, praise kink, domestic fluff, fluff, removing helmets for the first time, religious guilt, did I mention breeding kink? Din being so in love he wants to break the Creed, good parent Din Djarin)

pairing: Din Djarin/f!Mandalorian reader (from the Tribe with zero physical descriptions)

word count: 6.2k

a/n: It’s called Creed, but Breed also works. Lmaooo @what-muses sent in the prompt for Din hearing reader singing to Grogu, and I am so insanely sorry for this not being super wholesome. I just know in my heart Din would hear the woman he loves singing to their kid, and he’d want more children. 😭😭😭 I legit wrote 95% of this while either sick or in the ER to make myself feel better. Takes place during season 2. Thank you to the love of my life @juletheghoul for betaing this.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to hear what you thought of it!

Masterlist

He knows his own face—the color of his eyes, the curve of his nose, the crease between his eyebrows, the patchy facial hair. He knows the shape of his lips, the dimple in his cheek, and the lines that show his age. He’s the only person who can take in all of these details and know they belong to him, something secret, sacred—the Way of the Mandalore means no other living being can see him without his helmet. It also means you’ve never seen his face, but that’s never been an issue since you also follow the Creed.

Staring at his reflection in the ‘fresher mirror, his naked body clean from the sonic shower, he slowly moves the razor over the skin of his cheek, wondering briefly what you look like under your purple helm.

Pausing, his eyebrows furrow, realizing the thought has never once crossed his mind—it wasn’t something he ever would have wondered before because it’s never been important. The two of you had your beliefs and followed them, not caring about what was beneath the beskar, all that mattered was you loved each other.

You’ve been together since he’d saved the kid from the Client, you leaving Nevarro with him, your relationship shifting as time went on—the two of you keeping the child safe and falling in love in the process.

Then on your quest to reunite the small boy with his kind, you’d met the other Mandalorians, discovering there were many out across the galaxy who didn’t follow the Creed or the ways of old. They believed you could be a Mandalorian and remove your helmet and that your tribe was a cult.

Continuing shaving, he rinses the razor blade under water before sliding it along his other cheek. A lot of people preferred using depil cream to remove their facial hair, but Din liked the precision of the razor over the viscous liquid.

It was overwhelming hearing all that Bo-Katan had said and having this new knowledge, making him wonder what it truly meant to be a Mandalorian.

Could he really put the helmet back on once he took it off in front of another?

With the location of a Jedi and your time with your foundling running out, it was important he was present to witness your union, both knowing you were going to spend the rest of your days together by each other’s sides. Din and you exchanged your vows, committing to one another for life in the cockpit of the Razor Crest with your child in attendance and the bright streaking stars of hyperspace flying by.

His face is mostly shaved, leaving hair on his chin and above his lips, now using a small pair of scissors to trim his mustache.

It doesn’t matter to him that no one else gets to see how he looks. He’s still particular in how he likes his facial hair, unable to stand too much of it under his helmet, keeping the hair on his head cropped short for comfort.

It makes him wonder if you have preferences as he shapes his mustache.

How long is your hair? What color is it? What color are your eyes? What does your smile look like? What will your children look like?

His hand stops, his eyes widening.

Gulping hard, that’s another thought that’s never crossed his mind. He knows you’re going to have children together. It’s something you’ve discussed, but not once has he thought of their looks. Things like that didn’t matter to Mandalorians, who spend their lives covered head to toe in armor. He wonders if he’d be able to pick out the pieces of you in them to get a glimpse of what the woman he loves looks like—he wants to know.

Why is he stuck on this?

It’s not the Way.

Din sighs, finishing what he’s doing.

The scissors get put back into his shaving kit, cleaning the sink of his hair clippings, happy you got a room at the inn here on Nevarro while the Crest is being repaired. The two of you are planning to help Greef and Cara with a small matter in the morning in exchange for the ship's repairs.

Once he’s done, the stuff shoved into his bag, Din pulls out clean clothes to change into for the night, settling for some cloth pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Putting his helmet on, he gathers his bag and flight suit, the rest of his armor out in the room you’re in with the kid, stacked neatly beside your own.

Greef was the one who provided the accommodations, Din assuming it’d be a basic room—a bed, a refresher, the necessities. That wasn’t good enough for the magistrate, though. Instead, he’d set you up in a one-bedroom suite with a sitting room and a tiny kitchen.

Making his way out of the ‘fresher and bedroom, he stops in his tracks at what he hears.

You’re sitting at the small dining table, the kid in the seat beside you happily accepting the food he’s passed, which was a common occurrence, it’s the song you’re singing that has Din so caught off guard.

He’s heard you hum a lot—tunes were always getting stuck in your head that you picked up in cantinas or buskers on the street. You’ve sung before, too, but you were trying to make him and the kid laugh with your boisterous renditions of Mandalorian drinking songs.

This is different.

It’s not loud—it’s soft, sweet, the Mando’a flowing from your lips like a soft caress, hearing your love for the child with every syllable sung. This is a song mothers sang to their children, having heard such a thing back at the covert, about Mandalore the Great taming his mythical mythosaur and the strength all Mandalorians had.

There’s a helmet on your head, and he can’t help imagining what your face looks like under the t-visor. He can hear your love, would he be able to see it, too? There’s a smile in your voice, and it makes his chest squeeze at how he wishes he could look upon it.

Din knows you, and you know him.

He knows your likes and dislikes, your deepest, darkest secrets—everything about you, Din has learned and loves.

And now he wants more of you to love—he wants all of you, wants to see all of you.

You’re a wonderful mother, the kid so happy with you, taking him in like he’s your own flesh and blood, and something inside Din is screaming that you need more children—he needs to give you that, more little ones to love, and sing to, as many as you want, the thought of you pregnant with his child making his skin heat.

Stars, you’d be even more beautiful round with his baby.

He swallows hard, his pants feeling a little tight.

He knows everything about you, he loves everything about you, and guilt has settled like a stone in his stomach that he suddenly can’t get his mind off what’s under the beskar on your head.

The singing stops when you notice him, your t-visor trained on his prone form, standing just inside the room.

“Hey!” you say, handing the child more food. “It’s dinner time—ordered food while you were in the ‘fresher. Got you something I know you’ll like.”

It takes him from his reverie, finally moving again to set his bag near the table by the couch, the shining pieces of both of your armor on top of it. He tosses his flight suit onto the sofa over his cape, walking over to where you and the kid are.

He’s behind your chair, rubbing his hands over your arms as he replies, “Thank you, my love.” Leaning down to gently knock his helmet against yours in the semblance of a kiss before moving around the table to take a seat.

What would your lips feel like on his?

He has to shake the question from his brain, clearing his throat, and opening the food container in front of him.

It makes him smile when he sees you did get him something he’d like—skewers of meat and vegetables.

Picking one up, he uses the fork beside him to push off the chunks into the container, discarding the skewer and using his free hand to lift his helmet up just enough to take a bite. He groans happily at the spices enveloping his tongue, chewing and swallowing.

“Good?” you ask, beginning to eat your own dinner the same way he was.

In the company of other Mandalorians, it was generally protocol to go off and eat alone, but you’d been traveling in the tight confines of the Crest for so long that barely lifting the helmet was an acceptable compromise, avoiding looking at each other as you did it.

“Really good,” he replies, shoving more into his mouth.

The kid coos contently, full from his meal, while you both enjoy your own, sharing snippets of conversation between bites.

By the time you’re both finished, the little one is falling asleep in his chair, and helmets are once again covering your faces.

“I’ll put him to bed,” you softly say, starting to get up from your chair.

“The couch,” he says a little too quickly.

“The couch?” Your tone is teasing. “Got plans since we have a bed this evening, my dear husband?”

“Maybe I do.”

“In that case, the couch it is,” you reply, disappearing into the bedroom and returning with a pillow and blanket that you put onto the sofa, coming back over to the table to take the child.

Din busies himself cleaning up the trash and finds himself stuck in place when he’s done as he watches you sitting next to the kid, stroking his big ears while softly singing an old lullaby.

That need comes crashing into him again, the one telling him to give you a baby. It’s loud, something primal that he feels deep down that won’t be satisfied until he’s buried himself inside your cunt and pumps you full of his seed.

Arousal is burning in his gut, his cock stirring, eyes locked on your downturned helm and the curve of your breasts under your shirt.

He wants to strip you bare and feel your skin, batting away the intrusive thought of getting your helmet off—his, too, in order to lick and suck what he wants to touch.

He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t realize you’ve gotten up until you’re whispering by the bedroom door, “You coming?”

His bare feet move quickly, following you into the other room. Once the door is shut and the lock engaged, he’s crowding into you, needing to get his hands on your body, rubbing them over your soft belly and up to cup your breasts.

“You’re in a mood,” you giggle, Din’s hands roaming all over your body, your front, back, down to grab your ass.

“Need you,” he grunts.

Sliding your hands down his chest, you move lower to palm his half-hard dick in his pants, feeling it twitch under your touch.

“Yeah, you do.”

His eagerness is turning you on, wishing you could kiss him.

That makes you frown.

Over a year together and never once have you thought of kissing Din or seeing him without his helmet, for that matter, and yet, for days now, these things have been popping up in your brain. Kept you wondering what he looks like, or the face he was making in a moment or how soft his lips were, or the color of his eyes—plagued by thoughts that went against how you were raised and what you believed, clear violations of the Creed you swore to live your life by.

It’s never been an issue, always a fact that the helmet stayed on in front of another, and then you met Bo-Katan, and now you were at constant war with your own mind, feeling like it was an enemy you couldn’t vanquish in battle.

There are other Mandalorians out there, who even wish to reclaim Mandalore, and they believe you can remove your helm in the presence of another—Bo-Katan’s own armor had been passed down for three generations.

What if it was okay to remove it?

Would Din want to?

Would he still love you?

“What’s wrong?” he asks, taking you from your thoughts.

His hands are now caressing the sides of your helmet, a little intrusive thought in the back of your mind wishing he’d take it off.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

“Stuff…”

His head tilts in confusion.

“Tell me.”

That’s the thing about Din, he’s your best friend, your husband, you can tell him anything, which is why you tell him the truth.

“Bo-Katan and the others, they are Mandalorians and remove their helmets.”

“Yes, they do not follow the Creed.”

“Do you believe they are Mandalorians?”

“Do you?”

“Bo-Katan was born on Mandalore. She fought in the Great Purge. I do believe they are Mandalorians.”

“As do I.”

“You do?”

“I do.” He nodded.

“Din, we grew up believing in the Way of the Mandalore—it’s all we’ve known. We went through the same ceremony, we swore to walk the Way and never remove our helmets, but I—” Your hands go up to cradle where his cheeks would be “—can’t stop thinking about what you look like, and I feel ashamed because I know it’s wrong.”

“It’s not wrong.” He sounds hopeful. “I feel the same and want to see your face, too.”

That has you taken aback.

“You do…?”

“I do.” He nods.

“But will you still love me…?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

“Of course. I love you for you and not for what’s underneath the beskar.”

“That’s a lie. You’re obsessed with my body.”

He chuckles, “I am because I love you and would continue loving you even if it changed…” he trails off like he’s thinking about something “I. Love. You.” he adds, saying each word clearly.

“Promise?”

Pressing a hand over his heart, he answers, “On my life.”

“Okay, I believe you.”

“Will you still love me…?” The question comes out slowly.

“We literally just had a conversation over how you love me for me, and you have to know I feel the same way.”

“Just making sure.” You can hear his smile.

“So, would you like to break the Creed with me…?”

Your heart is hammering in your chest.

“More than you know.”

Relief washes over you, combined with giddiness.

“Thank the Stars!” you exclaim happily.

“At the same time?” He’s as eager as you are, his hands moving back to hold your helmet again.

“Yes.”

Gripping his, you both count down together, “Three, two, one…” Carefully, you lift his beskar, your own coming off, blinking at the light in the room, and your eyes zeroing in on the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, your mouth falling open in shock.

A person’s looks have never meant much to you, thinking some were pleasing to the eye, you finding someone’s prowess in battle more attractive along with their personality.

Din is a formidable opponent, always succeeding in his endeavors because he is highly intelligent, strong, and knows how to fight and use a weapon.

Even though many fear your husband, he’s actually a very sweet man, caring, loving, and will protect you and your foundling with his life.

And now you know he is also unbelievably attractive.

Beautiful chocolate eyes are rounded as they stare at you, the look on his face a twin of your own, loving his nose, and the messy brown hair on top of his head, seeing that he recently shaved with his facial hair looking neat, taking in every detail and line of the man you love.

“Beautiful,” he whispers in awe, and it has tears brimming in your eyes, bending down to set his helmet on the ground, him doing the same with yours, your hands moving to touch his face when you both straighten.

He’s so gentle when his broad palms caress your cheeks, almost like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Smiling, you reply, “You’re very handsome yourself.” You reach up to smooth your thumbs over his eyebrows. “Your eyes are stunning. I hope our child gets them.”

His lips tip up, and Stars, they’re so plush, you can’t help yourself when you lean in to press your own against his, him making a surprised sound.

Your heart picks up in speed, having wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and at first, it’s soft; the warmth spreading under your skin, meaning to only give him a peck, but then he’s pulling you closer, kissing you a little harder. It’s lingering, his lips moving against yours in tiny movements that have fire burning brightly in your veins, following his lead to mimic what he was doing again and again and again.

It’s not like either of you has any experience with this type of thing, so you’re figuring it out as you go, doing what feels good, getting braver and more comfortable. Your fingers slide into the thick strands of his hair, moaning when his tongue slides over your bottom lip, instinctively opening for him. This was somehow better, more intimate, tasting each other, exploring the other’s mouths until the need to breathe became too much, and you’re separating with smiles on your faces, Din’s lips red and shiny from spit.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and it makes you feel all gooey.

“You’re very handsome.”

You stroke your fingers over his cheeks, his hands on your jaw, rubbing a thumb over your wet bottom lip.

It’s like you both can’t stop yourselves from staring, eyes taking in every little detail of the other's face, saving them to memory.

The need rises, and you’re kissing once more, it’s messy before you’re both moving to get your clothes off as quickly as possible—once stripped, Din’s mouth is on yours as he walks you back toward the bed, falling with you on top of it.

His hips are slotted between your thighs, his lips detaching from yours to kiss along your jaw, over your cheeks, up on your forehead, and the tip of your nose.

It makes you smile, him kissing all over your face, then to your ear, shoving his nose in your hair, and inhaling.

“Fuck, you smell amazing,” he says.

That makes you laugh.

“Thanks, but we use the same stuff—we smell the same.”

“No.” He nips at your ear, sucking it into his mouth, gasping at the jolts of pleasure shooting to your center. “You smell better.”

You press your fingers into his hair.

“Stars,” you moan, his lips trailing down your neck and sucking hard on your pulse point. “It feels so good, Din.”

His mouth is so warm, leaving your skin wet in the wake of his kisses, and he can’t seem to get enough, lips streaking across every bit of you as he travels down your body. His mouth engulfs your stiff nipple, making your back arch, gasping his name.

Arousal is hot in your belly, the feeling incredible as he laves at one hard bud, then the other, your head feeling dizzy while soft sounds spill from your lips.

He comes off your nipple with a pop, continuing his journey lower, kissing over your belly until he’s half off the bed, his big hands spreading your thighs.

There’s a look of hunger on his face as he stares at the apex of your thighs, his fingers moving to spread open the lips of your sex, seeing the pink of his tongue peek out to swipe across his bottom lip like he wants to taste you. The look has excitement thrumming in your veins, wanting nothing more than to know what it feels like to have his mouth on you.

“Taste it,” you purr, and his eyes meet yours, his so dark barely any of the beautiful brown remains. “I know you’ve licked me from your fingers.” You’ve seen him on more than one occasion lift his helmet just enough to suck your arousal from digits after they’d been inside you. “Taste it—I want your tongue.” You bit your lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he rasps, wasting no time dipping his head forward, licking a stripe through your slit, the flat of his tongue going from your entrance to your clit. He’s groaning into your sensitive flesh as you moan at how good it feels, him laving at every bit of slick he can find, your back arching when he pushes the wet muscle inside you.

“You taste so good.” His words are muffled in your cunt, his mouth moving up, making your toes curl when he sucks on your bundle of nerves.

Even though this isn’t an act either of you has ever done before, Din is a quick learner, knowing intimately what makes you tick—once he has his fill of your taste, he slides two thick fingers inside you, crooking them into that spot he always zeros in on, your vision going white for a second at the shock of pleasure.

“Din,” you moan, threading your fingers into his brown waves for something to hold onto.

The muscles in your belly are beginning to tighten, the heat in the base of your spine growing.

His big brown eyes lock on yours from between your legs, seeing your arousal glistening in his mustache and on his plush lips.

“Wanna taste your come,” he husks, his fingers continuing to work. “Can you come for me? Please?”

This might be his first time, but that big brain of his has quickly worked out how to get what he wants, keeping his gaze on yours while pulling your perky little clit into his mouth, sucking on it while his fingers slide along something divine, rocketing you toward your release.

Your hands tighten in his hair at the pleasurable fire building in your core, feeling it getting hotter and hotter as he works you over, having to bite your fingers to muffle your noises when euphoria explodes inside you, quieting your whine of his name.

“That’s it, beautiful,” he says into your pussy. “My good girl—such a good girl.”

His fingers leave you, replaced with his tongue, hearing and feeling him loudly groan as he indulges in your come, drinking it down from the source.

Your chest is heaving, breathing hard as you come down, your husband having the best time with his mouth on your cunt if the noises are anything to go by.

He got to explore your body, and it’s your turn, salivating at the thought.

Tugging on his hair, you say, “Din?”

His head comes up, looking a little lost with glazed-over eyes, the bottom half of his face shining in the light of the room.

All he can do is grunt in response.

“Get up on the bed and lay down on your back, please.”

His face pinches in confusion.

“What?” he whispers.

You smile. He seems almost drunk, a state you’ve never seen him in since he doesn’t like anything inhibiting his mind or body.

“Get up here, my love—” You pat the bed beside you. “—and lay down on your back. It’s my turn.”

It registers what you say, and he nods, doing as he’s told and crawling up onto the mattress and flopping down next to you with his head resting back on a pillow. Rolling over, you throw your leg over his waist, moving to straddle his hips, your wet center pressing his hard cock into his stomach. You rub your hands up his soft belly and over his chest, seeing the faded scars on his golden skin.

“You’re beautiful,” you say.

His cheeks pink at the comment.

“Thank… you…” he replies, his hands grabbing your waist, smoothing his thumbs over your skin. “You’re more beautiful than the Diathim.”

Your eyebrow raises. “You’re saying I’m prettier than an angel?”

“Songs should be sung of your beauty—there’s nothing that compares in the entire galaxy.” He says it with such conviction your breath hitches, taken aback by the look on his face telling you he means it.

“We should get married,” you blurt out.

“What…?”

“I want to marry you again and see your face when we say our vows.”

You’re fascinated by how you can see him visibly soften, his mouth turning up in a grin that reveals an adorable dimple, reaching his hand to cup your cheek.

“Will you marry me again?” he asks.

You’re matching his look, nodding as you say, “Yes!” Unable to keep yourself from leaning down to press your mouth to his, moaning when you taste yourself in the passionate kiss. His arms wrap around your back, hugging you close to him, losing yourselves for a minute in your happiness.

You’re panting when you break apart.

You’d wanted to take your time getting your mouth all over his body, but there’s a sudden need to have him inside of you—sitting up on your knees, you snake your hand between your bodies to take his cock in hand, pressing it to your aching entrance.

You moan in unison as you lower yourself on him, watching his face as his mouth falls open, his hands grabbing onto your hips, the thick girth of him stretching you open and filling you inch by glorious inch until your thighs meet, feeling so unbelievably full.

“Stars, you feel so good,” you breathe.

“Not as good as you feel.” His words come out strained, watching his throat work as he swallows hard.

You do an experimental roll of your hips, making his fingers tighten in your skin.

His eyes are on yours. “I want to see you come while I’m inside you,” he husks. “Can you do that? Can you use me to make yourself feel good?”

“Yes,” you answer, starting to move up and down, your hands on his chest for leverage.

