#⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.・。.・゜・.・・゜・。..・。.・゜・.・・゜⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

richeeduvie · 3 days ago

Text

✫ Carry My Pain ✫ JACK ABBOT x F!READER

PART(?) of CRASH and BURN!AU || 9.2K ➥ summary: When everyone flakes on a night out at the bar, Jack is left to ache with restraint at the fact that you're too drunk to let him finally have you. Still, it's a "date" where he's amused by the beauty of you plastered, but when all it takes is a thoughtless comment about his leg while he's carrying you to ruin the night, you and Jack have to have a heavy heart-to-heart to make up for it. That heavy heart-to-heart? Well, it reveals one too many things about his intense want for you, and it reveals one too many things about your past.

✭ JACK ABBOT MASTERLIST || AUTHOR MASTERLIST ✭

・。MOSTLY FROM JACK'S POV, drunk!reader, restraint, implications of past abuse (not Jack against reader), NSFW: groping, groping is dubcon cause you're drunk but no actual sex takes place, sorta crybaby!reader but she's, again, drunk, so give her some credit, mentions of sex and possessive behavior, ableism -- if I'm being honest, this is only part of the Crash and Burn!AU cause I wrote this with those characterizations (and I also feel like these prequel fics help validate Jack's behavior in that series), but like...I also wrote this with The Lengths in mind so whatever lmao, but you honestly do NOT have to read anything beforehand to read this fic lol. 。

・So, I'm not sure if the ppl who have requested to be tagged for part three of Crash and Burn want to be tagged in content related to it, so I have not tagged anyone. I don't want to be a bother lol, but if the ppl who wanted to be tagged in part three of Crash wouldn't mind being tagged in things like this, feel free to let me know ・゜

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

The place his crew had planned to meet up is too loud and too full of people shouting over drinks about things that couldn’t possibly matter. This is where the buzz of neon signs burns at his eyes in the way the bass of quiet rock thumps heavy at his boots. Yeah, Jack likes to drink. He’s great at doing it casually, and maybe there was one point he liked going to bars, but he doesn’t remember when they became so damn crowded with sounds and smells and sights that didn’t know how to leave him alone. Maybe he’s just getting old, but this is not the night to be thinking that, so he decides it’s this one shitty bar he doesn’t like.

It’s not the night to be thinking about how the grey of age has curled into him, because he’s nursing a bourbon while waiting for coworkers who never showed, and the most beautiful girl is sitting next to him.

“Jackie…do we make a good teaaammm?”

“Yes. We do, sleepy. Drink your water.”

“But–”

“Drink it.”

She’s wearing a smile that’s radiant and lazy, and she is so much younger than he is. And every night where her smile is radiant and lazy–or tired, or cheeky, or asking to be bent over the counter, whether that counter be one of the hospital or a bar, is another night where Jack’s caring less and less about anything that makes him a dirty old man who doesn’t deserve the nurse next to him.

Nope. Of course. No one from the Pitt showed. Except Jack.

And you.

Two drinks in, you both realized that this whole situation might’ve turned into a date, and Jack almost sank into the fucking ground at that thought–because two drinks turned into five, then seven, and as you ranted about nothings with stumbled, hiccupped passion, he couldn’t stop imagining what he could do to you once he brings you home.

“One more martini for the missus, please–”

Jack shakes his head at the bartender.

“One more glass of water. Please. Thank you.”

“Jack, it’s an espresso martini–it’s more caffeine than alcohol. Silly man.”

He blinks once at you. It’s where he smothers every one of those little ugly fantasies, because no–this is one moment the guy’s sure you’re not thinking of the same things. So. No justification there. You’re not sober or knowing up to possibly want to be against his skin the way he hopes. He’d be stupid as all hell to hope.

God. All the things he’d do to you when both of you would have a silent agreement to finally bare all the things you’ve been holding in at the skin, under the sheets–where he couldn’t help, sorry kid, but be rough in every fantasy he’s having in this stick-stool overpriced brick of bar, because he’d finally be inside you in every one of them, and hopefully at that point, there’d be no fucking guilt or gruff self hatred for imagining fucking you and holding you and having you before he actually did.

“You’re plastered. We work tomorrow night. You don’t need to show up at the Pitt early because you needed an IV.”

“What. Ever.”

Your slurred attitude is why he almost sinks into the ground at the possible chance this night out has turned into something where something can happen between you and him. Nothing can.

You’re wasted. This is not how Jack wants you for the first time he has you. And also…morals. You cannot consent like this. Not in all hell. He wouldn’t let you have him if you tried, but even then, he’s fucked for hoping that you would, sweet girl.

Still, he holds you at the neck when you shakily sip at your glass of water, because he’ll have you anyway that’s right. One day, feeling you around him as you whimper at his ear (or maybe you’re breathy, maybe you’re loud, he’ll kill god if he dies before he can find out)...one day, when you’re sober and begging for him, that’ll be a right thing to have. But not tonight.

“I’m so mad at everyone for ditching,” You slur, clutching your glass like it might slip away. “Except you. You’re my hero. They’re losers. It’s fate, actually. The two of us. Alone.”

Jack doesn’t gaze where that one strap of your top has slipped off your shoulders, he wonders how you’re eyes are glowing. His smile is tired, but genuine, because it’s you. His sleeves are rolled up, the veins in his forearms catching the light as he still nurses his glass, untouched for the last ten minutes.

“Yep. You are so, so plastered.”

“You’re handsome.”

It’s shot back with your whispered, exaggerated secrecy.

Jack nearly chokes on nothing.

God, how he wishes you were sober. You’ve said things like that while you were sober, but he can’t exactly introduce you to all the way he’s wanted to punish you when you quip like that at the Pitt, unless there’s a chance you and he wouldn’t immediately be fired for taking you to a supply closet. He wouldn’t want you there anyway. You deserve softness, which isn’t him, but he has a bed you can have forever.

“I’m tipsy. Not plastered, and so very charming, thank you very much.”

“You’re slurring every third word.”

You hiccup. “Only the sexy ones, like wet…and blow.”

Jack’s able to hide the burn of this when he downs the rest of his bourbon.

“Jesus Christ.”

“You’re blushing!”

Maybe he didn’t hide it that well. As you said, whatever.

He doesn’t know the way color blooms up his neck as you declare victory triumphantly, leaning in at his side, finger poking his chest. “You’re blushing.”

“You’re touching me. And you’re embarrassing yourself.” Jack says it against his knuckles, which he lets you take to play with. "Not usual for a woman of your pep--"

Which you take to put against your cheek.

He closes his eyes before gazing into you.

You won’t remember this night at all, will you?

That a blessing or a curse?

“Do you want me to stop?”

You ask it, bold and drowsy, and Jack doesn’t answer right away. He should say yes, that’s what he’s been reeling over after all, right? Morals. Guilt. The good stuff. He should.

But great. His silence is louder than a confession.

You grin, satisfied. “You like me.”

Jack lets your name fall out, an order to stop this from spiraling, but it’s a failed one. It doesn’t matter, there are better things to say.

Of course I fucking do. I don’t care that you’re drunk. You should know by now how much I like you and how you’ve ruined me and how I still don’t deserve you. It’s all your fault, and you dare to act like this is some new revelation? What’s wrong with you?

“You like me,” You sing, all sparkle and martinis and zero shame. He thought this was what he’d want with guilt, you wanting him enough to push as you do, but he burns like he’s on fire. Fuck. The things you do to him, kid. Make him a flurry of paradoxes. “Dr. Abbot likes me. Even though I talk too much and wear ridiculous shoes and said once that I thought House was based on you. Grumpy, genius, definitely not as emotionally repressed...and you’re missing the cane, but you’ve got the limp.”

Jack blinks, head lowering. Brows slightly furrowing.

What?

“My limp–”

“You’re so smart. And badass. No playbook can stop you. And this is the man who likes me. How could I be so lucky?”

…It’s just that you’ve never mentioned his limp before. But. Just a drunk girl’s sick little joke. Nothing more. He’s old. He can handle sick jokes. He’s given them to you more times than he can count. You’ve just never mentioned his limp before. Nice to you know you perceived it, sleepy. Peachy.

Jack hides the way his jaw tenses from himself with a smirk he slips on his face. He’s not responding again, not with words, anyway, just this subtle, helpless shift of his gaze like he’s not Jack Abbot, but he is. This gaze is not despite the fact he’s Abbot, it’s because of the fact he’s Abbot, and the girl next to him in this shitty bar has crawled into his chest and curled herself up in hardened ribcage, putting her ear to his heart and stretching in sleep to reach for the bottom of him.

It’s a stare into you, then into the wood of the counter, then into you–it’s something between aching, bleeding restraint and surrender. Jack doesn’t name it. Maybe he will in therapy if he’s brave enough. You don’t notice.

Or maybe you do.

“I mean, I like you, too,” You say it, quiet again. “Even if you bear a semi-brooding complex and won’t tell me what the name of your cologne is.”

Jack’s brow arches. “That supposed to be a compliment, sleepy?”

“It’s a diagnosis.”

You say it proudly. Jack shakes his head and laughs again, but he doesn’t have to guess why the humor leaves him as you lean into his body, like gravity’s only a suggestion to you. He takes in your perfume. Your laugh. Your hand brushing his knee. Again.

Yeah. This was a mistake. A stupid, reckless mistake–not to leave the minute he realized it was only going to be the two of you here, to give himself a taste of you on the outside, knowing that he wouldn’t take you home to feel you on the inside. To promise that no matter what, no matter how fucked up he is, no matter how mean he could get while he holds you, that he’ll take care of you as long as you’ll let him, because he doesn’t know that he wouldn’t let you stop letting him.

He realized it was only going to be the two of you. He stayed. And he feels like he’s going to cave in on where you’re resting inside of him. There’s too much wreckage there, you know. You should know, no matter how good he is at opening himself up and therapy and all the solaced bullshit that he’s settled into. Because you are…you. Bright-eyed and good-hearted, and painfully good at being resentfully perfect. Nothing Jack deserves, even when he can believe he’s a good man, and he’s getting better at that.

But God, he wants you, kid.

C’mon,” he says softly, catching your hand when you sway in trying to jump off the stool. “You need to get home.”

“I need nachos.”

“You need a ride.”

“You volunteering?” you smirk, because you were never not going to be flirty even through the haze. “You gonna carry me to bed like a romance novel?”

Jack stands, pulling his jacket from the back of the chair. His head jolts slightly, an unwilling mechanical error that happens when you say things like that.

But at the end of the day, he doesn’t get shy like the little coward you are when he bites back.

“Don’t tempt me.”

Your smirk drops, his finds itself on his mouth quickly.

Got you.

But only for a moment, because when you fully try and get up, your knees buckle.

Jack reaches out for you instantly. His little drunkard. You’ve ruined everything. He used to be boring and dark and dependable.

You stumble into him—full body, arms wrapping around his torso like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Oh no,” you murmur into his chest. “I forgot how legs work.”

I’ll have you in any way that’s right.

No. Holding you like this with his cheek on the top of your head isn’t in any bill of rights, and it barely makes him feel good, and he can thank his morals for that. But he does it anyway.

“I didn’t know you could be this insufferable.”

He says it less like an insult and more like a gruffly endearing fact before he steadies you, hand on your waist. “Let's go, kid.”

You don’t let go, no—your fingers grip his biceps, head lolls slightly against him as the two of you shuffle toward the door. “You smell good. I want to wear your man perfume.”

Jack steps forward with you, head lifting up against the breeze when he makes it out into the street.

“You do not drink by yourself til you’re like this, right?”

“Don’t worry, you’re the only man I want to smell when I’m tipsy.”

