#I really shouldn’t miss her as much as I do

[tw1sters]

Match Made (Part One)

Love is an elusive concept to Clark, but one thing he knows is that it cannot be found through an arrangement. You set out to prove him wrong.

▸ PAIRING: Clark "Superman" Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Clark goes on dates not with reader lol, hurt/comfort rather than angst?, some talks about insecurities ▸ WORD COUNT: 10.6K ▸ A/N: watched materialists and was inspired for this lil cross-over-esque story! some scenes are inspired by the movie but the plot is different. turned out a little long so split it up into a two-shot. next/final one coming very shortly :)

—

If Clark had known years ago that Perry was made of money, he would’ve asked for a raise sooner. Judging by the venue selection, the obscene amount of elaborate decor, and the fact that the bride has switched dresses five times, Perry White is a very wealthy man. 

The sheer scale of this wedding for his son means that Perry decided to invite his favorite colleagues; in other words, the five employees whom he tolerates. Steve barely made the cut, but now all five of them are dappered up, dressed to the nines, to attend Perry’s son’s — Keith's — wedding at the swankiest hotel in town. 

“Can you believe they met through a matchmaker?” Lois whispers conspiratorially, leaning over at the assigned Daily Planet table. 

“A matchmaker?” Clark raises an eyebrow. 

Lois nods. “Keith apparently signed up for some matchmaking services to get connected with women. I don’t know why he would. The man is a catch — at least in the traditional sense. Six foot, doctor, handsome.”

“Miss Lane, if I didn’t know any better, I would say you have a crush,” Clark teases, earning a sharp elbow to his abdomen. A pained oof leaves his lips. “You’ve known the guy forever. Didn’t you start working with Perry when you were like ten?”

With a huff that has her curled bangs flying, she shakes her head. “Once upon a time, I might have. Keith is a good guy, which is why I don’t understand why he would pay a boatload of money to get introduced to someone.”

Clark can’t help but agree. Call him old-fashioned but he likes meeting people organically. He has heard stories about couples meeting at grocery stores, at the library, in college. He knows that the world has changed a lot. His parents might have met bumping into each other at the farmer’s market, but plenty of his peers have begun transitioning to dating apps. Cat is an example; she goes on a date a week as a way to keep herself entertained and also recruit new gossip material for her column. Work hard, play hard. 

However, Clark shouldn’t really be saying anything regarding this matter. He hasn’t been out on a date since things with Lois ended. It was an amicable breakup that left them with a stronger friendship. 

“I do agree, I don’t think there is much appeal in getting set up. What happened to a good meet-cute? There is no science in matchmaking,” Clark notes, mostly to himself. 

“Sixty-seven percent of daters say that their dating life isn’t going too well. Three-fourths of daters find it difficult to find people to date. People look for so many different things in a partner nowadays, especially when they’re older and more particular. Height, looks, income, sense of humor, and so on.”

The new voice that interjects itself to the conversation has them looking up. It’s a woman who is sitting at their table, and likely has been there the entire time they’ve been discussing this matter. 

You look up from your phone, setting it down as you finally address the rest of the guests. You’re in a blue strapless dress that almost shimmers underneath the dining room lights. Your eyes sparkle with something akin to mischief, one that sets off Clark’s nerves. 

“So, yes, meeting people in the outside world naturally is ideal, but it’s not always realistic.” With your name, you introduce yourself. “Matchmaker for Keith and Delilah. Pleasure to meet you. I see we’re all assigned to the colleagues table.”

Heat rushes to Clark’s face having been caught red-handed speaking poorly of your profession. You don’t seem fazed in the least. He pushes up his glasses on his nose and hopes that he doesn’t look as red as he feels. 

“There is plenty science in matchmaking. You’re figuring out the right combination of variables to trigger the right reaction. A matchmaker is the catalyst. My job is not to make sure you have the perfect relationship, it’s about finding out what you want and making sure it aligns with your potential partner’s criteria.”

“So what are the variables that your clients look for?” Lois is curious now, eyes alight and eager. 

You shrug, taking a sip of your champagne and crossing your arms over your chest. “It depends.”

“All of them must be looking for money. Both Keith and Delilah clearly can afford your services.”

Your lips tug into an amused grin. “You’re not incorrect, but financial stability is not the only checkbox. It can be anything from height, hobbies, age, personality, job.”

“Isn’t job the same thing as financial requirements?” Lois prompts.

“You’d be surprised by the number of people looking for partners who make high six figures without being in finance. That’s some of my tougher ones.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“Dating is all about setting expectations. It’s about understanding what you really want and going for it. No partner is perfect, you can’t expect to get all the things on your list, but you just need the ones that matter.”

Lois hums. Clark and Jimmy abruptly spin to look at her. They share a look. It’s her impressed hum. It takes a lot to wow Lois Lane. That’s an approving hum. 

Continuing with her line of questioning, Lois asks, “How many successful matches have you had?”

Tapping your finger against your lip, you seem to think about it, but Clark knows better. A woman with your confidence and skills, your kill rate is certainly top of mind. 

“Eight — well, nine including this one — since I started three years ago.”

“Nine couples?”

“Nine weddings. There are a few successful matches that haven’t yet gotten to this stage and may never get there, but to each their own. Love comes in all forms, right?”

Another impressed hum. Clark is about to get a severe case of whiplash. 

Before Lois can pepper you with more questions, another voice jumps in. “Excuse me.” The entire table turns to find a trio of women. “You’re the matchmaker right? Can we talk to you? After seeing what you’ve done for Delilah and Keith, we wanted to talk to you a little bit more about the experience.”

Your eyes light up, a charming smile settling on your lips. It’s the look of a salesperson ready to delivery a crowd-winning pitch. “Of course.” You briefly look around the table, eyes landing on Clark when your smile stretches just a smidgen wider. “It was nice meeting all of you.”

When you’re finally gone, Lois lets out a low whistle. “I’m not going to lie, she almost sold me there. If my bank account was big enough, I might’ve considered hiring her.”

Clark looks at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding. You? Lois Lane? You considered hiring a matchmaker?”

“Aren’t you curious what kind of people she would match you with? Like she said, it’s about setting and meeting expectations. It’s a formula at the end of the day. If she’s successfully created nine weddings in three years, she’s clearly good at what she does.” 

Clark has never thought about what he wants in a partner. He is busy enough as is dealing with his double life. He already had to explain being Superman once to Lois, he can’t imagine having to do it a second time. 

Then again, that feels inevitable. 

“If I could afford her, I’d ask her out,” Lois notes, eyes raking over you appreciatively across the room. “I love a strong, confident woman.”

“The two of you would likely kill each other before the date is over,” Jimmy mutters, being the second person tonight to get a jab from Lois. 

“Well, I think she makes for an interesting story. Clark, didn’t you say you’ve been struggling to find something for a new piece?”

He has hit a bit of a block for inspiration; he can’t write about Superman (in other words, himself) forever. Stories about Superman taking down the next monster in Metropolis no longer make big splashes on the front page. 

“Yes,” Clark grumbles, “but I don’t think this is the piece we want. This feels like it’s up Cat’s alley. Or since you’re so interested, why don’t you do it?”

“You know I have my hands full with the LuthorCorp piece I’m working on. Plus, I think you could bring a certain nuance to this as a single, straight man in Metropolis. Which is the perspective that most people read about anyway.”

He winces, “I don’t think people want to hear from yet another white man.” There is also the concern around pricing, which he doubts Perry will let him expense. “Do you think she has a discount code?”

Lois smirks, “If you write it as a piece focused on her company, they might appreciate the good marketing and do a free trial period for you. Their version of charity work, I suppose.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. 

It’s not the worst idea Lois has had, and she has had plenty when it comes to getting a great story. There probably is an angle he could work with; it could be an exposé on the matchmaking industry or an inside look into dating trends in general. It’s not his realm of expertise but he has been meaning to broaden his range. 

“Well, guess I have my next story.”

–

There are worse things in life than having to take the next step in your career by writing about a luxury matchmaking service in Metropolis. For example, Jimmy walks in covered in monster goo just minutes ago and has to immediately extract the photos for publishing, dripping slime all over his desk. Meanwhile, Clark sits comfortably at his desk with his good friend Google.

His first order of business is to explore your company further. When he pitched the idea to Perry, he immediately greenlit the concept. The man was already hesitant about ADORE, the matchmaking company, when his son brought up paying thousands of dollars for it, so he was on board with Clark doing an investigative piece on it.

ADORE has been around for a decade, its revenue experiencing a steep upward trajectory in recent years, driven by the influx of billionaires and single individuals (not necessarily mutually exclusive). They list all their matchmakers on the website, all attractive women with smiles mimicking yours from yesterday. The headshots are clear, and their expertise detailed. He finds you immediately.

Clark can admit to himself that he finds you attractive. You are. You exude the kind of confidence that has Lois intrigued, the comfort in your skin that can even make Jimmy uncomfortable, and the dangerously knowing smile that puts Clark on edge. He has met many beautiful people in his lifetime, but none have shaken him the way you do.

He copy-pastes your email and begins drafting a message. Every time he finishes two sentences, he deletes one. He has never been the most polished speaker or writer, Lois gives him enough crap for it. Somehow, emailing you feels like one of the most daunting things he has done, especially after your interaction over the weekend. He has multiple colleagues read over the email and only when it has received the Lois Lane approval does he pull the trigger and click send.

Now, he waits.

Ping! Well, clearly he does not have to wait very long. It’s a response from you.

Sure, Clark. I’d be happy to meet with you to discuss a potential article. How about tonight at 7? You pick the place.

This feels like a test. It has to be a test, right? Pick the place? Seven is also dinnertime, which means you expect him to take you out to dinner. Or perhaps he can limit it to a drink, even if he does not drink.

“Hook, line, and sinker,” Jimmy nods, looking almost proudly over his shoulder. “You’ve got yourself a date, Clark.”

The water halfway down his throat makes his way back up as he sputters onto his desk.

“Oh, I hope you don’t do that tonight. You’re not winning anyone over by spitting all over them.”

“This is not a date,” he emphasizes, quickly grabbing a few napkins to clean up the mess.

Jimmy ignores him. “Where are you going to go with her?”

“I don’t know…” Clark has never been the type to keep track of trendy restaurants or places to go to impress women, he hasn’t needed it. His meals consist of multiple breakfasts in a day, because he knows the recipes by heart and they are relatively easy to make. “What about Metro Grill?”

Jimmy groans, followed by Lois on the other side, and even Steve across the floor.

“What? What’s wrong with it? It’s a good place to eat.”

“That’s where you go when you’re about to break up with someone, Clark. Or bring someone you really, really hate,” Lois flags. “She’s going to turn you down the moment you suggest it.”

Clark should be offended by this, but he also accepts the truth that he is not an expert in this area. “Okay, where should I go then?”

Jimmy snaps his fingers, eyes lighting up. “My cousin works at this sick new restaurant just a few blocks from here. The Refinery, have you heard of it? Great drinks, great vibes. Perfect for a date.”

“It’s not a date,” Clark says exasperatedly.

“I’m sure he can get you a last-minute reservation and hopefully a discount.” At what is most likely a despondent look on his face, Jimmy quickly adds, “It’ll be fine. As long as you’re not getting anything crazy like the seafood tower, you’ll be fine.”

That same night, the words that leave your mouth has his body ascending to another plane of existence.

“I think I’ll get the seafood tower.”

Clark doesn’t think he has ever paled as fast — or paled at all for that matter. You seem to have the heart-stopping effect on him, and he’s not so sure it’s the good kind.

You are dressed in a plaid blazer today to complete an all-black ensemble. Your hair is twisted, a little unruly compared to the neat pins in your head when he first met you. However, you still look beautiful — even more so today, he thinks.

The laugh that escapes you yanks him out of his thoughts. “I’m just kidding. I wasn’t expecting you to pick such a nice place, but this is a good choice. A few of my clients have been out here. It has a good atmosphere and the food is passable.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. The first test is over. “I’m glad. My coworker recommended it to me. I, uh, don’t really get out much so I’m not an expert at the restaurant scene in the city.”

You regard him carefully, cool eyes carefully assessing him. He feels a bit… unraveled under your gaze, like you’re picking him apart to his very bones to find his flaws and imperfections.

Clark knows that he is objectively, relatively handsome, but he does not have the aura that lures people in like Jimmy does. Clark Kent is also a bit of a mess in his everyday life: spilling coffee on himself twice a week, occasionally deleting an entire article after it’s been completed, and at times tripping over his own foot and face-planting onto the sidewalk in front of hundreds of people during morning and evening rush hour.

“Well, you have great resources. I’ll have the Greek salad,” you say to the waiter, handing him the menu.

“You can, um, order an entree too. I can pay, I promise.”

Your lips tug up again, like you know something he doesn’t. It’s unsettling. “I had a big lunch.”

Once their orders are in, you lean back against your seat, arms delicately crossed on your chest. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, Clark Kent, pitch me.” He blinks at you, taken aback. “Why should I agree to be the subject of this article for you? The business is doing well, I am clearly good at what I do. Why should I risk my and my firm’s reputation to give you a story?”

“Well, it would be good marketing for—”

“Something else. Something more exciting. What’s the angle for the story?”

“It would be great if we could cover the dating scene in Metropolis?”

You purse your lips, glancing away across the room.

“Or if you have other ideas, I could be open.”

Turning back to look at him, you let your lips stretch into a wide, Cheshire grin. Shivers snake up his spine involuntarily. “Have you considered being matched with someone, Clark?”

“Me? Oh, um, no. I don’t think I could be.”

“Why?”

He looks at you in surprise. “Well, I just assume your clients would want someone… better.”

You give a small shrug. “My clients tell me what they’re looking for, but sometimes they don’t even know what they really want. At least, until I show them. I could show you to some of them.”

“I couldn’t possibly afford your services.”

With a snap of your fingers, you grin. “That’s it. How about you do a firsthand account on what it’s like to be a client? I get a challenge in you, and you can try and prove me wrong. Win-win situation, right? Isn’t that what you wanted to do anyway? Write some silly scathing piece about the business.”

Clark flushes red. Caught again. “I don’t think—”

“I’ll give you three dates. Most people take more but I think I can do it in three for you.”

“That’s a feat for you. I don’t think you could.”

“Then try me,” you smile, leaning forward with your arms folded on top of each other on the table. Your salad pushed to the side.

This is playing with fire. This isn’t the article Perry approved, but it may be one that captures the story best. Who better to speak about the matchmaking experience than someone who has gone through it himself? 

But, there is still the matter about money.

“And the fee for your services?”

“Free for you. Just think of it as a trial period.”

His teeth catches his bottom lip, gnawing at it warily. It is for the article. It is for inspiration. It is to get out of this writing slump. He repeats these three sentences in his mind like a mantra until he convinces himself that this could perhaps be a good idea. Lois and Jimmy would be so proud of him for taking a step outside of the comfort zone.

“Alright,” he relents with a sigh.

You stick out your hand and he reaches out to accept it. “Deal, Mr. Kent. Don’t act like you’ve just signed your death warrant. This will be fun for both of us.”

“So, let’s say I’m your paying client. How does the process usually go?”

“Well, I would speak to you and ask you about yourself. I’ll write down notes on what I think are your strengths and weaknesses. I’ll ask you about your criteria in a partner, and we will go from there.”

“Great, shall we do that now?”

Your eye catches the waiter lurking in the corner. The man looks antsy, looking at your untouched salad and the fact that Clark only ordered a glass of water. Your table is bleeding money right now. “How about we move this elsewhere? I know a great late-night café.”

Clark thanks the heavens that he can finally escape this place. The moody, romantic lighting was starting to get to him. It’s probably partially the reason why he agreed to this shenanigan.

The two of you trek ten minutes to the café. The walk is silent and Clark finds the cool evening air calming for his flustered self. He watches you walk ahead, the clicks of your heeled boots mixing in with the cacophony of traffic around you. Your fingers are intertwined behind your back as you observe the city come alive before you. The shifting city lights illuminate your features and Clark thinks you look even more enchanting out here, completely in your element.

You look younger when you’re relaxed. The tightness in your eyes and lips have smoothed out as the tension leaves your shoulders.

When a man calls out your name upon entering the coffee shop, Clark looks up. It’s the barista behind the counter. You give him a small wave and a big, friendly grin. It’s not the same smile you offer your clients. Or him.

He almost feels a little jealous.

After taking your orders, you stick around by the register to chat some more with the barista and Clark awkwardly slides his large frame into one of the booths.

“Do you come here often?” He asks when you sit opposite him.

“Yes, mostly for clients. Gary doesn’t chase me out when I take a little too long.” You nod your head to the barista who’s cleaning the equipment behind the counter.

It’s just you and him in this quiet little place.

He looks at you and sees that you’re still looking at him carefully, like your eyes are conducting a comprehensive analysis of him. His curiosity gets the best of him. “So what do you think then?”

“Of what?”

“Of me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“You’ve been looking at me like you do,” Clark points out.

Your lips twitch. “Do you want my honest first impression?”

“Yes, how do you think my potential matches would find me?”

Leaning back against your seat, you assume the same position as earlier. Arms crossed, discerning eyes that rake over him appreciatively yet objectively. “You’re a great-looking guy. Height that any man would kill for — what is it? 6’4”?” Clark blushes a little but nods. “Gentleman. You’re not charming in that obnoxious, cocky way, but in a cute, endearing way. There are definitely women who like that. All in all, you tick a good number of boxes for most of my clients.”

Clark fidgets in his seat. He feels like an object being appraised. This is how women feel all the time. The patriarchy truly is the worst.

“I hear a but coming,” he replies.

A soft laugh rises from your throat. “But I can tell your suit comes from the discount bin. It’s loose around your middle but stretched around your shoulders. Your pants end too short on your very long legs. Moneyed men have suits tailored to their exact measurements. While style is an easy fix with a good stylist, wealth is slightly more difficult.”

Frowning, he crosses his own arms over his chest. “You think I wouldn’t be able to date your clients because I’m not rich? That’s incredibly superficial.”

“They make the rules,” you grin. “In this economy, financial stability is a big trait that people look for. With that said, I think your level of wealth does realistically limit the pool, but it does not eliminate it completely. I think you have plenty of great qualities that my clients are looking for, we just need to sell you properly.”

“And what would that entail?”

“A little sweet-talking from me,” you smile.

Clark isn’t sure what to make of that. 

–

The eyes are truly the windows of the soul because, in this moment, as he looks at his reflection in the mirror, he sees his soul departing from his body. He leans over his bathroom sink, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves.

It’s only a date. Clark has been on dates before. Sure, he has. None of them ever made it to a third except Lois, and we all know how that one ended. He lets his curls hang a little looser and adjusts his glasses on his face.

You hadn’t told him anything about his date aside from the fact that her name is Angela, she is thirty, and she is a doctor.

“Any words of advice?”

“Be yourself. The whole point of this is to find someone you can be yourself with. You’re going to be fine, Clark.”

Easy for you to say. You’re not the one dressed in a fifty-dollar suit, one of the only two suits he owns, going to a restaurant he can barely afford. Since you approved of his restaurant choice last time, he figures that taking his date there wouldn’t be a bad idea. Plus, Jimmy did convince his cousin to give Clark a discount, so hopefully his wallet doesn’t hurt too much.

Unless his date decides to order the seafood tower — for real this time.

They agree to meet at the restaurant and upon seeing her, Clark already has a sinking feeling in his gut. This is not a good sign for people meeting for the first time. He expects some excitement and thrill, but his anxiety is eating him from the inside out. Angela looks stunning in a red dress that drapes over her frame like silk.

She’s beautiful and she seems nice. She looks around the room, seeming pleased with his choice. When they put in their orders, she thankfully does not order the seafood tower and instead opts for the steak. She also adds a couple of appetizers. “To share,” she beams.

It’s the thought that counts, he supposes.

However, when the waiter asks for any drinks, she looks at him. He looks at her, unsure why she is looking at him. “Well? Are you not going to pick a bottle of wine?”

“I don’t drink, so I’m not familiar,” Clark admits, biting back a wince.

The light in her eyes dims a little, and Clark feels like he got his first strike of the night. She smiles tightly at the waiter, “I’ll just have sparkling water. Thank you.”

Clark tries to make conversation, but everything is a little stilted. He asks questions, she provides answers. She asks questions, he provides answers. There is no natural progression. It is almost like an interview.

He gets his second strike when she asks him about what he does. “She mentioned that you’re a writer. That sounds fascinating, what kind of stories do you write?”

“Oh, I write for The Daily Planet, so unfortunately mostly nonfiction,” he tries to joke and she only smiles politely. “But I’ve focused a lot of my work on Superman.”

Her face immediately sours. “That alien character?”

Oh boy. This is not going to be fun. He looks down at his plate, which he has finished.

“Yes, the superhero.”

“I don’t know if I would call him a hero.”

“Why not? What would you call him?”

She shrugs, manicured nails drumming incessantly on the table. “A menace to society?”

“He’s trying to save lives.”

“He destroys property. One time, he flew straight through my apartment to take down some monster. Why couldn’t he pick another building?”

A snappy retort sits on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it. You set up this date for free for him. She is a paying client to you. He wants to be considerate. Of you. Not of this woman. 

“I’m sure he would’ve if he could’ve,” he mutters under his breath.

The conversation stalls afterwards. A nerve has been struck, one that makes it clear that this discussion and dinner cannot be salvaged. When the waiter comes back around asking if there is any interest in dessert, the answer is a unanimous no. 

Still, Clark is a gentleman, so he does the gentleman thing of offering to drive her home. 

However, when he gestures at his car — his very mediocre, secondhand car, she glances at his car, then at him. “I’ll take a cab. Thank you for dinner.”

Strike three and he’s out.

When he gets home, he asks himself how anyone could put themselves through this, before he promptly falls asleep.

The next time he wakes, it is to the sound of his phone vibrating against his cheek. The constant small talk wore him down last night, and he ended up crashing on his couch, which is much too small. Probably half the size of what Angela owns in whatever building he crashed into.

Your voice, however, is chipper. “Good morning, Clark. How’d you sleep?”

Miserably. He’s still thinking about the hefty tab from last night and how he definitely should not be going out with these women. It’s not too late to back out of this article. There are other things to write about in Metropolis.

“Clark?”

“Hi, yeah, sorry. Slept fine. You?” He massages the crick in his neck as he drags himself to his kitchen. Coffee is definitely needed.

“Good. I wanted to check in to get feedback on your date. Usually, it’s helpful when things are still fresh. I had the chance to speak with Angela already, but I wanted to hear your thoughts.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Clark sighs, “I mean, it was fine. She is definitely looking for someone with more refined tastes in both wine and cars, so I don’t think we would work out long term either.”

“Noted, that is helpful.”

"What did she say about me?”

“She said that the date was fine, but the chemistry just isn’t there for her right now.”

Clark snorts. You’re sugar-coating it for him. “You can tell me the truth.”

A pause at the other end of the line. “Dating is a marathon, not a sprint. We go through trial and error, find the best way to adjust to what we can’t change, and charge forward. It just wasn’t a good match, so we learn from the ones that don’t work out to figure out one that does. It only takes one, Clark.”

He wants to add that it only takes one for him to give up his whole farce.

“Onward and upwards,” you say, and he can picture that sales smile again.

“Do you talk to all your clients this way? Coax them gently through the pain of rejection.”

You laugh and Clark notes the pitch is a little different, a little breathy. It sounds like a sincere laugh. Warmth blooms in his chest as a result. “I’m here to be a helping hand. Some refer to us as therapists.”

“Certainly costs more than my health insurance can cover.”

Another laugh, another spark in his heart. “Well, we do provide the highest quality customer service.”

There is a moment of silence that falls over the phone. Clark knows you’re still there with the birds chirping in the background. He wonders if you always work Saturdays, it seems like a lot to ask of someone. Then again, he has also sacrificed many weekends for a story.

He finally asks, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe in all this? The work that you do. Do you think that you’ll be able to find the perfect match for all your clients?”

You hum thoughtfully. “Nothing — no one — is perfect, but I do believe that there is someone out there for everyone. Whether you meet them in your teens, your twenties, or even when you’re sixty and graying, love is about finding the right time and place. I want to be the person who gets you there.”

“You’re a romantic.”

“I’m a rational romantic,” you correct him teasingly. “Love isn’t all about the sparks. It’s also about finding balance in what would make the foundations of a strong relationship.”

Clark nods, realizing then that you cannot see him.

“What are you doing tonight?”

He wishes he had enough plans to check his calendar, but his answer his quick. “Nothing planned, why?”

“I have an engagement party to attend, care to be my plus one?”

Are you— is this you—

You are swift to clarify, “I’m not asking you on a date, Clark. It’s part work for both you and me. I promise it won’t count towards your now-two-date quota.”

He can hear the smirk in your voice. It’s not as if he has anything better to do. He tells himself that this is for his article. For the depth of his article.

He keeps telling himself that when he shows up at an extremely fancy party at a mansion. You had actually rented him a suit and got it delivered. It is much more comfortable, and even he can admit when he looks pretty darn good in something.

“You clean up very nicely in clothes that fit right.”

Clark whirls around to find you. This time, in a floor-length gold dress. You look… ravishing. Like a gem that sparkles underneath the moonlight. He wants to compliment you, tell you that you do too, but the words can’t seem to leave his mouth.

A slow smirk curls on your lips. “Well, at least I know I can still make a man tongue-tied.” You reach up to fix his bowtie, fingers brushing against the base of his throat. Your hands press against the lapels of his jacket, smoothing over his chest, and down his arms. 

His breath stutters. No one has touched him like this in a long time — and you’re not even trying. At least, he doesn’t think you are. Maybe it’s just habit. But maybe it is something else entirely.

He swallows hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up, only to find you already watching him. Your eyes darken, lingering at his lips then rising again to meet his.

Heat coils low in his stomach. His hand twitches at his side, aching to settle on your waist and pull you in until there is no space left between you. The urge to lean in, to draw you closer, is magnetic. Dangerous. 

But then you step away and the cool evening breeze kisses his skin to bring him back to the present. You clear your throat as he offers his arm. “Shall we?”

It’s an engagement party for one of your clients. He still has no idea why you decided to bring him here, but perhaps it’s to add more to the article about your expertise. What better way to show off your success than meeting you at a wedding and attending an engagement party that you created?

“We’re going to pretend you’re my boyfriend,” you whisper. “The bride-to-be is a big believer of big love, so I wouldn’t bring just anyone to this.”

He wants to ask why him, then. Why go through all this trouble? However, he misses his chance when they finally step through the threshold.

It’s hard to believe that this is someone’s home. Approximately an hour into the suburbs, the farmhouse that could more accurately be described as a mansion sits on sprawling land that stretches acres. A chandelier dangles from the ceiling, gold plates are being passed around with hors d'oeuvres, and once again, everyone is dressed like they’re meeting the queen.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, “I don’t think I should be here.”

He swears he sees you shudder slightly, but it’s gone when you look up at him with a small smile. “Don’t worry. I only want to show you the magic we can create at ADORE. Enjoy some free food while we’re at it.”

The happy couple — Samson and Kierra — are long-time clients of yours. Samson had been in the service for a year, and Kierra for a couple of months, when they were introduced to each other. One first date and two years later, Samson finally proposed to Kierra on a cliffside with an extravagant display of flowers.

Kierra couldn’t be upstaged even if anyone tried. She is wearing a massive white dress with a tail that trails behind her and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. When she spots you, she immediately brightens, screeching your name and hurrying over as fast as she can with the weight of her gown.

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you could make it!” She throws her arms around you and a laugh slips past your lips. Clark steps away slightly to avoid trampling on Kierra’s skirt and to give them their moment.

“Thank you for the invite. It’s an honor to be part of your celebrations.”

Kierra scoffs and swipes a tear away from her eye. Her blinding smile does not waver once. “Please. All this happened because of you. You introduced me to the love of my life. You’re a miracle worker.”

“It is all you, darling,” you grin, holding her at arm’s length. “You are the magic you create — and this love between you and Samson, it’s no miracle. It is inevitable.”

With a watery pout, Kierra hugs you again. “You always have such a way with words. I can’t wait to have you at the wedding too! We’re going to have flamingo dancers and a cabaret — daddy’s thinking about setting it up carnival style. It’ll be a grand time.”

You match the joy in Kierra’s expression. “I’m looking forward to it.” Then she turns to Clark and he freezes. Before he can embarrass himself, you swoop in, “This is my boyfriend, Clark.”

“Look at you,” Kierra whistles, wiggling her eyebrows at you, which earns another genuine laugh. “A tall, very tall drink of water. She snatched up the best one for herself, huh?”

Clark blushes and decides to play along. He slides an arm around your waist and tugs you closer to him, pressing his lips against your head. “It’s all her. Like you said, she’s a miracle worker.”

Kierra looks like she’s about to burst into tears again. “I’m so happy you found each other.” She turns to you. “I remember the first time we spoke, you told me that you hadn’t dated anyone in a long time, but look at you now. Oh, I love love. I’m going to find Samson and we’ll be sure to say hi again. For now, please drink lots and lots and enjoy the food. I’m getting married!” She squeals before scampering off into another crowd of giggling women.

His eyes follow her across the crowd, as she proudly shows off her ring to anyone and everyone who will listen. When a man finally joins her, seemingly the complete opposite, the prime example of calm and cool, Clark can see the fondness with which he looks at his future wife.

This is a couple in love. This is what it means to create that scientific reaction you explained to him the first time you met.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s starting to feel kind of nice being held like this.”

Clark slowly drags his eyes away and realizes that you’re still tucked to his side. His arm is still around you, except now your hand is carefully placed on his chest. Red sprawls across his face again as he slowly releases you. “Sorry, I wanted to make sure we were convincing. I completely forgot and I didn’t mean to just hold you for that long. It was an accident.”

Great, now he’s rambling like a fool who has never touched a woman.

“It’s good. You sold it well. Shall we enjoy the party a little more?”

He is thankful that you don’t make a big deal out of it. Clark offers his elbow and you slip your hand through. The two of you spend some time mingling with the other guests, taste-testing the fancy tiny morsels drifting around the room, and drinking your fill of champagne. Clark sticks to his iced tea.

Kierra and Samson do their speeches, and he spots you getting a little teary-eyed, so he slides a napkin your way and you look at him gratefully.

At some point, you persuade him to dance with you. He is all long, clumsy limbs, but you don’t seem to mind, laughing along with him when he does an embarrassing, old-school move. You would mimic him and the two of you end up drawing amused glances from the rest of the guests.

When a slow song comes on, before he can tug you off the dance floor to allow the other couples to take the space, you’re already taking his hands and maneuvering them onto your hips. You put your own on his shoulders and the two of you gently sway to the soft melody crooning through the speakers.

“Do you get it now?” You whisper, tilting your head up to look at him.

Clark’s eyes examine the room. There is a lot of love packed into this place. It’s not only the bride and groom, but it’s the people that they have brought together. Even him. As someone who can’t say he has experienced love beyond the one from his parents, he can feel his heart stretching open to welcome it.

And the catalyst for it all? You.

You who worked your magic, who believed in their love. You who work tirelessly to bring people who have never known each other together in the hopes of creating something bigger than the sum of their parts.

“Yeah, I can see it,” he murmurs quietly, lifting your hand to spin you around and catching you in his arms again. “Kierra’s right. You’re a miracle worker.”

“Not a miracle worker. Just a believer,” you smile.

–

The last thing Clark wants to do is relive that second date. It had been an experience. He definitely needs to give you his feedback, but he’s trying to keep his mind off it while he’s at work. Unfortunately, he has friends like Lois and Jimmy, and even Cat, who are relentless in badgering him for spoilers for his article.

“Y’all, come on. Every writer has their process.”

Lois waves him off with a roll of her eyes. “You’ve been on two dates. That’s two more than you’ve been on in the last five years. Give us something.”

“How is it working out? Where are you taking them?” Jimmy questions.

“Anyone famous that I would know?” Cat peers at him through her thick-framed glasses, eyes looking much too manic for his liking.

Clark is backed into a corner at his desk as the three crowd around him. He really needs to go back to saving the world and writing Superman articles. Metropolis has been eerily quiet lately, which is a big plus because all his free time is consumed trying to write notes for this article. He still isn’t quite sure what angle he wants to play this at.

The engagement party shifted his perspective. Clark is not a cynic by any means, but he certainly has his doubts about organized dating; it is what prompted him to write about it to begin with. He didn’t think that it would result in real, more-than-superificial love. His largest point of reference for love has always been his parents. Real love that has lasted decades. 

Seeing Kierra and Samson has tilted his world, forcing him to question what it means to date in the modern world.

Then there is the matter of you. You’re… different. The matchmaking business almost seems unbelievable at first. Capitalism at its finest. He knows that, while he still has faith in humanity, humans are also known to profit off others. The career seemed to be an easy way to money-grab people of hundreds of thousands with the grand promise of a happily ever after. 

But then he remembers you that night. The genuine look of awe on your face and how you preened with pride having been the one to connect the two. The way you spoke about love and how desperately you seem to want to convince him of it too. 

It appears to work because Clark finds himself reckoning with these notions, these concepts that he has held onto for so long. He thinks about love and how it is created and what it means to find it. 

He thinks about how comfortable you feel in his arms, or how you smiled up at him with those twinkling eyes. He thinks about the teasing lilt in your voice and the gentle comfort of your words. He thinks about how easy it is with you. 

He tries not to think about that part too much when you ship him off on his second date, which is a hundred and ten percent worse than the first one. Cold chills spread through his body, goosebumps rising on his skin, at the memory.

“Oh, bad date then,” Lois laughs. “God, look at the look on your face. So was everything she said just hoo-ha?”

“No,” he says slowly, “not everything. Though, I’m not so sure how good she is at matching me with people. Either that or she has terrible clients.”