You love having him inside you—the way he fits so perfectly, rubbing against all the right spots, joining you together.

His hands are on your body while you ride him, rubbing along your ribs and over your stomach, moving up to palm the weight of your breasts, tweaking your nipples, sending jolts straight to your pussy.

“Ride my cock, pretty girl,” Din says in a low rasp. “I love watching you—so beautiful. Use me.”

Adjusting your hips has him sliding into that sacred place that makes your head spin, rising and falling at a pace that’s slowly building you up and up.

Arousal is dripping out of you and down his shaft, allowing you to move with ease, Din’s eyes locked on your face, groans spilling from his throat, looking wrecked at you bouncing on him.

His cock is hot and hard inside you, lifting your hips and slamming your ass down, working yourself closer to your end.

It’s exhilarating to be able to see how good he feels and how much he’s enjoying himself. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes lust-blown, his forehead glistening with sweat.

“I know you’re almost there.” His words come out rough. “You gonna come for me? Gonna be my good girl? I know you can do it. Wanna watch you—wanna see you come, my love.”

“So close,” you pant.

You’re rising and falling, moans slipping from your lips, the knot in your belly winding tighter and tighter until it’s snapping, and you’re coming with a gasp of his name. Your eyes close as pleasure expands from your center, spreading through your body.

“So beautiful,” Din marvels in a groan. “Such a good girl. I love you—I love watching you.”

“I love you, too,” you breathe, your orgasm beginning to ebb.

A surprised sound comes from you when suddenly you’re jostled, Din groaning as he sits up, keeping you on him as he gets situated with you in his lap, spreading his legs on the bed for balance.

You’re now face to face, his hand gently cupping your cheek as his lips find yours, kissing you tenderly, his other arm wrapped around your back to hug you to him. You thread your fingers in his hair, melting into him, accepting his tongue when he deepens the kiss.

You’ve found you love kissing. There was something about it that was so intimate—sharing breaths, being so close, and tasting him.

His hair is so soft and thick, scratching your nails gently along his scalp and feeling him shiver beneath you.

His hands go to your ass, gripping it tight while he starts moving you in his lap, his lips still on yours.

“Want you close,” he murmurs into your mouth. “Need you close.”

You bounce up and down on his throbbing cock, your knees on either side of his hips helping you rise and fall, fucking yourself on him as you keep kissing.

His words are muffled against your lips, “You’re so beautiful, strong, fierce, loving, and good with the kid.” He moves you faster, using his strength to lift you, grunting in exertion. “I watched you tonight with him—I want more little ones.”

The thought makes you clench around him.

“Din,” you moan, feeling him smile.

“I want to raise more warriors with you,” he continues. “I want to father your children. I want to fuck a baby into you,” he groans, his cock twitching. You can tell he’s getting close as you breathe hard, your thighs burning deliciously. “I want to fill you up, fuck you full of me over and over until it takes.” His words have arousal curling in your gut and the familiar heat building at the base of your spine, bouncing up and down in his lap. “I want to see you round with my child. I want to have as many as you’ll allow. I want to fill the ship, then a house with our kids. I want to see you mother more of my children and sing them the songs of old. I want you, all of you.”

It all sounds so good, wanting the same, gasping, “Yes.”

“Can I?” he asks in a wrecked tone. “Can I fuck a baby into you? Can I get you pregnant? Please. Please, can I father your child?”

“Stars, yes,” you moan. “Please. I want one. Fill me up—keep me full.”

He groans loudly, kissing you hard, making you gasp in surprise when he tackles you onto your back on the mattress, his hips nestled in the cradle of your thighs, holding himself up on his forearms beside your head.

He starts moving fast, fucking into you with abandon to chase his high. The wet slap of skin on skin is sounding in the room, along with his grunts muffled by your mouth, filling you over and over, his thick cock pushing in so deep he’s kissing your womb.

You grab onto his broad shoulders, needing something to hang onto, digging your nails into his golden skin. The kisses are sloppy, the tension rising in your belly. His pace gets uneven until he pushes in one last time, going as deep as he can, coming with a ragged groan. You can feel him jerk inside you and the wet pulse as warmth fills your depths. He rocks his hips, moving a hand between your bodies to circle your clit, already so worked up that it doesn’t take much to have you cresting softly with a moan of his name. Your body tenses up, Din grunting as your cunt chokes his dick, working his spend even deeper inside you.

“That’s it,” he groans. “So good to me, my good girl.”

You’re both panting, and he moves his head to the crook of your neck, collapsing on top of you.

It makes you smile when you press your fingers into his sweat-damp hair; how soothing it is to just run your fingers through the brown waves and lightly scratch at his scalp, Din practically purring.

“That’s so nice.” He slurs.

“I like It, too.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

It’s comfortable as you both lie there, not caring about your sweaty bodies or his weight on you, just basking in the afterglow together.

It feels like you’re so close, neither of you would know where one ends and the other begins—so tangled up in each other it feels as though you’re one—one body, one heart, one soul.

Minutes pass in silence, Din groaning as he moves to get up, kneeling between your spread legs. His eyes are locked on where you’re connected, hissing when he pulls himself out of you. Your eyes widen when his fingers catch some of his come that’s dripped out of you, moaning when he pushes it back inside.

“Don’t want to waste a drop,” he says. “Can you keep it inside, my love?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He smiles.

“Thank you.”

His hand leaves you watching in interest as he pushes the digits between his lips, sucking them clean with a groan. They leave his mouth with a pop, his gaze on yours.

“I’ll never tire of how good you taste.” He says.

“I feel like you’re going to be insatiable.” You tease.

He smiles, and you love it so much that you wish to see it every day for the rest of your life.

“I’m already insatiable.”

“Yes, you are.” You reply with the same look on your face.

Quickly he’s off the bed and coming back with a warm wet cloth, gently wiping you down and cleaning himself up, it getting tossed to the floor when he’s done.

He pulls you to lay correctly on the bed in his arms with your heads cushioned by pillows, facing him.

The lights are still on, and you just stare into each other's eyes, losing yourself in his dark pools, him smiling softly under his mustache.

“I’m so happy to know your face,” he whispers, his big hand sliding along your cheek. “I love you.”

“I’m happy to know your face, too,” you say just as softly. “The face of the man I love, who will father my children.”

He smiles brightly, his eyes crinkling adorably at the edges, leaning in to kiss you.

There’s light banging heard at the door that can only be made by tiny fists, Din and you separating immediately with wide eyes.

“Were we too loud?” You whisper.

Din grimaces, answering, “Maybe?”

You’re both moving immediately, jumping out of bed and tugging on your clothes, the air in the room tinged with sex. At least the kid chose to wake up after you’d finished. It was always incredibly awkward when he interrupted during.

The two of you look disheveled, Din’s hair a mess on top of his head, and his cheeks tinted pink.

“Go wash your hands and face,” you tell him. “I’ll get him.” Neither of you bothered putting on your helmets, your husband heading for the en suite, while you made it to the door, disengaging the lock and opening it.

You’re smiling as you look down at the child, him staring up at you with a weird look on his face.

“Hey, buddy,” you say, and his eyes get big, him babbling something pointing at your head. It makes you laugh. “It’s okay,” you reassure, leaning down to pick him up. He’s staring at you, his big eyes somehow bigger. “This is what I look like under the helmet.” His little clawed hand reaches out, pressing it to your cheek as he coos, and it warms your heart.

“Hey, you little womp rat,” Din’s warm voice says as he enters the room, you turning so the kid can see him. The child is babbling up a storm, holding his arms out, and Din chuckles, taking him as soon as he’s within reach. “Did we wake you up?” he asks. “We were just, uh, sparring, yeah, we were sparring, there’s nothing you need to worry about.” The kid is looking at him in wonder, reaching to touch Din’s cheek, the man smiling. “Yeah, I’m not wearing my helmet.” The child looks at you and back at Din, chattering up a storm.

“I think he’s confused.” You tell your husband.

“Yeah, I think he is.” His attention goes back to the kid in his arms, rubbing his back, speaking in a soft tone, “Hey, it’s okay, buddy.” The child goes silent as he listens. “There, uh, were those other Mandalorians who took off their helmets, and we decided to do the same. Everything’s okay. It’s still us.” He’s cooing again, patting Din’s cheek, making his dad chuckle. “It’s my face.” The kid yawns. “You ready to go back to bed?”

You’re already moving toward the mattress, taking off the top blanket, tossing it onto the floor, and pulling back the sheets.

Din walks over and gets in on the other side while still holding the child.

The boy ends up on Din’s chest, his tiny hand reaching up to rub the man’s earlobe while softly babbling—you crawl in next to your husband, resting your head on his shoulder, the lights turned off.

You’re beyond happy to know what the man you love looks like, and you can’t wait to add to your little family, rubbing a hand over your belly.

Your period is almost a month late, and you have a feeling it has nothing to do with stress.

Din was going to be ecstatic.

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know! 

Tagging: @theorganasolo @tiredbuthappy @mandowhatnow @myloveistoolittle @perksofbeingamultifandomm @eddiemunscns @deliriousfangirl61 @fandomandotherthings @myswficlist @aaetherr69 @swimmjacket @ins0mniac-whack @rintheemolion @notsosecretspy @ghostyoongs @freightcarcap @untitledarea @whitemanshoe19 @tmiranda94 @fleetsonfire @daddydindjarin @absurdthirst @kirsteng42 @littlemisspascal @athalien @thevoiceinyourheadx @elegantduckturtle @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @mswarriorbabe80 @star017 @artsymaddie @hansolosleftbuttcheek @deadhumourist @pretty-brown-eyess @hotchlover @eternallyvenus @allfoolsinluv @eppy816 @katareyoudrilling @babykangaemoji @punkerthanpascal @breezythesimp @grimeysociety @bruxasolta @peachyaeger @din-jarhead @lovesbiggerthanpride

[bambisnc]

sunny [ft. w.yx]

pairing : bsf classmate!nicholas x reader genre : fluff :( cw/tw : kissing + a littol suggestive wc : 0.7kish !

drowning under the weight of unsaid words and hidden feelings was something you'd made your peace with.

falling for your best friend, nicholas, who just so happened to be a classmate was not the best decision ever; but you have been dealing with it rather decently all these years.

so maybe it'll all work out just fine.

is what you thought, mere minutes ago.

everything was normal then, both of you were trying not to fall asleep in a particularly boring class. the harsh yet very welcome RING! of the school bell jolted you awake; and of course you wasted zero time in grabbing your bag and making your way out of the classroom.

but when has nicho ever let you leave just like that?

a "where'd you think you're goin'" and a sharp tug to the strap of your bag as you're pulled back by none either than your best friend.

he reminds you that you have cleaning duty that day with a much too gleeful expression..

..and that's how you find yourself leaning against a desk, zoning out to thoughts of him and how the afternoon sunlight streams in through the windows perfectly lighting his features aglow..

the loosened tie, the rolled up sleeves, the small smile playing on his lips as he says something.. wait he's talking to you.

"you're not exactly subtle you know?"

you find yourself unable to think of an appropriate reply, instead choosing to hide behind a simple roll of your eyes.

he lets out a laugh at that, making his way towards you, "i didn't expect you to be so careless.."

at that, you can't help but gulp because yeah it's not like you're not physically affectionate towards each other but something about this moment is.. decidedly not platonic.

nicho's hands rest on the edges of the desk, his face just a little too close for comfort. he's effectively trapping you against it; seemingly completely unaware of the effect this is having on you.

when he speaks up next, voice barely more than a whisper, you feel his lips hover just above yours, "or is it that.. you're just too distracted by someone..?"

something shifts right then. a certain obvious tension shrouds you and it's as if the two of you are the only people in the entire universe.

your hand reaches to tug on his collar, tentatively, with a considerable amount of hesitance; but the way his eyes meet yours - you swear you can see the sun, the moon, all the galaxies in those eyes - leaves you reeling.

you're not sure which of you closes the distance between your lips but you can't really bring yourself to care at all.

not when nicho's lips press against yours impatiently, eagerly. like he's been waiting for this. yearning for this, just as much as you.

especially not when your stomach is busily turning upside down like its life depends on it; all the while your best friend allows one of his hands to tangle into your hair, effectively deepening the kiss.

you'd do this forever if you could, but the unfortunate need for air causes you to push him away.

and oh the way his face looks the absolute picture of debauchery, of indulgence; what with his heavily lidded eyes, flushed face, and delicately swollen lips.

he looks like the prettiest mess ever.

you find yourself unable to deal with all the thoughts that suddenly flood your brain. this is what you've been dreaming of for ages. but nicho is your best friend. best friends do not do this.

his hand moves to gently cup the back of your neck, then; bringing you forward to capture your lips in another kiss, this one vastly differing from the previous.

tender, languid movements as if you have all the time in the world. his soft skin is hot to the touch but if it's him you wouldn't even mind burning.

you feel all your doubts slowly die down, a lingering warmth spreading in their place as you find his other hand on the desk and intertwine both your fingers.

notes : @chiiyuuvv love youuu + ACCIDENTALLY ALMOST DELETED THIS ADN FR CRIED FOR LIKE 30 SECONDS + i lowk thought of sunwoo while writing but shhh + water related metaphors for reader n sun/fire related metaphors for nicho = symbolism loml ! + shoutout to this post and this post couldnt have done this without em + [m.list] song rec : sunny by rocco <3

[pinktom]

What do you think pink about tomarry content creators getting abusive tomione asks suddenly? First obsidian, then I saw one more account getting and now seminar arts. Is it only one person doing all this?

Btw my jaw dropped with your no filter answer where you said that whenever harry comes the chemistry between to marry best tomione 🤣. I would love to hear more of your no filter thoughts

I have no doubt those asks were sent by trolls. I, however, am simply a hater—I see an opportunity to hate, justified or not, I pounce. x]

In ascending order, here are the reasons I think Tomione sucks.

PS: If you know this post is gonna piss you off and press "Keep Reading" anyway - that is entirely on you. Send me anon hate and I'll assume you're a masochist who wants me to spank your pert, round hinie and call you a naughty, naughty girl.

“Book nerd loves book nerd uwu” trope does not fit Tom Riddle, and I find it obnoxious.

Like I touched on when I was first sipping on that haterade, Tom Riddle values usefulness. By this logic, you could easily contrive up a scenario in which he wants to use Hermione’s skills for whatever reason. 

However, the route that is usually taken in Tomione is that Tom is … impressed … by her intellect. A woman… who is… smart? He’s intrigued. 😏 He’s never once met a smart woman in his life before. And certainly not one so independent and feisty. She doesn’t swoon over him like the other girls do (eye roll).

I never got the impression anywhere in canon that Tom Riddle cared much about intellectual pursuits beyond those which were immediately useful to his goals, so for the very basis of a relationship to be his interest in her brains – to me, it’s tedious and off-base.

And also icky honestly lkjdflkj. Hermione’s two crushes are on a couple of stinky smelly boys (Krum, Ron), where the hell do you go off acting like she wants some mysterious, twisted dark boy? I’m offended. 

Absolutely zero chemistry; once Harry steps in, it’s game over

Because these characters lack any common ground, shared values, or compelling circumstances that tether them together, there is zero chemistry. You can try to fabricate those things with a little bit of crack!cocaine, but then you’re forced to contrive a lot of additional personality traits and circumstances that diverge them from their canon selves. (Which yes, you can do, but it only works if you’re gonna do something really interesting.)

As much as people like to har har about how canon doesn’t matter, here’s the truth: yes, it does. Our communities only exist because we’re referencing shared source material. However much you can bend characters around, everyone knows each character has an essence that just “feels like them” on a deeper human level. 

As such, we all know Tom Riddle and Harry Potter are intrinsically connected to each other. In Tomione this presents a conundrum. I could cite dozens of fics, but I’ll stick to two very well-written ones I enjoyed.

In one of them, Tom was a criminal and Harry was a detective on his tail; no matter how many times Tom fingered Hermione, he was always more entangled with Harry, because the stakes and intensity between them were so much grander. Same thing with the other fic but amplified by the Horcrux bond. At their very first encounter, when Tom and Harry laid eyes on each other, they both immediately felt an arresting connection, with distrust and intrigue. Hermione instantly paled in comparison in both stories.

It’s just like the moment Harry steps into the frame, you see how transparent and superficial the “commonalities” between Tom and Hermione ever are. Books and cleverness - oh but Harry, there are more important things! Like being spiritually linked! And sharing unique and intimate traumas in common! 

Heterosexual Tom is truly disgusting to read about

Look–it’s a matter of taste. We’re all products of our environments. For me, no amount of feminism or fantasy can overrule everything I’ve seen and experienced in my life. ( ಠ_ಠ )

I don’t enjoy reading about women in relationships with men who are controlling, violent, and selfish. Even the way Voldemort treats Bellatrix in canon always makes me wince, because I see it like this … here’s this girl who grew up proud; who was beautiful, rich, extremely gifted and powerful; and she turns into this horrible sniveling creature. Say it ain't so! I wish she'd killed him when he broke her ass out of Azkaban.

But back on the topic of Tomione specifically — I think there’s another layer to it, which is the greasy self-insertion aspect which makes me uncomfortably aware of how much the author’s ginie is tingling at the idea of Tom Riddle lifting a brow and saying, “Is that so, Miss Granger?” while she scowls and tells him to fuck off !!!

It’s of course not the self-insertion in itself that’s icky. It’s more just that the type of person who wants to self-insert into that particular heterosexual scenario is, uhh, too basic for me and my big powerful fujo brain.

And I guess that's gets me to the very core of why I find Tomione basic, trifling, and underwhelming. 

Tom Riddle is allowed no faults whatsoever in Tomione

Oh, sure. He’s controlling. He’s mean. He grabs her wrist and says, “What were you doing talking to Malfoy?” 😠

But so... ? Tom Riddle is a deeply embarrassing, mentally unwell trainwreck of a person. He's so much grosser than that. Yet you do not get that feeling at all in most Tomione fics. His worst character traits are often there but they’re made to seem sexy and flattering at all times.

I’m not saying your run-of-the-mill Tomarry fic doesn’t suffer this fatal flaw too—but when it comes down to it, Tomione doesn’t allow for his unsexy fallibility, period. Because the sexiness of the ship really depends on heteronormative romantic tropes and fantasies, which tend to be quite rigid and narrow. 

And I understand and empathize with why this is; just look at Reddit, so many women in heterosexual relationships already must put up with mortifying, embarrassing, and unhygienic things (y’all know which posts I mean 🙁). 

That’s just not what I’m here for. I love Tom Riddle because he’s a superficial narcissistic lunatic with no self-awareness and emotionally stunted outlook.

I don’t want to hear how he terrified the orphans if I’m not gonna hear about how he pissed the bed and got his bare ass whipped by a mean, toothless matron for chatting in sermon. I don’t care to see him bossing around those wimps at Hogwarts if there’s not at least one student who looks at “ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE” written in blood and feels tummy-churning secondhand embarrassment.

[reddeaddamnation]

"Possession vs Obsession" - Sub-Zero x reader x Scorpion - Chapter I

"Father, I will not stand for this!" Bi Han lashed out, voice booming throughout the Lin Kuei temple, as he paced around angrily "You think me to be some sort of child who can't decide for himself who to wed?!" His eyes challenged those of his elder. If it was anyone else, Sub Zero would quickly be put in his place, but his father was a just and kind man, who thought of the future of the Lin Kuei, his sons and the peace between clans. For it was in an endless war between the Lin Kuei and the clan of Shadow-weavers that took the lives many from both sides. And peace would finally be achieved between both elders, who dreamed of a brighter future, since Y/N's father stepped into power.

"My word is final." His father cut him off, voice denying the opportunity to argue "You are the future of this clan and I will not allow anymore bloodshed between our clans, not now, not after you."

Y/N waited nervously at the entrance of the temple, shaking her legs back and forth on the bench she sat on. The Shadow-weavers delegation had long since left, leaving her alone in this unknown place. She didn't know if these people were friends or enemies at this liminal point in time. She could either not survive until morning or live a tolerable life among them. Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Her head snapped in the direction from where they came from.

