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supershithits · 2 days ago

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i never was the good samaritan

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

anon’s ask: “imagine him [clark] with literally polar opposite black cat. but they match so well.”

summary: a stupid bet between two coworkers with allegedly opposite morals. if all’s fair in love, war, and corporate life, then who’s willing to be kinder for a month?

word count: 13k

warnings/tags: +18 mdni, fluff, comfort and angst at times, banter, feels, grumpy!reader x sunshine!clark, enemies/coworkers to lovers, kind of jealous!clark if you squint, sort of slow-burn office romance, dramatic love confessions bc i love them, miscommunication, tiny mention of reader’s hair, making out, dry humping, happy ending.

a/n: first of all, I wanted to thank you for all the support on my recent post !!! i feel like this is kind of a disaster because i finished it using the last two brain cells i had left, so if you come across shitty writing, please just nod along. anyway, i really hope you enjoy it. i’d love to know your thoughts on it. likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. and to the anon who shared this idea with me: THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! <333

The worst kind of days are usually preceded by rain.

That’s something a scientist might say, though you’re no scientist yourself. You’re a journalist; therefore, your profession has absolutely nothing to do with science. Either way, you’re pretty certain there must be at least one expert out there who would agree with you.

You had checked the weather app on your phone the night before, hoping that somehow, by the time morning came and you had to get ready for work, the weather would clear up and a warm beam of sunshine would follow you on your way to the office.

When your alarm goes off at 7:30 a.m., with sleep still blurring the edges of your sight, you notice the soft patter of droplets on your bedroom window, and you can already tell those gray clouds portend a series of unfortunate events that will unfold during this rainy Wednesday.

Rain is no good. For different reasons, listed down below:

a) You don’t own a car, nor do you know how to drive one.

b) The boots you were gifted on your last birthday, the ones you use for the days when the city feels underwater, are supposed to be water-resistant, though they’ve betrayed you on several occasions.

c) It’s only a matter of time before your hair swells up because of all the humidity.

The worst thing is that some people, other human beings who breathe the same air as you, seem to enjoy these days. For motives you’ll never be able to comprehend, they look forward to them, gushing about the apparent charm and appeal of drizzle. Perhaps the government could use that eagerness to spot potential future criminals.

Lazily, you pull on several layers of clothing: a plain t-shirt, a sweater, and your trench coat. You choose a darker pair of jeans so that any rain-soaked patches won’t make you look like you’ve peed yourself, which has happened before. The temperature has dropped drastically while you were sleeping, and now every room in your apartment feels cold and uninviting as you gather your things.

You know for a fact that the second you step out of this building, you’ll feel like absolute crap. But you can’t stay home and avoid your responsibilities, because it turns out you certainly enjoy having Wi-Fi and food on your stomach at the end of a long day.

And those are things you wouldn’t be able to afford if you didn’t work, because they cost money. Lots of it. So, in the end, you have no option left but to be a functional adult and go to work, contributing to the lovely city of Metropolis by writing articles for a living.

This doesn’t mean that you hate your job. In fact, you love it. You love writing, for it’s the only thing that’s stayed constant in your whole life ever since you were a kid.

The culprit for your attitude is the rain. It makes you insufferable to be around. You're no stranger to your own moods. You do realize rainy days turn you into someone more volatile.

Yet clear skies are no different. You’ve been in a mood for… forever, actually. For the past year, at least. That’s what Jimmy and Lois say.

By the time you make it to the subway, the train you should’ve taken to be on time is already gone, your scarf smells funny, and Matthew’s standing there, just an inch away from your face.

Oh, good ol’ Matthew. A guy, maybe a couple of years older than you, who’s been trying to get your name, number, or even email address for the past few months. You see him every morning as you leave for work, and despite not succeeding in his task, he doesn’t seem to plan on giving up.

“Hi, beautiful.”

You glance to your left, not even bothering to turn your head to face him. “Matthew. If it isn’t another day of smelling your breath way too early in the morning.”

He ignores the part about his breath. Instead, he replies, “I remember telling you that you can just call me Matt.”

“That’s strange, because I remember telling you I’d never do that.”

It surprises you that he still thinks you’re playing hard to get, given it’s been four months and you’ve made it more than clear that you have no interest in him.

He grins, his hands in his pockets. “I don’t believe I’ll ever get your sense of humor.”

“Of course you won’t. It’s reserved for highly clever individuals.”

“Gosh, you’re so mean.” This time, he stares ahead, sighing. “Have I ever told you I’m a sucker for these kinds of days?”

One of your eyelids begins twitching. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“You don’t like the rain?” His eyes sparkle with what could be described as amusement. “You know, opposites attract. It’s just inevitable.”

This is the kind of interaction you’re forced to endure before you’ve even had breakfast. You wish for the next train to derail and hit you with all its might.

As you set foot in the Daily Planet’s lobby, the rain has evolved from harmless drizzle to complete downpour, the wind unhinged, having spent the last ten blocks trying to steal your umbrella from your own hands. It is now useless, along with your drenched coat and suspiciously squishy socks.

You’re the last one to manage to squeeze into the elevator, which is beyond packed. As you maneuver inside, you accidentally jab a woman’s leg with your umbrella handle, and she mutters something under her breath. Something that sounds a lot like a swear.

“Sorry,” you murmur, avoiding all possibilities of making eye contact with her, although you feel her unfaltering gaze the full thirty seconds it takes to reach your floor.

Holding your bag and umbrella to your chest, you make your way through the maze of desks, nodding your head at those who greet you. You peel off your coat, hanging it from the back of your chair, observing the tiny droplets that start to drip onto the carpet below. You search for your notebook, digging it out and letting out a breath of relief when you notice none of the pages have been damaged by water.

It’s only when you finally sit down that you let yourself close your eyes for a moment, folding your arms over your desk and resting your forehead against them. You can’t deny you feel miserable. You should’ve called in sick.

You feel the warmth of someone standing close to you, and you don’t need to look to know who it is. You’d recognize the scent of his cologne or the sound of his footsteps anywhere, though you really hope that doesn’t sound as weird out loud as it does in your head.

“Turn around, Kent. We’re closed today,” you mumble with your face still pressed to the desk, voice muffled into the crook of your arm.

“You look like you’ve just got out of the shower,” Clark shoots back, the faint hint of a smile in his tone.

That’s when you decide to stop hiding, straightening your back to squint up at him. You should’ve kept your head down: he looks perfect. His hair is neat, his suit unbothered by the rain. You huff when you notice your reflection on his glasses. “How are you… dry?”

“I used my umbrella. They do serve a purpose.”

“Well, mine—” you snap between gritted teeth, ducking under your desk to retrieve the ruined thing and holding it up to shove it into his face, “—has decided to stop functioning properly today.”

He lowers your hand, his forehead crinkling. “Have you been nice to him?”

“Him? Are you personifying my umbrella?”

“I have a spare at home. If you want it, I could bring it tomorrow,” he suggests, changing the subject, and he can’t quite look you in the eye without averting his gaze.

This is where you draw the line. Forcing yourself to act politely, you say, “Thank you, but I don’t need it. I’ll fix mine. I’m sure it’ll probably stop raining in a couple of hours.”

A crack of thunder rattles the windows. Behind you, Jimmy nearly jumps to his feet, startled, drawing in a long breath.

“You okay, buddy?” Clark asks.

“Sure,” Jimmy answers, tugging at his shirt collar. “I’ve never been better.”

Clark raises his eyebrows at him, not convinced, but chooses not to press him. He shifts his weight from one foot to another and clasps his hands behind his back, returning his focus to you. Sometimes, he stares at you in such a way that makes you feel you’re being examined under the lens of a microscope. “Have you already had breakfast?”

“No.”

“Want me to—”

You cut him off before he goes any further. “Clark, I’m fine. Save your kindness for someone who truly wants it.”

His lips form a straight line, and without saying anything else, he jams his hands into his front pockets, walking away to his own desk. Maybe the tone you used wasn’t the appropriate one, but shortly after, you shake that feeling of guilt off.

On nights when you can’t sleep, or on certain days when your eyes keep finding their way back to him when they shouldn’t, you often wonder how he can always seem willing to help. Is it performative? Would he like to be voted as the best employee of the century?

But deep down, you know the reason behind his infinite generosity. It has a name, which starts with an S and rhymes with man.

Let’s put a pin on that. You’ll get back to that later.

“You’re gonna turn that poor man into a villain,” Jimmy says, his voice barely above a whisper. You have to crane your neck to get a look at his face, and even so, you stifle a laugh at his expression. He seems genuinely worried. “I mean it. He’ll have an identity crisis, and it’ll be awful.”

“I think you forget he’s a grown man.” You flick your fingers across the keyboard, checking your inbox. “Don’t worry, Jimmy. He’ll survive.”

“You’re vile.”

You spin around in your chair, scoffing. “Come on! Me? Vile? For not worshipping the ground he walks on like everybody else?”

Jimmy throws his arms out, seemingly defeated. “That’s because he’s the nicest guy to ever exist!”

“I just don’t want him to be nice to me. That’s all.” You scrunch up your face, your jaw tightening. “I don’t hate him, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

It’s hard to explain your relationship with Clark, especially to Jimmy, who’s been his best friend for a while and would go to the moon and back for him. He raises his palms, bowing his head. “I feel like a child of divorce.”

“What a weird use of that concept. We were never together.”

“Well, almost.”

“No.”

“Technically, you went on one date.”

Returning your attention to your computer, you rejoice without emotion, “Unlike him, I did show up to the restaurant.”

That appears to be enough to shut him up, and he goes back to work.

The rest of the day unfolds quite easily. Nothing remarkable happens, at least not until you’re on your lunch break, sipping from your water bottle as Lois helps you polish the wording on an article you’ve been working on for a week now. Without knowing when, you two had fallen into a routine where you became each other's proofreaders.

You’d started the draft on paper for some reason you can’t remember. She scribbles in the margins next to your older notes from days ago, biting the end of her pen as she frowns at one word you’ve underlined.

You’re about to finish your salad when something exciting finally occurs on this rainy Wednesday’s workday.

One of the interns is carrying what looks like an entire week’s worth of paper and folders to Perry’s office, and he’s aiming to do it in a single trip. You watch as the tower teeters dangerously, and then, since it was bound to happen, it collapses.

You can’t say you didn’t see that coming. Why didn’t he think twice before trying to carry a stack almost as tall as Clark?

It’s like conjuring him with a thought. One second, the mess exists, and the next, Clark’s kneeling beside the flustered intern, helping him collect the disaster, a gentle smile on his face. Chaos, you've noticed, seems to have a way of summoning him.

“I’m such an idiot,” the boy breathes, rising to his feet.

“Hey, no big deal,” Clark retorts, patting him on the back. “I’ve been on a good streak lately, but this happens to me weekly. Perry won’t mind as long as you get them to him in one piece.”

Clearly enamored with Clark, the intern nods fervently and hugs the papers to his chest before hurrying off and disappearing.

You finish chewing a particularly salty piece of lettuce, and afterwards, because you don’t always let your better judgment catch up to your mouth, you hear yourself saying, “Doesn’t he get tired of playing the part of the upstanding citizen?”

The room goes dead silent. You’ve seen this happen in movies, the uncanny stillness where you could hear a pin drop. At first, he doesn’t move. His mouth hangs slightly open, his cheeks adopting a sudden flush. But the moment he seems to come back to real life, he can’t do anything but blink at you, appearing embarrassed. “Excuse me?”

If Lois’ panicked expression is anything to go by, things aren’t going that well. “Hey, guys, why don’t we—”

“I was just thinking out loud, Kent,” you interrupt her, dumping your empty salad container and closing the distance between you. “I can’t wrap my head around someone acting like they’re on stage all the damn time.”

“You really think I wake up every day and put on an act?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.” You take another step, practically looming over him. “I wonder if your modest decency will ever run out.”

His nostrils flare with each of your words. In that split second, you realize you haven’t been this close in a while. “Maybe if you tried being decent for more than five minutes, you’d see it’s not an act. It’s only called being nice.”

If Jimmy hadn’t materialized out of thin air to separate you, you believe your noses would’ve touched. “Are you seriously fighting?”

“We’re not fighting,” Clark shoots back.

“It certainly looks like it,” Jimmy says.

“Hold on, don’t interrupt the office sweetheart.” You poke Clark’s chest with your finger, feeling nothing but hardness. “I’d love to know more of your thoughts on my attitude. Would you do me a favor and lecture me after work?”

“Well, starting with that sarcasm of yours—”

“I have an idea!” Lois chimes in, and the three of you turn around to see her. She’s smiling. “Jimmy, I need your approval first.”

“Yes, m’lady. I live to serve.” He bows theatrically and makes his way to her. She puts her hands around her mouth and whispers something in his ear, and an almost cartoonish grin stretches across his face.

He covers Lois’ forehead with his palm. “We must protect your brain. It’s one of the last treasures we have as a country.” Then he flicks his eyes again to Clark and you, enjoying himself, and the sight alone makes you feel uneasy.

You’re starting to believe that in the same way bad days follow rain, terrible plans are always preceded by Jimmy’s smirk.

“Will you let me do the honors?” he asks Lois, and the instant she gives him a thumbs-up, he steps forward. “It’s become clear that you have strong opinions about kindness, or the lack of it. Which is why we’re proposing a bet, starting now. It’s called the Good Samaritan Challenge.”

Clark narrows his eyes. “The what?”

“The Good Samaritan Challenge, pal. Are you even listening?” Jimmy repeats, jutting out his hip. He quickly tells Lois to bring a whiteboard, and she’s off like a shot. “Whoever is objectively kinder during the next thirty calendar days wins.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you say under your breath.

Lois elbows you playfully as she comes back with the whiteboard. “Is it?” She raises her brows, handing the board to Jimmy.

He grabs a marker, draws two columns, and writes your name on one and Clark’s on the other. “Here’s the thing. You’ll both try to be the better person for a whole month. Lois and I, as the judges, will track your good deeds. But no cynical motives, alright? It all has to come from the heart.”

Clark seems to be weighing his options when you speak again. “What are the stakes?”

His shoulders look visibly tense. “Wait, you’re agreeing to this?”

“Depends on what each of you wants as the prize,” Lois answers in response to your question, resting her elbows on her desk and propping her chin upon her palms.

You glance at Clark. “If I win, I get an exclusive interview with Superman. You’d have to get it for me, of course, since you’re the only one who’s ever spoken a word to him.”

It's no coincidence you're asking to meet with Metropolis's biggest hero. You watch him flinch, tongue-tied, as he clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck.

Again, you know exactly what you’re asking for, and the reason why.

“And what about you, Clark?” Lois asks.

His lashes flutter together as he considers any possible answer. “You’d have to proofread all my articles for three months,” he explains, fully facing you. “I’m guessing you won’t mind the extra work.”

“Don’t get too excited, because it won’t happen.”

“It will.”

“It won’t.”

“Trust me, it will.”

“Shut up.”

“Guys?” Jimmy intervenes, waving the marker.

“What?” You and Clark answer in unison, and you roll your eyes at him.

Trying to hide his smile, Jimmy concludes, “Shake on it to seal the deal.”

You extend your hand immediately, scrutinizing him with undivided attention. He spares Lois and Jimmy one last look before taking it, his grip firm.

“Your hands are so sweaty.”

“What? No!” you reply, your nose wrinkling. “Yours are.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Leaning in, you murmur your next words low enough so only he can hear them: “You better get ready for that interview.”

He chokes on his own words. “You’re—”

“I have so much to ask him.” You’re genuinely grinning now. “So much to ask you.”

May the games begin, and let the kindest person win.

The café door chimes as Lois steps inside, scanning the crowded morning scene for you among the swarm of people.

It’s the day after the bet began, and you still have fifteen minutes before the clock strikes nine. She spots you and heads your way, placing her bag on the chair beside you and reaching into her coat pocket, but then she notices the coffee already waiting on the table.

“I took care of it,” you say, pushing the cup toward her.

Looking visibly pleased, she wraps her hands around it, sitting down by your side. “Wow. Is this your first act of kindness for the day?”

“I thought an old man was lost on the subway, so I tried talking to him. He must’ve thought I was trying to steal his wallet.”

Lois exhales a small laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “This could be fun, you know?”

You slouch deeper into your seat. “Right now, I care about winning. I can have fun in other ways.”

“You could even see where it goes,” she says casually, not missing a beat.

“Where does what go?”

She shrugs, as if the answer’s obvious. “The thing with you and Clark. It’s—”

“Okay. Stop right there,” you warn, holding up a hand. “You go any further and I’m taking your coffee back.”

Taking a long sip, she shuts her eyes close, then opens them again, her brows snapping together. “I’m just saying that the two of you might finally learn to get along. Think of poor Jimmy and me.”

Your gaze lands on her cup, half-wishing you’d saved a few sips of your own drink instead of downing it in the blink of an eye before she arrived. Your hand instinctively searches your bag for some chewing gum.

She studies you in silence, leaning back. “Is this about that failed date you had? You hate him for standing you up?”

You tilt your head, clicking your tongue once your fingers brush the last piece of gum you had left. You unwrap it, popping it into your mouth. “First of all, I wouldn’t consider that a date,” you say, lips pressed into a slight frown. “And why do you guys keep saying I hate him? That’s a strong feeling.”

There’s palpable hesitation in her speech. “This is starting to sound a lot like gaslighting.”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t a man.”

She crosses her legs, setting her cup on the table. “Ha ha. You’re so funny.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. Leave that to me, will you?”

“You do realize you have a talent for dodging questions.”

“It’s part of the full package,” you say, standing up and grabbing your belongings. Lois shakes her head in your direction, blowing out her cheeks, and you decide to give in. “Look, I’m not a resentful person. This isn’t about that night. We don’t get along because we’re too… different.” You offer her your hand and smile when she takes it, helping her up. “He finds beauty in everything, doesn’t think twice before trusting someone. I’d never be able to do that.”

Lois drops the subject. On your way out, after dropping a generous tip into the glass jar by the register, you hold the door open for her.

“I could get used to this,” she says, and your mouth twitches, giving her a half-smile.

At the Daily Planet, you both head toward the elevators, and as Lois steps inside, Clark appears behind you, looking agitated.

“Hey,” he greets you, straightening his glasses with one hand and gesturing toward the elevator. “After you.”

The fucker.

You mimic his gesture. “No, please. After you.”

“I said it first.”

“Too bad.”

“Guys…” Lois tries without much luck.

Clark’s voice is still thick with sleep when he speaks. “Would you please be a darling and go first?”

“Tell you what,” you say, inching closer and toying with the end of his tie, inspecting the fabric. “Nothing would make me happier than walking in after you.”

You don’t know if you’ve exhausted him or if he just doesn’t want to be late, but he eventually sighs and steps inside. You position yourself beside Lois, and she ends up squeezed between the two of you.

“Morning, Lois,” Clark says.

“Morning, Clark,” she manages, stealing a glance at you. “You know, someone surprised me with coffee today.”

His mouth snaps shut, and he tugs at the sleeves of his suit. “That’s my thing.” He turns on his side, staring at you. “What’ll be your next move? Will you start wearing glasses as well? Just to make sure we match.”

“Oh, please. I’m not copying you.” The doors open and you’re first to exit, tipping your chin up. “It’s called being nice.”

“I am nice,” Clark blurts, trailing after you. “In fact, I’m nicer than you.”

“I wasn’t aware of this competitive side of yours.”

“Let’s just say I had time to think about it last night.”

“You thought about me before falling asleep?” You let out a feigned gasp. “That’s so cute!”

Jimmy appears in the frame to throw an arm around each of your shoulders. “I could hear your voices from the bathroom.”

You detach yourself from the two men, pointing your index finger at the shorter one. “I bought Lois coffee and let Clark go first in the elevator. Write that down on the board.”

“You basically forced me.”

“Drop it, Clark.”

Well, how about this way? I love that you get cold when it's seventy-one degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

You muffle a squeak against the cushion you’ve smashed to your face. You could watch When Harry Met Sally a hundred times, and a hundred times this scene would get you. You could quote it word for word, the moment he finally confesses his love for her.

And then they share a loving kiss. They live happily together after, as in all the rom-coms you like to revisit once in a while. You’re certain there must be tears shimmering in your eyes, for they sting just enough. The more you think about it, the more convinced you are that no one will ever love you like that.

It’s undeniable that this belief has turned you into a bitter individual. You used to have hope. You weren’t like this before, when you were younger. At least not a few years ago, when the idea of loving someone and being loved in return still seemed like a thing you could attain if you worked hard enough for it.

Adulthood, in your experience, has been plagued by hostility and disillusionment. Were it possible, you’d have a word with the you from ten years ago, the one who believed that by now she’d be in love and planning a future with a man worth her time.

But you’d only laugh at her in the same way that an adult laughs when an infant talks about unicorns and talking animals. Because she, or you, for that matter, probably doesn’t know you spend most of your nights alone. And since the news would make her cry, you’d also have to hug her.

The last time you attempted to open your heart to somebody else was a little over a year ago, and it didn’t turn out well.

The day you started working at the Daily Planet, since both of your eyes functioned perfectly, you developed an instant crush on Clark Kent. The real question, you thought, was who wouldn't? He was the most handsome man you'd ever seen, and still is to this day. Maybe that's the saddest part of the whole thing.

Your crush wasn’t just about his looks. You were drawn to his clumsiness, the cadence of his voice, and the way he’d ask if he could be of help. He’d buy you coffee first thing every morning without fail, back when you still accepted it. It would be steaming, and he'd always say, "Be careful. It's really hot." You thought you’d never grow tired of hearing those four simple words.

He made terrible jokes during lunch, and you were the only one who’d laugh, solely because he was the one telling them. If you struggled to navigate the newspaper’s website, he’d come up behind you, lean close, and explain each step patiently. His hand would find its place on your desk for balance, his warm breath would graze your skin, and you wouldn’t listen to a word he said.