“Tell us then!” Jimmy urges impatiently.

Clark groans. “The first one hated me because I don’t drink wine, I don’t think Superman is a terrorist, and I don’t have a nice car. The second one—” he will have nightmares for days about this one, “—she kept trying to climb on top of me at the restaurant.”

The cackles ring loud and clear across the room, capturing the attention of many irrelevant parties who have no business knowing about his — dare he say — love life.

“Why is that a bad thing?” Cat asks, frowning. “It’s good that she’s attracted.”

“She was—” crazy, there is no other word, because she kept trying to kiss him even after she inhaled that plate of garlic knots in five minutes, “—a no-go, for sure. A little too eager.”

Cat grumbles something about men these days.

“But you still think it’s possible? For you to meet the love of your life in three dates?” Lois asks.

"I highly doubt that, but it’s been an interesting experience.”

If someone were to honestly ask him how it’s going, he would say that it’s not going so well. The dates have been mediocre at best, dangerous at worst. So if someone were to ask him why he is sticking around, he doesn’t think he can yet admit out loud that it’s because of you.

He’s curious about you, in a way that he hasn’t been intrigued by anyone in a long time. He wants to know more about you, about why you do what you do, what drives you. If you have anyone in your life who makes you believe in love the way you have made many others believe in it.

He doesn’t know how he feels about the last one, if he even wants the answer to it. A small nagging part of him whispers in his ear that it should be him, but that would be ridiculous because the two of you barely know each other.

So he tries not to dwell on it too much.

Lois scrutinizes him closely, even after Jimmy and Cat are gone from his desk. She has always been able to read him better than anyone else. It’s what makes her such a good reporter. He fidgets under her gaze, trying to avoid direct eye contact, lest she realize the thoughts sitting under his skin.

“There’s something here you’re not telling me,” Lois starts with narrowed eyes, “and I’m going to find out. I’m a patient woman.”

She is, and he is even more terrified because of it.

As he wraps up work that night, his phone rings and your name pops up. His heart skips a beat. He’s surprised it has taken you this long to call, presumably for feedback.

“Hey,” Clark greets. Simple, easy.

There is honking on the other side of the line and then you curse, which draws a smile from him. You always seem so professional around your other clients, but have no qualms calling and cursing in front of him.

“Hey, shit, sorry. It’s been a rough day. A few clients are out on dates so I needed to check in with them first but I wanted to make sure I came back to you. First meal I’m eating today so forgive me, I’m cooking while I call you, but I wanted to get your thoughts on your date. Heather was really happy about you, she couldn’t stop raving.”

Well, this will be awkward. “Ah, right.”

You pause, silence on the other end. “I’m assuming you have other thoughts about it?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“She was a little… eager,” he says hesitantly, “she kept trying to kiss me and climb on top of me. We were at a restaurant. It didn’t seem appropriate.”

“Oh Christ,” you mutter. “I’m so sorry, Clark. Heather’s a great woman but she’s had a string of shit dates — not all organized by me, mind you — so she might be a little pent up. I’m not excusing her behavior because that is wildly inappropriate. I’ll have a chat with her to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

"Yeah, it’s fine. No harm done. Thanks for checking in though,” he responds, packing up his bag for the day.

The office is deserted, most people have gone home for the day, but he wanted to get a head start on additional research for his article. He wants to speak to a few experts too and hopefully get more insight there beyond ADORE.

“I have a new client who just came on board. She’s fantastic and I think the two of you will get along—ow, shit!” Clattering on the other end has him on alert.

He frowns, trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder as he loosens his tie. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Um, yeah, no big deal.”

Your voice is shaky, none of your usual confidence. “Hey, tell me. What’s going on?”

“Fuck, this is so embarrassing. I can handle it, don’t worry.”

Clark sighs, “I’m not asking if you can handle it. Tell me what happened.”

A groan reverberates through his phone’s speakers. “I was cooking and then this roach—fuck, it came out of nowhere and I had the pot in my hand and I dropped it and now the roach is somewhere in my apartment and I’m standing on my couch because I’m fucking terrified. Roaches fly, don’t they? They can still get me if I’m above ground?”

“I can come over and help.”

“No, oh my god, that would be so unprofessional. I’ll… figure it out.”

“Tell me your address. I’ll drop by.”

“Clark, you really don’t have to—”

“Text me, yeah? I’m heading out of the office right now.”

A pause before your quiet voice comes through again. “Okay.”

Ten minutes later, Clark is standing in front of your door. Your apartment is surprisingly… simple. He expected an extravagant penthouse, but it’s a quiet, walk-up building with an old buzzer that had caught him off guard. You have a mat outside your door with “Hi, I’m Mat” written on it. He smiles to himself. Cute.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, I’m a little freaked out and I don’t really want to step off the couch to open the door.”

Clark looks down at the knob and wonders if it would be problematic for him to just melt or break it to access your place.

“I have a spare key under the mat.”

That works too. Also, incredibly unsafe. He’ll have to talk to you about it later.

For now, he takes the key and opens the door. The first thing he notices is the spilled puddle of red liquid next to your small kitchen. The second thing is you perched on top of the couch, looking at him in alarm with a pillow in your hand.

“Hi,” he greets, amused.

You scowl, “Don’t look so happy. I don’t know where that little creeper went.”

Clark proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes looking around both on his feet and on his knees. When he finally spots the little bugger underneath one of your side tables, he glances around for something to catch it with.

“Don’t kill it,” you mumble from your spot.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says as he grabs one of your empty shipping boxes, traps the thing in, packages it up, and flicks the roach out your window. Turning back around, he sees you slowly climb down from your couch.

It’s a little disconcerting to see you in such casual clothes. Your hair is wet, your pajamas adorned with little stars somewhat rumpled, and your feet bare against the cool, creaky wooden floors. You exhale deeply, smiling awkwardly up at him. “Thank you. I’m sorry you came all the way here for this, I know the office is kind of far. I hope you didn’t get any traffic tickets on the way here.”

Thankfully, law enforcement has no jurisdiction over how fast he can fly from one place to another. “It’s no worries at all. I’m sorry about your dinner,” he says, looking at the pitiful mess on the floor.

“It’s just ramen, I can always make another.”

He looks at you in disbelief. “You didn’t eat all day and you were going to eat ramen for dinner?”

“It’s easy,” you say, your cheeks warming, “don’t shame me for my girl dinner.”

Clark laughs. “I’m not, I’m only slightly concerned about your health.”

“I have so much work to catch up on.”

As if on cue, Clark’s stomach also grumbles. He ate a sizable lunch but he still hasn’t had anything for dinner. “How about you work and I whip up dinner for both of us?”

Your eyes widen, protests spilling from your lips. “No, oh no. That’s a crazy inconvenience. I’ve already had you come all the way here to get rid of a bug.”

“Think of it as my thank you for setting me up on dates for free,” Clark smiles. “I’ll be back in a bit with groceries.”

When Clark is outside of your apartment, you whip the door open. “Hold on! I’ll come with you at least.”

“You have work.”

You ignore his words. “Give me a second to change.”

He always finds grocery shopping therapeutic. There is something so particularly human about it. He remembers the times he walked through the market where his parents met all those decades ago, with his mom by his side. She taught him how to pick the freshest produce and how to turn them into his favorite dishes.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You prompt.

He almost forgets that you’re next to him, until he sees you peer around him to look at his face. He chuckles, “Nothing important. Just thinking about how I used to do a lot of the grocery runs with my ma.”

“You’re close with your family?”

Clark hums, tossing a bag of flour next to the box of eggs in his basket. “Yeah, they’ve been good to me. Raised me even when I was an unruly teenager.”

“I can’t imagine you as an unruly teenager. The worst thing you’ve probably done is skip school.” Clark pinks to the tips of his ears. “Oh my, you’ve never even skipped school?”

“Education is very important!” He defends, plucking baking powder from the shelf.

You laugh, the sound a delight. Clark’s growing fond of the way you laugh. Your genuine laugh. The one that comes straight from your belly and escapes from your lips. “God, you’re such a good guy. Catching roaches, making dinner, prioritizing education. Complete package.”

The two of you continue talking about nothing and everything as you finish up your shopping. Clark carries all the groceries in the short five-minute walk back to your place, despite your insistence that you are strong enough to carry some of it.

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to,” he points out before his hands loop through the bags.

As he prepares his usual dinner menu, you camp out on your laptop. Clark watches you from the counter, how your forehead creases and your lips twist whenever you see something you don’t like, how your lips twitch with a silent laugh, how they purse when you’re thinking. You are oddly expressive for someone who he always imagines to be calm and collected. It is an interesting bit of knowledge.  

By the time he pours the last of the pancake batter onto the sizzling pan, you shut your laptop and pad over to where he is, looking around him at the stove.

“Of course you would be the type to like breakfast for dinner.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you eat like a child,” you tease, “but at least it smells delicious.”

“I’ll have you know I learned this blueberry pancake recipe from my ma and it’s still the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”

The two of you quickly plate the massive spread Clark has prepared. Pancakes, toast with butter, perfectly runny eggs, yogurt with granola and honey, and an assortment of fruits. The plates are spread across your coffee table and the two of you settle comfortably on the floor, backs against your couch. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had this much breakfast food in my life,” you say as your eyes wade through the dishes in alarm. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Don’t thank me yet, you have to like the food first.”

Clark slices through the pancakes and moves them to your plate, topping them off with a healthy drizzle of maple syrup. He watches as you ravenously pile food onto your plate before digging in.

“Oh my god,” you groan. Clark blushes again and tries not to let his mind wander, instead beginning to work through his own plate.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling.

“Quit laughing at me,” you grin, shoving him lightly. Of course, Clark doesn’t budge an inch.

“I’m not laughing. I’m happy you’re enjoying your dinner,” he smiles right back.

“This is no joke. Best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

“Big compliments from someone who’s probably been to many fancy breakfast places.”

The two of you enjoy the meal in relative silence. The television plays in the background as white noise as you stuff yourselves to the brim with the delicious feast Clark prepared. It’s a comfortable silence, the type that usually only exists between old friends.

Despite your initial introduction, Clark finds himself at ease with you. He had — incorrectly — assumed that you would be more uptight, more focused on pitching your services with your sales voice rather than building real connections. Seeing you in action and spending time with you these past couple of weeks have been eye-opening.

After dinner, you’re stretched out on the couch, eyes glued to the television playing some old animated rerun. Clark is still nestled on the carpeted floor, long legs stretched out in front of him and his back pressed against the sofa.

“Why are you still single, Clark?”

The question takes him aback, and he turns slightly to look at you, but you’re still looking at the screen. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a perfect gentleman. You have all the physical qualities that make you objectively attractive. You cook. You’re a family man. You’re not scared of bugs. You come to the aid of a damsel in distress who has only put you through hell so far with your dates.”

Clark swallows a laugh at the sincerely befuddled expression on your face. “I don’t know. I’ve been on a few dates but I don’t think I’ve ever been that good at it.”

“You’re literally perfect.”

“Far from it,” he murmurs quietly. “I think people tend to look for someone charming, someone put together who can talk their way through anything. I’m not that guy.”

“On the contrary, I think people who are too charming can seem disingenuous. You, on the other hand, bleed sincerity.”

The corner of his lips tugs up. “Is that really a good thing?”

“It’s a great thing, I promise.”

He shifts and breathes out slowly. “What about you? Any partners?”

“Oh, yes, loads. As you can see by my delicious dinner on the floor and the fact that I spend all of my hours at work.”

Clark chuckles low, shaking his head. “Alright, no need to sass me.”

“I’m single as a pringle.”

“Why don’t you date?”

Thick silence blankets both of you for a moment. You seem to be deep in thought, your lips pressed into a thin line as you snuggle deeper into the worn fabric of your couch. Clark wonders what or who put that look on your face. Impassive, but if you look closely, it’s tinged with a little hurt.

“I’m not… datable,” you begin quietly. “I don’t date. I think I’ve seen too much of the inner workings behind dating to believe that it’ll work for me. I’ve been around the block and I’m not about to take that walk again.”

Clark stews on it for a moment. He has never been that good at biting his tongue. “Can I ask why?”

You take a deep breath. “My last boyfriend, we got into so many arguments. I was young and insecure, I was constantly concerned about how long we would last. I analyzed every single part of our relationship and us as individuals to see if we were meant to be together. He told me I was cold and emotionless, that I didn’t really understand what makes a relationship.”

“That’s not fair. Relationships don’t last solely based on love alone, as much as people would love to believe that.”

Tilting your head back, you look up at the ceiling. The fan whirrs quietly, offering some reprieve from the heat that crawls up your skin. “I’m an awful person, Clark. I talk a big game about being able to match people with their perfect partner, but I don’t even believe it’s even possible for me.”

"I don’t think you’re awful,” he quickly interjects with a frown.

A light laugh escapes your lips as you turn your head to look at him. Your eyes are warm, and sad, and Clark wants nothing more than to chase that expression away. Before he can continue, you say, “You don’t think anyone is awful, Clark. That’s your strong suit.” You smile. “It’s a good thing. We need more people like you. More people with faith.”

“You’re too tough on yourself,” Clark says, turning his body around entirely and sitting cross-legged on the couch. His fingers itch to reach out to you, but he keeps his hands tucked on his lap. “Love isn’t easy. What you do isn’t easy. You help people who may no longer believe in love find their way again. That’s not a simple task. What you’re trying to do is build relationships that last, and that includes understanding what people are looking for and making sure they never settle for less than they deserve.

“Humans are complex. No one thinks about love exactly the same way as another person. You— you just haven’t found someone yet who thinks the way you do, but it doesn’t mean they’re not out there. I understand what you’re looking for. I’m a romantic,” he smiles, “but I also do think that some sensibility matters. So no, you’re not an awful person. You don’t need anyone to make you whole, but you sure as heck can find someone who will love you as much as you love them.”

When he finally looks at you, he sees the unshed tears in your eyes. You’re looking at him with something like awe and appreciation. It makes his heart stutter, and he quickly looks away.

“Gosh, that’s a little embarrassing. I talk as if I know anything about this, huh?” He laughs, the sound stilted. His heart tightens in his chest as he glances away from you.

“You’re a darn good man, Clark Kent,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Clark smiles. “No need to thank me.”

As if you’re trying to release the tension from the air, you sit up, discreetly swiping at your eyes. “Also, are you real? Who says things like heck and gosh?”

A groan bubbles up his throat. “My parents raised me not to curse, alright.”

“Yeah, you were a real unruly teenager.”

Part Two (coming soon!) ↦

Tag List: @sflame15-blog

[clarkeyscherry]

Could I request a fic where AB and reader are friends and she mentions that she’s never had an orgasm (she’s NOT a virgin just been w shitty men) and he helps her out😩

HUNGRY FOR LIFE︱alfie buttle

contains: reader that’s never had an orgasm, smut, oral sex fem!receiving, protected sex, friends with benefits?

a/n: i love this ideaaaa !!!!! hope you enjoy x

word count: 1.8k

tags: @luvdixon @jamiekluivert @lilyyxoii @camaluvs @wherethezoes-at @madsclarkey @willnees @pretendyoucantseeme @sdmnpact @writer-jamie @rubi-radio @italianclarke

you and your best friend, alfie, were on the useless hotline podcast. as you friendship had blossomed over the years, the audience loved your moments together. this podcast was a highly requested appearance for the two of you together.

max and george had spent the first half of the podcast asking questions such as where and when did you first meet, how long have you been friends, have you ever had a serious argument, have any of you ever had feelings for each other, have any relationship of yours ever broken up your friendship etc.

but now was a segment where you’d be playing never have i ever, and you were warned that the questions could get hot. possibilities being it could be about the future of your friendships, past relationships, possible future relationships, sex life and so on. and even on the first question, it caught you off guard.

“never have i ever, faked an orgasm.” max read aloud from his phone, looking up at you and alfie in curiosity.

alfie held up his ‘never’ board and you held up your ‘have’ board.

“reader, you have?” max raises his eyebrows, his curiosity getting the better of him, “when was this?”

“i’ve only been in one relationship and he was my first, but he actually never made me orgasm. the only time i’ve orgasmed is by my own hand.” You explain with a shrug, it didn’t bother you much. and you automatically thunk, that from your past relationship, sex was not all that.

“really?” alfie speaks up from next to you.

“yeah really. I wouldn’t lie about never having an orgasm.” you chuckle, making max and george crack up in laughter.

“that’s actually a shame cause you’re missing out.” george speaks, still laughing slightly.

“am I though? it’s just made me think that sex isn’t all that it’s made out to be.” your eyes squint in question.

“you just haven’t had sex with the right person girl.” alfie speaks, sending a subtle wink in your direction making you raise your eyebrows slightly. What was he winking at?

“maybe, but i’m not too bothered you know?” you shrug, pursing your lips.

“not even a one night stand?” max questions.

“I don’t think I would, but you never know who i’ll meet.” you raise your eyebrows before smiling at the camera.

“you heard it here first ladies and gents.” max holds out his hands, bowing his head down to you.

“one night stands aren’t my kind of thing, i prefer the intimacy of knowing them.” you explain, nodding along with your point.

“would make you more comfortable with them too, if you’d known them for a while.” alfie nods, making you hum in agreement.

the more you spoke about the topic, the more quiet you noticed alfie went. which was unusual for him, especially around you. you two bounced off each other so for him not to be taking the piss out of you was out of the ordinary.

you subtly nudged his thigh whilst max and george were occupied talking amongst each other, to get his attention.

“you alright? you’re awfully quiet.” you mutter, moving the microphone away from your mouth.

“i’m alright.” he nods, but it wasn’t convincing enough for you.

“i don’t believe you.” you shake your head, making alfie sigh, he knew you weren’t going to let this go lightly.

“don’t believe me then. i’m alright.” he said with a light laugh, trying to lighten the mood from the direction of a serious conversation.

“don’t lie to me, alf.” you shake your head, he knew that the one thing he shouldn’t do is lie, especially straight to your face. you hated it.

“i’ll talk to you later, okay?” he put his hand on your thigh which made you jump out of your seat slightly.

“oh okay.” you nod with a small smile, not wanting to push him further.

for the rest of the podcast, his hand did not leave your thigh. you bounced your leg a few times as a gesture for him to move, but that man was not moving. you didn’t know what came over him, it was strange for alfie. yes you two were close friends but never this close to the point of PDA.

“i think we should wrap up this episode there! thank you to both alfie and reader for coming on, we love you both. and we hope you’ve enjoyed!” max concluded the episode.

“thank you for having us! bye!” you wave to the camera with a smile.

once the cameras stopped filming, alfie turned to you, “you ready to go?” he firmly patted your thigh.

“yeah all good.” you stood up from your chair, grabbing your stuff before walking out the building.

the drive back to alfie’s house was quiet, the music was humming lowly through the car as you looked through the window. you couldn’t help but think what alfie would say to you. did you say something offensive without realising? did you say something that would affect your friendship? thoughts were racing through your mind, you were biting your lip through your anxiousness so that alfie wouldn’t see. you didn’t want to say anything yet.

“come then girl.” his voice breaks you out of your trance, you blink a few times before stepping out of the black defender.

you walk into his warm house, sitting down on the sofa with a quiet groan.

“reader?” alfie speaks up from his bedroom through the small corridor.

“yeah?” you reply.

“c’mere.”

you slowly get up and walk to his room, finding him sitting shirtless on his bed. his shorts hung dangerously low on his hips, his boxers branding peaking through.

“what’s up?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“you meant what you said when you said a man has never made you orgasm?” he asks in a low tone making goosebumps rise on your skin. why is he making you feel like this all of a sudden?

“yeah…”

“you deserve to be with a man that knows how to pleasure his girl.” alfie finally looks up at you, his eyes slightly darker then they were before.

“yeah?” you hum.

“mmm, you know that though.” he replies.

“you have someone in mind?” you ask.

you felt your own cheeks redden at your question, your hands were starting to tremble at your sides. your eyes twitching at the sight of your best friend shirtless in front of you. He looked insane. his lap looked like the perfect seat for you if he offered.

“yeah i do.” he nods, biting his lip as he gestures you to come closer.

you step in between his open legs, hands behind you as you look down at him.

“who’ve you got in mind?”

“me.”

alfie grabs you by your hips, pulling you flush against him before attaching your lips to his before you could even react. you let out a small moan as his hands explore your body for the first time.

“let me show you what a real man can do.” he mumbles against your lips before unbuttoning your jeans and tugging them down, groaning at the sight of your lacy underwear.

“did your ex ever eat you out?” alfie asks, glancing up at you quickly to read your expression.

“no — he used to say it was disgusting-”

alfie cut you off with a dry laugh, “pathetic.”

he practically rips your underwear from your skin making you gasp his name, swatting his slightly for tearing your favourite underwear.

“you wanna sit on my face baby?” he asks in a high tone, a small smirk sitting on his lips that made your stomach do flips.

“are you sure? won’t it hurt you?” you bite your nails with nerves, your ex definitely wasn’t this desperate to have you sit on his face. but alfie, god alfie was practically begging on his knees for you thighs to be wrapped around his head.

he drags you up so that you’re hovering over his chest, urging you to go higher, but making sure you’re still comfortable at the same time. another thing you appreciated about alfie.

“please — please baby.” he begs before pulling you down so his lips are around your clit making you jump at the unfamiliar feeling.

“oh god- ” you bit your lip to quieten your moans from embarrassment, not used to this euphoric feeling.

“let it out.”

you knew you wouldn’t last long with the pace he was devouring you. If you didn’t know better you would’ve thought he was a starved man.

“alfie! i’m close.” you moan loudly, throwing your head back whilst slowly grinding your hips down against his mouth, his tongue nudging just the right place to push you over the edge. your legs shook around his head as you came onto his tongue, alfie lapping up every spill that was coming out of you.

you move off his face, laying down next to him. your chest heaving up and down as you come down from your high, expecting him to be done. but he was nowhere near finished with you.

“i’m not done reader.”

he shrugs off all his clothes before nudging your still shaking legs open with his own as he lines himself up with your entrance.

“you okay?” he asks, making sure you were comfortable. at your reassuring nod he pushes himself into you, a gasp escaping your mouth as you feel the intimidating size of him.

“god, alfie. you’re so big.” your voice comes out as a whine, tears pricking at your eyes:

alfie immediately pauses at the sight of your watery eyes, wiping them away, “you okay?”

“yeah, yeah i’m good. keep going — keep going please.”

after a moment of letting you adjust to his size, alfie starts thrusting his hips at a slow pace. you were sure that if you looked, you’d see a bulge poking your belly, especially as he quickens his pace.

“mmm yeah.” you moan, your nails clawing at his biceps making him grunt.

“gonna cum again for me darling?”

a small whine escapes your mouth at his words as he repeatedly hits the right spot inside you to push you to your orgasm.

“come on, atta girl.” he urges you, his face nestling into the crook of your neck as he groans.

alfie gives one harsh thrust before spilling inside you which makes you reach your high yourself. you tug on his hair as you experience your second orgasm of the night. and first orgasm from sex. it had definitely changed your perception of sex, and alfie was right. sex wasn’t bad, you just hadn’t experienced it with the right person yet.

“was that good for you?” alfie breaks the comfortable silence, making you chuckle quietly.

“it was more than good, alf.”

“glad i changed your perspective darling.”

[lalaluna20]

can you write angst for kate martin where she is neglecting reader, but reader is like super famous and everybody would love to be with her? kate notices shes being a piece of shit after an ugly fight, could you do a little bit fluffy in the end?

faults

kate martin x famous reader warnings: neglect, arguing, intoxication word count 4,179 not even lying. if you read through this whole thing, you’re a real one fr.

you were living your dream life, part time content creator, full time social media worker for the New York liberty. the only downside? your girlfriend of 3 years, kate martin lives across the country. no not halfway, actually across the whole. damn. country. but this is year two, so it shouldn’t be as bad as last year…. right?

wrong, from the switch from unrivaled -> injured -> the off season -> the W season, was a lot. you followed kate to florida, working on the lunar owls media team. although you worked on a different team, you were still able to see kate everyday, even living in the same apartment for the first time. when her season was cut short due to injury. you and kate were able to take more trips and dates together.

during the off season for both teams, the two of you would travel back to iowa. kate would train and you would work with the women’s basketball team and some of the other iowa women’s teams.

when it was announced kate was drafted to the valkyries, you helped her move and settle in.

when the preseason came around you went back to New York, as much as you wanted to stay with kate, if there’s a possibility she gets traded to another team and she’ll have to move again, then you’ll be by yourself and out of a good job and area you know and love. Even if you did get a job with the valkyries, there’s a large possibility its not going to be the job you wanted/liked, so you stayed in New York.

now during this whole run, you were still filming and posting. people loved you and kate together, so when you went back to New York you genuinely wondered who was more heart broken you, kate or your fans.

for the first week of preseason you posted a vlog. you highlight your outfits, work and social life balance, and of course how you manage a long distance relationship that has a 3 hour time difference.

“the hardest part about being in a long distance relationship, is that i can’t go visit my girlfriend on a whim. like i actually have to save up at least 2-4 monthly paychecks to go visit kate. aghh this is torture.” you complain on your vlog. your comments usually filled with comments on how cute you and kate are, how long distance relationship suck but are so worth it, etc.

a few day later you posted an insta reel with texted on the screen “i almost forgot the whole point” and it was a series of photos. photos of good morning messages, cute notes, past dates and little facetime videos/screenshots.

katemartin: i love you baby ❤️ i miss you :( pinned & liked by creator username<3: i love you too baby!! i miss you so muchhh :((((

as the season goes on you find yourself looking at your notifications. each day the number of notifications from kate decreased. you’d send her a bunch of reels that would be left on read, good morning texts (adjusted to her time zone) just to get a response 5 hours later. you’d repost her posts and reels, comment, heart it, just to receive nothing in return.

fans started to speculate. “did kate and [reader] break up?” “is kate mad at [reader]??”

fan accounts start to post. “KATE MARTIN CONFIRMS BREAKUP IN NEW INSTAGRAM POST” “KATE MARTIN AND GIRLFRIEND OF 3 YEARS ARE ON THE OUTS” “IS THIS THE END FOR THE IOWA SWEETHEARTS??”

you try to ignore it, you really did. but with the rise of fan speculation, fake reports, and rising dms and comments wanting to take you on a date, it was getting hard to ignore. at this point every other comment was just “can i take you out mama? 😍” or “is it true you and kate are over?? 🥺 i literally love you btw” you knew you need to talk to kate about it. even if you didn’t want to.

kate we need to talk

you hated this. you hated you had to confront her. of course you also did it over text. you couldn’t do it in person, because of your job and expenses. you couldn’t do it over call, because goddamn its hard to confront verbally.

you knew kate would respond soon. she had a free night, no practice, no ads, nothing, she was free tonight. unlike many were speculating, you knew kate wasn’t cheating, but there was still a little voice saying “if she doesn’t respond maybe she is” although you try not to indulge those thoughts.

what’s up baby??

the text throws you off guard, even in the minimal texts between you two, she hasn’t called you “baby” in weeks. you falter a bit, but quickly you focus on the task at hand. “fix communication, don’t get sidetracked” you tell yourself. before sending the paragraph that has been in your notes app for the past month.

over the past month and a half i’ve seen our communication start to slip. our texts, calls, interactions have all decreased. i know you’re busy with basketball and brand deals and i know how exhausting it can be. but i can’t help but to compare it to our interactions from last year. even last year at this time we would still text and call daily. but now you don’t reply to my texts for days, you ignore my posts, and you decline my daily calls. and if you do answer them it’s once a week and barely for 5 minutes. now the whole internet and out friends think we broken up. i know i shouldn’t care what others think, especially the internet. but i’m scared that you do want to break up with me. read at 7:49 pm

kate doesn’t respond for the a few minutes. you could see that she was typing. with every few minutes the 3 dots would appear than disappear.

7:54 pm baby i’m sorry. i don’t mean to ignore you, but i have. at the start i was just exhausted and was telling myself i would respond later when i’m rested. but as time went on that would just become an empty suggestion. but baby i promise, i still love you and would give the world to be with you again. i promise i’ll do better, and please call me out if i start ignoring you again. thank you for bringing it to my attention , i love you baby.

you believed her because usually kate keeps her word. you had no reason not to believe her.

i love you too baby see you at all star weekend

i’ll see you then and i promise i’ll do better

those texts were from a week ago. now it was two weeks till all star weekend and you were already seeing improvement. you and kate were calling and texting daily again. she would repost your content and reply to your comments.

your fans were starting to see a difference. “i’m glad kate and [reader] are taking again” “is it just me or does [reader] look happier??” “i think [reader] is kate’s good luck charm because kate’s game has gotten so much better.”

kate even posted a story of the two of you. it was a face time call. you were eating lunch and later was eating breakfast. with text on the story saying “we may be long distance but we still have meal dates!” “nothing beats a breakfast-lunch date”

you reposted it, with texts saying “it’s a struggle but we make it work😂”

two weeks flew by, and it was now all star weekend. you were there for work, since you were promoting liberty’s social media. while kate was here for a mix of work and relaxation. while you were staying at the hotel the W assigned to workers and players. kate stayed at caitlin’s apartment, catching up on lost time with caitlin and gabbie.

you were excited to see kate again. the two of you had even planned a date night exploring Indianapolis.

when you and kate finally reunited was at the after party on thursday night. kate was the first to post a story. “reunited with my girl ❤️” and in the corner of the screen. “photo credits to @caitlinclark22”

then you posted a story. “with my baby!!!”

fan were excited that the two of you were together again. with posts and edits of the two of you being flooded everywhere. but what fans didn’t see was that kate was practically glued to caitlin all night, leaving you alone to hang out with your liberty girls. mostly izzy and tash since that’s who you’re to closest to. even though you were upset that kate pushed you aside, you couldn’t blame her. even though you should she was catching up with caitlin you understood their connection and understand they needed time to catch up.

as the weekend went on you found yourself feeling neglected an ignored by kate. even izzy getting worried about the two of you. “did you guys get into a fight?” she asked with concern, placing a hand on your shoulder. “n no, she’s just catching up with old friends.” you say reassuringly, yet it sounded more like a pathetic excuse. you try to play it off, telling yourself that you’re just being too sensitive and in your head. especially since it’s your first all stars and this is a new environment for you.

friday night it was the skills challenge, you were filming for media content. making sure to get photos and videos to upload to the liberty’s instagram and tiktok page.

after the game you were going to go to another all stars party with izzy and tash. but you decided to stay back, wanting to meet up with kate before hand. you happily wait for your girlfriend, knowing that this is the way she would exit. you find yourself waiting there for 10 minutes.

hey baby! do you want to meet up before the party?? i miss youu

3 minutes later she responds.

shit me and the girls already left, do you want me to have cait come back and get you?

you felt your heart drop. you felt pathetic and embarrassed. it’s so clear she just wants to be with her friends, she could careless about what you do.

no baby it okay. are you sure? yea i’ll just meet you at the party okay i’ll see you there stay safe ❤️

by the time you got to the party you didn’t even bother finding kate. you look around the room, trying to find izzy. you knew she could always bring a smile to your face.

when you spot her, you walk over to her. “hey [reader]!” she says happily. celebrating her girlfriend’s win. you don’t say a word, just wrap your arms around her waist and hide your face into her neck. a telltale sign you needed comfort. izzy hugs you, placing a hand over your head, as tash comes up, placing a hand on your back. “hey girl whats up?” tasha asks, concern and confusion looking up at izzy. “she’s ignoring you again isn’t she?” izzy asks, not wanting to make you upset even more. just trying to understand the situation. “i waited for her for 10 minutes. just to find out she left… she didn’t even offer to get me, rather just have caitlin get me.” you were genuinely about to cry at this point. tasha was seeing red, while izzy was seeing blue. izzy knew how much you were looking forward to seeing and being with kate. while tash was about to knock some sense into kate, she has this amazing girl and she’s just ignoring her. it’s not like they even dislike kate, they loved her, they got to know her during unrivaled and loved the sweet stories you would tell them.

after a few minutes of comforting you, the coax you into celebrating with the rest of the liberty girls. successfully getting you to enjoy your night.

you decide to head out when izzy and tash decided to head out. izzy needed to be up early tomorrow to spend time with her brother. she couldn’t be too drunk or exhausted. and tash didn’t want her to leave alone.

but once you were about to leave the club, you ran into kate. “[reader]! where have you been? i’ve been waiting for you all night!.” kate exclaimed, placing a hand on your shoulder stopping you right in your tracks. tasha looks at you, the look asking you if you want her and izzy to wait for you. you give her the go ahead to leave, before dragging kate to a quiet isolated part of the club.

“why didn’t you tell me you’re here?” kate asked, there was an edge in her voice, but she was just purely confused.

“didn’t think you would care or notice. so i just went to go find izzy.” you say dryly, trying to stay calm.

“d didn’t think i would care?! [reader] what are you on about?!” kate’s voice starts to raise. she’s usually in control of her temper, but due to being clearly intoxicated, any control is practically gone.

“you’ve been ignoring me al-” ”oh my god [reader]” she groans, interrupting you, “have you ever thought maybe you’re just too needy and clingy. this is the first time i really get to relax and even then i still have to do fucking work. unlike you i don’t get to mess around and still makes thousands okay.” she snaps at you, talking down to you like you’re a little child.

“i’m here for work too kate. you know this.” you fight back tears, feeling invalidated and hurt. your girlfriend had just yelled at you, had just talked down to you like you’re some dumb child. “fine, i may be too needy, too clingy. but at least i’m still trying to keep our relationship going. and fine i’m sorry for i want to be with you. this is the first time i’ve seen you in months and i fucking miss you.” your voice starts to break, your emotions becoming more present with each word.