"Hello." A boy with ashen hair approached with a smile. He didn't look familiar to the other Lin Kuei. "It's nice to meet you." The girl smiled shyly, hesitantly, but didn't answer. "I'm sorry about my brother. He can be...well...like himself..." he chuckled quietly "But I promise, we aren't all like that. I assure you, we want to stop fighting and enjoy peace." He motioned to the bench, asking silently if he could sit and she moved over to the side to give him space. "My name is Thomas." He introduced himself. "I'm Y/N." They shook hands, smiling. "It's nice to meet a friendly face." Y/N scoffed and returned to staring at the canyons among the mountain. "I apologize again if Bi Han scared you. He really left a bad impression." Thomas grimaced at the memory of his brother lashing out, not even acknowledging her presence when they were introduced to each other.

"I'm not exactly dying to be here either." Y/N murmured, irony in her words "He didn't need to remind me why I don't want this." Thomas stayed quiet for a moment "Well, I wish I could help you, but the least I can do is make your life here bearable." He suggested, smiling warmly "If you need anything or just want to talk, I'll be here for you. I know what it's like to be new." She looked at him puzzled "I'm not...I was adopted by the Grand Master... I know from experience Bi Han doesn't like change."

Y/N stared at him silently, not knowing what to say, except just nodding in understanding. "But don't worry. I'm sure everything will be okay with you two." Thomas reassured with a smile again "Have you met our other brother? Kuai Liang?" Y/N shook her head no. "Let's go find him. You shouldn't be alone and sulking. I'll show you around."

Thomas was a breath of fresh air for her. A friendly face and warm heart, unlike these frozen wastelands. She missed her home so. This mountain was cold. Freezing in a different way. The caverns, where her clan temple was built were also cold, yet cozy. The shadows embraced her and kept her warm and safe. Up here, out in the open, she felt vulnerable. It was unnatural. The boy who wielded smoke was talking as they walked but she didn't hear him. She only wished to find a shadowy corner to hide in.

"What?" She shook her head out of her trance when Thomas asked for her attention. "Can you show me a power your clan can do?" He asked with a grin. Y/N giggled. With a gracious raise of her arm, the shade of a tree twisted and scurried to form a ball in her open palm, snaking up her body. Thomas watched in awe. Her fingers danced around the ball, shaping and forming it until a bird was created. It took flight when the girl pushed it away with her hand and it returned to the shadow of the tree. "Impressive. I bet you have amazing warriors." He commented. "I was trained by the Grand Master himself." She shrugged as if it was nothing and grinned.

"That was impressive indeed." A new voice frightened her "I would love to see what you can do in combat." A man with black hair, tied in a bun approached them. He was dressed in yellow, unlike the blue uniform usual Lin Kuei warriors wear. He bowed his head lightly at her to show respect "Don't misunderstand me. That was not an invitation." He smirked.

"This is who I told you about." Thomas introduced. But Y/N didn't hear him. She was lost in his intense gaze, jaw ajar and eyes wide from the sight of him. She felt her knees weak, almost bending from the intensity. Someone was calling her name. But it came as an echo. This man only had to say a handful of words... and she was lost... how was it possible? His demeanor projected intensity as a whole. Fire. Bi Han also had the intense and dominant demeanor, but... he was cold. Unwelcoming...

"Y/N?" Kuai Liang's worried voice brought her back to reality. Even though she wished to hear it over and over again, as his voice sounded like the end of an ice age within her. She giggled nervously. Thankfully, her blushing face could be explained by the freezing bite of the ice cold air. "I...yes...that's me." She paced around in her place anxiously. The two boys shared a look. "Are you feeling alright?" Kuai Liang asked, worry tainting his beautiful eyes. "I...uh..." the girl started, trying not to sound too ridiculous "It's quite cold...I suppose I'm just not used to the weather."

The boys looked at each other again, puzzled. Scorpion was first to let it go and spoke. "I'm sure today was stressful for you. Would you like me to escort you inside to rest?" Her heart skipped a beat at the proposition. She smiled, stuttering out an affirmative sentence, hoping he doesn't catch on to her nervousness. "If you need help with anything, don't be afraid to tell me or Thomas." Nodding again, mindlessly, she allowed him to lead the way towards the room she will be staying in.

Of course, with her husband-to-be, about whom she had completely forgotten until he reminded her of his presence by almost barging into the room late into the evening and laying eyes on her. For a time, she thought he won't speak. "Don't think I will accept this arrangement just because my father said I must." He broke the silence, voice as cold as the powers he wielded. Y/N rolled her eyes, but chose to not argue any more than she needed to. "The thought hasn't even crossed my mind." She sneered sarcastically and turned her back on him. "I tolerate you, girl." His voice came as a warning "Don't change that." A scoff made his eye twitch in irritation "That's not my decision to make."

Bi Han stepped closer to her, slowly, calculating. "Choose your words carefully." Y/N sighed and turned around to face him. "Should I make space for you in this room or will you prefer to be sleeping elsewhere?"

[tickle-bugs]

But You Were Mine

Summary: Still hung up on the fit of Bruce’s body against his, Clark attempts the oldest possible ritual: getting to know his pseudo-sweetheart. Too bad Bruce Wayne is the most unknowable man on Earth. Sequel to Chase the Memory of it Still.

Yet again, blame @fickle-tiction for this. Doing a midnight post and run so I don’t have to look at this in the morning lol. Also warning for mild barely even lukewarm makeouts. Probably tamer than Part 1 lol. 

Also also: the beginning scene with Clark and Lois works best if you imagine that Lois doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman but suspects him, all while thinking Clark doesn’t know that Bruce is Batman. So she’s trying to protect him from being lied to and Clark is like ‘but Lois I love him’

“Clark Joseph Kent, you’re a grade-A idiot.” Lois thwaps the back of his head with a rolled-up newspaper. 

“I know,” Clark groans into the surface of Lois’s desk. She thwaps him again. 

“So, let me get this straight.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You somehow conned your way into a fake relationship with Bruce Wayne of all people, and now you have feelings for him?” 

“I’ve always had feelings for him,” He mumbles, suddenly feeling very small in his seat. When he looks up at her, she’s glaring at him. Ah, he’s in trouble. 

“You don’t know him.” She spreads her hands on the surface of her desk, knocking aside a few Daily Planet pens. He picks them up and puts them back. 

“Yes I do.” Clark frowns. 

“He’s an airhead playboy with zero priorities. You deserve someone who’ll be honest—“

“Oh? Like Selina?” 

Lois gets very quiet. Her stare pierces like a fine needle through his throat. A few battered emotions flicker over her face, leaving in their wake a rare and unguarded Lois. Then, quicker than the cat that stole her heart, her face resigns into something sharp and deadly. 

“I’m sorry.” He circles the desk and pulls her into a hug. After a begrudging glare, she tips her head into his chest. They inhale and exhale together—a routine they’ve shared for years. She relaxes into him.

“No, you’re right.” She chuckles. “I fell for a thief. That’s on me.” 

“And I spent the night with the one guy I shouldn’t have. We can’t all be perfect.” Clark elbows her, looking for a smile. Lois’s eyes blow wide and she starts spluttering. 

“You hooked up with him?” She thankfully keeps to a hissing whisper, but he can tell she wants to shout. He contemplates flying around the Earth fast enough to undo the moment, but she’s gripping his shirt tight enough to stop him.

“Well, okay, we kissed a bunch but it didn’t go further—“ 

“Oh god, we’re both hopeless.” She groans into her hands.

“No, not hopeless. We can both have what we want. I’ll call Bruce if, and only if, you call Selina.” He pulls her hands away from her face. She huffs and smiles. 

“This optimism thing is going to bite you in the ass. How do you think you’re gonna maintain a relationship with someone who doesn’t know that you, uh, work two jobs?” She casts a weary glance towards the office door and drops her voice even lower.

“He gets me, Lois.” It’s all he can say. It’s the truth. 

“Alright.” She brushes a thumb over his cheek. “Then get to know him at least. Find out if he’s the kind of guy worth being around.”

“I know he's worth it. That’s not ever in question.” Clark can’t help but smile a little as he thinks of Bruce. “It’s an internal thing. He sees me. I see him. We don’t have to pretend with each other. It’s…just us.”

Her keen eyes scan every inch of his face, even as he trails off.

“You should tell him.” She squeezes his arm. 

“What? No. Absolutely not. I only said that because I know you won’t call her. C’mon, you’re supposed to be the voice of reason here.” He squints at her. She flicks him in the forehead. 

“Okay, well the ‘voice of reason’ thinks you should say something before you lose this…somehow healthy-sounding relationship you have. With Bruce Wayne, of all people,” She mutters that last part, but Clark both hears and ignores it. 

“We’re friends and it’s good. Really good. He trusts me at least a little. I don’t want him to think I have ulterior motives. If I could read him at all, figure out what he wants…but I can’t. I can’t lose him.” 

“This isn’t the healthiest advice, but…start a list. Treat him like a case. What are some things that draw you to him? Things he hides? Things he shows only to you? If it makes you do that dopey giggle thing you do, he’s probably worth it.” She leans against the edge of her desk and crosses her arm. 

“I don’t do a giggle…thing,” he mumbles, but his face is already heating up an incriminating amount. 

“It’s cute. He’ll probably like it.” She tweaks his nose. He swats her hand away, but his spirits are far lighter.  

His phone buzzes and he checks it as discreetly as possible. 

B: Free this afternoon?

Clark smiles. 

C: On my way. :)

“I’ve gotta go.” He stands and shrugs on his suit jacket. 

“Boyfriend awaits?” She wiggles her eyebrows. 

“Bye, Lois.” He rolls his eyes. 

“Tell him I’d love to do an exclusive with him.” She snickers. 

“I’ll tell him that when you call Selina.” He smirks. She gasps her way into laughter, her face blooming pink. Her hand comes up to play with a diamond necklace sitting on her collarbone--a cat-shaped pendant he’s never seen her wear before--and shakes her head fondly. 

“I will after you kiss your playboy. Again.” She raises her eyebrow. Checkmate. 

“Bye, Lois,” He says a little louder. She playfully shoos him from her office. He kisses her cheek.

Clark can only smile when he hears her phone ringing and the faint “Hey, kitty” through the glass. 

….

It’s apt that Gotham is as dark and segmented as its protector, Clark thinks, because he’s never in his life met anyone as fragmented as Bruce Wayne. Everyone in the League is broken in some way, battered by traumas that still threaten to crush them, but Bruce is markedly...different. He covers the cracks in his soul with masks. For every unveiling, six more facades lay below it. 

The reporter in him finds a dark fascination with it. The lost Kryptonian in him finds it…depressing. The human in him is currently bouncing on his heels in the lobby of Wayne Tower until Bruce finally meets him downstairs. 

Bruce glides off of one of the elevators and nods at a few hushed executives who scurry in behind him. He must come off so effortless to them—not a hair out of place, a new suit and coat every day, but Clark can see the exhaustion clouding his eyes. Bruce Wayne is put together. Bruce is tired. 

“You seem eager.” Bruce gives him a practiced small smile as they fall into step. 

“I’m having the slowest of slow days. This was a much needed adventure.” Clark stretches his spine. It gives a loud, much needed crack. He’s just a little too big for his chair at the Planet and it’s starting to take its toll. 

“We’re just walking down the street,” Bruce chuckles. He bumps the doors to the building open and Clark darts out. A light flurry of snow twirls through the air as they start their walk. He catches a snowflake on his tongue before he can think better of it. Bruce’s smile grows a little wider. 

“So? Every trip away from my desk is an adventure. C’mon, I know a spot.” Clark nods to the side and they hang a left, passing under a train overpass. 

“You know a spot in Gotham?” Bruce raises a brow. 

“I get around.” Clark grins. 

………………………………………………………………………………………….

They end up at a patisserie on the East side, a small family-run shop that deserves far more business than it gets. Clark can smell the wonders within from a good mile away.

Months ago, when he was helping Lois write a scathing exposé on Wayne Enterprises, this spot had served him well. Nothing better than a building full of sweets and a decent wifi connection to get you through betraying a good friend. Shredding that article was easily the best decision of Clark’s life, especially since Lois’s pivot towards flaying Lexcorp alive won her an award. 

He buys them both coffee—black for Bruce, vanilla for himself—and sets about the intricate ritual of sweetening his coffee to perfection. This is normalcy. Normalcy is good. 

“This is the only part of Gotham I like.” Clark steals little peeks at Bruce, waiting for him to inevitably make fun of him, but his eyes are elsewhere.

A refrigerated display tower of macarons stands proudly next to the register, boasting all sorts of delicious surprises. The splash of color is welcome among the somewhat dreary day outside. 

“Hm?” Bruce’s gaze struggles to find its way back to Clark. 

“You seem distracted.” Clark pops the stirring straw into his mouth and pulls the remaining coffee out with a little slurp. He pops the lid onto his cup much slower than necessary. The first time you crush a cup of boiling liquid in public tends to change you, after all. He’s grown since then. 

“Heavy work day.” For a man so difficult to read, Bruce has never clearly been more full of shit. He doesn’t even try to look away from the cookie display. 

“Do you…want a macaron?” Clark doesn’t bother trying to stifle his amusement. 

“What? No.” Bruce withdraws slightly. 

“What’s your favorite? My treat.” Clark jerks a thumb towards the display. 

“Money isn’t the problem.” Bruce scoffs, but not unkindly. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. Clark tries to ignore the still-fading lovebite on Bruce’s neck that he left. 

“Then what is?” Clark leans forward on his elbows. Surprise flickers across Bruce’s face for the slightest of moments. 

“…I’ve never had one,” Bruce mumbles, shuffling a bit in his seat. Clark beams. 

“First time for everything. C’mon.” Clark vigorously beckons him over to the line. Bruce trails behind with an endearing awkwardness that he’s learned to identify: slow steps, shifty eyes, and silence. 

Clark takes his time to point out his favorite flavors and make a few recommendations, but he feels like he’s stumbling around in the dark. His sweet tooth is only rivaled by Diana’s—even then, their tastes match so closely that he’s a little lost with someone like Bruce. 

Bruce stares deeply at him. Clark’s rambling stutters to a halt. He pulls on his collar a bit. Adjusts his glasses. 

Bruce’s eyes seem so warm. Must be the light. 

“If today was my last day to live and you had to give me a macaron, what would you choose?” Bruce leans close. His eyes are on the display, thank god, because Clark doesn’t know that he can handle more of that eye contact right about now. 

“It amazes me that you’re so committed to the dark and brooding thing.” Clark rolls his eyes, and after some thought: “Raspberry.” 

“Hm. Okay.” And that’s that. Bruce orders quickly and walks away with his prize, leaving Clark to scramble after him. They sit back down in their quiet little corner, the naturally-frosted window fogging slightly at their presence. 

Bruce opens his box of macarons clinically, like he’s stripping it for parts. He takes one out and admires the color, gives it a little test squish, sniffs it. Clark watches the process with vested interest until Bruce pulls out another box and slides it towards him. 

“What’s this?” Clark pulls the box close. 

“Strawberry Cheesecake macarons. I saw you eyeing them when we came in.” Bruce pokes the box again, sliding them just a little more forward. 

“I’m not subtle, am I?” Clark pushes his glasses up again. He cracks the box open and pops a cookie in his mouth. His eyelids flutter shut and he does a little dance in his chair. 

“It’s one of your more endearing qualities.” Bruce quirks a small, smug smile. 

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clark fake sniffles. The resulting eyeroll is incredibly satisfying. 

Bruce takes a mouse-like nibble of the macaron, catching maybe an atom of cookie and filling between his teeth. He chews thoughtfully. 

“So? Do we have a winner?” Clark rests his chin on his hand. 

“I think so. You have good taste,” Bruce hums, taking another tentative bite of the macaron. A gentle, genuine smile peaks on his lips like a glimpse of the sun through storm clouds. 

“That’s the second nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Clark swipes a macaron from Bruce’s box fast enough to send a small breeze fluttering between them. 

“And it will never happen again.” Bruce peeks open one eye as he finishes his macaron. 

Okay, bumping shredding that Wayne Enterprises article down to number two. This, Clark thinks, watching Bruce smile to himself, this is easily top of the list. 

1 ) He likes raspberries. 

It takes later in the week until they have a moment to truly spend a bit of time together. Criminal roundups never leave much personal time, and Clark’s hearing has him near-constantly running to save lives. But, on a quiet Wednesday night, he has a moment. 

He loves visiting Wayne Manor. It’s been a while since he last swung by, but he adores the place. He could spend hours swooning over the architecture alone. It’s a beautiful place to disappear for a while, and he’s been doing that more and more lately. 

He gets buzzed into the gates easy enough with a lie about taking the bus, and then he’s standing in the massive foyer and hanging up his coat by the door. The manor smells of old wood and citrus. Clark draws in a big breath of it. 

He turns and jumps a bit when a flock of people are suddenly staring at him atop the stairs. Bruce’s kids, right. He knows Dick, Tim, and Jason. The others are still a bit fuzzy to him. They all leer from the landing like royalty watching a gladiator in the pit. 

“Hey there.” He waves at the smallest and angriest of the bunch. This is Damien, he’s pretty sure.

“So you’re the new guy.” A blonde—Steph, he remembers her from the Christmas card—leans on the railing with her forearms. 

“I wouldn’t mess with him, Steph. He’s tougher than he looks,” Dick murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, trying his best to be subtle. Clark gives him a friendly wave. He returns it. 

“He looks like he wears a pocket protector. I could take him,” Steph whispers to Dick. Clark tries to rein in his expression so he doesn’t give himself away. 

“I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m Clark. You’re all Bruce’s kids, right? It’s nice to meet you.” He tries to make himself look as friendly as possible. He gets a few waves, but mostly owlish stares. He sees where they get it from. 

“Is your father home?” Clark sticks his hands in his pockets and tries to kill the silence. 

“Bruce! Your boyfriend’s here!” Jason bellows. Clark bites his lip to hide his smile. 

“Clark?” Bruce peeks around the corner, then shuffles quickly down the stairs. 

“Hey. I, uh, had a few minutes. Just came by to see you before I went home.” Clark rubs the back of his neck with a smile, trying to kill the flutter in his chest. 

“Bruce, say something,” Tim hisses, crouching behind the banister as if Clark can’t see him. Bruce startles, glares at him, and then gestures for Clark to follow him. As they pass, all of the kids watch him go, whispering in a building flurry that he doesn’t bother dissecting. He tells himself it’s because they deserve their privacy, but really…he’s nervous. Severely. 

“I hope they didn’t make you uncomfortable. They can be a bit…eager.” Bruce’s smile is warm beneath the lights of the old manor. 

“They’re wonderful. Terrifying, but wonderful.” Clark chuckles and bumps their shoulders together while they walk. 

It’s these precious minutes that define their friendship more than anything. Clark tells Bruce all about his day, about his Lex Luthor exposé making the front page, about everything and nothing at all. He talks and Bruce listens, egging him on with gentle tilts of the head when he shyly falls into silence.

By the time they reach the gardens, it’s Clark’s turn to listen. Bruce tells him about the kids, occasionally stopping whenever he notices one lurking. He asks for his opinion on random scenarios. Clark can’t tell if they’re hypotheticals but he answers as truthfully as he can, chasing the little noises of appreciation that Bruce makes as he talks. 

Not only are Bruce’s masks interchangeable, taking him from Bruce to Batman to Bruce Wayne, they’re also removable. Clark doesn’t know when he was bestowed with the honor of being with Just Bruce, but he’s immensely grateful for it.  

“Good evening, Mr. Kent.” Alfred nods respectfully in his direction. “Master Bruce, you have a call from Mr. Fox. Line three, sir.” 

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce squeezes Clark’s shoulder. “You can wait here, if you’d like.” 

“Am I allowed to touch anything?” Clark teases.

“Anything you want.” Bruce winks at him, completely straight-faced, and disappears into the corridors of the manor. Clark’s face grows embarrassingly hot and he reclines against the lip of the fountain. 

He birdwatches as he waits, counting which of Bruce’s kids make normal, completely non-suspicious trips through his personal space. Dick’s the least sneaky of the bunch, but it lends him a genuine quality. He sits and chats with Clark for a few minutes, asking him about work and the like. He asks about his relationship with Bruce and Clark mumbles something non-committal, cheeks warm. 

Bruce, uh, never put out that statement about them breaking up. Clark thinks he might be alright if it never gets published. 

