A Roadmap of my Toxic Obsessions

29, she/her, obsessed with deeply unhealthy men and relationships (only in my fiction though) and monsters

[tiny-wins-and-gold-stars]

⭐To all the fanfic writers out there, a little gold star!⭐

[blhoundknight]

Hello! Could I request some hurt/comfort headcanons for Mohg, Ansbach, Varre, Godrick, and Morgott? (if you don't want to write for the last two that's fine, I know you prefer the dynasty) How would they react to being told that their S/O was killed, but nobody could recover their body? Turns out S/O is alive, but took 1-2 weeks to make it back due to the extent of their injuries.

Thank you for your time, I hope you are having a great day. :)

Oh this is highly specific I love this thank you, and yes while I prefer the dynasty, I'm more than happy to speak of other Elden Ring characters! I'm thinking about leaving the recovery/return time a bit ambiguous. I know we have Torrent but have you tried to walk anywhere in the lands between and not get jumped by every creature? 1-2 weeks is far too short for me lol

I also thank you for your time, and hope you enjoy these!

Mohg

Denial and rage are his first reactions to the news. His beloved isn't dead, not until he sees their body for himself, a fragment, something tangible. His own followers might have to avoid him for a while if they don't have any news. Unfortunately with Demigods, their sense of time is heavily diluted so every day feels less than an hour, the feelings stay just as intense. Mohg does not sleep at this time, the idea of having a nightmare at this time is too much to deal with. He knows it would be non-stop in seeing their lifeless body in different situations including his own actions. By the time they return, he might seem back to his... "usual" self, but it's clear it shook him up. Hesitant to let them out of his sight, let alone leave the dynasty palace. They might find him watching them when he should be sleeping. He almost lost something dear to him, and Mohg has no intentions of letting a scare like that happen once more, his Lover might need to figure out some way to bargain for something that resembles independence.

Ansbach

He's doubtful but has lived long enough as a man to know just how easily and quickly a light can be snuffed out. One moment they're by his side, every detail of their last moments together flick though his mind as he wants to remember their last words he heard, what were the last things he told them before they were gone forever. It would take some time to make peace with it, giving himself a private moment to grieve away from others. Eventually he has a solo ceremony, a grave that is purely symbolic for him alone. On their return, he practically collapses, scolding himself internally for giving up so early before caring for them and their injuries. Ansbach is forward about how it felt, the fear and pain, the idea that he was not there in their moment of need. If anything it strengthens his faith in them, knowing they are resilient and determined soothes future worries. Still they might notice Ansbach has developed a slight hesitation when parting. His hand holds theirs a little tighter, kisses linger a bit longer, and he always lets them know they're in his heart even if just a whisper.

Varré

Why would you tell him this? Honestly if you decide to play such a cruel prank, have more tact than to pull it over him. The person who tells him this would need to get out of there before he stabs them. He might seem aloof but he's trembling with something like rage. He's angry because his lover was supposed to be stronger. Why would he ever waste his feelings on something so pathetic and feeble. So how does he find himself alone with frustration dripping down his face later? Varré's behavior leaves him holed up for quite some time, unable to control himself from lashing out at any who dare interrupt, his facade melting quite quickly showing just how deeply and terribly it affected him. When his Lambkin does finally return, he doesn't speak his thoughts at first, showing he is happy for their return by caring for their injuries. Besides that, Varré ends up being almost cold the entire time while they recover, one might think he is one of the nameless white masks the way he doesn't speak to them. Eventually when he feels his lover has been punished with silence enough, he latches back on with a fervor. Scolding them for being so careless in making him worry for far too long!

Godrick

The Grafted Lord knows how easy it is to end a life as he'd done it himself plenty of times like any of the other demigods. So to hear his dearheart is gone without a trace frustrates him to a degree. What are the point of knights if they can't keep one person alive let alone bring them back for a proper burial? The ones in charge of being his partner's guard are quickly scrapped for grafting into separate scions, the insignificant and pitiful examples they are, are unfit to have a place on his body. When he's got his anger out on enough of his knights and servants, he finally gives himself a moment to reflect. Wondering if it was possible to comb for their remains, if he could at least keep a peace of them to himself. Godrick also would find himself favoring parts that he is taking for grafting that remind him of them, even if it's not so. Just when the idea of making his lover from the ground up crosses his mind they finally return. It's nearly a celebration in the castle as Godrick finally calms down. They are greeted by a large feast and an overbearing Lord whose many hands can't stay away. He might start proposing invitations to have them on a much shorter leash or a literal exchange to always have something to remember the other by in the future if such an event repeats.

Morgott

Perhaps he always believes in the worst things, or maybe because he doesn't believe he deserves good things. It was wrong for him to love someone and to allow them to love him in return. The veiled monarch uses his resources to the best of his abilities while already preparing for every possible outcome. To him, no body is worse, never having a proper closure might drive him to a madness he wasn't aware of in him. Morgott punishes himself in different ways, avoiding food and sleep while he keeps looking, using his projection to scout the lands himself for even a hair. His mind will fuel his thoughts with every cruel death one could find in the lands between inflicted on the one he let himself be open for. He's ready to hole himself away for years if needed, this grieving itself is a form of self punishment for him. When he finally sees them, he has a moment that he wonders if he's finally experiencing a break in his mind, seeing a spectre of them in the dark. It isn't until they touch that he knows they're real. Their recovery goes from "just enough to survive" to 24 hour care with Leyndell's best perfumers, all the while the veiled monarch lingers in the room. Privately, he lets himself grovel into them, words are unspoken but his grip holding them close tells them just how selfish he feels. That he would pray for their safety over anything else and for once it was the one thing he was granted.

[calcitedraws]

A trip to the grocery store with my Yandere Parasite

I have returned with a new Parasite fic!! Gn reader but they have auditory sensory issues (Yes, I'm projecting, hush)

Tw: Parasite. Manipulation + it alters readers senses without consent.

˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊︵‧˚₊⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿

It's been roughly a week and a half since you became the host to this …parasite? Thing? It gets mad every time you call it a parasite but you're not the one burrowed into someone else's spine, so maybe that counts for something in the matter.

You feel a light slap against the nape of your neck and groan, smacking your hand over it. 

“Stop slouching! Your spine is going to degrade over time!” You hear the parasite insist, annoyed. It doesn't have an actual voice and yet you can hear it. You stopped asking questions about these sorts of things.

“Stop wiggling, it's annoying!” You grumble back, straightening your posture. 

“You slouch because your core muscles are in poor shape . Because all you do is sit on your computer. Let's go outside, maybe your serotonin levels will balance out. I can't keep supplying it.” They huff, as if reading off of an itinerary. You groan and stand from your computer, annoyed but relenting. After all, they were right, you haven't seen the sun in days.

You get dressed and go to brush your teeth before it stops you.

“What? But you haven't eaten.”

“Not hungry.” 

“... No. Go eat ”

“No.”

“No? Sweetling, I can see everything in your body. And you're hungry.” 

You groan, burying your head in your hands. This was so fucking annoying. You just wanted to walk and now you had to feed yourself which is a task upon itself.

“... Nothing sounds good?” They sigh, empathetic but frustrated. You nod. Nothing sounded good. Your safe food ran out and you've been too busy with the whole parasite thing to go shopping.

“Okay… okay, we can work with that. The store isn't far. We can walk.” It muses, thoughtful. You feel the little feet are tapping rhythmically, like the way a human would drum their fingers.

You manage to gnaw on a snack before heading outside. The day is bright, and the sky is clear. A breeze combs over you and you sigh. It did feel nice out. You hear them sigh, too. Soon, you arrive at your usual grocery store and enter. Thankfully it was a slow day, with very few people.

You immediately approach where your safe food is kept. 

“Let me read that…” They mumble, and you can almost sense them squinting and leaning forward for a better view. You sigh and look at the label. You don't know how but you learned it can sort of see through your eyes.

“Ah, good. It has a little too much sodium but we can work around that.” It hums. You pause. You sort of expected more pushback.

"... You seem confused.” It notes.

“I… just didn't think you'd agree.” You hum.

“Of course I would. You need to eat and you like this.” It hums, nonchalant. “It's not perfect but you need to eat.”

You consider their words before moving on, combing the aisles. Soon you're in the freezer section.

“We need protein. Maybe check the chicken tenders?” It offers. Ah, frozen chicken tenders. Who hates them? Not you.

You approach before noticing a special on chicken nuggets (25% off!). Meh, chicken is chicken and your wallet can't say no. But you hear an elated gasp.

“Oh? Wait, look to the left?” It chirps. You comply, looking to the next item to the left. 

“Dinosaur shaped-”

“Chicken nuggets come in fun shapes? We have to get it! Come on, it's so cute and it's the same price!” The parasite pleads, seemingly immensely charmed.  

The parasite cheers as you put it in the basket and move on. You suppose even they can desire whimsy.

“Hmm… maybe some fruit? You're low on vitamin A and fiber.” It mumbles, thoughtful. You approach the produce aisle, throwing a few agreeable fruits and vegetables in your cart. 

"How do you feel about fish or eggs? Your B12 is low.” It asks, sounding focused, like it was checking something.

You wander into the soda aisle, before stopping to check on the energy drinks. You hear a sharp scoff.

It starts scolding you, “Absolutely not! You already drink too much caffeine! If you went to bed when I told you to-”

“Ugh, relax! It's fine!” You groan, tossing a drink in before heading down the aisle.

“No it isn't! You don't need more sugar and caffiene!” It protests, annoyed. You roll your eyes. 

“I'm not taking advice from the spine-lobster.” You huff. It gasps dramatically.

“Spine lobst- you take that back!” They scoff, offended, but somehow you could sense it was only teasing. You wander to the next few aisles, gathering the rest of your groceries. Yeah, that's enough, you're ready to check out. You pause, turning your head to the checkout lane. Shit, the worst part of your visits… the constant beeping, the need to focus on what's going on, everything was…

“Hey… are you okay? Your cortisol shot up. Is something scaring you? Your prefrontal cortex and amygdala are firing off higher than usual.” It worries, its tone tender. You feel a pleasant melting/tingling sensation blooming from the crown of your head and crawls down your back, it's attempt at offering comfort. You feel more grounded than before, like the weight of that anxiety had been lifted a bit. You feel your shoulders relax, you were unaware how tensed up they were.

“I just… hate the checkout lane. It's noisy.” You mumble, scratching the back of your neck, sheepish. You didn't expect them to understand and you didn't want to explain. It pauses before doing that little teeth sucking sound it makes when analyzing something. 

“I'd like to get home sooner.” You sigh, deciding to bite the bullet.

“No, this type of response to these stimuli isn't normal…” It mumbles, focused and thoughtful. “Your brain is processing it like it'll be painful.”

“But it's not. It's just a checkout line.” You murmur, mostly to yourself. You approach, eyes straining from the overlap of sounds and sights. Immediately you feel the parasite tense against your neck.

“OH! Oh no!” It gasps in alarm before… everything goes quiet. Not silent but incredibly muffled. You pause, finally standing in line behind a couple with their incredibly furious crying baby and the current customer. You can barely hear the baby wailing.

“What is-?”

“I muffled the incoming sensory input. Don't worry, the hearing loss is merely temporary,… but… sweetling, that was stressful.” It hums, a little nervous. “Is… this normal for you?”

You pause. You forgot this wasn't normal for the average person.

You go to speak and realize since you're so close to everyone else in the line, onlookers could hear you. So, you nod. They sigh, and you feel that tingling sensation flutter over your back. It's oddly comforting, like how it feels to have someone comfortingly rub circles into your back without anyone actually doing it.

“It's okay… I'll help.” They coo, slow and soft.

You start putting your items on the conveyer belt, the sounds of the items being dropped are very muffled. You hate to admit it, but this is far easier than before. 

The cashier rings you up, and says something but you can't understand, their words muffled and almost soft, like warm butter. You understood that there were words, but they blended together in your mind, incomprehensible.

“He asked if you found everything you needed at the store. And we have.” It hums, soft, slow. 

“I-I'm good.” You say, and then flinch, worried you were too loud. The cashier speaks again, saying something you still can't make out. It was so odd… but it didn't feel bad. In fact, it felt relieving. Usually you'd be overwhelmed and tumbling over yourself to get out of here as soon as you could. But you felt okay. 

“They're ready for payment.” 

