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redrebecca · 1 month ago

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Missed Calls & Make-Ups

Summary: Clark stands you up on your first date. It turns out he has a pretty decent explanation.

A/N: First fic in 3 years!! And about a DC character no less! The things I do for tall brunette lover boys <3

Warnings: Getting stood up, hurt/comfort, 24 hour clock mention, cursing, food mention, (extremely minor) injury mention, use of y/n, reader is described as having hair. Girl discovers how to use em dash.

Word Count: 8.2k

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

The skin of your legs sticks to the pleather upholstery of your chair as you bounce your leg. Face up on the table beside your empty glass, your phone displays the time.

19:37

Your messages and missed calls remain unanswered. He was late. That's what you repeated to yourself, Clark Kent would not have stood you up. Not Clark Kent, who stuttered and stumbled his way through asking you to dinner, a red flush creeping up from his collar. He’d even double and triple checked you were still up for your date as you walked out of the office together on Friday night, a mere 24 hours ago. Clark Kent would not stand you up… so why was he almost an hour late?

If this was any other man, you would have cut your losses after 5 minutes and no text back. But you were so stunned, so ultimately blindsided by the possibility that the Clark Kent could (and has) forgotten about your date. This is what you get for putting him on a pedestal.

Men, you think. Only it comes out more morose than scathing.

You joined the Daily Planet years ago, fresh from university and desperate to make a change. Your passion in science communication was stunted by an underwhelming lack of reader interest. You managed to put out a few columns here and there, but mainly you worked with Lois, Clark and Jimmy, getting swept up into the seedy dealings of the Metropolis’ rich and powerful. You’d spent many days and nights hunched over desks littered with notebooks, half-written memos on sticky notes, and letters from legal representatives. Corruption paid the bills in this city, as did writing about it.

That was until scientific misinformation about healthcare from capitalistic pharmaceutical companies became increasingly prevalent and public demand for fact rather than fiction rose—you were happy to rise to the challenge. Now your days are spent knee-deep in scientific journals, scoffing at social media rants about vaccines and having to bite your tongue in the bullpen when one of the sports journalists starts spouting off his questionable opinions on women's healthcare. The cease and desist letters didn’t stop though, only signed by a different set of lawyers now. That’s the one constant about your job you suppose—shitty coffee, red pens and threatened legal action.

“It’s how you know you’re doing a good job.” Clark had reassured you once, heavy hand on your shoulder, an unusually bold move of affection from him. Thumb brushing over your satin blouse, once, twice, three times before he squeezed softly, taking your dazed expression for dismay at the thick paper envelope that sat on your desk. “What you’re doing is important.” He said, quieter but with an unwavering surety in his voice, like there was no argument about it.

You wrote that article in record time, lawyers be damned.

When you first met Clark, you honestly thought he didn’t like you. He was quiet—polite—but quiet. He would chat happily to Jimmy, listen intently to Lois’ rants about a suspicious politician, chiming in with supporting observations where necessary, but with you it was like he short-circuited whenever you were near. Minimal eye contact, stuttering, he’d almost go out of his way to make sure there was never a situation where the two of you were alone together. It hurt, sure, but you figured he was just shy and hadn’t warmed up to you.

Thankfully, he did warm up to you. It had all started with a tentatively placed coffee on your desk, your usual order from your favourite cafe nonetheless. You stuttered out a thank you which he politely brushed off, sitting down at his desk, his mouth twisting in a way that made you realise he was trying not to grin. You had stared at your desktop in disbelief as you sipped your coffee. From then on things between you two progressed. Clark often found an excuse to hover near your desk, either to get your opinion on an article idea he wanted to pitch or offering to proofread your piece before it’s sent to the copy editor, even just to ask about what you did on the weekend. If you had an issue with the printer jamming, he was always the first one up to help you tackle it. He’d take an interest in whichever published paper you were reading, listening to you intently as you explained the theory behind certain medications, unafraid to ask if he didn’t understand—a quality you found pleasantly refreshing after spending your college experience surrounded by boys who constantly tried to prove themselves as smarter than you. You learnt very quickly that Clark was a dorky sweetheart who’d grown far taller than was sustainable. Who, to your delight, seemed to enjoy your company just as much as you enjoyed his.

When the waitress loops back round to you, a poorly hidden look of sympathy on her face you decide to call it quits.

Your phone buzzes on the table. You hold your breath in anticipation.

Lois Lane: Superman sighting on fourth street. Aliens. Eye witnesses. You wanna come?

You sigh. The waitress, seemingly also holding out hope, grimaces, which is admirably her first slip of the night.

“Just the bill, please.”

You swipe your card, tip graciously, duck your chin as you leave. You’ll wait until your apartment door is locked before you have a full-scale pity party, but you may have wiped a tear or two from your cheeks on your walk.

Lois, thankfully, stands where you agreed to meet. “Oh.. wow. Hot date?” She nudges your arm, giving you an approving up and down. You can’t wait to see this alien and fling yourself into its path. Your aspiration for a quick end to the conversation must show on your face, as Lois grimaces. “Ah, do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”

You snort, “Technically it didn’t.” You keep your eyes ahead, walking towards where the sky pulses with red and blue beams of light. It doesn’t mean you can’t feel Lois’ eyes on you, assessing, trying to figure out how far is too far in terms of questioning your poor friend who has clearly not had a great night. Investigative journalists, you think. Deciding you can’t emotionally take an interrogation, you throw her a bone. “He didn’t show.”

“Sorry.” Lois doesn’t have any follow up questions. You’re sure she does, but none she deems tactful to ask.

“So, what’s the game plan?”

“Superman’s currently occupied with the second alien in under an hour, so see if we can get anything from eye witnesses, ideally someone will have seen where that thing came from. It’s a long shot but if we can find anything that ties this to LexCorp it’d fit nicely into my piece.” You nod as the noise from fleeing civilians grows louder. You can’t be far away from the barricades now. Tremors from the fight ripple through the ground beneath your heels, your bracelets clink as the impact travels up your arms. You clench your jaw through the natural panic and the rising ire at your situation—an evening of being wined and dined has devolved into you willingly heading towards an intergalactic battle, chasing a lead for a story you’re not even writing. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I think you have a better chance of flagging Superman down for an interview than you do pinning this to Lex Luthor, Lois. We both know he doesn’t cut corners when it comes to covering his ass.”

Lois huffs a laugh, narrowly dodging a street vendor rushing away from the conflict, you watch him flee over your shoulder, smart thinking. “Yes, well we all know he’ll be too busy giving Clark an exclusive play-by-play of events to make time for the likes of little old me.”

The cacophony from the alien ricocheting between adjacent skyscrapers distracts Lois from the way you freeze at the mention of his name, making you thankful for the decreasing distance between the two of you and the fight. As you get closer, you begin to make out the grotesque appearance of the creature, it struggles to look formidable. It almost reminds you of a chewed up tennis ball a dog would drop at your feet, slobber and all. The gratitude you feel is short lived because, as you approach the police barricade, it becomes quickly apparent that A) the space creature-thing smells worse than it looks, which is no small feat, and B) any and all eyewitnesses have left the scene. Cause and effect. The only people remaining are a few queasy-looking cops, Lois, yourself and a few onlookers with apparently iron stomachs. As the stench hits the back of your nose, you’re instantly glad you didn’t eat anything at the restaurant - a silver lining if you will. If this thing was engineered, whatever expense was saved on the appearance of the creature doesn’t appear to have been spent on its attacking ability. An unfortunate combination of bad looks, horrendous smell and even worse fighting prowess—you almost feel bad. Superman seems to be making quick work of it, each hit is purposeful and on-target, albeit with more vehemence than usual.

“He seems… aggressive?” Lois says, muffled by the sleeve she's using to cover her mouth and nose.

“Can you blame him? If I had to smell that up close I’d want this over with as soon as possible.”

“Do you think he has a super sense of smell?”

“For his sake I hope not.”

Further up the street, fifty metres in the air, blue and red blurs as the hits increase in speed. With one final blow the creature falls to the street, rendered unconscious. A puddle of…drool? steady growing outwards from where it lays. When the two of you look back up to the sky, the hero of the hour has disappeared. A still silence surrounds the street.

“Well, that was a bust. Sorry for dragging you along.”

You shrug, looking around as a few stragglers begin to creep out of store-fronts, assessing the danger before stepping out into the street, heading back to wherever they were going. You see a couple, the man helping a woman over a piece of debris in the doorway, hand-in-hand as they walk down the street. You swallow back the burn in your throat and turn to Lois.

“It’s okay, not like I was having a good time before.” You attempt a lighthearted tone, but your ears and Lois’ face confirm it missed the mark by a mile. “Anyway, I was…” You trail off as Lois’ attention is suddenly snatched by something over your shoulder.

Not something—someone—you realise as you turn.

In front of you stands Superman.

The Superman.

For an awkward 5 seconds, no one speaks. Even Lois, who has all but begged Clark to be put in contact with superman, is speechless.

“Hello, are you two okay?”

Nodding in near perfect synchrony, you’re sure you and Lois are quite the sight. A subtle look of amusement flashes across Superman’s face before his eyes land on you. Humour fades into something more earnest.

“You look lovely.”

…Oh?

Taken aback by the sincerity in his voice, you flounder. Your poor heart has only just begun to pick itself back up and is wholly unprepared to handle whatever this is. You manage eye contact and a small but genuine smile.

“Thank you.”

He nods. He doesn’t leave, he looks like he’s thinking of something to say. It’s a strange sight, a man who moves with such purpose and determination, looking unsure.

“You’re journalists, right? From the Daily Planet?”

This turns out to be what is needed to reset Lois.

“We are, yes. We work with your friend, Clark.”

You look down at your shoes, the momentary distraction from what happened earlier in the evening is shattered. On Monday, you’ll see him at work. Hell, you’re standing next to Superman in the aftermath of a fight, Clark’s probably on his way here now. You can’t help but look around in a fleeting panic, there’s only a handful of people lingering, none of which have tousled dark hair, no one with a pair of glasses that seem incessant on slipping down the bridge of their nose, no one’s a hulking 6’4” whilst somehow never making you feel small. You look back down at your shoes and blink, hard. Good god, you need to get a grip.

When you look back up it’s directly into the eyes of superman. The intensity of an ice blue stare brings you back to the present.

“I’d be more than happy to do an interview, if you’d like?”

Your eyebrows raise and you turn to Lois. Much to your surprise, she’s not taking his hand off for the opportunity. Lois shakes her head and nudges you. It takes you a second, and a glance at the man before you to realise he’s asking you. Not only asking, the way he’s looking at you is almost imploring. The offer should be too good to pass up—it is too good to pass up. But you’re so tired of reading things wrong, your confidence has been decimated and then some, your dignity can’t take another hit for at least a month. You really, really, really want to crawl into bed and go to sleep.

So, pushing down every journalistic instinct that screams against it, you decline.

“Oh, if you want a piece written, Lois is the one you want. I’m uh- I’m a bit rusty on the superhero stuff.”

He looks genuinely crestfallen for a brief moment, before he nods. You can’t shake the feeling of his gaze on you. The way he’s looking at you is not usually how a normal person looks at someone they’ve just met—at least you personally would never look at a stranger with this much awed fondness. You’ll admit you looked pretty in the mirror before you left earlier, but pretty enough for superman to look at you like this? Maybe he just thinks you look familiar. Or maybe it’s more of a thing among meta-humans.

“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to head back home.” You tell Lois. You’d stay, obviously, if she wanted you too. Leaving her alone with a man you’ve both never met is not a move you’d normally pull, especially when said man is wearing his underwear over his trousers. However, she’s got a look on her face that makes you feel a bit guilty that you’re leaving Superman alone with her—Lois has an incredible talent at making an interviewee squirm with her relentless questioning. You worry not that even superman will be immune to her interrogation tactics. You’ve been on the receiving end of Lois when she gains momentum (read: the missing mug incident—it was Steve) and it's no laughing matter. Poor guy.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I just- I think the sooner this day’s over the better y’know.” Lois smiles softly in understanding. She squeezes your arm.

“You’ll be safe getting back, yeah? Text me when you get home.”

“Of course, let me know when you get back too.” You take one last look at Superman who is still watching you, an expression you can’t decipher on his face. You say a quick goodbye and start your walk home, Lois sending you a wave and a wink. At least you have some motivation not to call in sick on Monday—you can’t wait to hear that recording.

Monday comes around unpleasantly fast. Your phone has been switched off since you received Lois’ “I’m home!” text on Saturday. Opting to spend Sunday with every intention to bury your head in the sand for as long as possible, a big fan of delaying the inevitable.

Your commute is uneventful—no superman-related delays on public transport, an empty seat next to you on the bus (essentially gold dust during Metropolis rush hour), the forecasted rain blissfully holds off until you’re within touching distance of the entrance. Despite Clark being chronically late, you still watch the lobby door nervously as you wait for the elevator doors to shut. The last thing you need is to be trapped in a metal box with that man. You breathe a sigh of relief as the doors close without incident. So far so good.

Unfortunately, everything derails the second you step out into the Daily Planet bullpen. Despite being infamous for never being on time, Clark Kent stands by his desk nervously, muttering to himself whilst straightening his tie and brushing his hands over the material of his suit jacket. His head snaps up as you walk to your desk. You both freeze. The two of you look like deer in headlights, only on opposite sides of the road.

He clears his throat. “Y/N, I-”

“Hey, Y/N!” Grateful for any escape route, you whip around to see Lois racing towards you. “I’m transcribing the Superman interview, d’you wanna listen?” Truthfully, Lois could be offering you the chance to scrub the sidewalk and you’d take it.

Quickly leaving your bag and coat at your desk, making a great effort to not spare Clark any attention, you hightail it after Lois as she motions for you to follow.

“Did you make the man cry?”

Lois snorts. “That was one time, and no he didn’t cry. To be honest after you left he didn’t seem too keen on sticking around. Kinda antsy.”

“Really? Clark always seems to get a decent amount of information from him.” You follow her into an empty conference room, the recording already loaded on her laptop.

“That’s what surprised me. Maybe Clark has a technique of getting him to talk that we don’t know about, might be worth asking.” You hum in agreement despite having absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. “But if you ask me…I think it's because Superman wanted you to do the interview, not me.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois, you know that’s absurd. He wouldn’t know enough about our writing styles-”

This time it’s Lois that rolls her eyes. “I don’t think it had anything to do with writing styles.” At your oblivious expression she shakes her head at you, a sly grin on her face. “You should’ve seen the way he was looking at you. I’m telling you, that man looked like he was one second from dropping to his knees.” You splutter. Before you can respond, you’re stopped by a tentative knock at the door.

“Come in.” Clark Kent peers around the door, a flush across his cheeks. After spotting you, he opens the door fully. His eyes lock onto yours, the man who once would immediately look away when you met each other's eyes long gone. Whoever this is seems intent on not letting you out of his sight.

“I was wondering if I could speak with you? Alone?” You pause. It’s sickening, really, the way your immediate reaction is to nod and follow him blindly. You have to remind yourself that he had the chance to speak with you, alone, on Saturday night. But even with him right in front of you, it’s still difficult to put his face to all that hurt.

“Can it wait? We’re kinda in the middle of something.”

“Oh no it’s fine, she’s all yours, Clark.”

“Lois-” Too late, she's already shutting her laptop and sliding off her chair.

“There were no tears, promise. Not even a little bit of squirming. You’re not missing out on anything here.”

“But, Lois-” She slips past Clark, still in the doorframe, and disappears down the corridor. You sit in shocked betrayal.

Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - a nervous tick or a necessity you’re not too sure. He closes the door. The only noise in the room is the rhythmic ticking from the clock hanging on the wall. You look down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your skirt.

“I’m- I’m so sorry.” To his credit, he sounds genuinely remorseful. You don’t think you have it in you to look at him. You don’t know what a contrite Clark Kent looks like, but you have a gut feeling that it would be potentially life-ruining. In the interest of self-preservation, you don’t look up. Clark, filled with an increased sense of desperation, makes his way towards you. He hesitantly pulls out the chair next to you and weighs up his options when you stiffen. After a brief second he decides sitting is still better than towering over you. As the chair squeaks under his weight, you find your voice.