“goddamnit [reader] the world doesn’t revolve around you. okay people have lives and they can’t accommodate to you. i’m sorry for not being at your beck and call 24/7 but you need to grow the fuck up and realize you’re being too goddamn insecure. we’ve been in a relationship for 3 years, so what if we don’t spend time together for a couple of months! many couples do it for longer and they’re not this fucking immature about it.”

a part of you tells you “she doesn’t mean it, she’s just intoxicated” both the other part says, “drunken words are sober thoughts, you’re just being too much.” you get a salty tear fall down your face.

“fine, i’m sorry for being too clingy and needy, you don’t need to worry about it anymore.” you say, starting to head to the nearest exit, “wait [reader]” you hear kate call out,

you turn around in a flash. “no kate you make it really fucking clear where i stand. you want space, you’ll get space. you didn’t want me to bother you, don’t worry i wont bother you anymore.” you say coldly through tears. you start walking way. not stopping till you’re outside in the cool summer air of indianapolis.

you felt like a stupid teenager again. you didn’t know where this leaves you and kate, are you guys still together but just in a fight? were you guys on a break? or did you guys break up? the last thought only made you cry harder. you were going to order an uber, but called tash instead. rather being safe than sorry.

can you pick me up? yea doll omw stay right there okay

when tash finally picks you up, you sit in her rental car. you stay silent for all of a minute before breaking down. she quickly scoops you up in a hug, letting you cry it out.

saturday morning

you had posted your personal content of all star weekend to your instagram and tiktok. you had also posted a story of you at a local cafe caitlin had recommended to you.

but behind the aesthetic posts and stories, lies the messy aftermath of your argument with kate.

13 new messages from love of my life 💜

good morning baby i love you ❤️

i’m sorry for last nighti was intoxicated and handled things badlynot badly, horriblylike the worst way possible

i know you’re probably hurt and mad at me and i completely understand. how i talked to you was completely unacceptable.my behavior for these pasts months have been completely unacceptable.

i have to get going now but i promise to make it up to you if you’d let me. we could get lunch together? or we could just spend our free time before the all star game cuddling? okay, well let me know when you’re awake i hope to see you at the unrivaled event! love you baby ❤️ read at 7:30 am

throughout the day kate waited, she waited for a response or maybe even seeing you. although she was able to hide it, her guilt was gnawing at her. she remembered everything she’d said, she remembered how you looked. she was so mad at herself, how she acted last night, how she’s acted all weekend, how she treated you for the past few months. she’d promised you that she will change, but 2 weeks just to go back to the same routine, she felt awful. she knew her words meant no value, especially when her actions don’t match her promises.

but as time went on, from start to finish for the unrivaled event, you were no where to be seen.

you in the meantime were doing work. editing photos and videos for your upcoming posts, both for the liberty’s socials and yours. you pondered about exploring indianapolis. but then you remembered that you and kate had planned a date to explore, you felt two different ways.

one part of you wanted to explore. 1. you’ve been wanting to explore indianapolis for a while. 2. you wanted to be mean and petty. you knew kate has been to indianapolis and so what if she isn’t there, it’s not like she’d care.

but the other part of you wanted to wait. you really wanted to go with kate, you had planned a bunch of places you wanted to go to. were they tourist hot spots… yes, but you knew you and kate would have fun. and as much as you would want to be petty and mean. you knew most likely you would just feel sad and lonely.

you ended up staying in your room, because in reality, this work won’t get done if you just wander all day.

close to 11:30 tasha had texted you.

girly you wanna get lunch with izzy and i????? hell yeah!

at lunch you’d posted a reel. the little trend of mama y papa “mami y mama” (love both to death)

while at lunch kate had interacted with all your posts and stories. hearts, reposts, comments.

fans has noticed that you didn’t respond to any of kate’s comments or reposts. “are kate and [reader] fighting again?” “doesn’t [reader] usually respond to kate’s comments in a mere matter of seconds??” “i’m really hoping [reader] is just busy at lunch and nothing bad is happening.” “if kate and [reader] are on the outs do you think i’d have a chance?” “[reader] i could treat you better than kate ever could. please mama one chance 😭”

as time went on, the all star game came and went. before hand you were filming liberty content pregame. then halftime you posted glorilla content, while enjoying the performance caitlin came to hang out with you. she didn’t bring up kate around you, just wanted to be with you. the two of you are still friends, and caitlin hadn’t been able to hang out with you all weekend.

“you wanna get dinner with the girls and i?” caitlin asks just loud enough for you to hear. “um maybe, honestly after the game i just want to call it a night. i’ll come for your all star weekend celebration tomorrow tho.” you say not wanting her to be disappointed. at the end of the day the two of you are still friends and caitlin absolutely hated it when relationship problems impact it. “make sure you get rest tonight then, because i expect to see you tomorrow.” she says with that signature smile. “okay coach caitlin.”

after the game you left with tasha, not bothering to wait or go looking for kate.

when kate caught wind that you’d left already, she didn’t go out with the iowa girls. instead she ordered an uber to your hotel. even though caitlin had offered to drive her.

even with the heavy traffic in indianapolis, she made it to your hotel in a mere matter of minutes.

you had barely just finished settling in for the night, when you here a knock at your door. you begrudgingly got up, expecting tash had forgot something or izzy just wanting to check in on you before bed, maybe decompress with her bestie for the next hour. but when you answered the door, you were met with a blonde. a blonde with a guilt stricken face, and regret ridden eyes.

before you could even process the sight before you, kate had pulled you into her arms. she was holding onto you tightly, like you’d disappear if her hold loosened, even just a little bit. “i know i messed up, i know i’ve been messing up.” her voice was a soft whisper, like if she raised her voice any higher she’d cry. which wasn’t wrong, kate was on the verge of tears. because she knew one wrong word or action, you’d slip away and move on like she was never there. “please… j just let me fix it. i promise i’ll fix it.” she gives you a small kiss to your head. she was gentle, so gentle you almost felt like you were a precious fragile artifact.

before you knew it, your arms were wrapped around hers, your head now nuzzling into her chest, seeking the comfort you’ve been missing so dearly.

that’s how the two of you ended up sitting on the edge of the bed. you in your pajamas while kate was still in her all star fit. her arm wrapped around your waist, while your head was on her shoulder.

a small silence falls between you two. you could tell kate was trying to come up with what to say. not because she didn’t think she was in the wrong, no she definitely knew she was in the wrong. but rather, she didn’t want to say something wrong that will just cause her to lose you.

she sighs “i’m sorry, i’m sorry for how i’ve been treating you these past few months. i fixed up my actions, just to revert back to ignoring you. i can’t believe i got too caught up in my work just to push you aside.” you could hear the guilt and regret in kate’s voice. you could hear the realization in her voice, how each word carried more shame. “and oh god, my behavior friday night was unbelievably. i should’ve never yelled at you, i should’ve never spoke to you like that. intoxicated or not, what i did was unacceptable.”

she gently pulled you away, just enough so she could look you in the eye. when your eyes lock, she’s already trying to read you. trying to read how you feel, if her words hold any meaning to you.

“do you remember how i told you, all i ever want to do in the future is take care of you? well i mean it” her voice comes out shaky. “i really do. i know my action don’t seem like it, but i do. and i promise i’ll make up for how i’ve been treating you. no matter what, no matter how long, or what i have to do i'll make it up to you." and you knew, she meant it.

for the rest of the night you and kate cuddled till you fell asleep. in the morning you woke up to breakfast in bed, and kate in different clothes. ”i had caitlin bring me my clothes and bring us some breakfast. come on, eat up. we have a museum to visit in an hour.” a smile formed on your face. she remembered the date you planned.

after breakfast you got changed and started your date with kate. this time you knew kate was going to fix her act.

and she did, no more ignoring, no more neglecting. she made sure that there wasn’t a day that went by, where she didn’t tell you how much she loves and adores you.

[laniidae-passerine]

see I am very disjointed from a lot of nine/ten fandom discourse because I genuinely believe that in a different world where space boy was not to be seen, had an older Rose gone to the hospital and bumped into a certain Doctor Jones by a vending machine or as she was taking Rose’s vitals, she would have instantly hit it off with Martha. and probably flirted with her a little on accident and then on purpose when Martha flirted back

[akkivee]

Do you think Shadow and Kuukou could get along

i originally had a response talking about hearts, trying to compare how similar sonic and amy’s are which is why shadow and kuukou would get along in that a capacity that shadow would allow (kinda similar to sonic and shadow’s relationship)

but i think it would be really fun to imagine shadow on a mission of some sort that gets crashed by kuukou bc he wanted to do some activity and thought shadow was the best fit for it and kuukou just tags along, helping him out with the mission so that way when it’s over, shadow can’t escape and kuukou can drag him off to that thing he wanted to do lol

[skyyguy]

.

[street-smarts00]

With All My Heart

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You never thought Bucky was the sentimental type, until you found something hidden under his bed.

WC: 3.3k

Tags/Warnings: super fluffy, established relationship, Post Thunderbolts*,Not Beta Read 

A/N: I’ve had this idea for weeks and finally did it. Fun fact, the Polaroids may or may not be inspired by real pictures I took of my best friend and her boyf. Also, yes I have been to the rest stop I mentioned. Sadly I live far away from them and I NEED to go back!

You felt like an idiot looking at your wrist and realizing your watch wasn’t there. 

“Shit,” you mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked you with concern. 

You shook your head, “It’s nothing, I forgot my watch.”

He paused, pondering while he put on his leather jacket. “I think you left it on my nightstand when you took it off last night,” he answered, pointing down the hall. “Do you want to go get it before we leave?” 

You hesitated, “You sure you don’t mind waiting?” 

Bucky shook his head and held out his hand to hold your jacket and purse for you. “Not at all.”

You smiled, handed him your things, and left a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, be right back.” 

As you walked away the corners of his lips turned up into a soft smile. 

You hurried to Bucky’s room and upon entering a frustrated groan left you. There the nightstand was, with no watch. You searched the drawers in the nightstand and the top of his dresser, still no luck. 

After staring at the nightstand, you wondered if you really did leave it there but maybe it fell. You kneeled down next to the bed and turned on your phone flashlight. A quick scan finally revealed the missing watch. With a relieved sigh you reached for it, when something caught your eye. 

A box. 

A box with your name written on the side of it. 

Your own name was staring back at you as you grabbed the watch. With a careful hand you reached for the box and dragged it out from the bed. 

The box sat in your lap, unopened, unbothered. It was a dark brown cardboard shoe box from one of his pairs of boots. Your name was written in black marker on the side and next to it a tiny messy heart. 

Your gut is telling you not to open it. It might have been hidden for a reason. You have no right to be digging and snooping around Bucky’s things. Finding something he didn’t want found. 

But another part of you was desperate to know what was inside. That small but loud part of your brain that was screaming at you to open it. The voice kept echoing in your ears. Reminding you that your name was on it. 

Why did he have a box with your name on it?

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be hidden. You kept things under your bed not because you wanted to hide them, but because of storage and safekeeping. Maybe this was like that. 

Maybe. 

God the anticipation was going to kill you. 

Maybe it was a present he put in there for your next anniversary, birthday, or some other reason. 

Well then you should really not open it. Don’t want to ruin any possible surprise he has for you. 

You really shouldn’t open it. You shouldn’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Open it. Open it. Open it…

Your hands moved on their own. Your fingers peeled back the lid of the box and set it down on the floor next to you. 

You peered inside at the contents of the box with confused curiosity. At first glance it didn’t look like much. It definitely wasn’t a present. There were a bunch of random items, mostly paper ones. 

The first thing that caught your attention was the small plastic wristband. It was at the top of the pile. You picked it up and read the words on the side “Luna Park: Coney Island.” Realization dawned on you that it was Bucky’s wristband from your first date. When he asked you out, there was no specific place in mind yet. But when he told you an old story about him and Steve at Coney Island and you said you had never been there before, he knew where he wanted to take you. 

It was a perfect first date. The weather was clear and warm but not too hot to be uncomfortable, no doubt because of the cool ocean breeze. You went on rides, you played games. And of course Bucky spent 40 bucks to win you a blue stuffed penguin you fawned over and called cute. He was a man on a mission. And now that penguin sat on a chair in your bedroom. 

With a smile you placed the wristband back in the box and picked at the other things inside. 

Your heart swelled at the realization that most of the items were from your old dates with Bucky. There were tickets from your trips to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Museum of Natural History and one from The New York Aquarium. There had to be at least 5 movie stubs and 3 dinner receipts from dates you went on with him. There was the playbill from the broadway show he took you to for your birthday a few months ago. He surprised you with orchestra seats. 

You dug around more and found a strip of photos from a photo booth you took with Bucky. His eyes shined as he told you about how common they were back in the 30s and how he used to always stop at them with his friends. When you both sat down he stared with wide eyes at the inflated price. 

“Ten dollars? This used to cost a quarter!” 

You giggled at his complaint, “You sound so old when you say stuff like that.” You reached for your purse to grab a ten when he stopped you with a hand on your arm and pulled out his wallet from his pocket. 

“I’m still not going to let you pay for it,” he returned with a sly grin. 

You smiled looking down at the strip of pictures in your hand. The top photo was simple, both you and Bucky smiling at the camera with his arm around you. It was sweet, peaceful. In the second photo you placed a hand under his chin and kissed his cheek. His eyes were closed with wrinkles around them from his smile. His cheeks were more rosy than in the last photo. In the third photo Bucky now had his hand on your neck as he kissed you. The fourth and final photo was of you looking at the camera, mid laugh, while Bucky had a hand on your face and pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

The machine gave you two copies of the pictures. Yours was pinned to a cork board in your room next to other photos. 

You moved on from the photo strip and continued digging through the memory box, throwing caution to the wind. 

As you flipped through the other items a shell fell from behind something, landing in the corner of the box. It was the seashell from when you walked and talked on the beach for what felt like hours because you were so engrossed in conversation with him. The water carried a small shell onto the shore. You picked it out from the water and stared at it in awe. You had asked Bucky to hold onto it because your clutch was full and your outfit didn’t have any pockets. Later that night you forgot about it. 

In fact, you forgot about it until now, weeks later. Your jaw dropped as you ran your fingertips over the ridges of the shell's surface, reminiscing your walk on the beach. His hand in yours and the

The next thing you found were the birthday cards you gave Bucky from his last two birthdays. One card was from a birthday before you started dating, and the other one was after. 

The two year old card was more basic, like you got it from the generic section of the birthday card aisle (because you did). You opened up the old card and read your own handwriting. 

Happy Birthday Bucky

I know you don’t like making a big deal out of your birthday but you still deserve a card :) 

You’re so important to this team and your effort doesn’t go unnoticed. We’re lucky to have you around. I hope you have a great day and that 109 treats you well. (Even though you’re technically not 109 haha) 

You closed it and set it back down in the box before grabbing the one you gave him on his most recent birthday. This one was less generic. You picked out one that had more design and personality. 

Happy Birthday my Love 

I am so grateful to have you by my side. You’re one of the best things to have ever happened to me. I hope you know you are so important and appreciated. I can’t imagine my life or this team without you. 

Happy 110th you old man ;)

I love you with all my heart

Hidden behind the birthday cards was a stack of post-it notes all stuck together. Some of them were old with barely any stickiness left and crinkled edges. Some were new and almost in pristine condition. But all of them were notes from you. You flipped through the stack of sticky notes and saw more of your own handwriting. 

Good morning <3

You make me smile :)

Meet me in the lounge later I have a surprise!

I know you stole my last Pepsi >:( prepare for war

I’m so proud of you 

Have a great day!

And at least 7 more that just say I love you 

Bucky must have saved every single note you left for him.

Your heart almost gave out but thankfully it lasted to see the last few items in the box. 

There were more photos. Two to be exact. Two Polaroids taken from Yelena's camera. 

One of the Polaroids was taken a few months ago. You knew it was taken because you posed for it. It was on your birthday. The team celebrated at the tower with you after the show Bucky surprised you with. You wanted to keep out of the public eye for the rest of your birthday. Spend the night with just friends. And your boyfriend of course. 

Yelena was a few drinks in, wasting her camera film throughout the night. She had a pile of photos on the coffee table that was getting thicker as time went on. Most of them included you. 

This one was of you and Bucky. Everyone was sitting on the couches playing a drinking game. You and Bob returned from the bar with new drinks. A Long Island iced tea for you and a regular iced tea for him. You plopped back down on the couch next to your boyfriend, giggling at whatever outlandish thing Alexei said. After you placed your drink down Bucky wrapped an arm around you and placed a gentle kiss to your cheek. 

“Awe! Wait, that was adorable, do that again!” Yelena exclaimed as she grabbed her camera. 

You rolled your eyes, with no real malice of course. “Yelena,” you laughed. 

“Come on, it’s sweet!” She turned the camera on and looked through the viewfinder. 

“Kiss!” Alexei shouted. 

“Pucker up Barnes!” Ava yelled from the other couch. 

The corners of Bucky’s lips turned up into a grin as he shook his head. A gasp left you as Bucky grabbed your hips and pulled you into his lap. He tightened his arm around you and placed a kiss on your cheek. Your face turned bright red as an airy giggle left your lungs. 

Yelena snapped the image in front of her. Forever frozen in time.

The memory of that night now sat in your hands as you stared down at it. There was a phantom feeling of his lips on your skin as you set the Polaroid back down in the box. 

You picked the other photo up, immediately recognizing when it was taken. Except, you don’t remember it being taken. 

This picture was taken a few short weeks before Bucky asked you out. You knew that because your hair was slightly shorter. It was more grown out now. 

The photo was of you and Bucky on the couch, taken from behind. Your back was to the camera, resting against the couch. Bucky was sitting next to you. Your attention was pulled away somewhere off camera. But Bucky, he looked right at you. 

The thing that really stuck with you was his eyes. His eyes were soft. The kind of soft that people didn't see often from him. His eyes are normally like stone. His stare, usually hard, like rock. It pierces into you. But this look on him was different. He looked at you like you were a work of art. Like he was trying to take in all of you with just his eyes. 

You've seen that look before many times. But didn’t notice it before you started dating. You didn’t realize just how head over heels he was in the weeks leading up to your first date. 

You cautiously placed the pictures back in the box, like they were delicate and fragile. 

Something else you didn’t remember was a napkin with little doodles on it. You recognized it as a napkin from a bar the team occasionally visited. But you can’t remember when you drew flowers and vines on this napkin. 

Bucky seemed to remember it. He kept it and cherished it in his memory box like it was a masterpiece you created and not some drunk sketch. 

Your heart rate slowly grew in speed as your eyes moved to a keychain at the bottom of the box. It was a small, yellow, metal keychain in the shape of Texas with a cartoon beaver on it. 

It was in the middle of the night after a short mission in Texas. You and Ava stopped at the largest rest stop you’d ever seen in your life. The rest stop had a beaver for its mascot and aisles of merch. But what made you buy the keychain for him was the name of the rest stop. Buc-ee’s. 

You almost didn’t buy it for him. This was long before you started dating and you weren’t sure how he would appreciate a random gag gift. 

“I found something for you in Texas.” 

He turned to you and hummed with curiosity. You dug the keychain from your jeans pocket and handed it to him. 

“We found this rest stop called Buc-ee’s and they have this little beaver as their mascot,” you explained, fidgeting with the loops in your jeans. “He’s literally your twin, you're both named Bucky,” you ended with a chuckle, trying to make this one sided conversation any less awkward. 

He continued to silently examine it, his right, flesh hand running over the painted metal. 

“I know it’s stupid, you don’t have to keep it,” you nervously mumbled. You reached forward to grab it back from him, 

He pulled his hand back, not willing to give up the present. “No, it’s not stupid. It’s cute,” he reassured.  

Your cheeks heated up in real time just like they did when he said that. 

He kept it. 

He kept the gag gift you got him. This silly little keychain was so important he kept it in a special keepsake box.

You almost couldn’t believe what you found. All the memories, all the stuff you gave him, all the things he cherished because they reminded him of you. It seemed like this box that sat in your lap held his very own heart and all his love for you. 

You shuffled the items back to how they were in the box when you found it. You assumed that was all there was to find in there. Until three candy wrappers fell out from between the various papers. 

Jolly Ranchers. Your favorite candy. 

You always had them on you. Kinda like an old lady that carries around hard candy. John always jokes that you’re an old woman when you grab a jolly rancher from your pocket or purse. He says you and Bucky are perfect for each other because you both have old person tendencies. 

Speaking of Bucky, because you often had candy on you, you always offered some to him. He always said yes. Here in his shoe box you saw one cherry and two green apple wrappers. 

You froze, staring at the candy wrappers. Even in the silence of his room you couldn’t hear the footsteps approaching. For a moment all you heard was your own heart pounding in your ears. 

The door creaked open. “Hey, you’ve been gone for a while. Did you find your watch?” Bucky asked, walking in the room. 

He stopped a few feet away from you. Your back was to him, the box hidden in your lap. But he knew you had it because he saw the lid on the floor next to you. 

You raised your hand and shook your wrist to show him the watch. “Yeah, I found it,” your voice sounded more hoarse than you expected. You quickly blinked away the tears that collected at your waterline right before he waked in.

Bucky took a few steps closer, and crouched down next to you. He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. Now that he was close to you, he noticed how glassy your eyes were. 

He held your face in his hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. Your eyes fluttered close. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My watch was under the bed and I found this,” you started rambling. “I saw my name. I know I shouldn’t have opened it-“ 

“Hey, hey it’s okay,” he soothed in a quiet voice. He turned your face towards his. “I’m not mad.” 

You nodded to confirm you understood. You sniffled and glanced between him and the box. 

“You kept all this.”  

“I did.” 

“Why?” 

It was a dumb question and you knew it. Yet the word still flew out of your mouth. 

He took a pause, breathing in. 

“This stuff means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me,” he answered like it was the easiest thing to say in the world. 

“After HYDRA, after all the-” he hesitated- “issues with my memory I started keeping stuff like this. To remember.”

With his free hand he grabbed the other side of your face. Bucky leaned closer, his bright blue eyes stared into yours and bore into your soul. You could’ve sworn they looked a little glassy.

“I want to make sure I remember you.” 

You lip quivered. Bucky leaned forward and captured your lips in a brief, gentle kiss. He rested his forehead against yours. 

“Can I ask about something in the box?”

“Anything.” 

“The napkin. I don’t remember it,” you confessed, voice quiet and curious. “Why did you save it?” 

“It was the team's first time at that bar. You were drunk and bored because they weren’t playing songs you liked. Someone left a pen on the bar and you sat there drawing on a napkin for twenty minutes.” Bucky paused as his lips curled into a smile. “You were so concentrated. The bar, the team, they were all so loud and distracting. But all your attention was on these little drawings. Like you were painting the Mona Lisa.”

He licked his lips, “that night I realized I have feelings for you.” 

A giddy smile snuck its way on your face before you kissed him. Slow and passionate. You poured all your love into that kiss to try and match the amount of devotion and love he had on display for you.

You pulled away, but not too far away. Your lips hovered over his. “I love you with all my heart. You know that right?” 

He lightly chuckled, “I know.” 

Bucky wiped away a stray tear that you didn’t know escaped and ran down your cheek. 

“I love you with all of mine,” he whispered, his voice soft with adoration.

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ Guilt of the quiet one

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Luthor!Reader

synopsis : Your life was unraveling, little by little. Bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. Nothing made it easier, especially when one of Metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.

cw : smut, angst, slight enemies to lovers, slight morally grey reader, depressed and suicidal thoughts, implied voyeurism from superhearing, unprotected p in v, mentions of torture, mentions of human trafficking. luthor and chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 22.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3

Boredom.

That’s what you felt every time you set foot in LuthorCorp. It wasn’t the worst job in the world, it paid well, but it left you utterly uninspired. The work was mind-numbingly dull. You were in charge of your brother’s legal team, yet he never let you be an actual lawyer.

Lex trusted you just enough to manage his public image, filing lawsuits against anyone who dared tarnish the pristine version of himself he insisted on maintaining. The number of cease-and-desist letters you sent to the Daily Planet was absurd. Especially to two particular reporters : Lois Lane and Clark Kent.

But beyond that? You were on the outside looking in. Lex kept you out of the real business. He didn’t let you in. Not really. He didn’t trust you, not with everything.

You had never set foot in his big office, the one with the sweeping view of the city. You had no idea what went on up there. Whatever it was, it was a secret he shared with his latest girlfriend, but not with his own sister.

Shaking your head, you stepped forward in the line at the coffee shop on the main floor. Nothing much had happened at LuthorCorp lately. Nothing thrilling, nothing exciting. Just the same routine, day after day.

Eve breezed past behind you, shouting your name in that high-pitched voice of hers and waving like it was a reunion after years apart. You rolled your eyes slightly and gave a lazy wave in return. You liked Eve, she was sweet. A little dim, maybe, but a breath of fresh air compared to your brother’s cynical, brooding behavior.

Once you were seated in your office, you opened your inbox and were immediately greeted by a flood of emails, dozens of them. Most were about the latest failed experiment at Lex’s military base. There was a list of names : people who’d been fired, others who had quit, and new hires who still needed their NDA signed.

Just more messes for you to clean up. More people to bribe. More lies to hold together with duct tape and NDAs.

It was all starting to feel like too much. But the paycheck? More than generous. Your brother might not trust you, but he made damn sure you’d never want for anything, at least not financially.

By the time lunch rolled around, your head was already pounding.

You had a rare hour alone. The entire legal team was on their lunch break, including your assistant. You didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it this way.

You’d gone down early to grab your food, so you had the luxury of eating at your desk, half-working as you chewed through both your lunch and another batch of legal threats. The further you were from your colleagues, the better.

You were halfway through drafting yet another cease-and-desist when your phone rang.

You let it ring a few seconds before remembering : no one was going to answer it for you today. Sighing, you wiped your hands on a napkin and picked up the receiver.

“LuthorCorp, Head of Legal,” you said mechanically, not bothering to check the number calling.

“Miss Luthor.” A deep voice resonated on the other end of the line.

You groaned. You were not in the mood for this.

“Mr. Kent,” you sighed, drawing it out with deliberate irritation. His amused chuckle came through loud and clear. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

He chuckled again. “Still charming as ever.”

Slumping back into your chair, you hit the speaker button and let the handset drop onto your polished mahogany desk with a soft clunk. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhaled slowly. You were really not in the mood for the Daily Planet circus today. 

Still, if you had to deal with one of them, you supposed it was lucky it was Clark Kent and not Lois Lane. At least he had the decency not to shout.

“Make it quick,” you snapped, irritation curling in your voice. “I’m on my lunch break.”

“Believe me,” Clark said smoothly, “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your overpriced salad unless I had a reason.”

You rolled your eyes. “If this is about that cease-and-desist from last week, I'll let you call back to get in touch with LuthorCorp lawyers, as I don't deal with those.”

“Not this time,” he replied. “It’s about the recent firings at the LuthorCorp research division, the ones connected to Project Tonite.”

Your fingers froze just above your keyboard. How did he know about this? This happened in the last two days. 

“Never heard of it,” you said coolly.

Clark gave a small, skeptical laugh. “Come on, Miss Luthor. Three scientists let go in twenty-four hours, all under suspiciously vague NDA conditions? One of them told me, off the record, that they weren’t even allowed to collect their personal items. That usually happens when someone’s trying to bury something.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk. “And let me guess, you want to dig it up?”

“That’s kind of my job.” You could hear the smirk. 

“I know you’re good at your job, Mr. Kent,” you said coolly, already clicking through the internal database. “But let me assure you, I’m very good at mine.”

Your tone didn’t waver as you scanned the list of recently terminated staff, searching for any names connected to the classified project.

“Also,” you added, eyes narrowing as you located the relevant files, “thank you for informing me that some of our former employees have been violating the contracts they signed. That’s… helpful.”

You found the three names instantly. With practiced efficiency, you forwarded their files to your best in-house counsel, including a brief note : One of them talked to the press. Find out who, and get the paperwork ready.

The goal was simple. Identify the leak. Then sue them into silence.

There was a pause on the line. Clark’s voice came back, just a little more pointed this time. “So that’s it? One of them speaks out, and your first move is to sue them into the ground?”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other as you stared at the phone like it had personally insulted you.

“My first move,” you said evenly, “is to protect my company’s legal interests. What they signed was very clear, Mr. Kent. Confidentiality. Non-disclosure. No public commentary. If they broke that, they don’t just get a slap on the wrist, they get consequences.”

“You don’t even know which of them talked.” Clark deadpanned on the other side of the phone. He must of known it was a stupid thing to say. 

Scoffing, you grabbed a bit of your meal, answering with a mouthful. "We'll find out." 

You heard him sigh, and you knew that sound, he was about to launch into another one of his noble little speeches. You cut him off before he had the chance.

“Listen, Mr. Kent,” you said flatly. “Whatever they told you is irrelevant, and illegal. You want to use it? Go ahead. But you and I both know how this ends. Same circus, different headline. Every time the Planet comes sniffing around our business, it’s the same tired routine.”

You leaned forward, voice like ice.

“Let’s just skip to the part where your editors get a not so polite letter from my office. Save us both the effort, and your lawyers the headache.”

Clark didn’t back down. Of course not.

“I have reason to believe LuthorCorp is moving forward with something dangerous. If you're hiding—”

“If,” you snapped, cutting him off again, “LuthorCorp is hiding something dangerous, then it’s buried for a reason.”

You paused, letting the weight of your words settle.

“And unless you’ve got something more substantial than your hero complex and secondhand paranoia, I suggest you stop fishing before you fall into waters you can’t swim in.”

There was a long silence. You didn't fill it. Let him sit in it.

You were just about to hang up when Clark spoke again, quiet, but deliberate. "I know about the Superman Project."

Your fingers froze above the keyboard. How could he know? There was no possible way he actually did. 

You weren’t even supposed to know.

You had been tired of your brother keeping things from you. Of being left in the dark while he handed off his most secretive, most dangerous operations to a hidden legal team that answered only to him. Meanwhile, you were left dealing with the fallout. The lawsuits, the corporate scandals, the media fires. Always cleaning up after his messes, never trusted with the truth.

So, you had started digging.

It hadn’t been easy. Lex had buried the trail deep, tucked behind fake departments, encrypted files, and names scrubbed from every system. But you were a Luthor. And when a Luthor wants the truth, they find it, no matter how deep it was buried.

What you uncovered was worse than you imagined.

Project Superman was, in a way, connected to Project Tonite. The latter was part of Lex’s broader plan to enter politics by offering authorities a method to control, and, if necessary, eliminate,  metahumans. Lex was obsessively working to recreate Kryptonite, aiming to engineer it into a universal weakness for anyone with meta-genes. Though deeply unethical, the project could be easily justified under the guise of public safety, a means to protect civilians and prevent the fear of becoming targets in a world increasingly influenced by alien forces.

It was your job to handle Project Tonite. Unethical, certainly, but not lethal.

Project Superman, as you later discovered, was something far darker. It was Lex’s attempt to create his own metahumans, an army of loyal enforcers to protect him and his interests. He was experimenting on people in a hidden lab in Boravia. Officially, they were “volunteers.” In truth, they were either brainwashed soldiers, convinced they were dying for their country, or desperate civilians lured by promises of money.

This was harder to bury. No amount of spin could justify it. No one would stand for such atrocities, not even you. You'd seen how they handled those who tried to speak out. Death would have been a mercy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quietly, slightly knowing the phone was tapped. “Now, if that’s all, I’d like to get back to my lunch, Mr. Kent.”

You hung up, your hand lingering on the phone just a moment too long. You weren’t ready, not for the fallout that would come once your brother realized you knew about his most secret, most dangerous project.

Hanging up was the only way to delay that reckoning.

For the rest of the day, you were on edge every time someone knocked on your door. Each phone call made you flinch slightly, every email felt like it could be a threat in disguise. But nothing came. It was as if Clark Kent hadn’t told anyone he called your office, like he had made sure to reach you when you were alone.

Normally, when reporters tried to contact you and couldn’t get through, they’d go after someone else on the legal team. That would always end the same way : Lex finding out. And then he’d storm into your office, acting as if you had invited the scrutiny, as if your actions had put the corporation at risk.

Yet, as you locked the door of your flat, you finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Kent's call. You turned down the alarm, slid every bolt into place, and only then started peeling off your shoes and vest. It wasn’t until that moment that you realized just how tightly wound you’d been all day.

You kept replaying it in your head, over and over. You still couldn’t understand how the hell a Daily Planet reporter knew about Project Superman. It made no sense. Everyone who had been terminated from the project had also been… terminated from life itself. Either dead, or locked away in whatever deranged side project your brother had been developing on that goddamn beach of his.

You didn’t know which fate was worse. And you weren’t interested in finding out.

Slumping onto the couch, you stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. Why hadn’t it been front-page news the moment Clark Kent found out? Why the quiet call? Why the restraint? You sat up. Maybe he didn’t know much. Maybe the call was a bluff, an attempt to catch you off guard, to shake you just enough that you’d slip. That had to be it.

Scoffing, you shook your head at your own stupidity. He’d played you. And you’d almost walked right into it like a debutante at her first scandal. 

You were about to get up when your phone buzzed.

Unknown number 

"Hello," you answered, hesitant.

“Miss Luthor,” came Clark Kent’s voice, calm, low, unmistakably his.

You let out a heavy sigh and collapsed back onto the couch. It was late. The day had already been a disaster, and this felt like the final insult.

“How the fuck did you get this number?” you snapped, not bothering to be polite.

A soft laugh came through the speaker, calm, maddening. It only fuelled your irritation. It was almost like he didn’t realize the weight his words carried, or worse, he did and simply didn’t care.