You jump, a little embarrassed you had zoned out that hard. You quickly take out your card and pay, before leaving with a polite farewell to the cashier. 

You take a long, smooth breath in and out as you leave the store and walk down the sidewalk back home with groceries in hand. The bags aren't too heavy, thankfully. 

“Your auditory cortex is wired incorrectly. You respond strongly to stimulus.” They murmur, thoughtful. “Have you always been this way?” 

You think and then nod. You've always been sensitive to sound, loud or otherwise. 

“Is that why you waited until you were out of groceries to come here?” They ask, worried, imploring. You pause. They were partially right.

“I… also didn't know how to do it with a…”

“With me.” They conclude, sighing. 

You keep walking, admiring the sky. 

“... There's birds.” The parasite hums, and you notice the birds high in the sky, too. You faintly hear their cries. 

“Birds.” You echo back, acknowledging it.

You get home and quickly put up the frozen chicken nuggets to cook. While they warm up, you put the rest of your groceries away. 

“... You know, I could do that every time we go to the store. Dampen your hearing, when things get loud.” The parasite murmurs, soft, imploring. 

“I mean, you don't have to.” You murmur. It'd be too much to ask. 

“I… don't think that's a request.” They hum back, firm. 

“What do you mean?” You scoff, scooping the nuggets onto your plate.

“I mean your brain perceived all that noise as a threat. Even if it wasn't a direct threat, it still made you feel like you were.” It explains, eerily calm. You pause, thinking.

“Yeah, but… it's not a big deal. If I went around avoiding everything that made me overwhelmed I'd get nothing done.” You chuckle, trying to ease the mood.

“That's just it. You get overwhelmed by the outside world. It's loud, and chaotic, and noisy. What if it didn't have to be?” It postulates, eager. 

“You can't just poke my brain everyday because I can't handle noise.” You scoff. You didn't like where this was going.

“It wouldn't be! Just… when you get overstimulated or-”

“No.” You bluntly say, cutting them off. “I appreciate your… help, but I can't rely on you for that.” 

“... Why not?” It asks, clipped and a little cold. You sigh. Maybe it had good intentions but you can't let it just take over your brain like that.

“Because… I'll eventually lose my ability to cope with it.”

“But you already can't cope with it.”

“Which is why I need to preserve all the tolerance I do have.” You counter. 

“What tolerance? If you saw how your brain fired off at just the idea of getting in the checkout line with all that noise, you'd understand the harm it does.”

“Harm? You're being dramatic!”

“No! I'm not! Yes, life is stressful, but that doesn't mean you have to experience every stressor.”

You groan, starting to pace in circles around your kitchen, nuggets forgotten on their plate.

“Listen. I don't know why you won't let me help.” It sighs annoyed.

You try to explain, frustrated. “I've been through this before, I've done this my entire life. I can do it.”

“And?! Things are different now: I'm here. I'm here. And I want to help.” It pleads. 

“There will be a time you can't help and I need to be able to cope by myself.” You counter.

“You make it sound like I won't be able to help everytime. I will.” It insists, firm. You stop pacing, surprised. It pauses, before speaking again. 

“This is the rest of our life. Do you want to go the rest of your life like this? I don't. Not when I can make it better.” It murmurs, hurt but tender.

You two sit in silence, contemplating. You didn't want to rely on them. Hell, you didn't even want it to be here in your spine! But… this was longterm. And while you hated that, it… no, no you weren't going to give this thing permission to jab your brain. What else would it feel comfortable doing?!

“No. And y-you have to stop messing with my brain like that!” You huff. A long, still pause occurs.

“Oh? Is that so?” It dryly snips. It sighs and you feel its weird little legs drum again, methodical.

“See… from where I'm standing, we're in this together. This is an ‘us’ discussion.” It states, clipped. 

You sigh, putting your head in your hands. 

“You can't just… not care about what I want.”

“Hey… that's wrong. I care too much. Sweetling, I'm literally tapped into your nervous system. I can see what your brain does. And your brain fired off like that environment was a threat. And I need to protect you from threats. That's what people who love you do.” It coos, low, soft. 

“Don't think too hard about it… I'll warn you before I do it, so it won't be a surprise…”

A warm tingling pools down your spine again, the little hairs on your arm standing up in response. 

"You'll see… this is good.” It coos. “You're just hungry, we'll talk after you get your blood sugar up.”

The timer on your nuggets goes off. You scoop them out and put them on a plate. 

[navybrat817]

Injustice: A Gift to the God - Chapter 1

Relationships: Dark!Clark Kent/Reader Fic Summary: You sided with the Insurgency, but the Man of Steel won’t stop until you’re by his side. Chapter Summary: Jason tries to push you away before an unexpected visitor drops by. Word Count: Over 2.6k Warnings for Future Chapters: Non-con/Rape, dubious consent, obsession, character deaths, additional tags to be added. *This chapter does not contain non-con/rape, but future chapters will. Please do not read if that upsets you!

18+ Please!!! This is not beta-read, so any and all mistakes are my own.

Thank you for your patience and I’m so glad you loved the teaser.  I hope you all enjoy this Injustice AU! Please add yourself to my Taglist (or let me know if you’d like to be removed!). Divider by @firefly-graphics.

Night time was a peaceful time for many. That wasn’t the way of Gotham. When the sun set, that was when the city came to life. Illuminated by the array of fluorescent lights, you stared down at the streets below. That familiar adrenaline pumped through your veins as you did a quick sweep. Pedestrians walked along the sidewalks as cars rushed by, the sounds of yelling and honking blending together. They were the sounds of your city.

Keep reading

[navybrat817]

Injustice: A Gift to the God - Teaser

Relationships: Dark!Clark Kent/Reader

Teaser Word Count: 500

Summary: You sided with the Insurgency, but the Man of Steel won’t stop until you’re by his side.

Warnings for Future Chapters: Non-con/Rape, dubious consent, obsession, additional tags to be added. *This chapter does not contain non-con/rape, but future chapters will. Please do not read if that upsets you!

A sneak peek of a twist on the Injustice AU! Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list. This is not beta-read, so any and all mistakes are my own! Gif is not mine!

Everything changed the day Metropolis was destroyed. People around the world were terrified and heartbroken over the loss of so many lives. What horrified people more was that Superman was the cause of the destruction. It hadn’t been his fault. The Joker had tricked him into killing his ex-fiance, Lois, and her unborn child. You never got to meet the man she forged a new life with, as he was just one of the many killed when the nuke went off. 

Batman tried his best to keep things under control. He lived by his code and he stuck to it. Even he couldn’t stop Superman when he interrupted his interrogation with The Joker. While Batman was a symbol of justice, Superman was meant to be a symbol of hope…Someone who was meant to be the best of us. And the villain made a joke of him. 

You heard the Joker was still laughing even as Kal-El’s hand pierced his chest. You weren’t sure if it was the destruction of his city, the death of Lois or the killing the Joker that corrupted him. Perhaps it was all three that began the poisonous spread within him. It was only the beginning…the beginning of the end of the world you had known.

Superman had taken it upon himself to rid the world of more criminals by force if necessary. That use of force usually resulted in death. Each kill corrupted more of the good in him. That corruption gave him power. And you knew that absolute power corrupts absolutely. 

Kal-El was no longer Clark Kent you had grown to admire. As a “benevolent” dictator and the leader of the Regime, he urged heroes and villains alike to join his cause. Many believed he was doing good in the world. Others joined out of fear. You couldn’t exactly blame them. Not many had the strength or weapons to take down a Kryptonian and it was better to be on the “winning” side.

Some had the courage to stand up against the Regime. Others would probably call it foolish. Either way, you decided to follow Batman and join the Insurgency. You were by far fewer in number, but you all agreed that the influence of the Man of Steel was dangerous. 

Bruce knew it wasn’t easy for you seeing Clark become a tyrant. You prayed that he was still the good man so many had come to love. There had to be a way to reach him. That’s why you were considered by some to be a beacon of hope. The darkness of the world hadn’t tainted you.

You didn’t know at the time that Kal-El had been watching you. You didn’t know he planned to bring you to his side from the beginning. In his mind, he would be your hero…Your ultimate savior. He would bind you to him and you would love him…even if he had to break you first. In the end…you’d thank him for it.

@nekoannie-chan @angrythingstarlight @thedarkplume @tinystudentfirepurse @diaamondis @grav3dollie-666 @clingykoalawrangler @lookiamtrying @jtargaryen18 @caffiend-queen @donutloverxo @buckysbunny​ @stargazingfangirl18​ @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​ @finleyjayne​ @feliciahardyn​ @ballyhoobarnes​ @evnscvll​ @mypoisonedvine​

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In Abstract 1

A sequel no one asked for. First Series: Portrait of a Dangerous Man

Warnings: noncon/rape, some violence, blood, alluded murder (for now?), grief, confusing, criminal allusions, some untagged extreme events.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You adjust to life with Clark, thought the past won't seem to let you go.

Character: mob!Clark Kent

Note: I don't know where this came from.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :) I appreciate your comments and enthusiasm! Reblogs help and are like candy, so please, feed me.

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

A speck of red. A speck of red in a sea of blue. From the observer's eye, one would not notice. But the creator, the artist, the start error is obvious. No inadvertent, but entirely deliberate. A reminder of what it cost you.

You close your eyes and the fleck of blood sears in your mind. Like the site of your boyfriend gasping his last breaths. Ex, now. For a while. It feels like yesterday yet no time at all.

You shiver and hug yourself through the white cashmere. The sweater offers little warmth in the cold house. The glass doors look out onto the white lawn, a fresh dusting of snow trims the covered pool and blankets the landscape. It would be beautiful to any who did not know the sinister secrets of this place. The crimes witnessed by these walls alone.

You turn away from the portrait hung above the gaping fireplace. Even the crackling flames cannot warm you. There is no comfort in this house or the man who resides there. A warden, a maniac, a murderer.

You near the glass doors, eyes drawn to how the snow gathers in corners. The thin sheet of frost that cakes the panes and the fog of your breath as you stand close. The world outside is obscured by your own existence.

Silence. Stillness. Distance. Isolation. The vast grayness of your small world trapped behind a transparent wall. You touch the handle, feeling the cold metal, gripping it tight. A sudden urge to run out and dive into the heaps.

"Dinner tonight?" Clark's voice claps like thunder through the lull.

You gasp and recoil from the door. You turn to him, hugging yourself as much out of fright as the temperature. You step away from the door and your yearning for escape.

"Dinner," you repeat, your hollow voice echoing off the high ceilings.

"Yes, your mother is coming to town? We'll get her from the airport and take her to Elliston's?"

"Are you asking or telling?" You mutter as you drop your arms, tucking your hands up the cuffs.

You sweep away, crossing to the archway that opens into the spacious kitchen. You go to the counter and flip up the lid of the coffee machine. You focus on the rack of pods. It's habit more than anything, often you let your cup go cold, basking in the scent but too numb to taste it.

He follows. You sense him. Like you always do. Always hovering. Always watching.

"Don't be like this. You've been looking forward to her visit."

You grumble as you pick out the cinnamon cookie pod and shove it in the top. You shrug. Not really. You only ever play the part he wants. Move your brush to his whim, streak the paint by his word, lay on your back as he gets what he wants.

"And I have been too. I can't wait to meet your family. All of them."

Your chest winds tight. You can't tell if it's a threat or genuine. He is always hard to decipher. If you had ever been able to see through him, you wouldn't be standing there, trapped in his house, in his grip.

Five months. Five months in your cell. Five months with Marcus' blood on your soul. 

"I'll get a room ready," you put a mug under the spout and hit the brew button. 

He lurks closer. You stare and wait for the drip to begin. He puts his hands on your shoulders, the fabric turning course beneath the weight of his grasp.

"Nina's already working on it," he growls into your crown, "don't act so hard done by…"

"I'm not," the trickle spits out and hits the porcelain sharply.

"I give your more than he ever–"

You tear away from him, sliding along the counter as you spin to face him. He clucks and tilts his head, slowly pivoting towards you. The anger cordons in his cheek.

"I told you…"

He scoffs. "You're right, he was nothing. Not worth talking about. Sweetheart, it was always going to be me."

You clamp your lips shut as your eyes sting. He doesn't wake up every day in horror, he doesn't sink into sleep like a stone in mud, he doesn’t know what it is to live in black and white when the world used to be painted in a million colours.

"I'll confirm what time she gets in."