“Did you forget?”

“No, of course not. I- I was looking forward to it the whole week.” He sounds wounded at the accusation, which only makes you more frustrated.

“You didn’t even text, I called you, and you couldn’t even-” You shake your head and look directly at the fluorescent ceiling light, hoping the searing burn will distract from the tears welling along your waterline.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, I swear. I was on my way to the restaurant and… something came up.”

You laugh, it’s pitiful and humourless. Out of all the excuses in the book, that’s the best he can do?

“Something came up?” You say sardonically. When you finally look at him, you can’t tell if he flinches at your teary eyes or the poorly concealed ire in your voice. You’ve never spoken to him with anything other than kindness or good humour before—you’ve never had a reason to. This is unfamiliar ground for both of you.

“Y-yes, I… I’m so sorry.” He looks at you with a heart-stopping hurt. Behind his glasses, you think he’s about to cry.

“You’re going to have to do a bit better than that, Clark. What could possibly be so urgent, that you had to abandon our dinner plans without even sending a text? I sat there, alone, for almost 40 minutes, like an- an idiot! And you couldn’t even spare ten seconds to let me know you weren’t going to make it?

His face twists, an internal debate going on in his head that you’re not privy to. He looks at you, really looks at you. You can see the moment he comes to a decision, his shoulders slump impossibly further and his eyes squeeze shut before he looks at you, resigned. You brace yourself for the impending let-down.

“I can’t…” He sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you. I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

You search his face for any sign that he’ll change his mind, but his face remains the same—pained, but resolute. You push up to stand, all thoughts but one blurring—you need to leave this room. A shaky hand reaches to wipe away a tear rolling down your face. You take one unsteady step, then another until you reach the door.

“For future reference, Clark, there are much kinder ways to let someone know you’re not interested, instead of leaving them to figure it out for themselves.”

Clark feels physically sick as you shut the door behind you, leaving him sat in the aftermath of your words. His instinct to immediately refute the possibility that he doesn’t like you, dies on his tongue—because how could you not think that? As you pointed out, he invited you to dinner and didn't show, he didn’t even give you the courtesy of letting you know he was going to be late. If he was in your shoes, he would come to the exact same conclusion. The months of building up to asking you out unfortunately means nothing if he can’t even show up to the date. The way you looked at him, as if you expected more, as if you never thought he would be the one to cause such pain, has burned into the back of his retinas—he sees it even as he drops his head into his hands, scrunching his eyes shut. He wishes he could replace it with the image of you dressed up on that night. You looked gorgeous, pretty in your shiny jewellery and a dress he hadn't been lucky enough to see you wear before.

Clark was a firm believer that a relationship can never be built on lies—a lesson Pa had instilled in him during his teenage years. He knows if he wants something meaningful with you (and he does, he really does) the superman conversation is one that will have to be had sooner rather than later—that is, if by some miracle he hasn’t ruined any chance he had to get to know you in that way. But he doesn’t think it’s fair to use it as an excuse—this isn’t how he wanted to tell you. Your feelings are understandably hurt and whilst there was a glaring reason as to why he didn’t show, he still got too caught up in the motions to send you a quick text. He’s admittedly not above blame, so he won’t use superman to get him out of a corner he’s backed himself into.

The soft sound of your sniffles hit his ears—he rips his glasses off to scrub a hand over his eyes. He’s made you cry. Super-hearing is a tool he can dial down when needed, but Clark doesn’t try. He sits there and tortures himself with the muffled whimpers from the upset he caused. He figures it’s the least he deserves.

After taking some time in the bathroom to compose yourself, you return to your desk. You keep your gaze steadfast on the screen of your desktop for the rest of the day. No matter how often you feel Clark’s eyes flicker towards you, you don’t let your eyes stray from your desk.

For the rest of the week you feel like you’re constantly expecting Clark to corner you again. You don’t linger in corridors, you don’t spend more time next to the printer than you absolutely have to. Every morning he shuffles in, bouncing his shin off Jimmy’s desk chair, perilously balancing a tray of coffees, stacks of papers, and his briefcase. He always sets your coffee down with the utmost care, as if he’s terrified he’ll spill it onto your neatly stacked papers (an entirely plausible scenario, in his defence). You’re determined to be professional, so you say a polite "thank you". He looks as if he wants to say something but decides against it as you turn back to your work. Behind your back, Jimmy shakes his head, Clark waves him off.

Saturday night—an entire week since the Incident. You’re curled up on your couch finishing off a nice, yet deceitful, one-pot meal (you can count at least three from where you’re sat). A movie you’ve seen before plays idly on the TV, but you catch your focus straying back to the events of last week every five minutes. Saturday nights are something you look forward to the entire work week and it’s starting to grate that you can’t settle. Sighing loudly, you drag your hands over your face. Without thinking, you flick the TV off, stand up and grab your bag, pulling on your coat and shoes before leaving your apartment.

Distant rumbling a few blocks down and a quick look at your phone notifications is all you need to confirm that superman’s saving the city once again. Only this time you’re walking away from the fight. When you arrive at the office it's peaceful—no hubbub, no news livestream, no telephones ringing—so different from the day-to-day that it feels almost surreal. The novelty of being there at night is a guilty pleasure. You turn on a few desk lamps in order to get enough light without having to turn on the dreaded fluorescents, and make yourself comfortable at your desk.

For a span of almost an hour, you manage to get a productive start on your newest piece—a deep dive into the health consequences of inadequate sanitation caused by the mayor's neglect of the rundown neighbourhoods of Metropolis. Eventually, your fingertips slow over the keyboard as your bout of inspiration wanes. You stare at the blinking text cursor as you try to rack your brain for any ideas on things to add. That’s one of the downfalls of trying to work at night, there’s no one around to bounce ideas off of. After a failed attempt at reinvigorating your focus with some online games, you figure a walk around the office couldn’t hurt.

Once you’ve trailed aimlessly for twenty minutes or so, and nosed around the supply closet to see if there’s anything worth nabbing for your desk (there wasn't), you idle back to the bullpen.

You freeze.

Superman is standing at Clark’s desk.

“What the fuck?” You whisper under your breath.

He whips around, startled. A piece of paper flutters to the floor by his red boot. You blink at each other from across the bullpen before he straightens up to his full height, broad shoulders squaring.

“Hello.”

“...Hi?” You glance between him and Clark’s desk, papers in a state of disarray from where he’d been rifling through them. “What are you doing?” It comes out more as a squeak than a question, so much for being a journalist.

“Oh,” He looks behind him to the desk as if he’ll find a suitable answer there. “I was looking for something.”

You nod hesitantly. “Is Superman breaking and entering these days?” A weak attempt at a joke that you instantly regret. Because, if for some reason he has gone rogue, in what world are you able to take on superman? You give him a once over in the suit—you’re not sure any human would be able to take on superman. Mortifyingly, he catches you looking. You wish the ground would swallow you up as he raises an eyebrow slightly, a small smirk on his face. He chuckles lightly at your nervous questioning.

“I wouldn’t call this breaking and entering, I-.” He pauses, his eyes lingering on you as he thinks through his options. “The journalist, Clark Kent, mentioned something about a link between LexCorp and a new development in the suicide slum—he thought it may have been used to stash weapons, or house something illicit.” His eyebrows pull together in concentration. “Something caught my eye earlier, when I was fighting the kaiju, and I wanted to see if he’d found out anything about it.”

You didn’t know Clark was investigating something in the underbelly of metropolis, nevermind a dodgy dealing in the suicide slum. Is that where he disappears off to? You can’t picture Clark in those streets, a bumbling dork (said with nothing but love), wonky glasses, suit and tie—it’s a wonder he hasn’t been mugged. Eager to have something to do and quietly curious to see what Clark has been getting himself into, you nod at the remaining stack of files.

“I can help you look, if you’d like?” He looks appreciative of your offer, but hesitates to accept.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your..” He trails off as he looks towards your desk where you monitor sits, a more genuine look of humour appears on his face. You follow his gaze and curse loudly in your head—FreeSudoku is displayed at a dazzling brightness on the screen, on a maximised tab nonetheless. The serious journalist image you were aiming for dissipates into thin air in seconds—falling victim to a partially filled 9x9 grid. He’s kind enough to bite back his toothy smile when he looks back at you, but it appears that dimples are a little harder to conceal.

“It’s okay, I've got plenty of time before the deadline.” You wander towards Clark’s desk, quickly pressing the standby button on your monitor as you pass. “I don’t normally come in at night. I just- I, uh… needed the distraction.” He pauses at this, regarding you with a look you don’t have time to analyse before he turns to grab half of the stacked files. Your fingertips graze his hand as you take the manila folders from him. You’re about to go back to your desk but Superman has other ideas, clearing space on the bench adjacent to Clark’s and pulling out the nearest desk chair, also Clark’s, for you to sit in.

There’s a comfortable silence between you, filled only by the shushing of the pages as you scour through the headlines, pull quotes and everything in between. It’s heart-warmingly similar to the nights you, Lois and Clark would stay late when a deadline was fast approaching—surviving off of nothing but takeout, the dregs from the coffee pot, and hope that a hive-mind approach would be the key to finally piecing together conflicting tip-offs and witness statements.

You’re not confident in what you’re supposed to be looking for, but you’re determined to impress. What you lack in direction, you make up for in tenacity. You feel the familiar rush when you notice a small insignia, almost indistinguishable, in the corner of a photograph in the article you’re holding. Something to disregard, except you’d seen the exact same insignia earlier. Flicking through the pile of read articles you finally find the one you’re looking for. You compare the two badges—identical. There’s an inkling in the back of your mind, one which years of investigative journalism has taught you to trust, that makes you grab the remaining stack of unread articles and tear through them. You grin as you find one after the other—articles, all about unexplained and unsolvable crimes in the suicide slum. Granted, not an uncommon occurrence, but the presence of two L’s encased in a square in at least one image per article is unusual. Spray painted on a wall, tattooed on someone’s arm, a sticker plastered on a streetlight—easy to miss, but a clear message for those who know to look for it.

Superman’s thigh bumps your chair, subsequently bringing your attention back to him.

“You got something?” You nod eagerly and spread the articles in question out for his convenience.

“Here, see this logo? It appears in almost every article to do with crimes in the suicide slum. Only it’s never mentioned because it’s never noticed.”

Superman leans over you, one hand braced on the desk, the other on the back of your chair. Your eyes dart from his forearms to his clenched jawline then swiftly back to the articles in an attempt to calm yourself. The hand leaves the back of your chair to grab the nearest page, he stands tall as he brings it closer to his face to get a better look.

“Yes! This is the insignia that was branded on the kaiju's back.” He shows it to you enthusiastically, as if you hadn't just been searching for it.

“So whatever’s going on down there is linked to wherever the…kaiju came from?” He’s started to pace now, deep in thought but nods along with your pointing-out-the-obvious anyway. You watch him as he turns things over in his head. He eventually comes to a stop. You’re feeling far too inquisitive to sit quiet for much longer.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing tonight. I’ll have to scout it out first, try and get more information on what the badge means.” You nod along, a glint of a name plate catches your eye.

“You should tell Clark.” He blinks. “You’ll probably be due an interview soon—you should definitely tell him about the insignia in the articles, and now its connection to the kaiju.”

He swallows and nods. “I will, but I imagine you’ll see him first.”

“And exactly how do I explain that I know it was branded on an alien?”

“You interviewed Superman?”

“You think he’ll take that well? With you two being exclusive and all?” You tease, revelling in the reluctantly amused eye roll you get in return. He ducks his head, and for the first time you notice a cut near his hairline.

“Are you hurt? He raises his head, looking puzzled. The earlier events of the evening must come flooding back as he raises a hand to poke at the abrasion.

“Oh, no. Really it’s nothing.” He tries to disregard your concern but to no avail, you’re already on your feet.

“It’s alright I have…” You rifle through the bottom drawer of your desk before you pull out a small first aid kit—nothing too fancy, but enough to patch up a scrape here and there. “This. If you’ve been near that alien-thing you never know what germs might have gotten into it. The last thing Superman needs is an infected wound.” You open the box open where you were previously, and pull out an alcohol wipe. Superman is standing so close to you that your elbow brushes against his firm torso as you tear the packet open.

“You’re going to have to sit if I have any chance of reaching that.”

In an uncharacteristic show of false confidence, you stare up at him expectantly as he looks down at you. You wait for an argument, but he relents suspiciously easily, easing himself into Clark’s desk chair. You wonder if there’s more to his injuries than he’s letting on.

“You sure it’s just this?”

He nods affirmatively. You notice, with a burn in the pit of your stomach, that he shifts to spread his legs further apart, a silent invitation for you to stand between them. He watches you closely as you take a step forward, your heart jumping as his muscled thigh brushes yours. You take his face into your hands, tenderly, and begin carefully cleansing the wound. After a second, he leans into it, eyes dropping closed followed by a long, drawn sigh easing from him along with the remaining tension in his shoulders. Your previous notions about superman blur at the edges as he softens under your tentative ministrations. Does he have a family? Does he have anyone looking out for him? Someone to hug? Under careful consideration, it dawns that he is more likely to be on the receiving end of touches meant to harm than those with the sole purpose of comfort. You resist the startling urge to kiss his cheeks—coddling the universe's strongest superhero is probably a futile venture. Or at least you thought it was, only he suddenly appears alarmingly human. This monolith of a man squeezed into a too-small desk chair, who can shoot lasers from his eyes, one-two punch a foe back to whatever planet they strayed from, practically melts under your gentle touches.

If he notices you take a bit longer than necessary to disinfect a surface wound, he doesn’t mention it— he seems more than content to keep your hand on his cheek, fingers grazing his jawline. When you stop, unable to pretend there's more to clean, his eyes slowly open to meet yours. Again, almost a mirror image of the way he looked at you when you first met, with so much familiarity and intimacy that you struggle to put it down to coincidence. It’s far more than a fleeting appreciation for how you look, you’ve seen men who stumble after Cat—the double takes, the agape jaws, a poorly concealed heat behind their eyes—but this is different, this is more. This man must know you.

Letting your lingering hand drop from his face, you tuck the wipe back into its packet. You immediately miss the warm bracket of his thighs pressed against yours as you step back to discard the wipe in the small pedal bin under your desk. His warm gaze tracks each movement, drinking you in. The persistent questions bouncing around in your mind—where could he possibly know you from?—become uncomfortably loud. As if he can hear your thoughts—shit, can he mindread too?—he shifts in his chair, only to wince as something in his side tinges.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.” You’re halfway across the bullpen before he can begin to protest.

The breakroom fridge buzzes in the corner, a small noise you can never hear during the day. You let the water trickle down your hand as you wait for it to run cold. Naturally, your hand drifts towards Clark’s mug before you even realise what you’re doing. You course correct, take your mug from where it’s tucked beside Clark’s—a gag gift from Lois, Jimmy and Clark when you got your first front page. An exposé that had earned itself the title of cover story, despite Clark’s newest superman exclusive running that day—MetroPharma had been selling a glorified placebo to healthcare providers across the city and beyond, claiming it would provide an array of medicinal benefits. You’d toiled for months in order to make sure you landed the hit, working yourself to the bone to ensure no stone was left unturned, and that no rectification was made without supporting, reputable sources. You’d been nominated for a Pulitzer. A mug emblazoned with Science Investi-gator, and a ceramic alligator adorned with glasses and a lab coat modelled as the handle, was sat waiting on your desk the morning the story broke. The entire bullpen had wished you congratulations—even Perry, who was swamped with phone calls from MetroPharma’s legal team, had given you a proud nod when you peeked your head into his office. Clark had hugged you so enthusiastically your feet had left the ground. The smile didn’t leave your face the entire day. The joys of having a work crush.

You linger on that memory as you fill your mug under the tap.

When you make your way back to the bullpen, Superman is back on his feet, hunched over Clark’s desk as he pores over the papers spread across the hardwood. Your stomach drops to your feet—you’re grateful that you have two hands on your cup or that would’ve joined your stomach—because just for a split second it’s not Superman standing there, it’s Clark.

You’ve never noticed how the broadness of Superman's shoulders is the exact same as Clark’s. Or how, tussled from his previous fight, Superman's hair is identical to how Clark’s looks when he rushes in late. Could it be?