He stops in his tracks, but not because your hand trails lazily down his chest, and not because your fingers graze his side–curious, loose, unconsciously pushy. He doesn’t know why he stops.

“You have the habit of testing people’s patience to the point of madness. You know that?”

“When did you notice?”

“The first day I met you.”

“I don’ remember the first day I met you.”

“No?”

“No. Cause it was night.”

Jack throws a stare against you. This woman.

“You probably don’t remember that night right now, just like you won’t remember tonight tomorrow.”

Your eyes flutter up to meet his, dazed but sincere. Your smile turns lopsided.

“You’re blushing again.”

Well fuck you, the most frustrating perfect person in the world, for noticing. He can’t help it. His ears are red.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

You can’t walk.

“Stop touching me, unless you’re gonna kiss me. You’re a bigger t-tease than I expected the first time I decided you were gonna be my best, best friend.”

Or you can, technically, but each foot in front of the other is more like an interpretive dance. Jack’s got one hand on your waist, the other catches your elbow every three steps.

Your name comes out of his mouth, stern. Curt. “Not tonight.”

Any other night, when you’ll remember what I’ll do to you. With you.

Outside, the night is cool and quiet, the contrast sober to the both of you. Jack wraps his jacket around your shoulders without asking. You always look cold, and as smart as you are, you didn’t think to bring a coat for tonight–too busy thinking of all the ways you could show off your shoulders.

That was dickish. Childishly so. Shut the fuck up, Abbot.

He ignores the way you cling to his arm, hands under the jacket–holding onto him like he’s gravity. No, he just stiffens instead.

“I’m joking,” You giggle, face against his chest. “Unless you’re not.”

He sighs, long-suffering. The sober you will be grateful that drunk you got plastered enough to have short-term memory loss, he’s sure. “You need to get home. I’m bringing you home.”

“I live farrrrrr, I took an uber here, and I can take an uber home–”

“No. Absolutely not. I’ll drive you.”

“Okay, whatever you say, my curly-haired chauffeur–”

Jack catches you before you trip over yourself, and you’ve taken it as permission to let all your weight fall into him, and he takes no permission in enjoying it.

How far did he park the damn car?

“Wrap your arms around my neck.”

Jack crouches slightly, somehow finding it easy to smirk when you yelp at the way his arms come around your thighs. He lifts you up.

“Yay! You’re carrying me. Good, I thought I was going to die the last time I took a step, which was five seconds ago. It was the worst feeling I’ve ever felt. I never want to feel like I'm going to die ever again. But it's not the first time."

It doesn’t matter what you weigh, he manages all too well in treating this like it’s nothing.

He blinks.

"What do you mean by not the first time--?"

"Oo! A penny. It looks sexy. Can you pick it up for me?"

The question dies quickly when he takes in a breath, he doesn’t let go of as you press yourself fully against him, your cheek resting against his shoulder. You hum happily.

But you gaze up at him, he gazes down at you.

“This is nice,” You mumble it. “I’ve taken up the space of your bicep enough to know that you were always secretly warm.”

His eyes don’t shift off when he scoffs, breath fogging in the cold air. Why would they? “I don’t know how someone can get this delirious off of supervised martinis.”

“I don’t know how someone can get so red off of level one flirts, this isn’t even my final form, Dr. Abbot–”

“Shut up.”

Jack swallows when you nuzzle into his neck. You might be half-asleep already, and in your delirious daze that’s this close to pushing him off the edge of morals, you’re drifting. He’s…relaxing. Shit. Why’s he allowing himself to do that?

Well, he knows why, and he’ll blame the alcohol he’s had tonight as reason why he doesn’t care enough to stop. Jack settles in the quiet, now that you finally are. He smiles down at you.

You’re right. This is nice.

“Wait!”

You gasp, suddenly alarmed, gripping him tighter. His smile drops in concern.

“What?” Suddenly, you’re trying to get down, and someone will have to pry you out of his cold, dead hands before he lets you. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Jack–Jack!”

“What?”

“Your leg!”

He freezes. Eyes unblinking.

“What about it.”

“Your leg! You–you only have one and a half.”

You say it without a sick joke along your tongue. No. You are as serious as you can be.

“That’s not safe. You’re gonna fall. We’re gonna fall. I’m gonna kill you and then everyone at the Pitt’s gonna hate me and I’ll have murdered the handsomest attending to have ever lived.”

You’re as serious as you are drunk. You’re very, very drunk. Jack knows that you’re not trying to be mean. No, no, no. You are as genuine as they come. Jack knows that.

But it fractures him anyway.

Jack chokes on a breath he can’t let go of, looking off into the night before he stares into your innocent, beautiful worry.

Somewhere in that innocent worry is doubt. Doubt in what he can handle. Doubt in what he is. Jack’s handled doubt before, and over the years, he’s stopped caring about how people perceive him for his leg–or hell, lack thereof. But it’s your doubt, and sure, you’re drunk–he knows the dreadfully perfect nurse-woman you are would never say something like that while you’re sober, but it’s still you.

And because it’s you, it’s the first time in a long, long time that doubt has felt like a fucking gut-punch.

Good job, Abbot. You let a woman crawl into your chest to live there, and you did it because you’ll take any way you can have her, even if it kills you–even if it’s wrong, even if she deserves better, and you she’s found a way to rip your heart out of your ribcage while you weren’t looking.

Yeah. Good on you.

“I’ve got you.”

His jaw tightens to the point of a burning stretch, and Jack couldn’t even know it in the heat along his chest and arms.

“But you–

“I said I’ve got you,” he says it again, clipped now. Less gentle. You’re too drunk to register the shift just yet, but Jack feels it sink and simmer into his bones. A dark sort of spiral unraveling under his skin.

He shakes his head, and it’s more so at what he can’t help but let out than at your stupid, stupid claims. He knows better than to argue with a drunk woman, that drunk woman being the one he’d feel sick like a child for hurting, but all it takes is a breath that feels too shaky.

A second to let the hurt seep in. Thoughts. What good are those.

Is that how she sees me? Fragile? Less-than? Something to worry about?

Someone who couldn’t carry her?

Someone who can’t take care of her?

The thoughts make him sick.

And too fucking angry to be smart.

“You think I can’t carry you?” he says, quiet, but not soft. He told you, he can’t give you soft.

You blink. “…I just meant—”

“You think I’m gonna drop you?”

His words are sharp on the sobering confusion in your face. It’s where this warmth in his arms feels complicated. Loaded. He can’t un-hear the doubt in your voice, innocent or not. He can’t stop his mind from weaponizing it against every moment he every wondered if you’d looked past him, decided against him–not because of his scars or leg, but because of what they meant.

Because you didn’t believe in him the way he’d wanted you to.

Because he was never going to be enough.

All that self-hating wonder? Where did it go before now? He drowned it in…prospect. He had to if he was going to want you. If he was going to want you want him.

But that was the wrong thing to do, obviously, because he only has a leg and a fucking half.

“No! I—Jack, I didn’t mean it like—”

“I’ve carried bleeding men through sandstorms. I’ve carried patients three times your weight through stairwells because the elevators were down. I’ve carried people with missing limbs who were screaming the whole way. Don’t–”

Jack doesn’t take in a breath, but he has to stop himself, because you’re looking at him like he’s hurting you.

“Don’t tell me I can’t carry you.”

It’s a low order.

You stare at him. It’s obvious your buzz is dulling fast.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say it smaller now. “I just—”

“You’ve worked with me. You’ve seen what I do in trauma. You’ve seen me run codes. And you’re asking if I can handle a drunk woman in my arms?”

There’s no venom in his voice. Not really. But there’s something worse. Something he really doesn’t want to name.

Hurt.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack exhales, staring somewhere over her head, like he’s trying to get out of his own, fucked head and can’t.

“I just…” He swallows hard. “I’ve worked too damn hard to prove to people I’m not broken. I don’t need you thinking it too.”

There’s silence.

Then–

“I don’t. I promise.”

You whisper it.

Jack finally looks down at you, and he didn’t know how he couldn’t in the seconds before, but you’ve just been proving how much you can mess with his head tonight.

Nothing about the way you look feels playful anymore. Your hands are still on him. His jacket’s still wrapped around you like a second skin. And yeah. He’s still holding you.

But now it just feels like both of you are standing on the edge of something neither one of you can name. And it would not feel like this if Jack just kept his mouth shut. But it would feel like this if you kept yours shut, too.

But looking at you, you’re only fault is being too beautiful to be blamed. Screw you.

“I don’t think you’re broken.” You say again, clearer this time.

Jack exhales a bitter breath of laughter, pressing his face into your hair for one, stolen second of closeness before the thoughts come back. He doesn’t reply. Just adjusts his grip, walks to the car, and helps you in with more gentleness than he probably feels.

He’ll feel guilty later. But right now, he’s too hurt to calm down.

And deep down, he doesn’t know which scared him more—that you said it, or that you said it–

…or that part of him already believed it. Never stopped believing it since he met you.

Never stopped believing it since and even though he was always going to want you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

The heater hums low. Streetlamps throw soft orange stripes across the dashboard. You’re curled in the passenger seat, knees tucked under you, Jack’s jacket still draped around your shoulders like armor.

You’re still drunk. Still glowing.

Still too damn earnest for his own fucking good.

“Jack,” you say again, for the third time in thirty seconds. “Jack, please—look at me.”

He grips the steering wheel. White-knuckled. Jaw tight. Your name drags off his tongue.

“Let it go.”

“No.”

You know how to not listen when you want to, huh? He knew that.

Jack turns his head slightly, just enough to see your eyes. You’re blinking fast, like she’s trying to focus on the words you’re fumbling for.

“I don’t think you’re weak,” You say it with all the promise in the world. “That’s not—God, Jack, I don’t even know what I meant back there. I was just scared. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I wasn’t thinking. I never think you can’t handle something. You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.”

Jack doesn’t say anything.

Why is he allowing himself to believe you?

You reach across the console, clumsily taking his hand. He allows that too. “You know how you run a trauma code? It’s…it’s Mozart.”

Jack doesn’t blink.

“Mozart?”

What in the hell?

“Every procedure’s your masterpiece, and I’m always lucky to assist. I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Like you said.” You hiccup. Cutely. God damn it. “I’m plastered.”

…Your name falls out of his mouth one more time. Softer. Not soft. But softer, he doesn't say much of anything.

“I don’t think you’re less. Not for one second. I just—” Your voice falters, your grip tightening on his fingers. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

He exhales, slow and bitter. “You’re not a burden.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I just kicked your dog?”

Jack pulls his hand back and runs it over his face. Silence stretches.

Then snaps.

It’s not that there’s no shame in admitting it. No. There’s all the shame in the world right here. But that doesn’t mean it’s a reason to not give a truthful answer.

You deserve it. And you won’t remember it tomorrow.

And not saying it doesn’t mean he’ll forget it anytime soon.

“Because it was you.”

You blink. “…Me?”

“You think I haven’t heard shit like that before? Jesus, sleepy. People have said worse. Ever since…ever since what happened to me happened, from the military to the Pitt–I’ve gotten a whole lot worse than my well-meaning nurse drunkenly making a stupid comment.”

He hears you swallow. He doesn’t. In it, he misses his emphasis on that one two-letter word.

And even as drunk as you are, you don’t. But now’s not the time to realize that.

“I’ve had former colleagues—doctors, other nurses, hell—patients who didn’t want to be treated by a ‘cripple.’” His voice sharpens, dark with memory. “I got used to it. Eventually. Got numb to it.”

“But–”

“But the worst ones? Weren’t even the assholes. It was the nice people.” He looks over at you now, eyes shadowed but open. “The ones who thought they were complimenting me. ‘Oh. You’re so inspiring, Jack.’ ‘So brave of you to show up.’ Like the bar was on the floor and I tripped over it just by putting on scrubs.”