He sighs and crosses his arms. You look down at the white sweater and unroll the crumpled hem. You didn't wear cashmere before, no silk, no satin. Just cotton and tweed. Now you wear what he tells you to.

"Find something to wear for dinner," he demands, "and after."

He crosses the pristine tile and you look at him in the face, eyes glossy and pathetic. He kisses your forehead as his hand comes up to your chin, his thumb stroking your lips. He inhales your scent and lets out a growl.

"Wear the diamonds," he demands.

He lets you go and leaves you there. You watch after him as he stalks off, checking the time on his wristband. He clears his throat as he turns out of your sight. Your vision blurs to a muddy blur.

The coffee machine dings and brings you back. As much as you love your mother, how do you explain this to her? Lies are easier on the phone, but face to face, the truth is clear to see.

🎨

Your mother pulls you into a hug, her suitcase forgotten at her side. It's been almost a year since you last saw her. You and Marcus made a rare trip down for her birthday. As solitary as she prefers her life, she cherishes your rare company.

"Tweety bird, it's been so long," she hugs you, swaying you with her. She releases tou and holds you at arm's length, "don't you look like a dead mouse?"

"Ha, yeah, I was up late… painting," you smile thinly.

"Never change," she chides as you sense a shadow approach. Clark grabs the handle of her suitcase and rolls it towards him as he puts his hand on your back. "Oh, who… is this?"

"Clark," you try not to show your frustration. Your mother's always been a touch flightly, "I told you about him."

"Ah, yes, oh, that Marcus," she tuts and shakes her head, "couldn't believe it when you said he ran off but then again, I wasn't unhappy."

"Mom," you sniff.

"Well? He always left his dirty socks on the couch."

You bite the inside of your cheek. You'd rather not talk about him. You fear she'll see right through your story. Clark takes his hand off your back.

"Nice to meet you–" he begins.

"Don't be silly," she pulls him into a hug, an impressive feat as she is rail thin, "you must be the one saving my gal from heartbreak."

"Um, sure," he snorts, "you're Janine?"

"That's the one," she pulls back and fixes her wild waves, "I'm afraid she hasn't given me more than your name."

"She's been busy. Commissions and all," Clark puts on that perfect act. The gentleman with all the charm. The one you fell for. "We hope you're not too tired, I suggested a reservation for dinner…"

"Oh, yes, please, I'm starving. That airplane food is better avoided," she trills, "besides just ask Tweety, I'm mot much of a sleeper."

You shake your head in confirmation and she grins wider. Clark rolls her bag around and waves his arm ahead of him, "ladies."

"Oo, finally got yourself a gentleman."

"Mhmm," you hum as you start forward, "something like that."

🎨

You watch the wine flow into the glass, filling the belly with a rich burgundy colour. Your mother looks around emphatically as Clark gives a curt nod of dismissal to the server. You're left to peruse the menu.

“Wow, this is a fancy place,” your mom comments as she opens the leather folio containing the menu, “where was it Marc would take us? Denny’s?”

You give her a look. It’s strange, you’re mother was never one to turn her nose up at simplicity but there were some very specific sticking points when it came to your boyfriend. Ex. Or maybe money really does corrupt all.

The wine is stringent. You don’t like it. You take a hefty swig and set the stem down heavily. Clark gives you a look. Right, he has his curated image, you have to fit into that.

“So mom, how was your flight?”

“Ah, it’s fine. But I was sat next to this skinny fellow. So nervous. Jittered the whole way. I had to close the window because it made him sick. So I took a nap.”

“I hope you don’t mind shacking up with us. I thought of a hotel but we have more than enough room,” Clark suggests, “after a long day, I’m sure you’d like to just relax.”

“With us? You live together?” Your mom raises her brows.

“You knew this. Remember?”

“No, you said you moved out of your apartment, I don’t remember a where or with who. This is moving fast,” she says, “definitely not a rebound then?”

You cringe. Clark is a better actor than you. He laughs. Or maybe it is really that funny. Laughing at your dead ex and the ensuing predicament. You take another gulp of the disgusting wine.

“Well, the salmon looks interesting, “but I do prefer halibut…” she mulls over the listings, “oh, prawns. Tweety, don’t you remember when you drank all my vodka and puked up seafood all night?”

“Mom,” you swallow.

“Tweety, that’s an interesting nickname,” Clark says, opening the door for further humiliation.

“Ah, yes, well, funny story.”

“Not really,” you intone.

Your mother ignores you as she closes her menu and rests it on the table in front of her. “Her aunt used to give her Tweety Bird everything. Pajamas, stuffies, notebooks… she hates Tweety Bird. Always has but she was too nice to tell my sister so she had this little collection. I bet it’d be worth a bit now. Vintage and all that.”

“Oh, Tweety,” Clark echoes, “interesting. Cute.”

“Yellow did always suit her.”

“Anything suits her, doesn’t it?” He puts his hand over yours, “I tell her all the time. She makes paint stains look incredible. You wouldn’t believe it, at the end of the day she walks out of the studio looking like, uh, what’s that artist that does the splashes?”

“Pollock,” you answer dully.”

“She was always obsessed with men with too much time and not enough talent,” your mother remarks, “art, I’m just happy she isn’t still working at the coffee shop.”

“That was like six years ago,” you retort.

“Still, you have a degree, you should use it.”

“And she does,” Clark assures, “she’s wonderful at what she does.”

“Aw,” your mother almost fawns, “you’re such a sweetheart. Where did she find you and where do I get one?”

You barely restrain from rolling your eyes. Clark basks in the praise. You empty your glass and feel the slosh in your mind. It might be a bit too much but the wine makes the nights go quicker.

You decide on a salad. You’re not hungry. Your appetite is scant at best, food is a necessity, not a joy. Like much of your life now. It makes you miss those numbers you thought were so dire. The easy life of putting numbers in boxes and putting frozen lasagna in the oven.

The server returns and you turn your attention to his convenient arrival. You need the distraction. He nods to your empty glass and you see how Clark takes notice as well.

“Did you require more, mademoiselle?” He offers.

“One will do until we have our entrees,” Clark insists, “no good drinking on an empty stomach.”

You smile and take the stout glass of water from beside the stemmed glass, “thank you. He’s right.”

“Do we know what we’re having?” The server asks.

Clark defers to your mother with a gesture. She orders first. Halibut with the seasonal vegetables. Clark has his usual filet mignon, and you get the cobb salad. You hand over your menu and sit back, twiddling your fingers in your lap.

“Salad,” your mother comments, “when she was a teen, I couldn’t pry the onion rings out of her hands. Now look at her. It’s catching up, isn’t it?”

“Nothing wrong with being mindful,” Clark comments as he brushes his fingertips along his thick beard. He’s let it grow out, his hair too, the curls spiraling past his ears. “It’ll save room for dessert, they have a delicious creme brule.”

“Mmm, amazing–” your mother’s voice catches and she looks past you.

You don’t react right away as another serve sneaks up on you. Clark reaches behind him with one hand, covertly as if trying not to give himself away, and brings it forward as you peek up at the woman all in black. She giddily grins and backs up.

Clark takes a breath and pushes back his chair as he rises. He turns and kneels as the server hovers nearby, hands clutched together. Several other tables hush and servers look up from their work. You feel time halt as your ears ring.

Clark presents a red velvet box as your mouth falls open. For those strangers all around, those who don’t know about you or him, it must look like shock, even glee. But it's thrumming, crashing terror. No. No. Your eyes pinpoint on the large diamonds as he reveals it, three rings of smaller ones around the large.

You look up over his head then over at your mother. She dabs her eyes and covers her mouth in disbelief. You wobble as you turn back to Clark. His voice rumbles in your ears but you can’t make out the words. You blink. And blink. And blink. Gaping like a dead fish.

“...marry me?...”

His question hangs before you. You could keel over and shrivel up. You could stand up and flee. Run until you can’t stop. You close your eyes and see the blood spurting from Marcus’ chest. The image of your mother’s face flits across your mind, replacing his. You won’t let him hurt her too.

“Yes.”

The voice is not your own. It can’t possibly be because you can’t feel it on your tongue but it tickles in your ears. Clark snatches your hand and forces the diamond on, standing as he tugs you up and pulls you into an embrace. He tilts your head and kisses you. The fairy tale he writes for the onlookers is nothing more than a cautionary tale.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨6/End

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) cucking, violence, blood, some untagged extreme events.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: Here’s the grand finale, I hope you all enjoy it!

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You breathed shakily as you clipped the chain of diamonds around your neck. Clark stood and you watched him place his gun down. He rolled his head back and cracked his neck as he shrugged off his jacket. He slung it over the corner of the upholstered chair and your fingers fluttered down the front of your dress.

Keep reading

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨5

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) threats, implied and mild violence

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: So between Friday and Saturday I’ll be doing eight hours a day for @buckyownsmylife​‘s writeathon (like 12-8pm EST) but you can send an ask at any time. I will share a list of what I intend to work on and possible ideas later today if you wanna ask some questions or gab about whatever. After the last few days on tumblr and that nonsense, I think we need a little carelessness.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You walked and walked until you could no more. You stopped in front of another humongous set of gates and ordered an Uber. You waited in the dark in the shadow of the wall and a car slowed as it approached. You waved as the model and plate matched the app and got in. The driver remarked on the odd pick-up but you just shrugged and dialed.

Keep reading

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨4

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) only plot hehe

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: I’m at my tipping point, I swear. I’m dealing with everything in our household, new bed (delayed delivery yay!), cleaning, cooking, dog walking, and working. My only escape are my fics and this weekend I’m telling everyone to fuck off so I can do the writeathon… but sorry for the rant, enjoy more Clark.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Wednesday trickled by like sand in a glass. You could hardly keep your eyes open as you typed away and a double espresso shot was the only thing that saw you through your hours at the gallery. Vanessa was excited for her next event and already asking after some new pieces from you. You promised her some from your storage unit to stave her off as you held in your yawns. 

Keep reading

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨3

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) sleep paralysis, stress.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: I’m so happy people are liking this story. Thanks so much to everyone reading and sorry if I’m a bit inactive lately, I’ve been exhausted and yesterday didn’t end, I swear.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

On Monday, you yawned over your keyboard as your fingers moved on instinct alone. Your eyes ran along the text but the words were just letters to you. You had a lot to think about, a lot to do. 

Keep reading

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨2

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) nothing as yet.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: Thank you for your positive response to this one! I hope you enjoy what I have in store.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Your Spotify list of redundant tracks flowed through the apartment as you sat typing at your small desk in the corner of the front room. The boxy space was as oppressive as any office space, another reason for your voluntary work at the gallery. Vanessa let you in the studio to paint. Without the privilege, you wouldn’t have the space for your easel.

Keep reading

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨1

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) nothing as yet.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: Yay, mob Clark. And I know what you’re saying right now, enough with Clark Kent! I get it haha. Promise, for a while, this will be the last I do of him. I have Lee fic in the work right now, the early development of medieval Peter, and I’m still sitting on some Loki ft. an exchange student… and then all my other series of course!

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You stood against the wall, chewing your lip as you looked around the gallery. You should be ecstatic, you should be floating around on a cloud, but all you could feel was crushing anxiety. It was truly a dream come true; your art hanging on the wall. Only three pieces, but it was there, and your name was below it in print.

Keep reading

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Infatuation

Warnings: noncon sexual acts and rape, cheating, fingering, scary Clark.

This is dark!Clark Kent and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The Kents’ maid stumbles in on an awkward conversation.

Based on these drabble requests:

Clark Kent + “You can’t hide…” + maid AU + Maid overhears Clark saying some concerning things about her and tries to avoid the inevitable. Feel free to add as many dirty kinks as you like, love ;) @lokislastlove​

The sponge grew cold in your hand as you stood beside the door, an inch or two between it and the frame. You hid in the corner as you listened, the shock paralysed you as you tried to process the words. It couldn’t possibly be about you. It couldn’t.

Keep reading

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Lord's Right

Warnings: this fic contains blood and violence. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)

Clark Kent + “You shouldn't have let me in.” (Medieval AU)

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

The writing desk is littered in letters, those still curled up and sealed, others bent and read over time and time again. You ponder over the report of a dispute of marriage between two planter families. Your husband will have to be consulted in the matter, perhaps the bishop too.

As you pore over another letter requesting a forgiveness of debt, you hear a disturbance without the modest holding of your marital home. Your husband’s groom comes through the front door, his steps much lighter than those of the squat count. He rushes to knock upon the study door.