Superman(?) turns towards you, somehow made aware of your presence. He smiles at you, slightly bemused. “Are you okay over there?”

You nod, then have to manually put one foot in front of another to walk towards him. With each step, it feels like another piece of a puzzle slides into place. Clark, who is the only journalist to interview Superman. Clark, who is never around when all hell breaks loose. Clark, who swears he doesn’t live in the gym but is built like a greek god. Clark, who is never seen without his glasses. Clark, who stood you up at the exact time when superman was occupied with an alien three blocks down.

Oh god.

You’re close to him now, your heart beat loud in your ears. Your eyes dart around his face, scrutinising, desperate to find any similarities. It’s the same rush you get when you’re chasing a lead—when you know a breakthrough is in reach but you just need a final push to get there.

Superman double takes as he catches the expression on your face and pales. From your look alone, he knows you know. And a man who stands tall, a man who rarely falters, begins to fidget nervously.

That’s what does it.

The final piece clicks.

Clark Kent is standing in front of you.

“Clark?” It’s barely even a whisper. You’re petrified to be wrong, scared to be right. He reacts as if you’ve screamed it, flinching back.

“W- what do you…” He trails off as he sees the look on your face, a mix of confusion, desperation and shock. Clark is tired of having to lie to you. “I’m sorry.” He hesitantly steps towards you, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed but can’t help himself. You feel that pull too, it's what keeps you rooted in place.

“When you didn’t show, at the restaurant-” He nods urgently.

“I wanted to be there. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to be there. I bought you flowers, I- I’m so sorry, honey.”

The pet name and the tenderness he delivers it with breaks your shock. You feel tears creeping along your waterline.

“You were right, I should’ve texted you. I was too caught up in trying to wrap it up as quickly as I could that I- gosh, please don’t cry.”

You’re still staring at him, he reaches out and, when you show no signs of pulling away, wipes your tears away with a level of care that causes a fresh wave of tears to join them.

“I thought you didn’t like me.” Clark can’t handle the gut wrenching vulnerability in your tone, or the slight wobble of your voice. He swiftly takes your mug from between your trembling hands and places it on the desk—his desk—then wraps his arms around you and tugs you towards him. You sniffle and hug him back as a large hand comes to cup the back of your head, tucking your face into his neck as he stoops down to press his nose against your hair. His other hand tightens around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

“It would never be because of that. I really like you, and I’m sorry that I made you doubt that.” You slowly lean back to wipe the wetness off your cheeks, a warm sticky feeling settles in your chest when Clark doesn’t pull away from you, keeping you enveloped between his solid arms and even sturdier torso. You meet his eyes and smile softly. He visibly melts, affection and adoration almost tangible as his eyelashes touch. Clark slowly drops his forehead to rest against yours.

“You looked beautiful in your dress.” His gaze traverses your face with enough dedication you swear he’s trying to memorise every feature. He gently strokes his thumb from your cheek to your hairline, tracing the path with his eyes. “You always look beautiful.”

“I can’t believe you’re superman.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“Superman suddenly looked like Clark…and the whole interview exclusivity thing doesn’t help.”

He frowns lightly, lips forming an endearing pout. “I offered you an interview, I gave Lois an interview.”

You smile up at him. “Lois said Superman was a bit reluctant to share any information though, not quite the same in-depth report you get.”

He shrugs, “Well, we’ll be sharing a byline for this piece. If you’d like? Technically you got the in-depth report from Superman for this one.”

“It’s your article, Clark. You did all the research.”

“And you made the connection.”

You both stare at each other, honeyed with affection. Clark squeezes you gently.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me, please?”

You tilt your head, a semi-teasing grin on your face. “That depends, are you going to turn up?”

“There’s nothing in this universe that could stop me, I promise you.”

Emboldened by his unguarded eagerness, you dare to relish in the adoration of a handsome man. “I’ll wear that dress again.” An elated grin lights up his entire face, accompanied by dimples that beg to be traced with your fingertips—you grant yourself the pleasure, and Clark’s happiness turns enamoured.

“I can’t wait.”

You can’t help the happy sigh that slips from your mouth. Clark’s eyes flicker to your lips, then quickly back to your eyes when he catches himself—you have the small joy of watching a pink flush spread across the apples of his cheeks.

“Clark,” you say softly. “Kiss me?”

He looks stunned for a second before his brain catches up. A large hand raises back up to your cheek, thumb softly brushing across the skin it touches. Clark leans in slowly, giving you the chance to back out, like he can’t believe he’s been given permission. You close your eyes and he closes the gap. The kiss starts off slow, with a tentative press of his lips to yours before you slip a hand around the back of his neck, fingers weaving into the soft curls that lie there. With your hand in his hair, Clark unravels. His other hand snaking around you to rest on your back, pulling you closer to him as he deepens the kiss. Your teeth clack and you remember you require air to breathe. Reluctantly, Clark pulls back just enough so he can see your face.

“I still have your flowers at my apartment, if you’d like to come home with me?” You raise your eyebrows in shock that he kept the flowers—Clark misinterprets this and flusters. “I swear that wasn’t a line I-“ His soon-to-be rambles are cut off by your laughter.

“I know, Clark. I was just…you kept the flowers?”

“They’re on my coffee table, I hoped I’d be able to give them to you before they wilted, I got your favourites.” You smile at the sentiment, reaching up to squeeze his hand that still cups your face.

“I’d love that. Let me grab my bag.”

As you hurry to pack your bag you share giddy glances with Clark as he hastily tries to tidy his desk, lest your coworkers think it’s been ransacked when they arrive on Monday morning (no doubt before Clark).

You pause, an abrupt realisation hits you. “Wait, are we flying there?”

Clark beams at you.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent angst #clark kent fluff #clark kent imagine #superman 2025 #clark kent x you #clark kent x female reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent fic #superman x reader #superman x you #superman x y/n #superman fanfiction #clark kent fanfiction

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babeyun · 9 months ago

Text

the same heart ☆ n.r

synopsis: navigating the beginning of your first relationship is proving to be most heartwarming, including the list of firsts - particularly, your first kiss. genre: established relationship au, slight angst, fluff. pairing: boyfriend!riki x fem!reader word count: 4.2k rating: pg-15. warnings: swearing, use of petnames (baby, pretty, pretty girl, babe, etc.), that's about it LOL. listen to: those eyes - new west ; yellow - coldplay ; heart - dawn ; sparks - coldplay ; i adore you, dear - dwen author's note: as per usual, we've got another birthday fic! figuring out what to write took me a few moments but i will always pull through. happiest birthday to our riki! i love you, little guy.

Things between you and your boyfriend were slightly awkward.

Granted, you'd only made it official a week and a half ago – but something about the way he didn't hold your hand made you feel a bit confused. The way he never got too close if you were over at his dorm for a movie night, the way he'd hug you loosely as he dropped you off at home after a date or just dropping by to check on you. The way he'd gently reject your advances at public affection, opting to smile apologetically as he ruffled your hair.

The way he hadn't kissed you yet, despite the amount of time you spent together, the many dates and what he thought were his unnoticed longing glances.

You were truly in no rush. You knew that this was something new for the two of you, the first relationship either of you had ever been in. You met a year ago, at a record shop shortly after your eighteenth birthday. He may not be into prolonged skinship or public displays of affection, but he flirted with you like it was nobody's business. He poked fun at you as you blushed at his compliments, eager to make you smile and eventually, you allowed his charms to make him a little spot in your heart.

So despite not being outwardly physically affectionate, he had a way with words that made your cheeks hot and your chest flutter. He never stopped flirting with you, even during the many dates he took you on – even with the onlookers, he never minded. Murmurs of pretty girl and gorgeous as he directed your attention to things or simply didn't feel like calling your name, careful maneuvers through crowded areas with his hand ghosting over the small of your back, playful pinches to your cheeks.

Your first date had been very different than you'd expected – the two of you simply perused a farmers market that was a few miles out of the city. He bought you flowers and lunch, and the two of you got to know each other better over stalls upon stalls of jewelry and fine linens, fresh fruit and chopped vegetables ready to be juiced. You'd fully expected him to want to kiss you as he dropped you home, but he only blushed as you made the move. His fingers pinched to your cheek as he stopped you with a soft shake of his head.

"Next time, promise." Next time lingered with a bit of tension, that date being the Christmas light show that came to town every year. He bought the tickets, he picked you up. The two of you opted to share a hot cocoa after seeing how big the cups were, and your lipstick stained his lips a muted berry color. You took pictures at a few trees, and this was the date that soft-launched your flourishing relationship on social media – him posting a picture of you staring at a pink tree with white lights and you posting a picture of a Polaroid a vendor took of you for a dollar.

But still, even after several perfect opportunities, there was no kiss. He dropped you off at home, letting you know he had a good time and wanted to see you again before the year ended. You nodded, and lingered at your door with a pointed look. He bid you a goodnight and you disappointedly said it back, slinking into your house with a dejected look.

The next date was unfortunately after the New Year – you'd gotten sick and he felt awful, stopping by several times to bring you soup and cold medicine. Your mother met him then, and told you that he'd make a great boyfriend – you'd huffed in response, muttering that he didn't even want to hold your hand. Your mother sighed and told you those things took time, to be patient, to be understanding. You slept on it, knowing it would be worth the wait but still feeling a bit undesired.

The date after your cold subsided was one inside – bowling and arcade games. You beat him by a landslide, your last roll a perfect strike. He complained the entire time the two of you wandered around the rest of the arcade, and only stopped when you pulled him into a photo booth. Your poses were of a shy couple just learning to be together, and you were honest with him – you wanted to kiss in one of the pictures. He looked hesitant, offering an alternative almost immediately and you reluctantly agreed – the last photo being of him kissing your cheek gently. He dropped you off that night with another press of his lips to your warmed skin, and a warm apology that you accepted quietly.

You felt your heart warm when you saw the photo strip hanging from his rearview mirror the next time he picked you up, a hole punched in the white border and a soft pink string looped through it. So much so, that you let it go. You stopped asking, but he continued to press gentle kisses to your cheeks and forehead throughout the rest of your dates, accumulating to almost eighty dates within eleven months – you never went more than four days without seeing him in some way or another.

And yet, despite the flirty words, his touch remained reserved. Through eleven months, he swiped your hair out of your face, he continued to pinch your cheeks between his fingers. He kissed your cheeks occasionally, usually on the drop-off or spontaneously every once in a while. He upgraded slowly to ruffling your hair, tying your shoelaces, zipping up your coat. He was sweet, attentive, coy and he made it known he was deeply interested in you.

It'd been almost a year to the date of meeting when he asked you to be his girlfriend during the first snow of the season. The two of you had snuck out to a park late that night, and he was admiring the way you hung upside down from the monkey bars, before he offered to help you get down. You agreed, asking if he'd be willing to get something warm.

You wound up in a little hole-in-the-wall ramen shop the two of you had gone to during one of your first dates. You recounted it, remembering how you'd burned your tongue on the broth and he'd sprinkled sugar in your mouth, stating he'd seen it somewhere. It hadn't worked but it was funny and you shared a laugh, when he cleared his throat and said he had something serious to tell you.

"Are you okay?" Your worried tone startled him, the way your brows tugged down and your eyes grew filled with concern. He nodded quickly, "I'm fine, I just…sorry, this is hard for me." "It's okay. I'm here." You reached for his hand, but quickly retracted it. He shook his head, reaching for your hands and running his thumbs over your knuckles. "I really, really like you, Y/N." Oh no, you'd thought. He's going to dump me and we're not even together.

The very thought had made your eyes well with tears, his silence deafening as he stared at your hands. You wore a ring he'd bought you at a fair on one of your dates, the dragon egg-like stone shimmering in the low light of the shop when he finally looked back at you. His eyes widened at the sight of you blinking back tears, his hands quickly moving to cradle your face.

"Oh baby, don't cry. What's wrong?" His concern only made your heart sink deeper, the pet name he'd never used before flying over your head as your fingers circled his wrists, the metal of his watch cold against your fingertips.

"If you're going to dump me–"

"Dump you? No, no, pretty. I wanted to make this official, I just…I'm sorry, I'm so bad at this–"

Your cheeks heated beneath his fingers, your tears blurring your vision as you looked at him. You blinked, a few tears sliding down your face as he tried to wipe them away.

"You what?" He sighed, his cheeks coated in a bright pink blush as he cleared his throat. "I…want to be your boyfriend." You only looked at him, before letting out a shaky breath. "You are bad at this."

"Is that a no?" He asked meekly, and you swatted at his arms. "You're so bad at asking things! I'm crying, Riki!" "Baby, I'm sorry!" He laughed softly, holding your wrists in his hands. "I didn't know how to ask and I was too nervous to ask Jake. He's too involved in our relationship as it is." Riki rolled his eyes as you registered the pet name, your lip jutting out in a pout as you whined. "You called me baby."

His eyes widened, then narrowed as he thought about it. "Haven't I been calling you that? I swear I have."

You scoffed, "Must've been one of your other girls." He smirked, "Which one?" He didn't manage to dodge the soft smack you landed on his thigh, a pout on his lips as he rubbed his leg. "You want to be my boyfriend but you talk about other girls, we both know I'm the only one hitting your line up." "All the more reason to let me be your boyfriend! C'mon, pretty! I'll be the best boyfriend ever, I'll even buy your mom flowers like I did that one time when she was sick!" He folded his hands together as if praying, making you snort as you wiped your face of stray tears. "What took you so long?" He huffed, "I just wanted to make sure you wanted to be with me. Every time I see you I feel like I'm about to throw up." "Riki…did you just call me ugly?" You chided, and his eyes widened as he shook his head quickly, his hands cradling your face. "What? No! You're the prettiest girl ever, please–" "Calm down, you big baby. I guess you can be my boyfriend." You rolled your eyes, and his eyes widened as he leaned closer into your space. "Really?!" "Yes, really."

The night ended with him walking you home, practically vibrating out of his own skin as he held your hand tightly the entire way. It'd given you a lot of comfort, but you didn't mention it as he dropped you off at home, your mother waiting on the porch with her robe on and an angry look on her face. She ushered you inside and you were grounded for three days before she decided it wasn't the worst thing in the world – specifically when Riki appeared with the biggest bouquet of flowers you'd ever seen and the softest pout known to man.

She allowed him in and you had a movie night in your bedroom, before he promptly kissed your cheek goodnight and went home.

Fast forward a few days, the Christmas light show was back in town for the year. Riki bought the tickets, picked you up and you shared yet another comically large cup of hot cocoa, your lipstick a wine red this year. He held your hand gently, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your skin as he held you close to him. You scoured the different figurines this year, your eyes caught by the enormous lovebird display – two swans made by champagne-colored lights and formed into a heart by their necks.

You lingered a bit at it, letting go of Riki's hand to get a closer look. He took a few photos discreetly, before eventually joining your side and moving your hair carefully out of your face. "Something on your mind, baby?" He asked gently, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. You shook your head, smiling at him softly. "It's silly." "Mmh, nothing is silly if you're thinking so hard about it. Talk to me, pretty." He taps your temple, and you shrug. "It's okay. I'm in no rush." "No rush to what? Stop being so cryptic, you know it freaks me out. It's like you're plotting something." He pinches your cheek between his knuckles softly, and you roll your eyes as you swat his hand away. "You know, it's been almost a year since we met and you still haven't kissed me?" He doesn't meet your eyes as you say this, opting to look at the swans in front of you. "Mmh." He nods, before looking at his feet, nudging a bit of gravel with the tip of his boot. You calmly loop your arm with his, sliding your hand into his pocket and intertwining your fingers. He glances down at you, a soft blush on his cheeks that you want to attribute to the biting wind. "Why?" You ask, and he tongues his cheek before shrugging. "It makes me nervous, I guess." "Nervous?" Your voice is an echo of him, albeit slightly concerned. "Yeah. You make me nervous. I literally almost threw up the night I asked you to be my girlfriend." "Correction, you asked to be my boyfriend." You say pointedly, and he scoffs. "Me being your boyfriend makes you my girlfriend." "You sure like calling me your girlfriend, huh?" Your arm nudges him, and he huffs in embarrassment, looking away. You lean your head on his shoulder, staring back up at the swans. A cliché example of lovers, you know, but a lovely one nonetheless.