There were even days when you pretended not to know how the printer worked. It was a treasure to have him that close, and Clark never questioned it. He was always there, and he’d never make you feel stupid for needing his help.

Around three months in, Lois started asking more questions about your personal life. “So… do you have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, no,” you said, downing what remained of your water bottle. “I’m single.”

“Great, because you know who else is single?” She made a short pause. “Clark.”

Her words of encouragement were the final push. You asked him out, and it was the most ungraceful ramble of your entire life. The memory still plays out in your head, a vivid reel of your voice shaking and your eyes fixed on the floor as you stumbled over each word.

It happened during one particular Thursday afternoon, while the two of you were standing by the printer. “I was thinking that tomorrow we could go out, just the two of us. If you want. I mean—if you’re not busy or—”

He gapes at you, his answer nearly written all over his face. At last, he smiles, and then says, “I’d really like that.”

You knew you'd spend the next twenty-four hours in a state of total anxiety. The world as you once knew it had changed for good. You used some of the money you were saving up to buy a dress you felt pretty in. In a moment of madness, you'd even used some of your savings to buy a dress you felt pretty in.

Ten minutes early for your reservation that Friday, you sat alone at the restaurant. You couldn't bring yourself to order, instead staring at your phone, terrified of the blank screen.

With every swing of the door, your heart tightened in your chest. Each new face that entered, you desperately hoped it would be Clark and not a stranger.

Fifteen minutes passed, which later bled into twenty, and then thirty agonizing minutes had gone by. There was a waitress, a girl perhaps younger than you, who kept circling by your table.

“Still waiting for someone?” she asked.

Suddenly, you felt embarrassed. “He should be here any minute now.”

At some point, your stomach had begun to rumble, and that was the exact moment you read his name on your phone, answering so fast you nearly dropped it. “Clark?”

The line crackled with static, and you could barely hear him over a tumultuous roar. “I’m so sorry,” he said, nearly shouting and sounding breathless on the other end of the line. “There’s this thing I have to take care of—I can’t—”

“Are you okay?” you asked, starting to worry. “Where are you?”

“I wish I could explain, but—” A sudden rush of air swallowed his words. “I won’t make it tonight.”

Your eyes scanned the restaurant, taking in the sea of couples laughing over dinner. “Okay. That’s fine. Thank you for letting me know.”

“I’m—” he began, but to your surprise, the sentence was cut short by the call ending.

Utterly defeated, you clutched your phone, observing as his name faded from your lock screen with every passing second. You remained seated for another five minutes, trying to conjure a believable excuse for the waitress before you left.

She ended up returning to your table. “Will you be ordering anything tonight?”

It seemed she didn't need much to grasp what had happened. When you got home, you peeled off the dress, folded it carefully, and put it back in the store bag. To keep from seeing it, you hid it under the couch, then collapsed onto the cushions, letting out a contained breath.

I should’ve stayed home, you told yourself. Your bed wouldn't have stood you up, neither would your couch or your phone. You opened social media, searching for a distraction, something simple, like videos of dogs trying to talk with their overreacting families.

What you found was starkly different from your initial vision. It was a video of Superman, flying high in the sky while holding a phone to his ear. Seconds later, the phone tragically slipped from his hand, plunging into a river below. The video had millions of views and had been posted less than an hour ago. The comment section was full of users drawing their own conclusions.

d1stalker: GET OFF THAT DAMN PHONE 😭how is he literally flying and talking at the same time? multitasking king

elysianymph: i’d love to know who he was talking to… a girl can only dream

dayapad: guys don’t worry IT WAS ME ON THE OTHER END 🥀 he’s safe now. just tucked him in and we’re about to watch a movie (i scream as they drag me back to my room in the asylum)

redgie-69: now he needs to do an ad por iphone or sth. superman get that bag !!!

Unable to stop yourself, you clicked the video again, pausing and rewinding it. The wind was a deafening roar in the background, and you couldn't make out half of what the bystanders were saying. With the line cutting and his phone falling into the river, the video's timestamp was a perfect match for the time he had called you.

Realization hit you like a freight train. Fuck. That was Clark. Clark was… Superman.

A whirlwind of feelings coexisted within you, but none was strong enough to snap you out of the trance you were in. You kept watching those fifteen seconds over and over again, replaying the memory of the call and his exact words.

There had always been something about him that was slightly off, and not precisely in a bad way. You'd always chalked it up to him being dorky and a little shy, traits you didn't mind in the slightest. But now, after that footage, you couldn't bring yourself to simply unsee it.

You recalled a specific incident that had taken place a few weeks ago. Jimmy, insisting Clark would be the perfect actor for a Superman biopic, had reached to pull off his glasses. With grace, Clark had swatted his hand away, claiming they were too fragile to be passed around like a toy.

You knew better, knew exactly why he reacted the way he did. And, God help you, did that make you like him even more?

That night, you sent him two text messages, having momentarily forgotten he wouldn’t be able to read them.

I think I understand why you didn’t show up tonight.

And shortly after:

I saw the video. You look good in blue.

By the time Monday came around, you’d already picked ‌all your nails. You arrived at the office earlier than usual, and his desk was still empty, but you kept checking the elevator every time it stopped at your floor.

He was nodding good morning at someone when you saw him, and you didn’t hesitate. You strode straight up to him, took his hand between yours, and whispered: “We need to talk.”

“Uh—hi?”

“Now.”

You led him down the hall and into the break room, closing the door behind you once the two of you were inside and turning the lock.

“Is everything—”

“You’re Superman,” you said, not even bothering to mince your words.

Clark looked like he’d seen a ghost, pure anxiety brewing in his eyes. You could imagine the gears turning in his head as he remained silent, lost in thought.

“Cat got your tongue?”

His gaze darted to every object in the room but you. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me. I saw the video, Clark. You called me while flying, and you dropped your phone midair.”

He was breathing differently now, as if he was attempting to calm himself.

“Does Jimmy know? Lois?”

That question made him look up. “No,” he said. “No one knows, except… well, you. I didn’t want you to find out this way.” His eyes bore into yours, his mouth set in a hard line. “I’m sorry I stood you up, but I heard this explosion on the east side, and I couldn’t ignore it.” Clark’s face reddened the more he said. “And then I dropped my phone. I went back for it later, but I couldn’t find it.”

Recognition settled over you at his words. “I’m not mad at you,” you assured him, giving a nod. The way his brows knitted burned a hole through your heart. “Would you maybe want to reschedule our date?”

The silence between you deepened, making your smile fade off of your face as the tension in the room thickened.

“I—I mean, if that’s something you still want,” he managed, the tone of his voice betraying him. “I don’t know if—I mean, I do want to, but—I wouldn’t want things to be complicated for you and me.”

Were you being friend-zoned? “Right.”

He runs a hand through his hair, getting more notoriously verbose by the minute. “It’s just that, now that you know, I don’t want to put you in danger. And I’m not sure it’d be fair to ask—”

“Okay,” you cut him short. “So what you're saying is that we should just leave it, then.”

“Wait—”

“We can just stay colleagues, if that’s easier.”

He seemed taken aback by your resoluteness. “Is that what you want?”

It wasn’t, but either way, you smiled. “Yes. That’d be better. We shouldn’t ruin what we have.”

You could’ve sworn he was just about to contradict you, but nothing came out of his mouth. Reaching for the door, you unlocked it, and he didn’t seem to be planning on following you. You cast him a glance over your shoulder before saying, “I promise I won’t say anything.”

Having fled the break room, you thought you might feel better, more professional even, but as you sat back down at your desk, your insides were turning into knots.

When Lois and Jimmy showed up beside you, eager for updates, you gave them a breathy laugh, which was meant to sound casual. “Guys, there wasn’t a date to begin with.”

“What?” Lois whispered harshly. “Why not?”

“He had to go to Kansas,” you explained, the lie feeling foreign on your tongue. “His parents needed him there, so he left Friday evening.”

“Is everything okay now?” Jimmy asked.

“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t a big deal. But we talked, and we agreed to stay friends. It’ll be for the best.”

Lois studied you a second longer than necessary, her gaze narrowing as if she could hear what you weren’t saying. You assured them both you were fine, that there was no drama between the two of you, and that this was the smartest, most mature decision you and Clark could’ve made. You just hoped they would believe you.

What shocked you the most was that he’d looked so nervous, maybe even more than usual. If he hadn’t wanted to go out with you, he could’ve just said so when you asked him out. But Clark, always the sweetheart, probably hadn’t wanted to hurt your feelings. It was funny, considering he’d managed that anyway.

Was it stupid to think he might’ve liked you back? Maybe you’d been seeing things that weren’t actually there. Maybe you’d overanalyzed every smile, every gentle gesture, every moment your world seemed to spin faster just because he was in the same room as you.

It made sense: someone who wants to be loved will look for it everywhere, even in places it doesn’t exist.

From that moment on, you stopped looking for his eyes when he walked past your desk. You declined his offers to grab you coffee because his gentleness felt like charity, and you wanted no part of it.

Back to the present. Enough of your sad memories. The credits of the movie are still rolling, but you shut the laptop, getting up and stretching. In the bathroom, you brush your teeth while staring at your reflection, and once you’re in bed, you pull the covers all the way up to your chest.

You’re choosing the fantasy you’ll think about tonight to fall asleep when you hear the rhythmic sound of your neighbor’s headboard rocking against the wall.

You’d run into her in the elevator earlier today, and she’d mentioned her long-distance boyfriend was coming over for the week. You hear her laugh, then his, alongside other noises you won’t try to dissect.

The walls in this building are paper-thin, and on any other occasion, you would’ve grabbed the first thing within reach to knock on the wall. But you won’t do that tonight, not because you can’t, but because you don’t want to. You stare at the ceiling, thinking they deserve these kinds of moments after being apart for so long.

Plus, it’s only a week. Just because you’re not getting laid doesn’t mean the rest of the world should stop having sex out of pity, so you turn onto your side, pull the covers up over your ear, and decide to sleep. It turns out that kindness can also sound like silence.

It’s been two weeks since the bet started, and you’ve come to discover that complimenting people is a good way to earn points, especially if you deliver them in public for everyone to hear.

“Lois, I love your blazer,” you say as she walks past your desk one morning.

She stops mid-stride, smiling at you. “Thank you. It’s thrifted.”

You’ve also made a habit of stapling Jimmy’s copies before he gets to them. “I think somebody wants to win,” he notes, watching you finish his stack.

“You would too if interviewing Superman was on the line.”

“Well, you better keep it up, because you’re still behind.”

Safe to say you take that personally. Later that day, Lois gives you a point when she catches you holding the door open for nearly ten people in a row. Clark earns another when he finds someone’s missing phone after searching for fifteen straight minutes.

Just to be clear, you were also looking for it. He just happened to be the one who found it first. But yes, you’ve been trying lately, and Clark notices.

Though today you’re moving more slowly because of a headache that has settled behind your eyes. You spend most of the morning at your desk, head bent while typing out emails, but you’re forced to look up when a cup of coffee lands beside your keyboard.

Your first instinct is to say no. Politely, of course, because of the bet. You haven’t accepted anything from him in a long time.

He places something else down: an aspirin. “It’s 2025. We have advanced medicine to ease your suffering.”

“Are you that desperate to win?” you ask, resting your chin on your palm.

Clark snorts. “What would you like my answer to be?”

You drop the subject, accepting both things and picking up the coffee. “If I kindly take this coffee, would that earn me a point?”

“That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Then I don’t want it.”

“Half a point?”

“We’ve got a deal.” You take a trial sip, tasting its flavor and muffling a satisfied sound. “God, it’s really good. Thanks. How much was it?”

He shakes his head. “Forget about it.”

“Hey, no. I want to pay you for it.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can hear you,” he says, walking backwards and away from you.

“Asshole.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you look nice today,” you admit instead, folding your hands on your lap. “I like your shirt.”

It’s a plain one, honestly. Nothing special, but it still looks good on him. He glances down at his clothes, the corners of his mouth lifting. “How nice of you to say that. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

So apparently, you and Clark are starting to get along.

It’s easier if you hide behind the bet, because you can be decent to each other while racking up points. What’s so bad about it? Yet you can’t ignore the fact that you kind of enjoy being like this with him, despite the whole challenge finishing in less than two weeks.

Clark: Don’t forget Jimmy’s birthday tomorrow.

You groan around a mouthful of apple, cursing your poor memory

You: Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Clark: I knew it. See, I’m that nice. I could’ve chosen not to tell you.

You: That would’ve made you a prick

Clark: You’re right, but now owe me one.

You: I could bake him a cake… or cupcakes??? Idk

Clark: I’d go with the cake. Just imagine Lois and Jimmy giving you ten points for it.

Pressing your thumb against your mouth, you gnaw at it, holding your breath as you type a message.

You: We can make it five and five if you help me

You put your phone down, covering it with a cushion, but the moment it buzzes again, you snatch it back.

Clark: Sounds fair, though I’ve never baked anything from scratch before.

You: I’ve got the perfect recipe

Clark: Are we having dinner as well? I could bring some takeout.

You can’t help but re-read that text too many times.

You: Sure, whatever you want

Clark: Chinese?

You: Yuppp but please hurry up because I’m starving

He asks for your address, and twenty minutes later, he’s knocking at your door, a plastic takeout bag swinging from one hand. He loosens his tie the moment he’s inside, shrugging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves

“So…,” he trails off, pacing around the living room, “you’re in charge tonight.”

You suggest eating first, otherwise, the food will go cold. While you set the table, Clark turns on the TV and lets it run in the background. As expected, you mostly talk about work. Does this count as a date? You’re not sure.

The first thing you ask him to do is to preheat the oven, and he obeys without a word. Your kitchen isn’t big enough for two people, and if anything, Clark’s towering height only makes it more difficult. His elbows constantly bump yours, and he apologizes every single time.

While you handle the measuring of ingredients, he takes the whisk. It seems the Man of Steel has no coordination when it comes to baking. He’s hyper-focused on not pouring the whole bottle of vanilla extract, tongue peeking out slightly as he pours. You can’t resist the temptation, so you give in to it and blow a puff of flour into his face.

His right profile is now covered in white, and he blinks rapidly, nudging his face against his shoulder. “It got in my eye.”

“It didn’t. I’m right here, remember?”

Wide-eyed and frozen in place, Clark stares at your head. “What’s that on your hair?”

“There’s nothing on my—”

He dips his fingers into the flour bag while you aren’t looking and flicks a pinch at you. A malicious laugh bubbles in his throat as he takes in the sight of you, frowning and crossing your arms.

“Now we’re even,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Afterward, you pour the liquid batter into a prepared pan, smoothing the top. You put it into the oven, finding Clark scraping the bowl with a spoon, licking it with pure contentment and savoring the remnants. There’s a small dot of batter near the edge of his mouth, which he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Clark, there’s—” You point to your own mouth, hoping he’ll mimic you.

But he doesn’t get the hint, putting down the bowl instead. “What?”

You sigh, taking a step toward him and wiping your thumb across the corner of his plump lips. He stops breathing in that moment, and so do you. You clean your finger on the edge of a dirty kitchen towel, then ask, “Can you wipe the counter while I make the frosting?”

He looks astonished. “I can—Sure. I’ll do it.”

Neither of you utters another word for a couple of minutes, focusing on your respective tasks. After testing that the cake was done, you take it out of the oven, unmolding it onto a rack to cool.

Clark plops down on the couch, covering his eyes with his forearm. “We can’t decorate it yet, right?”

“No. We have to wait, or the frosting will melt.”

“I’m so tired,” Clark says, yawning, and then his contagious yawn makes you do the same.

“I didn’t realize it was this late.” You sit on the opposite side of the couch, unlocking your phone. “I’ll put an alarm. We can take a twenty-minute nap, and then we finish it.”

His eyelids are already drooping, and he murmurs, “Just twenty minutes.”

You struggle to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in. Normally, you’d stretch out fully, but now you can’t, and you blame the giant sitting next to you. By the time you drift off, you swear you can hear him snoring just a little.

The alarm went off twenty minutes later, but neither of you stirred. You only woke up to switch sides, blocking the intrusive light from the curtains. Your eyes opened just long enough to see Clark, still in the same position as before, his mouth slightly parted and his hair a beautiful mess.

The cake.

“Clark!” You bolt upright, almost jumping to your feet. You touched his shoulder, shaking him. “Wake up. We overslept.”

He rubs his eyes, huffing. “What time is it?”

“We have… twenty minutes before we need to leave.”

Both of you get to work. Clark retrieves the frosting from the fridge and tries to help you spread it on the cake, but it ends up looking less like a smooth layer and more like a lumpy hill.

“Oh, God. I hope the cake isn’t dry.”

“It looks good,” he says, admiring it from a distance. “At least from here.”

You melt some dark chocolate in the microwave. It’s surprisingly thick, and you grab a fork, trying to write Happy Birthday Jimmy across the top. The letters are wobbly and melted into one another, but it’s the thought that counts. You grab the single birthday candle you always saved for such occasions, placing it in the center.

Clark hovers just behind your shoulder. “It’s… definitely abstract.”

You glance down at your clothes from the night before, realizing you didn’t even get a chance to shower. “Shit. Do I smell?”

His expression softens, his gaze landing on your head. “You don’t, but you still have flour on your hair.” He brushes his fingers through your hair with the delicacy you’d expect from a man like him.

The pad of his thumb grazes your hairline, and your breath catches in your chest. He pulls back abruptly, grasping what he’s doing a second too late. “There you go.”

Scrambling to get ready, you transfer the cake to a cardboard pastry box, securing it. “Okay, subway. Now.”

As Clark and you rush through the station, you clasp the cake box in your hands. The platform’s already crowded with people. You steal a quick glance at Clark, catching the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I asked you if you had a boyfriend like, ten times, and you always said no.”

It’s a pity you recognize that voice. Matthew appears at your side, glaring at Clark, his eyes darting from him to you. The look on his face is one of total disappointment.

“He’s not—”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Clark asks, subtly stepping forward to angle his body between the two of you.

“Matt.” He extends his hand in offering, but Clark silently refuses to take it, staring at him. “I just—sorry, dude. I had no idea she was taken.”

You wave your hand at them. “Hello. I’m right here.”

“Honey, you’ve never mentioned him before,” Clark says, draping his arm around your shoulders.

How smooth. “Well, honey, I must’ve forgotten,” you rejoice, leaning into his solid frame, playing the part of the loving girlfriend.

The screeching noise of the train marks the end of that conversation as the doors slide open. Just before the rush of people floods the car, Clark grabs your hand, tugging you inside, and Matthew’s left standing behind on the platform.

Even after finding two empty seats, he doesn’t let go of your hand, and neither do you.

“May I ask who that guy was?” His eyes gloss over the cake box above your legs.

“A not-so-secret admirer. He’s asked me out a few times, but hasn’t had much luck.”

“He seems persistent.”

“Trust me. He is.”

“I hope you don’t mind what I did back there,” he says, lowering his voice. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“It helped.” You squeeze his hand before gently dropping it. “Thank you.”

You make it to the office just before nine, taking the stairs because the elevator’s far too packed. Now it’s Clark’s turn to carry the cake, and he trails after you with precise steps.

To say Jimmy’s thrilled at the surprise would be an understatement. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he opens the box. “Holy crap! You baked this?”

“Yes,” you both say at once.

“I love it so much!” He takes the cake out of the box, looking at it from a different angle. “Can someone please take a picture of me with it? I feel like I’ve just met my firstborn.”

Lois materializes out of nowhere, trying to analyze the situation. “Why are you two wearing the same clothes from yesterday?” She lets a beat slide, then adds: “And why did you arrive together?”

“Well—the thing is—”

“It’s a long story,” Clark jumps in.

“But we have all the time in the world,” Lois shoots back.

And that’s how you know you’re trapped.

Only a week before the bet ends. There’s a guy with too much gel in his hair lingering a few feet from your desk. You’ve seen him around. He’s one of the new hires who writes for the newspaper’s column on culture and arts.

You’ve been expecting him to approach you for ten minutes now. When he finally does it, you see a confident smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, I’m Ethan,” he introduces himself, cocking his head.

“Nice to meet you, Ethan. I’m—”

“I know,” he interrupts you, squinting a little as if he’s embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. “Okay, that sounded weird, but what I meant is that I know your name.” he wraps his arms around himself, taking a deep breath. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime.”

That’s not what you expected. He’s a handsome guy, charming even, but—

This is the kindness challenge, and you're supposed to be all friendly and polite, at least for another full week.

You plaster a practiced smile on your face. “Sure. Why not?”

He asks for your number, and you rattle it off in a monotonous tone. As he heads off, you catch Clark in the distance across the bullpen, sitting at his desk. He must have used his super hearing because he doesn't tear his gaze away from yours, and you feel as if all the oxygen in the world has been sucked out of the building.

Hours later, you’re in the break room, pouring coffee into your favorite mug, the one with a tiny kitten curled on the front. Clark walks in, closing the door behind him after he sees there’s no one else there.

“You want some coffee?” You ask him while stirring your coffee.

He stays quiet for ages. “What’s the deal with that new guy?”

“You mean Ethan?”

“We’re using names now.”

“He asked me out,” you continue to explain, lifting the mug to your lips. “And I said yes.”

“Why?”

“It's just a drink, Clark. I’m being nice. That’s the whole point, remember?”

“I had no idea being kind involved bar hopping with strangers.”

Why is he acting like this? “Jealousy doesn’t look great on you.”

“I’m not jealous. I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark locks. “You don’t know him. Nobody does.”

“He seems nice.”

“Everybody seems nice if you only exchange two words with them!”

You grind your jaw. “Why are you assuming the worst? Why does the idea of me going out with someone bother you so much?”