As the hours draw on, he catalogs where the other Robins like to hide. Tim and Damien have an affinity for hiding in the massive hedges surrounding the gardens, while Steph takes to watching from the windows. Cass is the hardest to spot but he catches her on the roof a few times, perched and enjoying the warm dusk breeze. He sees Jason with her once too.

If he’s learned anything from their father, it’s that staring is caring. Probably.

When Alfred fetches him hours later, he arrives at a scene he wants to burn permanently into his memory. 

Bruce is seated at the beautiful. obnoxiously long table in the dining room. He’s got a knee hiked up on the chair, picking idly at the fabric of his pants. On the table, a black kitten rolls around and bats at a toy. It’s sweet and oddly domestic. 

“Hey.” Bruce doesn’t turn. 

“Hi. Who’s this?” Clark holds a hand out to the kitten and it drops its paw on top of his palm, mewing softly. The squeaky, deflating noise that leaves him is not one he’s proud of. It’s so sweet and small. 

“Nyx. She’s a stray. I give her food when I can.” Bruce scratches her head gently. Nyx purrs and lays down on the table, tucking her head into the attention. She’s a precious baby, is what she is. Clark has half a mind to take her home. 

That is, until Bruce sneezes loud enough to send poor Nyx running. She flings herself off the table and into one of the manor’s seemingly endless corridors. 

“Bless you.” Clark chuckles. Bruce pulls a face. 

“Master Bruce.” Alfred hands him a box of tissues. 

“I can hear you laughing, Alfred,” he sniffles, hair a bit ruffled from the sneeze. Clark purposefully averts his eyes. 

“I would never, sir. Goodnight, Mr. Kent.” Alfred bows his head, sharing that mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Goodnight, Alfred.” Clark grins, settling into the oversized chair beside Bruce. 

2 ) He’s got a cat allergy, but he feeds the strays anyway. Bruce = cat person?

“Stop it.” Hearing the Batman voice and knowing it’s mostly because Bruce is annoyed is truly golden. 

“Stop what?” Clark floats leisurely alongside Bruce, arms behind his head. Keeping pace with him isn’t hard--he’s fast for human standards, but not by Clark’s. He’s made it a habit anyways not to zip too far ahead as they’ve grown closer. It kills the banter. 

“Look, all I’m saying is that if Batman started flying, criminals would absolutely take the week off. If I was a criminal and I thought Batman had suddenly gotten superpowers, I’d simply leave Gotham.” Clark flips upside down and hangs in front of Bruce, still drifting backwards in pace with him. 

He can sense Bruce trying not to smile, but when he opens his mouth to tease, karma speaks instead. Clark smacks his head into the side of a building just as Bruce slips through a narrow space between it and its neighbor. Clark flies up over the building and catches up with Bruce again, scowling. 

“I know you’re laughing.” Clark crosses his arms. 

“Me? Never. Just thinking about how great it is to be grounded.” Bruce allows himself the tiniest of smirks, just enough to be infuriating, and it’s Clark’s turn to roll his eyes. 

3 ) He restrains his emotions. Even the good ones. 

Roaming the Hall of Justice late at night is a cultivated hobby of Clark’s. The best snacks hide in the dark, after all, and he knows that no one’s gonna come bother him about a missing bag of chips at this hour. He needs time to think and food to think with. 

Clark’s feelings for Bruce could both span and fill an ocean. He doesn’t know when this happened. As far as he can remember, there’s always been this beacon of warmth in his chest guiding him to Bruce. Through every late night and early morning, through hopelessness and joy, Bruce is a constant. It’s too much to put on one person. Too risky. 

The ‘l word’ pops into his head like a dark omen, and he skids to a halt. He glances around, listening for any league members skulking around. All he hears is his own thundering heartbeat. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

He makes his way into the kitchen past a snoring Arthur, pausing to snatch the jumbo bag of cheese puffs from his limp grasp. He slips quietly out into the hall, passing by the lounge, where Bruce and Diana are laughing—

Clark backpedals, nearly tripping over his own feet, but god it’s worth it. Bruce is clutching Diana’s shoulder and giggling, stuck in the loop of overwhelming laughter that follows an unyielding barrage of jokes. 

They’re still suited up, probably fresh off a patrol, and Clark wonders how long they’ve been sitting here. A mountain of chocolates, the fancy ones, cover the surface of the table. Diana delicately sorts through and plucks the ones she wants from the pile as Bruce watches. 

“Diana’s the new team comedian. None of you are funny.” Bruce recovers from his laughter, but the smile stays, and Clark makes an active effort to be normal about it. The delirium of another late night in a row must have gotten to him. That’s the only explanation. 

“Barry will be devastated.” Clark chuckles. He leans in the doorframe and catches a cheese puff in his mouth. 

“He will survive.” The sparkle in Diana’s eye has him wishing he had tuned into their conversation. 

“If I had known y’all were partying in here, I would’ve come to hang out.” Clark crunches on another cheese puff, mostly to distract himself from the way Bruce’s eyes are sparkling. He didn’t know they could do that. 

“There’s no reason you can’t party with us now.” Diana gestures to the seat next to Bruce. 

Aw, what the hell? Eating junk food together couldn’t be much worse than doing it alone. 

4 ) Bruce can laugh--he just has to be caught off-guard. He likes to laugh (?) (who doesn’t?)

“When you said you needed help, I thought you meant with translating.” Clark wanders into the room. The concrete is irritatingly cold on his feet. 

Bruce types away wildly at a computer station with too many monitors. A pair of giant goggles on his head pull his hair out of his face. Clark leans over his shoulder to see what he’s doing, but the code flying across the screen is a nightmare. 

At the opposite end of the room, a mechanical rig sits primed on a set of rails. In the center, a gnarly looking gun barrel stares out into an empty expanse. 

“I’m trying to test new ammunition for the Batmobile, but my target system is down. Can’t reboot it.” Bruce clicks something else and the gun starts calibrating. A pathetic clicking sound picks up as targets struggle to ascend from the floor, twitching lifelessly in their compartments. 

“Do you want help?”

“With coding?” Bruce turns with an expression just shy of condescending.

“God no. I am bulletproof, if you remember.” Clark sticks his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. 

“Doesn’t help. I need to study the impacts afterwards.” Bruce gestures to a massive chunk of concrete on a stand nearby. Clark hefts it into his arms with a quiet grunt. 

“Just...keep up with the gun. I prefer my walls without bullet holes.” Bruce quickly turns away from him. Clark can hear his heartbeat pounding. He starts to ask, but the gun rig starts warming up and he sacrifices his curiosity. 

“Alright. Whenever you’re ready.” Clark adjusts his stance to prep for the recoil. The machine whirrs and clicks as it loads itself with rounds. Bruce types in a few things on a nearby control panel and pulls the goggles down over his eyes. 

The gun barrel spins and whines as it gains force. Clark hovers a few inches off the ground and tenses. He lines the concrete up with his chest, his eyes just clearing over top of it. 

The machine fires quicker and lower than he anticipates. 

A sharp zing zips up Clark’s side, then another, then another, and he drops the concrete, instead covering his smile while forcing himself to stay still. That’s certainly not his best idea--no block means no cover, which subsequently means getting pelted with another wave of bullets. 

Clark crumples into a flurry of giggles before he can stop himself. He curls up as much as he can—partly to stop any new onslaughts, mostly to hide his reddening face. He’s been shot more than anything and it’s never bothered him. He didn’t know he could be ticklish to touch, let alone to goddamn bullets. 

“Clark! Are you okay?” Bruce leaps over the gun rig and pulls the safety goggles up onto his head. 

“Y-Yes. I’m fine. Your machine…thing packs a punch.” Clark clears his throat to stop the rogue snickers forming a conga line in his throat. 

“I thought you were supposed to be bulletproof.” Bruce huffs, kicking the pieces of shattered brick out of the way. He swipes at Clark’s torso, probably trying to brush away the dust on him. Clark flinches under the touch and coughs over a laugh. 

“I am. It just…felt…weird.” Clark snatches Bruce’s wrist a little too quickly. Bruce’s brow furrows and he leans close, eyes glued to Clark’s stomach with sheer worry. His face resolves into tense understanding. Clark lets his hand go. 

“What? What?” He tries to catch Bruce’s gaze. There shouldn’t be anything wrong. He feels fine. Nothing pierced. Definitely not bleeding—he learned what that feels like and he hates it. But Bruce has an eye for things that Clark could never dream of noticing, and right now he’s staring like Clark already has a foot in the grave. 

“Can’t believe you fell for that.” Bruce smirks. He pulls Clark close—hello—and kneads unhurried fingers into his stomach. 

No one will ever believe him. Bruce Wayne is tickling him and no one will ever believe him. 

“B-Bruce!” Clark strains out of Bruce’s grip as best as he can, trying not to break any useful bones, but his joints keep turning to jelly. His forehead collides with Bruce’s shoulder and he shimmies rather uselessly. 

“This is very entertaining, in case you were wondering.” Bruce hums and starts pinching up Clark’s sides. His warm breath sends goosebumps flaring over his throat. 

“I wasn’t!” It’s more of a squeak than words. Evil fingers manage to squeeze beneath his arms and Clark jumps directly into the air. 

“Did you just fly away?” A genuine laugh floats out of Bruce, warm and a bit scratchy. Clark wishes he could hear more of that instead of his own dorky laughter ringing in his ears. 

“Not on purpose—shut up!” Clark aims a half-hearted kick at Bruce’s shoulder. His face burns hotter than the sun and he hides in his hands. 

Bruce grabs his ankle and tries to reel him in like a lost balloon. Clark almost falls for it until suddenly calloused hands are scritching along the bottom of his foot. He giggle-snorts. Kryptonite through the chest would be a mercy, at this point. 

A hush falls over the room. Clark dares to peek through his fingers. 

“Oh.” Bruce blinks, then the most wicked grin overtakes his face. “Do that again.” 

“You’re the worst!” Clark pulls his leg towards his body and accidentally takes Bruce with it--who doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, by the way. Every time he lowers his leg, Bruce doesn’t let go. 

“I don’t want to drop you!” Clark shrieks as if a bug is crawling on him, rather than a person. 

“Then don’t.” Bruce squeezes his calf and Clark whines his way into a fit of cackles. His body trembles with the effort to not fly directly through the ceiling. The illusion of escape makes it so much worse, especially with Bruce’s fingers worming behind his knee. 

“You coming down or am I gonna have to call the fire department?” Jesus, Bruce has a real talent for smirking out loud. Clark tries to shake him off without throwing him across the room. Bruce digs his fingers into Clark’s thigh like he’s climbing a tree and the resulting yelp has Clark resolving to flee the country. 

“Y-You’re not building a great case as to why I should!” He flinches after a flurry of giggles and slams his head into the ceiling. Plaster and dust rain down on the two of them. Clark tries to cover the crater he left behind with his hands and a bashful smile. 

“Alright, I’m done. I’d like to keep my ceiling in one piece.” Bruce pulls him down to Earth, only letting go when he’s sure that Clark won’t float away again. 

“Ticklish Superman. Who knew?” Bruce scritches beneath Clark’s chin, just like at the gala all those weeks ago, and Clark shoves his chin down with a snort. 

“No one, and I prefer it that way. Keep it quiet.” He can’t muster any severity in his voice and he’s not sure it would help if he could. The thought of Lois finding out--or worse, Diana--starts an inescapable loop of nervous smiles and a light fluttering in his chest. 

“No promises.” Bruce smirks. “I hear Lois wants an exclusive. Maybe I’ll give her a call.”

“Don’t you dare. Bruce—“

He dials her office line, jogging towards the stairs. Clark shrieks and chases after him. 

5 ) He’s mischievous. Deathly so. 

…

After a long while of staring at his pitiful little list, Clark still finds himself restless. He has naught more than a skeleton, clinging scraps of Bruce’s infinite depths. The paper isn’t suited to contain him. He might actually know less than before.

Even as Bruce beats the shit out of him, he can’t think of anything else. 

“Why don’t you let anyone get to know you?” Clark frowns at Bruce across the sparring mats. Bruce runs and leaps onto his shoulders, executing a flawless scissor grip. Clark raises his hand to support his back and Bruce swats him away. 

“What?” Bruce grunts, bringing his elbows down onto Clark’s head. He barely notices. 

“You’re always so stoic. You never let anyone see you happy.” Clark flips Bruce off his shoulders and down onto his back. He puts his hands on his hips and stares down at him. 

“No, I never let anyone see me vulnerable. There’s a difference.” Bruce wraps his legs around Clark’s and takes him down, quickly rolling atop him. Within a second, Bruce unleashes a flurry of blows that, if Clark could feel more than dull impacts, he probably would fear.  

“You’re allowed to be vulnerable in front of your friends, Bruce. That’s what makes them friends, not coworkers.” Clark catches his fists and holds them. 

“I’ll pass along your suggestion. Are you going to fight back or should I go get Diana?” Bruce raises an eyebrow, breathing hard. Clark flips them both and pins Bruce down. 

“I just think—stop wiggling—we should bond more, y’know? Know thy enemy, and all that.” Clark keeps pressing down until Bruce sighs and goes still in his grip. He knows he’s defeated. Smart man. 

“That tends to apply to actual enemies, not coworkers.” Bruce sighs. 

“Well, we’re more than that, aren’t we?” Clark presses, searching Bruce’s eyes. Bruce nods, looking all for the world like he might bolt from the room. 

“Sooo, what’s your favorite color?” When Bruce is silent, Clark rolls his eyes and sits back. “Mine is yellow. Your turn.”

“…lavender.” Bruce eyes him warily. Clark helps him to his feet and they start the cycle again. The minute they stop fighting each other’s rhythm, they find a flawless sync. 

“Nice! Okay, uh…favorite food?” Clark ducks under Bruce’s left hook and shoves him back. 

“Alfred’s chicken noodle.” Bruce kicks Clark across the face and he lets himself go down. He brushes some of the dust off. 

“That sounds nice.” He grins up at Bruce from the mat. The light haloes behind his head so beautifully. 

“Yeah.” Bruce clears his throat. “And you…?” He pulls Clark to his feet and resets his stance. 

“Can’t go wrong with a slice of fresh apple pie.” Clark sweeps forward with a wink. 

Bruce shakes his head and snickers, then punches Clark hard enough in the ribs to crack his own knuckles. 

…

Two sharp knocks on the doorframe announce Bruce before his voice does. Clark looks up from the dull light of his laptop. 

“Got a second?” Bruce leans in the doorframe, cloaked in slight shadow. He’s dressed comfortably, surprisingly, in a soft t-shirt and sweatpants that hug him well. It makes Clark wanna pull him close. 

“Always, yeah.” Clark sets his computer aside and sits up. Bruce leans against the edge of his desk and fishes something out of his pocket. 

“Found some intel. I could use a fresh set of eyes on it.” The moon casts loving light across his eyes and jaw.

“Of course.” Clark sits up more. 

“Found this nearby. I was hoping you could decipher it.” Bruce hands over a scrap of folded paper. Clark furrows his brow as he takes it, gingerly opening it up. He casts a curious glance at Bruce before he starts to read.

It’s his notes. His notes on Bruce. Shit.

He looks up slowly, horrified. Bruce smirks in full force, oozing mischief that Clark now knows is very much in character. 

“Normally, I’m not a fan of being watched. Try to avoid it as much as I can.” 

“You’re a hard man to read.” Clark clears his throat and folds the paper down to hide its contents further. 

“Yet it seems you’ve cracked the code,” Bruce hums. Clark catches the faint glimmer of that old playboy spark. Bruce’s lips tilt into a devilish smirk. 

“So, I’m right then? It’s important…for the record.” Clark scoots up against the headboard in an attempt to look casual. Bruce sits at the foot of the bed. Voluntarily. Clark stops breathing.

“I would say that parts are accurate.”

“Parts?” He clears his throat. Bruce snatches the paper from his grip. He starts murmuring as he skims the list. 

“Let’s see…I like raspberries but I’m allergic.”

“You’re what?” The color drains from Clark’s face. Bruce shrugs.

“What else? Oh—I’m a dog person. I have a soft spot for cats.”

“Huh.” 

“I am physically capable of laughter.” Bruce rolls his eyes.

“Proved that one already.” Clark smiles. Bruce scowls, then turns back to the paper. Clark remembers, in a terrible flash, the looping doodles of ‘Clark Kent-Wayne’ at the bottom of the page and chokes out a strangled scream. 

He disintegrates the paper with a precise blast of heat vision. He feels a little bad for scorching the wall, but not that bad. The evidence is gone. Plausible deniability. 

“Seriously?” He brushes the ash off his hands. 

“I gotta keep my secrets.” Clark shrugs, but his face is incandescent with heat. 

“What about that paper was so bad that it made Superman blush?” Bruce smirks. 

“There is nothing on God’s green earth that you could do to make me tell you.” Clark grins from atop the high ground. 

Bruce plucks his glasses off of his nose and sets them aside, careful not to touch the lenses. It’s a tender gesture for what is essentially a costume, but something in his heart flutters at the delicate care. 

“Are you sure?” He leans close—close enough for Clark to catch a whiff of cologne and the intoxicating sparkle in his eye, close enough for Clark to lean in on instinct, and close enough for Bruce to wrap his hands around Clark’s waist like he’d been wishing he would since that stupid gala. Clark’s lips part. 

“Okay, there might be a couple thi—“ Clark cuts himself off with a squeal, slamming his head into the headboard—the resulting crack speaks to a later promise of duct tape. As Bruce shoves his hands under his arms, Clark’s laughter bowls him over quicker than he can apologize. 

“You are such a kid!” He throws his head back and cackles, curling into the tightest possible ball that his hulking form could take. Bruce leans over him. 

“You have no grounds to call me that. You’re giggling.” Bruce raises an eyebrow, 

“Because you’re t-tickling—” Clark regretfully finishes his sentence with a snort. Bruce lights up and chases the sound, relentlessly working his fingers into the grooves of his ribs. Clark hits his head again--there goes the rest of the headboard. And part of the wall.

Between the buzz of being touched by Bruce and being unused to this kind of touch, Clark melts into a haphazard pile of Superman with embarrassing speed. Bruce manages to work his fingers up further, right into his top rib, and he punches a hole directly into the nightstand, sending the lamp toppling over. Bruce relents then, passively assessing the damage while Clark drags in a deep breath. 

“You really think it’s a good idea to tickle someone who could throw you into the sun?” Clark huffs, wobbling on a smile. Bruce smirks. 

“Never said it was a good idea. Just an alluring one.” 

“You find me alluring? Scandalous, Mr. Wayne.” Clark offers a teasing grin. Bruce’s brow crinkles with concern. He goes from fiddling with Clark’s waist to fiddling with his hands. 

Bruce gets tactile when he’s stressed. Or when something’s on his mind.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Clark asks softly. He scoots just a bit closer. 

“The day after the gala, I had Vicki write up a piece about you and I splitting. Like I promised. It was never published.” 

“I noticed,” Clark says carefully, tracking every detail of Bruce’s face. 

“I asked her not to.” 

“Why?”

“I knew if the article went live, you would stop with the affection and the dates. I know it was only for appearances, but…I really enjoyed it. I wasn’t ready to let it go. I…care about you.” Bruce looks up at him, worry entrenched in the dips of his face. It slips to something resigned and neutral, a blank mask. 

Clark smiles like a lunatic, covering his mouth to hide it. He contains the desperate urge to take a lap around the manor. Months, years, of pining bloom into sweet possibility within him. The weight of guilt sloughs off his shoulders. Bruce likes him. 

“Y’know, for the smartest man in Gotham, you miss quite a lot.” Clark leans in and waits. Bruce’s eyes flick to Clark’s lips, and in a Batman-esque flash of motion, he swoops down and kisses him. Their bodies slot together almost magnetically. Clark flips them over and bears back down, swallowing Bruce’s gasp of surprise in his mouth. 

In an insane way, kissing Bruce is like coming home. 

He flings his arms around Clark’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer. Clark immediately, greedily, lets his lips travel along Bruce’s pulse point. He chases the memory of the gala, littering desperate bruises along the cologne-tinged skin. His hand lingers at the base of his throat, brushing reverent fingers as he marks every inch available to him. 