You knew your personal phone was clean. You checked it weekly. Lex had tapped your work line, of course, listened to every conversation, tracked every call. You let him believe you didn’t know. Occasionally, you even used it to call friends just to maintain the illusion.

“You told me yourself,” Clark said, voice smooth and infuriatingly gentle. “I’m very good at my job.”

You frowned, confused by his tone, the softness, the restraint. He sounded patient. Not like a man cornering someone with a bombshell. Not like someone planning to go public.

Why wasn’t he pressing harder? What the hell did he want?

“Tell Jimmy he’s going to have real problems if Lex finds out about him and Eve,” you said, dropping it like a bomb. It was the only explanation that made sense, how else would Clark have your personal number?

“He didn’t—” Clark started, then cut himself off. He refused to take the bait. Refused to treat you like an idiot. “I’m not calling about Jimmy. Not even about what I called you about earlier.”

You scoffed, your patience nearly gone. He was playing you again, acting calm, composed, pretending like he wasn’t pushing some carefully constructed agenda. You weren’t a fool. You knew manipulation when you heard it. He spoke like someone who thought his sincerity was a weapon.

“What do you want then?” you snapped.

There was a pause. And then, in that same calm voice, he asked : “I just want to know why you defend him.”

You stilled. 

"Of the records." He added at your silence. 

Of course. There it was. Another angle. Another motive. You recognized this game, draw out the sympathy, lower the defences, build just enough rapport for the truth to slip out. He wanted you to pity yourself. To question your loyalty. To crack. 

But you wouldn’t. Not for him. Not for anyone. Not anymore. 

Lex had played this game too many times, for far too long. It left scars, sure, deep ones, but it also taught you how to bury your feelings, how to do the job without letting guilt cloud your judgment. It made you sharp. Unshakable.

You wouldn’t let Clark Kent be the one to undo all of that.

“Listen, Clark,” you said, spitting his name like it tasted wrong. “I don’t know what you want, or what you think you’re going to get by being all honeyed and soft-spoken, but it’s not going to work. People have tried before you. People smarter, more ruthless, more desperate. And they failed all the same.”

Your voice hardened.

“I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anything from you. Not your questions. Not your insight. Not even your damn voice.”

Silence stretched on the line. Heavy. Intentional.

“I can help you,” his voice came through, calm, measured, infuriatingly composed. “I have nothing to gain if your brother finds out I called you. This is a safe line. I made sure of it. But a lot of person have something to gain if you leave that company.”

“Leave the company? And then what?” you shot back, the words sharp and fast, your anger rising. “Vanish into thin air so Lex never finds me again? You think I can just disappear?”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t even know what the hell you think you’re helping me with. Do I look like some poor damsel waiting for a knight in shining armour? Because let me tell you something—” You stood abruptly, pacing the living room now, one hand in your hair, the other clenched at your side.

“There is no one, nothing, that can take my brother down. Everyone who’s tried? You know exactly what happened to them.”

You stopped pacing and stared at the wall, breath heavy, heart pounding in your ears.

“So if you really want to help me, like you say you do, then here’s what you’re going to do : you’re not going to call this number again. You’re not going to contact my office talking about project neither of us should known about. And for the sakes of both our lives, you’re going to forget Project Superman ever existed.”

Silence. You didn’t care what he said next. You were already reaching for the button to end the call.

“Don’t call this number again,” you said coldly, and hung up.

The line went dead, but the tension didn’t leave with it. You pressed the heel of your palm against your eyes, breathing hard, trying not to cry. From the anger. From the pressure. From the horrifying things you’d seen while snooping around Project Superman.

You were a coward. You knew it.

Maybe that’s why you resented Clark Kent so much. He’d had the nerve to reach out, to ask the hard questions, even knowing the risks. You hadn’t even been able to speak about the things your brother had done. The things Lex Luthor had done in the dark, to others, and sometimes even to himself.

You knew the consequences. You’d seen them firsthand. And you didn’t want to be next.

Even if speaking out could help hundreds. Maybe thousands.

You sat down slowly, hands shaking in your lap.

You were a coward. And for now… you were okay with that.

Weeks passed in total silence from both the Daily Planet and Clark Kent.

No headlines about LuthorCorp. No reason to threaten them with lawsuits. Just silence.

And honestly, it made your job easier. A lot of your day-to-day involved clashing with reporters, especially them. So when they left LuthorCorp alone, your workload lightened, and your days felt strangely manageable. Almost peaceful.

You were on the roof, smoking a cigarette, your lunch long forgotten beside you. From here, you had one of the best views in the city, skyline stretching wide, sunlight brushing against the tops of the tallest towers, but it meant nothing. You hadn’t felt anything in a long time.

Just boredom. That’s all that was left.

Bored of covering up messes. Bored of threatening people into silence. Bored of your brother constantly looking down on you. Bored of your life.

“You know those things kill you?” The deep voice snapped you out of your thoughts. 

You jumped, startled, spinning around to see who had disturbed your rare moment of quiet. And froze.

Superman. Standing just a few meters away.

You frowned, instinctively scanning the sky, expecting to find some incoming threat, maybe a drone, a villain, a building seconds from collapse, but there was nothing. Just blue sky and distant clouds. Calm.

You turned back to him, confusion painting your face. He let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused.

“Can I help you with something?” you asked, dumbly. It should have been the other way around, you knew that, but you were too off-balance to care.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied politely. His voice was warm, even amused. He stepped a little closer, his boots landing gently on the gravel. “I was just flying by and saw you sitting here all alone. Looking kind of sad. Thought I’d check in.”

“Just flying by…” you echoed, mocking him with a dry tone, taking another drag of your cigarette.  “What, you checking rooftops now?”

“Only the ones with interesting people on them,” he said with a faint smile.

You weren’t sure what bothered you more, the fact that Superman was here, talking to you, or the fact that some small, treacherous part of you actually appreciated it.

Running into metahumans in Metropolis was nothing new. Practically routine. You were used to it, numb to it. And honestly, you didn’t care about them. Not really. Especially not this one.

Not the one your brother had developed a borderline obsessive fixation with.

The thought made you laugh under your breath. If Lex could see you now, sitting on a rooftop, casually chatting with his so-called nemesis, he'd probably have a stroke. Or throw someone off a building. You were fairly certain Superman didn’t even care about Lex, at least not in the same way Lex cared about him.

You figured ignoring him would be enough to make him leave. But no, of course not.

Instead, the man in spandex sat down right next to you, just a couple of meters away. Calm. Relaxed. As if this was all perfectly normal. Then he blew. A gust of air, deliberate, sharp, and your cigarette sailed out of your fingers, flicked clean into the sky.

“Okay, now,” you snapped, sitting up straighter. “Those things are expensive.”

He gave you a mild look, clearly unbothered. “They also kill you slowly.”

“Maybe I wanna die?” you shot back.

“Problem in paradise?” He smiled, almost teasing. 

You scoffed. Anyone with half a brain knew LuthorCorp was anything but a paradise. Lighting another cigarette, you let the silence hang between you. Truth was, you didn’t know what to say to him, not to him. What was there to say?

“Don’t make me do it again,” he teased, eyes locked on your cigarette like it had personally offended him.

“If you do,” you said flatly, taking a long drag, “I’ll jump off the building.”

He laughed, genuinely. Since when did Superman have dimples?

“Dramatic,” he said, still chuckling. “Besides, you know I’d catch you.”

And just because he knew he could, he blew again. Your cigarette vanished into the sky.

You sighed, stood up without a word, and, before your mind could stop your body, you walked to the edge of the roof. And stepped off.

“What the— NO!” came the shout behind you, his voice laced with panic as you tumbled from the tallest building in Metropolis.

Wind tore past your face. The ground rushed up to meet you. And for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt something. You giggled, wild and breathless, as the city blurred around you. It was chaos. It was stupid. It was reckless.

But for one glorious second… it was freedom.

You were caught mid-fall, arms of steel wrapping around you, pulling you hard against a solid chest. The impact wasn’t rough, but it jolted you all the same. Warmth surrounded you instantly. The wind disappeared.

Your arms, on instinct more than intent, wrapped around Superman’s neck as he steadied you both, slowing until the momentum was gone and you were simply floating. Suspended above the city like a feather caught in still air. His grip didn’t falter. Not for a second.

At first, you were just looking into his eyes, breath heaving from the adrenaline, heart pounding in your chest, while he remained perfectly calm, just as he had been before. Of course, you’d known he would catch you. He’d said it himself. But there was something exhilarating about catching Superman off guard.

And then, for the first time in months, you laughed. A real laugh, raw, unfiltered, shaking your whole body as it spilled out of you, rocking you gently against him in midair. It caught both you and the metahuman by surprise. The laughter felt genuine, liberating, like something had cracked open inside you.

For a few long seconds, he just held you there, floating above Metropolis, watching as you laughed like a madwoman in his arms. His expression was soft, confused, maybe even concerned but never judging.

“You really did it,” he muttered, voice low. “You actually jumped.”

“I told you I would,” you replied, breathless.

A beat of silence passed between you. His heartbeat was steady. Yours was not.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, not angry, but something quieter. Something that stung more.

You looked away, eyes scanning over Metropolis before looking down. The world looked so tiny from up here, it was almost addicting. “I think I just wanted to feel something.”

His arms tightened just a little. Protective. Anchoring. Without a word, he flew you back to the rooftop of LuthorCorp, setting you down gently, right in the middle of it, very far from the edge. The choice made you laugh, just a little. It was almost sweet.

“I’m not jumping again, don’t worry,” you said quietly, stepping out of his warm embrace.

You walked back to the spot where you’d been before, beside your barely touched lunch, your pack of cigarettes, and your phone, and sat down again, staring out over the city. You could feel his eyes on your back. The way he’d looked at you, genuinely concerned, not out of duty but something almost human, left a strange warmth in your chest.

How pathetic did your life have to be, for the only person who seemed to care, even for just a moment, to be Superman?

Nobody would’ve truly cared if he hadn’t caught you. Not really. You wouldn’t have cared, either. Just one last rush of adrenaline before the long, quiet sleep. It might’ve even made a decent headline : Lex Luthor’s sister falls to her death, dramatic, poetic even, if anyone had been paying attention. They wouldn't even say your own name. 

Lex probably wouldn’t have mourned, not really. Maybe for the cameras, because it would be expected of him. Clark Kent would’ve gotten his front page. LuthorCorp would’ve named a new Head of Legal. The world would’ve kept turning. And you, you would’ve finally had peace.

It all came tumbling down at once. That invisible wall you'd spent years building, the one between feeling and function, cracked. Funny how the mind could carry so much until it just couldn’t. Until, in one fragile second, everything became too much.

You had no one important in your life. No real friends. No boyfriend. No one waiting for you to come home.

You never made time for it, and honestly, you didn’t want to. Letting someone in meant dragging them into Lex’s orbit, into his world of control and consequences. And you knew, sooner or later, when everything finally came crashing down, you’d be caught in the blast.

No one deserved to go through that for you.

Without even realising it, tears had started slipping down your face. Quiet and relentless. You’d carried so much for so long, buried it deep, locked it away ever since the day you said yes to Lex’s job offer. Maybe the real mystery was that you hadn’t broken sooner.

And just your luck… it had to happen in front of fucking Superman.

Still, in a strange way, maybe that made it easier. He wasn’t someone who would haunt your life later. He wasn’t someone you’d have to explain yourself to. Just a stranger, powerful, distant, untouchable. Someone you could fall apart in front of for a moment, and never see again. And in that moment, as you sat there, broken and small on the rooftop of your brother’s empire, you could pretend, just for a second, that you weren’t truly, utterly alone.

In a world this massive, this overwhelming, it was easy to forget that people like you didn’t get to be the heroes. By name, by blood, by inaction… you were one of the bad ones.

It felt almost comical, crying over how your brother had ruined your life, all while sitting on the rooftop of his building. As if you weren’t part of it. As if you hadn’t played your role.

You could have said no. Could’ve turned down his offer. Could’ve taken the harder road, fought your way to the top, maybe even become one of the best lawyers in this goddamn city. But you hadn’t. The promise of money, luxury, and an “easy” career had won. And the rest of you, the better part, had lost.

Even now, three years later, you weren’t sure if you would’ve made a name for yourself. Maybe you’d still be stuck in that old, crumbling apartment. But maybe, just maybe, you’d still have your friends. Maybe you’d have someone, a boyfriend, a partner, a life outside of this cold marble empire. Certainly you'd be happier.

“You should have let me fall…” you said, barely above a whisper.

But he heard it. Of course he did.

He was beside you in seconds, sitting just like before, only this time, a little closer. His warmth was a quiet comfort as the wind picked up, brushing through your hair, while dark clouds slowly crept into the Metropolis skyline.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said gently.

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“No one would know. And trust me, no one would care enough to ask questions,” you said, your voice low, bitter. Before he could answer, a thought surfaced, sharp and sudden, and you added, “Well… maybe The Daily. Maybe your little buddy Clark Kent would’ve called just to have the perfect front page.”

It was his turn to scoff, the sound laced with something close to anger. You glanced at him through blurry eyes and saw the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“Don’t say things like that,” he replied, frustration barely held back in his voice.

Ever the saviour, you thought. Of course Superman wouldn’t be the kind of man to let you spiral, but it felt like if you didn’t speak now, your brain might just implode. Like some switch had flipped inside you, and there was no turning it off.

“No, but really. You should’ve let me fall,” you said again, firmer this time. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing. Might’ve even made a few people happy.”

You stared out at the skyline as your voice hardened. “Laura would finally get her promotion. She’s hated me ever since I took her spot three years ago.”

You sniffed, eyes stinging, glancing over at him.

“Lex… he’d be relieved. Wouldn’t have to keep watching me out of the corner of his eye, worrying that maybe I’ll grow a conscience and talk to the press. I know he’d still come after me if I did, but I like to think it’d be harder with me than with a regular employee. You know?”

Leaning a little closer to the edge, your eyes settled on the ground far below. You heard Superman shift beside you, subtle, but ready, as if he thought you might jump again.

The thought made you laugh, quiet and bitter. Of all the places to have a complete mental breakdown, it had to be on the roof of LuthorCorp, with the strongest metahuman alive standing beside you like some guardian angel you never asked for. 

“I’d finally be at peace,” you murmured. “No more complaints. No more threats. No more bribes. No more guilt. Just a coward lying cold in her grave.”

You whispered the last part, almost to yourself. More tears slipped down your face, blending seamlessly with the rain now falling in heavy sheets, as if the sky had decided to cry with you.

"You're more than just this job," Superman said softly, his hand wrapping gently around your arm as he pulled you back from the edge.

You let out a genuine, tear-filled laugh, harsh and wet in the rain. Always the optimist. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

You weren’t more than this job. This job was you now. It had devoured every part of the person you used to be, every ideal, every boundary, every line you swore you’d never cross. Now you were a void version of yourself, filled with legal jargon and lies, a polished shield for monsters in suits.

It had rotted you from the inside out. Turned you into everything you grew up hating : a corrupted executive, pocketing blood money and defending the indefensible for the sake of a paycheck and an office.

This wasn't who you had wanted to be. And why? Because you had never known how to stand up for yourself in front of Lex. 

"I'm really not..." you murmured, rubbing at your eyes. "But... thanks for saying it, I guess."

You rose to your feet, water dripping from your clothes. The Metropolis rain was rare, but when it came, it never held back. At least now you had a decent excuse to go home early. The office had been slow all day, nothing you couldn’t handle from your laptop if needed.

As you gathered your thing, your half-eaten lunch, your phone, the crumpled, now soaked, cigarette pack, you stole one last glance at him.

He looked almost human like this.

Soaked from the rain, seated quietly with his cape clinging to him, his expression caught somewhere between concern and sympathy. The image the media had built around him didn’t do him justice, not enough. Not the way his hair curled when wet, not the way his blue eyes held entire conversations shining with so many emotions, not the dimples still ghosting along his cheeks even when he wasn’t smiling. And certainly not the softness of his lips.

You blinked the thought away, scoffing silently at yourself. Of course, the only man you found attractive was also the most unreachable one. Classic.

"Thank you," you said at last, your voice softer now, more sincere. "For not letting me fall."

"Always," he replied simply, his voice steady as he watched you disappear behind the rooftop door.

You took the stairs down slowly, each step heavier than the last. You felt like hell, worse than you had in a long time. As if your own mind had finally decided to punish you for every cry for help you’d ignored. For every night you spent awake, staring at the ceiling with a racing heart and hollow chest. For every morning you dragged yourself out of bed, feeling like your skin didn't fit right.

For every moment you scratched your arms raw just to feel something through the guilt and pressure. For every hour spent dissociating in your office, staring at legal documents you didn’t care about, defending things you didn’t believe in.

Now it was all crashing down, and it couldn’t have picked a worse time.

But maybe, deep down, you believed you deserved every second of it.

The sound of your office door slamming open yanked your head up from your folded arms. In truth, you didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Lex.

He stormed inside like he owned the place, which, of course, he did, trailed by your assistant, who wore a familiar apologetic look. Without a word, the young man gave you a regretful glance before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.

Lex dropped onto the large leather sofa across the room with an air of theatrical exhaustion. He didn’t even bother to take off his coat.

You had to admit, it was a beautiful office. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered one of the best views in the city. Your mahogany desk alone was worth more than most people’s rent for a year. The latest computer sat, the expansive bookshelf filled with legal volumes you rarely touched anymore. A pair of sleek leather sofas flanked a marble coffee table no one ever used.

You never had clients in here. Never held meetings. Most of your team knew better than to knock unless absolutely necessary. That reputation, distant, cold, unapproachable, had followed you ever since. Maybe you hadn't done much to stop it.

"We have a problem," Lex said, his eyes closed as he leaned back into the couch.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Still, it was somewhat reassuring that he came alone, without the usual pair of silent goons who tailed him like shadows. If he didn’t bring muscle, chances were you weren’t the problem.

"Do we?" you asked, keeping your voice even, doing your best to hide the anxiety curling in your stomach. Lex had always been too good at reading you.

"I think yes, we do," he replied, tone laced with mockery, almost daring you to guess. Daring you to slip. To reveal something he didn’t already know.

Opening one eye, he glanced your way, clearly waiting to see if you'd take the bait. When you raised an eyebrow at him, he only smirked.

"The Planet has been snooping around too much lately," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Reporters asking questions they shouldn’t be asking. Digging in places they shouldn’t even know exist."

You rolled your eyes, already unimpressed. You weren’t sure why this warranted Lex barging into your office like the ceiling was about to collapse. Your legal team was probably already handling whatever nonsense the Daily Planet was stirring up. And if it was more serious, if they were digging into the same shadows Clark Kent had called you about a month ago, you were certain Lex’s personal legal hounds were already biting at their heels.

“Sounds like a regular Tuesday,” you muttered, rubbing the space between your eyes as a headache began to bloom.

“Kent hasn’t published anything, but he’s been sniffing around again. More than usual. And this time, it’s not just the public projects he’s asking about. Classified-level stuff.” He said, watching for your reaction. 

You gave a small shrug, feigning indifference. “Then maybe it’s time to sue them again. That usually quiets the barking.”

Lex smiled thinly. “Not this time. He’s being careful. No paper trail. No sources willing to go on record. Yet somehow… he knows things. Enough to be dangerous.”

Frowning, you sighed. You had to play this carefully. You hadn’t spoken to Clark Kent since those calls, and you hadn’t told anyone about Project Superman. But if Lex wanted to pin the blame on you, he would. He always found a way.

“How do you even know it’s him, if he’s being this careful, Lex?” you asked cautiously, choosing your words with care. You didn’t want to provoke him, but you hated how he danced around the point like he was waiting for you to slip.

He sat up straighter, his cold gaze locking onto yours. “I have my ways,” he said with that familiar, dangerous smirk. “Little ears here and there.”

You leaned back slightly, your throat suddenly dry. “And did those little ears tell you I was involved? Because it sure sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”

He stood, slowly making his way around your desk until he was behind you. You stiffened as his hand came down on your shoulders, firm, not painful, but unmistakably controlling.

“Of course not,” he said with a mockingly sweet tone. “What kind of brother would accuse his own sister?”

You didn’t move. Not when his thumb absently dragged over the curve of your shoulder, not when the silence stretched long enough to chill the air between you. You knew better than to flinch. That’s what he wanted, fear dressed up as respect.

He leaned in slightly, just enough for you to feel the brush of his breath near your ear.

“I just worry, you know?” he said softly. “This kind of scrutiny… it makes people act irrationally. Makes them do things they shouldn’t. Say things they regret. He even got in the head of some of my most trusted employees once…”

He paused, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could hear the smile in his voice. Too calm. Too rehearsed.

“And he did call your number a few weeks ago.” Another pause. Dread filled you, fear gripping you strongly. “I’d hate to think he had put ideas in your head.”

His hand slipped away like a shadow, but the pressure lingered in your skin.

He moved with the slow, calculated confidence of someone who never had to hurry. Circling the desk, he didn’t sit, Lex never sat when he could loom, but rested a hand casually on the edge, watching you like a scientist studying a specimen under glass.

His voice lightened, almost amused. “You know, I’ve always trusted you.” A pause. A tilt of the head. “But I pulled the call recording anyway. Just to be sure.”

He gave a small shrug, smooth, almost dismissive, though the smile that followed was razor-thin. “I knew you wouldn’t say anything. You’re smarter than that.” Another beat. “You know what would happen if you weren’t.”

He left your office on that note, not even waiting for a response. The door clicked shut behind him, and only then did you exhale the shaky breath you'd been holding since he walked in.

He knew.

He couldn’t prove it, not yet, but he knew. Whether you’d stumbled onto the truth before Kent or started digging after that call, it didn’t matter. Lex didn’t care about the details. All he cared about was ensuring your silence.

And his message had been clear : Talk and you end up like them. Family or not. 

Your phone buzzed.  It was a message, from your brother.

Opening it, your breath caught in your throat. A strangled sound escaped you.

Lying strapped to a medical table, bruised and bloodied, was Thomas. Your ex-boyfriend from law school. The only man you’d ever introduced to Lex. Someone you hadn’t seen, or even spoken to, in years.

And now he was a rat lab. All because of you. 

All because Clark Kent couldn't stop. 

That how you ended up on the roof again, standing just at the edge of the building. Your eyes fixed on the floor below. Dark clouds were coming toward Metropolis, still far but advancing quickly. A storm was coming. 

It was late, all your colleagues at gone home already. You had waited in your office, trying to play it cool, not wanting to be suspicious. You were certain Lex had bribed someone of your team, most likely your assistant, into telling him your every move. Every call. Every mails. 

Looking down, you wondered. What would it be like to fall again? Would it feel exhilarating, like the first time? Maybe even more, knowing no one was here to catch you this time. It was mesmerising how small the world looked from up here.

Ironic, really. From this height, you'd once felt powerful. In the early months of the job, standing on this rooftop made you feel untouchable, like you were finally someone. But that illusion had long since crumbled. This place had taken everything from you.

“You’re not gonna jump again, are you?”

The voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

Startled, you turned too fast. Reflexes dulled by the cold and the weight of sleepless nights, your foot slid on the slick rooftop, gravel scattering under your heel.

And then, you were falling. The edge vanished behind you as gravity seized your body. Wind roared in your ears. Your scream tore free as Metropolis' concrete rushed up to meet you. Truth be told, it was just as exhilarating as the first time, but a thousands time scarier. 

The wind howled in your ears. Your mind blanked, panic flooding every nerve. You didn’t even know if you wanted to be saved, not really. But as the ground rushed toward you, instinct took over. You didn’t want to die like this. Not yet. 

And then, closing your eyes, you waited for the impact.

But not the one you expected. Strong arms wrapped around you mid-air, a blur of red and blue cutting through the grey skyline. Your fall halted with a jarring stop as your body slammed into Superman’s chest, breath knocked from your lungs.

His grip was tight, almost desperate.

Your arms instantly wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeboat in open water. You were breathing heavily, gasping in sharp, uneven bursts, but you felt the rapid rise and fall of his own chest against yours. 

You had scared Superman.

You. You had done what even aliens from other worlds hadn’t managed to : make him panic. To be fair, it was his own damn fault.

Silence settled between you, save for the harsh rhythm of your breaths. You looked up, eyes locking. His gaze roamed across your face, scanning for injuries, intent, urgent, while yours traced his features in quiet awe. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the weight of thinking you were seconds from death, but right now, he was the only real thing in your world.

His eyes dropped to your lips, just as yours lingered on his. Time seemed to pause, holding its breath with the two of you suspended in midair. You didn’t know him. He didn’t know you. But in that fragile, trembling second, none of it mattered.

And then, a crack of thunder rolled across the distant sky. The moment shattered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Superman said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he gently ascended, bringing you both back to the rooftop.

He spoke to you like someone coaxing a frightened stray animal : patient, careful, almost painfully kind. It was sweet. Unexpectedly so.

As your feet touched the gravel of the rooftop, back in the centre, far from the edge, you let out a breathless laugh. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, like he was afraid you'd vanish the moment he let go.

But it was you who stepped back first, untangling yourself from his hold. You bent slightly at the waist, hands on your knees as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, sharp and strange with adrenaline, dizzy in your chest.

Then, just as suddenly, the laughter crumbled.

Tears spilled from your eyes without warning. Heavy, wracking sobs tore from your throat, years of pressure snapping loose like cracked glass. Three years of holding it in. Of surviving instead of living. Of becoming someone you didn’t even recognize.

And now it was all pouring out. Right here, in front of Superman. Again.

You sank down onto the gravel, knees giving out beneath the weight of everything. You didn’t even try to stop it, the tears, the ragged sobs, the chaos clawing through your mind. You just let it all go. And strangely, it felt good.

Not pretty. Not peaceful. But real.

For once, you weren’t pretending. Weren’t holding anything back or biting your tongue. You were breaking, fully, openly, and somehow, that honesty felt like a release. What made it bearable, what made it safe, was the quiet presence that lingered nearby. Superman didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, or fill the silence. 

He just stayed. Not looming, not judging. Just there. And in that small, powerful kindness, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protected.

So safe, you talked.

“Next time you see Clark Kent,” you muttered through the last of your tears, “tell him that if I suddenly disappear because of his little investigation… he better make a damn good front page out of it.”

You tried to make it sound like a joke. You even forced a smile. But the fear didn’t budge, it had rooted itself too deeply now, curled in your gut like a sickness.

Superman didn’t smile. His brow furrowed, gaze sharp with concern. “What do you mean?”

You snorted, shaking your head. It was laughable, really, how tangled everything had become. And maybe it was reckless, telling Superman anything at all, but what could it hurt? Deep down, you hoped maybe he could talk to Clark, get him to back off before Lex did something irreversible.

“He’s getting too close,” you said finally. “Too close to something Lex doesn’t want exposed. Something I shouldn’t even know about. And if he keeps going, Lex is going to blame it on me.”

Superman didn’t speak right away. You saw the shift in his expression, quiet, calculating. Not judgment, but focus. And you realized then : he was listening. Really listening.

“I can help you.” His voice was deep, sure, but there was something gentler beneath it. Genuine.

You let out a soft, tired laugh, wiping your face with the back of your hand. There was no point in hiding the tears anymore. “You sound just like him,” you said, voice still shaky. “No wonder you two are friends.”

That earned the smallest smile from him, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was there.

You didn’t know what made you keep talking. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash, or maybe it was just the comfort of being heard without being judged.

“He said the same thing… Clark. When he called. Said he wanted to help me. But people like you, like him, you don’t realize how dangerous it is to be helped in my situation. Lex isn't scared of anyone, not even you.”

You met his eyes then, and something flickered in his, something beyond concern.

“He’s getting close to something Lex would kill to protect because it could destroy him. And if I get caught in the middle of that?” You shrugged. “Let’s just say Lex doesn’t always send warnings twice. Not even to his sister.”

The metahuman approached you gently, crouching so he could meet your gaze without towering over you. A flash of lightning split the sky, casting a pale light across half his face, making him look almost unearthly. Like he didn’t belong to this world at all. Like maybe he never had.

“I can really help you,” he said softly. “I can take you somewhere he’d never find you. I can take you to—” He stopped himself mid-sentence. Whatever he’d almost said, it hung in the air between you like something too fragile to speak aloud.

His hands rested on your knees, not forceful, not firm, just grounding. As if reminding you that, despite everything, you were still here. Still alive. Then he looked at you again.

You weren’t prepared for it. That kind of kindness. It was the sort of look no one had given you in years, not pitying, not clinical. Just real.

He sighed, steadying himself. And when he spoke again, it was with purpose. 

“Listen,” he said, voice low but sure. “If you’re willing to speak out against your brother, I can promise you, there’s a place he’ll never find you. Not even Lex Luthor can reach everywhere. You’ll have time, space. Peace. With Clark’s help, we can protect you. You can be safe from him. For good.”

You frowned, confusion clouding your already stormy thoughts.

“Lex can reach everywhere,” you murmured, voice thin and cracking under the weight of truth. “He knows people, high places, deep pockets. There’s nowhere in this city, in this whole damn state, he wouldn’t find me.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t bother wiping it away.

Superman’s hand tensed where it rested against your knee, as though he were physically restraining himself from doing more, comforting you, pulling you away from all this. From him.

It was a tempting proposition, you had to give him that.

The promise of safety. Of silence. Of finally breathing without the constant weight of eyes watching, judging, threatening. If he could really assure that, if he could promise you a world where Lex Luthor wasn’t a shadow at your back… You might just give in.

You had nothing left anyway. Nothing but your life. And right now, that felt like the most worthless thing of all.

But then, before you could argue back, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Just the faintest glint of something lighter behind the concern.

“I never said anything about Metropolis,” he said softly, with a quiet kind of defiance.

What the hell were you doing here?

In a car. Headed to god knows where. And sitting next to the man who, in a way, had put you in this mess to begin with. Superman had convinced you to trust Clark Kent, insisting the reporters could protect you better than anyone else. That he—Superman—would always be nearby, watching from the shadows, ready to step in if Lex ever found out.

You didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, so full of concern and quiet determination.

Maybe it was something else.

So here you were. For the past seven hours, you’d been curled up in the passenger seat of Clark Kent’s car, heading out of Metropolis. The road ahead was dark and endless, and the farther you got, the lighter you felt.

For now, it was a peaceful ride. The heater hummed softly, the music playing low and unobtrusive. Clark didn’t talk much, which you appreciated. He seemed to understand you weren’t quite ready for conversation.

He’d shown up at your door at exactly 7 p.m., just like Superman had promised. Same concerned look. Same gentle voice. That same quiet steadiness that made you say yes before you could second guess yourself.

Now, after hours on the road, you were beginning to realize just how similar the two men were. Too similar. It was strange, every time you looked at Clark for more than a few seconds, something pulled at the edges of your mind. Nothing overtly wrong. He was handsome, annoyingly so, you’d admitted that around hour two of the car ride. But there was something… off. Familiar.

Yet completely out of place. You shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing the strange phone he’d given you earlier, sleek and impossibly light, clearly not something off the shelf. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific, Clark had said, untraceable. The device had only two contacts programmed in : Clark Kent and Superman.

Two names, side by side. Almost like two sides of the same coin. 

Clark Kent. Superman.

By hour eight, the safety of being far from Metropolis and the lull of the moonlight hanging high above had made you a little petty. Restless. Bold, maybe. Or maybe just fed up.

After all, you were stuck in a car with the reason you'd had to flee your entire life. If Clark had just dropped it, had actually listened to you when you warned him weeks ago, none of this would have been necessary. You would still leave your miserable life, but at least, you'd be home. 

But no, he had to snoop in.

"You know what?" you said suddenly, eyes narrowing as you looked at him sideways.

He glanced at you, quick and cautious, like someone easing into a trap. One brow arched in confusion, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No?”

You turned your body a little more toward him, expression sharp. “This whole mess? It’s your fault.”

You didn’t even raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It landed like a punch anyway. Clark blinked. The smile dropped. You could see it hit him, and part of you hated how guilty he looked, because it meant he already knew you were right.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied softly. “Just know I never meant for any of this to come back on you. This was never supposed to boomerang in your direction.”

You scoffed, dry and sharp. “Oh, yeah? Then who was it supposed to boomerang on, Kent? Please, enlighten me.”

The sarcasm dripped off every word, venomous and tired.

Gone was the woman who broke down sobbing on a rooftop under thunderclouds. That version of you had receded into the shadows, tucked away where no one could see her. In her place now was the version the world expected. The one who wore tailored suits and litigation like armour. The Head of Legal. Ice-blooded, sharp-tongued, impossible to shake.

Not quite you. Not quite not you either.

Clark didn’t answer right away. He kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, the soft hum of tires filling the silence. But his jaw clenched. Just enough for you to notice.

“In a perfect world? Your brother,” he admitted, after a few seconds of silence. His sigh was heavy, resigned, even.

You bit your tongue before another petty remark could slip out. It wouldn’t change anything. And truth be told, he was helping. Whether it was because Superman told him to, or because Clark Kent genuinely wanted to, it didn’t matter. He was here. And that was more than most people had ever done for you.

So instead, you chose to shift the conversation.

“Where are we even going, anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting out the window into the thick darkness. Every road sign you passed only confused you more, you couldn’t piece together the route.

“Somewhere safe,” he answered, maddeningly vague.

You snorted, unable to help yourself. “You sound like you’re gonna murder me in the middle of nowhere, Kent.”

It was his turn to laugh, a warm, low sound that curled in your chest in a way you didn’t expect.

“I don’t think I’d live very long after that,” he said, a playful edge to his voice. “Not with your new little friend watching over you.”

There was a glint in his eye as he glanced sideways at you, and something in his tone made the hairs on your neck rise, not from fear, but from a flicker of recognition. Familiar. Almost too familiar.