You don’t interrupt. You don't dare.

“You know how long it took for people to stop introducing me as ‘the doctor with the leg’?” he says, mouth twisted. “For them to stop seeing that before they saw my name on the damn chart? Before they could trust what I could do as a doctor, whether it be doubt because I’m that cripple or because I’m that cripple and I’m such an inspiration for becoming a doctor anyway.”

He shakes his head, stares through the windshield like there are memories he can’t outrun in front of him.

“I worked my ass off to be better. Not just competent. Not just okay for a guy with a prosthetic. Better. Better than everyone else because a good doctor without a leg is an average doctor to everyone at best, so I became the best. So that when someone saw me coming, they’d see me, not the fucking…metal.”

…Jack remembers he’s driving and forces himself to keep his eyes and focus on the road when your palm finds his knee.

“I never saw the metal. I mean...I noticed you didn't have a leg--

"That's fine."

"But you were never going to be less than the amazing, chaotic cowboy attending that I knew you were since I got to be in a trauma room with you. I never saw the metal."

You whisper it. He shakes his head.

“You didn’t have to. Because I got there before you did. Years of making sure no one in the Pitt treated me like I was fragile. I haven't for a long while, but others have and still do--and I fought tooth and nail to be the guy who could lead a code blindfolded. The guy they’d want next to them when the room’s going to hell.”

“I do want you next to me when the room’s going to hell.”

He laughs—shaky.

Sad. He doesn’t know it. Even as open as he’s become, he’s not ready to use that word yet.

“Then…tonight, I let myself forget all that for a second. Let myself…I don’t know. Just be with you. Carry you, despite the fact that…God. You know. Despite everything and because of everything. You’re confusing. But tonight…I was enjoying tonight without those walls. You have that impressive habit of knocking any wall you find down. Mine’s. Our co-workers. Patient’s. But it was you and me tonight, and I let myself enjoy you.”

In his monologue, pathetically honest–Jack’s smile grows into a thin curled line, then it falters, then it grows again.

And falters. Once again.

“And then you said it.”

You sink back in the seat. “Jack…”

“You. Of all people. After everything. And I know you didn’t mean it like that, I know. But—” He cuts himself off, staring down at the prosthetic beneath his jeans…

Then to where your hand slips up to squeeze his lower thigh. He feels everything pulse.

Not now. He’s still fucking angry and being way too open about it. As is healthy, or something.

“It wasn’t what you said. It was that you said it.”

And even though your touch along his leg was burning, it’s an emptiness Jack mourns when you reach for her arm. Pathetic. Fitting for you and your gentle touches.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I just…I love how you move through the world. Like you dare it to underestimate you.”

He finally turns to face you fully, and Jack knows there’s something raw in his face now. Less defense. More ache. It’s one of the few reactions he’s actually given permission to tonight.

“That’s the problem, kid,” he says…almost softly. “I’m always daring it. Because if I don’t…it will. It has.”

You nod slowly, eyes brimming.

“I didn’t mean to be part of that world.”

“I know.”

“Then please let me remind you that you’re not broken. That I don’t see you as someone I need to protect. You protect me. Our co-workers. The life around you. You do it all the time.”

…He lets that hang. For a moment.

Fuck, kid.

“You scared me.”

He’s not sure if that’s something he gave himself permission to say, but he doesn’t hold regret on his face as you tilt your head, confused. “What?”

“When you said that. You looked at me like you weren’t sure I could carry you. Like you weren’t sure I could take care of you.” He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the dash. “And I want to. More than I probably should.”

You stare at him.

Your drunken haze isn’t gone, but your heart is suddenly very, very clear.

“You can,” You whisper. “You already do.”

Jack blinks hard. Nods once, smiles up for a half-second before dropping at the stoplight.

His hand finds yours again. This time, he’s not the one to pull away.

“Yeah. You’re right about that.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

The truck engine clicks softly as it cools. The street is mostly quiet, save for the hum of a distant streetlight and the late-night siren echoing off concrete.

Even after everything tonight, this is a night where Jack’s not itching to be back at the Pitt, busying his body with chaos and familiar banter. No, because he has you–even after everything. Because of everything. He stands by what he said. You’re confusing.

Jack’s door swings open hard.

He rounds the front of the truck without a word, gazing into you as he opens her door. You’re blinking slowly at him, wrapped in his jacket, still–eyes glassy and sleepy.

Not tonight. Not tonight. Why do you look like this for him when it can’t be tonight?

“Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s go.”

“Jack…”

“You’re not staying here alone like this. You’re way wasted.”

“I’m fine.”

“You nearly knocked yourself out trying to open the glovebox five minutes ago.”

“I was curious!”

“You tried to climb into it.”

You huff and swing your legs out of the truck, but your heels hit the curb with all the grace of a newborn deer. You sway—violently—only for Jack’s arm to catch your waist without hesitation. His touch is strong, despite the tension still wound tight in his shoulders.

“You’re staying at my place tonight.”

And because you’re staying at his place tonight.

You groan. “You just want me in your bed.”

Jack glares.

“I want you breathing and not concussed. You wake up to get yourself a glass of water and crack your head on the way to the kitchen. Or you puke while you’re sleeping. Who is going to make sure you don’t choke?”

“Me!”

“Yeah. You and Casper.”

“I’m a side-sleeper anyway, I’ll be fine, Jackie.”

“And then you’ll roll over…” Jack crosses his arms, head lowering in what’s almost humor. “Roll over. Puke. Die. And who’s going to bother me with her Jackie’s and purple-inked pens on my charts tomorrow night?”

“Casper.”

You thought you were smart with that one, didn’t you?

You try to stand straighter, shrugging off Jack’s hold like you’re proving something, but he’s already pulling the door shut.

“I can walk.”

“You can’t make it ten feet.”

“I can.”

“Prove it tomorrow when you’re not marinated in vodka and coffee liquor.”

The tension of tonight almost dies as he tries to guide his usually capable baby deer by her waist, but suddenly, in the cool air, the slight wind, you ruin it with your light.

Well. They don’t call you sunshine for nothing.

“Then carry me.”

You grab Jack’s sleeve, tugging him closer until you're face-to-face. You’re bold, kid, and your words pull at his spine, but you’re not cheeky with it. No. You’re softened under the streetlight.

He freezes, but his eyes don’t leave you. He watches you watching him carefully, trying to read his silence–but you’re not as good at knowing him as he’s gotten to know you, sleepy. That’s the only fun he’s having right now.

Like. Yeah. He knows what you’re trying to say right now–what you’re trying to mean without saying it aloud.

I trust you.

I don’t think you’re weak.

Let me show you.

But Jack’s jaw is clenched tight, every muscle in his body caught between bracing and bolting. He searches your face like he’s trying to find proof that this isn’t some drunk-guilt performance, that you mean it. That it’s not pity. That it’s not condescension in disguise.

Your name can’t fully be said before you’re cutting it off with a soft, beautiful voice. It almost disgusts him as much as his mind's attempt to fault you for your beauty and capabilities disgusts him.

“Please.”

Yeah. And just like that, he’s moving.

No more hesitation. No more questions.

Jack steps in, strong hands gripping behind your thighs as he lifts you. You let out a soft gasp and ignores the question of if that’s the type of sounds you could make when you’re under him, because he’s dirty–and he knows you can be too, but you’re also perfect and he’s fucked enough to think things like this but damn it, he’s good enough to remember he shouldn’t.

You’re startled by the motion—but then you settle in his arms, close and secure, heart racing against his chest.

Your arms wrap around his neck automatically. He feels your breath on his jaw.

“I trust you,” You murmur to the point of near silence. Jack says nothing. He doesn’t have to. His grip tightens—not possessively, there’s no leering patients or co-worker flirtations he has to protect you from for that. He can be good here. He can just hold you without shielding you from a world she doesn't even realize you’re hurtling through.

He can be good here.

You two cross the street, the idea of taking you to your home forgotten, and he carries you as if it costs him nothing. But of course, he’s burning. Why not? But not from the effort, because it’s barely anything. Not from your weight, because it’s absolutely nothing for a man like him.

It’s from how much he still wants to believe you.

And how fucking terrified he is that the next time you doubt him, sleepy—it won’t be a drunken accident.

It’ll be the truth.

Will he be good then?

“What perfume do you wear?”

“...What?”

“What? It almost smells as good as you think I smell.”

Jack presses his nose against your hair. Again. You laugh.

God, he hopes he’ll be smart enough to try.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

Jack’s place is quiet. Sparse. The couch, at the moment, however, is soft and well-used.

He watches you from the kitchen.

You’re curled up on his couch with a blanket he had to practically wrestle you to make you use. No matter how many drunk patients he’s dealt with, he always forgets the strength of the wasted is entirely on another level. You’re quiet, blinking slow. He’s sure the room is spinning gently around you like a carousel you can’t get off of.

He moves against the tile like avoiding things that aren’t there. He’s got a glass of water in one hand, Tylenol in the other. He sets them on the coffee table in front of you, then lingers just out of reach.

“Jack,” You murmur, watching him, but he only crosses his arms, rolling his neck restlessly.

No. Not sitting. Not relaxing. He’s too tightly wound, because of course he is. And he can give himself credit; he knows how easy it’d be to get himself to breathe. But…

His hands still feel the shape of you from the walk inside—your weight, your warmth, the way you buried your face into his neck like you belonged there.

And you ask him something he wants you to ask, because it confirms what he wants.

“Why won’t you come sit with me?”

Your want.

But not tonight. And when Jack thinks about it for more than three seconds, it can’t be confirmation of any truth–that you like him, that you want him inside you, because you’re drunk. If he takes your ask as the truth…

That’d mean he would have to take your “Leg and a half” rant as the truth.

Everything’s a double-edged sword with his beautiful nurse.

His jaw tightens, because he will not allow his body to feel excited. To feel like something’s going to happen tonight.

“You should get some sleep.”

“I could,” You drawl slowly. “Or…”

Jack’s eyes lower as he catches the look on your face. The weight behind it.

The heat between the two of you.

The way your fingers fiddle with the hem of your skirt like you’re working up nerve.

God fucking damn it.

“Can you sit. Please?”

You sit up, swaying slightly as you pat the cushion beside you with exaggerated, but natural sweetness. All you.

“You could stay here with me. Just for a little while.”

Jack stares at you. He clenches one fist.

He sits down, sinking at your side.

He feels the vein in his neck pulse like it’s going to burst at the way you smile so brightly as his acceptance.

He stares into you.

If he studies every part of you right now, it’ll be enough to hold him over.

“I’m soft. I’m cute. I smell good.”

Jack bites down on his tongue.

No. If he studies every part of you right now, he won’t be good. And he’s too fucking old to not know how to be good.

He closes your eyes when your soft laugh fades as you shift slightly toward him.

“Jack?”

“You need to sleep. You…and I don’t need anything else but sleep, so sleep.”

You lean in, breath on his cheek. He turns, head stiff.

Don’t do this to him, kid.

He wants you to want him, but why tonight? Why do you have to want him tonight? What the hell is wrong with the both of you?

“I like when you boss me around, did I ever tell you that—”

“Stop. Now.”

Jack stands up, straight as the second hand that passes on the lock. His head focuses straight too, but his eyes lock in on the floor below him.

“Go to sleep.”

Whatever God who isn’t there, help him.

He hears movement and a softened breath.

“Didn’t we have a good night tonight? I don’t understand–I-I know what I said, that messed things up a little bit, are…are you still mad?”

No. No–don’t do that.

He hates the way your voice goes high and hurt.

