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[skzvibes-blog]

The Babel Corridor - Part. 2

If you want me to tag you in the last part, let me know :) (And if I tag you in this part, let me know if you want me to tag you in the other one too).

Invisible - Part 1

Clark Kent x female reader

Synopsis: Weeks pass as you distance yourself from Clark Kent, convinced he never truly sees you. But when Perry assigns you to guide Adam Hall, a charming journalist from London, Clark starts noticing things he had never dared to admit—especially the way you smile at someone else the way you once smiled at him.

Warnings: angst, jealousy, reader distancing, mention of self-esteem issues, workplace tension, introduction of third party (mild love triangle vibes)

WC: 5,300 words approx.

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Thus the days passed, then weeks. You found yourself ignoring Clark with a painful but necessary discipline. You learned not to look at his gestures, not to expect smiles, not to imagine attentions that would never come. You had always been the observer, and now you decided to give that up too: a rest for your heart after so many accumulated disappointments in life.

You sank into a simple routine: arrive at work, do your duty, and go straight home. You allowed yourself a smile with Jimmy, a conversation with Lois —who, surprisingly, helped you get passes to exclusive restaurants—, but nothing more. You understood that your world should not revolve around someone who did not revolve around you.

“To my office,” ordered Perry, pointing at you from the doorway.

You looked at him with tiredness. Autumn had left with Halloween, and now Christmas decorations hung from the walls with twinkling lights. For some reason, they seemed less cruel. You stood up and followed him.

“Are you going to fire me?” you asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Perry let out a deep laugh.

“You’re the only one who manages to make me laugh,” he said sarcastically.

You smiled with slight relief, until he raised a finger asking for patience.

“Give me a second.” He picked up the phone. “Karen, put him through.”

He set the receiver down and turned back to you with seriousness.

“Your restaurant reviews have been excellent. So much so that the Metropolitan Gazette of London wants to collaborate with us. They want to cover Metropolis’s gastronomic side, to show the cultural diversity here, ‘the Babel Corridor.’”

Your eyes widened.

“The Gazette?” you asked, almost breathless. “That’s… impossible. The mixed-restaurant district is chaos. There are too many.”

“I know,” said Perry, raising his eyebrows. “You’re not going to cover them one by one. In fact, it’s not for you to investigate them, but because you yourself will be the one interviewed.”

Your surprise barely had time to settle when the door opened.

“There you are, boy!” exclaimed Perry with enthusiasm, rising from his chair. You turned, and your breath caught in your chest.

A man with green eyes and light blond hair stood in front of you, wearing a cordial smile and an outstretched hand.

“She’s the one I was telling you about,” Perry explained, introducing you with evident pride. “She’s excellent.”

“Adam Hall, food reporter for the Gazette of London,” the blond man introduced himself, shaking your hand with firmness and contagious warmth.

“Nice to meet you,” you murmured, still confused, glancing at Perry as if waiting for clarification.

The editor adjusted his glasses and explained:

“Adam will stay for a week. Enough to write a feature on Metropolis’s Babel Corridor. We’ll have a section in London to show how diverse our city is. I want you to be his guide. He’ll interview you, and it will be a formal collaboration. Can I trust you?”

You took a deep breath, swallowed your initial doubt, and finally nodded with determination.

“Of course, of course I can.”

Adam smiled with satisfaction, releasing your hand with an elegant gesture.

“I’m sure it will be a fantastic experience.”

Perry smiled, pleased, and slapped the desk with his palm.

“Then I’ll leave it in your hands. Go ahead.”

Adam nodded. You did too. And, for the first time in weeks, you felt that something in your life was opening up to a new path that had nothing to do with Clark Kent.

You left Perry’s office and were still trying to process what had happened. Adam walked beside you with an enchanting natural ease, carrying his notebook and with a calm smile on his face. He was a stranger in Metropolis, but he seemed to fit in like a fish in water.

The newsroom was in its usual bustle: phones ringing, reporters arguing over headlines, keyboards clattering like an army. Jimmy was the first to lift his head from his desk when he saw you approaching.

“Hey!” he greeted with that smile that always seemed a little mischievous. “And who are you? A new Planet recruit?”

You stepped forward.

“Jimmy, this is Adam Hall, food reporter for the Gazette of London. We’re going to collaborate with them.”

Adam extended his hand with a friendly gesture.

“A pleasure, Jimmy. I’ve heard a lot about the Daily Planet’s photography section.”

Jimmy’s eyes lit up.

“Really?” he asked, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. “Well, well… I suppose it was about time someone over in London recognized my talent.”

“Of course,” Adam laughed, playing along with ease.

Lois appeared behind, adjusting her jacket while organizing some papers.

“What’s all the fuss about here?” she asked, looking up.

“Lois, this is Adam Hall,” you said calmly, careful to sound confident. “He’s from the Gazette of London for a feature on Metropolis’s Babel Corridor.”

Lois raised her eyebrows, surprised, and immediately smiled with that natural confidence that characterized her.

“Wow, London.” She shook his hand firmly. “Welcome to the chaos of the loudest city on the planet. I hope you’re ready.”

Adam let out a soft laugh.

“I have the best guide, so I think I’ll survive.”

Lois looked at you and nodded with complicity.

“Of course. She knows every corner.”

Jimmy clicked his tongue in mock annoyance.

“I knew she’d end up going international.”

Adam smiled.

“Well, I hope you’ll show me your favorite places. Nothing better than someone who knows the city from the inside.”

You nodded, gathering your things.

“Yes, we’ll start today. Perry wants to make the most of the week.”

Lois tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and joked:

“You’ll see, Adam, this girl has a better eye for restaurants than Perry himself does for headlines.”

Jimmy chuckled softly, amused by Lois’s comment, and you only shook your head, blushing against your will.

For a second, you felt that strange sensation: the certainty that someone was watching you. You turned slowly, and there was Clark, sitting at his desk. He pretended to look through a pile of papers, but his blue eyes drifted again and again toward the group.

Your chest tightened. Was he looking at you? The thought lasted only a moment before dissipating. No… of course not. Lois, with her light laugh, was joking with Adam as if they’d known each other forever. And Clark… Clark was watching that. You knew it. It made sense: his attention always ended up on Lois.

You looked away immediately, your heart weighing like stone. You repeated the same thing you had in recent days: he doesn’t care what I do. Even if I went away with Adam to the ends of the earth, he wouldn’t even notice.

“Shall we go?” asked Adam, adjusting the notebook against his chest with that polite smile that looked like it came straight out of a magazine.

“Yes, of course,” you replied firmly, hiding any trace of what was happening inside you.

You didn’t say anything else. You simply invited him with a gesture to follow you. Jimmy raised his eyebrows, amused, as if he wanted to throw a joke at you, but you preferred to ignore him. Lois gave you an encouraging smile, and Clark… well, Clark said nothing.

Only when you passed near his desk did you dare to lift your gaze. He lowered his eyes back to his papers far too quickly.

That was enough to confirm it in your mind: it wasn’t you he was watching. It was Lois, it was always Lois.

You quickened your pace, the echo of your heels ringing loudly on the floor as you walked toward the exit with Adam at your side.

What you didn’t see was Clark’s expression in that instant. He followed you with his eyes until you crossed the door, and then his chest tightened with a pang he couldn’t conceal. He tried to go back to his papers, but the letters danced, impossible to read. The pen between his fingers finally snapped with a sharp crack; he didn’t realize it until he saw it broken in his hand.

“Why does it hurt so much?” he thought, clenching his jaw. He had convinced himself that Lois was impossible to ignore. But now, with Adam by your side, the image that haunted him wasn’t Lois laughing in the room, but you walking away without looking back.

And then the thought he had avoided for so long appeared with brutal clarity: “What if it was always you?”

He leaned back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut. The murmur of Lois talking with Jimmy reached him distantly, like background noise. It no longer filled him the way it used to. It no longer distracted him.

The Babel Corridor was a place where the streets seemed to sing in every language in the world. Mexican restaurants with the smell of freshly made corn, little French cafés with windows full of colorful macarons, Greek taverns with blue lamps, ramen stalls filling the air with steam, and even Turkish shops where the aroma of spices mixed with grilled meat.

The ground was covered with uneven cobblestones, and the hanging lights between poles gave the place a cozy atmosphere even in broad daylight. People came and went with bags of food, children running between outdoor tables, and a constant buzz that, far from chaotic, felt like the heartbeat of the city.

“This is incredible,” said Adam as he wrote in his leather notebook, his green eyes shining with excitement. “In London we have cultural zones, but here… it’s like the whole world decided to sit at the same table.”

You smiled, a little surprised by the way he described it.

“Yes. That’s why they call it the Babel Corridor. Each shop is a different voice, and if you listen closely, they all end up telling the same story: that of a city that never stops welcoming someone new.”

Adam looked at you with interest, leaning toward you.

“That sentence should go in my report. Do you mind if I use it?”

“Go ahead,” you replied with a small laugh, surprised that your words could matter so much.

As you walked among the shops, some owners greeted you from afar, recognizing you from your reviews. Adam kept watching how people treated you: a gesture of respect, a “good to see you again,” a “thanks for what you wrote.”

“Seems like you’re quite loved here,” Adam commented, with a tone almost of admiration.

You lowered your gaze with a shy smile.

“I guess at least they know I talk about them sincerely. It always happens here,” you explained. “One step and you smell curry. Three more steps and you’re already catching the aroma of Argentine empanadas. People say it’s confusing, but in reality it’s a mosaic.”

Adam took notes quickly.

In every restaurant, even if you didn’t go in, Adam asked for your opinion. Not just about the food, but about the story behind each place. “Why do you think people keep coming back here?” or “Which dish seems the most authentic to you?” And you answered naturally, forgetting your insecurities for a moment.

“Tell me,” he insisted, pulling out his recorder, “if you had to choose just one restaurant in this whole place, only one, which would it be?”

You thought for a moment, enjoying the game.

“The Lebanese one on the corner,” you finally said. “It doesn’t have the fanciest menu or the prettiest place, but they make the best pita bread in the city. Warm, soft… like it was hugging you.”

Adam chuckled softly, writing quickly.

“God, even I want to try it right now.”

Adam closed his notebook for a moment and breathed in the air, heavy with aromas.

“Definitely, this place has a soul,” he said, as if searching for words that could capture it in a headline.

“I think so,” you replied softly, looking around. The steam rising from a ramen stall mixed with the smoke from an Argentine grill, and people passed between both as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Adam leaned closer to you, curious.

“Is it always this crowded?”

“More in winter,” you explained. “People look for hot food, something that reminds them of home. Here it’s easy to find it, no matter where you come from.”

Adam smiled, lowering his eyes to his recorder.

“You also talk as if you were writing,” he said, almost amused.

You let out a small laugh.

“Habit.”

The afternoon slipped away almost without you noticing. You only managed to walk through the Babel Corridor in a general way: a quick glance at the shops, notes on the fly, promises to come back calmly. Adam insisted that the best thing would be to start tasting the next day, with the restaurants you recommended as essential.

“That’s how we do it in London,” he explained, closing his notebook with a soft snap. “But I admit that here I need an expert guide, and I already have one.”

At the end, he walked you to your apartment. At the door he stopped, with that kind smile that seemed permanent.

“Thanks for today. Really. This has been one of the most inspiring walks I’ve had.”

You didn’t know what to say; you just nodded, a little awkward.

“Tomorrow will be better,” you managed to say, and he tilted his head conspiratorially before saying goodbye.

The next morning, the office was livelier than usual. The murmur of keyboards, phones, and footsteps mixed with the smell of fresh coffee. Adam was with you, showing some of his notes. Lois and Jimmy didn’t take long to come over, curiosity shining on their faces.

“Let me see,” said Jimmy, almost snatching the notebook from your hands. “I want to go with you.”

“Jimmy, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’re only going to be a nuisance.”

“An adorable nuisance,” he replied, pulling out his camera with an exaggerated gesture. “Besides, I can take the best pictures for your article, Adam.”

Everyone laughed, even you. Your laugh came out louder than you were used to, free, clear.

“God! Even I want to try it right now,” exclaimed Lois, amused, after reading one of Adam’s descriptions.

Adam raised his eyebrows, playful.

“If you come, I promise to save you the best seat.”

“I accept,” Lois replied, high-fiving Jimmy.

Your laugh sounded again, joining the scene, while you shook your head. You didn’t notice at first the fixed gaze from the other side of the bullpen. Clark had lifted his eyes from his papers and stayed still, surprised. He had never heard your laugh so loud, so sincere. Something inside him tightened, as if he had discovered a secret he was never meant to access.

Adam flipped through his notebook when Lois, with her natural commanding style, pointed her hand toward the nearby desk.

“Clark, come here. I want to introduce you to someone,” she said energetically.

Clark stood up slowly, adjusting his glasses with that nervous gesture that always accompanied him, and walked toward the group.

“This is Adam Hall, reporter from the London Gazette,” Lois explained with a confident smile. “He’ll be with us for a week to do a food feature.”

Adam immediately extended his hand, cordial and firm.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Clark Kent.”

Clark shook it kindly, though his smile seemed to hide something else behind that polite façade.

“Welcome to the Planet. I hope the chaos doesn’t overwhelm you too much.”

Adam laughed softly.

“After yesterday at the Babel Corridor, I think nothing will surprise me.”

Jimmy, who had been watching everything with that mischievous spark in his eyes, seized the moment to intervene:

“Hey, Clark, you should come with us. It’d be great to have your opinion.”

Clark hesitated for a second, looking toward you as if waiting for your reaction. But you said nothing. You kept yourself busy reviewing Adam’s notebook, as if he weren’t there.

Lois crossed her arms, as if expecting no objection at all.

“Yes, you should,” Lois added enthusiastically, giving him a little push on the arm. “Come on, don’t hide so much.”

Clark nodded with a restrained smile, agreeing. Adam smiled, satisfied, Lois and Jimmy high-fived in celebration, and you just remained silent, jotting down directions in your planner, without exchanging a single word with him.

Because you were convinced: Clark wasn’t there for you.

The first destination was a Japanese restaurant hidden between two tall buildings. From the outside it seemed discreet, but once the door opened, the aroma of dashi broth and fresh fish filled the air. The walls were decorated with light wooden panels and paper lamps, and behind the counter the owner, a gray-haired man, looked up with a broad smile as he saw you walk in.

“Ah! Our star critic!” he exclaimed in heavily accented English, bowing slightly in respect.

Adam raised his eyebrows, intrigued, while the owner came closer to greet you.

“Your review about our ramen brought so many new people that we still feel it. I will never forget it.”

You smiled, a little embarrassed.

“I just wrote what I really tasted. People deserved to know.”

Adam quickly scribbled in his notebook, and Jimmy took the chance to snap pictures of the steaming bowls. Lois, amused, leaned toward Adam.

“You see? Our friend here is quite a food celebrity.”

Adam laughed.

“I’m starting to suspect I came to the city and she already conquered everything worth conquering.”

Your blush was inevitable, and Clark, from the other side of the table, only pressed his lips in silence.

The second destination was an Italian restaurant with wide windows and the smell of freshly baked bread. The owner, a robust man with a mustache, stopped kneading the pizza as soon as he saw you and ran to greet you.

“Signorina!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms as if you were family. “Since you wrote about our lasagna, we never lack full tables!”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” you replied, smiling sincerely.

The man almost made you sit in the kitchen to show you the ovens, while Adam, Lois, and Jimmy watched fascinated.

Adam, with a mischievous smile, joked:

“I’m going to have to take her to London. With her reviews, they’d fight for her in any newsroom over there.”

Jimmy burst out laughing.

“Don’t even joke about it, Hall. The Planet without her would be like coffee without sugar.”

Lois, amused, joined the game.

“Well, if she goes to London, I already see her turning into a full-on Brit.”

Everyone laughed. You too, shaking your head, though the joke made you think more than you wanted to.

Adam, more serious this time, looked at you directly.

“Seriously speaking… if you asked, I could get you an opportunity over there. With your talent, I don’t doubt it.”

Your eyes widened slightly. You didn’t answer right away, because the idea floated in your mind as something possible for the first time.

Lois touched your arm with enthusiasm.

“It would be a huge opportunity. Not everyone gets into the Gazette.”

That was when Clark, who had been silent throughout the whole tour, spoke. His voice was firm, without needing to raise it much:

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to the Daily Planet. She’s not going anywhere.”

The air at the table grew tense. Jimmy and Lois looked at him in surprise, Adam raised an amused eyebrow, and you stayed still.

Clark lowered his gaze for a moment, as if regretting being so blunt, but then added calmly:

“That’s what Perry says.”

For a moment, no one knew what to say. You lowered your eyes to your plate, your heart pounding, not quite understanding why that sudden defense had left you speechless.

The Italian restaurant was filled with warm aromas: freshly baked bread, bubbling tomato sauce, and a touch of oregano that lingered in the air. As they kept eating, the conversation flowed lightly. Adam asked quick questions between bites, Lois threw witty remarks, and Jimmy kept looking for angles for his photographs.

But you noticed something else. Every time Adam leaned a little closer to you to speak, every time his hand brushed the table nearer to yours, Clark’s fork would come to a halt. He said nothing, but you could feel it: that stillness, that tension, like an invisible thread only you could perceive.

When you glanced up sideways, you caught him watching you. It wasn’t the calm, serene gaze he usually wore; there was a different intensity in it, as if behind his glasses he was hiding a question he didn’t dare to ask.

You shook your head slightly, as if to chase the thought away. You’re imagining things, you told yourself. Clark was in love with Lois—he always had been. That spark you thought you saw was nothing more than a reflection of your own confusion.

And yet, every time Adam smiled at you and Clark fell silent all at once, the doubt began to grow again.

Suddenly, the owner’s wife appeared from the kitchen with a radiant smile and an extra tray in her hands.

“This is for you,” she said to you, placing several carefully wrapped containers. “A small gift to take home. After your review, we never lacked work. It’s the least I can do.”

You blushed, lowering your head slightly.

“Thank you, really, it wasn’t necessary.”

“Of course it was,” the woman replied, giving your arm a light pat. “You will always be welcome here.”

Adam smiled, fascinated by the scene.

“Jimmy, can you take a picture of this?” he asked, pointing at the tray and at you with a gesture.

Jimmy raised the camera and snapped several times. In one of them, without meaning to, you ended up looking at Adam right as he tasted a piece of pasta and gave a playful thumbs-up.

“Well, you two look like a couple,” Lois blurted out between laughs, looking at the picture on Jimmy’s screen.

You laughed nervously, shaking your head.

“Oh, please.”

Adam only raised his eyebrows with mischief.

“Well, I could get used to having such good company in my photos.”

Everyone laughed. Everyone, except Clark.

He took Jimmy’s camera a second later, curious. And when he saw that image, the air caught in his lungs. That look you gave Adam… it wasn’t new. It was the same one you had once given him, in the most unexpected moments. A careful, gentle look, charged with something he never dared to decipher.

He had always thought you avoided him, that you rejected him in silence, that maybe you resented him for something he never understood. But when he saw that photograph, he realized he had been wrong. You had never hated him. Maybe you kept your distance because you felt something more and didn’t know how to handle it—and he, out of fear or clumsiness, never dared to say anything or find out why.

And now… now he understood that maybe he had been blind all this time.