Clark doesn't answer immediately. “You can do whatever you want,” he says, his tone shifting to a pained one. “I'm just asking you to be careful.”

“You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Pride claims a full point from both of you.

You’re nodding along to another of Ethan’s stories from his college days, your eyes fixed on the rim of your glass.

It’s not that he’s boring, but for some reason, you’re unable to pay attention to anything he says. He’s talking about some phenomenal frat party he attended during senior year, which you can’t even relate to, because you’d never liked them.

He gulps down his drink, grinning. “I’m not letting you speak, am I?”

“Well—”

“Tell me something about yourself.”

You take a look around the bar, which is dim and cozy. The bartender hasn’t stopped mixing cocktails behind the counter. You shift your attention back to Ethan, lifting your eyebrows. “I’m currently stuck in a kindness challenge at work.”

You can’t blame him for seeming confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Lois and Jimmy had this brilliant idea that Clark and I should compete to see who’s nicer. He’s the guy with—”

“The glasses, I know. You’ve already mentioned him.” Ethan rolls his eyes, sighing at the same time a forced smile flashes across his face.

You can tell he’s bothered. Have you really been talking about Clark this much on a date with someone else? “Sorry.”

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand, waving it off. “And how’s the bet going?”

What an awfully complex question. You toy with the straw you were given with your drink, pressing your lips together. “Pretty much okay. We baked a cake last week.”

He chuckles. “You know what’s funny? I thought you two were dating at first.”

You tear your eyes away from the straw. “What?”

“I’d see you together all the time,” he says with a shrug, resting an arm on the back of the booth. “Then someone told me you hated him or something, and I had to shoot my shot.”

You hear him laugh, and he must expect you to do the same, but you don’t. “Hate him?” you echo his words. “I don’t hate him. Who said that?”

“I… don’t remember now. Does it matter?”

“Well, of course it does. Your source is wrong.”

“Yeah. I figured that around the fifth time you found a way to bring him up tonight.”

In a rare moment of clarity, a stark contrast to the bar's dark interior, you look down at your hands. Shutting your eyes, and behind closed lids, you can only picture the face of a man who isn’t here, who isn’t the one sitting across from you.

This isn’t where you’re supposed to be.

Pushing back your chair, you reach for your purse. “This won’t work,” you murmur, putting on your jacket. “You’re a nice guy, really. You’re not the problem. I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

Even though he calls your name as you make your way to the door, you don’t go back. Outside, driven by instinct, you fumble for your phone in your pocket. Since you’ve never felt this determined before in your life, you decide to call Clark.

It rings twice before he picks up, and when he does, his voice sounds groggy. “Hello?”

“Were you sleeping?”

“Sort of.”

You throw your head back, giving yourself a face palm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Clark assures you, the rustle of sheets reverberating through the line. He must be tossing around in bed, given the hour. “Is everything alright?”

For a moment, pressure wells in your chest. You glance both ways down the street, half-expecting to stumble into him. “I just wanted to say something.” You exhale, pressing the phone further into your ear, as if you could merge it with your skin. “I don’t hate you.”

He offers no immediate response. After a while, he says, “What?”

“I don’t hate you. Not in the slightest.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I needed you to know it.” Each of your words feels thick in your mouth, heavy like sand. “I wouldn’t be able to hate you.”

Judging by the background noise on his end, you guess he must be out of bed and pacing now. “I don’t hate you either.”

“It’s not the same. I already knew it.”

“Right,” he laughs, and the sound fills the line. You can almost imagine the dimples in his cheeks. “Wasn’t your date today? How did it go?”

“Let’s just say there’s a section of the bullpen I’m not allowed into anymore.”

“Oh. That bad?”

“He said I talked a lot about you, so you tell me.”

The last time you two spoke in person, you had stormed out of the break room. He’d sounded jealous, a fact he fiercely denied, and his attitude had finally gotten to you. Maybe it was that time of year when you got a bit paranoid, but the thought hit you: you could die at any minute. Living in a city full of unknown threats and creatures, were you seriously going to spend the rest of your life keeping everything bottled up?

Yet, as if reading your very thoughts, he asks: “Would you like to come over?”

“Like… now?”

“Right now.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You hail the first cab you find on the streets of this Saturday night, counting down the minutes until you arrive at his apartment.

Fifth floor. Apartment C. Clark opens the door to you, and the mere sight of him steals your breath. He isn’t wearing his glasses. A pair of gray sweatpants sits low on his hips, along with a navy blue shirt stretched across his chest.

The only thing you can bring yourself to say is: “Hi.”

He invites you in. You hear the door clicking shut behind you as you put down your purse, turning around to face him. You clear your throat, staring deep into his eyes, and you notice he still hasn’t said a word.

“I spent almost ten minutes thinking about what to say to you. I even came up with what I thought was a great speech. It made sense in my head, but I can’t… remember it now,” you explain, swallowing the lump in your throat. You’re nervous, so freaking nervous you feel dizzy. Has he always been this tall?

“You don’t need a big speech,” Clark says, inching forward.

“I wanted to give you one, like they do in movies.”

“Then, just—come up with one right now.”

As if it were that easy. You press your hands to your face for a moment, imploring some god above for the courage you so desperately needed.

It doesn’t have to be well-structured. Doesn’t have to have perfect grammar. It just has to come from the heart and be true, and you couldn’t be more certain of what you feel for him.

“I would’ve dated you, you know? Even after finding out about the whole Superman thing, I would’ve risked everything, because it didn’t change the way I felt about you. It hasn’t changed it. I feel the same I did yesterday, and the day before that, and a year ago,” you blurt, edging closer to him. “I can’t imagine existing in a world where I’m not madly in love with you.”

You can't read the look on his face. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze giving nothing away as he studies you, and you find yourself wondering what exactly he’s thinking.

“I’ve tried putting it all behind me. I’ve tried starting over. For God’s sake, I went on a date with a man I didn’t even like! Just because you looked so… frustrated about it, and I thought maybe it was worth it.”

The past month’s blur of events rewinds in your mind. Your feelings, which you had tried to quiet and smother for so long, have come roaring back to life stronger than ever. You believe this must be love: that force you can try to extinguish and contain, but one that always burns through, because it is as real as the blood in your veins and the bones in your body.

“I can’t keep pretending I’m not dying to kiss you every time I see you at work. I feel like I’m in hell whenever you’re near me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I can’t let you go, Clark. I don’t want to, but I swear I’d make the effort if you asked me to. I’d try, just for you.”

All the cards, including the ones you were keeping to yourself, have been laid out. You yearn for Clark Kent. You need him in your life, in any way he’s willing to offer himself, with those eyes of his that now look at you like you’ve gone nuts.

You’ve learned that there will always be something wrong. That’s how things work, at least for the alive-and-kicking ones. And you know for a fact that love won’t save you. Clark’s love, in this case, won’t assure you anything. But you’d much rather navigate those complexities with him by your side.

A flush creeps up his face, and he inclines his face. “I’d never ask you to walk away from me. Understanding you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to endure, which sounds absurd considering we speak the same language,” he says, and you can’t help but let out a laugh at that. “I mean it, and not just as Clark, but also as Superman.”

“You’re saying I’m hard to understand?”

“I’m saying that there’s so much you don’t say. I have to translate every look and sigh. I believe I’ve developed a whole new dialect just to make sense of you—”

“I feel like you’re using this as an opportunity to roast me.”

“—but loving you is the easy part, and you don’t even realize it.”

Your heart hammers unpleasantly inside your chest. “Clark, I thought you wanted us to stay friends.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“But you said it. Kind of,” you argue, your forehead creasing.

He holds out his arms, stifling his laughter. “You didn’t let me explain! I panicked. I didn’t know what to say. You know how I get when I’m nervous.”

You’re left standing there, beyond stunned. “So this whole time… we could’ve been together?” You make a brief pause, falling silent. “I was so mad at you. So fucking—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Clark takes hold of your chin, angling your head backwards so your eyes peer directly into his. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Complaining about the past. We’re here now. We can make it up to each other.”

You sigh, and he hunches over to rest his forehead against yours. His stare carries so much, but you can’t look away. “I think I remembered my speech.”

“We’ve already moved past that.”

“I could still deliver it—”

You’re cut off by Clark’s mouth on yours. He kisses you with the intensity of a starved man, and you freeze, caught off guard and barely moving your lips, until he guides your arms around his neck, and that’s when your body catches up. His own hands find their sacred place on your waist, clutching the fabric of your sweater.

This is the aftermath of months of pent up-frustration. His tongue presses insistently against yours to seek entry. Ever so gently, he corners you against the nearest wall, and your head nudges a frame that ends up clattering to the floor. It’s not enough to get Clark off of you. He shoves it aside with his shoe, further pressing you into the wall.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he gasps between kisses, holding your cheeks as his nose bumps into yours.

“We won’t,” you say, dizzy from all the kissing. “I promise.”

It turns out that his lips can’t seem to leave yours for long. “And please don’t go on any more dates with new hires.”

You roll your eyes, running your fingers through the short hair at his nape. “I told you it went horribly.”

“Still.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Your mouth crushes onto his once again, your pulse quickening with every second his hands are on you. You then whisper against his lips, “It’s always been you. You can stop worrying about other men.”

He blows out his cheeks, shaking his head. “Golly, this isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“I just—love you so much,” he mumbles, pecking your lips, “and you’re so beautiful, and there’s so much I want to do with you. I want to do everything—”

“We’ll take our time.”

“I know, I know.” He grazes the skin of your neck as he pulls you in for another kiss. “But touching you, kissing you… it feels too good to be true.”

A small chuckle escapes you, and you caress his cheek. “Alright, Romeo. You’ve done enough talking.”

When you come back to your senses, he’s got you all sprawled across the couch, his touch insistent yet careful. You’re struggling to remain still the more acquainted he becomes with your body. He digs his fingers into your waist, your hips, the sides of your thighs, leaving a trail of all the places where he’s been.

He’s kissing down your jawline the moment your mind conjures up an important question. “Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“Let’s say that, hypothetically, I spend the night here.”

“…Hypothetically.”

“Exactly. Would you have a spare toothbrush in that case?”

He lifts his head from your neck, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “You’re marking territory.”

“Hey. I said hypothetically. And I care about dental hygiene.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, your head squeezed between his forearms. He ducks down to kiss you. “I do have a spare toothbrush. Don’t worry about that.”

You resume the make-out session after that. You sink deeper into the cushions as he shoves your sweater further up your chest, just enough to ghost his fingertips along your bra, eliciting a choked whimper out of you. The sound seems to spur him on because he pulls off his own shirt, allowing you to get a better look at his stomach.

The words die on your lips, and you draw a pattern over his pecks, then up to his biceps, ending in the happy trail that leads to what remains hidden beneath the tent on his sweatpants.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” he breathes, pining your hand above your head. “I thought you were the one who said to take our time.”

“I’m gonna combust and you haven’t even touched me properly yet,” you admit, gaping at his lips as he hovers over you, teasing you. “Imagine the state I’m in.”

That makes him smirk, and he slides a thick thigh between your parted legs, pressing it to your center. You throw your head back, cursing. “You like that?”

You nod, watching him through hooded eyes. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck, Clark. Do something. I need—”

Upon the coffee table next to the couch, your phone starts ringing, and Uptown Girl by Billy Joel fills the living room.

The spell breaks, and you hide your face into the crook of his neck. “I hate my life.”

“Ignore it.”

“I can’t. I know who it is,” you say, reaching your arm without looking. Eventually, you drag the phone out of the purse, and show the screen to him. “It’s Lois. She must be calling to ask how the date went.”

“Text her instead.”

“Clark, I can’t—just don’t make a sound, okay? I have to take this, or else she’ll keep calling.”

You accept the call without noticing your voice has gone up an octave. “Hi!”

“Hey! You didn’t text me about the date, so I figured I’d just call you.”

“Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.” You gulp down as he rolls your sweater over your head in one swift motion, and you slap his shoulder when he almost makes you drop your phone. “It was… average.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“We didn’t have much in common,” you continue, drifting your attention to the ceiling to try and stay composed. “He was—oh.”

Clark’s kisses have now migrated to your chest, his fingers sneaking beneath your back to unclasp your bra. He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes hold of your breasts in his hands, and you squirm under him.

Lois’ voice breaks through, sounding distant. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yes. I’m here, sorry. We didn’t even talk that much. I left quite early.” You mouth a ‘stop’ to him, holding the phone away from your ear, but he just smiles at you.

“Dammit, that sucks. Are you home now?”

“I was—Clark!” You yelp as he closes his mouth around your right nipple, scraping his teeth against the hardened peak. He looks at you with a horrified expression, and your whole frame stiffens.

“…Clark?” Lois repeats, and she gasps. “Are you—is Clark there? CLARK KENT?”

“IhavetogoI’msosorrybyeloveyouuuuu,” you push out the words quickly in one breath before hanging up, dropping the phone to the floor. “You’re a prick. What the hell was that?”

“I’d put it into silence mode if I were you.”

“That wasn’t fair.”

“What’s not fair is that you’re still wearing clothes.” He sits on his knees to unbutton your pants and yank them to your ankles, his eyes dark with want. Then he does the same to his own, until all that’s left are your underwear and the hardness confined inside his briefs, which presses against you the moment he leans down.

You begin kissing him as he lays on top of you, holding himself up on his forearms so as not to crush you with his weight.

“When did you become a horny teenager?” you ask, biting back a moan as he aligns himself with you, both of you still clothed. You know there must be a damp spot on your panties at this point from how wet you are.

“Always been one around you,” he replies huskily, slipping his hands under your thighs to tug you even closer. As he grinds his hips into yours, his jaw clenches, his breath damp against your skin. “Can I—is this alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You shift to give him more space between your legs. “It’s nice.”

The temperature in the room is borderline unbearable. Clark rocks into you in earnest, muttering sounds next to your ear. Some you catch, but some are so low that they are swallowed by the way he murmurs your name.

“I feel stupid doing this,” he grits out, pressing his lips to yours, his brows knitting. “I wish I could do more for you, but—I can’t. I need this. You feel—”

Shushing him, you roll your hips up to meet his mid thrust just right, whimpering when his tip catches against your entrance through the sticky fabric. He shivers, making a strangled noise.

“Oh, God—”

“Clark—”

“I swear—”

You cut him off with a kiss, sucking on his tongue. “Do you want to be inside me?”

He’s panting against your mouth, pupils blown. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He flattens his palms on the back of your thighs, his fingernails scraping gently. “I mean, of course I—yes, I’d love that,” he says, laying heavy stress on the ‘love’ part. “But I’d like to make you come like this first.”

A grin curls your lips. “Great. We’ve got four days until the bet’s done. Each orgasm equals ten points.”

That night, you have sex with Clark Kent for the first time, and it’s the best sex of your life.

He earns forty points in the span of an hour and a half.

The day the challenge started, the sky was falling apart, rain had laughed in your face, soaking you from head to toes, and Clark had offered you a spare umbrella, which you declined.

But today, four weeks later, the sun couldn’t be shining brighter, you get to work right on time, and Clark brings you coffee and a pastry for breakfast at the office.

You’re in the break room. He drags a chair across the floorboards so that he can sit next to you. Neither of you are working, though after a month of constant fighting, a short period of ten minutes of peace feels like the real prize after all.

The memories from that first day feel almost laughable now in your mind.

I was just thinking out loud, Kent. I can’t wrap my head around someone acting like they’re on stage all the damn time.

You really think I wake up every day and put on an act?

I don’t know, you tell me. I wonder if your modest decency will ever run out.

Maybe if you tried being decent for more than five minutes, you’d see it’s not an act. It’s only called being nice.

Glancing to your side, you find him scrolling through something on his phone. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he reads, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. You smile before you can stop yourself.

He must feel your attention on him because he catches you staring. A smile spreads across his face too. “What’s got you like this?”

You shake your head, feeling the rising to your cheeks. “Nothing,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee. “I was just… thinking.”

Across the room, Jimmy and Lois hover protectively over the whiteboard where they’ve kept track of every good deed you’ve performed. She attempts to speak, but he shushes her, looking at the two of you over his shoulder.

“Did you two do this on purpose?” he asks, capping his marker, and neither of you know what he’s talking about. It’s only then that Lois and him step aside to reveal the final score.

You lean forward, scrutinizing the numbers on the board. “We’re… even?”

Pursing his lips, Jimmy runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this. There was supposed to be one winner, as in any other game.”

You raise your hands. “Clark should win. He's been preparing for this his whole life.”

“I’m sorry, but no,” he objects, crossing his arms over his chest. “You did some really nice things for the sake of the challenge. You deserve it more than me.”

“But you—”

“She wins!” Clark concludes, standing up to clap for you, encouraging Lois and Jimmy to do the same.

After the round of applause is over, you take a bow, wiping imaginary tears from under your eyes. “I never thought this could actually happen,” you say, glaring at Clark. “My partner in crime, you made this possible.”

“We’ve created a monster,” Jimmy whispers, loud enough for you to hear it, and tugs on Lois’ sleeve. “Alright. Now I feel uncomfortable.”

“You two… are disgustingly… cute!” she chirps, being dragged outside the room.

Arms clasped behind his back, Clark puffs out his chest, looming closer. Behind his glasses, his eyes flicker with mischief. “Congratulations. You can have that exclusive interview with Superman anytime you want.”

“So I finally get to meet him? What an honor.”

“Does tonight work for you? At my place. He told me he’s dying to have a word with you.”

“I see.” You twist his tie around your fingers. “Will you be there?”

“Of course. I’m the mediator.”

Before he can say anything else, you pull him forward by the tie, kissing him. He cradles your face in his big hands, his nose brushing yours lovingly as he trips over his own feet to close the door. You warn him about someone eventually walking in, but he just answers, “We can make it quick.”

To be fair, you like this new version of yourself, the one who’s been making an effort to be nicer.

The one who’s irremediably in love with Clark.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

1K notes · View notes

lokinks · 3 days ago

Text

“You wanna repeat that, Barnes?”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Female Reader Summary: Everyone at the Tower knows you and Bucky are something. mainly because you flirt like it’s a combat sport and share toast like an old married couple. You both deny it. Loudly. Repeatedly. Badly. The team starts a betting pool. Word Count: 4k Warnings/tags: Sharp banter, emotional tension, enemies-to-lovers heat and y/n sarcasm, Avengers team, Avengers tower, betting, kissing implied. A/n: I wrote this last night after posting part 1, don't mind the typo or grammars huhu. i hope this closure make sense.

``masterlist part 1

The Tower’s energy shifted. Not all at once—but in the way seasoned operatives notice the difference between silence and tension. Between coincidence and intent. Between two people who used to argue across the table, and now couldn’t sit more than an arm's length apart without trading looks when they thought no one was watching.

Only everyone was watching.

“You two are being weird,” Clint said one morning, halfway through his eggs, not even bothering to look up from his plate.

You blinked. “We’ve always been weird.”

“Yeah, but now it’s coordinated weird,” Sam chimed in, spooning cereal into his mouth with a knowing look. “You finish each other’s insults.”

“And sandwiches,” Steve added without missing a beat, walking in with a coffee in hand.

“I do not finish his sandwiches,” you said, eyes squinting in offense.

Bucky, across from you, smirked without lifting his gaze from the mission report. “You stole half my panini yesterday.”

“That was charity.”

“Sure it was.”

Natasha breezed in, grabbed a toast from the plate Clint had made, and casually cut the tension like it was her job. “Just tell them you’re dating so they’ll shut up.”

You blinked slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” She didn’t even blink.

Thor was the least subtle.

He bellowed with laughter during training when Bucky steadied you after a sparring round. “Ah! The Winter Soldier catches his lady mid-fall—like a scene from the Midgardian romance books!”

You shoved Bucky off you. “Gross.”

Bucky rolled his shoulder. “He wants this to be a bodice ripper.”

Sam choked on water.

Still, you never gave a straight answer.

Whenever someone tried to corner you like Tony, who cornered Bucky in the garage with a smirk and a socket wrench, he just grunted and claimed the thermos war you’d had months ago as the beginning and end of your "connection."

Tony didn’t buy it. “You’re practically her emotional support assassin.”

“I have knives older than you.” Bucky snipped.

Tony scoffed. “And feelings apparently, shockingly.”

You refused to dignify anything with a confession. It wasn’t out of embarrassment. You just… liked having something just yours. Something not picked apart on the mission board or dissected over lunch. Something not speculated about on comms when you both slipped into a rhythm that only made sense to the two of you.

But you knew they knew.

Especially when, during a debrief, Steve paused mid-sentence to glance between you both as Bucky leaned slightly toward your shoulder while you were scanning intel.

“…Anyway,” Steve muttered, blinking away the mental image, “recon at 0700. Try not to flirt during it.”

“I don’t flirt,” you shot back.

Bucky, straight-faced: “She flirts with grenades. Not me.”

Clint snorted. “Then why did you smile when she stabbed that guy in the thigh?”

“I admire effective technique,” Bucky deadpanned.

“Uh-huh.”

Later that week, you and Bucky passed each other in the hallway. No words. Just the faintest smile. The faintest brush of shoulders. Like gravity didn’t need language to pull you closer.

Nat was standing at the end of the hall, sipping her tea.

“I saw that,” she called after you.

You turned over your shoulder, dry as ever. “Then stop watching.”

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m radioactive.”

“Tell him.”

“I already stabbed him once. That’s enough communication for now.”

Bucky passed her next, nodding politely.

She narrowed her eyes. “You too. Stop playing dumb.”

He just offered that crooked, irritatingly handsome smirk.

“Not playing,” he said.

But Nat rolled her eyes.

They weren’t stupid.

And neither were you.

You just… liked this game. For now. For a little while longer.