“No. I’m not, sleepy. But you need to live up to the name I gave you and go to bed. You’re not thinking right.”

Yeah. That makes it absolutely easier, pretending you don’t actually want him, that any possible desire you could have for him is a result of seven martinis. That it’s falsified by alcohol, making you think he’s someone you’d like to have.

Well, it’s a downer, that’s for sure, but it’s easier. So much easier.

“...You could do anything you want. You know that, right?”

But you don’t help. At all.

Fire blooms against the thickness of his chest. His head tilts off to the side.

He does anything he wants to you in his head. Maybe in yours–when you’re sober.

“Jack, you’re not even looking at me.”

Yeah. That’s something you’d notice about him.

He sighs quiet, turning–

And stilling when he sees your smile wobbling with wet eyes.

Sleepy.

“You want to, don’t you? I thought you–we…I know I’m drunk. But I’m not wrong.”

Jack doesn’t move, but not because he doesn’t know what to do with your hurt, but because he can’t swallow it without something like bile coating his throat.

“You–You’ve been touching me all night. Making jokes,” You wring your hands together, eyes shifty and teary, and he’s so damn sorry that he’s as good as he can try to be, kid–but he can’t take you like this. You can’t consent. “We touch each other every night and we flirt an-and do things, say things, or don’t say things that we should and…”

And you deserve a night to remember.

“Don’t you want me?”

His silence is telling.

But he shakes his head instantly when you start to cry. Jack knows this is only heightened by how much alcohol you’ve drunk, but he’s still made you cry.

Even when he’s good, he ruins. Sounds about right. He’s healthy enough to name it.

Jack moves then—finally—but it’s to kneel in front of the couch, eye-level with you now, expression unreadable. He cups your face gently, like you’re made of porcelain. But you’re not. You’re crazy strong in ways that kill him.

But he’ll take any chance to take care of you.

“Am I not your type–”

“No. You–how could you say that? You’re everyone’s type. You are dreadful like that.”

“I thought tonight…I don’t–I don’t understand–”

Jack rises to sit back on the couch, hands still engulfing your face, with your name slipping out, something to get you to focus.

“Don’t hurt yourself thinking things that aren’t true, baby.” He doesn’t blink when you let out a shuddered breath, he only asks you to stare into his assurance, because he’s already started–he’s not going to stop. “You are drunk. You aren’t thinking right, you–”

He scoffs.

How dare you think he couldn’t want to be inside you. Honestly.

“You’re beautiful. You’re brilliant. And I want you…”

…You won’t remember any of this.

One absolute hell of a blessing and a curse.

“I want you…in ways I can’t even begin to explain. Not to you. Not to myself. Not to anyone in the Pitt who is definitely starting to notice, and I can’t care.”

He smiles thin at the way you completely brighten.

“But that’s exactly why I can’t do anything with you right now.”

And there Jack goes. He kills the light in you.

“Oh.”

“You’ve been drinking all night. You can’t put one foot in front of the other. You can barely seduce me without slurring. If I…I I did what I’ve been wanting to do with you right now, even if you wanted it, it’d still feel like I was taking advantage. And I won’t do that to you.”

You blink tears that drip against Jack’s thumbs.

Oh, baby.

You try to laugh before your brittle smile drops. You pout with furrowed brows. “So you don’t want me.”

“Sleepy–”

“Was I stupid?” You interrupt, voice wobbling. He shakes his head.“For thinking you did? For seeing signs that weren’t there?”

“Stop.”

Jack’s voice cuts through the room. Firm. Low.

Stop with this fucking bullshit.

You gasp when his hand lifts to your waist–fingers tentative at first. Testing. Then slowly, slowly–god, he lets himself touch you. The way you beg. Palm at your side…

Hands sliding up under your shirt, finding where your breast sits.

His heart’s in his fucking throat, and it’s an aching contact. God, you’re so warm. You feel pretty.

This handful is the prettiest thing he can think of at the moment. And it’ll be the prettiest thing he can think of tomorrow. And the next day. Let him be mature enough not to let this distract him during his work day when he has to be saving lives. This ask will be easier if you do not wear your fitted scrubs ever fucking again.

You are soft. You shove the word down his throat to choke with his pulse and you are soft. The way you breathe, gasp-ish and quickly and begging him for more is killing him.

One tit. It’s yours. And it’s perfect. And his heart’s somehow in his ears too. He doesn’t know how that happened.

Pretty, pretty woman who feels too good for her own damn.

He swallows when he squeezes your breast.

Pretty. Knowing. Knowing in a way that makes you a slut. But no one else should call you that. No one else but him. It’s gross. It’s disrespectful.

He has you, finally–for a second, but he has you–too much and not enough, and he’ll have more–

“Jack!”

He doesn’t even know he’s digging his fingers into the flesh of your breast until you call out his name. He wakes up, practically.

You’re under him, blinking up with a slow, gazed shock.

You pull him down by the chest of his shirt, but he barely moves. Drunk-strength doesn’t work on him when he begins to sober up.

What the hell did he almost do?

“...Jack–what…come on–”

“I’ve had feelings for you for a long time,” he says, because maybe this will soothe the both of you over.”

Jack leans his forehead to yours, eyes dark in the dark, small under his furrowed brows.

“Longer than I should. I think about you constantly. I notice you in every room. I’ve made myself sick trying not to look at you the way I want to. I am becoming something made to…I don’t know.”

To keep you. It’s killing me.

Your breath catches. He doesn’t breathe.

“You make me suffer. You–” He cups your face again, a movement he can’t explain away with despite or because, but it’s touch–fulfillment. Something of your skin. “You make me burn. You don’t–”

He doesn’t blink when he swallows, and he doesn’t watch your mouth tremble. You cried when he didn’t look into your eyes. Never again. “You don’t know what that does to me. I’ve spent years—years—controlling myself. In war. In medicine, and even then, it’s all controlled chaos. But it’s controlled nonetheless. I am in control when patients are dying under my hands or bullets are flying overhead. I know how to contain things. But you…?

He presses his nose into yours.

“You are the one thing I can’t contain. You are not containable.”

That’s it. He watches you, and in the silence, the vulnerability is precisely what his therapist names it.

Terrifying as shit, but a high you can’t compare anything else to.

But then–-

You just watch him. Quiet. So quiet. Tears already dried. Jack searches for anything twitch of your face, a pursing of your lips–something furrowed, something.

Nothing but a blink.

Fuck.

“Kid–I…Sleepy. You okay with what I just said?”

Now, now it’s just terrifying as shit–Dr. Psychology MD didn’t teach him about this. Jack’s all heat, guilt, and a gruff panic.

Was that too much? Did he overspeak? He overspoke. He bled too much truth into your hands when you were only asking for comfort. Even if you do want him, his want isn’t the conventional kind; he’s more than aware. It’s no longer the “I want to take you out on a date and have sex and figure out your body and maybe if we could spend a long, long time together.’. Maybe it never was, but you don’t deserve the blood of his want. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s a grown man, and he’s given you a confession of sins more intense than you could imagine.

He starts to pull back.

“Are you going to punish me?”

Jack freezes.

His brow knits. “What?”

You blink slowly, expression raw in the dim light. “For how I make you feel. Are you going to punish me for that?”

It’s a simple, whispered question that trembles at the edge of your lips. It’s not even fearful, just…expectant.

Your name comes confused, graveled.

“—No—what are you talking about?”

“Do you hate me for it?” Your voice cracks—quiet, and heartbreakingly sincere. “Is that why you’ve never done anything? Is it because you think I deserve to be punished for the way you feel when you look at me?”

Jack, greyed with memories that make him think he’s seen everything the world has to offer, feels his heart stutter.

The question hits him wrong, hits him deep.

“No,” he says immediately, sliding closer over you, one smoothing over your forehead. “No. God, no.”

“But you’re always holding back,” You whisper, eyes shimmering. “You act like it hurts to like me. Like it’s something you resent. Do you…” You hiccup softly.

“Do you hate me for it?”

Jack doesn’t breathe for a second. He searches your face. The tear at the corner of your eye. The war beneath your voice. The way you fidget with your shirt.

“Where is this coming from?” he asks, gently now, but your name comes out sterner. “Look at me.”

You don’t, but you flinch.

Not aggressively, but just like you’re bracing for something that never comes.

The need to comfort festers. It’s easy with you–but it’s needed now.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “And I would never punish you. Not for this. Not for anything. Okay, sleepy? I would never punish you for how you make me feel. Do you understand that? I’m not—whatever story you’re telling yourself right now, I’m not that man.”

You nod, eyes still wide, but something’s cracking behind them. A storm not of this night—but of another. Something Jack doesn’t know.

He tilts your chin toward him, tries to, but you shake your head, lip trembling, looking away again.

“I just wanted you to want me,” You say. “And I didn’t want it to make you mad.”

“Mad?—God. I’m not mad. Not mad.”

Your eyes flick up, and what Jack sees is…fragile. Unsure.

He smooths your hair back, trying to be tender in the low of his voice.

What is this, baby?

“Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know.”

“You sure?”

“I said I don’t know.”

Your voice is tight without looking at him. Defensive.

Like a patient who has injuries showing clearly on an X-ray scan, yet with all the insistence they don’t know where any of them came from.

“I need you to understand,” he says. “I didn’t say those things to shame you. I didn’t say those things to blame you. I said it because I’m the one who’s scared. Of what I feel. Of not knowing how to stop, but I wanted to assure you that there’s more than enough want of you to go around. But it’s all me, sleepy. All me.”

…You nod again. Still too quiet.

What he does next, for once, is not something out of the desire to hold you–but he does that. Hold you.

“Move over.”

Jack manages to lift you enough to get under you. Even though he sleeps with his prosthetic off for the sake of not destroying what's left of his leg, he doesn’t take the time to take it off tonight, because did he not promise you tonight that his leg was never going to get in the way of taking care of you?

He ignores that ache, and he ignores the ache of holding you tighter and kissing you harshly on the head, because whatever this is, you need comfort.

He comforts without any more questions, with quiet reassurance as he watches you close your eyes–hollowed out by more than alcohol.

“I’m not mad at you. I’ve never hated you. And I’ll never hurt you. No one’s ever gonna hurt you.”

And even though you don’t reply, he thinks—he hopes you hear him.

You rest your head against his chest, hands fisting and bunching up his shirt. He whispers into your hair.

“And what I said about you not being containable. It’s a good thing. A very, very good thing. Don’t let anyone ever contain you. I just… I need to know you’re okay.”

“I am.”

It’s a defensive quiver.

Yeah. Jack doesn’t believe it.

But he doesn’t push.

Investigate. Comfort. Back away when defensiveness shows. Come back with slight questioning and reassurance that there’s no judgment, but they’re safe.

It’s what he teaches the first-year residents and med students when a victim of abuse comes in.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Can we talk about something else?”

…But not tonight.

“You should go to sleep.”

He closes his eyes.

He needs to find calm in the next five seconds if he wants to keep being good. So. He will. In the next five seconds.

“...Come on–” You sniffle, finding your light again. Jack guesses you always will. “You don’t have any gossip to share with me?”

Jack sighs into your hair.

Let go. Don’t force them.

“Okay–don’t tell anyone, but when I was handing over the shift to Robby this morning, he told me he was buying a motorcycle.”

“...Oh. That’s–”

“Be truthful. He’s not behind the couch.”

You snort softly, laughing something of disbelief.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. And yes, I did try to imply that it was a bad idea. Even if he caught it, it doesn’t matter. He already has insurance for it.”

“Oh, God.”

He wonders if you feel his smile against your hair when you begin to giggle and hiccup and giggle.

“I kinda want to see what it looks like–”

“No, you do not.”