"You know I don't mind waiting, right? I'm sure we will eventually." You murmur, and he sighs.

"I know, I'm sorry. I want to, I promise. I just…"

You glance at him, the way he chews on his lip anxiously as he trails off makes your stomach sink.

"I'm sorry for bringing it up, we don't have to keep talking about this." You pat his chest, an apologetic smile on your lips as he meets your eyes. They're serious, a look you'd only ever seen on him a few times. You drop your hand from his chest and he moves the two of you down the path.

You see a few more displays, taking pictures within all the decorated trees and once more paying the same vendor from last year for a Polaroid. You both smile and it goes into Riki's wallet. "For safekeeping," He'd whispered into your hair as he placed a soft kiss on the crown of your head.

The two of you wandered out of the show hand in hand, and Riki offers to stop somewhere for dinner before he drops you off at home. It's routine, the way he opens your door, the way he buckles your seatbelt in for you. The way he hands you the aux and you play jazz fusion, Tutu by Miles Davis filling his car the way it always has after a date.

"I've never kissed anyone." He murmurs as you reach the first stoplight out of the show. His fingers are wrapped loosely around the bottom of the steering wheel, and you nod, looking at him. "Me either, it's no big deal. We'll learn, when the time comes." "It's not that I don't want to. You know that, right?" His voice is shaky as he flicks on his turn signal, and you nod again. "I'm sure you want to, but there really is no rush. I'm not the only one who's waiting, you know? We went on eighty dates, Riki. We've got all the time in the world." Your fingers toy with his earrings, before you card your fingers through his hair. "It's just you and me, yeah?" "Yeah." He's quiet, and you know it's weighing on him as the two of you make the drive to your favorite diner. The two of you share an appetizer, his head resting on your shoulder as you talk about your new part-time job and how you'd miss popping by the record store to bring him lunch. He listened intently as the food came and went, only responding softly to any questions you asked him.

It weighed on you when he was quiet on the way to your house, and how softly he bid his goodbye with a kiss to your hairline and his arm around your shoulders. "Sleep well, baby." Your heart felt heavy in your chest as the next few days went by and he seemed distant. You both planned another date for the arcade, and agreed he'd pick you up after his shift at the record store. You dressed casually, one of his old t-shirts and a pair of black jeans. You wore heavy boots to brace the cold, and nearly tripped over your own feet when he knocked on your front door

"Coming!" You called, your mother poking her head out of the kitchen upon hearing you yell. "Leaving already, honey?" "Yeah, date night." You reply sheepishly, unlocking the door with fumbling fingers and your coat half off your body, and opening it to reveal your boyfriend holding yet another bouquet of flowers. Your eyes were wide, as you stopped pulling your coat on. "For my mom?" You nod, and he shakes his head.

"For you. I'm sorry for being distant these past few days, it wasn't my intention and I'm sure it made you feel some type of way. I should've spoken to you about my feelings, and I know flowers aren't nearly enough but I hope it's a start?" He said meekly, and you scoff out a soft laugh, nodding as you take the flowers.

"Riki, it's okay. I know it's a sensitive topic." You smile apologetically, taking the flowers and turning on your heel. "I'll put these in my room, I'll be right back. Come inside." He doesn't say anything, just gives you a curt nod as he steps inside your house, closing the door and greeting your mother warmly. You quickly walk up the stairs, taking the cellophane off the flowers and setting them carefully in the vase you had sitting on your dresser from past bouquets he'd given you. You'll fill them with water later, you think, as you barrel back down the stairs. You see your boyfriend deep in thought as he and your mother speak, and you don't eavesdrop as you clear your throat. She stops talking, before giving him a warm smile and bidding you a good date night. You thank her, tell her you'll be home before the streetlights come on and a quick love you, bye!

"Let's zip this up, don't want you to get sick." Riki doesn't let you off your porch without zipping your coat up, grabbing your hand as you both step off. "Do you think you'll kick my ass bowling this time, too?" "I'm sure of it." You grin.

And you do. You take the lead within three frames, your boyfriend clearly distracted as he watches you roll strike after strike. You play three full games, his pout only getting deeper and deeper as you win each one.

"This is so unfair, how'd you get so good anyway?" He pouts as he slides a few coins into an air hockey table, and you shrug as you score the first point within the first few seconds. He gapes, and you just laugh as he, once more, loses this game.

The night goes smoothly, both of you scoring your wins and cutting your losses sorely. You both make faces at each other the moment one of you loses, but all is fair in love and arcade games when the night ends in the photo booth, your legs across your boyfriend's lap as he rests his hands on your knees. You fix his hair out of his eyes, the shaggy bangs tickling the bridge of his nose as you coo.

"Okay, how does my hair look? Frizzy?" You run your fingers through it and he shakes his head, watching as you dig your lipstick out of your purse. It's another deep red, and he feels his stomach fill with butterflies as you wipe the corners of your lips. "You look pretty." "You always say that." You roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks heat as he smiles, softly flicking your nose. "You always look pretty, baby." You huff, facing the camera and tucking your hair behind your ears before clearing your throat. "Smile first, right? That's what we did last time." "Yeah, that's cool. We can do….the cat thing? For the second one." He holds his fingers in two upside-down Vs over his hair, and you laugh, nodding. "Sure, sure." The camera begins to count down as you press the red button, and you smile as it flashes the two of you. You both scrunch your noses, blinking rapidly as you maneuver your hands to fit in the frame for the fifteen seconds it gives you. "Smile, babe." You say through gritted teeth, and he does just that as the camera flashes again.

"Shit, what now? Uh…" "Kiss me." He whispers, and you nearly snap your neck to face him. "What?!" "Kiss me." His hand moves to cradle your cheek, and you grab his wrist, hearing the camera start counting from ten. "Are you sure? We don't have to–" "I've wanted to kiss you for a year. Kiss. Me." He insists, and your heads both turn as the camera boasts five…four…

"I'm nervous." You admit, and he nods. "Me too. Just trust me, baby." Three…two…

You both breathe in shakily, before softly connecting your lips as the camera flashes brightly. You don't move away as the camera begins its last countdown from fifteen, instead you lean your forehead against his. His eyes peer up at you, and you feel a giggle erupt through you as you press your lips all over his face in chaste kisses. His cheeks grow hot under your lips, and the camera only continues it's countdown as your lipstick stamps all over his rosy cheeks.

"Smile for the camera." He mumbles, pressing his lips to your cheek as the camera reaches two, and smiles bashfully as it flashes one last time. The two of you watch the two strips pop out, and you reach for them. You hand him his, your other hand softly stroking his cheek as you stare at the pictures.

"We're cute." You nod, and he only smiles sheepishly. "Yeah. Was it okay? The kiss, I mean?" "Yeah. And we have it now, forever." You smile as you tuck the photo strip into your purse. He nods, clearing his throat, hoping you don't feel the way his heart skips a beat at the sound of you subconsciously admitting to a forever with him. "So…dinner? On me." "Shit, you have lipstick all over your face." You wince, and he shrugs. "Call it a perk, I guess. You can kiss me again to make up for it." "You're not slick, you know." You roll your eyes as the two of you exit the booth, and you thumb at the lipstick on his nose, only successful in smearing it. "I'm serious, I'm only taking payment in kisses now. So…pay up." "Shut up." You press your lips to his chastely, before shoving your purse over your shoulder as he grabs your hand, making you face him as you tug on your coat. "Seriously, we can stop by a pharmacy and get something to wipe your face." "No, these are my battle scars. I fought relentlessly against my urge to kiss you for a year, I deserve to celebrate this win." He scoffs as he zips up your coat, and you only scoff out a laugh, slipping your fingers in his. "Whatever, loser." And you don't say anything else about it. Not when your waitress stares at him a little too hard as she takes your order, not when your mother gapes at him and you as he drops you off, and certainly not when he kisses you goodnight, a murmur of I'll see you later against your lips before you slip inside your house.

You flop onto your bed after your shower, assuming your boyfriend has long been asleep as you reminisce about the events of the day. Your stomach fills with butterflies as you cover your face with a squeal, reaching for your phone – only to see a notification that your boyfriend posted something on his Instagram.

You open it, seeing a slideshow of photos – one of you in front of the champagne swans at the light show earlier that month, one of the new photo strip hanging alongside the old one in his car, and one of you at the beginning of the entire ordeal. You're sitting at the farmers market, your eyes casted away from the camera as you blushed, likely at something Riki had said. You don't remember him taking that photo, but it doesn't matter as you listen carefully to the song he'd put over it – the melodic sound of Heart by Dawn.

You glance at the caption with a thundering heart, your eyes welling with tears as you read. @/nishimura05: two sides of the same heart, and mine that only beats for you. your patience is beyond me, but i am eternally grateful for the man you make me want to become. thinking of you, always.

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jinwoosbabyboo · 7 months ago

Text

𝙲𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕 𝙰𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎 🍎

My personal headcanons for Boyfriend!Caleb after what I've seen and read about his character so far. A/N: All my ride or die Caleb girlies if you disagree with anything on this list im not going to argue with you please don't take my word as law. I love y'all dont fight me 💋 feel free to add more in the replies ‼️MDNI‼️ + cw: quick mention of cnc & primal play

[SFW]

wants to be in your skin wrapped around your nervous system and nestled in the wrinkles of your brain ; if this man could glue you to him he would

remembers everything that happened to him and mc when they were lab rats as kids which is probably where his mental health started rapidly declining

Cuddles ! ; he’ll also cuddle you while youre asleep constantly ; doesn’t matter if you’re in his bed, the guest bed or your bed he’ll climb right in and snuggle up

leaves you bowls/plates of fresh fruit and a glass of water on your nightstand

doing backflips if you tell him he can wash your hair for you ; the longer it takes the better

monitors your social media and online presence “You shouldn't post that no one needs to see you naked” “Im wearing a bikini Caleb” “Basically naked”

big on taking photos he wants as many photos together as possible

movie nights and date nights are his shit he’ll alway be down for that ; if you two have a show you watch together he is genuinely hurt if you watch an episode without him

holds your hand even when you don’t want him to ; would quite literally use his evol to hold your hand in place

if you’re sick he's at your bedside 24/7 with medication and home cooked remedies ; will spoon feed you if you let him

uses his body as a wall in large crowds to keep people from bumping into you

will beat the brakes off of anyone who dares to even look at you sideways and when you ask him what he did he’ll lie and smile in your face

PINKY PROMISES ARE LAW

will take you everywhere with him and will also follow you anywhere ; he’d stand guard outside of the bathroom stall if he could

although he does have some bolts rattling around (because they’re not loose they’re fully free) he will pamper the hell out of you ; he’s running you a bath, rubbing your feet and cooking dinner so you have a relaxed night and warm meal

when you do help him cook he’ll stand behind you and cover your hand with his while he guides your hand with the knife

will hold anything you hand him while he’s on the phone

has an entire closet of all the gifts you’ve ever given him

the type to close the door and immediately lock it if you’re in a room alone with him

hates to argue with you ; he’ll do it, but he regrets it afterwards apologizes profusely later with your favorites foods, sweets, treats and things

has to get a kiss before he leaves ; he’s not leaving without it

the type to wrap your arms around his neck when he goes in for a kiss

loves caging you between his arms and his body at any given chance

has to be touching you in some kind of way

the type to tuck you in every night

loves to give you massages because he loves touching you

[NSFW]

needs you to use your words “tell me how you want it” “don’t cover your mouth” “tell me you missed me” “how much?” “right there or right here? Tell me” “open your mouth” “how much do you love me?” “are you all mine? say it”

records your moans so he can listen to them later

pretty panty lover ; buys you lots of them ; loves to have you model them and you’re getting dicked down if you’re walking around the house in them

takes you anyway he can ; favorite position? ALL OF EM mans brain turns to mush just having his hand on you ; a dom that will punish you, but gives stellar aftercare

loves to tease you by getting you wet and just rubbing his tip over the fabric ; slides the panties to the side instead of taking them off because he loves to see them on you

a vocal moaner and a yapper when he nuts ; nuts inside every time makes him feel like he’s claiming you

Intentionally fails no nut November and says “we’ll try again tomorrow” turns you every way but loose for the entire month

massages your thighs and coochie so he can watch his cum drip out of you

a slurper and moaner when he eats it ; eats the pussy and the ass

puts the colonel hat on you

100% into cnc & somnophilia I will not argue with anyone about this ; not a fan of dacryphilia he hates to see you cry

you have to have a safe word because he gets pussydrunk extremely easily

panty stealer ; keeps a pair in his pocket when he goes to work ; clean or dirty doesn’t matter to him

into primal play would chase you through the woods in the Rina Kent - God of War mask and rearrange your guts right there with pleasure

would get jealous of your vibrator/dildo

#love and deepspace #lnds caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #caleb #l&ds caleb #caleb love and deepspace #lads headcanons #nikaaaaimagine

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yazmarina · 1 year ago

Text

walk me through it

for the love circuit series

—you're used to being flirted with in front of the camera. but something about franco is really doing you in.

franco colapinto (f1) x fem!reporter reader

warnings/notes: smut, unprotected sex (no condom, yes birth control), guided masturbation, lewd photography, lots of flirting, franco is shameless (naturally), some Spanish sentences and phrases

a/n: will resume hit play for a bit after this one! enjoy franco girlies mwa

Your job was simple enough. Well, for today, at least.

Stand in the media pen, gather statements, and piece together a couple of stories later that evening for publishing first thing tomorrow morning. All in a day's work, like all the other days before.

You've grown immune to the charms of rich, adrenaline-seeking men. Didn't take you too long, the illusion breaking as soon as any one of them opened their mouths. Some you tolerate more than others, but some you'd rather steer clear of completely.

This isn't to say that you've brushed all of them off. You might have agreed to a date here and there but nothing ever stuck, the nature of your jobs a bit too similar and all too different at the same time. You've given up on the prospect that you'll somehow end up with one of the many Formula 1 drivers you've interviewed and spoken to. And you've spoken to a lot. You've had this gig since you were shipped off fresh from uni and one too many 'What happened there?'s and 'Tell me about qualifying's can put a damper on the romantic side of things.

But someone new's in town. Well, er, new in the paddock. And you'd be lying if you said you weren't even a little bit excited.

He's charming, that much you can already tell. He walks into the media pen like he's done it thousands of times before and you have to actively suppress a smile as he walks over. Confidence is always a plus. For the interview, of course.

"Hola, Franco. Antes que nada, enhorabuena," you greet warmly, extending your arm over the barrier to place the microphone nearer to him. Hi, Franco. First of all, congratulations.

Franc's eyebrows shoot up, a wolfish grin settling on his face. "Oh. I thought this was an English interview?"

You smile back. "It is, but I know my way around Spanish, as well."

"Ah," Franco nods. "Gracias, _______."

"You know my name?" You ask, momentarily forgetting that you're being taped and recorded. You clear your throat, ignoring the quiet snicker from your cameraman.

"Yeah, I've seen you around and watched some of your other interviews," Franco confirms, a hand settling on his hip as he leans against the barrier, closer to you.

You can smell his perfume from where you stand.

"Thank you, I've heard and seen a lot about you as well," you respond, trying to return to your original train of thought.

"Which is why I want to ask you how it feels on your first day as a Formula 1 driver," you quickly follow. "Have you done anything special to prepare for this weekend? Other than the obvious, of course."

Another easy smile spreads across Franco's lips. "I've definitely added to my training and done some new things to prepare. I haven't done a full F1 weekend before so everything will be new."

"We definitely don't have reporters like you in the lower Formulas," he adds.

You feel a violent blush rip up through your neck all the way to your cheeks. As if the Monza heat wasn't enough.

"Well, I'm glad you could meet me here," you manage to get out.

The thing is, Franco isn't even the most attractive driver you've met. He's definitely up there, but not the most.

That's a discussion you have with yourself semi-weekly: ranking the drivers in terms of attractiveness, factoring in personalities and general attitudes towards the people around them, specifically the media.

Look, people love to shit on the media and press, calling journalism all sorts of derogatory words, but you're just here to do your job, like anyone else. And it gets pretty fucking hard when your boss is ringing your phone every five minutes demanding four stories by tomorrow and drivers are sassing you out as if you asked them if they've murdered their whole family.

