The kind where servants stopped breathing too loudly. Where guards kept their eyes down. Where diplomats suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere. Where even the torches along the obsidian halls seemed to flicker more carefully.
Because Sukuna was in one of his moods.
And when the King of Curses was angry, the entire dynasty suffered for it.
A servant’s blood still stained the polished floor near the throne room entrance. Another had nearly fainted trying to clean it. Sukuna had barely even looked at the man before slicing him apart for spilling ink over treaty documents.
Not because the mistake mattered.
But because everything irritated him lately.
The meetings. The nobles. The constant attempts at manipulation from neighboring clans pretending diplomacy while scheming behind silk sleeves. The endless reports. The assassins. The offerings. The fear.
Always fear.
It clawed at him day after day until it sat beneath his skin like rot.
And worse—
No one spoke to him like a person.
Only a monster.
Only a god.
Only a weapon.
They had good reason to fear him but fear became predictable and boring.
So fucking boring.
There was nothing that made Ryomen Sukuna more irritated than boredom.
The massive throne room doors slammed open again.
Another middle aged diplomat entered trembling so hard his robes shook.
“Mm-my lord Sukuna,” the man stammered. “The western province requests—”
“Speak faster.” Sukuna couldn’t help but glare down at this pathetic creature harshly from his throne. He could feel his claws sharpening in irritation. God what was up with him today?
The man swallowed hard.
“T-the grain shipments have been delayed due to weather conditions and—”
A slash.
Fast.
Red thread.
The diplomat’s head hit the floor before the rest of him even realized he was dead.
Silence.
Heavy.
Thick.
Sukuna sat back against his throne, one massive arm draped lazily over the side, though there was nothing relaxed about him. Four eyes burned with irritation. His jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
“Worthless.”
Nobody moved.
Nobody dared.
Even his closest advisors stood rigid as statues because one wrong breath could become an execution.
The cursed energy pouring from him was horrific. Violent. Angry. Ancient.
A storm contained inside flesh.
Then—
Soft footsteps.
Not hurried.
Just steady.
The entire room stiffened.
Because only one person walked toward the throne like that.
You.
Round cheeks warm from the summer air outside. Gold jewelry soft against dark skin. Plush figure wrapped in rich fabrics that brushed the floor as you walked. Calm eyes. Calm soul.
Not weak.
Never weak.
Just… gentle.
And somehow that was far more terrifying to everyone watching because you approached the King of Curses without a shred of fear in your body.
Upon reaching the throne room you looked down at the corpse.
Then at him.
Then sighed softly.
“My love.”
That was it.
Just two words.
But the change was immediate.
Everyone saw it.
The shift in his shoulders.
His brow softened slightly.
Like the sound of your voice alone dragged claws from his spine.
Sukuna’s lower right hand flexed once against the armrest.
“They’re irritating me.”
Your gaze moved toward the terrified room.
“Well,” you said quipped, “you did kill three people before breakfast.”
A palace maid nearly choked in horror.
You said it so casually too.
Almost scolding him like he was a child.
Not daring to bite your tongue.
Like someone speaking to a husband who skipped sleep and had a miserable day.
Sukuna exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Idiots shouldn’t test my patience.”
“You don’t have patience, dear”
A dangerous statement.
To anyone else.
But one of his mouths almost twitched.
Almost.
You walked all the way up the throne steps until you stood directly in front of him. Tiny compared to his massive form seated across the throne, yet somehow commanding the entire atmosphere without trying.
The curse in the room settled slightly.
Not gone.
But quieter.
Like your soul itself soothed the violence clawing through him.
You reached up carefully and placed one warm hand against the side of his face.
Instantly—
His eyes half lidded.
Not fully shut.
Just enough.
Enough for the room to witness the impossible.
The King of Curses leaning into affection.
A collective tension left the room so hard some servants nearly collapsed from relief.
Your thumb stroked slowly across one marking on his cheek.
“You haven’t rested in days my love.” There was almost a pout on your lips that he could hear.
“I don’t need rest.” He muttered as he kissed your palm softly.
“You do when you get angsty.”
One advisor looked seconds from passing out because who called Sukuna angsty and survived?
You did apparently.
Sukuna opened one red eye at you.
“Angsty?”
“Yes.” You nodded seriously. “Moody. Irritable. Brooding dramatically on your throne. Very terrifying. Very handsome. Very exhausting.”
A low sound rumbled from his chest.
Not anger.
Something warmer.
Amusement.
Rare enough that the room felt stunned by it.
“You speak too freely girl.”
“And you kill too freely.”
Another dangerous statement.
But your hand moved into his hair then, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and the enormous curse visibly relaxed beneath your touch.
It was absurd.
Terrifying.
Beautiful.
The strongest creature alive melting because his soulmate touched him gently.
“You absorb everyone’s emotions,” you murmured softly. “All their fear. All their lies. All their greed. Anybody would become angry carrying that constantly my love.”
His gaze sharpened on you.
His eyes gazed upon your soft face and kind eyes, your full lips pulling into what almost looked to be a sympathetic smile, but your eyes held firm.
Because that was the thing about you.
You understood him.
Not worshipped.
Not feared.
Understood.
You never excused his cruelty when it was unnecessary, but you understood where the rage came from. The isolation. The burden of being something so powerful that nobody else treated him like he belonged among living beings.
Except you.
Your forehead pressed lightly against his, your sweet calming smell pulling him in.
“You don’t have to tear the world apart every time you’re overwhelmed, Ryo.”
The nickname.
So soft.
So human.
His eyes closed fully this time.
The cursed energy in the room lowered dramatically.
The pressure disappeared enough for everyone to breathe again.
One of Sukuna’s massive arms suddenly wrapped around your waist and pulled you directly against his chest. Effortless. Possessive. Like he needed your warmth physically close now that he had it.
You laughed softly as your plush body settled against him.
“There he is.”
“Quiet.”
But his voice had lost most of its edge.
You rested one hand over the center of his chest.
Underneath all that monstrous power, his heartbeat slowed beneath your palm.
Steadying.
Calming.
Because it wasn’t really your touch alone that soothed him.
It was your soul.
Your steadiness.
You never met his violence with more violence. Never fed his storms. Never shrank away either.
You anchored him.
And Sukuna—who split mountains and painted kingdoms red without remorse—clung to that anchor with frightening intensity.
One of his lower hands settled heavily on your ass, squeezing once.
“You should have stayed in our chambers,” he muttered.
“And leave you in here throwing tantrums and decapitating ambassadors?”
“They were irritating.”
“You say that about everyone.”
“Because everyone is irritating.”
You smiled.
“There’s my grumpy husband.”
Another rough rumble left him.
Then he buried his face briefly against your neck.
The entire throne room looked ready to collapse from witnessing something so intimate.
The King of Curses hiding his face against his wife because she made the noise in his head quiet down.
You stroked his hair again.
“Come eat with me my darling husband.” You mumbled into his chest.
“I’m busy.”
“You killed the meeting.” You retorted immediately.
“…True.”
“And you skipped lunch.”
Silence.
Then finally:
“Fine.”
The room nearly wept in gratitude.
Sukuna rose from the throne with you still tucked against him, one arm securely around your waist like he refused to let go now that you’d calmed him down.
Before leaving, four glowing eyes swept across the trembling room.
“Leave.”
Everyone scattered instantly.
The second the doors shut behind you both, the palace practically exhaled.
Meanwhile, Sukuna kept you pulled against his side while walking the palace halls.
“You smell nice,” he muttered suddenly.
You smiled up at him.
“That’s because I’m not covered in diplomat blood.”
“Hm.”
“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
One of his hands slid up to the back of your neck possessively.
“You calm me too easily.”
“That sounds like a complaint.”
“It is.”
“But you like it.”
His gaze lowered to you.
Ancient. Dangerous. Soft only for you.
“…Yes.”
You hummed in triumph.
“Would you like to know what would really lift my spirits, wife” He gruffed.
“Oh? What would help my lord?”
He gazes down upon your figure, eyes gleaming on your rear.
“If I had your soft ass against my face all the morrow, that would put me in high spirits.” He grinned maliciously.
“My word!” You gasped as you felt strong hands paw at your curves.
“I shall find a husband who isn’t as vulgar as an ogre!”
“A mistake on your end truthfully, you’d know I’d kill him.” He muttered mattarfactly.
All you could do was sigh for it was true.
And that was the terrifying truth of it all.
The strongest curse in history could massacre armies without blinking.
A/N: This was long overdue tbh. I’m so sorry guys but I’m back again! A very close friend of mine passed away and it made it really hard to be creative again. But I’m taking everyday at a time! LOVE YA GUYS
guys i’m alive I swear. i’m finally on summer break so I can legit start writing again. I was severely burnt out but I’m ready again! Send requests plzzzz
Not in any obvious way—sunlight still filtered through the paper screens in soft gold sheets, the courtyard outside still held the faint echo of training from early-rising disciples—but something in the air felt charged, humming quietly beneath the calm.
You woke slowly, stretching under the silk covers, only to realize:
Retsu was already awake.
He sat at the edge of the futon, dressed in loose black trousers, dark chiseled chest on display, hair braided neatly down his back, posture perfect.
He wasn’t reading.
He wasn’t meditating.
He was simply…
watching you.
His dark eyes softened when you blinked up at him, but his expression remained composed, dignified.
“Good morning,” he murmured, voice low and warm.
Your stomach fluttered immediately.
It always did, lately.
Ever since—
Your mind betrayed you with the memory:
His hand.
Hard.
Firm.
Landing on you in sharp, controlled punishment, heat spreading through your body so fast you’d gasped, heart racing, palms sweating, shame and comfort tangling in a way you still hadn’t untangled.
You swallowed.
Retsu’s gaze sharpened—he noticed the change in your breathing instantly.
Of course he did.
He always did.
“Come,” he said softly, rising fluidly to his feet. “Today is important.”
You sat up, pulling the blanket closer in instinctive modesty.
“Important?”
He nodded once.
“Master Kaioh Ryuu is hosting a banquet to honor several returning masters. It will be a formal gathering. You will be presented as my wife.”
The words sent heat rushing through your chest.
Presented.
As his wife.
The pride in his voice—subtle, controlled, but unmistakable—made your pulse race.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he extended his hand.
“Stand.”
The command wasn’t harsh.
It was gentle, yet unmistakably firm.
Your body obeyed before your thoughts caught up.
When your feet touched the floor, his hand settled lightly at your soft waist.
His touch was warm.
Grounding.
Claiming.
“I will prepare you,” he said.
Your breath caught in your throat.
“Prepare me?”
He inclined his head.
“It is my responsibility—and my pleasure—to ensure you are comfortable, relaxed, and presented beautifully.”
Your face flushed so fast you felt lightheaded.
You stammered,
“I—I can bathe and dress myself—”
His brow lifted.
That brow.
The one that meant:
Do not challenge me on this.
“You could,” he agreed calmly. “But today, I choose to care for you.”
Those words melted your protest instantly.
He guided you toward the bathing room with a hand at the small of your back.
Not pushing.
Just leading.
His presence behind you felt overwhelming in the best way—solid, warm, unwavering.
When he slid the wooden door closed, the sound echoed softly in the steamed air.
The bath was already prepared.
Fragrant steam rose from the deep soaking tub, scented with jasmine and something earthy and grounding—cedar, maybe.
Candles flickered along the floor.
Your heart fluttered.
“You… planned this?”
He removed his black tank top, folding it precisely.
“I did.”
He spoke simply, without arrogance.
As though preparing a luxurious bath for you before a public event was the most natural thing in the world.
You could barely breathe.
He approached you, fingers brushing the hem of your sleep robe.
“Arms up,” he murmured.
Your pulse jumped.
You hesitated—but lifted your arms.
He slipped the robe off you slowly, reverently, letting the fabric slide down your body in a whisper of silk.
You shivered.
Not from cold.
His eyes traveled over you—eying the light slope from your shoulder blades to your tail bone, he gazed upon your rounded posterior, the thick globes like golden butterscotch from the sun blessed him dearly— he had to refrain from his first mind to bend you over and lick you from head to toe to worship your divine beauty.
“My beautiful wife,” he said quietly. “Always.”
You stared at your painted toes feeling his strong callous hand graze your behind lovingly, face flushed.
He guided you into the warm water, steadying you with a hand at your waist.
The moment you sank into the bath, heat enveloped you—but not nearly as intensely as the awareness of him kneeling behind you.
Then his hands entered the water.
Large.
Warm.
Confident.
He began washing your back slowly with his hands, not a cloth, fingertips tracing along your spine in gentle circles.
Your breath trembled.
The room felt too small.
Your body felt too responsive.
He spoke softly, voice like warm velvet close to your ear.
“You are very sensitive today.”
You froze.
“I—I don’t know what you mean—”
His quiet exhale was amused.
“You tremble,” he murmured. “Your breathing is uneven. Your skin flushes at the slightest touch.”
His hands slid to your soft arms to your shoulders, thumbs massaging firmly.
“And you avoid my eyes.”
Your face burned.
You stared at the water.
Because if you looked at him—
He would know.
He already knew.
You remembered the spanking again—the sharp heat, the way his voice had rumbled when he scolded you, the way your body had reacted in a way you had never expected.
Guilt twisted in your stomach.
You shouldn’t want it.
You shouldn’t—
His voice softened.
“You still think about that day.”
Your entire body tensed.
You almost slipped under the water.
“I—no—I mean—”
His hands paused.
Not leaving you.
Just waiting.
He always did that.
Giving you space to lie.
Giving you the chance to trust him instead.
Your voice came out barely audible.
“…yes.”
Silence stretched.
The water lapped quietly.
Your cheeks felt hot.
“I shouldn’t,” you whispered. “It was… I was bad. You were angry. I shouldn’t want—”
His hands moved again, slower now, stroking over your arms again in soothing lines.
“Discipline and desire are not enemies,” he said softly. “You needed correction. I provided it.”
His fingers traced gently along your shoulder.
“But your body’s response… that is not something to feel shame for.”
Your breath caught.
He leaned closer, lips near your ear.
“I am honored that you desire my touch.”
The words hit you like a physical force.
You let out a tiny sound—half whimper, half exhale—and his breath deepened.
He heard it.
He felt it.
He knew.
Your thighs pressed together under the water without conscious thought.
He noticed instantly.
He dove his hand into the warm jasmine scented water and cupped your soft mound in between your legs, heat flushed in your chest as your lower half quivered from his claiming touch.
His voice dropped, richer.
“There is no need to hide from me.”
Your round eyes stared at your man, his loving gaze on your flushed face gave nothing away how his body was telling him to be greedy, to whisk your soft and wet body out of the tub to and lavish you with his desire ten fold but alas his mind reminded him of the banquet.
He reached for a towel, lifting you slightly to sit on the edge of the bath. Your sweet lushness on display, from your caramel tear drops to your soft tummy that rolls to your hips.
You didn’t see his hand ball into a fist at that moment.
Water cascaded down your body.
His hands followed.
Drying.
Smoothing.
Exploring in slow, reverent movements.
When he knelt behind you to dry the back of your thighs, your heart nearly stopped.
His breath touched your skin.
Then—
Soft.
Warm.
Deliberate.
He pressed a kiss to the curve of your bottom.