“...No.” You hiccup, nuzzling into Jack’s chest. “I don’t, but he’s a doctor, I’m sure he’ll know how to ride it safely, he’ll proba…probably make riding a motorcycle look boring.”

“Exactly. He’s a doctor, he should know we’re gonna start calling him ‘Organ Donor’ MD.”

“Jack–”

“It’s clever. Now go to bed.”

“Mm.”

At that, you’re asleep in minutes, and Jack can’t even feel like a fool who feels like a boy for the way he can barely breathe with you sleeping against him. He can’t think about how you smell, or how every shift of your legs and hips are making his body pulse and grow hot in ways he did not permit to. He can’t, even though he doesn’t sleep at all.

Because that question—“Are you going to punish me?”

It won’t stop echoing in his head.

It makes him realize, your light—it isn’t innate.

It’s a miracle.

310 notes · View notes

ker0senebunny · 1 day ago

Text

the romcom of it all <3 needing a part 2!!!

not a date

Clark Kent x Romance!Columnist!Reader

summary: Clark offers to go with you to a romantic restaurant for an article. You don't have it in your heart to say no, even if means sitting across from Lois Lane's boyfriend and your school girl crush, Clark Kent.

cw: miscommunication galore, reader's oblivious, unrequited? love/crush, drunk reader, angst, clark the perfect gentleman, SMUT (18+): heavy petting, dry humping, make out sesh

wc: 3.8k+

author's note: here's a longer fic! i may do a part 2 depending on interest. please let me know what you think with a comment or reblog. enjoy!! xoxo

You try not to stare at Lois and Clark from your desk on the far side of the bullpen. You watch Lois lean over Clark’s desk and point at something on the document in his hands. His glasses slip down the bridge of his nose and he bites the back of a pen as he reads. He’s so effortlessly attractive it makes you want to rip your hair out.

You can’t hear their conversation over the sounds of the newsroom. The printers are hard at work and phones ring off the hook. Clark’s face splits into a grin and you know he’s laughing at whatever witty remark Lois just said. The green monster twists its ugly head deep inside your chest and you force yourself to look away.

As much as you enjoy running the online romance column for the Daily Planet, you sometimes wish for more. You wish for more substantive, life changing work. You hear the whispers around the office from coworkers who don’t take you or your work seriously and turn their noses up at the successful romance column.

But not Clark.

Clark never made you feel small or unimportant just because you ran the column. He would walk past your desk and drop ideas if you were hitting a wall. When you wrote a review about your top ten best romance novels of all time, Clark confessed to you that he read both Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion because they were your number one and two ranked novels on the list. It made your stomach flutter that Clark took the time to read both your article and your favorite books.

The romance column didn’t start as a column at all. You wrote a feature piece about your neighbors, Ed and Sarah, that made it to the print edition of the Daily Planet. It was still your proudest achievement since you started at the Daily Planet.

You were assigned a Human-Interest piece, and you interviewed your 90 and 91-year-old neighbors as a result. They’d been married for 65 years. They founded a children’s community center and were a pillar in your neighborhood and community. You wrote how their love story changed the community. The article renewed interest in the community center and went viral.

Perry subsequently demanded more romance focused articles to increase engagement with young women and thus the romance column spawned. You’ve been chasing the feeling of the success of that article ever since.

Now, you were reduced to giving relationship advice you weren’t qualified to give and what wine and cheese pairing goes best with which late 90s, early 2000s, romcom movie instead of writing stories that mattered. It made you feel pathetic. You tried passing the responsibility of the column over to Cat, but Perry wouldn’t let you.

You glare at your computer screen, staring at the list of upcoming articles you need to start working on, several of them reviews for sponsored content in exchange for ads on the website or in print. A new, romantic, Italian restaurant just opened in your neighborhood. A formal dress boutique wants you to review their new fall collection. More posts on the advice page. Visting the newly renovated planetarium.

“What did the poor computer do to you?” Clark teased, breaking you out of your self-induced spiral. He rests his hands on your desk and leans over the monitor. You bat away the image of Lois doing the same thing just moments ago.

You smile curtly at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You lean back in your chair and look up at Clark. His massive frame blocks the sun from the floor to ceiling windows from your face.

“Hey, Clark,” you hummed softly, his gentle, cerulean, blue eyes meeting your dull and tired ones. His brows pull together with worry, and he takes the empty seat beside your desk. You ignore the pit in your stomach and sit on your hands to avoid fidgeting.

“What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard, pushing down the lump in your throat and the stuttering of your heart. You force another fake smile.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Cupid, there’s definitely something wrong. You’re doing that fake smile people do when they’re pretending everything’s fine when things are not in fact fine.”

Your heart stutters again. Damn Clark. Damn him for using his silly nickname for you, and damn him again for being so perceptive.

You let out a careful, measured breath. “It’s nothing. I just have a lot on my to-do list of articles to write for the column.”

“Anything I can do to help with?”

You laugh quietly. Of course, Clark wants to help. Your smile is soft and genuine before turning into a smirk. Clark’s face changes to a silly grin and you shake your head.

“Not if you count reviewing a romantic Italian restaurant by yourself, no.”

Clark frowns and it’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen. “You’re going to a romantic restaurant by yourself?”

You shrink under the intensity of Clark’s stare and laugh nervously. You scratch at your thighs. “Yeah. Cat and Jimmy are both busy tomorrow night and I can only do it then. At least that’s what the owner said.”

Clark’s mouth turns down in a deep frown and his nose scrunches. “Why didn’t you ask me?” There’s a barely imperceptible hurt hidden beneath his words.

Your brows pinch together in confusion. You thought it was obvious. You don’t want to disrespect his relationship with Lois. Yes, you’re close with Clark and you have a pathetic, unrequited crush, but you still have some self-respect and know when to quit.

“Oh, um, I just thought since you’re so busy with Lois you wouldn’t be able to,” you muttered awkwardly, heat creeping up your neck.

“No, not at all.”

You flush some more and want nothing more than for the earth to open up beneath you and swallow you whole. Clark looks like a kicked puppy, and you hate that you’re the reason why. You never meant to upset him and hurt his feelings.

You reach for his hand and squeeze gently. You resist the urge to linger. “Clark, I’m sorry,” you apologized, “I didn’t want to impose, so that’s why I didn’t ask.”

Clark keeps frowning and you keep wanting to kick yourself. “You’re not an imposition. You must know that,” his voice pleading and desperate.

“Is there something I can say or do to make it up to you?”

Clark’s frown morphs into a teasing smile. His boyish smirk kick starts something in your belly and squeezes your heart. His dimples poke out of his cheeks. “I heard there’s this new Italian restaurant in your neighborhood. Do you want to meet for dinner there tomorrow?”

You laugh softly and bite your lip before nodding. You resist the urge to say it’s a date. Instead, your eyes catch Lois saddling up beside Clark next to your desk and the green monster in your heart returns.

….

The next evening, you’re agonizing on what to wear. You can’t dress like you’re going out on a romantic date, but you can’t dress casually either. You’re too embarrassed to ask Cat for help, knowing that if you so much as hinted at struggling with what to wear, Cat would tease you relentlessly about your unrequited crush.

Instead, you settle on a nice pair of black bottoms with a navy sweater. You look like you’re about to go to work instead of a nice restaurant with the most beautiful, unavailable man in the world. It was perfect.

You don’t bother doing anything special with your hair. You chant it like a mantra as you touch up your make up: this is not a date. Clark wanted to pick you up, and you emphatically refused. The less it felt like a date, the better. Besides, you lived less than a 10-minute walk away.

You exhale deeply and square your shoulders as you stare at yourself in the mirror in front of the door of your apartment. You can do this. You’re a woman on a mission. This not-date is for work. You can sit across your crush for 90 minutes for an article. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. You can be a professional. Everything would be fine.

You nod at yourself in the mirror and shrug on your coat before hooking the strap of your purse on your shoulder. You take a deep breath, reach for the door, and walk out.

When you arrive at the restaurant, you silently hype yourself up before walking inside. Dim, yellow lights hang from the ceilings. Soft, classical music fills the rooms. It’s dark, red, and a perfect place for a date night. You smell fresh bread, wine, and tomatoes from the kitchen and bar.

You approach the hostess and smile softly. “Hi. I’m the romance columnist from the Daily Planet. I’m not sure who I’ve been communicating with over the phone and via email.”

“Oh!” the hostess, a young, bubbly girl exclaims. “Right this way. We have a table all ready for you.”

“There’s one other person joining me tonight. Is he here?”

The girl shakes her head as you weave through tables and pass booths to your table. You sit and thank her quietly. “He’s very tall and wears glasses,” you tell her as she sets the menus in front of you before disappearing.

Your server comes by with the owner and you shake hands. Instead of ordering straight from the menu, small portions of menu items will be given to you, so you have the opportunity to try everything for a well-rounded review.

“Will someone else be joining you tonight?” the owner asked. “I’d hate for you to be the only one eating all this food by yourself.”

You glance briefly at your watch. Clark’s already ten minutes late. Maybe he’s stuck in traffic.

“My friend is on his way,” you answered with a tight smile. You rub your sweaty palms on your thighs.

“Okay. While you wait, I’ll have the bartender bring you tastings of our signature wines we make.”

Another ten minutes goes by, and Clark still hasn’t shown up. You’ve resigned yourself to accept the fact Clark wasn’t coming and stood you up on your not a date, date. You’ve already finished two of the tastings of the wine and picked at the delicious calamari and garlic bread when the server comes by and asks if you still wanted to wait.

You swallow hard, pushing down the embarrassment threatening to escape. You shake your head and twist the fancy, fabric napkin in your lap. “No, that’s okay. You can bring out the entrees.”

She smiles sympathetically and you ignore the pitying stares from the other patrons near your table. The bartender swings by again and sets a new flight of wine in front of you. You fight the urge to cry and take a long pull of the Pinot Grigio. Like the feeling in your heart, the wine tastes dry and bitter in your throat. It’s perfect.

You should’ve known better. Of course Clark wouldn’t show up. He definitely told Lois about the dinner, and she definitely didn’t like the idea of her boyfriend going to a romantic restaurant with another woman, even if said woman was only a friend.

You feel stupid for getting your hopes up. Even after repeating it over and over again that this wasn’t a date, you feel even stupider for even entertaining the thought for just a second. Clark is not single. Clark is just a friend. He is happy with Lois. You never stood a chance.

Lois is witty and smart. She makes Clark laugh and blush. She keeps him on his toes. They work well together and look good together. Lois probably knows you have a crush on her boyfriend and that’s why Clark didn’t show. It was his way of telling you that you must get over you stupid, unrequited, school-girl crush. He’s too kind to say it to your face and let you down easy. Luckily you have the weekend to lick your wounds before you have to see Clark Monday morning.

The wine pulses through your bloodstream as you eat and take notes on the food. The creamy pesto chicken pasta is your favorite, but the kick of the vodka sauce and red peppers are delicious too. The lemon shrimp scampi is a mixture of flavors. For dessert, they bring out a cannoli and homemade gelato. You’re drunk from all the wine and warm all over by the time you finish eating.

They box the remaining leftovers for you, and you give a generous tip since it’s on the Daily Planet expense card. The owner thanks you for stopping by and says she looks forward to reading your review. You promise to email it to her once it’s on the site.

It hits you when you walk into your dark and empty apartment. Pathetic, shameful tears spill from your eyes and coat your cheeks. You shove the leftovers into the fridge and kick off your shoes and toss your coat to the floor.

You hate how much it hurts. You love Clark and he loves someone else. You have to move on. Come Monday, and you’ll be a brand-new person. Your eyes won’t linger on his broad shoulders and strong arms. You won’t come up with any and every excuse to walk past his desk. You’ll stop laughing at his corny jokes and you won’t bring him coffee anymore. You have to draw boundaries to respect his relationship and protect yourself.

