below is all my important stuff! ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

FANDOMS. thg. obx. the office. sw. dc.

REQUESTS. are OPEN! please send me any ideas you may have

MASTERLIST. can be found here ౨ৎ

RULES. please consider reading here before interacting

minors please don’t interact ♡

i know i can’t control what you do, but these are my boundaries—please respect them! if not, i’ll have to block you.

FRAGMENTS OF LIGHT ⋆˚ ✶｡

you sit on the cold marble floor of the jedi temple’s outer hall, legs pulled close to your chest, watching the sun bleed through the stained glass windows. it paints colors on your skin, but you barely notice because your mind is stuck somewhere else.

a soft shuffle beside you catches your attention, and you glance over to see anakin sliding down to sit next to you. he leans back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling like he’s searching for something in the high arches. “i didn’t expect to find you here,” he says.

you shift slightly, keeping your gaze on the way the sun cuts through the stained glass. “just thinking.” his grin deepens at that. “that’s a dangerous pastime for a jedi.”

you glance at him, unsure if he’s teasing or not, “what makes you say that?” he shrugs, casual. “thinking leads to questions. questions lead to wanting. wanting…” his voice trails, almost as if he was daring you to finish the thought.

you let the silence stretch before answering. “well maybe it depends on what you’re wanting.”

“maybe,” he says, “sometimes it feels as if they want us to be perfect — always.” you hum softly in agreement. “perfection’s a lot of pressure.”

“pressure,” he repeats, tasting a bitter word. “sometimes it feels like a cage.” you tilt your head slightly, watching him from the corner of your eye. “a cage?”

his gaze shifts to you, but he doesn’t answer right away. “rules. the code. all the things we’re told we can’t do.” his voice is calm, but there’s something under it, something heavier. “they make it sound like that’s the only way to be a good jedi.”

“isn’t it?” you ask, keeping your tone light, though you feel the weight of his stare. he leans back, the faintest hint of a smile at his lips. “maybe. but i believe… we lose something when we stop letting ourselves feel.”

you look away, your eyes following the way the colored light shifts across the floor. “feelings give an opening for clouded judgment.”

he studies you for a long moment. “or make it stronger,” he counters, voice low. “make you fight harder for what matters.” you glance back at him, catching the way his eyes linger — too intense for casual conversation. “and what matters to you, anakin?”

“freedom,” he says after a beat, “to choose, to protect, to love without fear.” you chew on his words, letting the silence stretch before answering.

“and what happens if you cross the line? what happens if you break the rules?” his eyes darken, “sometimes you lose yourself. sometimes you find something new. maybe it’s worth the risk.”

the silence settles between you, thick and electric, the light from the stained glass pulsing like a heartbeat on your skin. no need for words — you both feel it, the weight of what’s coming, the fragile pull of something unspoken.

you watch the way his eyes catch the light, and for a moment, you realize this isn’t just about rules or fear anymore. it’s the beginning of something. something that could break you or make you whole.

CLOSE TO YOU ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

“okay, careful with the flour, sweet girl.” martha’s voice is warm and gentle. you bite your lip and nod, trying your best to fold the dough without sending clouds of white dust everywhere. the kitchen smells like cinnamon and vanilla, and sunlight streams in through the windows, catching dust motes that float lazily in the warm air.

clark stands nearby, leaning casually against the doorframe, watching you with that easy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. his eyes are full of something soft and protective, making your heart flutter like it’s trying to catch up with itself.

“need a hand?” he offers quietly, stepping over beside you. before you can even say yes, his big hands are warm and steady around yours, guiding your movements with practiced gentleness. the heat from his palms seeps through your skin and you flush a little deeper, chest tightening pleasantly from the quiet comfort of him so close.

“you’re doing great,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against your ear. you swallow the happy lump in your throat, trying not to get lost too lost in him.

martha hums happily from the stove, her hands expertly pulling a fresh batch of cookies from the oven. the smell is rich and sweet, wrapping around the room like a warm hug. you can’t resist dipping a finger into the sticky dough, tasting it swiftly — sweet and buttery with a hint of cinnamon — and clark catches the movement.