You bid him to enter.

“My lady,” Basil bends his neck. “The lord is receiving a visitor.”

You lay down the scroll and let it roll upon itself. “A visitor? Unannounced?”

“Yes, my lady. Most unexpected but the lord bids you make certain dinner is enough for all.” Basil rocks on his heels anxiously.

“Yes, yes, we would be sure to uphold hospitality,” you assure him as you come out from behind the desk. “Certainly, I am not upset, though Constance may be. Assure my lord husband it will be done.”

“Yes, my lady.” He shrinks into his shoulders and leaves.

You smile to yourself. You’re never cruel to those in your employ. There’s no reason in it. Your mother would roar at her maid and it only ever got her resent. When she died, none of the servants were very sombre.

You go to the kitchen and find Constance. “We’ll have a guest for dinner.”

“A guest?” She grumbles as she turns the spit in the firestove, a healthy hen roasting over the flames.

“Yes. It seems my husband has found company.”

“Lord Randall if much too amiable for the scantness of his larder.” She wipes her fingers on her apron.

“Mm, I know it.” You mull, not confessing the poor news from the sowers in the southern fields. You will be short of grain for the winter.

You leave the cook to her grumbling. She will use more potatoes than she meant to that night, though you would take a lesser ration for the occasion. You find Mirabel, your sole maid, and have her ready the table in expectation.

You climb up to your chambers to fuss at your plain gown and cap. Randall talks of attending court next season but you hardly have the wardrobe for it, even if you’ve the title. Third daughters are rarely left a fair lot but you wonder if a convent would’ve done you better.

You hear voices without and go to the window. You hide behind the thick curtain and watch your husband approach with a much larger man. Randall is not tall or handsome. His cheeks are ruddy and pocked, and his stature is squat.

The stranger is tall and burly. His collar is high and a jewel catches the sunlight. His attire is much brighter than your husband's. Your simple embroidery around the cuffs and collar does little to stand out against the tanned leather.

You descend to greet your husband and his companion. Basil opens the doors and announces them.

“The Lord Randall returns, with the Duke of Krypfort, Lord Clark Kent.” He declares in a wobbly voice. The formality is laughable. The countly holding is more a farmhouse than a castle.

“Lord Kent,” your husband gestures as you step off the last step. “My sweet wife,” he introduces you proudly. “She has no doubt been a flurry readying our dinner.”

“Lord Kent,” you curtsy. You know of him. Your husband’s overlord. Merely a name in your head until that very moment. His chin is cleft finely, his nose is strong, and his blue eyes are bolder than the sky. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“And very much surprised.” Lord Randall adds with a chortle.

“Ah, yes, I was unable to send word ahead.” Lord Kent explains as he nears you. He offers his hand. You glance at your husband then lift your own. The duke takes it and bends to kiss your knuckles. “Such a lovely wife. And your brood?”

“None, as yet.” Randall chafes in his boots. “But it is a young marriage.”

“And you are still a young man with a very young wife.” Kent’s mouth slants as his eyes linger on you. “You see, the king sends me upon business. The council has voted upon an audit of the counties. Thus I must submit my own holdings.”

“I recall last time it was the earl’s who came out, my lord.” Randall intones.

“They did.” Kent affirms as your husband leads him to the modest dining hall. You follow. “But my earls do bolster and shorten their numbers when it suits them. I figured to do the counting mine self. It is a fine opportunity to make myself familiar to my people as it were.” He pauses and turns, looking back at you. “Lady, let us not forget our manners. Please, sit.”

You bat your lashes. “Oh, no fuss. I should help Constance with dinner–”

“Let the cook and her servants attend to their own work,” he insists.” As he pulls back a chair. “Please sit. As I said, I long to know my vassals.”

You look to your husband again. He arches a brow. You abide and near, sitting as the lord pushes the chair under you. You thank him meekly. He claims the seat next to you as Randall hesitates before rounding the table to sit across from you.

“And how long have you been married, Lord Randall?” Kent eyes you as you try not to notice.

“Ah, I believe, just short two years or thus.” Your husband answers. “I’ve been much away at business.”

“Business? What business would be more important than a lovely wife.” The duke chides. “My own… she gave me a son before her tragic passing.” He pauses and exhales. “He’s a healthy boy. Growing fast but I should’ve liked to give him siblings.”

“Condelences, my lord. We received news and we were sad to hear it. I saw Lady Lois prior. In Noth as she was on her way to the Easter mass.”

“Oh, yes, wasn’t she shining. The most lovely hair.” He sighs again. He turns to look at you. “Cherish your wife and she will give you fine issue.”

Yes, my lord. Certainly, I only long to do so.” Randall assures.

You try not to blush at the underlying suggestions. Your husband does attempt to do his duty. You try not to think of his fumbling of how many times he’s spilled on your thigh before doing more than that. You hold an elegant smile.

“My lord,” your voice is squeaky. “Was it a long road here?”

“Ah, she is kind. Caring.” He praises. “I’ve been ahorse for some time. I’ve come down from Rochewyn all the way along the Bend.” He draws his route with his thick finger.

“That is a very long way. I came along the Bend for my wedding day. My family hails from Cynster.”

“Longer way than mine.” He remarks. “Let’s hope it was for a good marriage.”

Your husband shifts in his chair. Basil and Mirabel appear with trays of bread and butter. They lay them down as the duke observes them quietly. He doesn’t say anything as they go and he slices into a loaf.

“Is that the extent of your staff, Lord Randall?” He asks at last.

“At this time. When the season reaps, we will budget for more. My wife does keep a fine and tight household.”

“She must to subsist on a maid and a groom.”

“And a cook,” your husband adds.

Lord Kent bites into the hard bread. You butter a chunk for yourself but find your appetite waning. He swallows as you feel his gaze upon you once more.

“Her complexion welcomes colour. She would look fine in a shade of rose.” He drawls. “Perhaps a more fashionable silhouette as well.” Lord Kent rebukes.

“Well, as I’ve said, we hadn’t time to ready for you lord.”

“A noblewoman should always be kept in finery. And a wife should always be ready, yes?” Lord Kent insists boldly. “And she is a beautiful wife, Randall. Submissive, gentle.”

Your husband clears his throat. “She is a good wife, yes, Duke.”

“She deserves a good husband.”

You squirm as the words hang in the silence until it bubbles and boils. Mirabel and Basil return with plates of hen and potatoes, along with sliced beets and barley. You hesitate as the duke eagerly digs in and your husband moves his food around, chewing on his agitation.

“If you are to build your holding, Lord Randall, you will need to first build a family.” Kent pauses to lick his lips, smacking them together. He angles to lean on his elbow and looms over you.  “Tell me, Lady, when last did your husband lay with you?”

“My lord,” Randall scoffs, appalled.

The duke raises his palm to your husband without looking. “Tell me, lady? When last did he pay his duty to you?”

“This is–” Your husband begins.

“It is upon my task. I must know whether I can expect any fruit to be borne of this hold.” Kent insists brusquely, staring you down as you wilt and look at your plate. “When?”

“My lord, I… I’m unsure–”

“Within the last fortnight?” He prompts.

You twitch. “My lord. I… it is indecent to say–”

“Yes?”

“I… believe so.” You peek up at Randal as his face scalds scarlet.

“Mm, well, I suppose he might have planted something in such a fertile field,” he touches your sleeve and you flinch.

“My lord,” Randall drones flatly.

“But did he pleasure you?”

You gulp. Your husband sits up as tall as he can and rests his hand over the blunt butter knife.

“My lord…” you whisper.

“Has he ever?” The duke pinches your sleeve and leans in. “Have you cried out his name as your entire being shook?”

You blanch as your lip trembles. You can’t speak. Your whole body is alight.

“With respect, my lord, I do not appreciate your impropriety–”

“With respect, Count,” Kent points at your husband without a glimpse in his direction. “You’ve no right to bid me of my manners on the ground I have rights to. On the grounds you pay me oversight to. So shut your fat mouth.”

Randall’s nostrils flare and he growls. He slaps his hand down and grips the butter knife. “You’ve offended me in my own home–” He charges around the table.

The duke stands calmly as your husband’s chair clatters. He faces Randall as he barrels around the end of the table. Kent’s hand works lithely around his belt and he steps forward without hesitation.

He bats the butter knife from Randall’s hand and your husband lurches and sputters, a sickly groan grinding up his throat. He leans on the duke as he wheezes and Kent’s elbow bends deep and his shoulder jerks. He shoves your husband away and the shorter man tips onto his back, trembling as he slaps at the leaking wound in his stomach.

You gasp as your scream sticks in your throat. Your eyes water as your head spins. This cannot be. It cannot!

“You shouldn't have let me in.” Lord Kent says as he bends to wipe his blade on your husband’s jerkin. “Not with such a precious lady within.”

[honeybunnyale]

His Choice l C.K.

w.c.: 10k

t.w.: Dark fic, Smut, (P in V), Dub-con/Non-con, knotting, scenting, masturbation, A/B/O dynamics, Omegaverse AU, Alpha!Clark, Beta to Omega!Reader, Clark is sexist in omegaverse terms, Omegaverse politics, Reader is kinda mean lol, Forced designation change/physical changes (Reader), Clark uses some Kryptonian drugs to scheme, Forced relationship, Toxic Power Dynamics, some Fluff, Angst

a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with my works! 18+ Only! I loved reading omegaverse fics back in the day (highschool). I made this verse based on what I remember!

Summary: Clark decides that you didn’t know what you were talking about. He’d show you that being an omega wasn’t as bad as you thought. 

Clark fiddles with his pen, scribbling down notes every once in a while. His eyes wander to your desk, your focus directed at your screen, fingers swiftly typing away. 

You were beautiful, despite the plain way you dressed and presented yourself. Most people would describe you as bitter, easily irritable, sarcastic and sharp. 

Jimmy privately called you frigid. He’s attempted to woo you. Everyone succumbed to his charms. Everyone but you, the muted almost stale scented beta.

He leans against the back of his chair to peek at your screen. He almost rolls his eyes at the news footage you were watching.

Protests were erupting around the country. Omegas from around the nation gathered to demand for stricter laws that would protect them from ‘subjugating power dynamics’. 

He snorts. 

They were going against their biology. Passing more lenient laws for scent blockers was enough. It should be enough. Those drugs messed with people’s bodies, they weren’t natural. 

Now they wanted to make it so that alphas took suppressants to repress their own bodies? 

Clark knew very well about these roles. His Kryptonian biology was similar to humans, even having common hierarchical roles in his biological parents' planet. 

He was what humans called, an alpha. In Krypton and on Earth they take leadership roles, they’d protect the rest. Some may say they were smarter, stronger, more confident. 

It didn’t make sense how so many humans didn’t understand the necessary parts of biology. 

Admittedly, betas were very common. Sure, they were helpful, certainly more useful than Omegas who rarely had control over their emotions. 

They just didn’t appeal to most alphas. Most of the population were betas, more than half. 

He thinks you were jealous. You weren’t that special. Not like him or Lois. Lois was one of those omegas on scent blockers. He could tell due to his sensitive nose, even if everyone else thought she was a common beta. 

She smelled a little rotten, like a sweet apple that was in the sun for too long. 

The way your nose flared the one day she forgot to take her blocker confirmed his suspicions.

The way you loathed talking to Catherine, a very open and proud omega, further cemented his belief of your envy. 

“All alphas are evil,” you say, your eyes directed to the TV screen, the newscaster discussing the rising cases of workplace harassment between an alpha supervisor and an omega employee. 

Lois snorted at your tone. He pursed his lips in a small smile at the sarcasm. At least, he thought it was sarcasm. 

You get up from your seat, stretching your back and yawning before heading to the coffee machine. It was one in the afternoon. 

You appealed to Clark. You were smart and witty. He’d hear the way you talked to others and was enamored with the person you were with anyone other than him. 

Granted you avoided interacting with alphas in general, not just him. 

He walks over to you. 

You could smell him. You huff a sigh, nose scrunching. Alphas were always so pungent. Always making the room suffocate in their stench. Making a mark. 

You don’t bother to turn, Clark was fine to be around with. He was nice. He pretended to get a cup and waited next to you, watching you pour a cup of coffee to your mug. 