Because what you had with him? That was yours. Banter, bruises, affection buried in sarcasm—it was messy, quiet, and unfolding exactly how it needed to.

Even if the entire Tower was already placing bets.

You weren’t holding hands. You weren’t sneaking off into the night. You weren’t kissing in the kitchen while the toast burned. You weren’t doing anything obvious.

But the team knew. God, they knew.

Because no one else exchanged weapons during sparring with the silent care of two people who’d patched each other up a dozen times.

No one else bickered in a tone that made it sound like foreplay.

No one else sat exactly one chair apart on the couch every night—close enough to lean over and whisper something that made the other smirk, but just far enough to keep up the illusion.

It was the kind of intimacy that built itself in-between the cracks. Like moss growing in the corners of a battlefield. Quiet. Resilient. Impossible to ignore.

And everyone had a front-row seat to the slowest emotional car crash on earth.

"How’s your rib?" Steve asked, one morning over coffee.

"Better," you replied, sipping tea, curled up on the common room couch with a blanket Bucky had thrown at you hours ago before leaving for a morning run.

"He still bringing you food?"

You raised a brow. "What food?"

Sam snorted behind his cereal. “The daily toast ritual? We know.”

You shrugged. “Toast is toast.”

“Yeah, and Bucky’s the Winter Soldier, not a housewife,” Sam muttered. “But he makes it for you. Voluntarily.”

"Maybe he’s just soft now,” you said, barely containing your smirk.

"Yeah?" Clint said, walking in mid-convo. "Then explain why he threatened a kid at the deli who forgot your extra pickles last week."

You sipped your tea. “Pickles are serious.”

“Mm-hm,” Nat added, stepping into the room just in time. “And yet, you never threw a knife before he started spending every night on your floor.”

That got a twitch out of your jaw. But you didn’t flinch.

"Coincidence."

Tony wandered through with blueprints, glanced at all of you, and deadpanned: “At this point, just elope. Or don’t. Just stop looking like divorced exes who found closure over post-mission tacos.”

You waved a hand lazily. “We’re not dating.”

"Sure you’re not,” Bruce muttered from the kitchen. “You just match trauma patterns and coffee orders.”

“Bruce,” you warned.

“...and he growls when people talk too long around you.”

You blinked. “He growls at everyone.”

“He didn’t growl at you when you blew up his arm attachment last week.”

“That was an accident.”

“That was a love tap,” Clint sing-songed.

After the chaos died down and everyone drifted out to missions or naps or labs, you found yourself alone in the quiet of the living room, curled up with your book.

You didn’t hear Bucky come in—but you felt the air shift, that familiar quiet hush before he spoke.

“Still playing dumb?”

You tilted your head, looking up at him with an innocent blink. “Me?”

He sat beside you, thigh brushing yours.

“They’re going to start asking for invitations.”

“They’ll never get them.”

“You like keeping this ours?”

You nodded. “I do.”

He smirked. “Good. Me too.”

A pause. Then:

“You’re still soft, though.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re still a menace.”

You leaned your shoulder into his. He didn’t move away.

Outside, Tony down the hall, groaned loudly and shouted, “I CAN SEE YOU THROUGH THE GLASS WALLS.”

You didn’t even flinch.

You both just smiled.

well past midnight, when the tower had settled into its usual lull of faint humming lights and the occasional sound of F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s gentle reminders. You found yourself shrugging on Bucky's oversized hoodie, half-laughing as he tugged your hand toward the elevator.

“Are we seriously doing this?” you whispered, slipping on your boots with a wince as the zipper snagged a loose thread.

Bucky smirked, already stuffing his wallet into his back pocket. “You said you were craving banana milk and those weird spicy chips. I’m just being a supportive partner.”

“You’re enabling me.”

“I’m also the one risking Steve’s disapproval when he finds out we snuck out past curfew,” he muttered with a wink. “So technically, I’m a hero.”

The streets were quiet—unusually so for the city—but the bodega on 3rd was still glowing bright, the fluorescent sign flickering like it always did. You both ducked inside, ignoring the sleepy-eyed man at the counter who barely looked up from his phone.

You made a beeline for the snack aisle while Bucky grabbed two drinks and a container of those sketchy-looking mini donuts that always tasted better at 1 a.m. When you met at the register, your hands were full of chaos.

“This,” he said, holding up the donuts, “is romance.”

You snorted. “No, this is reckless decision-making disguised as love.”

“Same thing.”

Outside, you ended up on the curb—him sitting with his long legs stretched out, you tucked beside him, sharing chips and trading bites like you weren’t technically enhanced beings breaking tower protocol. Your knees brushed. His fingers lingered over yours. The air was cool but not cold.

“You ever think we’d end up like this?” you asked softly, glancing at him as he chewed on a sour gummy.

He swallowed, smiled slightly. “Didn’t dare to.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, the city buzzing softly around you.

Yeah. This was reckless. And maybe a little stupid.

But damn, it felt good.

You both were still giggling like sleep-deprived idiots by the time you reached the tower lobby, arms full of snacks and zero shame. The elevator doors dinged open, and instinctively, Bucky threw a quick glance over his shoulder like a raccoon caught red-handed.

“Clint’s not gonna pop out of the ceiling again, right?” you whispered, clutching your bag of chips like contraband.

“I swear to God, if he drops from another vent I’m moving to Wakanda.”

You both paused at your floor—peeked down the hallway. Empty. No movement. Coast clear.

You tiptoed out dramatically while Bucky followed with exaggerated stealth, both of you barely holding in your laughter. Just as you neared your door, you tripped over your own feet trying to shush your giggle fit, and he caught you with one hand over your mouth, the other steadying your waist.

“Shhh! You’re gonna blow our cover.”

“I can’t help it—your serious spy face is killing me.”

Inside your room, the door clicked shut behind you, and you both exhaled in synchronized relief.

“Okay, go brush your teeth. You smell like pickle chips and rebellion,” you teased, grabbing the mini donut container before he could protest.

“Oh please, like you’re not half jalapeño puff and mischief.”

Teeth were brushed, mouths minty and clean again. You slipped back into bed with a dramatic sigh, throwing the blanket over yourself as he flicked off the bathroom light and padded over, hoodie now tossed somewhere across the room.

Bucky slid in beside you, cold feet and all.

“Don’t you dare—”

He nudged his icy toes against your calf anyway.

“You’re a menace.”

“You like it,” he murmured with a grin, already tugging you closer under the covers.

You smacked his arm once for the principle of it, then curled into him, the crinkling sound of chip bags somewhere on the floor.

In the silence that followed—just the sound of your breath slowing and his hand rubbing lazy circles on your back—you thought:

This is trouble. Soft, sneaky, wonderful trouble.

And you weren’t backing out anytime soon.

Next morning, Steve didn’t even bother with a team meeting. Just showed up in the kitchen one morning with a tablet, a duffel bag, and a very Captain-America-ish smirk.

“You’re both up,” he said casually, like it wasn’t a declaration of war.

Bucky blinked at him over his coffee. “Up for what?”

“You’re going.”

You squinted. “Going where?”

Steve dropped the tablet on the counter. The mission brief glared back at you in bold red. Recon and extraction. Minimal contact. Small-scale intel sweep. Nothing major. Nothing explosive.

But just dangerous enough to need two seasoned agents.

Or two agents who needed to be babysat with something they couldn’t mess up by emotionally imploding in the middle of it.

“You’re sending us together?” Bucky said, already suspicious.

“Why?” you added, slowly.

Steve sighed. “Because you’re driving the rest of the team insane.”

“Rude,” you muttered.

He ignored you. “Because you work well together. And you haven’t been on a field mission since your injury.”

“Still rude,” Bucky muttered.

“And because,” Steve continued, narrowing his eyes with that damn authoritative kindness of his, “either you two finally implode and get it over with, or you come back slightly less insufferable to be around.”

You opened your mouth.

“No arguing. Gear up. Jet leaves in thirty.”

—

The jet was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the slow shuffle of Bucky flipping through the mission brief again. You were across from him, legs stretched out, arms crossed.

“You think he’s punishing us?” you asked, deadpan.

“Absolutely,” Bucky muttered. “This is a setup.”

You grinned faintly. “Bet you twenty bucks Nat’s behind it too.”

He exhaled a laugh. “I’ll double it if Sam tagged along just to spy.”

You glanced toward the closed cockpit. “You think he’s hiding up front?”

“No,” Bucky said. “But I know he bugged our comms.”

You snorted. “I’m not calling you ‘babe’ on comms just to piss him off.”

“Coward.”

You laughed.

—

Landing was smooth. The mission went smoother. It always did with Bucky. You didn’t even have to look at each other sometimes—just fell into step, your rhythm syncing like you'd never taken time off.

Minimal words. Maximum trust.

Old scars, new beginnings.

Same war. New terms.

He covered your blind spots. You covered his exits.

He handed you a second knife without being asked. You slipped it into your boot without comment.

He grunted at a guard. You zapped one behind his back before he even turned.

He looked at you once—really looked—and just said:

“Missed this.”

You didn’t answer. Just tossed him the flash drive and gave a half-smile.

“Let’s go home.”

—

Back on the jet, you sat side by side now. Not quite touching. Not quite not.

You were quiet most of the way.

Until he leaned in and whispered, “Steve’s going to ask questions.”

You hummed. “Let him.”

“And Sam’s going to record everything.”

“He always does.”

“And you’re going to keep playing dumb.”

“Absolutely.”

He chuckled, low and soft, like he couldn’t help it.

Then he shifted just a little closer, shoulder against yours, warm and steady.

You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t joke.

Didn’t hide. Until both of you landed back in the compound.

You didn’t even make it halfway into the debriefing room before the chaos started.

Sam was the first to pipe up, arms crossed, grinning like a man who had just won a jackpot.

“Told you!” he crowed, turning to Nat with all the grace of a showboater. “Look at ‘em. Matching injuries, matching smug faces, matching energy. Pay up.”

Nat rolled her eyes and calmly slipped a twenty from her boot, slapping it into his waiting palm without blinking. “Still doesn’t prove anything. They could’ve just not killed each other for once.”

Clint leaned back in his chair, chewing on a toothpick. “Nah. That was definitely hand-holding vibes.”

You threw your hands up. “It was a recon mission!”

Bucky grunted. “You weren’t even there.”

“That’s why the bet’s legal,” Clint said smugly.

Bruce, from behind his tablet, didn’t look up. “I had ‘slow burn but explosive payoff in approximately two months’ on the calendar pool.”

Tony wheeled in from the other side of the room with a flair only he could manage, holding a dry-erase board with columns labeled Undeniable Sexual Tension and Just Teammates Being Weird. Under UST, he had already scrawled both your names in thick red marker.

“Your denial,” Tony said, tapping the board, “means nothing to science. Or Vegas odds.”

“I didn’t know there was a board,” Bucky said flatly.

“There’s three,” Tony said. “One in the lab, one in the lounge, and one on the fridge. But that one’s magnetic. Very user-friendly.”

You turned to Steve, the last hope of normalcy.

He just rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “I didn’t bet. But…I mean, you’re not exactly subtle.”

You groaned. Bucky muttered something like “I told you this would happen” under his breath.

“Okay, okay,” you said, pointing a threatening finger at Sam. “For the record, nothing happened.”

Sam raised a brow. “Yet.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” you added, tone laced with dry warning.

“Oh sure,” he said, deadpan. “You just come back from a romantic two-person stakeout in the woods, eyes all soft, acting like you didn’t just share a thermos of trust and trauma bonding.”

You blinked. “How do you—”

“Steve told me,” he grinned.

“I knew he bugged the comms,” Bucky growled.

Steve raised his hands innocently. “I didn’t! I just… might’ve mentioned the thermos thing.”

Tony gasped like it was the reveal of the century. “The thermos?! Oh it’s real.”

Nat shook her head. “This is embarrassing. For us.”

Bucky leaned over to you, whispering under his breath, “Want to fake a breakup to shut them up?”

You whispered back, “Let’s fake a Vegas elopement and ruin everyone’s bracket.”

He smirked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

But still—he didn't push.

You didn’t pull.

You let them talk, let them joke, let them laugh and mock and bet and speculate.

It was a rare full-house morning in the Avengers Tower kitchen.

Which, of course, meant absolute chaos.

Clint was trying to make pancakes with three spatulas like he was conducting a symphony. Sam was arguing with Tony about the correct peanut butter-to-toast ratio. Thor had already finished an entire pack of pop-tarts and was now drinking orange juice straight from the carton. Natasha and Steve were quietly observing from the island like zookeepers watching the rest of you fling your enrichment toys.

You were half-asleep at the counter, nursing your coffee like it was your only lifeline to reality. Bucky shuffled in beside you, dropping two slices of toast onto your plate—burnt just the way you liked it, because you were weird—and nudged your elbow wordlessly.

You grunted a thanks. He grunted back.

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“You two always this quiet before 10AM?” he asked, sipping his tea.

You didn’t even look up. “Only when surrounded by this level of domestic violence.”

“That’s breakfast, not violence,” Tony said, flipping a piece of Sam’s peanut butter toast onto the floor by mistake.

“I stand by what I said.”

Then came the slip-up. Bucky—grumbling under his breath about something Clint said—tugged his hoodie sleeves up and dropped into the seat next to yours. He leaned back, eyes barely open, hair still wet from the shower. “I should’ve just stayed in your bed,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Way warmer than mine.”

Silence. You blinked.

The air stopped.

Tony’s spoon clinked loudly into his cereal bowl. Sam’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. Clint spun slowly, spatulas poised mid-air. Nat didn’t even flinch—but her head tilted like a hawk spotting prey. Steve turned his full body toward Bucky like he just realized gravity wasn’t real.

Bucky’s face froze.

Yours did too. Eyes bulged.

Steve was the first to break it.

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly, setting his mug down, “You wanna repeat that, Barnes?”

Bucky’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“...That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

Sam was grinning, wicked and victorious. “No no, don’t walk it back now. You said her bed. Warmer. You said that, I heard it. Tony, back me up.”

Tony lifted his mug. “Recorded it.”

Nat finally smiled. “So that’s why you’ve been walking straighter in the mornings.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead to the counter.

Bucky groaned louder, dragging a hand down his face. “I meant her mattress. She has those heat pad things. That’s all.”

“Oh?” Clint quipped. “That’s all she has?”

“Guys—guys,” you finally said, lifting your head, cheeks hot, but your voice sharp. “If one more of you opens your mouth, I will go full mutant and burn the entire toaster.”

They all froze.

You glared. “I’ll do it.”

Bucky muttered under his breath, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You kicked him under the table.

Steve looked like he aged ten years. “Okay. Moving on.”

Thor, oblivious and cheerful, held up his orange juice. “I, too, have found Midgardian beds quite comfortable!”

“Great, Thor,” Tony said. “Let’s just all go around the room and talk about whose bed is warmer.”

Sam wiggled his brows. “I already know the answer.”

You and Bucky didn’t say a word.

But your coffee suddenly tasted much warmer than usual.

And from then on, any time someone so much as looked at you both during breakfast, you could feel the smirks.

Because the whole tower knew.

And they were not going to let it go.

—

You slammed the door shut behind you, the click of the lock sharp, angry, and very much intentional.

He barely made it three steps into your room before you whipped around and smacked his arm—not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to get the message across.

“You are unbelievable, James Buchanan Barnes.”

He barely flinched. Just stood there in your room like he hadn’t just dropped the biggest slip-up of the century in front of the entire team over dinner.

“My bed is warmer?” you mocked, voice high-pitched and full of theatrical disbelief as you spun around to face him. “You couldn’t just say my apartment’s cold or I like the thermostat on high—no, you had to say my bed is warmer. Like we’ve been sleeping in it together for months. Which we have. But that’s not the point.”

Bucky raised both hands as if to defend himself, but the grin twitching on his lips ruined any chance of you taking him seriously.

“Oh, don’t smile. You think this is funny? Nat didn’t even blink. She just smirked. Like she’s already won the bet.”

“She probably has.”

You smacked his other arm.

“I had my whole routine figured out. Half-flirt, half-snark, zero confirmation. Now I’ve got Tony doing double takes and Sam asking me if your dog tags are on my nightstand.”

“Are they?”

“That’s not the point!”

He was close now. Too close. The room suddenly felt smaller, warmer, like the air shifted just because he was looking at you like that—lazy and fond and wholly unrepentant.

“You’re lucky I don’t kick you out for this,” you muttered, poking at his chest, frustrated more with your own reaction than with him. “You’re lucky I’m nice. You’re lucky—”

He cut you off mid-rant with his mouth.

No warning. No explanation. Just lips on yours—fierce, certain, like he knew you needed something to quiet the storm he started. You grabbed at his shoulders instinctively, half intending to shove him back, but your hands curled instead, anchoring yourself as he kissed the frustration right out of you.

He didn’t rush. He never did. Just eased into it, one hand at your waist, the other at the back of your neck, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. His lips moved over yours, like kissing you was the only language he spoke fluently.

By the time he pulled away, your breath had gone traitorously shallow.

“Still mad?” he asked, voice low and smug and entirely too pleased with himself.

You glared up at him. “I should still be mad.”

“But?”

“But you shut me up too well.”

He grinned. “I’ll try harder next time.”

“Don’t you dare.”

But when he leaned in again—just a brush of lips, teasing and sweet—you didn’t stop him.

The sunlight was already creeping in through the blinds when you cracked open one eye, groaning softly. Your back was warm—Bucky’s arm slung over your waist, heavy and possessive, the quiet rise and fall of his chest pressed against your spine.

Last night came rushing back in fragments. The flurry of hands. Your muttered whining. His mouth shutting you up. The soft press of his weight against you on the bed as your laughter died between kisses and something tender bloomed slow behind his eyes.

Now, it was quiet. Easy.

He stirred behind you, grumbling something unintelligible into your hair before shifting enough to nuzzle your shoulder.

You didn’t bother rushing. Not this morning.

You both eventually got dressed—your shirt, his hoodie. Shared coffee. Stolen oatbars. But nothing about the slow rhythm you moved in spoke of secrecy. Not anymore.

By the time you both walked into the briefing room…late, of course—Nat and Clint were already seated. Steve stood with his arms crossed near the screen, and Sam…

Sam was grinning like a shark who’d just smelt blood.

“Morning,” you said, brushing past Bucky to slump into the chair beside Wanda, who gave you a look that was just short of smug.

“Nice of you two to join us,” Steve muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone.

Bucky didn’t even try to hide it—he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek right in front of everyone, hand resting a second too long on your shoulder as he settled in beside you.

There was a sharp scoff from Clint. “Wow. No shame.”

“None,” Bucky replied casually, throwing one arm behind your chair.

Across the room, Sam snorted and held out his hand. Tony sighed dramatically and slapped a wad of cash into his palm. “I was rooting for denial until next month.”

“You dream too big, Stark,” Sam said, counting the bills with glee.

Steve groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You do realize this is a mission briefing, right?”

“Yeah,” you said around a yawn, leaning into Bucky’s shoulder. “But someone had to liven it up.”

the end.

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stellaspectral · 3 days ago

Note

Can I request a Leo (you decide which version you prefer) x Female!Reader from his perspective? I want to make him suffer a little so I want him pining hard for the Reader and thinking that his love is unrequited for whatever reason. Can you add a scene where he is observing her having fun with one of his brothers and his mood worsening because he doesn’t know how to have that kind of complicity with her? If you want you can make him discover that his love is reciprocated at the end ahah

A/N: I chose Rise Leo for this one because I enjoy the thought of this version pining for some reason. Enjoy! 💖

You Just Have to Be You (angst/fluff)

💙 ROTTMNT Leonardo/Female Reader 💙

CWs: Angst, pining, anxiety, jealousy, misunderstandings, feelings of inadequacy, confessions, first kiss, and a happy ending. All characters are aged-up.

Leo is the master of deflection.

A virtuoso of the witty comeback, king of the quip. It’s his brand. It’s his armor. And right now, that armor feels about as effective as wet paper.

When you arrived in the lair tonight, your smile lit up the room like someone had turned the sun on just for him. Or, at least, that’s how it felt for a heartbeat. When he let himself believe, for a single second, that maybe—just maybe—the smile was meant for him.

But then you veered left, straight toward Mikey.

Of course it was Mikey. The emotionally available, effortlessly charming, cosmic ray of chaos and warmth. You two had a rhythm, a shared wavelength of spontaneous laughter and inside jokes.

Leo lingers in the doorway of the communal area, arms crossed like it would keep his chest from splitting open. He’s trying to look casual, but tension hums through every taut muscle in his body. You’re here. That, in itself, is enough to send his carefully constructed cool into a tailspin.

But you’re across the room, caught up in a laugh with Mikey. The way your face lights up when he’s around makes something twist inside him, sharp and aching. He wants to be the reason you smile like that.

But he doesn’t know how.

He watches you. You and Mikey share a language he can’t speak: a language of stencils and color schemes, of bumping shoulders as you reach for the same can of paint. You move in sync, a natural, uncomplicated complicity that makes a hot, tight coil of something bitter and ugly form in his stomach.

It’s jealousy, raw and caustic.

Every single one of his interactions with you is a calculation. A script. What’s the wittiest comeback? Will this smile make your heart race? He’s so busy trying to be the guy he thinks you want that he’s completely forgotten how to just be. Seeing Mikey make you glow with laughter without a single premeditated one-liner makes him feel like a fraud.

Leo catches himself scowling, turning his head to hide the sting. He’s supposed to be the strong one. The leader. How did he become the guy who watches, hopelessly pining, stuck on the sidelines? He tells himself to walk away, to go train. But he can’t. He’s frozen, an idiot watching the girl he’s hopelessly in love with.

You, of course, have no idea—and why would you?