A broken whimper escaped you before you could swallow it.
Your hips twitched.
Your legs squeezed together.
He wrap his arms around your hips still kneeling behind you, one of his hands tipped the middle of your back to bend you over slightly as he pressed his face into your posterior.
You wiggled.
You didn’t mean to.
It just happened—your body reacting helplessly, instinctively.
Heat flood your entire face.
You slapped your hands over your mouth.
Mortified.
“Re-Retsu?” You didn’t know what to do with your hands he didn’t instruct you to put them anywhere so you simply claps your hands in front of you like he showed you once.
“What are-hah- you doing?”
Then—
A low breath through his nose.
Control slipping
Affected.
His hands slid back to your hip, steadying you.
“Now now don’t fret my love,” he murmured.
But there was a smile in his voice.
Fond.
Dangerous.
Loving.
You can feel his warm breath graze your pussy, your clit pulsing at the thought.
“I won’t be greedy, just let me stay right here.”
You shook your head slightly, muffled behind your hands, unable to cope with the embarrassment.
He simply holds you, as he bury his face into your girly neither regions and inhales deeply. He feels your thighs quiver slightly as he breathes in your tasty musky skin.
You hear him huff through his nose in light amusement, drinking up your shy demeanor.
"Look at me."
You look over your shoulder obediently, his kneeled body below you as you looked down at him, his darkened eyes sharpen on your features.
“Do not hide from me,” he said quietly.
What you saw there made your breath stutter:
Not judgment.
Not mockery.
But admiration.
Tenderness.
Desire held in iron restraint.
“My endearing wife,” he whispered.
Your heart nearly stopped.
Endearing.
He thought you were adorable like this—flushed, trembling, exposed.
Your body pulled tight with need and embarrassment.
He kissed your other cheek gently, sealing the moment.
Then he rose, composed again.
“Come,” he said, offering his hand. “Let us dress you.”
You followed on shaky legs.
He dried you naked flesh fully, then guided you to sit before the vanity.
You stared at your reflection—cheeks glowing, lips parted, eyes wide and shy. You stare at his huge form, your soft nipples almost fully prickling in the cold air. Dark curly hair down to your neck from the humidity of the bathroom. Your sternum and tummy and hips exposed to your lovers eyes.
He stood behind you, his gaze ranking
“You are radiant,” he said simply.
Your chest tightened with longing.
He began styling your hair with skilled, gentle hands—parting, smoothing, braiding, twisting, pinning.
Each touch sent shivers down your spine.
He chose delicate gold hairpins shaped like plum blossoms, placing them with reverence.
Then he selected a dress from the wardrobe—deep red silk embroidered with cranes and peonies.
Traditional.
Elegant.
Beautiful.
“For you,” he murmured.
He helped you step into it, smoothing the fabric over your hips, fastening the closures with deliberate slowness.
His knuckles brushed your thigh.
You nearly melted.
When he tied the sash around your waist, he leaned close, breath warm against your neck.
“This suits you,” he whispered. “My beautiful wife.”
You whimpered softly.
He pretended not to hear—though the slightest curl of his lips betrayed him.
Then—
He reached into a drawer and withdrew delicate underwear.
Silk.
Soft.
Beautiful.
Your knees wobbled.
“You will wear these,” he said, voice calm but firm.
You nodded, face burning.
He slid them up your legs with controlled care, hands smoothing the fabric into place.
His thumbs brushed the curve of your bottom.
You gasped.
He paused.
His voice dropped to a murmur.
“So soft.”
You almost collapsed.
When he finally stepped back, his expression shifted into something proud and possessive.
“You are ready.”
Your heart pounded.
Your whole body felt warm and alive and needy.
You wanted—
You didn’t know how to say it.
You couldn’t say it.
So instead you followed him out of the room, trembling with anticipation you didn’t understand how to voice.
The banquet hall glowed with lantern light.
Red silk banners draped the walls.
Gold calligraphy shimmered.
Incense curled through the air.
Martial artists in elegant traditional clothing filled the space, laughing, drinking tea, greeting old friends.
Kaioh Retsu walked beside you like a carved statue brought to life—tall, composed, dignified, presence commanding respect effortlessly.
His hand rested lightly at the small of your back—guiding, protective, claiming.
You spotted Kaioh You immediately—laughing, beard shaking, his wife beside him in jade and silk.
She waved you over warmly.
“Ahh, look at you!” she exclaimed, taking your hands. “So beautiful! Retsu, you are fortunate.”
You blushed, looking down.
Retsu’s hand tightened subtly at your back.
“I am aware,” he said.
Your heart fluttered.
Everything felt normal.
Everyone acted normal.
No awkwardness.
No knowing glances.
No reference to the spanking.
Retsu behaved as if nothing unusual had happened between you.
Meanwhile…
Every time you shifted in your seat, you remembered—
The banquet hummed around you: the clinking of porcelain, laughter, low conversations, the rhythmic tapping of Retsu’s polished shoes on the wooden floor. Lanterns cast a golden glow across the room, reflecting on the silk of your dress, the smooth braid of his hair, the elegance of the masters seated at long tables.
You squeezed your hands together, chest tight, and stole glances at Retsu. His posture was perfect—stoic, composed, seemingly immune to distraction—but his dark eyes flicked toward you now and then, and each time, you felt your stomach flutter uncontrollably.
Weeks ago, he had disciplined you. It had been sharp, sudden, and precise. You had felt embarrassed, guilty… and inexplicably alive. And though he had acted as though it never happened, a part of you remembered that day constantly: your heartbeat, palms slick, the warmth of his hand on your bottom, the way your knees had buckled involuntarily.
Now, sitting next to him with Master Kaioh You and his wife across the table, you felt that heat rising again, but you didn’t dare speak it. Not yet.
So, in the only way your bashful, mischievous brain could manage, you decided to tease him.
You reached for a dumpling on the shared plate and, with exaggerated clumsiness, nudged it across the pristine white tablecloth. The streak of soy sauce marred the perfect silk.
“Oh!” Mei-lian gasped lightly, hands pressed to her chest. “Careful, dear!”
Retsu’s head turned slowly. One dark brow arched. His lips were a thin line.
“Beloved,” he said quietly, voice calm but sharp, “what are you doing?”
You blinked innocently. “Oops. Clumsy me,” you said, voice too sweet to be believable.
He exhaled softly through his nose, a quiet, controlled sound that made your stomach flip.
This is working, you thought.
Not content, you next picked up your teacup and deliberately placed it slightly crooked on the saucer, ignoring the perfect symmetry he valued. Your pulse raced as you felt him stiffen beside you.
“Beloved,” he murmured again, fingers brushing lightly against your thigh under the table—not harsh, just anchoring. “Behave.”
You twitched subtly under his touch, squirming in a way meant to provoke.
He didn’t immediately react, which only encouraged you. You toyed with your napkin, letting it slip from your fingers onto the floor, then bent down to pick it up—dragging your body near his, hips brushing him just enough that your inner thighs pressed together involuntarily.
The moment you straightened, you caught the faintest glimmer in his eyes. Dark, controlled, burning—something you weren’t supposed to see in public.
Yes…
Finally, he let a single word escape, measured, low:
“Enough.”
The table felt suddenly smaller. His hand settled on the small of your back, firm and unyielding. You swallowed hard, your face hot. He leaned close, lips brushing your ear just enough to make your knees weak.
“Come with me,” he murmured.
Come with me…
Without waiting for permission, you rose. The world of the banquet continued around you—guests chatting, tea poured, dishes passed—but Retsu guided you gently but unmistakably out of the dining hall, hand at your waist, spine rigid, presence commanding.
A side corridor opened to you. Screens and hanging scrolls offered a private-but-public setting: anyone walking by could see you, but you were alone with him for now.
He pressed you lightly against a carved wooden pillar. The scent of incense wrapped around you. He didn’t release you. His hand stayed at your hip, warm, claiming.
His voice, low and deliberate, cut through your racing heartbeat.
“Explain.”
You looked down, knees weak. Your chest was tight. Your lips parted, then closed again. You could not speak.
“I… I wanted…” you stammered, face burning. “…I wanted you to… do it again.”
Silence.
You held your breath, waiting for disappointment, perhaps anger.
Instead, you felt a thumb stroke your cheek.
“So that is why you misbehaved,” he murmured. His voice was soft now, still controlled, still resonant with authority. “You wished for my hand.”
Your cheeks burned hotter.
“I’m…I'm sorry,” you whispered.
His exhale was audible, warm against your skin.
“And yet…” His hand slid from your cheek to your hip. “…you cannot resist testing me.”
You whimpered quietly.
“You are… my wife,” he said, stern but with warmth in every syllable. “And if you desire correction, you will ask. Do you understand?”
“Yes… Retsu,” you breathed.
He tilted your chin up, eyes dark and smoldering. “Good. But…” He paused, and suddenly, before you could react, his large hand slid under the hem of your dress, lifting it gently.
Your eyes flew wide.
He’s lifting my skirt!
You felt your panties fully, soft silk now exposed to him. Heat surged through your entire body. Mortification, excitement, and longing collided all at once. You whimpered, thighs squeezing together instinctively, hips wiggling despite your shame.
Retsu’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.
“You… look beautiful like this,” he murmured, voice low and trembling slightly with restraint. His large hand cupped your bottom over the delicate fabric. He stopped himself, steadying his composure. “…so innocent and teasing.”
You pressed your face to his chest, utterly flustered, unable to hide how overwhelmed you were.
“And yet… you test me.”
He delivered one sharp, precise swat over your panties. Your knees nearly buckled.
“That,” he murmured, voice calm and steady, “…is for disobeying me at the banquet.”
Another, slower, deliberate swat.
“And that,” he continued, “is for doubting I would give you what you need.”
You let out a soft cry, breath trembling. Heat suffused every inch of your body.
"Turn around."
You froze.
Your heart sunk.
You looked up into his dark eyes to find them harden with something you couldn't place.
You obediently turn around, heart beating in your chest.
“Give me your panties.”
Your breath gets caught in your throat again.
Give him my panties?! I’ve never done that before!! Why would I do that here?! Someone could see! A-and see my ass on display, and then they’ll think i’m j-just a-a!
A sharp wide palm connects with your bottom, this one having a certain bite like that one evening. You couldn’t help but jump out of your skin, mildly jumping on the tips of your toes.
“Today, angel.” He murmurs as he rubs the sting from your warm bottom.
You tentatively pull down your silk panties, sweaty palms gliding down your thighs as your panties meet your ankles. You hear him hum in approval above you as you lift each leg to remove your panties from your person.
He raises his palm without hesitation, as you keep your eyes down on the marble floors as you place the only source of protection in the palm of his hand, exposed.
He places the silk in his tang suit jacket pocket, and gets on his knees. You squeezed your thighs together in anticipation, body humming with fear mixed with excitement.
You love this feeling.
It dawned upon you that not knowing what the future holds is in his hands but knowing you are safe, get your blood flowing, and clit pulsing.
Kneeled behind you, he lifts your cheongsam dress to the naval of your stomach and ties the soft fabric pulling it taught.
“Hold this with both hands, and bend over.” He murmured darkly.
With shaky hands, you hold the knot tight and press your breasts to the wooden pillar, this seems not to be enough as he simply says, “More.”
You arch your back as your nipples graze against the wood, knees wobbly, and breathe shallow.
Two large callous hands spread your ass, the cold air immediately hitting your neither region. The slick of your warm cunt now exposed to the public air.
“We’re going to work on your discipline and endurance, my love.” His hands rub against the globes of your ass, squeezing your cheeks together then apart as he pleases.
“You orgasm before I say or drop your dress, this lush little bottom of yours won’t be fond of me.” He murmurs as he spreads your cheeks almost painfully wide, your damp rose bud on display.
“O-oh, okay…” You mumble awkwardly, eyes glancing at the knot in your hands. “Yes sir,”Retsu reprimands under you as he lets one of your cheeks go to land a blistering blow to the unprotected skin.
“Y-yes! Yes sir!” You whimper out loud, hopefully not too loud for someone to wonder what’s going on.
“Very well.”
A wet soft muscle swipes up your slit to your rosebud, you couldn’t help but squeeze the fabric in your hand tighter as he hums and kisses your clit softly. You sigh as quietly as you could as he squeezes his face in between your ass, your tiny, dewy hole clenching around nothing.
“Very good, my beloved.” You hear his words muffled in your pussy. “My sweet little wife.” You can’t help but make high pitch little groans as his tongue slithers to your hole and holds it there, feeling it pulse around his muscle. Broad nose grinding into your clit you realize this will be harder than you thought. His hot wet tongue slithers out to your rear and sucks on the hole dearly, as if making a promise to love forever. “Euughh….” You couldn’t help but groan from pleasure at your skilled and disciplined lover.
He lifts one of his hands off your ass and swirls it around the hood of your clit catching the right side of it as he circles it around firmly. Thighs quivering, you lean on the tips of your toes as you try to run away from the onslaught of sweet, hot torture.
He simply follows you as you try to run and grabs your hips to push into his face. The callous skilled hand that was rubbing your clit delivers a sharp smack to it, the sound bouncing off the walls of the thankfully empty corridor. “Don’t run from me.” He reprimands you as you gasp, nearly slipping the fabric from your fingers. “Press your naughty little bottom to my face, like the good wife that you are.”
You have no choice but to present your lush exposed, and glistening girly parts to your husband and push your bottom to his face as he wastes you no time slurping and licking your dewy juices. He picks up a moderate rhythm of rubbing your clit with one hand and alternating between licking your soft spot in your sweet petals and rosebud.
“A-hah, Retsu!” You wail as pumps you full with his hot tongue. You felt your blood boil in your lower stomach and you felt your brow start to form condensation. “Mmm no Restu, I can’t I can’t I can’t! You whine pitifully. He ignores you and simply doubles down on his efforts, keeping the same momentum never giving way to stopping.
Your lower stomach knotting as you feel liquid lava start to form from your chest to your feet. You feel your soft wet walls start to pulse harder around his tongue, the wet muscle grazes a soft spongy part of you that you didn’t know existed. The burning feeling in your muscles only persists until your brain starts to feel good.
“Pl-please please, no!” You plead for your husband to stop. As much as you like the thrilling feeling of teasing him you didn’t want to disappoint him.
It’s coming before you could even stop it, the hot pulsing energy rushing through you as you quickly push his face away with your hands with all your might before it’s too late, panting.
Slowly, you quiver, palms resting against the now warm wood, heart thudding.
His voice dropped to a low command.
“Arch your back.”
Heat crawled up your neck. You obeyed—back curved, hips nudged out, vulnerable, exposed.
He stood behind you, presence immense, controlled.
A sharp, clean strike across the curve of your bottom.
You gasped, fingers gripping the wood.
“Retsu—!”
“You spoiled little girl.”
SMACK.
Lower this time, right across the underside of your soft bottom, where the skin was softer, more sensitive. The sting was sharper, quicker, like fire snapping across your nerves.
Your back arched harder, hips jerking forward instinctively—but his hand on your spine pressed you gently back into position.
“Stay where I put you.”
Your cheeks burned—face and body both.
You swallowed, voice shaking. “Wah-wait—”
CRACK.