He lifted his gaze to you. You were still speaking animatedly with Adam, while he pulled out the recorder and asked you to repeat the description of a dish in your own voice. Your lips curved into a natural smile, light and effortless. And in that instant, a knot tightened in his stomach.

And just as it had happened for the past month, Lois was no longer on his mind. It wasn’t her laughter that haunted him, it wasn’t her words that anchored him. It was you. That smile, the way your eyes lit up when you focused on something, that unspoken bond you now seemed to share with Adam—and not with him.

Clark gripped the camera tightly in his hands. He didn’t understand how it had happened, but he knew with certainty: it was no longer Lois who left him breathless. It was you. And the simple awareness of it, right there, in front of everyone, hit him with the force of a train.

He swallowed hard and looked away, trying to pull himself together. But every burst of laughter that spilled from your lips alongside Adam pierced him like a cruel reminder: he was losing you.

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This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.

Tags: @moondustfairies @nbhrhn @linichb13 @rissareader @strawberri-blonde @sweetstrawberrianne @coventina2001 @nelliebug18 @n4stygyal @friedunknownphantom @rainymitskicain @no4names @ryu-nixhyd @2trentchcoatsinakid @justheretoreadmydear @miss-miwmew @iyskgd @pet1t3 @lllllljjjj @plushleif @wowzabowza69 @mrs-cactus69 @nina357 @mmminvo @littlebleepsstuff @asraisfluffy @iangelofmusic @winterassassin1804 @re1daway @212functions @clarkkentsmuse @sflame15-blog @evol-venus-fly-trap @winterswift @ckdouble44 @shimaduhh @cypherpt5fttaehyung @cksupermanfichouse @britttzy267 @patchs-curiosity-corner @amandinhagg @blackqueengold

[skzvibes-blog]

El padre de checo Pérez está gaga

[skzvibes-blog]

Leclerc es la persona más sobrevalorada del planeta

[skzvibes-blog]

Hello, I truly, deeply love your way of writing. It's simply amazing. I have just one idea, only if you feel comfortable writing it: what if the reader had some kind of postpartum anemia and somehow managed to hide it from Clark? And I can't stop saying how much I love your writing. I hope you have a great day, afternoon, or night (depending on when you're reading this)!

Sorry if my English is terribly written, honestly, it's not a language I'm very good at.<3

Here’s this request, I absolutely loved writing it. I’m still accepting more requests of any kind, so feel free to send yours! ✨

Two Missions

Clark Kent x female reader

WC: 5,300 words approx.

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The arrival of little Meredith into Clark’s life and yours had been a true blessing. After so many doubts and difficulties during the pregnancy, finally seeing her in your arms, breathing strongly and crying with healthy lungs, was like hearing the sweetest melody. Her cries were a sign of life, of strength, of being well. Clark couldn’t take his eyes off her: he held her with tenderness, covered her forehead and cheeks with soft kisses, and at the same time tried to take care of you, making sure you lacked nothing. In his eyes shone an immense love, so pure, that all you could do was smile as you looked at him.

For your part, the feeling was different. Though your heart overflowed with joy, your body felt weak and exhausted. The pregnancy had been hard, much more than you expected, and bringing into the world a baby who inherited the nature of a metahuman had meant an enormous effort for you, still being human. That difference weighed on you as a disadvantage. When Meredith was born, you lost too much blood. The doctors acted immediately thanks to Bruce’s contacts, and thus no one discovered that the girl had come into the world with the same extraordinary gifts as her father. That secret kept Clark calm, though you knew the concern for you still lingered.

When you were discharged, you said with a smile that you were fine, that you felt stronger. But the truth was different: your body needed time, your energy didn’t return, and the long nights with the baby’s crying only worsened your exhaustion.

Clark spent many days staying with you, caring for you with infinite patience, but work also called him. The Daily Planet needed him, and he had to continue being Clark Kent before the world. So you took on the routine of caring for Meredith with Martha’s help, who had decided to visit you from time to time so you wouldn’t be alone.

One quiet afternoon, as the light softly entered through the dining room curtains, Martha watched you closely. You were barely pushing the food around on your plate, your dark eyes surrounded by deep circles.

“The little one is just like Clark, isn’t she?” she asked with a tender smile, tilting her head a little.

You nodded slowly, letting out a sigh.

“I try to get her to sleep… but lately it’s been getting worse,” you confessed, moving the fork between your fingers.

Martha narrowed her eyes and then fixed them on you. She saw the tremor in your hand, even though the utensil weighed nothing.

“And you? How are you, dear?” she asked softly, in a maternal tone that pierced you like an invisible hug.

“Tired,” you admitted bluntly, lowering your gaze. “But I’m fine, I just need a little rest.” You offered her a weak smile, as if wanting to reassure her.

Before she could answer, a small cry sounded from the adjoining room. Your instinct was to get up immediately, but Martha stopped you gently, placing a hand on your arm.

“I’ll take care of it, dear,” she said firmly, looking at you with sweetness. “Eat something and then go to sleep. It will do you good.”

The little one was difficult to calm. It took Martha several minutes of rocking her, walking back and forth through the room, and singing softly until the sobs finally faded and Meredith’s small body relaxed against her chest. With Clark or with you it only took an instant for the baby to find comfort, as if she recognized in the two of you the security of her world. But with patience, Martha succeeded.

When you went up to the bedroom to rest, she returned to the dining room table and noticed your empty plate. She looked up at the baby, already asleep, and couldn’t help but feel a knot in her chest. You had eaten, yes, but she saw you so weak that the unease didn’t leave her.

Hours later, the front door opened. Clark came in, taking off his jacket and leaving the briefcase to the side, with a tired smile at seeing his mother waiting for him.

“Mom,” he said softly, approaching her.

“Clark,” Martha replied, returning the smile. She hesitated a moment before speaking. “Your father is waiting for me, I must go… but first I wanted to ask you something.”

Clark frowned curiously. “What is it?”

Martha faltered. She didn’t want it to seem like she was criticizing her daughter-in-law, but she loved you too much to stay silent. “Do you know if your wife is eating well?”

Confusion reflected on Clark’s face. “Well… I think so. I’m not with her all day, but when I leave in the morning I prepare her food, everything you told me was good for her. And when I come back I make dinner. She always says she’s fine…”

Martha interrupted him gently. “And does she really eat it?”

Clark lowered his voice, thoughtful. “The truth is… I always find the food almost untouched. She says she had a snack, that she wasn’t hungry. Why do you ask?”

Martha sighed. “Today I was with her almost all day. She’s very pale, Clark, and exhausted. The baby cries too much and she barely sleeps. Her body is more fragile than you imagine. I think you should take her to the doctor, son.”

Clark’s heart tightened at hearing her. “I will, Mom. I promise,” he replied seriously, kissing her forehead before saying goodbye.

When Martha left, the silence of the house grew heavier. Clark slowly climbed the stairs, his steps almost unsure. He carefully opened the bedroom door and saw you there, lying on the bed, wrapped in the sheets. Your breathing was calm, but your skin looked even paler under the dim light of the lamp. In the crib, Meredith slept deeply, for the first time in a long while.

Clark left his shoes by the door and approached quietly. His gaze went first to the girl, making sure she was fine. Then, inevitably, he focused on you. His soul shrank at seeing how your body seemed smaller in your sleepwear, as if you had lost weight in just a few days.

With an almost involuntary gesture, he used his vision to look inside you. He checked your lungs, your liver, your heart. The image struck him: your heart was beating with a slow, weak rhythm. The exhaustion was leaving real marks on your body.

You stirred at feeling a weight on the bed. You opened your eyes slowly and saw him sitting next to you, watching you in silence. You smiled weakly and sat up carefully. Clark smiled too and leaned down to leave a kiss on your forehead, another on your cheek, and finally on your lips, making you let out a small laugh.

“Did Martha leave already? What a shame… I fell asleep,” you said softly, and Clark shook his head.

“She told me you haven’t been eating,” he replied bluntly.

You nodded without trying to hide it. “I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later,” you said in a murmur.

At that moment, a small babble came from the crib. The baby had felt her parents’ presence. Clark immediately stood up, went to her, and picked her up carefully. You looked at him tenderly, though a slight furrow of your brows betrayed you: a dizziness ran through your body again, forcing you to blink hard.

“Are you okay?” Clark asked when he noticed, his voice full of concern.

You opened your eyes with effort and nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t fully reach your eyes.

Clark didn’t say anything else, but the way he looked at you was clear. You knew he wasn’t convinced. You knew he wasn’t going to let it go.

And so it was. The next morning, Clark got up early. He dressed quickly, combed his hair simply, and then gently caressed your arm to wake you up.

“Love, change into something comfortable,” he said softly.

Although you were still sleepy, you nodded and obeyed. While you got dressed, Clark prepared the semi-elastic wrap he had bought weeks earlier to carry Meredith. He placed the little one against his chest, settled her with patience, and covered her carefully, knowing that outside the air was cool. The scene was so tender that you couldn’t help but smile, despite how tired you were: your husband, with his daughter asleep against him, looked like the perfect image of a protective father.

The three of you went out together. Clark walked by your side, keeping a calm pace so you wouldn’t get exhausted. They finally reached the hospital. The day became long between white hallways, waiting rooms, and medical tests. You had blood tests done, and in the middle of everything, you had to feed the baby. Clark helped you settle, holding your bag, offering you water, giving you space. When you finished, he even stepped out for a moment to bring you something to eat: a milkshake and a sandwich.

“Just the milkshake…” you said, refusing the solid food with a tired smile. Clark didn’t insist out loud, but in his eyes, a growing concern was clear.

At last, the doctor received you. Clark came in with Meredith asleep on his chest, adjusting the wrap as if it were natural. The doctor looked at you both and smiled kindly.

“First-time parents, right?” he asked as he greeted you.

“Yes,” Clark answered with a proud smile.

“It shows,” said the doctor amused, then he grew serious. He took the test results and reviewed them in silence. Clark instinctively took your free hand while holding the baby with the other. His fingers pressed yours gently, as if trying to give you courage.

The doctor sighed before speaking. “Well, Mrs. Kent…” he looked up at you. “The results show that you have anemia. It’s quite common in women who just had their first baby, especially if there was blood loss during childbirth. But it’s important to treat it.”

You felt your cheeks warm, and you turned your gaze toward Clark, who was now watching you with a furrowed brow.

“Tell me,” the doctor continued, “have you felt dizziness, fatigue, or shortness of breath?”

You lowered your head, nervously playing with your fingers. “Yes… when I carry the baby, I lose my breath, and… sometimes I have to stop to calm myself because I feel like I’m going to faint,” you confessed. “And I don’t have much appetite…” you added in a lower voice.

You noticed how Clark let go of your hand to adjust Meredith’s position in the wrap, but it felt more like a gesture of contained anger than a necessary movement. You had no doubt: he was upset that you hadn’t told him anything before.

The doctor took notes and nodded firmly. “All right. The important thing is that we know now. We’ll start a full treatment. I’ll give you B12 vitamins, an iron supplement, and also a medication that will help increase your appetite. Don’t worry, it’s safe for breastfeeding. Also, you must rest much more and change your diet a bit. Eating red meat, green vegetables, and iron-rich foods will be essential.”

Clark listened carefully, every word seemed to sink into him. Finally, the doctor also looked at him. “And Mr. Kent, it’s vital that you support her. She needs someone to take care of her so she can recover soon.”

Clark nodded immediately.

The walk back home felt heavier than usual. You barely spoke, and although you didn’t dare look at him directly, you felt the warmth of his hand intertwined with yours, hidden inside his sweater so you wouldn’t feel cold. Clark didn’t say a word; he just walked by your side, his silence full of thoughts.

When you arrived, the first thing he did was place the baby in the crib. You sat on the bed, eyes fixed on the floor, feeling that the silence weighed even more than the walls around you.

“Sorry,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking. “I should have told you… you’re angry, right?” Two tears ran down your face before you could stop them.

Clark knelt in front of you and quickly wiped each tear with his thumbs. He immediately shook his head, looking at you tenderly. “I will never be angry with you,” he said firmly, his voice a little shaky. “I’m angry at myself. You’re my wife, I swore to take care of you when I married you… and I didn’t do it as I should have. I should have noticed, I should have looked beyond your smiles and not just rushed off to work.”

“But you already do too much, Clark,” you answered in a thread of voice. “The food, the work… and besides, I…”

Clark didn’t let you finish. “And you carried our daughter for nine months, endured every movement, every kick. You went through the pain of childbirth, and still, you smile. We both knew it would be hard, but it doesn’t weigh on me. Because this—” he leaned closer to you, taking your hands between his “—is what I always dreamed of. Having a family with you. I just don’t want you to get sick. I’m going to take care of you more, and I need you to do your part too.”

Your eyes filled with tears again, but this time you nodded. “Thank you…” you whispered, caressing his face with your palm. Clark covered it with his hand, warm and firm, and you leaned in to kiss him. The kiss was slow, full of love and relief, and luckily Meredith let you enjoy that moment without interrupting.

That diagnosis was enough for Clark to act immediately. That very afternoon-evening, he went out and came back loaded with several bags: fruits, fresh vegetables, vitamins, medicines, even bottles —even though they didn’t need them yet— and even small heat patches to ease your muscle pains. He had thought of every detail, everything that could help you feel better.

From then on, Clark never let his guard down. He cared for you every moment: he had breakfast with you before leaving, video-called you at lunchtime to make sure you were really eating, and always had dinner by your side, even if he came home exhausted from work. In less than two months, thanks to his consistency and your effort, your energy began to return. Your face regained its natural glow, your body looked stronger, and even your smiles were more genuine.

Clark noticed, and in silence he gave thanks every day for being able to see you standing, recovered, with Meredith asleep in your arms. For him, it was clear that he had two missions in life: to take care of his daughter… and to take care of you.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.

[skzvibes-blog]

if you hate franco you'll start coughing in three days

[skzvibes-blog]

Second Option (two)

Summary: You are totally smitten with Clark, but he's too busy hung up on Lois to notice.

Pairing: Clark Kent X fem!reader

One

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were all giddy from your time spent with Clark. I mean, of course you spent sometime together as coworkers but not as friends, not really. The excitement from the previous night radiated through you with a spring in your step as you went to work the next morning.

You hoped that maybe this would be the start of something new between you two. And there was a certain shift in the atmosphere. You usually arrive at work early before most people, and Clark is almost always late, but Perry let's him off because he comes with Superman's interviews.

This morning you had the pleasure of watching Clark walk into the office and straight to your desk, something he doesn't usually do.

"Hi," he towered over your desk, fiddling with his bag strap. You always found his shyness cute.

"Hi, Clark," you smiled, peering up at him, "how are you?"

"I-I'm good thanks and you?" His lopsided smile complemented his ocean blue eyes beautifully in the morning sunlight.

"I'm great," you said.

Clark cleared his throat before continuing, "That's good. Uhm, I just wanted to thank you for last night. I had a good time."

"It's no biggy, really. I had good time too," your smile remained on your face.

"Yeah. Uh, okay," Clark said before heading to his desk, clumsily hitting the corner of yours and sputtering an apology.

"What happened last night?" Came Jimmy's voice from beside you.

You turned your chair and kicked him away from you, causing his chair to roll back, almost crashing into Steve who was passing by.

"Hey, watch it!" Steve yelled at him.

"Sorry," Jimmy said but it didn't sound like he meant it. Then he gave you an unimpressed look but you stuck your tongue out at him and mouthed 'gossip.' He rolled his eyes and got back to his desk.

Clark did indeed pay more attention to you afterwards. Brief interactions turned into small talk. A small nod and the lift of the corner of his lip acknowledged you whenever your eyes met. But it was nothing close to what you really wanted. Because as soon as Lois apologized for forgetting his birthday he went straight back to pining after her with his golden retriever energy.

You weren't surprised though. You didn't expect Clark to hold a grudge. He was not that kind of guy. So you became good friends even though your heart wanted more.

But nothing could have prepared you for the confirmation of your worst nightmare. At one of your 'work hangouts' as you called your after hours gatherings with your coworkers, you had one too many virgin cocktails recommended by Jimmy. You had quite a lot so you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom when your bladder felt like it was going to burst.

But just as you turned around a corner heading to the bathroom, you paused in your tracks when you saw Clark, kissing Lois. Your heart stopped and your mouth hung agape.

It's not like you didn't see it coming, but being faced with the reality, it was like someone punched through your ribcage, grabbed your heart and ripped it out of your chest. The air became too thick and your face felt hot like you had eaten one of the world's hottest chilies. You had to get away.

You turned on your heel, bathroom all but forgotten.

"Hey, you want me to order you another cocktail?" Jimmy asked when you got back to the table you were seated at.

"Sorry, Jimmy. I have to go," you didn't look at him as you spoke. Your body was on autopilot. You grabbed your bag and left without an explanation.

➡️

You closed the door of your apartment and leaned your back against it. The drive home was a blur. It was a miracle you didn't get into any accidents. You dropped your bag by your feet and slapped your hand to your mouth trying to control your shaky breath. But that didn't help when the tears started falling. You didn't think it would hurt this bad.

You slid down the door, hugged your knees to your chest and cried your heart out. Nothing but your sobs and sniffs filling the air in your apartment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm doing the best I can to post these quickly but I also don't want it to be too rushed.

Tags: @10ava01 @oceansstone @cumuluscranium @shadowqueen1322 @chloemehchloe @cottagecorebabeyy-blog @numberonerwitch @patchs-curiosity-corner @lalameors @loreperseus @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @canine-main @moonynaturesethetic @fragulaura @animegamerfox @mega-kittyglitter-1 @luckycrystal @emmal0129 @dreamyyclark @passerbyyye @jannesyjane @c4ssi4-luv @iyskgd @daeb820

NB: If you're tagged here you will automatically be tagged in the upcoming chapters. If you're not tagged just comment with your username.

[skzvibes-blog]

Guitar Pick 2 || college!conrad x fem reader

masterlist

request

part 1

summary: conrad brings you to cousins, everyone knows about your relationship except belly, who has a huge crush on conrad

pairing: college!conrad x fem!reader

warnings: angst, ends with fluff, jealous belly, steven being a good best friend

wc: 2.2k

here’s part 2 :)i changed it up from the request! i hope y’all enjoy im writing some more pieces for y’all !! i ended up not putting smut i hope you understand.

It’s been almost 10 months with conrad. After he asked you out at college, you both instantly hit it off. You learned all about his life and how he grew up in a home with his mom having cancer and her passing away last year and his dad cheating on her. But soon enough after he was a quiet guy he thought it was time to start opening up. He learned about your family and how they always didn’t believe in you so you proved them wrong. He has never been happier.

You met steven and jeremiah one night they came to visit you and conrad. And you instantly hit it off with them, especially steven. He became one of your closest friends when you hung out with him, conrad, and jeremiah. It was a fully platonic friendship. He was there for you and you were there for him. Conrad enjoyed that you got along with them so well. You 4 hung out as much as possible and they loved you and were happy conrad finally found someone that made him happy.

Conrad invited you to his beach house for the first time. He always talked about it and offered for you to come, but you didn’t wanna intrude. You finally said yes to visiting, one problem. Isabel, or as he calls her Belly, had a huge crush on conrad. Since they were kids. He never liked her back, never thought of her that way, but everyone knew that she was in love with him. And here he was bringing you to the one place she was at. One condition, conrad and you both decided to act as friends at cousins so he could break the news easily to her. So your mission was to act as just friends as possible.