Your blouse is pretty today, he thinks in his head. He appreciated the way it was more form fitting, showing off the curve of your breasts. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, his fingers brush against yours as you hand him the coffee carafe. 

“Hi, Clark,” you respond back. 

He smiled. He leans against the counter, not even bothering to pour himself a cup of coffee as you finish making yours, ripping sugar packets and half and half lids while avoiding his gaze. 

“Were you up late?” he asks softly. 

He knew you weren’t as affected by his scent like omegas were. You catch the way it tinges sweetly. He notices the puffiness underneath your eyes. You glance up at him, his face pinched with concern. 

“Just keeping track of the protests.” 

The hostility in the city rose quickly over the past month. Tensions between different groups were running high. 

“Yeah…” he says, his voice trailing off. He sets the carafe down. His face serious. Scent stronger than it was a second before. 

“I’ve been hearing all about that. It’s not safe to be out there all by yourself.” 

He pauses, his eyes narrowing. You fight against your instincts to face him completely, his voice almost demanding you to look up to meet his eye. 

“Especially as a beta.” 

He watches you take a sip of your mug, your neck tightens, fist curling around the handle. 

“I’ll be just fine, Clark,” you say sweetly, emphasizing his name. You’d rather be caught dead than calling him alpha. 

Clark hums at the way you spat his name. You’re clearly not taking your safety seriously enough. He crosses his arms and leans closer. 

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with out there.” 

“I do,” you interrupt. You turn and he steps in front of you, almost subconsciously. 

“They’re making their way to city hall as we speak,” you continue. “So if you don’t mind…” 

You glance over his shoulder, he stands in front of you, restricting you from getting to your desk. He blinks, realizing he had blocked you instinctively. 

He usually wasn’t like this. So domineering. It wasn’t like him. Not at all. He’s sheepish as he steps to the side.

He watches as you bump your arm with his. He caught the way you rolled your eyes. 

Your scent was bitter, his mouth waters as if he had sour candy in his mouth. He swallows the accumulation of saliva at the thought of possibly having a taste. 

There’s something about you that makes him want to protect you even more than anyone else in the room. 

“Just be careful, ok?” 

You don’t even turn to look at him. 

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” 

You're dismissive as you make your way back to your desk. 

…

Clark had been keeping track of the news all day, but he hadn't seen or heard from you after you had left the office.

His worry grew as the day went on. The protest was getting heated. The mere thought of you being in the midst of the chaos made him anxious. His scent was souring as the hours passed by. 

Someone points you out amongst the crowd on the television, Clark sits up straighter. 

Your shoulders bump against others. You apologize every other second as you make your way to the front of the protest. 

The metal fence was about to topple over from the force of the crowd, others have started to notice your press badge. Some think you’re from an opposing party, some shouting at you to leave. 

Clark watches the news closely from the TV right above his desk. He sees the way people hackle at you, you try to explain your motives but the voices were too loud. 

You weren’t an omega like them. You understand their wariness.

You find someone willing to step aside and interview with you. Their sign demanded for legally protected heat leave. Other signs mock the phrase, ‘They’re an alpha, they can’t help it.’ 

You clear your throat as you see a beta visibility sign scattered in the crowd. 

You could barely hear them, your recorder had to be shoved right at their mouths. 

The shouts get louder, the air thickens with the scent of anxiety. Suddenly the police start to circle around the crowd, they close in on the group with shields and batons. 

The scent of fear surrounds you, you’re face to face with a shield and for the first time in a long time you feel afraid of an alpha. 

The adrenaline quickly shifted to anger. You're shoved forward, your hands press against a shield that pushes you back roughly. 

Your recorder drops to the ground, lost amongst the stomping of feet. 

The crowd roars before it quiets. The shields back away and you can finally breathe again. Many point to the sky, you look up. 

He lands in front of you, facing the riot squad. The police backed away further. His red cape billows in the wind, his back straightening as he looks around. 

You lock eyes for a moment, you're filled with a sense of hope and admiration. You could tell so many others felt the same as they waited for him to speak. 

“That’s enough!” He shouts, his voice echoing, vibrating the buildings with authority.

The warning was felt in the crowd. You heard some whimpers. Your chest tightens and you have no choice but to stand still. Even the alphas from the police squadron back down, their shields and batons at their sides.

Your small smile falls at the force of his command. You’ve never felt one as strict as his before, as influential. 

“These people have the right to protest peacefully. You have no right to get rough with them.” 

Murmurs rang amongst the crowd of protestors. 

“Everyone, go home now. There is no need for commotion. Please back away from the building.” 

There it was. Of course Superman had to be an alpha.

Someone throws a soda can at him and he turns to catch it. He’s standing on the officer’s side, he glances at you behind the now fallen fence with the rest of the protesters. 

Protests erupt once again. Alphas were always so tone deaf, so ignorant. The look of dissatisfaction on your face, the disgust, made him pause. 

What did he do wrong?

Alpha abuse apologist. Pig. Superfascist.

He was being called all of these names after the failed protest intervention. You wrote a piece on it. You smeared Superman’s name, claiming he was biased because of his privilege. 

He scoffed when he read the first sentence of the article. 

He wanted to protect you, protect all of them. They were going to be trampled. He shakes his head as you discuss with Catherine. She was passing by your desk, asking what you really thought about Superman. 

“He’s a prick,” you say confidently. She guffaws. She stays right next to your desk. She loved to argue. 

“Really?” 

“It’s all performative.” 

She hums. She smelled sweet. Too sweet you almost gag. You inch away slowly, so slowly she didn’t even notice. 

She reminded you of your mother. Is what they say in the office. You were the product of an Alpha and Omega. You turned out to be a Beta. 

Clark feels bad for you. You don’t get to have such a beautiful relationship with an alpha like your mother did. 

Either way, no one really knew about that part of your life. Jimmy had found out about it after you had slipped up and mentioned it when you had a family emergency. 

He’d gossiped with the rest of the newsroom. 

“Well the protests were against alphas. I wouldn't exactly be on their side either. He stopped the violence before it could get worse-“ 

“Do you not have a backbone?” you blurt out, your arms crossed. She stares at you. Her mouth opens and closes in shock.

“I’m not an alpha hater. I don’t just hate people because they’re different from me,” she argues.

You scoff. Clark looms closer. The air was tense, he was ready to calm down the situation. 

“It’s not about that-“ you start.

“They would never pick you, even if all the Omegas in the world ceased to exist. You know that, right?” 

You stare at Catherine incredulously. Your shoulders square and your body locks defensively. Clark knew that it hit a nerve. Your eyes gloss slightly, your lips twisting into a snarl. 

“Pick me? I’m not the brainless one ass up and wagging my tail for a knobby dick.” 

You were shaking. They didn’t know you. They assume so many things about betas. You hated it. You’d rather die than be subservient to a cock. 

Even Lois felt the same, hence her sometimes overuse of suppressants. 

Clark interjects, he blocks Catherine from your eyesight, he has his hands up to pacify you. Catherine would definitely break out into tears if you kept it up. 

He gives you a disappointed look. 

Clark puts a hand on Cat’s shoulders. His hands smoothing over her arms as if to calm her. Your eyes narrow at the touch and Clark feels his heart leap, mistaking your anger for jealousy. 

He leads Catherine away, she leans into his touch as if she were in heat. 

“The heart wants what it wants. You're no better than the people you judge,” she says matter of factly, right before being led to her cubicle. 

You snort. You turn away, now facing your desk. The atmosphere was tense and you could feel the stares. 

“They don’t know what they want,” you mumble under your breath. 

Clark thinks about your reaction in the fortress. 

He looks through files with Gary, all of the healing ointments and serums hidden in chambers. He attempts to find a solution for you. 

…

It hasn’t been reported that Superman liked to visit people’s homes. You must be lucky. The alpha knocks on your tall windows leading to your balcony in the middle of the night.

He was holding up a to-go tray with two milkshakes. 

They were Metropolin favorites. From a shop that got popular online, and got infested with non locals. 

You haven’t had the glorious treat in months because of the long line. He must live in Metropolis, you realize. 

You open the sliding door slowly, crossing your arms as he approaches with the tray pushed forward like bait. 

You take it. You loved the drama, despite your morals. He sits on your couch as you sip from your milkshake. He places your missing recorder on your coffee table. He could see your eyes soften briefly before becoming hard set again.  

Your eyes narrow as he makes himself comfortable on your loveseat, facing you as you sit on your couch. Your knees almost touch.

He watches you savor each gulp, your throat bobs. You lick your lips to savor the taste. 

It makes him shift in his seat. He clears his throat. 

“I would like to understand why you published that article,” he says calmly. 

He wasn’t hostile, his tone was warm, genuine. You sit up straight, analyzing him. You shrug.

“What do you think about omega rights?”

He narrows his eyes imperceptibly. His voice shifts to a lower octave. 

“I think we all have the same rights.” 

You roll your eyes. He genuinely believed his own words. 

“We don’t,” you clarify. 

He sighs. You purse your lips. 

“You’re an alpha-“ 

“Based on human terms, yes.” 

You’re silent for a moment. You hated being interrupted. You bite your lip, taking a calming breath. 

“So you think alphas should harass their employees?” 

He gives you an incredulous look. No. A clear no. You lean forward, your elbows on your knees. 

“They’re asking for lenient suppressant laws, so that they could work, so that they could be safer whenever they go out. They’re asking for heat leave so that they don’t worry about being fired from their jobs because of something they can’t control.” 

He nods along, his jaw ticks despite his seemingly understanding gaze. 

“Alphas aren’t the only ones capable for leadership roles-“

“So you want omegas to become like betas.” 

You exhale sharply through your nose. He leans forward. 

“Omegas are special. Alphas are too. They’re made for each other. Taking away a person's innate biological instincts, their uniqueness, would mean society would collapse.” 

You glare at him, your scent was acidic, pure frustration. He leans close, eyes staring intently into yours. He had a small lopsided smile on his face. Boyish.

He pushed a sense of calm onto you. Your body responds despite your clear irritation. 

“Tell me, if you could choose to present as any designation, would you really choose to be a beta? Wouldn’t you like to be something meaningful?” 

Your breath catches in your throat, your eyes widen. 

You put your shake down, it was halfway done. It was enough to start the process. He stands, watching you silently rage. 

“It was nice to formally meet you. I hope we can talk again. You have given me a lot to think about.” 

And with that he leaves you alone, sliding your balcony door closed and flying off into the night. 

…

You were gaining weight. You look softer everywhere, gentler. Your cup was up two sizes, your hips one. 

Must be the stress of work and of being on probation. Perry claimed you were starting to create a hostile work environment. 

Lois sits on your desk after you asked for notes. She sniffs and rubs the tip of her nose. Her sense of smell was sharp, she gave you a look. 

Betas rarely wore perfumes and scents, mostly to not confuse others. Some do it to make themselves appear more like omegas. Most with the hidden intention to attract. 

“Nice perfume,” she mumbles, reading through your draft. You quirk a brow. You were not wearing perfume. 

“Smells like chocolate and fruit. Didn’t know you were a perfume kind of girl.” 

She avoids your gaze but she lifts a brow at your printed draft. You're filled with embarrassment. Did you really smell? 

You hated being seen as a hypocrite. 

It could just be something you ate, something you spilled on yourself or brought with you from home. 

“I’m not wearing any perfume,” you say stiffly. You look over your own work on your screen. You’ve been unable to focus lately. It frustrated you. 

“Whatever you say.” 

She hops off of your desk and places the draft with corrections with a soft thud. She must be pissed. Pissed because she assumes you were lying to her.

You sigh. Omegas were always so emotional. 

…

Clark was one of the only alphas in the newsroom. Aside from Chief Perry. But somehow Clark didn’t have a mate. He was content in his singleness. 

You’re surprised he hasn’t hit it off with Lois. Their banter was almost heartwarming to see. If you had an ounce of romanticism in your heart you’d tell her to shoot her shot. 

Everyone thought of him as being a gentle giant. He didn’t act like an alpha, he was shy, he hunched over himself to make himself seem smaller. 

He was honest, he let other designations take the lead frequently. He took criticism like compliments. You felt more like an alpha than him most of the time. 

Most of the time. 

There were always moments where you’d be reminded of his status. He was stubborn as all hell. 

Sure, alpha and beta relationships weren’t impossible, they were starting to become more popular. But you knew you weren’t going to work, no matter how docile he tried to make himself seem. 