Clark will have no idea how broken up you are about tonight. He won’t know you had too much to drink and took home food that was meant to be shared. He won’t know you cried or how stupid and hopeful you felt before you entered the restaurant. He’ll be sweet and apologetic and tell you Lois felt uncomfortable about him going out to dinner with you to a place meant for dates.

You’ll wave the apology away and tell him that you understood. It wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t mean to make Lois uncomfortable, and you’ll apologize for asking in the first place even though it was Clark’s fault.

Your soft cries fill the empty apartment as you get ready for bed. You dress in an old, stretched out sleep shirt and pajama shorts. You pop Tylenol in your mouth, wash your face, and brush your teeth before climbing into bed.

….

When you wake the next morning, you have a raging headache from all the wine you drank. You groan into your pillow before dragging yourself to the bathroom. You take more Tylenol, use the bathroom, and brush the lingering taste of alcohol from your mouth. You look rough from crying the night before. Remnants of your makeup stain your cheeks.

After you wash your face, you trudge to the kitchen and make yourself a cup of coffee. You toast a bagel with cream cheese and set up on the couch with your laptop beside you. You take a warm sip of your coffee and a bite of your food before turning on quiet music and getting to work on your review.

Your fingers move fast over the keyboard as you rave about the staff, atmosphere, and the food. Your phone starts to ring and you reach for it. Your heart jumps in your throat as your finger hovers over the screen as you watch Clark’s contact ring. The last thing you want is to talk to Clark. You always jumped to answer his calls, but not anymore. He doesn’t owe you an explanation and you don’t have to answer it.

You hit the side button on your phone and toss it to the other side of the couch, so you’re not tempted to call or text Clark back. You’re busy and have things to do.

You resume your work and upload the photos you took to your computer. You’re in the middle of sending the draft to your copy editor when there’s a knock at your door. You groan in exasperation and pause the music before making your way to the door.

You sigh and square your shoulders before you open the door. Your spine stiffens when you find Clark on the other side. He’s holding takeout from your favorite restaurant in one hand, a tray off coffees in the other, and an apologetic smile on his face. Your fingers squeeze the life out of the doorknob as you stare at him.

“Hey, Cupid,” he said, voice careful and soft. “I tried calling you earlier. Can I come in?”

Your head yells at you to say no, but you push the door wide enough for Clark to duck under the door frame and slip inside. You swallow hard and let out a careful breath before shutting the door and following Clark into your kitchen. He sets everything on the table and turns to face you. You resist the urge to look anywhere else.

“I wanted to apologize for last night.”

“It’s okay, Clark,” you sighed quietly, “I understand.”

His brows pinch together and he frowns. He shakes his head, his dark curls falling in front of his face and over his glasses. Your arms cross over your chest, and you stand as far away from Clark as you can in the small kitchen space.

“It’s not… it’s not okay. I told you I would meet you there and I stood you up. I lost track of time while chasing a lead with Lois. When I showed up after I realized, you were already gone.”

You push the growing lump down your throat and shake your head. “Clark, really, it’s fine. It’s not like it was a date so there was no standing up. I have leftovers. Do you want to take some to share with Lois?” you asked him, putting as much emotional distance between the two of you as you can. Maybe if you keep mentioning his girlfriend Clark will drop it. You can be the cool, thoughtful friend and nothing else. “Does Lois have any food allergies?”

Clark stares at you like you have two heads. He squints at you through his glasses and his forehead wrinkles together. “I don’t—I don’t know if she has food allergies. Why do you keep asking me about Lois? Why are you acting so weirdly casual about last night? I completely blew you off. You can be upset.”

Your lips purse in frustration. The last thing you want is to spell things out for Clark. How can he be so smart but so dense sometimes?

“Jesus, Clark!” you couldn’t help but snap at him in exasperation. Your voice echoes and Clark jumps at your outburst. “Maybe because Lois is your girlfriend? You had every right to blow me off last night. I shouldn’t have asked you to go to a nice, romantic restaurant when you have a girlfriend and like the idiot I am, I did anyway because I can never say no to you.”

Clark’s eyes widen in shock, and his mouth opens with surprise. His hands fall from the table, and he takes two long strides across the kitchen before your chests nearly touch. You look up at him and his blue eyes search yours.

You’re too close to Clark. You can smell the soft linen of his shirt and the cologne on his neck. You take a careful step back and bump into the wall. Clark needs to leave before either of you do anything you can’t take back. He’s too warm and close and it makes your heart race and head spin. You can’t tear your eyes away from Clark’s soft mouth.

“You should go,” you whispered, “before you do something you’ll regret. Get back to Lois.”

“Stop talking about Lois,” Clark’s voice is soft but firm. His breath mingles with yours and you feel your heart beat out of your chest. His nose skims yours, mouths nearly touching.

“But she’s—” you started, but Clark silenced you by pressing his mouth against yours.

“Not my girlfriend,” Clark finished for you against your lips.

You can barely stand as Clark’s mouth meshes with yours. The kiss is burning and thorough. It’s deep and toe curling and has you sighing against his lips. Your chest sags into his and Clark’s arms loop around your waist.

“Lois isn’t?” you can’t help but ask against him, your hands pressed against his shoulders.

“No,” he murmured, moving his mouth across your cheek, against your jaw, and down your throat where your neck meets your shoulder. His mouth is hot against your skin, and you moan when he nips at the hallow of your throat. “I have the fattest crush on the woman who runs the romance column for the Daily Planet. I tried impressing her by reading her favorite romance novels and brainstorming ideas. I even sent something under a pseudonym to her advice column to get her advice on how to woo a coworker. She still had no idea. Her nickname’s Cupid. Have you heard of her?”

You giggle and run your fingers through his curls. You feel his glasses poke your shirt. “That was you?” you asked, breathless.

Clark smirks against your skin and moves his mouth over yours again. Clark squats down and lifts you into his arms. You moan into his mouth and rest your hands at the base of his neck, toying with the curls there. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to you.

He moves the two of you to the couch and you settle in his lap. Your hips rock into his and Clark groans into your mouth. You feel the growing tent in his slacks and roll your hips again. Pressure builds between your legs. Clark’s hands squeeze your thighs, and he pulls his mouth from yours.

Your chest heave and you watch Clark’s Adam’s Apple move up and down his throat as he catches his breath. His face is flushed a warm pink, and his bright blue eyes are blown with desire. He rests his forehead against your shoulder, and you run your nails up and down his back.

“I want to do this right,” Clark whispered against your shoulder.

“And what’s the right way to do this?” you can’t help but ask, pressing kisses against his temple and the shell of his ear. You feel Clark shiver beneath you, using every ounce of restraint he possesses.

“Picking you up and giving you flowers and a kiss on the cheek. Taking you to the planetarium. Wine and dine you afterwards. Coming back here. Doing this.”

You smile into Clark’s hair and carefully detached yourself from his lap. You press a sweet kiss to his lips and brush a curl behind his ear.

“It’s a date.”

#olive recs・゜・。.🫒

578 notes · View notes

maokisses · 3 days ago

Text

Gleymdu mér aldrei þó ég héðan flýg

Gleymdu mér aldrei, elskan mín

43 notes · View notes

lumieneers · 23 hours ago

Text

the sun and you pt. 2

✧ pairing — gojo satoru x reader

by a cruel twist of fate, after a mission gone wrong and your recollection of your high school life is wiped away by a cursed spirit, satoru is stripped away from your warmth. but by fate’s grace, satoru meets you again after losing your memories of him 10 years ago.

tags: memory loss au, established relationship at first

wc: 2.4k

✰ part one

.・。.・゜✭・.

you didn't know when you started fearing the dark. maybe the fear was always there, since you were a child. maybe it's when he started pulling away.

your sun. your only one.

you remember that day well. satoru's bloodshot eyes that was gazing far, past you, past everything. he was carrying the star plasma vessel—riko's dead, cold body. suguru followed behind him and he looked much worse than the white haired boy. you couldn't find any words, anything felt wrong to say. so you didn't. you didn't speak, nor followed them. you stood there, let the distance spread wide, even if your heart constricted painfully in your chest.

what can you do?

satoru didn't change much after that. he was still the dork you loved, the strongest, your first love.

but he wasn't your satoru anymore.

his hands never lingered around yours again, his kisses felt incomplete, and you don't really recognize his laughter anymore.

he was still shining bright but you don't feel his warmth.

though there were no words exchanged explicitly, you understood well enough that he doesn't want things to go back to the way they were before. your first reaction was to be angry, you lashed out, screaming and shouting and then crying. it quickly turns into begging. you didn't care if you looked desperate or mad, you were. but it didn't matter how loud you got, satoru chose not to listen.

you stare at another dead body that time.

you didn't know what time it was anymore, all you know is that suguru was right beside you the whole time in the morgue while you try to believe that haibara was dead.

maybe it was you being delirious, but you felt like the one beside you was dead too.

you didn't know you'd come to regret it all your life that you made no effort to hold his hand then.

the guilt ate at you.

the news came like a gunshot for all of you. shoko had remained silent but you see how her knuckles turned white as she clutched onto her desk for support. satoru on the other hand, burst out the room, with your teacher following suit. everything had crumbled thereafter, and your guilt only grew and grew.

had you noticed sooner, had you held on earlier, had you been bright enough.

there was nothing you can do now.

when you had been given the mission, yaga urged you not to go. seeing as there weren't much information on the cursed spirit, he wanted you to at least bring someone with you in case things go awry. you didn't know what pushed you to accept it and go fight the spirit alone. you were a coward, after all. you had nothing but your looming death waiting for you.

and yaga was right, you really were no match. it didn't help that the spirit seem to know your every move while you were lost in the dance that it was orchestrating. you are weak, that much is clear and the cursed spirit saw through you easily.

"i'll make it all go away." you're heaving for dear life, a gaping hole on your abdomen while both your legs deem themselves incapable of moving. you heard it's slimy voice as you tried to make sense of your surroundings. you're dying, you've successfully concluded.

"you want that, don't you?" you weren't sure what it was referring to. or maybe you do know. because when you see the memories of your youth flashing before your eyes, you nod. despite your broken body, pain clouding your vision, you weakly nod at its offer.

you are a coward, that much is clear.

you're conscious when it erased your memories. you hear their familiar laughter, you see their warm smiles, the inside jokes you hold dear, the embarassing ones that you wanted to bury, the fragile ones that made your heart ache, the last moments where everything slowly deteriorated around you, and him—the one in the center of it all. the sun.

"if i was a star, i'd make you forget all about the dark."

that idiot.

when you spotted him in the midst of the black hole sucking the life out of you, you felt as if a lightning had struck you. the memories were fading away slowly and steadily but you wanted them back. you wanted them back now.

that was all before everything went dark. you awoke next in a room that reeked of antiseptics. a boy took a seat beside you. a white haired boy whose eyes shone like stars.

"who are you?" you asked in genuine interest.

his face fell, you didn't know why, and that was the last time you ever saw him.

shoko found out that he's secretly meeting with you. satoru wasn't even trying to hide it, leaving his phone unlocked out in the office, his wallpaper being a picture of you taken that night on the beach.

ever since then, he had made it his personal mission to make you remember even the tiniest details from your memories that you had lost. but he was failing miserably. that was the last and only time you had uttered that question again to him.

"you're such an asshole," shoko snarled, exhausted. "she was perfectly happy with her life!"

satoru scoffed. "define happy," he remarked that made shoko all the more angrier.