“sorry about the whole belly situation.” conrad’s hand rested on your thigh his fingers tapping against your skin

“no, no. it’s okay i understand, you don’t want to hurt her.” you turned your head and smiled at him

“i promise i’ll tell her.” that was the last thing he said before pulling into the driveway behind steven’s car

You didn’t know what to expect. You felt as if he grew up with her his whole life that there had to be some sort of feelings he felt for her. To be honest you didn’t know what to think

When you both got to the front door of the house he looked back at you once more before entering. This was gonna be something for sure.

“hello!” conrad yelled throughout the house

“connie” laurel— who you have seen in pictures— walks around the corner from the kitchen and pulls him into a hug before turning to you “and you must be y/n! i’m so glad conrad found a friend at Brown.” she smiled at you “he keeps to himself too much.”

“laurel.” he let out a warning tone before footsteps from upstairs banged against the floor

“y/n!” steven yelled and ran down the stairs pulling you into a hug and then resting his arm over your shoulder “mom this is who i was telling you about.” it then hit her who you really were

“oh my you’re conrad’s-“ she was cut off by belly coming around the corner

“hey conrad.” she was pretty, so much prettier in person. it made you insecure to see how perfect she was and you weren’t, he looked like he belonged with her. steven felt you shift under his arm

“i’ll show you the guest bedroom.” you didn’t say anything but followed him upstairs and saw belly get on her tippy toes to hug your boyfriend

“is that y/n?” belly questioned stepping back and you lost sight of them only hearing them now

“yeah, yeah. steven and jere thought it was a good idea to invite her because she’s been really good friends with us.

“are she and steven a thing?” you looked at steven and he almost burst out laughing but put a hand over his mouth

“fuck no,” he responded laughing and you entered the guest bedroom

“i’m sorry about him,” he admitted as you put your stuff on the bed

“it’s for the best, i guess.” you softly smiled at him “i might just take a nap until dinner, it was a long drive.”

“are you sure? we were going to go surfing?”

“no i’ll just sleep.” he nodded before leaving the room and your insecurities and sadness stayed with you

Conrad checked on you before going surfing to see you sleeping and he didn’t want to bother you. So here he was sitting on his surfboard with jere and steven.

“was she okay?” he questioned

“you’re seriously asking that?” steven laughed

“man, you know she’s not okay. i know that and i haven’t even seen her.” jeremiah splashed water around and conrad looked down at a bracelet you made him on your 3 month anniversary

“dude how would you feel, put it into perspective. if she told you, you had to act as her friend around someone who was her childhood— put that in your head— a childhood friend who was a guy and had a crush on her and she told you just to be friends around him. how would you feel?” steven looked at him as conrad messed with the bracelet before looking up at his best friend

“i’m so shitty.”

“glad that got into your small brain.” steven scoffed. “she’s the best thing that’s happened to you since your mom's death, she has made all of us happy but you especially. don’t lose that con. because what i saw in the guest bedroom was an insecure girl scared her boyfriend was going to leave her.”

You walked downstairs softly hoping belly wasn’t down there. You didn’t know if you could handle trying to act in front of her. Walking into the kitchen Laurel was measuring stuff for dinner. She looked up and smiled

“hi, y/n. the boys are surfing you’re welcome to stay and help me or watch tv. whatever you want.”

“I’d love to help you if that's okay?” laurel seemed surprised no one has ever helped her with dinner

“i’d love that. could you chop the lettuce?” she pointed to it on the cutting board

“of course, let me wash my hands.” you washed your hands and sat down at the bar starting to cut the lettuce

“don’t worry, belly went out to meet up with some girls from last year's deb ball to the boardwalk, she shouldn’t be back for the next few hours.” laurel looked down at her phone, “life 360 says she’s there right now, you can relax.” your shoulders slumped down

“i’m sorry laurel, i just don’t know what to do. belly is in love with him and it’s just a lot.”

“steven told me that he’s making you act as friends?” you nodded

“i just agreed with him, i didn’t want to upset him. and i always wanted to visit here, he told me many stories of your families and susannah.” sadness reached her eyes when you said that name

“i’m glad you came. she would love you.” she moved some ingredients to the side leaning against the counter, “steven told me about you, i just didn’t know you were you when you walked in. he told me how he has never seen conrad like this before, the smiling and the happiness. his mom's death really affected him, it affected all of us but he had the worst.”

“yeah, he’s really great. i can see when his shield is up, the car ride here he was nervous. he doesn’t wanna hurt belly.”

“she will get over it, her and jeremiah are meant for each other. susannah has known from the start.” the back door opened and the guys walked in with towels, conrad looked amazing and you always melted when he didn’t have a shirt on “hey boys, dinner will be ready in like 2 hours, belly’s out with friends.” she said that last part looking at conrad and you turned to continue chopping the lettuce

“thanks, mom, love you!” steven yelled walking up the stairs and jere followed which left one body lingering

“i’m going to go grab something from my bedroom.” laurel made an escape. conrad leaned down into you and kissed your head, which he knew you loved

“just one night, okay baby?” you looked up and him and nodded “i’m really sorry.” the heat of his breath fanned your face

“is okay,” you whispered leaning up to kiss him and he grabbed the side of your face kissing you deeper before moving his head back

“i’m gonna tell her tonight, okay?” laurel came back down the stairs winking at you

“conrad go get ready for dinner.”

“yes ma’am.” he kissed you once more and took off upstairs

Dinner went okay. There wasn’t much talking going around the table. You sat next to conrad and belly was across from him. When you looked down at your plate you could feel her eyes on you and then on conrad. Steven talked most of dinner about his new job at the county club which everyone listened.

“so y/n, you have a boyfriend back home?” belly’s question made your head pop up and you put your fork down nervously

“um, no. really not much time for that stuff with class happening.” you shifted and conrad moved his hand to rest on your thigh

“well it seems you have enough time to hang out with three guys,” she said back

“belly.” laurel said making belly sit back

“no, no. she’s right.” you smiled at the girl “my last relationship was rough, so i took a break from dating. he wasn’t the best and ruined a lot of things for me.” you truthfully said and conrad’s hand rubbed you softly knowing your past relationship

“oh, well i’m sorry.” belly looked around the table at everyone looking at her

“y/n actually plays almost every instrument!” steven put his glass down he took a sip of trying to change the subject

Dinner didn’t go on long after that. Everyone helped clean up everything and put things up before dessert. You were in the guest bedroom grabbing a sweatshirt and the door opened slightly as you see your boyfriend step through the door and walked towards you

“hey,” he stood in front of you and put his hands on your arms “you okay?” you nodded but didn’t say anything “it’s going to be okay.” he brought you closer and wrapped his arms around you kissing your forehead “look at me.” you lifted your head looking into his eyes “i love you.”

“i love you too.” he leaned down and kissed you softly but that didn’t last when a gasp came from the doorway and both of your heads looked to see belly standing there

“belly-“ conrad started to say but she cut him off

“um, dessert is ready.” she then hurried off

“i-“ he looked from you to the door then dropped his hands and took off after her making your heart drop

Of course, he would choose her. She’s the one that grew up with him his whole life. The one he got the see grown into a beautiful girl, prettier than you. She had a crush on him and was in love with him. There was no point, you felt like you were just a distraction at college, waiting for her.

You didn’t see where they went, and you didn’t go to the table for dessert. You took a walk down to the beach and down the shore before sitting down hugging your legs to your chest. As some tears went down your cheek. You didn’t want to be a second option.

You sat there for about 30 minutes before a body sat down next to you. And you knew it wasn’t your boyfriend but your best friend.

“he’s looking for you.” steven didn’t the same sitting position as you “belly’s pissed but you’re nothing compared to her, y/n.” you shook your head

“he ran after her,” you muttered into your arms

“to tell her that you were dating and didn’t want to hurt her.”

“i don’t know steven.” you looked at him

“i’ve never seen him the way he is with you. he’s happy, y/n. he talks about you 24/7 we have to ask him to shut up.” you softy laughed “he loves you. we have never seen him love anyone like you. he constantly texts me to ask me about you so he doesn’t seem a bother to you. he constantly tells us about the story of you guys meeting at the guitar store because he thinks if he didn’t find you after, he would be lost in his life. i have not seen a smile on him since susannah died, you brought it back.” you smiled down at the sand and steven’s phone went off with his ringtone for conrad

“i’ll answer.” you gestured towards the phone and he handed it to you and you swiped to answer

“steven, did you find her? fuck i’ve been looking everywhere man.” his voice cracked and you knew he was on the verge of tears “i need to find her-“

“conrad.” you stopped him and he let out s breath of relief

“y/n, baby. i’m so sorry.”

“it’s okay.”

“no, it’s not. i’m sorry, okay? i told her everything and she’s mad but i don’t care. i needed to be honest.” you heard a door close on his end “you left your phone here, you scared me when i came back to tell you, you weren’t here.”

“i needed some air, steven found me, i’m safe.” you smiled at steven “conrad i love you okay?” he chuckled

“i love you more, now please come home so we can have dessert.” you laughed

“on my way handsome.”

[skzvibes-blog]

A TASTE OF HEARTBREAK, conrad fisher

୨୧ conrad fisher x f!reader. in which reader attends the debutante ball with conrad, and leaves with heartbreak.

Her and Conrad had been dating for the last few months, basically since the start of the summer. It had been a surprise to Belly when she came back to Cousins and saw a girl holding Conrad’s hand, and calling herself his girlfriend.

Belly tried to ignore the effect it had on her heart whenever she saw them together. Maybe she even decided to shift her focus onto the other Fisher brother.

It was debutante season.

She had been looking forward to this all her life. Ever since her older sister was a deb. She did the dances, the charity, anything that would help.

When she asked Conrad to be her date, she had been lying beside him in his bed. Her head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles to the back of his hand that rested on his abdomen. While Conrad held her close, his eyes glued to the movie that played on his laptop.

It was ‘10 Things I Hate About You’, a movie that Conrad let her choose for the movie night.

Suddenly, she sat up, supporting her body weight on her elbow as her gaze flickered to him. His eyes watched the screen before feeling her stare. Conrad grinned as he looked at her, “What?”

“Will you be my date… to the debutante ball? I know you said that it’s not really your thing but I just really—”

He cut her off by lifting up his hand and cupping the side of her face. “Shh,” His thumb caressed her cheek, “You’re right, it’s not really my thing. I think it’s kind of stupid but,” He grinned softly at the look on her face, “I would love to be your date.”

Her lips turn up into a genuine smile. She leans in, pressing her lips against his. Conrad would do anything to make her happy.

At least that’s what she thought.

Everything was going perfectly that night of the ball.

She wore a beautiful white dress, one she picked out with her sister. It had taken her hours in the shop, trying to find the perfect one that complimented her. She wore light makeup, and her hair curled.

It was magical. As she picked up her flowers and was introduced into society with Conrad Fisher by her side, his arm hooked with hers.

It was after the boys dance that she stood in the middle of the court, giggling at something Conrad had said when Belly walks up to them. “Hey, have you guys seen Jere?” She asked, her voice laced in concern.

The girl was one second away from being embarrassed about her date disappearing. She furrows her brows as she looks around, trying to find the curly haired boy for Belly. When she didn’t see him, she looks back at the girl, placing a comforting hand on her arm, “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. I’ll help you look.” Belly gives her a grateful smile.

She looks back at Conrad, giving him a look before she walks away, helping the young girl look for her date.

She steps outside, the one place they hadn’t looked. She crossed her arms over her chest, running her hands up and down, to ease the goosebumps on her skin that the wind caused. As she walks further outside, she spots Jeremiah. He was sitting down, the brightness from his phone shining onto his teary face.

“Hey,” She called out, her voice gentle as she kneels down to his level beside him. At the sound of her voice, his head perks up. Her hand rests comfortably on his shoulder while Jeremiah hurries to wipe his tears.

“Jere, what happened? Are you okay?” He opened his mouth to speak, to search for any excuse of why he had left abruptly and was crying outside. But nothing came. Instead, his mind flickered back to the truth he had found and another cry escaped his lips.

She frowned, and wrapped her arm around him, pulling him close as he cried, his tears falling onto her dress. In any other situation, she would’ve cared but it was Jere.

Once she heard his cries calm down, and his body relax, she speaks up again, “You okay?” He sniffled and nodded, lifting his head off of her. He wiped the remainder of his tears and smoothed out his tux.

She softly smiled and stood up, reaching out a hand for him. He dryly chuckled before placing his hand into hers, standing up.

The two walked together, heading back into the Country club and when she heard the music, she began to panic lightly. She hoped that the dance hadn’t already started, especially since she had left Conrad all alone.

When they walked back inside, her eyes scanned for Conrad, while Jeremiah searched for Belly. Her face dropped when she found him on the ballroom floor, dancing with Belly. Her heart fell to her stomach as she watched them.

Jeremiah seemed to have found them too.

She notices the way Conrad looked at her. The way his eyes followed her every movement.

She was suddenly reminded of everything she wanted to forget. The times she caught the stolen glances between them, or how on the night of Fourth of July, when they were supposed to be together, she had found them out on the dock, and they almost kissed.

She blinked and felt a tear slip down her cheek. She wasn’t unaware how her eyes had come overwhelmed with tears. She snapped out of her thoughts, “I have to go.” She whispered, turning on her heels.

Jeremiah called out her name, but she didn’t stop. She hurried out, not looking back.

This wasn’t the magical night she dreamed of.

No matter how much she wanted to deny it, Conrad didn’t love her. He loved Belly.

a tsitp blurb while season 3 episodes come out 😊

[skzvibes-blog]

— “ FEED THE FLAME ” p.1

summary: Clark is almost kissed by another woman, and god, you don’t know how you’ll ever forgive him!

contains: angst, jealousy, flirting, clark’s niceness creating issues, sfw.

— part two. masterlist.

୨୧ the daily planet newsroom was its usual chaos: phones ringing, the hum of printers, Perry White barking orders at someone from his office. Clark sat at his desk, glasses sliding down his nose as he tapped away at his keyboard, foot thumping rapidly on the wood flooring unknowingly because of some kind of deadline-induced anxiety.

you had perched yourself on the edge of your own desk, scrolling through your phone, pretending to be invested in tweaking captions for the planets instagram feed. in truth, you were watching. always. because Lois Lane was across the bullpen, and Lois Lane was dangerous.

gorgeous, self-assured, hair tousled in a way that suggested she didn’t style it that way but that the wind simply favoured women like her, Lois walked around like she owned the place. and lately, she’d been circling Clark: laughing a little too hard at his corny jokes, leaning a little too close while pretending to look over his shoulder at his computer screen, even brushing her hand against his chest and acting like it was some sort of casual gesture. you’d noticed everything.

and Clark, sweet, oblivious Clark hadn’t noticed any of it. or maybe he had and he was just too nice to stop it. either way, the sight of Lois leaning on Clark’s desk, hip casually against the edge, one hand resting on his shoulder as she pointed out something in his notebook made something unpleasant burn inside you. Lois laughed, low and warm and fuck, so pretty. it was the kind of laugh that held far more weight than the actual joke warranted, the kind of laugh that said: please, Clark, just rip my panties off and fuck me already! you rolled your eyes to no one.

Clark, ever oblivious, gave her a smile, dimples on display. he said something about being “not sure that’s my best angle, Lois.” as he adjusted his glasses. he didn’t even flinch at the way her hand lingered on his shoulder. you wanted to believe he thought it was nothing but collegial warmth, but you knew that Clark was smarter than that.

it was obvious to even the stupidest person: Lois was flirting.

you tried to just swallow it down, tried to remind yourself that Clark was yours, that he went home with you at the end of the day. but then Lois leaned in closer, so close that her glossy hair grazed his cheek, and Clark gave that bashful little laugh he only ever did when he was nervous around a pretty woman. something hot and sour twisted in your gut.

the day dragged on with you watching every interaction like a hawk. Lois found excuses to swing by Clark’s desk: asking about notes, asking about phrasing, asking about deadlines or if he wanted anything from the cafe when she did a little coffee run during her break. Clark answered her every. single. time. all in that patient voice.

it all came to a head at lunch. the office had quieted, most people out either chasing stories or a good sandwich. Clark had stepped into one of the smaller side offices because his computer had started acting up again, the kind with a glass door and a battered little filing cabinet. he was attempting to understand the old (but thankfully functioning) computer when Lois slipped in behind him.

you didn’t mean to follow, not consciously. i mean, you trusted Clark, he was nice, he was faithful, but something strong had you drifting towards the corridor, phone clutched tight in your hand like some kind of security blanket.

you caught sight of Lois through the pane of glass replacing one of the offices outer walls. she was too close to him, one hand lightly tugging at his sleeve. you froze. and listened.

“Clark,” she said, voice low like she was trying to hide it, “you’re… you’re really something, you know that?”

Clark blinked, a little nervous, “i—uh—i’m not sure what you mean Lois. I just—”

and then she leaned in. not forceful, not aggressive, but soft and tentative, the gesture of a woman reaching for a man she thought might meet her halfway.

Clark startled, eyes wide behind his glasses, “Lois!” he stammered, stepping back so fast that he walked right into the desk behind him. the old computer rattled; a pen fell to the floor; Clark’s face turned crimson. “i—i can’t—i’m sorry—” he stammered.

you had seen enough: Lois leaning in, Clark not moving soon enough, and “i’m sorry”?? not “get away from me i have a girlfriend!!” ugh. it was like he was saying he wanted her to fuck him but was sorry a girlfriend was in the way.

you didn’t remember walking back to your desk, you didn’t remember packing up your bag, all that was in your memory was Clark finding you half an hour later, breathless and anxious, glasses slipping down his nose as he caught you by the elevators.

he called your name, told you to wait in a confused but desperate voice, “please, just—what’s wrong?

did i do something?” you turned, expression sharp enough to cut. “you know what you did.”

“i,” he faltered, searching your face, “Lois— i mean, i— i stopped her, i swear.”

“you didn’t stop her fast enough,” you yelled, voice venomous. you adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, “you’re not stupid, Clark. you know she’s been throwing herself at you for weeks. you obviously like the attention. or maybe you like her, is that it?”

his face fell, wounded, “no! no, baby—”

“don’t call me that Clark,” you interrupted. you could tell that hurt him.

“it’s not like that with Lois,” he continued, “i didn’t—i don’t want her. i want you! please, you have to believe me.”

you shook your head, lips pressed tight, “i can’t do this. not if you’re going to be such a— such a pussy! you can’t just let people treat you like that when you’re with me!”

he went pale. he reached for you but you pulled back from his touch like it burned. “please, don’t say that,” his voice shook, “don’t leave me, please.” and then it broke on that last word. but you’d already stepped into the elevator, arms crossed, heart pounding so loud you couldn’t even think.

the elevator slid shut between you, his devastated face the last thing you saw before those cold metal doors.

[skzvibes-blog]

⋆ ˚｡⋆♡⋆ ˚｡⋆leave me alone, bitch, i wanna have fun!!!⋆ ˚｡⋆♡⋆ ˚｡⋆

a collection of one shots all based on lines from "leave me alone" by reneé rapp!!

i'm a real bad girl but a real good kisser (coming soon!)

↳ george russell x reader — in which george tells you he has a girlfriend, and your first response is "i don't see her around here. do you?"

got my hair tied up, phone on "don't disturb" (coming soon!)

