ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ
"𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐄𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞." –clarkkentxreader!
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@derulovesu
ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ
"𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲. 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐄𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞." –clarkkentxreader!
Three seconds
Geto Suguru x nonsorcerer! reader (x Gojo Satoru)
Summary: You were the only good thing left. He never planned to keep you.
TW: Graphic violence, blood and injury detail, emotional manipulation, physical restraint, g0re, Grief response, Themes of ideological extremism justifying murder, Domestic Tragedy, Angst with No Happy Ending, Geto Suguru Is His Own Warning, Emotional Horror
Suguru Geto had a smile that made the world tilt. His eyes crinkled and he looked at you, the only good thing left in his rotting world.
You should have asked more questions.
But you were sixteen, in love, stupid. He was beautiful in that haunted untouchable way, and you thought your warmth could fill every cold space inside him. You held his hand when he woke up in the middle of the night. You kissed the tension from his jaw. You told him it's okay, I've got you as if those words meant anything against the weight of a world he'd already decided to burn.
clark kent x immigrant! reader
okay but imagine.. AGAIN!
You step off the bus in smallville, kansas, with one suitcase, a little bit of confusion, and absolutely no idea what you've gotten yourself into. Your english is functional. You know the basics, you can order food, you can ask for directions, but no one warned you about american high schools. No one warned you about the noise. the lockers slamming, the people shouting across the hallway and the sheer amount of bass coming from someone's car in the parking lot. Your ears are genuinely overwhelmed. Back home, things were quieter. Here, everything is loud and fast and everyone walks with so much purpose like they're in a movie.
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰɪᴠᴇ: ꜱɴᴏᴡᴇᴅ ɪɴ
Thursday afternoon, Clara asked for help with the back room.
"A shipment came in," she said, already halfway turned toward the hallway. "Boxes need unpacking. Shelves need rearranging. You don't have to, but—"
"I'll do it."
The answer came out quicker than you expected, but you didn't take it back. You needed something to do. Sitting in the window all day had started to feel repetitive. The same view, the same sketches, trees, snow, that stupid window seat you couldn't stop drawing. Your hand needed a break. Your head did too.
okay but imagine..
you’re a muslim girl living in smallville, and you’re that girl. You'll show up to the school in the softest hijab draped perfectly, gold hoops peeking out, baby tees, chunky sneakers but also those gorgeous skirts and dresses you combine so well together. Your style is a perfect blend of 2000s pop culture and your own modesty, and everyone in school secretly wants to know your scent because you always smell like vanilla, oud, and whatever lotion clark definitely pretended not to notice you putting on in class.
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜʀ: ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ
You didn't sleep much.
The clock on your nightstand said 3:00 AM when you last checked. Then 4:00. Then 5:00. Your body was tired but your brain wouldn't stop, circling, worrying, bracing for a day you didn't want to have.
Pages shifted against your leg. Purring even in sleep. You envied him that.
At 6:30, you gave up.
Sat up. Reached for the list.
It was becoming ritual now. The paper felt soft at the edges from your fingers tracing it every morning and night. You'd rewritten it twice already, just in case.
☆ Vanilla and Cocoa.ᐟ - Clark Kent
Pairing: Clark Kent x Fem!reader
Warnings: None, just heart wrenching fluff. Clark being a lover boy as per usual.
A/N: Clark Kent i love you. If I ever get my hands on a genie i WILL make you real. Idk how many words this is, probably around 1.2k.
Rain pelts against the windows of Clark’s loft, keeping you half asleep as the warmth of his bed wards off the chill of the metropolis winter. It’s still late, or early, depending on which of you was asked. You’d fought sleep valiantly for hours, watching reruns of Desperate Housewives, cocooned in his fluffy white sheets, krypto sleeping on your feet. But, despite your best efforts, you’d fallen asleep sometime around two a.m., neglecting to remove your contacts or the makeup you’d worn to work that day. You had changed into one of his soft cotton shirts the second you’d gotten home, his lingering scent helping you stave off how badly you missed him until he’d finished patrolling through the city after work.
The front door clicks open just passed 3, the sound of rain and blissful quiet reaching Clark as he drops his briefcase by the door. Exhaustion had hit him before he’d even left the Daily Planet, the effort of suiting up and flying around for hours feeling more Herculean than it usually did. You’d been away on a excavation for three weeks, and the first two days you’d been back in metropolis had been spent locked in your office at the university, pouring over data and photographs until your eyes nearly bled and you fell asleep at your desk.
Clark didn’t exactly like it when you got so absorbed in your work that you forgot to eat or sleep properly, but he also understood just how devoted to and attached to your work you were. It always felt like a divine punishment, to know you were once again in the same city, but that he would have to wait even longer to feel you under his touch once again. Clark, however, never made you feel guilty for needing time to decompress and sort your findings before slipping back into every day life. He simply waited, checking up on you every single day.
Eventually, though, there was always a night he walked into the apartment and once again got a hit of your vanilla perfume and cocoa butter lotion after so long apart. Every time his knees would grow just a bit weaker, his heart beating just a bit faster. Almost like that feeling on Christmas morning, when you stumble down the stairs and see your presents waiting for you by the tree. Almost like that, but so, so much stronger.
He doesn’t bother getting something to eat or drink, desperate to trace his eyes over you and confirm your safety, confirm that you’ve come back to him. He walks into the bedroom and smiles softly at the sight of you. You’re wrapped in his shirt and his sheets, breathing softly as the light of the TV washes over you. Krypto barely stirs from his spot under the blankets by your feet, only his snout sticking out for air.