“You’d get a thank-you letter from Lex, though,” you joked lightly. “And that means a lot in a city he practically owns.”

Clark’s smile vanished almost instantly. The mention of your brother had yanked him right back to reality, reminding him of why you were really here, why you’d spent the last eight hours tucked into the passenger seat of his car, fleeing the only life you’d ever known.

Silence settled between you again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The quiet hum of the tires against the road and the soft rhythm of the engine created a strange kind of peace. The car was warm, the music still playing low, something old and soothing.

Your body, pushed to the edge for days, finally began to surrender. The tension in your shoulders loosened. Your eyelids grew heavier with each blink. It had been a brutal week. You’d run on power naps and caffeine and sheer will.

And now, somehow, this car felt like the safest place in the world.

So you let your guard down. Just for a moment. Just to rest your eyes. As Clark kept driving into the night, your breathing slowed, and sleep took you before you even realized it had come.

You jolted awake as the driver’s door slammed shut. Disoriented, your heart kicked up in your chest as you blinked rapidly, trying to get your bearings. Your neck ached from the awkward angle you'd slept in, stiff and sore from hours pressed against the window.

Squinting into the sunlight, you groaned. The sun was already high in the sky, blinding and unapologetic. Glancing down at your phone, you read 9:57 a.m.

Shit. You’d slept far longer than you'd meant to.

Pushing open your door, you stepped outside, wincing as you stretched your limbs, popping joints and shaking off the lingering fog of sleep.

“Morning,” came a voice behind you.

You turned, blinking again, and saw Clark Kent standing next to the car, casually filling up the gas tank like he hadn’t just driven fourteen hours straight. His shirt was barely wrinkled, hair still mostly in place, and he looked fresh.

Not even remotely tired.

"Are we close yet?" you asked, squinting as you looked around, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Some tiny, nowhere town in the Midwest, Indiana or Illinois, maybe. Either way, very far from Metropolis.

"About another eight hours or so," Clark replied casually, like that was completely normal.

You frowned at him, studying his face. No dark circles, no signs of fatigue, not even a yawn. Maybe he’d pulled over during the night to sleep and you’d just slept through it? But you doubted it. You were a light sleeper, and the car stopping would’ve definitely woken you.

“What?” he asked with a small laugh, noticing your suspicious expression.

“What?” you echoed mockingly. “You’re seriously gonna drive like what… twenty-two hours straight? Without a single ounce of sleep? Are you on drugs or something?”

He snorted. “No drugs, no.” You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Clark just grinned, annoyingly unreadable. “Just built different, I guess.”

"Built different? That’s it?" you muttered, still not buying it. "Well, I hope you don’t drive us into a freaking tree because you’re built different," you grumbled under your breath, already turning away as you headed toward the small convenience store by the gas pumps.

Coffee. That would fix your mood. Hopefully.

The little bell above the door chimed as you stepped into the nearly empty shop. A teenage girl stood behind the counter, completely absorbed in her phone. She didn’t glance up, not that you cared. You weren’t in the mood for small talk.

Wandering the narrow aisles, you grabbed a few snacks for the road and the least bored-looking book they had on a spinning rack. The coffee machine was either out of order or didn’t exist, so you settled for a canned iced latte from the fridge. As an afterthought, and maybe out of guilt, you grabbed a second one. If Clark didn’t like it, you’d just drink both.

At the counter, the girl scanned your things at a snail’s pace, barely lifting her gaze. You told her to add the gas pump Clark had just been at. But before you could pull out your credit card, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around your wrist.

"You don’t wanna do that," Clark said calmly, stepping up beside you. He slipped a folded wad of cash from his coat pocket and handed it to the girl.

Suddenly, the cashier perked up, her phone forgotten as she blinked up at Clark like he’d just dropped from the sky. You couldn’t blame her. He was handsome. And kind. In that steady, patient, maddeningly unbothered way.

Back in the car, your sour mood returned like a headache that wouldn’t quite leave.

“I could pay, you know?” you muttered as you buckled your seatbelt with a little more force than necessary. “I probably have more money than you.”

A smirk tugged at Clark’s lips as he started the engine. “Oh yeah, my bad,” he said casually, letting the words stretch a beat too long. Then he added, with a touch of mock innocence, “You know, you could just call your brother, tell him exactly where we are. How does that sound?”

His tone was light, but the edge in it was unmistakable. Your eyes narrowed. It was his turn to be snarky, and unfortunately, he was good at it.

You disappearing after Lex’s threat told him everything he needed to know. You hadn’t needed to say a word, Lex never needed much. And you both knew he’d stop at nothing to find you. Pulling your bank records wouldn't been hard either. Not when he practically owned the bank.

You didn’t answer. You were too proud for that. Instead, you turned your face toward the window, watching the endless stretch of land roll by. Without a word, you reached into the plastic bag at your feet and handed him one of the iced lattes you’d grabbed at the gas station.

He took it instantly, barely a pause. The can disappeared from your fingers like he’d been waiting for it. You heard him chuckle, soft and breathy, almost like he hadn’t meant to. A whisper of amusement. It lingered for a second longer than it should have.

You didn’t look at him. You just let the silence stretch between you again, quiet, but not empty.

The rest of the drive passed quietly, a kind of exhausted peace settling over the car. Around midday, you’d stopped for lunch at a small roadside diner in Kansas City, one of those unremarkable places with red vinyl booths and chipped coffee mugs. That’s when he finally had told you where you were going.

Kansas. Specifically, Smallville. Even more specifically, his childhood home.

It had been awkward, to say the least. The words had hung between you like something delicate and misplaced. You were going to stay with Clark Kent’s parents. You were going to sleep under the same roof where he’d grown up, eat meals at the same table he had as a kid.

Had you been together, it might’ve felt like something monumental, a next step kind of moment. A milestone for the scrapbook. But you weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure what you were.

A witness? A burden? Another helpless case? Still, he hadn’t hesitated. And maybe that was the strangest part.

He explained that he had taken ten days off, claiming a family emergency. You couldn’t help but notice how conveniently timed it was, for both of you to disappear at once. Lex would connect the dots easily. He always did.

But Clark had reassured you: his parents’ place wasn’t on any record. It hadn’t been for years. He’d made sure of that.

It struck you as odd. He wasn’t a criminal, why go to such lengths to keep them hidden?

He’d just laughed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Exactly for situations like this,” he had said. “Working at the Daily Planet means going after people with real power, no conscience, and a long reach. You don’t poke the devil without having somewhere safe to run.”

A safe haven. And right now, it was the only one you had.

Finally arriving at the Kent farm, you felt unmistakably out of place.

You were a city girl, through and through. Your tailored coat and designer boots stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of open fields and grazing cattle. The air smelled fresh, too fresh. You were used to exhaust fumes, coffee shops, and wet pavement. Not dew-covered grass and distant hay. There wasn’t a neighbor in sight, just endless land stretching toward the horizon. It was peaceful. Isolated. A perfect hidden haven.

You’d braced yourself for a lie, certain Clark would come up with some excuse to explain your presence, an old friend needing a break, a colleague tagging along for fresh air. But when he introduced you to his parents, he told them the truth. Every word of it.

He told them how he’d gone poking around places he shouldn’t have, how that had put you in danger, not him. How you'd been left to deal with the fallout while he got to keep writing. “That’s why I had to help her,” he said. Simple. Honest. Sincere.

It caught you off guard, how human he was. How kind. The past three years of your life had been about leverage, power plays, cold threats and airtight lawsuits. You were always the hammer, and others were always the nails. You had buried people’s reputations without losing sleep. But Clark Kent wasn’t like that.

He hadn’t asked for anything in return. Not a confession, not information, not even details about the secret project that had started this whole mess. He had simply brought you here, because it was the right thing to do.

And it didn’t take long, just one meal at the dinner table, to see exactly where he got it from. The Kents were among the kindest people you’d ever met. Genuine warmth radiated from them, compassion, patience, trust. They welcomed you without question, offered you food, a room, and the kind of quiet grace you hadn’t known you were missing.

They didn’t want anything from you. And somehow, that unraveled something deep in your chest more than any threat ever could.

“Well, it’s not much, but…” Clark trailed off, glancing around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. “Yeah.”

He looked awkward now, scratching the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The guest room wasn’t anything fancy: just a bed, a dresser, and a mirror. The wallpaper was fading at the edges, and the floor creaked when you stepped on it. But there was warmth here. And peace.

“It’s perfect,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Clark.”

His shoulders relaxed a little at your words, and the tension he’d been holding in his jaw softened. That awkward smile returned to his face, shy, boyish, almost bashful.

“I’ll, uh… let you settle in,” he said, backing toward the door like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. If you need anything... I’m just across the hall.”

“Goodnight, Clark,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He paused at the door, turning slightly with that familiar, gentle smirk. “Goodnight, Miss Luthor.”

Even after only a few hours in this house, you understood now where Clark Kent’s kindness and unwavering sense of morality came from. Was this what a real, loving family felt like?

Later, lying on the guest bed after your shower, tears returned, slow and quiet. How had it come to this? How had your family shattered so completely that you were now hiding from your own brother? When had Lex become someone so ruthless, so untouchable, so far above the law?

The sheets smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, a scent so unfamiliar it only made you feel more out of place. You turned to your side, staring at the wall as if it held answers. But there were none. Just silence, and the soft creaking of the old house settling into the night.

The quiet here was different than in Metropolis. There, silence came with the hum of neon lights and distant sirens, noise that reminded you you were still alive, still in motion. But this, this quiet made your thoughts louder, crueler. Every regret screamed a little louder in your head.

You should have said something years ago. You should have fought harder, sooner. You should have said no. Maybe then your life wouldn't be reduced to running, hiding in someone else’s safe haven.

You clutched the blanket a little tighter. Somewhere in this quiet house, Clark was probably still awake. Maybe writing, maybe just thinking. Maybe wondering if you were okay. You weren’t.

You closed your eyes and let the tears come again. Softer this time, slower. You didn’t sob. There was no energy left for that. Just salt and silence and the quiet ache of someone who had spent too long holding everything in.

Just across the hall, the man’s heart quietly broke. Clark sat on the edge of his childhood bed, hands clasped between his knees, eyes trained on the wooden floor like it might somehow offer a solution. But all he could hear was you, silently weeping. 

Guilt was eating him alive.

He hadn’t listened to you. He’d kept digging, kept pushing, even looped in Mr. Terrific for help, convinced he was doing the right thing. But all it had done was draw unwanted attention. And not onto him. It had landed on you.

All because he had made that call.

The image of you standing on the edge of that rooftop haunted him. Something in him had cracked wide open when he saw you there, your posture brittle, your eyes hollow, like the life had been drained out of you. He couldn’t shake the thought : This is my fault.

With a heavy sigh, Clark laid back on his bed and closed his eyes, willing the ache in his chest to dull. But it didn’t.

Whatever it took, no matter the cost, he would make this right. He would tear down Lex Luthor’s empire.

And he would set you free.

It took a couple of days to finally settle into the rhythm of life at the Kent farm.

You tried to help out wherever you could. Mornings began early, walking through the fields alongside Jonathan, tending to the cows. At first, you felt completely out of place, the cliché city girl, useless with her hands and awkward in the dirt. But Jonathan never laughed. He didn’t mock or criticise. Instead, he stayed patient, calmly guiding you when you made mistakes, his voice always steady and kind.

After lunch, you'd join Martha by the chicken coop to collect eggs for dinner. She often filled the quiet with stories about Clark’s childhood or the latest gossip from the town market. You weren’t allowed to go into town, everyone had agreed it was best to avoid attention, but you found yourself eagerly listening to her tales, learning the names of townsfolk you’d never meet and becoming surprisingly invested in their dramas.

The Kents had told you more than once that you didn’t need to do any of this. They insisted rest was what you deserved, especially after everything Clark had told them. They thought you needed peace. And maybe they were right. But you couldn’t sit still for long. The silence gave space for darker thoughts to creep in. Helping around the farm was the only thing that seemed to keep your mind quiet.

Clark helped around the farm too. When he wasn’t out in the fields with his pa or fixing something around the barn, he was on the phone with someone from the Daily Planet or typing furiously on his laptop. So much for a “family emergency,” you’d joked once, raising an eyebrow at him.

He had laughed, genuinely, that quiet, warm laugh that made his dimples show, and replied, “News doesn’t wait.”

You were pretty sure that wasn’t the actual saying, but you let it slide. The way he said it, you almost believed it was.

It was about an hour before dinner. Clark’s parents chatted softly in the kitchen while Martha moved around preparing the meal. You sat on the couch, trying to focus on the book in your hands, but it was nearly impossible with Clark just a few meters away, perched at the dining table, typing away on his laptop.

The look of concentration on his face was one of the most captivating things you’d ever seen. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, lips bitten in focus, fingers dancing over the keys, and when he paused to jot down notes in his little notebook, you caught yourself staring at those unexpectedly graceful hands. Since when did he have such pretty hands?

Shaking your head, you tried to force your attention back to the pages in front of you, but the steady clicking of the keyboard pulled you back. Your eyes locked on his slender fingers as they moved. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, imagining how those fingers might feel against your skin : curling around your hands, pressing softly to your throat, tracing paths between your legs.

Your heart quickened, breath catching as your thoughts spiralled. You shouldn’t be thinking like this, he was the reason you were tangled in this mess to begin with. But you didn’t hate him anymore. Maybe you never truly had.

In fact, you had envied him. His courage, his fearlessness. He did what you’d never managed to do, not scared of the consequences, while you’d hidden away like a coward. You hated yourself for it, more than you could admit. So much of that self-loathing had been projected onto Clark Kent.

“You alright?” His voice pulled you back from your daydream, soft but curious.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d squeezed your thighs together, searching for some kind of relief. Suddenly, the room felt unbearably warm, despite the crisp late October air outside. You could feel heat flushing your cheeks and neck.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine. Why?” You tried to sound casual, hiding the flutter in your voice.

“Well, I could hear your—” He cut himself off, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes. “You just looked lost in thought.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry…” you apologised quickly, frowning at yourself. Why were you even apologising?

He brushed off your awkwardness with a gentle laugh before returning to his work. For the next hour, those restless, lustful thoughts kept sneaking into your mind, while Clark shot you sweet, knowing smirks from time to time, almost like he was aware.

Dinner was good, as always. It felt refreshing to share a meal with others, to sit around a warm family table instead of being alone in your cold Metropolis penthouse. This felt almost too good, and a part of you dreaded the day it would end.

So, when Jonathan suggested a poker night, you said yes without hesitation. Of course you did. You knew moments like this might never come again, and you wanted to savour every second. If that made you selfish, then so be it.

The game stretched well into the early morning before everyone finally agreed it was time to call it a night. Every one looked exhausted, but your mind refused to settle. You’d always considered yourself smart, but watching Clark quietly calculate his moves—counting cards, playing his tricks flawlessly, winning again and again without making a fuss like it was second nature—something stirred inside you.

That feeling spread, crawling from your brain down to somewhere much more intimate, a subtle, tingling heat that had been simmering for the past hour. You tried to focus, to play properly, but you kept losing. And the way his fingers toyed with the coins, the deliberate way he revealed his cards on the table, it was almost unbearable.

Now lying in your bed, your mind refused to quiet. Those thoughts crept in faster than you could push them away, relentless and insistent. You imagined his hands on your skin, his lips tracing yours, his deep voice murmuring close to your ear.

A warmth gathered between your thighs. At first, you tried to ignore it, close your eyes, tell yourself to sleep. But the images persisted, vivid and demanding. You saw him, naked and moving above you, the bed creaking with every thrust, his hand pressed firmly over your mouth to stifle your moans so you wouldn’t wake his parents.

You opened your eyes, breathing quick and shallow. You were burning up, both frustrated and aching.

It had been so long since you’d touched yourself, even longer since you’d shared a bed with someone. Without overthinking it, knowing it might ruin the moment, your hand slid inside your panties. You were drenched, soaked with desire.

Your other hand moved to your breast, first tracing over your shirt, but when that wasn’t enough, you shed it quickly. Pinching and teasing your nipples, your fingers began their slow dance on your clit. Eyes closed again, you imagined those hands, bigger, warmer, gentler, how soft they’d feel, how small you’d seem beneath their touch, as they traced every inch of you.

You let out a shaky breath, your body arching slightly against the bedsheet as your fingers circled over your clit in lazy, experimental strokes. Every movement sent a thrill through you, a contrast to the heavy silence of the house. The distant sound of the wind outside barely registered over the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Your mind refused to stop painting him there, Clark. His mouth against your neck, trailing slowly down your body with a patience that felt unbearable. You imagined him watching you now, those deep, perceptive eyes noticing every twitch, every sigh. Would he kneel beside the bed, take over without a word, his calloused fingers replacing yours, teasing you until you begged?

The need to moan his name burned at the edge of your throat, threatening to slip out with every gasp. But you bit down hard on your lower lip, your teeth sinking into soft flesh until you tasted copper. A sting of pain. A grounding sensation.

He was just across the hall. You glanced at the door when that thought crossed your mind. 

That thought alone was enough to make your pulse race harder. One sound, one sigh too loud, and he'd heard you. The farmhouse was old. The wood creaked with the slightest shift. The walls were thin, not made to keep secrets.

You squeezed your eyes shut again, hand still moving against your slick heat, slower now, more purposeful. You imagined how his hand might replace yours, rough from typing all day, sure in its touch. Not teasing. Not hesitant. Like he knew what you needed before you even asked. 

The ache grew sharper. Your thighs tightened as your hand moved faster, chasing that release you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly. Your breath came out in short gasps now, quiet, but desperate. One hand pressed against your mouth out of instinct, muffling a soft moan as pleasure spread out in waves, warm and all-consuming.

When it finally released you, your body softened with a quiver, sweat cooling on your skin. Your thighs twitched. Your lip throbbed where you’d bitten it. 

Lying there in the dark, you blinked up at the ceiling, heart still stuttering in your chest. It took some moment for your breathing to go back to normal, but you couldn't help thinking this wasn't enough. It had felt amazing, but your body craved more. Almost like Clark had put you in a trance, with his easy charm and dimpled smile. 

Shaking your head, you got up when it all became too much. Slipping your shirt back on in haste, you quietly padded toward the door. Maybe some cold water would cool your flushed skin, maybe those herbal pills you always kept on hand would finally lull your mind to sleep.

Carefully, you cracked the door open, only to freeze when the door across the hall opened at the exact same time. Clark.

He looked, disheveled. Not just sleep-rumpled, but wrecked.

His hair was a wild mess, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his cheeks tinged pink, and his glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, as though he’d thrown them on in a hurry. His eyes widened when he saw you, surprised.  

Caught. Which was odd. He always seemed to hear you coming.

The hallway was silent, save for the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the unmistakable sound of his heavy, uneven breathing. His shirt clung to his chest like he’d just worked up a sweat. Or hadn’t bothered to redress completely. Your gaze dropped for the briefest second, just a flicker, and then back to his face.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, careful not to wake his parents.

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, clearly caught off guard. Not like him at all.“Uh, yeah. Just need to hum… use the bathroom.” His voice was low, almost hoarse.

You nodded, mirroring his awkwardness. The silence stretched a beat too long before your eyes drifted up to meet his, and not before you noticed the quick flick of his gaze. From your face, down to the outline of your breasts under your tank top then back up, almost too fast to catch.

Almost.

“Are you okay?” he asked next, his voice gentler now. Too soft. Too intimate.

“Yeah. Just… thirsty.” You meant water, but the way your eyes lingered on the way his shirt stretched around his arms told a different story. You were definitely thirsty. But for what, exactly, well, that answer was becoming harder to ignore.

“Okay,” he said after a pause, clearing his throat like he was trying to reset the tension.

“Okay,” you echoed, the word falling flat between you.

And then, without another glance, you both turned and hurried in opposite directions, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hall like the aftershock of something neither of you were ready to name.

Hastily making your way back to your room, you caught the soft glow of the bathroom light still spilling into the hallway. The door was closed. Still.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t want to know what he was doing in there.

The conversation, or whatever that awkward exchange had been, was still playing on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with fresh waves of secondhand embarrassment. The silence, the stolen glances, the heat.

You shut your bedroom door behind you with a quiet click, leaning back against it for a second. No way. He couldn't have been doing what you thought he had been doing…

Right?

And yet, the look on his face. His breathing. His flushed cheeks. The way his hand had been gripping the doorframe like he needed it to stay upright. 

Fuck. You were getting bothered again.

You huffed out a breath, forcing yourself to focus, to move. Rummaging through your bag, you searched for the herbal pills that usually helped you sleep. Something, anything, to quiet your mind and body.

But instead of the soft bottle, your fingers brushed against something small and metallic. Frowning, you pulled it out. A sharp breath escaped your lips.

An old USB drive. That USB drive.

The one where you had dumped every scrap of evidence you found about Project Superman. All of it. The hidden files, the encrypted memos, the off-the-record lab reports. The pictures. Proof of what your brother had done. What he was doing. You had told yourself it was just leverage. A safety net. Something to keep in your back pocket if Lex ever turned on you.

But you had never planned to use it. Not really. You had been too scared. Too loyal. Too broken. Your fingers curled tight around the metal. It dug into your palm, grounding you in the now.

From beyond your door, you heard his shut, soft and final. Clark.

Superman had told you Clark could help, and you had trusted the metahuman. It had felt scary at that time, diving into the unknown. 

But now? Now it was time to stop running. To stop hiding. To stop letting fear write your story.

It was time to trust Clark Kent. 

For real.

“Here,” you said, slamming the USB drive onto the dining table, the same table that had become Clark’s makeshift desk over the past few days. “That’s everything you need to take Lex down.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.

Spinning on your heel, you headed for the door, where Jonathan was already waiting outside by the old truck. You were grateful he hadn’t come in to fetch you. Grateful you could escape before the weight of what you’d just done caught up to you.

The storm was coming. Jonathan had said so the night before at dinner, heavy wind, maybe even hail. There was work to do. Crops to secure. Cattle to shelter. It was the kind of hard, honest labor that demanded your full attention. The perfect distraction from the bomb you’d just dropped.

Clark had offered to help, of course, but his father had waved him off with a quiet look and a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got it,” he’d said. “Besides, I think she wants to help.”

And you had.. Especially now.

Your hands still felt shaky from what you’d done, but the physical work steadied you. You had given Clark everything he needed. If he used it, if it worked, Lex could finally be exposed. Stripped of his power. Stopped.

But if Lex caught wind of it before justice came? If he vanished into the shadows with all his money, influence, and contingency plans? You’d be left to face the consequences alone. There’d be no more running. No more hiding. 

Nothing in those documents mentioned your name. You weren’t cited, not even once. And that was good, because with a decent lawyer, you could walk away from this without consequences. It wasn’t the justice system you feared. It was your brother’s power.

And the unknown future.

What would you do, once Lex was behind bars? His downfall meant the end of your job. With a scandal of this scale, no reputable firm would want your name anywhere near their letterhead. That thought had twisted your stomach with dread before you’d handed Clark the USB. But still, you’d done it.

It was the right thing to do. You’d worry about the fallout later. When Lex was finally out of your life.

“Clark told us you was some kinda lawyer.” Jonathan said, getting you out of your mind. His tone easy but with something thoughtful behind it. Like an idea was forming.

You let out a soft snort, raising your eyebrows. “Technically, yeah. Got the diploma to prove it. Just haven’t done a whole lot of actual lawyering.” You tried to joke, but it came out a little too close to the truth. A little too heavy.

“I hate to ask, but…” He trailed off, the pain in his eyes surprising you.

It never failed to catch you off guard, how kind the Kents were. Genuinely human in a way that felt untouched by the kind of darkness you’d grown used to. As if tragedy had knocked but never found a way in.

“You can ask me anything, Mr. Kent. Really,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with something close to gratitude. If it mattered to him, then it mattered to you.

"You see, there’s this young man we hire every spring and summer to help out around the farm," Jonathan began, his eyes drifting toward the horizon instead of meeting yours. "There’s just too much work for the two of us sometimes, you know?"

You nodded gently, letting him continue at his own pace.

"He’s Mexican. Not many folks around here wanna do farm work anymore, not like the old days. But he’s a good kid, real good. Kind with the animals, never complains, not afraid to get his hands dirty. Works hard. Honest."

Jonathan’s voice tightened slightly, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.

"He’s got a heart of gold, that one. But…" he hesitated again, rubbing a weathered hand across the back of his neck. "His papers aren’t exactly in order. And now, well, someone’s been sniffing around town asking questions."

He finally looked at you, something quietly desperate in his eyes. "I know it’s not your job, and you’ve already got so much on your plate. But I thought… maybe you could help him. Just take a look. Talk to him. Tell us what we should do."

For some reason, the way he spoke, with such genuine care for this young man, and the quiet embarrassment in asking for help, brought tears to your eyes. It hit you then : no one had ever cared for you like this. Not selflessly. Not without expecting something in return. Not the way the Kents cared about people.

"Of course I’ll help," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as a single tear slipped down your cheek.

You hadn’t expected it, but Jonathan gently pulled you into a warm, fatherly hug. It had been so long since someone held you like that, like you were precious, like you mattered. Like someone truly cared.

You’d only known him for about a week, but somehow, he already treated you like family. Like someone worth trusting.

If he had known you before all of this, back when you were still hiding behind sharp suits and sharper lies, you were certain he would’ve seen you as something else entirely. Cold. Ruthless. Maybe even a monster.

But now, melting into his embrace, you let yourself feel. Really feel. A few tears slipped free, but you didn’t hide them. Not this time. Because in that moment, you weren’t being judged. You weren’t being pitied.

You were just appreciated.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of hard but honest work. The cows were restless, as if they could sense the approaching storm. The mothers stuck close to their calves, letting out low, warning moos every time you got too near. Milking them had been a challenge, they weren’t having it, but you weren’t about to leave them full and aching until tomorrow. They didn’t deserve that kind of discomfort.

By the time the sun began to set, dark clouds had already taken over the sky. The wind howled across the fields, fierce and fast. Walking back toward the house felt like trying to walk through a hurricane, it tugged at your clothes, your hair, nearly lifting you off your feet.

You laughed despite yourself, catching sight of Martha running after the last few chickens, ushering them into the coop and locking it up tight for the night.

But the moment you stepped into the house, the laughter drained from your face.

There he was, Clark Kent, zipping up a bag.

He looked up, almost like he’d sensed your presence. His brows furrowed when he caught the look on your face.

“What you gave me…” he began, carefully, as if trying not to startle you. Or say the wrong thing. “I can’t do this alone. It’s too much. We only get one shot at this, and I can’t afford to screw it up. Not if it means you’ll get hurt.”

“You’re leaving?” you asked quietly, eyes flicking from the bag back to his face. He nodded. Your gaze shifted to the storm now raging outside. “But… the storm.”

“It’ll hit in a few hours. I’ll be out of Kansas by then,” he said gently, even though the thunder was already rumbling in the distance. His voice was soft, reassuring, but you could see the tension in his jaw. “Don’t worry about me.”

You could tell he wasn’t lying, but he was definitely hiding something. Biting your lip, you nodded gently, unsure of what to say. The week you’d spent here had been one of the best of your life. And it wasn’t just because of the gentle kindness of his parents, it was because of him. 

What you’d once assumed was a cocky reporter, willing to do anything for a front-page story, turned out to be the sweetest, kindest man you’d ever met. He was a bit goofy, hopelessly nerdy about certain topics, but never once did he mock anyone. Never once did he act like he knew better, or like he was above the people around him. He believed, truly believed, that there was still good in the world.

Even in you.

And somehow, through his gentle patience and quiet presence, he made you feel at home. He never pushed. Never demanded answers about your brother, even though you’d told Superman you would share what you knew.

Clark had just waited. With warmth. With humour. With dimpled smiles. With a softness that felt like sunlight after too many years in the cold. He had been patient. Kind. Funny. And so incredibly sweet.

And you were only realising it now, just as it was ending.

Clark leaving Smallville meant your brother was going to be exposed. It meant that soon, you’d either be safe to return to Metropolis and try to start over… or you’d have to disappear forever, vanish before Lex could find you.

Either way, Clark didn’t belong in either version of that future. He wouldn’t be part of your life.

And that broke your heart. This wasn’t just him leaving town. This was goodbye.

A forever kind of goodbye.

The weight of that truth hit you hard, and tears slid silently down your cheeks before you could stop them. It felt unfair, the way you were reacting. Selfish, even.

Because he was doing the right thing. The brave thing. The thing you had once been too afraid to do. And you? You were no one to him. Just a stranger he’d offered a hand to while you were drowning. That’s what you had told yourself, what you had clung to in the quiet moments to keep from hoping too much.

But now you realized, it was more than that. He made you feel warm. He made you feel safe. Like maybe you weren’t broken beyond repair. Like maybe you deserved more than just survival. And now he was walking out the door, carrying all of that with him.

"Hey," Clark said, just above a whisper, stepping toward you with that familiar gentleness that made your chest ache. "When I come back, all of this will be over. We're going to do things right. He won’t get away. I promise."

God. The gentle soul he was.

He thought the tears were from fear, fear of what was coming, fear of retaliation, of the unknown. And sure, part of you was scared. But the real reason your heart was breaking was something else entirely. It made no sense.

You’d truly known him for a week. Seven days.

It was rushed. Unreasonable. Too much, too fast. And yet, in that short time, he had looked at you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just Lex Luthor’s sister or some tainted shadow of a woman walking through her own life. He made you laugh. He made you feel seen.

Not like your parents ever had. Not like Lex ever could. Not even the men you’d let close before, who saw only your face or your name, but never you.

Here, in this small safe heaven, you had been yourself. Your real self.

You had laughed. Joked. Talked until midnight with people who didn’t want anything from you. You had gossiped in the kitchen and helped mend fences. You had been happy. In just a small, fleeting week. 

And now he was leaving. And your heart didn’t know how to hold itself together.

Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping around him as best you could, given how much taller he was. His arms instinctively closed around you, strong and warm, pulling you into the safety of his chest.

Behind you, the back door creaked open, followed by a small gasp of surprise, then the quiet click of it shutting again. Silence settled in the room, thick and still. You and Clark stood alone in the living room, though you could feel the eyes watching from outside. His parents. They were giving you this moment.

A soft, genuine smile tugged at your lips. They truly loved their son.

His body felt strangely familiar. Like you’d stood here before, wrapped in this exact embrace. A strange, aching déjà vu pulled at your chest. A memory you couldn't place. A feeling you couldn't explain. As if, somehow, you had been here already.

Breaking the hug, you noticed the rosy tint on his ears, his cheeks flushed to match. You could feel the heat on your own face, knowing you weren’t any better.

“Thank you, Clark,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Truly.”

Then, with the last bit of courage you had left, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

You owed him more than words could say. And with time, you hoped you’d find a way to give it back, to him, and to his parents.

With Clark gone, the days felt a little grimmer.

You still helped around the farm, but those long afternoons spent quietly sharing space with him were over. You didn’t want to intrude on Martha and Jonathan’s intimate moments either, they’d earned their peace. So, you found yourself alone again. But somehow, it didn’t hurt as much. You were starting to appreciate yourself again and even the silence. The thoughts that once plagued you were mostly quiet now.

It helped that Jonathan brought Luis around not long after Clark left. He hadn’t been lying, Luis was just a kid, and a very sweet one at that. He came with all his paperwork, every document and paychecks he’d received. You went through them all, piece by piece.

Helping him felt good. It felt right. Like this was what you were always meant to do. This was why you went to law school. Not to make the rich richer, but to help people. To do good. To give back.

Word spread quickly that the Kents were housing a lawyer willing to help. Soon, people were showing up daily, asking for guidance, hoping not to lose their homes, or their jobs, or custody of their children. And when Luis returned one day, clutching his official American papers, the news travelled like wildfire.

After that, your days on the farm were done. You no longer had time to milk cows or fix fences. But Jonathan and Martha never said a word. They were just happy you were helping people, like family did.

Whatever slow moments you had, you spent them scrolling the Daily Planet website, waiting. Hoping to see a big article with Clark’s name under it. But it never happened.

Not after a few days.

Not after a week.

Not after a month.

There was so much on that USB key, and you knew it was a one-shot deal, they couldn’t afford to mess this up. Still, you had hoped the fallout would be quick. You loved the farm, but you longed to be back in the city. Now that you understood how powerful you could be when you did your job right, there were so many people in Metropolis you wanted to help.

Clark texted every few days. He told you things were going well, that they were making progress at the Daily Planet. He asked how you were doing, and he said he was proud of what you were accomplishing, his Ma told him all about it. Every little texts of his filled you with warmth. 

Sitting down on the couch, you let yourself enjoy a rare moment of peace before your next appointment arrived. Appointment, that word still made you smile. Back at LuthorCorp, you’d never taken appointments. Everything had been done through layers of emails, assistants, and pressure. Nothing like this.

Cradling your tea, you watched the winter sunlight settle across the fields, December leaving its quiet trace on the farm. The wind outside shook the windows lightly, and the kettle still hissed faintly in the kitchen.

You were lost in the calm until Martha’s voice called your name from down the hall. Looking up, you saw her leaning slightly around the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “Would you mind grabbing Clark’s radio from his room? The one in the kitchen finally gave up.”

“Of course,” you said with a soft smile, rising to your feet.

You had never actually stepped into Clark’s room before. You’d only caught glimpses through a half-open door when he was still home. It felt personal. Like you were trespassing on something private. But you pushed the feeling aside and walked in carefully, quietly.

His room smelled faintly of cedar and something else, something familiar. The walls were lined with old posters, framed articles, photographs of the Kents, and a few hard-earned trophies from another life.

Then you spotted the radio near the window.