Bruce yelps into a giggle, breaking them apart. Clark blinks, processing, then grins with unbridled power. 

“This feels…counter-productive.” Bruce swallows, bobbing Clark’s hand. His skin is hot and red to the touch. 

“Nice try. You already enabled me—that was your first mistake.” Clark tickles him everywhere he can reach, dodging elbows and headbutts. Bruce cackles from his core, stumbling through a few high-pitched syllables of protest as he twists. He works so hard to force his voice back into its usual octave that it cracks. Clark snickers. 

“I am going to kill you,” Bruce growls, reaching back to return the favor. Clark slams his arm down on the mattress, caressing the back of his hand with immovable fingertips. 

“Then this is a wonderful last night on Earth.” Clark nibbles on his earlobe. Bruce’s giggly scream and the ensuing threats on his life are music to Clark’s ears.

[zeezelweazel]

Lottie Matthews| On the field|

______________________________________

This is the first time I do a fic for s single character please bear with me

Also is it too obvious that I'm obsessed with Lottie?

Also I'm sorry in advance if this is confusing to people who don't know much about football I don't know how else to explain the positions since I've always been a football gal. But I am a European so like I have no clue how nationals work

Summary: You and your team have made it to nationals and you promised yourself that nothing will distract you from winning. Little did you know the enemy team's CB is going to steal your heart like she steals the ball from your feet.

______________________________________

You are nervous about this game, I mean of course, you are at motherfucking nationals. You are not going to let anything get in your way. You are ready to give it your all and as your team's top striker everyone depends on you to seal the deal.

It's already been 30 minutes since the game started and even though the score is set at zero for both teams you're quite confident you can win this. Wiskayok High School, the team you were going against, was good alright but you were better. It is quite obvious that their striker was getting frustrated by your defenders blocking her each and every time she tries anything and their desperation becomes more obvious as their midfielders try to push more and more, without producing any results.

Their defense on the other hand is having trouble controlling the ball and keeping you at bay to the point where one of their midfielders, number 6, has to stay behind for extra help.

All was going well until the second half started and the Yellowjackets started of with a switchover. You tried to suppress a grin when you saw their coach bring in a fresh player in their backline just in hopes of stopping you. Suppressing your grin though became a lot harder when you took a look at the girl running across the field, heading straight to you to claim the central-back position.

Her hair is dark and curly tied in two pigtails with small yellow bows. Her eyes are a soft chocolate colour that perfectly matches her soft face. She's tall, like really tall, and her sun kissed skin seems to shine in the sunlight. When your eyes go back up to her face, after you took a good look at her from head to toe, you notice her staring right back at you.

Fuck, she caught me staring.

You are about to look away in embarrassment when you notice a faint blush in her cheeks. Well maybe you weren't the only one staring.

The sound of loud cheering brings you back to the game. You look at the score board and sure enough the score was now 0-1. You let out a sigh honestly disappointed by how you're losing when everything was going fine three seconds ago. As you're moving to get in position for the kickoff you can't help but look back at the stunning CB and to your surprise she's not just looking at you, she's full on smirking.

Oh game on Yellowjackets.

During the next 15 minutes you relentlessly attacked working perfectly with your midfielders to put pressure on the enemy defense. There were so many good opportunities for you to score but all of them were cut short thanks to their number 5.

It's like you and this gorgeous girl silently created a 1v1 and after one point it honestly felt like it was only you and her on the field.

The match is nearing it's end with the clock ticking at 80 minutes and that's when you see the goal coming in the form of a crossover pass that lands right in front of you and after dribbling your way out of their defense, it's only you and their goalkeeper and you swear you see the the crowd already cheering as you lift your leg ready to shoot...

And then suddenly the world is upside down and you hit your head really hard on the turf and you're honestly so ready to get up and start yelling at the idiot that did this.

When you open your eyes you're met with wide and apologetic brown ones and you don't register anything else going on for what feels like years until you try to get up but you're unable to.

You both look down at the same time just to see her strong thick thighs frame your hips and her hands clutching the front of your jersey. Now it's your turn to smirk as she blushes and stumbles to get up on her feet. She extends her arm to help you up but you don't waste the opportunity and tug her down so she's face to face with you.

"Let me buy you a milkshake after we win." You whisper in her ear before walking in your position to execute the foul she just granted you, leaving her dumbfounded.

After you hear the whistle all it takes is a good kick and three seconds before the crowd goes wild and you're surrounded by your teammates. You can't deny how your eyes skipped over all the disappointed faces of your opponents before locking in with soft brown ones. This time you don't try to suppress your grin when you see a soft smile on her face.

The last few minutes of the game were torturous as both teams tried incredibly hard to out do one another. But, no matter the effort of your dear number 5, the enemy defense was just not strong enough to stop you from scoring again just a few minutes before the end of the game and getting the win for your team.

After the final whistle, you go around the field shacking hands with your opponents and feeling sorry for them after seeing their hurt and disappointed expressions.

"Hey, good game miss Messi."

You turn around, startled by the unfamiliar voice only to find your favourite defender staring back at you with a soft loopy smile.

"You too um...?"

She looked at you confused for e few seconds before she registered the silent question.

"Lottie. How about you?"

"It's Y/N"

You two simply smile at eachother for e few seconds before the moment gets ruined by exaggerated sounds of kissing. When look to the side you spot their goalkeeper, who is still making those sounds while wiggling her eyebrows, alongside their midfielders, numbers 7 and 8, who are trying and failing to fight back their laugh.

"Oh my god." Lottie mumbled quietly beside you as she put her head on her hands in defeat and embarrassment. You only giggle and grab her hand, leading her towards the locker rooms.

"Come on, we still have that date to go to."

____________________________________________________

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

Wilbert's Worst

Right, so I really was open to having my mind changed on The Worst One but nobody’s argument has budged me.

I was going to write a complete, balanced essay on The Worst W. Awdry Book, but I’m a) mired in the research phase (hey if anyone knows someone with an encyclopedic knowledge of Tom and Jerry hit me up, for real) and b) right now I wanna talk about the characters and their Beloved Dynamics instead. 

So I'm just gonna get this out of the way so I can post the poll and move on to answering fun asks and watching Tom and Jerry in peace. Behold: a salty and unbalanced review.

Wilbert’s biggest failure of a children’s storybook? 

Henry the Green Engine 

Ohhh… because of the, uh, ra —?

Because of the racism, yes!

Oh. You do know that since 1972 they’ve republished it without the n-slur? 

Good for them. Two things: 

1. I know it used to be there, I’m never able to read it without knowing it was there in the first edition.

2. I consistently try, when ranking the books, to consider them in the context in which they came out. Because of this, I don’t like using “things that happened later” (like a new character never being properly used again or whatever) against the book. This helps me evaluate the author’s successes and failures against what they were trying to achieve when they wrote it vs what I would most want (blorbo content). It helps me not bring to bear the whole weight of fanon and fandom on a text that should be able to stand or fall on its own. Tl;dr I try to read the books like a guy who picked it up in 1951, or whatever. 

And yeah, if I’d bought this when it came out it would have had the slur. I’m going to judge it accordingly. 

Look, racism is bad, no argument, but does that mean the book as a whole must be condemned? 

Yeah, I think the slur and the “aaaand suddenly, blackface! heeheehee” bullshit fuck over the entire book, game over. Go directly to jail, do not collect $200. 

The Railway Series is not a work of high art or deep thorny complex literature. The books are meant for children — small children, at that. Children small enough to get bedtime stories read to them. The main goal of each book (especially this early on — you do have to manage secondary priorities like “pleasing the long-time fanbase” the longer you go, but right now we’re only 6 books into the series) is to create a happy imaginary world to enhance childhoods and family lives… to impart to other parents and kids a similar cosy happiness to that the author and his own kids enjoyed when he was workshopping/drafting the stories for them. When we say “children’s book” we really do mean little’uns — these average 1.25 full-color illustrations per page!

And these books sold in large numbers. This means it’s a certainty that somewhere in 1951 there was a Black family who owned the whole series, who went out to the shops, whose kid was like “ooh! Henry gets a book, neat…,” who like everyone else enjoyed the wild ride of Henry’s inspection and coal and wreck and rebuild… only to get verbally spat on one page from the end. 

Real mood-killer there. Epic fail, as the cool kids used to say in my youth. 

All right, fine, cool kids never said that. Anyway, statistically speaking there was certainly even more than one family that got that experience. Not to mention the non-Black families who even in 1951 were like “... wtf? i’d smack my kid if they ever said a word like that around me, geez. no.” Just a lot of people who had the light the book was kindling in them snuffed out all at once. 

You can actually be totally racist and your book not commit creative suicide on the penultimate page! Awdry flubbed his job of 'bestselling books-for-six-year-olds' here. Creative failure. Unforced error. Automatic zero. 

But times were different then, you have to consider it in the context of the time. 

1951 U.K. was not the nadir of multiracial equality or Black power, but jfc. I can assure you that over 99% of children’s books published that year in the Anglosphere managed to not use the n-slur. 

All right, all right. That was bad. But this feels off-topic. If you had never known about what used to be “Henry’s Sneeze,” would you still rank the entire book as dead last in the Wilbert Awdry corpus? 

Not dead last, but it is not a strong book. “Coal” and “The Flying Kipper” are super-interesting as material for Henry, but after that the book kind of falls off a cliff; the intrigue drops dramatically. The railway incidents chosen to make stories of are all solid choices, but it was not only “Sneeze” where Awdry’s handling of the material feels clumsy and weird. (And I’m not even talking here of the “heehee blackface — ain’t i a stinker?” gag in “Sneeze.”) 

But… “The Flying Kipper”? C’mon. It’s a superb story and no book that contains it can be the absolute worst in the series. 

“TFK” remains easily the best single TVS episode ever – but a lot of that is down to Britt and David’s artistry and judgment. 

Don’t get me wrong, a full-on railway wreck makes interesting material. But I don’t think the book does nearly as much with it as it could (and I’m trying sooooo hard here to forget about the amazing TVS adaptation, as I think it REALLY shows Awdry up. Even so, the storytelling here is surprisingly tepid and low-stakes). I get that Awdry probably wanted to lean into the comic angle and not make Henry’s condition afterwards seem too grave, in order to ensure the material wasn’t too dark for his young audience? (*mutters* again, a level of tender consideration for his readers’ youth that went right out the window when it came to small Black kids, evidently coz he couldn’t imagine that they read) Understandable, laudable — but if he outright refuses* to make the wreck too dramatic or scary then, well, then the wreck isn’t real scary or dramatic. And it can’t save the rest of the book from its flaws. 

*For all I know it could have been the publishers who insisted that the wreck be made preschooler-safe, that’s possible (although it’s also consistent with Awdry’s brand of humor and his overall low degree of emotionalism in his writing). Either way, though, the end result book is what it is and it will be judged accordingly. 

In addition to not being as exciting as many remember... @trainsupessandhuntresses asked me once if I thought some of Awdry's stories were "mean-spirited." I had to assent vigorously. And a surprisingly high proportion of those "mean" moments are in Henry the Green Engine? For some reason? It’s not just the racism. Awdry was not in the game to give Henry a deserved happy ending, he’d wanted to kill him off (the fuck?) and when his publishers prevented him (I don’t say this often, especially since I love how salty the Awdrys get about their publishers, but this in case good job, publishers!!) he wrote “TFK” with the primary motivation of giving Henry a new engine basis. Any soft or hearty emotions we get out of the deal are a side-effect — the only emotion that was fueling Awdry as he wrote this was spite, spite and a weird resentment towards his poor, long-suffering, invaluable illustrator. (I don’t blame Awdry for being frustrated that the engine illustrations were continually inaccurate or confusing, but I do think it’s weird to read all this great Henry material knowing that it was written with such poor grace.) 

So his ‘happy Henry’ stuff feels perfunctory; his Percy interlude is just brutal (why did you have to drag Percy into Henry’s book purely to give him a fuck-up, a scolding, and a messy dunce cap?); Gordon’s savaging of Henry for being too happy after recovering from a near-death experience is such an incredibly low point for Gordon that it’s hard for me to accept it as canon (there’s being proud, boastful, and self-absorbed, and then there’s being the straight-up raccoon dumpster fire Gordon is in that scene). Oh, and I think “call the police [local constabulary, doesn’t bear firearms]” woulda probably a less reckless way of dealing with the rock-throwing youths than the sneeze of hot locomotive ashes, which of course the Fat Controller doesn’t like, that shit coulda been real dangerous! Mind, there are small rays of kindness throughout that do get me (the interactions between Henry and his crew feeling to me the least perfunctory and most heartfelt), but this is overall such a mean-spirited book. God. It starts off with such a gentle story (almost a non-story, if you’re in it purely for the “railway incidents” game and not character drama), but in short order the vibes just sorta suck. At least in other RWS books, when the vibes are off, they’re usually off near the beginning and then improve by the end. This one gets worse as it goes on. Oof. Don’t like that. 

Also, the last page is sooooo lame. I suspect the publisher strong-armed Awdry into writing most of it so that at least the slur wasn’t on the last page of the book... and if Awdry had any idea of how much he’d just empowered Henry and all his fans in this book he shouldn’t have found it hard to find 50 extra words to sum things up. As it was, he’s just filling space and running out the clock, lol. Lame wrap-up. Boring. As usual when it comes to every little thing about this book, Britt and David closed this up better (mind, their closer – “He had taught Gordon and silly boys a lesson, with a whistle and a sneeze” – also sucked. But at least it was blessedly short.)

Didn’t you once list HtGE on a list of your favorite Wilbert Awdry books? 

I did list it as one of the books that “at one time or another” have been my favorite in the series. Unfortunately in the case of HtGE, that was back when I really couldn’t read a story that I knew from the TVS without mentally substituting the adaptation into my brain as I read… largely overriding the actual text. Plus, everything I knew from TVS as a kid kind of automatically got a halo effect. Plus, I was super into Henry’s arc. 

The first time I read HtGE after calming down and actually reading all the books as books... massive disappointment. There is such a gap there between what I'd thought the book said (all our incredible fanon work overanalyzing and headcanoning Henry and building this beautiful fantasy arc about disability!) vs. what it actually said (limp and careless writing, mean vibes, airbrushed n-slur, bad aftertaste). 

I do think there is some stuff about the development of Awdry’s storytelling technique here that is interesting (again, Tom and Jerry superfans reading this, please shoot me a message!) but it doesn’t counteract everything else. 

At least we’re over the racism stuff? 

Nah, I’m not over it, actually. 

[signoraviolettavalery]

So I was taking a walk, and my discord was messaging me gig vids, and then somebody told me Jere was at the gig like a tour wife, and this just happened, ok.

starts with bojere, but is also bokris aka the start of a poly situation

It's a day before their first Helsinki gig, and Jere had, of course, been excited to hear all their new music. They've always supported each other's new creations, and Bojan is eager to share these ones too - including Bluza. Which Jere loves, but asks about the lyrics of.

"It's about falling in love for the first time," Bojan explains. "You didn't think it could be like in the movies and the songs, but it does, and suddenly the room you're in together is too small for the size of what you feel."

"It's about Kris, no?" Jere asks, and Bojan freezes. He can feel himself flushing, feeling caught, but also kicking himself, because Jere has seen the truth.

"Jere - " he starts.

"Is okei," interrupts. "I know you love me. But I think I am not first love?"

"Yeah," Bojan admits. "He was my first. But Jere, I really do love you. And I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, performing this in front of you. It's not fair to you."

Jere just takes his hand and squeezes it, smiling. "Is okei. I am not jealous," he says. "We are musicians. We write about life experience."

And Bojan feels like the luckiest person in the world. A feeling he absolutely must express with a kiss right now, because what else is he supposed to do when he has such an understanding boyfriend?

Then the gigs happen. They premiere Bluza, and Sta bih ja. They premiere another song, and the 'princess' just slips out of his mouth when addressing Kris. And then they're doing Ona, and it's in his native language, and he always feels the Serbian songs so much more deeply, and he's caught in the high of being onstage, of performing again, and he finds himself kneeling for Kris as he sings up at him.

It's only after the gig that he comes back down to Earth. They meet fans, they congratulate each other, and he gets a warm hug from Jere. "You were brilliant, Jokerman!" But Bojan can tell he has something else to say, and his heart clenches. Did he go to far? What was he thinking, kneeling for Kris in front of jere after the conversation they'd had? He's an inconsiderate boyfriend for sure, and if Jere is mad at him, he'd understand.

But Jere is calm and sweet when they get home that night, and calm and sweet when he says "you still love him."

He doesn't need to specify who.

Bojan sighs. "I do. I'm so sorry, Jere. But i love you too, I really do, I swear. And I'd never cheat on you, I'm not like that, I don't do that."

But Jere is still smiling at him. He doesn't seem to be upset in the least, and it's throwing Bojan off completely. He takes Bojan's hand again, squeezes it.

"I think, is possible to love two people equally," he says. "You love him, and you love me."

Bojan blinks. He hadn't ever dared to articulate it to himself in that way before, but it's true. He adores Jere, and his give-zero-fucks attitude, his laughter, his smile, his confidence. And he adores Kris, and his smile, and the sweetness that hides behind his cold facade, and his intelligence, and his talent on the guitar.

"And," Jere continues. "I think he feel the same way."

At that, Bojan definitely snorts. "He most definitely doesn't."

"I see what you do not see. How he look when you not look at him," Jere says. "Onstage and ... off the stage."

There's excitement bubbling in his chest, but it's stifled by the realization of what Jere is probably getting at.

"So are you...asking me to choose?" Bojan asks, voice trembling. "Him or you?"

"No!" Jere is vehement now. "Like I say before. I am not jealous. I think is possible to love two people the same. And I not know how Kris feel, but if he want, and you want, you can have both. Is okei with me."

Bojan frowns. "You're suggesting I have a relationship with both of you? What, one of you is my boyfriend and the other is my side piece?"

Jere sighs and fixes him with a slight glare. "You always imagine worst, Bojan," he says, in that patient but slightly reproachful tone he uses when he's being very reasonable about Bojan's own hangups. "Is possible that relationship be healthy but uncon- not conventional. I have seen it. I have friends who do this."

Bojan looks down at their hands, where Jere is holding his, and twines their fingers together. His heart is thundering, with love for Jere and excitement and half a dozen other emotions.

"And you'd really be okay with that?" he asks.

"Yes," Jere replies. "You know I am honest. I don't do what I don't want to do, I don't agree to what makes me not comfortable. And," this time, he brings Bojan's hands to his lips. "I want you happy. I trust you love me. I trust it not go away."

Bojan shakes his head, tears in his eyes. "How did I get this lucky?"

Jere grins. "Universe works in mysterious way." Then he adds, "talk to Kris."

......and that's all I have for you folks!

[layla4567]

Let me take care of you

Pairing: Bruce!Wayne x Fem!Reader

Summary: You are very close to Bruce but lately he seems very distant or cutting, one day he will come to the mansion beaten and you will have to heal him.

Warnings: Not proofread, Injuries,bit of blood mention, secrets, fluff, worry/angst,

Word Count: 3k

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧ ₊˚・

You hadn't known Bruce for long, but it seemed like he had been in your life from minute zero. You didn't have the pleasure of knowing him personally when he was just a child, but he grew up and met you. It was pure chance, you were late for work looking at the ground as usual and you didn't notice the people crossing in front of you until you suddenly collided with a boy with hair as dark as his clothes. He looked at you sad and apologizing profusely, you only had eyes to see and admire that beautiful serious but worried face. After that you two became good friends, you saw each other often, sometimes he invited you to his mansion. You had met his butler who soon took a liking to you. In Bruce you had found peace, a rare and pleasant serenity in contrast to the chaotic city of Gotham. And you could say that the feeling was mutual, young Wayne had found in you a light of hope, someone to cling to, it is true that he already had Alfred but he was someone already older and Bruce was afraid of losing him. Besides, what he felt for you went far beyond a simple friendship. In him he discovered a new rebirth, a soft and tender side that he never dared to show, you were his light in the middle of the darkness and he didn't want you to go out. In a city like that full of dangers, you had each other.