↳ kimi antonelli x reader — in which kimi has been so busy with work calls he hasn't had a second to spend with you all day, and you show him exactly what he's been missing.

wear my jeans so low, show my little back dimples (coming soon!)

↳ ollie bearman x reader — in which you use ollie's credit card to go on a shopping spree and come home with a pair of jeans that fit just right.

even line my lips just to match my nipples

↳ isack hadjar x reader — in which you get two shiny new piercings while he's away for the weekend, and isack can't keep his hands off you when he comes home and sees them.

my manager callеd me saying, "where's thе single?" (coming soon!)

↳ lewis hamilton x popstar!reader — in which your manager won't stop calling while you're supposed to be on holiday, and lewis gives you a reason to hang up the phone.

you're breaking up, babe, I don't got no signal (coming soon!)

↳ max verstappen x reader — in which max is the guy you tell your boyfriend not to worry about.

sign a hundred NDAs, but I still say something (coming soon!)

↳ lance stroll x reader — in which you spend an evening with lance on the yacht that you're sworn to secrecy over (but you can't help but tell your best friend anyway.)

party in the hills, people tryna talk business (coming soon!)

↳ alex albon x reader — in which alex is too wrapped up in conversation with work colleagues at a party to pay attention to you, but you have a way of getting exactly what you want.

i just wanna dance, don't take my picture

↳ liam lawson x reader — in which you and liam can't keep your hands off each other in the club, no matter who might see.

my ex walked in and my other ex with her (coming soon!)

↳ oscar piastri x reader (x exboyfriend!lando) — in which you walk into the mclaren garage with oscar (much to the chagrin of your ex-boyfriend, who just so happens to be his teammate.)

the three of us together, that's a real tongue twister (coming soon!)

↳ lando norris x reader x oscar piastri — in which they race in monaco, but take you to paris.

[skzvibes-blog]

operation drs — OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x actress!reader summary: Oscar watches from afar as you and your co-star make the internet a little crazy during your press tour. He tries to convince himself he's not jealous at all. tags: jealous oscar, secret relationship, miami gp 25, reader stars in tbosas & has indiacorey and zeglyth levels of chemistry w her costar (iykyk!), tom blyth is here, pr team governs all, the woes of being long-distance, one teensy smut scene. minors dni wc: 13.8k words :D a/n: [taps mic] hi... [waves].. tons of actors sharing good chemistry with their costars as of late... wondered how oscar would act in a similar situation... Alas

Oscar could not let go of his phone. 

It’s all rather inconvenient when the algorithm has him pegged. How could it not? He’s a simple guy with even simpler interests: sim racing, ESPN highlights, and you. 

Hollywood's up and rising. Darling songbird. His long-term girlfriend.

His watch history is a clear smoking gun: Cast Trivia on IMDb. Challenges on Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Behind-the-scenes teasers. A leak of your chemistry read. Press interviews—millions of them. He thinks he’s watched each interview from each country. Interviews with you interviewing the other. 

And he thought media day was tedious. 

He scrolls past a fan edit and exhales, long and weary; he feels a little hostile. 

He thinks it’s jealousy. 

The exact genesis of it is a mystery. All he knew was that you were suddenly busier than ever. 

Not the usual kind of busy—long shoot days or back-to-back matinees where you barely had time to check your phone. Not the kind where, if he was lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of your day on your story. Maybe a ten-minute call before you dozed off.

This was a different kind of busy. Bigger. Public. Cameras trailed you from presser to presser. Your ensemble roles on Broadway and supporting acts in art house films hadn’t garnered this much scrutiny.

You were everywhere now. He didn’t have to wonder where you were or what you were doing—Lionsgate made sure of it. 

They lavished on the ad spend: an international press tour when cross-country would’ve sufficed. Print. Radio. Television. Every feed, every timeline, flooded with the kind of lead-couple chemistry execs prayed would recapture the magic of the originals.

You’re both so rarely on the same televised frequency. Reels of his and Lando’s post-race debriefs bleed into autoplay trailers on TikTok. Even Hattie saw the trailer of your movie play right before lights out on a race weekend. Prime slot, full saturation. 

He’s proud of you. 

No one can discount your credibility. Raised on stagecraft with enough street cred that intrigues producers and makes you worth defending on Twitter. The same trajectory as the modern greats.

You’re headed there. He’s sure. Your fanbase themselves are sure. The world can’t help but pay attention when a star is born. Hold their breath, place their bets. Oscar’s already cast his, and they’re all in your favor. 

But he scrolls and reads comments. Gets uncomfortably hot at the chest when he dwells on it for too long. 

They’re literally in love. 

Just date already. 

There it was—a flicker of insecurity.

Your agent had advised you to keep your relationship private. Said it could hurt promotional activity. Poor promo hurts the box office. And box office sales were, more or less, championship points in your world. 

He liked the privacy. The secrets? Not so much. The peace was a blessing, especially when he’d heard other drivers complain about the media digging into their partners’ lives against their wishes.

And while he wasn’t blind to the merits of a private relationship, he also saw their bright smiles whenever they get to mention their significant others in interviews, the posts on Instagram. Flirty comments and tags in photo dumps.

God, did he want to hold your hand in public. Bring you to races. Walk into the paddock with you by his side. Wishes you were here now, lounging with him in his driver’s room.

He wants to say your name when interviewers ask him, What drives you, Oscar? Wants to see your face at the barriers of parc fermé after getting P1. He even wouldn’t mind posing for a pap or two, arm around your waist. Unmistakably his. 

Instead, you did interviews with your co-star. Talked on and on about how easy it is, how natural the chemistry sparks. The interviewers attest to this in confidence, and journalists call it electrifying and undeniable and incessant even when cameras aren’t rolling! 

It’s unfair, honestly, to blame your co-star. Anyone in your immediate orbit, given a few moments with you, would fall headfirst. 

You—so considerate, so warm, and so unbelievably easy to love.

After all, it only took him seconds to clock the thought: you might be it for him. 

His phone dings. 

you you have NO idea what we did today. oscar Nothing dangerous, I hope you we did an interview with kittens. KITTENS. one climbed up my shoulder.  I named him Oscat :) Sent an image

It was a selfie of you cradling the kitten, cheek against its furry head. The corners of his lips tug up. He reacts with a heart.

oscar What an honor Any chance I could meet Oscat? you Tom said we should adopt it

The mention of your co-star makes him frown a bit, but he brushes it off.

oscar Do you want to? you even if I did we couldn’t  we’d be terrible parents, away all the time.

He has to bite back a smile at the idea of you two being parents. It’s a welcome image that makes his world tilt a little bit off its axis. 

Somebody whacks his head from behind. Lando snickers and sends him a knowing look. “What’s got you looking silly?” 

“Piss off,” he laughs. His smile grows a little wider.

oscar Next time then :) Sure there are plenty of oscats around the world Don't you worry you 💔💔💔💔💔💔 gotta go now love you raceboy good luck with FP1 tomorrow!!!!

He wants to ignore the last bit. Really. If it were anyone else, but it was you, so he reluctantly searches for the waving hand emoji and hits send.

“That the leading lady?” Lando asks, plopping down beside him on the couch. 

He raises his eyebrows at the nickname. “Yeah.”

“Still keeping it under wraps?”

Oscar sighs. “Yep.”

“That’s unfortunate. They’ve been all over my feed, her and that fellow.” 

“Tom’s a nice guy,” Oscar says, though he doesn’t know why he finds the need to defend the dude. “He knows we’re together.” 

Lando rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Oscar has a vague idea of where this conversation is headed and he doesn’t like it. “Is there a problem?”

“The problem is you have no rage.”

If only he knew.

“It’s a contractual relationship,” Oscar says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Like we are,” he adds belatedly, but winces when he realizes the argument is flimsy. 

“Oh, absolutely. ‘Cause we are the exemplar of professionalism, yeah?”

Lando sits up and looks at him straight in the eye. “Your girl’s great, don’t get me wrong. I dunno, though. I can’t sit still when some bloke is all over my teammate’s girlfriend.” Lando places a hand over his chest. “I’m an empath.”

Oscar scoffs. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, can I? I’m not a douche, Lan.” 

“I’m not asking you to be a douche. Just… don’t be a saint!” 

He gets the urge to strangle him. He did not need Lando playing enabler. 

“And you can do something about it, actually.”

His words hang in the air like bait. Oscar is no better person than what Lando says he is.

“…What do you mean.”

“I’m just saying. It’s not strange for an F1 driver to be into Hollywood and movies.”

“No clue what you’re trying to say, mate.”

“Just… hit like on a few photos here and there. Fans’ll pick it up, put two and two together, then wrap up their BS.” 

And Lando leaves it at that.

It feels like crossing a boundary—breadcrumbing the press without your consent, so he lets Lando’s ill-advised scheming pass without comment. 

Until Entertainment Weekly. 

It’s a cast feature. The article features close-up portraits with your face squished against Tom’s, your hands pinching his cheeks, both of you mid-laugh as the photographer catches the moment.

They’re gorgeous shots. You’re gorgeous.

If Tom’s face weren’t basically fused to yours, Oscar might’ve made one his lockscreen.

There’s a tantrum bubbling up in his throat. He holds it in just barely. It’s his rest day, but he’s considering calling his trainer to punch it out.

It’s no mystery why the press has you pegged as Hollywood royalty’s next in line.

Then he makes the mistake of clicking the video link in the article.

The title alone slaps him across the face—three reads in, and it still stings.

Classic clickbait: loud, shameless, and almost believable if you’ve ever been online for more than five minutes. Fans will eat it up like it’s a confirmation in and of itself.

Tom Blythe Fell In Love with His Co-Star, YN

Oscar scrolls past clipped film stills and scans the article for where the fuck it says about him falling in love with you.

She’s just so alluring. Have you heard her sing? It pulls you in. I don’t even have to be in character to feel that pull. It’s magnetic, our rehearsals. I’ve worked with many people, and it’s hard to click with someone this easily. She’s—she’s very easy to fall in love with. The first time I met her… 

He has to put his phone down. Oscar rolls his eyes so hard he sees the back of his brain. 

He attempts to justify this revolting feeling worming through him—surely, Tom must be crossing a line? He’s never paid attention to Hollywood, but onscreen couples can’t be this intimate—this blatant—across the media, can they? 

He does a quick Google search. 

Hollywood co-stars turned couples. 

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Leighton Meester and Adam Brody. Tom Holland and Zendaya.

It’s a long list of more names he doesn’t recognize, but it’s the last one that drives the hammer home; he recalls you calling them “goals” once. He’s seen all the Spider-Man movies with you, so he gets the hype.

Fine. He is jealous. 

Turns out the stifling feeling in his chest is a load of self-righteous anger after all. His jaw clenches. It’s triggering all other emotions he’d rather not be feeling.

The nerve of this man. 

Oscar swipes back to the article, scrolls up to a photo of you and Tom in some preview event: you, every bit an angel in that white satin dress, and Tom, tall, blonde, with that princely aura Oscar knows he’ll never quite pull off. His stomach unclenches only when he sees Tom’s arm around your shoulder, not your waist.

He hates imagining himself in the same frame.

Next to Tom, he’s awkward. Pedestrian. Unsure in anything outside a race suit. 

He hates imagining himself at all.

Then—like you’re psychic—a message pops up. 

you hi baby my handsome boy just letting you know the final trailer drops in three hours 😁  I’m reaaally excited for you to see this one

Guilt punctures him in the gut. This feels worse than jealousy—the fact that he had let doubt creep in. That you’d leave him for someone you, technically, met at work. Foolish. Foolish.

oscar Are you a ghost? you ??? oscar Nothing. Was thinking about you when your message came in

Your contact card pops up. Incoming call. His lips perk up at your photo: it’s a stupid-looking high-angle shot of you frowning, your cheeks between his hand.

“What part about me were you thinking of, baby boy?” Your voice trickles through the speakers, sultry and low. He snorts. He can tell you’re holding back a laugh.

“Oh, you know, just about everything,” he replies. He plays along like it’s breathing.

There’s a pause. “Everything?”

“Everything.” 

Your unguarded laugh is a bright thing. “Naughty. I hope you were alone.” 

He laughs along until a wave of something washes over and an ache seizes his chest. His grip on his phone tightens. “I miss you,” he murmurs. 

“I miss you too, Osc,” you say, quiet yet clear over the line. Somehow, you always sound so surprised. “Switch to FaceTime?” 

“You aren’t busy?” He asks. Hates how surprised he sounds.

“I’ve got a couple of hours before a Zoom meeting.” 

He waits while you switch on the camera, heart beating unusually fast. 

When your face comes up, so does his heart. It’s all caught in his throat. Your hair is loose, and he thinks it’s his old sweater you’re wearing. 

“Hi,” you’re smiling, propping your phone on a table. 

“Hi,” he gushes, head tilting in fondness. His next words spill out involuntarily. “You’re pretty.” 

You go shy. He bites his tongue in a grin when you hide and groan. Your blush triggers a dopamine hit, the kind that rushes in when winning, and he thinks he looks fairly dopey on your end. 

“Thank you? I love you. Now—stop deflecting. I want to know why you sound like a sad puppy.” 

“Hah. Okay. Uh, don’t get mad?”

“You can’t really decide that for me, but I’ll try.”

Oscar sends a screenshot of his recent Google search. Co-stars turned couples.

You lean in and nod. “Hmmm. I see.” 

It takes a few seconds longer than it’s supposed to take. He scoffs lightly, amused. You definitely did not see. 

You sigh and give up valiantly. “Babe, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. I’m not mad at your lack of Hollywood knowledge, if that’s the case? I might even prefer it that way.”

“That’s not— Okay, um.” Oscar scratches his jaw. He glances back at you, brows scrunched, and braces himself. “So I might have been feeling a little.. Just a little. Jealous. Of you and Tom. Er… Reasons being Entertainment Weekly.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

“Yup.”

“…Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Like, Tom, my co-star Tom?”

“Are there any other Toms I should be aware of?”

“No?”

“Good.”

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m not keen on repeating that part, but yes. I am.”

“Wow.”

“You sounded just like me.” 

“It’s just…” You bite your lip, and Oscar spots the faint divot in your cheek, a telltale sign you were trying terribly hard not to laugh. 

Fuck my life. He wants to crawl into a cave. “You can laugh, you know. I know it’s stupid.”

“You’d feel bad if I laughed! And you’re completely entitled to feel that way!” You grin. “But you’re right. It is a little stupid. It’s like me getting jealous of Lando.”

Oscar’s lips form a pout. “Why would you get jealous of Lando?”

“Exactly.”

Not only is he still confused, he’s also feeling an inch worse because your reaction makes it all seem like he’s just overreacting, acting irrational. He can’t help it—his usually sound judgment goes haywire whenever you’re involved. 

His skin feels a little tight. Uncomfortable. Admitting it now felt like a terrible idea.

It must be written all over his face, because you lean closer to the camera. “Oscar.”

He’s still too upset to answer. When you call him again, your voice is a little more urgent.

He avoids the camera but hums, a tad grumpily, just to let you know he’s listening.

“I love you, softy. Just you.”

When he looks up, there’s a small smile on your face.

“I mean it. No acting here.”

All he can do is stare—wide-eyed, soft. Starstruck. 

Maybe it’s the way you say it. I love you. Said in the same way you always do. All candid confidence. It’s the same I love you before he jets off. The I love you when you end a call. It’s instinct. Easy. The words, all the same, warm and worn like a well-fitted glove.

Or maybe it’s the way you’re staring. Eyes crinkled in mirth. The faintest dimple on your cheek. Incredulity—the gentle kind, the one reserved for lecturing little kids and, apparently, him—is written all over your face because he should’ve known.  

I love you. You were so sure. 

He forgets that he hasn’t spoken.

So you say it again. Firmer.

“You’re mine, Piastri. Got that?”

He has to clear his throat. Screw being jealous. He was yours—lanky shoulders, awkward grins, and all the uncertainty his confidence couldn’t quite cover. 

You take home all.

He leans back on the couch, hides his reddening face behind his hands. “Overkill,” he mutters. “I got it the first time.”

You scoff. “Sure you did.” 

“I swear.”

“Pffft.”

Oscar studies your face on his significantly small screen and wishes you were right next to him instead. “I love you.”

The mischief melts from your eyes. “I know.” It turns soft. “And I love you, too. Case it wasn’t clear.” 

He laughs. Oh, God. You make it hard for him, sometimes. 

And then he goes quiet. Not on purpose. But because there’s a stifling feeling in his chest. Emotions, too much of them. He has to let out a sigh. 

You frown at that. “You really okay? And don’t fucking lie. I can tell.” 

He rolls his eyes, gets very close to the camera. “I promise, baby. Thank you.”

A message comes through a couple of minutes after.

come to think of it. jealous and territorial thing could work in the bedroom. what say you 😉😇

This time, he really laughs.

He bags two wins from the triple-header. Finally: a week of grace. 

By then, there’s another feature of you and Tom. You send him a link to the magazine’s official Instagram.

you sending you, my dearest boyfriend, another shoot I had with Guy I Work With  oscar You can call him by his name I’m not that petty 🙄 you 😛 oscar Oh wow these shots came out well you right!! 🥹

Oscar scrolls through the comments, mostly mindless now.

Jealousy was exhausting. Irrational. Oscar Piastri is above such emotions. That’s how they were raised in the Piastri household. 

He scrolls daringly. 

The ones gushing about your chemistry barely bother him. The ones insinuating you and Tom are dating? Only slightly grating. He believes he’s made progress.

His chest swells at the sheer amount of love you’re getting.

One comment makes his thumb pause

⇢ the way he looks at her BROOO whoever yn’s bf is is better than me

Oscar sits up a little straighter. Grabs a cushion in case he needs to squeeze something. 

He opens the reply thread against his better judgment.

⇢ “Whoever her bf is” when it’s literally tom LMAOO ⇢ i'd cheat if i were her #tbh ⇢ idt she’s dating anyone tho so the agenda lives on ⇢ MAYBE respect their private lives and not make this weird for them  ⇢ why she would be single is beyond me of course she has a boyfriend

He hmms and huhs through the comments. Somewhat entertained, very much ticked.

It’s only after he gets to the end of the thread that Oscar realizes he’s pressed Like on the original comment. 

“Ah shit.”

He immediately unlikes. 

Oscar stares at his phone for one, two, three long seconds. 

Fuck. Fuck.

Surely, this person wouldn’t know him? Didn’t get a notification for a like he quickly retracted? At least, he thinks he was quick enough. 

Not everyone follows Formula One, anyway. There are thousands of other sports in the world, so surely…

Oscar cautiously taps on the commenter’s profile. His heart drops.

There, at the top of the person’s profile, is a dedicated highlight labeled F1 🏁

Okay. So this person is into F1. Cool. 

He’s one of the less popular drivers, so it’ll be fine. It’s just his third season. He’s only won stuff just recently. Probably a Leclerc fan. Won’t care about him at all.

But then he scrolls down their profile. There’s a photo of them posing in the middle of the grandstands, pointing to a papaya cap with the number 4 emblazoned on the brim. 

Just his luck: A fucking Lando Norris fan blowing his cover.

user: oscar just liked my comment on instagram..?  ⇢ WHAT do you mean  ⇢ this is the comment he liked ⇢ ????? wtf does he have to do with tbosas or yn or her boyfriend lol ⇢ UNLESS HE’S THE BOYFRIEND?

Nothing ever remains a secret for too long in these circles.

He’s surprised it’s gotten this far. 