So, naturally, the way they treat you determines a big chunk of how you think your day is going to pan out.

And right now, Franco seems to be lifting your spirits just fine.

"What are your goals for this weekend? Are points on the horizon for you at your first F1 race?" You continue, trying not to stare at the way Franco starts to rub at the back of his neck, bashful all of a sudden.

"We'll try," Franco begins. He plants both his hands on the barrier and leans even closer. You have to physically take a step back.

You gulp. Franco smiles.

"Anything is possible this weekend."

"You broke the internet last night."

You scoff, sending your cameraman a vicious side-eye. It's crowded in the paddock today, everyone wanting to get a glimpse of the new rookie, it seems. Such is the eagerness for this young driver that even that 30-second clip of your interview with him blew right up in your face. Your inboxes at capacity, your own voice speaking back to you with every other swipe on your TikTok.

It's not all bad, though. A tweet with one of your Instagram photos attached to it captioned 'TE ENTIENDO MUCHO FRANCO ES MUY LINDA PERIODISTA' did weasel out a chuckle from you.

Your cameraman shrugs, gesturing with a jerk of his head in front of you.

"There he is. I'm sure he knows all about it."

You look over to where he's pointing and lo and behold, Franco is right there, chatting with a few Williams team members, his race suit hanging undone around his waist. He turns to you even before you can fully register that it's him you're looking at.

But your training kicks in even faster. A megawatt smile appears on your lips and you wave enthusiastically at Franco.

"Hi."

"_______," Franco says, face lighting up at the sight of you. Your name seems to fall even more effortlessly off his lips.

You reach over and pull him into a half-hug with one arm, but both his arms wind around you and you have no choice but to squeeze back.

"You saw?" Franco asks, a gleam in his eye as he pulls away. His hand remains casually on the small of your back.

"Saw what?" You know what it is he's asking but you'd like to hear it from him.

"We went viral, no?" Franco says with a laugh, reaching further around you and squeezing your waist. You lean into his touch, heart jumping as his fingers graze just underneath your cropped top.

"That's all because of you," you reason, pointing an accusatory finger at Franco. "I bet you say that to all the other reporters."

The Williams team members standing nearby burst out laughing and even your cameraman affords a snicker. A deep blush spreads across Franco's face as he rubs your side reassuringly.

"No, no, I don't. Just you," Franco admits with another lighthearted laugh.

"Sure," you say with exaggerated skepticism. You pull away from his touch, catching his hand before he slips it fully off of you.

"I'll talk to you later," you say. And it's fully intentional, the words you choose to say. I'll talk to you later. Not 'I'll catch you later' or 'I'll see you later'.

I will talk to you later.

Franco understands, giving your hand a squeeze.

Later that day, you pray that no one catches you grinning behind your hand as Franco takes the chequered flag at qualifying.

P11.

Almost there.

"Hi. Come in."

Franco beams at you from across the threshold, stepping into your room with slow, measured steps.

"Great qualifying," you compliment, eyes traveling down Franco's body, noting the way his team kit hugs his frame just right, his hands shoved into his pockets, exposing just his arms, veins and all.

Your eyes snap back up to his face when you hear the door shut in place.

"Q2 on your debut. Not bad," you go on, taking a step back. Franco takes one toward you.

"You're just repeating what you said at the media pen earlier," Franco points out. He reaches out and gently circles an arm around your waist.

Always straight to the point.

Like this morning.

You tried not to make it so obvious when you ran into Franco earlier, but all you could think about was The Message.

You were doing your cursory social media checks a few minutes after you had woken up, still snug in your bed and unwilling to get up just yet. A message in your Instagram inbox caught your attention, sitting at the very top of your 'verified followers' tab.

Franco Colapinto: hola, hermosa 😉

It took a minute for your motor functions to return, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you pored over what to reply. You settled on a nonchalant greeting, asking if Franco needed anything.

You realized rather belatedly that this was looking a little familiar. You wished he wouldn't say the dreaded answer, the more-than-predictable response that every man liked to use.

Franco Colapinto: you, maybe?

You groaned into your pillow, not because you were repulsed by his answer, but because you liked it. If you were easy, then so was he.

You: i finish work at 9 pm tonight...? 👀

It's 9 PM now. Franco's in the room and your hand is running up his chest.

Easy.

"It's such an honor," Franco teases, backing you up further into the room. His hands feel heavy on your waist and your heart hammers against your chest.

"I get to work with people like you now," Franco continues, stopping right in front of the bed.

The kiss comes as a shock more so because of how good Franco kisses. One of his hands is now cradling the back of your head, keeping you in place while he licks into your mouth, groaning with every pucker of your lips.

You pull away for barely a second to get both of your tops off before you dive back in, seemingly too desperate and too starved for each other's mouths. Franco's hands are everywhere; they run down your arms, paw at your waist, tugging at the belt loops of your jeans.

You giggle as he pulls you even closer, your bare chests pressed against each other. Franco pulls back and peers down at you, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. You let it fall, already guiding one of his hands to your tits.

"Couldn't stop staring at them?" You ask, your voice rising with an innocent lilt.

Franco kneads at the mound beneath his hand, eliciting a moan from you. He grins.

"I wanted you to notice," Franco admits simply, kissing you again.

"Perv," you mumble against his lips. Franco laughs, already undoing his trousers.

You wiggle your own way out of your jeans, letting Franco get the shortest of glimpses at your baby pink underwear before you discard them off to the side.

"Mierda, you're so sexy," Franco compliments as you crawl backward onto the bed, laying back and letting your hair splay out beneath you.

Franco pounces on you like a man starved, bare atop your own naked body, his arms caging you in.

"Big moves from somebody so new," you whisper, carding your fingers through Franco's soft locks.

"I like to make a statement," Franco says with a shrug. He glances up momentarily, something piquing his interest off to the side.

"Is that your camera?"

You crane your neck to see where he's looking and sure enough, your personal DSLR is right there on the bedside drawer. You look back at Franco, an eyebrow raised.

"You wanna use it?" You ask, not expecting him to actually say yes. But a mischievous grin settles on Franco's face and you feel your heart skip several beats.

"Knock yourself out," you say.

Franco reaches for the camera and fiddles with it for a few seconds. His eyes scan over your body and you suddenly feel the urge to hide away with how hard he's looking.

"May I?" Franco asks, brandishing the camera. Your mouth falls open as you realize what he's asking.

"You can keep them for yourself. For your eyes only," Franco hurriedly adds, planting his knees firmly on either side of you.

You stare up at him, a million thoughts running through your mind.

"Just...touch yourself."

You gasp, stunned at his proposal. Franco watches through the LCD monitor, glancing up at you through his lashes. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth, and as if on instinct, your hand inches down slowly between your legs.

"You're in front of cameras all the time," Franco reminds with a smirk. "This should be easy for you."

You suppress a whimper at his words, your fingertips swiping through your slick folds. You're already soaked and you start to wonder if it started even before Franco got here.

The shutter clicks and the lens whirs, sharp against the soft breaths you're letting out. Franco is concentrated, snapping photo after photo as you rub yourself closer to release. But it's not enough. You need more.

"Franco...," you implore, peering up with bright, begging eyes.

"Slowly, mi amor," Franco coos. "Just where you like it. Right there."

Click.

"Harder now, but still slow. Yes? Feels good?"

You whine, eyes fluttering shut as your pleasure picks up again. Several clicks. You're panting now, the tendrils of release wrapping themselves around you.

"Faster, yes, like that," Franco eggs on. Your fingers speed up against your sensitive clit and a litany of Franco's name spills from your lips. Before you know it, he's putting the camera away. You reach for him, gripping the back of his neck as he smashes his lips into yours.

Franco bites down on your lip and you cry out, your orgasm washing over you like a tide. You arch against Franco, feeling his own stiffness heavy on your thigh.

You blink, Franco's face coming into focus, barely an inch from yours. He watches you closely, pupils blown wide and plump lips even redder. You hook your legs around his waist, letting him know that you're not done yet.

Franco is quick to pick up, smiling as lines himself up with you. The groan that escapes him is nothing short of delicious as he pushes himself in. You gasp along, the stretch a welcome sensation.

Franco wastes no time and pounds right into you, catching you by surprise. You let your head fall back against the mattress, a long, drawn-out whine erupting from deep within your chest as Franco licks a stripe up your neck.

Your whole body quakes with how hard he's thrusting into you but you're clearly enjoying it if your wanton moans are anything to go by. Franco meets your eyes and you pull him down, wanting nothing more than to drown in those lips of his.

It's feral and it's unrestrained, spurred on by the knowledge that this is more than unprofessional in your line of work. Not illegal by any means, but risky enough to warrant warnings from your coworkers. Never sleep with a driver unless you're committed.

Oh, well.

Franco groans loudly in your ear, movements losing their rhythm as he speeds up. You're clinging to him as if he'd disappear if you let go, your own belly tightening once more with that familiar feeling.

Franco. Franco. Franco.

He kisses you just as he finishes. Passionate, eager, heady. You feel him inside you, a different kind of elation filling you as you release all over him.

Franco pulls away to allow yourselves to breathe. He pulls out, rolling over to your side. You hug your folded knees to your chest, too lazy to get up and find something to deal with the mess.

"No hagas eso. Eso es demasiado doméstico," Franco jokes, moving closer and planting a kiss to your shoulder. Don't do that. That's too domestic.

"Relájate, estoy usando anticonceptiva," you reassure with a lighthearted roll of your eyes. Relax, I'm on birth control.

Franco hums, laying an arm over you. He pulls you close and you face him, reaching up to brush away some of his unruly hair.

He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Happy that you're a Formula 1 driver?" You ask, grinning.

Franco chuckles. "Very."

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 smut #f2 x reader #f2 fanfic #f2 smut #fc43 #franco colapinto x reader

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 6 months ago

Text

Towenda Choir Orchestra - Inspector Gadget 1983

Inspector Gadget is a media franchise that began in 1983 with the DiC Entertainment animated television series Inspector Gadget. It was co-created by Andy Heyward, Jean Chalopin and Bruno Bianchi, and was originally syndicated by DiC Audiovisuel and Lexington Broadcast Services Company. Since the original series, there have been many spin-offs based on the show, including additional animated series, video games, and films. The franchise follows the adventures of a sympathetic but dimwitted cyborg police inspector named Gadget as he investigates the criminal schemes of Dr. Claw and his organization, M.A.D., and fruitlessly attempts to stop him. However, neither side is aware that it is Gadget's niece, Penny, and her dog, Brain, who are truly responsible for thwarting M.A.D.

The original Inspector Gadget theme song was composed by composer Shuki Levy, and was based on Edvard Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King". The original French version has lyrics while the English and most dubs based on the English version are without. The theme is considered by many to be one of the most iconic and most recognizable theme songs in the world. Levy has been credited to the music of a huge amount of shows such as He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, She-Ra: Princess of Power, Digimon: Digital Monsters, Sylvanian Families, Heathcliff, The Super Mario Bros. Super Show! (poll #543), The Mysterious Cities of Gold (poll #545), and Lucky Luke.

Several early rap records sampling the Inspector Gadget theme song were released in 1985. The Kartoon Krew also released "Inspector Gadget" on ZYX Music, which contains vocal samples and quotes from the popular cartoon series, reenacted by the rap group for the song. East New York rap group Bad Boys & K-Love released a record on Starlite Records, "Bad Boys", featured on the UK hip hop compilation Street Sounds Electro 9. Following the trend, Slick Rick and Doug E. Fresh used samples from the Inspector Gadget theme song on their single "The Show". The theme song has been heavily sampled in the years since then. California-based punk band Lagwagon recorded a short instrumental cover of the theme song on their 1992 album Duh.

Go Go Gadget Score Results! 90,1% yes votes!

youtube

#finished #high yes #high reblog #low no #popular #80s #o1 #o1 sweep #o1 ultrasweep #o234 #lo23 #lo24 #lo34 #lo34 tie #soundtracks #instrumental #towenda choir orchestra

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mishappeningss · 23 days ago

Note

in addition to the period cramps ask, can you add like more wag moments with yn? thank u so muchhh

more about driver!yn

“We’re doing neutrals. You better not show up in green again.” – Carmen

YN’s not racing this weekend, but she is showing up to support Lewis.

Instead of her usual chaotic wardrobe, she rolls up in a cream corset top, trousers, and a trench coat that matches Carmen exactly.

Unintentional? Absolutely not.

They sit in the Mercedes hospitality suite, sunglasses on, sipping iced coffees like it’s Paris Fashion Week. At one point, Toto passes by and just mutters:

“I fear you all more than the FIA.”

user: yn turning up in full wag-core while not racing is actually revolutionary

user: she’s not just part of the grid… she runs the social scene

user: every time i see her next to carmen i lose it. like YES that’s the barbie team

user: i want what they have. no i’m serious.

“YN, if you don’t come to this dinner, I’m dragging you from your hotel myself.”

Alexandra is hosting a family-style Italian dinner in her family’s countryside villa before the Monza race.

Everyone’s invited — even drivers and their girlfriends — but YN is the only one who shows up in jeans and a hoodie, fresh off a last-minute strategy meeting.

And yet, somehow, she’s the life of the party.

She helps Alex plate the pasta, makes Rebecca cry laughing with her impression of Carlos under pressure, and plays translator between the Spanish-speaking girls and the rest of the table.

Later that night, Alex posts a soft-focus photo of YN sitting barefoot on the balcony ledge, red wine in hand, hair in a braid, just… glowing.

“Our girl.”

user: charlotte calling her “our girl” is taking years off my life

user: she’s not just a wag she’s the main character of waghood

user: the fact that yn is out here playing translator while also joking with carlos’ gf?? SHE’S THE GLUE

user: i want to be invited to a villa dinner and sit next to yn. i will literally be so normal

It’s Saturday before quali and YN doesn’t have a media obligation until later in the afternoon.

She’s invited to a girls-only rooftop brunch — Kika, Lily, Kelly, and Lily Z. are all there, lounging under umbrellas in designer swimsuits, drinking mocktails and reading magazines.

YN’s in a bikini, sunglasses on, and her race suit unzipped on a chair because she “might have to run back any second.”

“Why are you so unserious?” Elena asks with a laugh.

“Because if I take life seriously, I will combust,” YN replies, sipping coconut water.

Someone from F1 social tries to snap a candid of them — but instead they all pose like it’s a Vogue cover shoot.

The photo goes viral.

user : yn in a bikini and race suit like she’s starring in a fast & furious reboot i’m DONE

user: the wag girls having a rooftop brunch without the boys is SO GIRLHOOD

user: the fact that she’s on the grid and invited to the wag pool parties??? unbeatable.

user: fashion girlies wish they had her pull. imagine bringing f1 AND the wag scene together like this

It’s the night before the Singapore GP. Kika texts her “get dressed,” and YN shows up in a mini-dress and platform heels that make her look 6ft tall.

They end up dancing together in a booth full of girlfriends and off-duty engineers.

At some point, Kika and YN both climb up onto the couch to dance while Isa records, screaming laughing.

Later, a clip of YN handing Kika her heels, barefoot and twirling under disco lights, hits TikTok.

She wakes up the next day to Carmen texting:

“Did you seriously do a shooey with champagne at 2AM?”

“Yes. And I looked good doing it.”

user: yn & kika as party partners??? the chaos is too powerful

user: her doing a shooey at the afterparty is SO on brand

user: yn is not just invited to the party, she IS the party

user: the girls love her. like genuinely. not for cameras. it’s real friendship. i’m soft

#formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #f1!reader #formula one smau #f1 smau #driver!reader #jadeittic

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lyricsgoal · 2 years ago

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Morniye Lyrics - Garry Sandhu

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#Fresh Media Records #Garry Sandhu #Josh Sidhu #Mani Longia #Manpreet Toor #Still Here

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eyekoninurarea · 2 months ago

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Your Idol

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

masterlist | prev | next

word count: 5.4k

summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. but the moment the music hit, everything changed.

authors note: part 2!!!! im so sorry no daniela yet!! they're gonna meet at part 3!! i hope you enjoy the fic and im so sorry there's so much world building and backstories and stuff, i got carried away gvnfkkcidid

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): fluff, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works

Coming home after a rehearsal to a cold apartment really was a very lonely experience.