He had never told you about his "double life" that is, that he was Batman. When he met you and realized how important you were to him, he promised to protect you with his life. With so many villains and crimes on the loose, Bruce couldn't risk losing the only good thing he had ever had in that city of death, the only thing that gave meaning to everything. his life. You. And that's why lately he had been behaving strangely, he was still affectionate with you but you still noticed something strange and different about him.

You two had met in a park under the treetops, you were walking aimlessly admiring the vegetation, you were both arm in arm like an adorable old couple, from time to time you would rest your head on his shoulder since you were shorter than him.

"I missed these days like this". You sighed, squeezing his arm affectionately.

"Me too". He said looking at you and smiling slightly.

"You've been very busy lately, does your company demand so much of your time?"

"My company? Oh yeh, yeh, lately unemployment has umh risen its numbers…". He said, clearing his throat nervously.

You looked at him confused, was something wrong with his company? Had you said something bad? You never saw him so hesitant, he was almost always a person sure of his words. You didn't want to worry too much, he was always someone enigmatic and you loved him for that, you respected his silences and spaces. You two sat on a bench watching the people walk by, but you noticed that Bruce was serious and thoughtful, well, more than usual.

"All good?". You asked anxiously, taking his hand.

Wayne seemed to wake up with your touch, as if he had been in a trance. He looked at you surprised, meeting your worried look, he smiled, downplaying it.

"Of course, don't worry." He caressed the back of your hand with his thumb and brought your hand to his lips to kiss it tenderly.

That gesture brought the heat back to your cheeks and you smiled, sighing in relief, maybe he had just had an exhausting day, to tell the truth, your work also tired you sometimes. They continued sitting trying to bring up topics of conversation other than the insecurities of living in Gotham or the horrible crimes that were committed there. You told him about a new book you were starting to read and he listened attentively as if his life depended on it. He loved listening to you talk about things that were so mundane but that were clearly exciting to you.

"I'm just starting to read the first pages but it's already exciting! It's full of adventure and fantasy!! and the protagonist must face a mystery from his past and…"

The words came out of your mouth like an uncontrollable torrent, you gestured with your hands and your smile widened as your eyes lit up. Bruce admired your passion and charm for reading among other things, your cheeks heated by the speed at which you spoke seemed to him to be the cutest thing in the world.

"Maybe one day you can bring it so we can read it together."

Seeing how your eyes opened brighter than the sun and your cheeks turned even pinker was his most precious treasure, and it made him laugh softly. You, surprised, accompanied him with sweet giggles. When you decided that it was too cold to be outdoors, you two got up and you tenderly approached behind him and hugged him, squeezing his stomach a little to which he let out a grunt of pain. Startled, you quickly turned away, looking at him.

"What was that? Are you ok?"

His face was trying hard not to contort in pain but he had a deep frown on his face.

"It's nothing, I must have torn a muscle while exercising"

His voice seemed calm but he was holding his stomach with one hand, that alone was enough to dampen the good mood and nice moment the two of you had had. In silence they each returned to their homes.

On another occasion, Bruce disappeared for several days without showing any signs of life. You understood that he had his life and was independent, but it was worrying that you didn't hear from him for so long.

"Come on, come on answer"

You were in your apartment with the telephone in your hand and the other on your hip, moving your legs nervously. Bruce didn't even answer your calls, much less your messages. You were already thinking the worst and you didn't want to be panicked so you decided to do the only thing you could do, find out if he was in his mansion imprisoned like a mole.

You put on a hand-knit cardigan and headed out to Wayne Manor. You walked in a hurry so you arrived almost breathless at the great mansion. It was a miracle that no one had jumped you before. You knocked on the door three times and an elegantly dressed older man opened the door for you. Seeing you, a soft smile filled his lips.

"Miss Y/N, how lovely it is to see you here, tell me, can I help you with something?"

Alfred was always happy to see you hanging around Wayne Manor, many times you had even stayed over to sleep, it was a pleasure for him to serve both his master and you, you could say that you were almost like family. And if you made Bruce happy, the butler was pleased with that. But more urgent matters prevented you from noticing the warmth and kindness with which he greeted you.

"Actually, yes, there is something…Is Bruce home?"

A subtle shadow appeared on the butler's face but he quickly added

"Masterr B had to leave urgently due to work issues but I'm sure he'll be back soon"

"But I haven't seen him in days and he doesn't even answer his phone!"

You were starting to get nervous so Alfred put a warm hand on your shoulder.

"That's because he has had to move from one city to another to attend to important… matters. And you can guess that's also the reason why he hasn't used his phone, he doesn't want distractions."

"B-but..!"

"Please Miss Y/N, come in and have some tea, you can wait for him on the couch."

Almost forced, you entered the mansion with the butler's hand gently pushing you from behind to enter. Although it was not the first time you visited the building, you were always surprised by finding new details, whether it was a painting that had been moved or a new, clean carpet. The mansion exuded opulence and good taste and that always surprised you no matter how many times you had been there. You sat on the couch waiting for tea while you played with your fingers anxiously. You turned your head and looked out the window, scanning the landscape outside, hoping to see Bruce walk and return to his house. Alfred arrived with a tray on which rested a cup of tea and a sugar bowl with sugar cubes.

"I brought some chamomile tea, it's good for your nerves." He said with a knowing wink.

You thanked him with a nod, trying to smile. You cupped the cup with both hands, feeling its heat, which calmed you down a little, it was like being near a smoking fireplace, those memories made you aware. The cup was finely painted porcelain and decorated with small blue flowers and green leaves with their stems intertwining with each other. The steam from the infusion rose to your nose and warmed your cheeks.

"Are sugar cubes okay or would you prefer honey?"

"The clods are fine, thanks Alfred"

The tea seemed magical to you, it managed to calm your darkest fears and you could even say that you enjoyed your short stay in the mansion. But you still remembered why you had come there. You were about to finish your drink and put the cup on the table when a figure wearing a black coat appeared in the doorway like an apparition.

"Bruce!". You stifled a scream

Bruce was a mess, his battered face had a bruise on his eye and a cut on his forehead, his hair that had previously been combed back was now messy and fell forward a little. Hearing you distressed, Alfred arrived as soon as he could to see what was happening, of course he already imagined it, when he saw Master B standing there looking tired, his face contracted into a frown. Bruce took slow steps entering the mansion.

You covered your mouth with one hand, swallowing your tears, and ran to hug him but you did so with so much force that Bruce gave a pitiful moan, contracting his face and tensing his body slightly. Scared of hurting him more than he already was, you turned away from him.

"For the love of God, what the hell happened to you?!"

Bruce, without removing his grimace of pain, sat down heavily on the sofa near where you were. Alfred left them alone so that the two of you could talk in peace. If you needed anything, the butler knew that you could always call him.

"It's nothing Y/N, leave it at that.". Bruce said with a whimper

"Are you serious Bruce?! It's nothing?! You have a bruise and cuts on your face, what do you call that nothing?!"

The anguish of knowing that someone had hurt him made you scream in desperation, added to the fury you felt at the habit he had of minimizing everything so as not to worry you, well, it wasn't working this time.

"Please let me at least check you over."

"No, wait"

You ignored his complaints and grabbed his face softly and delicately, even so he gritted his teeth when he felt your fingers rubbing his bruise. You didn't understand what the hell he had done to end up like this, but you suspected that it wasn't because of his work issues. After checking his face you came to the conclusion that his bruise urgently needed ice and that the cut on his forehead was not that big but it needed to be cleaned or it could get infected.

"Well, I'll tell Alfred to bring the first aid kit, now will you tell me what happened to you?"

"Some thugs hit me in an alley when I was coming here…" He said avoiding eye contact.

You knew it was a lie because of how he avoided looking at you, but you didn't know how to get him to tell you the truth. You frowned and touched his arm when you felt something wet, you noticed that a part of the sleeve of his coat was slightly darker. You ordered him to take it off and when you saw his arm you gasped. He had a cut deeper than the one on his forehead and it was bleeding. You urgently called the butler who arrived quickly with the first aid kit.

"Fuck! Will you also tell me that that cut was the fault of a thug?"

"I must have cut my arm on a loose nail or glass… I don't remember"

"Sure.."

You sighed frustratedly trying to control your temper, you hated when he lied, especially in such a stupid way. A cut like that couldn't have been from a simple nail, it seemed more like it was made by a knife, you shuddered when you thought about it. You opened the first aid kit and took out everything you needed: gauze, disinfectant, cotton, etc. You took his chin with your thumb and turned his face to get a good look at the wounds. You weren't a nurse but you knew how to heal certain wounds. You wiped a cotton ball with disinfectant and Bruce tensed his jaw and closed his eyes, frowning.

"I'm trying to be delicate."

"I know". He sighed and one corner of his mouth turned up.

Luckily Alfred also brought ice so when you finished the cut on his forehead you gave him ice wrapped in a towel to put on his eye. But the worst part remained, the cut on his arm that was beginning to stain his clothes. You rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and grabbed a clean cloth soaked in clean water. When you ran it over his cut to clean the blood, he quickly removed it, complaining.

"Ouch". He growled loudly.

"Sorry, this hurts me more than it hurts you". You said sadly

"Oh really?" He said, mocking slightly with irony.

But when he saw your distressed face, he stopped smiling and extended his arm to you so you could heal him. You tried in every way to do it gently but Bruce would squirm slightly or moan and make the job more difficult. When you cleaned the wound the cloth had turned red. You put some disinfectant and bandaged the wound. Bruce, despite being hurt and bruised, looked at you with tenderness, how you took the time to heal a poor boy like him. You were so worried and focused on your task that you didn't realize he was staring at you until you raised your head, a warm smile spread across his face and it infected you, but you were still angry and that's how you let him know.

"Bruce I need to know the truth, who did this to you?"

He opened his mouth but you interrupted him again.

"And don't start with that they were thugs because you and I know that's not true.". You warned him

He looked into your eyes, getting lost in your long-lashed gaze while he thought about what he was going to say. You looked at him worriedly, waiting for an answer, a real one this time. He sighed and lowered his head and spoke in a low voice.

"Y/N I can't really tell you what I did today because it would put you in danger and I don't want that. When I met you I swore to myself that nothing bad would happen to you and that I would protect you no matter what, well if I tell you the truth that I could break my promise and I don't want to see you hurt."

You looked at him stunned by his words, now with more reason you wanted to know what was happening but you didn't want to risk someone hurting you…or killing you. Suddenly you couldn't help but think of terrible things that Bruce could be involved in, as if he read your thoughts, he said.

"I'm not involved in any shady business if that's what you want to know. What I do is something more complex than a mafia, but it's not bad at all, I assure you."

Bruce saw that this was confusing you even more and he could even glimpse a hint of fear that he wasn't sure if it was because of him or because of what he was doing. He quickly took your hand and caressed it.

"I understand that this is all confusing but you must trust me please. I assure you that I would not do anything to hurt you, in fact it is just the opposite."

Bruce gave you pleading looks and he sounded so hopeless that his silences spoke for themselves, he begged you to believe him. You pursed your lips thoughtfully and then placed a hand on his uninjured cheek and caressed it carefully.

"Bruce… I trust you, and I really want to believe you… but, it hurts me to see you hurt like this."

You sighed and he nodded, closing his eyes, feeling the warmth of your hand bring him back to life.

"It's okay, I know you know how to defend yourself. But I ask you for the love of God that whatever you're doing, don't get too involved. I don't want to find out one day through the mouths of others that you're in a hospital or…-"

Your words got stuck in your throat, stifling a sob and he hugged you. You buried your head in the crook of his neck and breathed in his perfume, that seemed to calm you down. It was ironic how Bruce being so hurt could still comfort you even though it should be the other way around. You slowly broke away from the hug.

"By the way, thank you for healing me and being so nice to me."

You smiled maternally

"Of course I had to take care of you and it was a pleasure."

Alfred, who was actually in the kitchen listening to everything like a gossip, approached with stealthy steps and proclaimed

"Oh no, I think I should watch my back or Miss Y/n will take my job.". He said mockingly playfully

The three of them laughed in relief, feeling the tension dissipate. If your life depended on it, you would take care of young Wayne every day of your life without once complaining. Bruce smiled at you even though the bruise still hurt and his face contracted a little into a grimace, you gave him a soft kiss on the cheek and he invited you to stay the night if you liked, you nodded delightedly, maybe that way you could keep an eye on him even closer.

[parva-noctua]

Buddie Fandom: we want buddie! We love buddie! We can’t wait for Buddie!

Also Buddie Fandom immediately after: you know we actually want them to keep dating everyone but each other! 6 years just hasn’t been long enough of a wait ! They clearly need to explore other options still! Let’s not rush into this now!

The show: *shrugs* ok. Gives them each new love interests that aren’t each other.

Buddie Fandom: *shocked faces* how could you put them with these random people ! screw this show and their queerbaiting!

Literally what some of you sound like at this point.

Usually when you ship two people, that means you ✨ do ✨ want those ✨ specific two ✨ people to be together. Not actively hope they continue dating other people 💀

Okay, I'm starting think that I've made myself unpopular here? o.O Not only with my last zero-notifications post, but also way before that (?) 😅 Like, how? why?

I haven't suddenly turned my back on buddie--- neither have most of the others in my feed---- and yet asks like this flutter into my inbox while rarely interacting with my actual posts in any way...

Oliver himself has emphasised that he doesn't want to play buddie as a stereotype. For me, that's exactly why I don't want Eddie to follow up immediately after Tommy.

That doesn't mean that the two of them should happily continue dating other people, but maybe just learn to be single, have time to really fall in love with each other. First and foremost, they are friends.

Which also brings me to the queerbaiting debate: The way it seems now, they had no other option but to not make them official. And yet they have built up a depth of commitment and friendship that is rarely shown in this form on TV and is worth telling!

That's exactly why it would feel kinda odd--- and I speak only for myself - to rush straight to endgame after 6 years of slow burn.

I would love to see the two of them together! I just don't want to "be given short measure" aka "Oh, I'm in love with my best friend and of course he loves me back."

That's all.

And it's okay to disagree with me or others. Just ✨️ please ✨️ stop making ✨️ it look ✨️ and ✨️ feel like I (or rather buckTommy-shippers in general) somehow "betrayed" buddie...

To all who actually read to this part: thank you. love you. take care. ♡

[fandomtherapy44]

Klaus x reader

Summary: This story is from the perspective of Y/n Marshall the younger sister of Hayley Marshall. Side note I love Hayley one of my favorite characters. Basically Y/n will be pregnant instead of Hayley and I will be changing some things up but then that it should stay pretty close to the series. I hope you enjoy the story! Also, if you like I have a Castiel x reader.

Paring: Klaus x reader

Word count: 3,341

Warnings: Some language, Typical the Originals violence, Spoilers for season one of The Originals, Pregnancy,

I got the divder from

saradika

Chapter 1: Always and forever

POV: Y/n

New Orleans is the heart of Louisiana known for its live music, food, and apparently family history, well at least for my older sister and me. We came here to learn more about our parents but the few weeks we've been here nothing zilch but some tasty gumbo that lately I have had a strong hunger for. “Third time in here this week.” Jane-Anne said, placing down a steamy bowl of gumbo in front of me.“I'm obsessed with the gumbo, Jane-Anne.” I said to her grabbing my spoon and lifting a huge scoop into my mouth while my sister Haley was nursing a bourbon. 

“You know, ladies in the 9th ward say my sister, Sophie, bleeds a piece of her soul into every dish.” She said referring to her sister who was cooking in the kitchen. “We’ve asked around the Quarter about my family......” Haley started to say. “And?” Jane-Anne questioned. “Nothing. Zero. we can't find a single person who remembers them.” I finished throwing my spoon back into the bowl. “Because Hayley, Y/n people like you were run out of here years ago.” 

“What do you mean, people like us?” Jane-Anne walked around the bar to the other side to stand beside us. While Sophie watched us. Jane-Anne stetted a map on the bar. “In the bayou, they call the werewolves "Roux-Ga-Roux"”. She circled a point on the map. “You head out there, you'll find what you're looking for. Be careful. It's the last place you'd ever want to go.” Haley and I smile in hope that maybe we will finally find something. I order my gumbo to go, and we thank Jane-Anne and leave.

Haley and I are driving down the road and I'm giving directions while she drives. “Okay now take a left...” I said while looking down at the map not sounding very confident. “Y/n the map is upside down.” “Oh, he he I mean right.” She sighs as she hard turns right. “It’s like the mountains all over again.” “Hey, it was not my fault that the map was outdated.” “It was GPS N/n” “Well still the phone was-” As I started to talk, I suddenly started to feel sick. “Haley pull over now.” She pulled the car over and I jumped out puking out all my lunch. “Uhh what the Hell-” And there goes breakfast. “Maybe it’s all the gumbo that you ate when it’s been sitting in the car for two hours.” “Maybe it’s the gumbo y/n shut it, Haley. I was hungry… again.” 

We finally arrive at the bayou and look at the map to figure out where we are. “So, we are here and-” As I held the map the paper got hot, and it became on fire. “What the-” I threw it out the window. Haley and I looked at each other like what the fuck. We start to reverse the car, but the engine starts to smoke, and it stops. “Are you kidding me?” We get out and I take out my phone. “Hey, I'm looking for a tow service?” I didn't even get a response before a loud ringing came from the phone and I threw it down and Haley heard it too and she smashed it with her boot. I didn’t even notice people around us. Haley and I start to get back-to-back. My vision starts to become blurry, and I passed out.“Y/n!”

I wake up gasping. “Y/n N/n you're okay.” “Hayley, where the Hell are we?” I said looking around the room and the walls were made of stone and there were lots of candles around. “In a tomb.” “Why are we in a tomb?” “Because the witches kidnapped us.” “Why would they kidnap us!?” I'm getting angry and I stand up. Sophie devereaux walks in with a bottle of water and a bowl of gumbo and places it in front of me. “If you think I'm eating anything you give me, you witches are crazier than I give you credit for!” I said as I kicked the bowl back. 

“Please Y/n all this anger is not good for the baby.” “You are going to let my sister and I go or-” Hayley stopped. “Did you just say baby?” “Yes, I did, Y/n’s baby.” Wait what? “That’s impossible, I can't be pregnant.” “Well, congrats you are, with Klaus Mikaelson’s.” Fuck “So eat up your baby needs it.” With that she walked away. “Hey, you still haven't told us why we’re here!” Haley yelled at her behind the bars. She looked down at me, who was still in shock. “Klaus Mikealson what were you thinking N/n?” “I don’t know Hayley, I was drunk, and he looked really cute and we talked and one bottle of whiskey later I woke up in his bed.” “Now I'm pregnant and absolutely terrified.” I said as I started to cry. “Shh It’s okay It’s okay.” Hayley said while hugging and rocking me.

Sophie walks in. “Get up It’s time to meet your baby’s uncle.” Hayley and I look at each with confusion and follow her. We walk out to see a man standing there in a press suit and tie.” Who the hell are you?” I asked him. “Give us a moment, please.” The man asked Sophie. “Whoever you are, you aren't going to talk to my sister alone.” Hayley said with a fierceness that I hadn't seen since I was younger. “Hayley I'll be okay.” I said as the man, and I walked into the other room.

“So, have they been holding you here against your will?” Elijah asked me. “They lured my sister and I out to the bayou and grabbed me. And they did all these... weird witchy tests. Not that I understand how this could happen. I mean, vampires are dead. They can't have children!” He turns to me and holds his hands. “Perhaps if you knew my brother's story, it might explain how this is possible. Here, if I may.” “If you open your mind to me, I can show you.” I lean down my head and Elijah shows me.

“In the beginning, our family was human... A thousand years ago, now.” I started to see them as kids. “Although our mother dabbled in the dark arts, we were actually just a family trying to survive in a time when it was quite difficult to do so. And, for better or worse, we were happy.” “That is, however, until one night, our youngest brother was killed by our village's greatest threat.” I then saw Klaus carrying their youngest brother and he was dead. “Men that could transform themselves into wolves during the full moon. Our family was devastated, none more than Niklaus. Desperate to protect the rest of us, our father forced our mother to call upon her black magic in order to make us stronger.” I now see that their father was forcing them to drink the blood to turn them.