Somewhere, a gossip columnist cracks their knuckles and thinks finally, some good fucking food. It’s a field day for the tabloids and overtime for your PR team. 

Not his. McLaren couldn’t care less about who he’s dating. That’s exactly why Oscar feels like crap.

One elaborate Twitter thread becomes the de facto source for every other video uploaded on Tiktok and Youtube—the new bloods of Motorsports and Hollywood, here’s everything you need to know!

Oscar’s slip-up is a drop of blood in shark-infested waters, and they’re quick to catch scent. Fan theories climb up the algorithm. Discourse drives the headlines. Your digital footprints get timestamped, reverse-searched, and stitched into Reddit threads formatted like crime scene dossiers.

It’s easy forensic work when both of you live half your lives in public.

To be fair, you haven’t made it hard, either.

You’ve flirted with exposure more than once: an Australia photo dump, repeated use of the orange heart emoji, that one offhand interview comment about being attracted to “people who chase their dreams at full speed.”

All harmless fun when the whispers didn’t exist.

Now, each breadcrumb’s been turned into ammo against you both.

“What a waste of talent. They could be doing investigative work for fucking Interpol and yet it’s our little lives they choose to pick apart,” You say on speaker as he drives to the MTC for their debriefs. 

He knew your little ways of rebelling, the secret joy you get tiptoeing around PR restrictions. “This sucks. I liked playing cryptic.”

He can hear you pouting. “My poor girl,” Oscar coos.

You huff again, glassware clinking faintly in the background. Longing hits him like a spell; it’s been a while since he’s made morning tea by your side. 

“I saw a vintage McLaren poster the other day and was tempted to upload a story of it. ” 

He makes a turn. “I think you do want to get caught.”

“Ish.”

Oscar snorts. “Well, dearest, you’ve gotten exactly what you wished for.”

“But I wanted it to be without consequence.” You heave a dramatic sigh. “We could’ve watched it slowly unfold, avoid this flashbang in the morning.” 

As much as he feels bad that he spoiled your theatrical soft launch, he can’t help but find your moping infinitely endearing. “Yeah, my bad. Slippery fingers.”

You pause to take a sip. “It’s okay. No idea what they’re talking about in the PR meeting they’re having, but— What’s that thing they say? Any press is good press?” 

The dip in your tone doesn’t make you sound convincing. This alarms him. “I didn’t make things complicated for you, did I?”

“No, don’t worry,” you say. He hears the lie, and his grip on the wheel tightens a little. He calls your name again. He wasn’t buying it. 

You give in. “Fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Isn’t it a sensitive thing, having us Hollywood folks poke around your sport? Fans hate that, right?” 

Oscar already knows you’re biting the inside of your cheek. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care about what a few motorsports purists have to say, and neither should you.”

You hum in response. Distant. 

“Hey,” he calls. The end of the line is quiet. He has to double-check his phone. “Don’t get too in your head when I’m not there.” 

“Hm?”

“I said get out of your head, baby.”

“Oh. Sorry.” You sound sheepish. “I think I’m gonna order in for breakfast. Let me know how the debrief goes, okay? Love you.” 

He hums, still worried. “Bye. Love you too.”

The debrief, without any racket, goes. Everyone’s happy with the wins. He shoots a few videos with Lando for marketing, runs a few rounds on the sim. The day was supposed to end there, if not for Zak gesturing him over to the meeting room.

Lando notices and gets the hint way before he does because he asks if he can join in. 

“I’ll eavesdrop if you say no.” Zak doesn’t have much of a choice.

It doesn’t take too long for him to piece together this impromptu meeting—not when the only people in the room are from Marketing or PR. 

They all look a little confused when Lando walks in with him, but Zak waves them off. 

“Hi, everyone. Just here for a good time,” his teammate greets. Everyone settles into their chairs. Lando leans in and whispers, “PR time, baby.”

On the side, someone rolls their eyes and mutters, “We’ll need an extra NDA.”

“Normally, we wouldn’t arrange a PR stunt because of a driver’s love life, but yours is a bit special,” Chrissy, the head of this entire op, says after giving them the rundown. 

He nods in understanding. “Yeah. Cause she's a public figure, right?”

She knits her brows. “Yes, but it’s also more of a money thing. Some studio people wanted to mitigate this issue in case it hurts the box office. Crisis into opportunity and whatnot.” 

It makes no sense. Oscar widens his eyes for lack of a better reaction. “Wow. Okay, sure. Didn’t know I could bring in such bad press.”

“You are when you’re getting in the way with one of their biggest selling points.”

“I’m in a relationship with one-half of their biggest selling points,” he deadpans.

Lando lets out a low whistle. “A bunch of stodgy Hollywood producers got in contact with McLaren?” 

“Just one producer made the call. But yes.”

“Ozzz. You have got to stop messing with PR.” He grins. “You know Alpine still hasn’t recovered to this day?” 

“Jesus..” Oscar rubs at his temples. “I will muzzle you.” 

“Seriously. I respect the hustle. Why stop at F1? Why not terrorize Hollywood Hills while you’re at it?”

“Mate.” 

“Hah. Sorry. Anyhow, I give my full support to Oscar’s second stint at appeasing the media via…” Lando looks over at Chrissy and gestures to the PowerPoint. “What’s this called?”

“Pardon?”

“This thing. This operation. Does it have a name?”

“We don’t really have a name for it.”

“You don’t?” His teammate’s face genuinely drops at this information. “Well. You must.”

“Um. Operation Big Reveal?”

Lando blows a raspberry. “Horrible. Next.”

“Operation Soft Launch?”

“What? No. Boring. Okay. Sit with it for a few minutes.”

Zak and the other company big shots escape while they can. 

“Osc?”

“No. Can we go home now.” 

“Just one bloody name.”

Someone giggles. “Rob thought of a great name.”

Oscar doesn’t know who Rob is, but he hopes he puts an end to this conversation. Lando urges him on. “Well, spit it out, then.” 

“DRS.” A beat. They wait for him to elaborate. The tips of Rob’s ears turn a deep red. “Deploy Romance Strategically.”

“Operation DRS,” Lando grins, nodding. “You absolute genius.” 

Oscar is impressed, embarrassed, but mostly relieved that Lando’s been satiated. “You’ve held onto that for a while, have you?”

Chrissy approaches Oscar while Lando chats the team’s ears off. “You can give your girlfriend a heads up that we’ll be in contact with her team soon.” 

His cheeks warm at the mention of you, not used to hearing them address you so casually. “Sure, Chrissy. Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it. It’s been a while since the team’s gotten to do anything on this scale—no offense.” 

“None taken. Run through the NDA with Lando again, will you? He’s too loose for my liking.” 

The next morning, a WhatsApp group is made.

OPERATION DRS — Miami GP PR Plan

Chrissy: Hi team!! Here’s the game plan for the upcoming race week just so we’re all aligned on tone + handling buzz during and after the GP. The goal is to soft-launch the relationship of Oscar and YN without making it a spectacle + clear up the rumors between the two leads in a way that still boosts promo for the film.  I’ve already sent tailored briefs to your media reps, so you can direct your questions to them if you have any. Chrissy sent a file. 

Oscar reads the file twice, thrice. He memorizes his talking points and yours for good measure. He usually doesn’t care about the media; the consequences are too intangible in the grand scheme of things. But now, he takes it seriously. Because it concerns you.

Oscar doesn’t take risks with you.

And so he hangs onto every word in this document, places your welfare and your career’s success into the hands of experts. Trusts the process.

Your call is out of the blue. 

Weird. He does a quick calculation—It’s 8 AM, and London is five hours ahead of New York, meaning it’s 3 AM right now where you are. 

He picks up. “Hi? You having trouble sleeping?”

“Hi. No, I’m okay.”

“Wanna switch to FaceTime?”

“No!” You say abruptly, then catch yourself. “I mean, no. It’s fine.”  

Okay, now you were truly acting weird. “O…kay? If you say so. Why’re you still up?”

There’s a sigh at the end of the line. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to check if you were busy today.” 

“Oh. Nah, I’ve got a free day today. Some training, but nothing heavy.”

“When do you leave for Miami?”

“Hmm. Not in five days,” he replies, then he remembers the whole media plan, and the corners of his lips turn up. “Can’t wait to see your face then.” 

“Yeah?” You ask, a soft quality to your voice. He hears the smile in your answer. “Me too, Osc. Can’t wait to cause some damage.”  

He tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the cabinet for something to eat. “You think your fans will hate me?”

You pause, thinking. “Nah. I’ve met some of them, they’re chill.” But then you add lightly, “It’s the shippers we have to worry about. They’re somewhat insane.” 

He inwardly sighs when he realizes there’s nothing passably nutritious (an old box of Weetabix, a few cans of Monster). 

“I figured.” Then, he hears the distinct sound of a car horn, which makes him pause. “Wait. Are you in a car?”

“Why would I be in a car?” you ask, sounding too blithe for someone awake in the bleak hours of morning.

He shuts the cabinet door. “Well, that sounded really close. You’re not driving, are you? Don’t you live on the twenty-sixth floor?”

“Car horns are really loud, Oscar.”

Hm. If only you were acting in front of a camera and not him, he might have been fooled. 

His heart starts to pick up. 

He didn’t want to assume, but he thinks he hears a frightfully quaint accent that is very much not of a New York City cab driver. 

He holds his breath when he pulls up the Find My app. 

He stills. You’ve turned off your location—the flicker of truth in your lie. 

His blood begins to hum. 

If he wasn’t hearing things, if he wasn’t chasing some daydream… Then you were on your way to him.

“Oscar?” You call out gently. “You there?”

It genuinely takes a gargantuan amount of self-restraint to keep the fondness from his voice. “Sorry, love. Just got a notification.”

You sound relieved when you reply, now that you think he’s off the scent. “Free day my ass. Go answer those emails. I’m getting sleepy.” 

“Okay.” He’s never been happier to hear you lie. “Sleep well.”

You blow a kiss into the receiver. “Night. Love you.” 

“Love you most.”

When the call ends, he laughs to himself.

He can’t even remember what he was doing before—whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Hunger dissolves into static.

He doesn’t know how far you are, only that you’re in England. And you’re on your way.

Still dazed, he starts tidying up. There’s a stupid grin on his face he can’t quite get rid of.

He puts on one of your pre-show playlists hoping it might settle his heart, which doesn’t know what to do with itself. Chopin trickles through the small speakers.

It’s someone’s dog at the door, tail wagging, thinking: Yes. Yes. Yes. You. Here. Soon.

The playlist is halfway through when the doorbell rings.

His heart gives a little kick. Jump starts his entire nervous system. He sprints to the door and nearly skids on the hardwood.

Oscar peers through the peephole.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He fumbles with the lock.

There you are—luggage in tow, a brown paper bag in hand, the faint smell of butter and dough curling into the air. 

“Delivery for Oscar Piastri?”

His brain, operating on the thought of you alone this entire morning, short-circuits completely. You barely utter another sentence before he’s stumbling forward, all limbs and relief. The bag hits the ground before you can save it.

“Ack! Oscar, the food—”

“Later,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder. 

He squeezes you until the space between you disappears. No more miles, no more time differences. Just solid, present warmth. 

Your body sighs against him. Arms wound tighter around his neck, and he relishes how the pull seems as desperate as his. It’s never easy, the distance. This time took a lot longer than usual. 

He inhales a lungful of your scent and nearly whines. It all feels like coming home. Finally.

Too long. Too goddamn long.

“Hi,” you grin when you pull away, grasping onto his hoodie. 

Oscar laughs, eyes crinkling, unbelieving. “Hi, pretty girl.” Then he leans in for a kiss.

You breathe into him, and he presses down a little harder. He’s missed this—your taste, the shyness of your lips.

A soft giggle erupts moments before the kiss gets too emotional, too heated. You lean your forehead against his, breathless. 

He raises a brow when you bite your lips, holding back another fit of laughter.  You’re all childish glee when he mutters ‘brat’ before he pecks you.

“Surprise,” you grin. 

He rolls his eyes and smirks. “You can turn your location on, now.”

Your mouth falls open. “You noticed.”

“It’s you,” he shrugs. Something molten glimmers in your eyes. He’s not sure what it is, but he gets an inkling. 

You kiss him again.

When you’re home, he makes it a point never to leave your side. 

It’s like his heart’s outgrown his chest—stretching into the room, spilling into the kitchen, taking up all the space around you.

He takes the chair beside you rather than the one across. Glues his body to your side. Eats with one hand so the other can rest on your knee while you explain how you nearly missed your flight. 

When he’s finished his food, he leans in and buries his head into your neck, sniffing without thinking. You’re in his hoodie, bare legs folded, socks peeking underneath the soft hem. 

And it’s this: this specific blend of you, with a whiff of him. Balmy and warm and all-familiar comfort. It shoots up straight to his neural pathways like a drug. 

You bring your free hand to stroke the side of his head. Oscar hums lowly, furrowing deeper. “Mm,” he presses a light kiss against your neck. He wants nothing more than to make a home here.

God, it’s like he’s intoxicated. Dipped in honey. He looks at you, struck by the sunlight gliding over your edges like something divine. 

He picks out a goddess from memory. Hera. Athena. No—Aphrodite, he decides. There has to be a film about her somewhere. Maybe in that Nolan film you gushed about. Unfortunate, he thinks. They didn’t know the perfect girl for Aphrodite was in his arms.

If he had any creative acumen at all, he’d write a film just to watch you become her. 

Alas, he was just Oscar. 

“You are not real,” he murmurs. 

“I don’t feel real,” you reply, eyes drooping. It must be all the warm food. The timezones catching up. He doesn’t know it’s because of all the attention he’s giving, layering on you lovingly like a weighted blanket. 

You yawn, full-bodied and conclusive. He’s already slipping his arms under your knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You let out a yelp. “But we haven’t seen each other in months… I can’t go to sleep now.” 

Oscar kisses your forehead and whispers directly into your ear, “I’ll make you sleep. Send you straight into REM.”

He gently lowers you onto the bed. 

This is how he takes care of you: with hot licks and wet kisses against your core. It’s slow and lethargic. Nary a destination in mind when he draws out the laps of his tongue like a pastime. 

There’s no rush, even when his fingers slip in. Languid, coaxing. A lullaby. 

You sigh. Fall apart when he presses into the spot. Enough, you insist with a whine. He pretends not to hear, even when you tug his hair and cry out your thanks. 

Everything is soft. Your thighs, the sound of your mewls. He allows himself to be greedy for a minute and sucks. 

“Babe—” you gasp.

It’s useless. There’s no casting out the possessed. 

He lasts for another round. This time, you don’t call for mercy. Only his name. 

Oscar can tell when you’ve tipped over the edge of consciousness—You barely catch his ruined face when he comes to stroke your head. 

Aftercare is a diligent affair. Runs the cloth over your skin like a ritual rather than a routine. He’s pleased. Overjoyed, really, over the fact that you’re here, sprawled across his bed, fast asleep. 

He cleans himself up and crawls under the sheets, pulling you to his chest. This might be the best feeling in the world.

Training can wait.

Operation DRS is divided into three phases.

“Phase one focuses on riding along on fan speculation. So no teasing. On your end, at least. Any hint dropping will be coordinated by your reps.” 

It’s mostly social media work: you, keeping up the online banter with Tom and reposting whatever needs to be shared. Tweets. Likes. Comments that make you two seem like a couple to those who didn’t know better. 

Would’ve sent Oscar spiraling, too, if your head wasn’t on his lap while you went about it. 

Having you around before he had to fly off to Miami is a gift. He likes hearing your voice across the room. Likes blowing kisses behind your camera during an interview, likes the faces you make when Mark’s on speaker, reacting to brand deals and podcast invites. 

But you had to leave eventually. Some pop-up event with a brand, you had explained with a sad smile. Just a couple of days before flying to Miami, too. Right before Media Day. 

The alarm already went off twice. He didn’t want you to leave. 

He was a heavy sleeper, and while often a drawback, it worked to his advantage now. His arms clung to your frame defiantly.

You pat his arms. “I know you’re awake.”

“M’not,” he mumbled against your neck, eyes tightly shut. “I’m asleep. Leave in the morning.”

“It is morning.” There’s another attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. He pulls you impossibly closer. You sigh, “Oscar.” 

“This is abandonment.”

“I’ll see you in two days, remember?”

He scoffed and tried taming down his whine. He was no better than a child.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re gone too quickly,” he says. It comes out more serious than expected. 

You go still in his arms.

“Can I please face my boyfriend while we have this conversation?” 

He lets go—reluctantly. Like he wants to fight it.

You twist around and cup his face in your hands. 

His skin is warm, eyes intense. They don’t meet yours. 

A light dusting of stubble prickles your palms. You feel his breath, slow and steady, fan across your cheek and try your damnest not to take the easy way out by kissing him instead.

“We’ve talked about this,” you say quietly. He looks up. You search his eyes, trying to gauge if he’s being serious. 

His smile looks half-hearted. “I know. It’s just…”

“Yeah?”

“Feels different this time. Next time I see you, I have to pretend. Put up an act. I know it’s just for a while, but—I don’t like pretending,” he huffs. “Don’t think I can.” 

You realize, then, how different this must feel for Oscar; You, used to acting, to slipping into another person’s skin, into another world. This was easy. A bit of fun, truly.

You hadn’t thought about how Oscar really thought about it. Not when he broke the news or told you the plan. He’d be playing a part, reciting some lines. Pretend that, for a while, you were just another person in his garage.

It nearly brings you to pieces, how quickly he takes the plunge when you’re in the picture. He hasn’t even said anything until now. 

“It won’t be an act. None of it will.” You promise quietly, resting your forehead against his. 

“Would be easier if this were about anything else,” he mumbles.

A younger you would’ve taken immediate offense. Not now, though. Because you understand. Because you spent more years arguing with him before being with him. Because of this, you know what he means: This isn’t just anything. It’s you. 

You were everything to him.

Warmth simmers in your bones.

“Good thing I’m not easy,” you say, disguising your joy as impudence. Oscar nudges your nose. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

He closes in, resting his lips on yours. Not kissing, just to be as close as he can. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I know it’s a little unreasonable.”

A peck. “Never unreasonable. Not with you.”

You show him a little mercy, cuddling and stealing time you don’t have. It’s the nature of your relationship. Trading places, who leaves and who stays. But it helps, just a bit, these short moments sitting in denial.

Your embrace breaks just before dawn does. He sits up, and you feel his eyes tracking you as you get ready.

In the middle of shoving packing cubes into your carry-on and picking which hoodie to steal (“Don’t you have anything that isn’t in damn papaya?!”), you don’t notice Oscar spiraling in the background.

He’s nervous. While he usually doesn’t let voices from the outside get to him, he couldn’t help but think of what—or who—was at stake. 

Oscar scrolls through his socials the next day. He stops at a photo of you at the brand pop-up and has to physically stop himself from smiling. 

You were dressed in orange—in papaya. Flashing a sweet smile at the camera with no traces of shame for any rumors you would start fanning.

user: wearing that shade of orange at this time was NOT a good move user: I’m crying did she do this on purpose or is she just blissfully unaware ⇢ I don’t think she cares that some driver liked a comment about her tho ⇢ fr god forbid a guy likes pretty movie stars  ⇢ SOME DRIVER????????????   user: Tom liked!!!!!

Your phone pings. Several times.