The third strike landed on the opposite side, angled, his palm landing with practiced precision. He wasn’t hitting wildly—he was placing every strike, balanced and deliberate. The burn layered over itself, forming a throbbing heat that pulsed with your heartbeat.
Your eyes watered.
THWACK.
The sound was deeper, the force more solid. It pushed you slightly forward against the pillar, your fingertips digging into the wood. Heat flared so intensely you let out a small, broken sound you didn’t mean to make.
Your thighs trembled.
He didn’t let up.
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
Fast. Firm. Relentless. Each strike stacked onto the last without giving your nerves room to breathe. The stinging turned into a blazing ache—raw, hot, impossible to ignore.
Your eyes blurred.
You blinked hard—
But a tear slipped free anyway.
It hit the pillar with a small, silent drop.
Retsu saw your shoulders shake.
He did not stop.
CRACK.
Another—faster, harder—on the opposite side, adding fresh fire over throbbing heat. Your knees turned weak, legs trembling under you.
“I’m sorry—!” you choked out, voice cracking.
He spoke calmly, breath steady.
“You began apologizing only when the pain grew inconvenient.”
His palm rose again.
“You will feel this.”
You shook your head, tears falling freely now.
“I am sorry—I swear—please—”
He cut off your plea with a swift pair of strikes:
SMACK. SMACK.
Back-to-back, no space to breathe between them. You gasped, your voice breaking into a desperate, high whine.
“Ah—! Retsu—please—it hurts—!”
His hand pressed the small of your back, pushing your arch deeper, hips tilted out, keeping you in place when your legs tried to fold.
“And disrespect does not?” he asked quietly.
You whimpered, shoulders shaking. The pillar blurred through tears.
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry— I’m sorry— I d-did-didn’t want to to disappoint—”
He didn’t soften.
He didn’t pause.
He delivered three rapid, punishing strikes—precise, fast, unrelenting.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Each one landed squarely across the fullest part of your bottom, the force reverberating through your thighs, your spine, your breath. The sting ignited into a deep, burning ache that made your whole body tremble.
A sob tore out of you—raw and helpless.
“R-Retsu— I am listening— I promise— just stop— please stop—”
His voice stayed level. Unmoved. Unshaken.
“If you truly listened, you would not beg for escape before correction is complete.”
You whined—a soft, broken sound of frustration and pain—trying to shift your hips away from the next blow.
His hand slid to your waist, firm, steady, pinning you gently but unmistakably in position.
“Hold still.”
You whimpered through clenched teeth.
“I’m trying—!”
He gave no sympathy.
THWACK.
A harder strike with the heel of his palm—so fierce it pushed you forward into the pillar, your breath shattering into another sob.
Your legs buckled.
He held you upright by your hip, not allowing collapse.
Your breath was still shaking when Retsu stepped behind you again—silent, towering, unmerciful in his calm.
Before you even realized what you were doing, your hand flew back in pure instinct—trying to shield the burning throb of your backside.
His fingers closed around your wrist instantly.
Not harsh.
Just absolute.
He guided your arm forward—pressing your palm flat against the wood again. Then he took your other wrist, lifting both hands above your head and pinning them to the pillar with one broad palm.
You froze.
Completely trapped.
“Do not reach back again,” he warned, voice low enough to vibrate down your spine.
Your chest rose and fell in panicked, trembling breaths. The position forced your back into a deeper arch, pushing your sore, swollen bottom out even more—helpless, exposed, vulnerable.
“R–Retsu—please—”
He answered with his hand.
CRACK.
A brutal, sharp strike to the underside—so fast and so clean it ripped a yelp straight out of your throat.
Your knees buckled.
You sagged forward—
But he caught your hip with his free hand, holding you upright, forcing you to stay arched.
Before you could even gasp—
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
Three rapid blows in the exact same spot—so fast the sting merged into one blazing pulse. Tears spilled instantly, blurring the grain of the pillar.
“Retsu—! I’m sorry— I’m really—”
THWACK.
Harder. Higher. The kind of strike that sent heat exploding across both cheeks, deep and overwhelming.
A sob tore from your chest.
Your wrists strained instinctively against his hold, but he didn’t budge—not a millimeter.
“Tell me,” he said, voice steady while his hand rose again. “What happens when you do not listen?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head, cheeks wet.
“I— I don’t—”
CRACK.
The blow landed so forcefully your breath broke into a loud, choking whine. The pain was fast, fiery, impossible to outrun.
He leaned in, voice right at your ear.
“Answer.”
Your words came out in stuttering fragments, tangled with sobs.
“I— I c-can’t—”
He let go of your hip just long enough to deliver another viciously clean strike:
SMACK.
Your whole body jerked, a high, broken cry escaping you. Your legs trembled so hard they nearly gave out again.
His hand returned to your hip, steadying you. Holding you there. Making you take it.
“What,” he repeated, “happens when you do not listen?”
You shook your head desperately, tears dripping off your chin.
“I— I don’t— wanna— say—”
His hand lifted.
You felt the air shift.
Your breath hitched—
CRACK.
The hardest one yet—flat across both soft rounded cheeks, loud enough to echo through the corridor. Your voice shattered into a wailing sob, your whole body trembling against the pillar.
Retsu’s voice didn’t rise, it didn't soften.
He simply waited.
Silent.
Unmovable.
Demanding.
You swallowed hard, voice breaking open in humiliation and fear and honesty.
“If— if I don’t listen—” you whimpered, words tumbling out in stuttered pieces, “m-my b-bottom— won’t— l-like you— at all—”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t release your wrists.
I didn't feel comfortable.
He just spoke.
“Correct.”
And then—
He continued.
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.
Fast. Brutal. Precise. Each strike landed harder than the last, turning the sting into a deep, punishing burn that throbbed with every heartbeat.
You cried openly now—loud, messy,
desperate—your tears streaking the pillar, your knees shaking, your voice breaking into helpless whines.
“I’m— Oh god—R-Retsu—nooo— please-!”
Retsu’s grip on your wrists held firm, unshakable—keeping you in place, keeping you accountable.
You weren’t allowed to hide.
You weren’t allowed to run.
You were going to learn.
And he was going to teach you.
Until he decided you were done.
Your bottom was already blazing, every strike stacking heat on heat until your legs trembled uncontrollably. You were crying openly now—little gasping sobs you couldn’t hold back.
Retsu lifted his hand again—
SMACK.
Your voice cracked into a high, broken whine, and your knees bent inward on instinct—thighs squeezing tight, feeling your clit pulse through the humiliation, pain, and fear. It all somehow boiled down to pleasure.
It was automatic.
Reflexive.
But he saw it.
His palm paused mid-air.
His gaze dropped—sharp, assessing—and his voice cut clean through your breathless sobs.
“Why are you pressing your thighs together?”
Your heart lurched.
You shook your head, mortified, tears streaking your face.
“I— I d-don’t—”
His hand settled on your hip, firm, repositioning you so your legs parted again—just enough to break that instinctive squeeze.
“No,” he said quietly. “Let me see.”
Your entire flesh burned hotter than your bottom.
Your soft wet holes are fresh with new arousal on display just for him.
He leaned just close enough for his voice to reach your ear.
“A naughty wife enjoys having her lush little bottom blistered.”
Your breath stopped.
“I— I don’t— that’s not— I just—”
CRACK.
A brutal strike landed low across the reddened underside—so sharp your thighs snapped together again, your whole body jolting.
“Again.”
You shook your head frantically, voice trembling.
“Sir— p-please— I’m just— it hurts—”
He didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t need to.
“If you did not like provoking consequences, you would not do it.”
Your tears fell faster—half from pain, half from humiliation.
He waited.
Unmoving.
“You will say it,” he instructed. “You will name what kind of wife you are.”
Your throat closed. The shame was dizzying
“I— I c-can’t—”
SMACK
Hard. Fast. Direct.
Your cry broke into a desperate whine, thighs trembling, instinctively trying to press together again—only for his hand to hold your hip firmly in place.
“No hiding,” he murmured.
Your breath was ragged, your forehead still pressed to the pillar, tears dripping onto the wood. Your bottom throbbed—hot, swollen, pulsing with every beat of your heart.
You mumbled it, barely audible:
“I’m… a naughty wife…”
Retsu did not accept it.
His hand left your hip.
For a split second, you thought he might be done—
But instead, he took your chin.
Two fingers—firm, unyielding—guiding your face away from the pillar, turning your head toward him.
Your eyes stayed squeezed shut, shame burning through you.
“Open your eyes.”
His voice was low. Calm. Not cruel—but absolutely immovable.
You shook your head weakly, tears streaming.
“N-no p-please… I c-can’t— it’s too embarrassing—”
His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t waver either—steady, controlling, giving you no escape.
“You disobeyed me publicly,” he reminded you. “You will face the consequences directly.”
Your breath shuddered.
Slowly—trembling—you opened your eyes.
His gaze met yours immediately.
Sharp.
Focused.
Unblinking.
You tried to look away—your eyes flicking downward—
He tilted your chin higher.
“No. You look at your husband.”
Your knees trembled. Your cheeks flushed.
Every instinct screamed to hide.
But you couldn’t.
He wouldn’t let you.
“Say it again,” he ordered. “While looking into my eyes.”
Your throat tightened. Words tangled. Tears blurred your vision.
“I— I’m—”
His hand lifted slightly, palm hovering—silent warning.
Your breath hitched.
Your voice cracked.
“I’m… a naughty wife…”
Barely a whisper.
His brow lowered—unsatisfied.
“Proper volume,” he said.
Fresh tears spilled.
Your lip quivered.
You forced the words out—loud enough to echo in the empty hall, loud enough to strip you bare:
“I’m a naughty wife!”
Your voice broke in the middle, collapsing into a sob.
Retsu held your gaze the entire time—steady, unmoved, making sure you didn’t retreat back into shame.
Only then did he speak.
“Very good.”
And without breaking eye contact—
SMACK.
A vicious, blazing strike that sent your body jolting, your cry raw and helpless.
You tried to drop your gaze—
His fingers lifted your chin again instantly.
“Do not look away.”
Your vision blurred with tears, breath shaking, humiliation burning so hot it felt like it might swallow you whole.
He spoke softly—but the words were iron:
“If you create trouble, I will always find you.”
Another pause.
Another heartbeat.
“Again.”
Your voice trembled, shattered, small and broken—but honest:
“I’m… your naughty wife…”
His eyes softened by a fraction—seeing you finally submit pitifully. Nothing but his sweet little girl.
“Yes,” he said. “You are.”
And then—
The final, brutal strike fell.
Precise.
Undeniable.
A lesson sealed.
You sobbed openly, but your gaze stayed locked on his—because he gave you no permission to look anywhere else.
Correction wasn’t just something you felt.
It was something you had to face.
Your small soft body collides into his chest, sobbing dreadfully promising to never be bad again.
Your breathing had settled into tiny, shaky sighs against his chest—eyes puffy, cheeks damp, bottom throbbing with every slow, soothing pat of his hand. The dojo was quiet now, the echoes of punishment long faded.
Retsu held you close, one arm secure around your plush waist, the other resting warm and steady over your bruised, burning backside. Rocking you in that slow rhythm that felt like safety.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, in a voice low and impossibly gentle, he asked:
“Little one… why do you believe you must misbehave to receive discipline?”
Your whole body went rigid.
Heat flooded your face—embarrassment, panic, shame—mixing all at once. You stared at his strong collarbone, refusing to lift your gaze.
He tipped your chin, just enough to encourage, not force.
“I am asking,” he murmured. “Not accusing.”
You swallowed hard, lips trembling.
“I… I don’t know…”
He waited.
Quiet. Patient. Knowing.
Your eyes burned again—not from pain this time, but from something deeper.
“I just…” your voice cracked, “I thought… you only pay attention like that when I’m bad…”
His brows softened—the smallest heartbreak flickering through his eyes.
“And you wanted my attention,” he finished quietly.
Your chin wobbled.
“Mhm…”
You nodded once—tiny, ashamed.
“So you provoked punishment,” he said softly, thumb brushing your damp cheek, “when you could have asked for closeness.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, humiliated.
“I couldn’t… I couldn’t say it… it’s embarrassing…”
Retsu’s hand resumed those gentle pats on your sore bottom—slow, rhythmic, grounding. Steady, reassuring contact on skin still pulsing with heat.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
You shook your head, cheeks blazing.
He tipped your chin a little higher—still gentle, still patient.
“Look at me.”
Trembling, tearful, you lifted your wide dark eyes—pitiful, vulnerable, so full of want it almost hurt to be seen.
His gaze held yours—stern, yes, but warm in a way that unraveled you completely.
“You do not need to earn discipline through disobedience,” he said softly. “If you desire my structure… my firmness… my guidance…” His thumb stroked your jaw. “All you must do is ask.”
Your breath hitched—your voice barely a whisper.
Your eyes glistened, lower lip quivering as you looked up at him like a wounded animal.
Pitiful.
Sad.
Desperate.
It hit him like a blade to the sternum—sharp, deep, undeniable. His heart tightened. His breath faltered. You had no idea how powerful you looked like that.
He cupped the back of your head, bringing your forehead to his chest, voice thick with tenderness he rarely allowed:
“You never need to destroy yourself to be held.”
A soft sob spilled from you.
“I’m sorry… I just… didn’t know how to ask…”
His hand drifted back to your bruised, throbbing bottom—giving the gentlest, most careful pat. Just enough pressure to remind you he was there. To soothe. To ground. To say you’re safe now.
“You ask,” he murmured into your hair. “And I will give.”
You clung to him harder, shoulders shaking.
“Daddy… please don’t be mad…”
His palm rubbed slow circles over your swollen skin—warm, protective, tender.
“I am not angry,” he breathed. “Only saddened that you believed pain was the price of my attention.”
Another small pat—softer than silk—right over the most sore spot.
You whimpered, not from hurt, but from relief.
Retsu lowered his lips to your temple, voice a vow:
“You never have to be bad,” he whispered, “to be cared for.”
And with one last gentle pat to your sorry, bruised bottom, he held you tighter—
letting your tears fall,
letting your heart unclench,
letting you finally believe him.
He smoothed your skirt down, adjusting your dress and brushing a stray hair behind your ear. One hand lingered possessively at your waist.
“Come,” he said finally, straightening his suit. “Let us return before Master Kaioh Ryuu assumes we’ve run away.”
You followed, flushed, trembling, heart racing uncontrollably. Every step toward the banquet, every brush of his hand against your back, reminded you:
You were his. He adored you. He disciplined you because he loved you. And every inch of your body, mind, and heart ached for his attention.
When you returned, Master Kaioh Ryuu and his wife were smiling, their presence unbothered by your brief absence.
“Ah, newlyweds,” Kaioh Ryuu laughed warmly. “Back so soon?”
Mei-lian’s eyes sparkled knowingly.
You sank into your seat, cheeks burning, heart still racing from the semi-public moment, every nerve alive with anticipation.
Retsu’s hand settled lightly over yours, fingers brushing reassuringly. Stern. Loving. Always in control. Always yours.
And in that moment, surrounded by lanterns, incense, and the warm hum of the banquet, you knew:
No matter what games you played, no matter how bashful, teasing, or bratty you were…
He would always see you, adore you, discipline you, and hold you.