"Thus, the first vampires were born. But with this speed, this strength, this immortality, came a terrible hunger. No one felt this hunger more than Niklaus.” The scene was now Klaus killing a human for the first time and with that he was changing into a wolf. He didn’t know of his descent. His father chained him up as Elijah tried to help but he wouldn't allow it and kept on saying horrible things about Klaus. “He wasn't just a vampire.” “He was also a werewolf. That's how the werewolf curse works. It isn't activated until you take a life.” I concluded. “Niklaus was the result of an indiscretion our mother had hidden from us all. An affair with a werewolf like yourself.” I see another thing I did not want to, Klaus was being forced to bury his werewolf side. “Your dad was a massive dick.” I said and we kind of laughed about it. 

“I'm Y/n Marshall, by the way. You should probably know my name if you're gonna tell me your whole life story. I mean, I know yours. Your family is legendary. Your brother is a notorious psycho... who I slept with.” “I cannot excuse his behavior, but you must understand, when our father hunted him – hunted us – for centuries, every time we found a moment of happiness, we were forced to flee. Even here, in New Orleans, where we were happiest of all. Not long after Niklaus broke the spell which prevented him from becoming a hybrid, he defeated our father. I thought this would make him happy. He was angrier than ever. I wonder if perhaps this baby might be a way for my brother to find happiness. A way to save him from himself.” When he finished, I grabbed at my stomach for the first time knowing that I was pregnant.

“I'm glad you feel that way, because we need your help.” It was Sophie. “What, precisely, is it that you want and what does it have to do with this young woman?” Elijah questioned and I wanted to know too. “We want to run Marcel and his vampires out of town. Klaus is the key. Everything Marcel knows about being a vampire, he learned from Klaus. Marcel trusts him, looks up to him, and he won't see the betrayal coming.”

“Yes, well, as I'm sure you're aware, my brother Niklaus doesn't like to be told what to do.” “That's why I brought you here. Marcel drove the werewolves out of town decades ago. Do you really think he's going to welcome a hybrid baby to the neighborhood? Convince Klaus to help us, and no one has to know about the newest member of the Original family.” “That sounds remarkably like blackmail.” “Like I said, I'm desperate.” “Well, then, I have my work cut out for me, don't I?” “I will be back with my brother.” And with that he walks away. 

Hayley walked into the room a little worried. “Oh my gosh are you okay did he hurt you?” I smile at her. “I'm fine Hayley. I just feel a little bad.” “Do you need a bucket?” “No no I mean I just learned more about Klaus than I bargained for.”

  We get called back into the front of the tomb and there standing is Klaus and he looks handsome as the morning I left his bed. “No. It's impossible.” He said pointing at me and its funny cause I said the same thing. “I said the same thing myself.” Elijah said. “This is a lie. You are all lying. Vampires cannot procreate.” I kind of wish it was a lie. “But werewolves can. Magic made you a vampire, but you were born a werewolf. You're the Original hybrid, the first of your kind. And this pregnancy is one of nature's loopholes.” Sophie explained.

“You've been with someone else, admit it!” Klaus yelled at me. “Hey, guess what buddy it’s impossible on my side too since I was a teen, I've been told I can’t get pregnant, so it is a hundred percent yours also my sister and I have spent days held captive in a freaking alligator bayou because they think that I'm carrying some magical miracle baby. Don't you think I would've fessed up if it wasn't yours?” I said getting closer, almost getting in his face because if anything I was not going to stand here and be accused of being with other guys when I know my own body. We stare at each other for second before Hayley pulls me back. 

“My sister gave her life to perform the spell she needed to confirm this pregnancy. Because of Jane-Anne's sacrifice, the lives of this girl and her baby are now controlled by us. We can keep them safe. Or we can kill them. If you don't help us, take down Marcel, so help me, Y/n won't live long enough to see her first maternity dress.” “Excuse me what?” I said getting worried about what Sophie just said. “Enough of this. If you want Marcel dead, he's dead. I'll do it myself.” Elijah said, stepping up and I saw Hayley looking at him with a bit of admiration. “No. We can't, not yet. We have a clear plan that we need to follow, and there are rules.” Sophie said stopping Elijah. We looked at Klaus waiting for his response. 

“How dare you command me, threaten me, with what you wrongfully perceive to be my weaknesses. This is a pathetic deception. I won't hear any more lies.” I forgot how egoistic he was. I guess that night was just a side of him that was a one-time thing. “Niklaus!... Listen.” Elijah yells at him and Klaus looks at me and then my stomach listening to our baby’s heartbeat I wonder what it was like. “Kill her and the baby. What do I care?” Klaus walked away with that sentence, and I almost lunged at him. “OH, HELL NO get back here you son of a bitch!” I get held back by Elijah gently this time. “No one touches the girl. I'll fix this.” 

Sophie and this older witch, Agnes, are talking again about this Vampire Marcel and whoever he is, they don’t like him that much. “Marcel and his vampires are out of control. Something had to be done.” “And the solution is to bring in more vampires?” “What makes you think you can control the hybrid?” That’s a good question. It seems like to me Klaus won’t just sit down. “She can't. I'm not entirely certain that I can, either. But now that your coven has drawn his ire, I have a question: What prevents my brother from murdering you instead of cooperating?”

Elijah said, surprising as all. Then I'm surprised personally because Sophie takes out a needle and pricks herself, but I feel it too. “Ow! What the fu-” I said looking at my hand and it was bleeding in the same place that was bleeding on Sophie's hand. Hayley grabs my hand to look at it. “The spell my sister performed, the one that got her killed? It didn't just confirm the pregnancy. It linked me to Y/n. So, anything that happens to me, happens to her, which means her life is in my hands. Klaus may not care about his own child, but it's very clear what it already means to you. If I have to hurt Y/n – or worse – to ensure that I have your attention, I will.” What the hell so the witches are cool to kill people good to know. “You would dare threaten an Original?” “I have nothing to lose.” “Well, I do!” I said feeling like they were talking about me like I wasn't there. “You have until midnight to get Klaus to change his mind.” 

 “His time is up. What're you gonna do now, Sophie?” Agnes asked Sophie and I was very scared for her answer. “I'm gonna do what I said was gonna do” Shit “What, kill the girl? Kill yourself?” Sabine this other witch asked. “Klaus does not care about the child.” Agnes added in and it was making me pissed off that they were barning with our baby like this. “I do” It was Elijah, at least one brother of this crazy family cared. He came in carrying the body of Jane-Anne.  “And I bring proof of my intent to help you: the body of your fallen friend, which I procured from Marcel himself.” “Jane-Anne. “ 

“May she be granted peace. Klaus will agree to your terms. I just need a little more time.”  Elijah I could tell was a smart man and thank God for that. “You had your time. It's passed.” Agnes said to him, and I wanted to wolf out on her for that. “Shut up, Agnes.” Sabine added in which kind of surprised me I mean I wanted to say it, but I had a baby to look out for. “For now, accept the deal. The girl and the child and her sister remain unharmed, or Klaus will kill you all.” He went to go walk away again but turned back. “And I will help him.”

Elijah came back to collect us and brought us to a grand old white house that felt like it hadn't been inhabited in years, probably so. Hayley was exploring another part of the house while Elijah was showing me the nursery. I went to the crib and pulled off the sheet and about a hundred years of dust came off. Cough' cough. “Are you alright?” Elijah asked me. “Oh fine, there are a lot worse places to stay in then here.” “Yes, it should serve our purposes. It's a sanctuary from our business in the Quarter. Right now, you are the most important person in this family. You need a good home. So, I'm curious... in all this time, has anyone asked you how you feel? “Like usually about how I could have a one-night stand with someone who doesn't usually do that?”  “About being a mother.” 

“Hayley and I were abandoned when we were born and for the most part of our lives we were in different parts of the system and I-I when I activated my werewolf side I was kicked out and thought of as a monster. And I didn’t find Hayley until I was eighteen so I really don’t know how to feel about that because I never really had a mom to rely on.” I looked back at him and he looked like he had sympathy behind his eyes. “I will always protect you and your sister. You have my word on that.” 

“And noble Elijah always keeps his word.” It was Klaus. “Is it done?” "As a matter of fact, yes. Your underhanded deal worked quite well. Marcel was only too happy to accept my blood even as he accepted my heartfelt apologies. His man, Thierry, yet lives and I remain a welcome guest in the French Quarter. My only concern now is this coven of impudent witches. "Great that’s just great “I believe them to be honorable. They did release Hayley and Y/n to me. Although, they haven't been entirely forthcoming. Marcel obviously has something that they need. They don't want him dead. There must be a reason why” I leave the brothers and go to talk to Hayley.

“Hey, how was talking to Elijah?” She asked me. “It was actually not that bad, it seems like he actually cares about us.” “Really?” “Really, which is good because it seems like you were checking him out.” “Yeah, well look at us both looking at the vampire brothers, we must really be sisters.” She finished with a smile and we both laughed.

I walked back into the nursery and just stood over the crib staring at it when I felt a presence behind me. It was Klaus. “Oh hey.” “Hello” He responded back. The thing was I didn’t know how to go beyond hellos. “Look I know this is super weird you probably didn't think you would ever see me again or think about me after our… time together I just wanted to say that I will stay out of your way.” I finished awkwardly. He walked closer to me. “Is it really mine?” “One hundred percent” We stare at each other for a second. But he backs away. “Right well If you just stay out of my way there won’t be a problem.” “Right.” He goes to walk out. 

Hey Yall, I really hope you liked this new fanfiction I'm trying out. I love the Vampire Diaries universe, especially the Originals. And of course, Klaus, I can't wait to develop the relationship between Y/n and him. If you want to be tagged for this series, comment nicely and I'll put you down. And if you like supernatural, I have a Castiel x reader series too.

[alexanderlightweight]

I desperately want to prompt. But it's mostly just bc I wanna see what you'll write. Not even anything specific. I just love what you come up for malec. Is there anything that's got you in its grasp you'd like to get out in the world?

this an awesme prompt and i'm happy for anything sent in because it does make my brain think!

originally i was going to write something for a favorite verse but then i realized that this is super open-worded and you have unleashed a hidden away verse!

so this is 'under my skin' and i have at some point posted two snippets of it randomly and they weren't in relation to writing wednesday because i wasn't planning on unleashing yet another verse without a specific prompt or finishing the fic but i love this fic and i can't say that your prmpt doesn't fit it since i keep going back to the strategizing board for this fic (it has some twists i've haven't explored in depth before in regards to the clave and alicante)

i can't explain yet how different the direction of this fic is going to go because that would give it away ^_^

i cleaned the beginning up a bit and i hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

-

Magnus stares at the two fighters and licks his lips, glamour dropping as he uses his enhanced vision to see through the visual ward on the taller of the two fighters.

He’s runed, enticingly so at that and Magnus waves away his normal company and entertainment.

He’s enthralled by the fight, but mostly because of the shadowhunter and fury bleeds into him when the seelie gets a hand on runed muscles and skin against skin.

Blood spills, the seelie pressing too-sharp nails in and up across the hunter’s ribs and the shadowhunter falls back, dropping into a crouch and wrapping his arm around his torso.

He’s steadying himself, gearing himself up for another go and Magnus can’t stand it.

This is his domain.

It exists for Magnus’ entertainment.

And he finds he is no longer entertained.

“Bring them both to me, now.” He orders and he activates the magic that has each fighter wrapped in magical bonds. Normally Magnus lets the bonds drain from the leylines the arena is on, but he keeps a careful hold of them this time. 

“Are the fights over?” The manager of the ring asks hesitantly and Magnus rolls his eyes and summons himself a drink.

“No,” he waves his hand, “you can return to your clients battering each other for the  thrill.” Magnus says and he zeroes in on the two fighters being guided to him.

One of them is touching his hidden shadowhunter and Magnus bites back the urge to set her unnecessary hands on fire. 

“What was the prize for winning?” He asks immediately; because that’s normally the reason people are paired up. Two fighters mutually looking to trade. 

The shadowhunter is scowling at the seelie who looks incredibly pleased with himself.

“Something a little more fun than fighting.” The seelie said and Magnus feels his fading anger reignite. 

“Information.” The shadowhunter says cooly and there is derision in his voice as he matches gaze with the seelie, “you never would have won.” There’s a promise in his eyes that he would have managed to kill either the seelie or even himself first. 

“I disagree,” Magnus says and he tightens the bonds of his magic warningly when his shadowhunter tenses.

“I announce you as the winner.” Magnus says to the seelie, suddenly very bored and done with trying to hold his temper back. “Your prize is the honor of me killing you, you should never have overstepped.” Magnus smiles when the seelie tries to take a desperate step back and snaps his fingers

Blood splatters across his hunter and the guards escorting both fighters and while his shadowhunter doesn’t flinch, he is looking at Magnus with wild, wary and awed eyes. 

“Now then, how about you strip off your glamour, pretty boy, it can’t be comfortable hiding away your runes.” 

Magnus casually steps through viscera and brain matter and summons a handkerchief. He reaches up and begins to gently dab away the seelie’s blood that is dirtying his boy’s — potentially his boy — face.

He sends the guards a pointed look.

They’re completely unnecessary now that they’ve fetched his shadowhunter and now on cleanup. 

It’s easy to get a grip on his hunter’s elbow and escort him along — Magnus is being gentle, not merely dragging him along by the magic entangling him.

“I— shit, I don’t understand.” He’s told in a hoarse, quiet voice and Magnus just hums as he finally gets a chance to look his hunter over. Magnus hisses in true sympathy when his boy flinches away from the wounds on his ribs that Magnus presses his fingers to.

“This space, all of it, exists for my entertainment, darling.” Magnus says and he smirks darkly when hazel eyes widen. “And while I am entertained by a pretty boy like you covering up his runes to make bets he shouldn’t be. I’d rather my enjoyment not be ruined by inconvenience.”

Because it would be inconvenient to have to slaughter anyone who’d hurt his boy and then he presses his open palm to his hunter’s open skin and heals it with magic.

“Alec.” Is the name gasped against him when Alec, his Alec, leans into the sudden and harsh healing. 

Magnus is merciful, but he’s not going to just heal his boy nicely when Alec is the one who got himself into this mess.

Magnus resolutely ignores the little voice that reminds him he owns the place and it’s his rules that allowed Alexander in and oh — 

He likes the flavor of that on his tongue.

“Alexander.” He rolls about his tongue and the taste of what must be Alec’s full name delights him just as much as the little shudder Alexander makes against him. “Come along, lovely. I’ll have your company beside me, you’ve played with others long enough.”

And Magnus is pleased when Alexander doesn’t even consider protesting.

Few people have so little self-preservation to argue, but Magnus can’t be sure.

Alexander did sign up for a cage fight.

Magnus finds his lack of self-care a bit concerning. 

But it also means Magnus now gets to place his palms on Alexander’s naked skin and guide him over and down, so he’s sitting next to Magnus.

He’s polite and pretty and still bound by magic and Magnus is tempted to leave the magic on him, but they have only just met and Magnus doesn’t mind the long game.

So he calls the magic back to himself with a sigh and reminds himself to go slow. 

“Can I grab my shirt?” Alexander asks, a grimace on his face as his runes appear. He has a small ring with a glamour tied to it in his hand that he’s just taken off and he’s rubbing at where a deflect rune is fetchingly placed on his neck.

Magnus wants to bite it.

And destroy the ring that tried to hide it. 

“No need.” Magnus says because he has magic and Alexander is correct, he should not be so fetchingly handsome, beat up and half-naked for all of the spectators to see.

They should be focusing on the next match, but Magnus doubts all of the crowd has the self-control to not be too nosey.

Magnus already regrets having to share the view as much as he has and he summons one of his own workout vests. It settles nicely on Alexander and he inhales, pupils dilating like he realizes and likes the idea of wearing something of Magnus’. 

He definitely has the potential to be Magnus then.

And then Alexander lets Magnus slide closer, lets Magnus press his own glass to his lips and drinks when coaxed to.

And Magnus is thrilled. 

Thrilled and delighted and quite pleased with how his evening is turning out.

“Let me take you home.” Magnus says, but it’s not really a question and patience has never been his strong suit when it comes to what he wants.

And he finds he desperately wants Alexander.

The avarice he feels for his boy is the kind that would make his father proud. 

A bone-deep lust for every single moment of Alexander’s life to be Magnus’. 

It’s thrilling by how much of a thrall he is in and while Magnus knows he’s not been enchanted or bewitched, he still feels like it.

So when Alexander agrees, curious about Magnus and uncomfortable with the looks they are getting, Magnus summons a portal.

He makes no explanation or goodbyes, just pulls Alexander through the portal and steps out, his hand on the small of Alexander’s well muscled back.

His fingers clench covetously as he remembers others got to touch Alexander, even if it was in violence. 

“Now—“Magnus says as soon as they are in his lair and Alexander’s attention is focused only on him. “How about a drink?”

—

“What to do with you darling.” Magnus murmurs as he watches his unconscious guest with a surprising depth of fondness.

Alexander managed two drinks and then his pretty eyes had fluttered and his head had lolled and now Magnus had a lapful of dozing shadowhunter.

Nineteen, he’d told Magnus, but Magnus traces faint lines and scars and marvels at the fact that Alexander's life speaks to a very different age.

There’s no softness to be found on him.

He’s pure muscle and lean lines and he’s solid. In the strange weightless yet heavy way nephilim bodies share.

And Magnus pets over the bridge of his nose and the little cut over the corner of his eye and wonders.

Magnus has had his own fair share of interests.

However they’re passing and fleeting and while at times they can be fierce, Magnus knows they are mostly formed from whimsy.

Alexander is not whimsy.

He is the very soul of want.

A deep vein of mithril that Magnus is recklessly willing to mine for himself. A mountain of platinum that belongs only to him and the lust he feels for the being in his lap is that of a dragon ravenous for its hoard.

The tangle of feelings that Magnus already possesses for Alexander are growing in a dark tangle of thorns.  If Alexander were only a little older and a little more jaded,  Magnus wouldn’t be so gentle.

As it is, Alexander hasn’t been broken yet and Magnus will ensure he remains that way. 

There’s a softness to him, a shy tenderness that bloomed when Magnus killed the seelie and healed him.

A naive trust that formed when Magnus clothed him in his own shirt and fed him from his own glass.

It’s fragile and tenuous and the most delicate thing Magnus has ever allowed himself to touch.

And Magnus prides himself that even with all the destruction he can bring, he also has an incredibly delicate touch when required. 

He can lay mile wide arrays with spider-fine lines of magic and weave tapestries of time from the boundaries of existence.

Yet Alexander’s trust seems so much more fragile.

So Magnus will do what he hasn’t forced himself to do in centuries.

He’ll be patient.

And he’ll play the long game.  

And so Magnus stays on the couch, even though he wants to take Alexander to Magnus’ bed and wrap around him. 

Instead, Magnus keeps his touches soft and confined to Alexander’s hair and the planes of his sleep-soft face until he wakes.

“There you are, pretty boy.” Magnus murmurs when Alec’s lashes flutter and he can’t help the way his greedy fingers curl tighter into Alexander's hair.

He wants to take, so very badly and Magnus hasn’t been denied anything in a very long time and to deny himself is an even greater restraint. 

But if he wants to ensure he won’t lose Alexander’s adoration and trust, then he needs to be patient. 

Alexander looks stunned and lost in the soft light of morning. His face is exhausted, smudged with deep bruises under his eyes that Magnus aches to wipe away with his magic.

“It’s still downtime for the shadowworld.” Magnus assures him, “it’s only just past daybreak. You still have hours till dusk.” 

And Alexander relaxes back into Magnus with a little relieved sigh before he realizes what he’s done and blushes.

Magnus wants to coo, but he savagely bites his own tongue and just hums as he runs his fingers through fluffy, dark locks.

Magnus hasn’t been gentle in a very long time.

He hasn’t wanted or needed to be. 

So now, working on it, on being as soft as possible, is probably the worst self-inflicted trial he’s ever pushed himself to do.

Yet even now, it's worth the reward he’s gained.

[1863-project]

Okay, was thinking about it and I remembered a lot of you were very young or not even alive for this, so:

When 9/11 happened I was 12 and had just started 7th grade. I grew up in a suburb of New York City. 12 people from my town died, including a firefighter whose son was in my younger brother's CCD group.