Nellie (PR) PR would appreciate a heads up on any easter egg dropping moving forward, but they’ve decided it’s a good call. Said we’re getting enough “healthy speculation” to transition to the next phase. 

Oscar Hi. Cute outfit ☺️🧡 Can’t wait to see you

Tom You are honestly so obvious

The team plants a tip anticipating your arrival with Tom for FP1 and Sprint Qualifying. It’s officially Phase 2 of Operation DRS. 

Sparks fly as Hollywood’s newest stars are seen together trackside in Miami. 

It doesn’t take long for the gossip sites to follow, skewing your visit into something entirely different, which is exactly what your team wants them to do.

Stars land in Miami—but which team gave them the paddock pass? 

Who is YN really cheering for? Tom, or one lucky driver?

“I’m nervous,” Tom says as you both walk towards the Paddock Club suites. A wave of camera shutters goes off in your direction. You didn’t realize they were so… in your face, even on the paddock.

Both of you are led upstairs into the thick of the Miami Paddock Club. It's considerably crowded, a blur of designer sunglasses and neon-accented lanyards on tailored suits and deep plunge dresses. Laughter bounces off the glass railings. A few heads turn as you and Tom make your way through, towards a more private sitting area tucked behind a velvet rope.

There’s a flat screen streaming the broadcast, and you have one eye on it in case Oscar appears. 

You’re grateful for the pocket of peace. You return to Tom. “He’s nice. You’ll be fine. And it’s not like you’re meeting him now. He’s already in the garage,” you say. “We’ll do some real damage tomorrow.” 

“Psh. I’ll do some real damage now.” Tom lifts his phone towards you and coos, “Smile!” 

You pose with a wink.

Tom’s thumbs fly across the screen and you feel your phone buzz. 

Fast times with @ mclaren ! Someone’s stoked to be here @ yourname 

You smirk, repost the story with I’ve got good company 🤷‍♀️

He snorts at your repost. “Now you’re being PR compliant.” 

You ignore his comment with a roll of your eyes and raise your phone. “Your turn.”

Tom dons his McLaren cap and poses, pointing at the live feed with a grin.

The comments start flooding in. Your rep sends you a thumbs-up emoji. Everything’s according to plan.

You stare at the stream, willing it to cut to Oscar. This PR fuss is making you sick with longing.

When it cuts to him slipping his balaclava on, your heart lurches. At once, a series of oohs echoes in the room. Chit-chat multiplies. Only incrementally, but it’s noticeable. Some even take their phones out. You realize everyone else is staring at the same person on the screen.

Who wouldn’t? The Championship Leader. Record-breaker. Fastest man on the grid. Number one.

You bite the inside of your cheek and tamp down the sudden, ugly rush of possessiveness. You wish you’d brought his hat. Wish you’d worn his entire team kit, have his number emblazoned on your back. 

You’re already opening up your photo gallery.  

You scroll and scroll and land on one Hattie had taken in Australia—You on Oscar’s back, arms snug around his neck. Legs hooked between his arms. Smiles wide, skin flushed, lush greenery and trail signs peeking from behind. 

It becomes your new wallpaper. 

It’s shot a little wide, faces not too visible from afar, but the shot is affectionate enough for a follower to do a double-take. Just innocent enough. But petty. So petty, in fact, but you can’t help but pray someone catches it. Takes a photo, sends it online. 

A little oops moment is all it would amount to. Can you blame a girl? 

You put your phone aside, appeased. 

Jealousy hadn’t thought to spare you either. 

Sprint quali goes by similarly. You take photos. Joke around with Tom. Interact with other VIPs. It kills you that you’re obliged to network instead of paying attention to his lap times. You try not to get too upset when Oscar barely loses the sprint pole, knowing there’s a camera somewhere. You weren’t his girlfriend, not publicly, and so you shouldn’t be concerned with whether he places P1 or P20.

Back at the hotel, Tom retreats to his room. And while you have every intention of marching up to Oscar’s suite and making out with him like you’ve been separated for years, you could not wait to wash off the sticky heat of the Miami sun.

You’re in the middle of your skincare routine when you hear a soft knock on your door. 

Through the peephole, Oscar stands with his hands in his hoodie, hair mussed, staring right through you. You immediately open the door.

He doesn’t say anything, just steps in to wrap you in his arms with a groan. 

“Longest session of my life.” 

You don’t even hear him, senses blocked by strong arms and a solid chest.

“Would’ve run through the paddock and tackled you to the ground if I had any say in it,” you mumble, voice muffled by the fabric. Oscar hears it perfectly, though, and you feel the rumble of a laugh erupt deep in his chest.

He gently pushes your body away from his, and you look at him with a raised brow. 

He tilts his head to the side, teasing, eyeing you up and down, and you tighten your grip on him. You suspect he’s making fun of you in his head. The flicker in his smile tells you so.

You narrow your eyes. Who knows what else is going on inside that brilliant brain of his? It makes you want to wipe that smirk off his face.

“What?”

“What,” he parrots, mouth twitching upwards. 

“Stop that.”

“Hm?” He tilts his head again, like he can’t help it.  

“Stop looking at me funny.”

“You’re cute.”

“I’m not a stress toy.”

“You are to me.”

“Ugh,” you shut your eyes in quiet frustration. 

Oscar takes the chance to press a soft kiss to your lips. 

The contact unspools the tight coil in your stomach that’s wound taut from not seeing his face the entire day. You melt into him.

“Missed you today,” you confess once you’re buried in the sheets. “F1’s so different.”

Oscar props himself up with an elbow. “Yeah?” 

“Nothing like your earlier races.” You climb onto his body. He adjusts himself so you can properly rest your chin on his chest. “Everyone’s an Oscar Piastri fan, now.” 

His face contorts into something that can only be described as smug. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Comes with winning, baby.”

You continue like this, taking turns recounting the day before sleep claims Oscar, and you have no choice but to follow. 

Sprint and Qualifying permit you to fan the flames ever so slightly. 

PR had arranged for you and Tom to have garage access during the Sprint and later in Quali, where he’s expected to reach Q3, meaning your boyfriend will be within your line of sight throughout the day.

You aren’t sure he’s aware, so you send him a quick selfie with the headset on. It’s not like he’ll see it, but—just in case. 

You wish him luck on the sprint. 

Still, no direct interaction is advised. 

Soon. 

Oscar gets a glimpse of you when he starts getting ready.

Your eyes are already on him, and he immediately lights up. He winks, half-smiling. You bite your cheek and mouth good luck.

The cameras, thankfully, don’t catch the exchange. Nobody does—except for Tom. He pokes your cheek in warning. “Keep it together, lover girl.” 

You roll your eyes at him, not knowing that there’s a camera trained on you both this time around. You’ll find out how much the internet eats that up later in the day.

When the lights go off, you and Tom grab each other in a way that would seem overdramatized if you two weren’t genuinely invested in Oscar snatching back the lead. But then he holds the inside line, and race leader becomes his. No longer do you two look out of place with the McLaren garage erupting in fist pumps and shared yelps. 

You let out a sigh of relief when his pitstop goes smoothly. Quietly curse at the same time he does when the safety car makes its untimely arrival, costing him the win. 

P2 for the sprint. You applaud from where you are, giving your PR team room to breathe; nothing over the top, nothing to fuel the rumors. As discussed, you’re led out of the garage before Oscar returns. 

You shoot off a quick text to Oscar, not expecting a reply until after his media obligations and debriefing. Nice P2, baby :) 

He replies just an hour later. I’ll come find you once I’m done. Love you. 

You and Tom are busy licking your spoons clean of gelato inside the Hard Rock Stadium when a McLaren staff member approaches you. 

“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s alright,” you reply, smiling, albeit confused. His face is familiar—you try to pinpoint where, and recall him from one of the Zoom meetings prior to race week. 

“Oscar’s looking for you. I can walk you inside—a lot safer than entering yourself, case anyone pries.”

“Oh! Um-” You look at Tom apologetically. He waves you off. “Go on. I’ll go bother my manager while you rendezvous.” 

On the way there, you apologize to the staff for having to play middleman to a pair of PR troublemakers, but he insists that it’s fine. Really. Having the opportunity to be photographed next to an actress is one of the more exciting aspects of the job, apparently.

Your escort helps you slip into the motorhome. It’s not as discreet as you’d hoped.

Someone snaps a photo and uploads it to Twitter.

user: yn with a mclaren staff. what goes ONN. i dont think she’s just a rando vip guest…  user: no cause did you see how she was reacting to the sprint fhsdjghsg user: guys i think she might actually be oscar’s personal guest ⇢ Well now that’s pushing it user: have we forgotten how she and tom were literally flirting in the garage

He’s lying horizontally on his physio bench when you come in. You snort at the sight of him.

In his shorts. Shirtless.

Oscar gets up with a grunt and automatically wraps his arm around your chest, then shyly thanks his staff for escorting you. They shut the door with a wink. 

He pecks your lips in greeting. “I’ve got about ten minutes? Fifteen, max.” 

“Nap first. Talk later.” 

He kisses your cheek, muttering against it. “Can I lie on your lap?”

Your hand reaches up to pat his face. “Come on,” you say. 

It’s cramped in his driver’s room—the floor would be a better option. You sit up against the wall and urge him over. 

“And put a shirt on.” 

He rolls his eyes at you like the little brat he sometimes is, but listens anyway. 

When he’s finally dressed, he comes over and lays his head in your lap. You’re relieved the floor is carpeted.

Your hand finds his hair instinctively, fingers stroking his scalp, pulling gently at the back, knowing he likes the pressure. He sighs, subdued and content.

“All good so far?” he mumbles, half-asleep already. 

“Yeah. PR team’s been quiet, so I guess that’s a good thing. Tom’s having fun, too.”

He hums softly. “M’glad to hear.”

And just like that, he’s knocked out. You smile, infinitely endeared. 

You pass the time just like that: stroking Oscar’s head, playing with his curls, counting the freckles on his face. You think it’ll please his fans if they learn how feline he is when he’s affectionate.

You’re at twenty-six (twenty-six!) freckles when your phone starts buzzing. 

Ten minutes is up. 

“Oscar, darling,” you whisper into his ear. “Wake up.”

When he doesn’t stir, you scatter pecks all over his face. His eyes flutter open.

“Quali time,” you say quietly, and it’s enough to pull him out of the post-nap disorientation. He sits up with a groan of a grandpa and leans on you like a sloth.

“Thanks, baby,” he mutters into your hair. You kiss him for good luck and stand up to leave. 

“You in the garage later?” He asks while slipping on his fireproofs.

“Only during Q3, if you get there.” 

Oscar scoffs. “I think you mean when I get there.” 

The smirk you’re nursing turns into a grin. “Of course I did, raceboy.” 

Oscar meets expectations and is up to Q3.

By this time, you and Tom stand at the sidelines of the garage, notably not behind the stanchions where the other VIPs are corralled—a small but indicative freedom. It’s already earned you and Tom a few furtive looks; your paddock pass is, undoubtedly, a personal invitation. 

It’s quiet between you and Tom now that Oscar’s on a hot lap. The garage is charged. All eyes are glued to a screen. You are willing everything, down to each pebble on the asphalt, to align for pole. 

When he’s back in the garage, your senses snap to attention. The hairs on your skin stand. His bright helmet found at the end of your tunnel vision. 

You try not to pay attention. Try.  

He’s busy watching his monitors. You bite your lip, eyes trailing his hand when he reaches for his flask. Maybe it’s because you held that same gloved hand an hour earlier, kissed the face under that helmet. Or maybe you’re just down bad, the way watching Oscar in race mode does to you—but every motion in the cockpit makes your belly tie up in very big knots.

The secrecy thrills you more than you could ever admit.

Oscar’s reviewing his onboards when the screen connected to the broadcast cuts to you—eyes glued to the screens, wide and focused. A face that doesn’t resist the camera and makes him stop in his tracks. 

The small banner below you reads ‘Actress’—he half-expects ‘Oscar Piastri’s Partner’ to appear right after it. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. His stomach still curdles at its absence. 

He realizes he’s been fooling himself this entire time if he thought he could still keep you to himself. Spare you from the scrutiny, at least from his corner of the world. 

He realizes belatedly that the camera had cut to him next; it’s a small relief that his entire face is covered. He wonders if these consequent cutaway shots are a pure coincidence or a PR setup. 

Either way, he hopes, selfishly, that the fans read into it. 

P4 feels like a slap in the face.

The team claps his back and shakes his shoulders, but it’s Lando who’s P2. 

But you’re there, and you’re beaming. You’re not supposed to—not with his results. Not with the PR directives in place. 

No direct communication. Not even a shared look. It’s too loaded, near incriminating.

The time isn’t now. He knows that you know this.

And yet.

He tempts fate. He’d gamble anything for your touch right now. 

It helps that there isn’t a rope fencing you in. He glances at the live feed—they’re busy interviewing the front row. He’s got a minute—maybe half?—before it becomes too risky. Better odds than usual.

Still, there are eyes everywhere. 

Restraint. He thinks of the plan. He thinks of P4. He thinks about how a hug from you would blow over the sting of losing pole. 

He reads your panic when he starts walking over. You hadn’t expected him to approach. 

It’s delicate right now, he knows. He feels a small tug on the invisible thread between you two: Go away. 

It makes him smirk a bit, your voice in his head.

Oscar pulls his gloves off. 

He’s close enough to brush his knuckles against yours. 

He doesn’t have to do more. 

The point of contact sets a trail of fire running up his arm. For him, it’s enough. 

When you meet back at the hotel, he doesn’t hold back. He’s all over you, and you all over him. 

Race day. Ground zero. 

Chrissy: It’s race day! Who’s ready to pour gasoline all over these rumors 🔥

It’s rightfully insane—a media team mobilized to ease fans into accepting your relationship. How artificial it reflects in the grand scheme of things. 

“Showbiz, baby,” you mutter to yourself. 

The groundwork is done. Talks of why you’re here can’t seem to die out in fan circles—too close to simply be a VIP guest. Too seen with Tom that you can’t be explicitly linked to Oscar (yet), yet too affected by race results to be anyone outside his inner circle. 

Feedback from socials comes to you in WhatsApp reports: Less hostility towards Oscar from your fans. Shippers continue their steady streak of denial. Ample support from Oscar fans in general. 

Your media rep, Nellie, leaves out some of the harsher details. But it doesn’t escape your notice—the bitterness of you and Tom’s supporters, the dissection of the tabloids. 

You just hope the balance tips a little more in your favor by the end of it all. 

The directive for today is simple: priority is Oscar and his race results. The team loosens the leash a little, gives you space to breathe. Play the docile, supportive girlfriend. Be subtle enough that people can gloss over it during the broadcast, but sincere enough that when the tape rewinds, everyone can go, ‘Ah.’

Not sure about docile, but you suppose the rest is doable. 

You’re with Tom, shooting a few Tiktoks just for the joy of it. Out of love for the film and each other and the work you’ve both done. Promoting with no obligations. 

At some point, your mind wanders to Oscar—his involvement in all this makes you a little tight-chested. 

You wonder if you might have set things up for ruin. 

You try not to dwell on it.

Oscar drives like a superhero if you’ve ever seen one. 

There’s something supernatural, nearly beyond human comprehension, about the way he drives.

You’ve watched his races before, back when he was in F3 and your names barely registered in the world’s peripheral. Two irrelevant rookies in your fields. Too green, too untested. A lack of experience and appeal.

But for the first time, you’re in the front row. And Formula One doesn’t forgive.

It takes you back to the theatre. Your first love. Live, unedited, no room for mistakes. Equally cruel in its demands. You may star in films now, but nothing beats the high-wire act of live performance.

Oscar flies past the pit straight: the most unyielding protagonist in modern media.

He hits every turn like a cue. Executes instinct like it was written in the script. Delivers well-timed improv when his enemies close in.

You’re fully immersed in the act—headset on, breath held—and all you want is for him to win. So, so badly.

Unbeknownst to you, your team negotiated two cutaways during the broadcast—should Oscar do anything superhuman.

It’s effectively Oscar v Max. Your hands are clasped, eyebrows drawn, caring too deeply for someone supposedly here on a business invite.

If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s undeniable now.

The camera’s timing is nothing short of impeccable. Your distressed face appears mid-broadcast. 

Crofty’s commentary escalates. Oscar overtakes Max.

Another cutaway. Zoomed. You’re celebrating—just you, Tom’s out of frame. You’re eyes gleam with pride. The emotion on your face is telling enough. 

A move that didn’t need spelling out. That’s a PR win.

Somewhere, there’s a group chat with all your reps. They try not to get ahead of themselves, but are very happy with where this is going. Very happy.

Oscar drives and drives. Builds the gap. Lando catches up behind. 

The two cars are flying. It’s a pace advantage sanctioned by the God of Speed himself. No other team stands a chance. 

The checkered flag zooms by.

He wins.

🔍 Recent Searches   oscar yn dating oscar griddy oscar piastri miami oscar tom yn yn tom movie release date yn miami gp yn reaction

user: HELLOO??>!>@#2SKNXND DID EVERYONE SEE THAT user: just confirm it atp idk why theyre playing with us user: her eyes ohhh im gonna be SICK you dont look at a friend like that 😭 user: Tom barely shown in the broadcast guess who wasted two hours of their life user: this obvious wag treatment user: I FIND THEM CUTE EVERYONE SHUTTTT  ⇢ you’re not alone dw ⇢ am i the only one who thinks she suits lando ⇢ ?  ⇢ ? ⇢ ? ur sick user: thread of yn’s reactions during the miami gp 🏎️

Tom is somewhere in the garage, advised to let you have a definitive moment by the barriers. He pouts, but understands. 

“Chris!” You spot Oscar’s dad at the barriers. You’d met briefly last night, a quick catch-up in the lobby before his dinner with Oscar. You would’ve as well, but you weren’t exactly “soft-launched” as of yesterday.

“Congratulations,” you smile and hug him. His grin is an echo of Oscar’s. “Goes for both of us, sweetheart.”

“Not a bad win, eh?” 

“Not bad at all.” Chris chuckles, teary-eyed. You feel for the man. You’ve never seen him stand as tall as he is now. “Especially in the middle of this media circus.” 

You feel sheepish. “Did Oscar say?” 

“It was Mark, actually.” 

Just then, a celebratory tune starts blasting out on the speakers, and George’s victory clip appears. You both turn your eyes upwards. 

George comes out. Then, Lando.

And finally, Oscar. Beautiful, lovely Oscar. 

The crowd roars from behind. His team chants his name. You and Chris look at each other and laugh—a vivacious sound. 

You look back up at Oscar and something lodges in your throat. It’s too big an emotion.

Whatever it is, you hope it reaches him. 

Paps line the paddock like snipers. They’ve received the tip—and they’re waiting. 

Meanwhile, you and Tom are on the second floor of McLaren’s motorhome scrolling on Twitter. 

“I’ll miss being the internet’s OTP with you,” Tom sighs dramatically.

“Who says we’re stopping?” You show him a screenshot of him during the broadcast, headset on, jaw slack. He’s wearing the Miami cap. “Look at you, you papayahead!”

He grins, not one bit embarrassed. “Please. I’m already holding you onto a paddock pass for the next race. Don’t you dare leave me out. We have the same presser schedule.” 

“Bribing my girlfriend for paddock passes now, are we?”

You whip your head around— Oscar’s leaning by the top of the staircase, still in his fireproofs. 

His eyes are steady on you, stance unnervingly casual. Like he hadn’t just won his third Grand Prix in a row.