Just as you stepped toward it, something red caught your eye, half-hidden behind the bookshelf, draped carelessly like someone had shoved it there in a hurry. You squinted, drawn to it by instinct. Your fingers reached out, brushing over the fabric. It was soft, unnaturally smooth almost and familiar.

You tugged gently, freeing the red cloth from where it had been wedged. And then you saw it, fully.

Superman's cape.

You gasped, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your lips as your hand tightened around the fabric. Of course. It all made sense now.

Why his body had felt familiar. Why he was never tired, no matter how long the days stretched. Why Superman had said Clark could help. Why Clark looked at you with such real concern, as if he knew your pain firsthand.

Your thoughts spiralled, the weight of the truth crashing down on you like a wave.

Then, another gasp, loud and sharp, cut through your haze. Followed by Martha’s voice, shouting your name.

Heart pounding, you sprinted toward the kitchen, but froze in the living room. The television was on, the screen glowing bright. Martha and Jonathan were standing still, their eyes wide, glistening with tears they hadn’t yet let fall.

Your gaze followed theirs to the screen.

Lex Luthor Arrested After Daily Planet Accuses Him of Human Trafficking and Other Crimes 

That was the headline. Everything stopped. They did it. 

You were free. 

Home. Finally.

It felt strange to be back.

Clark hadn’t been able to return to Kansas, but he had booked you a flight to Metropolis, along with a taxi waiting at the airport. You knew why. It was all over the news. Superman had been needed.

Lex hadn’t gone down quietly. His arrest had made headlines around the world, but it was the footage of Superman, restraining him, shielding civilians from his outbursts, that had dominated every screen. There was no way Clark could just vanish back to the quiet of Smallville right now.

Your penthouse hadn’t changed. It was still cold. Still too quiet. Still not home.

You’d taken a long shower, trying to wash away the dust of the farm, the small guilt of having turned your back on your own blood. Your old phone, finally charged again, buzzed relentlessly with texts, missed calls, emails, hundreds of them. From old colleagues, contacts, reporters. People wanting answers, or wanting to know if you were okay. Or worse, if you were complicit.

You wandered through the apartment slowly, your eyes catching every tiny detail. It had been searched. Meticulously so, almost invisible. But you knew. You felt it. Drawers slightly off, a coat pocket turned the wrong way, your files just a touch out of alignment. Lex must have sent someone after you disappeared.

You were so focused, checking every corner, scanning every surface for hidden mics or cameras, that you didn’t notice the figure landing silently on your balcony.

The metahuman stood there quietly at first, watching you. Admiring you. He felt a pang of guilt. You clearly had no idea he was there yet, no idea he’d come. You were barely dressed, just an oversized shirt draped over your body, brushing the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs bare. It looked like you had been ready to call it a night. He couldn't blame you, it was late, and he had meant to arrive earlier. But the world had other plans, and so had Lex.

Still, there you were, moving with a quiet intensity, checking corners and closets. Clearly worried. Clearly unsettled. You weren’t just back in Metropolis, you were back in enemy territory. You were searching for anything Lex might have left behind.

Understanding immediately, he activated his X-ray vision, scanning the walls, shelves, electronics. Nothing. No bugs, no hidden cameras. You were safe. Satisfied, he let out a soft breath.

You jumped when you heard the knock on the glass door behind you. But the moment your eyes found him, standing tall in the red and blue, your tension melted into a smile.

Superman. Clark.

And now that you knew, they were one and the same, it was impossible not to see it. How had you missed it? The same dark hair, the same kind, thoughtful eyes. The same dimpled smile that made your stomach flutter.

You were sure of only one thing in that moment, you were safe now.

Rushing to the door, you threw it open without hesitation, and then threw yourself into his arms. He caught you instantly, as if it was second nature. As if he had been waiting for that exact moment, arms open just for you.

It felt strange to feel this way again, relieved, happy, safe. Relaxed.

You had almost forgotten what that felt like. Your days had long been filled with fatigue, stress, and a dull kind of numbness that clung to your skin like a second layer. Even back in Smallville, where the quiet and the kindness had started to peel it away, it had still lingered, dormant, but ever-present.

But right now, here in Superman’s arms? It was gone. There was only warmth. Strength. And the overwhelming calm that came from knowing, finally, that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

“You did it,” you whispered, your cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Strong. Constant. Comforting.

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied softly, humble as ever. “It was all you… and Clark.”

That made you laugh, a soft, breathy sound muffled against him. Looking up, you tilted your head back, stretching to meet his gaze as he leaned down slightly.

His eyes.

God, those eyes.

An endless ocean of blue, warm, gentle, filled with hope and that quiet, unwavering kindness. The same eyes you’d seen every day in Smallville. The same eyes that watched you over a cup of coffee. That had crinkled with laughter when you made some dumb joke.

You could see it so clearly now.

Deciding to play along with his little charade, you smiled, something soft and knowing curling at the corners of your lips.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen Clark yet,” you said sweetly, feigning innocence as your gaze stayed locked with his. “You think he’ll be around soon?”

“He might be busy dealing with the fallout from the article,” Superman said, his voice steady but his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he was trying to find an exit that didn’t exist. “But I’m sure he’ll text you soon.”

“Hmm, yeah,” you murmured, finally stepping out of the embrace, letting your hands slide slowly away from him. The warmth lingered, but your tone had taken a teasing edge. “You two seem real close, aye?”

His eyes flicked to yours, briefly amused, mostly flustered.

You folded your arms across your chest, tilting your head with one brow arched. “I mean, the way you talk about him… how you said he could help me, that he could be trusted. It’s almost like you’re two sides of the same coin.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, nervous, uncertain. “We get along well.”

You hummed at his answer, the corner of your mouth curving into a teasing smirk. “And physically, you’re very similar,” you added, your tone playfully innocent. “Same height, same build, same hair, same eyes… same cute, dimpled smile. Someone might even say you’re the same person.”

Superman opened his mouth, but no words came out. You caught the flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by something that looked an awful lot like resignation.

“And it’s strange,” you went on, stepping forward just slightly, “that Clark Kent is the only reporter who’s ever interviewed you. Yet… there are no pictures of the two of you together? It’s almost like no one’s ever seen you in the same place at the same time.”

His jaw twitched, barely. But you caught it.

A beat passed, tense, heavy with unspoken truths. His cape fluttered gently in the breeze drifting in from the balcony, but he didn’t move. He just watched you with those painfully familiar eyes.

“Coincidence,” he said finally, though not even he sounded convinced.

“Mmhmm.” You arched your eyebrow higher, letting the silence speak louder than your words. He shifted, just slightly, and ran a hand behind his neck, Clark’s tell. The exact nervous habit you’d seen a couple of times before.

“Yeah, must be,” you added, nonchalant, turning back toward the open window.

Behind you, you heard a soft sigh, the kind that sounded suspiciously like relief. It brought a slow, wicked smile to your lips. He didn't think you were that clueless, did he?

“Oh, and it’s also just a coincidence that Clark Kent happened to have Superman’s cape tucked away in his old bedroom?” you said over your shoulder, turning around just in time to catch the relief drain from his face.

He closed his eyes, the smallest groan escaping him, then shook his head with a tight, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He opened his eyes again, no glasses now, no disguise, and for the first time, he let you really see him. Not as Superman. Not as Clark Kent. Just him.

“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he said softly, almost embarrassed.

You shrugged, your smile still lingering. “You left it in plain sight.”

“It was behind a bookshelf.” He deadpanned. 

"Blame your mom," you replied quickly, raising your hand in defence. "She's the one that send me in your room."

That earned a quiet laugh from him, but there was a nervous energy underneath it. You could see the vulnerability now, the way he stood slightly straighter, like bracing for impact.

“I just knew there was something so familiar about the two of you,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to fish for more answers. “I just couldn’t figure out what.”

“It’s the glasses,” he admitted with a sigh. “They’re designed to distort facial recognition, subtle enough to confuse the brain, make it hard to fully picture my face. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific.”

“They look cute,” you admitted with a teasing smile. “Almost as cute as the guy wearing them.”

You were shooting your shot. If not now, then when? Your heart thundered in your chest, terrified he might just turn and leaven, vanish off your balcony and out of your life.

His eyes snapped to yours, darker now, swimming with an emotion you didn’t dare name. “Your heart…” he whispered, taking in a deep breath like he was trying to calm his own.

Dread crashed over you. He could hear it. He could hear your heart. He had heard you. Oh no.

Oh fuck.

You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth as your eyes went wide with embarrassment. The realisation dawned on his face, and with it, a slow, smug grin that turned him from sweet and sincere to infuriating.

“Oh yeah,” he said, sniffing lightly, voice dropping into something teasing and low. “I heard that, too.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks and down your neck. You opened your mouth, trying to come up with an explanation, but nothing came. What could you say? That his intelligence had turned you on so badly you ended up touching yourself? Yeah, no. That definitely wouldn’t do.

Trying to save face, and maybe flip the power dynamic, you raised your chin and replied, voice just as smug, “Well, I seem to remember you looked pretty bothered yourself.”

That shut him up.

The grin faded, laughter dying in his throat. His eyes locked on yours, a different kind of tension suddenly filling the space between you. The playful air cracked into something heavier, charged, as if the truth had landed and neither of you knew what to do with it.

The atmosphere shifted instantly, thickening with unspoken desire.

“It was hard not to be when you sounded so sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even deeper, his dark eyes locked on yours. You caught the quick gulp, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, threatening to burst.

He must have heard it too.

Moving closer with careful intention, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted, his soft hands cupped your cheek. Then, without warning, his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding.

The sudden contrast of emotions hit you like a whip. 

Your breath hitched as his lips pressed firmly against yours, the heat of the kiss melting away all your worries, that had clung to you for so long. His hand moved gently from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if you belonged there, like this was where you were meant to be.

For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you, his warmth, his steady heartbeat beneath your palm, the taste of him lingering on your lips. You felt the tension in your body unravel, replaced by a fierce, aching need.

Taking hold of his suit, you gently tugged him toward the inside of your flat, walking backward without breaking the kiss. You could only hope nothing got knocked over, though honestly, you wouldn't have cared. You’d burn the whole damn place down if it meant keeping his lips on yours for even a moment longer.

Once inside, the warmth of his body, combined with the cozy heat of the apartment, sent shivers cascading down your spine. You melted deeper into him, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his suit. His lips were everything you had imagined, soft, warm, deliberate. Not rushed or demanding, just present. As if he had all the time in the world for you.

A quiet moan slipped past your lips at the realization, and he took that as his invitation. His tongue brushed gently against yours, slow and exploratory, dancing in a rhythm that left your knees weak.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid his arms beneath your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively, your hands finding their way into his hair.

Of course, you were just about to make some self-deprecating comment about your weight, some old habit, a leftover from past lovers who made you feel too much. And then you remembered who he was.

This wasn’t like before. He wasn’t like them.

This was Superman, a man who could lift buildings, outrun sound, and fly through storms. Your soft stomach, your thick thighs, your so-called imperfections, none of it could possibly scare him.

The thought hit you all at once, and something in you gave in.

You deepened the kiss with renewed intensity, your fingers threading deeper into his hair. Your thighs instinctively tried to clench for some friction, to ease the growing ache between your legs, but you were only met with the hard wall of his body. Solid. Unyielding.

You whimpered softly in frustration, which only made him smile against your lips. That damn dimple again. One of his hands slid up your spine, the other under your thigh, holding you so effortlessly close it made your heart stutter. 

Looking up quickly, he returned his gaze to you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. Before you could ask anything, or make some kind of comment, you felt your stomach drop softly. The floor was no longer under your feet. You were floating. Held securely in his arms, Clark flew the both of you gently upstairs, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Easier than taking the stairs, apparently.

Looking down, you felt the same flutter of excitement you’d had the first time you fell off the roof, minus the adrenaline spike. Flying felt like freedom. Like being weightless, untouchable. If you were him, you’d never stop. You’d stay up there forever.

He landed gently just in front of your bedroom door. You expected him to set you down, maybe let you walk in on your own, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes glazed over for a second, scanning the room with silent intensity. You realized he was checking everything.

When his gaze finally settled back on yours, it had softened again. “No cameras. No bugs. Nothing,” he said, his voice low, reassuring.

Then his lips were back on yours, and he pushed the door open with his foot like he belonged there, like this was already his home, too.

The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it. All you could focus on was the way his hands gripped you, firm, but gentle. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he was still holding back.

You didn’t want him to.

Still holding you in his arms, he leaned down, your back finding the soft comfort of your mattress as he settled above you. His weight didn’t crush, it grounded. A reminder that this wasn’t a dream. That he was here. With you. Wanting you.

His lips found your neck, slow, deliberate, teasing, sending warm shivers down your spine. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. His breath caught at the contact, lips trailing lower, skimming across your collarbone with featherlight grace.

His hands, warm and sure, slipped beneath your shirt. They explored the curve of your thighs, his touch loving and careful, before gliding higher. He bypassed the most sensitive place between your legs with a restraint that made your breath hitch, instead resting his palms on your stomach. He kneaded the soft flesh there gently, almost like a cat finding comfort, as if he wanted to memorise every inch of you.

All the while, his lips stayed at your throat, moving down, then returning to the beat of your pulse like it was calling to him. Drawn to it. To you.

Craving more, you shifted your weight and flipped the two of you over. You knew he let you. With his strength, he could’ve taken control in an instant, pinned you down with barely a thought, but he didn’t. He let you lead, and the heat that flooded your core at that realization was overwhelming. You were already soaked, and he’d barely touched you.

You leaned down to kiss his neck, what little you could reach, your lips grazing over warm skin and the edge of his jaw. His breath caught, just slightly, and you grinned against him. Fingers fumbling, you tugged at the edge of his suit, trying to find a seam, a signal that it could come off. Was he even wearing anything underneath? The material felt barely there, sleek, smooth, almost too easy to remove.

Before your mind could spiral any further, his soft chuckle pulled you back. With a gentle but firm push, he shifted you off him and stood. Your breath hitched as he made quick work of the suit, fluid, practiced movements, and you couldn’t look away.

You clenched your thighs instinctively, trying to ease the pulsing need between your legs, but it only made the ache worse. Watching him undress, knowing what was coming, had your entire body lit up with anticipation.

He was, indeed, completely naked beneath the suit. His cock stood fully hard, pressed against the firm plane of his stomach, practically begging for attention. You licked your lips, unable to tear your gaze away. It was beautiful, clearly above average in size, with thick veins tracing along its shaft. A bead of precum had already gathered at the flushed, angry-red tip, taunting you. Carefully trimmed hair sat nicely on top on it all. 

Clark noticed the look in your eyes, but he didn’t take it for granted. As he stepped toward the bed, clearly intending to sit down beside you, your hands on his hips stopped him. You lowered yourself onto your haunches, settling near the edge of the bed.

Your breathing had already quickened, your heart pounding unnaturally fast. Still, your eyes remained fixed on his arousal, mesmerised. Then soft fingers tipped your chin upward, gently guiding your gaze to meet his.

Kind blue eyes stared back into yours.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly, his voice filled with genuine care. He wanted you to know this wasn’t expected, he wouldn’t cross any lines.

“I want to…” you whispered, leaning closer. You pressed a soft kiss to his tip. “You’ve been so good to me.” Another kiss. “So patient… so helpful.” A gentle lick followed. “I just want to say thank you.” Another slow, deliberate lick.

The sound he let out in response might have been the most perfect thing you'd ever heard.

His breath hitched, chest rising sharply as your tongue teased him again, a little more boldly this time. The tension in his thighs was unmistakable, muscles flexing under your hands where they still rested on his hips. Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t rush you. He let you set the pace, just like he had before. 

Your lips wrapped gently around the head, tasting the salt of his arousal. A soft hum escaped your throat at the heat and weight of him. He groaned, low, rough, and utterly unguarded, and your whole body reacted to the sound, warmth pooling deep in your core.

You answered him by taking him deeper, slowly, savouring every inch as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. He was thick, and the way he filled you was dizzying. You used your hands to steady yourself, one gripping his thigh, the other gently stroking what you couldn’t take yet. 

Clark’s hand remained at the back of your head, not guiding, not insisting, just there, his fingers threading tenderly through your hair. It wasn’t just a touch, it was a silent kind of worship. His palm was warm, soft as it caressed your scalp, and the sensation sent a fresh rush of heat surging through you. You could feel it, wetness gathering again in your panties, your body aching with want.

You found a steady rhythm, working him with your mouth and hand in perfect coordination, slow, deliberate, controlled. Your tongue swirled around the head each time you rose up, then slid back down with delicious pressure, your hand stroking what your lips couldn’t reach. His hips twitched slightly, and you could feel the restraint in him, the way he was holding himself back.

As your confidence grew, so did your need. The hand that had rested against his hip slid downward, past your stomach, over your waistband, slipping beneath the hem of your panties. The moment your fingers brushed your clit, a quiet moan vibrated from your throat and against him, making his body shudder in response.

You were soaked. Every nerve ending felt electrified, your clit pulsing and swollen with need. You circled it gently, teasing yourself as you sucked him a little deeper. The contrast, his weight in your mouth, your fingers pressing into your own heat, felt like heaven. Your thighs clenched instinctively, chasing the pleasure building inside you.

Clark groaned above you, his voice hoarse, laced with disbelief and pleasure. His moans and grunts grew louder, more desperate, as you gradually took him deeper, your throat adjusting to him with every pass. Looking up at him through tear-filled lashes, you caught the moment his gaze dropped to yours. His cock twitched violently in your mouth, and his head flew back with a broken, helpless whine.

The sound made you moan around him, low and needy, sending another ripple of sensation through his body. He had to love the sight. And honestly, so did you.

He was a mess. Sweat clung to his chest, dampening the dark hair there, his neck flushed, cheeks glowing, ears pink with heat. He looked utterly wrecked, just like he had that night at the farm.

The memory made your thighs clench, need spiraling higher. The wetness between your fingers had grown slicker, hotter. You couldn’t stop now, not with the way your body was pulsing for release.

You rubbed faster, chasing it, matching the rhythm of your mouth around him, both of you slipping closer and closer to the edge. His hands gripped your shoulders suddenly, stopping your movement.

“You’re gonna make me—” But the rest of the words were swallowed by a guttural moan as his hips involuntarily bucked forward. His control was fracturing, and you loved it.

“Come here,” he groaned as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The sudden absence made you whimper, but the sound was quickly silenced by his lips crashing onto yours.

You instinctively tried to turn away, after all, you’d just had him in your mouth, but he didn’t seem to care. His kiss was fierce, messy, his tongue forcing its way between your lips like he needed to taste himself on you.

Pushing you back onto the bed, he climbed over you, his body radiating heat. Without hesitation, with a sharp tug, your shirt was torn apart, ripped down the middle like it was nothing. Your panties followed, shredded in his hands, leaving you gasping beneath him.

You gasped, staring down at the wreckage of your clothes, your chest heaving, before his mouth found your skin again. Hot and wet, his lips closed around one nipple while his hand claimed the other, squeezing and teasing in perfect rhythm.

A moan escaped you, hips grinding up instinctively, desperate for friction. Sensing your need, Clark shifted and pressed one of his thick thighs between your legs. The pressure was immediate and perfect. You cried out, rubbing yourself against the strong muscle, your slickness already coating his skin. He groaned against your chest, the sound sending shivers through you.

Clark groaned into your chest, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark and raw. "Doing so good."

Then he was back on your lips, kissing you fiercely. The kiss was messy, teeth occasionally knocking together, but it felt like the most electric moment you’d ever lived. His warmth pressed against you, solid and unyielding, as he shifted some of his weight onto you, pinning you gently but firmly against the mattress. Locked against him, breath mingling, your bodies pressed tight in an intoxicating, perfect embrace.

With a particularly hard thrust of your hips against his, you begged, “Please, Clark.”

His mouth brushed against yours as he laughed softly, a light, breathy sound that cut off the moment your warm hand closed around his cock. You tried to guide him toward your entrance, but your movements were rushed and a bit awkward, causing him to press against your sensitive clit. The sharp sensation made you bite down hard on Clark’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay…” he said calmly, as if your teeth sinking into his skin barely registered. Gently shooing your hand away, he replaced it with his own larger one.

His fingers nudged at your entrance with care, waiting patiently. Waiting for you to look up, to meet his gaze, to show him you truly wanted this, wanted him.

Your eyes met his, wide and shining with need. The vulnerability there made his gaze soften even more, filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire that made your heart skip.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and gentle, as if asking permission without pressure. This filled you with warmth. 

You nodded, breath catching in your throat. “Yes. I want this. I want you.”

With that, he pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to every new sensation. You gasped softly, fingers clutching at the sheets as the fullness spread inside you, warm and deep.

When he was fully inside, he paused, resting his forehead against yours again. “You feel—,” he whined, his voice thick with emotion, out of breath. "Perfect. So warm."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Please move.” You moaned in his ears. 

He began to move, slow, steady, a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. Each thrust was deliberate, filled with both passion and care. Your bodies moved together as if they were made for this moment, for each other.

His movements grew more confident, a little rougher but still measured, as if he was memorising every reaction, every shiver that ran through your body. You clung to him, nails digging lightly into his back, needing to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure built inside you. He never stopped kissing you, in between moans and grunts. 

Clark’s breath was ragged now, lips brushing the curve of your jaw with every thrust. “You feel so good,” he groaned, voice thick with need. 

You pressed your forehead against his, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He responded by picking up the pace, hips rolling with a deeper, more urgent rhythm. Your body answered instantly, every nerve ending on fire, every touch setting off sparks. The heat between you built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter until your breath hitched and your chest trembled. Clark’s hand slid down your side, slipping between you to find your clit, circling it with gentle, insistent pressure.

The combination, his body moving inside you, his fingers teasing you, was almost unbearable. You cried out, clutching him tighter, your body arching up to meet his.

“Clark…” you gasped, voice thick with need.

You could feel his cock twitching inside you with every clench of your cunt. You were both so close to the edge, the sensation overwhelming. You could count on one hand the number of times a guy had made you come through penetration alone, and Clark was dangerously close to that milestone. And this was the first time he was fucking you.

His fingers never stopped moving on your clit, perfectly synchronised with his heavy thrusts. What finally pushed you over the edge was the sound of his deep voice grunting in your ear as his forehead pressed against your shoulder. He was whispering your name, telling you how good you felt, how warm you were, how perfect.

Then he said something that was almost too much to bear.

“I’ve been wanting you since I saw you, so pretty, at the farm,” he whined, struggling to hold back his release. “A soft city girl like you, all pretty on my family’s farm… I couldn’t help thinking this was the—” He stopped himself with a filthy moan. “The prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.”

That broke something inside you. Knowing he had been dreaming about you just as much as you had about him made everything shatter. Scratching down his back, your own body arching, you let it all go.

Your body trembled as the waves of release crashed over you, every nerve ending alight with fire. Clark didn’t pull away; instead, he held you tighter, his own breath hitching as he followed you over the edge.

A desperate moan left Clark's lips. His hips stuttered, movements faltering as he tensed inside you, the warmth of his release flooding deep. You felt the mix of him and yourself, a messy, intimate testament to the moment you’d just shared.

Before he could crush you beneath his weight, he quickly rolled onto his back, pulling you flush against him. Your body pressed warmly against his, his softening length still nestled inside you. The shift made you instinctively clench around him, and he responded with a low, warning groan.

“Sorry…” you murmured, laughing softly.

Looking up, you smiled gently, and he was already watching you.

It felt strange.

Just a few months ago, you’d hated this man. Not really him, but everything he stood for. The Daily Planet. The goodness. The righteousness. The morality.

He had barged into your life, unwanted and uninvited, turning everything upside down. But he hadn’t left. He stayed. Helped when everyone else had walked away the moment they got what they wanted. Not him.

Now, as you laid your head back against his chest, you didn’t know where any of this was headed. But for once, you were ready to take a leap of faith into the unknown.

As long as he was with you.

©sillyswriting 2025

this took all my energy for days, but i think it was worth it !

[hotchnersgirll]

let me love you — a. hotchner

summary: it takes you almost kissing someone else for him to realise just how much he cares

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

warnings: angst, tension, angry kisses, jealous!hotch, he's so hot, did i mention tension? bcs there's so much tension tension tension, a few swears, her bag sort of disappears.. oops

word count: 5.2k (oops x2)

Aaron doesn’t even look at you anymore.

Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.

But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.

And it killed you.

You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.

Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.

And the worst part?

You know he still wants you.

Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.

He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.

But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.

So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.

And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.

Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.

Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.

Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.

How is that professional?

You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.

You’re sick of it.

But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.

He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?

Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.

You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.

The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.

He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.

Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.

He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?

Yes, you do.

You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.

He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.

Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—

“Agent!”

Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.

You freeze.

Where the fuck did he spawn from?

Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.

You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.

He can wait.

He can watch.

You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.

Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.

And, just like before, just as your lips graze—

“Agent!”

Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.

Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.

“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”

Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”

He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.

Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.

You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.

You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.

You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.

His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.

You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.

You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”

He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”

His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.

You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?

It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.

But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.

He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.

You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.

—

On the jet, the tension is unbearable.

Aaron is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.

You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.

The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.

After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.

He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.

If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.

But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.

He hates that he waited.

And now he’s stewing in it.

When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.

And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:

“Stay.”

He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.

His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.

His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.

He looks really hot.

Swallowing, you will that thought away.

‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.

You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.

No.

With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.

Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.

You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.

“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.

Shit.

You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”

He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.

You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”

“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.

“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.

If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.

He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No. You don’t get to—“

Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.

You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.

“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.

When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.

Your lips are parted as you stare at him.

You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.

His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.

“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.

Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.

You couldn’t help it.

You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.

A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.

For a split second, you start to feel bad.

But it doesn’t last.

Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.

Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.

“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.

Like he’s trying to profile you.

What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.

“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”

You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.

He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”

Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.

“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.

“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”

His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.

“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.

It softens because he knows you’re right.

He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.

He can’t argue with you because you’re right.

He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.

When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.

“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.

It only makes you angrier.

You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.

That silence cuts deeper than anything.

“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”

You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.

And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

He just hurts.

“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”

You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.

And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.

It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.

You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.

But then you break.

Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.

Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.

Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.

His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.

You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.

“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.

His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”

“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.

You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.

It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.

But then he pulls away.

His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.

His heart sinks.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t move. Don’t look.

“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”

He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”

His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”

You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”

His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.

“Please say something.” he murmurs.

There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”

Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.

And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.

There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.

And he does.

It’s silent for a second.

His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.

He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”

You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”

You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.

“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”

His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.

“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”

He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.

“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”

Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.

“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”

Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.

His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.

“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.

“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.

“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”

“You better not.” you murmur.

And then he kisses you again.

It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.

As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.

You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.

Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?

The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.

But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.

You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.

“I saw all of it.�� he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.

You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”

You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”

Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.

He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.

“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[sttoru]

Omg could we see reader getting jealous of Sukuna having sec with his other concubines? And maybe liek the other concubine rubs it in readers face?

 𝝑𝑒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. angst (no comfort), suggestive \\ smut aspects. size difference. one tiny mention of reader being a crybaby. reader gets called ‘little one, brat’ \\ kuna’s an asshole! not proofread, excuse the grammar. no part 2. wc: 3.3k

you’ve been away from the estate for three days; three days too long for the king of curses. so much had happened while you were away to take some well deserved rest—a small vacation that sukuna had granted you because you needed it.

perhaps that was his first mistake. giving you permission to leave his side ended up being a bad decision. he hates that faint feeling in his chest, the feeling of missing something.

missing someone.

it couldn’t be. sukuna doesn’t have any weaknesses, and yet he can feel his body reacting to that unfamiliar emotion again. all because of you— that one human who always succeeds to occupy his mind.

he couldn’t let himself succumb to it—he’s not going to. sukuna is not going to let a mere human like you deter him from his superior identity that he’s had for decennia. he’s not going to let you have that power over him and his body.

and thus, when you return to the estate, you find yourself being laughed at. you were unpacking your luggage when two concubines stand at your doorway, hiding their evil smiles behind their handheld fans.

they don’t waste a single second and immediately rush to ruin your carefree mood.

“you know, you shouldn’t have returned at all,” the brunette giggles, her laugh sounding like nails scraping against a chalkboard. she looks to the other woman next to her before glancing back at you, “i mean—heh—lord sukuna definitely didn’t seem to mind your absence.”

you figure it’s just another way to get you riled up, so you do your best to ignore them. you put your packed kimonos in your wardrobe as your back faces the two.

yumi, the second concubine, nods along. she knows what she’s about to reveal will get on your nerves. and deserved, if you ask her. they had successfully caught the attention of their king while you were away. for the first time in a good while since your arrival in the estate.

the fact that they managed to spend quality time with sukuna again, is a wonderful first step to your downfall. one that will surely crumble your confidence as his so-called ‘favorite’.

“mhm,” yumi grins as she recalls the memories of her time with sukuna. time spent together that you were unaware of, “lord sukuna definitely didn’t seem to mind your absence when he had me in his bed last night.”

you freeze.

your brows furrow and the corners of your lips twitch. you don’t know if you should believe them—they could’ve lied about it for all you know. although, the voice in the back of your head had already rang the alarms.

guessing by the way they were dying to talk to you the second you came back - which never happens - you realise that they’re probably telling the truth. they’re only telling the truth to agitate you. it’s so painfully obvious, and yet so. . . hurtful.

“what?”

you don’t recall when you’ve choked up. you feel a lump in your throat. it shouldn’t even be there. you promised yourself to not get attached to a monster like sukuna.

so what if he went to bed with his other concubines?

but of course he’ll get pleasure from his other women when you aren’t around. he doesn’t feel any love, he sees it as worthless, so why did you expect him to not indulge himself? he still has his other concubines around for a reason.

you really shouldn’t be surprised by this revelation.

“what do you mean ‘what?’ - you heard me,” yumi shrugs, that cocky smirk still on her face. she’s clearly enjoying your reaction to everything she’s revealing. all the two concubines wanted to get out of this encounter with you, is to break that delusion of yours.

the delusional thought that you’re special to the king of curses—the delusion that sukuna considers you as something more than a toy to emotionally manipulate and play with until he’s tired of you.

“my lord spent all night with me in his chambers until the sun rose,” yumi continues without an ounce of shame. she bites her lip as she remembers the way sukuna had her body positioned on his large bed. for her, it was a dream come true.

though for you, it’s a living nightmare. even if you try to deny the fact that it physically and mentally hurts. there’s a painful twist at your heart—reminding you of the truth.

the truth being that you had truly thought that sukuna wasn’t really a monster of a man. you thought he was a different, more softer person around you.

you should’ve listened to the servants when they told you to not get tricked by sukuna’s special treatment, that he could easily manipulate you and make you do and act as he pleases.

“do you want me to explain it in detail?” yumi crosses her arms over her chest as she looks down at you with a menacing glare. both of the concubines are loving that face you’re making. that face of defeat that you’re attempting to hide from them, “how he held me and pleasured me until i—”

“enough,” you cut them off with your hands clenched into fists. you don’t want to hear another word. you’re already feeling awful; already, not even an hour into your return. you can never catch a break.

you have an urge to throw things around. you already feel stupid, and if you decide to throw a fit, you bet that you’d feel even dumber. you truly do not know why you’re getting this worked up about it.

maybe it’s because of the special treatment. the delusional thoughts you have about your relationship with sukuna. you really thought that you two had something special. an unofficial romantic relationship, perhaps, or something that resembles it.

a secret, unspoken deal where you’re promised his loyalty in exchange for your body and soul.

although, those dreams have been shattered this very instance. you’re once again reminded of the animalistic nature of the being called ryomen sukuna.

he told you clearly that he’d never tie himself to someone, a human no less. devotion to one person? why would he.

“out of the way.”

you push the brunette and her sidekick the other way. you’re going to confront the man yourself. or at least, you’ll try to. you can hear their sick laughs and chuckles fade into the background as you stomp your way towards sukuna’s chambers.

the other concubines seem to have gotten the gist. some peek their heads out of their rooms, grinning at you in victory. seeing your confidence slowly crumble and the realisation kick in - the realisation that your dear lord’s special treatment means absolutely nothing - is a sight for sore eyes to them.

you enter sukuna’s room and close the heavy doors behind you. you swallow the lump down your throat and try your best to look presentable.

no tears, you promise yourself. you’re not going to waste them on something like this.

“oh, it’s you, little one,” the familiar voice calls out. sukuna’s low and husky voice rings from his bed. he’s laid back against the many silky pillows, blowing smoke from his kiseru. he lays there like he doesn’t care about your reappearance at all.

he eyes you up and down, “how was your vacation, hm?”

sukuna asks like it’s the most normal thing to do. it seems like he’s trying to catch up with you, to ask you how you’ve been enjoying your time alone, though it also seems like he couldn’t care less at the same time.

“just absolutely fine, my lord,” you reply with gritted teeth and an obvious hint of sarcasm. there’s also a bitterness to your tone that doesn’t go unnoticed by the pink-haired man. he frowns—this cold greeting is not what he expected nor what he wanted to hear from your mouth. he expected you to at least smile at him like you usually do, but you didn’t.

on top of that, you seemed to be annoyed with him. that unexpected attitude of yours made something inside of him snap. it irritated him somehow; the fact that you’re so comfortable talking to him like that . . . it reminded him of the recent inner conflict he had which you were the cause of.

one of his hands tightens into a fist at his side. his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow into slits. you’re physically in front of him, which means that he’s also about to experience those complicated feelings again. the same ones he tried fleeing from by letting you go on a break, and by physically taking his mind off you.

he did the latter by taking his frustrations out on his other women. the stress that came with the thought of him possibly liking a human, relieved by pure animalistic sex.

that’s exactly what you’re upset about.

there’s an urge inside of sukuna to act normal. to ignore those difficult emotions and just treat you like he usually does. yet, another part of him is trying to protect his sense of superiority by trying to push you away.

there’s a war going on in his mind as he tries to calm himself down. you’ve always had this effect on him and it’s becoming unbearable. he has to show you, no - remind you, that you’re nothing to him. you mean nothing—nothing at all.

he’s the king of curses, you’re but a human. he’ll need to remind himself of that obvious statement as well. he’s got all the power in this situation. not you.

you cannot rule over him or his mind.