"she lived a normal life, away from all this!" she screamed, it almost made satoru flinch. yes, normal, away from the hell that is being a sorcerer. satoru knew that very well, he knew that better than anyone else. but he was happy with you—is that so wrong?

"don't take that away from her."

"what makes you think i'm taking it away from her?"

"look at what you're doing!"

satoru slammed his hand against the table, though it didn't make her back down. "how do you know she was happy?" satoru said, narrowing his eyes at shoko.

the latter looked at him, lips trembling ever so slightly. "satoru, don't make it seem like i'm the heartless one here. i see her, all the time! and each time, i keep my distance because she got away from this, she doesn't need to come back! i don't want her to!"

for a second, satoru had felt betrayed, finding out that shoko knew where you were all along and didn't bother to tell him. but of course shoko wouldn't tell, satoru had no sense of self-control, this was the very proof of it.

shoko was your closest friend back then, to think that she hadn't approached you at all during those 10 years, satoru felt ashamed.

"do you know how much you hurt her then?"

satoru was a stupid, ignorant boy when you had him. but he was also drowning then. he remembers you screaming at him, trying so badly to get him to look at you, instead he shrugs the warmth of your touch off, not bothering to wipe away the tears on your cheeks. he was aware, that was the worst part, yet he couldn't help it.

he made a promise to himself that day, when riko amanai died, he would get stronger, strong enough to never let anything like that happen again. to never see that look on his best friend's face again.

he'd come to know that it didn't matter how strong he got, people died anyway. suguru left, he couldn't stop it and then you.

that day you were sent on that mission, he vividly remembers sprinting to your form, speed dripping with desperation as he cradled your injured body. the cursed spirit was long gone, he can only assume you'd successfully killed it but the residues proved him otherwise.

his hands trembled greatly then as he found it hard to breathe, a reaction he didn't know he was capable of. he held on to you tightly, hugging you close, preparing to teleport the two of you back.

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry," he weakly repeats, over and over again. "please open your eyes. please."

the sight of shoko nearly throwing up at the sight of your bloodied and broken limbs had become clear to satoru just now. she fought the urge to let her terror get the better of her, she didn't want the day to end with you being another body in the morgue. not another. not you.

in the end, all of them were just kids.

broken and bruised, fighting to survive.

"satoru," shoko had called, snapping him to reality.

satoru closed his eyes in frustration, tears threatening to fall. "alright," he said, simply. "i'll go."

there was visible relief that could be seen on shoko with her tired eyes lifting ever so lightly, a meek smile curving into her once trembling lips. yes, this much was enough, satoru thought.

"alright," shoko repeated, standing up to leave the room.

"wait," satoru said, making her stop, "i'm sorry, shoko."

the woman smiled before letting out a sigh. a good one, satoru hoped. he didn't really have to say more, shoko understood him, thankfully.

and when she left, satoru had to come up with a way to leave now too. come up with a way to leave you, again.

satoru meets with you that week. for the last time.

you'll come to learn that he's an idiot—the kind that breaks up with you with some bullshit excuse on how things weren't working at for the two of you, an obvious lie.

you slap him, a loud one that makes passerbys walk slowly to eavesdrop on you two's conversation. he takes it, even staying around if you want to slap him for the second time. you don't and you hate it. because you don't hate him at all, even when he's being an absolute asshole now. the worst part is you didn't know why.

you've been like this since you can remember, like a huge chunk of your life had been stolen from you. it frustrated you to no end that you didn't know yourself at all, you can't come up with answers and the questions only keep piling up, waiting to topple over.

the shadow, disfigured creatures that lingered around never helped. it makes you sick. you drive away the people in your life away because of it.

you hear him apologize, you didn't know how many times already today.

it makes you stumble a bit, remembering something distant. your head throbs again.

"save it," you spit out, ignoring the way he winced at your tone. "i...i'm gonna go."

with a hand supporting your temple, you walk away from satoru. you pay no mind to the way he called out to you, his voice full of concern that only riles you up even more.

you manage to find a quiet place to sit in the city. you try to control your breathing but your mind raced, different scenes flashed before your eyes, one that contained people that should be considered strangers yet one that you knew with your soul.

bring them back.

you don't know what triggered it, but the quiet shadow creatures suddenly attacked. they finally decided to strike now. once you looked them in the eye, they knew.

you're coming to your senses.

a mysterious power burned to be let out from your fingertips but you don't get a chance to even use it when you get knocked out clean by one of the creatures.

the abyss looks familiar, achingly so.

you hear a laugh, a soft and gentle one that never fails to put you at ease. you sight your mother, grinning at your short form and your father, who was humming a calming lullaby in your ear.

you see them bathing in their own blood next.

you've always known darkness, before everything else, you lived in it.

remember.

you were but a teenager when you first defeated a cursed spirit, barely knowing how to use your technique the right way. cursed spirit, that's what it's called. a man, possibly in his mid thirties approached you, telling you about this strange school that would suit all your uniqueness.

you had no one. you accept.

remember.

true to his word, the school had all types of uniqueness. yet it brought you a feeling of comfort. that cerulean eyes that has been staring at you for a while now had been one of them, ridiculously odd.

the white haired boy had eyes that could rival the stars. you wanted them. you feared the darkness would consume you someday. but not with him on your side.

remember.

you learn to laugh again with the other odd students. they helped you survive the dark in their own small ways even though all of you battled with your own darkness. but he's still at the center of it all.

you think you'll fall apart without your sun.

you do.

remember.

his touches blazed against your flesh, you liked it. you loved staring at his eyes as he moved with ease, on you, in you. and when he dips down to claim your lips, you feel like you're on fire.

but how quickly stars burn out.

remember.

the kiss that brings you back to life is also the one that kills you.

once you feel the coldness of it all, everything comes crashing down. your sun has burned out.

you come to learn that he didn't die, just scarred. he continued to burn but you're already lost in the dark.

remember.

the last cursed spirit that you fight offered you a chance.

you take it. coward.

"i can make you forget."

bring them back.

you wake up with a cold and sharp gasp, coughing violently once you inhaled the smell of antiseptics. you feel brand new yet torn all the same. for a second, you don't recognize your fingers, your limbs, and your face. you're older now, when did that happen?

and when you hear a voice calling out your name, a certain white haired boy slamming the door open with haste. you feel you tears fall freely.

satoru, he's not your sun, you're dumb to think so. he's just satoru.

the moment you feel his arms wrapped around you firmly, you embrace him right back.

"don't leave." you sniffled, you feel him tense up. " please."

you feel him let out a breath, smiling against your collarbone.

"of course, princess."

the dark isn't all that scary anymore.

.・。.・゜✭・.

a/n: this is technically a happy ending okay… also if it wasnt obvious yet, yes this is very much inspired by eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!! i love that film!!

almost forgot!! the ppl who wanted to be tagged for pt 2! @sirencholia @rosy-hollow

#lumi writings #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #jjk fluff #jjk angst

72 notes · View notes

mi-kage · 1 day ago

Text

𖠿 .゜ tangled hearts — mikage reo.

hakuho high school was a world of its own—glossy hallways, pristine uniforms, and a social hierarchy that could make or break you. for you, an ordinary girl who clawed her way in through a scholarship, it was a means to an end. study hard, graduate, get out. no drama, no distractions, and definitely no entanglements with the school’s elite. especially not with mikage reo, the golden boy whose name was on everyone’s lips.

reo was everything you weren’t: rich, charismatic, and disgustingly perfect. heir to the mikage corporation, star athlete, top student, and blessed with a smile that could melt glaciers.

his fan club—mostly girls who swooned over his every move—was a loud, omnipresent force. you’d seen them swarm him after soccer practice, giggling and batting their lashes, and you wanted no part of that chaos. you kept your head down, your focus on your textbooks, and steered clear of the “rich kid” orbit.

but lately, something was off. it started small—a bouquet of your favorite flowers, left outside your apartment door one morning. you brushed it off as a neighbor’s mistake.

then, your favorite snacks you secretly loved—began appearing on your desk before class. you’d look around, half-expecting a prank, but no one claimed responsibility.

the final straw was catching him staring at you. reo, leaning against a locker, his violet eyes locked on you like you were the only person in the crowded hallway. you’d quickly turned away, heart pounding, praying it was a coincidence.

it wasn’t. you weren’t stupid. reo was interested, and that was a problem. his fans would have your head if they thought you were encroaching on their prince. plus, the guy had resources—scary resources. you’d heard whispers of how the mikage family could dig up dirt on anyone.

it wasn’t hard to imagine him finding out where you lived or what snacks you bought on your rare splurge days. the thought made your skin crawl.

you tried avoiding him harder. changed routes to class, ate lunch in the library, kept your earbuds in to block out the world. but reo was persistent, like a storm you couldn’t outrun. you’d turn a corner, and there he was, flashing that stupidly handsome grin that made your stomach flip despite yourself.

everyone called him handsome, and you hated that you agreed. those sharp features, that tousled purple hair, the way he carried himself like he owned the world. it was unfair.

one day, you’d had enough. you caught him watching you again during lunch, his gaze lingering as you scribbled notes in the courtyard. your patience snapped like a rubber band. you stood, grabbed your bag, and marched over to him, ignoring the gasps from his fan club nearby.

“mikage,” you said, voice low but firm, “we need to talk. now.”

his eyebrows shot up, but that grin didn’t falter. “sure thing” he said, all confidence, like he’d been waiting for this.

you led him to a quiet corner near the science labs, far from prying eyes. the last thing you needed was his fangirls thinking you were making a move.

you crossed your arms, glaring up at him. “what’s your deal? the flowers, the snacks, the staring—you’re freaking me out. i don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not interested. I’m here to study, not to be your next project.”

reo leaned against the wall, unfazed, his grin widening. “you think I’m playing a game? that’s cute.” his voice was smooth, teasing, and it pissed you off even more.

“don’t patronize me,” you snapped, sarcasm dripping. “you’re the heir to a freaking empire. you could have anyone. why are you creeping around leaving flowers at my door? you know how bad that looks? your fans are gonna start a witch hunt.”

he chuckled, and you wanted to strangle him for how good he looked doing it. “you’re different,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “you don’t care about my name or my money. you don’t even look at me half the time. its refreshing.”

you blinked, thrown off. “so you’re stalking me because I’m ignoring you? you're weird.”

“not stalking,” he corrected, stepping closer. you backed up instinctively, but the wall was behind you. “I’m just curious. i wanted to know more about you. the flowers, the snacks—that was me trying to get your attention.”

“well, congratulations, you got it,” you said, voice sharp. “now stop. i don’t need the drama.”

his grin softened into something more genuine, and for a second, you saw past the golden-boy mask. “I’m not trying to mess up your life,” he said quietly. “i like you. that’s all.”

your heart did a stupid little flip, and you hated it. “you don’t even know me,” you muttered, looking away.

“i know you’re smart, stubborn, and sarcastic as hell,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “i know you’d rather eat those weird snacks you like than caviar. i know you walk an extra ten minutes to avoid the main gate because you don’t like attention. i want to know more.”

you stared at him, torn between irritation and something dangerously close to flattery. “you’re ridiculous,” you said finally, pushing past him. “stay away from me, mikage.”

but he didn’t.

and you couldn't believe yourself. oh you really couldn't believe yourself.

you dated him months later.

the park was quiet, sunlight filtering through the trees as you sat on a bench, reo’s arm draped around you. his head rested against yours, his warmth seeping into you as he rambled animatedly, about soccer or some ridiculous bet he’d made with his teammates.

you couldn’t believe this was your life now—dating mikage reo, the guy you’d once dodged like a virus. he’d worn you down, not with flowers or snacks, but with persistence.

showing up with your fav drink during late-night study sessions, challenging your sarcastic quips with his own wit, proving he saw you, not just the scholarship girl.

he was clingy in a way you hadn’t expected, always touching you—hand in yours, arm around your waist, stealing kisses when you least expected it. his affection was loud, unapologetic, and it drew glares from his lingering fan club, but reo didn’t care.

he made you feel like the center of his universe, and you hated how much you loved it. you leaned into him now, rolling your eyes at his dramatics but smiling despite yourself. he nudged you playfully, that same heart stopping grin lighting up his face, and you flicked his forehead in return, a silent jab at his over-the-top ways.

the tension that once burned between you had softened into something warmer, deeper. reo was still the golden boy, still unfairly handsome, but he was yours now, loud, loving, and impossible to resist.

and as he pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, you thought maybe letting him catch you wasn’t the worst thing after all.