Something violent overcomes you. 

You don’t know Oscar to be so suave, but on the rare occasion he is, it’s unintentional. So unbelievably effortless that it makes you want to rip your hair out.

You hound in towards him. There’s a twinkle in his eye; he meets you halfway with his arms wide open and crushes your bones.

“You—!” You crash into his body mid-expletive. His jaw finds your shoulder. Anchors itself. It’s not the most coordinated embrace—one arm’s between your chests and the other’s jutting off to the side—but it’s everything you need.

The skin around his neck is sticky. He reeks of victory. 

Three days in. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re here and not a time zone away. That he can just walk across the paddock and have you in his arms. It invigorates him—the immediacy. Of you, of your touch. Feels like crossing the checkered flag ten times over.

Maybe next time you won’t have to hide. It doesn’t feel too impossible, now.

Tom snaps a photo of you both discreetly. 

You pull away, eyes gleaming and hair mussed. Emotion clogs your throat. 

I should speak. A sentence. Maybe a sound. 

A stilted croak trickles out. 

Oscar grins—a wild sort of expression. His chest is puffed up. “Wow. That bad?”

When words fail, actions speak. You hit him square in the chest. 

Oscar gasps, but his eyes soften. He nudges your chin and says, “I know.”

Something like love spills out in the small smile you cough up. “Some kind of driving.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Supersonic.”

He kisses the back of your hand and finally acknowledges the other presence in the room. “Hey, Tom.” 

Your co-star walks over to you both, grinning. “Great to finally meet you, man. Congrats on the win.” 

Oscar and Tom dap each other up. You watch with the fondness of a mother seeing her kid making strides in their social life. 

“Fancy grabbing dinner with us back at the hotel?” Oscar asks when the small talk passes. You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. Even Tom looks surprised.

“I mean, I’d love to, mate, but don’t you have a victory to celebrate? With the team?”

“Well,” Oscar gestures to the McLaren cap on the table. “You’re pretty much Team Papaya now.”

“Huh!” You react out loud. 

“See you at 8?”

“8 it is,” Tom smirks. “Have fun with the paps.” 

Realization hits like a bucket of cold water. You and Oscar groan in unison.

There are fewer people on the paddock now that the sun’s begun its descent. Mostly podium teams wrapping up their post-race celebrations, itching to move out to wash off the day’s sweat and grime. The track was still technically their workplace. 

“Last time I checked, you were jealous of Tom.” You mutter next to him when you go through the VIP exit. He appreciates the effort of a normal conversation. There’s a hammering in his chest, knowing there’s some freakishly long telephoto lens angled at you both from a vantage point tipped by your team. 

“Not my brightest moment, unfortunately.”

Then, a rather loud camera shutter goes off from a nearby building. He shares a look with you, and it’s enough eye contact to trigger a fit of giggles from you both. 

“This must be what birds feel like.” 

What? Oscar raises his brows. “What?”

“Feels like we’re in a nature documentary,” you stage-whisper. “Caw, caw.” 

There’s an intense look in his eyes that you can’t define. He either wants to kiss you or hurl you over his shoulders. You brace yourself.

But suddenly, he’s taking one step back and frames you with his fingers, tilting his head with one eye closed. You raise a brow, wondering what the hell he’s up to.

The accent comes at you like a blow: “Crikey! Ain’t she a beauty.” 

You freeze. Glitch. 

What in the world—

The snort you let out is gross and loud. Your knees buckle, and you keel over in a full-bodied, silent laugh. You hear Oscar’s groan before you feel his grip.

“Oh my god, get up. You look like you’re having a seizure.” 

You’re dying. “Are you supposed Steve Irwin?!” A few side eyes get thrown your way. 

He goes fully red. “Tried to make you laugh.”

“W-Wh-” You wheeze. “What do you think I’m doing?” 

“By virtue of my nationality, I have the right to impersonate Steve Irwin. No matter how terrible you think it is.”

Oscar’s fully embarrassed, if the pink blush across his face is any indication. You are extremely entertained—and in love. 

You are so in love. 

‘Small, but definitive,’ had been the directive given to you both. That meant a shared smile or a hand behind your back. Not a boisterous laugh, not something so brazen and without regard for the rest of the world. 

It was the opposite of Oscar’s image. A different dynamic compared to how you are with Tom. It could upset your fans, the shippers. 

People disliked change. You needed to ease them into it. Into this.

But you can’t help it. It finally feels like this was how you were supposed to love Oscar. Loudly and honestly. The way truths are upheld. 

The internet bares its teeth after the photos drop on Monday morning.

user: let’s just say I didn’t peg oscar to be the actress-type lol user: her vibe is weird idk user: all this time we’ve been calling yntom the second tomdaya.. we were played  user: the way she’s laughing im afraid we’ve lost her folks ⇢ LIKE CAN SHE GET UPPP user: yntom is So over user: Im confused isnt yn dating her costar or user: Guys they havent confirmed anything yet they could just be really good friends. And yn is pretty funny of course that driver would fold.  ⇢ whatever makes you sleep at night user: what do they even have in common /gen ⇢ i was thinking the same thing 😭 randomizer ahh couple

It’s mean. It comes at you in Instagram comments, Tiktok hot-takes, and WhatsApp updates from Nellie keeping you informed whether you like it or not. F1 WAG accounts pick apart your outfits from the weekend. There’s a fan war on Twitter between Tom’s fans and yours. You haven’t even seen Oscar’s side of the internet yet.

Meet F1’s newest WAG, A Hollywood Upcomer

Another Hollywood Star Dips Her Toes in Sports

Did we get played? YN and Tom — Just Friends? 

You’re gorgeous, irrelevant, real, and attention-seeking; vitriol and praise for breakfast. 

The chatter squalls at a volume that’s near grating. It feels like static under your skin. 

You knew it would be loud. Still, anticipation doesn’t soften the blow. 

It’s Tom who becomes the first line of defense. 

He uploads a carousel on Instagram the same day: an outfit shot, a couple of candid “boyfriend” photos you helped him take, a tray of paddock appetizers, a selfie with you in the garage, a three-second clip of him cheering with you beside him, and finally—a photo of the dinner you three shared last night. He tags you and Oscar on each dish. 

tomblyth Miami GP with one of the best people I know. Made a new friend :)

He uploads it way earlier than advised—you’re supposed to let things simmer. Give it a chance to blow over. 

It’s then you realize he’s done this of his own accord. No publicist whispering in his ear. Just a friend running interference. 

Tom Sent an image You're welcome Have you seen my post? 😝

It’s a photo of you and Oscar in the motorhome; You, squished in his arms, torso curved into yours. His number splashed across his back. 

You bite your cheek. It’s a lovely, candid shot. You stare at it longer than you need to.

You weigh the consequences.

You’re supposed to upload something, too. “Own the narrative.” A soft confirmation. Something that won’t hurt.  

This, however. It’s quite blatant. Harder for fans to swallow.

You trust your work. You trust the production. You trust the characters you and Tom gave life to, the chemistry that doesn’t require showmanship. That’s what audiences will remember. 

The bathroom door is wide open. Oscar, hair utterly untamed, is brushing his teeth half-asleep. 

Most of all, you trust Oscar—so why does this still feel so impossible? Like a freefall with no harness.

You shake your head. It’s good. And it will sell good. This PR stuff shouldn’t matter. You repeat it until it rings true.

“Hey,” he calls out, eyes squinting at you. “It doesn’t have to be scary.”

You sigh. “Didn’t realize I was thinking too loud.” 

He makes a rough sound of assent.

You let out a soft ‘fuck it’ and start tapping away. Oscar hums.

The carousel goes like this: Outfit check. Paddock club hors d’oeuvres. A silly photo of Tom. A beautiful photo of Tom, so he doesn’t kill you. Racetrack views. Confetti during the podium. 

The hospitality photo that looks like your heart. Better fit in between journal pages than an Instagram grid. 

You type out a caption. Pick out a song. 

Your thumb hesitates. Apprehension seizes your stomach. Go back. Back. Delete the last photo from the carousel. 

You can’t—you can’t do this. 

It was too resolute. A piece of you and Oscar you didn’t want the world to get hold of. 

You wondered if you could do this. Without the games, the coy breadcrumbing. Escape the limbo hanging between confirmation and denial. 

Instead, you scroll through Nellie’s folder and pick out one of her approved shots—a harmless, breezy shot of you walking in, all casual sweetness and your lanyard slung around your purse.  

The pass on your bag was perfectly clear. Visible enough for a fan to zoom in and read it: Oscar Piastri – Guest. “That should say enough,” Nellie had texted earlier.

Confirmation without the brazenness. Tame. Safe.

Playing safe never hurt anyone. 

yourname Lights, camera, a… and away we go?

You send it for checking and are given a green light.

Even then, you’re double-checking the post, triple-guessing the life you’d chosen before hitting upload and throwing your phone across the bed, muffling a scream with your hands. 

Oscar picks it up. “It’s live.” You don’t notice him fiddling around with it while you’ve given yourself a timeout for being dramatic.

When you’re done, you flop onto the bed next to your boyfriend. 

“Posted mine,” Oscar says, nudging you with his foot. 

You see the notification. 

oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.

What? 

You stare at him. His face remains focused on his phone. “Were we allowed to tag each other?” 

oscarpiastri liked your post. oscarpiastri commented on your post: ☺️ oscarpiastri tagged you in a story.

“What the fuck are you doing.” You sit up, heart beating terribly fast. “It’s supposed to be a soft launch, Osc.”

You swipe through his post.

oscarpiastri All my favourites in one weekend

His fist pump on his car. The bottle of champagne raised high on the podium. Him clutching the trophy. The griddy in parc fermé. 

The pap shot of you two leaving the paddock, grinning at each other like two damn idiots. It’s brazen. It’s defiant.

But still, it’s not the one you’re tagged in.

You swipe to the last photo: Oscar’s looking out of the stadium, Miami trophy between his legs, and you’re tagged right there—on his chest. Your name appears just above where his heart is. 

A soft hiccup erupts from your chest. You can feel his eyes on you. 

It’s the kind of non-compliance that should have repercussions. Especially on a PR campaign mandated to ease fans into accepting change. 

Instead, Oscar hard launches you into oblivion.  

You’re biting down hard on your jaw. You open the story next and your breath catches. 

Thanks for the shot @ tomblyth  Kept it quiet long enough :) 

It’s on all his socials. Twitter and Instagram and freaking Tiktok. 

You close your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “You absolute reckless piece of shit—”

He kisses you flat on the lips. 

“First. I’m sorry. Also, Tom sent me the photo, too.” 

“Still a piece of shit-”

“Who you still love?”

“I do,” you reply grumpily. “Were you two scheming behind me this whole time?”

He gives a sheepish smile. “He said, quote ‘Let’s just get this over with, man.’ End quote. His words, not mine.”

It still doesn’t pacify the clamor in your stomach.

“But to answer your question, no. It was all my doing. Tom’s just, uh, gonna help me soften the blow.” 

Despite everything, this makes your mouth twitch. “And you’re qualified to call the shots how?”

“I’m internet savvy enough.”

“Right.” You tug on the drawstrings of your hoodie and retreat further into the bed. He wraps his arm around you.

He continues spewing out nonsense. You watch him doomscroll on his phone. He skims through his playlist and asks for help picking a song for his next post, though they all sound the same to you. 

Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. The air feels warmer. You feel safe. Somewhere in between you forget the part where you were spiraling.

“Won’t McLaren PR tell you off or something?” 

He scrunches his face. “Nah. They don’t care for my personal life. If anything, Sophie’s keen on letting me post you more. Think she might be a fan.” 

You roll your eyes. “I doubt.”

“I’m serious! She’s probably following you.”

You’re tempted to open Instagram and check, but the thought of looking at your socials right now makes you want to barf. 

Suddenly, you start talking like all along this was the topic of conversation. “You don’t get it. If I post it, it’s like the final nail in the coffin—and for a moment, I had some resolve. I was going to post the photo, Osc, I was. But I got scared. I thought of the fucking internet and then I—”

“Got cold feet,” he finishes for you, like it’s the most forgivable thing in the world.

“Internet’s plenty terrifying,” he says, turning to level his eyes with yours. He moves to sit before you, propping his legs up on either side of you so there’s no escaping. His eyes are big and honeyed and still sleepy at the edges. 

“Fuck ‘em,” Oscar says. He cradles your face, thumb pressing softly into your jaw so you look at him. He says it again when you don’t respond. “Hey, hey. Fuck. Them.”

The message gets across. You nod. “Fuck them.”

He smirks and nudges your nose. “S’my girl,” he mumbles. Oscar leans in and rests his chin on your head. “And for the record, I would post you every day until you stop caring.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He grins. “Try me.”

Oscar doesn’t tell you how pleased he is now that it’s public. A silent “mine” in every post he’d have of you from now on.   

The jealousy never really went away. 

Tom, as promised, replies to Oscar’s comment on your post. Even reposts the story.

tomblyth replies: 🤨 tomblyth reposts: Couldn’t stop her from running off with a racecar driver yourname reposts: skill issue

Crazily enough, it works. The narrative shifts, and suddenly, Tom is the relatable third wheel the internet never knew it needed. He takes the brunt of the joke like a champ. 

Oscar, for the most part, stays the same. And so do you. If not a little more comfortable now. 

Oscar Sent a link. “F1 driver” I have a name you know 🙁

Oscar Also. Been informed that you and Tom have some chemistry test challenge or whatever. How is it your co-star tells me before you do

Oscar Hey so Your lockscreen is making rounds on Twitter :) Sneak. Round 2 this summer break? Hattie told me she wanted to try out this new trail

Oscar Have you booked flights for Monaco yet?  I got Tom a pass if he wants to come Missing you a little extra tonight

Oscar is on his phone.

He sees the tweets, the comments, the tags. Sometimes, they get things right. How he does have heart eyes for you, how they can tell you’re sickeningly in love when either name comes up in interviews.

But.

It’s easy to get things wrong, too. They can never quite discern the full picture. 

He finds peace in that.

He taps on the replay of your premiere’s livestream. Finds the playback of you and Tom entering the red carpet. 

His thumb stops. There. You’re radiant.

The camera zooms in on you and Tom sharing a bit of banter before posing for the cameras. Does it annoy him? Only marginally.  

He still gets jealous of the co-stars. All of them—Tom not excluded. Past, present, and future. That they get to be near you. That they get to know the sound of your laugh and have access to the contours of your face. Your lips, too, if they’re lucky enough.

1 new message. You booked tickets! see you in monaco baby <3 

Even then. 

They didn’t get to have you. No one did. 

Though by some miracle, you let him.

They loved you. But he had you. 

It’s something. 

Something he has no plans to give up. Even when you’re both past your prime. Even when the world doesn’t want you two anymore. When the podiums and stages find new occupants and there’s no one left to fight you for. 

(This, he doubts. You’re striking—there’s something godlike, beyond human comprehension, about the way you perform. There will always be someone to fight.) 

It’s commitment, he realizes.

He feels a smile tugging at his lips. There’s peace in that, too. 

Oscar knows he’ll outlast them all. Competition was barely worth mentioning.

Besides, he made sure the world understood it the first time—that he was yours.

whew! if you enjoyed operation drs, please do let me know or drop any in the tags!! like every other author here, i live for comments :)

[skzvibes-blog]

You know that your boyfriend Clark is Superman but he doesn’t know that you know, naturally you pretend to have a crush on everyone in the justice gang to annoy him into confessing. Based on this.

“The way I see it when you’re in a relationship you can browse the menu as long as you don’t order” you hand him a coffee. “Like yes you’re my boyfriend but that doesn’t mean I go blind and suddenly stop finding Tom Hardy attractive.”

Clark pouts “so that’s why you wanted to watch that movie with me?”

“Guilty as charged” you shrug “but you have no room to talk, what about Natalie Portman?”

“What about her?”

“You switch the channel whenever the commercials come on, unless it’s that Miss Dior ad.”

He flushes, perfectly falling into your trap. “Anyway even if I could switch off my attraction to celebrities I couldn’t possibly stop having a little crush on a certain superhero. I mean gosh, who doesn’t?”

He looked pleased then, ears perking up “well I guess I can’t blame you for that one” he says puffing up his chest subtly “even I can admit Superman is pretty darn attractive.”

“Superman?” You ask with perfectly acted innocent confusion “oh no he’s not my type…little bit dorky don’t you think? I mean underwear over the trousers? C’mon”

“Well I think it looks cool.”

“Eh. If that’s what you’re into I guess…no I was talking about Mr Terrific I mean gosh he’s just so…Terrific isn’t he?”

“Mr…Mr Terrific? You have a crush on Mr Terrific?”

“Yep” you popped the p “I mean he’s soooo smart and tall isn’t he? A real dreamboat.”

Clark sulked for the rest of the night and you mentally gave yourself a point.

_______

“Did you see superman found that little girls missing cat?” Clark asked suddenly. Real subtle you thought, considering that your boyfriend knew of your love of cats.

“Mmm pretty sweet of him.”

“Makes him rank above Mr Terrific don’t ya think?” He asks.

You laugh “are you still hung up on that? I think I’ve gotten over my Mr Terrific obsession now. A new super powered guy has captured my heart.”

He sighs with relief “well Superman has a knack for that doesn’t he-“

“Superman? I meant Guy Gardner, he’s just so dreamy don’t ya think?”

Clark squishes the can in his hand so hard a spurt of soda bursts out “Guy Gardner?” He repeats his voice squeaking a little “green lantern dude with a bowl cut?”

“Yeah that’s him” you pretend to sigh dreamily “I mean on anyone else that haircut would be horrible but he pulls it off you know?”

“I…I heard he’s really arrogant!”

“Yeah, kinda hot not going to lie. That dude can Green my lanterns any day if you know what I mean.”