To you, he’s just Leo. The face-man, the one who cracks jokes when things get serious, the one who dodges feelings like he dodges punches. How could you ever look at that and see someone worth taking seriously? Someone worth loving? The thought is a bitter pill he swallows down every single day.

Your laughter finally trails off, and Mikey nudges you playfully toward the kitchen. “C’mon, I made those matcha mochi brownies you like.”

You squeal, delighted, and Leo’s stomach sinks further.

He starts to turn away—he should turn away—but then you glance up. Just for a second. Your eyes meet his.

And suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.

Your smile softens. It’s not the same one you gave Mikey. It’s … different. Gentler. A flicker of something that makes Leo’s heart stutter. But then Mikey’s orbit claims you again, leaving Leo reeling from that split-second of possibility.

He exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. He’s being ridiculous. Over-analyzing. That look probably meant nothing.

Didn’t it?

Donnie slides up beside him, unnoticed until he speaks. “You’re staring again.”

Leo jumps, scowling at his brother. “Do you mind?”

Donnie shrugs. “Not particularly. But your emotional repression is starting to make me uncomfortable.”

Leo groans. “Go away.”

But Donnie doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He stays, arms crossed, eyes watching the same scene across the room. You’re leaning on Mikey’s shoulder now in the kitchen, your laughter muffled against his hoodie as he dramatically reenacts something.

Leo’s heart clenches.

“I’m just saying,” Donnie murmurs, voice uncharacteristically quiet, “if you want something to change, maybe stop watching her like a sad protagonist in a movie and say something.”

Leo doesn’t answer. He can’t. His throat is tight, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. Because the truth is, he has tried. Sort of. In his own backwards, cryptic, ‘ha-ha-only-kidding’ way. A carefully curated compliment here. A joke with a sliver of truth buried deep in the punchline there. But it never lands.

Or maybe you never see it for what it is.

And why would you? He hides everything behind irony and confidence. Smoke and mirrors. That’s his whole thing.

Leo rubs the back of his neck, irritation flaring. “It’s not like I can just walk over and tell her I like her. It’s complicated.”

“It’s not,” Donnie says. “You like her. So talk to her. Try doing it honestly. Radical concept, I know.”

Leo glares at him. “This, coming from you?”

Donnie shakes his head with a huff.

“I’d mess it up,” Leo says after a few beats of staring at you. Then, his voice is barely audible, like the words burn on the way out. “I’d mess it up, and then things wouldn’t be the same.”

Donnie sighs. “You know, for a guy who talks all the time, you’re remarkably bad at communicating.” He pats Leo’s shoulder. “Just … think about it, would you?” Then he’s off, leaving Leo alone with his heartbeat thudding traitorously in his ears.

Leo stands in the hallway alone, wrestling with the weight of his feelings. The idea of messing up with you—of putting his heart in your hands and watching it shatter when you hand it back—is the scariest thing he’s ever faced. And he’s faced mutants the size of buildings.

Donnie’s words echo in his head, and Leo clenches his fists at his sides, knuckles white. Say what? ‘Hey, I’m sorry to interrupt you while you’re having fun with my brother. But are you aware that my entire sense of self-worth hinges on your smiling at me? Also, here’s a terrible one-liner.’

Yeah, real smooth.

He takes a deep, fortifying breath. Okay. New plan. Not a grand confession. Not even a flirtatious overture. Just … he’ll walk into the kitchen. He’ll grab a drink. He’ll lean against the counter and just be there. Part of the group. Not a weirdo lurking in the shadows. He can do that.

He’s just pushed off the wall—when you’re walking toward him, a half-eaten brownie in your hand, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of your mouth. His plan evaporates. Abort mission, ABORT!

“Hey,” you say, your voice soft. You stop a few feet from him, tilting your head. “Hiding out?”

Leo’s mouth opens, but the witty retort he was searching for has apparently fled the country. He settles for a weak, “Just, uh … thinking.”

“Mikey was saving you one of these, you know.” You hold out the brownie. “Or what’s left of it. I have no self-control.”

He should take it; it’s a simple, friendly gesture. But his hands feel like lead weights. He stares at the brownie, then at your face. That gentle smile is back.

And for a moment, that smile is all that exists in the universe for him.

His hand moves before his brain can stop it. It’s a slow, hesitant motion, betraying the frantic panic inside him. He reaches out, and instead of taking the brownie, his thumb brushes against the corner of your lips. The touch is feather-light, barely there, wiping away the small smudge of chocolate.

The world seems to stop spinning.

Your eyes widen, just a fraction. Your breath hitches, a tiny, audible sound in the sudden quiet. The playful ease between you dissolves, replaced by something charged and fragile. You don’t pull away. You just watch him, your expression unreadable.

Leo’s own heart slams against his ribs so hard he’s sure you can hear it. Idiot. Moron. What are you doing? You can’t just touch her face! He yanks his hand back as if burned.

“Uh,” he says, his voice cracking. He feels a hot flush creep up his neck. Desperate for a distraction, he grabs the offered brownie from your hand, his fingers brushing yours. It’s another jolt, a spark of electricity that travels right up his arm. “Thanks.”

He shoves a large bite into his mouth, mostly to give himself an excuse not to speak. It’s delicious, of course; Mikey’s a savant in the kitchen. But Leo barely tastes it, chewing mechanically as he avoids your gaze. He’s done it; he’s messed it up. He’d finally tried something that wasn’t a joke, and it had been clumsy and weird, and he’s probably made you incredibly uncomfortable.

You touch the corner of your mouth where his thumb had been, a dazed look on your face. “Oh. Uh, yeah. You’re welcome.” Your voice is softer now.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

“You looked … far away,” you finally say. “Everything okay?”

There it is. The opening. The moment to be honest, like Donnie said. But Leo can feel his signature smirk trying to take over his face, a defense mechanism he can’t control. “Peachy keen, jellybean,” he says, and immediately wants to throw himself into a portal.

You smile at the quip, but it’s smaller now. Uncertain. Like you’re trying to decide if he’s pushing you away or pulling you closer.

Leo hates how good you are at seeing through him—and how bad he is at letting you in.

“I, uh … should let you get back to Mikey,” he adds quickly, motioning vaguely toward the kitchen. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s thin, frayed at the edges. Like a string pulled too tight.

You glance toward the kitchen, then back at Leo. “He’ll live,” you say. “You, on the other hand, look like you’re about two seconds from teleporting to another dimension.”

He huffs a breath and leans back against the wall, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve had today.”

He expects you to laugh. You don’t.

Instead, you ask, “Why do you always do that?”

His gaze drops instantly. “Do what?”

“Deflect. You’re always five steps ahead of a genuine answer.” You tilt your head again, curious, not accusatory. “Even now. You don’t have to be on all the time.”

He swallows, hard. He doesn’t have an answer that won’t sound like an excuse. So he shrugs, which is the coward’s answer.

“I saw you watching us earlier,” you say softly.

Leo’s breath catches. A warning siren blares in his brain.

This, he thinks, is when everything is about to spiral. Where you tell him he’s being weird, or invasive, or jealous. Where he loses what little ground he still has with you. But your voice doesn’t sound judgmental; if anything, it sounds nervous.

“I don’t think Mikey realized,” you go on, voice gentle, “but I did.”

His pulse pounds. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to be creepy or anything. I just …” He trails off.

You shift on your feet. There’s a flicker of hesitation before you say, “I wasn’t upset. I just wondered why you didn’t come join us.”

“You noticed I wasn’t there?” he asks, surprised.

“I always notice when you’re not where I thought you’d be.”

Something flickers in his chest—warm, then sharp. He wants to ask what that means, but he’s terrified of what he might hear.

You step a little closer, barely a foot away now. You’re looking up at him with that same soft expression, the one you gave him across the room. “I enjoy being around you, Leo,” you say, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re just … just watching.”

The words hang in the air between you, and Leo’s entire defense system crashes. He flinches, bracing for the accusation. Watching like a creep. Watching like a jealous loser.

A small, almost shy smile touches your lips. “I’m not mad about it,” you clarify. “It’s just sometimes, when I’m laughing really hard with Mikey, I’ll look over. To see if you’re laughing, too.”

And there it is—the final, fatal blow to his armor.

You were looking for him. While he was torturing himself, thinking he was invisible, you were looking for him. The thought is so overwhelming, so contrary to the narrative he’s been spinning in his head for months, that the words just spill out.

“But that’s the problem,” he chokes out, the sound rough. He gestures helplessly between the kitchen and himself. “You laugh with Mikey. It’s easy. It’s natural. With me, it’s … it’s a tightrope walk. I’m so afraid of saying the wrong thing that I end up saying a million stupid things instead.”

The confession is a torrent now, and he can’t stop it.

“I see you two, and it’s like this perfect, easy harmony. And I’m just standing on the outside, trying to figure out the chords. I’m not … I’m not him. I don’t know how to just be.” He finally looks at you, his walls shattered, revealing the pining mess underneath. “I want to be the reason you smile like that. And I have no idea how. So I just watch. And I hate myself for it.”

Your brows draw together, soft and pained. “Leo, why do you think you have to be Mikey for me to like you?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Because isn’t it obvious? The way you shine when you’re with Mikey? The way you gravitate toward him? Leo’s spent months studying every glance you throw his way and convincing himself they’re nothing, that he’s nothing. That the cool guy routine is all he’s got—and even that doesn’t work on you.

But you’re looking at him now like he’s just said the saddest thing in the world.

“I don’t want Mikey,” you say gently, stepping in so close now he can feel your warmth. “I mean, I adore him, don’t get me wrong. But not like that. It’s just easy because there’s nothing at stake.”

Leo’s heart skips a beat.

You continue, your voice steady. “With you? It’s harder because I care more. And when something really matters to me, I get weird. Shy. I wait for you to make a move because I’m scared I’ll misread it and mess it up.”

His mind is racing. Spinning. Crashing. “I thought I was the only one feeling this,” he admits, raw and wrecked. “And it’s been killing me.”

You reach up and gently—slowly—place your hand on his plastron, right over his racing heart. “You weren’t the only one.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, half relief, half disbelief. “You’re gonna have to say that again; I think my brain just malfunctioned.”

Your smile crinkles your eyes. “You don’t have to say the right thing with me. You don’t have to be funny or charming. You just have to be you. And you? You already make me smile. More than anyone.”

Leo swears his soul just left his body. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—his chest doesn’t ache. The weight that’s been crushing him, all that lonely longing and self-doubt, eases just enough for him to breathe.

He glances down at the brownie still in his hand and chuckles. “You know, I didn’t even want a brownie.”

“I figured not,” you say, grinning now. “But I wanted a reason to walk over here.”

He bites his lip, then takes a small step forward. Closer than close. Testing the waters. “Can I try something dumb and probably very overdue?”

You smile, warm and a little breathless, and nod. He leans in, slow and unsure for once, and presses his forehead gently to yours. You don’t pull away. Then he shuts his eyes and finally, finally, lets himself close the remaining distance.

It’s not the dramatic, world-stopping kiss he’s replayed in his head a thousand times. It’s hesitant, a question asked without words as his lips gently meet yours. For a single, terrifying second, he thinks he’s miscalculated again, that he’s screwed things up for good.

But then you sigh into the kiss, a soft breath that feels like pure relief. Your hand slides from his plastron up to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the ties of his mask. You kiss him back. Not with desperation or heat, but with a gentle certainty that unravels every knot of anxiety in his chest.

It’s the feeling of coming home after being lost for a very long time. It’s simple, and it’s real, and it’s a hundred times better than anything he could have ever imagined.

When Leo pulls back, it’s only by an inch. His eyes open, and you’re still there, looking at him with an expression so soft it could undo him all over again. Your eyes are a little wider, your lips slightly parted, and there’s a new, dazzling smile playing on them. The one he was so desperate for.

And it’s just for him.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “So … that wasn’t a dumb idea after all.”

A happy laugh escapes you. “No, Leo. It was the smartest idea you’ve ever had.” You reach up with your free hand and trace the line of his jaw, your touch sending a fresh wave of shivers down his spine. “I was starting to think I was going to have to tackle you to get you to stop overthinking and just do it.”

He lets out an actual laugh, the ever-present weight on his shoulders lifted. And before he can say anything witty or otherwise, you lean in and kiss him again. He’s so lost in it, in the feeling of your hand in his and your lips on his, that he doesn’t hear someone approach.

“Hey, did you guys want more—WHOA!”

You both jump apart, heads whipping toward the sound. Mikey stands there, a plate of brownies in his hands, his eyes wide as dinner plates. The silence stretches for a beat—before a huge grin spreads across his face.

“OHMIGOSH!” He points a finger at the two of you, vibrating with excitement. “It’s happening! Donnie! Raph! It’s finally happening!”

Leo blushes furiously. He glances at you, expecting you to be mortified. But you’re just covering your mouth, trying and failing to stifle a fit of laughter.

Raph comes thundering out of the dojo, looking ready for a fight. “What?! Is someone hurt?!” He skids to a halt, taking in the scene: Mikey doing a victory dance, Leo and you standing close together, both bright red. His features soften. “Oh! Oh, it’s about time.”

Donnie makes his appearance last, not looking the least bit surprised. “And … timeline back on schedule. My projections were only off by a week. The variable, as always, was Nardo’s spectacular density.”

“Hey!” Leo protests, before he looks back at you.

You’re watching his brothers’ chaotic celebration, your face alight with that same beautiful, unrestrained joy he’d envied from afar. You lace your fingers through his, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. He realizes, with a clarity that cuts through all the noise, that he doesn’t need to be the one to make you laugh.

He just needs to be the one standing next to you when you do.

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timblriche · 3 days ago

Text

Follow-up: feedback from a film student/cinematographer on the unique purpose of the Will/Mike van shot

I showed in my last post why this shot is unique and filmed differently from all the rest within that sequence. The purpose of all the other shots is to show the characters' reactions to what's going on outside the van (the destruction in Hawkins).

But this shot is different, it’s not meant to show you their reaction to whatever’s going on outside the van. So, if every shot has a storytelling purpose, what does this one serve? Why this separate focus on them? If they’re not reacting to the destruction of Hawkins, then what could be running through their heads? Are they still thinking about Hawkins, or about something more internal, or the events leading up to their arrival? What's the purpose of the rack focus from Will to Mike, and what is that transition conveying? And why are Will and Mike the only characters to get a shot inside the van like this?

Consider this… Why didn’t they choose to do this kind of shot with Mike and El after they just had such an emotional scene together?

I got a really cool and incredibly insightful anonymous ask that digs a little deeper on this and I wanted to share their perspective!:

hi! i am a film student and cinematographer and i also wanted to input my thoughts on that Mike & Will shot, because i think it gets misinterpreted a lot. i agree with you that it is different from the other shots but, here is where we differ: Mike isn’t looking at Will. they’re both looking directly ahead of themselves and seemingly very distraught, but the point of the shot isn’t about where they’re looking. it’s telling the audience that their reactions are not motivated by what they’re looking at (hence why there’s no eyeline match). often times, this is used to show an internal conflict, or ruminating emotions from a previous scene, not what is currently happening in front of them. Will is (still) upset because of Mike’s love confession. which makes sense: he sacrificed his own happiness and desires for someone else’s and he is experiencing heartbreak. but… why is Mike upset? they’re being mirrored here, they have similar expressions, but mike confessed to the love of his life? he said The Thing! so why is he acting just like Will? he didn’t sacrifice his own happiness and desires. in fact, he got everything he wanted… right?

this is a close up shot on Will and as it dollys away from him, it pulls closer to Mike to maintain the same up close and personal framing, despite him being in the backseat, farther from the camera’s initial position. this gives both Mike and Will’s feelings equal weight in the shot. it’s to break the fourth wall, to reveal their inner feelings. they’re staring through US, the audience. they’re baring their hearts to us i have a very similar sentiment i shared on another blog about the last scene between Mike and Will on the couch in Hopper’s cabin. a lot of people think it is Mike’s POV and down to show that he sees Will as light. but, that shot is 2-subject. the point of Mike being in the shadows and reaching out to Will who is cascaded with light is to contrast their internal states after concluding their arcs for the season. Mike is in the shadows because he is hiding something from himself. his conclusion was unfulfilling; something is wrong. but this something is an internal conflict. meanwhile, Will has finally reached clarity and acceptance. he no longer is hiding from himself. Mike reaching into the light is to show that he wants to uncover the truth and is ready to step out of the metaphorical shadow. sorry for yapping, i love talking about shot composition. also want to note that i am not a shipper and these are objective shot analyses that someone who has not seen ST or even knows the context would tell you. however, when factoring in the context of their s4 arcs, it is objectively pointing towards the resolution that Mike and Will end up together. but a lot of people view these kinds of shots solely in the context of each other, which is the shipping lens. it’s about themselves first and foremost and their coming of age. i view the natural plot that exists within ST as a queer coming of age of someone who is visibly queer and someone who is invisibly queer, not a queer love story. while the resolution may be the same, the focus is on the internal journey. and the cinematography reflects that :]

Beautifully said and I completely agree :) Whatever it is that Mike and Will are looking at is irrelevant--for the first time in this sequence, that's not the emphasis here. It's not a "reaction" shot of Hawkins anymore (that would be redundant, since we already get one of Mike looking at the library on fire later on); it instead points to the characters' internal conflict, thoughts, or emotions.

In my opinion, the fact that we only get this kind of "internal" shot for Mike and Will and not any of the other characters goes further to suggest that Mike and Will specifically are ruminating about something that the other characters are not, something outside of the context of the Hawkins destruction that everyone else is reacting to. And the rack focus from Will to Mike suggests to me that Mike's rumination is related to Will in some way. Just my interpretation!

Additional insights about cinematography and shot composition that are relevant to this scene:

but yeah, it’s about how the camera lingers on their faces and emotions, and how the shot is the only one from inside of the car. it makes it appear like they’re in their head and detached from what exists outside of the car. the “world” of the shot doesn’t contain the outside. so it is a bit tricky the world of a shot exists in its frame, which is what makes cinema so cool, because you can shape the story of a film by changing what is visible in that little rectangular box. it’s the same in photography and painting, so that concept is probably familiar to you. in this scene, the van exists within hawkins. the emphasis is on the damage. so the camera is outside of the van, looking inward to show the frame of the “world” being shown. when it’s the opposite, the world becomes the van. what they see outside only exists in the frame of the car window, which detaches them from what is happening outside (also for continuity purposes, either both the CU and POV are done from within the van or outside of it). all of the POV shots so far in that scene were done from outside, so when it switches, they are trying to isolate the characters from the surroundings. kind of like when someone in an action shot gets tinnitus and all of a sudden everything is muffled and their ears start ringing and all of a sudden the action feels very far even though they’re still right in the middle of it so to me that shot was done to purposefully contrast the rest. they also each already got a shot of them reacting to the damage, so there isn’t a need for them to have another. the shot has to reveal something different. and because it’s a close up, it’s framed within the van, and it shifts focus from one subject to another without allowing for both of them to exist in the same frame, it makes me believe there is some sort of inner turmoil or conflict; a metaphorical “tinnitus”. but also art is subjective and everyone has their own vision so i could be wrong. but i do these kind of shots (close up on the protagonists face at the beginning of a scene while they exhibit some complex emotion, not because of a reaction to something happening in that current moment, but to reflect some inner turmoil from the previous scene) all the time so i may be bias because it is a stylistic choice that i use and then, from a storytelling perspective which is why the shot exists in the first place: all scenes experience some value or tonal shift. and that value has to go from -/+ or +/-. if it doesn’t change, the scene is redundant and should be tossed out. so the shot bridges the previous scene and establishes the starting value for the current scene

i think there is a very particular lens you have to look at cinematography and composition from that is less about the story as a whole and more about the story that exists in that frame like it’s an isolated snapshot in time which a lot of people gloss over because of how abstract it is. but when you analyze a shot like you’re analyzing art instead of a literary work, you uncover a lot more, because film intertwines art and narrative to tell story. but yeah! i so agree. there’s a reason for racking to mike after will, there’s a reason for the shot feeling so personal. even just watching that scene in passing, the shot just carries a weight to it that is noticeable, even if you can’t find the words or explain why. and it is trying to emphasize that defeat and internal conflict and some kind of muddiness

#byler #stranger things #stranger things 5 #will byers #mike wheeler #byler analysis #byler endgame #st5 speculation #stranger things theory #byler theory #cinematography #film analysis

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mehiwilldoitlater · 3 days ago

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Threrius is a dreadnought. As one, he is supposed to not dream, to just sleep in an induced coma, dark like death itself, and to act only when dispatched by his brother in battle.

Everything follows the same scheme of things; the Techmarines that take care of him always do to ensure the perfect shape of their honored brother… until something starts to seem off.

In the sleeping pod, there's some reaction, vibrations that aren't supposed to be there, and some data that seems to have appeared from nowhere. Threrius is reacting to something, and since no one is acting from inside, it's clear that whatever is happening to their brother is taking origin from the outside.

In order to avoid further questions and the possible arising of new events, the Techmarines decided to wake up their brother in an unauthorized operation in order to question the direct party.

"A song," said the cranky and old voice of the veteran, "someone is singing… In my sleep, a chant come."

"A voice?!" The two speak in fear that their brother can be influenced by some chaotic activity, but the creature immediately calmed their worries.

"It cannot be from the archenemy… Nothing that can come to the warp can sound so kind…and sorrowful…"

The two were confused, of course! If he was reacting to an outsider stimulus, then that meant that someone was making it in the first place! The techpriest, Gerorovil, on the other hand, gasped, realizing what had happened.

After a few hours of searching, questioning, and promising a cybernetically enhanced to a few servs, Gerorovil came back dragging a girl by her hand.

You looked so confused and scared. Once your eyes fell over the massive beast made of metal, wires, and cables, you knew for what you were really there.