“flour’s for baking, not licking, bug.” he teases softly, thick with amusement as he shakes his head but doesn’t pull away.

you pout at him, but before you can say anything, he’s leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to your nose — flour and all. you giggle, the sound light and airy, blending perfectly with the quiet warmth filling around the kitchen.

“just wait till you taste these,” martha calls from the stove, sliding a plate of golden, steaming cookies across the counter.

you lean against clark, letting yourself relax in the curve of his body, the steady thump of his heart under your cheek. he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you impossibly closer.

“thank you,” you gleam as you rest your head on his chest.

LESSON LEARNED ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

warnings: mdni — explicit smut, p in v, unprotected sex, possessive!rafe, jealousy fueled sex, dom!rafe, degradation, dumbification, cock drunk reader, creampie, overstimulation, manhandling, rough handling, mean!rafe, heavy power dynamics, no plot just filth.

you didn’t mean to set him off.

it was nothing, really — a harmless laugh at something one of the boys from the country club said. you didn’t even pay any notice to the shift in rafe’s face at first. not until his jaw locked up, and not until his arm slid heavy around your waist like some sort of a leash.

but it doesn’t matter, not really. not when you still let him manhandle you down with your cheek pressed to the pillow, your skin hot and damp with tears, body aching in that way that makes you feel fucked stupid. it’s a good kind of ache, though. the kind you crave, the stretch not leaving your bones when he plows himself inside, splitting you open.

you’re on all fours on his bed, knees burning against the comforter, head hanging low as your legs shake when you try to adjust, digging for some stability when he’s already hitting every spot he knows makes you twitch.

“stay right there,” he mutters behind you, a breathless scrape of command. you feel the sweat trickling down your spine, chest heaving where it’s pressed into the sheets. “not done with you yet.”

your mouth falls open in a silent cry when his fingers tighten around your hips, sure to leave bruises. there’s nothing sweet about the way he’s holding you. nothing gentle — still so pissed.

his hand drags up your spine slow, heavy, like he’s claiming you with the weight of his palm. and maybe he is — maybe he’s making sure you feel it, the way his anger settles into every inch of your body, the way he doesn’t let up even when your thighs twitch from overuse.

you roll your head to the side a bit more, desperate to catch a glimpse of him, your lips parted, eyes glassy. you’re gone for him, and he knows it — but he’s not done, not until he drives the lesson in deep.

“you think… he’d ever make you sound like this? huh? think he’d ever have you this sloppy? get you crying like this, shit.” he ruts.

drool slips from the corner of your mouth, and all that comes out is a cracked little sob. you can’t even tell what you’re saying — your mouth just moves, soft and slurred and so dumb, chasing the words like they’re hiding from you. “no— no, never, rafey!”

his teeth flash in a grin behind you — sharp, smug and cruel. “yeah,” he bites, chest hot and sticky on your back as he keeps you caged in. “that’s what i thought.”

you feel the bed rock, the headboard knocking violently against the wall, the sound blurring into a dizzy rhythm that matches the white noise rush in your ears. your hands claw uselessly at the sheets, any semblance of strength gone.

“please,” you whimper, all cracked and needy, but you don’t even know what you’re begging for, simply trying to tether you to something real while he pounds you into the mattress.

it’s filthy, loud and wet and thick, and your face burns as he groans, so deep and low in his throat it sounds like he’s proud of you. “please what, huh? you want me to stop?”

“no,” you sob quickly, a pathetic little mewl. he fucks you impossibly deeper at that, rewarding you for the answer.

“yeah, fuckin’ love this, huh?” he shakes his head in amusement, light but mean. “all soaked and cryin’— yeah, i feel this pussy.” he spits low, one hand slipping up under your ribs to pull your chest back just slightly, just to hold you a little closer as he ruins you.

your mouth opens, soundless at first, then a high, shattered “uh-huhhh,” slips past your lips. “jus’ you, just you,” you slur, back arching as he knocks into that sweet spot so deep it makes your toes curl, a lewd squelch echoing in the room. you’re so wet it’s obscene, every grind of his hips making a noise that would humiliate you if you weren’t already so far gone.