#mikage reo #mikage reo x reader #bllk reo #bllk x reader #bllk x you #reo x reader #female reader #x reader #reo mikage

30 notes · View notes

confuzing · 1 day ago

Text

Guess what I did!

Posted the first chapter of the Mobei Yuan AU!

┏ (゜ω゜)=👉 I Want To Marry The Beautiful Ice Prince But I'm The Protagonist Of A Xianxia Webnovel And Have To Become Demon Emperor First

☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

#svsss fanfiction #mobei yuan au #No binghe yet we're still in baby SY territory

27 notes · View notes

nnat-s · 2 days ago

Text

I received an anonymous question. I will draw it soon. Thanks for it!

(*^-゜)vThanks!

#art #miraculous fanart #nathalie sancoeur #sketch #drawing #artists on tumblr

36 notes · View notes

slytherins-favorite-hufflepuff · 1 day ago

Text

☆Oblivious Little Hufflepuff☆

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

♡Synopsis♡

Y/N is a top of the class Hufflepuff and book smart to boot, but is woefully oblivious to actual things happening around her. To her dismay, Tom and Mattheo Riddle have transferred into her potions class, and now all she feels is off about them. Later, she ends up roommates with both of them.

☆ Warnings ☆

A little scandalous but nothing profound, possessive Tom and Mattheo, slight yandere vibes tonaly, swearing, not moldy voldy, Tom and Mattheo are twins, bad writing read at own risk.

♡Authors Note♡

Welcome to my first ever fanfic! Tell me how I did, ask me to be moots lol, request something if you want! I tried 🥲

Word Count: 2k

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The Hogwarts halls were always busy with chatter, and most recently the talk of the school was focused on the Riddle brothers. You never knew much about them since you weren't in the same house, but ever since they got moved to your potions class you couldn’t help but pick up on some of their habits.

It started with the way Tom, the older twin, would always answer questions in class. You never doubted his academic prowess because you often ended up with a score comparable to his. Both of you were smart, however it felt like Tom was always trying to prove something. Then came Mattheo, the younger twin, who seemed to lack any drive, and yet somehow passed every exam with top marks.

What made the school pay close attention to them this year was their magnetic energy, charms, and above all else, their jaw dropping looks.The boys had both bloomed since last year and everyone wanted a chance to get with them… except you, not because you didn’t find them attractive but because you were as smart as you were out of the loop and only now have started hearing about them.

Class ended for the day and the brothers stayed back, Tom planning his coursework ahead of time and Mattheo ruining Tom's peace.

The other students in potions were talking in a group study after class towards the back. You were less than interested in what since you were just trying to complete some coursework, but as soon as those peculiar, yet gorgeous brothers were brought up you couldn’t help but listen. “Mattheo was perfect at quidditch yesterday, all I did was stare the entire time.” one of the ravenclaws Kiren let out. “ I don’t even like sports!” The rest of them chatted back and forth about it until Kiren questioned you.

“Y/N did you see the game? I never see you out and about but as a hufflepuff did it hurt losing to slytherin at quiddich?” you sighed being pulled away from your studies “ Kiren I swear you just said you weren’t even paying attention to the game? The group knows you only ogle at the twins.” giggling to yourself you found Kiren turning red.

“Well who wouldn’t, Y’know I’m sure you’re fond of them too seeing as they’re all anyone can talk about.” Kiren began as she led the study group in the pursuit of finding out who you were crushing on between the two boys several feet in front of you.

You looked between the Riddle’s acknowledging their focus on each other before continuing on with Kiren and the rest's nosey questions. In a smaller voice than before you whispered towards Kiren. “I think they are both pretty and I've passed them before they smell like vanilla wood, but I can’t shake this feeling that-” The dismissal bell rang to inform everyone of the day's end.

Everyone was pulled away from your words rushing off to whatever after school plans they made, including Kiren. So you followed suit and began packing up, not really in a hurry because you were all caught up with life, until suddenly you felt the presence of two sets of eyes on you and one set of hands on top of your desk.

Looking up with wide surprised eyes, you lock on to Mattheo, Tom hanging slightly back. Mattheo looked you up and down with a prying glance and licked his lips before playfully leaning closer to talk to you. “ Hello there, I just so happened to overhear you talking about my brother and I, and I came to thank you for the compliment, Tommy and I loved being called pretty~”

Tom started approaching now. “ Mattheo is right, It’s fascinating to see a Hufflepuff compliment us, and even more so that they are smart enough to notice anything else other than our looks and charms, so, Y/N, what is it that you were going to tell that ravenclaw girl?” Tom's words made you nervous, since you felt off about them you were definitely ready to get back to your dorm.

Choking back embarrassment you muttered out a quick nothing as you analyzed the situation. Mattheo and Tom look between each other and Tom’s smirk falls as if he was dissatisfied with your response, but then you notice both twin’s eyes darken, like your newfound embarrassment and shyness excited them.

As they kept coming towards you, you made a break for the door heading straight to the Hufflepuff dorms nearby, your footsteps echoing throughout the ornate brick hallways and the faint sound of laughter coming from the potions classroom.

You made it inside the common room, to see everyone moving their stuff around. You stop fresh in your tracks as girls and boys carry backpacks and luggage in large quantities. Digging through the mass of puffs you spot your roommate. “ Lizzy, what is going on? Where is everyone headed?” Liz, your roommate face palms at your clueless nature. “I have left you the cutest notes on your desk about this! What a waste of notes… The rooms for Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are being renovated. I have been trying to get you to sign up to bunk with me but it looks like you are just as out of the loop as ever.”

Your head begins to spin with confusion as you think back to all of the bear shaped stationary left on your assignments that you threw out. No, oh god no, you finally remember the last notes that you chucked. “Gryffindor due to their tense nature with slytherin will be rooming with Ravenclaw for Fallbreak. Hufflepuffs due to their joyful nature will be paired with the Slytherins as assistance to Gryffindor. 100 pts to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff for your cooperation.”

You grimace and Liz stares at you with a knowing smile. “Hey at least you are always caught up on everything, so now you have to just hurry up and pack for the month. Since you didn’t sign up to be my roommate you should have a randomly assigned room in your letter on the desk!” Now it was your turn to face palm. You thanked Liz and went to your dorm to pack, after you finished grabbing what you could before dinner, you read your letter.

In the note you received a small stipend to cover any necessities you couldn't bring, as well as a gift tab for Three Broomsticks and finally your new room for the month, 1035. You quickly set your stuff off with everyone else's and went to the dining hall.

The entirety of your meal you spent feeling two sets of eyes boring into your head, but every time you turned around no one was looking at you. Soon you gave up on dinner and headed to your new room 1035. The room floor was mixed and you already saw a few Hufflepuffs getting acclimated so you unlocked the room to see a large space with a small kitchenette and three separate sleeping areas. It was decorated beautifully and was very tidy to the point you would have thought you were in a spare dorm.

When you took a peek in the sleeping areas you noticed some stuff preoccupying the spaces and one empty room without anything so that's where you decided to set up. Quickly after unpacking you decided to get a shower in before meeting your new roomies after they finished dinner. As you enter the on suite bathroom you notice a pleasant aroma of pine amber and vanilla. You hop in the shower and zone out. Soon you dry off and begin to relax heading out of the shower and changing into some fresh underwear and your soft bathrobe.

Opening the door on your way out of the bathroom however you bump into someone tall, looking up to find the girl you'll be staying with, your eyes meet a familiar sight. It is none other than Tom fucking Riddle. You jump and fall back letting out a small yelp of surprise, your robe coming slightly undone in the process. His piercing gaze matches yours as he looks at you now on the floor in shock, and shortly to follow you hear a separate voice. “ Hey Tom, what was that?” footsteps now join the both of you and the voice you heard was Mattheo fucking Riddle.

You turn bright red and get hot in the face covering up as you are now consumed by thoughts. Tom is clearly saying something but all your mind is going to is the fact that both boys you ran from earlier have seen you in your panties. Mattheo and Tom pulling you up snap you out of it and you start to focus on them.

“ I am so sorry-” you stammer out. Your thoughts are still racing, did you find the right room, were the numbers correct, how did this happen. Tom stares into you more “ Oh my, what do we have here? I knew the Hufflepuffs would join us and we may get a roommate, but this, oh this was not to be expected.” His shiny well maintained shoes tapped against the hardwood as he moved to the side near Mattheo letting you pass. Mattheo is red in the face after seeing you exposed but keeps his confident air. “ Y/N did you like us that much in potions? Hm?”

Not being able to take this anymore you run to your room.The next day came and went and you found out that you were in the correct room because they had run out of other slots. Mattheo had made breakfast for the three of you and Tom sat at the living room desk drinking tea. You slowly crept out of your room hoping to avoid them seeing you in your nightgown but Tom waved his wand to close your door behind you. You turned around to head back to your room but it was locked.

“ Hey.. Tom, can you let me back in please?” You softly pleaded not wanting to relive yesterday's embarrassment. He chuckled as Mattheo set the food on the table. “ Hmm, I think she has yet to realize brother..” Tom said deeply. Mattheo eyed your beautiful body in your nightgown and hummed back in agreement. You looked between the two shy and confused.

You have had attention before but this was a whole different game and you had no clue how to play along. You looked at Tom first, he had on a nice pair of silk pajamas and his hair looked tousled only slightly, Then to Mattheo and much to your chagrin he was topless only wearing some cotton pajama bottoms. They were very attractive but that off feeling arose again.

“Mattheo what is he talking about?” you said in a hushed tone. He just laughed “Don’t worry about it darling. Have some breakfast, I made enough so you don't have to go to the dining hall.”

You sat at the table and ate. Not wanting to talk to them you read one of the books you sat out and got far into it before you felt one of them staring at you again.

Not wanting to go through this any longer you asked aloud “Why are you both so invested in a few comments I made? It's not like I'm the only girl to have made them… Besides you both are acting like we've spoken before yesterday!”

Mattheo who was sitting at the table you were just tsked in disapproval. Tom however got up and walked over hovering next to you. “ We do not care about any girl, just you, and you have found us off from the start, correct? That draws me to you, and even more so how could I not notice the one person I tie with at a given moment academically. God it's hard to believe you are just that oblivious dearest.” Mattheo follows right after. “ Tom has a point, the one girl too oblivious to notice us, only does when she finds us off. It’s almost cute, I just couldn’t stand you thinking about anyone else.”

The dark looks return to their eyes and they look at you closely as you glance between them, and then it hits you, they have been watching you for a while now and that off feeling you felt about them recently is because they have become possessive. You belong to them now as their oblivious little hufflepuff.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

☆A/N☆

I hope you enjoyed! Let me know what else you want!

PS♡ pls don't take/steal my bad fanfic you're worth more than this wait till I get good!

#tom riddle #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x reader #slytherin #slytherin x hufflepuff #hufflepuff #mattheo riddle #mattheo x reader

26 notes · View notes