You hated feeling like someone had something over you. You could admit you liked not having to do everything by yourself, but knowing Clark could tell you what to do if only his voice got a little louder or his scent was pushed onto you a little harder… It terrified you. You were grateful to be a beta, his influence and status could be ignored. 

He had taken your mug off your table cheekily, dodging and stumbling away as you stood and swiped a hand to get it back. 

“Sit down,” he says with a lilt of humour in his voice. You sit down immediately, crossing your arms over your much plumper chest. 

You sigh as you see the buttons stretch with the movement, diamonds appearing over your dress shirt. 

You felt obscene. You should probably see a doctor.

He pours you a cup from the coffee machine at the back of the newsroom. 

You stare at him, glaring at his broad back. He senses it. He loves it. He swallows thickly as he turns. 

He places the mug down at your desk, you bite the cap of your pen as he leans against the edge, sipping from his own cup. 

“Hi,” he greets, attempting to hide his smile.

You narrow your eyes briefly and peek into your mug. It was a light brown, milk swirling in the middle. You taste it. It’s sweet, milky, just how you liked it. 

“Hi,” you respond back. Your voice was quieter than usual. You inwardly cringe, you almost sounded meek. 

He gazes over your frame, looking you over. You feel your heart pound. You should be extremely uncomfortable, you should tell him to keep his eyes on yours. You knew he could see your cleavage from where he sat.

Your nose flares, he says something but you’re focused on the way his arms flexed and squeezed in his button down, or how his thighs were huge and shifted open to showcase his bulge. 

His scent was consuming you. He smelled like honey and bread. You subconsciously lean forward, as if a cartoonish trail of his scent was pulling you forward by your chin. 

It curls around your body, bringing you a deep warmth that spreads from your chest to your toes. 

For some reason he smells exceptionally alluring today. Intensified and almost directed to you. It made you feel high. 

Your pupils dilate, he says your name softly. He was asking you a question. You blink, he chuckles, leaning closer. 

“… tonight?” 

You hum and nod, eyes drowsy. Your lips curl in a smile as he smiles down at you. He has dimples. You just realized his eyes were really blue. You didn’t really look at him before. 

“Great,” he says softly, taking a sip of his coffee. He stands. 

You push your chair back away from the table and grip the desk to get a hold of yourself. He walks away. You had no idea what you had just agreed to. 

Your anxiety rises more and more every hour. You heard people whisper behind your back, mumble whenever you walked past them. You think it was the perfume accusation, or the way Clark was always near you nowadays, or maybe the way you had suddenly filled out with curves.

Your trousers were tight around your ass, you’re sure many could see the imprint of your tight underwear underneath. 

You had gained some on your stomach, softer than usual. You felt like a marshmallow, wrapped in plastic wrap and bulging to escape. 

So many liked it, it was an omega characteristic. The softness, delicate curves and gentle swoops of fluff. Almost everyone in the room got distracted by you now. The catcallers out on the street found new content to yell at you for. 

You felt like complete shit. You were sweaty and your stomach twisted in knots. You touch your forehead lightly and you're met with a scalding heat. 

By the end of the day you felt like your immune system was attempting to kill you. You had the jitters, your body was covered in a sheen of sweat, your legs bouncing in your seat. You were full of energy, your mind scatters easily from one subject to the next.

The clock hit three and you thought Perry wouldn’t really care if you head home early. You think you had the flu. 

You pack up quickly, feeling as if you could crawl out of your skin. You felt like a drug addict. Maybe someone slipped something into your drink. 

You’re not sure Catherine was capable of spiking your food but maybe someone else in the office you might have offended wanted to get back at you for your less than savory comments. 

Clark jogs up to you quickly, stopping you mid step as you attempt to leave. He looks you over, his chest rising and falling dramatically as he takes in your scent. 

It was like you doused yourself in chocolate covered strawberries. 

It was intense. Like when the girls from his high school first started presenting. He pushes you into an empty meeting room, closing the doors and shutting the blinds. 

“Where are you going?” 

You narrow your eyes at his question. You lift a brow. Who was he to ask you such personal questions?

He places a hand to the back of his neck, he steps closer and touches your forearm. It makes your skin rise in goosebumps. Your body shivers at the contact. 

His fingers wrap around your arm. You let him lean close to you. 

“I thought…” he sighs, looking off into the distance. His fingers tighten over your skin, pressing into your muscle. He looks timid, embarrassed. 

He looks into your eyes as you attempt to figure out the problem. 

“I thought we were going to have dinner tonight?” 

You stare up at him as if he grew a second head. He realizes you didn’t really pay attention to him that morning. His smell turns bitter, you inch closer instinctively. 

Did you agree to a date? 

You place a hand on his bicep, he flexes it as he pulls away and you feel something curl in your lower belly at the action. He steps back, incredibly embarrassed by the miscommunication. 

“Clark-“ 

He shakes his head, he steps away and your hand drags down to his forearm. You feel so bad, you feel his embarrassment deeply. As if it were your own. Why do you want to cry? 

You want to make him feel better. He chuckles awkwardly, waving a dismissive hand. Your eyes water, you made him feel bad. You felt so anxious. 

“Clark, I didn’t realize, I-“

You grip his hand tightly as he tries to step further away. Your neck throbs, your breathing deepens into pants. 

“Not tonight,” you clarify.

Comfort. Comfort. Comfort. You were pleading with him to stay close, to let you comfort him, take his sadness away. 

“Maybe another night?” you blurt out quickly. 

He looks at you, his fingers intertwine slowly with yours and your heart starts to slow again. The room was filled with a neutral scent, bitterness now gone. The nasty taste of his sadness dissolving in your mouth with a thick swallow. 

He inches closer, cautiously. 

“Really? You sure?” 

You nod. You pull him closer. He towers over you, your head tilts up to take in his scent, your nose skims over his chest. You felt like you could breathe again. 

“I’m sure,” you exhale shakily.

You look up at him, he cups the back of your neck. Any other day you would have kicked him in the balls for such an intimate touch. 

You were susceptible. You reacted to him. You swallow thickly. The back of your throat vibrates, you lean your head to the side. A soft sound comes out of you, a tittering pleased hum. 

Clark sighs blissfully, his eyes widening at the noise before softening. His thumb rubs at your neck. He coos. 

You pause. You blink up at him. You just purred. Omegas are the only ones able to purr. It was instinct for an omega to purr when an alpha was in distress nearby. Or when they felt happy. 

You inhale sharply and open your eyes as if you had been dunked in water. You pull away from him. Your neck throbs. 

“I gotta- I have to go.” 

He watches you leave without a word. 

…

You thanked whatever higher being existed in the world for making it a Friday night. Clark left you discombobulated. Fucking Clark and his big alpha body always taking up space. Now he was present in your mind. 

You were so horny. You venture into your local sex shop and look through the dildos. You bite your lip as you decide. The options were far from limited. Vibrators, bunnies, rose toys. You liked the ones that sucked, but you were looking for something different and not in your collection.

It was simple, the color was a nice translucent purple. The head was bulbous, the sides were lined with thick veins. 

“We have a deal, y’know,” the woman over the counter says slyly. She gives you a look as she wraps the box up in tissue paper and puts it in a bag. 

You look up from the counter and pay screen, slightly embarrassed for having her know exactly what you were buying and for what purpose. 

“Buy one get one free. Anything from behind the counter. Omega special.” 

You open your mouth to refuse. You weren’t an omega. But she looks at you with soft understanding eyes. Omega heats were so hard to deal with, so you’ve heard. You’d feel like an asshole for correcting her. 

All of the behind the counter boxes were specially made for heats. Some had inflatable knots, others were dildos so thick you almost wince at imagining it going into someone. 

You purse your lips. You get one with a thick knot at the bottom, maybe then you might be able to use the tip. You didn’t want to embarrass her for her confusion. You felt your body heat up as she presented you with the box. The cock was long, girthy. You’re sure it wouldn’t fit even if you tried. 

You come home with two dildos. You clean and boil them. Then you're in bed, only in your underwear. Your cunt sucks in the first dildo you got, a meager 5 inches. It’s enough to fill you up. Your past ones always were. 

Your fingers pinch your nipple, legs spreading as you push the purple silicone head against your slit, tapping it against your clit. 

You push in and expect resistance, your palm meets your cunt. You blink up at your ceiling, mouth open in a sharp moan as it grinds against your cervix. You lose the initial electric feeling after a while, you sit up, confused.

Were you looser?

That can’t be possible. You eye the gigantic monster cock right on your bedside table. You bite your lip. 

You weren’t an omega. You place it on the middle of your mattress. 

Lots of betas were in the porn industry. Omegas were more precious, it was taboo to see them being treated like sex objects, despite their inherent sexual nature. 

Lots of actresses pretended to be omegas. They’d adjust to alpha cocks, real, fake, a mix of both. Some like to pretend to submit, to mate, to get marked. 

Your face leans against the pillow, your ass lifts up in the air and jiggles as you sway from side to side. Maybe just for the night, you imagine yourself as an omega, ready to be bred. 

Your body heats up terribly, your pussy pulsing, lips winking as you arch your back. You spread your pussy with your fingers, feeling the cool air sweep past your folds. 

You imagine big hands, strong palms massaging your ass cheeks, jiggling them, pulling them apart to watch your cunt drip onto the sheets. 

You moan into the pillow, biting into the fabric. You tease yourself open with your fingers. Your clit throbs. 

You prop yourself on your knees, positioning pillows as a makeshift chest. The dildo slides slowly inside of you, you wince. A sense of exhilaration zaps through your spine. 

Like a dirty secret, you push yourself to take more and more, every inch making you gasp out at the intrusion.

Your folds caress over the knot. You briefly think of what real knots felt like. Were they as hard as silicone, soft and pliable? 

You think of Clark. Your hands go to your breasts and your fingers caress over the fatty tissue. 

You knew he was blessed. Even when he was soft you could still see him through his pants. You wonder how big his knot was. 

You moan, your cunt throbs around the plastic cock. 

It wasn’t going to fit. You bounce on the knot lightly, your hole bumping against it. You push further each time. It was physically impossible for the protrusion to fit inside of you, not without more training.

But it felt so good, you place your hands on the mattress and thrust harshly. 

It pops inside of you and your mind blanks, your ass meets your mattress and your cunt tightens impossibly in orgasm. You're all the way into the base of it, your hands fist into the sheets below, allowing your hips to grind hard into the dildo. 

Your mouth falls open, moans coming out of you as your body is locked in climax. Fuck, it felt so good. You had a big fucking knot inside of you and it felt so good you gripped your sheets until it tore. 

“Fuck, Clark!” 

You imagine him and his stupid glasses. His stupid scent. His stupid big shoulders and big hands and his probably big cock and knot. 

“Give it to me,” you moan. Your hips grinding down against your mattress harder, the squelch of the silicone covered in your slick so dirty as it reverberated in your room.

“Give me your cum, Clark- ah-“ 

You lift your hips up, your hand awkwardly reaching behind you to press the dildo further into you, the fake balls slap against your clit. 

“Your knot is so- oh- give me your knot, Clark.” 

You mumble into the mattress. You fuck yourself all night, mumbling his name to the point he was all you could think about. 

…

It was Tuesday. 

Lois immediately noticed something was wrong. You stayed home for the past two days. A day she’d understand, two was just lazy of you. 

She called. Clark glances in her direction. She stood watching the news, hoping you would pop up in the crowd of protesters. 

Her face brightened when she heard the croak of your voice. 

“Where have you been?” she asks accusingly. She checks her watch, maybe you were late. She stiffens when she hears a needy mewl. 

“Where are you…?” 

She walks over to a quiet corner. You groan into the phone. Maybe you were in a brothel. That was so unlike you. 

“Was that an Omega?” Lois whispers harshly.

She hears the low mewl again, a distinct distress signal that Omegas emit when they feel unsafe or uncomfortable. Clark pauses his work and listens in. He feels his pants tighten at the sounds you make. 

You were calling for someone to tend to you. 

“I’m just feeling a bit sick, Lo.” 

Your words were slurred, she could hear sheets shift. Lois attempts to piece it together. Maybe you hooked up with an omega in heat. 

“You with someone?” 

Clark stands, he feels his chest cave at the thought of someone other than him helping you through your first heat. 

He packs things up, he says something about wanting to catch a scoop as he passes by Jimmy's desk. Cheesy. 