Threrius had forgotten the last time he saw a baseline, but once he saw you, his first thought was he needed to take you away from the hand of the Adeptus, to take you behind him and secure you. He did not know why, but you looked so scared and helpless. Did all baseline feel that way around his brother? Around him?

He felt…something that he shouldn't feel.

They questioned you a lot, and you did confess that alone, surrounded by those sleeping veterans, when no one could hear you or see you, you let yourself sing. What song, you did not say, but Threrius felt like it was from a different language than High Gothic.

"Disrespectful." Spoke one of his brothers, "Disrupting the sleep of our honored brother! How dare you act in such a way! No punishment can be enough to—"

"I want her to do it again."

The room felt silent, with several eyes on the machine.

"…Honored Threrius, what—"

"I wish her to sing for me again… and I wish her to do it as she please…"

You did as he asked, and, even if it felt strange, it felt liberating. At some point, Threrius dared to ask what song it was, which planet it came from, and what it was about. You knew that it could lead to your doom, but you felt doomed from when you ended up there in the first place.

Your hands held what seemed to be a bead necklace, only it had no end at all. There was something like a pattern made with similar pearls made of different colors; some seemed to be a weave of colored threads, and, in certain spaces, pearls were made of completely different objects, such as gems, wood, or a metal piece.

"Where I come from, we create these, and we sing to remember our life, of what is important for us."

"Why did you sing there?"

"Because no one would ask about it…"

He won't tell. Your culture—did the heretic destroy it? Vaporized it from the face of the universe? Was it their work or his brother's? He didn't dare to ask, but he hoped you could still keep sharing your life with him.

For once, he felt less dead.

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harusmichixo · 3 days ago

Note

omg i love ur oneshots sm,,,,, i adore u pageee !! Can u maybe write a chishiya x reader where she has REALLY REALLY bad social anxiety and like never goes out at all😭

chishiya x anxious!reader

summary: you had never been extroverted (to say the least). But luckily for you, neither has chishiya.

tags: established relationship, fluff, social anxiety

A/N: hiiii! i feel like this is so bad so i’m so sorry😭😭 my writers block has been terrible these past few days so this is just whatever slop my brain could produce😭😭

word count: 1.7k

masterlist!!!

You’ve always been a creature of habit, but “habit” feels too gentle a word for the walls you’ve built around yourself. Your life exists almost exclusively between the four walls of your apartment, a soft-lit sanctuary of blankets, books, and the faint hum of your laptop. Going out? That’s for other people – those that don’t feel their heart slam into your chest at the mere thought of a stranger’s glance.

But then there’s Chishiya. He is different - solitary, like you, but by choice rather than necessity. You had met on one of your rare visits to the grocery store, bumping into him, literally, and, for some reason, he decided to stick around. You finally confessed your struggles with anxiety to him a few weeks after, expecting him to become disinterested like so many others, but he just said, “meh, outside is overrated anyway.”

He’s learned you, piece by piece, even noticing the signs before you do sometimes. The way your fingers twist the hem of your shirt when you’re overwhelmed. The shallow breaths that come when the doorbell rings unexpectedly. The way you curl into yourself on the couch when your brain thinks just a little too much.

Tonight is one of those quiet evenings between you both. You’re nestled under a blanket, scrolling through your phone, while Chishiya lounges in the armchair across from you, flipping through a book on biochemistry or something equally impenetrable.

“You’re fidgeting,” he says suddenly, not looking up from his page.

You freeze, realizing your foot has been tapping against the floor. “Am I? Sorry.”

He glances at you then, those sharp eyes softening just a fraction. “It’s fine. What’s on your mind?”

It’s nothing big - not really, just the usual spiral. You had seen a post online about a local event happening this weekend. It looked fun, like something you’d enjoy, but you were hyperaware that fear would keep you away once again. It stirred that familiar ache: the longing to be involved, to be normal. But saying it aloud feels silly, redundant even. “Just… stuff. You know.”

He nods, closing his book with a soft thud. “The delivery guy’s coming soon. Want me to handle it?”

You exhale, grateful he doesn’t press. He never does. He was good like that, always offering without making it seem like a favor. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You eat in companionable silence, the kind that never demands filling. It never did with him. Afterward, he clears the table while you wash up, and when you return to the living room, he’s already dimmed the lights, knowing you prefer it dark.

“Movie?” he asks, settling on the couch.

You nod, curling up beside him. His arm drapes over your shoulders casually, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. It’s these little things - the way he anticipates what you need without words - that make you feel seen.

Safe.

But Chishiya isn’t content to let you hide away forever. Not in a forceful, sudden way; no, he’s far too clever for that. He plants seeds, subtle suggestions that will nudge you toward the edge of your comfort zone. Like last week, when he mentioned ordering books online but mused aloud about browsing in person someday. “Less waiting,” he had said offhandedly. You had brushed it off, but the idea lingered in your mind. It would be nice, you hadn’t been to a bookstore in years.

He’s doing it again now, as the movie credits roll. “I finished that thriller you lent me. The ending was predictable like you said.”

You smile, shifting to face him. “Told you. What did you think of the twist with the sister?”

“Oh that was from chapter three.” He said with a playful smirk, knowing you didn’t get it until chapter 10. “I need something new. There’s a bookstore downtown – it’s small, independent. Not too crowded.”

Your stomach twists, that familiar knot forming. “You could go alone. Or order online.”

“I could.” He pauses, his eyes meeting yours. “But I thought you might want to come. They have that section on rare editions you like.”

It’s not a demand; Chishiya never demands. But there’s a subtle challenge in his tone. The kind which means he’s not going to back down. He knows you love books - the smell of paper, how the pages sound when you turn thrm. Your apartment is lined with shelves, supplementing any need to go to a library, but all of those books were bought online or gifts from family if you were lucky.

“I… don’t know.” The thought of stepping out, navigating the streets, possible small talk with a cashier - it sends your pulse racing. “What if it’s busy? Or someone talks to me?”

“Then we leave.” Simple, logical. “It’s a Tuesday afternoon. There won’t be many people. And I’ll handle any talking.”

You bite your lip, fingers twisting in your lap - a sign he clocks immediately. His hand covers yours, stilling the motion. “No pressure though. Just think about it.”

The next morning, you wake to the scent of coffee. Chishiya’s already up, leaning against your kitchen counter with a mug in hand.

“Morning,” he says, sliding a cup toward you.

You mumble a reply, sipping gratefully. It was the same routine as always: breakfast together, him reading the news on his phone while you sketch absentmindedly in your notebook. But today, you can tell he’s watching you more closely, not overtly, but you feel his eyes in the side of your head.

By noon, he broaches it again. “I’m heading to the bookstore at around two. If you change your mind, the offer still stands.”

Your heart hammers in your chest. Part of you wants to - desperately. To feel normal, to share something simple with him outside the confines of your apartment. But…

What if you get overwhelmed? What if you embarrass him?

He senses the war in your head without needing to ask. Setting his phone down, he moves to sit beside you at the table. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“It’s stupid,” you whisper. “I want to go, but… my chest gets tight just imagining it. How would I cope if I can’t even think about it? What if I freeze up?”

His expression doesn’t change - no pity, no frustration. Just understanding. “It’s not stupid. And they won’t be staring; people are too focused on themselves. But if it happens, we adapt to it. Breathe through it, like we practiced.”

Those practices - he started those subtly too. Deep breathing exercises disguised as “meditation for focus,” which he claimed helped his studies. You know better now; it was for you, to arm you against your own anxieties.

“Okay,” you say finally, surprising yourself. “I’ll try.”

His lips quirk into an almost-smile. “Good.”

The next hour is preparation, though he doesn’t call it that. He suggests comfortable clothes - your oversized sweater and jeans that don’t pinch. He packs a small bag: a water bottle and noise-canceling headphones, for you, just incase.

As you step toward the door, your hands start to tremble. Chishiya notices - of course he does, he notices everything when it comes to you - and he silently slips his fingers through yours.

Outside, the world felt obnoxious: cars humming and clanking as they drive by, people talking too loudly, eyes looking your way. You cling to chishiya’s arm, your eyes focused on the ground. “Too much?” he asks.

“A little.” Your voice wavers.

“We can turn back.”

But you shake your head. “No. Lets keep going.”

He just nods, continuing to guide you down the sidewalk. It’s not far - ten minutes at most – but right now it feels eternal. A passerby brushes too close, and you flinch so Chishiya shifts, positioning himself between you and the street, like a human shield.

“Focus on the details,” he says quietly. “Count the cracks in the pavement. Or name the colors around us.”

It’s another trick he’s taught you. You try: gray sidewalk, blue sky, red stoplight. And slowly, the panic ebbs away to something more manageable.

The bookstore appears ahead - a quaint corner shop with a faded sign. Through the window, you can see shelves stacked high, soft lighting, and only a few people.

Inside, it’s heaven. The air smells of old paper and ink, a silence which is only broken by the turn of pages. A single clerk nods from behind the counter, then returns to their book. No forced greetings, no hovering.

Safe.

You exhale, the tension in you uncoiling slowly. Chishiya releases your hand but stays close, browsing a nearby shelf. “Take your time.”

You wander tentatively, fingers trailing the spines. Fantasy, mystery, poetry - your havens. For the first time in ages, the outside world feels… tolerable. Chishiya picks up a volume of his favourite medical journal, but his eyes flick to you often, just checking in.

At one point, you reach for a high shelf, and he’s there instantly, plucking the book down. “This one?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He adds it to his stack. “Anything else?”

You browse longer than planned, the anxiety fading into mere background noise. But as you approach the counter, it surges back. The clerk - a kind-faced woman in her forties - looks up. “Find everything okay?”

Your throat tightens, the words sticking in your throat like tar. Chishiya steps forward seamlessly. “Yes. Just these.”

He handles the transaction, chatting minimally with the cashier about the weather. You stand beside him , grateful for his buffer.

The walk home feels lighter than the one on the way here. You had actually done it – a small step that feels like a milestone towards a slimmer of normalcy. Maybe it was a coincidence, but the cars were quieter now, and the pavements less crowded.

“You did well,” he says once you’re inside, door locked behind you.

“I almost didn’t.” You sink onto the couch. “But… it wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

He sits beside you, unpacking the books. “Progress isn’t linear. Today was a step. A big step for you.”

You lean against him, exhaustion mingling with the small pride. “Why do you push me like this? Not that I mind, but… you are okay with staying in, right?”

“I am.” His voice is thoughtful. “But I see how the isolation weighs on you. I don’t want you to feel trapped - not by anxiety, anyway.”

That’s the closest he’s come to admitting he’s helping on purpose. “Thank you.”

Later that evening, as you’re both reading your new finds, he says, “There’s a café near the bookstore. I heard its nice… quiet. Maybe we could try it sometime?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe is good.”

And it is. With him, nothing feels too scary anymore.

#chishiya imagines #chishiya fluff #chishiya imagine #shuntaro chishiya x reader #chishiya smut #chishiya alice in borderland #aib chishiya #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya #chishiya x reader #chishiya x you #chishiya fanfic #alice in borderland x you #alice in borderland x reader #alice in borderland #aib imagines #aib #aib x reader

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aestheticpearl · 8 hours ago

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✧·˚ “ HE JUST COMES TO VISIT ME WHEN I’M DREAMING EVERY NOW AND THEN ” ༘ * ༄

synopsis. you’re having trouble coming to terms with your husband’s death and the different person that has now replaced him

featuring. dream of the endless (the sandman), wife!reader

a/n. i cried during the funeral, i’m mourning my goth husband like he’s a real person

you knew that this was a risk when you married your husband, but he was such a rule follower you never thought it would actually happen to you.

yet here you are sitting in a room filled with the endless siblings giving their speeches about their dearly departed brother, your husband. it’s hard to accept that he is truly gone.

you think back to how this all happened and how you thought of so many ways this could’ve been avoided until you’re pulled out of your thoughts and asked to speak about said late husband.

“my lady, now is your turn to speak.” lucienne says softly to you. you nod and quietly thank her as you stand to make your way to the stand. the outlined shape of your husband lies just behind you as you turn to face the people infront of you.

“i thank you all for coming, he would’ve hate this amount of attention on him.” you crack a sad smile and you hear soft chuckles fill the room. “i must confess i never expected to be up here speaking about the passing of him.” you pause, tear filling your eyes. “i suppose i should say the traditional things that one says at a funeral, ‘i wish i had more time’ and such, but i think i had more than enough time with him yet a selfish part wish for even more. i do not believe he ever knew how much he meant to me which is my only regret.”

the tears start to spill freely down your cheeks as you pause for a moment and find the words for how you feel.

“can i tell you the truth?” your pleading eyes search the room for no one in particular. “i am angry. i am angry that he is gone, i know i have to accept his choice but i am angry he left me here alone. i am angry at myself for not being able to do anything in my power to save my own husband.” hot tears flow down your face and you roughly wipe them away. “i’m sorry that i couldn’t do anything to save him, i failed my dream lord. i failed myself.”

lucienne is quick to appear at your side to escort you away from the public view and you break down even more in her arms.

“my lord would never think you a failure my lady.”

you don’t respond, you just continue crying.

after the ceremony finishes you find yourself in your chamber packing things away when the new dream of the endless, daniel hall, knocks before walking in.

“they are your chambers my lord, you need not knock before entering.”

“i don’t mean to disturb you my lady, but why are you packing?” you turn and look to take in his kicked puppy look.

“i am leaving my lord.” you say bluntly, turning back your focus to your things.

“must you leave? i have no issue with you staying you are my wife after all, i think?” he sounds confused at the end of his sentence.

“i am not your wife dream of the endless, i am merely a memory you have of someone that loved me.” you stand and cup his cheek, smiling softly at him. “you will do amazing things, i can feel it.” you hug him, he hugs you back feeling your familiarity.

you’re the first to pull away from the embrace, picking up your bags and bidding him farewell.

“will i see you again?”

you hesitate but turn back to him.

“if you call i shall come.”

time passes for who knows how long, the days blur together at this point and the only solace you find is when you let yourself sleep for in your dreams you get to see his face, you get to see a life that you never got to live with him. it gives you peace something that the real world is never able to give you since his passing. in this dream tonight it is nothing but domestic bliss, a normal life where both of you are human you have a daughter who adores the both of you. a scenario you never got to experience. ‘he would’ve hated being human’ you think to yourself as you dream on.

“what are you thinking about beloved?” he questions with your daughter in his arms.

“nothing i’m just,” you pause, taking in the peaceful face of your sleeping child. “i’m just memorizing your beautiful faces.”

he scoffs and you smile before walking over him to him and place a gently kiss on your daughter’s cheek then your husband’s lips.

“you look like you have a lot on your mind, care to share your thoughts?”

“maybe another time, go put her to bed yeah? i’ll be right there i just need to clean up dinner real quick.” you pet your daughter’s hair and she subconsciously leans into your touch.

“don’t be long.” he kisses your cheek before leaving the room where you now stand alone.

“thank you, i think i needed this.”

years of being his wife definitely helped with being able to pick up on dream of the endless’ power. he steps behind you and you turn to him.

“i didn’t mean to intrude—”

“you’re just doing your job, i understand. is there something you need from me my lord?”

“i wanted to make sure you weren’t having those nightmares anymore. i know how much they pained you.” he confesses.

“i am doing much better my lord, these dreams are what i look forward to most. which means you are doing a terrific job as the new lord shaper.” you smile at him and you swear if he had a tail it would be wagging.

“i am glad to hear you are finally adjusting to your new life.”

“i could say the same to you my friend.”

he smiles.

“if i could, may i ask a favor of you?”

“anything dream lord.”

his face falls and he becomes a bit nervous before finally asking.

“w-would you perhaps consider returning to the dreaming? just to help me to understand everything a bit better? i mean lucienne can only help so much and it’s hard to figure out why i once did—” you cut him off.

“i will help you dream lord, but i will not help you try to become the same as my husband, you are your own dream of the endless.”

he nods.

“of course thank you.”

“you need not thank me dream lord, i will always be here to help every version of you no matter what.”

i was crying my eyes out the whole time i have not emotional recovered and i fear i never will

.love always <3

.masterlist

#pearl’s ❤︎ works #lord morpheus x reader #lord morpheus #morpheus x reader #dream x reader #the sandman dream #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman x reader #the sandman dc #the sandman #the sandman fanfiction

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manicrouge · 2 days ago

Text

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

WHITE SANDALS: CHAPTER TWO

John Price x F!Reader

[About]: You share an early morning with the stranger you met the day prior, finding that he has a particular disdain (not only towards your sandals), but towards the sunlight - and a good cup of coffee.

[Wc]: 2.6k

[cw]: mentions of death

PREVIOUS CHAPTER - SERIES MASTERLIST - PLAYLIST

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

JUST AS every morning of that summer had started, that morning was no different.

Rolling out of bed, slipping into another light-fitting dress, brushing your teeth, washing your face, and packing your breakfast in your small picnic basket. Before exiting, you were always sure to grab your notepad from off of your nightstand – the pen too. Then, and only then, you’d pull open the door, proceeding on your venture.

Your feet moved around the twist and turns of the path, your eyes remaining straight ahead, opting to look at the blue sky as opposed to where you were going. After climbing the fence, wooden beams decorated with barbed wire, the incline started. Each step had your legs burning, and by the time you made it to the top of the hill, you were huffing and puffing something fierce, hands braced against your knees and sweat gathered on your brow. With your eyes drawn down to the ground, you hadn’t noticed the figure sitting approaching you until a shadow was cast over you and a voice said, “I thought I said not to wear those shoes again.”

You snapped your head up and turned quickly, so much so, you stumbled. The man you’d met on the beach yesterday, Price, was standing in front of you, arms folded across his chest. He almost tutted at the sight of your footwear, a look of disappointment on his face. Sucking up a mouthful of air, you straightened your back, and furrowed your brows.��

“What are you doing up here?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” said the man, looking at the basket in your hand. “You planning on having a picnic by yourself or something”

“I come up here every morning.”

“Is that so,” asked the man, scratching his chin, “well, you ought to start asking now, considering the fact that, by law, you’re trespassing on private property.”

You turn to the small rock at the peak of the climb, feeling the breeze blow against the patch of sweat that had formed at the back of your cotton dress as you huff. Your efforts seemed frivolous as you anticipated the man turning you away, especially after slipping on the same sandals that had caused you so much trouble the day before. It was surely the punishment for going against his word.

“I’m sorry,” you said, “I didn’t know.”

“How long have you been comin’ here?”

“Since I realised I could get over the barbed wired fence at the bottom of the trail,” you confessed, scratching the back of your as you twisted your foot into the dirt below you, looking for any way to burrow your way out of the situation you’d found yourself in. “Look, I don’t want any trouble, I just–”

“It’s okay,” he said, “I’d be a bit of a prick if I stopped you from sitting and… having breakfast?”

You corrected him, “Having breakfast and writing.”

“Oh,” gasped the man as though he’d made some sort of profound realisation, “sorry. Having breakfast and writing.”

You bit back the urge to scoff at Price and his sarcasm, moving past him, all to stop a couple of feet away from him. “I always pack extra pastries with me,” you said, looking over your shoulder, deciding that you'd much rather make a new friend as opposed to an enemy. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like to.”

In response, he grunted at you and walked away.

The spout of rudeness had a prickling heat forming on your flesh; he hadn’t any reason to treat you with such dismissal when you had been so generous to invite him to experience the magic which was your spot – didn’t matter what the law said, no, finders keepers. Alas, the bitterness faded as you tread further down to the end of the dirt path, leaning over and dropping your basket at your feet. You took a seat on the road, legs crossed as you dug through its innards, hands brushing over all the things you’d packed for yourself, retrieving the ruby-red apple that had fallen to the bottom, then taking hold of your notepad and pen.

It was the simple things, the food that lined your stomach, the words that lined your heart that made your grievances – that man and his attitude – fade from the world, and the bliss that came with listening to the rolling ocean waves, thunderous as they struck the ground beneath you. Everything paled in comparison as there was no light quite as bright as the sun, no song as melodic as the sound of the chirping birds, and no touch as gentle as the summer breeze.

Living could be taxing and had been so on occasion; you’d experienced the grey days and you’d endured the storm which weathered your skin, all to come through with the light on the other side with the understanding that nature could and would (if you persevered) heal all. Everything passed, to life’s merit.

It was just a shame a bliss like that had to leave too.

All that said, you’d never quite felt your heart pound against your chest as it did when you heard the rustling of grass behind you, and when you turned to address the noise, a mug of freshly brewed coffee was extended out to you, Price holding his own in his other hand. You stared at the mug and then back up at him, slightly slackjawed and the heat of hatred cooled to a coldness you’d only ever associate with gutwrenching guilt.

“You just gonna stare at me or are you gonna take it?”

His words prompted you to take hold of the handle, wrapping your hands around the mug, pulling it away from him. Price took a seat beside you, the golden light of the sunrise gracing his features, bringing out slight blond flecks in his beard. You took a sip, wincing as the bitterness hit the back of your throat. Pulling the mug away from your mouth, you turned your head away from Price as you coughed as though you’d just done a shot of vodka.

He chuckled. “I like strong coffee.”

You grimaced, setting the cup down beside your basket. “There’s strong coffee, and then there’s a cup of tar.”

“All this fancy bullshit’s a waste – if you’re gonna have coffee, you oughta drink it like that; it’ll wake you up.”

“I had one sip, and I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to sleep a wink in my life ever again.” You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, chasing the bitterness of the coffee away with a bite of the apple that had been resting in your lap. “How do you sleep drinkin’ that?”

For a moment, he was quiet.

“Like a baby.”

Your lips curled into a smile. “Hm. Unsurprising.”

“Every engine needs its fuel.”

“Poetic… Do you write?”

“Do I look like a writer?”