“listen to that,” he laughs, “pussy so wet it’s talkin’ for you.” your moans are getting higher, — no rhythm, just choking little cries that stutter out of your mouth every time he thrusts in.

his hand slips under you, fingers rubbing your clit mean and fast. your whole body jerks — a sharp cry ripping from your throat as your knees buckle again.

“r-rafe—!” it’s almost a wail, cracking halfway through when he doesn’t let up, pads of his fingers catching slick over swollen flesh, the motion relentless. your legs won’t hold, hips squirming to get away from the pressure even though it’s everything you need.

but his grip is locked around your waist, pinning you. each tight swirl sends sparks shooting through your belly, coiling harder and harder. he watches you crumble with a dark, heady look in his eye.

your thighs seize, cunt clenching and fluttering around him, pulsing fast and hot. “oh— rafe— can’t,—”

“that’s it,” he hisses, fucking you right through it, pace stuttering as you clamp down on him so tight it steals the breath from his lungs. “god damn, baby— feel that? fuckin’— yeah, this pussy’s all mine.”

you collapse fully into the sheets, body trembling, eyes unfocused as his hips stutter. it’s messy now, desperate, the sound of it even filthier as your cunt creams around him. “fuck,” rafe chokes, harsh as his grip turns bruising again, his thrusts going ragged. “so fuckin’ tight— gonna— shit.”

you feel him spill deep inside, thick and hot, his whole body pressed over yours as he lets it out, “goddamn, baby…” he breathes hard against your back.

he stays there for a long moment — chest heaving, cock still twitching inside you. one hand fists in the comforter beside your head, the other smoothing down your spine now, slow and possessive.

the bed dips under his weight when he finally moves to your side, and his hand finds your back again, “bet you won’t laugh at him again,” he mutters, not quite serious — a faint smirk tugging at his lips when he pulls out, a mixture of your and his spend oozing out slow and thick. you whimper at the loss, hips tilting slightly.

it drips lazily, slick and warm down your thighs, and his eyes drag over it like he’s trying to burn the sight into his brain. you let out a hazy giggle, burying your face in the crook of his arm when he shifts closer. “mmm… dunno rafey, like the way it feels after…”

warnings: suggestive content, non-explicit intimacy, touching through clothing, reader on her knees between Anakin’s thighs, physical closeness, clingy behavior, emotional tension, begging/submissive behavior.

he’d been hunched over the edge of the bunk for a while now, elbows digging into his spread knees, hands busy with some half fried piece of ship scrap he’d sworn he could salvage. his brows are pinched, lower lip caught between his teeth.

you’d been on the bed, curled up watching him work, stare drifting down from the line of his throat to the broad spread of his shoulders. it wasn’t fair the way he’d sit. legs spread so easy, boots planted wide, all that space between his thighs just there.

it starts as a stupid impulse. you shift, sit up, pad over, bare knees sinking into the cool durasteel floor. you tell yourself you’re just gonna lean against his leg, maybe rest your head there, just be close. but then your palm slides up his thigh, heat seeping into your bones, and it feels too good — feels right in that deep, humiliating way you can’t explain.

“ani…” it barely makes the air move and your breath catches on it, cheeks already warm before you even do anything. you watch the slow flex of his thighs as he shifts. so close, so inviting.

he glances at you for a second before his jaw flexes and he flickers back to what he was doing, adjusting a wire, voice coming in distracted, “hi there, sweetheart.”

you swallow, your thumb brushing at the seam of his pants. “you’ve been busy a long time,” you say, almost sulky. your lashes lower, and your other hand drifts to his opposite thigh, splaying over the muscle there.

“just a few more minutes, my love,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “i’m almost finished.” you nod, but the motion’s small, distracted. your cheek sinks lower against the inside of his thigh, and your hand rests near the dip of his hip, thumb caught right on the seam of his waistband, and the longer you stay there, the harder it is to pretend you’re not begging.

the fabric of his pants is warm beneath your palm, worn soft from use. your fingertips twitch, unable to stay still as you begin to gently knead over the firm muscle of his thigh, dragging up again — not bold, not greedy, just restless.