Usually you just pull out instant ramen, pour hot water in it, leave it for 3 minutes while you scroll through the KATSEYE tag on whatever social media platform you wanted that day, eat the ramen, brush your teeth, take a bath while singing My Way, and then pass out on your bed naked.

Imagine your surprise when your phone pinged in your lonely apartment just before you sleep that night.

It was a chat in the group chat you had with the girls, your ever stoic manager chatted:

“Meeting. 10 AM. Don’t be late.”

You damn near peed your pants, your body vibrating with energy that barely let you sleep. Sure there were a plethora of meetings that happened since you started training, yet there was something different about this one.

And now you were here. Sitting around a too-white table, under too-bright lights, in a room that smelled like fresh markers and stale decisions.

The studio felt different that morning.

Not heavier, just... quieter. No one had yelled. No one had assigned you drills or given notes on vocal placements. You didn't even step foot in the practice room yet.

Looking around, you noticed that everyone looked a little confused. Cami was chewing gum like a burly gangster trying to be intimidating in a low budget action fil. Rina was braiding and unbraiding a section of her hair, a nervous habit of hers. Amara leaned back with her arms crossed. Hana was silent and still.

Chae walked in, binder in hand, heels clicking like she's a devil with pointy shoes. The five of you unconsciously sat up, eyes alert. You glanced to the side and saw that Cami, who you were sitting beside, was bouncing her leg anxiously. You placed your hand on her knee, not to stop her, but to comfort her as you traced circles with your thumb.

“I’m not going to drag this out,” she said, setting the folder down.

“I owe you all transparency. Especially after everything you’ve given.”

You swallow thickly, straightening your spine even more as a near suffocating atmosphere seemed to envelope the room

“Three months ago, our label filed for bankruptcy.”

It felt like the entire room exhaled, no one gasped, no one screamed. Just exhaled, like the floor had cracked and no one was sure whether to run or just fall. It felt like a brief moment of silence as the ball fell on your side of the court.

Cami blinked slowly. “You’re joking.”

Chae shook her head. “We did everything to keep it from impacting your work. We had enough in reserve to finish your current cycle. Barely.”

Hana’s voice cut through. “So what happens now?”

Chae opened the folder. Inside were several printed documents, a glossy black Geffen Records folder, and a stamped letter.

“You’re being absorbed. Quietly. Fully. Geffen bought out the remainder of the label’s assets under one condition.”

No one breathed.

“That they get you.”

You blinked. “Us?”

“SIREN5,” she clarified.

“The reps came to observe. They watched your last training session. Requested all the footage of your training and basically everything under your name.” She then cracked a small smile

Rina’s mouth dropped open. “They saw that? When I tripped mid-spin?”

“They saw all of it,” Chae confirmed.

“And they still want us?” Amara said softly.

That was the most shocking part.

Chae smiled again. Something small, tired, but real.

“They don’t want you. They’re betting on you. Full investment. Showcase, group house, press, stylists, choreography team, international licensing, streaming support, the works.”

You stared at your lap.

So it wasn’t all for nothing.

The four years.

The aching joints.

The breakdowns.

The near-debuts that never came.

The self-doubt.

The hope.

You swallowed thickly. “So this is real.”

“This is happening,” Chae said. “Geffen’s officially launching you as their first diverse and openly queer girl group. They want to introduce you at the mid-year showcase. It’s in six months.”

Cami made a sound halfway between a laugh and a scream.

Rina immediately burst into tears.

Amara reached for her hand.

Hana, ever the calm one, leaned forward and spoke with finality:

“...We’re debuting.”

And Cami, ever the menace followed up with “I can't believe I'm going to live with you freaks.”

Chae and Hana shot her a look as you let out a small laugh.

A week passed and after multiple meetings with a whirlwind of officials, lawyers and drafted contracts and you were handed a camera to film your moving in day.

You never realized how poor you were until Geffen started handing you things.

The things they gave you were heavy. They were unapologetically expensive and upon noticing your bewildered expression, the staff merely said: “That's honestly the bare minimum.”

They definitely weren't subtle, they weren't flashy either but they handed you expensive stuff as if it were common sense.

Because nothing about this house was common sense.

You’d lived apart before, cheaper that way, easier to rotate, less liability for the label. And much more fun for rotating sleepovers.

Now?

You stood in the front entryway of what could only be described as a K-drama lead's divorce house. Two floors. High ceilings. Polished floors that threatened to make you slip with every socked step. Carpets that were fluffy to the touch. Curtains that seemed to stretch for days. Slippers that were embroidered with your names.

You could only manage an owlish blink that made the camera man chuckle

“There’s a balcony,” Amara said, stunned. “We have a fucking balcony.”

“We have more than one toilet,” Cami gasped, already running upstairs.

“We have bathrooms in our own rooms!” She shouted from the top of the stairs

“Is that—” Hana squinted at the corner of the kitchen. “Is that a steam oven?”

“I don’t even know what that is, I only know microwaves and air fryers” Rina whispered in awe.

You wheeled your suitcase in last, blinking in the soft morning light pouring through the glass facade. Your reflection caught in the spotless glass windows, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, still wearing your old sneakers with patchy colors from years of dancing abuse.

Cami ran back down the stairs with a camera already filming from her point of view as if there wasn't a camera crew in every room.

“Alright bitches, say hi to our new home! This is our official moving-in vlog! I’m your host, future world star and modest icon, Cami of SIREN5—”

“—your villain arc is already showing,” Hana muttered, fixing her bangs in the mirror.

“Don't call our fans bitches.” Amara deadpanned, closing the door behind one staff that's carrying the last of our stuff; Rina's plushie collection.

Rina skipped up beside Cami and waved, grinning.

“I call dibs on the room with the pastel wallpaper! It matches my soul!”

Amara approached then quickly, gently prying the camera from Cami’s hands.

“You’re holding it upside down.”

“Shit.”

You hovered by the edge of the living room, unsure whether to cry or laugh or lie down on the cool marble floor and emotionally reboot.

“Hey,” Hana said gently, nudging you with her shoulder. “You okay?”

Looking around at the messy living room filled with boxes labeled with your names, the sleek interior of your new home, the blinding lights, and the buzzing camera crew and staff. You breathed out a breath you didn't know you were holding until you felt like you were losing oxygen.

“Hana, stab me right now I think I'm dreaming.”

“What-”

Cami ran by again with a kitchen knife and a bell pepper.

Rina screamed.

Amara confiscated both.

The camera filmed everything. Every chaotic thing.

And somewhere in the chaos, you realized this wasn’t temporary.

This was home.

The conference room smelled faintly of citrus and new leather, the kind of sterile-yet-pleasant scent that told you: important people had been here before. You sat between Hana and Cami, trying to pretend your palms weren’t sweating. A small bottle of water with “SIREN5 – Internal Creative Session” printed on the label rested in front of you. You didn’t plan on drinking it. You planned on keeping it forever. Preferably in a glass case, forever displayed.

Across from you sat the Geffen team: creative directors, PR strategists, branding leads, international coordinators, and a few stylists, all sleek and professional, tapping notes onto tablets. At the center sat Director Kim, sharp-eyed but not unkind, with a pen held delicately between two fingers like a conductor’s baton.

“First of all,” she said, folding her hands, “welcome, officially. We’ve been reviewing your footage, your training, your evaluations, your work. We know this isn’t your first label, but let’s be honest. This is your beginning.”

“Thank you for trusting us,” Hana replied, voice smooth and steady, the practiced anchor of the group. You felt a small surge of comfort hearing her speak like that. She was undoubtedly professional, assured, dependable.

Director Kim gave a small nod. “We’ll begin with concept framing, then move into content plans. Sounds good?”

It did, even if your knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. It was now Cami's turn to smirk at you as she places her too fucking warm hand on your knee, tracing patterns absent-mindedly as you both listened intently.

A projector flickered to life behind the staff table, illuminating the words “SIREN5: Global Storytelling Through Myth, Music, and Mystery.” It was surreal, a fever dream actually seeing your group’s name printed so neatly. So... real, So professional. Kinda cringey.

The woman next to Kim, Soojin as she introduced herself, one of the international strategy leads, took over and clicked to the next slide.

“You all know the name SIREN5 wasn’t picked at random,” she said. “This group isn’t just vocals. It’s mythology. Each member ties into a distinct cultural variation of the ‘siren’ figure. Some romanticized, some feared. The idea is to build modern archetypes that connects across cultures. With the influx of groups, we expect you to steal hearts.”

She clicked again, revealing five symbols on-screen; your official emblems. You leaned forward without realizing, a small smile grazing your lips.

“Amara represents fire” she continued. “The classical Greek siren: fiery, grounded, magnetic. Her symbol is a molten conch shell.”

“Yeah cause she's always hot-headed” Cami snorts beside you. Which made you chuckle quietly, both of you straightening up when Hana threw you both a scalding glare.

“Behave.” She mouthed, motioning to Soojin

“Rina is light,” she gestured, “inspired by Slavic and Baltic water spirits: playful, ethereal, deceptively powerful. A glowing jellyfish is her sigil.”

“Hana,” she said, with a nod toward your leader, “represents the storm. She channels Japanese sea spirits: stillness masking violent elegance. A spiraling tide for hers.”

“Cami,” Soojin went on with a small smile, “is the abyss. A mix of West African water lore and Mediterranean mystery. She’s chaos, charm, and pure instinct. Her symbol is the watching eye in a whirlpool.” (Charybdis anyone?)

Finally, she turned to you. “And SYRE... the shadow. Based on fragmented siren myths: nameless, faceless, shapeless ones who didn’t sing to lure, but to warn. But people followed anyway. A broken compass, corrupted by rust and grief.”

All eyes turned to you.

Your throat worked. “SYRE is my stage name.” you clarified. “Spelled that way because I liked the way it looked. Like a title, or… a question. It's not an acronym for anything, I just like it.”

Soojin tilted her head, thoughtful. “It’s clean. Gender-neutral. Intriguing. That fits your... duality.”

You blinked. “My what?”

“The personality contrast,” Jin, the stylist, chimed in from the side. “You’re, like… completely normal. A little awkward. Quiet. Kinda badass. Definitely sexy. And then we saw your pre-debut footage and thought someone uploaded the wrong clip.”

“I thought you were the intern at first” a staff member said, stunned.

Cami smirked. “It’s her superpower.”

“She's the golden retriever off-cam, dominatrix onstage,” Rina added with a grin.

You covered your face with both hands as the team chuckled. “I didn’t ask to be perceived like this.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Director Kim said. “We’ll shape it. It makes you memorable.”

“Personality dissonance” Soojin murmured again. “We’ll use that. It's very useful since you are the center.”

Beside you, Hana leaned forward, cutting through the playful glances thrown your way.

“There’s also something we wanted to show you,” she said, sliding a small black USB across the table. “We’ve been compiling everything we’ve worked on over the past four years. Writing, recording, choreo. It’s labeled by usability.”

You added, “We call it The Vault. There’s also a backup copy in the Cloud. And a third one on Hana’s external drive, because she’s paranoid.”

“I’m prepared.” Hana replied flatly.

The projector switched to a live file preview, showing neatly labeled folders:

With Choreo, No Choreo, Acoustic Tests, Voice Notes, SYRE – Personal Folder (in which contained the groups raw voices labeled by name), and even a Too Gay to Release folder (which Cami, very proudly, named).

The room stilled as one of the producers clicked on a demo. “Ocean” You hadn’t listened to it in months, maybe years. It was the very song you applied with.

Your voice came through the speakers; low, breathy, raspy, but full of intention. A song about drowning in love, without ever touching the surface. A song about fatal attraction. The rhythm was engineered by Hana, heavy notes leaning towards ballads yet there are unmistakable heavy drops from the bass. It felt like a song that drowns sailors, a song that causes shipwrecks.

When it ended, the PR manager scribbled something in her notes.

“That was you on vocals?” one of the producers asked, blinking.

You nodded slowly.

“Yeah. That’s me when I’m not overthinking it.”

“Then we won’t ask you to overthink…” Director Kim said simply. “Just flow, write what comes to mind. We'll help you polish it.”

She pulled up a different tab on her tablet and glanced down the table. “You’re all involved in the creative, but let’s also talk about the structure. We’ll give you a little freedom, but there are boundaries.”

The group straightened up, even Rina seemed to still as we all waited with bated breath for the rules.

Director Kim tapped her pen against the table, her voice calm but clear as she transitioned to the next part of the meeting. “We’re not here to babysit, you're all legal adults, but we do want to avoid problems before they happen. This is for everyone’s protection: yours, the team’s, the fans’, and the company’s.”

You could tell from the subtle shift in the room that this was the part no one could afford to tune out.

“No dating scandals during the debut cycle,” Kim started. “That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be human. You’re allowed to flirt. You’re allowed to be openly queer. You’re allowed to exist as yourselves. But don’t let anyone catch you in a public mess we can’t control. You'll be assigned one publicist and manager each. God knows you need one each based off the footage alone.”

“Define public mess,” Cami said, raising a hand. She wasn’t trying to be difficult, it was her tone, half-genuine, half-mischief. “Like... am I allowed to tweet about wanting to kiss people on the lips? Or is that a scandal?”

Soojin, the digital strategist, didn’t even look up from her tablet. “Keep it vague, cheeky, and in-character. No real names. No drunken selfies. And don’t reply to fan thirst traps unless you’re ready to deal with the fallout, backlash and the fangirling.”

“Noted,” Cami said, already typing something into her Notes app.

“No fighting online,” added another staffer. “No subtweeting exes. No vaguebooking. If you’ve got a private account, keep it private. We’ll trust you with it, unless you break that trust.”

You glanced at Hana, who gave you a barely-there nod. She already knew this. She lived for this kind of structure.

“You’ll have a say in your socials,” Soojin continued. “We’re not stripping you of your voice. But the team will approve captions for official content. Fan interactions? Use your judgment. Post dumb stuff. Be weird. Just don’t be reckless.”

Cami raised her hand again. “Can we swear?”

That made some of the staff pause. Then one of them, a younger coordinator with a nose piercing, actually smiled.

“In interviews? No. In lyrics? Maybe. Depends on the market. On live?” She shrugged. “Mild swearing might be fine if it fits the brand. You dropping the f-bomb in a livestream while eating noodles? Maybe not.”

“What if it’s a really passionate noodle experience?” Cami asked.

“Then you better sing about it in the next comeback.” said the staff in a deadpan tone.

The room chuckled, even Director Kim cracked a smile.

“Bottom line,” she said, “You’re not dolls. We’re not asking for robots. But there’s a spotlight now. It’s hot. And it lasts longer if you’re smart under it.”

“No internal competition,” Soojin added, her voice a little softer.

“We know some groups thrive on ranking. But SIREN5 doesn’t do that. You debut as a unit. You fall as a unit. If someone’s struggling, you carry them. That’s the brand. That’s the promise.”

Amara looked around at the girls and gave a quiet nod. “Understood.”

“And lastly” Kim said, pushing back slightly from the table, “if something doesn’t feel right, with styling, music, press, anything. Say something. No one’s going to push you into something you hate, or something you're uncomfortable with, not if we can avoid it. We signed you because we believe in your voice, in your presence. Don’t give it up just to fit some imaginary mold.”

You felt the breath leave your chest a little. Not in fear, but in relief.

It wasn’t freedom, not entirely. But it wasn’t a cage either. And that was enough for you and your girls.

Director Kim was about to close her notebook when she paused, finger tapping against the edge of the table.

“One more thing,” she said, voice even, eyes flicking toward the end of your row. “Cami.”

Everyone turned toward her. Cami blinked, caught mid-sip of iced coffee like a kid getting called by the principal.

“Yes?” she said, smiling innocently. Too innocent.

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“No, not really, but I’m excited to find out.”

A couple of the Geffen staff tried to hide their smiles. Soojin didn’t even bother.

Director Kim leaned forward, sliding her tablet across the table until a paused video sat frozen mid-frame. You could just make out Cami in your old practice room, half-sweaty, mid-hair flip, grabbing the mic like it owed her money and moaning into it with the kind of breathy drama usually reserved for 2AM phone calls.

