Hi, I'm Cass, and I love a lot of stuff. I love matching games, drawing (when I actually do it), Marvel comics, DC comics, slice of life and magical girl anime and manga, listening to music, food, coming up with a bunch of characters that I hardly ever draw, and a bunch of other things that I can't think of off the top of my head rn.
I don't support gen AI, so no, don't feed anything I post into it and I don't support bigotry or racism.
I have a lot of ocs. If at any point you're inspired by them or any of my ideas, just go for it, tag me too even! I'd love to see it!
DC Heroes/Reader (Guy Gardner/Reader, Clark Kent/Reader, Jason Todd/Reader, Wally West/Reader), 1.4K
a/n: a really fun request I whipped up and hope you all enjoy :)
cw: power imbalance (but everyone is into it), mentions of spanking/sexual references/jokes, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
…Especially when they find out you could tear them in two.
DC Heroes/Reader
Guy Gardner:
You find Guy at the conclusion of the mission, as you wipe asteroid dust from your fingers, clapping them across your thighs as you roll out the tension from your neck. You know that he's looking, got his eyes trained on you as he takes in every moment—especially from that broad smirk that he's got plastered on his face.
He eats up the distance between you both with alarming speed, crossing his arms confidently over the width of his chest.
"Holy fuckin' shit," he starts without cocky preamble, "You never said you were holdin' out on me like that."
You shrug, never one to play up your assets the way your boyfriend does—but he seems to have an awestruck grin as he looks you over. "I mean, you've seen me do stuff like that all the time."
"Yeah—"—He agrees with almost quiet introspection (well, for him)—"—But I ain't never seen you break a planet in half like that before."
You hesitate for an audible second as you take in the excited gleam to his eye, the way that he's mulling over something with glee.
"And you…like it?" You ask carefully, though you have strong suspicions as to what he might think.
"Like it?" He asks as though he's insulted that you'd say such a thing. "I fuckin' love it."
He swallows up more space between you both with another imperious step your way, pitching his voice to confidential manner between you both.
"Thinkin' you oughta try that out on me and see how I take it." He husks, and you bark out a surprised laugh that has him grinning wider.
"I could tear you into shreds." You warn him—though he doesn't seem afraid at this possibility. Hungry for it, more than anything.
"'S okay. I'm a resilient typa Guy." He breezes this away with a smirk.
"Was that a joke?" You ask wryly, cocking your head to suss out the truth from him. You can see the gears turning in his head as he ponders the possible answers he can give you.
"Will it get me laid?" He asks without shame. You find heat blooming under your cheeks at the audacity, but you already know your answer. Much as he does.
"…Yes." You answer.
He laughs in triumph. "Then it was, baby."
Guy leans in. "So whatcha gonna do about it?"
You can hazard a guess from the way he watches you, that he already has a few ideas he'd like for you to try out.
Clark Kent:
Clark lets out a low whistle as the two of you watch the debris of the alien spaceship flutter down to Earth in piecemeal shambles. It's almost picturesque now that the overlords aren't threatening the sancitity of the planet, how it crumbles in mosaic pattern.
"Well," Clark says, turning to you with good cheer, "I guess this means I don't have to worry about holding back anymore."
You look at your partner with bemusement, furrowing your brow at the statement. "Holding back?"
"Well—"—Clark begins, and you catch the hint of a flush that dusts across his face—"I like to make sure I don't hurt my partners."
When you remain bewildered, he clarifies, "Collegial or romantic."
Comprehension begins to dawn slowly, but when it fully sinks in, you feel a similar shamefulness heating under your face. The sheepish smile on his expression is surely mirrored by your own.
But you don't resist asking, "And when they happen to be both?"
He shrugs, trying to remain casual even though his face is still turning even more ardent bright red. "Well, it gives me a little bit of insight."
You feel the familiar smile that's playing across your face as you turn more fully to him. "And what does it tell you?"
Clark rubs the back of his neck, trying not to make eye contact. He's almost shy as he informs the air beneath you both, "Now I know you can take it."
You laugh again—even when he propositions you, there's still something so endearing about it. There's something so sweet about the way he promises to take the gloves off—but still ensures you that they can stay on if, you wish it.
But you can't resist teasing. "Does this mean you're dropping the chivalrous act?"
His eyes dance with an uncharacteristic glint of mischief. But it suits him so very well. "Only if you want me to."
You giggle. "You're such a nerd, Kent."
But a nerd, it seems, that's going to put you through the wall the next chance you get. And my, how exciting that sounds to you.
Jason Todd:
Jason makes a contemplative hum through the helmet as the two of you look at the demolished building you've just given the business. It seems rather pointless to add anything to the rather punctuating action you've just put on the job, so the two of you remain in this silence, reassessing the way that the stakes have just changed.