“you dare come back with an attitude? tch,” sukuna scoffs, nearly breaking the kiseru with his fingers as they squeeze around the solid material. he’s turning off whatever emotion present in his body. that doesn’t belong there anyway. he won’t care if you cry—he won’t care at all.

you notice the sudden change in sukuna’s tone as well. you’re sure you’re the reason for it. perhaps you crossed a boundary with how sassily you replied to him when he was simply asking you how your vacation went.

“my apologies,” you murmur with a sigh. you try to avoid getting on sukuna’s nerves any further, yet when you remember the words from the concubine, how she implied that sukuna had given her the best night of her life when you were away, you get mad again.

your eyes have a fiery look in them. you don’t want to get worked up. you don’t have the right to. you were warned from the very beginning to not get attached to an asshole like ryomen sukuna.

you’re to blame for feeling like this. it could’ve been prevented if you just weren’t so weak. if you just stayed away from him.

“did you have fun while i was away, my lord?” you continue, your voice shaking a little. you need the confirmation. you’re sure sukuna knows what you’re referring to by now, especially because of the way you’re acting out of character.

the king of curses raises a brow at your question. you sound even angrier, even more pissed off. he tilts his head after taking a deep inhale of the tobacco from his kiseru. he tries to figure out what you’re hinting at, “what are you—”

and that’s when everything fell into place. the dots connect.

sukuna’s jaw clenches. he realises that you’ve found out about him receiving services from his other concubines while you were away. there could be no other explanation behind your sudden attitude. besides, he knows how his other concubines could be. they must have told you the moment you came back.

normally, he’d say that it’s none of your business. what he does is up to him—he does not care about the consequences of his actions. though, seeing the slight hurt in your eyes, mixed with sadness and disappointment stirred something inside of him. he brushes that feeling away and stares at you intently, awaiting another comment. perhaps you’d cuss him out or bawl your eyes out in front of him.

either way, he promises himself that he won’t care.

sukuna is the king of curses. feeling bad for a human like you would only further tarnish his image, that image of superiority and power he has.

he’s a man of many needs. you should’ve kept that in mind when you left him. he wanted to keep you with him—to hold you down and refuse to let you leave—but that would be another sign of weakness. one sukuna could not manage to show.

when you departed, he was irritated by the fact that he had no one to turn to with his needs. from simple needs like wanting your company to sexual needs like craving your body.

keeping you by his side or letting you go; both decisions seem to clash. either way, there’s one thing he’s sure of, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it: he missed you.

sukuna can’t believe that he can feel an emotion like that. he can’t accept that fact. that’s why his irrational mind took over—his dark urges that strived to prove himself to still be the same old ryomen sukuna. the monster that did not need a single soul. the ruthless man that did not depend on anyone else, especially not a human. a woman like you.

he thought he’d forget all about you if he’s surrounded himself with other women. but, he was quick to be proven wrong, and that only caused to enrage him more and more.

every time sukuna fucked a concubine, his thoughts still manage to drift away to you. to how he wished that it was you he was holding.

nothing hit the same with the other women and that frustrated him. he’d keep them around in his room after he fucked their brains out, something he never allowed a woman to do except for you, yet kicked them out again after a few minutes.

it doesn’t hit the same.

you’re just different. your presence is soothing and calming to the chaotic soul of the pink-haired man. no one else could compare. that realisation made him feel inferior; a feeling he loathes.

sukuna’s red eyes glow. he hates seeing you look so defeated, but he cannot give in. if he tells you the truth, he’ll admit his weakness. he’ll admit that a human like you has completely taken over his brain. that’s no good.

if he doesn’t tell you the truth, he’ll save face. he’ll feel like himself again. his old self—the cold ruthless monster that he was before he met you. one without a soft spot for a human.

it’s an active dilemma that’s running through his mind as he slowly blows out another cloud of smoke. you cannot guess what’s going on behind those intimidating eyes staring you down.

sukuna tilts his head back and scratches his neck, smacking his lips as he makes his decision.

“yeah, i did. i had lots of fun.”

the words sting. they hurt you and make your heart ache in a way that makes you physically weak. you should’ve expected that answer. your shoulders tense up and your fingers curl around the material of your kimono—feeling a sense of anger and betrayal.

you can see a ghost of a smirk on sukuna’s lips, which only reminds you of his nature. his nature as an independent, aloof and cold man who likes to play with his prey. a natural disaster that knows no emotion, that shows no mercy to anyone.

you’re naive for thinking that you could be the exception. all of those times with sukuna were confirmed to be but a lie in that moment. as your gazes meet, you can now easily interpret what that look in those red eyes meant.

‘know your place,’

that’s what it means. you’re foolish, dumb. you take a deep breath to compose yourself after you’ve been made out to be a total fool. you should’ve listened to those warnings, you should’ve known that you were getting played.

this is exactly what sukuna desired to achieve. to build up your trust, to make you comfortable enough with him, to think you’re special and that he won’t need any other woman other than you — just to shatter your pathetic delusions when the time comes.

“tsk tsk. no need to look at me like that,” sukuna scoffs, a mocking laugh leaving his lips. he can hear a small voice in the back of his head telling him to shut up and let you go, to not make it worse, but who is he to listen to that irrelevant thought? he can decide for himself.

“y’ weren’t around, so the other concubines simply did their job by serving me,” he stares the other way, seemingly not interested by your presence anymore. his face is as expressionless as ever, “what do y’ think i keep them ‘round for, brat? for decoration purposes? hah, nah.”

another loud mocking laugh makes you nearly burst out in tears. you don’t know if it’s in anger or sadness. you take a deep, shaky breath for the last time. you unclench your fists and nod, accepting the reality check you’d just gotten.

it’s a slap to the face, but it helped you get out of your delusions. the delusions that sukuna is a man capable of loving someone, even if it is just for a tiny bit. this visit confirmed that there’s not an ounce of love or appreciation in that man’s body.

“i’m glad you had fun, my lord,” you answer after a bit of silence. you bow at sukuna in an attempt to stay polite while struggling with that inner turmoil. you don’t even glance up at him anymore. you need another break already.

sukuna isn’t dumb. you may think that you’re good at hiding your emotions, but you’re not. at least not around the king of curses. he’s spent enough time around you to realise that you’re going through a lot right now.

he’s the reason for it, yet he cannot bring himself to feel an ounce of empathy. he just looks at you with a blank stare, thinking that this is for the best.

“good night then,” you add and turn around to walk out of sukuna’s room. your steps are slow as you secretly hope to be called back, like sukuna would do every time you’d leave his room after an intimate night. you just want him to tell you that this was a test of some sort—a cruel joke.

you want to feel like his favorite again. you don’t want to be thrown away like this. you don’t want to be on the same level as all the other concubines. you want to stand out to him.

unfortunately, you don’t hear sukuna’s voice anymore. he lets you walk away without a care in the world. the heavy doors of his chambers close behind you and you feel your knees buckle. “fuck,” you cuss to yourself and clench your chest.

you lean back against the closed doors and try to regain your composure. crying can be done when you’re in your room—not in the hallway where anyone could catch you. you don’t want to give the other concubines more reason to bully you.

you drag your feet across the wooden flooring. all those times with sukuna, all those slight glimpses of his soft side that only you’re allowed to see— all of that is thrown into the trash.

you really shouldn’t have gotten so attached to him on an emotional level.

meanwhile, sukuna is silently sitting on his bed, thinking back to what just happened. he usually never doubts his decisions, but this is an exception. why couldn’t he just tell you the truth?

his mouth had moved before he could let his mind process all that he was feeling. a small part of him regrets it, though strangely, he couldn’t feel any real sympathy for your situation.

sukuna drapes an arm over his eyes, clicking his tongue at himself. he just wants to let the situation go, though his brain isn’t letting him to. the image of you standing at the edge of his bed, clearly hurt by his actions, flashes through his mind again.

he sighs. he’s sure that he’s going to forget about you soon enough. he needed an excuse to get rid of you for the sake of regaining control over his own being and he took the chance. he should be glad that he did—it meant that he’d be his usual self—with no weaknesses to look out for.

sukuna blows out another cloud of smoke through his mouth. as much as he’s proud of himself for not giving in to you, he can’t help but let his thoughts wander again. you’re probably crying in your room. he knows you’re sensitive. you would always cry about the smallest of things and he’d hold you (feigning reluctance) until you’ve calmed down.

he can’t do that now.

well, he can, but he won’t. sukuna has made his decision today: it’s power and status over you. that’s what it’s always been. you were but a toy he used to get a stronger grip on himself.

perhaps he simply is what people make him out to be; a monster. nothing more, nothing less.

[luludeluluramblings]

Neglected!Pregnant!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family Part Three

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Part One ☁️ Part Two ☁️ Part Four ☁️ Part Five

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A/N: Sorry for the delay. My motivation fled for a bit and exhaustion hit me hard right before thanksgiving. I had to buckle down and just finish this.

A/N: I really wanna answer all my ask, there’s some things in there that y’all have sent me that I want to do for an AU of this. There’s just so many ideas I wanna try.

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Warnings: Yandere themes, possible non-con (I only say possible, because Reader was drunk when consenting), fem!reader, possible violence towards Jason, my own made up headcanons.

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When you told Stephanie you were going to find out the gender of your little bean, you weren’t exactly surprised she wanted to have a gender reveal party. Though you did talk her out of the party aspect. You loved your friends, but you hadn’t told them about your pregnancy. Mostly because you knew they’d either accidentally spill the beans about said bean to someone they shouldn’t or they’d freak out and pester you about the unknown father.

It’s a shame you can only faintly remember dark hair, loving touches, and the heat from that night. You’d like to at least thank the man for giving you such gift. Even if said gift was making you throw up nearly every morning, constantly tired, and craving the oddest things with heartburn to follow.

Overall, things were going.

That was it. Things where just going. You were still looking for an apartment, but you were getting sidetracked a bit by nurseries. You knew you would love your child regardless of what they are or who they are. But, the little swan lake nursery was precious and the air plane nursery was darling. Both made you cry and change your mind on apartments at least six times. Hormones did not help with house hunting.

But, the day came. You went to your ultrasound and had them put the gender in an envelop to give to Stephanie for her to plan your day. You had to fight yourself from peaking at the paper, but, still, you waited the three extra days until you would find out the big reveal.

Unfortunately, Jason fucking ruined it.

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Jason had been poking around the fridge. It was common for him to dig around the manor for food when he was there. Bruce was rich and groceries were expensive. (If he was looking for some of the princess’s cooking? That was his business.) But, he spotted something that stood out from the usual expensive organic fruits and vegetables and occasional meat.

“Hey, Alfred. Why is there a small cake in the fridge?" He could tell from the packaging it was from some fancy bakery. Probably one on the shiny posh side of Gotham. Which meant it would either taste like overpriced shit or absolutely delectable.

"That would be the young Miss's. I believe Miss Brown purchased it as a surprise." Alfred had replied from where he was currently taking inventory of the pantry. Maintaining a well supplied stock of the after mission snacks to proper management after all. Still, he did eye Jason from where he stood with his note pad. Knowing that Jason had a slight habit of causing trouble.

"Those two have been really close lately." Jason muttered suspiciously, mentally debating on if the cake was worth it or not with Alfred watching him.

"Dick is right. You really are starting to sound like Bruce." Duke and Cassandra had been sitting at the counter. Duke, having just gotten off patrol, had been in the kitchen to refill his water. While Cass had been munching on some snacks that she had hidden from the rest of them.

"Can it, light bulb." Came Jason's snarky voice as he silently popped the lid on the much to fancy cake open and pulled it out of the fridge. Alfred to far across the kitchen to stop him. "You know… This is a pretty big cake…"

"Jason, no." Even Duke knew it was a bad idea. If you had just gotten bold enough to through tubberware at Jason, God only knew what you might do if he ate a gift you'd been given. Plus, Steph would be on everyone’s ass for it. She was stingy with her money and everyone could tell she splurged for that cake.

"I would advise against that, Master Jason. Miss Brown already informed the young Miss of the cake and I believe that they wanted to have the first slices when they got back from their outing." Alfred knew you would happily share the cake, but, while he wanted to defend your sugary gift, he knew that that cake had a secret and for once Alfred couldn't restrain himself from wanting to be the first to discover it.

That drew both Cassandra and Duke's attentions away from the crime that was about to be committed. Both curious. The two of you really had gotten close. Cass only slightly tilted her head in curiosity while Duke had been the one to speak.

"Oh, they went out?"

"For pedicures, I was told. They are due to arrive back here shortly. "

"Well, if you wait, they might- Jason! Seriously?!" Duke had looked back to watch Jason slice into the cake with a spare butter-knife. Thankfully with enough finesse to not completely ruin your cake.

"What? The princess can share her damn cake-" He defends himself, about to grab a fork when he notices Cass looking directly at Alfred. "Why are you looking at Alfred like that?"

When she says nothing, Duke and Jason look at the tearful expression of Alfred's face. "Alfie, what's wrong?"

It takes a moment for them to realize that those aren't tears of anger or sadness as Alfred tries to compose himself. It takes Duke a few seconds longer to look at the slice of cake to connect the dots with a swiftness that would put Tim's title as second greatest detective to shame.

However, the only words that stumble out of his mouth in his shock are, "Jason, that cake is blue."

"Yeah, I know. Which is weird, but it taste great. Steph picked something really fancy for princess’s taste." Jason says finally taking a bite. It was good, Steph picked a good bakery. Not as good as Princess's homemade goods, but good enough.

"NO! Jason, why would a cake be blue?" The realization of what exactly Jason just ruined filled Duke with panic. This was going to be so much worse than the tubberware if he was right. So much worse.

Even Cass was a bit confused about the massive deal with the cake. She was more interested in the joy she was reading off of Alfred since that cake had been cut. She'd never seen the man so giddy, despite the only sign of any change in him was the misty look in his eyes.

"I don't know- Oh, great. The princess has returned." The sound of excited footsteps were heard heading towards the kitchen while Duke looked at Jason with anxiousness. Even Alfred seemed to brace himself.

As soon as you and Stephanie walked in the smiles dropped from your faces.

"Jason…. Tell me you didn't…" Stephanie murmured as she glared as Jason. Inwardly, she was excited. She had guessed correctly and won her own personal bet with herself. But, she comfortingly put a hand on your arm as you stared at the blue cake you didn’t get to cut.

Just from your expression, Duke can tell he might have been right and starts looking at Jason with an expression that screams, ‘Plead for mercy, you idiot.’

Alfred, thankfully, had enough sense to come out of his joy the moment he watches you walk up to the counter and look down at the cake with a despondent expression. His words comforting as he tries to ease the budding tension. “I'm so sorry, young miss. But, on the bright side-"

"Oh, come on, princess. You and Steph weren’t going to be able eat it all. You can afford to share. Besides, you’ve been looking a little pudgy lately anyway. Really need to stop acting like you’re eating for two."

Everyone looks directly at Jason in horror at what he just said. Seeing the spark of rage in your eyes makes Alfred take a step back in caution and Cassandra warns an aghast Duke of what she sees about to go down.

“Duke, duck.”

“Where?” He says in terrified confusion before suddenly your cake is slammed directly into Jason’s face with your hands coated in frosting.

"OH SHIT!”

"MISS!"

"Are you fucking crazy?" Jason stumbles back from the velocity of the cake to his face while he tries to wipe the buttercream from his eyes as you start berating him. Throwing everything in reaching distance at him. The bowl of fruit on the counter, the snacks Cass had been eating, even a pot from the stove.

"You ruined it! You ruined it! Alfred, where's the cast iron? I'm about to knock the dumbass outta him.” You start looking for something heavy, moving to dig through the cabinets with sugary fingers that are shaking with anger.

“About time someone did…” Stephanie mutters while she hides behind the counter to hide from the onslaught.

Before you can complete your search, Jason reveals just how well he preforms under pressure. Realizing a little too late what he might have just right when your hands find the cast iron skillet and your taking a swing at him.

"Wait! Wait! I'm sorry!" He barely dodged the hit with the sudden click of the information settling into his brain.

"You about to be sorry! This is the last straw, asshole. You fuckin' ruined it." You go to take another swing at him, nearly slipping in some frosting.

Jason’s eyes go wide before he risk a skillet to the face to catch you.

"You're right! I- Put that down, you're going to hurt yourself." He struggles to pull the pan from your sticky grip, not wanting to hurt you. This isn’t something he imagined having to use all his skills and talents for, but he thanks fuck he has them.

"Don't you tell me what to fuckin' do." You snarl while trying to hit him in the throat with your fist, causing him to almost let you slip.

"Jason!" Duke shouts out, knowing how bad it’ll be if you fall.

Jason tightens his grasp on you to the point your practically immobile, trying to calm you down with apologies and a panicked tone.

"Look, I'm sorry! I didn't realize-"

"That doesn't excuse you acting like a dick." You hiss, causing him to go silent as he tries to figure out how to fix this situation.

"You're right. It doesn't. But…" he trails off, leading to an awkward moment of silence

"Dude, you suck at this." Duke says before popping his head over the counter now that the cake and kitchen utensils have ceased to be airborne. Stephanie popping up next to him to give Jason an icy glare of her own while Cass stares at her ruined snacks. Alfred sighing as he runs the bridge of his nose from the similarities between old memories and the current scenario in the kitchen.

"Shut up, twinkle twinkle." He snarls before looking down a very pissed and most likely very pregnant you with a wince. "I… I know I'm a jackass."

"Astute observation, Master Jason." Alfred mutters while he behind to search for some cleaning supplies for the buttercream incident.

"Damn, Alfred's roasting you." Duke quickly shuts up when Jason gives him a lethal glare despite your futile attempts a wiggling out of his grasp. "Shutting up now."

Eventually you stop struggling, heaving in exhaustion and pitifully fighting back tears at your ruined gender reveal.

"I… Shouldn't be acting like a such an asshole. To you, specifically. You don't deserve that and I'm sorry." Jason tries as soon as he sees your lower lip start to wobble. He knows he’s prickly, but this is a new low that he’s not proud of.

"Now, you wanna apologize?" You’re honestly too emotional to deal with this. But, it’s the fact that he’s actually trying to give a meaningful apology when hardly anyone else does that makes you listen. Even if you’re mentally tearing him to shreds with your teary eyes.

"Yes. Now, I want to apologize." He sighs, putting you down. It’s quite a sit. Him not only apologizing, but him also doing it covered in white frosting and blue cake crumbs. "I'm… I'm not going to give you a bunch of excuses. I'm a jerk. But, I'm not heartless. I took this too far."

"You took it too far when you ate my frickin' fried cornbread." Comes your deadpan tone as you cross your arms. The fabric of your hoodie moving slightly to reveal the faintest of baby bumps.

"You're still mad about- You know what, fair enough. Don't eat the pregnant chick's food. Lesson learned." He starts to say exasperatedly before changing course at your stare and realizing he needed to suck it up.

“But, in my defense, it was really good.” He pipes off quickly, as an appeasing compliment.

Judging from the way your eyes further narrow and the reigning silence, he can tell he missed the mark.

Instead he tries to change course.

"Listen, I know this won't make up for it, but… I did see some vintage baby stuff in the attic when I snooped up there once."

"Oh, you found Master Bruce's old thing." Alfred exclaims with slightly raised brows. Coming back with Clorox wipes and all sorts of other supplies for the mess you had made. (He blames Jason, however. Don’t fret, dear one.)

"Wait, pause. Did you say those were Bruce's old baby clothes?"

"Yes, Master Jason.”

“I thought those were little girl’s baby dress. They looked like something a goth Victorian child mixed with a pilgrim would wear."

“I assure you they are Master Bruce’s.”

Everyone suddenly has a collective thought and a mighty need. Cake forgotten momentarily.

"Alfred, are there pictures of him in those clothes?" You ask with barely contained mischief, all anger and sadness gone as delight fills you. Mood swings could be such a blessing and a curse.

“Why, I do believe so.” There was a hint of knowing in Alfred's tone. One that also was finding delight in the idea he knew was passing through everyone's minds.

Immediately, and with renewed vigor, your head whips to Jason.

"Help me find the pictures and get me some Jokerized fries-."

"And, throw in a foot massage." Stephanie adds before you can finish. The suggestion causing Jason's eyes to widen while Duke shudders.

"What?!"

“Eww.”

"I kinda don't want him touching my feet. Too weird." You say. Even if they do ache often your not sure you really want the guy who had made your life hell before touching you so much. Even if he was apologetic.

“Oh, thank god.” He mutters under his breath before Stephanie speaks up again.

"Then let me have one. I bought the cake and I was looking forward to it. I had to fight the temptation not to spoil the surprise."

"I feel like that was a pun." Duke mutters.

"It wasn't."

A lighter tone settles over the kitchen as Alfred starts to clean. You tried to help, feeling embarrassment at having made such a mess. But, everyone else had stepped in to pick up the slack on account for your condition as Duke called it.

"Did you ever figure it out, Cass?" You asked curiously as you sat at the counter. A bit surprised that she hadn't disappeared as soon as the whole things had started. You both had always been cordial with each other. However, you knew she preferred to be alone at times. Hence, your lack of interaction. You had assumed she would have fled by now.

"Thought you had a stomach bug. Not a baby. This is better." Comes her short response. There's a subtle hint of wonder on her face. She's gotten better at sharing her feelings with other's so it's nice to see such an expression.

"Am I the only one terrified of how calm she is after she just threw an entire cake at Jason and was about to cast iron him?" Duke says while he finishes wiping the frosting from the skillet you had wielded earlier. The question causes Alfred to chuckle when you give Duke a narrowed look yourself.

"I remember Miss Martha throwing a chair at Master Thomas when she was pregnant with Master Bruce, so this, I dare say, is quite tame."

That comment makes more than a few eyebrows to raise and Jason to let out a whistle, while also realizing that is could've been worse for him in the long run.

"Why'd she do that?"

"Bruce decided to grace the world with his presence in the middle of the night."

"Ha!"

"I always knew he had been more in the dark."

Snickers could be heard before Alfred continued to explain. It was rare he got to share such stories.

"And, Thomas made the foolish mistake of asking her if she could hold Bruce in until a more reasonable hour."

"Alfred, he was a doctor." Stephanie points out.

"In his defense. Neither had slept for that entire week from the anticipation of Master Bruce’s arrival. But, really should have kept quiet on the matter. We would still have that lovely cherry wood chair if he had."

A round of laughter could be heard. You had laughed so hard that there were tears in your eyes as you giggled your way up to the attic.

Things had been ruined, but things had gotten better. If only they could stay better.

Down in the Batcave, Tim had gotten a message in between a few of the cases he was currently working on.

"Jon and I will stop by tomorrow, my dude." He read while taking a sip of this third energy drink for that afternoon. He only nodded in acknowledgment before going back to his work.

Elsewhere, on the Kent family farm, Conner grinned excitedly at his phone before tucking it away and stretching. He'd be seeing his favorite person tomorrow. Hopefully when they saw him they'd remember the best night of their life. It was definitely his.

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A/N: As funny it would be to have Conner just be a sweet goof, I want him to be yandere for this. I struggled to include that last part to show it, but hopefully it works.

A/N: Also, this is the calm before the storm. I kinda wanna try to make it angsty next chapter. And, not gonna lie, it might be brutal. But, I wanna challenge myself so when I make an AU I can do a good job on it.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who voted in the poll! I had been planning on a girl for Reader, so I was a bit surprised. Might save that for the AU. Time to name pick, and if y’all want y’all can suggest nurseries. Can’t guarantee we’ll do polls for them, but it’ll still be fun.

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Taglist

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[cathnospam]

Showers with Katsuki are almost always domestic until it’s not and it’s your fault.

Your blondie is actually very comfortable in his skin with you, he doesn’t mind walking around in your room naked even if it’s to grab the towel he definitely left on your bed on purpose in front of you.

You’ve seen his dick so much you could practically draw it from memory.

But the main reason you’ve seen him naked so many times is because you and him almost always take a shower together.

“C’mon.” Is all he says when he takes your hand into the misty bathroom, shower already on scalding hot just how you both love it.

It’s giggling and scrubbing until it’s your turn to scrub him.

“Turn around, boo.” You tap his shoulder, he does so, trying to relax his body, but also flexing in the process. His back was such a sight to see.

He’s gotten so much bigger since graduating and his waist just can’t get any smaller, you can’t help but your bite your lips when your eyes lock onto his body.

Especially his very cute ass you really wanna poke, but you’d probably get cussed out in German.

Almost worth it.

Instead you scrub him, humming and throwing up compliments that makes him blush everytime.

“Shut up.”

“What I’m just saying…I’m happy you’re all mine. A girl can’t appreciate her man?”

“Yeah yeah. Right here too.” He points at his other shoulder blade, you get in your tippy toes to reach and leave a kiss on his ear, your cold soft lips dragged a chill down his spine, it was practically a warning sign for what’s to be asked next of him.

And he didn’t mind it even if he acted like he did.

“C’mon…” His voice has no bark in it, almost as if he’s being sarcastic, “We have to be up in the morning, N/N.”

“I know i just…” You puncture every other word with a kiss, your slippery soapy hands exploring his abs from the front, “Wanna make you feel good.”

Your words dripping with lust like honey, your hands do most of the speaking when you take hold of his soft shaft and stroke up to under his tip to down to cup his balls. You knew he was sensitive there, you giggle a kiss on his back again when he grunts.

“You’re a piece of shit.”

“Uh huh.” Brushing his comment off, you already knew you had him, so you pick up the pace, one hand on his dick the other massaging his balls made him lean in the cold tile shower wall with one arm, “Baby—ugh— Y/N!”

Bakugo hates calling you anything other than your name or nickname, but it sometimes slips off the tongue when he’s completely getting lost in your touch, “Ganna—-fucking cum dammit—!”

“Then…” Letting go of him you firmly turn him around to have his back on the wall and he looks down at your figure on your knees, “Do it in my mouth.”

Words could not describe how much he wanted to fuck you silly right now. For you to turn him on this much when he just wanted to take a simple shower and then cuddle in bed with you and talk about your day because he missed you, you just had to turn it into something else.

And he still loved you for it.

You take it slow, holding your breath to slide all 7.5 inches down your mouth, he wasn’t also long, but girthy too. He knew this which is why he didn’t always let you suck his dick, your pretty little mouth shouldn’t be sore because of him…even if it was hot to see your eyes prickle with tears to take him all in.

“Shit.” He threw his hand on his face, the temperature of the water suddenly got hotter and steamier, his hair was down, but reverting back to its natural wavy state feeling how warm and tight your mouth was around him, it was ALMOST as good as fucking you.

Almost.

You felt yourself get more aroused hearing your blondie surprise his moans and whimpers terribly, he hated hearing himself, but you couldn’t get enough, he felt a knot forming in his tummy. Throwing his hand on your scalp he bucks his hips with caution back at you and you let him have at you and take full control.

When he notices you were giving him full access to use you he still never did. He never enjoyed the thought of just using you like a fuck toy even if his body was showing something completely different, he thrusted quickly inside your throat until he held you still, groaning and moaning your name while your hands clawed his thighs, “Fuck!—-“

Bakugo lets go to catch his breath and help you up to kiss you, it was hungry and sloppy, you didn’t even completely finish swallowing all of his semen when he swallowed some of it himself while sucking on your tongue, he didn’t fucking care he just needed to show his appreciation.

And he did when he lifted your legs around his waist, you always seem to be so shocked when your man can pick you up with ease, no matter your weight, and he didn’t mind proving his strength from how he fucked you with hot steamy water hitting your chest and in the bed.

You love showering with Bakugo <3

[tojisteddy]

Shades of Cool

or: you get jealous after seeing Simon with another girl.

cw: 4.1k wrds, 18+ mdni, smut with plot, meanie!simon (hes a little toxic), no use of y/n, situationship turned relationship, jealous!reader, quickie in the parking lot, protected sex, age gap, blackcat!reader, daddy kink, age gap (simon mid 30s, reader mid-late 20s)

“and when he calls, he calls for me and not for you.”

a/n: reuploading cause someone asked! Also I interpreted Shades of Cool by Lana (the inspo) different (cause I thought some of the lyrics were something else) so bear with me. Other inspo, Needy by Ariana Grande

At a certain point, you were convinced— Ghost was fucking other people.

There was a girl who was a friend of a friend, of an acquaintance you didn’t like, who could not shut the fuck up about a particular six foot four, muscular, tattooed, blue eyed, skull mask wearing military man.

Your six foot four, muscular, tattooed, blue eyed, skull mask wearing military man.

She just kept smacking her fucking gums together about how big his dick was, how hot he looked with the mask and without a shirt on, and something else about how good her pussy was, blah, blah, a fuckin lie, blah— you’d concluded she didn’t know what the man really looked like, as she should since Ghost had a face only you should be looking at.

Which was alllll the evidence you needed to prove to the grand jury that he was yours.

Yours in theory.

Maybe you were ditzy because you loved that man’s attention above all else, and it simply didn’t feel right that said attention didn’t belong to just you whenever he was free.

He was already a quiet guy, it didn’t help much that he was a little harsh and blunt and declined calls and ignored messages to keep a distance with any of the other women he kept around. You’d asked about that, he gave blunt answers. But that was in the past, at least, that's what Simon decided in his mind. He didn’t tell you that.

He always misses a few important words.

C’est la vie.

You were at your best with Simon despite the mess of it all.

It just felt so good to be in his arms, big fingers trailing from the bottom of your spine up your back, sending shivers through your body, to yhe back of your head. Holding you still while he slipping his tongue into your mouth and exploring it, molding your lips together until you both were out of breath, lost in each others eyes.

So hot—

Whatever, point is, you were Simons and he was yours. You were the first he called when he got off work, when he got back from a mission, the first to call when he wanted to see you.

Not that girl who talked too fucking much.

You didn’t think much of it.

Long as you got that call, long as he called you, his.

Well, up until you saw him laughing it up in some cafe with some girl as you passed by. Shouldn’t he be at work right now? And shouldn’t that girl be at work too? It was lunch-ish. A late lunch, you’d be having one too. But to have his eyes shining like that— it irritated something inside you.

You clicked your tongue. Nodding, don’t make a scene [+]. There's no reason to make a scene [+]. You just go about your day, go home, ask Simon about what happened in a very calm manner.

Something along the lines of, “what the fuck were you doing with a woman at xx cafe at 1:07 pm today?”

No. That’s definitely too much. You’d confront that man while the sun was out. He had to be fucking other people besides you. You’d be straight forward, polite, calm— like Simon taught you. Speak your mind like he knew you could.

You walked in the cafe, head held high, passing through the customers and finally, just barley passing the booth he was in, as if you were there for some other reason. Glancing over your shoulder and catching a certain someone’s eyes.

“Long time no see Simon~” You spoke in a sing-song voice. Enough to sound happy but it’s sharp.

Your eyes found the girl, pretty- no- stunning. You couldn’t deny it. A serious business woman for sure but she could’ve modeled if a scout saw her on the street.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there! Nice to meet you, I’m [+].” You were leering, drawing a line in the sand, daring her to cross it. The woman, all but confused, takes the hand that you stuck out. Shaking it with a genuine smile. Yours? Not so much.

“Georgina this is [+], who I’ve told you about. [+] this is Georgina. A friend.”

Simon deepened the line you made in the sand but yet, you're still hissing like a cat at a human who’s crossed too many boundaries. Not directly at her alone though, at the brute looking at you oh-so-casually with those pretty mocha brown eyes. A small glint in them.

“Well,” she gives an uncomfortable smile and clears her throat, “I’ll be seeing you Simon. Nice to meet you too [+].” He gave her a nod and she slips out of the booth, you taking her spot.

You looked out the window, an uncomfortable silence filling the space between the two of you, and that fucking pout on your lined lips.

Simon scuffed into a laugh, typical.

A look of distaste formed on you, like something bitter was on your tongue, “You fuckin her?”

Clock work. Even more laughter.

“I’m bein serious Simon.” You never take me serious, you wanted to add but you settled with looking the other way, into the cafe. College students, office workers and the latter bustling in line. The sound of steam from the expresso machine and clanging of objects, generic indie pop. So happy-go-fucking lucky— straight out of a movie— compared to how shit you felt at the moment.

You crossed your arms, your knee bouncing in annoyance, how cute.

“You don’t think I hear you?” Ghost doesn’t even want to acknowledge the question. Why?

He knows how you get. You like to build your anger up so you have all the more reason to throw a tantrum, try to run off, claw at the leash he’d so carefully tightened so you couldn’t get out. It’d only lead to you hurting yourself.

Simon takes a sip of his tea.

“I think you’re fuckin her. No need to hide it, she’s pretty. Straight hair too, very neat.” You spoke tightly. The woman looked so well put together in her office attire, black pointed pumps, a loose long sleeve, lilac blouse, short French tipped nails, black slacks, a shaggy yet perfectly styled blonde cut like Cameron Diaz in the 90s— Opposite of you.

Curly dark brown hair pushed back by a black headband, open denim fury coat, black mini skirt, tight white top, vintage denim healed boots to match, gold necklaces sitting pretty on your chest, ears full of peircings, a pair of black shades sitting low on your nose and long red acrylic nails adorned with gold jewels.

People saw you as just a good time, people like her ended up with the ring, the house and the loving family— the loving spouse.