Your heart pounded with guilt, excitement, and desire, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
A/N: This took waaaay longer than I thought lol. Buuuut here it is! To have a traditional loving husband like retsu siiiiigghhhh. A girl can dream
Synopsis: Clark never would’ve known he had a sticky little thief in their house.
Sfw for the most part. You and Clark talk about discipline for the future. Mentions of spanking. DDLG THEMES ARE HERE
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The smell of maple syrup and butter drifted lazily through the kitchen, wrapping itself around the quiet hum of the morning. The sun spilled in golden streaks through the blinds, warm and heavy against your cheek as you leaned over the counter, fork already in hand. Saturdays with Clark were your favorite.
Not because of the waffles waiting on the table — though admittedly, his waffle game was unmatched — but because Saturdays meant he slowed down. No capes. No rush. No world calling his name before you’d even had your coffee. Just Clark, barefoot in pajama pants, hair a little unruly from sleep, humming softly while he stood over the skillet.
But today, there had been a battle brewing.
“Bunny,” Clark drawled from the stove, flipping the last golden waffle onto the plate with a flourish. “That’s the final one.”
You narrowed your eyes, clutching your fork like a knight with her sword. “Final one for who, Clark? Because I know how this story usually goes. You eat three, I get one. No, sir. Not today.”
His mouth curved into that infuriatingly smug half-smile that made you both want to kiss him and shove him at the same time. He set the waffle plate down on the counter, towering over you as though his shadow alone was a threat.
“Sweetheart,” he said in that low, teasing voice, “you wouldn’t steal from your Daddy, would you?”
You blinked at him innocently, fork already spearing the last waffle.
And then you stuffed the fluffy, butter-slick corner into your mouth before he could react. Victory was yours. Or so you thought.
The next few seconds blurred. Clark made a noise — something between a growl and a laugh — before scooping you up with one arm around your waist like you weighed nothing. You squealed, clutching your fork like it might save you, but he plucked it from your fingers with ease, tossing it onto the counter.
“Clark!” you squeaked, legs kicking in the air. “That was my waffle—”
“Oh no, Bunny,” he rumbled, carrying you effortlessly toward the bedroom. “That was my waffle. And you’re about to pay for that theft.”
Your laughter already spilled out, nervous and wild, as he set you down on the bed like you were weightless. You bounced, scrambled to escape, but he was already climbing in after you.
You tried to crawl away.
Big mistake.
His fingers pounced — first at your waist, then your ribs, then under your arms.
You screamed with laughter.
“Clark—” you gasped, already wriggling. “Don’t—don’t you dare—”
He tilted his head, blue eyes glittering with playful menace. “Don’t I dare what, Bunny?”
Then his fingers descended lower.
The first brush against your sides had you shrieking, laughter erupting uncontrollably from your chest. You tried to twist away, but his strength kept you firmly in place, and all you could do was thrash under him, squealing through your laughter.
“CLAAAARK! NOOOO! HAHAHA STOP—HAHAHA I CAN’T—I CAN’T BREATHE!!”
He grinned like he was enjoying your suffering. “Admit you stole my waffles.”
“NEVERRR!” you cried between wheezes.
He pinned your legs with his weight, hands now digging gently but relentlessly into your sides and hips, sending wild jolts of laughter through you. You bucked and thrashed, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.
“Ticklish little bunny,” he teased. “Shouldn’t steal breakfast.”
“St-sthaap! Clark please!”
“Stop?” he teased, his voice low but warm with amusement. “Why would I stop when my Bunny sounds this sweet?”
His fingers skated over your ribs, finding every sensitive spot you tried desperately to protect. You squirmed, face already aching from smiling, tears springing at the corners of your eyes as you tried to kick your legs.
“Clark! Okay! Okay, I give up!”
But he just grinned, leaning closer. “Not yet.”
And then, with devastating calm, he reached for your ankles. Your heart dropped.
You gasped. “I’LL BUY YOU MORE! TEN BOXES! PLEASE!”
“Oh, it’s not about the waffles anymore.” He reached down, fingers curling around your ankles.
You froze.
“Clark,” you said in a low, warning voice. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
“Oh, I dare.” He peeled off one pink sock. Then the other. “Let’s see if these feet are guilty too…”
You squealed, flailing. “NO NO NO NO NOT THE FEEEEEET!”
Too late.
He took hold of one foot and scribbled his fingers along your sole. You nearly shot off the bed.
“CLAAAAAAAARK! HAHAHAHAH I’M GONNA DIE!!”
“Bunny,” he murmured, holding your bare foot in his large hand. “You’re so ticklish here, aren’t you?”
“Clark, please—”
He paused just long enough to lift your foot to his face and give your toes a playful nibble.
“CLA—ARK!” you screamed, thrashing so hard you nearly flipped yourself. Your laughter was hysterical, bubbling up so violently you could barely breathe. He chuckled against your skin, his teeth grazing lightly as he nibbled again.
“My sweet little Bunny,” he teased between kisses, “you really shouldn’t steal waffles from Daddy.”
You covered your face with your hands, body shaking with laughter that spilled into squeals, hiccups, and helpless cries. “You taste like syrup,” he said innocently. “Didn’t even wipe your feet after stealing my breakfast, huh?”
You collapsed into the mattress, limp and destroyed, still giggling softly. “You’re a monster…”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Clark took mercy. He eased back, pressing soft kisses along your ankle and up your calf, soothing the aftermath of your hysterics.
You lay there panting, hair a mess, cheeks damp with laugh-tears, chest rising and falling rapidly. He kissed your knee gently, then your thigh, before crawling up to hover over you again.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked softly, voice shifting from teasing to tender in an instant.
You nodded weakly, still catching your breath. “I—I hate you,” you wheezed, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.
He chuckled, brushing damp strands of hair back from your forehead. “No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t,” you admitted in a whisper.
His gaze softened, the mischievous glint melting into something warmer, deeper. He lowered himself beside you, pulling you onto his chest. One big hand stroked your pink nightgown back, the other cradled your head against him.
“Daddy?” you mumbled against his chest, your voice small after so much laughter.
“Mm?” He kissed the crown of your head.
“You’re mean.”
He laughed quietly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Daddy can’t have little thieves running around. Do the crime you have to face tickle time.”
“Plus it’s always fun seeing you squirm and giggle.” He runs a hand across your neck to your face, squishing your plump cheeks together.
You pouted, cheeks heating, but you nodded against him. Because it was true. As embarrassing as it was, you loved when he pulled you out of your shell, when he teased you into laughter so hard it left you dizzy. You loved that he knew exactly how much you could handle, when to stop, and how to soothe you after.
His hand rubbed slow circles on your back. “You’re my Bunny. You’re supposed to laugh and squeal. That’s part of the deal.”
You buried your face deeper into his chest, voice muffled. “What’s the other part of the deal?”
He tilted his head down to kiss your temple, lingering there. “That I take care of you. Always.”
The warmth in his words melted something soft inside you. His playful Daddy had shifted into the gentle, tender Clark who tucked you under blankets and kissed your forehead like you were the most precious thing in the world.
He reached for the throw blanket at the foot of the bed, draping it over you both before pulling you tighter into his arms. His voice was soft now, almost a lull.
“You wore yourself out, Bunny,” he murmured, kissing your damp cheek. “All that laughing.”
“Your fault,” you mumbled sleepily, though you couldn’t stop smiling.
“My fault,” he agreed, brushing his lips over your eyelids. “But worth it.”
You giggled softly, still breathless, as his hand found yours under the blanket. He laced your fingers together, thumb stroking gently over your knuckles.
“Daddy?” you whispered again, this time softer, more vulnerable.
“Yes, Bunny?”
“Can we… can we stay like this all day?”
He pressed his lips to your hairline, sighing contentedly. “We can stay like this as long as you want. No rescues, no phones, no world. Just you and me.”
Your heart swelled, warmth filling every corner of you as you nestled against him. He shifted slightly, tilting your chin up so he could kiss your nose, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth — soft, reverent kisses that made your chest ache in the best way.
“I love you, Bunny,” he whispered.
“I love you too, Daddy.”
And with that, the tickle war faded into a cocoon of warmth, laughter giving way to soft breaths and the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. The last waffle might have been stolen, but the victory was yours all along — because nothing tasted sweeter than being wrapped up in Clark’s love, safe and adored, on a lazy Saturday morning.
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The next morning, the sun was just as golden, the kitchen just as cozy, and Clark Kent just as smug as he stood at the stove flipping another stack of waffles. He looked every bit the domestic dream: plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips, plain gray t-shirt stretched across his broad chest, and his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose even though you knew perfectly well he didn’t need them.
He was humming. Actually humming. Like he hadn’t absolutely destroyed you yesterday in the tickle war of your life. Like he hadn’t left you red-faced and hiccuping with laughter until you could barely lift your arms.
Your eyes narrowed from your seat at the table.
Today was your day. Today, revenge would be served warm, golden, and drizzled in maple syrup.
“Morning, Bunny,” Clark said, glancing over his shoulder with that boy-next-door smile that made you want to both swoon and roll your eyes. “Hungry?”
You plastered on your sweetest smile. “Starving.”
He chuckled, sliding two waffles onto your plate with practiced ease. He even added a pat of butter and slid the syrup bottle within reach like the gentleman he was. Too bad you had war on your mind.
You ate quietly at first, biding your time. Clark moved around the kitchen with unhurried grace, pouring himself coffee, stealing glances at you like he couldn’t help it. And every time he smiled, that tiny victorious smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth — reminding you of yesterday’s ticklish defeat.
Not today.
You chewed thoughtfully, drizzling extra syrup onto your plate. Your fingers dipped in just slightly, enough to coat the tips in sticky sweetness. Clark, oblivious, leaned down to kiss the top of your head as he passed behind your chair.
Perfect.
You reached up quickly, pressing your syrup-sticky fingers right against his chest, dragging them up his t-shirt and onto his neck.
Clark froze.
“Bunny.” His voice dropped low, half growl, half warning. He looked down at the sticky handprint smeared across him.
You giggled innocently. “Oops.”
His brows shot up, blue eyes narrowing. “Oops?”
Before he could react further, you grabbed the syrup bottle with both hands, squirted it across his chest in one glorious amber stream, and bolted out of your chair.
“Bunny!” Clark barked, shock giving way to laughter as he looked down at the sticky mess dripping down his shirt.
You squealed, dashing around the table, brandishing the syrup bottle like a weapon. “Revenge!”
He lunged, but you were quick — syrup gave you speed, apparently — and you darted behind the counter, squeezing another triumphant squirt toward him. A drop landed on his cheek.
That did it.
“Oh, you’re in trouble now,” Clark said, peeling off his sticky shirt with one swift motion. His muscles flexed, golden in the morning light, and for a split second your brain short-circuited.
You recovered just in time to make another dash, laughing hysterically like a gremlin. “HAAHAHA TAKE THAT!”
He was already moving, the syrup glistening across his skin like some absurd battle paint. You tried to dart into the living room, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you off your feet mid-sprint.
You screamed with laughter, kicking helplessly as the syrup bottle slipped from your grip and clattered to the floor. “No! No no no!”
“Oh yes,” Clark rumbled, carrying you back toward the bedroom with terrifying calm. “My sticky little Bunny thinks she can start a war with me?”
You wriggled in his arms, still laughing. “You deserved it!”
He chuckled darkly, setting you down on the sofa none too gently. His hands pinned you before you could crawl away. “You drenched me in syrup, sweetheart. Syrup. You realize what that means, don’t you?”
You panted, wide-eyed, caught between fear and hilarity. “That… I won?”
Clark leaned down until his nose brushed yours, his voice low and dangerous in that Daddy way that made your stomach flip. “That means your little butt might just get tanned for this.”
Your face flamed, laughter spilling out of you again. “You wouldn’t!”
He smirked. “Wouldn’t I?”
And then his fingers struck, tickling mercilessly at your sides. You shrieked, dissolving into hysterical laughter, twisting and thrashing under him.
“Clark! Clark, I’m sorry!”
“You’re sorry?” he teased, his voice a rumble against your ear as his hands found every ticklish spot they’d discovered yesterday. “Sorry doesn’t clean syrup off my chest, Bunny.”
You gasped, squealed, kicked. “Okay okay okay! Mercy! Mercy!”
He grinned, finally easing off just enough to let you catch your breath. You lay limp against his chest, hair wild, cheeks sticky from tears of laughter.
Clark looked down and studied you for a long moment, his stern façade cracking as he brushed a curl from your damp forehead. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice softening. “A mess.”
“You’re the sticky one,” you mumbled weakly, still giggling.
He laughed, kissing the tip of your nose. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, Bunny. Otherwise you really would be getting that spanking.”
Your cheeks flamed, and you buried your face against his sticky chest. “You’re mean.”
“I’m mean?” He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you, syrup and all. “You’re the one who ambushed me with breakfast syrup.”
You giggled, muffled against him. “Worth it.”
He sighed, shaking his head, but the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “You are incorrigible. But you’re mine.”
You nuzzled closer, sticky and warm in his arms. “Always.”
And as the morning light spilled over you both, the chaos faded into soft laughter, tender kisses, and Clark’s gentle hand stroking your back — Daddy and Bunny, sticky but inseparable, tangled together in the sweetness of a Sunday morning.
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻
You’re still curled against him, syrup drying on your hair, when a mischievous, half-serious thought slips out of you. You lift your head, eyes bright and a little shaky from laughing. “Clark… would you actually—like, as punishment—spank me?” Your voice is equal parts dare and curiosity, the kind of question that sits on the edge between naughty and wholly childish.
He stills for a heartbeat, then answers without hesitation. “Yes.” The word is quiet and immediate, not cruel but not joking either. It lands in the room like a small, sober bell.
Your mouth twists into a nervous grin. “Oh—really? What would I have to do to make you actually spank me?” There’s cottony flutter in your stomach at the thought; at the same time you try to keep the tone light, like it’s just another silly question in the middle of a syrup war.
He studies you from under his lashes, an expression that mixes suspicion and amusement. “If I didn’t believe it, It seems like you’re rather eager for me to tear up your little butt?” His voice is soft but his eyes sharpen—playful guardrails closing in. His hot palm glides down your back to your plump rear.
You flush and scramble for cover with the laugh that says ‘no no no no’ too loudly. “No! No, no, no—of course not.” You squeeze your eyes shut and cast your hands about as if to wipe the thought away.
Clark’s mouth twitches. He sets his chin on your head and sighs, the kind of sound that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. “If you were doing something genuinely worrying—if you stopped taking care of yourself, started putting yourself in danger, or gave me unnecessary attitude when I’m trying to help—then yes. I’d use whatever I needed to get your attention and keep you safe.” His tone is steady, calm; there’s a confidence behind it that makes you sit straighter without realizing.
Under that look—warm, unshakeable, quietly dominant—you feel a delicious little nervousness bubble up. It’s not fear so much as recognition: he means what he says. You tuck your trembling fingers under your chin and whisper, “Would you… really?”
He tilts your face up with a thumb beneath your jaw, blue eyes meeting yours with a softness that soothes the sudden fluttering. “I’d never do anything that would hurt you,” he assures. “But I will always do what it takes to keep you safe, and to help you be the best version of yourself.” He smirks then, the teasing returning like a familiar tune. “And you’re my good Bunny—so there should be nothing to worry about.”