You turned to address his features, pursing your lips. The absence of his hat was striking as his hair was well kept, short on the sides, slightly longer on the top – well groomed for a man who drank coffee the equivalent of dirt in a cup. His nose was large, a tad bit crooked, brows thick and bushy, and his beady eyes dug into your skin.

“What does a writer look like?”

“You a philosopher?”

You snorted. “Hardly.”

“You like questions enough to be considered one,” said the man, taking a sip of his coffee. You took another bite of your apple. “How long have you been working for the Paper here?’

“A while,” you said, opening your notepad. “Nothing interesting really goes on around here – I mostly work on editing short stories, and running ads for the local businesses,” you explained, “Can see why the owner couldn’t wait to pass the job off to me, though.”

“He not like it?”

You clicked your tongue, “He’s in it for the money,” you said, “I’m not – hence why I’m better at the job… not that I don’t like the money,” you followed up, smoothing out a wrinkle in one of the pages of your notebook. “Because it pay good, and who wouldn’t want a job where they could sit and look at the world?”

“Don’t you find it boring?”

“I see no merit in getting my hands dirty – learnt my lesson a long time ago,” you shrugged with a small laugh. “Some people want to get dirty – do something and force change with their bare hands, but since moving here, that’s never been something I’ve been interested in.” You looked him up and down, glancing at his hands. When you did so, you remembered the dirt beneath his fingernails, and with the little evidence you had, accused him of being just that. “You seem like that type, though.”

There was a red flush which encompassed his features, a brooding reminder that the man sitting beside you did, in fact, possess a beating muscle. You imagined it to be beating as hard as yours was in that moment; you noticed how his hands shook slightly as the rim of the cup dug into his lips.

“How was your first night here?” you asked.

“Alright,” Price said, “took a while to get set up – had to go back and forward from the docks to here, but nothing I haven’t had to do before.”

“You must’ve had a good sleep after that.”

You felt his discomfort – raw and blatant.

It was an unspoken thing; something that anyone else would have missed. Like a flash in the sky during a thunderstorm, you caught it in his eyes as they flickered from the horizon to you. Brief, yes, but heavy enough to remain for a lifetime. You felt the weight of his eyes even when he turned his head away from you, delving back into the reserves of his mind.

He was looking for something.

Had he the option, you believed he would have scoured the clouds with his calloused hands, pulled them apart like laced curtains in the hopes of finding the thing that had him sitting with narrowed eyes, and a sour expression. As you observed him, you wondered if he would be heavy handed with what it was that he was looking for, if the roughness of his hands would translate to how he held it, or if he would simply stare and do nothing else. Both seemed plausible for, when you remembered the feeling of his hands, Price seemed like a man who was restrained; like a feral dog on a leash.

“Not quite.”

He tipped his head backwards, finishing the last of the coffee in his cup. He put it down beside his foot, bringing his hands together as he leant forward. You’d thought of standing to shield him from the sun; he was looking at it with such intent you feared he would burn his irises. Instead, you retrieved one of the pastries you’d baked the day prior, and held it out to him.

“Here,” you said, catching his attention.

He turned to face you and took it out of your hands, your fingers brushing momentarily. Before putting his lips to it, he inspected it as though you had mixed in a heap of rat poison while baking. Something possessed you – what it was that compelled you to do something so unruly remained unknown – as you pushed yourself forward, taking a bite out of the end of the croissant. Crumbs fell between the pair of you, sticking to the edge of your lips as you chewed.

All grace left you as you said, with a mouthful of half-eaten pastry, “See? It’s not poisoned.”

He was surely questioning his decisions that had led him there and then, you’d believed so as he didn’t move. But, when he did, it was to take a bite out of the pastry without so much as a flinch, all while staring at you.

No matter what, your eyes always fell back on his. Their blueness rivaled the ocean beyond the cliff edge, and you realised that the longer you stared at him, as they glistened whenever sunlight would capture his face. Your tongue curled with the intent of addressing the concern that wrinkled Price’s brow, but, instead, you asked, “what do you think?”

Just as you had done, he answered you whilst still chewing, “Good.”

You grinned ear-to-ear, “Thanks… but, if you want a good pastry, you should go to the bakery here, the lady there – Ana – makes the best, and I mean it, the best pastries you will ever taste in your whole entire life.”

He watched you as you talked, singing the praises of a woman he’d never met in his life. He remained unmoved, taking another bite of the food, keeping you from saying any more as he extended his hand out and pointed to the coffee he’d made for you. Immediately, you stopped and grabbed it, giving it to him. He drank from the cup, eating the last bit of the croissant.

“She’s got competition,” he said, wiping his mouth, “as long as you don’t put poison in anything you bake, that is.”

“Hm, I’ll have to consider it; it’s my secret ingredient.”

For the first time that morning, he laughed.

It rumbled his chest like the key turning in a car with a dead battery. It was a great sound, you thought, no matter how rusty the cogs in his larynx seemed to be. In fact, you intended to break them of the rust entirely all for the sake of hearing that again.

You wondered if you could be a worthy opponent against his ferocious blues, and on that note, also wondered if there had been anyone brave to weather such a brutal storm before you. If so, who had been the soldiers who had come before you and – most importantly – had they survived?

Would you survive?

Even when he laughed, you noticed that the sadness in his eyes returned with a bloodlust, a fiery vengeance when he looked back out at the sun, addressing it like it had been the perpetrator – his betrayer. The will in his eyes was the will of a man scorned; you’d seen it plenty, knew it like an old friend.

He wants it to die, you’d thought.

For it to burn out for an eternity, even if it meant the end of the world. Weirdly, you had a feeling that his world had ended a while ago. How the end had come about, you were none the wiser, but what you did know was that you had seen that look before.

Your hands clamored for your pen and, while he sat there, distracted, you scribbled: how did his world end? You closed the book over, resting the pen on top of it, eyes fixated on him.

Neither of you spoke in your remaining time together, you finished your apple whilst tapping your pen against the cover of your book, feeling the heat of the sun slowly wash over the pair of you like a thick duvet on a winter’s night.

It was broken when he told you he had to continue on with settling in as the wind blew as he spoke. You did nothing in the form of protest, simply nodding as you said, “thanks for the coffee.”

Watching as he left, the air around you housed much more of a bite upon his absence and you clung to your notepad with a white-knuckle grip.

You blamed the knot in your throat on the sip of coffee you’d taken an hour prior.

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moonqz · 2 days ago

Text

THE SWEETEST : Roh Jae Won

here’s your classical leaked CD with a voice note (Jae Won version) my angel! enjoy ☺️ - order 7 of ‘moonqz record store’

pairing : Roh Jae Won x fem!actress!reader

genre : fluff

description : After wrapping up a cozy variety show shoot, you and Roh Jae Won find yourselves alone in a trailer van, waiting out the rain. Between damp clothes, warm coffee, and quiet laughter, a soft, unexpected confession slips out, turning a simple moment into something quietly unforgettable.

contents / warnings : none

requested by : @123abc123zzz thank you so much my angel 🤍

The press tour was draining. Endless interviews, flashes from cameras, and the same rehearsed answers repeated over and over. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before the next camera crew or journalist would come up with another question about the drama’s plot or your off-screen chemistry.

But somehow, amidst all the chaos, there was one person you didn’t mind seeing every single day.

Jae Won.

During breaks, when the crowd thinned out and the cameras paused, you and Jae Won found yourselves slipping away to small corners of the venue. the quiet stairwell, the back hall, even the little café across the street.

You’d share snacks you smuggled from craft services, make fun of the scripted questions the reporters always asked, and swap silly inside jokes you both pretended nobody else understood.

Today was no different.

It’s raining hard by the time you both duck into the trailer van. Your makeup was mostly intact still surprisingly, and Jae Won’s hair dripped slightly onto the floor.

Behind you, Jae Won mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse as he wrestles with the zipper of his jacket, completely failing to look cool while doing it.

You shake water from your jacket and tug the hood off your head, laughing a little as Jae Won stands in the doorway like a wet cat, blinking at the mess he’s made.

“Wow,” you say, looking him over. “You really committed to that ending scene.”

“I slipped on the last take,” he mutters, stepping out of his shoes. “Tell the crew I risked my life for the bit.” He dramatically spoke, eyes glistening slightly as he tried to keep his chin up to stop more water dripping, to no avail of course.

“You’re so brave.”

He shoots you a look, half-glare, half-smile. You get a towel from the bench and gently scrunch his hair so it was damp. Following that, you made the effort of handing him the towel after seeing the way he looked at you, and sink into the corner cushion, cradling a warm canned coffee like it’s sacred.

You’d both just finished filming a cozy two-day episode for a travel variety show, late-night grilling, morning fishing, weird partner games neither of you were good at, and now you were waiting out the downpour before heading home.

“I think the viewers are gonna love it,” you say, leaning back slightly. . “Especially the part where you tried to cook the ramyeon without turning the stove on.”

Rain clinks steadily against the windows, heavy, rhythmic, almost musical.

He groans and collapses next to you, towel over his face. “They’re gonna meme that forever, aren’t they?”

“Oh, absolutely.” You nudge him gently with your knee. “But you’re charming when you fail. That’s your brand.”

From under the towel, he mumbles, “You think I’m charming?” You could practically hear the smile in his voice

You blink. “I think you’re a little loopy from the cold.”

“I’m serious.”

He pulls the towel down, eyes meeting yours. He’s still damp, hair sticking out messily around his forehead, cheeks pink from the cold, or maybe not just the cold.

“I meant it, you know,” he says softly. “When I said earlier you’re the only part of the promo I actually enjoy.”

You let out a slow breath, unsure what to say with your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.

“I thought maybe you were just being friendly,” you admit. “Or, I don’t know. Doing that thing actors do, bonding quickly and forgetting it later.”

“I don’t want to forget this.”

The rain has quieted to a soft tap now, like even the sky is giving you space to breathe.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely holding the coffee can.

Your heart bumps once, loud in your ears and unexpected.

Earlier, during a quick break between filming segments, Jae Won had leaned toward you with a conspiratorial whisper: “You’re the only person I don’t get sick of.” You’d laughed it off, thinking he was being playful, or tired, or just joking for the cameras.

But now, in the hush of the trailer, rain pattering against the windows, there’s nothing funny or insincerity about his voice.

You try to tease, keep the air light. “That’s not a high bar. You hate socializing.”

“True.” He smiles a little. “But with you, it’s different. You’re easy to be around. Quiet in the right way.”

You glance down at your hands, coffee can warm against your fingers.

He groans into his towel. “We were supposed to look competent. Outdoorsy. Cool.”

“You tried to cook instant noodles without turning the stove on.”

“I panicked!” he says, voice slightly muffled. “You were watching me.”

He says your name next, soft and certain, and when you look back up, the towel is in his hands and his eyes are softer than you’d seen previously.

And for once, his gaze doesn’t waver.

“I think I’ve been looking forward to this part the most,” he says. “Not the shoot. Not the cameras. Just… this. Sitting next to you. The part after the chaos is better”

Your throat tightens. You’ve known each other for months now, worked on a drama together, ended up with this variety collab, traded playlists and dumb memes and inside jokes.

And somewhere along the way, the lines between coworker and friend and something else started to blur.

You just weren’t sure he felt it too.

Until now.

“Are you confessing to me in a van with wet socks and convenience store coffee?” you ask, half-smile tugging at your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “It’s not how I planned it, but yeah.” Then adds, a little shy, “I like you. More than I meant to.”

“Not just as a co-star. Or friend. I’ve liked you since, God, probably since you covered me with that hot pack during the winter night shoot and didn’t say anything. You just… always know when I need something, and you never make it weird.”

You turn toward him fully, tucking your legs under yourself. “You always say that like you didn’t have a choice.”

“I didn’t.” His eyes are sincere as he spoke. “You kind of snuck in when I wasn’t looking.”

Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest, fluttering and grounding all at once. You reach over and pluck at his towel, still draped around his shoulders. “You’re a mess right now.”

“I’m a charming mess,” he says, hopeful.

“You are,” you admit. Your voice was laced with a softness that made his own heart bang against his chest, it felt like it was in his throat.

Your soul is a tangled thing now, full and aching all at once.

You’re quiet, too, for a beat too long.

He swallows. Poor boy felt heavy with fear of rejection. Or maybe it was the fear of humiliation combined. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”

You shake your head slowly. Not disapproving, just shocked. It wasn’t what you were expecting of most things to come out of today “No. It’s just…”

You meet his eyes, nerves buzzing in your fingertips.

“I didn’t know if I was imagining it. This… thing between us.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “You never were.”

There’s something raw and earnest in his voice that makes you feel like your chest is cracking open.

And then, quietly, maybe too white to understand properly if he wasn’t completely entranced by you, “I like you too.”

He freezes, like he hadn’t dared hope you’d say it back. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but then he just leans back with a big exhale and grins up at the ceiling.

“Thank god. That would’ve been so embarrassing.”

You laugh, covering your face. “It still kind of is.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But in a good way.”

Outside, the rain softens to a drizzle, tapping gently against the roof. Inside, the trailer is warm with shared breath, unspoken relief, and something newly blooming. Not loud or cinematic, just simple, real, like the best confessions are.

He glances over again. “Hey… want to do another show together? Like, an actual couple one?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You just confessed two minutes ago.”

He shrugs. “I’m trying to lock it in.”

You laugh and shake your head, but your smile says yes.

Jae Won is still smiling when you turn your head toward him—closer than before now, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the soft pink flush across his cheeks, the way his gaze flicks down for just a second before it returns to yours.

Neither of you moves for a moment. The trailer hums faintly in the background, rain murmuring gently against the roof like it’s giving you time.

“You’re looking at me weird,” you whisper, lips tugging into a nervous smile.

He breathes out a quiet laugh, voice lower now. “I’m not. I’m just… memorizing.”

Your heart stutters, your chest too full with something tender and dizzying.

You don’t look away. “Why?”

“Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while,” he says, so simply it makes your breath catch. “But I didn’t want to get it wrong. Or ruin something.”

Your voice barely comes out. “You’re not ruining anything.”

His hand brushes yours again, gentler this time, intentional, and when you don’t pull away, he shifts a little closer. Just enough. Slowly, carefully, like he’s still giving you the chance to back away if you want to.

You don’t.

And when you lean in just slightly, barely enough for your nose to brush his, he whispers, “Can I?”

Your chest flutters. “Yeah.”

So he kisses you.

Softly, sweetly, like he’s afraid to startle the moment, like he’s waited too long to mess it up now. His lips are warm despite the cold, and his hand barely grazes your cheek, thumb ghosting along your skin as if he’s still trying to be sure this is real.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not urgent. It’s just… him. Quiet, steady, grounding.

When you part, you’re both still close, foreheads nearly touching, breath shared between smiles.

“That…” he says, blinking like he just remembered how to function. “Was better than I imagined.”

You laugh, soft and breathless. “How long have you been imagining it?”

“Long enough to overthink every version,” he admits, nose scrunching a little. “But I think I like this one best.”

“Same.”

A pause. Then, quietly,

“You’re blushing,” he teases, nudging his shoulder against yours.

“You kissed me,” you shoot with a smile that warmed his heart, nudging him right back. “You’re blushing harder.”

“I’m always like this.”

“Liar.”

He grins. “Okay, maybe just around you.”

And then he leans in again, slower this time, more confident now that he knows he’s welcome, and kisses you once more, deeper this time but just as careful.

Outside, the rain continues to fall. Inside the trailer, something new and warm has begun.

The drive home was filled with soft silence, classical music playing through the speakers, and loosely intertwined fingers.

Not to mention the smile that graced Jae Won’s face that refused to leave, ending up making his jaw hurt.

You shared more gentle kisses. The sweetest kisses, throughout the journey. His hand brushing through your hair and your own hand on his cheek was something you never wanted to forget.

And as for the media..it wasn’t unspoken how it was going to go down. You weren’t sure how long you should wait to tell them.

But you also know the reaction that will come after it.

And it didn’t scare you as much as it should. Neither did it Jae Won. You would wait though. Too soon to tell.

But something tells you that this promo tour was the start of something beautiful.

#roh jae won oneshot #roh jae won x reader #requests open #kdrama actor #writers on tumblr #x reader #writer stuff #requested #moonqzrecordstore #moonqzfics #roh jae won #roh jae won imagine #roh jae won story #fluff #confession #idolxidol

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rosefantasy77 · 1 day ago

Note

THIS MIGHT BE WEIRD but can you do a smut where y/n catches Malachi masturbating to girls on the internet and you catch him and he tells you he feels like you’ve been distant with him so he didn’t wanna ask to do anything. Can it end with like makeup sex and he shows her she’s the only one he loves truly. Sorry if weird thanks 🫶🏼

Missed You

—Summary:You've distant from Malachi and he has no idea what to do.

—Warning: Language, masterbation, little angst, smut, p n v sex, unprotected sex, may be rough sex in a readers pov

—Song: That's So True; Gracie Abrams

—A/n: Hi anonymous reader! This one is totally fine! It just may not be as detailed as most as my usual ones. It may a little bit shorter. But don't worry, I gladly accept. And no apologies necessary! You're perfectly fine. <3

Being with Malachi is a blessing. Malachi means so much to you. Y’all’s story started when you two were little bitty babies.

Your parents have been friends for year. Y’all were about one when your parents met. It was around when Felicia was on American Idol. So about early 2010. You guys are like brothers and sisters.

Well to you it was.

Malachi it was a little different. Malachi had feelings for you before he knew what feelings for. He would always see that light in your eyes. He didn’t understand it. But, he was already in love with you.

Malachi grew up liking you. He would tell his parents about it. He was like head over heels for you. He still didn’t understand it. You were different. Good different. Guess it’s just who you are.

Throughout middle school, you started having feelings for Malachi. Especially in the 8th grade. Just something hit different. You weren’t sure what it was though. It was different. Good different. Just like him.

Malachi was already head over heels for you. High school was when big things started to happen. Like homecoming. He would want to ask you out. But, some other guy would take you. Granted, you had feelings for Malachi, but it was probably just gonna last for a couple months.

Sophmore year came. You still have feelings for Malachi. They don’t make sense. Why would you have feelings for Malachi? He has always been your best friend. But, why are the feelings coming into the scene now?

Homecoming for sophmore year was a big bomb. Nothing you imagines happened. You wanted Malachi to be yours. But, that didn’t happen this year. You weren’t sure why. It doesn’t make sense. You thought Malachi did. You thought he did.

Plot Twist: He does. Malachi just doesn’t know how to tell you. That’s how special you are to him. he doesn’t know how to tell you how he feels. He’s scared that he is gonna run you off. Afraid that you may never want to be his friend again.

One evening he had to go to his mom. He was maturing. He is 16 years old. And he only chooses you. There are so many girls in school. Crushing on him, wanting to lose their virginity in the bathroom with him, being his and only his. That’s not him.

Those girls flaunt. They may not know they falunt everything. But Malachi does.

Do you?

Of course not. You take care of yourself. You work hard. You work your very best. That’s what Malachi looks in someone. That someone is you. ‘Cause there is no one else like you.

Junior year is all it took. Took the guts to ask you to prom. It was the night before. You had a study session. He wanted to tell you everything. And he means everything. Since he was like 4 years old. He has wanted to tell you everything that has happened for the past 12 years.

When he did, you heart was flying in colors. It all hit you like a truck. But you didn’t care. It just felt amazing to have Malachi confess his feelings. How it was the night before prom. And how he asked you the night before prom. It didn’t make sense.

Which is okay. Not everything has to make sense. Sometimes, not making sense is a good thing. Helps to understand what the best way is.

Junior prom. The prom you have been waiting for since you were 13 years old. You got to spend it with your favorite person. Best friend since birth. Malachi Barton. And you couldn’t ask for anyone better.

Yes, you did get the looks from the girls. But, all they are is jealousy. They don’t understand anything. They don’t understand how much you mean to Malachi. And how much he means to you. Nothing and no one could change that.

Senior year did.

Since Malachi was around 8 years old, he starred in a couple Disney shows. Since you were a kid, you loved Disney. You even saw your best friend on Disney. How cool is that?! It’s amazing honestly. You knew Malachi was a disney star.

You were kind of like that. Only this time, you were more of a singer.

You loved singing. Long story short: ever since you were 7 years old, you would go around the house. Start singing your heart out. Going to your room; playing your favorite song. Singing it. Liked you own the song to yourself.

Malachi has always though you’ve had a great voice. Which you do. He loves listening to it. Especially his new songs from Zombies 4.

It was scary meeting the Zombies 4 cast. Everyone knowing you’re Malachi’s girlfriend. They really didn’t give a damn. They loved you. Especially Freya and Sway. They were like your older and younger sister. You have a lot in common with them.

When it comes to you, MK, and Malachi. You intend to be the third wheel. Yes, MK should really be the third wheel. However, Malachi and MK have gotten really close since Zombies 4 took action.

Which, you don’t mind. You got your twins by your side. Meaning, Sway and Freya. Your big sister and little sister. (According to what you call them). Hey! That is just how life works.

You were really happy for Malachi. Glad that he is filming his really big role. Getting close to his castmates. But, for you. You are one of those lead singers in a band. It’s your own band.

“Golden Stars.”

Singing has always been a passion. Malachi completley understands that. Like you understand his acting. However, you created your first 5 albums. And, your band has decided to go on tour. You are suppose to be going on tour for the next 6 months.

When Malachi found out, he was really upset. But, at the same time he shouldn’t. ‘Cause he is going on tour as well. Not on yours, but the other one. DZ world collide tour. It doesn’t make sense why Malachi would be upset. You’ll always be there for him. Just not physically.

Malachi understands. But, when tour is over, he is gonna be alone. Not having you in his arms. Not studying with you. Not graduating with you. No breakfast in bed. He has gotten really upset.