“Get therapy” Clark mutters huffily and you laugh and peck his cheek “you’re still my number one.”

~~~~~~

“Ive been having a bit of a crisis” you sigh.

“Oh?” Clark instantly comes to sit beside you squeezing your hand gently “baby what is it?”

“You promise you won’t look at me differently?”

“Never, you know that, you can trust me.”

“Well I think I might be bisexual.”

He blinks “really? Well that’s great honey. It’s nice to see you exploring and accepting parts of yourself. How’d that come about?”

“It’s just Hawkgirl” you sigh “she’s just so…I mean you’ve seen her Clark isn’t she hot as hell?”

Clark pauses and it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing right then and there. God he was just so easy…one more push and you think he’d reveal his secret to you right then and there.

“Hawkgirl?” He asks voice low and deadpan “the woman who flies around screeching? She triggered your bisexual awakening?”

You nod sagely “yes I think I must be into assertive women or something.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose “and superman?”

“What about him?”

“Well you’ve worked your way through the justice gang…he’s like an honorary member of them…do you think you’ll start to like him next?”

You pretend to think about it “nahhhh, he’s just not my type really.”

“Why not?”

You shrug knowing that not giving him a specific answer will drive him even more crazy. “I dunno, he’s just not for me I guess.”

Clark’s eye twitches. “You know baby maybe you should interrogate why you’re so obsessed with me having a crush on superman. Look inwards like I did, maybe you’ll discover something about yourself, maybe you’re in love with him.”

The look on Clark’s face had you laughing so hard internally it caused a coughing fit. One day, you thought, he’ll admit it one day soon.

[skzvibes-blog]

[skzvibes-blog]

im doomed by the narrative but the narrative is a bunch of conscious choices i've made in the past

[skzvibes-blog]

Juventus Family Visit

Dad!Kenan Yildiz x Mom!Reader

The house was quiet — unusually quiet. The newborn boy had finally drifted to sleep in his bassinet, his tiny hands curled into fists beneath the soft white blanket. YN sat on the couch, sipping warm tea, exhausted but glowing. Across the room, Kenan hovered, arms crossed but eyes soft, watching their son like he was the most precious thing on earth.

The doorbell rang.

“Don’t wake him,” Kenan muttered automatically, padding barefoot to the door.

Outside stood Dušan Vlahović, Andrea Cambiaso, Nicolò Savona, Weston McKennie, Teun Koopmeiners, and Khéphren Thuram. Each held a gift bag or box, smiles wide but cautious, knowing the baby was still so small.

“Can we come in?” Cambiaso whispered dramatically.

Kenan smirked and waved them in. “Shoes off. And quiet — he’s sleeping.”

The moment they stepped inside, their eyes landed on the tiny baby. Silence fell even Vlahović, who stopped talking, just stared.

“No way…” McKennie murmured softly. “He’s so… small.”

Nicolò leaned down, hands on his knees. “And already looks like you, Kenan. Poor kid.”

Kenan rolled his eyes, but there was no hiding his grin. “He’s cuter than me. Admit it.”

“Way cuter,” McKennie teased, snapping a quick photo of the baby’s little foot sticking out of the blanket. “I’m not even posting his face — just this foot is about to break the internet.”

The baby stirred, letting out a tiny whimper. Instantly, Kenan was there — scooping him up with practiced ease, rocking gently. YN smiled from the couch, watching her usually confident husband transform into the softest version of himself.

“Hey, hey,” Kenan whispered in Turkish, pressing a kiss to the boy’s temple. “It’s okay, Baba’s here.”

Everyone froze at the tenderness in his voice.

“You’re a proper dad now,” Cambiaso teased quietly. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

“Shut up,” Kenan muttered, though he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Can we hold him?” Vlahović asked carefully, eyes wide.

Kenan hesitated for a split second — the protective side of him still strong — but finally nodded. “Sit down. And support his head.”

One by one, the teammates took turns holding him. Thuram whispered something about “future captain,” while Teun swore the baby already had “striker legs.” The softest little giggle escaped the baby, and everyone froze.

“Did he just laugh?” Weah whispered.

“He doesn’t even laugh for us yet,” YN admitted, eyes wide.

Fifteen minutes in, the apartment was filled with soft chatter and quiet laughter. Cambiaso placed a tiny Juventus bib around the baby “for future matchdays.” Vlahović promised to teach him free kicks when he could walk.

“He’s gonna be spoiled,” YN laughed.

“That’s the plan,” Nicolò grinned. “Between all of us, he’s never touching the ground — someone will always be holding him.”

Kenan shook his head but couldn’t help the warmth in his chest. His teammates weren’t just teammates — they were family. And now, they loved his son too.

Before leaving, the boys gathered near the door for one last look. “We won’t post his face,” McKennie promised, gesturing to the baby sleeping against YN’s chest. “But can we share the back of the jersey? Just the name?”

Kenan hesitated, glancing at YN. She nodded softly. “Back is okay.”

Minutes later, Juventus fans would lose their minds over a simple photo: a baby wearing a tiny kit, “YILDIZ” across the back. Face hidden. Safe. But loved.

Kenan closed the door behind his teammates and turned back to his wife and son. For once, the world felt quiet. Just them.

This was Requested.🫶🏼

[skzvibes-blog]

☾✶⁺˳✧༚ silver springs

☾ pairing: clark kent x reader

☾ summary: clark loses the girl he loves more than anything in the whole world, so his solution is to pine and yearn and wait for her, with no real clue as to what he's going to do when he gets her back. basically, clark kent gets haunted by his ex-girlfriend.

☾ warnings: no use of y/n, reader is in very brief danger but is ultimately okay, angst, it has a happy ending, a fight that ends with a kiss (ultimate cliche), not proofread </3

☾ wc: 3.5k words

Clark Kent is a happy person. He always had been. His parents had raised him to be grateful for small stuff, so when that small stuff happened, he was elated by it. Someone smiled at him on his way to work? It made his entire day. Seeing people talk in public about Superman, about how safe they felt with him around the city? Hell, it made his entire week. There was almost always a wide smile on his face. He was the happiest person in Metropolis.

But there was a time in Clark’s life where he was happier than he’d ever been in his whole life. He’d met his girl in one of the most romantic cliches ever - in his rush to get to work from the cafe, he hadn’t been looking where he was going, and spilled his coffee all over her. It was a moment straight out of a movie - a “meet cute”, as she’d lovingly called it later on in their relationship. He’d tried to use napkins to wipe his shirt as he stammered through the worst apology uttered in all of human history. She’d fired back with, “I’d be angrier if you weren’t so cute,” and then written her number on his then half empty cup of coffee.

It had taken Clark a few days to gather the courage to text her, but it wasn’t too late, apparently, since they’d texted so late into the evening that he’d fallen asleep after dropping his phone on his face and fracturing his glasses a little bit. And the cycle repeated the night after, and the night after that too. Clark couldn’t bring himself to ask her to dinner, because he was convinced she was too good, too perfect for him (despite his state of complete perfection. Like that wasn’t the point of Superman.) She asked him to dinner after two weeks of texting.

From that first dinner came the beautiful relationship Clark now reminisced on. They’d gotten comfortable very quickly. It turned into nights spent at either of their apartments watching movies, tucked under blankets, with her dressed up in Clark’s clothes and his arms around her body. It turned into sweet nothings whispered in her ear when he was on top of her, talking her through it. It turned into dancing in the kitchen silently while moonlight shone through the windows because neither of them could fall asleep.

His favourite memory was one evening on the couch watching a movie late at night. It was some stupid comedy movie with Adam Sandler that Clark swore up and down would be funny. Turned out he was very wrong. After 20 minutes, neither had been paying attention to the move anymore. How could he pay attention when his beautiful girlfriend was lying on his chest, his old Metropolis University t-shirt draped over her shoulders. It was an impossible feat. His hands were running through her hair, and she was looking up at him with those big, wide eyes.

“Clark, do you think you’d want a dog? Or a cat?” She’d asked him, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie like she wasn’t really paying attention to it, just needing to move around a little bit. “Not in this apartment. I mean, like, when we get a place together. Maybe a house. I just want to get a pet, I think.”

The question was phrased like it wasn’t supposed to rock Clark’s entire world, and yet it did. She was thinking about a future with him, no matter how small buying a place together and getting a pet might seem to some people. For Clark, it was everything. “A cat, I think. I’ve already got a dog. Sometimes.”

“You have a dog?” She sat up slightly, head still against his chest, eyes lit up like he’d told her he won a billion dollars at the lottery.

“Yeah, honey, I have a dog.” He grinned. The next hour was spent with her asking about Krypto, and when she could meet him, and would he like to eat the same things that she did. And the movie was long, long forgotten.

And his life was filled with sweet moments like that. They even started apartment hunting for a place together that would allow them to keep pets, because neither of their apartments did and it gave them the perfect excuse to move in together. Their relationship was full of life, warmth, and Clark had never, ever been happier in his life.

And then, something happened to Clark that had never happened before.

He lost the best thing he had in his life. And it caught him completely off guard.

He knew exactly why, of course. He was spending too much time as Superman, not enough as Clark Kent. Not enough time as her boyfriend. When the fight hit, it was after the third date he’d been 4 hours late for. It was in a restaurant this time and everything. Apparently, she’d waited at the table for an hour before the waiting staff started feeling sorry for her, and given her a free tiramisu on the house. Then she’d gone to the bar at the restaurant, gotten slightly tipsy (in her version of events. She was incredibly drunk), and then she came straight back to their apartment.

Unfortunately, perfect memory means every single detail of their fight was still engrained in his head, and he played it out every evening before bed. Clark had just come back from an awful fight, which he won, but he was banged up. Still in his Superman suit, flying through the open window, while she laid there sprawled on the couch. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent!” She’d slurred, looking up at him like he was a piece of filth. She used to look at him like he hung the stars. This broke his heart. Clark had never once been so ashamed of himself.

“Honey, please, can we talk about this in the-”

“Morning? God, if I haven’t heard that a billion times before.” She’d stood from the couch, squaring up to him like he didn’t obviously dwarf her. “I don’t want to talk in the morning, I want to talk now. About how this is the third time in a row you’ve stood me up.”

“You know that I have a duty.” He’d tried not to raise his voice, but bile was building at the back of his throat, and he couldn’t stop it from happening. “I have to help when it’s needed-”

“What about what I need?” She’d asked him, tears brimming in her eyes. All he wanted to do was brush them away, hug her tight, tell her he was going to change. But he was in too deep. “You’re supposed to care about me too!”

“Of course I care about you!” He’d shouted, looking down at her with pinched brows like she’d told him the sky was red and not blue. He tried to step forward to her, but she pushed him back, and he let her. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the world needs Superman.”

“Well, I need Clark Kent.” She’d stepped back, then, looking like he’d ruined not just her day, or her week, but her whole existence. He’d never forget the look on her face in that moment. “But I guess he’s not too bothered with that.”

And he’d left, not because he wanted to, but because he’d seen no other choice. It was over. It had been beautiful, and then all of a sudden, it was over.

For a few weeks, he’d felt only emptiness. He left all the traces of her in his apartment. On his nightstand was the polaroid picture she’d taken of him in the bathroom one evening, shirt off, glasses hanging off his nose as he brushed his teeth with one hand, the other reached out to push the camera away. Hung up on his wall was the painting she’d seen in a shop window that she’d pointed out to him, and he’d bought it for her. He kept restocking her favourite snacks in case she came home to him, and happened to be hungry on the occasion.

Except she didn’t come back to him. Seasons changed, the world kept spinning, but Clark’s had stopped. Until Lois Lane.

Lois had come to him at a perfect time. Exactly what he needed. A distraction from the constant thought of his girl. It wasn’t particularly fair, at least not at the beginning. After a little while, he’d really started to feel something for her. She was pretty, she loved him. So he certainly should feel something for her.

But there were times when he’d hold Lois that she’d reenter his mind. When they’d kiss and he’d imagine her lips instead. It wasn’t right, but he needed her. Most of the time, Lois was great at what he dated her for. He figured that as time passed, he would stop thinking about her. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

All of a sudden, she was everywhere, just as she had been when they were together. Except now it was sinister. Now it was haunting. She haunted the narrative of Clark’s story. He’d pass his fingers over his bedsheets and hear her giggles from when they’d lay there together. He’d turn a corner and swear he saw a girl who looked just like her, only to realise nobody could ever measure up. It only served to follow him around, to chase him down and make sure he couldn’t get free from it.

One evening, he called her. It went to voicemail - maybe she was busy doing something. Or she just didn’t want to talk to him. Which would actually make perfect sense, considering the last time they’d seen each other. But he’d called because Lois cancelled a date, and it reminded him of all the times he’d done the exact same thing to her. And he’d rambled. For a few very long minutes. And even though he wasn’t drunk (because he couldn’t be), it definitely came off that way.

“Hey. It’s Clark. Your ex-boyfriend Clark. Not Superman. I’m thinking about you right now. Wondering if you’re thinking about me. I actually think about you all the time, but I don’t know if you care about that anymore. You haven’t even tried to call me. Or text me. And I noticed you unfollowed my Instagram account, even though I haven’t posted anything in 3 years. It doesn’t matter though. I have a girlfriend now. Remember Lois? She’s really pretty. And she loves me. And you probably don’t want to know that, but now you do. So yeah. Answer your flipping phone next time.”

But she didn’t. And he didn’t think about that voicemail ever again, or how it probably made her feel. What he didn’t realise is that she’d listened to that voicemail over and over, replaying the part where he talked about Lois. He sounded happy. At least, he did, a little bit. That hurt more than it should have.

But eventually, Clark broke up with Lois. No matter how selfish he could sometimes be, Clark Kent was a good man, and he could tell the relationship was dead end and he was only going to hurt her by not being what she needed him to be. It wasn’t awkward after, thank god. She was a better person than he was. But it only meant his thoughts closed further in on him. She’d said something to him, while they were arguing that evening, that he just couldn’t shake.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of my voice, Clark Kent, because I love you.”

So pretty much, she was right.

He needed her.

That night, he left her another voicemail, because she still hadn’t decided to answer when he called.

“I broke up with Lois. I’m not in love with her. It’s not fair of me to lead her on when I’m really still in love with you. But I’m not, though. I don’t actually know if I am or not. I just know that I hate thinking about you so much. Stay out of my head and leave me alone, because if you don’t I won’t ever get over you. You don’t want that. You don’t love me anymore.”

How the heck was he going to get her back?

He tried going to all their favourite places, but as it turned out, she’d started avoiding them. He’d asked most of the people he used to know when he went there a lot, and they all said she hadn’t been for months. It hurt more than he cared to admit, but he moved on, tried to think of other ways to “organically” run into her somewhere. There was one spot he hadn’t checked yet. A place that she couldn’t just give up, no matter how much she hated him.

While they were together, they’d gone on a lot of walking dates before Clark had the courage to ask her back to his apartment. Each time in a different park, just for variety. And one time, they’d found a stone wall covered in ivy, with a door behind it. The door led into a smaller garden, with a fountain in the middle, and some benches. She’d called it their own secret garden, since that was her favourite book. And they returned to that garden a lot, just to sit together comfortably and talk when the apartment got too stuffy. They loved it there.

And for two weeks, Clark went there every evening, hoping that she’d just happen to stumble into it at the same time as him. It started to become more and more statistically improbable in his head. Even if she did go back there, who was to say she’d go at night? Maybe she’d go mornings, or afternoons, specifically when she knew he wouldn’t be able to make it. After those two weeks, he started to get confident. He’d stay for longer and longer each day to increase the probability of seeing her. Just when he got confident, thinking that evening, surely he’d be there, something went wrong.

There was a medium-sized alien in the middle of the city, courtesy of Lex Luthor, exactly when he didn’t need it to be there. Superman needed to make an appearance, so Clark skipped out on going to the garden in favour of making sure nobody got squished under its giant feet. He flitted about, saving everything from a small frog to a very large, lumberjack looking man. But his whole world froze when he heard a very familiar scream. He flew around manically for a minute before he zeroed in on its source - his girl (or, well, she used to be) wrapped in the alien’s fingers, looking very tiny as she screamed and flailed around.

He used his heat vision, glaring at the creature’s hand until it squawked and dropped her. He caught her immediately, flying up into the air and depositing her right where he’d started this evening. That stupid little secret garden, which happened to be a 20 second flight from the alien attack site. “Clark.” She whispered, looking up at him like she saw through his suit, to the awkward boy underneath. She hadn’t said Superman. She’d said Clark. His heart pounded in his eardrums.

“Wait here. Please.” With that, he flew back out, and the rest of the 20 minutes he spent trying to relocate the alien was the most torturous thing he’d ever done. Finally, he succeeded (he’d decided to fly it out onto another planet), and he returned to where he’d left her. Thank god she was still there. It would’ve been very easy for her to leave - which told him she wanted to see him. At least a little bit.

“I told you not to go out when alien attacks happen.” He says simply, looking over at her as he floated back down.

“Thank you for saving me.” She mumbles quietly, no longer looking at him, her eyes trained on the ground. A pain shot through his heart. “But I have to go, Clark, I can’t do this.”

“Don’t go, come on, let me just see you for a second.” His voice breaks, and he kneels on the grass in front of her, looking up to her. She looks up at the sky instead.

“It’s not fair, Clark. You can’t just fly in, save me, and expect it to fucking fix everything.” She whispers, shaking her head softly. And the way he whispers ‘language’ under his breath is not lost on her. It only serves to make her angrier. “That’s not how this is going to work. You can’t fix this as Superman when Superman is what ruined it.”

“Hey, I know, honey, I know.” He grabs her wrist, pressing her palm to his forehead. He used to do that when they fought, because it was a way of surrendering to her. She doesn’t move her hand away, which Clark considers a win. “But I want to fix it as Clark. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“You’re here because you saved me, Clark. What happens if I don’t need saving, and the world does?” She asks, shrugging her shoulders aimlessly, her lips pursing. “What, do I just become second priority again? Do I have to sit in my apartment watching you on the news, worrying something’s going to happen to you?”

“Nothing is going to happen to me-”

“I could’ve loved you. But you just wouldn’t let me, Clark.” She murmurs, still not moving her hand away from his forehead, just trying to get him to stop rambling for a second so she could collect her thoughts. “Clark, I just- I don’t need you to be Superman, and save me, and save everyone. I need you to be Clark.”

“I can be Clark.” He nods, looking up at her like he was a thirsty man and she was an oasis. “I’ve been so busy saving the world, I forgot that you are my world. I forgot the world we were building together. And I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but I have never felt so empty as when I lost you.”

“You’re still Superman.” She whispers, eyebrows scrunching together. “That’s not going to change.”

“No, it’s not.” He agrees, grabbing her wrist one more time and moving her palm down so that he could kiss it softly. “I don’t want you to forgive me. I want to earn you back. If you still want me to be Clark for you.”

“Clark, of course I still want that.” She smiles, though her eyes clouded with tears. As soon as they began to fall, Clark’s thumb was already there, swiping them away gently, like she was porcelain, and he’d break her. “Just don’t make the same mistake again, please.”

“I will never, ever let you down again.” He whispers, promising her with his tone, with the look in his eyes, with the kiss he pressed to her knuckles.

“You know, you’re the stupidest man I’ve ever been in love with.” She beams, her arms finding a way around his neck despite her words.

“Well, I like the word love in that sentence.” His grin is just as goofy as she remembers, and it makes her heart flutter (traitorously). Her hand presses against his chest, warm through the suit, and his heart is beating a mile a minute under her touch.

“Clark.” She whispers, looking up at him in the way he used to dream about. With those eyes, the ones he’d missed for all these months, the ones that never seemed to leave his mind. And now they were looking right up into his, sweetly, exactly how he wanted it. “If you leave me again, don’t come back.”

“I don’t plan on leaving.” He murmurs back, his hand falling back to cradle the back of her neck. It happens instantly. They both lean in at the same time, lips connecting, and to say Clark’s heart exploded is an understatement. It’s a soft, gentle kiss, but nonetheless, his body is filled with warmth and fireworks and heat. It’s so overwhelming he doesn’t realise that they’ve floated up into the air, and she’s clinging to his shoulders.

“Don’t drop me.” She grins as she pulls back, pressing her forehead against his.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiles. His arms wrap around her waist as her chin drops on his shoulder. Clark’s world starts to spin again, because his girl is back in his arms. And she’s still in love with him. And he’s going to spend eternity winning her back. And most importantly, Clark Kent is, once again, the happiest man in Metropolis.

credits to @bbyg4rlhelps for the dividers!

sooo this took me forever... i absolutely LOVE this movie and it was about time i wrote a fic for him!! i am so so open to writing more for clark because this was genuinely so fun, so please hit up my inbox with requests for him!!!! as always please like and reblog if you like it so that this can take off, and i hope you enjoyed <3

[skzvibes-blog]

Did this because i havent seen anyone in tiktok do it yet lollll (plus David Corenswet is literally my htperfixation rn)