You laugh, half relieved, half caught on the sweetness of it. “Good Bunny,” you echo, and it feels like something you’re proud to be.
He seals it with a kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose. “Exactly. Be my good Bunny, and we don’t have to test the consequences.” His hand finds yours and squeezes gently, the promise in it plain and simple: stern when needed, tender always.
You couldn’t help but squeeze your thighs together on his lap, hoping he doesn’t notice.
His low chuckle lets you he definitely did.
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻
A/N: HEY GUYS IK ITS BEEN FOREVER BUT IM STILL HERE! Are you and Clark gonna expand your relationship more? Does bunny like to be spanked? Who knoowwwws!
Note: His character is so deep and complex it’s kinda hard to put into words.
•He fell first AND FELL HARDER
* From the moment he met you, there was something about you that quietly fascinated him. Your presence was like a calm current in the often chaotic world around the Justice League.
* Your mind was a unique rhythm — peaceful and still one moment, and then intense and high-strung when stress crept in. He found your honesty and openness disarming, especially the way you wore your heart on your sleeve, unafraid to show vulnerability.
* As a passionate human rights activist, you carried a strength that was gentle but unwavering. At the Justice League tower, your kindness touched everyone, and he noticed how you made the biggest heroes soften around you.
* He loved hearing your voice inside his mind — the sound like a warm melody that soothed his alien soul. No words needed to be spoken aloud; your thoughts alone brought him comfort and joy.
* Physically, the contrast between you was striking — you, with your soft curves and warm skin that spoke of heritage and history, so much smaller and more delicate beside his towering, alien form.
* He was always cautious when holding you, fearful of hurting you despite his immense strength. His hands were gentle as feathers on your skin, and when he looked down at your round cheeks, glowing with that sweet smile, his heart—if it was possible for a Martian—felt full beyond words.
* He found himself drawn to your scent, a mix of warm spices and something uniquely yours, comforting and grounding him in a way no Martian atmosphere ever could.
* Being near you became his favorite place in the universe. Sometimes, he would simply hold you in silence, his long arms wrapped protectively around your small frame, just basking in the quiet intimacy.
* Before he even understood what was happening, he realized he was utterly in love—with your fierce spirit, your warmth, and the way you softened even the hardest parts of him.
* He never wanted to rush or pressure you. His love was patient, a steady flame that burned quietly but fiercely, always protective, always present.
Martian Manhunter’s Love For Pop Culture
* After losing his home world and family, J’onn needed something to hold onto—something that could bring light into the darkness. That’s how he discovered Earth’s stories, shows, and characters. Immersing himself in pop culture became a way to feel connected, to understand humanity, and to find comfort.
* His knowledge is surprisingly vast. Whether it’s the long-running medical drama Grey’s Anatomyor the witty family antics of *Modern Family, he’s watched them all—sometimes more than once, analyzing the emotions and motivations of the characters. You once joked he could give the writers pointers.
* He’s just as familiar with music and reality TV. Empire? He knows the story arcs and the characters’ conflicts. Love & Hip Hop? He’s got opinions about the drama (and you always tease him for it). It’s like he’s experienced an entire cultural tapestry in a relatively short time.
* And don’t get him started on Monster High—HE FUCKS WITH IT HEAVY! I mean it makes sense, he loves how it celebrates uniqueness and acceptance. You were surprised the first time he mentioned it but loved how genuine he was.
* Anime is a particular favorite. You and J’onn have countless hours of watching Sailor Moon together. He adores the way the characters transform from ordinary girls into heroes, mirroring his own journey of finding purpose on Earth. You bond over the themes of friendship, love, and fighting for what’s right. He says he has no favorite but you could’ve sworn he had a sailor mars phone charm in passing.
* His love for cute things like Sanrio characters and Hello Kitty actually makes him feel more approachable to you. It’s a side of him that’s softer, more playful, and real. When you find him quietly watching a Hello Kitty cartoon or carefully picking out plushies for you, it reminds you that beneath the stoic exterior is someone who deeply cherishes connection and joy.
* Knowing you share these interests brings you closer. It’s like you have your own secret language—sometimes you’ll exchange looks or inside jokes about a show or character, and it makes the world shrink down to just the two of you.
* This shared love of pop culture isn’t just about entertainment. It’s part of how J’onn processes his pain and trauma. It’s how he learns about human emotions, humor, and love. And most importantly, it’s a bridge to you, the person who sees all of him.
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻
The Watch Tower’s usual hum of activity faded into the background as you spotted J’onn sitting quietly at a corner table, eating lunch by himself. Your eyes caught on something unexpected—peeking out from his sleeve was a small, green handkerchief with the unmistakable face of Keroppi, the cheerful Sanrio frog.
Your chest tightened with nervous curiosity. You hadn’t imagined J’onn, the stoic Martian Manhunter, would have something so playful and humanlike. You hesitated, heart pounding, but after a moment you gathered your courage and walked over.
“Hey,” you said softly, sliding into the seat beside him. Your cinnamon roll tumbler—filled fresh each morning—rested in your hands, and you held it like a small comfort. “Is that Keroppi?”
He glanced over, his deep green eyes softening. “Yes,” he replied, voice low but warm. “I’ve always liked Sanrio characters. They remind me of simpler times. What about you?”
You smiled shyly, pulling your tumbler closer. “I love them too. It’s silly, but they make me happy.”
That simple exchange opened the door to days of shared lunches and quiet conversations. Slowly, the nervousness between you faded, replaced by easy smiles and knowing glances. You found yourselves swapping favorite shows and characters—Sailor Moon, Grey’s Anatomy, Love & Hip Hop, anime, even Monster High.
One afternoon, your courage bloomed. “Would you... like to have lunch with me tomorrow? Talk more about this stuff?” you asked, heart fluttering.
J’onn’s smile was gentle but steady. “I would like that very much, petal.”
You beamed, oblivious that you’d just asked him on a date.
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻
* Martian Manhunter’s love for you is quiet but fierce — he’s deeply devoted and wants to give you nothing but the best. Despite his reserved nature, he surprises you with thoughtful gifts, always choosing things that show he truly sees you.
* Jewelry you’ve been too shy to ask for mysteriously appears — delicate bracelets that catch the light just right, earrings that frame your face perfectly. He picks out pajamas that he swears make you look absolutely adorable, soft fabrics that feel like a hug.
* Your short, curvy body captivates him endlessly. He finds it irresistibly adorable and soft, all those squishy, feminine curves making him feel protective and awestruck at the same time. He can’t help but be entranced whenever he looks at you.
* There’s a special fascination he has with your feet — i know i know just listen! in his true Martian form, he doesn’t have any feet at all, so your soft, pillowy soles and delicate toes are a source of endless curiosity and affection. He’s mesmerized by how sensitive and ticklish you are there, often gently exploring and making you giggle.
* Your body hair is another beautiful mystery to him. He has none of his own, so he’s captivated by the way your hair grows — on your arms, legs, and even where it’s softest and most intimate. To him, it’s wildly feminine and sexy, and he loves the natural scent, those subtle pheromones that draw him closer.
•J’onn is deeply fascinated by your 4C curls the first time he sees them in their full, natural glory. To him, they look like a crown—complex, intricate, and endlessly beautiful. It’s so soft and fluffy.
•There was one time where Jonn appeared unannounced because he haven’t heard from you all day and it scared the shit out you, but you didn’t see his text because it was wash day. You scream at his and arrival and was hysterically clear to point out that you can’t just appear out of thin air in someone’s home but the only thing the martian could focus on is the water droplets almost glittering like stars in your hair as it curl into a short length than it was before. To say he was flabbergasted would be an understatement.
* Dressing you up is one of his favorite things. He loves choosing pretty dresses and frilly outfits that highlight your unique charm and cuteness. Watching you twirl or smile shyly in something he picked out makes his heart swell.
NSFW HEADCANNON
•On a sexual note he loves when you don’t shave, once again he doesn’t have hair so the naturalness of it has a big appeal to him. There has been plenty of times where he gets on his knees to press his face into your mound. You would try to push his head away everytime but he would simply but budge, inhaling your delicious scent. How it carries the most smell there. You think it’s kinda gross but he’s obsessed.
•He takes discipline very seriously, it’s one of the things that ground him as a being so he has expectations for you to uphold. He understands who you are mind body and soul so he’s not all strict like a dictator but don’t try it cuz he will know.
• Let me say this if you get out of line or anything of the sort he will fix you according, any time any place. Please don’t try that man.
* He takes pride in caring for you beyond just gifts — planning meals with thought and love, ensuring you’re nourished and satisfied. Cooking might not be his strongest skill, but he tries with determination, knowing how much you appreciate the gesture.
* When he calls you his darling, love, or his heart it carries all the weight of his deep affection and unwavering devotion. He wants you to feel cherished, loved, and completely safe with him.
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻
You stood in front of the mirror, staring at the dress J’onn had chosen for you. It lay across the bed like something out of a dream — a flowing piece of silk in a shade that seemed to shift between emerald and deep ocean blue depending on the light. He’d handed it to you earlier, his long fingers trailing over the fabric almost reverently, and said in that impossibly calm way of his, “This would suit you.”
It had touched you more than you wanted to admit. The fact that he cared enough to pick something out for you — not just something, but something that clearly reflected how he saw you — left a warm, shy ache in your chest.
But then he’d added, without hesitation, “I would like to dress you myself.”
The words had sent your thoughts into a tailspin. Your pulse jumped. Your mouth went dry. You couldn’t help but imagine his tall frame looming over you, his hands — broad, steady, and impossibly strong — fastening delicate straps against your skin, smoothing the fabric over the softer, squishier parts of you you tried so hard not to think about.
He was so… otherworldly. His build, his presence, even the way he breathed carried this quiet power. And you were… human. Soft where you wished you were sleek, shorter than you wanted to be, made of curves and imperfections you kept hidden under layers. The thought of him seeing you, really seeing you, without the armor of control you always kept up — it made you almost want to hide.
You must’ve frozen a beat too long, because when you looked up, he was watching you closely, his brow knitting — not in frustration, but in genuine curiosity. His voice, when it came, was low but textured, carrying a warmth like a fire burning far beneath the surface.
“Why do you hesitate?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, the way he often did when reading people’s emotions.
You tried to laugh it off, but it came out too thin. “It’s… embarrassing. I don’t look like—” You waved vaguely at him. “—you.”
His eyes softened, and his posture shifted forward, slow and deliberate. “Embarrassment…” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “I have lived for thousands of your years,” he said, voice deep and measured. “I have seen bodies born under two suns, forms with ten limbs, faces with eyes like liquid metal. I have heard the songs of a hundred worlds and walked through cultures your history has forgotten.”
His voice deepened, it resonated low in your chest, like the hum of distant thunder. He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. “Pulchritudo tua est immensa…” (Your beauty is boundless.)
“Εἶ σύ ἡ φλόγα τῆς καρδίας μου…” (You are the flame of my heart.)
“Eres la esencia de la pasión.” (You are the essence of passion.)
“Ты само воплощение красоты.” (You are the embodiment of beauty.)
You stared at him, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “You—you just—what?”
He lowered his head slightly so you had to look up at him. “Let me partake in this moment,” he said, his tone more intimate now, less like a request and more like a promise. “Allow me to see you as you are. As I already see you.”
For a second, you could only stare at him, stunned by the sincerity in his eyes. Then, slowly, you nodded. Your hands, a little shaky, passed the dress to him.
And when his fingers brushed yours, warm and careful despite their strength, you realized this wasn’t about him finding you lacking — it was about him honoring you.
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻
•He finds you sexually attractive.
Okay okay okay okay hear me out. I know you might be thinking well duh! But like why would he?? He’s a martian, your a human. It also brings into question if he’s heterosexual? Because sure he’s male but that’s only if he wants to be to fit in your preference but in reality I don’t think martians cared for sexuality and gender. There was no words for it, you like what you like.
•You do get somewhat nervous that he doesn’t find you attractive but he simply responds along the lines of, “Your shape is… pleasing. Humans value symmetry, but I value the way your form reflects vitality and life. The curve of your waist, the strength in your thighs, the fullness of your hips… these are not features I compare to my own kind. They are features I appreciate because they are yours.”
He says as he presses his face in your ass
•But what about mentally attractive? Is there a standard for that? Jonn loves how contradictive your mind can be. How it’s vast and emotional but also unforgiving if it calls for it. How you can short circuit when your embarrassed or when the thoughts flow and glide when your in tune with your self. You’ve asked him of course and he said something along the lines of,
•”I enjoy inhabiting your perspective, even briefly. Your imagination, your capacity for empathy, your way of holding contradictory truths without needing to destroy either… that is rare. It is beautiful.”
•I enjoy inhabiting your perspective, even briefly. Your imagination, your capacity for empathy, your way of holding contradictory truths without needing to destroy either… that is rare. It is beautiful.”
•And I find that honesty… pleases you, even if it flusters you.”
Whewwww
•I HEADCANNON JONN HAS 2 COCKS!
•LET ME COOK PLEASE!
•One for vaginal penetration and one for anal. >.<
• I feel like he’s more of a missionary kind of guy when he’s feeling nice and wants to make sure you’re comfortable and safe but if you somehow beg or be a brat that just won’t listen to reason. Then his favorite sex position would be standing 69 or simply holding lifting you from underneath your arms for doggystyle.
•It leaves no room for wiggling or leverage and you’re left to take whatever he has to give you. It usually sends the message home to not be a brat…sometimes
•Jonn really tries to keep up with the liberal times seeing how freeing and loving it can be but when you put yourself in danger it seems some old fashioned punishing will do the job! He’s seen it for a good part of his life on earth, in ancient times all the way to the 50’s. If done correctly it can build trust like no other in the relationship if it’s in the right hands.
• There’s a dark primal part of him that enjoys the way how you fight vigorously only for it to mean nothing. A tiny guilty part of him loves the facial expressions you make as your eyes well with tears as he punishes your poor disobedient cunt. The way how you always cry, “I’m sorry daddy’s” and , “No more please!” pitifully in the air as his hips pistons into the swell of your behind. His darling girl all pathetic and sorry for being a brat he always tells you, “The will that will not yield shall bow beneath the hand.”
•Mirror sex definitely!
•Not only does he want to see your face he wants you to see yours. The unwillingness slowly crumbling into soft compliance as his words and dick break your resolve into maddening tears that always make his cocks harder. He grants you mercy of course after your bottom is fresh and red and you stand in the corner and think out loud of what you’ve done.
•The power dynamic…. the willingness and trust you have in him really gets him going. He almost wants round 4 but remains strong to remind you this is punishment.
•AFTER CARE KING
yall i wish this man was real
•After spanking your sore and sorry bottom he’ll lift your sniffling body in his arms, tucking your head into his broad chest giving you soft kisses on your temple and rocking you gently from side to side
•Inside the tub is a microfiber pillow and cushions, for the times where you’re to little to clean and bathe or to fucked to move hell see to your needs
•He’ll fill the tub with lavender and epson salt and place your reddened bottom into the perfect temperature liquid.