But, it was only a couple more weeks untill you were home. Weeks passed. And you were back in his arms. Malachi was so excited to have you back in town. Catching up on the tea. Filming TikTok’s, Snaps, and Instagram videos. He finally gets to do that with you again.

Little mix up came along. Within those couple of weeks, the band wanted to create a new song. You didn’t think anything about it. Malachi was upset. Again. Thankfully, this was only a couple hours. Only like 3 or 4.

Hours flew by. You were back at your place in just a couple hours. You were so excited to have Malachi back with you again.

However, when you arrived at your place, somethin felt off. You weren’t sure why. But, it was something. And weird.

You heard noises. You listened again. Listening very carefully. The sounds were coming from your room. You opened your door to reveal….Malachi? What is he doing here. You knew he was here. Just not doing what you think he was doing.

He was on a live. With all of his followers. MASTERBATING? What does he think he is doing? Everyone knows the two of you are together. You just can’t believe he was doing this. You slammed your backpack down on your bed. Everyone in the comments typing that you are home.

Malachi realized. Once he did, he knew he was cooked. He said ‘gotta go’. Ending the live as fast as he could. He could see you were upset. Why would he do this?

“Malachi, what is going on?” You question. “I want a report right now. What is happening? What did I walk in on?”

“Okay, babe, just listen to me before you talk, okay?” Malachi advised.

You sighed, sitting on your bed. “Fine.”

“You have been very distant lately. It’s been 6 months since I have seen you. I just miss you. And I crave you. I just didn’t bother you while you were out.” Malachi explained.

“That doesn’t give you a reason to jerk off! And in front of everyone?” You exclaimed.

“I know, I know. That’s why….” Malachi started to take your hoodie off. Along with your blouse that had buttons. Revealing the black bra he gave you for your anniversary. “I wanna make it up to you.

Malachi stood up, taking off his shirt and jeans. “What do you say?” He smirked.

You bit your lip. You couldn’t be mad at him. Never are. “I like that idea.”

Malachi did as you wished for. He took off the rest of your clothes; along with his. His hard cock showing through his boxers. Finally being revealed to you. He leaned you back onto your matress. It sighing right beneath you.

Malachi slowly slid into your wet folds. Causing both of you to moan as he did so. Malachi started at a slow pace. Taking his time with you. But, you needed more. Not this slow.

“Malachi….go faster.” You begged.

Malachi did as he was told. Malachi went faster. Deeper. A little rougher.

Your hands went behind his neck. Feeling the sweat pour down him. Leaving marks on his back. His pace was rougher than usual.

“God, Malachi. Don’t stop. Shit.” You moaned.

Malachi smirked. He loved the way you beg for him. How you forget his name. Only think of his name. The way his body connects with yours. His skin slapping with his.

Both of your ends were close. Both of you could feel it. And you were close. Closer than ever before. “Malachi, I am so close.” You warned.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me.”

With one last thrust, you and Malachi had an orgasm. It washing over you like a wave. The beat of your hearts were in sync. Sweat pulling down your body. Finally back in each others arms.

Exactly where you belong.

#malachi barton #zombies #zombies 4 #victor zombies #malachi barton x reader

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suku-enthusiasts · 3 days ago

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chapter four || did it for you - s. geto

suguru geto x f!reader

❝She loved him through the storm—through the silence of hospital halls and the jagged weight of recovery. Suguru had once been her everything, her always. But healing reshaped him, softened his love into something quiet, unpromising. He no longer dreamed of vows. He no longer wished for children. And yet, there she stood—pregnant, unraveling, and alone in the spaces he left behind. Then came Hiromi. Steady. Patient. Unassuming. What began as co-parenting slowly bled into something gentler, something sacred. Through lullabies and court dates, aching laughter and late-night tenderness, a new kind of love was born—not loud or reckless, but steady as the earth. This is a story about losing the future you thought you’d have, and finding grace in the one you never imagined. About loving two men in different lifetimes of your heart—and the quiet, unshakable strength of choosing peace after pain.❞

word count ; 3.7k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

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The grill hissed and popped with thick ribbons of smoke curling upward into the warm afternoon air. Your dad stood proudly behind it, spatula in hand, a towel slung over one shoulder like it was a crown. The scent of sweet soy glaze and marinated garlic ribs filled the backyard, where cicadas hummed in the trees and the low murmur of voices blended with laughter and clinking ice in tall glasses. Suguru sat beside you on the picnic bench beneath the pergola, his thigh warm against yours, your hand resting atop his knee as his arm draped over your shoulders. His fingers traced lazy circles at your collarbone, absentminded but possessive, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you so freely and honestly? He kind of couldn’t.

Since that night—the breaking, the confessing, the choosing—he’d been… softer in some ways. More present. He kissed you like the world might end at any second. Held you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth. Even now, you could feel his cheek brushing lightly against your temple every time he leaned in to kiss your curls. He did it constantly. In between sips of tea. Mid-conversation. As he passed behind you in the kitchen.

It never stopped.

And you didn’t want it to.

The sunlight caught in the glass wind chimes your mom had hung from the patio roof, their soft tinkling like a lullaby as your sister giggled from across the table, showing Suguru something on her phone. “She’s trying to convince me to wear a flower crown to the farmer’s market next week,” Suguru told you with a low chuckle, holding the phone up so you could see the filtered photo your sister had edited—Suguru’s face in a candid moment, with pastel pink petals circling his head. You laughed, nudging him playfully. “I think you’d look cute.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “You think I look cute in everything.” You flushed. “Gross,” your sister teased, sipping from her lemonade. Your mom chuckled, “Oh leave them alone. They’re in love.” Suguru glanced toward your mother, smiling warmly. “That we are.” And he meant it. With everything in him.

From the grill, your dad lifted a slab of glistening ribs with metal tongs and called, “Suguru, you want a taste?” Suguru stood, nodding with appreciation. “Yes, sir.” He made his way over, falling into easy conversation with your father, the two of them already discussing charcoal types and heat control like old friends. They always got along—too well sometimes. Your mom used to joke that if you ever broke up with Suguru, she’d keep him. Your sister leaned into you, whispering, “He looks at you like you hung the moon, you know that?” You smiled softly, watching Suguru laugh at something your dad said, brushing his hair back with one hand as he held a paper plate in the other. His long, toned frame silhouetted against the golden light of the late afternoon sun made your chest flutter.

“I know,” you whispered. “And I love him so much it scares me sometimes.” Your mom passed by just then, setting down a tray of cut fruit and smiling warmly at you both. “You two doing alright?” she asked quietly, not prying—but knowing. She always knew more than she said, you nodded. “We’re… good. Better, actually.” She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and kissed the top of your head. “Good,” she whispered. “That’s all I want.” The air buzzed with bees floating lazily between your mother’s flower beds, the scent of grilled peaches and rosemary thick in the wind. Suguru returned to your side moments later, sliding the plate in front of you and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “First taste is yours,” he murmured, you glanced up at him. “You made it?” He shrugged. “Helped. Your dad's a barbecue king, apparently.”

The moment passed in warm ripples. Laughter. Food. Stories shared. A calm, beautiful summer day that wrapped around your shoulders like a quilt. For the first time in weeks, you felt like everything might just be okay again, you felt safe— but just as the sun began to lower behind the treetops… The wind shifted and so would everything else.

The grill crackled in the background, laughter spilling over like sweet tea from a too-full glass. Your dad was mid-story, animatedly reenacting something about your neighbor’s rogue lawn mower, while your mom and Mina sat perched at the edge of their seats, giggling with wide eyes. You leaned into Suguru’s side, your fingers resting against his chest as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple, eyes crinkled in that quiet smile he saved just for you. It was the kind of moment that felt safe. Full. Whole.

Until the gate creaked open.

Everyone turned at the sound.

There, standing in the archway beneath the trellis of blooming jasmine, were they. Your brother, Ren, and his wife, Lila. Lila was holding one of your mom’s ceramic casserole dishes, clutching it like she might shatter it on the patio if she didn’t get attention immediately. Ren, hands in his pockets, wore that signature smirk—the one that always made your stomach twist, that somehow turned every word he said into something sour.

“Well, isn’t this cute,” he drawled, looking over the picnic table. “Guess the family barbecue invites got lost in the mail again, huh?” Your father’s face darkened. “Ren—”

“We were just dropping off Mom’s dishes,” Lila interrupted with a shrug, all sugar and smugness. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the adopted child’s celebration.” The air turned sharp, your breath caught, Mina blinked beside your mom. “What do you mean?” The blood drained from your face.

Ren smirked wider, eyes gleaming. “Oh, right. I forgot. She didn’t know.” He gestured to your younger sister. “Guess someone never told the baby of the family that her perfect big sister was picked up from a file folder.” You froze. The world went silent in your ears. Mina’s gaze slowly turned to you—soft, wide, confused. “…Are you really adopted?” Your lips parted, but nothing came out. “I—” your voice cracked. “Mina—yes. I am. But that doesn’t—”

“Of course you are,” Ren cut in, scoffing. “And here they are, fawning over you like you’re royalty. Makes sense now, doesn’t it? That I was the mistake, and she was the prize. Everyone’s golden girl, and for what? She plays with toddlers and makes cutesy crafts all day. What does she even do that matters?”

“Ren, that’s enough,” your father snapped, rising from his chair, but you didn’t hear your father’s words. You didn’t feel your mother reaching for your hand. Your eyes were fixed on Suguru.

He had gone completely still.

So still it frightened you.

His entire body was locked with tension, the muscle in his jaw ticking, his eyes narrowing into something far too dark for the daylight around you. His hand—once resting peacefully on your thigh—was clenched now, fingers white-knuckled and shaking slightly. “Sugu,” you whispered, placing your hand on his arm. “Baby. Please—” But it was too late, Suguru stood, walking calmly across the yard and with a single, clean swing—

CRACK.

Ren’s head snapped sideways as Suguru’s fist collided with his jaw. The sound of bone and flesh sent a sickening echo across the yard. Ren collapsed to the ground, clutching his face, groaning in pain. Lila shrieked, dropping the casserole dish, ceramic shattering across the flagstone. Your mom gasped, Mina covered her mouth, and your dad surged forward, trying to defuse the situation. But your eyes—your heart—were on Suguru, his chest was heaving, eyes wild, lips parted as though he might say something else—but nothing came. His fists were still raised slightly, one trembling, the other bloodied at the knuckles. You ran to him, grabbing both his arms, pushing against his chest.

“Suguru—stop! Please!” His eyes found yours, the storm in them raging. You pressed your palms to his cheeks, forcing him to look only at you.

“You can’t,” you whispered, breath shaking. “Not like this.” His face began to crumble, jaw clenching like he might break down right there. But he let you pull him back, away from your groaning brother, from the shattered silence of the moment. Your mother was shouting now—at Ren, at Lila, at the mess they brought. Your father stood in front of your sister, gently holding her shoulders. Mina’s eyes never left you. Even in the chaos, she mouthed silently: I love you. You gripped Suguru’s hand tightly, backing him toward the gate.

“You need to leave,” your father said, glaring at Ren. “Now. Before I call the cops. And don’t come back until you learn what it means to be a decent human being.” Lila was fuming, but your mom stood tall beside your dad. “This was supposed to be a good day. You ruined it. Again.” You turned one last time, locking eyes with Mina, she mouthed it again.

I love you.

And then you were outside, the gate shutting behind you with a loud clack, your breath shallow, Suguru’s hand still gripped in yours, he was silent, you were shaking and beneath the evening sun, something inside both of you had changed—like a dam had finally broken. The flood was coming and it would wash away everything you thought you had buried.

The moment the door closed behind you, silence pressed thick against your skin. No one spoke—not at first. The quiet buzz of the old ceiling fan hummed above the kitchen table while the wind outside brushed against the windowpanes, soft and haunting. Your mom was already moving—grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet above the sink, her face tight with worry, lips pressed together like she was trying to hold herself from falling apart. “Here,” she said gently, pressing the kit into your hands. “Baby, sit him down. I’ll make tea.” Suguru said nothing as you guided him to the kitchen table. He sat heavily, elbows on his knees, his bloodied hand hanging between them, eyes on the floor. Your dad stood behind him for a long moment, staring, before giving a firm, approving pat to Suguru’s back.

“It’s alright, son,” he said, voice gravelly but sure. “Ren’s needed that punch for a long time. Should’ve come from me, but—hell. Glad it came from someone who loves her.” Suguru still didn’t speak, you knelt beside him on the floor, the first aid kit balanced on your thighs as you took his hand carefully into yours. The blood wasn’t too bad—scraped knuckles, some bruising already forming—but it hurt to see it. It hurt worse knowing what it meant. You wiped the dried blood with a damp cloth, dabbing gently, your fingers trembling. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry it got this bad.” His head dipped lower. “I should’ve known he would say something. I should’ve protected you from—”

“Stop,” you said, squeezing his hand. “You do protect me.” Your voice cracked as you looked up at him, his dark hair falling around his face like a curtain hiding a storm, and then, a sniffle. You turned to see Mina standing near the hallway, clutching a tissue in her fist, her cheeks blotchy with tears. “I don’t get it,” she said softly. “Why does he hate you for that? You’re still my sister. You’re still a good person. Why would it even matter?”

Your breath hitched. “Mina…” She walked toward you slowly, kneeling beside you as you bandaged Suguru’s hand. She reached out, touching your arm gently. “You’re the best part of this family,” she said. “You’re kind. You always listen. You always put other people first. Why would he hate you for something you didn’t choose?” Your mom set a cup of tea beside Suguru and pulled Mina into her arms, holding her tightly as she cried. Your dad ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly.

“I didn’t raise my son to be like that,” he muttered. “I don’t know where I went wrong with Ren. But if he thinks blood makes family—then he doesn’t know the first thing about it.” You looked at your dad, at your mom, your baby sister—and then down at Suguru again.

His shoulders were shaking.

Not from sadness.

From rage.

“Sugu…” you whispered, he looked up at you—finally and what you saw there made your heart stop. His gaze wasn’t soft. It wasn’t cloudy with guilt or filled with the vulnerability you were used to seeing in private moments.

It was sharp.

Focused.

Hungry.

And behind the surface was something… cold. Burning in its stead. Something final. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, so quietly only you heard. “I should’ve done it tonight.” Your eyes widened, breath catching in your throat. “Sugu—”

“He didn’t just hurt you tonight,” he said. “He’s been hurting you for years. Every time he makes you cry, every time he makes you question your worth, every time he says you don’t belong…” His voice trembled, but his tone was steady. “I see the way you shrink around him. I see the fear in your eyes. The way you try to laugh it off. But I feel it. I carry it.”

“Suguru, listen to me—”

“I can’t let him keep doing it,” he whispered, cutting you off. “I won’t.” You reached for his face, cupping his cheeks. “Sugu, baby, look at me. You’re not thinking clearly. Please—breathe.”

“I am thinking clearly,” he replied. “For the first time in a long time.” You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting. Your parents and Mina were still in the room, softly talking now, trying to piece things together again. But you… you couldn’t look away from Suguru.

Something in him had snapped.

Something in him had crossed a line.

And you realized then—it wasn’t just tonight. It wasn’t just this fight. He had made up his mind. Whether it happened tomorrow, or next month, or a year from now… Suguru had decided. Ren wouldn’t get another chance, he was going to kill him and there was nothing left to talk him down from, not anymore.

The drive home was quiet. Suguru held your hand the entire way, lacing your fingers with his like he always did, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles as though the tension in your bones could be smoothed away. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. You could feel the way his mind was moving behind his eyes—fast, coiled, humming with restrained rage and something heavier… something inevitable.

You knew what that look meant now.

And you couldn’t let it happen again.

When you stepped inside the house, you kicked off your shoes by the door, the soft scent of home washing over you like the echo of comfort. A comfort that had started to feel borrowed. Fleeting. Fragile. Suguru tugged you closer, pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips. His hands cupped your face, holding you with a kind of reverence that broke something deep inside of you. “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours. “You wait for me, alright?” You nodded, swallowing the thick knot in your throat. “I love you, Sugu,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I love you so much. I hope you know that.” He smiled, soft and aching. “I know, baby. I love you too. More than anything.” And then he walked into the bathroom.

You stood still.

Heart pounding.

Fingers trembling as you picked up your phone, you dialed quietly, stepping out onto the porch. “911, what’s your emergency?” Your voice was eerily calm. Steady. “My boyfriend… Suguru Geto. He killed someone. A man at a bar. He hit him with a rock—multiple times. I know this sounds unbelievable, but he confessed it to me.” A pause. Then, “Ma’am, is anyone in danger right now?” You shook your head, even though no one could see. “No. He’s not hurting me. He’s in the shower. But… he’s not well. He’s hearing things, feeling things he can’t control. He needs help. Real help.”

“What is your address?” You gave it. “Ma’am, is he armed? Violent?”

“No. No weapons. Please—please don’t come with sirens. Don’t scare him. He’s not trying to run or hurt anyone. I just… I can’t let him go on like this. He needs someone to help him. He needs someone to stop him.” You hung up, walked back inside, the sound of the shower still running echoed faintly down the hall. You stood in the living room, your arms crossed, staring blankly at the wall, heart hammering so loud in your chest you thought it might shatter your ribs. You could hear your blood in your ears. The slow tick of the clock on the mantle.

Then—

A knock.

You opened the door, quietly, tears brimming as two officers—plainclothes—stepped inside, you didn’t say a word, just pointed to the hallway. When the door to the bathroom creaked open, Suguru stepped out, towel drying his hair. His eyes lit up when he saw you. “Hey, sweetheart—” Then he froze.

He saw them.

And then he saw you—standing there, tear-streaked and silent, your face crumbling under the weight of what you’d done.His towel dropped from his hand, he took a step forward. “...What did you do?” You shook your head, sobbing softly now, your hands trembling. “Sugu—”

“What did you do?!” he cried, suddenly frantic. “No—no, baby, I had to do it. I had to protect you. He was disgusting. You knew—what he said about his wife. I couldn't let people like that exist—I had to stop him—” The officers stepped between you. “Suguru Geto, you’re under arrest for the suspected homicide—”

“No—no!” He lunged toward you but was pulled back, arms twisted behind him, panic twisting his face. “Baby, please! Please don’t do this, I did it for you—everything I’ve done has been for you! You don’t understand—he was going to hurt someone, I know it—I felt it—”

“I know, I know, I know,” you sobbed, covering your mouth, your heart breaking open in your chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Sugu. I just want you to be okay. I want you to get help.” He stilled, for a moment, it looked like something inside him fractured. His body slackened, shoulders dropping. He looked at you—not angry, not betrayed.

Just broken.

“I’m not okay without you,” he whispered, as they pulled him toward the door. “I never have been.” And then he was gone. Dragged gently but firmly through the door, down the porch steps and you stood there—sobbing quietly in the doorway, wrapped in the ghost of his touch, your soul torn in half.

Because sometimes… Loving someone Is the reason you have to let them go.

It was close to midnight when you knocked on the door. The air outside was cool, too cool for your thin cardigan, but you hadn’t noticed. Your hands were trembling. You didn’t remember the walk from your house. Just the weight of your keys, the sound of your name screaming in Suguru’s voice, the memory of his eyes—shattered like glass—and how cold the porch felt under your bare feet as they took him away. The porch light flicked on, flooding the front step in golden warmth, and a second later, your mom opened the door.

“Sweetheart?” You couldn’t speak. Your lip quivered. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but your chest just heaved, and you crumbled into her arms with a sob that sounded nothing like you. She pulled you in instantly. Held you tight, like she had when you were little and afraid of thunderstorms, whispering softly, "Shhh, it's okay, baby, you're safe—Mama's got you. You're safe now." Your dad was already up, standing behind her in pajama pants and a worn T-shirt, face lined with concern. Mina came out of her room too, still awake, rubbing her eyes.

“What happened?” your dad asked gently, stepping forward to help your mom guide you inside.

You could barely get the words out.

You sat on the couch between them, curled into yourself, trembling. Your voice came in pieces—soft, broken, but honest. “There’s something I need to tell you.” They didn’t interrupt. Your mom held your hand. Your dad sat quiet and steady. Mina curled up on the armchair, watching you with wide, glassy eyes. You took a breath. Swallowed hard.

“Suguru… he killed someone. Weeks ago. A man at a bar.” There was a beat of silence. “He told me a couple weeks ago… after everything with Ren. He just… broke. And I— I saw how much it was eating him alive. And tonight, when we got home, I called the police.” Your voice cracked again, and your mother reached up to hold your cheek, her own eyes full of tears now. “I didn’t want to. God, I didn’t want to. But I had to. He’s not well, Mama. He’s not okay. He wasn’t going to stop.” Your father ran a hand down his face. Not out of anger—just pain. Shock.

“I knew there was something going on inside that boy,” he said after a moment. “Something dark. But I also know… I know how much he loves you.”

“I love him too,” you whispered. “That’s what made it so hard.” Your mom wrapped her arms around you again, and this time, your dad leaned in too, surrounding you like a wall of safety. “No one is angry with you, sweetheart,” your mom whispered. “You did what you had to do. You loved him the way no one else ever has. And now, you’re making sure he gets the help he needs.” Mina’s voice cracked from the chair, barely more than a whisper. “Is he going to prison?” You looked over at her, your heart twisting. “I don’t know, Min,” you whispered. “I think he might. But maybe… maybe they’ll see he’s not just a criminal. That he’s sick. That he needs care.” Your little sister walked over and knelt beside you, resting her cheek against your knee. She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t have to.

You were safe now.

But your heart was still with Suguru—sitting somewhere behind cold walls, alone, shaking, haunted by the very love that had saved him and no matter how much your mother stroked your hair, or your father reminded you that you did the right thing… You knew the nights would be cold without him and you didn’t know when—or if—he’d ever come back to you.

taglist ; @stargirl-mayaa @shibataimu

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