“you’re so warm,” you whisper, barely audible. his hand drops from the scrap, clothed hand brushing over your shoulder — thumb lingering at the base of your neck. not stopping you, simply feeling you.

“just wanna be close,” you frown, voice barely there. his reply comes just as quiet, “aren’t you already?” he teases with a chuckle.

but it’s not close enough — at least to you. not when you can feel him, solid and too composed while your own palms tremble against the meat of his thighs, pressing higher, dragging slow.

your fingers trace the edge of his waistband now, bolder by a hair. you’re not sure what you’re asking for, only that you need something more. “ani.”

his thumb starts to move, lazy little strokes over your skin. “you’re clingy tonight, my love” he murmurs.

you don’t argue or deny. just press in closer, cheek nestled right between his thighs, your hands creeping higher like they’ve got a mind of their own. soft touches. subtle. but no less desperate.

your breath fans out across the front of his pants, warm and shaky, and you’re not even thinking anymore — just moving. letting instinct tug you in, letting the heat in your cheeks guide your mouth down where it’s been wanting to go.

it starts soft. just a slow, breathy drag of your mouth over the soft bulge, heat pooling in your belly the moment your lips meet the fabric. not a kiss. not even firm. just a little brush. a press. a want — your jaw going slack with it.

he makes a noise, low in his throat, restrained. but you feel his hand falter, scrap slipping loose from his grip, his other hand whitening around the object.

he stills. only a second. then there’s this sharp inhale through his nose, his hand tightening slightly where it rests on you. you feel the shift in his focus like a current.

his hand moves, not far, just enough to rest along the side of your face, thumb brushing your temple in a slow circle. his gaze is molten — soft and unreadable and too much at once. “you make it very hard to concentrate, sweetheart.”

“you told me,” you pause, batting your eyelashes, “that i could always ask for what i want.”

HOLD YOU ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

warning: implied drug use, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional codependency, hurt/comfort, self loathing?, typical rafe stuff... let me know if you would like me to add more!

you were half watching reruns on the living room couch and chewing gummy bears one by one with lazy bites, when the door slams like a gunshot, loud and sudden. your hand freezes mid air, gummy bears sticking to your fingers. the air shifts. everything stills.

it rattles the frame, the sound hitting your chest like a bullet. he doesn’t say anything. not right away. just storms right past the living room and you, pacing back and forth like some sort of animal, trembling fingers digging into his hair like he was about to start clawing his own brain out.

“rafe?” you call, cautious and unsure. the way you always seemed to talk when he got like this.

no answer. just him, muttering under his breath, jaw clenching and teeth grinding when he stops his string of profanities about it all.. his father, his sister, and then the pogues.

you sit up slow, afraid if you moved too quickly you might spook him. suddenly you felt cold all over as you get up and round the corner. hesitantly, you follow the sound of his heavy breathing. “rafe?” you repeat.

AFTER HOURS ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

warnings: slight suggestive content at the end.

you finish work first. you try, at first, to be patient — curled up in clark’s oversized blazer, legs tucked under you, watching the lamplight catch on the frames of his glasses. the newsroom is quieter at night, but boredom still itches under your skin, and boredom always makes you restless. and restlessness, with clark this close, always turns soft and needy for attention.

you’d already been a bit of a handful earlier: grumbling about the late shift, whining that you were hungry, tapping your foot until clark finally ordered your favorite takeout without even asking. now your tummy’s warm, your eyelids a little heavy, and your hearts too full to sit still.

you scoot closer at first, draping yourself over the arm of his chair. but it isn’t enough — so you shift again, a little hesitantly, and clamber into his lap instead, knees folding at either side of him until you settle there.

“finished already?” clark asks without looking up, gentle, fingers still moving on the keys.

“mhm,” you hum, your lips brushing his shoulder. “but you’re still working.” it comes out poutier than you mean it to, and duck your head a little.