The audio wasn’t even playing and you still flushed, remembering the moment. A pink tinge starts to creep up your neck and stains the tips of your ears.

“You do this a lot,” Director Kim said. Calm yet not unkind.

Cami squinted at the screen. “I… don’t recall.”

“You’ve moaned ‘choke me, mommy’ at least five times in half the training clips alone,” Soojin added, scrolling casually through a timestamped spreadsheet of incidents. “Three of them directed at SYRE.”

You stared straight ahead, very determined not to implode in both embarrassment and panic.

Hana sighed. “I told her to stop putting ‘moan like a pornstar’ in the demo instructions.”

“That was one time!” Cami protested. “And she hit the note, didn’t she?”

“She almost choked,” Rina snorted. “Literally.”

Director Kim gave her a look that was somehow both weary and amused. “Look, we like that you’re playful. Flirty. It works with your image, and it’s clearly real. We’re not asking you to tone it down.”

“But we are asking for boundaries,” Soojin said. “Especially with your groupmates. We don’t want your fans to edit your fancams and live clips and hear you simping over SYRE like your rent’s due.”

“Too late.” Cami mumbled under her breath.

You choked on air.

“We’re not saying no flirting,” Director Kim added, a touch gentler now. “Just... no confusion. Don’t tease in ways that create problems you don’t actually want to deal with.”

“Yes, because God forbid Cami actually deals with the consequences of her actions.” Amara deadpans, taking a sip of her water

“So, no more licking the mic and calling her mommy?”

“Please, god, no,” Amara muttered, barely managing to swallow.

“Oh my fucking God.” You groaned, burying your now warm and bright red face into the palm of your hands

“Just be deliberate,” Kim said. “If it’s a bit, commit to the bit. If it’s real… keep it clean.”

Cami lifted a hand in surrender. “Understood. I’ll save my thirst for the stage.”

“And maybe,” Rina added “just, like, throttle down the slutty banter by ten percent.”

“I can give you seven percent,” Cami negotiated.

“Five,” said Hana.

“Final offer.”

Director Kim smiled faintly. “Compromise. That’s what makes a good group work.”

The moment passed with a warm ripple of laughter. Nothing tense. Nothing heavy. Just people learning how to be better around each other, in front of the world.

Beside you, Cami leaned in and whispered “Just so you know, I will still refer to your vocals as sex.”

“Just so you know,” you whispered back, “I’m making a folder for every time you say that and sending it to the PR team.”

Cami grinned. “Kinky.”

You buried your face in your hands. Again.

As the meeting wound down, there was a quiet sense of momentum, not noise. No confetti or group hug. Just a hallway of people who respected your work a little more now than they did walking in.

When you stood to leave, someone near the back called out, “SYRE?”

You turned.

“I hope you’re ready,” they said, grinning. “Because once that name hits the teaser, it’s over.”

You smiled faintly, tucking your USB back into your pocket.

“That's good,” you said. “We’ve been waiting.”

As you walked away, Cami fell into step with you, she nudged your shoulder before wiggling her brows.

“Do you think Dani sat in the same chair as you?”

Her question was simple. It was soft, barely audible, and teasing. Yet it just dawned on you that you're now under the same label as Daniela fucking Avanzini.

You opened your mouth to reply but Cami's laugh interrupted you before you even started defending yourself.

“You're so fucking red!” She said between laughs

That's it. You're suffocating her with a pillow when she sleeps tonight, but the freak might like it, so you decided otherwise.

The first real shoot-day didn’t feel real until the makeup brushes and wet sponge hit your face.

By then, the practice rooms had been swapped out for professional sets. Cold studio lights hung overhead like miniature suns, buzzing softly above the silence of deep focus. The floor was slick black vinyl, polished to a mirror sheen that reflects the lights overhead making it look ethereal. You weren’t in the practice room anymore. You were on set.

The production staff: stylists, lighting techs, brand coordinators, even a surprisingly chill vocal director, moved with choreographed efficiency. And yet, for all the order, the chaos of SIREN5 was inescapable.

“Rina,” someone muttered into a headset, “please stop twirling in circles, your dress has wires-”

“I am the storm,” she declared, spinning again, eyes glowing under the shimmer of her glitter liner.

“She’s light,” Amara corrected, half-laughing. “I’m the storm.”

“Actually, I’m the storm,” Hana called from her spot beside the monitor, lips curled slightly in amusement as she sipped from her thermos.

“Not even 3 days since the meeting and you're all stealing each others emblem.” A staff member teased, flipping through his clipboard.

You adjusted your collar. You wore a black long-sleeved pantsuit structured, subtly sculpted to frame your figure, and squinted at your reflection in the backlit mirror. The smoky eye was intense. The hair was gelled back and braided like some kind of sea-witch royalty.

Behind you, a production assistant passed, muttering, “SYRE looks like she could murder a man with a microphone.”

“Only if he deserves it,” you replied under your breath.

The staff chuckled. It was happening more often now, these little cracks in the wall between them and you. The stylist started saving your favorite lip tint. The lighting tech figured out Cami’s best angle within an hour. Someone on the sound team brought Rina a matching sticker for her water bottle without being asked. They weren’t just working with you, they were starting to get you.

They decided on your two debut tracks merely 2 days after that initial meeting, having sifted through your drafts.

“Ocean”

“Your Idol”

You first recorded the teaser footage for Ocean: with the help of your music production team, it evolved into a slow, sensual, storm-laced track laced with heavy bass and breathy harmonies.

The director suddenly called a pause between takes.

“Cami, less hips, more menace.”

“Menacing hips,” she muttered. “Got it.”

You choked on your water as she turned to wink at you, lips curled around a private joke. Rina rushed to her to give her a high-five.

Meanwhile, Hana was calmly giving the stylists notes on the way Amara’s cape flowed when she turned

“Too much drag, not enough snap. She needs to feel like a tsunami, not a vampire.” she spoke as the staff member wrote it down.

By the time they shifted sets for Your Idol, the mood had become looser, yet intense, the lighting warmer, yet heavy. The camera tracks your steps with seductive precision. The choreography was sharp and intentional, moving like silk caught in a riptide. You weren’t just performing. You were inviting. You were luring.

Hours later, the girls peeled off their stagewear and into coordinated interview outfits: sleek monochrome pieces with different textures: velvet, silk, mesh. The studio lighting was gentler now, shadows controlled, backdrops glowing with soft seafoam gradients.

The director gave the go-ahead. The camera rolled.

Five girls stood in a staggered formation. Coordinated, but not matching. One sea. Five currents.

You stood at center, hands behind your back, trying to look intimidating and not like you’d had a minor existential crisis in the bathroom ten minutes earlier.

The mic lowered.

Cami, grinning too wide, whispered: “Deep breaths, SYRE. No more puking.”

“I didn’t puke,” you hissed.

“I heard the dry heave.”

“Shut up-”

“Rolling!”

Everyone snapped into formation, Hana's voice cutting through your nervous bundle of nerves and she counts down.

The group bowed lightly, synchronized.

“Hello! We are—”

“SIREN5!”

The energy crackled instantly. Their voices overlapped: harmonized, even in a simple greeting.

Hana took point, as usual, voice smooth but warm. “We’re a five-member vocal and performance girl group under Geffen Records, and we’re proud to be debuting as an openly queer, international lineup.”

“Our concept blends storytelling, music, and performance,” Amara added, arms folded, chin lifted. “Each of us represents a different force of the sea.”

“And we’re hella gay,” Cami grinned. “Don’t forget that part.”

The camera crew laughed behind the monitor.

“We’ve been training together for four years.” Rina said, “so we’re not just teammates. We’re basically trauma-bonded at this point.”

“Speak for yourself,” you muttered under your breath, which only made Rina grin wider.

“We’ve cried together, fought together, and survived Cami’s singing in the shower.” She continued

“It’s art,” Cami cut in.

“It’s a war crime.” Rina shot back, and the entire team behind the camera chuckled.

“But really,” Hana said, bringing it back. “SIREN5 isn’t just about the allure of mythology. We’re also about voice. Pull. Power. The way music moves you. The way identity claims you.”

There was a brief pause, before Hana continues

“As our center, we have SYRE, our siren of shadows.”

You gave a slow, nod-like bow, a small smile plastered on your face. “Vocalist, lyricist, and resident ‘mystery’ even though I still collect Pokémon cards.”

Rina laughed.

“She’s scary but cries at cartoons,” Amara added.

“She’s also hot,” Cami said, winking.

Hana raised her mic. “Moving on—”

“This is Cami, siren of the abyss.”

Cami struck a pose, tongue between teeth. “Sub-rapper, lead dancer, and emotional support menace. I flirt, I spin, I forget my lines sometimes, but I look good doing it.”

“She’s bisexual chaos energy,” you added.

“Like you’re one to talk,” she smirked back.

“I'm literally gay, Cami. Full on girl-kisser.”

“Amara, siren of flame,” Hana said next, cutting off the banter that was brewing.

Amara gave a slight nod. “Main dancer, lead vocalist. I burn slow. But I don’t go out.”

“She’s our softest mean girl,” Cami whispered, and Amara didn’t deny it.

“Rina, our jellyfish girl.”

Rina twirled dramatically. “Vocalist, face of the group. I sting and sparkle. Duality, baby.”

“Also hoards skincare like it’s currency,” you muttered. “Also hey! I thought I was the face.”

“And finally,” Hana said, voice fond, “I'm Hana. Siren of the storm. Leader. Composer. I keep these freaks from burning the dorm down.”

“She once caught a cockroach with her bare hands.” Amara said.

“And then chased Cami with it,” Rina grinned.

“I don’t regret it,” Hana replied flatly.

“Together, we are SIREN5.”

The lights dimmed then, the director’s voice ringing out the bustling space.

“CUT! Alright, let’s roll individual intros.”

One by one, you were pulled into the recording room.

Inside, a boom mic hovered above a stool. A glowing sign read: SIREN5 – MEMBER INTRODUCTION TAPING.

Rina went first, legs crossed, voice syrupy and warm. “Hi, I’m Rina. I’m your jellyfish girl. I might look like a Disney princess, but I’ll ruin your life with a smile. I like pink, mint chocolate, mind games, and holding eye contact until men get uncomfortable.”

Behind the camera, Cami fake-swooned. “She’s the reason we need an HR department.”

Cami followed, draped across the stool like she owned it. “Yo. Cami. I’m the group’s abyss. I am, regrettably, everyone’s type. My hobbies include flirting with my members, getting away with it, and terrorizing the vocal coach.” She chuckled in that deep sultry voice that reverberated throughout the studio.

“By the way, I flirt with everyone, but I only simp for my groupmates.” Cami said proudly. “Especially SYRE, who is unfortunately immune to my charm. I still try though.”

“Because I have taste,” you called from off-set.

“Trauma,” Cami corrected. “You have trauma.”

Amara kept it simple. “Amara. Flame siren. I sing, I sweat, I survive. Don’t let the calm fool you, I will outlast you.”

She clears her throat before she continues: “I like early mornings, clean choreography, and not being touched unless I initiate it.”

“I still have her old voice memo of her sleep-talking about chicken nuggets,” you added from off-camera. Amara looked at you, blinked, and said, “That was a dark time.”

Hana’s was cleaner, of course. “Leader. Vocalist. Choreographer. I’m the eye of the storm, and I believe in precision and power. The only thing I’m soft for is my members. I’m the group’s anchor. I write when SYRE is stuck and I drive when Cami loses her wallet.”

“Which is always,” Cami yelled.

“She has a spreadsheet for our emotions,” Rina added, shaking her head.

Then it was your turn.

You took a breath, settled into the seat, and looked into the lens.

“SYRE,” you said, simply. “Spelled S-Y-R-E. Siren of shadows. I'm the group’s main lyricist, sub-vocalist, and problem, depending on who you ask. I come from the ocean trench. I sing low and live lower. I sing low, think loud, and dance like I mean it. I write songs that sound like heartbreak, hunger, or both. I don’t talk much unless it’s important. This is important.”

You blinked, then added, because you couldn’t help yourself.

“Also, I’m not intimidating, I just have really bad shrimp posture and naturally sharp cheekbones. Please don’t be scared of me.”

Outside the booth, the staff burst into laughter.

Someone muttered, “Oh god, they really are just a loser trapped in a hot body.”

And from the back, Cami’s voice rang loud and clear:

“SHE’S MY LOSER.”

You cleared your throat then, fighting back the slight blush as you continued

“I trained for four years. Failed twice. Thought I’d just be a songwriter. But somehow, I ended up here, with them, with this. And I don’t regret a second of it.”

There was a long pause, and then:

“I look like I’ll kill you. But I will, in fact, cry if you compliment my lyrics.”

Someone behind the camera cooed. Cami clapped. Rina yelled “REAL!”

You blinked at the lens.

“...So please compliment my lyrics.”

And with that, your teaser shoot ended with laughter and lukewarm water.

#daniela avanzini x reader #katseye x reader #katseye imagines #daniela avanzini imagines

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stereoqueen · 5 months ago

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sunshine - pt1 - l.hughes

summary: luke walks into media after a win and recognizes a pair of eyes he hasn’t seen since he left the university of michigan behind. espnreporter! x luke hughes au

< au what to know > < next >

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

"You have media in 10, Hughes!" Keefe yells through the locker room as Luke sighs, putting up his gear. Fresh off of a win, he was tired and ready to go home. He quickly showered and put his extra pair of clothes on, slipping on a hat over his wet curls. Leaving the locker room, bag in hand, he says goodbye to everyone as he walks to media.

The media room was large, podium in the middle with at least 20 reporters to talk to. Mercer walked out as Luke walked in. “Good luck bro, same old questions,” Dawson said as Luke sighed. He thought about even if they won, the questions are still the same and stupid. Dropping his stuff near the podium, he looks down to see a text from Jack.

Jack: Solid game bro. Have leftover pizza at home with your name on it! 🍕

He laughed as he quickly typed back,

Luke: Going to need it after suffering media… AGAIN!

Putting his phone down, he walks up the podium, fixing his hat so he can see through the bright lights better. The questions start to roll in as he gave the same basic answers. Nothing was new, until he heard the door open.

The back door creaked open as a woman sneaked in. She was wearing black trousers, white top, and a black trench coat. Her hair was pulled half up in a clip, and her media tags around her neck. She took a seat in the back, taking notes on her ipad in her left hand, and holding her recorder out in her right as Luke continued answering the question. His mind however, was on the woman, and why she looked so damn familiar. It’s like his memory was trying to assess why she was so familiar. Was it because she was one of the prettiest reporters he’s ever seen? Or was it the brown eyes that caught his attention.

“Luke— you were saying?” The reporter who asked him a question caught his attention back to reality as he sighed. A small smirk in his lips as he made eye contact with her and then back to the original reporter. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. What I was trying to say is that this playoff push is….” He continues answering as his gaze lingers on the girl in the back.

15 minutes later and that was it. Questions were over, and the back lights turned on, giving Luke a clear look on who tripped him up earlier. She was packing up her stuff when he was leaving the podium. He was headed to ask what her name was and introduce himself when Amanda beat him to it. He tried to ease drop on the conversation, walking slow and taking his time out of the media room. He didn’t catch her name, but he did figure out how she looked so familiar.

“How was your first time in the media room? Crazy right?” Amanda asks her as Luke walks by. Her gaze follows him as she assessed his 6’3 frame. “It was great! Way bigger that Umich that’s for sure,” She said as Luke walked out the door.

His eyes widened when she said that.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Flashback: Umich, 2022

It was a cool September day walking to practice on campus. Sophomore Luke Hughes was feeling good. Games were about to start, and he was going to prove why he should be in the NHL now. He decided to stop by the coffee shop next to the rink before practice, as he needed a caffeine fix after a long day of class. Loud, full of students, and busy, but absolutely worth the wait. He placed his order and waited in the corner on his phone, texting Dylan, his roommate that he would be cutting it close to practice.

“Coconut latte for Hallie!” The barista said as Luke looked up, thinking that the H was going to be Hughes.