What you should have. What you wanted from Ghost.

“So what? You think she’s better than you?”

You roll your eyes, “You see how I didn’t fucking say that?”

“But you're acting like it doll,” Simon simply hummed nonchalantly, “and what for?”

Your eyes snapped over to the brute, eyes squinting. As if he hadn’t given you the reason to act like this— jealous. Needy— greedy for something. Someone. Him. Ghost taught you to want him, his gaze, his time, his touch— everything. So why weren’t you the center of his attention?

It made your stomach flip. This wasn’t like you. But you’d try this one time, tug at the leash one more time.

“I don’t need to fuckin look like her for you to want me. Never changed for anyone, I’m not gonna start now.”

“Look at you, smart kitten. You puttin two and two together now?” A snickered condescendingly, you know that damn smirk is under his mask.

“Yeah I get,” you spit, sitting up straight, “You’re not fuckin her but you’re fuckin other people. I got it perfectly.”

And there’s a pause, just for a moment, and he looks at you like you’d said something so crude, so blasphemous— his jaw locks. You’d completely jumped ship instead of settling. Not what he wanted. And then he remembers— you're a kid- his to take care of. His kitten to set straight. His nose flare, gently taps the table with his finger, twice. “You’re bein fuckin daft [+].”

“For sayin the truth?” You cock an eyebrow.

“For talking out of that pretty arse ‘f yours!” Before you can refute, both of you notice the older woman a table or so away from you two, looking at you two as if you’re disgraceful for cursing in public. You both give her a look that gets her out of her seat in a shock. Probably because of Simons mask but it doesn’t matter anymore, she’s gone. Back to conversation, “Did you want me stop talking to women all together because you’ve got your bloody underwear in a fuckin bunch?”

Yes!

No. No you didn’t— you wanted him to tell you directly— show you he was yours. Only yours.

“Women come ‘nd go sweet ‘art. They get to your head too fuckin much? Ignore ‘em.”

“As if I can fuckin ignore shit when you’ve got bitches blabbering from their fuckin lips!— Ooooh, you know what!? Fuck you. Go fuck as many girls as you want for all I care!” You shove at the table, barely doing anything, and storm off. And then he says his parting words, says it almost perfectly so you can hear it before you touch the door a bell chimes while you open it—

“I will.” And he sips down the rest of his now stale tea.

You almost whip around and smack him, but your hands too shaky with angry nerves already, and the feel of your stomach recoiling at his words.

It hurt.

You’d went back to your crummy apartment that you hadn’t been back to in months.

Soaking in the loneliness and anger just like you used to.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

The first to call when Ghost gets called for a mission.

There’s no warning, or anything. No message between the week you’ve both been radio silent to each other. And maybe he’d intended on telling you a week ago, but you’ll never know now.

Simon called you the day— sorry— the night he was leaving. He got called in early to take care of some things.

Now that he had you, he wouldn’t leave without seeing you. Didn’t matter if you were angry. He would come see you, even if it was just for you to wave down from your apartment.

But you came down when the blonde called, curls covering your face, in a pair of oversized jeans, sneakers and cropped hoodie. You had two of your own duffles already packed, and threw them in the trunk.

You’d been so used to routine since you two got together. Watch the house, look after the dog, Slugger, take care of yourself, wash the car, water the flowers, wait for your Daddy to get back.

And you were good at it. Consistency kept you at your best, your happiest. The opposite of what you were now— tired, slightly stressed, quiet.

The drive is silent except of the 80s rock playing low, the turn signals blinking, and the engine of the truck roaring. Your eyes are out the window, toward the rolling hills and woods as you make the drive towards the base.

Ghost takes a glance at you, his left hand on the steering wheel, “You don’t have anything t’say?”

‘You gonna miss me?’

Your tongue pokes out of the inside of your cheek, holding whatever curse words you really want to say, settling with, “Nothin you haven’t heard before.”

Usually, you’d give him that sweet pout, smooshing yourself onto him with your back, curling your legs in the seat, huffing and looking out the passenger window, ‘Don’t want you to go though.’

The words wouldn’t leave his mouth, but he’d think ‘Don’t wanna go either.’ Oh, this must’ve been proof of him growing— aging. You were the anchor, a reason for himself to work to live and not live to work. Instead, his hand would meet your thigh, gently rubbing itthem, give your knee a light kiss just before you’d squeal and tell him to watch the road. The words unsaid, letting you know he was right there with you. Hanging off of every word you said.

He’d heard the ‘I’m gonna miss you’ or ‘I want to see you’— the longing, a thousand times over from his fair share of women whenever he got sent off somewhere. But had to hear it or something close to it at least once from your perfect lips before he left. Had to. Like an unspoken ritual, you a safe guard that he’d gotten used to that would always be there. You’d plopped yourself smack dab in the middle of his life. Though, he’s the one who put you inside the space there, you’re the one who decided to prance your way to the center. He preferred it this way. Thankful for your stubbornness.

But not right now.

You wouldn’t budge, what right did Simon have to push your further when he’s the one who got you like this in the first place? His jaw ticks, hand clenching at the wheel. He’s no irritated at you, but at himself.

You pulled up to the parking lot of the base soon enough, sooner than expected, Ghost cut the engine and let go of the steering wheel. He takes a beat before speaking.

“Your laundry is in the room, it’s not folded but it’s done. Slugger is in his cage, know you don’t like f’me put him in there cause you trained him well but- I didn’t think-“

“—yeah.” Cut him off. You didn’t think you’d be here either. But you still wanted to see him, see those scars that painted his face beautifully in your eyes, hear that deep and rugged voice, maybe even see the smallest smile before he left.

His hand slowly creeps from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, rubbing the baby hairs at the bottom of your neck. You can’t help but lean into him, closing your eyes at the gentleness.

Simon presses his lips to your forehead, firm, like he wants it to last. And then he pulls away, pulling that classic skull mask down the rest of his face. He gets out the car with a slam of the door and you immediately squeeze your eyes shut against the headboard.

You should’ve said something, anything. Soften the blow of the whole thing that already hurt. Get out with a scrape. But every time you opened your mouth, nothing came out. The rummaging in the trunk stops, and Simon circled around the car to your side. Your eyes never leaving him. You rolled down the window and Simon pointed to your shoulders, shivering and low from the cold air.

“Best if you put on a jacket, don’t wanna hear you got a cold.”

You wave him off, one side of your lips just barely curving up, “yeah, yeah. I won’t get sick. Swear it.”

“ ‘Nd drive straight home, it’s late.” Just a second more, just a little bit more.

You give him a thumbs up, eyes darting in the opposite direction, “Got it. See you later.”

There’s a deep sigh and then you hear his boots hit the pavement. You roll up the window with shaky breath.

As soon as you see Simons large form is 30 paces away it’s like everything you’ve been holding in crumbles. Boo-hoo tears falling down your face and dripping onto the dashboard you’d rested your head on. Why did it always have to go like this? Why did Simon always have to be so mean? Why did Simon have to leave before you properly made up? Why were you so hardheaded? And when did you become so- docile? So needy for him?

That bastard had your mind skewed. Dependent.

You were moaning as if you were in physical pain, sobs from the back of your throat pouring out, repeated mumbles of ‘Daddy’ and ‘come back’ stuck on your lips.

The passenger for clicks open, and you shoot up, Ghost standing right there, there’s a weak smile on his lips, “Look at you, didn’t think you’d be a fuckin cry baby.”

The man doesn’t say another word though, just manoeuvres you so you’re sat in his lap facing him in the passenger side before he shuts the door and locks it.

You were trembling, trying to contain the tears that were still warming your face.

His poor baby. Sweet girl.

“Made a mistake lovie. I’m sorry.” You look up at him with those big doe eyes, ‘for?’ So damn adorable.

He cups your face, wiping your tears with his thumb pads, “Should've told you sooner that I’m all yours doll. Only made sense you got jealous like that, yeah? I brushed you off when I should’ve talked to you properly. Ha, Gotta work on communicating more, because-“

I love you. The words almost stumbled out. Almost. Not yet.

His fingers brush your two tone lips, continuing, “—I care about you more than anything. You’re my precious baby. Shouldn’t be so mean to you. There’s no one else I’d rather be with than you. I’m sorry.”

Your heart melts completely, filling up all the way to the top in relief. You shake your head, heat building in your face. “I should’ve told you- h-how I felt, I was wrong for yelling. I was frustrated.”

Simon softly pecks your cheek, “Thank you for apologizing, didn’t have to,” another, “You forgive me?” Another. He continues till he leaves a nibble down to your jaw, leaving a hickey right under your chin.

“I-I guess this one time, it’s fine.” You moan but pull away. You turn your head, looking toward the security guard who’s a fair distance away, but Ghost turns you head back to look him with two fingers. His eyes low and dark. Tantalizing, drawing you near.

“It’s late doll, they’re probably sleep.” His face hovers over yours, his pink lips grazing yours that you could feel each others breath, “We’re makin up aren’t we?” You feel him grind up into you making your breath hitches.

“Once.” You mumble and he opens the middle console, pulling out a condom.

“Like we have a choice.” He scuffs, planting a fiery kiss on your awaiting lips. It’s sloppy, desperate, like you’ve been waiting decades to feel him on you, you can’t help but grab at the collar of his uniform. Trying to pull him closer to you.

It’s quick after that, both rushing to get as close as possible. Ghost grumbles something about you wearing stupid fucking pants while kissing your neck. “Mmph, fuck off— s-shit.” You moan while getting one pants leg off over your shoe (an accomplishment in your book). The blonde easily slid the condom on his hardening dick and your face makes a sour expression, dissatisfied. In the way, it’s in the way.

Simon snickers, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing it, rubbing his tip through your leaking folds, “Don’t make that face pretty, you know how it is.” Simon never likes his car messed up. Never. Almost never, there was this one time- “Earth to [+]? Gonna fuck me or am I boring you?”

“Noooo! I want- need it!” You whine, slowly sinking down on his length. Licking your lips, you slowly start to roll your hips, taking more and more of his hardened cock with each bounce. But it’s not enough, faster- more!

He grips your hips with one hand, harsher, “Take your fuckin time baby, Jesus, you want to hurt yourself?”

“You’re just so big Daddy, so much.” You mewl, full to the brim. You can feel him in your stomach, just grazing your cervix. Your head falls on his shoulder, taking a sharp breath before sliding up and then slamming yourself down on his cock. You let out a strangled moan with every movement, the car starting to rock as you move.

You eyes flicker down you where Ghosts cock was meeting your heat, your cunt greedily sucking him in to the point you can hear the schlick, schlick, schlick as he split you open with every thrust. Then you’d look back up to him, then back down, then back to him.

“What?” And the man doesn’t stop, pulling you closer and fondling one of your tits through your clothes. Teasing your hardened nipple the more you cry.

“No-“ you gasp, shoving at his clothed chest.

“—You’ve clearly got somethin t’say. Say it.” He grunts, giving your ass touch slap before fucking up into you.

“Augh- Daddy, Daddy I-“ you can’t think, it’s too much for you to form words, nothing but moans coming out. But you are thinking, about another girl, being in this exact position. It’s like a needle pricking the heart. You can’t help it. Simon let’s put a breath before kissing your scalp, he notices how your brain scrambles. That pained look you give, not physical, emotional. You’d be stuck in your head all night if he didn’t get it out of you. He’d have to force the reassurance into you.

“Don’t tell me your still on that sweet’art.” His voice right in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. Ghosts thrusts slow, but they’re consistent and you feel every ridge, every vein through the thin condom, rocking against him.

“I- but Si-“ you huffed, your lips pursing.

“Jealously’s got your cunny squeezin the life out ‘f me. ‘Nd- fuuuck me baby- ‘M supposed to be in someone else when you can barely lettin me go? Huh?”

“I just- I wanna be your first option Simon.” You hiccup. No, you wanted to be the only option. And maybe you were ruining the mood, letting your big brain get in the way of fucking Simon one last time before he went for god knows how long. But this had been on your mind since that bitch kept squawking about Simon, and he told you he was you. But what if? You let out a frustrated sigh, this was pointless—

“You’re my pretty girl, aren’t you?” Simon sits you up to look at him, his look stern, “Need an answer baby.”

“Yes sir.” You sniffle.

“You think I’m lettin anyone run around ‘ere, put their shit in my house? Hm?” And he takes the globes of your ass in his cold hands, slamming you down at the right angle to hit your g-spot.

You eyes roll to the back of you head, thighs trembling as he manhandles you to take all of his cock, forming a ring of cream at the bottom of his dick from how good you felt, “Letting you follow me all bright eyed and bushy tailed, just because you’re anyone? Buying you everything because you deserve everything.”

You keen, his fingers finding your sopping wet clit once again, tugging at it before rubbing it fast, “Too much Daddy! I can’t!”

“Too much? You’re the only one who can take it like this baby’s. It’s only you, princess. Only you I take care ‘f like this, only you that’s on my mind all hours of the day. Always you, no one else. Never been so happy to be yours [+]. I’m kittens loving Daddy aren’t I?”

Your back arches against him, his lips finding your neck and nibbling down as your writhe, legs trembling as you cum, hard.

Your walls squeeze him for what he’s worth, making his aching red tip twitch while he fucks you through your orgasm, his thrusts frantic. The blonde presses down on your lower tummy. Right where he can feel his cock with every move between your sticky pink walls “Come on, cum again kitty. Need it, So fuckin perfect, feel so good around me, god-“

Your walls practically mold around him, pulsing around him when your orgasm slams into you a second time just as Simons balls clench. Once, twice, filling the condom to full capacity. His chest quickly rises and falls against yours.

His tongue swipes from your jaw and into your agape mouth. Tasting and pulling away with a smack of your lips, “Made Daddy proud, good job baby.”

Simon loved you like beautiful shade of cool. It seemed so cold but it was so sweet, so soft despite the rough edges of it. Full of depth, always reliable— that’s what he was. And he’d give you that always.

“You alright?” He asks after cleaning up the mess you two made. Just a little mess, you’d clean it up later. Simon got you on the drivers side so you could get home.

You huff, “you’re leavin.” Your eyes take him in, one good time. Trying to remember every inch, every curse by memory. Thankful for the few pictures that sat in his office. You’d have to photo copy them before he noticed.

“I’ll be back,” He pats your head, leaving one last tender kiss on your lips, “Be good for me.”

“You got it.”

a/n: me and this have a love hate relationship. Lmk what you guys think, ily.

most recent more meanie!simon masterlist.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

[wholoveseggs]

I have I request/fic idea that’s kind of a flip on the usual. Reader & Elijah are dating and he can tell that’s she’s been holding something back when they have sex and is determined to get her to let go so he really pulls out all the stops. Reader is a biter, especially in situations she needs to be quiet (& maybe even a bit of a scratcher ie kinda claws at his back) but a previous boyfriend told it was weird so she’s super self conscious about it and is always a little distracted during sex fighting the instinct to bite him. Elijah succeeds and she latches onto that area between the neck & shoulder and turns out, not only is Elijah totally fine with it, he really REALLY likes it.

Bites

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!reader} You were afraid to bite him. Until he told you to do it again.

♡♡ hiii anon I love your mind && Happy day one of mikaelson week!! I've missed ya'll ~xo ♡♡

3.2k words - Warnings: smut, praise kink, riding, biting kink (the blood-free kind ... although Elijah absolutely wouldn’t mind...), overwhelmed reader, feral elijah && warm fire...

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering light across all of the ancient books lining the walls. Everything felt still and quiet, that kind of soft silence that only came when you were wrapped in warmth and safety. It was your favorite kind of evening, curled under a soft blanket on the sofa with your favorite person tucked close.

You still weren’t sure how you managed to pull a man like Elijah. You met a while ago, when he walked up to you like he already knew what you would say. All dark eyes and smooth charm, tailored clothes and quiet confidence. He had disarmed you instantly. From the first moment, you sensed something different about him. Though you didn’t know then just how true that would turn out to be.

And now, months later, here you were. Nestled against one of the oldest living creatures on earth, with his arm around your waist like it belonged there. He could have had anyone. And yet, he chose you.

You certainly weren’t going to argue.

A soft sigh slipped from your lips as you pressed in closer, wrapping the blanket tighter around both of you. You looked up at him, studying the familiar lines of his face in the firelight. His hair fell softly across his brow, his dark eyes tracking the lines of his book. But the way his hand moved, slow and precise, long fingers flexing just enough to remind you how they felt against your skin. That was what made your heart flutter.

Your gaze moved up to the column of his throat, the curve where neck meets shoulder. A place you kissed before many times, gently, reverently. But tonight, you didn’t want to kiss it. You wanted to bite it.

The thought hit fast and hot. You swallowed hard, shifting under the blanket as heat pooled between your thighs. It wasn’t the first time you had felt it. That deep, aching urge always crept in during quiet moments like this. When you felt content and safe around him, overwhelmed by love and want and intense feeling.

But just as quickly, shame curled through you like smoke. You shouldn’t want that. Not like this. It was too much. You were too much.

The last time you followed that instinct, let it slip past your lips in the heat of the moment, your ex hadn’t understood. He laughed. Pulled back. Shut down. Called you intense. In that tone people use when they mean something else. When they mean weird. When they mean wrong.

You pretended it didn’t hurt, but it stuck. It lived in you. Ever since, you kept that part of yourself locked away. Bit your own lip instead. Dug your nails into the sheets instead of skin. Avoided the feelings that threatened to swallow you whole.

And now here you were, held in the arms of the most perfect man you had ever known. Still too scared to show him the whole of what you wanted.

Elijah turned another page, but he hadn’t read a single word in the last five minutes. He could feel your body pressed against his side, warm and restless, your breaths coming shallower now. And he could practically hear the thoughts racing behind your silence.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched you from the corner of his eye, taking in the way your gaze lingered on him a little too long, the way your lips parted like you might say something, then thought better of it. Your breath caught.. just barely. But he noticed. He always did.

There was a flush rising beneath your skin, a certain tension in your frame that made his chest warm. You were trying so hard not to let it show. He could feel it in the way you tucked yourself a little closer, like you needed him to notice without asking. He found it very sweet.

He didn’t know what you were holding back, not exactly. But he could feel it, some small ache just beneath the surface. Something you thought you needed to hide.

He could wait. He would wait. But it was hard not to smile when you got like this. All quiet and shy…and clearly about two seconds from climbing into his lap.

His book was forgotten. His eyes were on you now, wearing that unreadable expression he saved for when he was studying something closely. Not judging. Just observing.

"W-what?" you asked, trying not to squirm. "You’re very distracting, you know that?"

Elijah gave you a small, amused smile. "I haven’t done anything."

"Exactly," you said, returning the smile. "You sit there looking like that and expect me to concentrate on anything else?"

He hummed, low and content, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. "I was under the impression we were just reading."

"I was trying," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brushed your skin. "Then your hand turned a page and my brain completely stopped working."

"That sounds serious," he said, voice dropping just a little, all low and velvet-soft as his fingers slipped beneath the blanket. "Should I be concerned?"

You giggled breathlessly just before he caught your mouth in a soft kiss. His hand trailed up your thigh, pausing just beneath the hem of your dress. Then, with careful ease, he dipped under the fabric. Your pulse quickened, but you didn’t pull away.

His palm slid higher, warm and steady against bare skin. He smiled into the kiss, then shifted, lifting you effortlessly into his lap. The blanket slid down, pooling around your waist as your knees braced on either side of his hips. He only broke the kiss long enough to lift your dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your panties.

He hadn’t expected his evening to go like this. Elijah had planned to read, maybe kiss you once or twice and fall asleep with you curled against his chest. But now you were in his lap, bare and radiant, and all he could do was stare. The way your skin flushed under his palms, the way your fingers trembled as they touched him. It always undid something in him.

Your hands moved to the front of his shirt, fumbling slightly with the buttons. He didn’t rush you. He liked watching you like this. A little nervous, focused, so clearly wanting him. You got halfway down before he leaned in and kissed your jaw, a whisper-soft encouragement. You pushed the fabric back off his shoulders and down his arms, quickly tossing it aside.

His hand slid down your back, firm and possessive, pulling you tight against him. He was already hard, and the pressure of it beneath you made your breath hitch. He guided your hips with slow, deliberate movements, coaxing you to grind against him. The friction stole your focus, made your fingers tremble against his skin as the heat between you deepened, hungry and sweet and impossible to ignore.

You let your hands roam across his chest, drinking him in. His skin was warm under your palms, his muscles carved and defined. Your fingertips traced the ridge of his collarbone, slid up the curve of his neck, tangled in his hair. He felt like something meant to be worshipped.

You reached between you, breath shaky, and undid the fastenings of his pants. He let you, his eyes never leaving your face. You pushed the fabric down just enough to free him, and the second your hand wrapped around him, he groaned, the sound rumbling through his chest.

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of him in your hand. The way he exhaled like you were undoing him. The way his fingers dug into your thighs, the ways his pupils dilated, making them somehow even darker.

The firelight flickered across your back, casting the two of you in molten gold. He leaned in, breath warm against your throat, and you tipped your head back as he kissed along your neck, his mouth open, tongue teasing. His hand moved between your legs, slipping beneath your panties and pushing the fabric aside.

His fingers teased you gently, not enough to satisfy, just enough to make your hips shift, seeking more.

"Go slow for me. Let it ache a while," he murmured. "I'll take care of you."

Your body trembled with anticipation, with need, and you bit your lip, stifling a whimper. He kept his touches light, too light, just barely brushing the surface, then a little deeper, circling and coaxing until your legs began to shake.

You tried to stay in control. Tried to hold back the part of you that wanted to claw, to bite, to take. The part that always felt too hungry.

But then he pulled away, slow and deliberate, and shifted beneath you. He pressed the head of his cock right where you wanted him most and held there, unmoving, letting the need twist hot and sharp inside you.

You held your breath as he pressed against you, and then, slowly, you began to sink down. You let out a quiet moan, savoring the stretch and the way his hands tightened around you, steadying you.

You started to move, slow and careful. Lifting just enough to feel the pull before sinking down again. Every motion was thick with wet heat, achingly slow. Sweet friction that built fire with every pass.

Your muscles burned with the effort of staying in control, and your heart pounded like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest. Your nails digging into the sofa.

His hands slid along your spine, grounding you as he let you set the pace. But it was not enough to hold back the rush building in your blood.

It was too much. The pleasure. The pressure. The unbearable fullness of him, deep and steady, everywhere.

And still, you tried to hold it together.

Still, you held back.

He felt it in the hitch of your breath, in the tremble that started in your thighs and worked its way through you like a current. Your heart was a wild, beautiful thing beneath your skin. Fluttering against your ribs, echoing in his ears like a siren’s call. And your scent… god, the warmth of it, the way clouded all of his senses as you eased down onto him. It nearly undid him.

You were trying so hard to stay composed. He could see it in the tension at your jaw, the way your fingers dug into the leather behind you instead of into him. It made something sorrowful ache in his chest. You were holding back. Still afraid. Still unsure if it was safe to fall apart with him.

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to be. That he could take it. That he wanted it. Wanted you to be hungry, wild and unrestrained. But he didn’t speak. Not yet. He didn’t dare interrupt the soft, sacred rhythm you set.

One of his hands slid across your shoulder, fingers trailing down your arm until he found your wrist. He brought it forward, pressed your palm to his chest, his skin hot beneath your touch.

“Touch me,” he said softly, steady as a heartbeat. “You don’t need to hold back.”

Your pulse jumped. The warmth of his skin, the steady thump under your palm, was too much. Too intimate. Too good. Your other hand followed, splayed flat over his heart. His hands returned to your waist.

You moved again, hips rolling deep and slow. You arched into him, nails dragging red down his chest. The pleasure built and built. And still, it wasn’t enough.

Your body trembled, caught between the instinct to take and the fear of being too much. You kissed along his jaw... that beautiful jaw. Just a little bit of stubble, sharp enough to cut. You kissed along it, slowly, breathing him in, afraid and desperate in equal parts to sink your teeth in.

Your mouth lingered there. Open. Wanting. But not daring.

His fingers flexed at your hips.

"Take it," he murmured, voice wrecked. "Whatever you want. Take it."

And finally you gave in.

You sank your teeth into the curve where neck met shoulder. Not enough to break skin, not on someone like him, but enough to hurt. Enough to shake him.

Elijah’s groan was guttural, the sound of a man utterly undone. His head fell back, and hips jerked beneath you, a sudden, uncontrolled thrust, and your body clamped down around him so tight it made your breath catch.

“Fuck.”

He swore under his breath, more primal than polished now and his hands squeezed your ass, guiding your hips.

“Again,” he hissed. “Harder.”

Your chest clenched. No one had ever enjoyed your intense side. No one had ever asked for more. The shame that always curled beneath your ribs was gone, burned out by the raw need in his voice. He wasn’t tolerating it. He was loving it.

And you were helpless to resist.

You bit him again, harder, and the strangled sound that escaped him sent a thrill down your spine. Your hands were shaking, fingers pressed tight against his chest, and your heart was pounding, but everything else felt perfectly, blissfully clear.

"Yes," he breathed, and his hand slipped between you, his fingers stroking over the spot where you were joined, and then up, rubbing in insistent circles over your clit, "Yes, love, yes..."

You moaned against his neck, the sound muffled. It was too much. The feel of him moving beneath you, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his skin, the press of his fingers, his hand against your back. The sounds he made. That beautiful, wrecked voice saying yes, over and over again.

Your mouth was everywhere, rabidly moving along the line of his jaw, the sharp ridge of his throat, the flushed skin you already marked once. You bit down over and over, teeth dragging just enough to make him groan, filthy and low. You felt drunk on it, dizzy, like the whole world was spinning around you and he was the only thing that could keep you upright.

Your hips bucked hard, your rhythm lost, and he began to bounce you, lifting your hips and bringing them back down with a punishing force. Every thrust drove a ragged sound from the both of you.

“Elijah,” you gasped, already breathless, fingers curling into his shoulders.

“Again,” he growled, voice sharp now. “Fucking bite me.”

The command in his voice hit like a punch to the gut. A moan tore from your throat as you did, harder this time, the taste of his skin flooding your tongue. His pace increased, his whole body shuddered, and his cock twitched deep inside you as he cursed under his breath. He started moving you even faster, every thrust hit something perfect, something devastating, and your moans turned into broken little sobs.

Your hands scrambled for his skin, digging into his chest, his shoulders, holding on as you bounced in his lap, thighs burning, body slick with sweat and slick and spit.

“Look at you,” he gasped, voice gone completely hoarse, his dark eyes wide and wrecked. “So fucking sweet like this. Look at how you ride me…wild fucking thing-”

You didn’t even recognize the sound you made. You were too far gone.

It wasn’t even sex anymore. It was heat and hunger and something feral. You bit him again, just under his jaw this time, and he groaned, his hips losing their rhythm, and you didn't care. You didn’t care how loud you were, how your teeth tore at his skin, the way your nails left angry red marks down his chest.

The ache in you was so deep. It had been there for months, burning like an ember in your core. And now, finally, the fire was burning through you, scorching everything else away. There was nothing but this moment.

You came with a cry, body clenching down around him in waves, your whole body shaking, lips still pressed to his skin. You couldn't stop. You didn’t want to. You kept licking, kissing, moaning into his neck as the pleasure overtook you completely.

He followed you, voice wrecked and raw, hands still guiding you through it as he spilled inside you with a shudder that wracked his whole frame.

Slowly, the world came back. The crackle of the fire, the cool leather of the couch, the heat of his body, and the gentle press of his lips against your cheek, your neck, your shoulder.

Your limbs felt like lead, and all the air left your lungs in a shaky exhale.

"Holy shit," you managed, still gasping for breath.

"That is," he murmured, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "One way to put it."

You laughed, still dizzy, and collapsed against his chest. He pulled the blanket back up around the both of you, his hands smoothing along your spine, soothing you as your breath came in pants.

The fire had burned low. Most of the room had fallen into shadow, and the chill of the air was starting to creep back in. Without a word, Elijah shifted, carefully disentangling himself from the mess of limbs and blankets.

“No,” you mumbled, arms wrapping tighter around his middle. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He chuckled softly. “Nowhere far, sweetheart.”

You let him go reluctantly, flopping onto your side as he stood. And then … well. You definitely didn’t regret letting him go.

The firelight kissed every plane of his body in soft orange-gold. You watched as he moved to the fireplace, unhurried and utterly unbothered to be naked, every muscle flexing as he bent to adjust the wood in the hearth. Strong shoulders, defined arms and the curve of his back… he looked like he should be carved into stone. He didn’t even have to look at you to know what you were thinking.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking back.

“You’re naked,” you shot back, pulling the blanket up to your chin, flushed and smiling.

He gave the fire one last nudge and turned, smiling in that infuriatingly composed way. “So I am.”

He crossed the room with slow, easy steps, the light catching the curves and ridges of his torso. Your gaze drifted lower, and he laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “You alright?”

You nodded, blushing.

He climbed back onto the couch, leaning in to kiss you, long and languid. When he pulled back, you were grinning, and he looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Was that alright?” you asked, voice small. “I know I can get… in my head. And the biting thing, it’s…”

He shook his head and kissed you again, gentle and certain, as if to hush every doubt before it could reach your lips.

“My love,” he said, brushing a knuckle down your cheek. “You are speaking to a vampire. You think I’d be scandalized by a few enthusiastic nibbles?”

You giggled, a little fluttery in your chest. He pulled the blanket closer, settling in beside you. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the tip of your nose, then down to your jaw. He continued like that, peppering soft kisses all along the line of your jaw until he reached your ear. “I meant what I said. I want all of you. Even the parts you think are too much. Especially those.”

Your heart clenched.

You peeked up at him again, shy. “Even if I want to bite you like… all the time?”

He grinned. “Especially that.”

[checkeredflagggs]

Happy in Retirement

pairing: daniel ricciardo x wife!reader

summary: reader is hesitant to share some happy news but it’s just the pick me up daniel needs.

Masterlist

Private Messages, Daniel and y/n

y/n

liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1, and 728,162 others

tagged: danielricciardo

y/n: A bittersweet moment for sure but Daniel…you’ve given your everything to this sport and no one could have ever asked for more. It’s been an absolute pleasure watching you race, watching you live in such joy, watching you enjoy the butterflies. I love you so much, honey 🍯

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danielricciardo: 💙

maxverstappen1: hey Ricciardos’s you better save me a seat wherever you end up — it’s been an honor Daniel

↳y/n: always

oscarpiastri: such a pleasure to race against you

pierregasly: no one did it like you

lilymhe: you’ll both be so missed 💙

alexandrasaintmleux: don’t be a stranger!

sebastianvettel: a seat will always be open for you two when you’re in the area

↳y/n: same

landonorris: the grid will be a little bit quieter without you here man

alex_albon: your presence will be missed!

Private Messages, Daniel and y/n

Phonecall

Bluesky

user1: no that’s so true 😭😭

user2: oh don’t remind me…

user3: I need just a single sign of life from him

↳user4: I kkkknnnnnooooooowwwww

↳user5: Danny please…

user6: while I’m so happy he’s (hopefully) happier then he’s been lately in f1, I miss him so much…

↳user7: big same

y/n_priv

liked by dannyric, maxv, seb, and 134 others

y/n_priv: sorry to say but I’m so happy to finally have my man back all the time

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dannyric: always been yours babe

↳y/n_priv: I know

↳y/n_priv: but know I get you all the time now

↳y/n_priv: and I love that

maxv: getting on the jet right now

↳y/n_priv: no

↳maxv: that can’t stop me because I don’t read

seb: it’s a different kind of life post racing

↳dannyric: it really is — but I’m enjoying it immensely

↳seb: that is what you need to do

checo: it’s nice to have time with your family again, isn’t it?

↳dannyric: I agree with that — more than you know

y/n_priv

liked by maxv, seb, nando, kimi, and 173 others

tagged: dannyric

y/n_priv: just a little secret we’ve been keeping — Baby Ricciardo coming soon

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dannyric: never been happier than I am now

↳y/n_priv: I could say the same, hun

maxv: welcome to the club!

↳dannyric: they’re not even here yet and I love them so so much

↳seb: kids do that to you

Lando: congrats man!

charles: Such a secret! Congratulations

nando: ¡Felicidades!

kimi: congrats

albono: you’re gonna do great!

yuki: Omedetō!

Bluesky

user8: oh my god baby ric!

user9: such exciting news!

user10: oh Daniel will be such an amazing father

↳user11: do you think this means he won’t come back?

↳user10: oh I’m not worried about that — plenty of drivers have had kids

user12: a sign of life!

↳user13: finally!

user14: am I the only one that thinks this was highly inappropriate? like leave them alone!

↳user15: no speak your truth — neither of them are public figures anymore, they shouldn’t be worried about paparazzi anymore

user16: god she’s just baby trapping him

↳user17: They’ve been married for years now?? If he wanted to, he would have left her already

↳user18: no but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say? Baby trapping? Get real

user19: oh so this is how she’s gonna get him to stop racing?? Slut

↳user20: putting down his wife isn’t going to make him fuck you

danielricciardo

liked by y/n, scottyjames, maxverstappen1, and 1,237,823 others

tagged: y/n

danielricciardo: In the past couple of days, my wife and I have been bombarded with a wave of paparazzi trying to be the first to break the news. This is absolutely not the way we wanted to go about this but yes, we are expecting a new member of the family this year. We ask for some privacy and some decency. Even while I was a driver, y/n chose not to be in the public eye more than she needed to be and that hasn’t changed. Being chased around town while we’re trying to live our lives is not something anyone would ask for, let alone a pregnant woman.

And on that note — no, I will not be returning to Formula 1 or racing. That chapter of my life is over. I’m so excited to start the next one with my family — a new sort of butterfly to chase!

See you all later!

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