“just a few more lines, baby,” he murmurs, half smiling even as his eyes stay on the screen. his hand slips off the keyboard for a second to smooth over your waist, thumb rubbing idle circles. “promise i’ll be all yours in a minute.”

you nod, though it’s lazy and a little reluctant, leaning closer so your cheek rests against the curve of his neck. the glow of the monitor softens the sharpness of his profile, and something about it makes your chest squeeze up all warm.

your lashes flutter as you watch him type — the steady click of keys, the faint furrow in his brow when he thinks. after a beat, you tilt forward, pressing a soft, absent minded kiss to the side of his neck where you know he’ll feel it the most. it isn’t pushy, just gentle, unable to help yourself.

you nestle your nose under his jaw and let out a tiny sigh, warm and content, and clark’s heart squeezes so hard he can’t help but pause. his shoulders soften, and he dips his head toward you, cheek brushing against your hair.

“you’re gonna make me lose my place, honey,” he chuckles, but then he hesitates, gaze flickering back to the glowing screen — and he decides, just for a second, to let the words wait.

his hand cups your cheek, thumb warm against your skin, tilting your face up just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. then another to your temple. when you blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness, he can’t help it. he leans in, mouth catching yours in something fuller, warmer than he’d meant. it’s always easy to let it get away, especially with clark. his lips part against yours, his other hand finding your waist where you’re still perched in his lap.

you draw back after a breath, giggling against his mouth. “clark,” you mumble, the sound muffled, “you’re never gonna finish,” its almost teasing, but your eyes are bright and sparkling.

he lets out a low, sheepish laugh, forehead still resting against yours. “i know, i know,” he whispers, but his thumb is still stroking your skin, and there’s something a little helpless in the way his gaze keeps dropping to your lips. “just… needed a quick minute with you, s’ all.”

but clark doesn’t turn back to the screen — not really. because then he’s leaning in again, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then one a little lower, at the hinge of your jaw. his hand slides from your cheek down to your neck, thumb brushing over the pulse.

“should finish,” he speaks, but his mouth keeps chasing yours anyway — another gentle kiss, then one a little deeper that pulls a quiet sound from your throat.

you swallow hard, nodding to his words. “then finish,” you whisper quietly, fingers still curled in his shirt, “so we can go home… and you can keep kissing me there.”

something fond and achy tugs in the pools of his eyes. “yeah,” he whispers back, quiet and warm. “okay.” he smiles.

୨୧ mean jim teasing you

warnings: light edging, orgasm denial, mean!jim but canon‑compliant, fingering, beggingish and whimpering, established relationship, slight teasing, sexual content ahead please no minors past this point!

you’re already pressed close to him, perched on his lap as his hand already rests on your waist, long fingers ready to peel your work skirt off. “you sure about this, honey?” jim mumbles, voice low and so caring it makes your stomach twist up. “you get all shaky when i even hold you a little too tight.”

your lashes flutter; you can’t help it. “i want you to,” you confess, the words catching on a hiccupy breath. “even if it makes me all shaky.”

and god, he does want to. wants to see you squirm and shiver under his hands — but he’s still jim, all soft edges and worried glances. his thumb brushes under your chin, lifting it so you have to look him in the eye.

“you say that, but you’re already trembling,” he teases, voice gone a little rougher now. “you don’t even know what you’re askin’ for, do you?”

your face goes hot, but you nod anyway, lip caught between your teeth. “… just wanna feel you,” you breathe, small and needy, blinking up at him like you might cry if he says no.

you watch his throat bob with a swallow, jaw tightening like he’s fighting something off, but it’s useless. jim’s always been weak for the way you look at him, all soft and wrecked before he’s even touched you properly.

“okay, sweet girl. c’mere,” he murmurs, his hands slide up, palms broad and warm, dragging over your ribs. you twitch at the contact, lashes fluttering so hard they nearly catch in your brows.

“such a mess already,” jim mumbles, low. it’s more curious than cruel, but there’s something new in it too. his fingertips drag slow over your stomach, until he stops just under the hem of your skirt, trailing to where you want him most.

he doesn’t wait. thick fingers slipping in under your underwear, middle finger sliding down to feel just how wet you are. the quiet sound that leaves him is half groan, half laugh.