He could hear your mewls and whines from across the city. You were calling for him, begging him to tend to you. 

…

You lazily pump your fingers in your cunt, head lolling from side to side as you imagined being touched by someone else, an alpha, Superman, Clark. 

Your body shakes in an orgasm, the pain recedes from your lower belly, your fingers slip out of you along with a flood of your juices. 

Something was wrong with you. You thought to call Lois but you could barely form a solid sentence. 

It comes in waves. The worst of it was last night. You were afraid that the neighbors could hear your squeals and moans. 

Luckily most buildings were soundproofed, the doors designed to keep in scents during ruts and heats. You couldn’t be having a heat you repeat over and over again, letting the cold water droplets from your shower bite into the skin of your back. 

Your wrists were sensitive, you rub a thumb over your pulse point. A fresh wave of slick covers your inner thighs, you almost fall if you hadn’t leaned against the shower wall. 

Something was very wrong. Very, very, very, wrong. 

You stand in front of your sink mirror, you wipe the condensation off with your forearm. Craning your neck to the side, you see it. A textured patch of your skin you could maybe pass off as an allergic reaction, a rash. 

You feel yourself start to hyperventilate. You grab your phone, your anxiety pushing the growing arousal to the back of your mind as you search for answers. 

Chances of a late presentation were low, less than .0001% of the world's population experience late presentation, even then, you’re in your early thirties, most cases were in their mid twenties. 

You put on a loose t-shirt hastily. Your eyes wander to your bed as you research. You find nothing. You were a beta. Betas can’t just change their designation. Your body can’t just change out of nowhere. Chemically, psychologically. 

You slam your phone against the bedside table. Your hand drags down your face as you sit on the edge of your bed. 

You sniff the air, it smelled humid, like raw passionate sex. Your stomach clenches. 

You needed new sheets. The ones you’ve used for the past three days were damp with your- you cringe as you think of the word- slick. 

You didn’t notice picking the fluffiest comforter, the softest sheets. You also didn’t realize you had gone to the living room and had gotten all of the throw pillows to add to your collection of softness gathered into a pile on your bed. 

You lift each item, inspecting it, thinking a piece of grime or lint was stuck on the fabric. You subconsciously rub your wrists against your pillows. You squeeze them against your chest to feel their plushness, the mark on your neck sweeping past the cotton. 

You made a nest. You’ve been making a nest for the past weekend but have barely gotten enough energy to pull out your best, comfiest household items. 

You stare at the ceiling as you finish organizing, body coccooned in softness. You start to sweat profusely again, another wave of arousal attacking you, making your body shake and hands wander. 

It was debilitating. Humiliating in how you couldn’t do anything to stop it. 

There’s a knock at your door. You sit up quickly, hands having already grazed over your slickened cunt to rub over your clit.

They knock again, you put on sweatpants quickly. They feel so uncomfortable as you stride over to the door. You’re just about ready to start an apology, you must be too loud, your smell must be spreading across the apartment complex.

You take a deep breath, fighting the urge to curl into a ball as a cramp hits your pelvis. You open the door when the pain passes.

He’s enveloped by your scent, so much so he almost steps back. Your eyes flutter and you take a deep breath in. His scent hits you like a punch in the gut. Literally. You feel a cramp tighten. 

“Clark?” You say his name in a garble of shock. 

He drops his bag and sweeps you into his arms. It was like being held by a giant. Your chin meets the top of his head, his arms holding you up against his chest as his hands press underneath your ass.

You’re forced to grip his shoulders as he twirls you around, the door closes as his foot pushes it, He walks over to the couch, sitting you down next to him, holding your hands. The sudden confusion of his intrusion passes and you narrow your eyes. 

“You shouldn’t be here, I’m not doing well-“

“It worked,” he interrupts, voice filled with joy.

He had a wide smile on his face, his dimples were pronounced. His thumbs press against your wrist and your jaw slackens. The pressure makes your cunt contract. 

What the hell was he talking about? 

“How are you feeling?” 

He scoots closer to you, your eyelids droop and your mouth parts at the proximity. You pull your hands away from him. It felt like you were contaminated with something, like whatever you had was contagious. 

His fingers grip his knees, smoothing his palm up and down his thighs as if to distract them from moving to any part of your exposed skin. 

Your hips shift, he could hear the wet squelch of your arousal from underneath your sweats. He could see your walls clench as you speak. 

“Something’s wrong with me…” You bite your lip to suppress a moan, he inches closer to you, his hands wrap around your biceps, your neck extends and your head tips to the side instinctively. A wave of embarrassment makes your stomach twist. You gave into your submissive state so quickly. 

It made you feel vulnerable. You hated the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. 

You stand up quickly at the pull you feel toward him. Your crotch was wet, a developing damp spot spreading to your inner thighs. You mumble nos under your breath. Clark was making you feel worse. A wave of heat hits you as you grip his forearm and attempt to lead him to the door.

“Stupid alpha…” you say under your breath. He snorts and stands still after a couple steps. No matter how hard you pull he doesn’t move an inch, not a shake in sight. 

“Please leave. I-I’m not feeling well.” 

He arches a brow and smiles, as if seeing the wet spot in your sweats, the way you twitch in need and whimper at his touch was completely normal. 

His solid frame makes you shiver, you groan out, your nipples pebble and press tightly against your shirt. The thin, grey, over-washed fabric highlighted them. The nubs sting from the sudden arousal coursing through your spine. 

“I can help you,” he says softly, he pulls you close, your face is smothered in his chest, the chest that smells like warm sweet bread. It was comforting. He pulls his jacket off and your scents start to combine. 

“Let me help you, love.” 

You wrapped your arms around his torso tightly, inhaling his scent as if it were oxygen. He bends down slightly to cup your ass and lift you onto him. You felt weak willed, weak minded. The throbbing bulge rubbing against your core made your brain melt into mush. 

He slips his oxford shoes off in a trail leading to your bedroom. He adjusts you as you curl around his body, legs spreading to link your feet at the small of his back. You were weightless in his hold. 

His fingers press and massage against the back of your neck as he enters the bedroom. He chuckles. Your nest was mediocre at best. Clearly this was your first time making one, the structure was flimsy. As he puts you down, your back meeting the sheets, he could see some of your stiff throw pillows fall off the edge. 

He makes a mental note to get you better cushions, different sheets, maybe a mattress topper judging by the stiffness of the mattress as he leans on it, either side of his hands near your waist. His head dips to nip at your neck, a firm lick at your scent gland makes you stutter a breath and roll your eyes to the back of your head. 

He takes off his glasses as you chirp, pleasant sounds reverberating around the room, making his chest rumble in satisfaction. Your sweats and underwear are placed down against the floor softly, he kneels on the ground and between your legs. 

The room was so beta of you. Barely any decor, sharp angles in furniture and no room for anyone other than you. Your bed was small, a full size. Maybe big enough for two betas, certainly not enough room for you and an alpha like him. 

His knees nudge against something on the floor, he stands as he picks it up, hearing your thick swallow. The silicone cock was heavy, the bulging knot at the base was average at best. His was bigger, he tosses it to the other side of the room and directs his gaze towards you. 

“Present for me, sweetheart,” he says softly, a hint of a question in his tone because he didn’t want to seem demanding. His cock strains against his trouser, he pushes back his hair, swiping away the sweat that was starting to build above his brow. 

He’s never felt like this. Not when he popped his first knot in an omega or when he first went into his first rut. 

It was different this time, he felt weak in the knees for you. 

He sees you shake, you force yourself to stay still, you writhe against your sheets, refusing to meet his eye and cooperate. 

His voice lowers, his command was louder than before.  

“Present.” 

He hears you whimper, the force of his voice making you melt. He didn’t mean to be so harsh, but his patience was wearing thin. He unbuttons his trousers and pushes his boxers down enough to grip his cock free. 

You get on your knees, bending down to rest your elbows against the mattress. You’ve clearly never done this before, it was cute watching you move so unsurely. 

His palm smooths down your back, you arch it. He'll guide you, if you just let him. He gets up on the bed to nudge your knees further apart, you bury your face in your pillows. 

His hands spread you open, thumb brushing over your folds and nudging at your clit. You drip onto his palm. His thumb pumps in and out against the rim of your hole. 

Your slick was creamy, producing a wet popping sound as you started to thrust back against his hand. He pushes up your shirt and grips your hip, his cock head slides against the seam of your pussy, slick dribbles down his shaft and coats him. 

His was warm and heavy, his skin soft against yours. Squeezing your waist, your body shudders, your ass jiggles, against his pelvis invitingly. 

“Clark,” you mutter, hips rolling onto him, feeling his fat tip nudge against your clit. Your back arches further, to the point you were on the verge of cramping up. You bite your tongue to stop yourself from begging for him. 

He watches you struggle, your mind simultaneously urging you to give in and screaming at you to push him away. You were a proud woman, stubborn. He wanted to show you that he could protect you just as well as you could protect yourself. 

“Look at this pussy, you’re dripping,” 

He lines himself up against you, his cockhead opening you up impossibly. You were tight, untrained, your sopping wet cunt couldn’t stop the invasion of his fat cock, stretching you so wide it felt like your hips were going to split in two. 

“You’re so perfect, doing so well,” he mumbles, as if enamored with you. 

“S-shut u-up-” you grit out, 

You lift your head, he pushes it back down. He growls, you moan as he pushes an inch further into you harshly. Like a punishment. 

“Be good,” he commands. His hands smooth over your hips, a small apology. He continues to slowly open you up until he bottoms out. Your legs shake, your cunt drips so much slick his pelvis is covered in it. You push back against him, moaning out at the feel of his tip pushing against your cervix. 

The bulge at the base of his cock swells up quickly, he could feel his balls start to tighten. You were so tight. He holds your hips in place, even as you whimper for more. 

“What does a good omega say when they want more?” 

His hand smooths over the globes of your ass, he hears your breath hitch, you contain your whimpers and moans. He snarls at your lack of response, his hand connects with your asscheek in a swift slap. 

You squeal from the contact. 

“Fuck- please.” 

His chest presses against your back. He tilts your head to look at him, he raises a brow, his knot slots between your folds, just about ready to push into you. Your body thrums, the need is too much. You wanted it. Wanted him. 

“Please, alpha.” 

His chest lets out a deep rumble at your submission, it puffs out in pride. You let out what seems to be a squeal or shout as he pulls out completely and drives deep into you again. A thick slurp could be heard from the action. 

His movements were a mix of grinds and thrusts, his head pulses against the rim of your hole, his shaft leaking with your warm juices before thrusting into you again. You hated this, you felt so weak, so humiliated. 

Your upper half is pounded into the mattress, breasts exposed as he kneads the fat of your chest and pinches your nipples. His hips snap against yours, his thrusts slowing down before picking up speed again, to tease you. 

He pulls out of you suddenly. He grips his cock and lets go of your body, letting you fall on the bed. You couldn’t move, your skin was humming, cunt fluttering in the absence of his thick cock. You whine, tears gathering in your eyes at the lack of his warmth. 

He coos lowly, fisting his cock at the pretty sight of your tears running down your face. Accumulating because of need, the desire to be filled up again. 

“You need a knot in you don’t you?” 

You nod slowly, covering your mouth with the back of your hand and biting it to prevent from babbling a series of desperate yes- yes - yesses. 

He was anything but sadistic. Any other time he saw you upset he wanted to comfort you. But you always brushed him aside, pushed him away just because of who he was. Seeing you be so vulnerable with him now brought a satisfaction to his chest he doesn’t think he would have with any other omega. 

He twists your body, positioning you to lay on your back and look up at him as he crawls on top of you. He presses his forehead between the valley of your breasts. His hot wet breath on your skin makes it pucker. 

“I’m going to fill you up so well you're gonna feel me for days. Do you want my cum, honey?” 

You stare at the ceiling, his hair tickles against your collarbones. His weight traps you beneath him, his hand tight around your legs as he slots his pelvis against yours. You nod frantically as you pant.

“Y-yes.”

His cock slides back into you. You moan out and close your eyes tightly. Your hands go to his shoulders and your nails press onto his broad back, hooking into his muscle to pull him closer. 

“To think you didn’t want this. It feels so good letting your body tell you what to do, telling you what's right, doesn’t it sweetheart?”

He pumps into you, his arms wound behind your back, his face pressing against your chest and sucking your soft breasts. He spreads his knees to spread your thighs open, his cock digging into you, hitting your cervix repeatedly. 