•You would lay on your tummy with your naked bum the only thing not submerged in the water. Hell run a heavy palm over your bottom as his deft fingers clean your puffy sore cunt.
•Jonn loves every aspect of who you are but this is his favorite. The pliant, soft one. The one where you’re too far into your little space to be embarrassed about society norms, no humiliation.
•Finally letting your daddy love you
Comfortably
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻
A/N: I KNOW I KNOW i’ve been inactive for a while but I have a clark x bunny reader in the works rn! Spoiler alert you shouldn’t poke the bear >.<
I've seen a few moots doing this and it looked fun!
* Make this picrew of yourself
* Take this uquiz (How Fandom Would See You If You Were A Fictional Character)
...yeah that seems about right 😅🫠
Not sure who's done this already so tagging the besties @thetumblingmoron @redheadsramblings @woundedsoul12 @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @aurorabiggs @thepalehorsevictoria @kiir-do-faal-rahhe and anyone else who would like to play!
i accidentally confused the quiz hahaha but tagging @moonstonejpg, @athenagc94, @kumoriwrites, @chiarrara, @foxboot, and anyone else who wants to participate!!
What I headcannon from being married to Bruce Wayne
Note: This might be a bit oc, but at the same time bruce wayne does have some personality and I don’t like when ppl depict him as being emotionless. A little bit of nsfw like dry humping maybe but that’s abt it
Bruce Wayne is the perfect storm of control and intensity. Pale, chiseled, and brooding, his every move measured and silent. Yet beneath the surface, he’s utterly captivated by you—your soft, warm skin, your curves, your natural scent that clings to him like a secret. You’re the softness he can’t resist, the light that breaks through his darkness.
•He secretly watches anime and he loves sailor moon and detective conan
One crisp autumn night, you surprise Bruce by dressing as Sailor Moon, your rich dark skin glowing beneath the pastel costume’s shimmer. His usual hard, unreadable gaze melts the second he sees you, and a rare, tender smile breaks across his lips.
* Without a word, he slips away, returning moments later as Tuxedo Mask — cape, mask, and all — and mutters, “You’re… ridiculous. And adorable.” His gruff voice betrays his delight.
* Sitting close on the couch, watching Detective Conan (one of his few remaining escapes from his harsh reality), you catch him stealing glances at you, the glow of the TV reflecting in his softening eyes.
•He adores your thick figure! He can’t get enough of it!
(A/N: Why do buff guys like thick woman so much lol)
Bruce’s polished, stoic exterior belies his intense obsession with your body. Whether you’re walking by in a soft sweater or sitting close with bare arms, his hands find excuses to linger—sliding down your back, tracing the curve of your waist, or catching your hip as if by accident. Please don’t let the kids not be home because all of sudden while you’re making lunch he’ll wrap his arms around your waist and whisper hotly in your ear that he read an article about couples should do everyday activities nude to encourage self love and positivity and all that bullcrap.
•He would press his hard cock into the crevices of your covered ass and kiss your neck and you would have to wiggle and run away from him but he loves a good chase anyway.
* Sometimes, when you’re close enough, he leans in subtly to inhale your scent — a quiet, almost primal way he marks you as his. His breath catches when he catches the scent of your perfume mixed with your natural warmth, and his usually cold gray eyes darken with something possessive yet tender.
* You tease him once about being a “hound,” and he simply growls low, “Maybe. But you’re worth it.” The way he touches you is never rough but always claiming, a constant reminder that you’re his.
•You guys have a your little shows that you binge together! His favorite is law and order and after watching spu version he was hooked!
On a stormy night, Bruce watches episode after episode of *Law & Order: Special Victims Unit*, the grim stories sharpening his already acute vigilance. The weight of the cases seems to settle deep in his jaw and tighten his shoulders.
* You gently suggest a break, worried about how the show feeds his paranoia, but he grunts, eyes locked on the screen. “I need to know. It’s important.”
* Though he barely admits it, you know watching helps him prepare for the threats he’s always scanning for, especially those that might come near you.
Nicknames You and Bruce Use
* Bruce calls you “Sweetheart” when he’s serious but still wants to remind you he cares.
* When he’s feeling protective or playful, he slips in “My dearest” — always with that gruff edge that lets you know you’re his to guard.
* Sometimes, in rare tender moments, he calls you “Love,” almost like a secret code just between you two.
* You like to tease him with “Grumpy” or “Broody” when he’s in his classic brooding billionaire mode — which makes him scowl but secretly smile.
* When you’re feeling extra playful (or a bit tipsy), you call him “Bruceyy,” dragging the name out in a sing-song voice that makes him roll his eyes but lean into you.
* “Honeybun” is your affectionate nickname for him when you’re cuddly, especially after a few drinks — you say it with a little hiccup and lots of kisses on his cheeks.
How Bruce Knows You’ve Had Too Much
* Bruce’s detective instincts are sharp, but it’s not just the way your speech slurs or your eyes get glossy — it’s the way you cling to him suddenly, like a lifeline.
* You’ll start dragging on his arm, leaning your head against his shoulder, whispering “Bruceyy…” over and over, kissing his cheeks, and giggling at nothing in particular.
* That’s when he gives you the side-eye, that gruff “Enough of this” look, but you can tell it’s soft around the edges.
* He gently but firmly takes away the wine glass or champagne flute before you can do something you’ll regret, like trying to strip off your clothes because it’s “too hot” or “you just want to snuggle with your man.”
* He tries to maintain his professionalism when you’re in public, but behind closed doors, it’s all adorable chaos — and he loves every second of it, even if he pretends to be annoyed.
* When you do try to snuggle up, he grumbles about you being “a handful” but pulls you close anyway, wrapping a strong arm around your waist and mumbling “You’re mine, honeybun.”
•This man EATS food, like a lot. He loves soul food!
You send him a casual text one Friday: “Fish fry tonight — hope you’re hungry.” His reply is immediate: “Leaving work early. Keep the stove warm for me.”
* Bruce arrives home early, tension from the day visibly easing as he steps into the kitchen, breathing in the rich smells of fried fish, creamy mac and cheese, and spiced greens.
* Sitting across from you, relaxed and even allowing a small, rare smile, he savors the comfort and normalcy of these moments with you — a break from the darkness that follows him like a shadow.
•No social media skills lol
Bruce frowns as you show him a meme on your phone of someone nearly drowning in a pool. “Sweetheart?” he asks, genuinely confused. “Why does nothing beat a jet 2 holiday?”
* You tease, “Well you can save 50 pounds per person. You wouldn’t believe it baby that’s like 200 pounds off for a family of four!”
•He simply stares at you for a moment before muttering, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You couldn’t help but giggle at his clueless face.
* For a brief moment, his usually unreadable face cracks with a smirk before he mutters, “I’m guessing that’s from that app your on so much.” You love that he’s brilliant but adorably out of sync with modern culture.
Horror Movie Title Mix-Ups with Bruce
* Bruce has this classic love for the 80s and 90s horror and thriller movies surprisingly — you know, the staples like Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th, and The Exorcist. He likes the suspense, the practical effects, and the nostalgia.
* You, on the other hand, always remember the movies by their monsters or main villains instead of the actual titles. So instead of saying Halloween, you call it “The Michael Myers movie.” Instead of A Nightmare on Elm Street, it’s “The Freddy Krueger movie.”
* It’s adorable watching him try to keep a straight face as you say, “Let’s watch the Freddy Krueger movie tonight.” He just raises an eyebrow and replies dryly, “You mean A Nightmare on Elm Street?”
* Sometimes you playfully tease him back, “Nah, the actual title is less scary than the guy in the mask.” You giggle, and he lets out a rare chuckle, shaking his head.
* When you both watch the movies together, there’s always that back-and-forth about the proper title versus your nickname for it. It’s become a cozy little ritual that makes even the scariest scenes feel light and playful.
* He loves that your way of remembering the movies is uniquely yours — it reminds him that even the hardest, brooding billionaire can enjoy the simple, silly things about you.
* Sometimes he’ll deliberately call the movies by their official titles just to get a reaction out of you, and you’ll pout and say, “Babe nobody calls it that.”
* The banter gets especially fun when you both try to name sequels or spin-offs — “You mean the one with the giant snake in Anaconda?” you ask, and he smirks, “Close enough, sweetheart.”
He’s secretly watching horror films to be more terrifying to criminals and villains
•This man WORKS OUT. It’s almost damn near obsessive
You’re gently awakened by a soft kiss on your forehead. Bruce stands by the window, flushed from a five-mile run on what he calls his “rest day.” His body glistens in the dawn light, muscles tight and proud.
* “Rest day means less, not none,” he grumbles, voice thick with exhaustion but satisfaction.
* You tease him about fangirling with Barry over his eight-pack and back muscles, and he smirks, amused, “You and Barry always makes this face when I’m around during the sports festival with the league.”
You simply huff and turn so he can’t see your smirk, “I don’t know what you mean, baby” You can hear a quiet chuckle behind you as he leaves to take a shower.
* These quiet mornings, filled with subtle teasing and warm touches, remind you how deeply he cares beneath the gruff exterior.
•The nightmares can be really bad.
Some nights, Bruce’s nightmares break through, and you find him alone in the dark, haunted eyes staring into nothing. When you reach for him, he sometimes pulls away, voice rough with pain: “This is my burden.”
* The silence between you is thick and aching, but you remain close, offering your presence without pressure. You know some fights he fights alone, but you’re waiting for him to let you in again.
* When he finally lets down his walls, the fierce protector becomes vulnerable — and you hold him through the night, knowing love sometimes means bearing the weight of darkness together.
•Omg this man is so protective and lowkey kinda obsessive. He let’s nobody play with you, no micro aggression or dog whistles, he don’t play whatsoever.
He’s the “silent watchdog” at events
• Bruce is never far from your side when you attend galas, charity dinners, or Wayne Enterprises functions. You might think he’s just being a dutiful husband, but the truth is, he’s scanning every face in the room for anyone who looks at you wrong, mutters something under their breath, or even lets their eyes linger too long. If someone tries a backhanded comment about your appearance or makes a microaggressive remark about how “lucky” you are to be with him, Bruce will step forward, his hand heavy on your lower back, and his voice low and deliberate:
> “Careful son. I’d hate for you to forget who you’re speaking to.”
> No raised voice. No theatrics. Just pure intimidation in a few words. The room goes quiet, and he stays glued to your side until you’re safely in the car.
The “you don’t even have to know” approach.
• Bruce doesn’t always tell you when someone crosses a line at work, in business, or socially. Sometimes, he just handles it behind the scenes. If he overhears a Wayne Enterprises executive making a snide, racially tinged joke or questioning your competence in a subtle but cutting way, they’ll mysteriously be reassigned… or out of a job entirely by the next week. You’ll notice them gone, but Bruce will only shrug:
“Not worth your time, sweetheart.”
Gruff lectures when you downplay mistreatment.
• If you try to brush off an incident because you “don’t want to make it a big deal,” Bruce gets this hard look in his eyes. He’ll sit you down, his voice rough but steady:
“If something’s bothering you, I want to know. That’s not optional, princess. You don’t get to protect me from it — that’s my job.”
He makes it clear that if you hide things from him, you’re not just hurting yourself, you’re cutting him out of his role as your protector. And Bruce Wayne does not tolerate being kept in the dark.
Making the world bend so you don’t have to
• Bruce knows the business world — and much of Gotham’s elite — is a minefield of veiled insults and ugly prejudices. He refuses to let you navigate it alone. He’ll rearrange meetings, adjust seating charts, and even “accidentally” have certain people excluded from events just so you’re surrounded only by those who treat you with genuine respect.
If anyone questions it?
> “My event. My guest list. Don’t like it, don’t come.”
He has a “hand on you at all times” habit
• Even in public, Bruce’s touch is possessive in a way that makes people think twice before speaking out of turn. His palm will rest on your hip, his arm will curve protectively around your waist, or his hand will slide down your arm — not just affection, but a clear signal: This is mine. Watch your mouth. He doesn’t have to say it out loud for people to get the message.
He Confronts your workplace issues head-on
• If he notices you coming home drained day after day, especially after dealing with microaggressions or undermining behavior, Bruce will press you about it — not out of nosiness, but because it bothers him to see you shrinking under something he can crush. If you finally tell him, he’ll listen in silence, his jaw tight, and then handle it in a way that makes sure you never have to deal with that person again. You might find your rude boss suddenly jobless and their entire professional network drying up. Bruce never confirms it, but the timing is too perfect.
---
He’s vocal when it counts
• Bruce isn’t the type to sugarcoat. If someone tries to “joke” about your weight or appearance in front of him, they’ll find themselves being stared down by Gotham’s most intimidating man. His reply is blunt, unwavering, and often loud enough for others to hear:
> “You done? Or should I start pointing out your flaws too?”
PERIOD!
Protective to the point of obsession
• He doesn’t just want you safe — he wants you untouched by stress, disrespect, or harm. Sometimes it’s overbearing, especially when he insists you tell him everything that’s bothering you. And when you say you can handle it yourself, his voice goes low and firm:
“Sweetheart, I’m not asking. If you lie to me about something hurting you again, you’re not going to like how I handle it.”
It’s not a threat — it’s a promise. And the scary part is, you know he means it.
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It started the moment you stepped into the sleek, dimly lit charity gala, Bruce’s hand a solid, warm weight at the small of your back. His palm was firm, guiding you forward as if he could shield you from the entire room just by being there. You could feel the heat of his body behind you, the subtle shift of his suit jacket brushing your arm every time he moved in closer.
You were used to the whispers at these events. The looks. The micro-pauses in conversation when certain donors’ wives clocked you standing beside Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most eligible (and somehow still single-in-the-public-eye) billionaire. A curvy Black woman at his side was not the narrative they’d written in their heads — and Bruce knew it.
His jaw was already tight before the first champagne flute had been set in your hand. You felt his thumb trace slow, grounding circles against your spine as his voice dropped low in your ear.
“Sweetheart, stay close to me tonight,” he murmured, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating right into your bones. “I didn’t know they still invited rude degenerates like them still.”
You almost laughed it off — almost. But one glance at his face stopped you cold. That was his Batman face. The one that meant no one was getting away with anything.
A man from the board — pale, smug, over-scented with cologne — approached you while Bruce was momentarily distracted by a councilman.
“So, you must be Bruce’s… assistant?” The word “assistant” dripped condescension, his eyes flicking down to your body with a hint of something ugly.
You opened your mouth to correct him, but before you could get a single syllable out, Bruce was there.
“Wife,” he said, the word like a brick dropping in the space between you. His hand slid from the small of your back to wrap possessively around your waist, fingers splayed wide, his grip protective and unyielding. “My wife.”
The man chuckled awkwardly, backpedaling, but Bruce didn’t let him off that easily.
“You’ll address her respectfully,” he said, his voice low, gruff, and just short of a growl. “If you can’t manage that, then you don’t address her at all. And let me tell you.” He cold gaze cuts through the now nervous man.
“We will have a problem then.”
You could feel the tension radiating off him, the way his thumb was now pressing into your hip like he was physically anchoring you to him. The man stammered an apology and quickly excused himself.
Bruce leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, voice barely above a whisper. “засранец”
You gasped softly with a meek chuckle. “Bruce, I can handle myself—”
His head tilted, and his blue eyes locked on yours, sharp and unyielding.