Jason, of course, is the one to break it for you both. You don't have to see those whited-out lenses to know they're staring you down.
"So you know what this means?" He asks gruffly.
"What?" You ask, looking at him with an element of confusion. He doesn't sound scared, or intimidated—not in the way that you would expect him to. He sounds rather…entertained, for lack of a better word.
"I've been watching your six this whole time." He asserts as means of introduction to the conversation he's beginning. You nod in agreement with the truth of this statement.
"Doesn't seem like you've been complaining, Todd." You answer back. He provides a limber nod to affirm what you've stated, broadening his shoulders with the motion.
"Well," he looks back up to the scene of ruin that you've saved Wayne Construction from creating, "Now you gotta watch mine."
"Mmmm." You make a sound of approval as you take a rather extensive inspection of his six. "I don't think I have a problem with that."
"Yeah, I didn't think so." He turns, guiding the two of you back to the bike, giving you opportunity for further appraisal. "Especially since it looks like I got reduced to trophy boyfriend."
You make sure to keep your voice teasing to mollify him. "But you're just so good about it."
"Yeah, yeah." He says as he hefts up the steed, nudges the kickstand with an expert swipe of his foot. "Just make sure to call me sweetheart before you slap my ass."
You laugh long and loud before you give him the shot he's set up for you to take. "Will do."
Wally West:
Wally is a familiar blur that zips around the scene of the crime. Well, crater is more apt term, considering that's what you created with the exertion of your fist. You watch as he manifests in your line of sight to admire the cracks—then you blink and he's on the other side of the perimeter to admire the dip in the well.
Then, he's sidelong to you, scratching the edge of his jaw as he takes an ample second to observe with you.
Of course, he starts forward first—you let him, of course.
"Well, I guess that means that we make quite a duo now." He ventures forth, watching you for your reaction. You don't resist the smirk as you cock your head to him. As far as you were concerned, the two of you already had been.
"How's that work, Wally?" You ask him with bright inquiry, though you take care to still cross your arms about your chest.
He's quite humble as he provides you with explanation.
"Well, I'm the fastest man alive—"—He produces hand palm-up to you as he gestures to you—"—You're the strongest hero alive."
You snort through your nose. The two of you turn as one to look back at the site of impact, which is still growing larger as the edges fray and crumble more.
"You think Kent'll like that if he hears you saying it?" You ask dryly—the two of you take a cautious step back lest you tumble in.
"Don't worry—"—Wally waves this off with cavalier ease—"—I think I have someone to protect me now."
At this, he bats his eyelashes up at you in coquettish manner, and gives a little halfway smile that you always find yourself falling for. Much as you do now.
"Only because you're so cute." You grin back at him, which summons the real deal to cross his face.
"Good thing I have that going for me." He grins back. "This mean I'm your sugar baby now?"
"Only if you want to be." You shoot his way. The fact that it looks like he's genuinely considering the idea doesn't help you resist the laugh that tumbles out of you.
Is sex at its core not already body horror??? Or I guess is body horror at its core not already sex???
I mean, the exchanging of fluids, shoving organs into other organs, literally being inside of someone underneath their skin. All of that feels pretty body horror-esque to me, and that's just the surface level shit off the top of my head without even touching on dynamics or kinks.
Through recent readings, I came to realize just how strongly Doctor Doom resonates with the figure of the Fisher King from Arthurian myth 🤯
So... who's the Fisher King?
Parsifal and the Fisher King
In the Arthurian mythology, the Fisher King - also known as the Maimed King, the Wounded King or the Sinner King - is the last of a long line of rulers descending from Joseph of Arimathea, entrusted with guarding the Holy Grail or, in some versions, the Spear of Longinus, both represent the Truth, the Last Light.
He is a wounded and impaired monarch who reigns over a desolate realm known as the Wasteland. The Fisher King's wound can never be healed: only the knight destined to find the Grail can restore him, because the injury itself is not merely physical: it is a manifestation of the king’s own sins, moral failings and spiritual imbalance. His physical impairment is directly mirrored by the condition of his kingdom which is sterile, ruined, and fruitless.
As long as the Fisher King remains wounded, the Wasteland cannot flourish. Only when the right question is asked and the truth acknowledged can the king be healed—and with him, the land itself.
Why Doctor Doom mirrors this archetype with striking precision.
The Fisher King motif has long been tied to Doctor Doom as a character archetype, but it has become particularly apparent in recent stories such as Secret Wars (2025), One World Under Doom (2025), Doomed 2099 (2025) and Superior Avengers (2025). In the latter two, Doom is shown reigning over devastated, barren Earths; literal wastelands.