Things changed SO fast. Practically overnight. Suddenly, we were all hypervigilant, and after the immediate response of assistance from around the world, the prejudice was oozing from nearly everywhere. In northern New Jersey, we had and still have a large west (Middle East) and south Asian population. They were hit the hardest.

People freaked out just because a mosque was going to be built in lower Manhattan within several blocks of Ground Zero at one point. It was ridiculous and the Islamophobia was so fucking awful and infuriating. It still is. It didn't go away. For the most part, New Yorkers are usually good to each other because there's literally someone from everywhere here, but this was legitimately terrifying. People would even attack Sikhs - who weren't Muslim, Sikhism is its own thing - because they saw the turbans and made a decision based on racism (i.e. bin Laden had a turban so these people must be like him).

The "patriotism" was miserable. "Freedom fries" happened because people were mad that France didn't want to go into Iraq with Bush in 2003. We all thought it was stupid then too.

The Chicks (formerly known as the Dixie Chicks) got blackballed because they came out against said war. They were one of the biggest country acts in the world at the time. In general, country music went through a massive tonal shift post-9/11 and became far more "patriotic" and conservative. Johnny Cash wouldn't have recognized it.

The Flash movies that inevitably popped up satirizing politics were...something. You can find most of them archived on YouTube these days. But that was how the internet tended to cope back then.

The shift from happiness to paranoia was so fucking fast. I went from a world where my biggest concern was pre-ordering the GameCube to being worried about politics and death all the time. All the news showed was footage of people dying for weeks. Politicians started using the footage in commercials. You just had to keep reliving the trauma of it over and over again. I stopped watching the news.

It was, looking back on it, a huge galvanizing point for the American right. Politicians started using 9/11 to justify so many things. This was where I began to see as a young teenager that you could use people's prejudices to get a grip on power and get what you wanted. I didn't like it.

People started drawing memorial art almost immediately. The phenomenon of memorial art being done decades later with cartoon characters still persists on deviantART to this day, but when it started, it was mostly people doing vent art because it's really upsetting to be a kid and see death on that scale on the news.

It took me 15 years to go back to the site after 9/11. I'd been as a kid in 1997 and I went up in the South Tower with my family. I didn't set foot there again until 2016, 15 years after the attacks. I found the name of the firefighter whose son was in my brother's CCD class. It was surreal.

This chapter of American history arguably closed for many people in 2011, when bin Laden was killed in a raid. I remember watching the Mets play the Phillies that night. Daniel Murphy, who I'd named a cat after two years earlier, was at bat, and suddenly the crowd started chanting "USA." I used my Blackberry to check the news and that was how I found out. I was a senior in college, about to graduate. I don't even remember how I felt, just that the way I found out was so fucking weird.

It was a really stressful, bizarre climate to grow up in. In the time between my 12th and my 22nd birthday, I saw my entire world get turned upside down overnight, massive waves of prejudice, unnecessary wars that killed even more innocent people, literal war crimes (tw: rape, murder, prisoner torture, every other bad thing you can think of under the sun), and the rise of false patriotism and nationalism, which you can still see the right wing harnessing today.

If you're going to mock something here, mock the false patriotism. Mock "Freedom Fries." Mock George W. Bush. Just...don't mock the actual moments where people died. Too many innocent people died from the attacks themselves, the Islamophobia afterwards, and the wars that followed. That shit isn't funny.

[songmingisthighs]

Ignominy

introduction pt. i | pt. ii | pt. iii

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ch. xxx - working from home

hybrid!san × human!reader

buy me coffee ?

warning : mdni, explicit sex, piv, unrpotected sex, creampie

everyone wants to belong, it's basic human need to connect with people around them. what happens when you're responsible for someone who belongs to two worlds but at the same time belongs to neither ? worst part is, what happens when it's your ex ?

The elevator let out a 'ding' sound and soon door opened and San casually stepped out as he browse through his mail. It was the firat time you stepped into his condo- well, it was the first time you stepped into a housing unit that is directly connected to a private elevator- and you were amazed. The foyer itself was amazing and the guest slippers felt like clouds on your feet.

Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city and the fact that the place was two stories high, a modern chandelier that looked so intricate it must be obnoxiously expensive, and tasteful artworks decorating the walls. Those were only some of the things you could point out because your eyes immediately zeroed in on the owner of the condo, tossing his mail carelessly on the kitchen island before pushing what seemed like a marble wall only to unveil what you would later discover is one of his fridges to pour himself a glass of cold water. The kitchen counter was of course white marble with black and gold patterns and bar stools on the other side, facing the fridges.

Noticing you were still standing near the entrance of his condo, San raised an eyebrow at you curiously, "Aren't you gonna come in?" He asked.

Embarrassedly, you shuffled off your shoes, set them aside and joined him where he was situated, standing across him on the kitchen counter, near the stools. It was bad enough that you were in your boss's place where he look so damn cute and comfortable, he HAD to catch you ogling at the freaking furniture. "So," you coughed out, throat suddenly very dry, "I got all the things you asked for," you said as you lift his laptop bag and another bag with several brown files filled with different documents and his work notebook. "Where do you want me to put it?" As you asked, you couldn't help but let your eyes wander around, wondering where he would usually work on when he's working from home. San took a sip of his water before nodding to the vacant spot on the counter near you, "Just put them there," he casually pointed out.

You began carefully placing each items out on the cold surface, mimicking how they would be situated on his office as San was quite particular in his placement. Meanwhile, San was looking at you with his sharp eyes, analyzing every move you made whilst thinking of your outing with his friends just the night before.

"Did you have fun?" the sound of his voice resonated, surprising you to the point that you almost let his note book fell to the floor. San surprised himself too by asking you that question, he wanted to not sound like he was paying attention to you. Not that much anyways, but just enough to think that he was being nonchalant. But he said it and the worst thing he could do was pretending as if he didn't just ask what he had asked. So he feigned a confident posture; wide shoulders back with his chin up and hands in his pocket, he casually walked to the side so he was parallel with you, "Did you have fun last night with my friends?" he asked again, this time sounding even more sure and clear.

Confused, you didn't know why he would care as to how you were feeling especially around his friends. But since he asked anyways, you didn't think it would be harmful to actually answer. "It was... Good..." you shrugged, eyes dropping to the bag in your hands as you continued taking his things out and placing them in front of you. "Define good," he demanded to you, genuinely wanting to know but his voice made him seem... cold. You looked up briefly at him, thinking of a more professional way to say "I had a blast shit talking you with your buddies and drinking our stress away from having to deal with your demanding ass" without risking your job. "It was... Eventful, we shared stories," embarrassing ones of you, "Shared out mutual understandings," how we think your mood swings higher and quicker than Jekyll and Hyde and that might have been due to the fact that he's your ex and he's being pissy because he's butthurt, "And even bonded over our interests," forgetting that we're working with a jackass using alcohol.

San nodded in understanding, but he kept going with his questions, "Were any of them about me?" all of them, "Some, maybe," you shrugged, plastering a fake smile in hopes he'd drop the topic. But of course, he didn't. "Well you sure seemed to bond well with them considering the photos you guys took and the jokes you all shared," he stated. You mistook his words as him not liking you being so close to his friends so you sighed and crossed your arms, "Look, if you didn't want me to hang out with your friends, who are coincidentally my coworkers, you should just say so instead of asking me questions like this, okay? And besides, I thought you were going with us too last night. Wooyoung said that Yeosang tried asking you to come but you shot him down rather harshly," you huffed as you folded the bag after the contents were all laid out on the table. San's eyebrows furrowed as he didn't know why you'd be all huffy and annoyed, but his eyebrows relaxed when he noticed what you said to him. "You wanted me to come with you?" he asked, the corner of his lips curling into a knowing smirk. Your body froze and your hand floated mid-air, realizing the connotation of the words you used. Shit, how do you cover your tracks?

Your silence conveyed thousands of words to him and despite understanding that it was a slip, it meant that it was what you felt deep down.

As you scrambled to finish up your task, San sneakily moved to trap you between his kitchen counter and his body. "You wanted me to be there with you last night?" he teased, voice appearing next to your ear that made your spine shoot up. "I thought you had fun with my friend, though. I saw the tweet Mingi made about your tits," his hands crept up your body from the sides of your hips up to your waist and then it found its home on the base of your neck and on your left thigh, dangerously close to where you have begun leaking. "If only he knew how supple and pretty your tits are," he said as he pressed his body onto yours, making you gasp as you felt the familiar twitch of his cock in his pants against your ass. "But nothing could compare to your sweet cunt," he said as he suddenly cups your mound over your pants, putting pressure on your clit over the fabric that made your muscles tense and legs snap shut, effectively trapping San's hand between them. "It was a good thing I wasn't there last night because I would've fucked you in front of them to show who you belong to," he stated, finger moving deftly against your clit.

Hearing his words, your head cleared up for a moment and you spat out the first thing that popped into your head, "But I'm not yours, I'm your ex." San raised an eyebrow at that, surprised that you talked back to him after being so obedient. He turned your body around and pressed onto you so hard that you had no choice but to lift yourself on your tippy toes and rest your ass on the countertop and San pushed himself to situate you further in. His hands trapped your body and his face got so close to yours, "But even that still has a possessive connotation," he smirked, pecking your lips once, "you're MY ex," another peck, "MY former lover," another peck, "MY first," another peck followed by him tugging your bottom lip from between his teeth, "and now you're MY assistant who's supposed to listen to my every word and fulfil my needs." And with that, his lips melded with yours in a steamy kiss.

You hated how right he was. No matter how much you wanted to deny it, even as his ex you were still somewhat his. No matter what you'll be, you'll always be his. But you couldn't complain when he was taking you so roughly like this, it even made the situation slightly better.

San had slowly taken your pants and panties off, pulling them and throwing them away somewhere you couldn't care much as he trailed kisses down the side of your neck. Your hands move to unbutton three of your buttons, successfully revealing your bra-clad tits to him. San pulled away slightly to admire the pretty lace decorating your chest, the pretty colour and pattern made you seem way softer to him. "Look at you being so obedient for me," he grinned, fingers caressing your slit gently, giving you the littlest stimulation that brought you a lot of pleasure, "And so, so wet," he stated, lifting his hand from between your legs to show you the arousal he gathered from your pussy. Your eyes widened when you saw him licking all of it slowly, making a show with his tongue and him shoving his digits into his mouth, obnoxiously sucking to the point that his fingers were covered with his spit. When San shoved his fingers in you, he made a demand, "Play with your tits." Your head was hazy with pleasure but his words still affected you, forcing you to be obedient and followed his orders.

The hand between your legs only increase its pressure and movement once you pull your bra down to expose your tits, deciding that taking off your shirt would be too much of a hassle. "If only Mingi could see you, he wouldn't know what to do with a slut like you," San chuckled, plunging his fingers harshly into your hole once while your fingers tweaked both of your nipples, successfully eliciting a moan from your lips. "You really wanna know what Mingi would do to me? He's a phone call away and he always answers me," you pointed out challengingly. San didn't like the sound of that, he didn't like the image of you being with one of his friends. With a growl, San pushed your body so your back was flushed against the cold surface and he climbed on top of you, not even caring that there was a chance that his laptop would fall off let alone the documents and his notebook that you had placed so carefully. San has your chin in one hand as his other was supporting his body while his bare cock (that he had somehow let out of his pants) was flush against your bare cunt. "You talk a lot for an ex that kept coming back for my dick," he chuckled darkly, grinding forward powerfully so that his tip bumped your clit harshly, "You're all talk but we both know the only person who can fuck you right is me," he said as he suddenly pushed himself in you in one swift thrust. It was a good thing that you were on your back and trapped by San or else you would've definitely been sent reeling over and possibly fall. "You're such a slut for my cock," San's hips bucked at the feeling of his cock being enveloped in your warmth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip from how good it felt, "I love it."

San began thrusting inside you without letting you adjust to his size first like before. You were surprised at how pleasurable the burn from his cock moving at a fast pace was, the drag of his cock against your walls sending your eyes backwards into your socket. The familiarity of the feeling of him being inside you was what you were addicted to. No matter how harsh he was, you could only find pleasure in his treatment because for some reason you felt safe, you felt like you were taken care of. It was an odd feeling to have whilst you were fucking your ex, but damn if it wasn't thrilling.

Each thrust of San's hips was precise and powerful. Some were just enough to have you sliding slightly from the surface and some made your back arch. San took this as an opportunity to have your tits in his mouth. The hand that was on your chin dropped to grip your right boob as his mouth enveloped the left. It was as if he was trying to prove something, his movements were possessive and erratic. Your jaw slackened at the feeling of San's teeth grazing against your pebbled nipples followed by a harsh suck. The overwhelming stimulation on your chest caused your pussy to clench on San's dick, pausing the movement of his hips momentarily as his cock twitched inside you. San moaned into your breast from the feeling of your cunt hugging him so tight. His body was right on yours and you could feel the vibration of his voice on your lower tummy, you swore it made you feel tingly inside and maybe even slightly ticklish.

"San," you moaned out, hips bucking into his and legs locking behind him, just under his ass to make him continue his abuse of your pussy, "Please make me cum," you begged. San let go of your slobbered flesh from his mouth, the air on the wet surface causing goosebumps to rise, he looked at you and pressed his lips on the corner of your mouth, dragging them slowly as he spoke into the skin, "Say it, say only I can make you cum." His voice was low, nothing but above a whisper but it was loud and clear in your ear. You even had to admit that he sounded slightly emotional, like as if he wanted to convey something.

The lack of answer from you made San reach down to smack your ass, forcing a yelp out of you from the sudden impact. He pulled away, eyes staring menacingly down at you. In this close distance, you could see his beautiful eyes, the little flecks of darker and lighter shade brown decorating them which made him look more intense. But even his intensity couldn't cover the emotion that was seemingly locked inside him, not even the beauty of his eyes could distract you from feeling that San had something to say. But you know he couldn't say it then. So rather than saying what you wanted to say, you say what he wanted to hear.

"You're the only one who can make me cum, San. I need your cock," you said through ragged breath.

The moment the last word left your lips, San connected both of your lips again in a searing kiss as his hips restarted their abuse on yours. His lips were doing an amazing job of covering your voice. Not that it mattered anyways since San has the whole floor to himself and if anyone even heard you, no one would say anything or complain to him.

Had it not been for the fact that San was on top of you, you were sure that would be a writhing mess. His cock felt too good inside you, each movement managed to hit your g-spot just right that it brought you to your climax quicker than you expected. Your thighs clamped on his tiny, slim waist and your hips stuttered as you came hard on his cock. San detached his mouth from yours so he could hear you moan loudly in pleasure, chest rising with the arch of your back as your body tensed. But San didn't stop his own movements when you came, he too was determined to follow suit. The overstimulation San was giving as he chased his own high made you whimper and grip his shirt tightly.

Under him, you were a mess and San loved it. He loved the idea of making such a big mess out of you and he seek his pleasure from it. From the overstimulation San was giving you, your second climax came barreling down, making you even more of a mess especially when your arousal spurted out of you and wet both your thighs and San's hips. The warmth of your juices was what pushed San over the edge, cumming with his face buried in your neck to muffle his scream of pleasure but also so he could be surrounded by the smell of you whilst his head was swimming in post-climax.

San lifted his body off of you, pulling his cock out before sitting back to enjoy the view of your sweat-slicked body and flushed skin as you tried to catch your breath. Your tits were still hanging out of your bra and the buttons of your shirt held onto dear life from being scuffled and pulled, almost to the point of being mangled. But even in such a messy state, San couldn't help but saw how absolutely ethereal you looked. The beauty was truly beyond compare and knowing that he got you to that state made his chest swell with pleasure.

"Name one other person who could turn you into this much of a mess I dare you," San smugly said with a smirk on his face.

As much as you would've liked to knock him off a peg or two, you know you couldn't. And that's both well-deserved on his part and annoying.

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[unclewaynemunson]

@yournowheregirl Alice, this one's for you! We miss you a lot but we still love you and you'll always be part of the angstflayer in our hearts <3

Robin was lying right next to Nancy in her bed, both of them in their pajamas, full sleepover style. She was struck by how nice it was to be able to share this together: Robin never really had friends close enough to do sleepovers with, and Nancy... Well, the pictures on the wall behind them, of long gone happy memories with a dead girl, told Robin enough.

Her mind wandered back to the months between the summer holidays and last spring break, when the two of them had been strangers even though they were one of the few people who shared the knowledge of this one huge thing. There had been some mildly awkward nods in the Hawkins High hallways, some stolen glances before one of them quickly looked away again, but nothing more than that basic recognition of each other's existence. Never in a million years would Robin have thought that she and Nancy “She's such a priss” Wheeler would become friends. And now, almost a year after they had met for the first time, the two of them had basically become inseparable.

She couldn't help but start laughing at the thought of what her younger self would have said upon hearing that she would become best friends with Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler and Eddie Munson, of all people.

“What are you thinking about?” Nancy asked, a vaguely amused smile playing around her lips and a playful nudge of her shoulder against Robin's.

“I can't believe we wasted so many months avoiding each other,” Robin told her. “After what happened last summer... We never even felt the urge to talk about it, to seek each other out. It would've been nice, actually, to talk about it all with someone who wasn't Steve or a child. But we just... Fought a bunch of monsters together and went on with our lives. Isn't that crazy?”

When she didn't get any answer, Robin let her gaze wander from the ceiling back to Nancy; strangely enough, she was blushing fervently.

“What?” Robin asked.

“This is gonna sound totally embarrassing,” Nancy said in a soft voice.

Robin turned around until she was lying on her side. She folded her hands underneath her cheek and looked at Nancy expectantly.

“Try me.”

“I was –” she took a breath, “Intimidated by you.”

Robin couldn't help it: she burst out into loud laughter and had to shut herself up by slamming a hand in front of her mouth.

“You, Nancy Wheeler, utterly badass sharpshooter who had zero hesitation to stand in front of a murder car driven by a literal demon, were intimidated by me?!”

Nancy rolled her eyes, but the blush still hadn't faded from her cheeks.

“I wasn't intimidated in that way,” she explained. “It was more about...” She sighed. “About your whole... Look. The eyeliner and the chains and um... The uniform.”

Another laugh, this one even more maniacal, escaped from Robin's mouth.

“You were intimidated by my Scoops Ahoy uniform?!”

Nancy laughed too, now, burying her face into her pillow, overcome by her own embarrassment in the cutest possible way.

“Okay, maybe intimidated wasn't quite the right word here. But it was – it was a look, okay?” It sounded almost defensive. “You looked very hot.”

And those last words were almost whispered, but holy shit, they were still loud enough for Robin to hear.

“Nance,” she said, even more hoarse than usual because her mouth had suddenly gone all dry. She shuffled upwards, leaning on one elbow on the mattress. “You were – are you saying you were attracted to me?”

Nancy lifted her head from the pillow but kept hiding her face behind her hands; she mumbled something unintelligible that seemed to feature words like “knee socks” and “stripes.” When she finally lowered her hands, she looked more bashful than Robin had ever seen her before.

Robin couldn't stop a beaming bright grin from taking over her whole face.

“Well, good thing that I was never more attracted to anyone than when you were standing with your gun in front of that car.”

Nancy's eyebrows shot upwards and a look of complete disbelief crossed her face.

“Jesus,” she breathed out. “I can't believe we wasted all those months. That's...”

“Ridiculously stupid,” Robin finished her sentence. Her heart was beating in her throat, but she didn't want to hold back anymore – not now that she knew what she knew.

“To think we could've done this...” She leaned forward and cautiously pressed her lips against Nancy's, “all along.”

Nancy's lips were exactly as soft as Robin had imagined them to be, carrying the taste of toothpaste and a hint of something sweet she couldn't quite place; maybe just Nancy herself.

Robin swallowed thickly, caught in Nancy's wide-eyed gaze for a few long seconds.

Then, Nancy leapt forward with a sudden enthusiasm, purposefully finding her way back to Robin's lips all while crawling into her lap. Her hands came up to cup Robin's face and one of Robin's hands wrapped itself around Nancy's waist, while the other found its way up to tangle into Nancy's curls. With the taste of Nancy on her tongue, the warmth of her body in her lap and a knee between her thighs, she forgot all about the months they had wasted: right now, this was the only moment that was real.