“god,” he exhales, pressing the pad of his finger just against your entrance, not quite pushing in. “didn’t even have to do anything, did i?”

you whimper, hips twitching, but he just tsks under his breath, finally sinking the tip of his finger inside. slow, deliberate. “stay still, alright?” he warns softly, trying it out — being stern, but still jim. still so hopelessly gentle even when he doesn’t mean to be.

he pushes two more deeper, knuckle by knuckle, until your mouth falls open around a silent gasp. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he can watch.

his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, brown eyes sparkling. “don’t go all floaty on me yet.” he commands with the typical sarcasm he always has, smirking lazily all the same.

your eyes flutter open, glazed over. he curls his fingers just enough to make your hips buck, and his lips twitch, caught between teasing and something softer.

his thumb ghosts over your lip again, almost like he wants to kiss you — but doesn’t. not yet.

he drags his finger out when you start instinctively clamping your trembling legs around his working hand, a tell-tell sign that you’re already at the crowning of your orgasm— leaving you empty, your breath coming out in a breathy whine.

“jim—”

“shh,” he soothes, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “you’ll get it back. maybe.” his tone is almost casual.

and god, the way his breath comes faster, his chest rising under your you — he wants to give in so bad, but he holds back, just for a second longer, because you asked him to… ♡

i dunno what ur reacting to but yessss oki 😜

୨୧ going on a bakery date with husband and dad clark

you’d been talking about the place all week. a little corner shop down the street, bright tiles and old booths, the glass case always fogged with sweet things you could never quite decide between. you’d walked past it a hundred times since coming home, hand resting instinctively on the stroller handle, gaze lingering a second too long on the neon sign in the window.

so when you finally ask — voice still shy around wanting things again, after months of only wanting rest and quiet and space to breathe — clark barely lets you finish the sentence.

“after work,” he promises, eyes warm behind his glasses, tie a little crooked from where you tugged him down to kiss goodbye. “we’ll go tonight.”

and he keeps his word, of course he does. he comes home later than either of you meant, his tie looser now, hair a little mussed. but he drops his bag at the door, kisses you once, twice, and holds out his hands for your daughter with that look that still softens your whole chest.

it takes barely a minute before she’s tucked close against him, strapped around and to his chest in that carrier you picked out together, her tiny face smushed sleepily against his shirt. one of her little fists curls under his tie, like she’s claiming him. clark’s palm comes up to steady her without thinking.

and then you’re out the door. together. not rushing. not worrying. just you, him, and her.

the place smells like sugar and warm butter, small enough that the three of you feel like you fill it. clark holds the door for you, careful of the stroller even though you left it folded outside, and you can feel him watching — not hovering, just making sure. always making sure.

you pick a booth by the window. him sliding in across from you, baby still nestled to his chest, and the sight of him there — work shirt rolled to his elbows, glasses slightly askew, wedding ring catching the soft overhead light — its all enough to make your breath catch.

you talk, rambling about the new flavors on the menu, a silly video you saw earlier, how your neighbor finally fixed his porch light. clark listens like there’s nothing else in the world. his eyes loving, mouth tilted into that small, private smile he only ever wears for you.

when your daughter stirs, he’s already on it: palm smoothing gently over her back, voice dropping even softer — “hey, sweetheart. it’s okay. daddy’s here.” he assures, the words so easy, so tender it makes your throat tighten.

and then back to you, without missing a beat.

“sorry, what were you saying sweetheart? the strawberry one? you should get it. i know you’ve been craving it.”

you end up sharing, fork passed back and forth, his big hands careful not to jostle the baby too much. powdered sugar dusts your fingertips and he brushes it away, thumb lingering on your knuckles.

he listens to everything: your half finished sentences, your worries about going back to work, the story you’re telling even though you keep forgetting where you left off. and the whole time, the baby’s tucked right there against his chest, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

when it’s time to leave, he stands first, adjusting the strap gently so she stays snug and comfortable. even carrying her, he still holds the door open for you, his free hand reaching for yours, certain.

outside, under the soft streetlight glow, he leans down, forehead brushing yours. “was that good?” he asks, voice a little hoarse from the day. you just nod, your eyes wet without meaning to. “yeah,” you breathe. “it was perfect.”