Doomed 2099 (2025)
These ruined domains are not merely settings, but symbolic extensions of Doom himself, whose inner wound manifests outwardly. This is particularly evident in the case of the Victor von Doom of Year 128 depicted in Superior Avengers: as Sorcerer Supreme, Doom makes himself the sole possessor of magic, effectively becoming its only vessel and binding the fate of that world to himself.
Nothing exists beyond Doom. From Superior Avengers (2025) #2
Doom's wound is both physical and moral. His disfigurement, hidden beneath his mask, functions as a permanent mark of his hubris: his refusal to accept limits, his obsession with mastery, and his belief that only he is fit to rule. It is a wound that cannot truly be healed, because it would require Doom to relinquish his pride and confront his own fallibility. As with the Fisher King, the injury is inseparable from the king’s identity and authority, his suffering reflects the damage and decay of the kingdom he rules.
This parallel can be pushed even further by turning to Parzival by Wolfram von Eschenbach. In this version of the myth, the Fisher King’s suffering is not merely passive. The Spear of Longinus, the very weapon that wounded Christ, is repeatedly driven into the king’s leg, deliberately reopening the wound and prolonging his agony.
Doctor Doom’s disfigurement functions in a strikingly similar way. His damaged face is a wound he refuses to let close. Doom continually reenacts his trauma through the mask, and through an identity built entirely around the idea of monstrosity. Even when presented with opportunities for healing or restoration, Doom rejects them. Not because healing is impossible, but because the wound has become inseparable from his sense of self.
Victor is asked why he refuses to heal his face by another version of himself from Doctor Doom #10 (2020) by Christopher Cantwell.
This reading aligns with Jack Kirby’s own interpretation of the character: that Doom is not truly hideously disfigured, but bears only minor scars. The real deformity is psychological. Doom considers himself monstrous, and thus he makes himself monstrous. He continuosly flagellates himself by convincing himself he's unworthy and hideous even though it is not the case, to the point where the very sight of his own face cripples him bringing him to desperation and madness.
This is particularly obvious in Fantastic Four #200: when Reed has to unmask him to save his own life, Victor is forced to see his face in millions of solar enhanced reflections and "Doom falls, whimpering like a mindless cur to the ground, grovelling out of control in a painful, contorted rage... that may never see an end." (Marv Wolfman, Fantastic Four #200)
Fantastic Four #200 (1978)
In this light, Doom’s mask is not merely armor or concealment—it is the Spear of Longinus that pierces him again and again, a reminder of sin, pride, and failure, endlessly reenacted. The tragedy of Doom is not that he cannot heal, but that he will not allow himself to do so.
Doom cannot bear the sight of his face from Fantastic Four #10 and the Spear of Longinus is plounged into the Fisher King's tigh.
And yet, just like the Fisher King, Doom is a custodian of truth. He possesses immense scientific, mystical and political knowledge. He understands cosmic forces beyond the grasp of most heroes, and often sees outcomes others cannot. His wisdom and superior vision make him a guardian of the truth about reality, responsibility, and destiny, even if others don't understand it.
Yet this knowledge isolates him. He is the only possible saviour of the entire Marvel universe, he is the one who holds the answer. He knows what must be done, but cannot (or will not) ask the “right question” that would allow genuine restoration because Doom's vision of order can only be imposed, never shared.
Even Doom’s famous banquets echo the Fisher King myth: just as Galahad is welcomed at the Fisher King’s court, Doom receives all visitors both allies and enemies with a grand banquet—an act that is at once ceremonial and symbolic. Doom’s banquets function as thresholds. To dine at Doom’s table is to enter his domain on his terms—an assertion of sovereignty, control, and authority rather than simple courtesy.
Doctor Doom welcomes his guests in Fantastic Four #87 (1969) as depicted by Jack Kirby, and the Fisher King's banquet shown in a miniature from a 14th-century edition of Perceval, the Story of the Grail, by Chrétien de Troyes.
Oh and I won't point out how Doom's always portraited with that damn chalice of red wine in his hand 'cause, well... erm... any similarity to the Grail is purely coincidental? ^^
Doctor Doom from Super-Villain Team Up #10 by Bob Hall and the Fisher King as depicted by AJ King
Latveria: the Suspended Kingdom
Leeming writes that the Fisher King’s people “live, and yet are dead because God punished them after one brother smote the other for his land.” (Leeming David Adams. Mythology: The Voyage of the Hero., 1998.) This image of a population condemned to a state of living death finds a haunting parallel in Latveria under Doom’s rule.