“I know you can,” he said. “But that’s not the point. You’re mine, sweetheart. It’s my job to protect you. And if I ever find out you’re keeping that kind of thing from me?” His voice dipped even lower, a steel edge curling around the warmth. “We’ll have a serious problem. Do we understand each other?”
The warning in his tone wasn’t about anger — it was about the bone-deep promise behind it. Bruce Wayne didn’t bluff.
And as the night went on, his hand never left you. Not your back, not your waist, not your hand. The brooding billionaire was still all posh tuxedo and polite conversation on the surface, but underneath? He was a hound, watching the room for any sign of trouble, ready to bare his teeth the second anyone forgot who you belonged to.
You’re safe and so undoubtedly love by your man in his own bruce way.
A/N: Yall I have been obsessed with superman so here is my not so story headcannon of Clark dating you.
No warning really just a bit of suggestion and a hint to spankings. This is all over the place lowkey lol I don’t know how to write short stuff lol
•Clark had a way of watching you without making you feel like you were under a spotlight. His eyes — those impossibly clear, sky-bright blues — didn’t just look at you; they read you. He seemed to know what you were feeling before you even opened your mouth. It was both unsettling and comforting, the way he could step into your quiet little world without asking for permission but never taking more than you were willing to give.
You were used to taking care of yourself. Always. No one had ever been able to just… take the weight from your hands. But Clark had a way of making your guard loosen, little by little. He never pushed. He’d just quietly step in and take the grocery bags before you could protest, reach the high shelf before you could drag a chair over, or press a warm cup of tea into your hands before you’d even realized you’d been rubbing at your temples.
The first time you noticed the stark contrast between you, you were sitting on a picnic blanket in Centennial Park. It was early spring, the air smelling faintly of cut grass, and the sun was low enough to paint everything in gold. He was cutting up fruit for the both of you, the muscles in his forearms flexing under the soft flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows. His skin caught the sunlight differently than yours — pale, hard planes of strength, all clean lines and warmth — where yours was soft and deep, a dark richness that seemed to drink the light instead of reflect it. His hands looked impossibly large against yours when he passed you a strawberry.
He called you sweetheart then, low and casual, as if it wasn’t already enough to make your pulse skip. And it wasn’t just the word — it was the way his voice wrapped around it, heavy with a quiet authority that made you want to curl into it.
The height difference didn’t help. Standing beside him, your head barely reached his shoulder, and he had this infuriating habit of tilting his head down when he looked at you — like he was sizing you up, but fondly, almost teasing. The first time he scooped you up to carry you across the park lawn (because “mud, baby — you’re not walking through that in those shoes”), you were so startled you could barely squeak out a protest. His arm hooked easily under your thighs, your body pressed to his chest like you weighed next to nothing. You’d never admit it out loud, but the solid wall of him, the steady heartbeat under your cheek, made your stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
He seemed to know you liked it, though. You’d catch the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth every time you shifted closer instead of pulling away. He never said a word, but the smug warmth in those blue eyes told you he’d noticed.
•You helped him cook most nights you were together — or, more accurately, he let you think you were helping. He was surprisingly good in the kitchen, hands sure and deliberate, moving with a calm focus that made you want to just stand there and watch. Sometimes he’d hand you a task, his palm lingering at your lower back, guiding you just where he wanted you. “Right here, honey,” he’d murmur, standing close enough that his chest brushed your shoulder whenever he reached past you for a spice jar.
And yet, as open as he was with you, there was something… missing. A piece of him he kept tucked away. You didn’t know yet that it was a cape and an emblem and a whole other life, but you could feel it in the quiet moments, like when his gaze went distant or his phone buzzed and he excused himself with a faint apology.
Then there was the day at the mall. You’d been wandering through a small toy shop when you saw it — a Superman plush, bright blue suit and tiny red cape, grinning from its shelf. It wasn’t even the kind of thing you normally bought, but your eyes lit up the moment you saw it, your fingers brushing the fabric with a quiet, almost childlike delight. You thought you’d hidden it well, but Clark had been watching you from the end of the aisle, arms folded, lips tugging into a soft, knowing smile.
“You like it, pretty girl?” he’d asked, voice low enough to make you glance up sharply.
Your cheeks went warm. “It’s cute, that’s all.”
“Mm.” He didn’t press, just stepped closer, close enough that the scent of him — soap, warm air, something clean and grounding — wrapped around you. He plucked the plush from the shelf with ease and held it out to you. “Then it’s yours.”
You started to protest, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Steady, unyielding, but with that undercurrent of affection that made your chest feel too small. You took it.
You didn’t know then that you were holding him in your arms in more ways than one — and that the real thing was right there, watching you, already hopelessly in love with the way you softened for him, piece by piece.
He Looooveeees to give piggyback rides!
* Clark’s quiet strength means picking you up is effortless for him. Whether after a long day or just for fun, he loves the closeness and the chance to carry you safely.
* But you sometimes worry. What if you feel too heavy? What if you smell weird after a long day? You don’t want to be a burden. So when Clark bends down and says, “Come on, hop on,” you hesitate.
* Your voice shakes a little as you say, “Clark, I don’t want you to think i’m heavy… or smelly,” your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
* Clark chuckles softly, that deep, warm sound that always calms you down. He uprights himself before he lifts your chin gently to meet his bright blue eyes. “You are so adorable.”
* He smiles softly and says, “You’re not heavy. You’re mine.” His hands settle on your hips, steady and sure.
* When you finally climb onto his back, your heart pounds but his calm, steady heartbeat against your chest quickly relaxes you. You start to forget all your worries, just enjoying the warmth and safety of being carried.
* Sometimes he’ll tease you a little, “I’m not a waiter, princess. I’m your boyfriend. I get to carry you.” You giggle, feeling that special bond deepen.
* And if you ever worry about smelling weird or being less than perfect, Clark’s just there with that quiet, unwavering acceptance—his hands in your hair, whispering, “You’re exactly right where you belong.”
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Contrary to popular belief, Clark isn't some pushover. There are times in your relationship where you guys argue but that doesn't mean he backs down. He's so emotionally intelligent sometimes it pisses you off. He knows how to articulate his thoughts and feeling while making sure to hear yours but not give into your behavior. Uggh it so frustrating but when he's right, he is right.
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The fight with Ultraman had been over for days, but the echoes of it still lingered in the air between you and Clark — unspoken words, a tension you couldn’t quite shake. You’d been tiptoeing around each other since, but it wasn’t because you were afraid of him.
Once you found out he was superman you weren’t afraid of Clark Kent.
Clark, with his big hands and easy smile. Clark, who always softened when you were near. Clark, whose deep voice usually felt like a blanket you could curl up in. Clark, who kissed your temple like you were made of something precious.
Clark, who told you to stay put in Smallville while he went to Metropolis to handle Ultraman.
You hadn’t stayed.
And maybe part of you thought — maybe even knew — that he wouldn’t really be mad. He was your Clark. He would understand, he always does.
At least, that’s what you thought.
The living room in the farmhouse felt strangely small as he stood near the window, his broad frame casting a shadow in the late-afternoon light. His plaid shirt hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms but even dressed down he looked immovable. His blue eyes tracked you, calm but unreadable, as you crossed your arms and refused to look at him for too long.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wasn’t going to just sit there in Smallville like some helpless—”
“You almost got hurt.” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. Not sharp, not loud — just firm.
You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “But I didn’t. And I actually helped people—”
“I told you to stay.” He didn’t raise his voice, but the weight of those words hit you harder than if he had. His gaze didn’t waver. “I told you for a reason, baby.”
Your chest tightened, but you pushed through it, chin tilting up. “I’m not going to apologize for not sitting on my hands while people were in trouble.”
He was silent. Completely silent.
The kind of silence that made your stomach twist, because Clark wasn’t usually silent like this. Normally he’d explain, or try to reason, or at least sigh in that way that meant he was more tired than mad. But now… nothing.
You could feel the weight of his stare. Blue eyes steady. Jaw set.
Your voice cracked just slightly when you added, “I don’t think I did anything wrong.”
Still nothing.
The quiet stretched between you until you felt like you were the only one in the room moving, breathing, fidgeting. Your fingers dug into your arms. You hated the way your pulse sped up, the way you suddenly felt so small in front of him.
When he finally spoke, his tone was softer — but deeper. More deliberate. “Sweetheart… I’m not mad because you tried to help. I’m upset because you think I can’t protect you. Because you think my asking you to stay was about keeping you out of the way.”
Your throat tightened.
“I told you to stay,” he continued, slow and steady, “because Ultraman isn’t someone you can run from. If I’d been even two seconds later—” He broke off, shaking his head, jaw flexing. “Two seconds, and I could’ve been holding you instead of stopping him.”
Something in your chest ached, but you clenched your jaw, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “I still don’t think I was wrong.”
“Baby,” he said again, and this time his voice had that quiet weight to it — the kind that made your stomach drop. “Look at me.”
You didn’t want to, but you did. His blue eyes locked onto your soft brown ones, and you hated that you felt yourself starting to blink faster, heat stinging the corners of your eyes.
“You scared me,” he said, almost under his breath, but every word landed. “You can be mad at me all you want. You can throw every bit of attitude you’ve got. But you don’t get to put yourself in danger like that and act like it’s nothing. Not with me.”
You felt the first tear slip before you could stop it.
You turned away quickly, scrubbing at your cheek with the heel of your hand, frustrated with yourself. You hated crying when you were mad — it felt like losing ground. “I’m not—” Your voice cracked. “I’m not crying because I’m sorry.”
“Mm.” It was a quiet, knowing sound, like he didn’t believe you for a second.
That only made the tears fall faster. You crossed your arms tighter, refusing to look at him again, but you could feel him take a step closer — that big, quiet presence filling up the space between you.
His hand brushed over your arm, warm and careful, and when you didn’t pull away, he let it rest there. “You’re stubborn,” he murmured, voice low enough that it was almost a growl. “But you’re mine. Which means your safety isn’t negotiable.”
Your breath caught, chest tight. You wanted to stay mad, you wanted to hold onto that last thread of righteous anger — but the warmth in his voice and the solid weight of his hand made your resolve start to fray.
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He loves taking care of you, he hates when you don't prioritize your health. It really frustrates him especially since you like for him to help you with his projects, somedays enough is enough of you prattling on like you don't need any help. Even his soft demeanor cracks.
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The hum of your laptop was the only sound in the quiet house, its pale blue light casting soft shadows on your face. You’d been at the desk for hours, shoulders aching, fingers stiff from typing. Your work clothes—shirt sleeves pushed up, collar slightly rumpled—felt like a second skin you couldn’t shed.
You glanced at your phone when it buzzed softly on the desk. Clark.
Just checking in. You okay?
You tapped out a quick reply, trying to sound casual: Yeah, I’m fine. Just working late.
Seconds later, the phone rang. You swallowed the lump in your throat and answered.
“Hey, babe,” Clark’s voice was calm but carried that familiar undercurrent—the one that told you he was trying not to worry but couldn’t help it.
“Hey.” You forced a tired smile into your voice. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t sound okay.” His words were quiet but steady, making you shift uncomfortably.
“I’m fine, really.”
There was a pause on the other end, and you felt the weight of his gaze despite the miles between you.
“Okay.”
He didn’t push, but you knew he was watching, waiting, like a lighthouse keeping a careful eye on a stormy sea.
Hours slipped by. The house was silent but for the tapping keys and your own shallow breaths. Your eyelids drooped, but the looming deadline made sleep impossible. You rubbed your temples, then glanced again at the clock.
2:17 a.m.
The faintest sound—footsteps at the front door—made your heart catch in your chest.
Clark.
You froze, chest tight, breath shallow.
He stepped inside with quiet surety, the low weight of his presence filling the hallway like a shadow. His pale skin seemed almost luminous in the dim light, and his dark hair was tousled from whatever he’d just faced as Superman.
No words. No scolding yet. Just the slow, steady beat of his footsteps as he moved through the house.
Your hands clenched briefly on the keyboard before you closed your eyes, willing yourself not to panic.
But he found you.
There you sat, head bowed over the glowing laptop, sleeves rolled up, dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion. The scent of late-night coffee mixed with the faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air.
Clark crouched down beside you, the sharp blue of his eyes meeting yours, making you have to look down into them.
“Remember the last time I found you like this?” His voice was low, steady—calm but with an unmistakable edge.
Your heart thundered, the room suddenly too warm, too tight.
“When I was gone.”
You nodded, breath hitching, fingers trembling.
“I told you I’d put you over my knee if I saw you like this again,” he said quietly, the warning clear beneath the softness of his tone.
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your nod was the only answer you could give, your throat too tight.
Without a word, Clark stood, reached out, and gently closed the laptop, the screen flickering off with a soft click that felt like a line drawn in the sand.
He took your hand—warm, firm—and guided you up from the chair.
Your heart hammered in your ears as he led you down the hall to the bedroom, every step heavy with the tension between frustration and deep care.
You were caught.
And he was annoyed.
But beneath it all was the fierce protectiveness only Clark could carry—the unspoken promise that no matter what, he’d never let you break yourself without standing guard.
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A/N: I wanna make a story with superman or just dc characters but Im not even sure what the plot would be. I need HELLLLPUUUUH!!! But anways look at my man
The palace was still. Moonlight spilled through the tall silk-curtained windows, casting silver light across the velvet spread of the bed. Everything was calm. Warm. Quiet.
Until—
“Ryo… Ryooo…”
A small sniffle. A soft, high-pitched whimper followed by the sound of thick blankets rustling.
Sukuna cracked one glowing red eye open.
You were on your side, your back to him, squirming like a restless cat. Your nighty had ridden up over your thick thighs, your belly visibly shifting beneath the fabric as you wiggled and groaned.
He closed his eyes again.
Sniffle Sniffle
His brow furrowed as he heard another little whimper. And then your voice—muffled into the plush pillows but soaked in dramatic despair—quivered:
“Ryo, I need something. I need it bad.”
Both of his eyes opened this time, glowing faintly in the dark. His face was unreadable, jaw tense, fangs peeking slightly from the corners of his mouth. For a moment, he just stared at the back of your head like you were some sort of foreign creature brought in to torment him with sobbing and soft noises at ungodly hours.
"...It's three in the damn morning," he said, voice deep, gruff, and annoyed.
You turned to face him slowly, like a pathetic little blob, blinking at him with glassy brown eyes, a dramatic pout already forming.
“But I can’t sleep,” you whispered. “I’m starving. My belly’s eating itself, Ryo!”
His eyebrow twitched.
“…You ate a whole roast chicken before bed.”
“But now I need pudding…” you whispered with exaggerated pain, eyes wide as you crawl your way into his expansive chest. “And pickles. Ryo, I want pudding with pickles in it. Like... inside it. Like a cup of chocolate with one big sour pickle stuck in the middle. Maybe two.”
He stared down at you in abject silence.
Your lips quivered as you stared up at him, puffy cheek on his chest and sniffled.
Then, slowly, the rim of your eyes turned glossy. “You think it’s stupid,” you whispered, already turning away, about to climb off of him.
“Oh my god.” He sat up, and placed you on his lap, your unprotected bottom on his thick thigh.