He beelines to your side and kneels beside you, placing kisses over your nose and cheeks, relishing the warmth you always seem to emit. As he runs his thumb over you lips he notices the mascara still on your lashes, his heart softening further when he realises you’d fallen asleep waiting for him.
As badly as he wants to let you keep on sleeping as peacefully as you are, he also doesn’t want you to be upset when you wake up and realise you hadn’t washed your face. Knowing he needed to shower anyway, he left you to sleep for a few more minutes, heading into the bathroom. In the interest of being as close to you as quickly as possible, he brushes his teeth and showers within seven minutes, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and towel drying his hair before he pads back to your side.
“Angel.” He runs his finger down the length of your nose and over your cheek bones, softly whispering your favourite pet names as he watches your eyes flutter, smiling when they slowly crack open.
Sleep begs to pull you back under as Clark comes into your view, backlit by the TV, hair freshly washed, dimples blinding you. So angelic and divine you’d think you were in heaven if you didn’t know better. Your first greeting is a sleepy mumble, under laced with a love that makes Clark’s chest constrict. Your hand immediately lifts and searches him out, your face softening again when you feel his skin under your fingertips.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but you need to wash your face baby.” As badly as you want to roll over and go back to sleep, you don’t fight when Clark scoops you up in his arms and slowly walks over to the bathroom. He sits you down on the counter, a towel folded beneath you so that the marble countertop doesn’t make you any colder.
Your head leans against the wall behind you as Clark rummages through your drawers, slowly piecing together a rudimentary routine he knows he can do for you. He’s memorised your entire skincare routine by now, but he doesn’t exactly want to keep you up for longer than necessary.
He soaks a cotton round with micellar water and grips your jaw softly with one of his hands, the other softly running the cotton over you skin. When he’s sure everything is off he throws the round away and gets a soft cotton washcloth, soaking it with warm water. He takes his time wiping your face off, selfishly cataloging all of your features as you slump into his hand. Once he’s moisturised your skin, he pulls out your contact lens case, softly tapping your jaw to wake you up further.
“Just gotta remove your lenses and we can go to bed angel.”
You don’t protest, clumsily removing both lenses and dramatically slumping into his chest the second he clicks the case closed. Clark laughs softly, running his hands over your back as he breaths you in. Once he has you situated in his arms, he retrieves your hairbrush and makes his way back to your bed. The sheets are shaken out and pulled back before he slowly places you on the mattress. His side dips a second later, and his hands on your shoulders turn you until your back is to him and he can gather all of your hair.
You’re steadily lulled back to sleep as Clark begins to run the brush through your hair, humming a soft tune as the bristles run over you scalp, soothing the ache of missing him until you forgot what it had felt like. His big hands fumble as he plaits your hair, tying it off an inch before the ends, remembering how you’d mentioned that tying it too low caused breakage. The pride that warms his chest when he sits back and gazes at your sleeping, pampered form compares to nothing he’s ever felt before. The pride of knowing that he is the one providing for you, warming you, feeding you, making you smile. It’s a feeling that overwhelms and calms him simultaneously.
He’d always loved being Superman. Always loved being a protector. Always loved being the one person everyone could count on showing up. Always loved being perceived as good. And when he’d met you, he’d met the one thing he had to protect. The one thing he had to show up for, no matter what. The one thing that made him want to stop moving and running in circles. The one person that actually made him feel human.
After much too long, Clark finally slips into the sheets and wraps his arms around you, pulling you right onto his chest, relishing the feel of your nose brushing against his neck, steady breath brushing against his skin. After much too long your hands finally find their way into his hair and onto his skin, your heartbeat slowing down to sync with his. Krypto slowly shifts over until he’s plastered against the side of Clark’s leg, and once again, all is right in the world.
"not all men" you're right, clark kent would never do this
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ: ᴍɪᴅᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ
December arrived like a held breath the world had forgotten to release.
The kind of afternoon where the sky couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be. Gray clouds stretched endlessly overhead while the sun fought stubbornly behind them, determined to be seen.
For a while, it lost.
But eventually, thin ribbons of light broke through. They slipped quietly through the bookstore window, stretching across the wooden floorboards like cautious visitors.
Until they reached you.
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ: ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏᴡɴ, ʙɪɢ ꜱᴋʏ
October faded and November arrived.
You watched the change from the passenger seat of Clara’s station wagon. The leaves lost their green first, then their strength, until they lay scattered across the ground; orange, brittle, forgotten.
Something about it held your gaze a little too long, long enough to make you think you understood something.
Even nature ends.
Even trees know when to let go. Maybe loneliness wasn’t a wound; it was simply the final state of things.
The last color before the ground swallowed everything whole.
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀɪɴ
September 2001.
The rain smelled like rust and regret.
You had learned that scent over the years- the way it clung to old buildings, mixed with fire escapes, and soaked into forgotten laundry. It belonged to places that weren't home. Places you passed through. Places that forgot you the moment you left.
You perched on the windowsill of your room, knees pressed to your chest, forehead against cold glass. Outside, the city blurred into a monochrome haze: buildings, streets, and people all muted. Umbrellas hunched, shoulders tight, moving with purpose toward somewhere that mattered.
You didn't.