Latverians are alive, protected, and materially provided for, but they exist in a condition of profound stasis. Their lives are stripped of meaningful choice, history, and moral consequence. Doom has ended conflict, but at the cost of vitality.
Latveria itself can be read as a modern variation of the Fisher King’s Wasteland. Not literally, as it is it is an orderly, technologically advanced and prosperous nation, but spiritually.
Latveria is a country suspended outside normal history and politics. It does not grow, change, or evolve through its people, but through Doom alone. It flourishes only insofar as Doctor Doom’s will remains absolute.
Just like the Fisher King’s injury has broken the natural order of his land, Doom's personal wound (his disfigurement, his pride, his unresolved guilt and trauma) prevents true renewal. There is no succession, no future beyond Doom himself. The land cannot outlive the king.
This parallel is particularly explicit in earliest portrayals of Latveria by Lee and Byrne, where the country is depicted as a seemingly idyllic and bucolic land, peaceful, orderly, almost fairy-tale in appearance. Yet beneath this surface lies something deeply unsettling. Happiness is not organic but enforced; dissent is unthinkable; and no one is allowed to leave the country or exist outside of Doom’s absolute control. (It improved over time; nowadays Latveria is no different from any other country, though it remains tied by a single thread of destiny to its king — but that is not what we are discussing here.).
Latveria as depicted by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in Fantastic Four (1961) #84
Latverians smile, work, and praise their ruler, but no one is permitted to leave. They exist under the shadow of an ancient, unresolved sin that dates back to Cynthia von Doom's pact with Mephisto. Doom has ended conflict, Doom has brought peace but also a society bound eternally to the wound of its king.
Until that wound is healed, or acknowledged, the kingdom can only remain a controlled ruin, sustained by power rather than renewed by life. Everything is as Doom wants, he is Latveria and Latveria is Doom. They're bound and cursed together.
Latveria as a wounded Camelot
Latveria is a Camelot turned inward. An “ideal” kingdom on paper: a world power orderly, protected, free from crime and chaos, just and luminous but it is an empty ideal. It is just a memory, a promise deferred, a kingdom caught between what it was meant to be and what it can never really become. Its fate is suspension rather than destruction.
Doom, like the wounded king of Arthurian myth, maintains the structure of the realm while its spirit remains unresolved.
Where Camelot waits for the return of the king or the healing of the land, Latveria waits for something that can never arrive because Doom refuses the conditions that would allow healing. There is no space for the Grail question, no knight allowed to challenge the king’s wound. In this sense, Doom is both Arthur and the Fisher King: founder and destroyer, ideal and obstacle, savior and condemnation.
What ails thee?
Such a simple question, isn't it? What pains you? What's causing you trouble? A question Victor knows, and one to which he already knows the answer.
And yet Doom isolates himself ensuring no one can force the question. Reed glimpses it in Secret Wars (2015) by Jonathan Hickman, Valeria in One World Under Doom (2025) by Ryan North, but Victor rejects them, preferring godhood's stasis. The Fisher King's hope lies in prophecy: the pure fool arrives unbidden. But Doom refuses to see them, and refuses to be them.
Even when saviors do appear, their approach must be just right. Reed’s intelligence and intentions are admirable, but his method lacks the purity and perspective required to awaken Doom (let's be honest empathy and tact have never been Reed's stronger qualities XD) . Valeria comes closer, yet Doom’s refusal to acknowledge the truth bars even her.
Valeria tries to make Victor see reason, but Doom denies her pleas in One World Under Doom #8 (2025)
Doom's refusal to truly "ask the question", his refusal to yield to Valeria's plea in One World Under Doom ("Where does this end? Please, Uncle Doom... I want you to stop.") leads to her death by his own hand, forcing a sacrifice that echoes his eternal wound. Yielding means admitting he's doing everything for pride, it means admitting the wound is what defines him.
Reed makes the accusation explicit across multiple arcs. In Secret Wars: “You’re so afraid of losing what you’ve saved… you hold them too tight,” identifying Doom’s grip as the cause of the "Wasteland". In One World Under Doom: “There was perhaps never another man more gifted… and better suited to be a great and benevolent leader, if he chose to be… than Victor von Doom. But instead of helping people, you helped yourself,” diagnosing the hubris Victor reenacts every day.
Victor concedes that Reed would have done a better job than him in re-creating reality... yet he still refuses to accept it or yield. From Secret Wars (2015) #9.
Doom doesn't need to ask "What ails me?": he knows, and these pleas confirm it. Healing demands release: loosening his grip on Latveria and the world, sharing truth rather than imposing it. But that would mean annihilation for him: the mask is the Spear, pride is his kingship.