“I shouldn’t have said anything, you’re gonna be mean and I’m just—sniff—I’m just a whale who wants something sweet and salty and cold—”
“You've been doing this all week, woman” he growled, dragging a clawed hand down his face as he swung his legs out of bed.
You made a tiny squeak in the back of your throat as your husband plopped you back on the soft fluffy cloud of your bed, nose red, teary eyes round and hopeful, you peered up at your husband crimson eyes in the dark. “You’ll go get it…?”
Sukuna glared at you. “I swear to every cursed god in every realm, if you start crying over pickles in pudding, I will burn this palace down.”
You nodded slowly. “…But you’ll get it?”
A low groan rumbled from his chest, and you could feel the waves of cursed energy crackle in the air as he reluctantly rose, barefoot and shirtless, muscles tense with irritation. He reached for his cloak with a scowl, throwing it over one shoulder like a warlord about to fight a personal demon.
“This better be the best damn snack you’ve ever eaten in your life,” he muttered, stalking toward the doorway.
You sat up in bed, hugging the giant pillow he left behind and beaming. “I want two pickles, not one!”
“Yeah, yeah, make it three, wife. See if I don’t hex the jar.”
—
Twenty minutes later, the door creaked open again.
You looked up from your nest of pillows just in time to see him enter, a bowl in one clawed hand, his expression tight with pure annoyance. The sight of him—grumpy, towering, shirtless with his black cloak sweeping behind him, holding your weird little craving like it was an offering to an angry goddess—made your heart flutter.
He stopped at the edge of the bed and scowled at you.
“Here. Your Majesty. One chocolate pudding. Two pickles. One chopped into pieces. One whole. And no, don’t ask what I had to do to get them.”
You gasped, your soft hands laid across your chest, touched “You made it exactly right!”
“I always make it right,” he grumbled, setting it in your lap like it was laced with TNT. “Now eat it. Slowly. Quietly. Or I will throw myself off the balcony.”
You grinned up at him, spooning the first chocolatey bite into your mouth like it was made of gold. You wiggle and moan in delight on your shared bed. Your eyes welling up in tears again.
“…This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“You’re disgusting,” he said, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
You patted the bed beside you, and he sighed deeply before sinking down with a grunt. His arm snaked behind you, pulling you against his side as you hummed contentedly, mouth full of pickles and pudding.
“You love me, don’t you?” you whispered around a bite.
He said nothing.
“You do.” You grin around the spoon; chocolate spewed across the side of your mouth. Theres a small speck on the tip of your nose. He couldn't help but think you look ridiculous but something about the way your round eyes gleamed up at him. The way how you unconsciously snuggled into his while eating was... too much.
“…Eat your cursed snack, wife.”
You smiled, cheeks warm, belly happy, your monstrous, overprotective husband grumbling beside you like a storm cloud—your storm cloud. And somewhere, underneath all the annoyance and sarcasm, his hand rested on the curve of your belly, thumb stroking your skin and he couldn't help but notice how slightly it harden. Maybe your just full.
Obviously not full enough if you made him run through hell for pickles and pudding.
---
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻
The palace was warm. Cozy, even. A soft breeze wafted through the balcony curtains. The silk cushions were fluffed. Uraume had just finished arranging your snack platter — thin slices of icy pear and mango with a single gold-dusted brownie — and left without a word. You had no reason to cry. None at all.
But there you were.
Lip wobbling. Breathing unsteady. Sitting cross-legged on the bed in your favorite robe, staring down at your plate like it had personally betrayed you.
And it was his fault.
Ryo, sitting in the plush chair across the room, one leg slung over the armrest, arms crossed over his broad chest. Shirtless. Tattooed. Unamused. Scowling at nothing.
That face.
That fucking face.
You could feel your throat tightening.
“…Stop looking at me like that,” you muttered, voice already cracking.
Ryo didn’t even blink as he scrolled on his tablet that you begged him to try to get into modern technology. “I’m not looking at you.”
You could only scoff harshly and muttered. “Yes, you are. You’re doing that face.”
He raised a single dark brow but continued preoccupied on his phone. “What face?”
You pointed at him, brows furrowed. “That one.”
He exhaled through his nose as he finally shut off the tablet and looked at his pouting wife. “That’s my fucking face, woman.”
You sucked in a sharp, shaky breath. Your hands trembled holding the platter of snacks as you huffed.
He squinted.
“…Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting—” Your voice pitched higher as your eyes filled with tears. “It’s just—you started with your tone and your eyebrows and—and the way you’re sitting there all mean and judgmental—”
“I’m sitting,” he growled.
“You’re sitting aggressively! As if I'm your fucking problem!”
Ryo dragged a hand down his face. “What the hell does that even mean?”
You hiccupped. Your chest heaved. Your hands started to shake.
“Y-you always act like I’m being dramatic, like I’m some emotional mess, and—and I already feel like an anomaly like something's wrong with me and now I can’t even eat mango without feeling like you’re staring at me like I’m disgusting—!”
“I didn’t say a damn thing!” he barked.
You burst into tears.
“I KNOW you didn’t! That’s what makes it WORSE!” You wail as hot tears drip down your cheeks. You throw the platter of food at him, and he doesn't even register that it lands right on his chest. You see the once delicious snacks now ruined and soiled on the floor and on him. You meet his eyes, panting.
Ryo went stiff.
“…Oh, fuck.”
You clapped your hands over your face as the sobs took over — hard, heavy, ragged. Your breath kept catching in your throat. Your shoulders shook. You tried to inhale but it got stuck and turned into a squeaky hiccup that only made everything worse.
You were spiraling.
And now Ryo looked like someone had socked him in the gut.
He's never seen you look so upset, not when he used to come home to the estate covered in blood and god knows what. Not when he used to yell at you in the beginning or be emotionally distant like before. He's seen you cry of course, watching you give birth to your son. But nothing has ever come close to this.
“Wait—hey. Stop that,” he snapped, standing up instantly. The tablet falling clumsily on the floor with fruits and snacks “Breathe, dammit, don’t—fuck—don’t cry like that.”
You wailed harder. Your claps pillows in your hands and threw them like cannons at his chest. Anything you could find really. The blankets, the fork, the alarm clock near the nightstand. He dodges every single one of them, that seemed to only make your more pissed as you stood and unplugged the lamp. You turn to him, and he could see the fury in your gaze, eyes rimmed red, brows furrowed, chest heaving.
He was at an impasse.
Two things could happen.
The first scenario would be: letting the antique lamp that he gifted you when he knew you were the one hit him and watch it break into pieces. That wouldn't bother him, not as much as knowing you could cut your feet on the glass and make the hyperventilating worse.
The second scenario would be: he does dodge it and the antique hits the wall, breaking, but it wouldn't have the satisfaction of hitting him even though you know it can't hurt him physically. It would make you spiral even the more.
He knew he had to move and fast.
He was across the room in two strides and grasp the lamp out of your hands as gently as possible.
“Hey—hey. Fuck. Stop it. You’re hyperventilating.”
You shook your head violently. “Y-you’re so mean to me—!”
“I am not—god, woman, I swear to—" He stops to see you pouting up at him. "Okay, okay, fine maybe I’m a little fucking gruff, but you know this—you can’t cry like the damn world’s ending because of my eyebrows!”
“I can’t help it!” you hiccupped. “You never consider how people feel and everyone suffers for it! You stepped on a snail yesterday and I had to apologize to his drying body!”
He looked genuinely alarmed now. You’d never seen his eyes get that wide.
“…You apologized to a dead snail?”
You nodded rapidly. “I saw the life drained out of his eyes!”
“Oh my fucking god--”
You started wheezing.
“Nope—fuck no. Come here.” He yanked you into his arms and sat down on the edge of the bed with you in his lap, hands gripping your waist like you were going to shatter.
You hiccupped and pressed your tear-soaked face into his bare chest. “Y-you looked at me like I was ridiculous.”
“I wasn’t!” he growled, rubbing your back roughly. “I was resting. That’s just how my face looks, brat.”
You sniffled hard. “I hate your face sometimes.”
“That makes two of us.”
You slapped his chest weakly. “Asshole.”
“Little demon,” he muttered. “Crying over mango and eyebrows. You’re gonna give me a stroke one of these damn days.”
“Good!” you sobbed.
“Yeah? Then who the fuck’s gonna rub your back at four in the morning while you sob about pears and scream in the pillow?”
You sniffled again.
“…You?”
He exhaled.
“Yeah. Me.”
You sniffed. “Even if I cry at dead snails?”
“I’ll kick the snails asses.”
You cracked a watery, hiccupping laugh. “Larry is dead because of you…”
“Who the hell is Larry, woman?”
" Of course you wouldn't know, snail killer.”
“It was only one damn snail and now I'm branded for life.”
You sniffled. “Poor Larry...”
He looked away and cursed under his breath. “Christ.”
You curled tighter against him.
He huffed and rubbed your back again, slower this time. Still gruff. Still a little clueless. But his heart was hammering against yours.
“…You scared the shit outta me,” he muttered, jaw tight.
“Sorry…”
“You better be. Look at me again like that and I’m putting a fuckin’ bell on you.”
“…A bell?” You snuggled into his chest.
“So I know when the sobbing and violence starts. ”
You slapped his chest again.
And he let you.
Because he was still your Ryo. Still terrifying. Still blunt. Still cursing every time you cried.
But he was also holding you like his life depended on it.
"I've never seen you that pissed before..." He thinks out loud. "Fucking hot."
"Ryo-"
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺ ♡༻
It started with naps.
Harmless. Quick. You’d curl up beside him during one of his brooding sessions on the throne and doze off on his lap, drooling faintly on his robe while he read reports or barked at underlings. It was… fine. He’d look down and see you curled against the crevice of his lower arm, cheek smushed again his bicep. Kind of cute, even.
Then the naps got longer. You fell asleep mid-sentence. During meals. Once in the middle of brushing your teeth.
You were sleeping fourteen, fifteen hours a day now.
And when you were awake?
You were needy.
You clung to Ryo’s sleeve like a sleepy kitten. Wrapped yourself around his waist whenever he tried to leave the bed. Whined in your softest voice that you didn’t want him to go—“Just five more minutes, Ryo, please?—”
He tolerated it.
He cursed under his breath. Gave you gruff pats on the top of your head. Grumbled that you were lucky he didn’t throw you over his shoulder and drop you into an ice bath to wake your ass up.
But you stayed snuggled. Sleepy. Radiating heat. Breathing slow and shallow.
Today, though—something was off.
You were dead asleep, clinging to his side like a sloth, drooling on his pec and mumbling nonsense under your breath.
And there it was.
A flicker. A thrum. A heartbeat of wrongness.
His eyes opened slowly. Red and alert. His arms tensed.
That cursed energy. He didn’t recognize it.
It wasn’t his.
And it was in the room.
“…Tch.” His voice was low. Dangerous. “Who the fuck is here?”
You snored softly.
He waited. Felt it again.
There—behind you?
No. In you?
“Oi,” he growled, swatting your bottom firmly. “Wake up.”
“Mmmnnn…” You snuggled deeper into his bicep.
“I said wake up. Now.”
You stirred. Rubbed your cheek against his chest. “Ryo, ‘m tired…”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re tired, there’s cursed energy in here—”
“You gave me cursed energy baby,” you muttered, pouty and limp “It’s prolly just Yuji. ‘S fine…”
“It’s not me,” he said, voice tightening. “And it’s not you. It’s—fuck.”
He threw the sheets off, cradling your body to his as he stood, his senses sharpening to a razor’s edge. He was ready to kill. Destroy. Rip apart whatever dared touch you in your most vulnerable state.
And still—still—you yawned and nuzzled his strong collarbone. “What’s wrong baby…?”
“You don’t feel that?” he hissed as he rose to his feet, cradling the back of your head protectively. “There’s two signatures. Faint. Weird. But they’re in you. Inside you, brat.”
Your eyes snapped open and quickly wrapped your arms around his neck.
“I—I don’t like that, Ryo—don’t say ‘inside me’ like that—what if it’s a parasite?! What if I’m cursed?! What if—what if it’s trying to hatch?!”
“Hatch?” He scowled. “You’re not a fucking egg.”
“Then what is it?!”
He set you gently on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you, scanning your energy like a hawk.
You were glowing.
Dim, but unmistakable.
Two little pulses.
Like candles.
Or—he squinted, jaw flexing.
“…No.”
“What? What?! Is it deadly?!”
He stared at your belly. Then up at your face. Then back down again.
“…There’s two.”
Your hands flew to your stomach. “Two what?!”
“…You’re pregnant.”
The silence hit like a thunderclap.
You blinked.
Then blinked again.
“W…what?”
His voice was rough. Low. Almost disbelieving.
“There’s cursed energy in you. Faint as hell, not malicious. Tiny. Like embers. Not one. Two.”
You stared at him in horror. “You mean like… like babies?!”
“…Guess so.”
“TWO?!”
He stood slowly. Hand still pressed to your abdomen. His brows furrowed like he was trying to calculate the collapse of a star.
You were panicking. “Oh my god, twins?! I—I thought I was just sleepy, not pregnant! I napped for sixteen hours yesterday—!”
“We’ve been going at it for weeks,” he muttered against your curls. “Especially after that damn beach trip. This was bound to happen.”
" This doesn't make sense!" You flushed. "Yuji doesn't have any curse energy! What changed?!" You muttered, voice high pitched as you snuggled into his chest.
“That’s why,” he muttered. “That’s why you’ve been all soft and clingy. And sleeping like the dead.”
You squeaked. “I—I didn’t mean to be annoying—!”
He looked down at you sharply.
You froze.
You drop your head into your hands. “I’m sorry if I was too much—”
“Stop.”
You stared at your hands quietly.
“You're fine. You just—” he exhaled harshly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve got two tiny freeloaders in you right now, and I didn’t notice until they kicked up a little cursed aura. I should’ve known.”
You stared at him in awe. “…Are you mad?”
He looked at you, deadpan. “…I’m not happy about losing my sleep. Or the drool.”
You frowned. “Ryo—”
“But.” He cut you off. “I’m not mad. I’m just—processing.”
You tugged weakly at his hand.
“…Can I nap now?”
He gave you a look. “You just woke up.”
You pouted. “I’m growing people, Ryo. Tiny people with tiny feet and probably your attitude.”
He muttered something obscene under his breath as he curled the lower half of your body to him, placing the blanket back upon you both.
“Are they safe?” you whispered.
He grunted. “They’re not cursed. Not in a bad way. Just… you. And me. Like a drop of power split in half. Barely flickering.”
You sniffled. “So… we made cursed babies?”
He sighed and placed his chin on top of your head.
“I guess we fuckin’ did.”
You curled against him, forehead to his chest.
His arms wrapped around you like a cage.
“…I’m naming one,” he muttered.
You peeked up at him. “Only one?”
“Because the other one’s gonna be named after me.”
You burst into sleepy giggles.
And he held you there — face stoned and still— as the two tiny flickers of cursed energy pulsed inside of you.
His children.
His future.
His brats.
And god help anyone who dared come near you now.
Because the King of Curses wasn’t just watching.
He was guarding.
༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺ ♡༻༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺♡༻ ༺ ♡༻
A/N: Omg ya girl is preganat with twins?! Who would've thought?!