His knot swells, it kisses your folds, pushing them wider to finally press inside of you. He stops, lifting his head to look at your face, your cockdrunk eyes half lidded and hazy. He sucks your mating gland, your body locks and pulses against his cock. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he mumbles. He nips at the textured patch of skin. “Tell me you’re mine, omega. Tell me how much you want your alpha.” 

You bite your lip, his knot pulses against you, waiting agonizingly to be inside of you, to connect you, keep you against his chest. Your breath stutters in fear, you didn’t want to be mated with him, much less in this moment. You move your neck away from him, he keeps you still. 

“Tell me,” he snarls as an alpha command. Pressing his pelvis harshly against your mound, your clit grinding on his skin and making you lose your mind. 

“Yes! I want you, alpha, I’m yours.” 

He pulls back to thrust into you full force, his knot finally popping into you and expanding to prevent him from pulling out. 

His cock pulses harshly inside of you, his cum filling you up and warming you up like molten hot lava. You’ve never felt this before, it was so much, almost too much. His mouth was open in a long groan, hips and ass twitching and flexing as he gave you his thick load.

You shake, legs locking on his sides and head thrown back against the pillow as you cum. He continues to thrust into you, grinding his hips into your pelvis as he continues to release his seed into you, feeling your cunt grip him tightly. 

You let out a sob. Overstimulated, your mating gland pulsing terribly and releasing an overload of your scent into the air, as if urging him to bite down. He presses his head to your forehead, eyes wandering over your face as you both come down. 

“D’you feel me? I’m filling you up so much. Looks like you have a baby in your belly already.” 

His hand smooths over your lower belly, it was bulging with his cum. You wince as he presses down at the pressure. You clit pulses again, you whine from the back of your throat and he shuts you up by kissing you softly. 

“One more time, I want to feel you come apart on my knot.”

You whimper, his fingers swirl over your clit, your slick escapes from your connected bodies. You shake your head. He was all you felt. His body is on top of you. His scent. His lips. His knot and cock. 

“I can’t- Clark- please don’t-” 

He shushes you, he grinds his hips into you, your cervix strains as the head of his cock presses into you. 

“Give me one more, make your alpha proud.” 

He pecks your jaw. 

“Be good, yeah? Don’t you want to be good for your alpha? Don’t you want to cum on this dick, omega?” 

Your mouth parts and you nod frantically. He kisses you, teeth gnashing together as he pinches your clit and your hips thrust up into his. 

“Say it for me.” 

You pussy tightens over his knot, he feels your back arch underneath his. 

“I wanna be good-” you mewl, “I wanna be good for you, Clark- mmh- alpha.” 

You moan into his mouth, body going limp at the feeling of his cock twitching in your cunt, your bones turning to jelly as pleasure pulses throughout your nervous system. 

…

You reach a drowsy hand over your bedside table, you disconnect the charger and click on your phone. Your face lifts from the pillow, it was so early. Almost seven thirty in the morning. You press the phone face down on the pillow. 

“You think you can handle eggs again?” 

Your mating mark pulses and you turn to see him by the doorway, eyes roaming over your form. You sit up and stand, pressing a hand to your back and underneath the swell of your stomach as you yawn. His old loose shirt rides up your bare thighs.

Your gut pulses with need, his need. 

“We can try,” you respond softly.

You brush past him, bumping his arm, not even looking back even as he chuckled at your ‘sass’. Clark’s hand swats your ass softly, pressing a kiss to your head as he rushes past you to quickly take the toast out of your mini oven. 

You feel your cheeks pinch with heat as he feeds you himself, leaning against the kitchen tabletop to see your reaction. You chew slowly, your nose scrunches and he snorts. 

You were hard to please. He realized this quickly. But it was admirable. Adorable when you didn’t get your way and you made a fuss. 

You stood up to cook your own eggs, frying a layer of red onion on the pan of oil before marbling your egg into the perfect texture. 

You claim he burns the eggs and leaves a choquía smell. They made you nauseous for a long while, especially at the start of your pregnancy.

You were the most headstrong omega in the world, he thinks. 

You walk into the rotating doors of the Daily Planet, you adjust his tie as you make it to the other side of the bustling building. 

You slap his chest when he swipes a thumb over your chin teasingly. You were embarrassed by his coddling, his public affection. 

Especially with the almost judgmental looks from Lois and Catherine. It was a surprise for everyone to hear that you had suddenly presented as an omega. 

Lois thought you were a liar. That you hid the fact you were an omega from her even when she had confided in you. Catherine thought you were a hypocrite, a self hating omega that hid as a beta. 

It got much worse when it was revealed, by Clark marking you a month after your heat, that you were mated to an alpha even after claiming to want nothing to do with them.

You barely made up with Lo, she still didn’t quite believe you but she brushed off the drama quickly. You were still you, despite your sudden changes. 

You sit on Lois’s desk, arms crossed as you watch the TV screen. She watches with you. 

“We should go,” she says softly. She pokes your ass with her pen, making you yelp and stand up from her workspace. 

You give her a look and your eyes trail over your bump. Having a six months pregnant omega in a crowded protest was not something you considered that safe. 

Lois rolls her eyes. 

“I’ll go with you, we’ll stay along the edge, we’ll be fine.” 

You scoff. You say her name lowly, a warning to not convince you further. Because you will do it.

“Superman’s around. What’s the worst that could happen?” she shrugs, rising from her chair and nudging your shoulder. She gives you a look as she walks past to fill up her thermos for the road. Think about it. 

You make your way to your desk, the surrounding area bare of coworkers, feeling excitement fill your chest. You grab a digital camera and recorder, packing your bag to the brim as you prepare to leave. 

Your spine prickles, you stand up straighter as you hear someone clear their throat behind you.

“I don’t want you to go.” 

You turn, you hold the strap of your bag tightly. Clark steps closer, towering over you. He stands up straight, his jacket draped over his forearm. He had his sleeves up, showcasing the thick muscles of his arms. 

His brows were set harshly, no hint of a smile in sight.

“Clark-“ 

“You’re not going, omega.” 

Your eyes round out in shock. He was using that voice. You feel tears well up, blurring your vision. You couldn’t move, just thinking about going with Lois made your chest pump with anxiety. 

He drops his jacket on your desk, you step back and are cornered against the edges, the wood digs into the backs of your thighs. 

He shushes you and swipes his thumbs along your cheeks, flicking your tears away.

“You’ve become so much more emotional, honey.” 

You couldn’t pull away from his hold. He leans down to press you against his chest, his chin rests against the top of your head. 

“I’m keeping you safe. It’s not healthy to be around all that stress. Omegas can’t handle that. You know this.” 

You sigh. He tightens his hold on your shoulders. 

“You understand right?” 

His chest rumbles at your lack of response. 

“Right?” 

You nod, his hands rub your arms softly, stepping back to peck your cheek. He extends an arm to your lower back, picking up his jacket and leading you to the door. 

“Let’s get lunch. Your favorite spot.”  

You nod, mumbling a short ‘ok’ in response. He rubs your shoulder and pulls you to his side as you make your way outside. 

Lois watches you leave from where she was leaning against her car, you give her a tight lipped smile as you pass her by. 

She shakes her head in pity as you walk past, seeing your passion dwindle with each passing day. 

——————————

I think when it comes to omega rights, reader is also ignorant like Clark. They both share stereotypes that they believe to be true and I think that kind of bites Reader in the ass in a karmic sense by the end of the story. Obviously, Reader was/is an activist but she still behaved in a bigoted way, like how some white liberal men direct their misogyny towards conservative women/women they don’t like. 

At least that is what I wanted to portray in my writing. :P

Let me know your thoughts! 

-Alejandra 💋 🐇

[nariasteria]

Elden Ring/Dark Souls and the Sheer Lack of Fanfics. (A Slight Rant and Ramble.)

Alright, we need to talk, Elden Ring and Dark Souls Fandoms...

There are hundreds of thousands of you out there who love these games... So many, in fact, that they are both some of the most popular game franchises ever made...

So, pray tell, why is there such an atrocious lack of... fanfics!?

Come on, man! I. Want. More. Fanfiction!!

Give me a coffee shop au where Miquella takes Malenia to his favorite coffee shop and introduces her to the cute batista.

Give me a crossover ship between Messmer and Gwyndolin where they help eachother through their familial issues and trauma.

Give me a hurt/no comfort between Radagon and Rennala showing how the divorce went.

Give me an actor au where it shows the behind the scenes and/or bloopers for the character messing up or forgetting their lines.

Give me a Gwyndolin x Chosen Undead!reader with extra fluff and a side of gentle smut.

Give me Rennala x Carian Knight!reader where you help take care of her while she's in the library.

Give me a modern crossover au where Malenia is dating Gwynevere and going through the motions of being a cute, domestic couple before ending it with them being wife and wife and officially married. (I desperately want to see this one, I'm BEGGING.)

Give me a crack fic where Gwyndolin takes his snakes to the vet.

Give me a canon divergence au where you save Godwyn from being assassinated.

Give me Godwyn x Consort!reader where you and him are married.

Give me modern au Godwyn where he's a himbo who forgot his wallet at home to pay for his singular candy bar.

Give me a Godwyn x Tarnished!reader were you get to peg him. (I would also read this one, btw...)

Give me Godwyn with a breeding kink.

You know what...

Just give me any Godwyn fanfics!

Don't be shy people, make some more!

Make me some fanfiction or else I will ascend to godhood and place an eternal curse upon thee! 😡

..please? 🙏

Pretty please with a cherry on top..?

Just give me more Godwyn, please! 😭

(More Gwyndolin would also be IMMENSELY appreciated.)

[kumiaku]

Kinktober Day 18 - Pregnancy/Lactation (Marika/Radagon)

Kinktober Day 18 - Pregnancy/Lactation, Marika/Radagon x Reader, Elden Ring

Masterlist

Misc. Tags/Info - Marika/Radagon x reader, afab reader, reader is pregnant, radagon and marika are in one body and it switches between them, bi daydream frfr, marika is referred to with she/her, radagon with he/him, and together they are they/them, pregnancy kink, lactation kink, bit of a breeding kink, thou stuff, slight possessiveness from marika/radagon with competition being each other, threesome but also twosome?

WC - 441

Nsfw under cut

His hand trailed down the swell of your stomach, rough and coarse like stone or sand lightly flitting against the softness with a delicacy usually unseen by a warrior, but all too real for a father. 

Her hand ran up your back, under your arm, locking you close to their body, her fingertips supple yet calloused, a divine duality which she bestowed upon you. Slow and steady she rubbed, just beneath your shoulder blades, fingers pressing in to relax your muscles. 

Her voice came first, “relax, my dear. Thou art carrying one young divinity.” Her lips pressed against your neck, trailing soft kisses against your collarbone. 

He twisted their face to the side, pressing an ear against your chest, chin against the swell of your breasts. “My poor songbird and beloved consort, thy heart betrays thee. I will await the day a second heartbeat comes from thine stomach with much avidity.” 

Despite it being he who trailed his hand up to grasp at your left breast, it was she who moved her right hand down to grasp at your ass, and crawled on top of you. Her sweet, almost singsong tone, that she often used while teasing you, left her lips, “This is thy first, my sweet vixen. Thou must be trained by skilled tongue and teeth to learn what to expect from leechsome lips.” 

Marika’s mouth was on the swell of your breast, tongue rolling over and lavishing your skin with great fervor. Her lips circling and suckling over your teat, suctioning and siphoning you as you began to leak. Every touch of her lips felt like a golden summer's day rolling over you, something you knew wouldn’t come about when you actually birthed their child. 

Radagon’s hand twitched on your other breast before following Marika’s lead, beginning more gently, but progressing with a fearsome fiery touch, leaving sparks beneath your skin and trailing into the lower parts of your loins. Your noises were soft, almost unnoticed from the sounds Marika made on your breast. 

Her tongue danced over your pert nipple, before she hallowed her cheeks sucking the small drips of satisfaction from the buds, each second she seemed to rejuvenate her efforts, swallowing all the abundance you could offer and always wanting more. 

Once more his hand dipped, circling the lower parts of your stomach and pressing against the swollen skin. As soon as he was able to speak once again, he huffed out hot air over your areola, “Marika shouldn’t call thou child a leech, any from thee are certain to be as sweet as thou art.” He licked his lips as if to emphasize his point.