He may sacrifice godhood, empire, even life but never his pride, preferring stasis over renewal. Reed and Valeria offer the Grail’s light; Doom extinguishes it, condemning his realm, every realm he rules, in every reality, to a state of living death.
Saviors arrive, but the king bars the castle gate himself. Even the right intentions cannot overcome a will so bound to pride and identity.
This is Doom’s seal, the reason why he resonates eternally.
Heyyyyy, sorry it's been like 2 months. I've been working on a big commission thing for a family friend, and everything has been hell. Not the commission, but just like general life shit and the state of everything.
Like literally the minute I decided, 'oh let's try to get into fanfiction', life told me to go fuck myself. These days, I've just been too tired to interact. I occasionally find myself drawing outside of this commission I'm working on, but I'll admit I've hit a slight wall.
I am trying to get back into interacting and posting and stuff, just slowly. Baby steps, y'know.
Thank you for asking though Anon, I appreciate the concern, and I will answer one of your other asks soon.
a/n: a request for Secret Admirer!Reader that I had a ton of fun with. :)
cw: cursing, terrible deductive reasoning, flirting, usage of honey/hon, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
“Maybe yer just fuckin’ jealous you ain’t got a secret admirer.” He returns back with no small amount of cheer. Bea laughs at this, clearly unfettered by what he thinks to be a scathing insult.
“Whoever wants me,” she smiles sanctimoniously, “Isn’t afraid to tell me.”
“Afraid?” Guy looks insulted at the very thought, waving this away. “Nah—this person just got overwhelmed by their good taste.”
At this, he turns to you, and you quietly freeze in your tracks. You hope the old adage of staying motionless will keep wandering predators from spotting you.
“You know who it is?” He asks, and it would be one thing if he had asked Bea first—but he hadn’t. He’s directed the question to you.
tl;dr: the clues keep stacking up against you. Guy Gardner/Reader
“Someone’s been leavin’ me food.” Guy announces unceremoniously to the group before the meeting starts, placing his legs one over the other on the table. The only two people that grace it with any attention, unfortunately, are you and Bea. Bea, however, regards the situation with pointed suspicion, and you find yourself bequeathed with quiet panic.
“Why?” Bea sniffs dismissively. “‘Cause they know you don’t have money to buy it yourself?”
Guy sneers as he tucks his arms behind his head; all you can do is watch the vaudeville before you as it ensues. “Fuckin’ funny, Da Costa.”
His eyes alight with excitement as he lists his gifts off, though he doesn’t move from his seat. “They got me a coffee one time. Left me a sandwich before monitor duty yesterday.”
“And today?” You ask with affected curiosity, interrupting the back-and-forth. When Guy turns to you, his eyes hold your own for a prolonged second, and you wonder if you’ve played your hand too strongly. You only feel like you can breathe when he answers, but even then his eyes remain schooled upon you as his hand searches within his vest.
“Left me somethin’ homemade.” He says, producing a Tupperware container from under the cover of the vest—how it didn’t show remains beyond your comprehension. “Check this shit out.”
He holds out the container so that you and Bea can lean forward; her out of genuine interest, you to play the part. You admire the bento box you took the care to make with smiley face eggs and potatoes in the early hours of the morning. The very one you snuck in front of Guy’s room and stole away in dead silence, with none the wiser. Your admiring nod is a deliberate act of subterfuge.
“Wow, that’s nice.” Bea says monotonously. “Someone wants you to eat right.”
Guy pockets the vest back into the abyss, cocking up a brow. “Sayin’ something about my diet?”
“Beer isn’t one of the five food groups.” Bea shoots back in a deadpan.
“Coulda fooled me.” Guy sniffs, as he happily disagrees. It's clear that Bea wants to move along so she changes the subject back to greener pastures.
“So who do you think it is?” She asks. Guy, for all his vaunted intel and deductive skills, shrugs.
“I dunno—I got my suspicions.” He returns back smoothly, leaning back into his seat again with a gusty sigh.
“Is that how you say ‘I don’t have a clue’ in Baltimore?” Bea inquires.
“Maybe yer just fuckin’ jealous you ain’t got a secret admirer.” He returns back with no small amount of cheer. Bea laughs at this, clearly unfettered by what he thinks to be a scathing insult.
“Whoever wants me,” she smiles sanctimoniously, “Isn’t afraid to tell me.”
“Afraid?” Guy looks insulted at the very thought, waving this away. “Nah—this person just got overwhelmed by their good taste.”
At this, he turns to you, and you quietly freeze in your tracks. You hope the old adage of staying motionless will keep wandering predators from spotting you.
“You know who it is?” He asks, and it would be one thing if he had asked Bea first—but he hadn’t. He’s directed the question to you. Almost as if he suspects. Almost as if he knows.