A girl in jeans and a bright sun yellow top went up to the coffee bar to get the latte. Luke’s eyes followed down her frame subtlety as she said thank you to the barista. Her hair was long, honey blonde highlights popping against her tan skin. She turned around to walk towards the door, and towards him — he couldn’t help but stare. She was gorgeous. The embodiment of yellow. She waved to a few girls to his right, smiling as she rushed off. He moved out of the way and held the door as she looked back to him.

“Thanks! I appreciate it!” She said to him, smiling big as she walked out the door. Stunned by her genuine thank you, his face turned pink. “No problem,” He mumbled to himself as the door shut behind him. All he thought of was how beautiful her brown eyes were. They looked like little chocolate kisses. Oh how he wanted to get lost in them—

“Iced coffee for Hughes!” The barista yelled through the shop, snapping him out of it as he looked down at his watch. “Shit!” He said to himself as he grabbed the coffee and sprinted out the door to practice.

Rushing to practice, the guys laughed as Luke ran through the front door and up to the locker room. His coffee, half full from sprinting in his hand as he dropped his stuff and put his gear on faster than one can say Go Blue!

He made it to the ice with two minutes to spare, gaining looks from his friends. “Dude, what took you so long?” Dylan whispered as Luke tilted his head, trying to make up a better excuse. “Um, took longer than I thought?” He mumbled as he fixed his gloves.

“Okay! Before we start, I want to introduce some of the ladies you are going to be working with this season. We have Gab, Maggie, and Lauren as our returning social media team! and our newest member is our on ice reporter, Hallie!” Coach said as Luke looked to the bench, recognizing the girl from the coffee shop.

He had his helmet on so he was praying she wouldn’t recognize him. He was embarrassed that the first interaction was that way. Him stumbling over words and being distracted by her smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Luke was on fire his second year at Michigan. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was the reason why. Scoring or making a crazy play would lead him to her to be interviewed. So, he did everything could to be interviewed, building his stardom as he did. It also helped that he had a crush on the reporter. Her energy was contagious, questions were detailed, and he could tell that she was into her job, and the sport which was a good change. Her soft honey brown eyes had him head over heels since the coffee shop. The team could see the change in the young defenseman’s demeanor. He wouldn’t avoid the camera as much anymore. He would try to interact with social media more, and get to know the social staff.

Hallie didn’t know that Luke was originally “afraid” of media. They would have to pull teeth to get him to interview or interact with the camera off the ice. But when she came around, it all changed. She noticed this when Gab came up to her after practice and said something.

It was December 2022, the high of the season before the break. Hallie had just finished interviewing Luke, who had scored twice this game. “Well that’s all I have for our superstar. Our next game is after the break, see you then.” She signed off to the camera as Luke wiped his face off, leaving the camera’s sight. “Thanks sunshine, see you after break,” Luke said, crooked smile as Hallie returned the smile. “See you then, superstar!” She joked as she walked over to Gab.

Gab was laughing as she passed Hallie her water. “What’s the laughs for?” She asked Gab as she shook her head. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but I’ve never seen Luke interact this way with media— ever!” Gab said as Hallie shrugs. “No idea, Maybe he likes the attention?” Hallie joked as Lauren comes up next to them, “If you’re talking about Hughes… he has a huge crush on you. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it, Hals.” Hallie’s face dropped as Lauren said that, “No way.”

Lauren leans against the wall, camera in hand — showing a picture of the two of them interviewing. His eyes were locked into hers as she asked a question. Her smile bright. The Live Photo goes as she can see his eyes go down to her lips and back up to her eyes, a small micro change in view. Hallie’s face turns hot. “Oh my,”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Present time, March 2025

“Way bigger than Umich huh? That’s what Hughes said almost two years ago when he got here,” Amanda says to her as she smiles. “Did you know him?” She continues as Hallie tilts her head.

“Kinda. I wasn’t close to him but we knew of each other. But now, I’d be shocked if he knew my name,” Hallie tells her colleague as they walk out of the media room, walking down the hall to the parking garage. They talk about what Hallie needs to do for the upcoming week, with correlation to the Devils’ schedule in alignment with ESPN’s. By the time, they reach the garage, most of the cars are gone.

“Well, you have my number if you need me! See you on Sunday for morning skate!” Amanda yells across the garage as they go to their separate ways.

A BMW rolls past Hallie as she looks up to see the infamous man himself. He stops at the exit, not noticing her, but some little kids asking to sign their jerseys. He rolls down the window, signing them and making conversation. She walks by the exit, knowing her car is parked in a different lot since she didn’t get her passes until now.

Finishing up with the last kid, Luke looks up to see the woman walking to her car. She opens the back driver’s door to set her bag in the back. Looking up slightly, she sees his hazel eyes looking at her intently. He smiles, a real smile, not one he does for the camera as her brown eyes light up. He would never forget those eyes.

She hops in the car, windows down as she goes to back up and exit the area. She looks to see the BMW pass again, windows down as “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison plays through his speakers.

“I guess he did remember me after all,” She said to herself as she backed up out of her parking spot to head to her apartment.

By the time she made it to her apartment, her phone had blown up with new followers on Instagram and Twitter.

Instagram: lhughes_06 has sent you a follow request!

Instagram: lhughes_06 has sent you a direct message!

Instagram: lhughes_06: Think I saw a ray of Sunshine in the Devils media room tonight.

She blushed, shaking her head as she approved his request and typed back a quick message.

halliebrooks: Just as original as the last time I saw you, superstar.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Rusty! You’re back! Traffic was that bad?” Jack asked from the couch as his little brother huffed into the apartment.

Luke shut the door, dropped his stuff and immediately flopped onto the couch. He felt so dumb, stalking her instagram and then immediately dm’ing her. His mood was ruined if she took it the wrong way. Jack, confused on why his brother didn’t run to the open box of pizza, stood up and over him. He put his hand on his face to feel his head. “Nope, not warm but something is definitely off,” Jack said as Luke swatted his hand away.

“I’m just not hungry,” Luke grumbled as he felt his phone buzz. Excitedly, his mood instantly changed as he sat up and read the notifications.

Instagram: halliebrooks accepted your follow request!

Instagram: halliebrooks has sent you a direct message!

Instagram: halliebrooks: Just as original as the last time I saw you, superstar.

Luke jumped off the couch, grabbing a beer from the fridge and starting to eat the pizza as he tried to craft a message back.

“Okay I don’t know what the fuck just happened but you need to explain. NOW!” Jack pestered as Luke talked through his pizza. “I take that back. Eat and then explain why you just pulled a 180 like that.”

The commercial’s annoying jingle ended as ESPN came back on the screen. Luke immediately pointed to the TV, where the Devils broadcast was wrapping up. Hallie Brooks, ESPN Reporter was doing her highlight review of the game, taking over for Emily Kaplan. Jack’s gaze whipped from Luke eating to the TV and then back to Luke who was glued to the TV.

“This is THE famous Sunshine? No way.” Jack says as Luke shoves another piece of pizza in her mouth. “You gotta explain, start from the beginning before you put another piece in your mouth, or I’m calling Q.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

taglist: @chiblackhawks @hwalllllllelujah @dancerbailey3

#written by stereoqueen #stella’s works #luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x oc #sunshine au #espn!reporter x luke hughes #nhl imagine #nhl fic #jack hughes #dawson mercer #new jersey devils

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shiny-jr · 5 months ago

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Hi!🇮🇳 I love your writings especially the damnation series

I was thinking about a 'Dungeon concept' where reader is a traveler/adventurer and encounter different beasts and monsters(twst boys) who want to keep reader with them.

The dungeon can have several levels with different environments and it can offer a vast area for writing. Reader explores these levels to reveal deeper parts of the twisted dungeon.

Basically a twst monster au!!

Warning: Yes, another yandere thing. Mentions of violence and blood. You have been warned.

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts.

Note: What? Shiny actually writing for a request? Shocker. It can happen! Although I'm not sure if you can consider this a request or not, but I did like the idea. You, user, are very brave for coming out and talking about a monster AU in my inbox. I think I shall call it: "Dungeons and Devotions." Anyways, yeah, like I said, you're brave for that. I know what you are.

But! Very interesting, has lots of potential, color me intrigued. So, I'll bite. I actually don't watch or partake in a lot of media with dungeon concepts, but I was obsessed with Monster High when I was younger. So, I took some inspiration from their designs and characters. I actually took the time to write this and not write for the Empyrean AU, so I hope you enjoy this. ✨ I was going to do all dorms, but this part got really long so I just left it at one, but I might be willing to do more later.

Humans are not alone.

At least, that's what the stories said. Ancient accounts tell of a time when there were others who walked the earth as well. Others that certainly were not human beings. These were beings nightmares were born from, entities that served as the inspiration for horror stories passed on for generations.

But those were just scary bed time stories and warped historical records distorted by time, were they not?

That's what you had fully believed, until you found where all those monsters went.

It happened by pure accident. One day, you had decided to go for a hike. Take a new trail, see some new sights, breathe the fresh air and bask in the warm sunlight. All was fine and dandy until you lost your way, having gone off track until you were completely lost. All it took was one wrong step and you were falling. Down, down, down you fell for what felt like hours before everything went black . . .

HEARTSLABYUL

Hell. You must have fallen so far that you landed in the depths of actual hell.

The sky, no, there was no sky here– the horizon? It was red. Blood red. Even when you looked up from where you had fallen, there was no sign of a gaping hole through which you had tumbled through. Wherever you were was so deep into the earth, that you could not even make out a ceiling.

Around you were crooked trees, black like ash as they curled and bent in the oddest unnatural shapes like shadowy apparitions looming over you. There was no green on them. There was no green as far as the eye could see. Anything that looked remotely plant-like, was gray like ash, rusted brown, or different shades of red. Even the ground which you landed face first on was twisted and uneven.

That's when you were spotted by... something. Something wild and rabid, a hungry beast that sent you running, dodging branches and tripping over dense foliage as you ran for your life until you came upon an impassable wall of stone blocking your path, leaving you with nowhere to go. You were cornered. That's when the spray of blood came.

The spillage didn't even immediately register in your mind. Not until your mind, high off the fear and rush of adrenaline, recognized that you were will breathing. You were still alive. And there was a person in front of you, standing between you and starved beast that had pursued you. Barely could your mind grasp everything going on, so much was happening all at once. All you could do was blink as past the mysterious figure, you saw the beast's head slowly droop down until it hit the floor with a sickening squelch. The dismembered head fell into a puddle of its own blood and its body collapsed.

When the figure suddenly turned to you, you didn't know whether to cry tears of relief or scream in horror. Yes, this figure had saved you. Yes, their silhouette was human shaped, but they were wielding a giant axe. The haft was thin and black, almost as long as a person in height, while the blade itself was a fiery red combined with golden accents and a substance black as obsidian. The cutting edge was definitely big and sharp enough to decapitate even the grandest of beasts.

Just as you were about to thank this heroic yet terrifying stranger for saving your skin, he stepped out from the shadows and that's when the words died in your throat. Horns. He had horns. This wasn't a human.

The creature had stepped closer and gripped his mighty battle axe as if he were prepared to use it again, but he stopped when he saw you. Clearly he was just as shocked to see a thing like you just as you were stunned to see him. Thankfully, he did not behead you like he did to that beast a few seconds ago.

Finding your voice, you managed to spew useless words of warning and baseless threats for him to stay back, but he appeared to immediately realize your words were all bark and no bite. And he understood you. This being spoke like a person, frowning as he lowered his axe and commanded you to quit your pointless jabbering.

This being was red. Red like his surroundings, red like fire, red like the blood he made his enemy bleed. Horns curved atop his head, brushing past short locks of hair. Pointed ears poked past the strands, blending in with his red hair. A demon! Despite being a creature of hell, he was quite short in stature and had wide innocent eyes the color of smoke.

It was clear the demon, who politely introduced himself as Riddle, was just as intrigued as you were. Although you were still far more afraid, considering that you had seen him slay a beast. That's when Riddle told you to follow him. It wasn't a request. While you didn't trust the demon, it was either him or risk encountering another monster out here, and frankly, if you were to die, at least it would be swift if the demon chose to end you with his axe.

That's when Riddle led you past the wall into an entire city that lay deep beneath the world you knew. Humans, you learned, were not supposed to be here. They didn't do too well here where there was no real sunlight and there were dangers at every corner. There hadn't been a human down here in over centuries. For now, you would stay with him.

As it turns out, Riddle was the overlord of this domain. At first, the demon did not reveal anything, until the days passed in his castle. Something about you stirred his cold heart. Perhaps it was pity, as you were so defenseless and lost. Once he began to warm up to you, maybe won over by your ramblings of home, he began to cave to your desire for knowledge. There were seven domains in this underworld, each layered one on top of the other. He, Overlord Riddle, ruled the Heartslabyul domain with an iron fist.

Slaying mindless beasts were just one of his tasks, but as the Overlord, he went after the most dangerous kinds. However, people were not spared from his axe. Riddle would personally execute those that threatened his rule or wrecked havoc across his domain. No one was exempt, no hellish beast, no fellow demon, not even a human. Although he stated that there was no reason to execute you, as your only crime was being incapable of defending yourself and occupying the Overlord's time with rather meaningless but entertaining conversation. So, he spared you.

The Demon Overlord was certainly frightening, but, he was curious about you. It wasn't something he displayed so easily, but you could tell by the way he intensely watched you go about your day, his eyes laser-focused on your every move even though he pretended not to watch. You couldn't exactly blame him if you really were the first human down here in so long.

At first, Riddle would return with his axe stained red. However, once he realized how squeamish that would make you and how it drove you away from him, he developed the habit to return in pristine condition, without even the slightest speck on him. Although you could still guess where he had been, either condemning his enemies to death or terrifying them into submission. But with you, although overbearing, he was well-articulated and carried himself with a certain grace.

As the days added up, customs and habits were built. Such as a small little game, where you would both ask a question about each other's life and culture. If the question could stump the other person and they couldn't answer, then they would 'win.' Riddle won most of the time, as he would ask the most peculiar of questions. On occasion, he does ask some questions with such looks of wonder that you can't help but feel some sense of sympathy for him. Questions like: is the sky on the surface really blue?

As patient as he was with all your inquiries about his strange world, there was one question he never answered: How could a human get back home? If he knew the answer, he didn't show it. Each time you asked, he would become irate, and so you would drop the subject.

Throughout your time in the Demon Overlord's castle, your goal never changed: Find a way home. Riddle was simply a friend, the demon who had saved you from the maws of a hellish fiend and granted you sanctuary in his home. It was by pure accident that you learned that Riddle's opinion was quite different than yours. Sometime throughout your stay, he had become attached and developed some rather intense feelings. According to a book of monsters you discovered deep in the shelves of his personal library, demons are deeply protective of their loved ones, often subtly guarding them through quiet gestures or grand notions. Riddle was grand in his display, and it all made perfect sense now as to why he implemented a rule barring other demons from most rooms of the castle so as to not interact with you.

One day, before Riddle left the castle, he gifted you a mystical red gem with a rune engraved into it. A chill went down your spine as you recognized it vaguely. Although you didn't comprehend its exact meaning, you recognized the symbol from a book about demon courtship. If you recalled right, demons tended to inscribe runes into rare objects so their partner would have a spell protecting them and be able to carry their loved one's essence with them. The Demon Overlord hesitated for a moment once the gift was in your hand. If he wasn't already red, his flesh would've been blooming with warmth as he leaned. The kiss on your cheek was brief as the base of his horns bumped against your temple– then he left before you could even utter a single word.

That's when you knew you had to leave. Immediately. If the book you found earlier was factual, then once Riddle returned, he would not let you go. The Demon Overlord had already prevented you from leaving by confining you in his castle, isolating you from others, and purposefully retaining information from you.

The only place you could was down, down into deeper levels. Yes, it was further away from the surface and home, and you had no idea what awaited you, but if you stayed in Heartslabyul, Riddle would never allow you to leave his castle and he would no doubt send demons to search for you once he discovered you were gone. The only place he wouldn't think to look were other domains. Perhaps the Demon Overlord's gift to you would actually be of use as you searched for a way down.

#twst #twisted wonderland #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst #riddle rosehearts #twst riddle #yandere riddle rosehearts #dungeon and devotions twst au

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