You, in your infinite wisdom, decide to play dumb.
“Not a clue.” You shrug, looking down the table and staring at your guilty reflection. When you look back up again, you realize that he’s still looking straight your way, as though trying to divine a great clue. You hope that you don’t appear to be sweating to the naked eye, as he continues to put his great scrutiny upon you.
Then he finally turns away, back to the open forum of you and Bea, upon which you feel you can relax, if but a little.
“Hmmm.” He says with no small amount of ill intent. “Guess I gotta keep lookin’.”
The next day in the meeting room you, Ted, and Booster are busy at work completing forms that J’onn has stated he entrusts your abilities in finishing them. Well, technically, he trusts you and Ted. Booster is mainly there for moral support, and to sit there and look pretty. Every so often he says something encouraging while Ted makes minute calculations from a dwindling supply of post-it notes the two of you share.
It’s around then that Guy strolls into the room, his appearance neither requested nor expected. When you look up, you find yourself pleasantly surprised—though this morphs to mild horror as you see him absentmindedly chewing on the muffin in his hands.
As in, the muffin that you left for him in a Tupperware outside of his room a few hours before.
He saunters past Ted and Booster, leaning in to take a prolonged look at the notes that Ted scribbles in the margins, chewing in a rather bovine-like manner. He remains long enough, that Ted finally feels the reserves of his patience run dry at the fantastic impression of cud chewing.
He turns up to look at Guy and affects what one might interpret as a curious tone. “What’re you doing, Guy?”
Guy chews and swallows. “Just a lil’ detective work.”
“For forgery?” Booster asks sarcastically. Guy wrinkles his nose at the concept, taking a step over in Booster’s direction, where he takes extended survey of his cursive writing practice.
“Nah—”—Guy tilts his head to decipher the hieroglyphics—“—Cross-examination is all.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Booster says, as if he’s the legal expert—well, neither is Guy.
This seems to do little to dissuade Guy. The three of you watch as he takes another walloping bite of the muffin that threatens its structural integrity.
“Sure it does.” Guy explains around the mouthful, perhaps sending a crumb or two flying that Booster makes pointed evasive maneuver of. “Y’ain’t never watched Perry Mason before and it shows—don’t embarrass yourself.”
He trails around the table’s corner so that he can move sidelong to you, where you are taking pains to change the style of your writing to a bigger, bubblier script. You hope that this will be successful enough to deter him in his search.
When he stops beside you, you can see what his eyes are searching for, as they run down the page, closely inspecting your written word. He doesn’t speak for a few elapsed seconds, as though this will improve his odds of interrogation.
“Whatcha doin’, honey?” He asks, and the term of endearment makes your heart thud unevenly in your chest. You effect your best blank expression up to him, watching as his eyes narrow upon you.
Shit—he suspects, you think.
“I’m, uh—”—You gesture to the never ending paperwork—“—Writing.”
“Mhm.” Guy says, and pauses another long while that makes you want to squirm. “Wanna put something down for me? “
You blink at this suggestion. “Like what?”
When he speaks, you find with mounting dread that it’s exactly what you wrote on the sticky note that went with the muffin. The smirk of triumph on his face is slow and slick as he recites, “‘Hopin’ your day looks as good as you do.”
Play stupid, play stupid, play stupid. You say aloud, “Um.”
The two of you stare at each other, you up to him, he down to you—the longer you continue to stay silent, the greater his smirk grows. You fear that this is it, that you’ve finally been caught out—
Booster comes to your unlikely rescue, a jaunty angle to his voice. “Fishing for compliments, Guy?”
He doesn’t even turn to regale Booster with, “Mind your fuckin business, Gold. Don’t concern you.”
Without skipping a beat, he takes the final bite of his muffin, and asks you with a crowded mouthful, “So how’s about it?”
And now you’re out of options. “Uh—why would you want me to write that?”
“‘Cause I got a feelin about somethin’,” Guy explains slowly, searching you, “And I wanna see if I’m right on the money.”
It appears that now both Ted and Booster are clearly invested in this farce, both of them entirely distracted from the work that they need to be doing. Neither of them, it seems, are coming to help you—and Guy continues to stand before you, waiting.
You reach out with a hand you hope is lacking a tremor, towards the post-it note. When it goes in front of you, you hope that you manage to write your o’s with an effected curlicue, the a’s with two counters, the y’s long and looping. As you finish, you feel as though you’ve completed a minor marathon, and pass it along to Guy’s awaiting hand—you try not to react as his fingers brush against yours.
He holds it up to the light like currency, judging the tender of your style for a long second. And then, in rather ambiguous, non-Guy like fashion, he pockets it in the space between his belt and hip. You have to avoid letting your eyes settle too long in that spot, instead fixating upon his satisfied smirk.
“That good for you, Guy?” You ask, hoping that your voice doesn’t bear the tremble you think it has. He flashes you a look that tells you to stop pushing while you’re ahead.
“Just about.” His smile bears teeth, carnivorous in bearing—towards you. “Be seein’ you.”
Without so much as another word towards Ted or Booster, and a long look in your direction, he strides from the room with casual alacrity, leaving behind more questions than answers. Ted is the first to break the silence with a pointed stare in your direction.
“Uh, what was that about?” He asks, as you pretend to do work, the heat of embarrassment practically cooking you where you sit.
“Um,” You say, propping a knuckle into your temple, “Don’t worry about it.”
You’re alone on monitor duty for a change—Tora is sick, and it’s a slow night, so you don’t mind taking one for the team. As means of an apology, she’s left you a ripper of a romance novel that you’re reaching the proverbial (and figurative) climax of, waiting to see if the pirate king will finally tear the bodice from the trembling, ivory-skinned wench. As the story goes.
You turn the page just as the scallywag seizes her quivering bosom, and then the door hisses open. Upon practiced instinct, you snap the book shut in your lap, looking up to see who dares to intrude upon your reading time.
To your supreme surprise, pleasure—and subsequent suspicion, you watch Guy walk in. He’s bearing no gifts, holding no detective’s magnifier, totally empty-handed. Even more worrying, he makes no means of introduction or greeting, crossing over in total silence to the chair opposite you.
Then, he leans an arm on the back of the chair and stares at you. All you can do is stare back and clutch onto the book for dear life, feeling something nervous prickling under your skin.
“You know,” Guy finally announces, “Somethin’ funny happened today.”
“What’s that, Guy?” You ask curiously, because you already have an inkling as to what he’s alluding to.
“I found somethin’ outside my room.” He says in a rather leading manner, his eyes go askance to the ground—and then up to you, as though he’ll catch you in means of confession. You remain absolutely motionless, save to speak.
“Oh, yeah?” You ask. “What was it?”
Guy reaches inside of his vest and produces something, to your sinking dread, that you recognize. He stalks over to you, drawing within a foot’s pace, and holds it out for you to take proper inspection of.
“Someone left me a gift card to that burger joint over in town.” He explains, and you turn over the very card that you left before him, once again, earlier in the morning.
You look up to him with a smile, hoping this will disguise your fear. “That’s nice, Guy. I heard you love that place.”
“Yeah, I do.” Guy finds no lie in your statement as he accepts it back. “Only, there’s somethin’ pretty neat about it.”
“Really?” You ask, because as far as you knew in your detailed research, it was a regular burger place like any other. “Like what?”
“Only person I ever told that I liked that place,” He grins, “Was you.”
You feel something plummet in your stomach as his grin grows wider, knowing that shock is registering plainly on your face. Knowing that finally, finally, you’ve been caught. But still you refuse to go down without a fight.
“Oh, I—I.” You can’t even come up with something as an excuse, and this makes him chuckle a little bit, watching you flail in the face of defeat. “That can’t be true.”
“Sure is, hon.” Guy says, unwilling to let you gracefully admit defeat. “I remember when I told you that shit durin’ duty.”
You look up at him, feeling an odd rush of pride at this. That you were the one that Guy entrusted with this little tidbit of information.
He continues his explanation, and there’s that little smile on his face again, satisfied at the fruits of his deductive work. “Only time I ever said it was ‘cause they just opened up. Never said it since.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.” you say, giving him a sheepish smile—at this, there appears to be a minor instance of irritation that good-naturedly crosses his face.
“Well, I know,” He asserts crossly, “‘Cause I was tryin to drop a fuckin hint that I wanted to take you with me.”
You feel something click into place as you gawk up at him, feeling your heart thud loudly in your heart. That smile remains unchanging on his face, save for the fact that it looks a little more fond. A tad more affectionate.
All you can do is slowly repeat, “‘Take you with me?’”
“Sure did. Still do.” Guy says, and he’s close enough now that he’s within arms reach. “Matter a’ fact, I’m thinkin once you get off duty—”—At this, he leans down so that he’s eye level with you, so there’s no room left for misinterpretation—“—How’s about you find me and we head over there together?”
When you remain wordlessly surprised, letting him admire that breathless smile that you don’t even realize is there, he advances forward.
“Unless—”—His eyes gleam with the proposal of a challenge—“—You got other ideas in mind.”
Something sparks, bold and brave, within you. After all, he likes you—wants to take you out. And it just so happens, as you have taken careful observation of—there’s no one in the room save you and he.
“Like what, Guy?” You ask, letting a little smirk slide across your face, slow and easy. “Maybe I want to know.”
Guy’s smile matches yours to a tee as he raises his fist. There’s a piercing glow from his hand, and then a green beam of light manifests to affix the door closed. To your rising amusement, you see a comically large block of green wood heft over it, just to ensure that there’s no audience to become present.
When you turn back to face him, you see that he’s all smiles, now that he’s got you exactly where he wants you. Now that he’s got you exactly where you want to be.
“Honey,” He leans in to close the distance you’re eager for him to cross, “I’m glad you asked.”
Dividers provided by the incredible @toxisyddy and @cafekitsune
Straight off the dome post cause I had to get some built-up earnest mushiness out of my system. Love y'all. (о´∀`о)🩷
I just know Clark kent loves himself a tatertot casserole, especially when he was a teen. He needed those calories bad.
And I know he always went for the corner slices. In fact, him and Pa Kent compete for them, and whoever wins always splits it with Ma Kent, that's tradition.
Truthfully, though, teenage Clark Kent doesn't know why that tradition started. He knows why he does it. When he was little, he watched Pa Kent do it every single time, and it just made sense to Clark.
But he wonders why.
So he asks him and when Pa Kent says that he'd been doing it even before him and Martha had gotten married because he thinks that the corner slice is the best slice, and to him, Martha will only ever deserve the best, it was like everything in the world just clicked for Clark.
He takes that idea, that love, that devotion, and he holds onto it. He carries it, he protects it, he lets it stick with him for the rest of his life, and he shares it.
He shares it with strangers, acquaintances, friends, first loves and last, and family. Because isn't that a lovely thought to have – I want to share my best with you – if you'll have it.
You guys, I've been working on my first full-length fic. It's Clark x reader, and I'm like almost done. All I've got to do is finish writing the ending and then read over it to do any leftover cleanup, but I am fighting for my life.
Also, I feel like the ending I have in mind feels too abrupt, maybe? Idk something's not right about it.
I lied. I reworked my plan for the ending, and it turns out I'm only halfway done. Is this what purgatory feels like? Cause I feel like this is what purgatory feels like.
You guys, I've been working on my first full-length fic. It's Clark x reader, and I'm like almost done. All I've got to do is finish writing the ending and then read over it to do any leftover cleanup, but I am fighting for my life.
Also, I feel like the ending I have in mind feels too abrupt, maybe? Idk something's not right about it.
I know twinkies is like a whole thing for Robert, but can I just say whenever I see him, I'm like, '🫵(T▽T) That's the face of a man that likes coffee cakes'. I could also see him really liking monkey bread.
He just looks like the guy I'd walk into hunched over a paper plate getting crumbs everywhere, and he definitely prefers eating them with his hands, too, cause he just doesn't wanna have to wash silverware.
Idk something about Robert just screams, 'I'll eat cinnamon based anything'. I can't prove it, but I just know that his favorite cereal is some off brand cinnamon toast crunch shit, like toasty squares.
He probably tried to take a bite of a cinnamon apple candle once as a kid and immediately regretted it.
I love the DCU, and recently, I was reading the Wiki pages on Starfire and her siblings, and it got me thinking. If I (or anyone else duh) was to make a Tamaranean OC, how would you name them? "Oh, just use something like Whitefire!!"
No. Shut up/j. You big poopy nerd/j. I mean how would you true-name them? Like, Starfire is Koriand'r, Darkfire is Ryand'r, and Blackfire is Komand'r, right. What would YOUR oc be named?
So. Tamaran is (vaguely) based on French Polynesia, like Tahiti and Samoa, along with Southeast Asia. And, using the true and given names of the -Fire's, we can conclude that: one, "And'r" means Fire in Tamaranean, and two, that Kom, Kori and Ry mean Black, Star and Dark in that order. And I couldn't find a translator or key at all for Tamaranean language, if there even is one, so sorry bro, unless u wanna use a known name prefix like Kom or Ry for ur ocs names suffix, then I can't help you. But, with what Tamaran is based off (French Polynesia), you can actually make this work. I actually used the example up there (Whitefire) as the name for my OC, and I did as follows- Put the prefix (typically a noun) word into translate and translate it into a French Polynesian/Indonesian word (i personally used Indonesian but any language thats like Southeast Asian or similar would work). So the English word for White becomes Putih in Indonesian. Then, you can either keep as is or take a few letters/syllables to make it smoother ig, so for Whitefire, Putih became Tih. Then you add the And'r, so then voile. Whitefire becomes Tihand'r in Tamaranean!
